Chapter Twenty Five

 

 

Lord Somerville held up his glass in a toast. “To a bountiful harvest.”

Sitting next to her father Emily, clinked her glass against his. “Here, here.” Since that day in the garden when they’d reestablished contact with each other, she’d instructed Nora to set her place beside her father instead of the opposite end of the great dining room table.

“And to the end of the famine,” she added cheerfully.

Somerville frowned. “I fear the famine is not yet over.”

“But there’s no blight. The potato crop is healthy.”

“Yes, but only Ranahan and a handful of others had the good sense—or seed—to plant a crop. The rest…” he shook his head.

“What will happen to them?”

“I’m afraid that depends on Charles Trevelyan and the government.”

 

November 1847

Ministry of the Treasury

 

“One fifth?” Trevelyan glared across the table at the three scientific commission members as though they were personally responsible for the dismal figures. “Are you telling me that only twenty percent of the farmers planted a potato crop?”

“We warned you, Mr. Trevelyan,” Playfair said patiently. “All year we’ve been saying this calamity would occur.”

Trevelyan slammed his hand down on the gleaming tabletop, furious at the gross irresponsibility of these thick Irish tenant farmers. “In the name of God, why did they not plant?”

“Many ate their seed. Others couldn’t afford to buy seed. The sum and total of it is that eighty percent of the fields weren’t planted and now these farmers sit on barren acres.”

Irritated with himself for his momentary loss of self control, Trevelyan quickly regained his composure. Straightening his cuffs, he said, “Well, no matter. In any event the famine is over. Now perhaps I’ll be able to go on holiday with my family.”

“But it’s not over,” Dr. Lindley said, amazed that Trevelyan still did not grasp the import of what they were trying to tell him. “There are severe food shortages and, surely, matters will worsen. Disease is rampant in the countryside. People will continue to starve and die. The destitution and misery in some districts cannot be exaggerated. Mr. Trevelyan, you are the British government’s voice in matters of the Irish famine. What do you propose to do about this calamity?”

Trevelyan glared at Playfair. “The government proposes to do nothing. ”

Summoning every ounce of self-control at his possession, Playfair said, “Mr. Trevelyan, history will not look kindly on a nation that treats its subjects so harshly.”

“There are whispers of genocide,” Dr. Lindley added.

Trevelyan sat back and made a steeple of his fingers, his gray eyes colder than ever. “I do not credit rumors, Dr. Lindley. And as for history, Dr. Playfair, I believe it will show that the British government has displayed an admirable forbearance toward a nation that refuses to heal herself. Rumor and innuendo aside, one fact remains: The famine is over. Tomorrow I will sign an order closing the Board of Works.”

 

November 1847

Ballyross, Ireland

 

A steady rain fell upon the shapeless, colorless knot of men gathered outside the Board Of Works office. They stood with the posture of defeated men—silent and passive, heads bowed, knowing that another blow was about to fall. Yesterday, after they’d done their work, Tarpy, the road supervisor, had told them to report to the Board Of Works office this morning. The last time they’d been summoned here rumors born of fear and uncertainty had surged through the crowd like an out-of-control brush fire. But that was last year, when they still had spirit, when they still had hope. Now they were too weary, too beaten to listen to even rumors. They stood in the rain, silent, watching the door, awaiting their fate.

At precisely nine o’clock a shadowed figure appeared behind the curtained door. The sound of chains being undone and bars being slid echoed in the hushed stillness. The door opened and a jittery Alfred Browning poked his head out. He remained behind the door, prepared to slam and bar it at the first sign of insurrection. He’d learned his lesson the last time. He would not expose his person to this mob again.

“The famine has been declared over,” he shouted from the doorway. “The Board Of Works is forthwith shut down.”

Anticipating a rush of angry men, he slammed the door and with a trembling hand did the chains and bars as quickly as he could. But, unlike last time, there was no reaction from the men. No anger. No shouting. No fist waving.

“Did you inform them, Mr. Browning?” Thomas asked from his hiding place behind a record cabinet.

“I did.”

“And what was their reaction?”

Browning pushed the curtain aside and peeked out. “There was no reaction, Mr. Thomas. Why they’re just standing there. Silent. In the rain.”

“How strange.”

“How strange indeed.”

 

As the Ranahans walked back to their home, Dermot muttered, “They’re killin’ us all. They’re killin’ us all, I tell ya.”

A year ago, Da would have told him to mind his tongue, but now he said nothing because he was beginning to think his son was right. He squinted up at the black clouds scudding across the gray sky and saw it as a mark of God’s anger toward them. But what had they done?

 

“You’re right, Dermot. They are killin’ us all.” Jerry Fowler handed him the jar of poteen.

Dermot took a sip and shuddered as the harsh alcohol burned its way down into his stomach. “I haven’t seen a jar in over a year. Where’d you get this?”

