“Are you afraid, Michael Ranahan?” Fowler was smiling, but his words were a challenge.
It took all of Michael’s self control not to go after Fowler, but this issue was too important to let the troublemaker sidetrack him. Ignoring Fowler, he addressed the men. “I say we block the quay gates. I say we not let them put our food on those ships—food that should stay here in Ireland to feed us.”
There was an uncertain murmuring among the men as they tried to decide whether Michael or Fowler was right. Then, Bobby Ryan spoke up. “Michael’s right. We’ll do it the peaceable way.” He turned to the men. “What do you say, lads?”
All the pent-up frustration, anger, and fear that had gripped these men for over a year was released in one great howl of support for Michael. For too long they had been shunted aside and treated like dirt by forces they didn’t understand. Now, Michael had given them a reason to act like men again.
Jerry Fowler stood with folded arms, watching Michael with a sly smile on his face.
A fearful Da, standing to the side, watched them as well—Michael, Dermot, Doyle and the other young men, joyously thrusting their fists in the air, and an icy hand clutched his heart.
Cork Harbor Quay
The men arrived at the quay in a steady, soaking rain. The sun had been up for an hour, but it couldn’t penetrate a thick curtain of metal-gray clouds. The cobble-stoned streets glistened and shadows fell across the hulking gray warehouses surrounding them. It was a cold, forbidding place.
They were fifty strong and they stood hunched against the rain. Michael moved among them offering encouragement to one, sharing a nervous laugh with another.
Pat Doyle, his red hair plastered down by the rain, towered above the crowd. Michael took comfort in his imposing height and brawn. In the past year everyone had lost a fearful amount of weight. So did Pat, but he still looked formidable. Standing beside him, bug-eyed Barry Scanlon looked more terrified than ever. As were they all. Still, they were all here, every last man: Owen Rice, Genie Connor, Tim Finney, newly-wed Bobby Ryan, and old John Lacy, arthritis and all. Even Jerry Fowler was here, still talking guns and violence and revolution with anyone who would listen.
Michael had hoped Fowler would not come. He knew this would have to be a peaceable demonstration if they were to succeed in convincing the government to stop shipping food out of the country. He had never done anything like this before, but he was sure the authorities would listen to reason and he didn’t need the likes of Fowler mucking things up. To make sure the hotheaded Fowler stayed in line, Michael had asked Pat Doyle to keep an eye on him. True to his word, the big man was standing right behind Fowler watching his every move.
The only Ballyross man not here this morning was Da. Michael was glad of that—even if it did make him feel like a hypocrite. Hadn’t he made it clear that this was their fight and that every man must do his part? But Da didn’t see it that way at all. “Tis a reckless thing you, do, Michael Ranahan,” Da had told him. “It’ll cause nothin’ but mischief and I’ll have nothin’ to do with it.”
Michael feigned disapproval, but, secretly, he was glad his father wasn’t coming. He didn’t know what this day would bring, but if there was going to be violence, he didn’t want his father in the middle of it. Besides, he rationalized, he and Dermot were enough to represent the Ranahan clan.
Standing at the front of the crowd and spoiling for a fight was his younger brother and his friends, Billy Moore and Kevin Toomey. The three of them, strutting up and down like bantam cocks, were sharing a laugh about something. Michael shook his head ruefully. To them, this was all just a lark.
The men had made Michael their leader and he’d accepted the role with great reluctance. He believed a leader should be someone who leads, someone who has a plan. But he had no plan except to confront the supply wagons and hopefully, by the sheer force of their numbers, make them turn back. He shivered, partly from the bone-chilling dampness, and partly from the doubts that had kept him awake the whole night.
I’m not up to the task, he’d told himself over and over. Leaders were brave and Michael didn’t consider himself a brave man. He wasn’t even sure what “brave” was. He’d seen men who called themselves “brave” die needlessly. What most called brave, he called foolish. He’d seen a foolish man disemboweled by a bull when he had no business being in the same field with the crazed beast. He’d seen another foolish man drown trying to show he wasn’t afraid to swim a swift flowing river. No, he wasn’t here at Cork Harbor and standing in front of these men because he was brave; he was here because it was something that had to be done. It wasn’t right that food should be taken away from starving people, and someone had to stand up and say so.
