In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  Michael couldn’t count the number of fights he’d gotten into because of Dermot. He couldn’t remember the number of lies he’d told on his brother’s behalf. He kept telling himself Dermot would get better as he got older, but he never did. And now, he was in the biggest trouble of his life.

  Michael sat up and slipped on his brogues.

  “Where you goin’?” Dermot whispered.

  “Never you mind. Go back to sleep.”

  The constables’ barracks, a squat, menacing two-story building of gray fieldstone, was on a lonely road a mile outside the village. Michael stood in a field on the other side of the road studying a barred window on the second floor. He knew that’s where Billy was.

  He could see silhouettes moving behind a shade in the downstairs window. He waited until he was certain no one was going to come out. Then he slipped across the road and shimmied up a drainpipe.

  He was almost to the roof when he heard footsteps below him. He stepped onto a narrow ledge and looked down. A sergeant in shirtsleeves came around the side of the building. Michael wasn’t used to being this high off the ground and he suddenly felt dizzy. He grabbed at a roof shingle and—it came loose. In slow motion, he watched the shingle sail out into the thin air, and… Michael’s hand shot out and grabbed it. He hugged the side of the building, his face pressed against the coarse stone, his heart pounding.

  The sergeant stopped beneath him. It was a moonless night, but there was enough light that if he looked up, he would see Michael.

  Michael dared not look down. He dared not move.

  He heard a match flare. The sergeant lit his pipe. Michael heard puffing, and a moment later the sweet aroma of tobacco smoke engulfed him.

  My God, he’s gonna smoke his pipe out here!

  Michael was hanging on by his fingertips. They began to cramp, shooting excruciating ribbons of pain up his fingers and into his arms. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

  From inside the building, a voice called out. “Sergeant Lafferty, come have your tea.”

  The sergeant spat and went back inside.

  Michael finally let himself breathe, as pinwheels floated before his eyes.

  “Have you come to get me out?”

  The disembodied voice startled Michael and he almost let go of the roof tiles. He slid along the ledge toward the window. The voice didn’t sound like Billy. Then he saw Billy’s face squeezed between the bars on the window and knew why. The few teeth Billy had were gone and his gums were crusted with blood. The small, squinty eyes were almost swollen shut. The skinny face lumpy with bruises.

  “Have you come to get me out, Michael?”

  “No, Billy. I did not.”

  “Then that’s all the worse for me, isn’t it?” he said without rancor. He glanced over his shoulder. “They said they were goin’ for tea, but they’ll be back.”

  “Billy, did you tell them anythin’?”

  “Never,” Billy hissed. A spittle of blood splattered the bars. “They’ll not make me inform.”

  In spite of Billy’s bravado, Michael heard fear in his voice. He knew the only way for Billy to withstand a beating was to give him hope. And Michael prayed he could offer the hope that Billy needed.

  “Billy, today you said you wanted out of the country.”

  The young man’s face pressed against the bars. “Aye.”

  “If you don’t tell them about Dermot, I’ll tell you how to get out.”

  Billy’s grin was a horrible leer. “You do, and I swear I’ll not inform. They’ll have to kill me first.”

  Michael leaned close and whispered in Billy’s ear.

  Billy’s head bobbed excitedly. “Thanks, Michael. You’ve saved me life.”

  He pulled back from the bars. “I hear footsteps on the stairs.” Fear flickered in his eyes. “They’ve finished their tea.”

  Michael shimmied down the drainpipe and raced across the road into the safety of the field. As he moved toward the tree line, an inhuman howl of pain pierced the damp night.

  Michael shivered, thinking of his brother. Please God, he prayed. Give Billy the strength not to inform....

  The rural courts of western Ireland were almost a parody of the majestic courts of London. There were no imposing buildings, no “Old Bailey,” no marbled corridors filled with wigged barristers and solicitors, no great orators to mesmerize a galley packed with idle rich matrons.

