The Rebels of Ireland (112 page)

“I'm sorry,” he told Eamonn, “but the work is ending. They wanted to stop us two weeks ago, and I was able to persuade them to continue a little longer. But the Captain told me an hour ago that they can't make an exception for us anymore. There are a few other groups continuing until they finish what they're doing, but it's all over. At least, please God, the soup kitchens should keep people from starving.”

“We know you did your best,” her father told him, for it was obvious that Smith was distressed.

“What will you do yourself, Mr. Smith?” she dared to ask. “I suppose you'll be leaving Ennis now?” He turned to her. His green eyes, she thought, were quite remarkable.

“I hardly know. I wish to stay—if there is something useful I can do. I've no wish to leave when matters are still so uncertain.” After a few more words, and wishing them better days ahead, he left.

The days that followed were difficult for her father. The first few days, he went out trying to find work, but it was a futile quest. There was nothing for anyone. The fourth day, he went to visit the fever hospital, where one of the men he had been working with had been taken after falling sick. He went to see the man again the next day, and the next. But Maureen realised why he had gone. It was not really to see his sick friend.

The following day, he did not go to the hospital. As she was about to go into Ennis, she told him: “They were asking to see you at the soup kitchen yesterday. They're getting stricter. They want to see the whole family, because they're not supposed to give out food to families that have someone working.”

“Tomorrow, Maureen,” he said vaguely. “Tell them I'm out looking for work.”

But she knew very well that he wouldn't come. It was the shame of it: he, a Madden, to be seen in a line begging for food—officially a pauper, the lowest of the low. She knew he'd never go there if he could avoid it. A hospital visit, a useless quest for a job—anything rather than suffer that last humiliation. And the fact—which any woman could see—that everyone else was in the same case, so that it hardly mattered anymore, would not satisfy him at all. So she said nothing and went into the town.

It proved to be a particularly trying day. The soup kitchen was in Mill Street, beside the maze of poor lanes and alleys that led down to the town's riverbank. To call it a soup kitchen was really a misnomer, since the Ennis soup kitchen did not serve soup at all. At present, the only food it had was cheap Indian meal, shipped in from Limerick. Behind a large trestle table, protected by barriers, were two huge vats in which the meal was steeped. How much you got depended on what they had each day. Usually, you might expect a pound of meal; but some days it had been as little as three ounces a head. It could not, therefore, be said that the people were fed, but rather that they were kept just above the point of starvation.

Today, however, tempers were frayed. In the first place, the overseer sent down from Dublin had firm views about preparing the food. All Maureen wanted was some meal that she could cook for the children. But she was told that she could not have it.

“No raw meal,” the man cried out. Then he added, so that all might hear: “If you give these people raw meal, half of them'll just sell it, take the money, and go and get drunk on the proceeds.” Maureen couldn't think of anyone she knew who would do such a foolish thing, but the man was adamant. This meant that everyone had to wait while batches of meal were cooked. “And once it's cooked,” a woman in front of her remarked, “it crumbles so, that you can never get it home without bits of it falling on the road. It's the birds we'll be feeding before our own children.”

There were all kinds of people waiting. If they were paupers under the law, Maureen saw several of the town's smaller tradesmen
who, with the falling-off in trade, were now almost as destitute as she. The officious fellow from Dublin was equally anxious to make sure that none of this largesse was wasted upon the undeserving.

“Only those whose name is on my list,” he called. “All those on my list may come up and take a ticket. When you have a ticket, you must wait in line for your turn. We'll have fairness here,” he remarked to someone. “You have to watch these people like a hawk.” He started a roll call. When he came to Maureen, he demanded: “Where is your father? It says you have a father. Is he at work?”

“No, Sir,” she said.

“Tomorrow, I want to see you all. Father, three sisters, brother. All of you, mind, or you'll get nothing.”

Thanks to this cumbersome procedure, she stood there for five hours before finally getting a small portion of cooked meal, which would hardly feed them as it was. She was starting to walk away when she caught sight of Nuala.

She was down one of the alleys, leaning in a doorway. Maureen supposed that this must be where the laundress lived and that Nuala must be taking a rest. She thought she'd ask her when she was coming home and began to walk towards her. As she did so, she saw a man come up the alley from the other direction. Just a poor-looking tradesman. He stopped by Nuala. They spoke together. The two of them disappeared into the doorway. And then she understood, and, like a fool, was so shocked that she dropped the cooked meal, which scattered on the ground, so that she had to gather it together as best she could, and took it back home all spoiled. And when her father saw it he gave a look of vexation and remarked: “Your brother and sisters will be eating dirt and grit with their meal tonight, Maureen. I can't think what made you do such a thing.” And she said she was sorry, and she couldn't think either.

Later that night, when she was with Nuala alone, she told her what she'd seen. But Nuala only shrugged.

“I didn't want you to know, Maureen, but there was no work to be had, and my being so young, at least I can get something.”

“My God, you're so young, it would be better me than you, Nuala.”

