The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  ‘I can see it all now, Michael – I can see it all! They’re going to blame us for this Famine – they’re all going to blame us!’ she cried out.

  ‘Who, a Mhamaí? said Patrick, fear in his voice.

  ‘All of them – the Bishops, the landlords, the Government. I see it now. Oh, God, I see it! They’re all saying it’s the Hand of God moving against us, moving against the poor Irish peasants to punish us for our sins.’ She paced up and down the cabin, shaking her head. ‘But isn’t it the greatest sin of all to be saying that thing? Isn’t it a blasphemy to be blaming the Almighty?

  ‘We are the ones going to die – back here in the valleys, with our children – not the Bishops, not the landlords, or the Government safe beyond in London. We’re going to be the victims – and they’re blaming us already. It’s a wicked plan. If they all keep saying it now, it becomes true – it means they don’t have to do anything to save us!’ she said, anger rising in her voice. ‘Oh, I see it all now: the poor, the Irish Catholic poor – England’s everlasting problem – wiped off the face of the earth by the Hand of God.’

  ‘Ellen! Ellen!’ Michael’s arms were cradling her, stopping her.

  The children looked at her in disbelief, stunned into shock and silence by what they had heard.

  Ellen, seeing them, was overcome with remorse at her outburst. ‘Oh, my darlings! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you so!’ she cried, gathering them in her arms. They said nothing, only allowed the comfort of her touch to soothe their silent fears.

  Michael had not yet told them what the priest had advised the villagers to do, but Ellen decided he could tell her later, once she had settled the children down for the night.

  Then they prayed. Each one, child and adult alike, trying to find a solution to the frightening world outside their small cabin. A world that seemed to be waiting to swallow them up until they were no more.

  Ellen looked with tenderness on the bowed heads of her loved ones as they mouthed the Hail Marys in a dying language, seeking relief in the hypnotic chant of prayer.

  For her, this knowing what lay ahead was the worst thing of all. As if she were a helpless spectator to their own doom.

  ‘Thy will be done … on earth as it is in Heaven …’ Ellen wrestled with the words as she led her decade of the Rosary. Were blight, famine and eviction the will of God? Were poverty and hopelessness the only road to salvation?

  Together they recited the Beatitudes:

  Happy are the poor in spirit;

  For theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven …

  Happy are the hungry;

  For they shall be satisfied.

  At least there was hope beyond the world outside their door, she thought.

  When they had finished, Ellen ushered the children to bed. She lay down with them, caressing their foreheads, stroking away the cares her earlier outburst had brought on them.

  Tonight, even Patrick did not resist ‘being coddled’ as he disparagingly called it when Katie and Mary availed of this settling down from their mother of a night.

  Gradually, each of them in turn fell away from the world, into a deep and restful sleep. In a final benediction for the night, Ellen placed her hand over the fourth of her children – the child within. Then, with her thumb, she inscribed four tiny crosses on the ever-stretching skin of her stomach, anointing the growing life-force inside her.

  Salvation in the next life or not, she, Ellen Rua O’Malley, would be her children’s salvation in this life. The will of God, would, she decided, become one with her own will. Somehow …

  11

  She nestled in behind Michael, sliding her right hand up over the white nape of his neck, beneath the thick black tangle of his hair, letting it rest there. He was asleep.

  Now, she had seen to all of them.

  She and Michael would talk again in the morning about the Famine and going to America. Now, she needed time to work things out in her own head – to devise her salvation plan for them.

  If, as she foresaw, things were only going to get worse in Ireland, should they just wait here, accepting whatever Providence – and Pakenham – doled out to them? Much depended on whether the blight returned. If it did, then their fate, along with that of half the population of the country, would be sealed.

  Of course, it was possible that Her Majesty’s ministers in London had drawn up plans to deal with such a disaster … But instinct and the lessons of history told her that Ireland and its problems were low on the list of priorities where Queen Victoria and her Government were concerned.

