In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  “It’s just like Jerry Fowler,” Michael muttered. “Let someone else do the dangerous work.”

  Cautiously, several men carrying rifles came out of the woods. The man with the broken nose seemed to be in charge. He walked up to the man who’d surrendered. There was an exchange of words and then, to Michael’s horror, the man took a revolver out of his waistband and shot Fowler’s friend in the head. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of wheat. Stepping over the body, the broken nosed man led the others into the Inn. Seconds later, there was another shot. And a minute after that, two of the gunmen came out dragging a dead Jerry Fowler by his feet, leaving a trail of blood on the graveled driveway.

  Michael ran back to his brother. “Dermot we’re got to get out of here before—” He stopped talking when he saw Dermot’s lifeless eyes staring at the ground.

  Wordlessly, Michael closed his brother’s eyes, turned the horse around, and headed for home.

  It was almost dark by the time Michael got back to the cottage. As he came up the road, Da was outside tending the potato field. When he saw Dermot laid across the horse’s back, he called out to his wife, “Mary, you’d better come out here.”

  Mam came out of the cottage just as Michael pulled the horse up to the door.

  Michael hung his head, unwilling to look into his mother’s anguished face. “Mam, I’m sorry…”

  It took a moment for it all to sink in, then Mam, shrieking in grief, rushed to the lifeless body of her youngest son.

  Inside the cottage, Dermot’s bloody body lay stretched out on the table. Mam, sitting beside him, stroked his hair. “We’ll have to make arrangements for a proper burial,” she said.

  Michael looked to his father to say something. Outside, he’d explained to his father that it would not be possible to bury Dermot properly. But now, Da stared into the fire unable—or unwilling—to deliver this final blow to his wife.

  “Mam,” Michael said gently. “We can’t have a proper burial for Dermot.”

  She looked at him, baffled. “What are you sayin’, Michael Ranahan? Of course we must have a proper burial for your brother. You’ll go and fetch Father Rafferty. He’ll do the service.”

  Michael shot a pleading glance at his father, but the old man would not look up from the fire. “Mam, listen to me. The peelers will be crawlin’ all over the countryside lookin’ for someone dead or wounded. If they find out that Dermot has been shot dead, they’ll arrest me for sure, and probably Da. For certain they’ll tumble the cottage.”

  When the full import of what Michael was saying finally set in, she collapsed to the floor, screaming, “Oh, Jasus, in Heaven… No….no… Please dear God… tis my son… my son…”

  Michael helped her up and gently put her down on her pallet. Soon, she stopped crying and stared up at the ceiling with a terrible resignation in her eyes that broke Michael’s heart. She had always been a strong woman, but Michael wondered how much more of this she could take.

  “In the bog?”

  Michael and Da were standing in the potato field and Michael had just told him where they would have to bury Dermot.

  A grief-stricken Da stared at Michael with red rimmed eyes. “Sure the bog is a place of evil things, terrible things, unspeakable things. My son cannot be buried in such a place as that.”

  “The peelers will be lookin’ everywhere. If they find a fresh grave, they’ll dig it up. It has to be the bog. Dermot’s body must never be found. If it is, we’re all lost. Do you understand?”

  Da stared at Michael, unwilling to accept what he was being told. Then he blinked in resignation. “When must it be done?”

  “Tonight.”

  Gruffly wiping a tear with his sleeve, Da turned from Michael and went back into the cottage.

  Inside, Mam was preparing the body. She’d washed away the blood as best she could. There was no clean shirt for him, so she had to leave the bloodstained one on. She wet the tips of her fingers and smoothed down his unruly, straw-like hair. Then she lovingly wrapped the body in a threadbare sheet.

  When she was done, Michael carried the body outside and laid it on a length of charred roof beam he’d secured from Scanlon’s tumbled cottage. He tied the body to the plank with lengths of rope. Then he added rocks to Dermot’s pockets until he was sure the body would sink. When all was finished, he hitched the plank to the horse and called his Mam and Da out for their final goodbye.

  In silence, the three Ranahans stood by the body. Mam knelt and placed a trembling hand on the shroud. Da stood rigid, his shapeless hat in his hands. He said nothing, but his lips were moving and Michael assumed he was praying for his dead son.

  For his part, Michael didn’t know what to think about his dead brother. He’d always been a handful, but, he was after all his brother. Something had gotten into Dermot in the past year and it had changed him for the worst. He’d become moodier, angrier, shunning even his own family. Was it the strain of trying to survive the famine that made him that way? Or was it just something that had always been inside him? Whatever it was, Michael suspected Jerry Fowler had something to do with the change in his brother and was glad that Fowler, too, was dead.

  It was time to get on with it. Michael helped his mother to her feet. “Da, you stay with Mam. I can manage this myself.”

  As he led the horse away in the darkness toward the bog, a shrill sound ripped the still night. The hair on the back of Michael’s neck stood up. It was the first time he’d ever heard his Mam keen.

  At the edge of a bog pool, Michael unhitched the horse from the roof beam. He upended the plank into the bank and pushed. The roof beam, weighted down with Dermot’s body, easily slid down the slippery slope. Gurgling and sucking, the bog claimed the body of Dermot Ranahan and it sunk into the ancient black ooze.

