The Rebels of Ireland (110 page)

He'd been there ten days when he witnessed a small incident. He was observing a gang of about fifty men who were cleaning the verges along the road that led down to the docks. The work was pro
ceeding at a snail's pace, but some of the men looked so weak from lack of nourishment that it would have been cruel to push them harder; and since the work was quite pointless, there was no reason to do so anyway.

A cart laden with grain came lumbering down the road in the direction of the docks. The men watched it dully. But then three of them, without a word, detached themselves and went across to it. One of the three was the big fellow Stephen had seen with the plain girl and her sisters the December before. The man, he had since learned, was called Madden. When they reached the cart, Madden spoke to the driver. Stephen couldn't hear what was said, but the big fellow seemed to be quietly reasoning rather than threatening. After a few moments, the driver nodded, the men led the horses round, and the cart began to return from where it had come. The three men, meanwhile, went silently back to their work.

Stephen hesitated. It was obvious that what he had just witnessed was illegal. Should he intervene? He decided to wait and ask Hennessy about it later.

“It happens quite a bit,” Hennessy told him. “They won't let grain leave the area. There hasn't been any violence to speak of, but one or two horses have been maimed as a warning. And you can't find anyone in the county that dares to give the farmers a valuation for the horses, so they can't collect any insurance. Technically, it's intimidation, of course. But usually, we just ignore it. You can hardly blame them. That grain leaving for the port might be the last bit of nourishment their children ever see.”

Certainly, the men gave him no other trouble. Madden was a dignified figure: a splendid physique, greying now and made gaunt by lack of sustenance. But though it was clear that, amongst the men who worked with him, he had a certain moral ascendancy, he always moved with gentleness. But it seemed that fate had decided that they should come into conflict.

Another week passed before Stephen came face-to-face with the Captain.

The short, peppery naval man whose duty it was to organise some fifty thousand men into work parties across the county was not likely to be popular.

“My job, Mr. Smith,” he said, “is to see that those most in need are given work. I won't tolerate troublemakers, and I won't tolerate abuses. Yesterday, I discovered that two of the men on a work detail were farmers with land of their own. One man had fifty acres. But he was a friend of a gentleman on the local committee who thought he'd like to pick up some extra cash in his spare time. Monstrous. I threw him out, and I told the committee man what I thought of him, too. There'll be no fear or favour while I'm over here, is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“Good.” The Captain was riffling through a sheaf of papers. “You have a man named Madden in one of your details?”

“I do.”

“Another fraud. He has a small landholding. Enough to support him. I want him off.”

“I believe he lost his holding some time ago.”

“Could be. The fools who compiled these sheets aren't much use. Some of the information's out of date. There's a recent report on him anyway from a man named Callan. An agent. Says he's a troublemaker. Possibly violent. Have you seen anything like that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmm. You hesitated. Throw him out. There are plenty of others who need the work. Now then.” He passed to other matters. But when he had finished and Stephen was leaving, he called him back. “Don't forget about Madden, because I shan't.” He eyed Stephen sharply. “In that connection, before you go, there's one other thing I'd better explain.”

He dismissed Madden the following morning. “You'll be paid for this day, and I'll add two more days' pay,” he informed him, “but you're to leave now. I'm sorry.”

“I have my family to feed,” the big man said. “I ask you to reconsider.”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

“You are sentencing my children to death.”

This was, it seemed to Stephen, a slight exaggeration, but he said nothing. The truth was that he disliked the business very much. Madden turned slowly to leave. It had to be said, he was dignified in his grief.

As Stephen had guessed he would, the Captain himself passed by, in the early afternoon. “Madden gone?” he enquired. Stephen nodded. “Good,” the Captain said with a brief nod, and went on his way.

At the end of the day, Stephen took his time going back into Ennis. He walked slowly and thoughtfully. The sequence of events, though inevitable, had disturbed him. The dusk had fallen as he passed some miserable little cabins, then a short stretch of empty roadway, before coming to a wall. As he reached the wall, a figure stepped out.

He started. It was certainly a remarkable apparition. The figure was large, far bigger than he. It was wearing a white dress. Its face was blackened. It stood before him, barring his path.

“You know what this means?” asked the figure.

Of course he knew. Every Irishman knew the traditional warning of the Whiteboys: a man in woman's clothing, with a blackened face, appeared before you; if you ignored the warning, you must expect the consequences.

“Take heed,” said the figure. Then it turned away and strode up the road, turning off beside a cottage and vanishing into the dusk.

Stephen continued on his way home.

The next day passed without incident. He briefly considered reporting the matter, but after what the Captain had told him, he decided against it. If the men on the work detail knew he'd been threatened, they gave no sign. The next day was equally uneventful. The day after that, he was not working. And by now, he had decided what to do. It seemed to him that he had two important tasks.

First thing in the morning, he set out on foot, walking briskly
northwards to the outskirts of the town. He discovered without difficulty where the cottage he sought was. On reaching it, he found the door and looked in.

“God save all here.” He gave the traditional greeting as he entered.

Eamonn Madden looked greatly surprised to see him. He was sitting on a stool, his head bowed, before the small glow of the turf fire. Standing beside him was the plain young woman, his daughter.

“May I sit down?” There was a bench by the fire also. He rested himself upon it.

“We have nothing to offer you, Sir,” said the woman.

“I know.”

