Read The Rich Are with You Always Online
Authors: Malcolm Macdonald
The Rich Are with You Always (42 page)
"Trevelyan has a thousand eyes, they say," Ormond added. "Well, I'll tell ye—nine hundred and ninety-nine of them are glued to the Holy Writ of Economic Theory; the remaining one, which ought to be fixed on Ireland, is blind."
"And deaf," MacMinimum said.
They talked on for the best part of an hour, ending in agreement that there was no solution to this problem, short of the mass emigration of millions. The potato had been Ireland's ruin. It had encouraged the growth of a vast population who had sprawled over the land, preventing its improvement; and because they needed no money in order to survive—for their sole equipment was a spade— they acted as a monstrous brake on the monied system, a millstone around the necks of those who sought to improve land and trade. If they could be cleared, there was some hope for the country; while they remained, there was none.
It was a long while before John got to sleep that night. Something Flynn had once said to him kept repeating itself in his mind. "Don't you think that if after seven hundred years of London government, you can't do better than this, you ought to leave Ireland to govern itself and get out with the best grace you may?" Flynn, of course, meant that the English government was uncaring and malignant—out to break Ireland and keep her as an inexhaustible well of cheap labour and a fertile nursery for the British army. But John's talk with Ormond had shown him that the danger was far more insidious: The corruption of a kindly, well-intentioned, paternalistic government could do more harm than the worst of tyrannies. Men who might have gone to England and earned good wages at the harvest now stayed at home and waited for relief work at one-third of those rates. Traders who might have started a line in meal for the populace would not even think of it, knowing that the government was always ready to step in and depress the price. And landlords and people of substance, who might normally offer charitable relief of their own, would certainly guard their purses as long as the government declared itself to be the great provider.
The result of such "government" would be a nation in which all enterprise was stifled, all charity smothered, all industry stagnant, and all self-reliance stultified. It would be the ultimate in the corruption of a people by paternal kindliness—a corruption that had already taken great hold in the country. Its eradication would inevitably be painful and the miseries of the people would be intense; but they would, even so, be light compared with the miseries of eternal enslavement at the wheel of poverty and relief works.
Perhaps the famine—like the plagues of Egypt of old—was sent by God as a warning to England and Ireland to turn from this course while time still offered. He was glad to hear that their priests were telling the people that the potato murrain was a visitation of the Almighty; he only hoped they went on to draw the full lesson.
These convictions of his were to be tested hard in the days that followed.
The first of those tests came the following afternoon, when they were riding along that stretch of the route, around Carrick-on-Suir, where the rail was to run near the northern bank of the river for the best part of ten miles. It was a bright, breezy day, with plenty of blue sky, now filled with shoals of pale, dove-grey cloud, now empty of all but the merest whisps of white. On every side of them, as they rode down the winding valley of the Suir from Clonmel to Carrick, stretched great rolling hills, rising to the distant mountains—Slievenamon to the north, Comeragh to the south. The green of the spring grass and of the new leaves upon the trees was so intense that even riding through it for hours could not dim John's sense of wonder. In fact, the beauty all around was so breathtaking that, for the first time in his life, he actually caught himself thinking what a shame it would be to put a railway line here, to bring dirt and clamour to this Eden.
And it was at that moment, half a mile before Carrick-on-Suir, that they heard an actual clamour—of angry voices, hundreds of angry voices. John, who had many times heard the distant rioting of armies of drunken, brawling navvies on a payday randy, recognized it at once.
"The route goes north of the town," MacMinimum said with relief. "We'd best stay clear."
"You may," John answered. "I want to see this." And he spurred his hack forward at a canter down the hill and into the town. The noise guided him straight to the wharfs, down on the river side, for this part of the Suir is also an inland navigation up to Clonmel. The centre of the turmoil was a string of ten barges so laden with grain that only inches of freeboard remained. At first John imagined that this was relief food on its way to a Commissariat depot, for it was guarded by a large body of troops, about eighty infantry and fifty cavalry as well as two field guns and their crews—half on one bank, half on the other. But the cry that went up from the angry crowd, kept at bay by the military, was "Ireland starves, England profits!" Clearly this was a normal commercial shipment of grain for export.
John had come to the towpath as the stragglers of the crowd were passing. As soon as he saw their mood he made no attempt to join or follow; and the people, seeing he had not the cut of a government man, passed him by. All were in old, tattered clothes, some in outright rags; many were barefoot and hatless. Starvation gave a gaunt menace to their sullen anger—and they were angry, he could not doubt it. He had seen angry mobs in England. It is rare that a large crowd—and there must, he calculated, have been at least two thousand there—is entirely united in any mood. If they are happy, there will always be at least two men fighting and children crying; if they are annoyed, there will always be at least two swapping jokes and youngsters will be skipping at the fringe. But here there was none of that. They were angry to the point of erupting into riot. It would need only a charge of the cavalry or a shot fired over their heads to set them off.
As the stragglers passed he noticed a man sitting on a tree root, nursing a bloodstained foot. He was ragged and starved, one of the mob.
"Are you hurt?" John asked.
"Ah—I trod on glass beyond."
John got down to look.
"T'will stop soon enough," the man said.
It was badly cut and needed stitching. "I'll take you to a doctor," he said.
"I have no money."
"Would he refuse you?"
"He'd send me to the dispensary at the workhouse."
"I'll take you there then."
"It's not open until tomorrow, d'ye understand. It's the same doctor. I thank you now, but it'll be well."
