“It’s nothin’,” Michael muttered. “It’s not important.”
“Come on, Michael,” Granda coaxed. “Don’t be keepin’ us in suspense. Let’s see how strong the old girl’s heart is.”
“I’m goin’ to America,” he blurted out.
A sudden hush fell over the table.
He might as well have said he was dying of the consumption. To the Irish, emigration was the same as a death in the family. Everyone knew that a son who went out to America would never be seen again, and often a wake was held for him before he left.
Grandmam began keening in the way that old women did at wakes.
Da looked as though he’d been punched in the face. “You’d leave yer land, Michael?” he asked incredulously.
“It isn’t my land—or yours, Da. Dermot is right. Everythin’ belongs to Somerville and the other landlords.”
Grandmam’s keening grew louder.
Da waved an impatient hand at her. “For the love of God, Mam, will you hush. Michael, one of the acres is for you.”
“Don’t you understand? They’re not yours to give. If one harvest fails and you can’t pay the rent, he’ll take the land from you. It’s what they’ve always done.”
Da slammed his hand down on the table. “No. I’ll manage by Christ. We must keep the family together.”
Michael couldn’t bear to look into his father’s anguished face and fixed his eyes on the table top. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said softly.
Grandmam renewed her keening. Da jumped up and rushed out the door.
The rain was coming down harder than ever. Da stumbled through the potato field, bareheaded, looking at the glistening stalks, but not seeing them. He always went out into the fields when he was angry or frightened. It was the one place where he could clear his head and think without distraction.
And now he was thinking about his son. How can he abandon the family? He asked himself over and over again. Did he not learn anythin’? Did I not teach him proper? Didn’t he know that this was a harsh, unforgiving world? A man alone didn’t stand a chance. The only way to survive was to be part of a family, to be surrounded by people who would stick with you no matter what. Jasus, how could he not know that?
From the cottage door Michael watched his father pacing in the field. His mother stood behind him, her arms folded tightly in front of her, as though she were trying to hold herself together.
“I can’t live his life, Mam,” Michael said.
Her son’s announcement had not been a total surprise to her. She’d seen that look in his eyes whenever someone mentioned going out to America. It was, she knew, only a matter of time. “When will you go?” she asked.
“After the harvest.”
Michael turned to face his mother. In spite of Da’s bluster and bombast, he knew it was she who was the strong one in the family, the glue that held them together. And that is why he was shocked to see, for the first time in his life, tears in her eyes.
“Mam, you understand why I have to go, don’t you?”
“Aye, I do. It’s just that…” She pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes. “You’re my first born, Michael. You’ve always been special to me.”
Michael was surprised to hear that. She’d never said that before. He’d always thought she favored Dermot.
Tears came into his eyes and he turned back to watch his father in the field. “Should I go out and talk to him?”
“No. Leave him be. Tis a terrible blow he’s had.”
While Da was pacing in the field, Lord Somerville and Emily, sitting at opposite ends of the long dining room table, ate in silence, the only sound, the crackling of a log in the fireplace. Somerville picked at his food, but he had no appetite. Neither, he noticed, did Emily. He put his knife and fork down. “You can clear the dishes, Nora.”
He waited until the old housekeeper left the room. “I called you back from London for your own good.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Do you call consorting with a married man taking care of yourself?”
“He’s married in name only.”
“If you believe that, Emily, you’re even more naïve than I thought.”
“I’ll not stay here, Father. I will not live among a bunch of… bog trotters.”
“That’s a despicable term and I forbid you to ever use it again.”
“I intend to live in London.”
Somerville picked up his wineglass and swirled the red liquid. “London is very dear.”
“I have my allowance.”
Somerville said nothing, but Emily saw an unyielding expression in his face and felt a sudden twist in her stomach. “Surely, you wouldn’t cut off my allowance?”
He put the wineglass down and said nothing.
Emily jumped up and rushed from the room in tears.
It had been a punishing day that had begun before dawn, and the exhausted Ranahans were ready for their beds as soon as supper was finished. Michael’s news had cast a pall over the family. Usually, while they lay in their beds waiting for sleep to overtake them, they shared the news of the day—who was getting married, who was having a baby, who was dying. Then, one by one, they’d drop out of the conversation as they fell asleep. Da was always the last to fade. He was by nature a taciturn man. But there was something about the comforting darkness, the nearness of his family, and knowing that all his family was safely under one roof, that made him uncharacteristically loquacious. The family would often joke about his incessant nocturnal talking, but never to his face.
But there was no conversation tonight. The thought of her family breaking apart kept Mam awake the whole night listening to the rain pounding on the thatched roof. She could tell by the subtle rhythm of his breathing her husband was awake beside her, but she didn’t try to speak to him. She knew he would need time to think things through before he’d be ready to talk.
