Habbi Our Fallen Woman

Survival in the Cracks of Empire
1. Auflage 2026
ISBN: 978-1-998129-88-1
Verlag: PublishDrive
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 350 Seiten

What would you sacrifice to survive hunger?

A striking work of Irish historical fiction,  draws readers into a world shaped by hunger, faith, and impossible choices.

Set against the harsh aftermath of Ireland's Great Hunger and the pull of emigration, this novel follows young Erin, a child born into poverty and heartbreak, whose life is altered by forces far beyond her control.

From the windswept shores of Galway to the unforgiving streets of Dublin, London, New York and beyond, her story unfolds alongside others caught in the machinery of empire, survival, and ambition. Lives intersect across class and continent, revealing a society marked by injustice, resilience, and quiet acts of sacrifice.

With elements of historical drama, romance, and crime woven through its pages, this is a deeply human tale of endurance and transformation. It explores what is lost when survival demands everything and what remains when faith, identity, and hope are tested to their limits.

Rich in atmosphere and emotional depth,  will appeal to readers of female-driven historical fiction who seek a story both intimate and sweeping, grounded in history yet alive with urgency.

Experience the power of survival and sacrifice.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Habbi, Steven

Leseproben

Render to Every Man His Due

Jon O’Connor pulled on the oak handle to make his way out of his local pub in Galway Bay after having a small breakfast of eggs, bacon, beans, and white and black pudding. He finished it off with a few pints of stout to fix him up for his morning.

He mounted his horse and cantered his way down St. Augustine Street, turning north along the River Corrib towards Menlo Castle. He knew most everyone around there, having grown up in Galway and now being a rent collector for the Blake family.

The Blakes held grand estates and ran their lands like an industry. They belonged to the Church of Ireland and ruled at the behest of their English masters over Irish Catholics.

This gave O’Connor comparative wealth around Galway, but many kin and kindred hated him for what they saw as selling out to the landed gentry. Nonetheless, he had a job to do and would do it.

O’Connor arrived at the estate and slowed his horse as Menlo Castle came into view. It was a grey mass of limestone and ivy rising above the river. The long façade faced the water; its tall sash windows reflected the morning light. A gravel drive led through iron gates and up to the main entrance where carved archways framed the door.

It was Blake’s official residence, and Galway’s political and financial elite were regular guests. It featured exquisite gardens and hosted celebrated artists and fixtures from the global political scene. It was the grandest building he’d ever seen, and he’d never entered beyond the front entrance, let alone strolled the private gardens or enjoyed the empire’s bounties.

O’Connor had been handed a leather folio with a list of tenants whose rents were in arrears. He wanted to do anything but the job his employer expected of him.

He turned his horse south, eventually making his way across the Salmon Weir Bridge and the dark and wide river beneath him. Beyond the city, the contrast grew with every step. O’Connor passed fields once worked by villagers, now leased back at rents they couldn’t afford.

Along the shoreline he passed gangs of labourers set to work under the latest “improvement schemes.” Fifty years after the Great Hunger, the Crown still commissioned projects like new piers, half-built breakwaters, and roads that led no farther than the next village. Often poorly planned, and unnecessary, the intention was to show that the Crown was adding value to the communities rather than improving the lives of those who lived there.

Men hauled seaweed from the tideline or heaved stones into place to build breakwaters. Barefoot children scampered around filling baskets with smaller rocks for men to put in place. The pay was barely enough to buy food or pay rent and only suitable for those strong enough to endure it.

The Claddagh lay ahead, its fishermen mending nets by hand beside stone and thatch cottages. Men and women busied themselves making a living from the sea or working the land for their lords, their debts and incomes recorded in ledgers written in English.

The British free-market system favoured those with fortune and made few allowances for hunger or hardship. Daily catches were sold to coastal traders who’d take it where they could get the highest prices. Grain, meat, and milk went the same way leaving little for the producers who couldn’t pay the prices set in London. It was the Empire’s engine running efficiently.

O’Connor continued, leading his horse to the top of a cobblestoned road that branched off to a muddy, unkempt lane leading off from the other cottages. The lane was tangled with thorny brambles that narrowed the path to the small stone cottage. It was a cold spring day with strong westerly winds coming off the Atlantic. They picked up speed and funnelled into Galway Bay, up and towards Salthill.

He was very uncomfortable with the job he had to do. It was not the first or the last time he’d have to evict one of the landlord’s tenants. He took a deep breath, pursed his lips, then dismounted his horse. He could see from the top of the path that the thatched roof of the small tenant cottage needed repair. Unlike the others nearby, he couldn’t see smoke from the central chimney; he wondered if they had already cleared out. He walked briskly down the path and knocked firmly on the door of the cottage. It was loosely held and swayed a bit as he knocked.

