by Ann Moore
And then the weather changed. A dreary, misting gloom settled in the sky and continued, day after day after never-ending day for three long weeks. The temperature dropped with a succession of chilling rains and damp fogs. Grace sat in for the first week, afraid to take the baby out in such weather, but soon the gloom began to creep into her heart and she knew she must get out of the house.
One morning, as she looked out the upstairs window, she saw a figure sitting in a wagon on the edge of the wood across the field. It could only be Sean, and she lifted her hand. He waved in return, then pulled up the horse and turned the wagon around. She bundled up Mary Kathleen, tied her close to her own body, and drew a heavy cloak about them both in order to keep in the warmth, then headed out across the field. He waited and the look of delight on his face when he peered in at the little baby was all the spark she needed to get her heart’s fire going again. He chided her gently, reminding her that she was a country girl, her baby a country child, and that they must get out and be in the weather God gave them, good or bad. There is beauty to be found in a dark day, as well as in one flooded with light, he reminded her, and she took it to heart, along with the Bible verses he’d written out for her to study. It was but a short visit, snatched in secret, but she hugged the comfort of it to her breast and pushed anxiety away.
Bram was not so easily consoled. The chill was damaging his feed corn, and he was uneasy about the potatoes, a crop as unreliable as the weather. The verses he knew best were those citing the dismal history of the Irish potato: 1728, major crop failure; 1739, entirely destroyed; 1740, entire failure; 1770, failure due to curl; 1800 and 1807, general failure, and loss due to frost; 1821 and ’22, horrible distress in Munster and Connaught; 1830 and ’31, failure in Mayo, Donegal, and Galway; 1832, ’33, ’34, and ’36, crops lost to dry rot and curl in many districts; 1835, failure in Ulster; 1836 and ’37, extensive failures throughout Ireland; 1839, universal failure throughout Ireland with famine conditions from Bantry Bay to Lough Swilly; and last year, 1844, the early crop had been widely lost. Bram hated the potato, hated his dependence on it for rents and tenants’ livelihood, but he accepted that failure would come and go. There was, as yet, he told himself, no cause for alarm.
The sharp change in the weather was also affecting the animals; his horse, already high-spirited, had become nearly unmanagable, and the cows were fitful, producing poor-quality milk.
“Damn Irish weather,” he muttered time and again, and only scowled when Grace pointed out that it could just as easily turn for the better come morning.
Which it did. The gloom lifted, the clouds turned from black to gray to white wisps that strayed across the blue, the sun returned to dry out the land, and the potatoes appeared undamaged. Bram’s Freeman’s Journal reported that “the poor man’s property, the potato crop, was never before so large and at the same time so abundant”; the Times printed favorable reports from all four provinces of Ireland, and announced that “an early and productive harvest was everywhere expected.” He was relieved. Grace was relieved. Relief breezed across the fields on a tumbling wind as people stayed out of doors, smiled and sang, dug a few early potatoes, and waited. In the evenings, children walked barefoot in the warm soil, hip-deep through bushy plants, knocking against the delicate white blossoms that released an invisible sweetness into the air. The days grew shorter, the nights a bit longer, and so the last weeks of summer passed.
Long before dawn crept over the mountains, before the birds began to sing or the animals gave thought to stirring, long before happy dreams gave way to wakefulness, it came upon them: It had drifted across the ocean, and now—tired of the journey—began to settle on the ground, invisible, odorless, undetectable. As Ireland slept, it coated thick, healthy leaves, seeping down roots to the warm nests of potatoes, poisoning them with a foul rot that spread more quickly than the blink of an eye. Plant after plant after plant, field by field, one district after another, across the entire island. Unaware, Ireland slept.
Granna was not the first one up. Her night had been disturbed by dreams, and only at dawn had she finally slept. Now, she dressed slowly, tying her apron as she came into the kitchen. She stood for a moment, troubled, then pushed back the shutter, and there it was, in her first breath. It could be no other thing, and she closed her eyes against it, even as she became aware of the shouts from the fields echoing down the valley, felt agitation in the very stillness of the air. She knew, she knew. There could be no doubt. The blight had come again.
