The Music Makers

by E. V. Thompson

  But then the resident magistrate appeared on the scene, having given a fast horseman time to reach the Army in nearby Tralee.

  The magistrate called upon the hungry cottiers to be silent. When he was sure he had their full attention he read out the Riot Act to them, demanding that they disperse, ‘in the name of the Queen’.

  Far from dispersing, the cottiers became angry that no one would heed their plea for food. They resumed their demands on the wagoners, this time accompanying them with threats. One wagoner, bolder than his fellows, used his whip on a man who climbed on to the shaft of his wagon, knocking him to the ground. Immediately, the mob erupted in fierce anger. The wagon belonging to the man who had wielded the whip was turned on its side and two others with it. The excited cottiers began scooping up corn to take home with them, carrying it in anything that would hold grain, most men tightening their belts and stuffing it inside their shirts, ignoring the sharp seeds that scratched a way down to freedom inside their tight trouser-legs.

  Then, at the height of this late and illegal harvest, a full company of the 1st Dragoon Guards galloped into Castlemaine, their gold-plumed helmets reflecting the sun. At an order from their commanding officer, the horsemen halted to form a long line before advancing slowly toward the edge of the crowd of cottiers.

  Some of the younger cottiers, over-confident after their easy victory over the unarmed wagoners, began stoning the Dragoons with cobbles ripped up from the jetty. Immediately, the horse guards retreated, followed by the jeers and derisive cries of the rioting cottiers.

  But the soldiers did not move far away. When they were out of range of the heavy stones that bounced about the feet of their horses they were ordered to draw and load their carbines.

  The sight of the weapons had an instant sobering effect on the majority of the cottiers. The stone-throwing ceased and an unnatural silence fell upon the five hundred or so men crowded about the overturned wagons.

  The Dragoons officer called out another order, and with their carbines carried before them the long line of soldiers advanced toward the crowd.

  The cottiers fell back, trying to keep a respectable distance between themselves and the silent menacing horse guards.

  The slow-moving Dragoons would have driven the cottiers from the quay without incident had not one of the foolhardy young cottiers suddenly run from the crowd with a heavy rounded stone in his hand.

  He ran to within fifteen paces of the leading horseman and, drawing back his arm, threw the stone with unusual skill. The Dragoons officer flung up an arm to protect his face but he was too late. The stone glanced off the peak of his helmet and struck him on the cheekbone. Swaying in his saddle, the officer barked out an order and the Dragoons brought the carbines to their shoulders and fired independently.

  The stone-throwing cottier, running toward the shelter of the crowd, executed a grotesque flailing somersault and was dead before he hit the ground. But he did not die alone. Five other cottier men slumped to the ground about him as the suddenly terrified crowd broke and ran in every direction, half a dozen of them staggering or limping with a lead ball from a trooper’s carbine lodged in their bodies.

  The Dragoon Guards reloaded immediately after their first volley, but they had no need to fire again. The brief riot was over and their officer’s broken cheekbone the only injury suffered by the soldiers.

  But their rout at the hands of the soldiers had done nothing to ease the hunger of the cottiers. The following day they returned to Castlemaine harbour, hoping for a greater degree of success. They found the Army waiting for them. Now there was a full squadron of Dragoon Guards, drawn up behind two companies of the 47th Infantry, marched in overnight from Tralee.

  The sight of more than five hundred armed and disciplined men guarding the loading-quay would have unnerved braver men than the hungry and undernourished cottiers. Daring to do no more than mutter their frustration, they withdrew to the edge of the town to jeer and shout angrily as heavily guarded wagons were brought in from the surrounding countryside loaded with corn for export to England.

  There was little else for the cottiers to do and so they returned to Castlemaine day after day. Their numbers quickly grew to more than two thousand as other cottiers and their families hopefully followed the laden wagons for miles along the bumpy country lanes. They pounced on grain that fell to the ground through cracks in the wood planking – or was surreptitiously thrown down for them by a sympathetic wagoner carting the corn for his landlord.

