by Anne Doughty
Sarah listened attentively. There was nothing new in what Bridget was saying, but hearing her soft Southern accent Sarah became more aware of the vast areas of countryside, far from any of the villages or towns, where there might be some help to be had. One of the men who had died had walked miles for some free food. Exhausted by the long walk, he had collapsed and died before he received it.
‘We’re all right, Sarah, food and plenty to spare and cartloads going out every day to people in need, but did you see this report about the gang of men in Armagh itself, last Saturday?’
Sarah shook her head as Bridget lifted up the paper, unfolded it, rifled through the inside pages and proceeded to read out an item about a group of men armed with sticks and cudgels, of menacing appearance, who had entered a bakery, threatened the baker, but gone away quietly when provided with bread.
‘What do you think of that, Sarah? And it can only get worse. There’s no cold in August or September, though you and I enjoy our fire in the evenings, but then between the linen going down and the blight finishing off the potatoes and winter yet to come, can we expect there to be any improvement in matters?’
There were indeed lovely autumn days in both August and September and even in October, but both August and September were stormier than usual, with a number of gales and sheet lightening, unusual in the Armagh area. It caused much distress at a time when many poor, hungry people were beginning to feel that ‘the wrath of God’, as preached to them by the more extreme evangelicals, both ministers and priests, was now being seen at work, his wrath cursing all around them.
By the end of August, the last hope of the late potato crop was gone. This time, unlike the previous year, it was not a partial failure. When Mary-Anne came up to see Sarah and to help prepare goods for their Thursday market, she admitted to her that at times she was almost glad that Billy had died when he did.
‘Sure I know it seems an awful thing to say, an’ I was heartbroken in m’own way when he went, but if he’d lived to see those fields he and the boys brought over from pasture juss las’ year, it wou’da been even harder to watch him. He’d juss have giv’ up. Young Billy wou’d be like that himself, but Jamsey is more like me; he’s not goin’ to lie down under it. He’s read that there’s organisations giving away seed for next year, turnip and swedes an’ suchlike, that can grow where the soil still maybe has the taint of the blight. Jamsey’ll turn his hand to anythin’ an’ where he goes Billy will follow. Billy’s a good worker, but he can’t find his own way. He’s been doing a lot o’ my work for me so I can do more sewing. D’you know he even baked bread lass week? And not much wrong with it, just a wee bit too hard in the crust.’
Mary-Anne was unambiguous in her support for marketing the handmade items. Jamsey and Scottie between them were now visiting the women in their homes, collecting and delivering as needed, and although the volume of garments continued to grow, the volume of sales more than kept pace. Sarah was always on the lookout for any drop in demand, but as she read somewhere, the poor had to rob their belly to clothe their back, and in fact she saw no drop in sales. It even went up when the first snow of what was to be a hard winter arrived towards the end of October.
In other parts of Ireland, there had been heavy emigration, especially in areas where landlords, knowing their rents would not be paid, simply evicted their hungry tenants so they could turn the land over to grazing and increase their acreages of oats and barley.
The Armagh Guardian reported regularly on the sale of firearms and there were frequent attacks on both rent collectors and carters taking grain to the ports. Relief committees were formed everywhere but many of them spent much of their time arguing about the nature of relief to be given. Even when a project was proposed and adopted, it could take months before any money was forthcoming to pay the wages of the men queuing up for paid work.
Meanwhile the weather worsened, so even where supplies of cheap grain were available, there was little chance of getting it to the remoter areas where they were needed.
True to his word, Sir George allowed Sarah to continue to take Thursday off each week and, if the weather was bad, to take work home on a Friday so she need not make up half a day or so on Saturday. He no longer chaired the workhouse committee but he still insisted on a copy of the minutes. He now brought her the news that fever had broken out in all parts of the house.
It was not till Lady Molyneux herself paid for the construction of fever sheds on some land she owned, nearer to Armagh than to Castle Dillon but a little distance from the workhouse itself, that the gross overcrowding of that building was eased.
But the success of the fever sheds in easing the pressure on workhouse staff was short-lived. Before the autumn turned into what Sir Norman Stronge called ‘the first real winter we’ve had’, a number of doctors, including the workhouse’s own doctor, died of the fever despite being well clothed and well fed. Now it seemed that no one was to be spared; no one was safe, not even the privileged owners and servants of the large Castle Dillon estate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Drumilly Hill,
Ardrea
12th October 1846
My dearest Jonathan,
I admit, I have been so anxious, even when I kept telling myself that the dreadful gales this week must have disrupted the sailings between Belfast and Heysham and therefore delayed the post. When there was no delivery on Friday or Saturday, presumably because my robust postman had nothing to deliver, I knew I shouldn’t worry. But, nevertheless, I confess I did!
Now I have not just one letter from you, but two, and I do not know where to start. I am so relieved, so delighted by your cheering news and so grateful that you are well that, like a child with a bag of sweeties, I am overwhelmed by choice.
But, as you are always so good about reassuring me that you are well in body, however challenged in spirit, then I must begin by doing the same.
