The Music Makers

by E. V. Thompson

  ‘Is that what you are going to tell me, Liam?’

  ‘No. A couple of months ago I might have been able to consider it, but not now. I could not stop seeing you even if I wanted to – and I don’t.’

  ‘I am so glad, Liam. I will be discreet, I promise you. Everything will be all right, I know it will. We will be able to meet in London. I have the address of a friend to give to you. Go to see her; she will know of rooms or even a small house that you can rent. We will be able to meet there.’

  ‘It will be hardly worth taking accommodation. Eugene says Parliament will be rising soon until early next year. I will hardly spend any time in London.’

  ‘Never mind. Take the name of my friend and go to see her. It will give her more time to find somewhere for you.’

  ‘And you? Will you continue to live in your own house?’

  ‘No, that is Richard’s house. I, too, must find somewhere else – but I see Eugene returning. Is there anything I may do for you – or your mother – while you are away?’

  Liam thought of all the family problems that had arisen out of Kathie’s return.

  ‘I would be obliged if you could spare Nathan to go to find my brother and tell him that Kathie has returned to Kilmar.’

  ‘Kathie is your brother’s wife?’

  ‘Yes. She is expecting a child and returned to Kilmar after an argument with Dermot. She did not tell him she was leaving.’

  ‘Of course Nathan may go – and I will visit Kilmar to see that all is well with her. Perhaps she might like to come here with me. I would be happy with the company.’

  Liam hoped Kathie would not be wearing the dirty rags in which she had returned home when Caroline called. He had no time to think of any further considerations because at that moment Eugene Brennan returned to the room and announced that it was time they left for County Kerry.

  The road to County Kerry proved to Liam and Eugene Brennan that Ireland was indeed God’s accursed land. They passed through some of the finest potato country in the whole of Ireland. But, instead of lush dark-green potato haulms, they saw nothing for mile upon blighted mile but black foliage lying limp and withered upon the rain-sodden ground.

  The potato disease was upon the land again, and this year it brought with it the promise of starvation and death to half of Ireland’s people.

  Although Liam and Eugene were not aware of the full extent of the disease, they were witnessing a catastrophe that would change for all time the Ireland they had always known. Because of the coining famine, Irish emigrants would flee to every country of the world, taking with them such a hatred of England and the English that it would survive for generations to come.

  In County Kerry, the failure of the potato crop was the major talking-point at all of Liam’s election meetings. Questions on what he proposed doing about it came at him from every side.

  Liam could say only that he would use every means possible to make Lord Russell’s government aware of the grim situation, and demand that the Prime Minister take immediate action to send food to Ireland.

  It was exactly the same answer as the one given by his opponent. But Liam was a man of the people, sponsored by their own association. The other candidate was a land-owner, with a record of recent cottier evictions.

  On polling day, Liam received three times as many votes as his rival and was declared to be the people’s duly elected representative to Parliament,

  Liam and Eugene Brennan spent a wild evening at a celebration party thrown for them in a small village at Dingle Bay. Later, in the peace of his room, Liam looked out of the window for a long time, watching the moonlight sparkle on the dark waters of the bay – and thinking.

  He turned back into the room a much sobered man as realisation of the responsibility he had taken upon himself came home fully to him.

  Liam carried the oil-lamp to the dressing-table mirror and looking back at him saw the serious face of a young man. A fisherman with little experience of life, unskilled in the art of politics and with only the learning he had gained at the hands of a parish priest. Yet he must now fight for the rights of the people who had elected him, and the millions of fellow-Irishmen who did not have a vote.

  However insignificant his contribution might prove to be when the sum worth of his life was taken into consideration, Liam now had a part in the destiny of his people.

  It was a formidable task for a twenty-eight-year-old.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Liam’s initial taste of parliamentary life was as brief as he had anticipated. After receiving the congratulations of those Irish MPs who, only weeks before, had avoided him as a possible embarrassment, Liam took the oath of allegiance and Eugene Brennan led him to a seat on the crossbenches.

