Michael dragged Dermot into the shed and threw the half-eaten loaf at him.
“What’s this then?”
“How should I know?”
Michael shoved Dermot against the wall. “Don’t lie to me, Dermot. Where did it come from?”
Dermot pulled away. “Leave off. You know full well Clancy can well afford it.”
It was what Michael expected to hear, but still, hearing his brother admit to taking part in the robbery and assault stunned him. “Dermot, don’t you know they’re lookin’ for any excuse to throw the lot of us in jail? Use your head, man.”
“Well, someone has to stand up to these bastards.”
“A grand gesture that. You risked your freedom to feed a handful of mice.”
Michael picked up what was left of the bread and waved it in front of Dermot’s face. “Is your life worth this? If you won’t think of yourself, think of Mam. You know she dotes on you. What would it do to her if you were tossed in jail?”
“It’s done, Michael. They didn’t catch us. It’s done.” Dermot repeated the phrase as though merely saying it would make it so.
“Who was with you?”
“Don’t ask me that. I’ll not inform.”
“Honor among thieves is it? Well, little brother, you’d better hope that the others are as honorable as you when the constables get hold of them.”
Chapter Sixteen
April 1847
Dublin Castle
Lord Somerville arrived in Dublin city at dusk. As his carriage passed St. Stephen’s Green on the way to his hotel on Cuffe Street, he consulted his pocket watch and realized he would have less than three hours to dress for the gala dinner being held at Dublin Castle to honor Charles Trevelyan.
Somerville reflected on his great good fortune in obtaining what had turned out to be the most sought after invitation of the season. Everyone in the government—and Dublin society it appeared—wanted to meet Charles Trevelyan, who, everyone knew, was a favorite of the prime minister. Obtaining his own invitation had not been easy given who he was or, more precisely, what he was. Over the past two years, the British government had mounted a campaign to vilify the landlords and indict them as the sole villains in the “Irish Problem,” and it had been hugely successful. Now, almost everyone agreed that it was the rapaciousness of the landlords that was at the core of the troubles in Ireland. In the end, the only reason Somerville was able to secure an invitation was because of his family name.
As night fell across the ancient city of Dublin, Lord Somerville’s brougham took its place outside Cork Hill Gate behind dozens of carriages waiting to disgorge the best and the brightest in Dublin society. While he waited for his carriage to reach the front doors of St. Patrick’s Hall, he studied the eclectic architecture of the castle with fond admiration. Over the past six centuries, succeeding generations of monarchs had added buildings and towers to the castle and now it was a magnificent, sprawling fusion of Norse, Norman, and Georgian architecture.
He had not been here since his wife’s death, but when she was alive they looked forward to the six festive weeks of balls and social events, which began in January and culminated with the highlight of the season—the Saint Patrick's Day Ball.
As he stepped out of his carriage and made his way into St. Patrick’s Hall with the others, he was taken aback at the ostentatious display of wealth. Men in white tie and tails strolled imperiously beside women glittering in diamond earrings and necklaces. He found it unseemly that the Dublin social season should continue in the face of the devastating famine that was gripping the country. Could these men and women who flocked to the season’s balls and parties be that oblivious to what was happening in the country? Somerville knew that was not possible. There were too many reminders all around them. As he’d come through the gate earlier, he’d caught sight of a throng of shivering, emaciated people and his driver had told him that in the last year they’d been streaming into the city from the countryside in alarming numbers. Dublin society, obscenely arrayed in all their finery, knew about the famine. They just didn’t care. He was ashamed to be among such company and under other circumstances he would not. But, he reminded himself, he was here for a reason—to plead his case before Charles Trevelyan.
