by Oisin McGann
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Nate asked his manservant quietly, as he threw off the threadbare blankets that covered him.
“Everyone else is up and out, sir,” his traveling companion informed him. “We chose to let you rest. The lady of the house rouses the two children at the same time as their father rises for duty. Life starts early in an army barracks.”
“Mm,” Nate mumbled, pulling on his jacket. Even with the stove going in the small room, there was a damp chill in the air. The occupants would normally have shared this house with two other families, but the army was using it as an extra storeroom, so they had the place to themselves—along with several large crates, whose contents were unknown to them. Nate dragged one of the crates out to sit on. “So, when do we leave?”
“Not today, sir,” Clancy replied. “According to Sean, there is a party of dignitaries taking a tour of the fortress. The sentries will be especially diligent and might look twice at a pair of unfamiliar faces. Sean was able to sneak us in, but we will have to wait until the watch is relaxed before he can get us out again.”
“Surely there could have been somewhere else to stay—somewhere that did not involve allowing ourselves to be surrounded by heavily armed miscreants?”
“I should have thought it would make you feel at home, sir. But as I believe I have already explained, all of the more loyal of your relatives in Cork are being watched. The watchers would not think to look here, partly because of all the miscreants to which you allude. The proximity of the British soldiers, whom Gerald can call on to serve him if needs be, is proof that you could not possibly be hiding here.”
Nate grunted, pouring water from a jug into the canvas basin held up on a metal stand. It was a useful piece of military kit, given that it could be folded up and put away when not in use. When quarters were as tight as this, every spare inch counted. Splashing cold water on his face and neck, he rubbed some life into his bleary eyes. He wished he could shave his beard, but every bit of disguise helped.
He took the bowl of porridge Clancy handed to him. It was pretty basic stirabout, but it was warm and filling and gave him comfort. As Nate was eating, Clancy climbed the narrow steps to the room upstairs. There was some moving of boxes and other things, and then he descended again, holding a package wrapped in plain brown paper and bound with string.
“This was hidden here, in anticipation of your return, sir,” the manservant told his master. “Miss Daisy felt it wise to get it out of Dublin. You will remember that before your departure from the country, you and your brother discovered your fathers secret journals?”
“Yes,” Nate said, nodding. “We weren’t the only ones either. I’m sure Gerald had found them before us. The way he played the family against each other certainly stank of Father’s methods. Berto and I had them removed from the house and stored in a safety deposit room in a bank in Dublin.”
“Yes, sir,” Clancy acknowledged. “Unfortunately, Gerald found out where you had hidden them and took them for himself
“What? How did he get them off the bank? We do still have some semblance of law in this country, don’t we?”
“When they wouldn’t accept that he was representing your interests,” Clancy replied, “Gerald bought the bank and fired the managers. No one tried to stop him after that. When the journals were being transferred back to the house, your sister-in-law was able to remove these three volumes. Of all the records, she thought these would be of greatest interest to you.”
Nate took the package, pulled off the string and unwrapped the paper. The three hardback, leather-bound notebooks had a musty smell. He checked the dates and immediately understood why Daisy had kept them for him. They were for the years 1845, 1846 and 1847. It was during this period that his father, Edgar Wildenstern, had turned on his wife and had her imprisoned—first in an asylum and then in a room at the top of the tower in Wildenstern Hall. Nate took a deep breath and rubbed his hand over the cover of the top book. These journals might tell him the truth about his mother’s incarceration.
He opened the first book and found a passage he had read before. It was dated November, 1845:
The peasant unrest grows as the water mold known as ‘potato blight’ spreads, rotting the vegetables in the ground. Hardly a crop seems untouched. The lowest of humanity have been hit hardest; soon there will be no food for the winter. They know they will starve, and they aim their anger at the landed gentry. Harsh measures will have to be taken to maintain order. This is not the first time in our history that the rabble’s food has become infected, and it won’t be the last. It will change nothing in the long run.
“The beginning of the Great Famine.” Nate sniffed. “Father was typically unsympathetic. Interesting that Gerald should be so fascinated with the journals, though. I would have thought that once he’d taken control of the family he wouldn’t need any more guidance from this blackguard.”
“He must still control the Wildensterns, sir,” Clancy pointed out. “And judging by Miss Daisy’s letters, the family did not give in easily. It took three assassination attempts to convince them that he was committed to the position.”
“Only three in three years?” Nate gave a quizzical frown. He had avoided talking about the family on the voyage over. He had spent most of the time locked in his cabin alone, or walking the deck staring out to sea. Clancy had tried a number of times to engage his attention on the matter, but with no luck. Now, it was clear that the young Duke was ready to listen. “That’s not much of an average. Are they losing their touch, do you think?”
“He was very convincing, sir. The first attempt was made by one of your cousins, Charles. Gerald was in his laboratory late one night when Charles entered quietly, under cover of darkness, armed with a claymore sword. A struggle ensued. When it was over, Charles was dead, his body cut into several pieces. Gerald had the body parts removed from his laboratory, then returned to what he was doing as if nothing had happened.