The rains slowed just before dawn and stopped altogether by the time she went out to feed the chickens at dawn. The torrential rains had washed all color from the morning, leaving a dreary, gray landscape blanketed with a thick fog. As she broadcast the feed to the chickens, a puff of wind came up and she was suddenly staggered by a putrid stench that seemed to be coming from the potato field. Curious to see what it was, she started toward the field, thinking it must be a dead animal. As she approached the wall, the fog lifted momentarily and she got a clear view of the field. “Holy Mother of God…” She staggered backward, hurriedly blessing herself with the sign of the cross.
Inside the cottage, the rest of the family was finishing their breakfast in strained silence when a wide-eyed Mam burst through the door.
“Come see, John! Somethin’ terrible’s happened to the praties...”
One by one the men approached the field in stunned disbelief. The stalks that had been thick and green just yesterday were now black and shriveled.
Da stopped at the wall, unable to come any closer to the devastation.
Ignoring the appalling stench, Michael knelt down and examined a plant. The stalk was black and its leaves shriveled as though the devil himself had sucked the life from it. He pulled the plant from the ground. The potatoes looked normal, but when he squeezed them, they dissolved in a mess of black, putrid ooze.
Granda looked at the ruined field in bewilderment. “What’s happened? Everything was lovely just yesterday.”
Michael’s perplexity quickly turned to anger. There could be only one explanation for the ruin. “It’s that woman and her damn horse,” he said.
Enraged, he threw the plant aside and started out of the field. Da snapped out of his paralysis when he saw the expression on his son’s face. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”
“The Manor. She caused this and she’ll pay for what she’s done.”
Da blocked his path. “You’ll not go there.”
“I will.”
Father and son faced off. Two stubborn, willful men cut from the same cloth. They might
even have come to blows, but at that moment the fog lifted and Grandmam cried out—“Sweet Jasus … will ya look!”
The fog was lifting and now they could see the surrounding fields. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, were fields of blackened potato stalks. And in every field bewildered farmers wandered among their ruined crop.
Chapter Five
November 1845
London, England
A gentle drizzle fell on the cobblestones in front of 10 Downing. A carriage pulled up and three solemn-faced men, sprouting large black umbrellas, alighted. The first, Dr. Lyon Playfair, clutching a worn leather valise, was a well-known scientist and chemist. Behind him came Dr. John Lindley, editor of the Gardeners’ Chronicle and Horticultural Gazette. The third man was Professor Robert Kane, a scientist with extensive experience in potato diseases. A constable opened the front door and the three men hurried inside.
Four weeks earlier, as alarming reports on the blight in Ireland started pouring into the Agricultural Ministry, Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel formed a Scientific Commission composed of these three eminent men of science to study the problem. They’d been dispatched to Ireland to study the blight firsthand and now they’d returned to report their findings.
The three men were shown into a large paneled conference room with stained-glass windows. The diffused light coming through the glass gave the room a curiously spiritual ambiance. A moment later, the Prime Minister and his secretary, Anthony Shaw, entered.
Peel was almost fifty-seven, but with his reddish-blond hair, his long aquiline nose, and his large, expressive eyes, he looked much younger. He’d come to prominence in England as Home Secretary after he created London’s Metropolitan Police Force, whose constables the press quickly dubbed “Peelers.”
Peel sat down at the gleaming conference table and fixed his metal-gray eyes on Dr. Playfair who at sixty was the eldest of the three scientists. “You look tired, sir.”
Dr. Playfair nodded in appreciation of the prime minister’s concern. “It was a difficult crossing, Prime Minister. I fear I suffer from mal de mer.”
“I appreciate your efforts in this most important matter. Now, gentlemen, what have you to tell me?”
“Prime Minister”—Playfair began in a grave tone—“a virulent blight of unknown origin has made its appearance in Ireland. From what we can gather, it attacks the potato plant, literally killing it overnight.”
“How much of the country is affected?”
“Half the crop has either been destroyed or is unfit for human consumption. It’s most serious in seventeen of the thirty-two counties.”
“I see.” Peel rose and went to a large globe of the world. He found Ireland, looking tiny and insignificant in proportion to the rest of the world. “What impact will this have on the people?”
“The account is melancholy and cannot be looked upon in other than a most serious light,” Playfair responded. “Simply put, the peasants have nothing to eat.”
Peel turned away from the globe with a frown. “Surely they can eat something other than potatoes?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Prime Minister,” Professor Kane interjected. “For far too long the Irish peasant has relied on the potato as his sole source of food. Indeed, a grown man eats more than fourteen pounds a day.”
“Good Lord. Can a man survive on potatoes alone?”
“A diet of potatoes mixed with milk or buttermilk provides a nutritionally satisfying diet,” Dr. Lindley explained. “All things considered, the Irish on the whole are a surprisingly healthy people. Still, each year, even in the best of times, the peasants experience hunger. Potatoes don’t store well. By May, the previous year’s crop has been consumed. Until the harvest in October, the peasants must live through what they call the “hungry months” in which they experience famine-like conditions.”
“The potato,” Playfair added, “is easy to grow and plentiful. But, alas, it is a double-edged sword. If the crop fails, as it has now, there is nothing to eat until next year’s crop is harvested.”
