Michael looked from his frightened Da to his stubborn Granda and realized he had no choice but to do as the old man asked.
Michael would dig a scalp for his Granda, but he would stay with him and take care of him until the end. He searched for a ditch on Somerville’s property. He knew that Somerville, unlike other heartless landlords, never sent men and dogs to drive families from their scalps. He found a suitable spot less than a mile away from the cottage. It hadn’t rained in awhile and the ground was dry. With his hands he scooped out a hollow and covered the top with sticks. He gently placed the old man in the hole.
He tried one more time. “Granda, please let me take you to the hospital.”
The old man shook his head. “I’ve spent me whole life in these fields. Tis here I’ll die. When I’m dead, just spade the soil over me.”
Michael studied the old man’s face, wondering if the moods had come on him. Then the old man winked. “You’re too serious, Michael.”
Michael grinned. It’s what the old man always said to him when he was upset about something. At least he was himself, and Michael was grateful for that. He didn’t want him to die in one of his queer moods. “Did you eat, Granda?”
He shook his head and grabbed his grandson’s arm with a weak, bony hand. “You were right to want to go out to America. This place is not for the likes of you. You’re a dreamer. You’ve always been different from the rest of us. You go there and make me proud, Michael.” His breathing was becoming shallower. He stopped to catch his breath. “I think you’ll do somethin’ grand with your life, but you’ll not do it here.”
Michael tucked the blanket around the old man’s legs and blinked back tears. He’d always been close to his granda, but the old man had never spoken to him like this before.
“You rest. I’m gonna get you somethin’ to eat.”
The old man tightened his grip on Michael’s arm and his eyes widened. “Michael, when I was just a lad we had so many potatoes one year I went into the village with me Da to sell them. Sure we couldn’t give them away. They weren’t worth the bother to bring them home so on the way back we tossed the lot in a ditch. I wonder if the hunger is God’s punishment for the great waste of food.”
Michael patted the old man’s bony hand. “I don’t know why God sent the hunger, Granda. But I’m sure it wasn’t because of you.”
When he got back to the cottage, Da was outside burning the old man’s bedding. Mam stood in the door, her arms tightly wrapped around her, watching.
“Have you supper for me?” Michael asked his mother.
“Aye.”
“Give it to me out here, will you?”
Da squinted through the heavy smoke. “What is it you’re gonna do?”
“Bring it to the old man.”
Da jabbed a finger at Michael. “That’s foolishness. He’s as good as dead. You need to keep up your own strength.”
“It’s my fault he got the fever,” Michael said quietly.
Da stepped away from the fire, waving the smoke out of his eyes. “What is it you’re sayin’?”
“I carried John Lacy to the Fever Hospital.”
Da staggered back, his mouth open, hardly able to comprehend the enormity of what his son had done. “In the name of God did I not warn ya?”
“You did. I’ll stay away from the house.”
“You’ll not,” Mam said firmly.
Both men looked at her, taken aback by the unexpected steel in her voice.
“We’re family, John Ranahan, and I’ll not have one of my sons wanderin’ about the countryside.”
“But the fever—”
“The fever be damned. I’d rather we all die together.”
Da, stunned by the vehemence in her tone, stared at his wife, not knowing what to make of her. His jaw worked, but nothing came out. He took his cap off and ran his hand through his unruly hair, thoroughly confused. He loved his family. More than anything he wanted them to stay together. Isn’t that what he’d been saying all along? But…. What if Michael is carryin’ the fever? His mind was a muddle and he couldn’t sort it out. He was a simple man, not used to all the change and upheaval that had been going on around him since his fields had turned black. He just wanted things to be the way they were. God knows it had never been an easy life, but at least he understood it and he knew his place in it. Not like now.
He looked into Michael’s stubborn blue eyes—he was his mother’s son all right—and knew he couldn’t send his son away. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe it was better if they all died together. “Go fetch yer Granda,” he said.
“The door will be open when you get back.” Mam spoke to Michael, but she was looking at Da.
