In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  He liked Goodbody well enough, but he didn’t like seeing the Quaker and Emily together. Michael attacked the tables with the scrub brush, furtively watching them laughing and talking about things he knew nothing about. Probably some foolishness about London.

  When he’d finished the last table, he announced, “I’m done now.”

  They didn’t even respond. And that made him even angrier. I might as well be invisible.

  He threw the brush into bucket, walked out of the barn, and sat down on a stone wall by the side of the barn.

  It was a glorious early fall night. The sky, lit with a million stars, soothed his bruised ego. He forced himself to think of something other than Emily. He thought of the coming harvest. Soon it would be time to bring in the potatoes. And, God willing, everything would be right in the world again. Working in the soup kitchen was the right thing to do, but he had no liking for it. Truth told, he preferred to be out in the fields in God’s own fresh air.

  For weeks now, he and Da had been going into the fields morning and evening to check the plants. So far there had been no sign of the blight. But there had been no sign of the blight in the past and it had come anyway. He could hardly remember what it was like before the blight and the great hunger. His plans to go to America seemed like something that had happened in a dream a very long time ago.

  “A ha’penny for your thoughts.”

  Michael looked up in surprise. He’d been so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard Emily approach. In spite of his irritation with her, he was happy to see her. She sat down next to him and he smelled a sweet fragrance coming from her hair. The air was chilly, but he felt himself growing warmer.

  Remembering his past oversight, he blurted out, “How’s your family?”

  “What—?”

  “Your Da, and…” he didn’t know if she had more family.”

  “Oh, my father is fine. Thank you for asking.”

  After an awkward silence, she said, “Why are you out here sitting in the dark?”

  “In the dark it’s easier to remember the way things used to be—when children weren’t starvin’, and men had their work, and women had food for their pots.”

  She studied him for a long while. “Dermot told me you were planning on going to America.”

  He thought he detected a note of disappointment in her voice. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking. He glanced at her, but he couldn’t see her expression in the darkness.

  “Aye.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Oh, lots of reasons.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the spent passage money and that his dream of going out to America was lost and gone forever. “Where’s Mr. Goodbody?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “He went off to pray.”

  “Do you like him then?” Michael blurted out. He cringed, glad that the darkness hid his embarrassment.

  Fortunately, she misunderstood the intent of his question. “Oh, yes. He’s a fine, good man. I don’t know much about the Quakers, or as he calls it, the Religious Society of Friends, but we can all be grateful that these fine people are here to help us.”

  “Aye, he is a good man,” Michael added grudgingly.

  “When does the harvest begin?”

  “In a fortnight.”

  “Could the blight come a third year do you think?”

  Michael took a moment to answer. “I said no the last time. I’ll say nothin’ this time.” To his chagrin, it suddenly occurred to him—some of his Da’s superstitions were rubbing off on him as well.

  Neither spoke for a long time. Finally, Emily said, “Well, I’m exhausted. I think I’ll retire. Goodnight, Michael.”

  “Aye. Goodnight.”

  He sat there a long time after she’d gone, regretting another lost chance to talk to her. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but when she was near him, he simply couldn’t find the words. He sat there until the last lingering scent of her blew off in the evening breeze. Then he went home.

  In spite of Goodbody’s best intentions, not everything ran smoothly that first week. The next day sixty starving people showed up and they ran out of hot water to wash the bowls. On the fifth day over a hundred showed up and there wasn’t enough seating for them. But with the help of Emily and the Ranahans, Goodbody addressed these problems with good humor and dispatch and soon the soup kitchen was feeding over a hundred a day with little difficulty.

  The second week the soup kitchen was open, an especially emaciated old man came through the line and Emily handed him a piece of bread. “Do you think I might have another, miss?” he asked in a soft, hoarse voice. “I haven’t had a bite to me mouth in five days.”

  “Of course.” Emily gave him another piece.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Michael cautioned.

  “The man is starving,” she said, pointedly.

  “Still, he’s not used to eatin’. He’ll get sick and—”

  “Mr. Ranahan, if you don’t mind, I’ll be the judge of what the man can and cannot have.”

  The half-starved old man didn’t wait to sit down. While he was still in line, he stuffed the bread into his mouth and gulped at the soup as thought at any moment someone might snatch it away from him. Within minutes his stomach rebelled at the unaccustomed quantity of food and he vomited up the entire meal. Michael shot an I-told-you-so look at Emily. She pretended not to notice, but she stopped giving extra portions.

  As he did every day, Lord Somerville came into the barn to see how the feedings were going. He moved about the tables nodding and stopping occasionally to speak to the grateful people who filled his barn. But today he only half-listened to what the poor wretches were saying because he was intent on watching his daughter. The stress of working long hours, first in the Fever Hospital and now in the soup kitchen, was beginning to show. He knew she wasn’t sleeping well. Sometimes in the early morning hours when he himself couldn’t sleep, he’d heard her pacing in her room. Her skin, which had always been an ivory white, was sallow and there were deep smudges under her eyes.