  Lord John Russell adjourned Parliament on 28 August, but Liam found the few days before this eventful, and at times even rowdy.

  The noisiest session came when, after weeks of side-stepping the issue, the diminutive Whig leader stood up and gravely announced to the House that he had received word from Ireland that the potato crop had failed for the second year in succession. This time it was feared that the failure was total.

  ‘However,’ added the Prime Minister, as the Irish MPs recovered from their stunned astonishment, ‘Various public works are being carried out by my government and I am quite confident we will be able to contain the problem.’

  Immediately, there were cries of opposition from non-Irish MPs.

  ‘What about the hungry Scots?’

  ‘And the Welsh?’

  ‘Everyone is hungry. Let the Irish look after their own.’

  The Irish MPs erupted in howls of anger, and words such as ‘laggard’ and ‘hypocrite’ were hurled at Lord John Russell.

  Liam found himself shouting as loudly as his fellows, but his anger was not directed solely at the Prime Minister. He was shocked at the reaction to Lord John Russell’s announcement by the other members of the House of Commons. They were indignant with the minimal relief measures that had been announced because the English, Welsh and Scots were ‘hungry.’ Not starving to death, as were the Irish, but ‘hungry’. Their attitude gave Liam his first intimation of the low regard in which his fellow-countrymen were held. An unfamiliar emotion welled up inside Liam and he found himself hating these people as he had never hated before.

  Guided by Eugene Brennan, Liam tried to have the plight of his less fortunate countrymen discussed at greater length. He had seen the results of famine at first hand and knew how much more needed to be done.

  It was a bitter and frustrating experience and he was blocked at every turn. Within the House of Commons there was always ‘more pressing business’ for the House to deal with. Outside, Lord John Russell and his Ministers were too busy organising the new administration to give him their time.

  Finally, in sheer desperation, Liam broke away from Eugene Brennan’s guiding influence and sent a personal note to the Home Secretary, demanding to know what action was being taken to help the Irish cottier. To Liam’s surprise, he received a reply by return, granting him an immediate interview with Charles Trevelyan, the Assistant Secretary who was Permanent Head of the Treasury Department and responsible for Irish relief measures.

  It was well after normal working-hours when Liam arrived at Downing Street and was shown into the Treasury building through a small private door.

  Charles Trevelyan was seated behind an enormous desk that was piled high with papers and letters and the cluttered miscellany of a very busy office. The ‘in’ tray overflowed with a vast number of unopened letters, mute evidence of Trevelyan’s proud boast that he maintained personal control of every aspect of the current Irish ‘problem’. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that the vast complexity of the situation was too much for one man to handle.

  The senior Treasury official was a much younger man than Liam had expected and, in spite of the huge volume of work before him and the enormity of his task, he was relaxed and courteous, exuding a practised air of effi
ciency.

  Charles Trevelyan was also an ambitious man. He saw the famine in Ireland as a unique opportunity to further his career as an administrator and, he hoped, bring a peerage to his ancient Cornish family.

  Firmly shaking Liam by the hand, he said, ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr McCabe. I have heard much of you. I believe you were once a fisherman.’

  The administrator made the occupation sound like a prison sentence.

  ‘I am still a fisherman, Mr Trevelyan. I am also a Member of Parliament – an Irish Member of Parliament – and that is why I am here. We have a famine in Ireland, a very serious one, and I want to know what is being done for those people who are without food of any kind.’

  As always happened when he felt. very emotional about something, Liam’s Irish accent thickened. In contrast, Charles Trevelyan’s sonorous voice emphasised his superior education and displayed his love of the English language.

  ‘You may rest assured that we have the matter in hand, Mr McCabe. As you must know, this is not the first occasion on which the potato crop has failed in your country. We in the Treasury have experience of many such failures. There is no immediate urgency; it will be some weeks before dependence upon the new season’s crop becomes absolute.’