“Aye,” Da said quietly. “The door will be open.”
Michael, carrying a plate of Indian corn, slid into the ditch and ducked into the scalp. “I’m back, Granda. You’re wanted at home. You’ll eat this and then I’ll bring you home and—”
Granda lay on his back looking up at the stick roof with sightless eyes. His mouth was open as though he’d just seen something wondrous.
Michael reached out and closed the old man’s eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
While Michael was in the scalp praying over his granda, a small dinner party was underway at Lord Attwood’s estate. It was no special occasion, but events had been so dreary of late that Lady Attwood thought it a good way to liven up an otherwise less than stellar social season. Still, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the men off the subject of eviction.
Major Wicker sawed at his mutton chop, elbows akimbo. “I understand the great man, Trevelyan, himself, is coming to Dublin Castle next week.”
Lord Somerville, who was about to say something to Lady Attwood, turned toward him. “I didn’t know that.”
Wicker grinned. “There are rumors that some Board of Works’ accounts are in confusion.”
Lord Attwood tapped his wineglass with his knife. “Somerville, as the chairman of the Board of Guardians, I do believe this would be an excellent opportunity for you to meet with Trevelyan and tell him face to face the problems we have here.”
Somerville immediately saw the merit in Attwood’s suggestion. He had been writing to the Treasury Ministry almost daily, but his entreaties for additional money and assistance had gone unanswered. “I believe you are right. I will go and see him.”
“Meanwhile, the evictions are coming along splendidly,” Wicker announced to the table. “I’ve tumbled over a hundred cottages so far.”
“Tumbling” was the term used to describe the Draconian method landlords employed to make sure an evicted tenant left the property and didn’t return. If a tenant was in arrears with the rent, the bailiff served a notice to clear off the land. Next, the bailiff’s “crowbar brigade”—hired men who were willing to tear down a man’s home for a few shillings—moved in. The technique was simple enough. First they torched the thatched roof to destroy the roof beams. Then, armed with crowbars and sledgehammers, they attacked the walls, smashing them until they tumbled into a pile of rubble.
“I’ve heard there are landlords who are chartering entire ships and offering free passage to their tenants, provided they tumble their own cottages,” Rowe said.
“That sounds prohibitively expensive,” Wicker said, intrigued by the idea nevertheless.
“Not in the long run,” Rowe explained. “Once you clear the land of the rabble, you can open it to grazing sheep and cattle. A much more profitable enterprise.”
The men’s cold, indifference tone infuriated Emily. “Major Wicker,” she asked, barely able to control her anger, “where do you think your hundred tenants went?”
He looked at her as though she had asked the price of the wine he’d been consuming in great quantities all evening.
“I have no idea, madam.”
“Many of them end up in the Fever Hospital to die.”
Lord Somerville cleared his throat. “Emily is volunteering at the Fever Hospital.
” He shot his daughter a warning glance that said she was going too far.
“My dear,” Lady Attwood said, “is that wise, exposing yourself to those dreadful diseases?”
“You should join me, Lady Attwood. You, too, ladies.” She smiled at Mrs. Wicker and Mrs. Rowe. “It’s really quite gratifying. Much better than sewing blankets.”
“Yes, quite.” Lady Attwood said, ending that discussion.
Emily had cast a decided pall over the dinner and the dining room sank into gloomy silence, save for the scrapes and clunks of Major Wicker attacking his mutton chop.
Billy Moore was short. Barely five foot. Genetics played a role—all the Moores were short. But so did his bent legs—the result of a childhood bout with rickets. In spite of his diminutive stature—or because of it—he was a ferocious fighter and men twice his size stayed clear of him. He was the same age as Dermot but he already had a well-deserved reputation in the village as a troublemaker.
Billy’s father had died before he was born, leaving his mother to raise Billy and four brothers and sisters. She’d done a tolerable job with the others, considering the circumstances, but Billy had been a lost cause from the very beginning. He’d been an unruly child then and he was a wild man now. Billy Moore possessed the one essential ingredient necessary to be truly fearless: he had absolutely no fear of dying.
