The Rebels of Ireland (109 page)

“I can,” said Maureen.

So, in all likelihood, had some of the evicted tenants, for the fellow had been left dead by the roadside.

Maureen and her father had been standing in the market by the courthouse when she noticed Callan. He was on his horse, and it looked as if he had just arrived. She noticed that he was very pale. He was staring down at the cobblestones, and his face was working. She wasn't sure, but he seemed to be talking to himself. Then he looked up, and his gaze travelled round the marketplace; he caught sight of them and he stared. She stared back at him and saw, with surprise, that his eyes were full of fear.

He couldn't disguise it. He was afraid. She realised what he must be thinking. Would her father, or someone like him, be leaving him for dead on the road that spring? She knew very well that her father would never do such a thing, but if little Callan was frightened now, so much the better. Let him suffer, too. She did not drop her eyes, but kept on staring boldly. And slowly, seeing her defiance, the fear in his eyes changed to a look of loathing.

Some time later, as they were walking home, the agent came riding up behind them and went past. As he did so, he turned and gave her father a terrible look, which seemed to say: “You want me dead. I'll kill you first.”

But the moment she remembered most was back at the house, just before dusk. There was a sharp wind getting up outside, and the children were huddled by the turf fire, but her father had gone into the store at the other end of the cottage. He had a lamp in his hand, and he was surveying the remaining potatoes they had, piled against the wall. As the light caught his broad face, she realised how deep were the lines of stress upon it. Normally, like her, he kept a cheerful countenance in front of the children; but caught for a moment in that pale light, he looked infinitely sad. She put her hand on his arm. He nodded but did not speak. Then he glanced down at her.

“I had hoped to use these,” he said quietly. “I didn't tell you, but there's a man I know who has a field. I'm not speaking of mock
ground where you've to pay for harvesting a field that's already planted. He'd have let me plant it and harvest it like my own.” He gestured to the potatoes in front of them. “These were to be the seed potatoes. But I daren't do it, Maureen, for I can never be sure of keeping the work, and the prices in the market…to tell you the truth, it frightens me. So we'll have to eat these and not plant them. You must make them last as long as you can.” He shook his head, and then, in a voice in which sadness and bitterness were equally mixed: “And this is Ireland, on Saint Patrick's Day.”

The next day, a company of the 66th Regiment hastily arrived in Ennis to reassure the nervous local gentry after the murder.

A few days after that, the snow started.

Compared to many of their neighbours, Eamonn Madden was one of the lucky ones. He had been picked as one of three hundred men to work on the local roads. From England, Colonel Wyndham had sent six hundred pounds for repairing the Ennis streets. “That pays for three hundred men for two months,” her father pointed out. Meanwhile, as the snow ended and the weather began to get a little milder, the authorities in Dublin had started to provide some help. Nearly five hundred more labourers were employed on public works, but the progress on Mr. Knox's ambitious projects was continually delayed. And another class of men was also starting to suffer now. “With all this trouble,” her father told Maureen, “and people having to dip into their pockets for relief, there's no money spent in Ennis, and the local craftsmen will soon be in as bad a state as ourselves.”

In the market, the price of grain was still rising. News came that down on the Shannon estuary, a grain ship had been robbed by hungry local men.

One day, her father went in to work in the morning and returned before noon, looking shaken.

“The wages were lowered. The boys are refusing to work.”

“But the wages were ten pence a day. That's only a pittance.”

“I know it. And it's to be eight pence now. But the boys will have
to give in. I met Mr. Knox himself, and he told me: ‘We haven't the money to pay them.'”

Her father proved to be right. The men went back, at eight pence a day. On the first day back, she asked him if there'd been any trouble.

“Not really,” he answered, “except for a fine lady passing, who told us she couldn't see why we were making a mess of the street.”

The wages were not enough to feed the family, especially with the higher prices of everything; but a few days later, Maureen found some Indian meal that the relief committee had been able to buy in to be sold at cut price. It was poor stuff, she thought, but it kept body and soul together.

And so the town of Ennis staggered from the spring into the summer. The merchants in town did what they could to help; the local gentry, for the most part, did not. Everyone was at a low ebb. But for many in Ennis, hope seemed in sight, for two reasons.

The early potato harvest was in sight. Many people had consumed their seed potatoes during the shortage, but enough had been put in the ground to ensure a decent early harvest. Eamonn had been able to secure a piece of mock ground again that he could harvest. “Just a few more weeks to go,” he would encourage his family, “and the worst will be over.”

The second cause for hope was political. Since his retreat from Clontarf and his brief time in prison, less had been heard from Daniel O'Connell. There was a rumour that he was unwell. But the Young Ireland men were keeping the cause of Repeal alive, and even if there was no chance of it happening at present, the dream of a free Ireland was still enough to stir the heart. Now, however, a more immediate hope had arisen, of a change of government in England; and late in June it came to pass. The Tories were out; the Whigs were back in. Weren't the Whigs the Liberator's allies? Hadn't they always been sympathetic to Catholic Ireland? The Repealers were delighted. All Catholic Ireland looked for better things. During early July, though the relief funds were almost gone and everyone was hungry, the summer sun seemed to bring promise of hope.

It was on a warm day in the third week of July that Maureen and her father went out to the field where their potatoes were growing. They had been out to inspect them the day before, after the news had begun to spread. Now they gazed in silence.

For the field was an open expanse of blackened leaves. And from it arose a terrible stench that made you want to turn your head away. And all around, the other fields were just the same.

He arrived in Ennis on a clear November day. It was entirely thanks to Mountwalsh that he was there.