  Liam looked at Trevelyan incredulously. ‘You are talking about a famine following a normal season. Doesn’t your department know that last year’s crop failed, too? The cottiers have nothing to eat today. They can’t wait until you think it is time to do something about them. They will starve long before then.’

  ‘Sheer conjecture, Mr McCabe. As I have already told you, we are fully aware of Ireland’s shortage of food. Exaggerating the facts will help no one.’

  Trevelyan’s smile was still in evidence, although he was furious with this fisherman who had the temerity to come to his office to question his ability and judgement.

  But Trevelyan’s anger was as nothing compared to Liam’s own.

  ‘I don’t think you have any idea of the seriousness of the potato failure. All your fine words will not fill a single belly. I want to know – I demand to know – what is being done about feeding the cottiers.’

  ‘I will do whatever I feel is necessary – when the time comes. I am being kept fully informed of the situation by Commissariat officers who are on the spot.’

  ‘During my tours of cottier settlements I have never met with one of your Commissariat officers. I think they must sit in warm and comfortable offices thinking up new excuses for doing nothing. I suggest you travel to Ireland and assess the situation for yourself, Mr Trevelyan. It cannot fail to shock you, as it shocked me. The tragedies I have witnessed during this last year will haunt me for all the days of my life – and this during only a partial potato failure. This year even Lord John Russell admits there is a total crop failure. That is all the information needed, Mr Trevelyan. You should be acting now to avoid total disaster. Give the order for your inspectors to throw open the Commissariat depots and issue grain to the cottiers.’

  Had Liam only known, he had touched upon the subject that lay at the root of Trevelyan’s apparent unwillingness to issue food to the cottiers. There was no grain in the Commissariat depots.

  Alarmed at the amount of money spent by the previous government on Irish famine relief, Trevelyan had repeatedly turned down urgent requests by the Commissariat inspectors for their depots to be restocked before the winter. Now every one of them was as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Finally, Charles Trevelyan had been forced to admit to himself that he had been guilty of a grave error of judgement and he had made desperate overtures to mercantile houses and corn factors for maize grain, but he had acted too late. There was a world shortage. Cargoes arriving in England were being sold at a price far beyond anything contemplated by the niggardly keeper of the Treasury’s purse.

  ‘I have no intention of opening the Commissariat depots; it should prove unnecessary. Ireland is producing ample grain to feed its own people.’

  ‘All Ireland’s grain will leave the country as fast as it is harvested.’

  Trevelyan shrugged and spread his hands in feigned exasperation. ‘If the Irish will not look after their own, what can you expect me to do, Mr McCabe?’

  ‘The Irish are your own, too,’ Liam retorted. ‘They were made so by the Act of Union. Give us back a government of our own and we will not have to come to England begging for the right to live. We would throw out those English landlords who, in the name of profit, call for English troops to guard their corn on the way to the ships, to prevent it from being stolen by starving cottiers.’

  ‘I suggest you save your political speeches for the House of Commons, Mr McCabe,’ Charles Trevelyan said angrily. ‘I am an administrator, not a politician. I repeat, I will take whatever measures I deem necessary – when the time arrives.’

  ‘People will die feeding on your promises, Trevelyan. They have nothing else. If you have not yet taken relief measures, then it is already too late.’

  Liam rose to his feet and glared angrily at the Assistant Secretary for some moments. Then his shoulders sagged and much of his anger left him.

  ‘I did not come here to quarrel with you, Mr Trevelyan, but to try to persuade you to help people who are dying of starvation. They are not mere figures on a report. Every one of them is made of flesh and blood. They hate and they love, laugh and cry – just like you and I. They enjoy eating and drinking, and they feel hunger. By God, but they feel hunger. For a year they have had little else to go to bed with. All I am asking is that you spend money on food to keep them alive until they are able to feed themselves once again. Do that, Mr Trevelyan, and a prayer will go up for you from every church in Ireland.’

