In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  “But I haven’t eaten in—”

  Michael shoved him toward the door. “We’re goin’ to work in the soup kitchen, Dermot. While you’ve been off gallivantin’, we’ve had to do your job as well.”

  Dermot was about to say he wouldn’t go, but he saw the unaccustomed fury in his big brother’s eyes and wisely decided not to challenge him.

  Over time, Michael had become aware that the lines at the soup kitchen were growing longer and longer every day. As the hunger spread across the land, more and more families were being evicted from their cottages and turned into refugees in their own land. Increasing numbers of emaciated men, women, and children wandered the countryside in a pitiful effort to find a bit of food and shelter from the weather.

  Now, as Michael ladled out bowls of soup, he studied his brother who was washing stacks of bowls in a huge cauldron of boiling water. He’d been back two days, but he’d yet to speak a word to anyone, including Michael. From the moment Dermot walked into the cottage that morning, Michael had been harboring a nagging suspicion that he dared not give life to. But in spite of himself, the questions kept coming. Why did he disappear without a word to anyone? Was it just a coincidence that he went missing the day after Lord Somerville was murdered?

  The day after Dermot had disappeared, Michael had gone to find Kevin, hoping that his friend would know of Dermot’s whereabouts. But no one had seen Kevin either. He recalled Dermot’s daft story about him and Kevin going to Knockmare to look for work. A lie for sure. If there was anyone lazier than Dermot, it was big Kevin.

  Even more troubling, Michael had overheard the constables talking. They said it was three masked men who had attacked the landlords. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over him. Everything pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Somehow his brother had something to do with Lord Somerville’s murder.

  That evening, Michael and Dermot were left to clean up and make preparations for the morning’s feeding. Mr. Goodbody had been invited to the manor house for dinner. He wanted to stay and help clean up, but Michael insisted that he go because he wanted to be alone with Dermot. When the two brothers were finished with their chores, Michael shoved Dermot into the tack room and slammed the door behind him.

  “Did you have anythin’ to do with Lord Somerville’s death?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dermot.”

  “I’m not lyin’.”

  Michael backhanded his brother, sending him crashing against the tool table. “You’ll not leave here till I know the truth.”

  Dermot snatched a scythe off the table and spun toward Michael. “You keep away from me, Michael or…”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me, too.”

  Dermot stood for a long moment, the scythe raised above his head, glaring at the brother he loved more than anything in the world. Then he dropped the scythe and slumped to the floor, sobbing. “I didn’t know he had a pistol, Michael. I swear to Jasus, I didn’t know. Then, when… that is, after… we just ran and ran. I couldn’t go home... I didn’t know what to do…”

  Michael felt a great emptiness inside him. By Dermot’s reckless actions, he had killed himself. Maybe all of them. “Where did you go?” His voice sounded hollow in his ears.

  “I lived in the hills. God forgive me, Michael, I stole food from people’s homes.”

  “Was Kevin there that night?”

  “Aye.”

  Michael could barely make himself ask the next question. “Dermot, was it you who fired the pistol?”

  Dermot took a deep breath and wiped his eyes on his tattered sleeve. “No. It was Jerry Fowler.”

  Jerry Fowler, Kevin, and a handful of men were digging in a peat bog when Kevin looked up and saw Michael coming. “Oh, oh. Here comes trouble.”

  Fowler looked up and saw Michael jump a fence and come toward them in a determined half-run. Fowler leaned on his spade, watching Michael approach, trying to decide if he should run or fight. “I have no quarrel with you, Michael Ranahan,” he called out.

  Michael kept coming. When he was just steps away, Fowler, without warning, took a vicious cut at Michael’s head with the spade. Michael ducked and drove his head into Fowler’s stomach. Both men went down, rolling in the recently dug peat. Fowler tried to use the spade as a weapon, but Michael wrenched it out of his hand and threw it aside.