  This was the scene that greeted Liam when he rode into Castlemaine a few days later. He first went to speak to the Infantry Colonel who had been sent to take charge of the Army in Castlemaine. Liam found the senior officer courteous and understanding of the cottiers’ problems. But he had been sent to the town with orders to provide protection for the men loading grain and he intended carrying out those orders. If the cottiers attempted to interfere with the wagoners, or the ship, his men would fire on them – be they men, women or children.

  When Liam pleaded to be allowed to talk to the wagoners in an attempt to persuade them to turn some of their loads over to the cottiers, the Colonel replied, ‘I suggest you talk to the Commissariat Inspector first. He has been here for two days and may already have made an arrangement along the lines you suggest.’

  ‘The Commissariat Inspector is, of course, Sir Richard Dudley?’

  ‘Yes. You know him? Then perhaps he will be able to help you. You will find him lodging at the house of the resident magistrate.’

  Liam nodded his acknowledgement of the information and turned away, all hope sinking within him. He knew he would have to speak to the baronet before the day was over but, putting the moment off, he went instead to talk to the cottiers waiting outside the town.

  A few of the men recognised him from his brief election tour and within minutes he was surrounded by dozens of shouting, gesticulating cottiers, each eager to put his own point of view.

  When Liam eventually managed to silence them, he said, ‘All this talk is doing no more good than trying to stare out the soldiers in the town. They will load the grain and you will only grow hungrier. How desperately do you need the food?’

  It was the wrong question to put to them; everyone wanted to tell him the answer.

  This time, when he quietened the shouts to a grumbling angry murmur he picked upon a ragged and insignificant little man.

  ‘Do you have a family?’

  ‘I do that, sir. A wife and eight children – and not a lumper potato or a handful of meal between the lot of them for four days.’

  ‘How far is your home?’

  ‘Just the other side of that hill, sir.’ He pointed to a low swelling on the ground less than a mile away.

  ‘Take me there and let me see them for myself.’

  Liam and the little man set off, followed by most of the two-thousand-strong crowd. It became a less than grand tour of inspection of cottier homes and families. As Liam came to a junction in the worn and winding footpath, someone would step forward and insist that he deviate from his route and visit yet another cottier hovel.

  In every one of them Liam saw the same pathetic scenes he had witnessed the previous year around Kilmar.

  When he had seen enough, he turned his steps toward Castlemaine once again. This time he was filled with a grim determination. The cottiers needed food – and food they would have.

  He arrived at the home of the resident magistrate to find Sir Richard Dudley at dinner with his host. There was a third person at the table, and Liam was taken aback to see Jacob Burke, the salesman he had knocked to the ground in the Shrewsbury inn!

  But Liam’s surprise turned to anger when he saw the rich fare on the table before them. There was food such as few cottiers had ever seen, or ever would see. They would die of hunger, unaware that such food as this existed.

  When the magistrate stood up, dabbing his mouth with a starched napkin and making hasty introductions, Liam cut him short.

  ‘I hav
e already met your guests,’ he said, inclining his head briefly in Sir Richard Dudley’s direction and ignoring Jacob Burke. ‘I am here about the cottiers.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ The magistrate laid the napkin on the table and pushed his still-laden plate from him. ‘A most unfortunate incident, but we will have no more trouble from them. I called in the Army and they now have everything under control. Another day or two and the grain-ship will sail. Then the cottiers will return to their homes.’

  ‘I am not interested in how you maintain law and order,’ retorted Liam. ‘I want to know what arrangements have been made to feed the cottiers and their families?’

  ‘That is hardly my responsibility …,’ began the magistrate. but Liam ignored him and addressed the baronet.

  ‘You are the Commissariat Inspector, Sir Richard. Have you come to Castlemaine to open a depot? How soon can we expect it to be supplying the cottiers?’

  ‘I am here to do no such thing,’ declared Sir Richard Dudley indignantly. ‘I am on a tour of the west coast of Ireland to assess the situation for myself – and I will do nothing while a mob of good-for-nothing peasants terrorises the countryside. Give in to them and they will rise throughout the length and breadth of the country.’