  The last thing Michael did before he went home was to free the horse. Knowing how Kincaid treated animals, he couldn’t bring himself to take the horse back to the field. As he smacked the horse’s rump and watched it trot off into the darkness, he envied the horse’s freedom—as short-lived as it might be—and hoped that he would find someone worthy to take care of him.

  It was late when Michael got back to the cottage. Sorrow had acted like a sedative on Da and Mam and, mercifully, they were asleep. Michael was glad of that. He didn’t think he could take any more of his mother’s sorrow just now.

  Exhausted, he lay on his pallet staring up at the thatched ceiling, suddenly mindful of the extra room in the bed. No more would he have to shove Dermot back to his side. Never again would he have to reclaim his share of the blanket or ward off the kicks of his restless brother.

  In the darkness, hot tears stung his eyes and Michael was finally able to weep.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Just after dawn, Michael awoke with a start. He thought he’d heard muffled voices. Was it a dream? Suddenly, there was a loud crack and the front door came crashing down. A half-dozen men armed with rifles rushed into the cottage. A dazed Michael looked up at them and thought he must be dreaming. It had to be another one of his nightmares. But then the small, wiry man with the broken nose ducked through the door.

  Michael tried to get up, but one of the men smashed the butt of his rifle into Michael’s neck and he fell back down.

  Two other men trained rifles on Mam and Da, who huddled together, terrified.

  “I’m looking for Dermot Ranahan,” Chief Inspector Cronin announced. “Where is he?”

  “Gone from here,” Michael said.

  “Gone where?”

  “I think he said he was gonna join the British army. You might look for him there.”

  At a nod from Cronin, the man standing behind Michael smashed the rifle butt down on the back of Michael’s neck again.

  “And what’s your name?” Cronin asked.

  “Michael Ranahan.”

  “Where were you yesterday, Michael Ranahan? A man fitting your description was seen riding a horse on the Cork Road.”

  “I don’t
own a horse.”

  “One was reported stolen near here.”

  “Probably for food,” Michael said.

  That response got Michael another crack of the rifle butt.

  “Take him outside,” Cronin said.

  Two men dragged Michael to his feet and shoved him through the door.

  There was a black constabulary wagon in the yard. Inspector Cronin went to the wagon and pulled a curtain aside. Frankie peeked out the window nervously.

  “Well?” Cronin asked, pointing at Michael. “Is this one of them?”

  Michael held his breath. He didn’t recognize the man, but obviously he was an informer and informers were never to particular about who they fingered, especially if there was a shilling reward in the bargain. But to Michael’s relief, the man shook his head.

  Cronin looked disappointed. “All right, he said to the men holding Michael, let him go.”

  As soon as the men let go of Michael’s arms, Michael charged at the man who had smashed him with the rifle butt and slammed him to the ground. He rolled on top of him and, grabbing the man’s hair with both hands, smashed his head into the ground.

  Suddenly, Michael felt cold steel as Cronin pressed his revolver into Michael’s neck. “That will be enough of that. Get up.”

  Reluctantly, Michael rolled off the half-unconscious man and stood up.

  Cronin put his face so close that Michael could smell cigar smoke on the man’s breath. “If your brother’s alive, we’ll find him,” Cronin said softly. “If he’s dead, then that’s one less bog trotter to worry about, isn’t it?”

  It was days before Michael could bring himself to go back to the church. He wanted desperately to see Emily, but he knew she would ask him about Dermot’s whereabouts and he didn’t know what to say. Finally, he couldn’t keep away any longer and he went to the church after his work on the road gang.

  By the time he got there, it was late and all those seeking food had gone to seek shelter for the night. Emily and Goodbody were having a cup of tea when Michael came in. And once again, seeing them together like this, a devil’s brew of jealously, anger, and sadness welled up within him. But, as usual, Marcus Goodbody, with his good cheer and warmth, quickly dispelled any notions that there might be anything going on between him and Emily—at least on his part.

  “Michael,” Goodbody said, coming forward to shake Michael’s hand. “My friend, where has thou been? We have been most worried about thee.”

  Michael mumbled about being busy working on the road gang and tending the crops.

  Emily offered Michael a cup of tea. Tea was something he had never drunk before working in the soup kitchen. At first, he disliked the bitter and weak brew and wondered why Emily and Goodbody insisted on drinking it every afternoon. But as foul as it was, he drank it anyway, because it was one way of reaching into the mysterious and wonderful world of Emily and Goodbody. But, over time, he found that he actually liked it, and looked forward to taking afternoon tea with them.

  Michael took his cup. “Thank you, Emily.”

  “We missed you,” she said, turning away from his intense gaze to stir her tea.

  “Aye.”

  Aye? Is that all you have to say, you eejit? All the way here you’ve been practicin’ what you would say to her and now all you can say is—Aye?

  Then she asked the question he’d been dreading. “Where’s Dermot?”

  “Gone,” he mumbled.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Just gone.”

  Emily looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Gone off to be with his friends or gone for good?”

  “He won’t be comin’ back.” Michael felt tears welling up and quickly turned away.

