In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  Dermot took another deep swig of the poteen and felt his head starting to go all queer and light. He was stunned by Fowler’s foolhardy plan, but he had to admit there was truth in what he said. They were starvin’ us. Didn’t he see that every day at the soup kitchen? And didn’t the fever take his own Granda and Grandmam, and very nearly his brother? If things went on the way they were goin’, they would all die and that was a fact. “I’m in,” he said.

  “Good lad. Who else is with us?”

  Reluctantly, the others nodded their assent.

  “Good. Now, gather around and I’ll explain the plan.”

  On the way home Dermot and Kevin walked the road in silence, thinking of the outrageous scheme Fowler had laid out . At the crossroads, Dermot said, “Will you do it, Kevin?”

  “Aye. You?”

  Dermot heard the hesitation in Kevin’s voice. “Aye,” he replied without hesitation. But he wondered if it was the poteen talking.

  Dublin Castle

  August 1849

  In a small, damp room in the bowels of Dublin Castle, Scotland Yard Inspector Thomas Cronin, faced a room full of veteran police detectives brought in from London for a special detail. He was a cheerless man in his early fifties and with a broken nose that made his constant scowl even more fierce. And now he was scowling at the men seated before him.

  “We must be ever vigilant, men. As you well know, there’s a great deal of unrest in the country. And it is our mission to ensure the safety of the Queen. As you mingle with the populace, I want you to keep your eyes open and your ears sharp.”

  The door opened and an assistant hurried up to the inspector and whispered something in his ear.

  “Sgt. Cunningham,” the inspector said to a barrel-chested man with ruddy cheeks, “give them their assignments. And remember, men. Vigilance.”

  As he hurried down the corridor, the inspector asked the assistant, “Who is this man?”

  “One of our informants, Inspector.”

  “Reliable?”

  “He is, sir.”

  The assistant opened the door marked “Interrogation Room,” and there, sitting in a chair, shrunken with nervousness, sat Frankie—Jerry Fowler’s eyes and ears in Dublin Castle.

  Just before dawn, Dermot, nervous and excited, quietly slipped out of the cottage. He waited at the crossroads for Kevin for almost a half hour, stomping his brogues on the hard ground to ward off the early morning chill. When there was still no sight of Kevin, he went up the road to his cottage and tossed a stone against the side of the house. A moment later, Kevin came out.

  “Come on, Kevin. We’ll be late.”

  The big man kicked at a stone with his huge brogue. “I’m not goin’.”

  “And why not?”

  “Sure it’s a daft idea. We’ll all be killed.”

  Dermot was furious with the big man. Fortified by the poteen, he’d been all for Fowler’s plan that night. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how impossible and dangerous it was. Assassinate Queen Victoria? Sure that was not possible. If only Kevin had expressed doubt or, better yet, said he wouldn’t do it, Dermot and the others might have done the same. Now it was too late.

  “Are you goin’?” Kevin asked.

  “I am,” Dermot said, trying to sound fearless.

  Kevin stuck his big hand out. “Well, then, good luck to you.”

  Dermot shook Kevin’s hand and, shivering—not sure if it was from the cold or fear—set off in the darkness to meet with Fowler and the others.

  Michael had always been a light sleeper and, if he’d been healthy, he would surely have awakened when Dermot got up. But since his bout with the fever he was exhausted all the time and when he put his head down at night, he slept like a dead man.

  Da woke him with a poke. “Where is he?”

  Michael rubbed his eyes and it took him a second to realize he was talking about Dermot. “I don’t know.”

  “I warned him. Didn’t I tell him that if he runs off again, he’ll not come back into this house?”

  Mam, awake now, tried to sooth her husband. “Now, John—”

  “No. I’ll not listen to you this time. I’ve warned him.”

  Mam shot Michael a pleading look.

  Michael pulled his boots on. “I’ll go find him, Mam. Don’t you worry.”

  While Da set off for the worksite, Michael hurried to the church. He prayed he would find Dermot there, preparing the morning’s feed. But deep down he knew there was no way his lazy brother would have gotten up early to go to work.

  Michael came into the church through the back door and found Emily alone, adding ingredients to a large soup cauldron. It never failed. Every time he saw her face, his heart pounded in his chest.

  “Is Dermot here?” he asked.

  Emily shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She saw his troubled expression. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Just then Goodbody came in with a newspaper in his hand. “Good morning, Michael,” he said with his usual, cheerful manner. “Emily, has thee seen this morning’s newspaper? It says the queen is lunching at Black Rock Castle today. Is that far from here?”

  “About five miles,” Emily said.

  Michael felt his stomach knot, suddenly remembering Dermot’s vehement outburst of the other day: She’s a bloody Brit, just like the rest of them...

  Without a word Michael turned and ran out, leaving a puzzled Emily and Mr. Goodbody to shrug at each other.

  Michael hurried to the worksite, praying that he’d find Kevin there. If anyone knew where his brother was, it would be Kevin. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the big man shoveling gravel onto the roadbed.

  He pulled Kevin aside, ignoring Tarpy’s flinty stare. “Kevin, where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother, for Jasus’ sake.”

  “Sure I don’t know.”