Suddenly, the nervous, idle chatter stopped and everyone strained to listen. In the distance they heard the unmistakable the sound of muffled drums.
“Jasus, it sounds like there’s soldiers with them,” Dermot whispered hoarsely.
“Spread out, men,” Michael said.
The men, doing their best to hide their fear, moved apart until they spanned the entire width of the gate leading onto the quay.
Michael peered down the deserted street, trying to see through a steady wall of rain. There was not a soul in sight. When the local tradesmen had seen the men gathering, they’d locked up their shops and pulled down the shades. And now the street was as quiet as a Sunday morning.
The drums grew louder, echoing off the stone-walled buildings. Michael moved up and down the line. “Hold your ground, lads,” he said, trying to sound confident and praying his voice wouldn’t crack. “We have a right to a peaceable demonstration. Remember that.”
“Look— !” Tim Finney pointed toward the top of the street.
Michael turned and saw the first line of soldiers come into view around a corner; their bayonets glistening in the gray light. A stiff-backed army captain led the column from atop a prancing brown gelding. As they drew closer, Michael recognized him. He was the same officer whose horse he’d taken to catch Emily.
Next came the wagons loaded with the food bound for England—one, two—a total of fifteen wagons in all. More soldiers with fixed bayonets flanked the wagons on either side. Two drummers—who couldn’t have been more than sixteen—tapped out a slow-tempo cadence that beat a tattoo of dread in Michael’s heart.
Closer and closer they came. Michael, shivering with excitement and tension, was suddenly and acutely aware of the smallest sound—the nervous shuffling of feet behind him, the creaking of wagon wheels, the hollow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone. His mouth went dry and he found it hard to swallow. Please God, let me be able to speak when the time comes.
The soldiers were closing with no sign of slowing. For one terrible moment Michael thought they would march right through them without stopping, bayoneting and shooting as they went.
But, then, when the column was just fifty feet away, the captain held up his hand and shouted, “Column, halt!”
He coaxed his horse forward and looked down at Michael with contempt in his eyes. At first he didn’t recognize him, but then he looked more closely and smiled. “Ah, if it isn't the beggar who stole my horse. You’ll not hide behind a woman’s skirt today, lad.”
A line of soldiers had followed the captain and now stood less than twenty feet in front of Michael and the men. Michael looked into their faces. Most were no older than he. Many were younger and they all looked as frightened as he was.
“Stand aside, hooligans,” the captain said with great distain.
“We will not,” Michael answered, surprised at the forcefulness in his voice. “You’ll not ship food out of Ireland while there are people starvin’.”
The captain put his hand on the hilt of his saber. “This is your last warning. Cease and desist or—”
A rock flew from behind Michael and caught the captain on the cheek. His horse reared, throwing him to the ground.
Michael, stunned by this unexpected turn of events,
stepped forward to help the fallen captain. As he did so, a frightened soldier, seeing his captain on the ground bleeding, panicked and fired his musket. The round struck a farmer standing between Pat Doyle and Jerry Fowler. The man went down, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his chest.
“No…” Michael yanked the rifle from the soldier’s hands.
Another soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Michael’s head, driving him to his knees.
Suddenly, a hail of rocks flew into the rank of soldiers. Another shot was fired. Another farmer went down.
The captain, blood flowing down his cheek, was on his feet, saber drawn, yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire…!”
But the terrified young troops lacked the discipline of seasoned soldiers and another volley of shots exploded into the farmers.
By now the men of Ballyross were in full-scale flight, running and tripping over their fallen comrades. Amidst the chaos, Michael reached down, grabbed a wounded man, and dragged him into an alley as shots whined about his head.
Out of the line of fire, he propped the man up against a wall and tore open the man’s bloody shirt.
