Today, however, tempers were frayed. In the first place, the overseer sent down from Dublin had firm views about preparing the food. All Maureen wanted was some meal that she could cook for the children. But she was told that she could not have it.
“No raw meal,” the man cried out. Then he added, so that all might hear: “If you give these people raw meal, half of them’ll just sell it, take the money, and go and get drunk on the proceeds.” Maureen couldn’t think of anyone she knew who would do such a foolish thing, but the man was adamant. This meant that everyone had to wait while batches of meal were cooked. “And once it’s cooked,” a woman in front of her remarked, “it crumbles so, that you can never get it home without bits of it falling on the road. It’s the birds we’ll be feeding before our own children.”
There were all kinds of people waiting. If they were paupers under the law, Maureen saw several of the town’s smaller tradesmen who, with the falling-off in trade, were now almost as destitute as she. The officious fellow from Dublin was equally anxious to make sure that none of this largesse was wasted upon the undeserving.
“Only those whose name is on my list,” he called. “All those on my list may come up and take a ticket. When you have a ticket, you must wait in line for your turn. We’ll have fairness here,” he remarked to someone. “You have to watch these people like a hawk.” He started a roll call. When he came to Maureen, he demanded: “Where is your father? It says you have a father. Is he at work?”
“No, Sir,” she said.
“Tomorrow, I want to see you all. Father, three sisters, brother. All of you, mind, or you’ll get nothing.”
Thanks to this cumbersome procedure, she stood there for five hours before finally getting a small portion of cooked meal, which would hardly feed them as it was. She was starting to walk away when she caught sight of Nuala.
She was down one of the alleys, leaning in a doorway. Maureen supposed that this must be where the laundress lived and that Nuala must be taking a rest. She thought she’d ask her when she was coming home and began to walk towards her. As she did so, she saw a man come up the alley from the other direction. Just a poor-looking tradesman. He stopped by Nuala. They spoke together. The two of them disappeared into the doorway. And then she understood, and, like a fool, was so shocked that she dropped the cooked meal, which scattered on the ground, so that she had to gather it together as best she could, and took it back home all spoiled. And when her father saw it he gave a look of vexation and remarked: “Your brother and sisters will be eating dirt and grit with their meal tonight, Maureen. I can’t think what made you do such a thing.” And she said she was sorry, and she couldn’t think either.
Later that night, when she was with Nuala alone, she told her what she’d seen. But Nuala only shrugged.
“I didn’t want you to know, Maureen, but there was no work to be had, and my being so young, at least I can get something.”
“My God, you’re so young, it would be better me than you, Nuala.”
“I don’t think so, Maureen. I’m quite in demand. Do you realise I’ve already saved five shillings.” She gave a wry smile. “If times were better and I could find a rich man . . .”
“Don’t even say such a thing. You must stop, Nuala.”
“Stop?” She looked at her elder sister almost angrily. “Don’t be a fool, Maureen. With Father earning nothing, how do you think we’re going to pay the next rent?” She relented and gave Maureen a kiss. “We all do what we can, Sis. You keep house and I’ll sell my body. What does it matter?”
“Don’t ever tell Father. It would kill him.”
The next morning the whole family, including both her father and Nuala, went to the soup kitchen. Her father was very quiet. He held his body erect, as he always did, but she saw that, instead of looking out with their usual, bold dignity at the world, his eyes were looking down, avoiding the gaze of others. She knew he was inwardly wincing with every pace he took. When they arrived, their names were checked, but, cruelly, the man who took the roll call insisted that they all wait the four hours until they get their ration. With each minute that passed, she knew that her father secretly took another invisible step down the stairway of humiliation in his soul. And with each passing minute, she was silently praying that nobody should come up to her sister, nor say any word that might give away the trade she now followed.
Whatever her fears about her sister, Maureen couldn’t help being glad when, shortly after this, Nuala started bringing home items of food: a loaf of bread, a little ham, a cabbage. They pretended to her father that they had managed to buy these things in the town, but Nuala confessed to her: “I have a merchant who likes me. He knows what I need, so he pays me with food for my family.” Maureen concluded that there was nothing she could say, since the food was such a boon. The children needed it. Even Caitlin looked a little better.
But the one who seemed to pick up the fastest was little Daniel. Children of six could often be fragile, but thank God, she thought, that her father’s only remaining son was such a sturdy little fellow. He seemed to have a remarkable resilience. A short time ago, his blue eyes had looked so large and staring in his sunken face that she had secretly trembled for him; yet now, after some days of better diet, he had already put on a little flesh and gained in energy. When they walked into town together, instead of holding her hand and dragging his feet, he slipped his hand free and even walked ahead.
Further encouragement came one morning when she and Daniel arrived at the soup kitchen to find that there had been a change. Instead of waiting for a daily ticket, they were told to take a ticket for a month. She observed that the line was moving more easily and was told that the meal was being issued fresh now, so that they did not have to wait for it to be cooked. “There’s a new supervisor,” one of the women told her, but who this might be she did not know until little Daniel suddenly ran across to where Stephen Smith was inspecting a shipment of meal.
