The Blacksmith's Wife

by Anne Doughty

  The last Saturday in October dawned bright and cold, dazzling sun beaming from an icy blue sky as Scottie and Sarah manoeuvred the heavy sacks delivered by a carter earlier in the week. Even with their hard work struggling to get the heavy sacks up into the trap, they both felt the cold as they prepared to set off towards Tartaraghan. The Tartaraghan Road is not well known. It is only signposted on the outskirts of Loughgall. Sarah drew her old woollen shawl around her as she squeezed into her seat between two sacks of meal and let Scottie take up the reins.

  The sunlight didn’t last, but as the sky clouded over they were grateful that the biting wind eased somewhat. They drove through familiar territory and soon passed Mr McMahon’s house on the outskirts of Loughgall. Scottie pointed it out to her before they turned north and then west on the Tartaraghan Road, following Jamsey’s careful directions.

  Although there were thatched cabins dotted randomly along the road, the faint light from a now overcast, grey sky revealed little sign of human beings, only a dim, green, low-lying area with little sign of cultivation or people working. Beyond great stretches of boggy fields, dark patches of woodland stretched to the horizon. They obscured any sight of the wide acres of the biggest lough in the British Isles, one which Sarah had never visited but had seen gleaming in the sunlight from below the monument on Cannon Hill, one of John’s favourite Sunday walks.

  Somewhere they must have taken a wrong turn, but one road seemed little different from any other and there were few landmarks to guide them, apart from a square church tower which appeared briefly and was then obscured by yet another patch of dark woodland.

  Jamsey had mentioned the church which was near to Sophie Lawson’s home and Sarah was aware that it was the rector of that church who had written to Sir George asking for assistance. It was the obvious place for them to start their morning’s work. Finally they got there, directed by a woman ill-clad for the damp cold, carrying a basket of turf to a neighbour’s cottage.

  There was no room in the trap so they couldn’t even offer her a lift, but Sarah leant down and told her to be sure to visit Sophie Lawson when she had done her errand, so she could carry home some meal in her basket.

  Sarah would never forget the look on the woman’s face as she blessed them and gave thanks for the offer. So many people, cold and hungry, hiding in their cabins to escape the even more miserable cold of outdoors was a stark contrast to the indifference of a gentleman in Belgium: warm, well clothed and well fed, pressing for his rents and threatening them with eviction if they didn’t pay up.

  They did manage what they had planned to do, delivering a large sack to each of the churches, then being warmly welcomed by Sophie who had a wood fire that smelt of pine branches. They stood over it, hands extended over the cheerful blaze, noses twitching with the scent of resin, while Sophie made them tea, asking them exactly what they wanted her to do with the sack they had brought for her.

  ‘Just use your own judgement, Sophie. Ask for a penny a pound from people if they have any income at all and keep it till you see Scottie here or Jamsey. Any money you can collect means we can buy more. But if you know they have no money give them what they need for a week and we’ll see what we can do for them then.’

  Sophie nodded as she made the tea and offered some bread, apologising that she had no butter or jam. They both thanked her for the offer but Sarah insisted she had their lunch in two paper bags.

  ‘What d’ye want for the fabric, Sarah?’

  ‘I thought maybe a penny a yard, but not to be paid until something sold for them on the stall. Same reason. If we can bring in some money, however little, we can buy more. And someone might send us a present of money like Ben did. We can only hope, can’t we?’ she replied, grateful to feel warm again.

  Sophie’s house was spotlessly clean and there was a glass jar with a handful of late flowering dahlias on the kitchen table. With her children gone to visit her mother, she’d been working on her current piece of sewing: it sat on a stool by her chair in the window, wrapped in an old but clean piece of torn linen.

  She looked at Sarah and said, ‘Sure hope is all we’ve got, if we let go of that we’re finished.’

  ‘Well, we’ll not do that if we’re still fit to stand, will we, Scottie?’ she said, turning to him, as he looked round the bright room, his eye lighting upon some books.

  ‘Are you a reader then?’ Sophie asked.