Billy’s explosive anger and dangerous recklessness attracted Dermot like a crow to a corn field. The only thing that kept Dermot from becoming another Billy was the certainty of Da’s wrath and, more importantly, Michael’s disapproval. Dermot tolerated his Da, but he adored his older brother.
Hulking eighteen-year-old Kevin Toomey, the third member of the trio, towered over Dermot and Billy. He possessed prodigious strength and had once lifted a capsized wagon off a man all by himself. He, too, was in awe of Billy and wanted to be just like him, but he lacked Billy’s cocky self-assuredness.
The three had been at the Cork quay that morning, and it had been Billy who had thrown the first stone that unhorsed the captain.
Now, the three stood on a riverbank skipping flat rocks into the river.
Kevin let loose a perfectly flat rock. It bounced six times and stuck in the mud of the far riverbank. “I’m starvin’,” he said.
“So am I,” Dermot said. “Soon they’ll be no food in the country a’tall.”
“I know where there’s food,” Billy said.
Dermot kicked at a pile of stones with his well-worn brogue, looking for a good skimmer. “Where’s that?”
“Clancy’s Market. There’s a delivery every Tuesday mornin’. It’d be easy takin’.”
“You’re daft,” Dermot said. “Fancy Clancy’s? Where the landlords shop? I hear a peeler goes with the driver for Jasus’ sake.”
“There’s only one peeler and three of us.” Dermot recognized that unfocused, wild look in Billy’s eyes and knew it meant trouble. “Don’t be daft.”
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” Billy said. “Are you with me, Kevin?”
The big man let fly a rock that hopped four times before sinking. “Aye, Billy, I’m with you.”
Dermot saw the flicker of fear in Kevin’s eyes, but he knew the big glom would agree to kick the devil himself in the arse if Billy asked him to. It was a stupid idea. If they were caught, they’d be put in prison for sure and that was a fact.
Dermot stared at the ground, pretending to look for a rock, but he was desperately trying to think of a way out of this. He knew Billy was watching him with his small squinty eyes. Billy loved this, he did. Getting them to do things that were daft. Egging them on, always egging them on. Sometimes Dermot was able to talk Billy out of his wild notions. But that wasn’t possible now, was it? He looked at Kevin with disgust. Not after this big lummox said “yes” when he really wanted to say “no.”
Billy punched Dermot’s arm. “Well, are you with us or not?”
Dermot shrugged in resignation. “Aye, Billy. I’m with you.”
It was just after dawn and a white, wispy fog rose up from the road. Dermot, Billy, and Kevin stood behind a stand of trees at the edge of the village, waiting. They heard the crunch of wheels and the creak of wood before they saw Clancy’s provision wagon lumber out of the fog.
Dermot licked his lips in fear—and anticipation. He knew the wagon would be loaded with food. Fantastic foods that he’d heard about but never tasted—beef, lamb, veal, tomatoes, vegetables he didn’t even know the names of, and all manner of pastries and cakes.
As the wagon came into view, the driver leaned over and said something to the constable sitting next to him. The constable shifted in his seat and Dermot saw his buttons gleam in the hazy light. Muffled laughter floated on the thick air.
Billy put a rag over his face. Dermot and Kevin did the same. “All right, lads,” Billy whispered. “You know what to do.”
Gripping stout branches as clubs, the three materialized out of the fog. The startled driver tried to whip the old horse into a gallop, but Kevin grabbed the bridle with his strong hands and restrained it.
“All right, now. Be calm,” Billy shouted. “We only want the food.”
The constable stood up. “This is robbery, you hooligans.”
“Shut your gub, peeler.”
As Billy started toward the back of the wagon, the constable blew his whistle. Dermot looked at the man in open-mouthed astonishment. Now why would he do that? The high-pitched whistle pierced the quiet morning air loud enough to wake the dead. Certainly loud enough to alert every constable for miles around.
