“Oh, my God…”
Just then, the infuriated Cavalry officer galloped up on a borrowed horse. This time he had his gun drawn and pointed at Michael. “You, there. You’re under arrest in the name of the Queen.”
“No, wait.” Emily pointed at the ditch. “This man saved my life.”
The officer glanced at a ditch that straddled the road and shook his head in amazement. Only in Ireland would they dig a ditch across a main road and leave it unattended. He looked at Michael, laying in the dust, bleeding and disheveled. This beggar may have saved this beautiful woman’s life, he said to himself, but he’d also stolen my horse and humiliated me in front of pack of Irish rabble. That will not do.
“I’m glad you’re safe, madam,” the officer said, bowing slightly to Emily. “Nevertheless, this man has stolen one of Her Majesty’s horses and he is under arrest.”
“Perhaps you know of my father, Lord Somerville?”
The officer looked at her more closely and noticed for the first time how finely dressed she was. “You’re Lord Somerville’s daughter?”
“Yes, and I’m sure my father would take kindly to you considering the extenuating circumstances and overlooking this man’s theft of your horse,” she said sweetly.
“Theft?” Michael got to his feet, wiping the blood from his bleeding elbow onto his other sleeve. “What theft? I stole nothin’.”
Emily shot him a warning glance to keep silent.
The officer was ambitious, but he was no fool. He might be assigned to this godforsaken country now, but he had a long career ahead of him and it would do him no good to cross someone as powerful as Lord Somerville. He looked down at Michael. The man deserves a good thrashing, he said to himself, but he’s not worth jeopardizing my career. He turned to Emily, tipped his cap, and smiled obsequiously. “I will be happy to accede to your wishes, Lady Somerville. Captain Haraday at your service.”
He remounted his own horse and galloped off, leaving Michael and Emily alone.
Michael tucked his shirt in. Now that they were alone, he felt awkward and painfully aware of the state of his tattered clothing, which was all the worse for being dragged by Shannon.
Emily cleared her throat. “I feel like a great fool.”
Michael rubbed his wrist. “I was just tryin’ to tell you about…” He nodded toward the ditch.
“Yes, of course. It’s just that… well, there have been brigands on the road and…”
“Oh, aye, there have...”
“And, well… anyway, thank you for saving my life…”
Michael didn’t know what to say. For the first time, she was looking at him, smiling at him, with beautiful green eyes that held no anger. No hostility. No condescension.
“Oh…” he finally muttered. “It was nothin’.”
Emily’s eyes twinkled. “Really? My life is nothing?”
“Oh, no… I didn’t mean that… I meant… that is…”
He was actually blushing and she found it charming. “That was a witticism,” she explained. “A very bad witticism I’m afraid.”
Michael stared down at the ground, perplexed. He didn’t know what the word meant.
“I was having sport with you,” Emily explained further.
“Havin’ sport with me?” Michael’s eyes flashed. “Why would you be makin’ fun of me?”
“No, I wasn’t making fun of you. I was just trying to make a laugh. I meant no harm.”
“Oh… aye…” Michael looked away in frustration, painfully aware that he was sounding like a tongue-tied buffoon.
Mercifully, at that moment, Da and Dermot came running over the crest toward them.
“Are you all right?” Da called out.
Michael waved.
“Well, I must be going,” Emily said.
“Aye.” Michael cringed inside. Aye? Aye? Is that all you can say, you eejit?
She looked at the ditch again and shuttered involuntarily. “And your name is…?”
“Michael Ranahan.”
“You really did save my life, Michael. Thank you.”
He slapped Shannon’s neck affectionately and nodded.
Emily looked as though she was about to say something else, but she, too, nodded and rode off.
Once Da had satisfied himself that his son hadn’t broken any bones, he said, “Well, let’s get to work.”
For the first time Michael noticed that his hands and knees were shaking. “I think I’ll just sit down here for a bit,” he said, slumping to the ground.
It took the three of them almost four hours to fill in the ditch. On the way back to the village Dermot made great sport of Michael. Mimicking his brother’s voice, he said, “‘I think I’ll just sit down here for a bit,’ he says. And him lookin’ like he just shite his pants.”
Michael paid no attention to Dermot’s ridicule. He was thinking of Emily. She knows my name, he kept saying to himself over and over again.
Father Rafferty and the men protested that day in front of the Board of Works. They shouted, shook their fists, made threats, and generally frightened Mr. Browning and Mr. Thomas, who watched the demonstration from behind locked doors and closed curtains. But the order of Charles Trevelyan stood and the Board of Works remained closed. In due time, some would receive the wages owed them. Others would not. And there was nothing that any of them could do about it.
Chapter Nine
August 1846
Ballyross, Ireland
As the time of harvest drew near, it became a ritual for Da and Michael to go into the potato field every day and examine the plants. Crawling on their hands and knees between the rows of stalks, they squinted at leaves, soil, and stems, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But what were they looking for? They had no idea what caused the rot in the potatoes. Yet, so great had their anxiety become that the sight of a common fly or an unrecognized insect was enough to make their hearts pound.
