The Big Wind

by Beatrice Coogan

  He was delighted by Kitty’s short hair and reproached Mark for lacking an eye for beauty.

  ‘Never let it grow again,’ he told Kitty.

  He had brought them some news and diversion along with a few stolen pieces from his own festive dinner plate. He told them that John Holohan had left for America on Christmas Eve, that Molly Slattery had gone with him, leaving her mother keening inconsolably, as she watched the coach carrying the two away.

  Thomas dared not delay. Christmas Day, except for the meat and apple dumpling, had been the same as every other day. Harder. Every house on the estate had its gift delivered. And the stirabout line had been served in the evening as well as in the morning. It had reached from the back door to the back lodge.

  As he hurried through the darkness the rush lights—despite death and disaster—still shone from the cottages to light the Holy Family.

  *

  Roderick was forced to mortgage the castle. At night in the library the faces of his ancestors reproached him from their frames. Men had gone on dying, they said, all the centuries that this castle had gone on enduring.

  ‘I know,’ answered Roderick aloud. ‘But one cannot lean against the walls of a castle and watch men die of hunger; and women; and children!’

  His eyes roved round the walls to O’Carroll Ribbeach who, when Queen Elizabeth had divided Tipperary amongst three men of Cheshire had ridden forth astounded at the trespass and bade the English quit his land; the ‘Handsome O’Carroll’ whose descendant had signed the American Declaration of Independence; on to a dandy in a gorgeous waistcoat—‘You cannot afford to reproach me, Grandfather. You began this ramp. It was you who contrived an entry for the demolition forces. You betrayed us to the gales of the Big Wind. A forest of oaks for a necklace.’ He stopped dead. The diamond necklace! It could avert this disaster. The diamond oaks of Kilsheelin could give back shelter to the castle. There was still time.

  He hurried upstairs to discuss the idea with Margaret. From the shadowy drapes of the fourposter her quiet breathing came to him. As he bent over her she gave a little moan of exhaustion. He turned and descended to the library to deal with his mail.

  The letter on top of the pile that awaited him bore no postmark. Some local letter, he presumed, delivered by hand. As he tossed it aside to deal with the more distant ones he noticed the inscription on the back, ‘American Postage to Ireland Suspended’. Inside was a draft drawn on an American bank for more than two thousand pounds. No name; just ‘Anonymous sympathiser’.

  For a brief moment Roderick felt a sense of privilege. Not because he had been the one entrusted with this magnificent contribution; but because apart from the impersonal transactions of the bank concerned, no one but God knew the donor’s identity. No single word of thanks required; while the papers of the three kingdoms proclaimed the generosity of Her Majesty for her paltry contribution to her starving subjects!

  He looked through the other letters. A shilling from a poor widow in England; a day’s wages from a London counting clerk. On one piece of paper was scribbled, ‘Poor Erin! I give you the first fruits of my first song.’ It was signed ‘English Songwriter’.

  And then came a letter that he must answer. It came from the Protestant Archdeacon of an English cathedral and it was signed Roderick Carroll-Greyson. His offering, eight hundred pounds, was the Famine Collection from the morning and afternoon services last Sunday.

  ‘My Carroll ancestors,’ wrote the Archdeacon, ‘came originally from Tipperary... Perhaps in happier days we may meet...’

  How pleasant it would be to invite the gentleman here! Would such a thing be possible ever again? Greetings and returning visits! Lavish hospitality on one’s board. God! He put his head down on his arms. He felt hemmed in by horror; fought back an adolescent urge to run away from it all.

  He shook the feeling from him and took the next letter. American, the same superscription on the back; ‘Postage to Ireland Suspended’. There was a grandeur of spirit behind these words that appealed to Roderick. Here in Ireland every effort in the cause of charity was arrested by officialdom. Relief schemes mouldered on office files. Subscriptions were passed slowly from one department to another. Cargoes of benevolence lay unloaded while heads of departments pondered the problem of distribution and transport. And in America! an institute of State set aside! the word IRELAND on any crate, packet, or letter—a password for priority and free transport!