  He nodded shyly and then plucked up the courage to ask if he might look at them.

  ‘Surely, go ahead. I want Sarah to meet the other woman who sews for the stall. I didn’t actually know her till we found out about the stall. She lives a wee bit down the road,’ Sophie said, as they moved towards the open door. ‘We’ll call back and collect you to take Sarah home,’ she said over her shoulder, laughing when she saw Scottie promptly choosing one of the books and sitting himself down by the fire.

  They were struck by a chill air as they went out together but the wind had dropped away completely. It was more damp than cold. They talked easily, Sophie speaking about her father who had been a teacher but who had died of fever when she was only a girl.

  ‘So who brought you up, Sophie?’ Sarah asked, wondering if children who had lost their parents always recognised each other.

  ‘A kind neighbour with no children of her own,’ Sophie replied promptly. ‘I married her son, but he was jealous of the children when they came along and he used to beat me. In the end, I was glad when he left me. I don’t know where he is. I sometimes tell people I don’t know, that he’s a weaver looking for work, but I couldn’t tell you that, could I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you always tell the truth about things. You tell it the way it is and you expect the same in return. My father told me always to trust Quakers for their yea was yea and their nay was nay. And I’ve noticed you always mean what you say …’

  Sophie broke off as they stopped by the closed door of her neighbour’s house.

  ‘Oh Sarah, I’m sorry. I’ve taken you away from the fire and I should have remembered Rachel goes to see her mother most mornings once she gets her own work done. That’s probably where she is now,’ she said apologetically.

  She was about to say something else when they saw a woman hurrying to meet them. She appeared to be carrying a bale of cloth in both hands, but as she got nearer they could see it was not a regular bale, it was something wrapped in layers of white linen.

  It became obvious what the burden was as she came up to them. The well-wrapped parcel was a dead child, its tiny face white as marble.

  ‘Mrs Lawson and you, lady, who iver ye are, can ye help me? I don’ care where I die or where they put me, but I want a coffun for this wee one an’ I haven a ha’penny to m’name. I’m no beggar. I’m not askin’ for food or anythin’ else, just a wee coffun for the chile so she’ll rest aisy. I’ll follow her soon enough. But they’ll not put her in the holy groun’ if there’s no coffun – they’ll put her under the hedge.’

  Sarah had to swallow hard and try not to cry. What had she to cry about, she that had food, and fire, and friends, and a man that loved her, albeit it far away and not able to marry her.

  She took out her purse. ‘Do you know how much it would cost?’

  ‘Maybe two shillings, maybe three. She’s very small for two years old. I couldn’t bring meself to ask the man who makes thim, when I knowed I had nothin’ to give him.’

  Sarah opened her purse and found three shillings and a single penny. She gave the silver to the woman and the penny to Sophie.

  ‘If you go to Sophie’s house, she’ll give you meal,’ Sarah began trying to avoid the woman’s profuse thanks. ‘Have you a fire?’

  ‘I have whin I collect sticks.’

  ‘Can you sew?’

  ‘Aye, I’m a brave han’ at that. Work clothes and trousers an’ suchlike,’ she said, looking puzzled. ‘But sure what use am I, wi’ no husban’ an’ no childer left … I’d be better dead. If I saw me wee love int
a the churchyard, I’d go willin’ enough.’

  ‘Would you not stay and give us a hand?’ said Sophie abruptly.

  ‘What d’ye mean?’

  Sarah listened as Sophie outlined the plan they’d just put together to get food into the area until the soup kitchens could be set up and, still talking together, the three women walked back towards Sophie’s house which was on the way to the church. As they passed Daisy and the trap, tethered to a fence post, Sarah got up on the step, leant into the body of the vehicle and pulled out a paper bag from under the driver’s seat.

  ‘Here, that’ll keep you going till you cook some porridge,’ she said, putting it into her hand. ‘Will the little one lie in the church till the coffin’s made?’

  ‘Aye. He’s a good man, the rector. He’d not say no now that a coffun is comin’. That’s why I’ve swaddled her, but I can’t lay her in a manger like our Lord. She cou’dnt lie in church if I hadn’t a coffun. I can’t thank ye’s enough,’ she added, her voice suddenly thick with emotion and relief.