“You bastard—” Billy dragged the constable off the wagon and both men went down, wrestling in the muddy road. In the struggle, the constable ripped off Billy’s mask and got a look at his face. Enraged, Billy clubbed the man into unconsciousness.
Dermot pulled Billy off. “Jasus, you’ve killed him!” he said, looking down at the bleeding and unconscious man.
Billy rushed to the back of the wagon and threw open the doors. He and Dermot took a step back. The wagon was stacked to the roof with boxes, crates, bags of meats, cheeses, breads… They had never seen this much food in all their lives.
“Will you look at that?” Billy whispered.
Dermot jumped at the sound of a shrill whistle in the distance. He spun, half-expecting to see a squad of constables rushing out of the fog toward them.
“Come on,” he whispered. “It’s the peelers comin’.”
Billy looked at the food and tears of frustration welled up in his eyes. He wanted to carry it all off. He wanted to go somewhere where no one would find him and eat and eat until he vomited, and then eat some more, until he devoured every last morsel of food in that wagon.
The shrill whistle sounded again. This time much nearer.
Kevin let go of the horse’s bridle and ran to the back of the wagon. “Let’s go.”
Billy stood, transfixed, staring at the boxes of food. Dermot heard the muffled voices of the constables and pulled at his sleeve. “For the love of God, Billy, will you come away.”
Billy turned and snarled at Dermot. His eyes darted about with the furtive, maniacal look of a starving animal denied food.
Kevin looked up the road and started backing away. Shapes were emerging out of the fog. Indistinguishable at first, but then he saw the caps, gold buttons. Four men, running.
Billy’s eyes glistened with hatred. Then, with a howl of frustration, he scooped up an armful of bread and, followed by Kevin and Dermot, ran into the open field.
They ran until they were sure they’d outrun the constables and then they collapsed in a clearing near a stream. Billy threw the bread on the ground. Kevin, gasping for breath, snatched a loaf, bit off a piece and, glancing around nervously, stuffed it in his mouth.
Billy ripped a piece off a loaf. “Don’t worry,” he said, his mouth crammed with bread. “They’ll not find us here.”
Dermot picked up a loaf with a trembling hand. He, too, was starving. He, too, wanted to devour the warm, soft, d
elicious-smelling bread, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get the image of the bleeding constable out of his mind.
Billy, watching Dermot, said, “What’s the matter? Is it too stale for your taste?”
“Do you think you killed him, Billy?”
“Peelers got thick skulls.” Billy stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and stood up. “Go on home lads. Stay out of the village for a time. Everythin’ will be right in a day or so.”
Kevin grabbed the last loaf and stood up. “I’ll bring this home to the family.”
Dermot looked at his loaf. “I can’t bring this home. Me Da will kill me.”
Billy’s crooked teeth bared in a malevolent grin. “Then shove it up your arse for all I care.”
A perplexed Dermot stood in the clearing long after Billy and Kevin had gone, trying to decide what to do. He couldn’t eat the bread and that was a fact. His stomach was in turmoil and he knew he’d just chuck it back up. But he couldn’t throw it away either. Sure it would be a mortal sin to waste good food what with there being hunger everywhere. He surely couldn’t bring it into the house. He might be able to make up a story that Da would believe, but he’d never fool his brother. Unable to decide what he should do, he tucked the loaf under his arm and started for home.
Back at the cottage, he snuck into the tool shed and covered the bread with rags. I’ll think about it tomorrow, he told himself. When I’m thinkin’ better.
The next morning Michael opened the shed door and saw mice scurrying from under a rag. He picked up the rag and when he saw the half-gnawed loaf his heart sunk. The robbery of Clancy’s food wagon was the talk of the valley, especially since the “unknown miscreants” had assaulted a constable in the bargain. Reinforcements had been called in from neighboring counties and there were constables everywhere, shooting hard, suspicious looks at the locals and poking about the countryside with a grim determination. It was one thing to rob a wealthy food purveyor, but, by God, no one was going to assault a constable and get away with it. Michael knew they would not give up until they found the scoundrels.
In the Time of Famine Page 13