“Dear Lord have mercy on us,” she whispered, eyes still closed against the early morning light that hung heavy about the landscape.
When she opened them, Sean was hobbling back toward the cabin, eyes wide, face gone white.
“No need to say it, boy.” She put a hand out the window. “I felt it even in my dreams, though it wasn’t till this very minute that I knew.”
“What are we to do, Gran?” His voice was hoarse. “Da’s just sitting down in the middle of the field, staring out. Ryan as well.”
“Ever one is rotted?”
“Da says they’re all gone for it.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “But how can that be? They were fine! The leaves were green and glossy, the flowers as white as can be!”
“Come in now.” She eyed the shivering young man. “I’ll make you some tea for the shock.”
“I don’t understand.”
Gran poured boiling water from the kettle over the tea leaves in the pot, and when he’d come through the door, she spoke.
“Some say it comes in the night.” Steam rose from the pot. “Some say it’s borne on the wind, an invisible thing we cannot see. It settles on the leaves like dust, leaving little brown spots.” She poured out his cup. “Many will tell you ’tis the demon fairies having their fun, or the heavy hand of God in punishment. Whatever ’tis, when you go to bed at night, they are a beautiful sight—when you wake in the morning, they are rot.”
“’Tis a curse.” Sean took the cup and blew on it. “Black, slippery muck like nothing I’ve ever smelled before.”
“Aye. Sure and it’s the vapors of Hell come to earth, the stink of bad death.”
They heard a shout in the lane, then the door burst open and Aghna stumbled in. She’d been to her parents’ overnight to tell them of the baby she’d started; she’d left rosy and proud, but now stood out of breath and deathly pale, freckles standing out on her face like the pox.
“Oh, Lord, has it fallen here, as well?” she gasped.
Granna took her hand and helped her to the bench. “Sit down child, before you hurt yourself. Aye, ’tis here. Sometimes the Aran Islanders escape it, but not always.” She paused. “More as like, where it’s not, it soon will be.”
“Oh, Gran, what will happen to us?” The girl dropped her face into her hands and began to weep.
Sean looked hopelessly over her head at his grandmother. The back door opened and Patrick entered, followed by Ryan. Aghna jumped up and ran into the arms of her husband, who held her tightly but said nothing.
“Is there nothing to save, then?” Granna asked, bringing out more cups.
Patrick sat down heavily at the table and shook his head. “Here and there a good one, but most have turned to rot.” He wiped a dirty hand over his face.
Granna went to the door and looked across the road, up the gentle slope where the cabins of their neighbors sat on small plots of land. There was Campbell Hawes in the field high up, digging with his bare hands like a frantic puppy looking for a misplaced bone. He stopped, turned, and dug in another spot, then another, then finally sat back in the dirt and raged at the sky, shaking his fist and cursing God. Down the lane, the young Ryans came out of their cabins, stunned as moles in the sun, cowering now back against the door as their mother threw her apron over her face and began to wail.
The calamity of the earth was betrayed by a nearly perfect summer sky: Thin wisps of cloud, blown lightly by a warm breeze, stretched across the endless blue. Granna turned away
and came back into the dark cabin, knees shaking.
“Come now, girl,” she murmured to Aghna, who sobbed in the corner. “’Tis not the end of the world.”
Aghna lifted her tearstained face from Ryan’s knee. “What will we eat? How will we make it through the winter?” Her hand gripped her belly.
“Nay,” Granna soothed. “You’ll not lose it. We’re better off than most here. We’ve got other foods in the larder, and animals to slaughter. Arrah, we must be frugal, but we’ll not starve.”
Patrick stood and put a hand on Aghna’s head. “You listen to Granna, girl,” he said. “She’s been through it enough times to know.”