  Michael could tell he was lying. Enraged, he grabbed the front of Kevin’s ragged coat. “Kevin, you’re bigger than I am. But by God, if you don’t tell me where Dermot is I’ll beat the livin’ shite out of you.”

  Tears welled up in Kevin’s eyes. “They’re all gonna be killed,” he blurted out. “Michael, I tried to warn him.”

  Michael sprinted down the road as fast as he could. Mulrooney’s Inn, almost six miles away, was where Kevin said Dermot and the others were to meet. He’d run just over a mile, but already he was at the point of exhaustion. He staggered to a stop, bent over and put his hands on his knees and dry wretched.

  Before the fever he could have run five times this distance without even breathing hard. But now he was as weak as a calf and he still had five more miles to go. What was he to do? There was no way he could run the entire distance and there was no time to walk. In a field to his left—Kincaid’s fields now—he saw a horse grazing. Horse thievery, he knew, was a very serious offense. If he was caught, he would surely be transported to Australia. But what choice did he have?

  Without a second thought, he climbed the fence, grabbed a clump of grass, and slowly approached the horse. “Here, boy,” he said softly. “Look what I’ve got for you.”

  The wary horse backed away, but Michael, careful not to make any sudden moves, continued to move toward him with the clump of grass extended in his hand. Finally, he got within arm’s reach of the horse. He put the grass under the horse’s nose. As the horse tentatively nibbled at the offering, Michael slipped his hand around the bridle and quickly climbed onto the horse’s back.

  Used to riding without a saddle, Michael dug the heels of his brogues into the horse’s flanks and felt a powerful surge burst beneath him. This was no plow horse. It was probably some landlord’s expensive hunter, sold off to Kincaid to pay debts. Whatever the reason, Michael was grateful for a horse that would get him to Mulrooney’s quickly.

  With every step he took along the road, Dermot became more and more convinced that he was making a terrible mistake. But it was too late t
o turn back now. What would Fowler think if he backed out now? Suppressing his doubts, he continued on down the road.

  When Dermot met up with Fowler, Sean and William at the ruins of Scanlon’s cottage, he was secretly pleased that Frankie wasn’t with them. Perhaps Frankie, like Kevin, had changed his mind.

  “Where’s Frankie?” Dermot asked hopefully. If the man wasn’t coming, Fowler might call the whole thing off.

  “He’ll meet us at Mulrooney’s. Where’s Kevin?”

  “He’s not comin’.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sean said. “I knew the big glom didn’t have the sand for this.”

  “This changes nothing,” Fowler said, much to Dermot’s disappointment. “Let’s get a move on. We’ve no time to lose.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Mulrooney’s Inn had been a fixture on the Cork Road for over a hundred years. It had seen good times and bad, but now it was seeing the worst times in all its history. The Inn, situated on the only major road that led to the west and south of Ireland, was usually bustling with the comings and goings of men of commerce, farmers, and bankers of every stripe. But since the hunger, fewer and fewer people needed a reason to pass this way and the Inn, experiencing a sharp decline in business, was on the verge of financial ruin.

  When Jerry Fowler and the others walked into the Inn’s pub room, there was no one there except the proprietor, who was standing behind the bar cleaning glasses.

  The four men sat at a corner table. “How about a round of pints?” Fowler called out.

  Mulrooney, an angular man with a shock of white hair, brought the mugs. He looked frightened and his hands were shaking so badly, he spilled half the ale onto the rough-hewn table top.

  “Have one yourself,” Fowler said, winking at the others. “It’ll calm your nerves.”

  The proprietor, grim as a mortician, wiped up the spill and quickly retreated to his place behind the bar.

  Michael didn’t want to call attention to himself and resisted the temptation to bring the horse to a full gallop. But even at a canter, the superbly conditioned animal covered the ground with ease. He was making good time. Still, mindful that the sight of a raggedy-dressed farmer on a sleek hunter was bound to attract attention, whenever he saw another horseman or carriage approach, he led his horse off the road and waited in the hedges until they passed.

  Back on the road, he rounded a turn and there—barely a hundred yards ahead—was Mulrooney’s Inn. He was about to dig his heels into the horse’s flanks and cover the last hundred yards at a gallop, when suddenly his eye caught a glimpse of something shiny in the hedgerow across the road from the Inn. He dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. Concealed by the hedge line on the Inn side of the road, he crept closer. And then he saw him. A small, wiry man with a broken nose standing next to a tree, directing the placement of several men armed with rifles.

  My God! He’s setting up an ambush. Michael was still fifty yards from the Inn and on the same side of the road, but he was afraid that if he continued, he might be spotted by the men. He got down on his hands and knees and set off crawling the last fifty yards.

  Inside the Inn, the men sitting at the table had become very quiet. There was no more laughter or banter. The long, tense wait had drained the false bravado from everyone, even Jerry Fowler. Frankie, the man who was supposed to bring the rifles, was over an hour late.

  Dermot shot a sideways glance at Sean and William. They’re as uneasy as me, he said to himself. Why don’t they say somethin’?