  And I am responsible. He had told her to get involved and now he was having serious doubts about the wisdom of that advice. He’d wanted her to do something to take her mind off the tedious boredom of country life, but he’d never meant for her to work herself into a state of exhaustion. Still, in spite of everything, he had to admit there was a glow, an inner strength, a competence about her that he’d never seen before. Still.

  I’ve put it off long enough, he said to himself as he watched her ladling soup into bowls. Tonight I must tell her.

  The dining room in Somerville Manor had taken on a shabby appearance since the removal of the wall tapestries and the Waterford chandelier. Somerville didn’t tell Emily, but he was still doing business with Kincaid. When bills came due and there were no funds in the accounts, he called in the gombeen man and sold off yet another piece of the Somerville family legacy.

  Emily’s legacy.

  Lord Somerville picked at his food, waiting for an opportune time to speak.

  “We fed a hundred and thirty today, Father.”

  “Most commendable. What you and Mr. Goodbody are doing is admirable.”

  “I’m just so grateful to Marcus for giving me the opportunity to do something worthwhile. I felt so guilty about not being able to go back to the Fever Hospital, but…I just couldn’t.”

  “I for one am glad to see you out of that dreadful place. Besides, it’s more gratifying keeping people alive than watching them die, is it not?”

  “Oh, yes. I only wish I could do more.”

  Somerville studied his beautiful daughter and felt tremendous pride—and gratitude. Just two short years ago she’d come back from London a petulant, spoiled girl. And he had been at a loss as what to do with her. But, in that time, she’d turned into a responsible, caring young woman.

  He put his fork down. He could put it off no longer. “Emily, I’m sending you off to London to stay with Aunt Sarah
.” He tried to make his tone sound casual, but he failed. “I think it best that—”

  Emily shook her head. “I’m not leaving, Father.”

  In spite of his resolve—and concern—Somerville felt a surge of joy. He was concerned for her health. For her own good it was best that she leave this desolate country as soon as possible, even though he knew he would miss her terribly.

  “You would have jumped at the chance two years ago.”

  “Two years! It seems like another life. So much has happened. I can’t go, Father. Did you see the article in this morning’s London Times? Calcutta has sent fourteen thousand pounds to Ireland to help in the relief effort. Calcutta! My God. How could I possibly leave?”

  “How could you indeed?” Somerville answered, feeling pleased—and apprehensive.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  October 1847

  Ballyross, Ireland

  It was just before sunset when Michael and his father, as was their custom, went into the field to painstakingly check every plant. When they were done, Michael stood up and stretched his aching back. “Well, there’s no sign of the blight.”

  Da squinted at his small field with a look of distrust, as though he expected the leaves to turn black before his very eyes.

  “They’re ready, Da.” Michael said, sensing his father’s indecisiveness. “We should dig them up tomorrow.”

  “Hush your tongue!” an alarmed Da hissed. “We’ll do no such a thing,” he shouted into the field.

  Michael shook his head at his father’s foolish superstitious notions. Since that first morning when the blight destroyed his potatoes, Da had gotten into his head the notion that the little people had heard him say he was going to dig up the potatoes and they’d punished him for his presumptuousness. Since then, he’d become convinced that it was bad luck to say anything about future plans.

  To pacify his anxious Da, Michael shouted into the field. “You’re right. We’ll not dig them up tomorrow.”

  But they both knew they would.

  No one slept that night in the Ranahan cottage. Lost in their own thoughts, no one talked either. Each had their own special prayer. Da prayed that the terrible black rot would not come in the night. Mam prayed for an end to the great hunger that was threatening to destroy what was left of her family. Dermot dreamed about getting away from this place.

  And Michael dreamed of Emily.

  An hour before dawn, Da sat abruptly upright in bed. “Oh, Lord God in heaven. Do you smell it?”

  “Smell what?” Dermot asked.

  “The rot.”

  Dermot sniffed. “I don’t.”

  “Me neither,” Michael said.

  “I can smell it, I tell ya.”

  “Go back to sleep,” Mam said. “You’re imaginin’ it.”

  “I’m not. Tis the blight. Can you not smell it, woman?”

  “I cannot,” Dermot said. “Go have a look outside and see for yourself.”

  “I will not. Tis bad luck to get up before the dawn.”

  Michael got out of bed. He knew better, but all this talk of blight and rot was making even him jittery. Cautiously, he opened the door, half-expecting to be overwhelmed by that unforgettable stench of decay. Instead, he inhaled the damp, sweet smell of early morning air.

  “Everything’s lovely,” he said.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Dermot said.

  “Give it up,” Mam said.

  “Well didn’t he scare the life out of me with his talk of the rot?”

  Michael crawled back onto his pallet. “Dermot, for the love of God, go back to sleep.”

  “How am I to sleep now?”

  He didn’t. Nor did anyone else. They lay in their beds silent and tense until they heard the crow of a distant rooster. Then, as one, they got up and, trying to be appear calm, hurriedly dressed. Then, as a group, they cautiously stepped out into the thin light of dawn.