Andrew Kelly stirred from his seat upon hearing the rapping. He looked to his wife, Máire, then his daughter, Erin. His mother slept quietly on a bed in the corner. Andrew’s face betrayed a look of fear; he knew who was on the other side and was powerless to do anything about it.

Andrew rose and quickly tidied himself before walking to the door and opening it.

“Ah, Mr. O’Connor, how nice of you to drop in. I was just about to come see you. What a coincidence,” Andrew said as he tried to break the ice.

“Well, it would have saved me coming out here, but it’s always good to see the estate and speak to the tenants,” O’Connor replied formally.

Seeing little chance to negotiate with niceties, Andrew said, “I trust you’re here for your rent money? I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connor, but I haven’t got it. Poverty has stripped this village of its people and money. You know I work hard, but I have no one to sell my baskets to and no horse or machinery to plough the fields.”

O’Connor replied curtly, “Is that so? Perhaps you can help me understand why the other tenants can pay their rents?”

Andrew’s heart began beating, he started breathing deeply, his muscles tensed, and his hands instinctively curled into fists, just as Máire stepped to his side with Erin clinging to her leg. “Please, Mr. O’Connor. Andrew’s mother is dying, and our daughter is starving. You can’t just throw us out. We will starve to death. Please show us some compassion, we beg you,” Máire pleaded before starting to cry and burying her face in Andrew’s chest. Andrew put his arm around her and pulled Erin in close.

O’Connor had prepared for a stern conversation amongst men; he was not prepared or skilled at dealing with a crying woman and a starving babe. It wasn’t in his custom to see the impact of his work; he preferred to relay the messages from the comfort of his office and let the men of the house break the news and deal with the fallout.

O’Connor surveyed the small cottage and noticed how the cold draft blew through it. He saw it was modest – little more than whitewashed stone walls, a stone floor, and thatched roof. A large fireplace sat at the centre of the cottage with a few peat turfs smouldering beneath a stew. A crucifix hung above the mantle. It was the only decoration in the cottage. Two small windows brought light into the dark home. Across the cottage were three wooden beds with mattresses made of straw and covered in old linens. On one was Andrew’s frail mam. He looked back to Andrew, then to Máire and Erin before gazing at her da.

“How old is she?” O’Connor asked.

Andrew looked at Erin. He knew that if ever there was a chance to avoid eviction it was now. “She just had her fifth birthday,” he replied.

“Happy birthday,” he said to her. He was struck by her delicate features, emerald-green eyes, and long wavy red hair that hung over her shoulders. He could see that she was malnourished, and her hair and clothing were covered in filth.

O’Connor’s gentlemanly sensibilities were betraying his responsibilities as a rent collector. He felt his Christian values guiding him to a charitable outcome. He paused and composed himself before uttering, “Mr. Kelly. I’ve done my investigations around town and have concluded that you are a good man. You have a good reputation and work hard but have fallen on hard times. I can see this in the faces of your poor wife and child.”

Andrew felt the cold, backhanded insult O’Connor laid on his home’s threshold. He felt belittled and inadequate before his wife, child, and landlord. He seethed with anger but kept his composure for the sake of his family.

“It seems that since you can’t look after your family, it has become my responsibility. I’ve decided to show you grace and give you until the end of the summer to raise new crops and pay your debts. If you do not pay you will be evicted. The jailer will come for you, and you will pay what’s owed at the debtor’s prison. Do we have an understanding?”

Andrew swallowed his pride and answered, “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor. The Lord thanks you.” At this O’Connor blushed. “You won’t regret it. We’ll get seed crops planted, and I’ll sell my baskets as far as Dublin if I have to.”

“Good. I’m glad we were able to come to an understanding. Now go and attend to your poor wife and daughter. Make sure they are cleaned and fed.” O’Connor turned and walked back up the path to the muddy lane before heading back to his office in Salthill. He was pleased with himself for showing the tenants such compassion, but he had a business to run and knew that starvation, disease, or desperation would move them off their plot soon enough.

Inside the cottage, Andrew began unleashing his anger. “How dare he come to my home and insult me. I swear I should have throttled him right then and there.”

“Andrew, he was kind and showed us compassion. We can stay here a little longer until we find our way,” offered Máire.

“Kind? Compassionate? He said I was a poor husband and father and should feed you. What...