“As you can imagine, this alone was not enough to shock your relatives. Three months later, your uncle, Gideon, launched another assault on Gerald. Your cousin had taken to walking in the gardens at night, and Gideon waited until he was far from any cover and then charged him on horseback, armed with a shotgun. He fired both barrels with reasonable accuracy. Gerald was wounded in the shoulder and leg. Gideon made to run him down with the horse, but Gerald avoided the charge and seized the horse’s reins. With what can only be described as supernatural strength, he stopped the horse dead in its tracks, flipping the animal onto its side. Gideon was thrown off and broke several bones. Gerald let him live—Gideon himself told the story to everyone.”
“I’m sure he painted a very colorful picture of the event,” Nate commented. “Not like Gideon to try something like that on his own. The man’s a complete poltroon. He’s incapable of picking a fight unless the odds are overwhelmingly in his favor.”
“I suspect it was desperation,” Clancy replied. “Gerald hates him with a passion. Gideon is convinced that it is only a matter of time before he winds up dead anyway. And yet, he still lives.”
“More’s the pity.”
“Indeed. But since Ainsley’s death, sir, no one has dared to try their luck. That one put the wind up everyone.”
Clancy finished his porridge and put the bowl down.
“Miss Daisy described it in detail in one of her letters. The family was eating dinner, with Gerald at the top of the table as usual. Ainsley came in through the kitchens, entering the dining room via a side door. Gerald did not seem to notice him until Ainsley was standing by his side with a shotgun pointed at his head. Ainsley drew back the hammers on the weapon, ready to fire. And then Gerald started whistling. Brahms’s Lullaby, apparently. Ainsley let the weapon drop to his side, holding it loosely in his hands. He appeared to be in some kind of trance.
“Gerald stopped whistling just long enough to tell everyone to go outside to the bac
k garden. He was obeyed immediately—the family obviously knew they were watching some terrible power at work. Gerald did not follow. Instead, he walked towards the elevators and Ainsley walked with him like a lost child, a line of drool dripping from his mouth. Gerald did not even take the weapon off him.
“The family waited out in the cold breezy day in the back garden. They didn’t spot the pair at once, but then someone pointed towards the top of the tower. The two figures could just be seen, silhouetted against the sky. They were a few feet apart, neither making any move towards the other.
“And then Ainsley fell. He fell thirty stories to the ground below. He must have regained his senses in time to realize his fate, for he let out a long shriek as he fell. His body burst across the gravel, and there was a loud bang as the shotgun hit the ground in the mess of his remains. As far as anyone can make out, the only thing Gerald did that entire time was whistle a lullaby. And Ainsley did not let go of the shotgun until he was falling from the roof. Since then, no one has made any further attempt on Gerald’s life.”
Nate nodded. Gerald’s powers had grown far greater over the years that Nate had been away. And yet, even now, it wasn’t Gerald’s strange abilities that he feared the most. It was what they could release if Gerald continued to use them.
“We need to leave as soon as possible,” he said to his manservant. “Your dog will have to stay here, I’m afraid, Clancy. I’d be the first to admit his charms, but we cannot be waylaid by his stunted legs. We have a hard walk ahead of us. We’ll need horses at the earliest opportunity. And we need to arm ourselves properly. These pistols we have are not enough.”
“I anticipated that need also, sir,” Clancy said. “And my friend has already agreed to give Duke a home.” He pulled a leather case from behind one of the crates and unbuckled it. It unfolded out onto the floor, revealing a range of firearms, edged weapons and cudgels held neatly in straps.
Nate gave the contents the once-over and then nodded.
“Good. Oh, and I’ll need a decent suit for when we reach Dublin.”
“That might be a bit more difficult, sir. I could have a telegram sent to one of our tailors there. But if your measurements were recognized, and the tailor was of a mind to tell the family … it could tip Gerald off that you were coming.”
“That’s what I want,” Nate replied, picking up the first of his fathers journals. “I want the cur to know I’m on my way. Let him build up a head of steam for when I get there. Rattle him a bit. I’m the vengeful ghost, Clancy. And I’m coming for him.”
“Very good, sir. We can only hope that his abundance of steam does not improve his whistling, sir.”
Nate opened the notebook at the first page and sat back against the stack of boxes.
“If I know Gerald, he’ll have something a little more dramatic lined up for us,” he said. “It’s a pity about Ainsley. I quite liked him. Of all the Gideonettes, he was the least obnoxious. Had a certain sense of honor. But, unless I miss my guess, Gerald is setting the stage for some epic performance. With poor Ainsley, he was just clearing his throat.”
VIII
TYPICALLY UNSYMPATHETIC
IT WAS UNSETTLING FOR NATE to read his father’s words. Edgar Wildenstern wrote as he spoke, his statements made with a sense of inevitability. When Nate’s father made any kind of declaration, it was either already a matter of certainty, or soon would be. The closest thing to God that Nate had ever known was the will of his father. To be reading Edgar’s words after the old man’s death brought back memories of fearful meetings in his father’s study, mentally battered by lectures about duty to the family. The stern warnings against disobedience delivered by this terrifying man had been enough to send young Nathaniel to bed with nightmares, the following days spent dreading the next time he would be summoned to an audience with his father.
