The Rebels of Ireland (108 page)

“Our land is rich,” agreed Stephen.

“And our people. The Irishman, Sir, is quick, intelligent, and hardworking. English prejudice has him as slow and lazy, but that is a base calumny. The truth is the opposite. Yet what have we here in Clare? Human resources, as unused as this swamp, and as needlessly miserable.”

“I assume you'll use your newspaper, Mr. Knox, to press for these things,” remarked Stephen, as they drove back into Ennis later.

“I have written to the Dublin authorities in person, as well as promulgating these views in print, Mr. Smith,” Knox replied, “and I shall never give up.”

In the days that followed, there was not the least sign of the Dublin authorities taking any action. But despite Knox's concern over the crop as Christmas approached, the winter season in Ennis was not without its amusements. In the middle of the month, the better sort in the town were intrigued by a visit from Mr. Wilson, the famous phrenologist. Setting up in Church Street, he offered, by a careful examination of a person's cranium, to give them an exact and scientific portraiture of their character and abilities, including, perhaps, talents of which they were not even aware. “Since he charges five shillings, which is five or six days' wages for a common labourer,” Charles O'Connell remarked, “we shall never know the characters of the poor. But I think you and I should try it, Stephen.”

Rather against his will, Stephen was persuaded to sit in Mr. Wilson's contraption while that gentleman, by means of measuring tapes, callipers, screws, and finger-proddings, examined him and finally pronounced: “Did you know, Sir, that you have a remarkable bump of benevolence?”

“It must have grown,” Stephen said drily, “since I was younger.”

It was about an hour later, walking alone through the town, that he encountered the young woman. She was waiting outside the courthouse. Inside, another visitor to Ennis, the child star Miss Heron, was giving a performance. He hadn't wanted to go himself, but he knew the house was packed, including a section in the gallery with cheap seats for the poor.

She was a pale, rather plain young woman; she was holding the hand of a little boy. Idly, as he had nothing better to do, he paused to ask her what she was doing.

“My sister bought tickets for the performance, Sir,” she answered. “My father and sisters are inside with her. It is a Christmas treat.”

“You did not wish to go in?”

“She had four tickets, Sir. I was happy to wait with my little brother.”

He asked her where she came from, and she briefly told him their story.

“I am sorry you lost your land,” he said.

“There are many like us,” she replied. “And we do well enough, do we not, Daniel?” she said with a sweet smile to the little boy.

Though she was plain, Stephen thought he liked her. There was a simpleness and goodness about her.

“I wish you better fortune in the New Year,” he said, and moved on.

Some time later, from the window of Charles O'Connell's house, he saw the girl and her family walking along the street. Did the big man, who must be her father, look vaguely familiar? Perhaps. It was hard to be sure, but he had an excellent memory for faces. He had an idea that he remembered him, marching to the poll, on that famous day years ago when Father Murphy had harangued the crowd. Her sisters looked lively enough. But one he noticed especially. A strikingly pretty young thing. He stared. It was really quite remarkable that such a pretty girl could be the sister of one who was so plain.

On Christmas Day, in the afternoon, Charles O'Connell announced: “Before we eat our own dinner, Stephen, I must put in an appearance at the workhouse. Why don't you accompany me and see the place?”

The workhouse. Even the name was enough to frighten you. It was an English institution, the place where, if you were destitute and without work, you went as a haven of last resort. It was run by a Board of Guardians, consisting mostly of local gentlemen. It was a brutal-looking place, just north of the old town, but O'Connell seemed almost proud of it. “It's new,” he explained, “and unlike many such places, it's clean.”

They passed through a big brick gateway into a large yard. It might have been either a barracks or a prison. On each side were the various wings of the institution.

Perhaps it was just the greyness of the day, but to Stephen, the whole place seemed dreary: dreary doors and dreary windows; dreary brick, dreary mortar; and above, a roof of dark slate, slanting drearily under the blank sky.

“It's run on the strictest English model,” Charles told him. “Total segregation. Men, women, and children all kept apart. They separate husbands from wives and mothers from children as soon as they arrive, and send them to different blocks. Give them just enough sustenance to keep them alive, nothing more.”

“That is cruel. I wonder why any would stay here.”

“That's the idea. The Guardians have ordered it must be kept as unpleasant as possible. Otherwise, since it provides free food and lodging, they'd have half the population of Ennis trying to live here, and never get them out. Or so they believe.”

He sighed. “They may not be entirely wrong.”

But once a year, on Christmas Day, the rules of the workhouse were relaxed and all the inmates were brought together for a Christmas dinner.

The hall was large. Most of the inmates were men, with rather less women and a sprinkling of children, but they numbered several hundred. They appeared to be somewhat ragged, but clean. They were sitting at long, bare trestle tables. As Stephen watched several members of the Board of Guardians, a clergyman and a priest appeared. The director said a few words of Christmas comfort and ordered a cheer for the queen, which was dutifully supplied. Then a meal of meat, potato, and cabbage was served, comforting proof, perhaps, that here in Ennis food was still in plentiful supply, upon occasion, for even the poorest of the poor.

