In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  “Did you inform them, Mr. Browning?” Thomas asked from his hiding place behind a record cabinet.

  “I did.”

  “And what was their reaction?”

  Browning pushed the curtain aside and peeked out. “There was no reaction, Mr. Thomas. Why they’re just standing there. Silent. In the rain.”

  “How strange.”

  “How strange indeed.”

  As the Ranahans walked back to their home, Dermot muttered, “They’re killin’ us all. They’re killin’ us all, I tell ya.”

  A year ago, Da would have told him to mind his tongue, but now he said nothing because he was beginning to think his son was right. He squinted up at the black clouds scudding across the gray sky and saw it as a mark of God’s anger toward them. But what had they done?

  “You’re right, Dermot. They are killin’ us all.” Jerry Fowler handed him the jar of poteen.

  Dermot took a sip and shuddered as the harsh alcohol burned its way down into his stomach. “I haven’t seen a jar in over a year. Where’d you get this?”

  Fowler took the jar and passed it to Kevin. “Let’s just say I liberated it from a very careless man.”

  It was almost midnight and the three men were sitting in the ruins of Barry Scanlon’s tumbled cottage. No one in the village had seen Jerry Fowler in almost a year. One rumor was that he’d married a rich widow and had gone to America. Another rumor, perhaps wishful thinking on the part of those who disliked him, was that he’d sailed on a coffin ship and had gone down in the north Atlantic.

  Then, yesterday, he appeared just as suddenly as he disappeared. As only Jerry Fowler could, he entranced some and angered others with amazing tales of his travels that might have been true—or, knowing Fowler’s penchant for embellishment and exaggeration—just stories conjured up from his vivid imagination.

  Dermot and Kevin had agreed to meet Fowler here tonight, partly because of the promise of poteen, and partly because they were curious to hear about his “great plan.” But for Dermot, the real reason he was here was because Jerry Fowler had asked him to come. Dermot had always had a need to attach himself to someone he perceived to be strong and powerful. In the past, it had been Billy Moore. But Billy was now either alive or dead in an Australian penal colony and in any event very far away. And so, he turned to the handsome, tough talking Jerry Fowler for salvation.

  “So where have you been?” Dermot asked.

  “Traveling the roads, lads. Let me tell ya, unlike the lot of you, I’ve seen some things.”

  “And so have we,” Kevin said defensively.

  Fowler slapped the big man’s knee. “Is that right? You old blatherskite, you’ve not set foot out of this godforsaken place since the hunger started. So, what could you have seen? Will you tell me that?”

  Kevin shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “I’ve been to Dublin and back again,” Fowler said. “I’ve gone north and south. And I’ve seen a thing or two.”

  Dermot took a swig of the poteen and passed it to Kevin. “And what did you see, Jerry?”

  Fowler’s wide grin vanished. “I’ve seen enough to know the Brits are doin’ their best to starve us all to death.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dermot asked.

  “They’ve closed the Public Works again, haven’t they? And why do you think they did that? Because they want to starve us to death and that’s a fact.”

  For the next half hour Fowler harangued them with example after example of the harsh and unfair treatment they were getting at the hands of the landlords and the British government. And with each sip of the poteen, Dermot and Kevin slowly became more and more enraged.

  “They know full well most of us have no potatoes,” Fowler said. Then he repeated Dermot’s oft spoken fear. “I tell ya, they're killin’ us.”

  Kevin took a sip and wiped his mouth with a ragged sleeve. “Me Da says we’ll soon have to leave here. I hear Rowe’s offerin’ passage to America to anyone who’ll quit the land.”

  “I’d go tomorrow,” Dermot said, “but me Da will never leave.”

  “Will you listen to the pair of you?” Fowler’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “All this talk of runnin’ away. I ask you, why should we leave the land that’s rightfully ours?”

  “What else can we do?” Dermot asked.

  “We can make them leave.”

  Dermot grinned at Fowler. “Me brother’s right. You are daft.”