  ‘Ignore them and they certainly will,’ replied Liam. ‘These men and their families are starving. They need food desperately.’

  ‘Then they must buy grain,’ said the baronet airily. ‘That is what the people of England are having to do.’

  ‘What do you suggest they use for money?’ asked Liam. ‘Cottiers give their landlords work in return for a plot of land in which to grow their potatoes. They don’t earn money – and, if they did, a week’s wages would not buy enough corn to feed a man’s family for one day. Most of them know that from harsh experience; they have pledged their decent clothes, and even their bedding, to buy food.’

  ‘Be that as it may, it is not the Commissariat’s intention to open a depot in Castlemaine – or anywhere else in this part of County Kerry. I have seen what I came to see and will be leaving as soon as the grain-ship is ready to sail with us.’

  ‘It could hardly be more appropriate.’ said Liam bitterly. ‘A Commissariat Inspector travelling on a ship taking grain from Ireland, leaving the people to starve. Before you go perhaps you’ll ask the magistrate to take you on a tour of the cottier holdings, hereabouts – that’s if you have the stomach for such an experience. See how they are faring. I doubt if it will change your attitude toward them, but I guarantee you’ll remember the pot-bellied rickety children every time you sit before a full plate.’

  A nervous movement from Jacob Burke caught Liam’s eye and he turned toward him. The salesman froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth.

  ‘I thought you were coming to Ireland to assess the needs of the Commissariat? I doubt if it is coincidence that you are in Castlemaine at the same time as a grain-boat, but the price of Irish barley is too high for Trevelyan’s purse. You are buying for English merchants?’

  After a false start, Jacob Burke’s voice came out strained. ‘I am a trader. I buy what people want, and sell to the best market.’

  ‘I have no doubt the profit is higher if you carry on your trading when travelling at the Treasury’s expense,’ commented Liam. ‘You keep good company, Sir Richard.’

  Before the Commissariat Inspector could reply, Liam had gone from the room. There was much to be done before nightfall. Liam was determined the grain-ship would leave Castlemaine harbour with space in her holds. He went to the local branch of the All-Ireland Association, to persuade them to purchase as many wagonloads of grain as their funds would allow.

  He could not hope to save the lives of everyone doomed by the failure of the potato crop, but he would buy a few more weeks of life for the cottiers of Castlemaine.

  ‘Damned upstart!’ fumed Sir Richard Dudley, when Liam had gone from the room. ‘A few years ago a gentleman was a gentleman, and a fisherman was a fisherman. Every man knew his place and the world was a damned sight better for it. Put a fisherman in a gentleman’s clothes and he begins to think he is as good as his betters. As for electing him to Parliament …! What on earth were the people of County Kerry thinking about?’

  The magistrate had been quick to call out the Army when the cottiers had marched on Castlemaine, but he was an Irishman. He was unhappy at the plight of his countrymen and resented the baronet’s callous disregard for them. He said, ‘Eugene Brennan’s association calls the tune in this part of the country – as in many others. Your work will be easier if you can get along with them, Sir Richard.’

  The baronet snorted and reached for his brandy glass. ‘Eugene Brennan’s association and Ireland deserve one another. I only wish I had been posted to a more civilised country.’ He glared over the glass at Jacob Burke. ‘McCabe seemed to know you. Where have you met before?’

  Jacob Burke was reluctant to give an answer. He had told Sir Richard Dudley of his meeting with Lady Caroline on the journey to Holyhead, but had made no mention of the incident at Shrewsbury – or of Liam McCabe. He licked his lips and looked at the magistrate, reluctant to say anything with another in the room.

  ‘Well? Speak up, man. Where did you meet McCabe?’

  ‘On the coach to Holyhead.’

  Sir Richard Dudley lowered his glass and frowned hard at Jacob Burke. ‘Travelling on the same coach as my wife?’

  Jacob Burke gave another quick glance at the magistrate before answering.

  ‘He appeared to be escorting her. They dined together at Shrewsbury.’

