An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  After five minutes or so she carefully released herself from his grasp. He moved. Her heart began to thump. But then he fell back asleep snoring again. She slipped off the bed, grasped her shoes, and tip toed from the room, She peeked out the porthole and could barely see the rowboats in the distance as they carried the precious food for the Irish.

  At the bottom of the steps leading to the hold stood John McGuire.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why are you still here?”

  “I—wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  She climbed down the tiny stairs of the ship into the last rowboat laden with two large sacks of meal and McGuire jumped in.

  “Did you—did you have to—”

  “Thank the Lord, no. I got him dead drunk and he passed out.”

  “You’re quite a woman, you know.”

  They entered his rowboat, finally landed on the shore, and he carried his meal to one of the men.

  “Take this rowboat. And remember, I want two cups of this meal to as many Irish families as possible. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  His men brought him his horse.

  Tara began walking towards home.

  “You mean you’re going to walk all that way?” McGuire frowned. “I thought you had your horse hidden somewhere.”

  “I was afraid the sound of its hooves would be too noisy.”

  He dismounted, lifted her onto his horse. God, no. How could she be touching him again? She gave him the directions to her cottage. They rode in silence, both filled with sexual tension.

  When they arrived he said, “Will I see you again?”

  “Any time. Any place,” she said unashamedly.

  “I’ll be in touch. I never know where I’ll be next. Wherever I’m needed most.”

  “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  She felt her heart would pounce out of her chest and was somewhat frightened for she had never had this type of feeling before.

  She heard a knocking on the door of their cottage early the next morning. It was Maureen O’Flanagan, her dearest friend, holding a pot in her hand. She had once been chubby cheeked and overweight but because of the famine now stood slim and pale.

  “My aunt made some soup from nettles. It tastes awful but she says there’s nourishment in it.”

  She handed the pot of soup to Tara.

  “Come in. And thank you ever so much.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Sit down. What is it? Your aunt isn’t sick, is she? I hear some of the people in the other counties are falling sick with high fever. Thank the Lord it hasn’t hit our village that I know of.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  She appeared hesitant to speak, sat down, folded her hands on her lap.

  “Tell me!”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ to America. They say it’s wonderful there and I could start all over again. You could go too with your family. Of course, it’s because they want to get rid of us with the famine and all the sickness startin’. We’re no fools. But I’ve seen pictures in magazines of America and it looks like a wonderful place to live, according to the ads.”

  “Leave Ireland? Why, Ireland is my life’s blood. I could never.”

  “Well, think about it. What future do we have here? Maybe you could open a dress shop if you saved enough in America. I saw a picture showing a street in America in a Gazette and it looks like a wonderful place to live. A really rich place. And the Doughertys have been so kind. They’re goin’ to take care of my aunt and I’ll send back as much as I can to help them out.”

  “My dream is to open my own shop in Ireland some day. This suffering can’t last forever.”

  “I’ll miss you so much.”

  They hugged each other hard and their faces became tear stained.

  “You’ll tell me all about America and write all the time, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Tara heard a Relief Commission was organized. Masses of the starving applied for employment. The applications were overwhelming and the people became more and more outraged to the point of rebellion. Soon riots became prevalent, mobs charging through towns, begging for work. The numbers who applied became tens of thousands. The situation became more and more impossible. The problem was that the potato, not money, was the basic way the value of labor was figured out. Farmers and landlords would give the laborers a cabin and a piece of potato ground. They would work off rent first and sometimes two meals on a working day. The laborers never saw that money because, above all, it was first payment for the rent. The major reward was the patch of potato ground but with the potatoes rotted, all seemed hopeless. In a monumental setback, the British declared relief was to be brought to a close. Also, no more meal was to be sent to the depot which had supplied a bit of relief for it was now practically empty of meal.

  Some men, women and children were beginning to be unable to stand; others seemed half dead with emaciated faces, bodies, and staring eyes, a sign they were obviously in a state of advanced starvation.

  The next year was all the Irish looked forward to when they believed the blight would be gone and the potato crop would be healthy and hearty. They had the idea that plenty always came after scarcity. The Irish people were always known to be innately joyful and optimistic. Hope was at its peak in every Irishman’s heart. In May and June of the next year the weather was warm and the crop of early potatoes looked strong and plentiful. In the spring there had been surprisingly frozen, drenching rains but then the weather turned absolutely glorious.

  Then, suddenly, reports of the new potato crop showed that, once again, disease was destroying them. In fact, it was more prevalent in this crop than the year before.

  The British felt that the only way to stop the Irish from becoming constantly dependent on the British government was to bring their operations of aid to a close. Some of the British government wanted to import food for the poor but the officials at the highest level strongly disagreed to their desire to bring their aid to a close.

