Chapter 24
The hovels which the poor people were building … were of the most abject description … floors sunk into ditches … the height scarcely enough for a man to stand upright … a few pieces of grass sods the only covering.
His lordship’s reach was long, and there was no aid to be found for the Moore-Vandeleurs’ former land agent.
That left us with only one choice. We had to make the journey to Ennis, by way of Kildysert, in hopes we could find aid there. It was a fine village, Da had said, far enough away from Kilrush, with a market and businesses that might have work for us.
The next morning, Da and Mam mustered the young ones, as Michael and I gathered what little we had for the journey.
“Ye haven’t been eating,” I said to Michael, staring at the sharpness of his cheekbones. “Ye must be exhausted from journeying.”
Michael shrugged and placed an arm around my shoulders. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Michael. Can ye take Patrick on yer back? Mam will carry Mary. Maggie, ye’ll carry Nancy.” Da glanced around at us, then summoned a weak smile for the little ones. “We’re going on an adventure so we can find food and shelter, my loves. Ye’ll all be good for us and do as yer told, won’t ye?”
Aoife, Martha, and Síofra leaned against each other—all ill. The youngest babes—Patrick, John, Mary, and Nancy—still raged with fevers, and Da’s words likely didn’t fully register.
Within a half hour, I had Nancy strapped to my back, and we were on our way.
“Lucky ye ran into Mrs. Moran yesterday,” Da said softly, as we reached the Ennis Road and headed toward Lissycasey. “The food was sorely needed.”
“Aye,” I said, looking out into the distance, before remembering the vial Mrs. Moran had put into my pocket. I reached in to pull it out. “Oh! She gave me this. Said it was medicine.”
Da’s brows drew together, and he took the vial. “Hmm.”
“We should give it to the young ones,” I said, glancing behind at our sad little caravan.
“Laudanum,” Da mumbled, then squirreled the vial into his own pocket. “Won’t help them with what they have right now. It’s mostly for pain, not fevers.”
“Oh.” I sighed, dejected. “How long ’til we branch off for Kildysert?”
“If we can keep a good pace, three days. If not, longer,” he said, shifting his grip on John, whose head lolled against Da’s shoulder. If I’d had strength, I would’ve reached out a hand to check his fever, but what little I had needed to be conserved.
“We’ll be able to sell the shoes there?” I asked, and Da pursed his lips.
“Hopefully. I want to keep us out of the workhouse if at all possible,” he said.
So did I. For once a person went into a workhouse, there was no real way out.
The minute a poor soul stepped foot inside, the government kept a running tally of what they owed by way of shelter and food consumed, and took that “rent” from the wage earned working.
But the “rent” was always higher than what was earned, and so the only way out was death, or sponsorship.
If an inmate could find a sponsor to pay off the workhouse debt, then they could freely leave.
But if an inmate had a person in their life to do so, they wouldn’t have ended up in the workhouse to begin with.
I nodded. There was nothing to say, for the unsaid part hung in the air between us.
If we couldn’t sell his pair and mine, we’d have to make our way to Ennis.
And who knew if we’d all make it.
It didn’t take three days to branch off for Kildysert. It took a week, and another two to reach the village.
Hunger ate away at the lining of our stomachs, and our bodies shut down ’til we could only shuffle forward a few minutes at a time before resting. We did our best to forage whatever we could as we traveled, but sustenance was scarce in winter.
And on the way we lost little John, and Mary.
Da buried them quietly by the side of the road, and not a single one of us had strength left to cry.
By the time we reached Kildysert proper, Da enquired after a doctor and found one willing to take a look at my siblings in exchange for the shoes. One pair, mind. We still had to use mine for food.
The doctor even allowed us to stay in his stable for two nights while he worked on Nancy, Martha, and Patrick.
But while we worried after the youngest, Síofra quietly succumbed to the miasma attacking her lungs.
Desperate, Da, Michael, and I went in search of a buyer for my shoes at the Kildysert market.
No one would buy. No one needed leather shoes except those who could afford the luxury.
The people here were weak too, and we learned through market gossip that the country was in complete crisis.
From coast to coast, famine raged, and the British Crown was doing nothing.
Irish produce and livestock still needed to be exported, and the landed Anglos who ruled over the Irish had to find a way.
“There, maybe,” Michael said, his voice weak and hoarse as he pointed toward a storefront that read: Cobbler. “A man who trades in shoes would surely purchase them?”
I nodded and followed in his wake.
A bell tinkled as Michael opened the door, but before he had fully crossed the threshold, a gruff voice barked in Gaeilge: “Out!”
“Sir, we have wares to sell—” Michael began, in Gaeilge.
“I have no business with beggars.”
I glanced between Michael and me, at our raggedy clothes and dirty faces, and sighed.
“Sir, we have wares to sell,” I repeated, this time in the clipped English I used when paraded before Lady Grace’s company.
With a gentle shove, I pushed Michael into the establishment and stepped around him.
I curtsied. “Forgive our appearance, sir, for we’ve long been on the road.
I have here a fine pair of leather shoes to sell. My own, I assure you.”
I glanced across the dim store and spied an elderly man seated behind the counter, his white-gray brows arched high above too-large spectacles.
“Forgive me, Miss,” said the cobbler, switching to English as he glanced between us. “They are yer own, ye say?”
I nodded and unhooked the wrapped package from my belt before striding forward to place it on the counter.
The cobbler rose and untied the package, then glanced sharply at me as he beheld my shoes.
“I was a servant of Colonel Moore-Vandeleur, sir,” I said by way of explanation. “Unfortunately, we were evicted, and this is all I have left to provide for my family. It would be a mercy if we could do business.”
“Aye,” said the cobbler, drawing one of the shoes to eye level. “I think we could do business indeed, Ms. O’Shaughnessy.”
The blood drained from my face. “I don’t recall giving my name, sir.”
“Nay,” said the cobbler. “But the Moore-Vandeleurs did. Sent word to all the bailiffs to be on the watch for thieves. Servants from the O’Shaughnessy family they once employed, who had stolen from his house.
Yer father is a wanted man, apparently. And now that I’ve confirmed yer identity, I think it’s best ye be off. ”
“Ye bastarding bollocks!” Michael exclaimed, moving to reclaim the shoes.
But the old man was fast and quickly pulled them from Michael’s grasp. My pulse quickened, threatening to send me into a faint. This was it—all we had left. Our last hope … gone.
“I’ll hang onto these to return to the great people ye stole them from, and as an act of Christianity, I’ll not alert the bailiffs. God knows times are hard for everyone, but by the looks of ye, ye need no more trouble.”
“Thieving prick!” Michael roared, but I held out an arm to still him.
“May God forgive ye, sir. With yer great years, ye should realize that a man as fine as Colonel Moore-Vandeleur wouldn’t put so much effort into ensuring we starve to death without something amiss.” I spat the words, and the old cobbler had the decency to blush.
“Aye, I know that,” he replied. “Which is why I’m not calling the bailiff. Be off with ye now. Best chance ye have is to make it to the Ennis workhouse. I’ll say a prayer for ye.”
“Ye can take yer prayer and shove it up yer hole,” Michael exclaimed.
Aye, he could. But that wouldn’t feed us or keep us alive.