  To survive they would have to scrimp and scrape. They must save whatever pennies they could. She was glad they had not gone to Castlebar. Instead, she would go there after the Christmas to sell her silver hairbrush, the one the Máistir had given her. It was no sin, given the circumstances, and her dear mother Cáit in heaven above would forgive her. Anyhow, wasn’t it only vanity for herself and her red-haired daughters to be having such fine, silky-brushed hair, and people hungry.

  Michael, too, could sell his fiddle, although she would hate to see it go. She loved it when he played for her.

  Its music lifted her, mellowed her heart when she was troubled. Music was the people’s freedom. To sell the fiddle, she decided, would be like selling a birthright.

  It would be more than the act itself. It would be an admission of defeat.

  She returned to her plan.

  Once the baby was born and a bit hardy, she would find work, even if it meant walking all the way to Westport or Castlebar. She’d have to find one of the younger women to take the baby and nurse it for her.

  Michael, she thought, would have to find some other place on the mountain, as well as the one discovered by Beecham, on which to plant potatoes. If luck was with them, and the potato harvest was good, they could sell some of the excess by this time next year.

  Before Christmas twelve-months, all going well, they should be ready.

  There, in the dark of her cabin, as the turf fire slowly died down to a dull glow, Ellen Rua O’Malley resolved that she, Michael, and their family, would not see out another Christmas in Ireland.

  It saddened her greatly to think that their fire would be forever gone from the valley. Knowing that once they left, they too would be extinguished from the land not only of their own birth but of their fathers’ fathers’ birth – and even back beyond then.

  Emigration was a death. A double death. It was a death to the one who left, and a death to the ones who stayed behind. Small wonder that the people held wakes for those leaving – the American Wakes, they called them – to keen departing loved ones, to mourn their being torn away from life as they knew it, unlikely ever to return.

  In the still of the night the tears welled up in her eyes. She withdrew her hand from Michael’s head and wiped them away. She must not weaken now. She had been given gifts to overcome all that lay ahead of them. Gifts of knowledge;

  of dream; of visitations; of wonder. She must be strong, use her gifts. Else she might lose them.

  Somehow the fire in their cabin would be kept alight – she would see to that.

  But go they would.

  Go they must.

  Rachaidís go Meiriceá They would go to America.

  12

  The completed first section of the new curvilinear glasshouses sparkled majestically in the December sunlight, the brightest jewel of the Royal Botanical Gardens. Apart from the Kew glasshouse being built in England, no other gardens in Europe could boast anything to equal Glasnevin. Hopefully the coming year would see the construction of two more glasshouses, the Central Pavilion and the West Wing, which would stand alongside the first in a commanding position near the tree-lined banks of the gurgling River Tolka.

  Yet despite the splendour all around him, David Moore looked troubled, his thoughts preoccupied with what lay beyond the grey wall dividing the gardens from its nearest neighbour: the cemetery at Glasnevin.

  Would the coming year see the cemetery fille
d as a result of the disease afflicting Solanum tuberosum? Would the victims of the blighted potatoes which had first come out of the earth on this side of the wall be placed in the cold earth on the far side?

  Seeing her husband deep in his musings, Isabella Moore fondly encircled her husband’s arm with her own and rested her head against his shoulder.

  ‘What troubles you, husband?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘This cursed blight. The desolation of the crop now extends to every corner of the country, leaving the poor nothing to live upon but grass and nettles. Yet still there is no action from the Government.’

  ‘I hear there is talk of repealing the Corn Laws to alleviate the suffering.’

  Moore shook is head impatiently. ‘That is nothing but expediency on the part of the Government to suit their own ends. It will help the starving populace of Ireland not one whit.’

  ‘Then what should London do?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘A National Calamity Plan needs to be set in motion. But it is my fear that politics will stay the hand of mercy and compassion for its own sinister ends.’

  ‘And what of the Irish themselves? Can they not do something?’ she pressed.

  ‘I fear that, even here, O’Connell and the Irish leadership will become usurers of the situation to press for further gains to repeal the Union.’