After they finished their examination, Da and Michael completed the ritual by standing in the field and offering to one another dead flies, insects, and blemished leaves for further examination and confirmation.
“Have you ever seen the likes of this?” Michael would ask.
Da would turn the fly over in the palm of his hand. “Aye. It’s nothin’.”
Then he would hand a leaf with a suspicious spot to his son. “And what do you make of this?”
Michael would examine it carefully. “I’ve seen it many times.”
In this way, they bolstered each other’s courage and drove away the doubts and fears. Only after they were satisfied that every plant in the field had been properly inspected, did they go to their supper. At the door, a fearful Da always turned to take one last look at the field, as though he expected it to suddenly turn black before his very eyes.
“Are the plants healthy, John?” Granda would ask when they’d sat down to supper.
“Aye, everythin’s lovely,” Da would respond. “It’s gonna be a wonderful harvest and that’s a fact.”
It was raining when the family awoke at dawn the next morning. Dermot looked out the tiny window. “Will you look at the downpour? How are we to work in all that rain?”
“Tis only water,” Da said. “You’ll not melt.”
“Tis a deluge I tell you. Look.” He yanked open the door to show his father how hard the rain was coming down and, suddenly, a putrid stench filled the tiny cottage.
Da jumped up, knocking his chair over. “Ah, Jasus, no…no…”
One by one they went outside into the soaking rain. Silently, they stood staring at the devastation in the potato field. It had happened again.
Then the stillness of the air was shattered by the shrill sound of Grandmam’s keening.
September 1846
London, England
“‘And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land.’” Trevelyan closed the Bible and studied t
he three commission members. “Genesis, Chapter forty-one, verse thirty.”
In frustration, Dr. Playfair thumped his fist on Trevelyan’s polished conference table. “Sir, may I remind you, Ireland is not Egypt. The prospect of the potato crop this year is even more distressing than last. The disease has appeared earlier and its ravages are more extensive. In short, it’s total crop failure, Mr. Trevelyan. The peasants have nothing to eat.”
Over the past few months, these meetings between Trevelyan and the three members of the Scientific Commission had become more tendentious. Playfair, flanked by Kane and Lindley, sat on one side of the table, Trevelyan on the other, armed only with his Bible, which he freely quoted from, much to the growing irritation of the commission members. Across the width of the table they studied each other like chess players, searching for a weakness, a vulnerability; neither side trusting the other.
It was Trevelyan’s move. “Have they no food reserves?”
“Some have a few potatoes from last year, but when they’re gone…” Playfair saw no need to finish the sentence.
Trevelyan raised his eyebrows. “When they are gone, what?”
“Famine, Mr. Trevelyan.”
“My dear sir, you know how the Irish exaggerate.”
“This is no exaggeration, sir,” Playfair answered curtly. “This crop failure, falling as it does on the heels of last year’s, will be devastating. Even now there are reports of people with nothing to eat but cabbage leaves and nettles.”
Dr. Kane interjected. “I must warn you, Mr. Trevelyan. If previous famines are any indication, we can also expect outbreaks of pestilence.”
With each meeting, the three scientists were growing more and more frustrated with the obstinate Trevelyan. In the past year, they’d come to learn that Trevelyan would not—or could not—respond with compassion. For some reason known only to him, he refused to acknowledge the plight of these wretched creatures on the other side of the Irish Sea. The only way to get through to him, they’d learned, was to make their case in the most practical terms possible.
Lindley opened a folder and read from his notes. “In the famine of eighty-two, the Irish ports were closed and the homegrown food used for domestic consumption. Under the circumstances, we believe this to be the best course of action.”
Trevelyan made a steeple of his fingers and studied the three men with cold gray eyes. Powerful men aren’t afraid of silence in conversation because they know no one will interrupt them. He was quiet for a long time. Then, he said, “There will be no closing of Irish ports. This government has no intention of denying merchants a fair and just profit, and we will not interfere with free market trade. You gentlemen do not seem to grasp the essential problem of Ireland. To wit, its overpopulation, which is beyond the power of man to solve. But it is not,” he added knowingly, “beyond the power of Divine Providence.”
The three men glanced at each other, astonished at Trevelyan’s almost mystical belief in God’s role in all this. He could invoke the Almighty and free trade all he wanted, but the unassailable truth was that a famine was raging through Ireland and something had to be done.
“I don’t think you understand the conditions in Ireland,” Playfair said. “Free market trade implies the use of currency. But most of these peasants have no money. Indeed, many of them have never used money. They exist mostly on barter. How are they to buy food without money? How can a free market exist without money?”
“Then they’ll have to earn money.” Trevelyan said in a tone implying the obvious.
“Prime Minister Peel promised—”
“May I remind you, sir,” Trevelyan said, cutting Playfair off, “that Peel is no longer the Prime Minister. As the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, it is my solemn duty to husband the Crown’s purse and that is exactly what I intend to do.”
“But, Mr. Trevelyan, the government must provide assistance,” Lindley said. “Many sold everything they had to make it through the year—clothing, tools, furniture. I tell you, sir, the people have nothing.”