  ‘Don’t thank us, just give us a hand after you’ve been to the rector. Sophie will help you, and you’ll help others. We must keep up hope,’ she added, as she handed over the paper bag with some bread and jam for her lunch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  White Hill House,

  Mill Road,

  Somerton,

  York

  18th October 1846

  My dearest Sarah,

  I must confess that I was grateful to be alone in my study after breakfast with neither my good-hearted housekeeper nor her inquisitive son in any way likely to require my attention or guidance while I read your most recent letter. Your description of the situation in Tartaraghan was heartbreaking and when you spoke of the child in swaddling clothes looking like a web of cloth, I have to confess to tears.

  That poor woman, who in one year has lost not only her husband, but four children one after the other, is not to be criticised in any way for her lack of hope. I know that we are taught that despair is a sin, but how many of us have ever had to bear such heartbreak?

  I feel sure that between you and Sophie Lawson some hope may have been kindled and I pray sincerely she will not be exposed to any of these ministers and priests, who I hear have taken up preaching that the famine is ‘the wrath of God’. I cannot possibly agree with their reading.

  If I partially managed to control my tears over the coffin-less child, I certainly did not manage when you gave the woman your modest lunch. I was, however, somewhat cheered when you confessed that Scottie had lectured you firmly and insisted you eat half of his portion. You must remember, my dearest, that if you do not take care of yourself, you will not be able to help others. Apart from my own selfish wishes to know that you are in good health, I must point to all the so-called ‘tiny’ offerings you make – not simply the market stall which helps both seamstresses and purchasers, but the example you set: working yourself, encouraging young people like Scottie, Jamsey and Billy as well as Annie and James at Castle Dillon and not-so-young people like Sam Keenan and Mary-Anne, not forgetting Sir George himself. It is common knowledge he tells everyone that he’d be lost without you.

  Like a ripple in a pond, even small acts can spread out in widening circles and touch others, who themselves create new circles.

  There are times when I do have to confess to you my feelings of distress, when the help that is needed is lacking for a whole variety of reasons: if there is no active person in an area or if an area is remote, which usually means a lack of roads and any means of transport, and then saddest of all the indifference of some landowners to their tenants, like the gentleman in Belgium whose Christian name Scottie can’t remember.

  But I try hard to gather up in my heart the small signs of hope. For example, did you know that the coastguards all around the shores of Ireland have been active in bringing in supplies by boat, especially in the areas I’ve just mentioned? This is something I shall be exploring when I come in December and visit my cousins in Donegal. Parts of that county, however beautiful, are rugged and trackless; approaching from the sea may achieve more than working from the villages accessible by road.

  You ask about my own work as a manufacturer. You are quite right, I do owe it to my brothers to make sure I share with them the problems of the textile trade at the moment.

  There is no doubt the competition from India in particular has created serious problems, but so far we have been able to maintain our labour force by dropping our prices and diversifying the goods we manufacture. The cheap clothing project, which I insist you inspired, flourishes. Profits are slim, but I am fortunate to have three brothers who are like-minded. Sadly, the fourth one is not, but for the moment he is willing to accept his share of the income and leave all the work of running the mills and factories to the four of us. It is a small price to pay for the freedom to do what we think right.

  It is snowing here at the moment and you mention ‘wintry flurries’ in your letters. It is early for such fierce weather and I fear, as you do, that if it continues it will make everything more difficult.

  It is six months before we can hope for any rise in temperature. Forgive me if I sometimes catch myself dreaming of walking under the trees on The Mall with you in sunshine or, even more wonderful, being able to walk with you in the gardens here.

  Time moves on and I have a client to see in an hour’s time and papers and accounts to consult before he arrives. I see you in my mind’s eye, sitting at that handsome desk that Sir George visits so reluctantly, wearing your warmest dress with even more papers stacked up in front of you than I have now.