  Da sniffed the air suspiciously.

  Michael walked into the field, knelt down and touched a leaf. It was thick and soft with life. He pulled a plant out of the ground and squeezed a potato. Solid. He brushed away the dirt and bit into it. Firm.

  He sat back on his haunches and his voice cracked with emotion. “The potatoes are lovely.”

  Cautiously, Da came into the field. He knelt down next to Michael and pulled up a plant to see for himself. He examined it. Bit into it and waited a moment, as though he expected the potato to turn putrid in his mouth. Then he cautiously chewed. “Aye. Tis good.”

  Mam and Dermot were next. As Michael and Da had done, each of them pulled up a plant and bit into the raw potato.

  “Well?” Da asked.

  “It’s lovely,” Mam said.

  “Aye, it’s lovely,” Dermot echoed.

  The four Ranahans sat on the ground in the field, surrounded by the healthy potatoes that would feed them till next year. The great hunger was over.

  They were too stoic to cry and too reserved to express their elation, but no one was able to speak for a very long time.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Lord Somerville held up his glass in a toast. “To a bountiful harvest.”

  Sitting next to her father Emily, clinked her glass against his. “Here, here.” Since that day in the garden when they’d reestablished contact with each other, she’d instructed Nora to set her place beside her father instead of the opposite end of the great dining room table.

  “And to the end of the famine,” she added cheerfully.

  Somerville frowned. “I fear the famine is not yet over.”

  “But there’s no blight. The potato crop is healthy.”

  “Yes, but only Ranahan and a handful of others had the good sense—or seed—to plant a crop. The rest…” he shook his head.

  “What will happen to them?”

  “I’m afraid that depends on Charles Trevelyan and the government.”

  November 1847

  Ministry of the Treasury

  “One fifth?” Trevelyan glared across the table at the three scientific commission members as though they were personally responsible for the dismal figures. “Are you telling me that only twenty percent of the farmers planted a potato crop?”

  “We warned you, Mr. Trevelyan,” Playfair said patiently. “All year we’ve been saying this calamity would occur.”

  Trevelyan slammed his hand down on the gleaming tabletop, furious at the gross irresponsibility of these thick Irish tenant farmers. “In the name of God, why did they not plant?”

  “Many ate their seed. Others couldn’t afford to buy seed. The sum and total of it is that eighty percent of the fields weren’t planted and now these farmers sit on barren acres.”

  Irritated with himself for his momentary loss of self control, Trevelyan quickly regained his composure. Straightening his cuffs, he said, “Well, no matter. In any event the famine is over. Now perhaps I’ll be able to go on holiday with my family.”

  “But it’s not over,” Dr. Lindley said, amazed that Trevelyan still did not grasp the import of what they were trying to tell him. “There are severe food shortages and, surely, matters will worsen. Disease is rampant in the countryside. People will continue to starve and die. The destitution and misery in some districts cannot be exaggerated. Mr. Trevelyan, you are the British government’s voice in matters of the Irish famine. What do you propose to do about this calamity?”

  Trevelyan glared at Playfair. “The government proposes to do nothing. ”

  Summoning every ounce of self-control at his possession, Playfair said, “Mr. Trevelyan, history will not look kindly on a nation that treats its subjects so harshly.”

  “There are whispers of genocide,” Dr. Lindley added.

  Trevelyan sat back and made a steeple of his fingers, his gray eyes colder than ever. “I do not credit rumors, Dr. Lindley. And as for history, Dr. Playfair, I believe it will show that the British government has displayed an admirable forbearance toward a nation that refuses to heal herself. Rumor and
innuendo aside, one fact remains: The famine is over. Tomorrow I will sign an order closing the Board of Works.”

  November 1847

  Ballyross, Ireland

  A steady rain fell upon the shapeless, colorless knot of men gathered outside the Board Of Works office. They stood with the posture of defeated men—silent and passive, heads bowed, knowing that another blow was about to fall. Yesterday, after they’d done their work, Tarpy, the road supervisor, had told them to report to the Board Of Works office this morning. The last time they’d been summoned here rumors born of fear and uncertainty had surged through the crowd like an out-of-control brush fire. But that was last year, when they still had spirit, when they still had hope. Now they were too weary, too beaten to listen to even rumors. They stood in the rain, silent, watching the door, awaiting their fate.

  At precisely nine o’clock a shadowed figure appeared behind the curtained door. The sound of chains being undone and bars being slid echoed in the hushed stillness. The door opened and a jittery Alfred Browning poked his head out. He remained behind the door, prepared to slam and bar it at the first sign of insurrection. He’d learned his lesson the last time. He would not expose his person to this mob again.

  “The famine has been declared over,” he shouted from the doorway. “The Board Of Works is forthwith shut down.”

  Anticipating a rush of angry men, he slammed the door and with a trembling hand did the chains and bars as quickly as he could. But, unlike last time, there was no reaction from the men. No anger. No shouting. No fist waving.