Chapter 23
For our parts, we regard the potato blight as a blessing.
“Out! Out, I said!” The bailiff clubbed Michael across the shoulders, and Mam shrieked as he fell to the ground outside our door.
“You can’t be doing this!” I screamed, pulse racing as I rushed forward to aid Michael, but was stopped short as another club-armed bastard yanked me back by the waist.
“Don’t you dare touch her.” With a growl, Da balled his fists and took a step in my direction, but Mam reached out to touch his arm, and he glanced at her.
“We knew it would happen, mo chroí,” she said softly, and the fight suddenly went out of him.
They knew? That Da would be accused of fiddling with his lordship’s accounts?
Da would never do such a thing! He was loyal to his lordship and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his livelihood or the family.
Nay, this was all because of what happened last night after the céilí.
I never should have gone to the summerhouse—I simply accepted that Teddy had fallen for another woman, one who matched his station.
One who brought wealth and connections. I wished them nothing but misery.
“Let me fetch my brother,” I begged, and the arm around my waist loosened enough for me to wriggle away.
“We’re that sorry, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” said the constable who’d come with the order, but Da said nothing.
I fell to the ground next to Michael and threw my arms around him. “Come on. Quick. Up ye get.”
“I’m not fecking moving,” he murmured. “This is our house, and Da is innocent!”
“Do ye want them to kill ye?” I hissed. Somewhere behind us, the little ones sniffled and sobbed, and my heart ached that they had to see such a scene. “Think of the babies! We need ye, Michael. You and Da both. Don’t do anything stupid!”
With a heavy sigh, Michael righted himself, rose with my help, and without command or signal, the twenty or so bailiffs charged past, into our family home, and set fire to it.
“The O’Shaughnessys are hereby evicted,” proclaimed the constable, before running a hand over his face.
“Theodore Moore-Vandeleur, acting on behalf of Colonel Moore-Vandeleur, exacts his right as the newly appointed land agent, and as Colonel Moore-Vandeleur’s eldest son and heir, to hereby end the good-faith contract signed by his grandfather and your father, and ends your tenure as land agent.
Pending investigation of missing money and account irregularities, Colonel Moore-Vandeleur warns that Mr. Michael O’Shaughnessy Senior might incur charges resulting in either termination of life or deportation to the Australian colony at Her Majesty’s pleasure. ”
“He didn’t do any of that!” I cried, steadying myself as Michael braced himself against me. Eyes wild and with rage bubbling in my veins, I glanced at Da. Teddy did this? “I’ll beg an audience with his lordship. Or with Teddy. I can fix this!”
“You will do no such thing,” Da snapped, turning toward the constable as the bailiffs emerged from the house to fire the thatch of our roof. “What do ye think, John? Is it bluster?”
The constable sighed. “I don’t know, sir. Rumor has it that the young master found the irregularities himself … but surely his lordship will bury such nonsense? D’ye think Master Theodore might have fabricated the evidence?”
But Da simply pressed his lips together, as my lungs stopped working, and the ground rocked beneath my feet.
It was all my fault. From devising the scheme to wed Teddy and lift my family out of poverty, to trusting him in my absence to hold steady in his feelings toward me and against his father.
His father, who had given his blessing. His father, who had so thoughtfully sent me away to give birth with all the sustenance I required for a healthy delivery.
What had gone wrong? I must have severely overcalculated the hold I had over Teddy’s heart, for never would I have believed him capable of such cruelty.
Certainly not the sort of cruelty that would incite him to fabricate evidence against Da and sign the declaration that turned us out of our home. My gut roiled at the thought.
“Stop,” Michael said with a sigh, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I shot a glance over my right shoulder, and there he was, face soot-stained, eyes tearing from the smoke as he stared straight ahead at the house we’d been born in. “I know what yer thinking, and it’s not yer fault.”
“But—” I began.
“I would’ve gone there too. Ye needed answers, and ye sure as feck got them. Feck ’em all,” Michael said firmly, eyes narrowing as he turned away to find Da.
Da held Mam in his arms, cradling her head into his chest as she cried silent tears.
“What’s the plan, Da?” Michael asked.
“Bring yer mam and the children ’round to the neighbors, then meet me back here once they’re settled. With luck, we’ll be able to make a scalpeen when the fire’s out,” Da said, pulling back from Mam to glance down at her. “We’ll be fine, my Rosie.”