  No preparation, though, even if made on double the scale asked for, could have saved the Irish people from their fate. Before the depots closed and the public works shut down, which, the year before had minimally at least helped; they now could have saved the Irish people from their horrible fate. Once again, every potato in Ireland was lost. As one passed through the countryside, people sat on fences looking at their decayed potatoes, clenching their hands and wailing loudly against the blight that had made them without food. In a distance of eight hundred miles or so one could see the stalks which, ironically remained green but looking closer the leaves were rotted, scorched black and the potatoes mush.

  Tara heard a horse’s hooves approaching and then a knock on the door. As usual, her father sat on his cot, unaware of the world around him.

  Patrick opened the door to a pimply-faced, poorly dressed young boy.

  “Message for Tara O’Brien,” he said, holding a sealed envelope in his hand.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Sorry. It must only go to Tara O’Brien.”

  Tara stepped forward and took the envelope, hoping that finally it was a message from John McGuire. She thanked the messenger and went to the farthest side of the room to read it.

  “Dear Miss O’Brien,

  Although I felt you were perhaps hesitant to see me again, you seemed to enjoy the dinner we had a month ago, and I do hope it gave you extra nourishment during these terrible times.

  I would be honored if you would join me again next Saturday night at seven or so at La Vie as we did the last time, in the back room. I will explain further when I see you. Please send this messenger back with your answer—either yes (I hope) or no and then destroy this note.

  Yours faithfully,

  T
homas Litchfield

  She turned to the messenger.

  “Tell him I said “yes.””

  She was not foolish enough to turn down a delicious meal, no matter who offered it at this point of the stage of hunger she was in.

  When she arrived, she was wearing a white dress she had made with satin fabric Miss Rouche had given her, red roses embroidered upon its bodice and around its hem. She had taken it in, but she still looked so thin, her cheeks sunken and her body somewhat emaciated.

  “May I help you?”

  The waiter looked her up and down superciliously as she stood in the doorway.

  “I’m meeting Captain Thomas Litchfield here.”

  The waiter’s eyes widened.

  “Surely, madame.”

  He rushed her through the main dining room to the very back corner of the restaurant. Litchfield stood up when he saw her.

  “My God! You look like a skeleton! But still beautiful…”

  “I’m so grateful you asked me to dinner. As you can see, I’ve eaten very little lately.”

  “The situation hasn’t been good.”

  “Just awful. My father seems to be more and more overwhelmed by the death of my mother and I can’t do a thing about it. He just sits on our fence all day looking at the rotted potato crop. My brother, Patrick, is a godsend. Yesterday he found a bunch of nettles and three birds’ nest eggs so with the piece of bread we divided we had a decent meal.”

  Litchfield put his hand to his face.

  “You can’t go on like this.”

  The waiter appeared with the gold menu.

  “What do you suggest, Thomas?”

  “Well, since you like fish the scallops, shrimp, and pollack in butter sauce are wonderful, with string beans and rice and for dessert peaches and ice cream.”

  “Yes, I’ll have that. It sounds wonderful. Two portions of each.”

  “And I’ll have the same.” He cleared his throat. “But one portion only.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  After the waiter left, she noticed Litchfield’s hands were shaking.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I—think I am.” He smiled. “I—I—need to ask you something and I hesitate to do it. It’s so impossible.”

  “Why, what is it? It can’t be that impossible.”

  “I’ve—I’ve fallen in love with you. From the first time I saw you. If such a thing is possible. I’ve never felt so strongly about any other woman—and, alas, I hesitate to say, there have been many.”

  “I guessed that. After all, you’re a very handsome man.”

  He blushed.

  She hesitated a few moments before she spoke.

  “Thomas, you’ve been so good to me. And I do think the dinners I’ve had with you have helped to save my life. I really mean it. They’ve given me extra strength—certainly more than that of the poor souls I see dead or dying along the road from starvation. But I have to admit I’m disgusted concerning what the British are doing exporting their goods to other countries so they can make a profit, letting the Irish starve.”

  “I know you’re right. And every day I think of myself as being a coward for putting up with it. But—you still haven’t answered my question.”

  She sighed.

  “I think you know in your heart I could never truly love a Britisher, though I must say you are a very attractive man. I know you’ll eventually find someone else to love.”

  “Never.”

  “And I think it best we don’t see each other after tonight.”

  ‘But I have no qualms about buying you dinner. It makes me feel good to know I’m helping you.”

  “You see, I’ve fallen in love with someone else, Irish, of course; and I know he would be against it, even though I’m not even sure he loves me.”

  “I can guarantee he does. Or he’s a fool. Who is it??”

  “I can’t say.”

  “‘But you can still see me for food! I don’t care. As long as I can see you, help you.”

  “That wouldn’t be right. And I know he would never forgive me for seeing a Britisher.”