“I don't think so, Maureen. I'm quite in demand. Do you realise I've already saved five shillings.” She gave a wry smile. “If times were better and I could find a rich man…”

“Don't even say such a thing. You must stop, Nuala.”

“Stop?” She looked at her elder sister almost angrily. “Don't be a fool, Maureen. With Father earning nothing, how do you think we're going to pay the next rent?” She relented and gave Maureen a kiss. “We all do what we can, Sis. You keep house and I'll sell my body. What does it matter?”

“Don't ever tell Father. It would kill him.”

The next morning the whole family, including both her father and Nuala, went to the soup kitchen. Her father was very quiet. He held his body erect, as he always did, but she saw that, instead of looking out with their usual, bold dignity at the world, his eyes were looking down, avoiding the gaze of others. She knew he was inwardly wincing with every pace he took. When they arrived, their names were checked, but, cruelly, the man who took the roll call insisted that they all wait the four hours until they get their ration. With each minute that passed, she knew that her father secretly took another invisible step down the stairway of humiliation in his soul. And with each passing minute, she was silently praying that nobody should come up to her sister, nor say any word that might give away the trade she now followed.

Whatever her fears about her sister, Maureen couldn't help being glad when, shortly after this, Nuala started bringing home items of food: a loaf of bread, a little ham, a cabbage. They pretended to her father that they had managed to buy these things in the town, but Nuala confessed to her: “I have a merchant who likes me. He knows what I need, so he pays me with food for my family.” Maureen concluded that there was nothing she could say, since the food was such
a boon. The children needed it. Even Caitlin looked a little better.

But the one who seemed to pick up the fastest was little Daniel. Children of six could often be fragile, but thank God, she thought, that her father's only remaining son was such a sturdy little fellow. He seemed to have a remarkable resilience. A short time ago, his blue eyes had looked so large and staring in his sunken face that she had secretly trembled for him; yet now, after some days of better diet, he had already put on a little flesh and gained in energy. When they walked into town together, instead of holding her hand and dragging his feet, he slipped his hand free and even walked ahead.

Further encouragement came one morning when she and Daniel arrived at the soup kitchen to find that there had been a change. Instead of waiting for a daily ticket, they were told to take a ticket for a month. She observed that the line was moving more easily and was told that the meal was being issued fresh now, so that they did not have to wait for it to be cooked. “There's a new supervisor,” one of the women told her, but who this might be she did not know until little Daniel suddenly ran across to where Stephen Smith was inspecting a shipment of meal.

“It's Mr. Smith,” he cried. “Mr. Smith,” he told the bystanders, “is our friend.”

Maureen hastened across and apologised for the interruption, but Stephen Smith did not seem to mind at all. He had been asked to supervise the Ennis soup kitchens for the moment, he confirmed. The other man had been removed. He turned his eyes on Daniel.

“Remind me of your name,” he said pleasantly.

“Daniel, Sir.”

“Ah yes. An excellent name.”

“I am named after Daniel O'Connell.”

“I know Mr. O'Connell well.”

“Does he know that I am named after him?”

Stephen hesitated hardly the fraction of a second, but giving Maureen a smile, he answered.

“Why, to be sure he does. And he is very pleased.”

Little Daniel swelled with pride. Maureen silently blessed, and wondered at, the goodness of the man; and when it came to their turn, the people handing out the meal, having observed that this family appeared to be in the favour of the new supervisor, made sure to give her a little more than they would otherwise have done.

On the second day of April, Eamonn Madden started to feel unwell.

“I've no strength in me today,” he said in the morning. He seemed slightly puzzled. It wasn't like him. Normally, he ignored any ailments, as a king might ignore a complaining subject.

Maureen went into Ennis as usual, taking little Daniel with her.

At the end of the day, she noticed that her father was shivering, and he admitted to her that he had a headache. Feeling his brow, she could tell he had a fever. She'd been able to make a little broth, and she gave it to him. The next morning, he was the same; by evening, his brow was burning.

“You'd best keep the children away from me,” he told her, and insisted on going into the far room, where they had stored the potatoes once. She made him up a bed with straw and a blanket. “I'll be right enough here,” he said.

She talked to Nuala. The doctors in Ennis were all fully occupied with the hospitals, but Nuala found a priest to consult, and he gave her wise advice.

“Whatever you do, don't take him to the fever hospital. That's probably where he got it,” he told her. “Keep him away from the children, and pray. I see the fever every day now, and it's getting worse. The people are so weakened through lack of food that they haven't the strength to fight it. There are two forms: the yellow and the black, as they call it. The black is typhus, which is a terrible thing. But most survive it, you know. Is your father a strong man? That is good. Pray for him, then. With luck, after a week, the fever will break.”

But it did not. On the fifth day, as she was feeding him, Maureen noticed by the light of the candle that the skin on her father's chest
seemed to be mottled. One side of his shirt was open, and when he turned, she saw that there were deep red blotches on his side. She wasn't sure whether he realised, so she said nothing. The next day, the blotches were darker. When the children wanted to go in to see him, she wouldn't let them. She continued to feed him broth.