Fowler took the jar and passed it to Kevin. “Let’s just say I liberated it from a very careless man.”

It was almost midnight and the three men were sitting in the ruins of Barry Scanlon’s tumbled cottage. No one in the village had seen Jerry Fowler in almost a year. One rumor was that he’d married a rich widow and had gone to America. Another rumor, perhaps wishful thinking on the part of those who disliked him, was that he’d sailed on a coffin ship and had gone down in the north Atlantic.

Then, yesterday, he appeared just as suddenly as he disappeared. As only Jerry Fowler could, he entranced some and angered others with amazing tales of his travels that might have been true—or, knowing Fowler’s penchant for embellishment and exaggeration—just stories conjured up from his vivid imagination.

Dermot and Kevin had agreed to meet Fowler here tonight, partly because of the promise of poteen, and partly because they were curious to hear about his “great plan.” But for Dermot, the real reason he was here was because Jerry Fowler had asked him to come. Dermot had always had a need to attach himself to someone he perceived to be strong and powerful. In the past, it had been Billy Moore. But Billy was now either alive or dead in an Australian penal colony and in any event very far away. And so, he turned to the handsome, tough talking Jerry Fowler for salvation.

“So where have you been?” Dermot asked.

“Traveling the roads, lads. Let me tell ya, unlike the lot of you, I’ve seen some things.”

“And so have we,” Kevin said defensively.

Fowler slapped the big man’s knee. “Is that right? You old blatherskite, you’ve not set foot out of this godforsaken place since the hunger started. So, what could you have seen? Will you tell me that?”

Kevin shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“I’ve been to Dublin and back again,” Fowler said. “I’ve gone north and south. And I’ve seen a thing or two.”

Dermot took a swig of the poteen and passed it to Kevin. “And what did you see, Jerry?”

Fowler’s wide grin vanished. “I’ve seen enough to know the Brits are doin’ their best to starve us all to death.”

“Why do you say that?” Dermot asked.

“They’ve closed the Public Works again, haven’t they? And why do you think they did that? Because they want to starve us to death and that’s a fact.”

For the next half hour Fowler harangued them with example after example of the harsh and unfair treatment they were getting at the hands of the landlords and the British government. And with each sip of the poteen, Dermot and Kevin slowly became more and more enraged.

“They know full well most of us have no potatoes,” Fowler said. Then he repeated Dermot’s oft spoken fear. “I tell ya, they're killin’ us.”

Kevin took a sip and wiped his mouth with a ragged sleeve. “Me Da says we’ll soon have to leave here. I hear Rowe’s offerin’ passage to America to anyone who’ll quit the land.”

“I’d go tomorrow,” Dermot said, “but me Da will never leave.”

“Will you listen to the pair of you?” Fowler’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “All this talk of runnin’ away. I ask you, why should we leave the land that’s rightfully ours?”

“What else can we do?” Dermot asked.

“We can make them leave.”

Dermot grinned at Fowler. “Me brother’s right. You are daft.”

“Tis your brother who’s daft, thinking he could fight armed troops with rocks and sticks. Sure there’s too many of them. They have all the guns in the world.”

“So how do we fight them then?” Kevin asked.

“Not head-on like at Cork quay for Jasus’ sake. Not man-to-man. We hit and run. Hit and run. Tonight here. Tomorrow there.”

Kevin’s eyes glistened from the potent drink and the excitement of what the confident Fowler was saying. “Just who is it you plan on hittin’, Jerry?”

Even though they were sitting in the ruins of an old cottage and miles from prying ears, Fowler leaned into the two men and whispered, “The landlords.”

Dermot and Kevin were struck speechless. Attacking the peelers and soldiers was one thing. But to go after the powerful landlords—well, it was daft. There was no other way to think it.

“If we’re caught, they’ll tumble our homes down on us,” Dermot said. “We’ll be transported for life and that’s a fact.”

“We won’t get caught. Not if we’re careful.”

“But why the landlords?” Kevin asked.

“Because they are at the heart of my plan. We make them so afraid they’ll want to leave the country forever.”

“How does the likes of you propose to make the landlords afraid?” Dermot asked.

“We burn their barns. We kill their livestock. We set fire to their fields.”

In spite of his apprehension, Dermot was stirred by Fowler’s words. Here was a man of action. Here was a man who would no longer bow his head to the landlords. Something began to burn inside him and it felt terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He was tired of doing nothing. And nothing was all anyone was doing. Da, he knew, had no stomach for a fight, but he’d thought Michael was different. Dermot had been so proud of his brother that morning at the Cork quay. Some had died to be sure, but wasn’t that to be expected in a revolution?