  The letter was from Miss Maryanne O’Regan of Virginia. ‘...the talk is all of the great calamity in Ireland... The Governor of Virginia held a big meeting... all the big plantation owners... It was agreed to send the Raleigh with several thousand tons of kiln-dried corn and rice and pickled pork.’ Roderick smiled as he read. ‘...we held a quilting bee in the drawing-room and all the young ladies with copperplate writing were set to write instructions on how to cook the food, as I believe the Irish people have never seen any food but potatoes...’ There was a subscription enclosed and then a postscript. Had the consignment of foodstuffs, addressed personally to himself, arrived? An official notification amid the correspondence informed him that a large consignment from Virginia, America, still awaited collection.

  Immediately he gave orders for men to accompany him before dawn to Waterford dock. This valuable contribution had lain too long. He thought with panic of the grain ship of the Sultan of Turkey; the first in the sea-race of mercy to arrive; a feast for the rats because the English soldiery refused to unload it!

  Roderick primed his pistols in readiness and left the rest of the letters to be dealt with by the De Lacey girls tomorrow. They would need more help at the rate subscriptions were coming in. There were so few well-educated young ladies available. Suddenly for the first time in months he thought of Mrs. Black Pat Ryan. She could be useful to cope with correspondence! He hadn’t seen any of the family for months—a year, nearly. Although Black Pat sent his rent to the dot of Gale Day. Never an hour behind.

  *

  Roderick could not know that the rent had come from the sale of the fine horse. Nonie looked out forlornly at the empty paddock. That speculation had failed; like the speculation of that journey for seed potatoes, at twice the cost of anyone else’s. And Pat, at last, had to join the ranks of respectable farmers who were seeking Relief Work.

  She moistened her lips and grimaced at the taste of her tongue. She drank a few sips of water but the clatter of her cup against the bucket brought in the children, their stomachs in their eyes. She dare not rattle a utensil. ‘Bread’n butter,’ said the youngest. It was not a request; just a reaction to the clatter that her mind connected with the preparations for a meal. Outside there was a scuffling and Adam ran off somewhere screaming.

  ‘Mammy,’ said Norisheen firmly, ‘I’ll go to the castle and stand in the line. This is the day they give soup as well as meal. I’ll bring home a canful.’

  Nonie tried to keep her home. Her sister had written to say that she had posted foodstuff.

  ‘The hunger is on me,’ insisted Norisheen.

  Her mother pressed her hands to her temples. ‘Go on then,’ she said dully. She turned from the sight of the girl’s departure; with a can that had once held sweets for Christmas. The hunger is on me! The hunger is on me! The refrain mounted in a mocking crescendo. ‘And how,’ she cried aloud, ‘am I to take the hunger from them?’

  From the straw palliasse in the room beyond the parlour little Pat answered, ‘You need take no hunger from me. Mammy. It has gone away.’

  She had not noticed that he had gone to lie down. What was he saying? The hunger has gone away. Oh no, not that! She stooped and put her arms about him. ‘You are hungry my darling; and the food from your auntie will be here any minute. I’ll cook lovely things.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he whispered. The words chilled her heart with dread. This was the terrible stage of the famine. First the gnawing, constant hunger, then wild, devouring hunger. Then apathy and prostration. The juices ceased to make clamour. The tongue drie
d up; so did hope; so did life. It was the triumph of the famine. When it took back the hunger it had created!

  She crushed him to her. ‘You are hungry, grá gal. You are. I’ll get you—’ What could she get him? And then at last she was glad that Norisheen had gone to beg for charity. ‘I’ll get you soup. Sleep now. When you awaken, Norisheen will be here with the soup. I’ll sing you to sleep love—Oh little head of gold! Oh candle of my house!’ she sang, and her voice was like the releasing of a rusted lock. He was the candle of her house; the only bright head midst her dark brood. ‘Oh! moths on the window fold your wings...’ He was looking at her strangely; unblinkingly. ‘Oh! plover and oh! curlew over my house do not travel...’ She stooped to catch what he was saying. Something about three grains of oats. Dear God, the famine fever must be on him!

  She looked wildly towards the window. Someone was on the roadway. It couldn’t be Norisheen yet. She laid down the child and went to the door. Had God guided someone this way? A woman, tall and graceful, was gliding over the road like—an apparition. Like the Mother of Iosagain when She came to a cottage and soothed the wailing babe beside its sick mother; and when She had gone they both awakened to health!

  The woman glanced at the open door and murmured something; but kept on. A vision indeed, thought Nonie as she closed the door! The vision of Lady O’Carroll was not for her or her child!