“The bailiffs will turn us out of the scalpeen,” Mam warned, wiping her tears on her sleeve.
“But not tonight,” Da said, straightening as Michael gathered the young ones.
A scalpeen was a shelter made in the ruins of a burned house, but as Mam said, we’d be turned out of that too.
’Twas only a matter of time before the bailiff returned to knock down the walls to deny us even that small comfort.
“Take them now, Junior. I’m going to head down to the workhouse to get the lie of the land, then visit the church and ask Father Kenny if he knows of any immediate paying work. ”
“I’ll go with you, Da,” I said.
“Absolutely not. We’ve all had a shock, and I’d prefer if you took care of yer—”
“We’ll need more than a penny a day to keep us fed, and I have my letters. There’s bound to be some business in need of assistance. And if not—” I pointed down at the leather shoes adorning my feet. “I can sell these. They’ll fetch a good price. What about Michael’s Big House shoes? And yours?”
“Michael sold his off for food after he was let go. I still have mine,” Da said with a sigh, watching as Mam and Michael set off down the road with my siblings. “Let’s enquire first, then make a shelter, and worry about the rest tomorrow.”
I nodded, then pursed my lips. “I’m … I’m that sorry, Da. If I had just stayed away—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted.
I nodded, for there was no point in dragging it out. “Let’s get to it then. Daylight is wasting.”
Without another word, Da and I turned in tandem and strode toward the town—two phoenixes rising from the ash, as the rafters supporting the thatched roof of what was once our home cracked, bowed, and collapsed in a crash of smoke and embers.
A heel of cheese, shared among eleven, was all we had to eat that first week. Baby Crofton still fed at Mam’s breast, but her supply had waned to naught but a trickle, mayhap once a day.
Da and I had no luck in the town. The workhouse was at full capacity, thanks to his lordship’s evictions in the spring and winter of 1845 and 1846, and Father Kenny broke the news to Da that Theodore Moore-Vandeleur, on behalf of his father, had sent strict instruction to all businesses not to employ the O’Shaughnessys, under pain of legal action.
And they would comply. For who had funded the building of the town? Who had funded the building of the churches and the hall and the workhouse itself?
The Moore-Vandeleurs.
That first night, we’d slept in the ruins of our old home, but as predicted, the bailiffs returned in the morning to demolish the walls, leaving us stranded.
I thought our neighbors might help after all Da had done for them through the years—after we had just sold everything we could to purchase grain for them to last out the winter—but his lordship had made it clear that anyone caught helping us would face eviction themselves.
The only small mercy came when a group of neighbors sent word to Da that morning that they’d dug a scalp for us—a hole in the ground where we could seek shelter from the elements, packed like fish at market.
An open grave, where we could lie together, while Da and Michael went off in search of assistance.
That was three weeks ago. With no food, no roof above our heads, and no strength to rally, despair settled thick and heavy. As though time itself had slowed, so we might muse on all the ways we could die in painful silence, stomachs growling, bodies weakening.
The only sound of life from our scalp came from Síofra’s lungs, the wheezing rattle of her breath a metronome, tick-tick-ticking as we waited for our men to return.
“Maggie?” Mam’s hoarse whisper broke my heart, and I turned to face her, knowing full well what she was about to say. We’d already cried our tears and had none left to shed. “I think he’s dead.”
I closed my eyes. Baby Crofton had contracted a fever four days ago, and weakened as he was, we feared this might happen. Mam and I had prepared for it, and Mam just held him, surrounding him with comfort and love as she waited for his chest to rise and fall for the last time.
My brother was dead. And it was my fault.
I pulled my aching body into a sitting position, then dragged myself to my feet before climbing out of the scalp.
“Where are ye going?” Mam asked.
I glanced down at her. With Crofton cradled tightly to her chest, Mam’s vacant expression struck a chill straight into my heart.
“To dig a grave,” I replied. She nodded, and I glanced at my siblings. The little ones all had fevers. “I’ll fetch water from the spring. Do ye think ye can build a fire?”
“I can try.” Da had instructed us to avoid building a fire, lest the smoke draw the attention of the bailiffs.
The land still belonged to his lordship, and we were trespassing, but we had no choice right now.
Besides, the fire we’d built three days ago hadn’t brought the bailiffs to our hidden location; little good it had done to help poor baby Crofton, but maybe we could still help the others.