St. Patrick’s Hall with its high ceilings, painted frescos, and fine tapestries adorning the walls was just as he remembered it. A long table, set for a hundred guests, was aglow with gleaming tableware, sparkling crystal, and enormous flower centerpieces, all of which had been set with the meticulous detail of a military formation. Under other circumstances, Somerville would have enjoyed the music—played by a string quartet from the Royal Irish Dragoon Guards—and the delightful women in their colorful silk gowns. But he was here to discuss famine conditions in Ballyross and anything else was a frivolous waste of time.
Somerville found his place at the table and patiently endured the tedious conversation of his contiguous tablemates—a half-deaf elderly duchess to his right, and to his left, an enormously obese banker who couldn’t refrain from eating with his fingers.
Finally, as dinner concluded, a servant in a bright crimson uniform appeared at his side and discretely whispered in his ear, “Sir, the Lord Lieutenant Governor wishes your company for brandy and cigars in his private rooms. If you’ll please follow me.”
Somerville, glad to be getting away from his tiresome tablemates, excused himself and followed the servant.
Lieutenant Governor of Ireland George William Frederick Villiers, 4th Earl of Clarendon, was the head of Britain’s administration in Ireland. Earlier in the year, Prime Minister Russell had prevailed upon him to accept the office of Lieutenant Governor. In the few months that he’d been here, he’d already demonstrated his ineptness by resorting to coercive legislation to prevent what he perceived to be mutinous outbreaks of violence. In addition, he’d hastily sponsored several relief projects, which all proved to be completely ineffective.
Now, resplendent in his ceremonial uniform, the Lieutenant Governor greeted Somerville at the door with less than great enthusiasm. And Somerville knew why. When Villiers had discovered that Somerville was a landlord from the west, he’d tried to rescind the invitation, but he was too late. It had already gone out.
“Lord Somerville,” Villiers inclined his head ever so slightly. “So glad you could come.”
“Thank you, sir,” Somerville responded, ignoring Villiers coolness. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Somerville moved into the smoke-filled room already crowded with men anxious to meet Trevelyan, or at least be seen in his company. Two servants in scarlet and gold uniforms appeared before him. One offered a glass of brandy from a silver tray and the other cigars from a finely crafted mahogany humidor. Somerville accepted the brandy and waved off the cigar.
Suddenly, there was a buzz in the room. Somerville turned toward the door as Charles Trevelyan came in. At dinner he’d had gotten a glimpse of the secretary of the treasury, but he was seated at the opposite end of the long table. Now, seeing him up close, Somerville was surprised at how tall he was and how youthful he appeared. Then he reminded himself that the secretary was only forty-years-old.
Villiers, accompanying Trevelyan, circulated about the room introducing him to selected guests. When it became apparent to Somerville that Villiers had no intention of introducing him, he stepped forward and said, “Mr. Trevelyan, Lord Somerville of Ballyross.”
Trevelyan bowed slightly. “Your servant, sir.”
An agitated Villiers took Trevelyan’s arm. “Yes, quite. Mr. Trevelyan, there is someone you must meet,” he said.
“Mr. Trevelyan,” Somerville said in a voice loud enough to turn heads, “I’ve come here to discuss the famine and the monstrous conditions in the country.”
The room went suddenly silent and the Lieutenant Governor shot Somerville a furious look. Apparently, in these circles, it was bad form to bring up so distasteful a topic as the famine.
Trevelyan studied Somerville with
cold, grey eyes. “I understand you are a landlord.”
“I am,” Somerville answered, ignoring the dripping distain in the secretary’s voice. “And I represent the Board of Guardians in Ballyross Union. I must tell you, Mr. Trevelyan, the aid from England is not nearly enough. We must do more to stop the starving and dying.”
An elderly, balding gentleman with the musty, unkempt look of an academic, stepped forward and addressed Trevelyan. “I am led to believe that the famine will not kill more than a million people and that will scarcely be enough to do much good.”
Trevelyan’s tight lips parted in a slight smile. “And you are, sir?”
“Nassau Senior, economics professor at Oxford. At your service.”
“What an extraordinary thing to say,” Somerville said, stunned by the man’s callousness.