“It’s Mr. Smith,” he cried. “Mr. Smith,” he told the bystanders, “is our friend.”
Maureen hastened across and apologised for the interruption, but Stephen Smith did not seem to mind at all. He had been asked to supervise the Ennis soup kitchens for the moment, he confirmed. The other man had been removed. He turned his eyes on Daniel.
“Remind me of your name,” he said pleasantly.
“Daniel, Sir.”
“Ah yes. An excellent name.”
“I am named after Daniel O’Connell.”
“I know Mr. O’Connell well.”
“Does he know that I am named after him?”
Stephen hesitated hardly the fraction of a second, but giving Maureen a smile, he answered.
“Why, to be sure he does. And he is very pleased.”
Little Daniel swelled with pride. Maureen silently blessed, and wondered at, the goodness of the man; and when it came to their turn, the people handing out the meal, having observed that this family appeared to be in the favour of the new supervisor, made sure to give her a little more than they would otherwise have done.
On the second day of April, Eamonn Madden started to feel unwell.
“I’ve no strength in me today,” he said in the morning. He seemed slightly puzzled. It wasn’t like him. Normally, he ignored any ailments, as a king might ignore a complaining subject.
Maureen went into Ennis as usual, taking little Daniel with her.
At the end of the day, she noticed that her father was shivering, and he admitted to her that he had a headache. Feeling his brow, she could tell he had a fever. She’d been able to make a little broth, and she gave it to him. The next morning, he was the same; by evening, his brow was burning.
“You’d best keep the children away from me,” he told her, and insisted on going into the far room, where they had stored the potatoes once. She made him up a bed with straw and a blanket. “I’ll be right enough here,” he said.
She talked to Nuala. The doctors in Ennis were all fully occupied with the hosp
itals, but Nuala found a priest to consult, and he gave her wise advice.
“Whatever you do, don’t take him to the fever hospital. That’s probably where he got it,” he told her. “Keep him away from the children, and pray. I see the fever every day now, and it’s getting worse. The people are so weakened through lack of food that they haven’t the strength to fight it. There are two forms: the yellow and the black, as they call it. The black is typhus, which is a terrible thing. But most survive it, you know. Is your father a strong man? That is good. Pray for him, then. With luck, after a week, the fever will break.”
But it did not. On the fifth day, as she was feeding him, Maureen noticed by the light of the candle that the skin on her father’s chest seemed to be mottled. One side of his shirt was open, and when he turned, she saw that there were deep red blotches on his side. She wasn’t sure whether he realised, so she said nothing. The next day, the blotches were darker. When the children wanted to go in to see him, she wouldn’t let them. She continued to feed him broth.
The next evening, Nuala brought home some milk. “It’s good for the fever,” she said. “I told my merchant it was for my sisters, to build them up.”
“Does he know about Father?”
“Are you mad? He wouldn’t touch me if he knew. And then . . .” She made a face. “No more food.”
Two days later, the patches on her father were almost black. In the evening, he became delirious, mumbling incoherently. His eyes were open, but Maureen knew he did not see her. Around noon the next day, however, he became lucid again.
“Bring Daniel to me.”
She shook her head.
“Just to the door. Only for a moment.”
Reluctantly, she complied. Eamonn propped himself up against the wall.
“Daniel, your father has a sickness. I may not see you again. Do you understand?”
The boy stared wide-eyed into the shadowy room but did not know what to say.
“You will be looked after by your sister, and always try to help her,” his father went on. “Will you do that for me?” Daniel nodded. “And one day, when you are grown, you will be strong, and never be sick, and then you will be the man of the family, and look after Maureen and your other sisters. Do you promise me that also?”
“Yes,” the little boy whispered.
“Good. You are a good boy, Daniel, and I’m very proud of you.” He looked to Maureen. “That’ll do.”
At that moment, Daniel tried to rush to his father, but Maureen managed to catch him just in time.
When they were back in the other room, Daniel turned to her.
“I will look after you, Maureen. I promise I will. Forever and ever.”
“I know you will,” she said, and kissed him. Then she went back in to help her father. He seemed suddenly very tired.
“I’ll speak to the girls together this evening, when Nuala’s back,” he said.
But by that evening, he was delirious again.
He continued that way for another day. Then he seemed to pass into a kind of stupor. His eyes were open very wide, and his breathing was shallow. Maureen wasn’t sure what to do. It was Nuala who brought the priest, who, after giving him the last rites, told them, “I don’t think it will be very long now.”
Maureen found that he had gone when she went in to him the following morning.
In the month of June in the year 1847, a wonderful thing occurred.
The Irish Famine came to an end.
True, the greater part of the Irish people was close to starvation. The numbers of weakened people dying from disease were rising. So few potatoes had been planted that, even if they escaped blight, they would not be enough to feed the poor folk who relied upon them. More and more of those small tenants and cottagers, besides, were being forced off the land into a condition of helpless destitution. Ireland, that is to say, was a country utterly prostrated.