  “Tis your brother who’s daft, thinking he could fight armed troops with rocks and sticks. Sure there’s too many of them. They have all the guns in the world.”

  “So how do we fight them then?” Kevin asked.

  “Not head-on like at Cork quay for Jasus’ sake. Not man-to-man. We hit and run. Hit and run. Tonight here. Tomorrow there.”

  Kevin’s eyes glistened from the potent drink and the excitement of what the confident Fowler was saying. “Just who is it you plan on hittin’, Jerry?”

  Even though they were sitting in the ruins of an old cottage and miles from prying ears, Fowler leaned into the two men and whispered, “The landlords.”

  Dermot and Kevin were struck speechless. Attacking the peelers and soldiers was one thing. But to go after the powerful landlords—well, it was daft. There was no other way to think it.

  “If we’re caught, they’ll tumble our homes down on us,” Dermot said. “We’ll be transported for life and that’s a fact.”

  “We won’t get caught. Not if we’re careful.”

  “But why the landlords?” Kevin asked.

  “Because they are at the heart of my plan. We make them so afraid they’ll want to leave the country forever.”

  “How does the likes of you propose to make the landlords afraid?” Dermot asked.

  “We burn their barns. We kill their livestock. We set fire to their fields.”

  In spite of his apprehension, Dermot was stirred by Fowler’s words. Here was a man of action. Here was a man who would no longer bow his head to the landlords. Something began to burn inside him and it felt terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He was tired of doing nothing. And nothing was all anyone was doing. Da, he knew, had no stomach for a fight, but he’d thought Michael was different. Dermot had been so proud of his brother that morning at the Cork quay. Some had died to be sure, but wasn’t that to be expected in a revolution?

  At the quay, Dermot had felt the same terror and exhilaration he was feeling now. When he saw the soldiers fire their rifles and saw his friends fall, he was sure that this was the beginning of an uprising with his brother as the leader. But to his great disappointment, there was no uprising. Something happened to Michael that morning. Dermot was ashamed to admit it, but his brother had become a coward.

  But Jerry Fowler was no coward, and everything he said was God’s own truth. Dermot was tired of being beaten down, tired of working day and night for wages that could barely put a bite of food in his mouth. It was time to strike back, to make someone else afraid for a change.

  Fowler saw Dermot’s hardening expression and knew he had him. “Are you with me?” he asked, slapping his hands on Dermot’s shoulders.

  “I am,” Dermot said without hesitation.

  “And you, Kevin?”

  “I don’t know, Jerry…”

  Fowler leaned forward and put his face close to Kevin’s. “Poor Billy Moore’s probably dead by now. But let me ask you, Kevin, if he was here what would he do?”

  For a moment Kevin’s face screwed up in concentration as he tried to recall the man he’d worshipped all his life. What would Billy do? He thought for a moment and then pounded his big fists on his thighs as the answer came to him. “He’d be with you, Jerry, and so will I.”

  The thought that he was at a crucial crossroad in his life, made Dermot’s stomach tightened. He took a deep slug of the poteen and the burning liquid brought tears to his eyes. The potent brew drove away the fear and he felt strong. Indestructible.

  Kevin reached out a massi
ve hand. “Give me the jar here.”

  Dermot gave it to him and Kevin emptied what was left. Then he hurled the jar and it shattered against the rubble of the ruined cottage. “That’s what’ll become of the cursed landlords,” he roared.

  Fowler slapped the big man’s back. “That’s the spirit, Kevin.”

  Dermot grinned along with the others, but he was watching Kevin’s face and despite the great show of bravado Dermot still saw fear in the big man’s eyes.

  “When do we act?” Kevin asked.

  Fowler winked at the two men. “Soon, lads. Very soon.”

  Michael’s eyes snapped open, unsure if the sound he heard was real or something he’d dreamed. For weeks now, he’d been having alternating nightmares almost nightly. One night it was the dead man from the river, chasing him across the fields, beckoning him to return to the black waters. Another night it was the men who’d died at the Cork quay. They never spoke. They just pointed fingers at him.