At the start of the new year, his literary work well completed, Stephen returned to Dublin. His stay in Ennis had been instructive—a change, at least, that had helped distract him from the loss of Caroline. But it had not brought him peace of mind. If anything, the reverse. His life no longer seemed to have the meaning he had supposed it had, and he did not know what to do.

Stephen was rather surprised, in March, to receive a letter from Mr. Knox. It seemed that once that indefatigable gentleman had you on
his list, he did not let you go. And truth to tell, although Stephen's affairs in Dublin kept him very busy, the memory of what he had seen in Ennis had been often in his mind. Having read the letter carefully, he understood exactly why the newspaper owner had written to him. And as he was due to see Lord Mountwalsh that day, he took the letter with him.

The big house on St. Stephen's Green was always a friendly haven, and there was just a small company there, including himself and Dudley Doyle, who had made rather a point of being friendly to him now that his daughter was safely married to someone else.

William Mountwalsh looked amused when he said he had a letter from Mr. Knox. “You know of him, then?” Stephen asked.

“We all know of Mr. Knox,” replied the earl with a smile. “But tell us what he has to say.”

So Stephen read.

 

The situation in Ennis is as I predicted, and if anything, worse. The shortages began by February, and with scarcity came a rise in prices. The usual price for a fourteen-pound sack of potatoes in Ennis market is two pence; but now it is five. That is a terrible burden for the poor. Sometimes it has not been possible to obtain potatoes at any price. At the workhouse, they have run out, and are trying to buy in cheap grain, imported from India. Others have tried to eat bad potatoes. In the fever hospital, the patients were fed with bad potatoes, and as a result there has been much sickness of the bowels.

The government has ordered the lords lieutenant of each county to establish relief committees, but progress is far too slow.

Having lost patience, our local magistrates have taken matters into their own hands. Under existing laws, they have the power to provide employment, the cost of which will be half paid for by the government and half financed by a government loan—which, as a community, we shall eventually have to repay. The employment so far consists of some road works and other trivial schemes; though
I hope we may later make a start upon some of the projects about which I spoke to you when you were here. But at present I estimate that only one in four of those needing work have employment.

Further to this, we in Ennis have formed a relief committee. Most of the townsmen on it are your own associates—by which I mean that they are O'Connell's men; so most of the local gentry have not cared to join us. I am surely the only Protestant Tory on the committee. Outside Ennis, however, our gentry are trying to provide work and sustenance, and contributions for relief are being solicited. But these efforts form a patchwork and lack proper direction. Those on the estates of absentees usually fare worse. In one parish, two thousand souls are without any supply of food.

It is remarkable that there have been so few disturbances. This may be partly due to the numbing effect of the weather, for it has been cold and damp; just recently, we have had snow.

It is hard to understand how our government can be so careless of the suffering of its people.

 

When he had stopped reading, Stephen looked to William Mountwalsh.

“Why is the government so careless? Is Knox exaggerating?”

“Oh no. I'm sure he's telling the truth,” replied the earl. “But our friend Knox mistakes for carelessness what is, in fact, a deliberate policy. I spoke to someone at the Castle yesterday. The government is putting off help as long as possible, for a simple reason. It's the only way to get these local people to take any responsibility for their own affairs. Look at Ennis. Knox himself is a great exception, but time and again, the rest of the townsmen and the local gentry there have proved that they never do a damn thing for the place until they're absolutely forced to.” He smiled. “I dare say it's human nature. I'm sure I don't do nearly as much as I should, because I don't have to.”

“He works very hard,” protested Lady Mountwalsh.

“All over Ireland, the landowners want the government to bail them out. And the government isn't going to do it.”

“But they can't just let the people starve.”

“No. And, in fact, Knox is about to get his wish. The government is going to step in. But the local men will still have to shoulder the burden and take responsibility.”

“What form will that take?”

“More or less what Knox wants. A large program of public works. The argument is that it's wrong to give money to those who are able-bodied. It corrupts them and takes away their self-respect. They must be given work for what they get. But he's right about the price of food being too high. There will probably have to be subsidies to keep the prices down.”

There was a hissing sound from Dudley Doyle. The economist was shaking his head.

“Take care, gentlemen,” he cried. “Take care. You may bring in cheap food, like Indian meal; or you may increase supply sufficiently to bring down prices. But do not subsidise food. It is tempting, but you must not do it. You are subverting the market. That is wrong.” He turned to Stephen. “You are a Whig. I count upon you for support.”

“I don't know,” said Stephen.

The worst moment, Maureen thought, had been on St. Patrick's Day. They had heard about the man killed at noon.

It had happened just outside the town. Nobody seemed to know who had done it, but no one was much surprised. The man was an agent, and he had a reputation for evicting.

It was amazing to Maureen that people could be so cruel. At a time when everyone was suffering, people were still being thrown off the land; but her father seemed to accept it. “With the shortages, the agents can get even higher rents for the land; and the men who rely on potatoes may not be able to pay any rent at all.” He sighed. “That's the way of it. If the landlord insists on getting the best return, you can't even blame the agent really, I suppose.”