Even holding this notebook left Nate slightly nervous that it might anger the dead Patriarch. He shook off the absurd feeling and began reading from the start. This was something he had learned to do more thoroughly since leaving home—read. Before, the thought of reading three such densely packed tomes would have filled Nate with dread. Now, he eagerly sought out the mysteries these books held.
The first book was actually the last few months of 1845. It was not long before he reached an entry for December, one that brought to mind the fearsome old man whose shadow had hung for so long over Wildenstern Hall:
As winter bites, the last flares of resistance are burning out. What hunger had begun, the cold is finishing off. The anger of the peasants towards the family is abating as they are faced with more pressing concerns. After a summer of starvation, the destruction of the crop of potatoes continues to cause desolation among the population. Those that cannot grow enough to eat on their farms must agree to do the additional work we set them and take the American grain we pay for that work. They can no longer afford to protest at evictions or what they perceive as unfair terms. This famine will not be like the others that have preceded it. I believe that this shall prove the breaking of the Irish peasant.
Even at their height, the acts of rebellion were sporadic at best. As it happens, exports of calves, most kinds of livestock, and meat such as bacon and ham have actually increased during this famine, though they travel through the country under heavily armed guard. Enraged at the wagonloads of grain and other foodstuffs being taken out of the country, a band of local rabble have recently been engaging in ‘clifting’ cattle on our estates. Only last month, an entire herd of forty cattle were driven over a cliff to perish on the rocks below. This barbaric practice has cost the family much money over the last few months, as have the fires in our stables and the attacks on our bailiffs. But our strength of will is already bearing fruit. In a country more densely populated than China, any kind of reorganization is difficult. This famine is a great opportunity.
It is a time to bring in new changes to Irish farming. These tiny family farms are inefficient. By moving the tenants off the land and combining these small holdings into larger farms, we can unify production and increase our control over the management of the harvest. I have undertaken to learn as much as I can about the peasants’ situation, that I might use it to make Ireland a better, more productive place.
This country is a disgrace. People survive on the potato simply because when one has only a limited amount of land to grow one’s own food, the potato is often the only crop to offer nutrition enough to feed a family living on an individual holding. The common people here do not eat bread. Unlike their counterparts in England, not enough wheat or corn can be grown on their small plots to feed the Irish peasant.
The island is too crowded. Half the population lives in one-roomed, windowless mud cabins, their entrances obstructed by piles of manure. Pigs sleep with their owners. The evicted and the unemployed put roofs of boards or turf over ditches to sleep in, or they burrow into banks or live in bog holes. ‘Poverty worse than the Negro in his chains’ I have heard it called. Indeed, I have been to Africa and there was little in that misbegotten sprawl of a place to equal the disgust I feel when I ride past the typical dwelling of an Irish peasant. I am ashamed for my country. These people need to pull themselves up by their boot-strings. The land they farm could turn out twice what they produce, if they had the gumption. Modern methods seem beyond them. Even millstones for grinding grain are rare in the countryside. Many cannot use a plough!
But in the wake of the disease that has destroyed the potato crop, and the famine it is causing, the peasants’ usual slovenly squalor has given way to scenes of true horror. It is as if the land is inhabited by limping, staggering, staring figures of the living dead. I recently asked Warburton to explain to me the effects of starvation, that I might better understand the pictures of suffering I see through the windows of my carriage.
In his words, a body that is suffering starvation effectively begins to digest itself. It starts to break down the m
uscles and other tissues to keep the most important organs alive. It succumbs to diseases such as dropsy, beriberi and scurvy, and can be afflicted by diarrhea, skin rashes, and fungi among others. The organs begin to fail, along with the eyesight and other essential functions. The wasting away of the muscles and the areas of dried, cracked skin can make moving extremely painful. Ironically, extreme starvation can lead to throat infections that make swallowing agony. The victim becomes lethargic and experiences loss of hope. Death is eventually caused by severe organ damage.
Add to this the outbreaks of diseases such as cholera, tuberculosis, measles and smallpox and you have an entire nation that is in the process of being broken down much as a starving body is. But from that death can come new life, just as one might demolish a city slum in order to build anew. This is a human catastrophe, but I am determined that Ireland will emerge the better for it. And the Wildensterns will be among the first to herald in that new future. I smile as I remember something Gideon said at dinner:
“Frankly, I never liked potatoes anyway!”
But this country is facing desperate times, and desperation makes even the most submissive people dangerous. I have warned Miriam about taking the children beyond the estate without a proper guard. Apart from the risk of catching one of the many types of fever, it would be all too easy for them to be attacked and hurt—or captured and used as leverage against me. Particularly if any of our relatives got involved. The threat is all the more potent now as Miriam’s pregnancy progresses. She is almost six months on at this point, with the child due in April. I do not normally concern myself with womanly matters, but I had always believed pregnancy to be a debilitating condition, what with nausea, discomfort and back pain and all that. But it seems to have slowed her down not one whit.