  Goodbody saw there was something wrong and came to Michael’s rescue. “Emily, I think that Michael does not want to talk about his brother just now.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Michael, stirring his tea furiously, said nothing.

  “I pray the harvest is bountiful this year,” Goodbody said. “Does thee pray for the same, Michael?”

  “Michael?” Emily tugged at his sleeve.

  “What? Oh, aye.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  September 1849

  Ballyross, Ireland

  The summer wore on and the weather, wet and gray, was a fitting reflection of the way the men of Ballyross felt. As the time for the harvest approached, those who had planted a crop—and there were fewer and fewer of them—took to visiting their fields every day. They walked the rows, carefully examining every stalk, praying that the shoots would remain green, and trying not to think of what they would do if the potatoes turned black, as they had done for the past three out of four years.

  Da, growing more lethargic each day, had given up checking his crop. Michael was disturbed by the changes taking place in the old man. Until now, there had been no one more diligent about inspecting his fields than Da. But since Dermot’s death, something had gone out of him. He continued to go to the worksite every day, but he barely spoke to anyone, not even Michael. When he came home, instead of inspecting the field as he had in years past, he went directly into the cottage where he waited for his dinner by the fire in brooding silence.

  It was left to Michael to do the job alone. Every day, he got down on hands and knees and examined the tiny shoots. But one day toward the end of July he realized the futility of what he was doing. What in God’s name am I looking for? he asked himself. And if I find something, what am I to do about it? He stood up, dusted the soil from his trousers, and never checked the plants again.

  Michael also worried about his Mam. Dermot’s death seemed to suck the very life out of her and the light had gone out of her eyes. Mechanically, she went about her work—mending and cooking. But her heart wasn’t in it. She had always been thin, but now she was positively skeletal. She barely ate and Michael wondered where she found the strength to rise from her bed every day. Again, he asked himself the question that he’d been asking himself since Dermot’s death: How much more can she take?

  One late September morning Michael awoke at dawn and knew it had happened again. During the night, the now familiar stench of decaying potatoes had seeped through the cracks and crevices of the old cottage. Like a harbinger of death, it permeated the very air, announcing to one and all that more death lay ahead… more famine… more sickness.

  “Oh, God, no…” Da cried out in despair.

  Michael turned toward his Mam. She lay in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable—or unwilling—to say anything.

  October 1849

  Ministry of the Treasury

  London, England

  As soon as Mr. Playfair received word of the crop failure, he scheduled an emergency meeting with Trevelyan. He, and his fellow commissioners, Dr. Lindley and Mr. Kane, were in total agreement—something had to be done immediately.

  Now they sat across the conference table in Trevelyan’s office, once again stunned by the man’s intransigence.

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Trevelyan,” Playfair exclaimed, trying mightily to control his temper. “The entire country is starving. Disease is rampant. What food there is, is too dear for the peasants to afford. In the name of all that is just, you must do something to alleviate the misery at once. For five years now, these poor souls have been pounded with unceasing starvation, disease, and death.”

  Trevelyan, still steadfast in his righteous beliefs, was unruffled by the pleadings of the three men seated before him. He made a steeple of his fingers and studied the oak-beamed ceiling. “I believe it was Thomas Malthus who said: ‘If society does not want a man’s labor, he has no claim of right to the smallest portion of food and, in fact, has no business to be where he is.’”

  “Well, it would appear that Mr. Malthus is having his way,” an exasperated Mr. Kane spluttered. “Thousands are leaving the land and migrating to America. Entire families are breaking up.”

  “Unlike you, Mr. Kane, I do not see that as
a deficit. Now the landlords will be forced to sell their estates to persons who know how to run a proper business enterprise.”

  Playfair, giving way to the pent-up fury that had been building since 1845, slammed his fist on the table. “Year after year, we have pleaded and begged you to help this destitute country. Each time you have done something, but it has never been nearly enough. And now, sir, I ask you, in the name of God, is the British government to stand by and watch an entire nation starve to death?”

  Trevelyan shrugged in a manner that never failed to infuriate the three commissioners. It was a movement that said: Whatever you say is of no consequence. “We are in the hands of Providence, Dr. Playfair. Without a possibility of averting the catastrophe, we can only await the results.”

  A red-faced Playfair tossed an envelope to Trevelyan and slowly rose to his feet. “Mr. Trevelyan,”—his voice trembled with rage—“the destitution in Ireland is so horrible and the indifference of you and the government to it is so manifest that I am an unfit agent of a policy which, I can only conclude, must be one of extermination. I have been placed in a position which no man of honor or humanity can endure.”

  “Very well, Dr. Playfair,” Trevelyan said. I accept your resignation.”

  October 1849

  Ballyross, Ireland

  It had been a month since the crop failed. The farmers had burned every scrap of putrid potato and decaying plant, but the smell continued to hang in the air like a malignant presence. Not even three days of soaking rain was able to scour the stench from the stricken countryside.

  On the way home from the worksite, Da, sniffing the air, broke his usual silence. “It’s God’s reminder that he’s taken away our food.” He turned to Michael with eyes clouded with fear. “What have we done to displease God so?”