“Where are you going, Da?” Sean spoke up.
“I’ve got to clear away the weeds and stalks, then dig up what’s left and burn. Any that haven’t gone bad, we’ll clean and store against the winter.”
Sean got up awkwardly from the bench. “I’ll help.”
“No, boy,” Patrick said, not unkindly. “I need a strong back to work quickly. Ryan’ll do the digging.” He saw the look on Sean’s face. “There’s other work you can do.” He nodded toward the store shed. “See what’s left, and take count of the pigs and chickens. How many to eat, how many to breed, what for eggs and to butcher when the time comes.”
“We’d best harvest the garden.” Granna looked at Aghna. “Come on, girl, and we’ll see what we can spare for your folk.”
Aghna’s face went white. “They have nothing,” she whispered. “Four children left to home, and ten shillings rent come due after harvest day. They’ll not make it. They’ll be turned out.” She turned her wide eyes to Ryan’s face.
He lifted her to her feet and held her tightly in his arms, looking at Granna over her shoulder.
“They’ll not be turned out, not in times such as these,” he said firmly. “We’ll share what we have.”
Granna nodded, even as she thought of the five mouths here, Aghna’s six, the neighbors who never planted more than they had to and barely kept chickens enough for eggs. The winter would be long.
“Sean,” she said quietly, nodding toward the back door.
He followed her to the store shed, where they kept apples and onions, and hung the ham in autumn.
“You’re worried.” Sean took her hand.
Granna sighed, and shrugged her small shoulders. “I’ve seen it before.”
They looked around the room, taking into account the few crocks on the shelves, the store of last year’s potatoes, two barrels of apples, sacks of flour and oats, herbs drying from the roof beam. What, by any neighbor’s account would be plenty, now seemed meager.
Granna pulled him further into the room, lowering her voice. “We must be selfish now, boy, and make out we have less than we do, or it’ll be everyone coming to our door and ourselves starving before the next crop.”
Sean nodded. “I can dig a false floor to hide the crocks and spread out the apples. Should we slaughter the pig?”
“Too warm yet—it’ll spoil. But soon enough the chickens and pigs will start to disappear, so keep a close eye. At first frost, we’ll butcher what we can.”
“All right, then.” Sean’s face was grim. “I’ll start now.”
“And you mustn’t let Ryan or Aghna see you do it. It’s only right that she’ll want to help her family, and Ryan will want her to, as well, but we must get by on as little as possible. If they carry a load of supplies over the hill, it’ll be eaten up, shared with other neighbors and gone in a month. If we send smaller amounts, they’ll keep it for themselves and make it last. Do you see?”
“Aye, Gran.”
“It sounds uncharitable, un-Christian …” She shook her head.
“No.” Sean put his arm around her. “It’s called ‘rationing.’ Giving out only what is needed, as it’s needed. ’Tis the best way, Gran. You mustn’t feel guilty.”
“Easy to say now.” She looked at the food. “But when they come crying to the door with their starving babies at empty breasts …”
“We’ll feed them a bowl of porridge, put bread in their pockets, and send them on,” he said firmly.
“Easy to say now,” she repeated, leaning against him for a moment.
They stepped back out into the warm sunlight, aware of the stillness—no more wailing and cursing, all was quiet. A blanket of despair had settled over the hills.
“Arrah, we’ll not have to worry about Grace and little Mary Kate,” she said. “That’s a blessing in itself.”
“Aye.” Sean nodded. “And perhaps she can put a word in with the Squire about Aghna’s folk and the rent.”
Granna turned to him in alarm. “No!” she said. “You mustn’t ask her to do that! Nor for any help a’tall!”
Sean frowned. “But why? She’d be glad to do it!”
“’Tis not right with themselves, sure and you know this.” Her eyes implored him. “He’s not a contented man for all our Grace married him. She must step carefully in her own house, without us tripping her up.”
Sean nodded, but said nothing.