  Court was held in the first floor of the constables’ barracks. A resident magistrate, generally an outcast or incompetent, presided over a docket of sheep stealers and perpetrators of assorted misdemeanors in a cramped room that smelled of cow manure and musty wool.

  Michael and Dermot were among a handful in the gallery. The resident magistrate, a ruddy-faced alcoholic with an ill-fitting wig, banged his gavel.

  “Bailiff, bring out the next prisoner.”

  Two constables, holding up Billy’s broken body, dragged the shackled little man into the court. Michael winced when he saw Billy’s face. He looked even worse than he did last night. His eyes were mere slits and his hair was matted with dried blood.

  There was a cursory trial of sorts. The assaulted constable stood in the dock and identified Billy as his assailant. Billy was asked if he had anything to say in his defense. When he shook his head no, the magistrate banged his gavel and said, “Guilty.” The magistrate peered down at Billy with merciless, bloodshot eyes. “Billy Moore,” he intoned in a gravelly voice, “you have been found guilty of robbery and felonious assault upon a constable in her Majesty’s constabulary. Before I pass judgment on you, know that this court will show leniency and mercy if you name your accomplices. What say you?”

  Billy’s swollen eyes darted about the room and he saw Michael. The toothless mouth formed a blood-caked grin. He looked up at the magistrate.

  “What do I say?”

  His voice was a hoarse whisper and the magistrate leaned forward to hear him better. “Speak up, man.”

  In a louder voice, Billy said, “I say you’re a dirty British bastard and you have no right to be in my country.”

  The gallery erupted in stunned laughter and cheers.

  The enraged magistrate slammed his gavel down so hard it shattered. “Silence!” he sputtered. “Silence, I say!”

  When order was restored, the enraged magistrate glared down on Billy. This may only be a godforsaken court in a godforsaken land, he thought. But I am the magistrate here. This is my court and by God I will teach them respect.

  “I sentence this defendant to seven years transportation to Australia.”

  As they dragged Billy away, he looked up at Michael, grinned, and mouthed a silent thank you.

  Michael and Dermot walked home, each lost in thought. Dermot was thinking of how close he’d come to being transported to Australia. Michael was thinking of Billy and what his life would be like. He’d heard Australia was harsh and dangerous. But so was Billy. If anyone could survive seven years in an Australia penal colony, Billy could.

  “Thanks, Michael,” Dermot said.

  Brought out of his reverie, Michael studied his brother. Dermot was tough in his own way. Despite all his complaining, he was capable of hard work. Still, he was no Billy. Seven years in an Australian penal colony would kill him and that was a fact.

  “You can thank me by stayin’ out of trouble.”

  “I will, Michael. I swear. That Billy was a bad influence. I know that now. But he’s gone now and….” He trailed off, thinking of little skinny Billy in far away Australia. It was as though he were already dead.

  After a long silence, Dermot blurted out, “Michael, when you go out to America, take me with you.”

  Michael’s stomach tightened. Since he’d given his passage money to Da, he’d not allowed himself to think of America. It was too painful remembering how hard it had been to earn the money and knowing he’d never be able to do it again, especially in the midst of this great hunger.

  “I’ll not be goin’ out to Americ
a.”

  “You will. You always do what you set your mind to. Will you take me with you?”

  Michael heard his brother’s pleading tone and for the first time it occurred to him what the impact of his going would have meant to Dermot. If he’d gone out to America, Mam would have been sad and Da would have been angry. But they’d have gotten on with their lives just like they did when their other children died.

  But, Dermot—he’d given no serious thought to him. He assumed it wouldn’t have mattered to his younger brother what he did. But he was wrong. He knew now that Dermot would be lost without him. His younger brother was almost twenty-one, but he was still a child with a childlike inability to make the right decisions.

  The thought of taking care of Dermot for the rest of his life was not something that Michael contemplated with a light heart. On the other hand, it was a moot point wasn’t it? He was never going to America.