  25

  Margaret had decided to seek out Mrs. Holohan. Though she was not a tenant, Margaret could not forget the woman’s face as it looked after the car that was taking her son to exile. She shuddered as she thought of the way she would feel if she were separated from Dominic or Sterrin.

  Margaret went by the short cut that she had taken with Roderick to the Crossroads dance the evening of the Blight. It led on to the road past Black Pat’s door. The house seemed strangely quiet. As she passed the door it opened with a rush and Mrs. Black Pat came out. Margaret gave her a good-afternoon and went on without stopping. Behind her she could hear the door close with a crash.

  Her full lips tightened. This little Ryan person was mauvais ton. Why won’t she realise her position? The absurdity of seizing every occasion to flounce and flaunt.

  There was no sign of life at Mrs. Holohan’s. Margaret relinquished the knocker. As she turned away, she thought she heard the sound of a moan inside... she raised the latch and found Mrs. Holohan lying on the empty hearth. Even the water bucket was empty. Margaret wasted precious moments searching outside for a well. If only she could get her to the castle! If this were a main road! But there wasn’t a soul nor a vehicle on this byroad.

  She suddenly remembered the soup kitchen outside Aughnacoll Church. A souperism centre where soup was given to the starving provided they abjured Catholicism; still, they would hardly try to induce a woman almost in extremis to apostasise! The place was only half a mile off, and Mrs. Holohan was barely the weight of her own clothes.

  When Margaret arrived at the outskirts of the crowd people thought she was carrying a bundle of clothes. It was impossible to get through to the cauldron. The waiting was interminable. Famished Catholics thought to change their religion for the duration of the meal. ‘I’m a Protestant,’ they clamoured. But it wasn’t that easy. They had to answer a long questionnaire. Only those who could produce written proof from a clergyman or authoritative person that they had attended church services were fed promptly.

  Margaret’s arms ached. She set Mrs. Holohan on her feet but she swayed and her pallor was getting terrible. The man in front was carrying a full-grown adult who pressed bonily against Margaret; and smelled abominably. Why on earth didn’t I chance the journey home, she fumed! I could have got her as far as that—Mrs. Ryan. At least she would have given her nourishment.

  She strained on tiptoe to attract the attention of a Souper. At the cauldron an emaciated wretch was pleading and expostulating. The soup, withheld while they catechised him, was tantalising.

  Before Margaret could see what was happening, pandemonium had broken loose. The man had grasped the cauldron in a frenzy and upset its contents. People cupped the spilt fluid in their hands. They flung themselves down and lapped it like animals. They had reverted to untamed savagery.

  Lady O’Carroll was knocked down. Mercifully someone lifted her burden. But a worse burden fell on her; pinned her down. The body that the man in front of her had carried. A dead body! Its face grinned into hers. Its incontinence fouled her clothes. She screeched and clawed from under the clamping grip. She found herself running down an empty road; running from the terrible Thing behind her; from the terrible screams that filled her ears. Gradually she realised that they were her own.

  A blind, intuitive memory led her suddenly from the road on to the field path. The sight of a pretty, braided roof recalled her to a sense of control. There was no disapproval in her now. Here was a gladsome house! It had never sounded the hunger cry; only music and life; life!

  She saw a carriage stop. The small figure that emerged carrying a child was Virginia Kennedy-Sherwin’s. Dazedly, Margaret followed her inside and down a passage. She glimpsed two figures on something that was neither bed nor couch. She saw Mrs. Kennedy-Sherwin lay the child beside the two figures and turn to hold someone else in her arms. Margaret put her hands to her ears. The screams had started again. But it was just one long wail of uttermost despair. Long after it ceased a small figure confronted her.

  ‘You have come too late. Lady O’Carroll,’ said Mrs. Pat Ryan Duv. ‘Go now!’ Lady O’Carroll obeyed.

  *

  At the clanging of the bell Nurse Hogan rushed to the landing. Her Ladyship at last! She watched her pass Hegarty without speaking and skim up the stairs.

  Lady O’Carroll offered no explanation for the clay-sodden shoes, the torn flounces; for the incredible filth of her pelisse and robe. ‘Tell them to bring me a bath,’ was all she said.

