Chapter Thirty

 

 

September 1848

Ministry of the Treasury

London, England

 

It didn’t seem possible. It ran contrary to the laws of probability. And it sorely tested the beliefs of those who believed in a merciful God. But in 1848, the blight struck yet again and two-thirds of the crop failed. And this year—coming on the heels of three previous years of blight, famine, and disease—was the worst of all. After the successful crop of ’47, farmers were convinced that the blight was over and they gambled everything on this crop, selling clothing, furniture, and livestock to buy seed. And now, having expended everything they had, all was lost.

At Trevelyan’s office in the Ministry of the Treasury, Trevelyan, once again, sat across the table from Playfair, Kane, and Lindley. For almost three years, these men of the Scientific Commission had been meeting with Trevelyan and every time they met, they did their utmost to report factually and objectively on what was happening in Ireland. But in all that time, not once had Trevelyan taken their advice on how to relieve the suffering and death that continued to plague that godforsaken country. In their first meetings, there had been guarded suspicion of Trevelyan. But then, as time went, the suspicions turned to bewilderment at the secretary’s unrealistic and calculating pronouncements. And now, as they sat across the gleaming conference table from Trevelyan, there was a feeling of acrimony that was almost palpable in the air of Trevelyan’s chilly office.

Playfair spoke first. “Mr. Trevelyan, last year Parliament decreed that the landlords would be responsible for the entire cost of the Public Works and—”

“That is correct,” Trevelyan interjected. “As I have reminded you time and time again, it is their responsibility to solve the Irish problem.”

“But the landlords are on the brink of financial ruin,” Lindley said.

“And whose fault is that?” Trevelyan snapped. “My God, the government offered them loans did it not? And what did the landlords do? They defaulted, leaving her Majesty’s government with millions of pounds of unsecured loans that will never be repaid.”

“But that’s because you offered the loans at three and a half percent,” Playfair answered, his voice rising in frustration. “Terms which were most favorable to the government, but ruinous to landlords on the brink of bankruptcy.”

Trevelyan put his hands up. “Enough, gentlemen. I am firm in my resolve to stop the hemorrhaging of the government’s treasury to finance what I consider to be a lost cause.”

Dr. Kane shot forward in his seat. “A lost cause? Mr. Trevelyan how in the name of God can you describe a county of four million souls, many of whom are starving and dying, a lost cause. Is there no charity in your heart, sir?”

“I have recommended to Parliament,” Trevelyan went on as thought he hadn’t heard Dr. Kane, “that it issue a proclamation that henceforth, the government will no longer grant loans to the Boards of Guardians.”

Playfair jumped up. “But this will place the total cost of financing the famine on the backs of the landlords alone.”

“Exactly where it should be.”

Playfair furiously stuffed his reports back into his valise “Mark my words, Mr. Trevelyan, this unconscionable response of the government will wipe out hundreds of landlords who were on the verge of bankruptcy. Those who are still solvent, will step up the evictions and clear their lands of the last remaining tenants.”

Trevelyan stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. “It’s in God’s hands, gentlemen.”

 

Ballyross, Ireland

 

In addition to the loss of the crop and no sign that the Board of Works would open, Michael continued to worry that sooner or later the peelers would discover Dermot’s role in the murder of Lord Somerville. Leaving his sullen Da to sit by the fire, Michael set off into the village to talk to Father Rafferty about an idea he had. It was a daft idea, he knew, but it just might work.

Ballyross had never been a thriving village, but now it was almost completely deserted. Michael passed O’Malley’s shuttered pastry shop and had envious visions of the fat, prosperous baker living a wonderful life somewhere in America. The general store where he and his Da came to fetch the supplies for Somerville Manor was gone as well. He glanced down the road toward the train station remembering that first glimpse of Emily as she rode by in the carriage. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life and he still thought so. So much has happened since then. He continued down the street and stopped in front of Father Rafferty’s old church. He looked down at the mud in the road in front of the church and imagined he could see the stains of Lord Somerville’s blood there. My God, Dermot, what were you thinkin’?

He studied the little church that he’d attended all his life. It, like everything else in the village, looked broken and shrunken into insignificance.

 

Inside the church, a faint scent of sweet incense permeated the air. Michael slid into the last pew and the old wood creaked in protest under his weight. When his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he realized that the altar was bare. Father Rafferty had sensibly removed all the candle holders, the tabernacle, and even the few faded religious paintings that had adorned the plaster-peeling walls. There’s no sign of God here, Michael thought bitterly. Maybe it’s because God has abandoned us.

Still, there was something peaceful about the space and Michael recalled Mr. Goodbody’s description of a Quaker meetinghouse. “It’s a plain and simple room with facing benches. There’s no adornment. We do not allow outward signs of religion. The simplicity of the surroundings allows us to mediate without distraction.”

Michael thought that this stripped-down church must be the way a Quaker meetinghouse looked. He slumped in the pew, suddenly very tired. The weight of all that had happened began to press on him like a huge stone. For the first time since the crop had failed, he began to feel that everything was hopeless. If Fowler was caught, he would surely inform on Dermot and his little brother would hang. And that would surely kill Mam. There was no work and there would be none the constable had said until Lord Somerville’s murderer was apprehended. Lord Somerville dead. Would Emily go away? What’s the difference, you eejit? his inner voice chided. Do you think she would ever have anythin’ to do with the likes of you?

The sound of a door opening focused his mind on the present. Father Rafferty came out of the sacristy and genuflected in front of the bare altar. Even the old priest looked worn and broken, just like everything else in the forlorn land.

“Hello, Father.”

The little priest jumped at the unexpected sound of a voice. “Jasus, Mary and Joseph… who is that scared the life out of me?” he asked, squinting into gloom.

“It’s Michael Ranahan.”

“Ranahan. And what would you be doin’ here?”

“It’s my own church, isn’t it?”

“Neither your church nor me has seen hide nor hair of you in a month of Sundays.”

The priest came down the aisle. “Have you come to take the confession?” he asked hopefully. Then he saw the expression on Michael’s face, and added, “No, I didn’t think so. What do you want?”

“You’ve got to get the landlords to open up the Board of Works.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? Sure they have hearts of stone. And now after the murder of Lord Somerville, they’ll never open the Works until the murderer, God forgive him, is caught.”

“He’s not goin’ to be caught.”

The little priest peered into Michael face. “And how do you know that?” He saw a hardness in Michael’s eyes that told him he should ask no more about it.

Father Rafferty turned to look toward his bare altar and his tears welled up in his eyes. The world that he’d known was changing and he didn’t know how much more he could abide. Who would have believed that a priest would have to strip his altar bare to protect the tabernacle—God’s very house—from thieving Catholics, no less? He asked himself. My parish is dwindling. Most have died or been driven off the land and gone away. Those that are left, like young Michael Ranahan here, have lost their faith and have stopped attending Mass. And now, here was young Ranahan, sitting before me, knowing something about the murder of a landlord and him not telling me, and me afraid to ask. The words that Christ cried out on the cross flashed into the priest’s mind. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Why indeed.

“You’ve got to get the landlords to open up the Board of Works,” Michael repeated.

The old priest glared at Michael. “And how am I goin’ to do that, may I ask?”

Father Rafferty shivered. In the gloom, Michael’s evil smile looked like the grimace of a devil.