  I shall write again this evening or tomorrow, by which time I may have news of the planned expedition in December. It will be a small number of people like myself revisiting, in order to reassess the need and the possibilities for meeting it in the nine counties of Ulster.

  Take care of yourself, my dear one.

  I hold you always in my thoughts and prayers,

  Jonathan

  The letters that flowed backwards and forwards between Ardrea and White Hill House brought warmth and cheer to both Sarah and Jonathan, but there was nothing anyone could do to mitigate the severity of the weather, as gales followed storms, and snowfall was a regular hazard on Sarah’s journey to work. Even without a covering of snow, the temperature stayed low as November turned to December and the Armagh Guardian reported the first deaths from starvation in Cork and Kerry.

  It was so cold in the evenings that front doors were shut for the first time in years, not against unwelcome visitors, but to keep in what warmth a good fire could produce.

  Mary-Anne got to her feet the moment she heard her door open.

  ‘Ach, Sarah, it’s great t’ see you. I know we said we’d meet the nite, but it’s so bitter I wasn’t entirely expectin’ you,’ she said, as she took Sarah’s sewing bag. She helped her unwind her heavy woollen shawl and hung it up near the fire so it would be warm when she had to go home again.

  ‘I was just readin’ the paper,’ she said, after she’d given her friend a hug, ‘but that wouldn’t do you much good this weather,’ she said sharply, as she sat down again.

  ‘Anything strange or startling?’ Sarah asked, suddenly thinking of John who had used the phrase, one she had never heard before, until she left Lisnagarvey and came to the forge at Drumilly.

  She glanced at the abandoned newspaper dropped down beside Mary-Anne’s chair and then, feeling a sudden sadness for a world that had disappeared, not only with John’s death but with everything that had happened in the time since, she turned to look down at the deep red glow of the wood fire. She felt warmer already and the flickering flames and the crackle of wood brought an unexpected comfort for the sadness that had come upon her.

  ‘Ach sure what are they reportin’ on Cork and Kerry for when there’s plenty o’ death’s roun’ here to report? But the poor people here don’t have the benefit of a fancy post-mortem,’ she went on crossly, as she sett
led herself again.

  ‘Shure yer hans are stone cold, Sarah,’ she said abruptly. ‘Like two bits of ice when I helped you with your shawl. Will I make us a drop o’ tea now or wou’d ye rather try to get warm first?’ she asked, looking concerned.

  ‘No, don’t get up,’ said Sarah quickly, aware that Mary-Anne was upset by what she had just read and was ready to jump to her feet if a mug of tea would help cold hands. ‘I think I’m getting used to the cold now,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I sometimes have to get down from the trap and walk if Daisy is uneasy. She doesn’t mind snow, but if there’s ice she doesn’t want to move … so I have to lead her till she gets used to it.’

  ‘Ach dear, I diden know that,’ Mary-Anne replied, her voice softening. ‘Don’t tell Scottie for any sakes. He’ll worry himself t’ death if he thinks anythin’ might happen to you.’

  Sarah smiled and sniffed appreciatively at the scent of the fresh applewood log which Mary-Anne had just put on the fire. She opened her sewing bag and took out a baby’s dress.

  ‘So, are you tired of making work clothes or is this good news I haven’t heard yet?’ asked Mary-Anne, sounding more like her normal forthright self.

  ‘I’m not sure to tell you the truth,’ Sarah replied, with a wry smile. ‘It’s Annie, the housemaid at Castle Dillon. She and James, the youngest footman, have been going together for a year or more, but they were trying to keep it a secret. I’m amazed at how well they’ve managed it, but once Annie stopped looking half-starved I did notice she’d begun to get a little tummy. I’d nearly made up my mind to ask, when she came an’ told me herself that she must be in the family way. D’you know, Mary-Anne, I don’t think she knew how it had happened. She thought it could only happen if you do “what ye mustn’t do that’s wrong.” And when I asked her what she meant by that, she said, “I must never let James come into me,” and she assured me that he hadn’t.’

  ‘Dear a dear, the poor wee lass, an’ no mother to help her. Whit’ll she do atall?’