Trevelyan was unmoved by Lindley’s words. “I am not surprised. Nor should you be. The deep root of Ireland’s ills has been laid bare by Divine Providence. It is God who has ordained this famine and we must trust in God and the operation of natural causes to do its work.”
Kane’s face reddened in anger. “Are you saying the government will do nothing?”
“On the contrary. I intend to reopen the Board of Works and it will resume on an even larger scale.”
The three men sighed in relief. Finally, he was going to do something. But their hope that Trevelyan had come to his senses was short-lived when he added, “However, the government will no longer bear half the cost as it did last year. All future costs will be borne by the counties in which the works are carried out.”
“But that’s preposterous,” Playfair blurted out. “How can you expect the landlords to carry the financial burden of this famine alone?”
“It is only fair and just that the expense fall entirely on those who own the properties. It’s high time the landlords assumed responsibility for their tenants.”
“But many of these landlords are near insolvency,” Kane said.
“If they are it is because they have chosen to be profligate,” Trevelyan snapped. “They erect ostentatious mansions, they fill their stables with costly horseflesh, they acquire hounds for hunting, and they squander kingly sums on balls and such trappings. Are you suggesting we reward their immoral behavior by having the Crown pay for such extravagance?”
“It is not for me to judge the actions of the landlords, as reprehensible as they may be,” Kane said patiently. “But the fact is, few were able to collect rents this past year and many are on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“Then so be it.” Trevelyan’s cold eyes swept the three men. “It would be best for the land to fall to someone who will husband it in a proper manner.”
Lindley saw no point in continuing this line of argument. “How much food will the government import to Ireland?” he asked.
“None,” Trevelyan said.
“None! Sir, last year the government provided corn meal and even then there was not enough food.”
“My point exactly,” Trevelyan said with a self-satisfied smile. “Free trade was paralyzed because the government interfered with the legitimate pursuit of profits by merchants. Gentlemen, I ask you, how can we expect private enterprise to import grain into Ireland if they feel that at any moment the government will step in and undercut their profits?”
October 1846
Ballyross, Ireland
The thin sound of a lone violin wafting on the night breeze brought back pleasant childhood memories to Emily. She threw open the window to better hear the music. When she was a child, she remembered how the tenants lit huge bonfires to celebrate the end of harvest. All night long they sang and danced around the fire. Emily would sit at this very window and watch the fire’s embers shoot up into the starlit sky, wishing she could be part of the festivities. One year she’d asked her mother if she could go and her mother had responded, “You’re too young, Emily, and besides, it would make the people uncomfortable.” Emily allowed that she might be too young, but she couldn’t understand how her mere presence could make anyone uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she had to be content to sit at the window and listen to the singing and whoops of laughter long into the night until she was so sleepy that she fell asleep with her head resting on the windowsill.
Nora came in to tend the fire and turn down the bed.
“Nora, come hear the music. Is there a wedding?”
The old woman frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know.” She fluffed the pillows and left without another word.
Emily shrugged off the old woman’s curtness as yet another sign of her advancing years. But what Nora knew, and didn’t tell Emily, was that the music was not for a wedding. It was for a wake.
A huge bonfire blazed in front of Martin Duane’s cottage. Women, holding han
ds danced around the fire while the men stood to the side passing around a jar of poteen.
“So, it’s to Philadelphia you’re goin’,” an excited Michael asked Martin. “I once spoke with a printer from there. Where is it exactly?”
“Tis near California, I think.”
“You’re makin’ a terrible mistake goin’ out to America,” Da said.
“He’s not,” Michael shot back. “It’s a grand thing he’s doin’.”
Da heard the excitement and longing in his son’s voice and felt a sting of guilt.
“What choice do I have?” Martin asked. “It’s better than bein’ beggared here. With no work how am I to feed the family?”
“But America,” Da said. “Sure you know nothin’ about it.”
“It’s a wondrous land,” Michael said.
Da frowned. There it was again, the excitement in his voice. He’d been hoping Michael would forget his foolish notion of goin’ out to America. But apparently he hadn’t.
“You should think of goin’ yerself,” Martin said to Da. “Slowly, but surely, the landlords will strip you of the little you have left.”
“I’ll never go,” Da said and spat on the ground. “This is my land and my home and by God no one will drive me from it.”
Granda stepped into the light of the fire and held up his hands for silence. “Martin Duane,” he called out. “Time to say yer goodbyes.”
Genie stopped fiddling. The dancers stopped. Everything became quiet except for the soft rustling of the wind in the trees.
Martin took a swig of poteen for courage and stepped into the center of the circle. He shot a nervous glance at his sobbing wife. She had her arm around her dazed old mam, who was staring blankly into the fire.
Martin cleared his throat and began in a halting tone, “I’ve lived my whole life on this land, as did my Da, and his Da before him. I thought my sons would be born here… I thought they would farm the land and then… they would…” He paused and roughly wiped a tear away with his sleeve. “Well… that’s not to be...” His voice cracked. “Anyways… thanks for comin’ and God bless everyone…”
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