  ‘But surely they are right. Little has been done in half a century to develop Ireland’s economy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, the Nationalists have a point, I’ll grant. The Union has not served Ireland well. But would that they would forgo the making of it at this fearful time.

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ Moore exclaimed, withdrawing his pocket-watch from its fob. ‘I am afraid I must hasten from you, my dear – I promised Mr McCallum a tour of the new glasshouse.’

  As he hurried to keep his appointment with the student botanist, Moore’s thoughts turned from the failings of politicians to his own failure in the face of the blight. By the time McCallum came into view he had reached a decision: the promised tour of the new glasshouse would have to wait. There were far more pressing matters to deal with.

  ‘Is the cause of the Calamity yet established?’ Stuart Duncan McCallum asked.

  ‘We are divided amongst ourselves,’ David Moore replied. ‘There is the “fungalist” school, who believe the blight is caused by a mould whose growth is promoted by excessive wet. And then there are the “atmospherists”, led by Professor Lindley of the University of London, who argue that the blight is caused by atmospheric conditions. They admit to the presence of the parasite fungus, but only as a result of the murrain, not its cause. They are in the majority.’

  ‘And you yourself, sir?’ enquired the student. ‘What is your view?’

  ‘I am with Lindley … at the moment. Dampness certainly seems to be conducive to the spread of the disease, whereas dryness retreats it. I have found that potatoes lifted early, before the atmosphere attacks a particular area, are less likely to succumb, provided the harvest is carefully stored in dry, airy conditions.’

  ‘And what of a cure?’ the young man asked in his Scottish brogue.

  ‘Our experiments continue,’ Moore replied. ‘At the moment we are observing the effect of submerging tubers in copper sulphate – a solution known as “bluestone steep”. But it is difficult to proceed to a remedy when we have yet to identify the cause.’ The curator paused. ‘And identify it we must.’

  Isabella watched from her window as her husband and his young student made their way through the gardens, deep in conversation. As the sun emerged from behind the clouds, her gaze was drawn to the new state-of-the-art glasshouse. How many thousands of pounds must be found for these, she thought, and at this time?

  Isabella Moore, nee Morgan, late of Cookstown, County Tyrone, and now of the Botanic Gardens, Glasnevin, Dublin, wondered about it all.

  In her small dark cabin in Maamtrasna, Ellen Rua O’Malley huddled the three children to her body, giving them the warmth their fire could not provide. She surveyed the bare walls of the cabin, and she wondered about it all.

  Her eyes strayed to the loft. Earlier she had inspected the lumpers lying there. They were cold but dry to the touch, with no sign of disease.

  She wondered if somebody somewhere searched for a cure to this blight? What if it struck again next year?

  As always in times of worry, she turned to God. To the three children pressed in against her, she said quietly, ‘Say with me now, for a very special intention, one Hail Mary in English.’ Not knowing for whom it was she prayed; knowing only that it was the right thing to do.

  Their teeth still a-chattering from the cold, the children, in an act of faith in the mother who warmed them, prayed with her for this unknown person, and the unknown intention in their mother’s heart.

  13

  Christmas was upon them in no time at all. But unlike any Christmas they had ever experienced. A gloom of foreboding hung over the little cabins of Maamtrasna. Word was filtering through that the effects of the blight were beginning to bite, and bite deeply.

  Biddy, Martin Tom Bawn’s wife, had dropped by to see how Ellen was keeping, and had told her, ‘’Tis said, beyond in Westport, that there won’t be a potato left in the country for people to eat by the time Saint Brigid’s Day comes.’

  ‘How are your own lasting out?’ Ellen had asked.

  ‘Faith, we’re all right for the moment – making do, sparing them out every day … thankful to have them at all,’ Biddy replied, before dashing off to see what that blackguardeen Roberteen was up to.

  Ellen had seen to it that the rationing in their own household was exact and consistent. At times, it was hard for her not to give way and throw some extra potatoes in the pot. But she resisted that temptation, reminding herself of the hard times to come. What she did do, though, was to forgo one potato a day from her own ration, and share it between the rest of the family.

