Famine Book (Novel excerpt)

This book is still in draft form and is as yet untitled. The working title I have given it is ‘Famine Book,’ but someone may yet come up with a more creative title. :)

Prologue:

“1847 was the year it all began

deadly pains of hunger

drove a million from the land

they journeyed not for glory

their motive wasn’t greed

a voyage of survival

across the stormy seas.”

Ireland is situated as the western outpost of Europe — if you go west from there, you don’t hit land again until you reach North America.

The current population of all Ireland, North and South, is around 6.5 million. Ireland’s nearest neighbour, Great Britain, has a population of sixty million. There are a myriad reasons for this imbalance which include Britain’s proximity to mainland Europe; continuous failures of Irish Government economic policies leading to almost perpetual emigration; Ireland’s isolation from Europe and Ireland’s lack of natural mineral resources are but a few commonly mentioned.

But there is another, which is rarely mentioned. In the 1840’s, the population of Ireland was in excess of eight million. Ireland was then part of the British Empire. Mainland Britain’s population at the time was only around ten million. The people of Ireland at the time were generally very poor and relied almost entirely on the land to survive. When the potato crop, the mainstay of life, failed in successive years in the late 1840’s, it led to an appalling famine. There are no reliable statistics available on the numbers who died or those who emigrated but suffice to say the numbers can be counted in millions. The population was decimated and at least halved as a result and the famine left such a mark on the Irish psyche, that it was only in the latter part of the 20th Century, 150 years later, that the population could be detected growing again.

The book starts in the Ireland of 1847 — the failing potato crop, an unsympathetic landlord, the death of all of Peter’s family. He manages to survive and catches a passage on a ship to the USA. Conditions are vile; few make it, but he is one of the lucky ones. Once he is accepted as an immigrant, he goes south where he lives a relatively quiet life until the American Civil War. He then becomes a hero in this conflict and fame and fortune follows. The story takes us through the next generation and the one after that, through Dixieland, eventually to Chicago, prohibition and the gangsterism in the 1920’s and may eventually lead to the White House.

Chapter 1:

Co Kilkenny, Ireland, November 1847:

He knew it wouldn’t be much longer; any day now it would be over. He had no idea how he was still alive as he surely hadn’t eaten anything that was remotely nourishing in three months. He was weak and he often grew dizzy and unsteady on his feet but miraculously, he seemed to have avoided the myriad of diseases and other afflictions which had struck down the rest of his family one by one. None of them had died from hunger and yet all of them had. Lack of nourishment had left them hopelessly susceptible to anything that was going the rounds and in this country, every disease known to man and probably some that weren’t were virulent. The malnourished are very vulnerable to infections and people were dying from smallpox, measles, influenza, diarrhea, tuberculosis, bronchitis, whooping cough, intestinal parasites and even cholera. Without proper food, their immune systems gradually gave up and in turn, their systems closed down. Many had died horribly, in pain and terror, but they were not alone. All around, their neighbours and friends were also gradually succumbing. Some were saying it was God’s vengeance and he was going to wipe out the country. Others blamed British rule and said it was a sinister plot to subdue the peasants. Peter was neutral about God but also had no strong views on what had caused the great hunger. His best guess was an unfortunate combination of over dependence on a potato crop that had failed continuously and a political regime that reeked of incompetence, corruption and indifference.

His parents had always had difficulty feeding their large family from their small holding but through a combination of farming every square inch of ground, a bit of fishing, usually salmon poached from the local laird’s private lake, and the collection of every type of wild berry and nut during the season, they had survived. But now there were no nuts or berries left on the trees and bushes; neither was there was any food left in the ground and the laird had posted armed guards to protect his fishing rights.

Peter knew the entire family had probably erred in not emigrating when the potato crop had failed the first time, two years earlier in 1845. Many had predicted that things would get worse before they got better and whether it was orchestrated or just misfortune, they had been proved correct. But then there was no guarantee that emigration would be a cure-all either. Thousands if not tens or even hundreds of thousands had already sailed away, most across the Atlantic Ocean to America. Many had said that it was the land of opportunity but Peter wasn’t at all sure. He knew of no one who had as yet heard word back from anyone who had emigrated. This did not necessarily prove anything but it was a worry. Moreover, it had fuelled stories that those who had departed on ships to America had never made it. People said they were robbed by pirates or rogue operators and dumped out at sea. More said the ships were riddled with disease and were little more than coffin ships where ninety per cent of the passengers would die before they reached port three thousand miles away. Given the proliferation of disease amongst many of those travelling, this theory definitely was plausible. Yet more people said that the Americans would surely never allow such a phalanx of hungry, dirty and disease ridden Irish into their New World and would either send them back, execute them or place them in penal colonies.