  Roderick’s spirits lifted as he came into the drawing-room. It was heavenly to come back to this calm and lovely woman. The little susurrus of her silken skirts as she moved forward and back over the embroidery frame made a shoheen-sho lullaby in his ears. Waterford had been hell. The whining and begging and keening around the docks! And passing Darby’s place on the way back he had passed men building a famine folly, a spiral-shaped excrescence, neither decorative nor useful. One of the workmen had uncovered and given him a God-save-you. Roderick did not know who he was. There had been something vaguely familiar about him; but the characteristics that distinguished one human being from another had left all their faces. They all had the angular outline and stretched skin of death’s anatomy.

  It must be ages since he had seen Margaret at her embroidery frame; ages, too, since she had worn a silken gown. ‘Hm!’ he sniffed as he stooped to kiss her. ‘We are very fragrant this evening—and, very decorative. Are we expecting company?’

  She touched a wing of grey in the black of his hair. ‘No one...’ The butler interrupted with a tray. ‘I took the liberty, your Ladyship,’ he said, noticing her surprised expression. The new-fangled afternoon tea had been stopped since the famine, but her appearance when she returned had shocked him. ‘It’s killin’ ye’rselves ye both are.’

  Margaret had none of the usual chatter about the Soup Kitchen. ‘Anything strange?’ Roderick asked her and immediately thought how meaningless the phrase had become. Everything was strange. People looked strange, those strange-looking men building a strange-looking obelisk. Only what was normal held novelty. Like Margaret’s silk gown and her embroidery frame!

  ‘No—’ The tea she was pouring slopped over into the saucer. ‘Nothing strange, except a letter for you from Cousin Hester.’

  His cousin, he read, had instructed her bank manager to send him one hundred pounds; she had already donated five hundred pounds to the Central Fund in Dublin. ‘They can ill afford that,’ he commented. Suddenly he burst out laughing. ‘Listen to this; apparently despite famine and pestilence there had been no diminution in the Castle’s splendours for the Sec
ond Drawing-room. “There was only one unfortunate incident,”’ he read out. ‘“A line of Debutantes’ carriages got caught up in a line of sick carts but they managed to get to Saint Patrick’s Hall in time to make their curtsies—”’ Roderick looked up. ‘The debutantes, I assume my love, not the sick carts.’ Margaret was looking into space. More strangeness! She normally revelled in such social titbits. ‘“Her Excellency,”’ he went on, ‘“was influenced, it is generally assumed, in her choice of dress by the melancholy state of the country. She actually wore black! An overskirt and corsage of black gros d’Afrique lined with...” What is it Hegarty?’

  The butler wished to enquire on behalf of some man downstairs if Mr. Pat Ryan—Black Pat—were employed in Sir Roderick’s Bog Reclamation Scheme. He was wanted at home. There was trouble there.

  Black Pat! Roderick remembered that he must call there tonight and enlist Mrs. Black Pat’s service for the famine correspondence. What was the fellow talking about? Black Pat doing Relief Work! There must be some mistake. Surely, if Black Pat needed employment he would have come to me. ‘One of Mr. Black Pat Ryan’s children is dead,’ said Hegarty sadly.

  ‘Dead!’ The word struck with all its former starkness. It had no connection with the Dead he had driven past today, with the undeliberate indifference of helplessness. ‘It must be fever.’ Roderick rose to his feet. Fever was now taking high toll from homes that were well above the margin of hunger. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll avoid contact with infection as much as possible. But this is one sick house I must visit.’

  In the hallway he glanced up towards a sound in the gallery. Through a cloud of perfumed steam he saw two servants carrying a laden bath towards the back staircase.

  At Black Pat’s he stood where Margaret had stood at the entrance to the long shadowy room. Through the open door in the room beyond he could see the little figures on the straw. The day that he had sold the horse they had been there too; with the chin-cough. But not on straw, on a mountainous feather bed; turning cartwheels and pelting a potato that had barely missed his own eye. They had told him proudly that it was their mammy who had painted the pictures he had been admiring. And suddenly the recollection made him conscious of the bareness about him; blank spaces where those skilful paintings had hung; the silver trinket box that had caught his attention was gone; the silver candlesticks, the lustres, the rosewood music box. ‘Yes, they’ve all been eaten.’ He turned startled. He hadn’t noticed her there, crouching down beside the straw. They’ve all been eaten! And the whole structure of his existence; his very home that was the heritage of his own children consumed in his efforts against such hunger. He strode towards her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come like the others? Why didn’t you bring them?’