  Sir Richard Dudley’s face turned scarlet and as the anger built up inside him Jacob Burke feared he would burst a blood vessel.

  ‘Damn it! I will put up with that man’s cheek no longer. By the time I have finished with him he will do nothing more ambitious than launch a curragh for the remainder of his life. Why did you not tell me of this before today?’

  ‘I … I thought you must know. I didn’t dream that he and your wife were … I mean … I thought you had asked him to take care of her.’

  ‘Ask McCabe? I would not ask an Irishman for anything.’

  ‘If you gentlemen will excuse me.’

  The embarrassed magistrate pushed back his chair from the table and stood up. With a shallow, stiff bow to the baronet, he turned and left the room. He had no wish to learn of the indiscretions of County Kerry’s newest MP and Sir Richard Dudley’s wife. He had already decided he did not like the Commissariat Inspector.

  Sir Richard Dudley hardly noticed the exit of his host.

  ‘McCabe should not be sitting in Parliament. The man is a scoundrel. A – a – blackguard!’

  ‘He might well be something far worse,’ said Jacob Burke, anxious to make amends for his earlier omission. ‘He is probably a traitor, too.’

  ‘Eh?’ The statement was enough to startle the baronet out of his own dark thoughts. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about Liam McCabe, Member of Parliament. He’s probably guilty of treason. His brother certainly is … and of murder, too.’

  ‘Stop talking in blasted riddles, man. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Liam McCabe’s brother is a wanted man. He attacked some soldiers escorting grain-wagons and stole the wagons. He fled to the Wicklow mountains with his gang and has gathered an army of criminals about him. They terrorise the countryside and are responsible for the deaths of scores of soldiers and innocent people. Liam McCabe must be involved with them. I am told he goes to visit his brother frequently. I mean, how would he know exactly where to find them if he didn’t know what was going on? The Army have been looking for them all year without success.’

  ‘Where did you hear this talk?’ Jacob Burke had Sir Richard Dudley’s full attention now.

  ‘From the potman at the inn where I stay in Dublin. He knows the McCabe brothers. He was a fisherman himself until an injury to his knee forced him to give up the life. I don’t suppose it would do McCabe any good if that story wer
e to get about.’

  ‘On the contrary, Liam McCabe would become a hero in the eyes of his countrymen – but this potman, is he a friend of McCabe?’

  ‘There was little friendship in the remarks he passed to me. I would say he hates Liam McCabe. He’s probably jealous of his success—’

  ‘I am not interested in your speculation,’ snapped the baronet. ‘When we return to Dublin bring this potman to me. I want to know exactly how much truth there is in what he says. Now, where is that magistrate? My glass is empty.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Liam found the return ride to Kilmar from County Kerry even more depressing than before. For mile upon mile of carefully ridged land the potato haulms lay limp and black. Where the tubers had already been dug, the stench of diseased and rotting potatoes hung like death on the air and the tens of miles of sheer desolation frightened Liam.

  He wondered whether anything could possibly help the cottiers now. He had done what he could for the families in the hills about Castlemaine, convincing the All-Ireland Association that they would never again be able to hold up their heads in the land if they allowed people to die while they still had funds. But one man could not save everyone.

  The resident magistrate at Castlemaine had sold the last few wagonloads of his corn to the Association at a reasonable price and had persuaded other local land-owners to do the same by convincing them that it was good insurance. They lived in the area and would still be there when the English soldiers had returned to their barracks in Tralee.

  Association money was also being provided for another scheme to provide food during the long hungry months ahead. Local fishing was so poorly organised it could not properly be called an industry. The prevailing wind along the Kerry coast was westerly. It brought long Atlantic rollers crashing against the high cliffs and surging inside the wide bays of this exposed coast. Even on the finest days it was often impossible for the light-framed curraghs to venture outside a few sheltered inlets. Liam had told the Association of the advantage of wooden boats, capable of going out in all but the roughest weather, and the members had agreed to purchase two such boats. Liam had promised to return to teach the local fishermen how to handle them.