  He straddled Fowler’s chest and, releasing all his pent up fury at Fowler for abusing Moira and putting his brother in mortal peril, rained down blows on him. He might have killed him had Kevin not dragged him off the half-conscious man.

  His chest heaving from exhaustion, Michael grabbed Fowler’s collar and started to drag him toward the road.

  “What are ya doin’?” Fowler gasped.

  “I’m takin’ you to the peelers, you murderin’ bastard.”

  “Then you’d better take your brother as well.”

  Michael let go his grip and Fowler sagged to the ground.

  “What are you sayin’?”

  “It was your own brother that hit my arm. Sure I was only goin’ to scare the bejasus out of the man, but Dermot hit my arm and the pistol went off. It was him responsible for killin’ Somerville, not me.”

  Michael looked at Kevin. “Is what he says true?”

  The young man stared at the ground, unable to look Michael in the eye. “Aye. Dermot was only tryin’ to stop Jerry from firin’, but still…”

  Michael stared at the man at his feet. In his rage and frustration at Fowler for visiting this terrible peril on his family, he would have gladly strangled the worthless bastard, but that, he knew, would solve nothing. He didn’t believe Fowler’s story about only wanting to scare the landlords, but it didn’t matter what he thought. What mattered was what the constables thought. One thing was for certain: the landlords wanted blood. If he handed Fowler over to the peelers, all was lost. Fowler was no Billy Moore. He would inform and Dermot would surely hang with him.

  Michael yanked the bleeding man to his feet. “Clear out, Fowler.” He shoved the man toward the road. “And don’t ever come back or, by God, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Chapter Thirty

  September 1848

  Ministry of the Treasury

  London, England

  It didn’t seem possible. It ran contrary to the laws of probability. And it sorely tested the beliefs of those who believed in a merciful God. But in 1848, the blight struck yet again and two-thirds of the crop failed. And this year—coming on the heels of three previous years of blight, famine, and disease—was the worst of all. After the successful crop of ’47, farmers were convinced that the blight was over and they gambled everything on this crop, selling clothing, furniture, and livestock to buy seed. And now, having expended everything they had, all was lost.

  At Trevelyan’s office in the Ministry of the Treasury, Trevelyan, once again, sat across the table from Playfair, Kane, and Lindley. For almost three years, these men of the Scientific Commission had been meeting with Trevelyan and every time they met, they did their utmost to report factually and objectively on what was happening in Ireland. But in all that time, not once had Trevelyan taken their advice on how to relieve the suffering and death that continued to plague that godforsaken country. In their first meetings, there had been guarded suspicion of Trevelyan. But then, as time went, the suspicions turned to bewilderment at the secretary’s unrealistic and calculating pronouncements. And now, as they sat across the gleaming conference table from Trevelyan, there was a feeling of acrimony that was almost palpable in the air of Trevelyan’s chilly office.

  Playfair spoke first. “Mr. Trevelyan, last year Parliament decreed that the landlords would be responsible for the entire cost of the Public Works and—”

  “That is correct,” Trevelyan interjected. “As I have reminded you time and time again, it is their responsibility to solve the Irish problem.”

  “But the landlords are on the brink of financial ruin,” Lindley said.

  “
And whose fault is that?” Trevelyan snapped. “My God, the government offered them loans did it not? And what did the landlords do? They defaulted, leaving her Majesty’s government with millions of pounds of unsecured loans that will never be repaid.”

  “But that’s because you offered the loans at three and a half percent,” Playfair answered, his voice rising in frustration. “Terms which were most favorable to the government, but ruinous to landlords on the brink of bankruptcy.”

  Trevelyan put his hands up. “Enough, gentlemen. I am firm in my resolve to stop the hemorrhaging of the government’s treasury to finance what I consider to be a lost cause.”

  Dr. Kane shot forward in his seat. “A lost cause? Mr. Trevelyan how in the name of God can you describe a county of four million souls, many of whom are starving and dying, a lost cause. Is there no charity in your heart, sir?”