  Yet despite the pervading air of gloom in the community at large, she felt good in herself this Christmas. The baby was carrying well – not too lively, just enough to let her know it was there – and growing. The children didn’t appear to be too put out about the lack of extras; as their mother suggested, they offered it up as penance for their venial sins and the souls in purgatory. But most of all, Ellen was so happy, as the days shortened into the winter solstice, that no misfortune seemed to be befalling Michael. His time was not yet come. There had been no further supernatural manifestations – no sightings of the Banshee combing her tresses; no prophetic dreams.

  All in all, this Christmas promised to be a good one for the O’Malleys.

  On Christmas Eve the night was crisp and clear, and the sky above their cabin was filled with thousands of stars lighting up the valley and the dark surface of Lough Mask.

  Before they set out for Finny and the Midnight Mass, the children watched while Ellen lit the candle she had placed in the cabin window. She’d kept it since it had been blessed on Candlemas Day. Even in these inhospitable days, it was still a symbol of welcome for the Holy Family journeying to Bethlehem for the birth of Jesus. It was a sign, too, of hospitality for any poor stranger wandering the roads this Christmas.

  As they climbed Bóithrín a tSléibhe, Katie was at them to: ‘Hurry up, so we can get near the front to see Baby Jesus!’ All three children were excited at the prospect of seeing the Christmas crib with the statues of Mary and Joseph, and the donkey, and the cow. The manger, empty at first of the Baby Jesus, would receive the tiny statue of the new-born Christ-Child at exactly midnight, as Mass began. The twins chattered happily about how, in a few short months, they would ‘get a baby of our own’, as Mary so maternally put it.

  The atmosphere as they approached the little Finny church was one of great joy and mounting expectation at the coming of the Saviour. Neighbours exchanged the traditional Christmas blessings, ‘Beannachtaí na Féile’ and Father O’Brien stood at the entrance of the church to welcome his flock.

  ‘Michael, Ellen, and
the gasúrs – welcome, and may the blessings of the Holy Season be upon all of you,’ he greeted them. Then, lowering his voice, he asked Michael, ‘Has there been any trouble back in the valley of late?’

  ‘No, Father, nothing at all,’ Michael replied. ‘Everything’s gone quiet. I heard tell Pakenham has gone beyond to London until the Christmas is out.’

  ‘C’mon, a Dhaidí!’ Katie tugged impatiently at Michael’s sleeve, dragging him away from the priest so that they could claim seats at the top of the church where they would better see the proceedings.

  A hush fell over the church as Father O’Brien began his Christmas sermon: ‘My dear people, we are gathered here tonight on this joyous occasion to celebrate the birth of a baby …’

  Ellen was disappointed in the young curate at this opening. Everyone had been hoping that he would denounce Pakenham from the pulpit, but this sounded like the standard ‘Peace on earth and goodwill to all men’.

  The homily went on in the same vein, Ellen growing more impatient with each sentence. She could not believe it: he was going to say nothing. She had thought him to be an independent spirit who would not stand meekly by and toe the Church’s line on ‘not inciting the people to riotous behaviour’, but here he was – ignoring their plight completely. She was growing more angry with him by the minute.

  Throughout the sermon she tried to catch his eye, to register her annoyance, but instead he looked at a point in the far corner of the church, above the heads of his congregation.

  Pilate! Ellen fumed. ‘Pontius Pilate!’ she whispered to Patrick beside her. The boy did not understand what his mother meant, but he could tell that she was cross, very cross.

  So much for Michael going all the way to Clonbur – and the priest telling him that he would take up their plight with Archbishop MacHale in Tuam. The archbishop had obviously told him to keep the people quiet; the Church wanted no trouble in the West.

  But who would defend them, if not the Church? Who would prevent mass starvation or save them from dying on the roadside, their little cabins tumbled down behind them? There was nobody else. Not the shopkeepers, the traders, the scullogues with their money-lending, nor the middle-class Catholics in the towns. Not the constabulary, who would be too busy protecting the grain stores of the rich. Not a Government beyond in London. Would nobody lift a finger?