“You’ll be all right, lad, you’ll be—”
He stopped talking when he saw the gaping, bloody hole in the man’s chest.
Then, he looked into the man’s face for the first time. Oh, Jasus….
Bobby Ryan stared at Michael with lifeless eyes.
Numbly, Michael crawled to the edge of the alley and stuck his head out. Men he’d known all his life lay dead and dying in the middle of the road. A handful of soldiers moved among the fallen, calling out— “This one’s dead...” “This one’s alive...”
The captain, astride his horse, moved back and forth in front of the gate, directing the wagons as they moved single file onto the quay.
Michael slumped against the wall. “My God…” he whispered to the dead Bobby Ryan. “What have I done? In the name of Christ, what have I done…?”
Chapter Thirteen
February 1847
The Reform Club
London, England
The elite Reform Club of London boasted members of the highest rank in English society. Although Doctors Playfair, Lindley, and Professor Kane were eminent men of science, their middle-class backgrounds precluded their eligibility for membership in such an august club. And that is why they were puzzled—and not a little pleased—when Trevelyan invited them to “a special luncheon.” A cryptic message sprawled on the invitation mentioned “an alternative to the corn that appears to be too hard for delicate Irish stomachs.”
The three men were shown to a private dining room where several high-ranking members of the Ministry of the Interior and the Foreign Office were already present. Trevelyan greeted them, looking uncharacteristically cheerful.
A long table with two large cooking pots had been set up in front of the room. At Trevelyan’s urging, the group took their seats and, a moment later, a man, dressed in the uniform of a chef, made a dramatic entrance, followed by a bustling entourage of minions.
Dr. Lindley, a man who fancied himself something of a gourmet, immediately recognized Alexis Soyer, who was not only the club’s chef, but also one of the most famous chefs in all of Europe. Lindley leaned close to Kane and whispered excitedly, “The man is a culinary genius. I do believe we are in for a treat.”
“Gentlemen,” Soyer began in a thick French accent, “today I am going to demonstrate for you my new creation—a soup for the poor that will cost but three farthings a quart.”
Dr. Lindley turned to Kane with a glum expression. “It would appear I was mistaken.”
“This soup,” Soyer continued, “has been tasted by noblemen and members of Parliament. And one and all have declared it to be wholesome and delicious.”
Soyer described the soup’s unappetizing ingredients as his assistants added them to the pot. “We begin with one-quarter pound of leg of beef, two gallons of water, two ounces of drippings, two onions, one-half pound of flour, one-half pound of barley, add a pinch of salt, some brown sugar and—voilà!”
Trevelyan was the only one in the mystified audience to applaud. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “shall we sample the soup?”
One by one the reluctant guests stepped up to a second pot of soup that has been previously prepared. With a self-satisfied smile Soyer ladled the thin mixture into the club’s eighteen-carat gold-rimmed soup bowls.
Playfair took a cautious sip and made a face. “Swill,” he muttered.
That was enough for Lindley, who put his bowl down without tasting it.
Trevelyan took a taste from his bowl. “Hot and nourishing,” he announced. “Certainly a suitable repast for the destitute.”
Kane tasted the soup and found it thin, tasteless and, he suspected, of little nutritional value. “Mr. Trevelyan, what do you plan to do with this—soup?” he asked.
“Send the recipe to Ireland, man. It will feed thousands at very little cost.”
“Do you think the Irish can survive on this—soup?” Kane had difficulty calling the tasteless slop, soup.
Trevelyan’s eyebrow arched at the tone of sarcasm in Kane’s voice. “If they will not eat the corn, perhaps they will eat the soup. One does what one can, Mr. Kane. The rest is in God’s hands.”
“Mr. Trevelyan, I beg you to come to grips with what is going on in Ireland,” Kane pleaded. “Just last week the coroner of Cork City declared that he would no longer hold inquests on the bodies of persons found dead in the streets in order to avoid the great expense, which the innumerable inquests from these causes would surely bring upon the city.”