I can say honestly that I have been at work today as usual; the signs of storm damage are obvious all along my way. Sadly, one of those lovely chestnut trees I know I’ve mentioned to you had come down, right across the road, completely blocking my access to the house via the back entrance.
I had to turn around and drive back to the front entrance and ask the lodge-keeper if he could look after Daisy and the trap for me while I walked up and round to the housekeeper’s entrance, as we all call it. I assumed one of the outside staff would come and collect her but he refused completely to allow me to walk up the main drive. He said I was a valued member of staff, not a mere tradesperson. He was so fierce with me I had to laugh at the dear man and do as I was told. So Daisy swept me up in the trap, past the front door and around to the stables as if she lived there, which I suppose in a way she does while I am at work.
There is a fair amount of damage to trees and wooden fences on the estate but as Sir George said: ‘No one’s hurt, that’s all that matters.’
He is the kindest man. I can never be cross with him when he’s being irritable. It must be hard when everyone thinks you are there to solve their problems, especially when it is money. Just because he is a major landowner does not mean he has unlimited resources. And at the moment, he so misses his children. I don’t know why Lady Emma is so anxious to remain in Bath after their family holiday in England but I know Sir George is devoted to the little ones. I’ve seen him out walking with his eldest son in particular. He is just nine, very like his father in looks, and I know Sir George would so love to have him here.
I do hope we don’t have such dreadful storms when you come over for your December visit, especially as you are going up to Donegal where the weather is often more severe than here in Armagh.
Although I do read my newspapers carefully, even if I have been known to fall asleep over them after a long day, I did not know about the Belfast women’s group who have formed a committee to raise funds for destitute people in Connaught, nor did I know about the generous gifts from both the Indian army and the Sultan of Turkey. What yo
u say about the flow of funds from America and from all parts of the community there, not just from Irish emigrants, is such very good news.
I must now tell you that Ben, our senior apprentice who emigrated last May, has been sending dollars regularly to me ‘to use as I see need’; that is why I have asked among the women who sew for the Thursday clothes stall if they have any family or friends in Tartaraghan.
It is only a few short miles away from Ardrea, but until you mentioned it to me, I was not aware of exactly where it lay and I had no idea it had one of the highest densities of population in any rural district in Ireland – over 7,000 souls and poor boggy land in an area only three miles by five miles. The people are, of course, mostly weavers working in their own homes and they are having great difficulties.
One of my neighbours on the market stalls tells me that a web of cloth, sixty yards long and three and a half days’ work, is fetching only two shillings and sixpence – and that is if there is any demand! Weavers with children would need at least five shillings a week for meal and flour along with potatoes to provide even a minimal diet. I’ve been told that a local doctor often called out at night, reports he has seen men still working at 2 a.m. in the morning. The potatoes, as you know, are a complete failure this year, unlike last year when it was partial and there was a good grain harvest as well.
I just hadn’t realised that women cannot join the relief committees that are springing up everywhere and I’m heartened by those Belfast women who have formed their own. What I’m hoping is that if I can find a few women in Tartaraghan to sew for the stall, I can encourage them to form their own committee as well. I’ll then use Ben’s dollars to buy meal and flour in bulk so they can better afford to buy it from their earnings. If I can buy in large enough quantities the committee can then provide, without charge, to those who have no money whatsoever.
My dear, what a practical letter I have written and so little of the thoughts and feelings we’ve been sharing recently, but I am now so overcome by tiredness I cannot begin to speak of other things. I shall, however, send this to you with Sir George’s mail tomorrow afternoon and I promise to write again in the evening.
My loving thoughts are with you,
Your sincere friend,
Sarah
Sarah was sadly aware of the drop in temperature as the month of October moved on. The days were cold and a sharp breeze brought wintry showers and flurries of snow. She got used to travelling home in the now early dusk, knowing that Scottie would be waiting anxiously if she was still on the road when it became fully dark. The only good thing about the flurries of snow, he said, was that it helped to keep the light for a bit longer.
Some of the old people with a reputation for predicting the weather had already said it would be a hard winter. As if the loss of jobs in both towns and in the countryside and the total failure of the potato crop were not burden enough, there was the question of trying to keep warm.
In one of the many reports and documents that came to Sir George’s desk, Sarah had read that the cost of keeping up even the most miserably small turf fire for a week was sixpence. It had also become clear that with no money at all coming in, many people had already sold items of clothing in order to buy food; now, dressed in rags, they were exposed to cold as well as hunger.
Work at the forge was quiet, but not much beyond the normal pattern for the short days when there was so little work on the land. There were still horses to be shod and tools to mend and Sam and Scottie had tackled a couple of orders for farm gates from some of the gentlemen farmers in the area. Given two workers instead of four and her own reliable income to subsidise their wages, Sarah was not immediately concerned about either Sam and his family, or about Scottie.
As for her good friend Mary-Anne, she and her two sons had a small, regular income from her sewing and from the farm, where they produced between them milk, butter, eggs and vegetables as well as hay. Jamsey had bought two piglets early in the year and hoped to have them fattened for Christmas when there was always demand for pork from the big houses.