The man took a lot of convincing that it would not be well unless it was stitched; and when John said that he would pay, there was a further argument. In the end, the man agreed to take a loan of two shillings and John's card, and he promised to send repayment when he was next in funds. John got him to sit facing backward in the saddle, resting the foot on the horse's rump.
The man's fastidiousness over money marked him as one not belonging to the mendicant class, and on the way to the doctor's, John asked him about himself. He was a small farmer, with three acres and a stone house, plastered walls within. His name was Conroy. His rent was thirty-six pounds a year, which was very hard on him. Some of the landlords had reduced or cancelled the rents this year; but his, a near-bankrupt squireen in a mouldering mansion with half its roof gone, could afford no abatement. Conroy had had to sell his entire grain harvest of last summer and the family's pig, to raise the money.
"It's on the navigation there this very minute," he said.
If he had eaten the grain instead, he and his family would not now be starving, but they would be homeless and the remains of the grain would have been seized for the debt. They would be beginning to starve; and once they had dropped to the level of homeless, destitute paupers they would never again rise. He had had no choice but to ignore the whimpering of his hungry children and take the grain to market.
"I can bear it all," he said, "but the keening of the little girls is hard…hard."
For John it was hard at that moment to remember the calm imperatives of economic law.
It was even harder the following day when he and MacMinimum rode north out of Waterford along the proposed route of the other railway, the Waterford & Kilkenny. It was only 31¼ miles, with a branch of 6¼ to Kells, so they expected to finish within the day. They covered barely a third of that distance. As he wrote to Nora:
We had gone through Mullinavat and came to a village whose name I do not
know—if it ever had one. If it did, it will surely live forever in the annals of infamy;
but for the mapmaker it has ceased to exist.
When we came to it, the militia had been there already for about an hour. They had
come in support of the constabulary, who had come in support of the agents of the
landlord, a certain Mrs. Pedelty. The village, comprising forty-nine houses, solidly
built and dry, with plastered walls, was upon her land and she wished it cleared.
The tenants were not in arrears with their rent and they had, entirely by their own
industry, cleared and reclaimed more than two hundred and fifty acres of bog.
come in support of the constabulary, who had come in support of the agents of the
landlord, a certain Mrs. Pedelty. The village, comprising forty-nine houses, solidly
built and dry, with plastered walls, was upon her land and she wished it cleared.
The tenants were not in arrears with their rent and they had, entirely by their own
industry, cleared and reclaimed more than two hundred and fifty acres of bog.
When the landlord's agents and the militia arrived, the tenants offered the whole
of next year's rent in advance if only Mrs. Pedelty would leave them at peace; it
had taken half-an-hour to get word to her of this offer and to bring back her refusal.
Then they asked for compensation for the land they had cleared and she sent back
to say if they persisted in the claim she would sue for delapidation and waste. The
sergeant of the constabulary said that any change in land or buildings by a tenant,
even an obvious improvement, was, in the eyes of the law, a "waste" and entitled
the landlord to compensation.
of next year's rent in advance if only Mrs. Pedelty would leave them at peace; it
had taken half-an-hour to get word to her of this offer and to bring back her refusal.
Then they asked for compensation for the land they had cleared and she sent back
to say if they persisted in the claim she would sue for delapidation and waste. The
sergeant of the constabulary said that any change in land or buildings by a tenant,
even an obvious improvement, was, in the eyes of the law, a "waste" and entitled
the landlord to compensation.
The villagers then, seeing they had no defence anywhere, rushed indoors and put up
what pathetic barriers they could. It was at this moment when MacMinimum and I
arrived. He was for going on at once, but I would stay; so he said he would return
to Mullinavat and wait for me in a bar there.
what pathetic barriers they could. It was at this moment when MacMinimum and I
arrived. He was for going on at once, but I would stay; so he said he would return
to Mullinavat and wait for me in a bar there.
The officer in charge of the militia refused to let his men take part in the eviction,
saying they were there merely to prevent disorder. Neither he nor his men had
stomach for such business. The implication that the constabulary were fomenting
disorder angered the sergeant, but he commanded his men to assist the bailiff and
agents in evicting the tenants. The scenes that followed were so piteous that even
now, two days after, I tremble to recall them; and the screams of the women and
frightened children are with me day and night. They were dragged, shrieking and
weeping, from their homes and hurled like so much old clothing into the middle of
the road. They were not even allowed to take such belongings as they had—pots and
stools and the like.
saying they were there merely to prevent disorder. Neither he nor his men had
stomach for such business. The implication that the constabulary were fomenting
disorder angered the sergeant, but he commanded his men to assist the bailiff and
agents in evicting the tenants. The scenes that followed were so piteous that even
now, two days after, I tremble to recall them; and the screams of the women and
frightened children are with me day and night. They were dragged, shrieking and
weeping, from their homes and hurled like so much old clothing into the middle of
the road. They were not even allowed to take such belongings as they had—pots and
stools and the like.
I saw one young boy, of thirteen I would say, have his leg broken by one agent—a brute
of a man who grinned when the lad cried out. I actually heard the bone break though I
was ten paces away. I went to the sergeant and told him this, but he ordered me to be
on my way. I then said I was a friend of Sir Randolph Routh and that if the agent was
not immediately taken in charge for assault, I should send in the strongest adverse report
on his conduct of this entire vile business. The agent then walked away with a constable,
ostensibly in arrest, but whether they spent the day over the brow of the hill twiddling
their thumbs I cannot say. At least I have the man's name and have written to the
Inspectorate of Constabulary at Dublin Castle and to the Sheriff of Kilkenny County.
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