“Not at all,” the kindly earl had assured him when he had proffered his thanks. “They were only too glad to get you, Stephen. Your reputation precedes you, and I reminded them that you were one of the true Catholic Whigs, which I'd say you are. The new government liked that, very much. A sound man, I told them, who dislikes the dangerous tendencies of some of these Young Ireland boys. And an excellent organiser. I've no doubt you'll do very well.”

At least it would be a change. For, by the end of that summer, Stephen Smith had had enough. He wanted no more of the world of politics. Not for a while, anyway. Even the return of the Whigs to power had failed to reignite his interest. Had he done anything useful in all these years? he'd asked himself. He hoped so. Was he doing anything useful now? No, he was not. His old master O'Connell was unwell. There was nothing he could really do for him. He disliked the Young Ireland men—William Mountwalsh was perfectly right about that. They meant well, some of them, but they lacked discipline. Some of them even wanted to start an insurrection like Emmet. Futile. And dangerous. They'd go down and take others with them, just as Emmet had done before.

But it had been another letter from Mr. Knox of the
Clare Journal
that had given him the idea. He had been shocked by its contents, and when Knox had described the organisation that was being
put in place down there, it had suddenly occurred to him that this might be a chance for him to do something really useful.

So now here he was, as an overseer of the new program of public works that was to save Ennis from starvation. He would be working for Mr. Hennessy, the head overseer for the region, and both would report to a brisk naval officer, known as the Captain, who had charge of the county. He had not wanted to impose upon Charles O'Connell, who had kindly offered him a room in his own house; but Charles had found him lodgings close by.

Hennessy, who saw him his first morning, proved to be a tall, mild, and pleasant man, who quickly outlined the scale of operations. “My own guess,” he said, “is that by the end of the year we shall employ fifty thousand men in this county.” The new government wanted to control matters strictly. There was a new committee to take over the running of the entire county. It was appointed by the Lord Lieutenant, and although some Catholics served on it, the chairman and most of the members were Protestant gentlemen. Hennessy told Stephen he would be given several projects to manage in Ennis, and also made clear what the rules of operation were to be. “There must be no deviation,” he warned. “The new government means to be thorough but firm.” Were there any particular problems he should know about? he asked. “Well,” Hennessy hesitated, “I think it's fair to say that there's still a bit of catching up to do. Until we got started, there was…” he searched for a good word, “a hiatus.”

It was that afternoon, when he called upon Mr. Knox at the
Journal
, that Stephen discovered what this meant. Knox, following his usual practice, called for his pony and trap and gave him a quick tour. The difference from his previous visit was astonishing. Where, before, he had seen ragged children and worried faces, he now saw little creatures like skeletons and women with staring eyes.

“These people aren't poor; they're starving.”

“Some are, some not. Some died already.”

“But how?”

“Very simple. This July and August, the potato harvest failed. When I say failed, I mean that every potato in the market was rotten. I mean that not a single field, not a single garden patch in all of Ennis, produced a single potato that could be eaten. The stink of the rotted fields wafted over the town as if it were an open plague pit. I mean, Smith, that after months of hardship, the people of Ennis failed to produce any food whatsoever of their own. Unfortunately, it was also the time of a change of government. And you know how it is when a government changes. Nothing that was done before can be right.”

“And so?”

“Why, they closed down the relief committees, of course. Nothing was done. It remained that way until October. People helped each other not to starve, but especially in the remoter places the old and the sick died off. We reported what we could, but you don't always know at the time. There were many deaths, certainly.”

“It will be changed now.”

“Will it? How? You will provide public works?”

“On a great scale.”

“And will you subsidise food?”

“I understand not.”

“Indeed, you will not. For that would distort the market, which, in the eyes of a Whig, is a heinous crime.”

Stephen thought of Dudley Doyle.

“I don't deny it,” he confessed.

“Then, since the price of food, being so scarce, has now risen to new heights, the wages you pay to these thousands of men will not be sufficient for them to buy food for their families. They will not be idle and starve, Mr. Smith; they will work and starve.” He looked at Stephen severely. “I am only a Tory, Sir. You are a Whig, the Irish Catholic's friend. This is your government. Why is your government so foolish?”

“I cannot answer.”

“But I can. The Whigs, Sir, have married their devotion to doctrine, to their total ignorance of local conditions. The resulting child will be famine, on a scale we have not yet seen.”

“That is not their object. The Whigs are entirely well-meaning.”

“Of course they are well-meaning,” the newspaper owner cried. “That is the trouble. The present Whig leaders are reformers, they have extended the franchise, they have sought to help the Catholics. They are more than well-meaning: they believe they are righteous. And therefore they will not listen. Therein lies the tragedy.” He paused only to draw breath. “What is the greatest crime against humanity, Smith?”

“Deliberate cruelty, I should think.”

“And you would be wrong. It is not cruelty, nor evil intent. It is stupidity.”

“And why do you tell me this?” asked Stephen.

“In order that you may learn,” said Knox. Then he drove him back.

In the days that followed, Stephen was immersed in his work. There seemed to be a new scheme to employ people every few days. Some, like giving Ennis a decent sewer system, were worthwhile. But most were just unnecessary roadwork, whose main effect was to block the road leading into the town. On one occasion, he suggested to Hennessy that a patch of waste ground could be cleared and dug. It belonged to an elderly farmer who had lacked the energy to do it himself. “At least he could grow grain there and increase the food stock,” Stephen suggested. But Hennessy had shaken his head and reminded him: “You should know better, Stephen. That's private land. Improving it would be reproductive work, since the grain grown there belongs to the farmer and goes to market. We'd be creating personal profit and interfering with trade. Can't do it. Only public works, my boy, however useless.” So the land remained waste.