“Why? I only speak the truth. My good man, the heart of the problem in Ireland is simply too many people. The Irish breed like rabbits and the only way to right the economy is for the surplus to die. And, as I said, I’m afraid a million will not be nearly enough.”
“How many would you suggest,” Somerville asked sarcastically.
“At least a million and a half.”
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you are jesting,” Somerville said, fighting to control his anger. “But I must say that, given the number of dead and dying and the misery spreading through this tortured country, it is a poor jest indeed.”
Senior looked at him over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I assure you, sir, I am not jesting.”
Ignoring the contemptable little man, Somerville turned to Trevelyan. “Sir, the accumulated evils of misgovernment and mismanagement are now coming to a crisis and something must be done.”
“The British government is doing all that it can do,” Trevelyan said in a wearisome tone. “I would offer that too much has already been done for the Irish. They grow worse instead of better.”
“The British government is expending only one pound to keep one person alive for thirty-four weeks,” Somerville countered. “I have heard a member of the House of Commons say that these figures should not be made public for fear that the government would be accused of slowly murdering the peasantry by the scantiness of its relief.”
A self-important young man with a large mutton chop whiskers stepped forward. “James Wilson, editor of the Economist, at your service. I think it is an absolute tenet of laissez faire that it is no man’s business to provide for another. If left to the natural law of distribution, those who deserve more will obtain it.”
“Quite so,” Trevelyan interjected, recognizing a fellow traveler. “You echo the sound observation of Thomas Malthus who said, ‘If a man cannot get sustenance from his parents, on whom he has a just demand, and if society does not want his labor, he has no claim of right to the smallest portion of food and, in fact, has no business to be where he is.’”
“Balderdash.”
Trevelyan stepped back as though a pan of cold water had been hurled in his face. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the combative, ruddy-faced man who had shouted the word. Trevelyan had been in Ireland only two days, but, nevertheless, his suspicions had been confirmed. The Irish, even the supposedly intellectual class, were a nation of louts and boors.
“What is being allowed to happen in this country is nothing short of genocide,” the ruddy-faced man said.
“And you are, sir?” Trevelyan snapped, no longer trying to mask his displeasure.
“George Berkeley, and, for want of a better description of my employment, philosopher. Last year I had reason to be in America. On that journey I had the occasion to observe Negro slaves on American plantations. It’s quite extraordinary, really. The Negroes have a saying: ‘If a Negro was not a Negro, Irishmen would be the Negro.’”
Trevelyan turned to the Lieutenant Governor. “It’s getting quite late and I have much to do tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” Villiers said, relieved to see an end to this discordant and troubling conversation.
As Trevelyan started to move away, Somerville made one last plea. “Mr. Trevelyan, I beg you, sir. Come to Ballyross. See with your own eyes what is happening.”
Trevelyan turned and the coldness in his eyes stunned Somerville. “There is no need of that, sir. I receive detailed reports daily. Rest assured, I know what is going on in Ireland. Besides, no matter what you or I say or do, it is, in the end, all in God’s hands, is it not?”
Somerville was too taken aback to respond. He’d heard that Trevelyan was a zealous believer in laissez faire, and he’d heard rumors that Trevelyan firmly believed that the famine was divine retribution. But he found it incredible that the man would not avail himself of the opportunity to see, first hand, the extent of the famine.
A crestfallen Somerville watched Trevelyan leave the room to polite applause and realized the only man who could solve the problems of the famine would not do it.
Chapter Seventeen
Three days after the bungled attack on Clancy’s provisions wagon, Dermot, Billy, and Kevin were part of a road gang working on a drainage project far from the village. Billy was in a foul mood and everyone, even Tarpy, the road supervisor, stayed clear of him.
“I hate this fecken county,” Billy muttered, jabbing the spade into the hard ground. “I hate being hungry. I hate diggin’ ditches like a dog. I wish I could get out of this cursed place!”