  “Will you ask him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “If he loves you, he’ll say yes, if he truly wants your welfare.”

  They dined mostly in silence. When they parted, she kissed him on the cheek and walked away. A sense of hopeless grief overcame him as he walked to the barracks.

  The next year, as the potato blight continued, the conflict between the English and the Irish worsened. English newspapers declared the Irish were certainly not famine victims but sneaky and bloodthirsty desperados. Cartoons were published every week depicting Irishmen as filthy, brutal people, assassins and murderers begging for money, making believe, under pretending for food they wanted to spend it for weapons; and with the contributions given to them from the British relief funds, they were buying arms.

  Even though there was so much enmity against the Irish, when the potato crop failed once again a new relief fund was suggested. The British declared they would, once again, start a relief fund but they refused to pay half the cost. Half the expenses were to be paid by whatever district where the works were carried out, which, of course, for the destitute Irish, was an impossibility.

  The British government also said they would no longer import or supply any food to the Irish. It would be sent abroad where they could make a profit from it. Only the west of Ireland would receive special treatment to the worst hit areas: Kerry, Donegal, the county west of the Shannon and the part of West Cork, including Skibbereen and the Dingle Peninsula, an area where the people lived only on the potato, where no other kind of food existed; there and only there British food depots would be set up.

  When another failure of the potato crop occurred, more and more riots broke out. Panic seized Ireland. The people clung wildly to public works as their only hope to stay alive but British measures were utterly inadequate. Protests and violence suddenly became rare; the main feeling of the Irish people was one of total despair. Fear of famine lingered in their hearts and souls; they knew they were helpless.

  Nothing was done; nothing could be done. Then an even worse situation took place. There became a general shortage of food in Europe. Not only was the food the British were sending to Europe for profit but also the expected imports from Europe were not arriving. The British government could hardly find any supplies to send to Europe at all. All over Europe the harvest of the later 40s was mostly a failure. The wheat crop there was minimal; oats and barley as well as rye and potatoes were a total loss. European countries outbid Britain for food which meant even less food for Ireland. But private enterprise was abundant. They offered food to Ireland at the highest price, meal, for example, except it was at unattainable cost. Dealers bought up whatever came to market and would offer it in small amounts at high prices the poor could not afford.

  Patrick arose early, as usual, to see if he could snare any linnets or eggs they had hatched from a secret place he found in the density of the forest. It was not an easy task to snare them, but yesterday he caught two. Tara removed their feathers and cooked them over the minimal turf they had left. He also found one of their eggs. He sat by the stream a few hour before he saw the four of them flying up into the pine trees. He grasped the home made net he had made and as they swooped down he snared one. Now he must wait another hour most likely before, if he was lucky, he could snare the other one, then climb up the tree very carefully to search their nest to see if there were any eggs in it. He snared the second one and clasped the wooden cover he had fashioned over them. Then he climbed the tree and said “Hallelujah!” when he saw not only one but two eggs in the nest. He carefully put them in his pocket and climbed down the tree very slowly, placing them in their wooden-covered basket.

  He heard a rustling in the trees but w
as not afraid. It was probably just the wind. But then he was taken aback when a giant of a man emerged with bare feet and torn clothes. His hair was scraggly and greasy, as was his beard. He could tell that at one time he was a strong, heavily-built fellow, but the main characteristic Patrick noticed was his yellowed teeth and frightening hollowed brown eyes, half closed, as he stood there weakly, his one hand on the tree to support him.

  “What’s that ya got there in the basket, boy?”

  “Oh, nothing much.”

  He pushed Patrick to the ground, opened the basket, and grabbed one of the birds. He put it in his mouth and ate it, feathers and all. The bird’s guts streamed down his chin.

  “Please ... I have a family to feed.”

  “And so do I. That’s the first I ate anything in days and days.”

  A sense of pity over came him. Plus he knew he had the birds’ eggs in his pocket.

  “Please. You can take the others. From the looks of you, you need to eat even more than I do.”

  “Ya mean yu’d let me have them? The way the times is?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Well, God bless you, my lad,” he said, stumbling through the woods, taking the basket.

  Tara and Liam were disappointed there were no birds to cook, but they understood when Patrick told them his story.

  “I’m proud of you,” Tara said. “You did the right thing. Plus the eggs will be good enough nourishment.”

  British leaders, in spite of their experience in the past never came to understand the role of the grain harvest to the Irish. They only grew grain and oats to pay the rent, not to eat. It was well known that was their primary concern because failure to pay the rent meant they would be evicted from their cottages. They were given a bit of grass and were left to the mercy of the landlord. With the potato famine it became necessary for the renter to eat his growth of grain and oats; yet, he could not. This was the situation of Tara’s family when she heard a British officer banging on the door for rent collection again.