Whatever was to be their fate, he knew he would find out himself very soon unless a miracle happened and Peter did not believe in miracles. Still, he felt it was ironic that he was the only one of his siblings who had survived. He had had eleven brothers and seven sisters. He was in the middle and had always been the slimmest. People had always remarked that he looked unhealthy. He had been picky as a child and never had a great love of food. He ate just enough to get by. His habit may have been what had saved his life. His brother Paddy had been the eldest and the biggest and the strongest but ironically had been the first to succumb. The boy had always had a great appetite and when the supply of food had run out, he only lasted two months. One by one, all of his brothers and sisters had followed him until there were none left apart from Peter and Kate and of course, their parents, surprisingly holding on as their children fell one-by-one. The whole experience had been overwhelming and heart breaking at first but as death stalked the land at every turn, it became the norm and the natural order of things. Peter had lost count of the number of graves he had dug. Apart from his siblings, he had helped out also when his neighbours had passed. There were no funerals any more, not because there were no priests to perform them but because in most cases people were too weak to attend.

Yesterday, Kate had passed. He had half carried and half dragged her to the by now communal plot in the back field. His parents hadn’t even had the strength to come out to the burial. But he understood. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he had dug yet another shallow grave, rolled his one surviving sister inside and said a few brief prayers. He then did something he had as yet resisted doing. While he still had some semblance of strength and while the weather was mild, he continued to dig until there was space to accommodate his parents. He had then come back inside and lain down in bed as there was nothing else to do but try to preserve the small amount of energy he had left.

He raised himself up from his chair now and went to get some water. At least they still had a plentiful supply from their own spring. He took a cloth and wet it to wipe his brow. Was he running a fever? He didn’t think so but it was possible. He filled two cups with cool clean water and carried them in to where his parents lay. He had not checked on them since early morning. There was nothing to bring to them except the water. The food had run out months back. They had briefly considered the poor house in Kilkenny City but people had discouraged them. The word was that the place had been besieged by the poor and the destitute. It had been overwhelmed and there was no food there either. Within a short period of time, the place had been overcome with disease. Apparently thousands had already died there and the entire premises had just become a stinking cesspool of filth and death and mass graves. No, if they were going to die, they would die with dignity. Both seemed to be sleeping as he entered with the water. He called his Mother gently and took the cup to her lips to help her to drink. She was cold. He touched his father and experienced the same sensation. He didn’t burst into tears or cry out with grief. He just knelt in sadness and said a prayer. At least they had died together, possibly within minutes of each other. Either way, they were well past caring. In the torrent of emotions he felt competing for attention in his head, the dominant one was probably relief; the realization that it was finally over. Swallowing the water he had brought for his parents, he summoned up reserves of energy from somewhere and carried their bodies one-by-one to the grave he had dug the previous day. The bodies were feather light and he placed them side by side tenderly. Then, after a final kiss and a goodbye to both, he covered what was left of his family with the soil of the little farm. There would be no one to dig his own grave when his time came so he didn’t intend to stay around to await that fate. His Mother had begged him to leave earlier, knowing that they would not all survive but that Peter might, if he had departed then. But he had steadfastly refused all of her requests and attempts to cajole him to leave.

But now it was finally over. He had nothing but the clothes he stood up in. Any money they had had was long since used to purchase what little food they could obtain. He would travel to Waterford port and attempt to get a passage to the United States. With luck, he might be able to catch a lift on a passing carriage but it was more likely that he would have to walk the thirty miles. He wasn’t sure if he would make it but he would certainly try. He was very weak but possibly in marginally better condition than many of his fellow travelers. He would offer to work for his passage on the ship because he simply could not pay for it. He could not say whether he would ever reach America but it would not hurt him to try. The alternative was a slow inevitable death. He closed the door silently and blessed himself. There was nothing here for him now. He started down the road towards Waterford. He did not look back.