Dermot was the first to see them coming. He moved close to Billy and nudged him. In the distance, a black constable wagon, drawn by two horses, was approaching.
Billy kept digging, but his mood became more subdued. “Pay them no mind,” he muttered. “There’s peelers all over the countryside. They’re just passin’ by.”
But they weren’t just passing by. The covered wagon—black and ominous in the swirling dust—slowed and came to a stop in front of the group.
The men stopped working and stood silent, leaning on their spades.
They couldn’t see what was behind the opaque window curtains, but they knew the constables were inside, looking out at them.
Michael had been watching Dermot as the wagon approach. He’d seen him say something to Billy. Then, he’d seen Dermot shoot a worried glance at Kevin. And now he knew who else had robbed Clancy’s wagon.
The back door opened and they came out—one, two, three—eight in all; tall, stern, thick-necked men with truncheons. They spread out without saying a word. The last one to come out was the constable who’d been attacked by Billy. His head was swathed in bandages.
Silently, the injured constable walked through the road gang, studying each face intently. Billy slipped behind Dermot and Kevin. The constable moved along the line of men. He stopped and studied Kevin’s face. Kevin stared at the ground, his face as pale as the underbelly of a dead alewife. After what seemed to Kevin like an eternity, the constable moved on.
He stopped and studied Dermot’s face for a moment and moved on. Dermot breathed a sigh of relief. Then the constable stopped, turned, and came back to take a closer look at Billy, who was standing behind Kevin, trying to be inconspicuous.
Another eternity passed. He can’t remember him, Dermot told himself. He saw him for just a moment...
“That’s him!” the constable shouted.
The other constables formed a circle around Billy and moved in. Billy swung his spade, knocking one man to the ground. He swung again, staggering another. For just a moment, for one wild moment, Dermot thought he would fight them off. All by himself. Skinny, daft, Billy with his crooked legs.
But there were too many of them. Like wolves bringing down a wounded deer, they swarmed over him in their black uniforms and their shinny gold buttons, truncheons flailing like so many windmills run amuck.
Billy threw up his arms in a futile effort to ward off the blows raining down on him. He fought like a wild man, but there were too many constables, too many truncheons. Billy’s knees buckled and he went down under the onslaught of thudding
clubs.
Michael’s body shook with fury. One part of him wanted to jump into the melee, grab one of those clubs and show them what it felt like to be beaten like an animal. But another part of him knew it was futile. The constables were like a force of nature and nothing he could do would stop them.
Then it was over. Billy lay twitching in the dirt, unconscious and bleeding. Four constables picked him up, carried him to the wagon and threw him into the back.
The injured constable, breathing heavily from his exertions, turned to the sullen, watching men. “We’ll be back for the other two as soon as he tells us who they are.”
That night neither Dermot nor Michael slept.
Sometime after midnight, Dermot leaned close and whispered in Michael’s ear. “Will I be arrested do you think?”
Michael couldn’t see his brother in the darkness, but he could hear the fear in his voice. There was no point in lying to him. “If they make Billy inform.”
“Oh, Jasus…”
“Go to sleep, little brother. Billy’s a tough old bugger. There isn’t a peeler alive who’ll make him inform on his friends.”
“Do you think so?”
“Aye. Go to sleep now.”
But Michael didn’t believe that. He’d seen how the constables had beaten Billy. They were crazed. Billy had attacked one of their own and that made it personal. Billy might be as tough as the local granite rocks that blunted plow blades, but even he wouldn’t be able to withstand the wrath of the constables.
Michael listened to his mam’s soft breathing. She’ll die if Dermot is arrested. He’s always been her favorite, though Michael never understood why. Dermot caused her more grief than Michael ever did. But for as long as he could remember, it had been his job to rescue Dermot when he got into trouble. Every time they went out his mother would say, “Now, Michael, mind you watch out for your little brother.”
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