  Now he lay in bed, holding his breath and listening. He heard nothing but the sound of his family breathing. He closed his eyes, deciding he’d been dreaming. Then he heard it again. The sound of a creaky door opening.

  He shook Dermot awake. “Someone’s in the shed,” he whispered. He leaned over and poked his father. “Da, someone’s in the shed.”

  The three men slipped on their brogues. Da lit a torch from the smoldering turf fire and they silently slipped outside.

  The air was cold and sharp. The frost crunched under their feet as they moved toward the shed. There was no moon, but the dome of stars above cast enough light so they could see that the door to the shed was partially opened. Michael and Dermot picked up heavy sticks and they came to stand on either side of the door. At a nod from Da, the three rushed inside.

  Five shapeless forms crouched on the floor gnawing on raw potatoes. At the unexpected appearance of the Ranahan men, they scurried into a corner. At first Michael thought it was a pack of animals, but then Da thrust the torch above his head to illuminate the tiny room and took a step back in shock. “Jasus God…”

  The flickering torchlight cast shadows across the sunken faces. With their matted hair and tattered rags they looked more animal than human.

  A man, a woman, and three children clutched raw potatoes in their claw-like hands and stared back at Da with hollowed, frightened eyes. Da lowered the torch toward the three children and squinted. At first he thought the light was playing tricks with his eyes, but it was no trick. The children’s faces were covered with hair, giving them a monkey-like visage. Da had no way of knowing it, but doctors would later confirm that the condition, which affected only children, was caused by marasmus—a debilitating and bizarre side effect of starvation.

  Dermot was the first to react. He raised the stick over his head. “You thieving bastards—”

  He was about to bring the stick down on the man’s head when Michael yanked it out of his hand. “Dermot, for the love of God—”

  “They’re stealin’ our food...”

  Da shoved him away. “Go back in the house, eejit.”

  Dermot glared at the five creatures on the floor for a moment, then his father, and stomped out of the shed.

  The man spoke in a soft voice, raspy from hunger. “Sirs, we’ve not had a mouthful of food in five days. Have pity…”

  If the fever weren’t still raging through the countryside, Da would have taken them in, but he dared not put his family at risk. Without taking his eyes off the skeletal, pathetic children, he muttered, “Take what you want...”

  “God bless you, sirs,” the man said.

  They gathered up as many potatoes as they could carry and without another word scurried out of the shed. They had come and gone so quickly that Michael almost wondered if this was yet another bad dream.

  A bewildered Da, still holding the torch above his head, said, “The hunger’s not over yet, is it?”

  Michael put the lid back on the potato bin. “No, it is not.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Emily was getting ready for bed when she heard the sound of music coming from somewhere in the distance. She opened the window and the rasping sound of a fiddle floated on the clear night air. She returned to her bed, pulled down the comforter, and started to untie her robe. Then, intrigued by the music, she went back to the window and listened as the fiddler started in on a jig. She danced a little step, paused, looked out the window, as though trying to make up her mind about something, and then rushed to the closet and slipped into a dress.

  The night air was cold and crisp. A full moon illuminated the night sky, but the stars would not be outdone and they glistened in bright rivalry. Emily pulled her cloak tightly around her to ward off the chill and moved through the trees in the direction of the music.

  Approaching a clearing, she saw a dozen or more young men and women dancing around a bonfire. Off to the side, a diminutive, oddly shaped figure of a man played a fiddle. Emily watched, fascinated. Smoke swirled around him, cloaking him in a shroud of mist. The light of the flames flickered off him, giving him an unworldly, almost mystical visage. Emily shivered, suddenly reminded of the leprechauns and the wee people that Nora was always talking about.