Peel clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room. “How can that be, man? Ireland exports tons of wheat and barley, among other food stuffs.”
“The Irish peasant does not recognize wheat or oats as food per se,” Dr. Lindley explained. “To them it’s a commodity—like wool or lumber. These crops are grown to pay the rent. And therein lies the peasant’s dilemma. If he eats his barley and wheat, he can’t pay his rent and he’ll be turned off the land. With no place to live and no field to plant his potatoes, he will surely die. Simply put, eating his wheat or barley is tantamount to committing suicide.”
Peel returned to the globe and put a long slender finger on Ireland. “How many are we talking about?”
“More than half the population. Close to four million souls.”
Peel spun the globe. “Then it would seem to me that there are only two solutions—either we stop exports from the country or we import more grain.”
A startled Shaw looked up from his note taking. “But sir, Ireland accounts for more than a million pounds sterling in exports every month. Parliament will never stand for stopping exports.”
Peel smiled grimly at his secretary. “Gentlemen, Mr. Shaw is my pragmatic reminder of the realities of the Parliament. Very well, Shaw, then we must act on option two. We’ll import grain. We’ll need to set up a Relief Commission to oversee relief efforts. Next, a sum of money must be advanced to buy food for the destitute. We’ll begin importing Indian corn meal to replace the potatoes—”
“But, Prime Minister,” Shaw protested, “ Corn Laws—”
Peel waved a dismissive hand. “Those damnable Corn Laws were passed to protect English farmers, but all they’ve done is create a stagnant economy. I’ve been after Parliament to repeal them and now maybe they’ll listen to me. It’s clear the remedy for Ireland’s present misfortune is to remove all impediments to the import of food. There must be a total and absolute repeal forever of duties on articles of subsistence.”
Shaw nodded noncommittally. The secretary knew better than to disagree with the prime minister when he’d made up his mind about something. But he also knew that any attempt to repeal the Corn Laws would be met with stiff opposition from Parliament, and he didn’t relish the coming battle.
Peel put his hand on his secretary’s shoulder. “Mr. Shaw,” he said to the three seated men, “is worried about what our Whig friends across the aisle will say. Don’t fret, Shaw. How can they object? The importation of corn meal will not interfere with private enterprise because no trade in Indian corn exists. What’s more, Indian corn has the advantage of being one of the cheapest foods that will keep a man alive.”
Peel visibly brightened. He was a man of action and, as far as he was concerned, now that he had a plan, the problem was as good as solved. He sat back down and smiled contentedly. “The troubles in Ireland may be a blessing in disguise, gentlemen.”
Dr. Playfair, who did not share Peel’s optimism, said, “Prime Minister, will these measures be sufficient?”
“Of course they will, Playfair. Ireland has had crop failures before and she’ll have many more, I warrant. But, with a healthy crop next year Ireland will be right as rain.”
December, 1845
Somerville Manor
When Lady Eleanor Somerville was still alive, the annual Christmas ball at Somerville Manor had been a much-anticipated event and the highlight of the winter social season. A gracious hostess, she was renowned for her attention to detail. One could count on being served the best food and wine that the continent had to offer. And she always invited interesting people—writers, artists, poets—who could discourse intelligently on the latest in the world of arts and letters. Unlike some of her contemporaries, who held balls and dinners simply to display their wealth and power, she was a person who genuinely liked people, and she made everyone who entered her home feel welcome.
After her death, Lord Somerville stopped the annua
l tradition and the house remained dark for the next ten seasons. But now that Emily was back, he decided a ball would be the perfect vehicle to reintroduce his daughter to society. He assumed that Emily would take up her mother’s duties as mistress of the house. If nothing else it would give her something to do besides sulk.
He was mistaken. When he proposed this idea to her, Emily adamantly refused, claiming that she was a prisoner in her own home and would not make it appear otherwise.
And so, the enormous task of organizing the ball fell on the shoulders of Nora and the house staff. Somerville was, however, able to gain one concession from his daughter: She would come to the ball and assume the duties of hostess just this one time.
The night of the ball was cold with temperatures near freezing, but at least there was no rain. The long road leading up to the house was lined with liverymen and their carriages. While some drivers stood in small groups, shivering in the cold and sneaking sips of poteen, others crept close to the house to peek through the windows and marvel at the brightly-lit chandeliers, gleaming mirrors, and women in low-cut silk gowns.
Emily, doing her best to look agreeable, stood on the receiving line next to her father and greeted an endless line of guests. She knew none of them, or at least didn’t remember any of them, but everyone, it seemed, remembered her.
An octogenarian, wearing an exquisitely detailed silk gown, was next in line. Lord Somerville bent forward and kissed the old woman’s bejeweled hand. “Lady Breen, may I introduce you to my daughter, Emily.”
“I’m an old family friend,” Lady Breen said, brandishing an oriental fan. “I’ve traveled all the way from Dublin to meet you and I must say, my dear child, you look exactly like your mother. Are you home to assume hostess duties for your father?”
In the Time of Famine Page 4