“Mr. Kane, may I remind you that Her Majesty’s government has to date spent more than five million pounds and employed more than three-quarters of a million men. In fact, so many are employed that they have neglected to plant seed. I am reluctant to give away cooked food to the Irish lest they fall into total idleness. So we will offer Monsieur Soyer’s recipe to the Irish and hope that they will take it upon themselves to at least cook their own food.”
He put his bowl down. “And now, gentlemen,” he said, “shall we retire to the dining room for lunch?” He took Dr. Lindley’s arm. “I understand you are something of a gourmet. I think you will enjoy what Monsieur Soyer has prepared for us.”
Dr. Lindley, appalled that Trevelyan could think of eating a gourmet meal after suggesting that the starving Irish eat inedible swill, pulled away from Trevelyan. “I think not, sir,” he said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Trevelyan stepped back. “As you wish,” he said coldly, and moved off toward the dining room with the others.
March 1847
Ballyross, Ireland
Trevelyan’s unremitting policy of laissez-faire was wreaking havoc in Ireland. Merchants who could not afford the inflated wholesale price of goods went bankrupt. Those who had the money to buy goods, raised prices to usurious levels. Now, although there was a great supply of food in Ireland, ironically, the poor couldn’t afford to buy it.
Within sight of food purveyor shops, whose windows were crammed with foodstuffs, starving women and children combed harvested fields, competing with dogs and rodents in hopes of gleaning an overlooked piece of turnip or a half-ear of corn.
The main roads had become clogged with ever increasing numbers as more and more tenants were being ejected from their homes. The specter of dead bodies alongside the road was now a common sight. Entire families, carrying their paltry possessions in bundles, swarmed over the countryside with no discernible destination, save some place where they might get a bite of food and a roof to put over their heads. Starvation and disease were killing so many that harried gravediggers had begun burying the dead in mass graves because they’d run out of wood to build caskets. There was not enough time in the day to bury all the dead and lanterns could be seen glowing in cemeteries as gravediggers worked through the night.
On their way home from a Works project, Michael an
d Dermot, who had grown hardened to the sight of dead bodies along the road, stepped around a bloated body covered by a cloud of furious flies. Further up the road, a dog was tearing at a corpse and Dermot hurled a rock at it. “Go away with you, you damned cur,” Dermot shouted.
“Do you notice somethin’ different now?” Michael asked, watching the dog backing away, stripping its teeth at Dermot.
“What’s that?”
“It used to be the dogs would scurry away from the bodies when they saw us comin’. Now, they’re defiant and stand their ground and only a rock or a stick will turn them away.”
“Do you think they might attack us as well?” Dermot asked, warily eying the dog who was still baring its fangs at him.
“I don’t know, Dermot. I don’t know.”
“Somethin’s got to be done.” Dermot saw the dog inching towards the corpse and flung another stone at it.
Michael didn’t respond. He agreed with his brother, but he didn’t want to encourage yet another shrill harangue. Dermot was becoming more militant with each passing day and it was getting on Michael’s nerves.
“I think we should demand the Board of Works pay decent wages,” Dermot said.
“We did that and they cut our wages.”
“Then Jerry Fowler’s right. Tis time to make our demands with guns.”
Michael, his eyes blazing with anger, spun his brother around. “In the name of Jasus, didn’t what happened in Cork teach you anythin’?”
“It was bad, I know. But Jerry says—”
“Jerry Fowler is a great fool and you’ll stay away from him.”
“Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s not right about fightin’.”
“Fight with what? Are we to fight the Brit’s musket and cannon with spade and pitchfork? Use your head, man.”
Michael continued walking in silence, furious at his brother for reopening a wound that refused to heal. Since that disastrous morning at the Cork quay, Michael had thought about nothing else. He couldn’t sleep at night without seeing in his dreams the faces of Bobby Ryan and those dead farmers. He’d been wrong to think they could stand up to the might of the British Empire. Good men had died because of him and that was something he would have to live with for the rest of his life. There was, however, one thing he could do, and that was to make sure that hotheads like Jerry Fowler didn’t do anything to cause the shedding of more Irish blood.
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