  “All right,” Michael said. “If I go, I’ll take you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  May 1847

  Ballyross, Ireland

  As the spring of 1847 and the time for planting approached, there were those who had already mortgaged their future by eating the seed that was meant for this year’s crop. For those who had seed to plant, a great debate ensued over whether the blight would return yet again. Those who were convinced it would, didn’t plant. Others, like Da, were determined to be ready. They had suffered for two long years and, surely, God would not let them suffer yet another.

  The harvest was months away and families scrambled to find food until then. With no potatoes in the bin, food had to be purchase with money; an alien notion to most of these poor people. There was of course the Board Of Works’ projects, but the wages—paltry and infrequent—were not nearly enough to feed an entire family.

  The Ranahans had been more fortunate than most. Michael’s passage money had helped them through the first difficult year and they had three healthy wage earners in the family. But when Trevelyan closed down the Board Of Works, they, too, found themselves struggling to survive. Even after the Board Of Works reopened, there was less work available and the wages had been cut yet again.

  “I’ve no money to pay the rent,” Da announced to the startled family, just as they finished a meager meal of corn and water.

  “What’ll we do?” Mam asked.

  Da stared into his empty bowl. “We’ll have to sell off our things.”

  “You’ll not sell my chest?” an alarmed Grandmam asked.

  The chest, the only possession she owned in the world, had been a wedding present from her husband. He’d made it from the finest oak and had lovingly sanded the wood and varnished it until it was as smooth as a baby’s cheek. He’d used the best lock and hinges he could afford and the result was a well-crafted chest that was a thing of beauty. But the years had taken their toll. In its time, the chest had been used as a seat, a table, a storage bin and a stepping tool, and now the varnish had worn off, the smooth wood was gouged and dented, and the lock no longer worked. But to Grandmam it was still as bright and shiny as it was the day her husband gave it to her.

  “I’ve got to sell it, Mam. And anythin’ else that will fetch a price.”

  “Who has money to buy?” Michael asked.

  “The gombeen man.”

  Mam’s hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, dear God, John. You’ll not deal with the likes of him.”

  “And why not?” Da said defensively. “Isn’t he the only one with money?”

  If the famine benefited anyone, it was the “gombeen man”—a corruption of the Gaelic word for usury, gaimbin. Found in every city and village in Ireland, the gombeen man was universally hated and despised. He was the last resort in times of financial trouble, and to the people in need of him it was like dealing with the devil himself. When a man needed money to buy seed, he went to the gombeen man. When a man needed money for a down payment on land, he went to the gombeen man. When the crop failed and a man needed money to pay the rent, he went to the gombeen man.

  Like a leech, the gombeen man fed off the misery of others and got fat on their misfortunes. He bought desperate men’s possessions at a pittance of their value and charged usurious rates to borrow money. In any transaction, great or small, the gombeen man always made a profit.

  Fergus Kincaid was Ballyross’ gombeen man. Thin, with the small piercing eyes of a raven and hair the same color, he’d appeared one day twenty years ago in the valley with a wagonload of goods and never left. A loner, he was well suited for his work. He was forty-five, but he’d never married because he couldn’t see the economic sense in sharing his hard-earned wealth with someone else. He’d never had a permanent home, preferring to stay at an occasional inn, but often sleeping in the back of his wagon nestled among his treasures of broken tools and threadbare dresses and coats. But now that he was growing wealthy, he had been thinking about securing a permanent home, one that would be as grand as any in the county—no, the entire country.

  If compassion was ever in his makeup, it had long since atrophied. He went about his business with quiet efficiency, picking through clothing, jewelry, and livestock, while his mind calculated cost and profit. He carted away people’s precious possessions and paid no mind to the bewildered expressions of the children, the rage in the faces of the men, or the tears in the eyes of the women. Their misfortune was his good fortune. It was simply a matter of opportunity and profit.