  Charles Trevelyan gave Liam a benign smile. ‘I appreciate the reason for your concern, Mr McCabe. Indeed, it does you great credit. Not all elected Members of Parliament are as concerned about their constituents as yourself.’

  Rising, Trevelyan took a bottle of Port wine from a cupboard. ‘Will you have a drink with me?’

  When Liam declined, Charles Trevelyan poured a careful half-glass and set it upon the desk before seating himself once more.

  ‘I am not inhuman, Mr McCabe. My department has a certain unenviable reputation, but I can assure you that the Treasury is staffed by ordinary caring people.’

  ‘I am aware of that. I am also aware that in common with other humans, you are – “fallible” is a word I remember from my schooling days. You can make an error of judgement. I sincerely believe you will make the biggest error of your life if you do not send help to Ireland immediately.’

  ‘You will be pleased to know that something has already been done,’ Charles Trevelyan beamed. ‘Only yesterday I gave instructions for a fifty-thousand-pound loan to be made available to the Public Works Department for various approved schemes. Naturally, I shall expect your own Irish landlords to be equally generous….’

  The Assistant Secretary’s benevolent smile disappeared and his voice faltered as he saw the disbelief on Liam’s face.

  ‘You have made available fifty thousand pounds to save a nation from starving to death? Fifty thousand pounds?’

  The words came out in a whisper. ‘I have been reading the proud parliamentary record of the fight to abolish slavery. I read that the sum of twenty million pounds was granted to free the negro slaves of the West Indies. Are the Irish so much less than negro slaves, to England?’

  Before Trevelyan could reply, Liam said, ‘I am sorry I have wasted your time, Mr Trevelyan – and you mine. My place is not here among men who have such little understanding for my people. I must go to Ireland where I can do something useful to help them. If it means going outside the law – your law – to do it, then so be it. Your ways are not our ways.’

  ‘Come now, Mr McCabe. There is no need for such melodrama. I have already pledged my support for your cause.’

  Charles Trevelyan was alarmed at Liam’s comparison of the Irish problem with the aid given to the West I
ndies. If he were to repeat his words often enough, someone in the Government might have a twinge of conscience and suggest that a much greater sum of money be allocated to Irish famine relief. Charles Trevelyan knew there were few honours to be won by a Treasury administrator who spent the country’s money in Ireland.

  ‘When you return to your country contact the new Commissariat Inspector for Western Ireland. I am sure you will find him most helpful.’

  Liam was at the door before the full impact of Charles Trevelyan’s words struck him.

  ‘This new Commissariat Inspector. Who is he?’

  ‘Sir Richard Dudley. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know him. May God save Ireland. She will have no help from the Commissariat.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  As Liam had predicted, there was to be no period of preparation for Ireland’s latest disaster. The stranglehold of hunger was already upon the land, and the cottiers fought a desperate battle for survival.

  For a while they ate anything that grew in the fields and hedgerows – Nettles, acorns, blackberries, bitter wild damson, and finally grass. Boiled in water until it was reduced to a stringy unpalatable mass, it was fed to protesting and gagging children when their mothers had nothing else to offer them.

  But even such a diverse bill of fare as this was not inexhaustible in the cold and wet autumn of 1846, and while Liam was on a storm-tossed ferry boat on the Irish Sea the men from his new constituency were marching upon Castlemaine harbour, where a grain-ship was being loaded.

  News of the advancing mob reached the captain of the vessel and he hastily slipped the ship’s moorings and headed out into Dingle Bay, leaving behind on the jetty many laden wagons. Before they could be hauled away and hidden from view, the crowd was upon them. By now it numbered five hundred strong and the cottier men surrounded the luckless wagoners, demanding grain for themselves and the families they had left behind. They were not violent, appealing rather to the generosity of the wagoners.