‘My goodness, missus, that was a treat indeed,’ said Sam, putting down his knife and fork after cleaning his plate and licking his lips. ‘It’s the quare while since we’ve had spuds. If it’s not a rude question, how did ye come by them?’
Sarah laughed as she watched Scottie scrape up the last vestiges of the tasty champ she’d made with some of Mary-Anne’s butter and chopped scallions from the garden. Sam breathed a great sigh of satisfaction as she finished her own portion and then shared the small remains from the saucepan equally between Scottie and him.
‘You’ve Sir George to thank for those, as well as for giving me today off, “for overtime” as he always says. He had a big delivery of potatoes and vegetables earlier in the week and all the day staff got some to take home. I’ve a few more left and I’m watching like a hawk in case I see them begin to weep or start to smell, though I must admit they do look very robust to me. I’m wondering if they came from abroad. It’s hardly manners to ask, is it?’
‘Indeed no,’ said Sam quickly, as his small second helping disappeared as rapidly as the first. ‘Shure isn’t it good of the man to share what he has – there’s manys that wou’dn’t, an’ cou’den care less.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, piling up their very clean plates. ‘We’ve neighbours enough getting no help at all. Do you know Tartaraghan, Sam? I know it’s not very far away but I didn’t know anything about it till I read a letter to Sir George from one of their clergy.’
‘I know Tartaraghan,’ said Scottie abruptly, ‘but only from Mr McMahon,’ he added, looking from Sarah to Sam and back again. ‘It has over seven thousand people in a rural district, five miles long by three miles wide, running from beyond Loughgall down to the shores of Lough Neagh,’ he began, his voice flat and featureless, his eyes focused on the grain of the well-scrubbed table. ‘It’s poor, boggy land with great patches of woodland and no real villages,’ he went on, still not looking at either of them. ‘The man who owns most of it, I forget his name, Sir Something Obre, lives in Belgium at a spa for the good of his health. He has a factor to collect his rents,’ he said, his feelings clear in his tightened lips and over-bright eyes when he finally looked up at them.
‘Well, ye certainly know more’n I do, though I know there’s many like him,’ said Sam, looking at his young workmate sharply and seeing his distress. ‘The wife’s granny comes from Milltown, down towards the shore, but she an’ her fam’ly up an’ away t’ Belfast a good while ago, some place called Ballymacarrett. Her ones were all weavers, even the childer worked at windin’, whatever that is,’ he said honestly, as he sat back in his chair and crossed himself, as he always did after he had eaten.
‘Two of the women who sew for the market are from Tartaraghan,’ said Sarah, looking at Scottie. ‘Do you not go there to collect from them?’
‘No, that must be Jamsey,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We have to divide up the jobs between us. He has to do the further away ones because Mrs Halligan doesn’t need their trap as much as you need yours.’
Sarah nodded as she stood up to make them mugs of tea. One of the two Tartaraghan women, Sophie Lawson, had come to the stall at the Thursday market last week simply to thank her for taking their work and selling it. She’d looked so tired when she arrived and made herself known, that Sarah wondered if she’d had to walk all the way to Armagh, seven or perhaps eight miles if she hadn’t got a lift.
What Sophie had said to her then, Sarah had reported to Jonathan in a letter that very evening. Without the Thursday market, Sophie would have no money at all coming in, she’d told him. Like most of her neighbours, her husband was a weaver: there was no market for his unfinished webs of cloth with cheap cloth already dyed and finished coming in from overseas at a lower price. There was no other kind of work to be had in the neighbourhood, apart from a bit of extra farm work at the harvest, and that was now long past. They’d heard about relief work being start
ed in other parts of Ireland but there was nothing like that where she lived. They had five children and only a bit of a garden for potatoes. The potatoes were all lost and the few turnips they’d had were now all used up.
Although Sarah knew Jonathan would use what she’d sent him and report their plight immediately to the Quaker Relief Committee, she also knew the central committee was so pressed by requests for help it might take some time for them to set up soup kitchens in Tartaraghan. In the meantime, she had Ben’s dollars and a contact with a trader who was known to be very fair.
Last week, she’d bought as much meal and flour as the dollars would cover and then, with some of her own earnings, bought a few pounds worth of heavy fabric from her brother in Lurgan. He said he’d managed a specially reduced price for her, but she was perfectly sure that some of the reduction had been a subsidy from his own money. That fabric would give some more women a start making clothing for the stall. Hopefully the money it brought in would keep them going till some further help arrived.
‘Sam, I wonder if you could manage tomorrow without this young man,’ she said, as she fetched the teapot from the dresser.
‘I’m sure it wou’d be for a good reason, comin’ from you, Mrs Hamilton,’ he said, nodding his head.
‘Well, we can’t do much but it’s better than nothing. I’ve bought meal and flour with Ben’s dollars,’ she explained, ‘and I want to take it to Tartaraghan and get Sophie Lawson to help share it out to those worst off. The problem is it’s so heavy. It was cheaper to buy in big sacks but I’ll need Scottie to help me – if you don’t mind, Scottie,’ she said, glancing at him.
He just looked at her. It was a look which said that he would always do whatever she wanted.