  Finally, he couldn’t take the tension any longer. “So where is he?” Dermot blurted out.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be here.” Fowler tried to sound confident, but Dermot noticed that he was nervously tapping his empty glass on the table. “Innkeeper, how about another—” Fowler turned toward the bar, but the owner wasn’t there.

  Suddenly, Jerry Fowler was conscious of a great stillness. He cocked an ear. Not a bird was singing outside, not even the ever-present cawing of crows. Fowler felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

  “Dermot,” he said softly, “be a good lad and take a look outside and see if you see Frankie comin’.”

  Exhausted and covered with mud, Michael had crawled to within twenty yards of the Inn when the back door opened and a man with a shock of white hair slipped out and ran off into the woods. Ignoring his burning lungs and the pain of scraped-raw elbows, Michael quickened his pace. Finally, when he was sure the building blocked him from the view of the gunmen across the road, he stood up and raced the last ten yards for the open back door.

  Michael barged into the pub room just as Dermot was opening the front door.

  “No, Dermot,” Michael shouted. “Don’t—”

  But he was too late.

  Dermot had already swung the door open. At the sound of Michael’s voice, Dermot turned with a puzzled expression at seeing his brother here. At the same time, there was an explosion of gunfire from the hedges across the road. Dermot, framed in the doorway, was struck by a hail of bullets and blown back into the room. He crashed to the oak-beamed floor, screaming and writhing in agony.

  In the next instant, the pub room became the center of a terrifying maelstrom of sound and fury. Bullets crashed through windows, exploding shattered glass across the room. Bullets thunked into hundred-year-old walls, crumbling plaster and knocking faded paintings off the wall. Behind the bar, bottles and pots exploded, spraying spirits everywhere.

  Ducking behind the thick oak bar, Michael glanced across the room and saw a petrified Fowler and another man cowered behind an overturned table. Behind them, a third man was slumped against the wall with half of his face blown away.

  It took every bit of self-control for Michael to keep himself from rushing across the room and strangling Fowler, the cause of all this. But he had to help his brother. With bullets whining all around him and shattered glass raining down on him, Michael crawled toward Dermot. Shards of glass tore at his clothing, lacerating his arms and legs. Dermot had stopped screaming, but now, sprawled on the floor, he lay ominously still. A rivulet of blood oozing from his chest snaked its way across the planked floor and pooled by the leg of an overturned chair.

  Michael reached out and grabbed Dermot’s collar. “Dermot can you hear me?” he shouted over the gunfire.

  Dermot tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t. “Michael, they’re killin’ us…”

  “We’re gettin’ out of here. Can you help me?”

  Dermot started to sob. “Michael, I can’t feel my legs…”

  “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

  Slowly, Michael started pulling his brother toward the back of the room. There was no letup in the fusillade of bullets, but Michael felt a small measure of comfort in that because he knew that once the bullets stopped, they would be coming. Michael’s chest heaved with the effort and he was beginning to feel lightheaded, but he had to get Dermot out of the Inn and into the fields before the men came. It was their only chance. He’d pulled Dermot about half the distance when his strength gave out. He could pull his brother no farther.

  “For the love of God, give a hand here,” an exhausted Michael called out to Fowler.

  The man hiding next to Fowler, tears streaming down his face and holding his hands over his ears, kept screaming, “We’ve got to give up... For Jasus’ sake... We’ve got to give it up…”

  From his position behind the upturned table, Fowler glanced at Dermot and shook his head. “Tis too dangerous. It’s every man for himself.”

  Fowler’s response didn’t surprise Michael. That’s what Fowler was—a coward. Michael had planned to lead Fowler and the other man out the back door and to possible safety. But now, it would be as Fowler said: Every man for himself.

  All I have to do is get Dermot outside, Michael told himself. From there I can carry him to the horse and then we’re free and clear.

  Calling on every ounce of strength he had left, Michael yanked on the back of Dermot’s collar and
, slowly, Dermot began to slide across the floor. Tugging and pulling, Michael finally got his brother to the back door and pulled him through.

  Outside, Michael, gasping for air, took a quick look around. Thank God they had not sent anyone around to cover the back. He looked down at Dermot. His brother’s face was drained of color and the front of his shirt was covered with blood.

  “I’m gonna die,” Dermot whispered through parched lips.

  “You’re not gonna die, Dermot. Didn’t I promise I’d take you to America with me?”

  A little spark came into Dermot’s eyes. “Aye, you did. When can we go…”

  Michael lifted his brother up and carefully slid him over his shoulder. “Soon, Dermot. We’ll go soon.”

  “That’s good, Michael. Ireland is cursed…”

  Taking a chance that the gunmen would be too busy firing into the Inn to notice them, Michael ran along the hedgerow with his brother over his shoulder until he came to where he’d tied the horse.

  Carefully, Michael slid his brother across the horse’s back. Suddenly, the shooting stopped. After the constant din of gunfire the sudden stillness was unnerving.

  Michael moved to the edge of the clearing and watched. Someone was shouting from inside the Inn, but he was too far away to hear what he said. Then, someone in the hedges shouted a response, but, again, he couldn’t make out what was said. A moment later, the Inn’s front door opened and the man who had been screaming about surrendering came out with his hands high over his head.