  To the casual observer, it was inconceivable that the gombeen man could earn a living buying and selling worthless junk and making loans to poor farmers. But the casual observer didn’t know what Fergus Kincaid knew: Large or small, there was a profit to be made in any transaction. He knew well the verities of his trade: What was one man’s junk was another man’s necessity... When it came to land, a man’s judgment was sure to be clouded... A desperate man about to lose his land would not quibble over a hundred-percent interest rate or more... Kincaid was a shrewd judge of human nature and lived by one simple formula: A desperate man will always pay the price.

  When the crop failed in ‘45, Fergus Kincaid could scarcely believe his good fortune. He’d always made a comfortable living, but the famine presented him with opportunity beyond his wildest imagining. In the past two years, he’d been able to buy land, goods, and livestock at absurdly low prices. He’d invested in corn futures and had realized a tidy sum for his efforts. He’d bought corn and grain and resold it at twice the price. Every shilling invested was returned two-fold, five-fold—and more. It was a heady experience for a man who had once measured his success in ha’pennies.

  He’d even taken a profit from the haughty landlords who regarded him with such great distain. They were the wastrels and alcoholics who gambled and drank away their inheritance. Yet they treated him as though he were lower than the filthy peasants who tilled their fields. But Kincaid smiled through his seething anger and humiliation because he knew that one day he would be their equal—nay their superior. In the meantime, he profusely thanked Lord Attwood for the privilege of carting away paintings of his ancestors. He fawned over Major Wicker’s gun collection for which he paid a fraction of its value. And he commiserated with Mr. Rowe over the loss of his Waterford goblets.

  Who was the master and who was the servant now? When all was said and done it was he, the gombeen man, who owned their precious possessions. Most he sold for a handsome profit, but others, like the Waterford crystal, he kept for himself, knowing that one day, he would own one of those great mansions and he would need the proper accoutrements.

  And now, as he came out of the Ranahan cottage, huffing from the exertion of carrying Grandmam’s chest, he paid no mind to Da, Michael, and Dermot sullenly watching him carry away the few pathetic possessions that represented their lives. A couple of picture frames, a milk churn, their last good blanket, were all flung onto a wagon already heaped high with the possessions of other unfortunates.

  Dermot, who was standing by Kincaid’s wagon, saw something wrappe
d in a blanket sticking out from under a pile of clothing and chairs. He pushed the blanket aside and saw a fiddle.

  “Look, Michael. He’s got old Genie’s fiddle.”

  “Get away from that you,” Kincaid growled.

  In his haste to make sure Dermot didn’t steal anything from his wagon, he stumbled and fell down. The lid popped off Grandmam’s chest.

  “For the love of God,” he said, looking at Da accusingly. “Tis junk you sold me, Ranahan.”

  Michael lunged for Kincaid. “Don’t you be callin’ my Grandmam’s chest junk, gombeen man—”

  Dermot threw his arms around Michael and wrestled him away.

  “Oh, it’s heirlooms, is it?” Kincaid said mockingly.

  With a great show of distain he tossed Grandmam’s precious chest onto the pile in his wagon and climbed aboard. He looked down at the three men with a smile colder than a winter night.

  “No one likes the gombeen man until they need him,” he said. “And I’m thinkin’ you’ll have need of me again.” He tipped his hat and smiled at Michael. “Good day to you all.”

  It was late afternoon and Lord Somerville was tending Clara’s roses. His wife had always loved roses and he’d planted these bushes as a wedding present to her twenty-two years ago. She’d cared for them as though they were her children. Every day without fail she watered them, picked aphids off them, pruned them, nurtured and coaxed them until they were producing the most magnificent roses in the valley.

  After she died he couldn’t bear to look at them. They were everything she wasn’t—full of life, color, and beauty; a reproachful reminder of what their lives should have been. He wanted them to die as she had died.