At the quay, Dermot had felt the same terror and exhilaration he was feeling now. When he saw the soldiers fire their rifles and saw his friends fall, he was sure that this was the beginning of an uprising with his brother as the leader. But to his great disappointment, there was no uprising. Something happened to Michael that morning. Dermot was ashamed to admit it, but his brother had become a coward.

But Jerry Fowler was no coward, and everything he said was God’s own truth. Dermot was tired of being beaten down, tired of working day and night for wages that could barely put a bite of food in his mouth. It was time to strike back, to make someone else afraid for a change.

Fowler saw Dermot’s hardening expression and knew he had him. “Are you with me?” he asked, slapping his hands on Dermot’s shoulders.

“I am,” Dermot said without hesitation.

“And you, Kevin?”

“I don’t know, Jerry…”

Fowler leaned forward and put his face close to Kevin’s. “Poor Billy Moore’s probably dead by now. But let me ask you, Kevin, if he was here what would he do?”

For a moment Kevin’s face screwed up in concentration as he tried to recall the man he’d worshipped all his life. What would Billy do? He thought for a moment and then pounded his big fists on his thighs as the answer came to him. “He’d be with you, Jerry, and so will I.”

The thought that he was at a crucial crossroad in his life, made Dermot’s stomach tightened. He took a deep slug of the poteen and the burning liquid brought tears to his eyes. The potent brew drove away the fear and he felt strong. Indestructible.

Kevin reached out a massive hand. “Give me the jar here.”

Dermot gave it to him and Kevin emptied what was left. Then he hurled the jar and it shattered against the rubble of the ruined cottage. “That’s what’ll become of the cursed landlords,” he roared.

Fowler slapped the big man’s back. “That’s the spirit, Kevin.”

Dermot grinned along with the others, but he was watching Kevin’s face and despite the great show of bravado Dermot still saw fear in the big man’s eyes.

“When do we act?” Kevin asked.

Fowler winked at the two men. “Soon, lads. Very soon.”

 

Michael’s eyes snapped open, unsure if the sound he heard was real or something he’d dreamed. For weeks now, he’d been having alternating nightmares almost nightly. One night it was the dead man from the river, chasing him across the fields, beckoning him to return to the black waters. Another night it was the men who’d died at the Cork quay. They never spoke. They just pointed fingers at him.

Now he lay in bed, holding his breath and listening. He heard nothing but the sound of his family breathing. He closed his eyes, deciding he’d been dreaming. Then he heard it again. The sound of a creaky door opening.

He shook Dermot awake. “Someone’s in the shed,” he whispered. He leaned over and poked his father. “Da, someone’s in the shed.”

The three men slipped on their brogues. Da lit a torch from the smoldering turf fire and they silently slipped outside.

The air was cold and sharp. The frost crunched under their feet as they moved toward the shed. There was no moon, but the dome of stars above cast enough light so they could see that the door to the shed was partially opened. Michael and Dermot picked up heavy sticks and they came to stand on either side of the door. At a nod from Da, the three rushed inside.

Five shapeless forms crouched on the floor gnawing on raw potatoes. At the unexpected appearance of the Ranahan men, they scurried into a corner. At first Michael thought it was a pack of animals, but then Da thrust the torch above his head to illuminate the tiny room and took a step back in shock. “Jasus God…”

The flickering torchlight cast shadows across the sunken faces. With their matted hair and tattered rags they looked more animal than human.

A man, a woman, and three children clutched raw potatoes in their claw-like hands and stared back at Da with hollowed, frightened eyes. Da lowered the torch toward the three children and squinted. At first he thought the light was playing tricks with his eyes, but it was no trick. The children’s faces were covered with hair, giving them a monkey-like visage. Da had no way of knowing it, but doctors would later confirm that the condition, which affected only children, was caused by marasmus—a debilitating and bizarre side effect of starvation.

Dermot was the first to react. He raised the stick over his head. “You thieving bastards—”

He was about to bring the stick down on the man’s head when Michael yanked it out of his hand. “Dermot, for the love of God—”

“They’re stealin’ our food...”

Da shoved him away. “Go back in the house, eejit.”

Dermot glared at the five creatures on the floor for a moment, then his father, and stomped out of the shed.

The man spoke in a soft voice, raspy from hunger. “Sirs, we’ve not had a mouthful of food in five days. Have pity…”

If the fever weren’t still raging through the countryside, Da would have taken them in, but he dared not put his family at risk. Without taking his eyes off the skeletal, pathetic children, he muttered, “Take what you want...”

“God bless you, sirs,” the man said.

They gathered up as many potatoes as they could carry and without another word scurried out of the shed. They had come and gone so quickly that Michael almost wondered if this was yet another bad dream.

A bewildered Da, still holding the torch above his head, said, “The hunger’s not over yet, is it?”

Michael put the lid back on the potato bin. “No, it is not.”