  “I have recommended to Parliament,” Trevelyan went on as thought he hadn’t heard Dr. Kane, “that it issue a proclamation that henceforth, the government will no longer grant loans to the Boards of Guardians.”

  Playfair jumped up. “But this will place the total cost of financing the famine on the backs of the landlords alone.”

  “Exactly where it should be.”

  Playfair furiously stuffed his reports back into his valise “Mark my words, Mr. Trevelyan, this unconscionable response of the government will wipe out hundreds of landlords who were on the verge of bankruptcy. Those who are still solvent, will step up the evictions and clear their lands of the last remaining tenants.”

  Trevelyan stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. “It’s in God’s hands, gentlemen.”

  Ballyross, Ireland

  In addition to the loss of the crop and no sign that the Board of Works would open, Michael continued to worry that sooner or later the peelers would discover Dermot’s role in the murder of Lord Somerville. Leaving his sullen Da to sit by the fire, Michael set off into the village to talk to Father Rafferty about an idea he had. It was a daft idea, he knew, but it just might work.

  Ballyross had never been a thriving village, but now it was almost completely deserted. Michael passed O’Malley’s shuttered pastry shop and had envious visions of the fat, prosperous baker living a wonderful life somewhere in America. The general store where he and his Da came to fetch the supplies for Somerville Manor was gone as well. He glanced down the road toward the train station remembering that first glimpse of Emily as she rode by in the carriage. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life and he still thought so. So much has happened since then. He continued down the street and stopped in front of Father Rafferty’s old church. He looked down at the mud in the road in front of the church and imagined he could see the stains of Lord Somerville’s blood there. My God, Dermot, what were you thinkin’?

  He studied the little church that he’d attended all his life. It, like everything else in the village, looked broken and shrunken into insignificance.

  Inside the church, a faint scent of sweet incense permeated the air. Michael slid into the last pew and the old wood creaked in protest under his weight. When his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he realized that the altar was bare. Father Rafferty had sensibly removed all the candle holders, the tabernacle, and even the few faded religious paintings that had adorned the plaster-peeling walls. There’s no sign of God here, Michael thought bitterly. Maybe it’s because God has abandoned us.

  Still, there was something peaceful about the space and Michael recalled Mr. Goodbody’s description of a Quaker meetinghouse. “It’s a plain and simple room with facing benches. There’s no adornment. We do not allow outward signs of religion. The simplicity of the surroundings allows us to mediate without distraction.”

  Michael thought that this stripped-down church must be the way a Quaker meetinghouse looked. He slumped in the pew, suddenly very tired. The weight of all that had happened began to press on him like a huge stone. For the first time since the crop had failed, he began to feel that everything was hopeless. If Fowler was caught, he would surely inform on Dermot and his little brother would hang. And that would surely kill Mam. There was no work and there would be none the constable had said until Lord Somerville’s murderer was apprehended. Lord Somerville dead. Would Emily go away? What’s the difference, you eejit? his inner voice chided. Do you think she would ever have anythin’ to do with the likes of you?

  The sound of a door opening focused his mind on the present. Father Rafferty came out of the sacristy and genuflected in front of the bare altar. Even the old priest looked worn and broken, just like everything else in the forlorn land.

  “Hello, Father.”

  The little priest jumped at the unexpected sound of a voice. “Jasus, Mary and Joseph… who is that scared the life out of me?” he asked, squinting into gloom.

  “It’s Michael Ranahan.”

  “Ranahan. And what would you be doin’ here?”

  “It’s my own church, isn’t it?”

  “Neither your church nor me has seen hide nor hair of you in a month of Sundays.”

  The priest came down the aisle. “Have you come to take the confession?” he asked hopefully. Then he saw the expression on Michael’s face, and added, “No, I didn’t think so. What do you want?”