“Sure and you know she’s not as she was. She keeps something from us, some shame or worry.” Granna looked up at the vast sky. “When the baby died, she went away from us, himself included. But she came back for wee Mary Kate, and is stronger now because of it. And yet …” She paused, searching. “Yet, I cannot help but think her strength has left her blind in some way, so she sees all’s well, when all’s naught.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say to you.”
“It’s all right.” Sean took her hand. “I understand. I’ll tell her that we’re fine here, that we’ve enough to see us through.”
“You see her, then?” Granna’s eyes brightened. “Sure and you do, being of one heart as you are.”
“I drive over now and then to the wood behind her house, just to have a look at things,” he admitted.
“That’s a comfort to me, boy. ’Tis well on you.”
“Sometimes she sees me and comes out with the baby. Other times she just waves … or shoos me away, I don’t know which,” he laughed.
“Morgan goes, as well, does he?” she guessed.
“He doesn’t say, but I think he must. He’s riding out from home two, three days a week now, carrying messages to …” He stopped suddenly, then glanced at her, appalled.
“I know all about the Young Irelanders, boy, if that’s what’s making your face go all red.” She smiled grimly. “Better keep a closer watch on your tongue, though. There’s as many spies as patriots in our land.”
Sean gulped. “But how … how …”
“Women know to keep an ear to the ground, an eye on the land, and a finger in the wind.” She patted his shoulder. “Don’t look so caught. Your grandfather was an Oak Boy, and Ribbon Men have stood up for both sides of your family.”
“You don’t mind, then?”
“I mind if you get yourself killed,” she warned. “So don’t. Use the brains God gave you and get us out of this mess before the famine kills us all. You and Morgan are leading the rise in these parts, I expect.” She paused, and looked out over the field. “The McDonaghs will be in a bad way now. That rascal Nally’s not been back all of a year.”
“Morgan planted other things beside potatoes,” Sean told her. “Not much—some onions, peas, corn …”
“No good soil up there for corn,” Granna said.
Sean shrugged. “It’s come up. They’ll be able to eat it, or feed it to the pigs.”
“We’ll not forsake them.” Granna caught his eye. “You remember that’s my wish. He’s a son to me.”
Aghna came out of the cabin then, drying her face on her apron, Ryan kissing her cheek before striding up the hill to join his father. Looking at her young body and straight back, Granna felt a great weariness unlike any she’d ever known. She was too old to face this again: too old to watch their faces grow thin and pale, their hair become lank, their bodies fragile and weak; too old to watch as Aghna suffered through
an undernourished pregnancy only to lose the baby or give birth to a sickly child; too old to witness the loss of compassion as they hardened themselves to the misery of face after face appearing at the door begging for food when there was no more food; too old to guide them through the pain of watching good people and innocent children die in the road for want of a potato on their plates. She was too old to do this again, even as she knew no other choice; and, in her heart, she asked her Lord why it must be so.
By October, the island was in a panic. Rumors flew with such speed that information gathered in the morning was easily refuted by afternoon. Good, healthy-looking potatoes could still be dug, but within days of storing them in the customary pits, rot set in. Farmers flooded the market with potatoes, unloading them before they turned worthless.
In an effort to combat growing fear, the Scientific Commissioners published seventy thousand copies of “Advice Concerning the Potato Crop to the Farmers and Peasantry of Ireland.” Potatoes still in good condition were to be put in the sun, surrounded by a shallow trench dug on all sides and filled with mold, turf sods, and “packing stuff” made by mixing lime, sand, burned turf, and dry sawdust. Diseased potatoes were to be grated into a tub, where the pulp could be washed, strained, then dried on a griddle. Starch left in the tub could be mixed with dried potato pulp and meal, then made into a nourishing loaf. But the instructions were complicated, and even those who managed them lacked the proper equipment to see the process through. Everyone had a theory, and the papers printed them all; common sense was soon forgotten.