The doorway was open. Further light, of a sort, came from the single window. It had no glass, but across it, in the traditional manner, was stretched a thin sheepskin, which let in some light and kept out the wind. By this dim light, however, he could see that the room, with its earthen floor, was spotlessly clean. On one wall was a cheap print of the Blessed Virgin; on another, a print of Daniel O'Connell. He gazed at the woman. How old was she? In her midtwenties, he supposed, but stress and hunger had made her face haggard. Like her father, however, she had a quiet dignity. “You know who I am?” he asked, and she nodded. “Might I ask your name?”

“I am Maureen Madden,” she replied.

“May I know how many others there are in the family? You had a little brother, I remember, when I met you once in the marketplace.”

“That is little Daniel, Sir. Then there are my sisters Mary and Caitlin. My other sister, Nuala, works for a family in the town.”

“May I see the other children?”

She looked at her father, who said nothing.

“They are resting, Sir, in the other room. They sleep all together, to keep warm.”

“They are asleep at this time of the day?”

“It is cold outside. And they have not so much energy.” She went
into the next room. Madden glanced at him but said nothing, nor did Stephen say anything to the big man.

When Maureen returned, it was with the three children. They were pale and thin, but what struck him at once was that they moved with a strange slowness. Their eyes seemed slightly unfocussed. Perhaps it was that they had been asleep, but he did not think so. The girls looked at him dully, the little boy with eyes that were large and reproachful.

“How many meals a day have they received?”

“One, Sir. Up until now, while father was working.”

“What do you feed them?”

“Whatever I can find. There are no more potatoes. Sometimes there is Indian meal or other grain. Sometimes there are turnips and a little watercress.

“And how do you pass the time with them?”

“I read to them. I teach them also.”

“You read and write, then.”

“I do, Sir. Little Daniel has all his letters now, do you not, Daniel?” The boy nodded. “He makes them upon the table with his finger. I watch, and I can see if the letters are correct.”

“Thank you. If the children wish to rest, I would speak with your father now.”

When they were alone, he addressed Eamonn.

“That is all the food you could get with the wages you were paid?”

“It was.”

“I see. Your children are wasting.”

“A gentleman such as yourself would have no knowledge of people in our condition, I suppose.”

“Not so. My family is more like yours than you imagine.” And Stephen told him briefly about his family and relations up in Rathconan.

“An labhraionn tu gaeilge?” Madden asked. Do you speak Irish?

“I did as a child. A little. But I have forgotten it now. We speak it less in Leinster.”

“And your family. Do they starve also?”

“No.” There was considerable hardship up in the Wicklow Mountains, but it was more localised. Little as he liked the Budge family, they had seen to it that the people at Rathconan kept body and soul together. Down in Wexford, where agriculture was mixed, there was little hardship. By the huge Mount Walsh estate, you could be sure, none of the earl's tenants would need to worry. Other parts of the country varied, with the worst conditions in the west. “Now I must ask you a question. Does anyone know that you put on a dress the other night?” Eamonn looked at him evenly from under his heavy eyebrows but said nothing. “I knew it was you,” Stephen went on. “Does Maureen know?” Eamonn indicated that she did not. “The other men?”

“They do not.”

“I didn't report you. Not out of fear. But I will tell you something you should know. I was half expecting something of the kind. My orders are that if any threat is received, I'm to tell the Captain, and he will close down the entire work detail from which the threat comes. That would have been fifty men out of work. And I've no doubt that he'll do it.”

“The man is a devil.”

“No, you are wrong. He is quite determined to be fair. He'll fight the local gentry just as fiercely.”

“He threw another man out of work because he possessed a cow. Said if he had a cow, he had means of feeding his family. Were the man's seven children to choose between milk and starvation?”

“That is my point. He means well, in fact. But he has not the least understanding of the conditions under which Irish people live. By the way, he says that Callan the agent believes you to be dangerous.”

“It's Callan that threw me off my land. I've done nothing to him, but he probably fears that I will. There were threats made against others up there, though not by me.”

Maureen came back now. She glanced at Stephen, obviously wondering what his intentions might be. Madden was fortunate in
his daughter, Stephen thought. You could not but admire the gentle calmness in her manner as she held that family together. There was a beauty in it.

“I cannot be seen to be threatened, Mr. Madden,” he said firmly. “You understand what I mean. But you may report back to work with me tomorrow.”

“And the Captain?”

“We shall have to take things day by day.”

He bowed his head politely to Maureen and left them.

That afternoon, he set about his second task. This was to compose a letter. It was quite a long letter. It set out clearly what he had seen, including the conduct of the Captain, whom he commended for doing his best within his lights. The conclusion of his letter was forceful.

 

I have always believed in the free working of the market, and I still do. But it is also clear to me now that the market does not operate satisfactorily under extreme conditions. And the conditions in Clare now are extreme, and are becoming graver. Because of the high price of food, when it may be had, and our refusal to subsidise it, even those employed are suffering from malnutrition and those out of work will shortly starve.

Unless we feed these people, they will die.

 

When he had done, he sent it not to the Lord Lieutenant, nor to Dublin Castle. He sent it to the one man who he thought might be able to make something happen. He sent it to kindly William Mountwalsh.

As Christmas approached, the Madden family had good reason to be grateful to Stephen. All over the west, the system of relief was breaking down. In the remoter parts of Clare and Galway, whole parishes were without food. Reports came in of villages starving.
Along the street near their cottage, Maureen knew of three old women and an old man who had died of hunger and cold. One day, walking into the town, she saw a body lying frozen outside one of the cottages. By mid-December, there were a dozen poor souls begging in the market. The week before Christmas, it was twice that. If it weren't for the little wage that her father was able to bring, she supposed she might have been begging there herself. She thought with gratitude of Mr. Smith on most days, therefore. She also learned something new about him.