  “You’ve got to get the landlords to open up the Board of Works.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried? Sure they have hearts of stone. And now after the murder of Lord Somerville, they’ll never open the Works until the murderer, God forgive him, is caught.”

  “He’s not goin’ to be caught.”

  The little priest peered into Michael face. “And how do you know that?” He saw a hardness in Michael’s eyes that told him he should ask no more about it.

  Father Rafferty turned to look toward his bare altar and his tears welled up in his eyes. The world that he’d known was changing and he didn’t know how much more he could abide. Who would have believed that a priest would have to strip his altar bare to protect the tabernacle—God’s very house—from thieving Catholics, no less? He asked himself. My parish is dwindling. Most have died or been driven off the land and gone away. Those that are left, like young Michael Ranahan here, have lost their faith and have stopped attending Mass. And now, here was young Ranahan, sitting before me, knowing something about the murder of a landlord and him not telling me, and me afraid to ask. The words that Christ cried out on the cross flashed into the priest’s mind. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

  Why indeed.

  “You’ve got to get the landlords to open up the Board of Works,” Michael repeated.

  The old priest glared at Michael. “And how am I goin’ to do that, may I ask?”

  Father Rafferty shivered. In the gloom, Michael’s evil smile looked like the grimace of a devil.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Major Robert Wicker licked his lips and eyed the almost full bottle of port on Lord Attwood’s side table. He, Lord Attwood, and Edward Rowe had been sitting in Attwood’s library for over an hour tediously arguing about whether the Board of Guardians should appoint someone to replace Somerville. Now there was a gentlemen, Wicker thought. Somerville always poured a glass of port when they met in his home and never stinted in the refilling. He shot a sideward glance at the scrawny Lord Attwood. Unlike this miserly old skinflint who has yet to offer either of us a drink.

  “Do you think we should add another member,” the obsequious Mr. Rowe asked Lord Attwood.

  “Damn it, man. Isn’t that the question we’ve been bandying about for the last hour? That’s what we’re here to decide.”

  “I believe we should,” Wicker said, tearing his eyes away from the bottle. “There is safety in numbers,” he added cryptically.

  “Meaning?” Attwood asked.

  “I don’t mind telling you, since Lord Somerville was shot dead before our very eyes, I’ve become increasingly concerned for my…our safety. Since we’ve closed down the Works the cottiers have been in an ugly
mood.”

  “Are you suggesting we reopen the Works?” Rowe asked.

  “Never.” Attwood pounded his skinny fist on his polished desk. “There’ll be no work until the knave who murdered Lord Somerville is caught and hanged. We agreed to that.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But what, man?”

  Wicker shrugged and stole a glance at the port bottle. If only he could have a drink, it would be so much easier to deal with all this. He wanted to tell them that his accounts were in shambles. But he could never admit to Attwood or Rowe that he was on the verge of financial ruin. As things had gotten worse, he’d convinced himself that his predicament was due to the famine and the crop failures. But mostly to that blackguard, Charles Trevelyan. But the truth, which he could not admit to himself, was that the fault lay with his reckless gambling and drinking. Wicker rung his hands. It was all well and good for his lordship to dismiss the loss of income as though it were nothing, he thought bitterly. Indeed, to the old lord it was nothing. With his family’s wealth he could afford to go on like this forever. But, sadly, that was not the case with Wicker’s estates where, daily, unpaid bills mounted at an alarming rate.

  “Perhaps we could invite Miss Somerville to take her father’s place on the Board?” Rowe offered.

  Attwood squinted at him over his reading glasses. “A woman? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Yes, of course, you’re absolutely correct,” Rowe said, backpedaling quickly. “It’s quite unthinkable, really.”

  Wicker was convinced that the only way to salvage his estates was to put the men back to work. “I don’t want to be an alarmist, but I am of the firm belief that if we don’t put the men back to work, we may be endangering ourselves.”