Yet the Famine came to an end. And how was this wonderful thing accomplished? Why, in the simplest way imaginable. The Famine was legislated out of existence. It had to be. The Whigs were facing a General Election.
And the British public had had enough of the Irish Famine. After all, everyone had done their best. When a voluntary fund to relieve Irish and Scottish distress had been set up that spring, Queen Victoria herself had contributed two thousand pounds, and the donations had soon reached nearly half a million pounds sterling—a huge sum, far surpassing even the value of relief goods sent across the Atlantic in over a hundred ships by the Irish and their sympathisers in America. The government itself had spent millions. By early summer, moreover, the soup kitchens were frequently able to provide a nourishing mixture of maize, rice, and oats, and there was more than enough to go round. The food shortage had been stemmed.
But at great cost. This expenditure of taxpayers’ money could not go on indefinitely. Surely by now, reasonable Britons supposed, the Irish should be able to start putting their own house in order. Speeches were made denouncing government waste. Newspapers carried articles about misplaced humanity: one must not, these articles pointed out, be too kind to the Irish, or it would sap their self-reliance.
Faced with such general sentiment, and with an election in prospect, the government decided to do what governments have always done: “If you can’t win a war, then you’d better declare a victory.”
After all, this year’s potatoes appeared to be free of blight, and the Irish grain harvest promised a bumper crop. The fact that the poor Irish had no money to buy any grain was a detail that could be overlooked. The market would take care of such things.
And so an excellent scheme was hit upon. In June that year, a bill was passed in the British Parliament that would reorganise the relief of distress in Ireland entirely. The Poor Law Extension Act was a brilliant instrument. From now on, all those in need of help could apply to the local workhouse, in which they could be either incarcerated or fed. The able-bodied, of course, would not be fed. There were some safeguards, so that this generosity would not be abused. Those who had a vegetable patch for self-support would be turned away. And the men, at least, would be obliged to break stones for, say, ten hours a day, in order to discourage trivial applications for food. But by these means, the costs would fall upon the local Irish authorities, where they belonged. And by this was the stroke of legislative genius, as soon as this was done—by the end of the summer, say—the present costly soup kitchens could be closed down and the suffering English taxpayer be relieved.
The Irish Famine, therefore, had been legislated away. Since it was no longer official, it did not exist. Or if it did, it was a local Irish problem. It was a tribute to the flexibility of the Union.
Thus the British government could face the electorate with a sense of confidence and of duty done.
Stephen Smith was most surprised, one day in July, to see Mr. Samuel Tidy standing thoughtfully in the street, watching the soup kitchen. He went over to him at once. And the Quaker was evidently quite as surprised to see him in turn. He listened carefully as Stephen gave him a quick account of how he came to be there, then informed him that he had come to Ennis himself to see what the Quakers might be able to do to help. Since Stephen was to be at the house of Charles O’Connell that evening, he suggested that the Quaker should come, too, since Charles O’Connell would certainly be delighted to welcome him.
He and Daniel O’Connell’s cousin had seen a good deal of each other recently. Though he had been well aware that the great man was unwell, Stephen had been shocked when, in May, the Liberator had died trying to make a pilgrimage to Rome. He had naturally called upon Charles O’Connell at once, and they had often dined together since. Charles had been trying to persuade him to resume his political life, but Stephen wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The three men dined quietly together. O’Connell apologised for the somewhat simple fare, but though it was not lavish, the meal was perfectly adequate. “It’s quite remarkable, really,” Charles O’Connell remarked, “how little life fo
r the richer merchants and the local gentry has changed. The gentry are still entertaining in their houses—quietly, I grant you—but you can still dine and play at whist in any of the country houses around. Indeed, it’s terrible to say it, but this famine has been a blessing to many of the estates in the county, because it gives the landlords and the larger farmers an excuse to clear out numbers of unwanted tenants. I had one man tell me: ‘I’ve persuaded some of my people to emigrate to America. I’m better off paying their passage and getting the land back.’ So there you are, Mr. Tidy. English or Irish, it makes little difference: the richer sort have one set of interests in this matter, and the poor, who are suffering, another. You may say that the situation should never have developed in the first place.”
“I certainly would,” agreed the Quaker.
“But it has, and there are those who say that there is no way out of our difficulty until we have first gone through this terrible period of readjustment.”
“By which,” added Stephen with feeling, “they mean starvation. For that is what the British government is now proposing.”
“You think the British will deliberately starve the Irish poor?” asked the Quaker.
“Not exactly. But I think that every measure they have introduced has been misconceived. I was helping administer the public works scheme before this. Men were being paid a starvation wage to perform useless tasks, so that they could buy food which wasn’t there. It also cost the government a great deal—far more than it would have done to feed people. The entire system broke down, and so they introduced soup kitchens. In some of the more remote areas of Clare, by the way, the soup kitchens took so long to get started that whole villages starved in the meantime. At this moment, starvation has been averted. But in two months, the kitchens will be closed and the workhouses will try to take over.”
The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga Page 78