  A figure materialized out of the smoke and came toward her. He was backlit by the fire and she couldn’t see his face. Suddenly afraid, she realized that she shouldn’t have come here. Now that tenants were being ejected in greater numbers, she’d been hearing stories of displaced, bitter men burning down barns, killing livestock, and even assaulting landlords.

  She was just about to turn and run, when the figure spoke. “Why have you come here?”

  She recognized Michael’s voice. In the darkness she couldn’t see his face and without that visual cue she couldn’t tell if he was being accusatory—or just curious.

  “I heard the music.”

  He put his hand out and to her surprise she took it. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the music, or the woods, but it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. His rough hand was calloused, but it was strong and warm.

  He led her into the clearing by the fire. But now that they were in the light, Michael thought it unseemly to be holding her hand and reluctantly let her go.

  Emily faced him, feeling as awkward as a schoolgirl at her first cotillion. “It’s been so long since I danced,” she said. “Do you think it would be all right…?”

  A stern voice inside her was telling her that she shouldn’t be doing this. But it was a soft voice and she allowed it to be drowned out by the sound of the fiddle and the merry shouts of the dancers. Michael put his hands out. She raised hers to his. Suddenly, a group of dancers, whooping and shouting, came by and grabbed her outstretched hands. Michael could only shrug helplessly as Emily was swept away in an exuberant swirl of bodies.

  He stood to the side with his arms folded, content to watch her as she and the other dancers disappeared behind the bonfire and reappeared through flying sparks. Her long auburn hair swayed with the movement of the dance and the fire cast a soft yellow glow on her smooth skin. And Michael thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

  The third time she came around, he stepped out and gently pulled her away. She was laughing and he thought he could go on listening to the sound of her laughter forever. Her eyes sparkled and her skin glistened from the exertion of dancing. He took her hands in his and together they danced around the fire, bumping into others, laughing, whooping. He whirled her faster and faster. She put her head back and gave way to the music and the moment. Glimpses of faces and shooting flames spun around her in a dizzying blur. She was light-headed, intoxicated by the music and the exuberance of the other dancers, the nearness of Michael. She wanted it to go on forever.

  Then the fiddle stopped.

  Emily looked around in surprise, but the others seemed to be expecting it.

  Pat Doyle, the man she’d questioned about his rent, stepped into the clearing and intoned, “Padric Leahy, tis time
to say your goodbyes.”

  The mood was suddenly somber. The light of the fire flickered in the tear-filled eyes of the women. Grim-faced men shuffled in place with their arms folded across their chests.

  “What’s happening?” Emily whispered.

  “Padric’s agreed to have his cottage tumbled. Mr. Rowe’s payin’ their passage out to America.”

  She heard a longing in his tone when he mentioned America. But before she could think further on that, Leahy began to speak.

  “Tis with a heavy heart I leave my home, my friends, and my land. Tomorrow we set sail across the great thunderin’ ocean to a better life. God willin’.”

  He stepped back and, as the old women began to keen, people lined up to say their last goodbyes to Leahy, his wife, and children. Having done that sad duty, they moved off into the darkness to return to their own homes, wondering, each in turn, when their time would come.

  “Where’s everyone going? Emily asked. “Is the party over?”

  “They’re goin’ home,” Michael said. “The wake’s over.”

  “Wake? Oh, my.” She felt like a complete fool. How could she mistake a wake for a party?

  “When people leave Ireland we think of them as dyin’,” Michael explained. “In Padric’s case it’s probably true. They’ll be sailin’ on a coffin ship.”

  “A coffin ship? I don’t understand.”

  “They’re called coffin ships because so many die in them. Rowe won’t pay passage on a decent ship, so Padric and his family are sailin’ on a derelict vessel not fit for the journey. Even if the ship doesn’t sink, they’ll be more than a month at sea, cramped below in sleepin’ spaces with scarcely enough room to turn around. What little food they have will quickly spoil. The drinking water will become brackish. There’ll be all manner of disease. Those who die will be tossed over the side without a decent burial or the word of a priest.”