Nicholson Dark Rosaleen

A Famine Novel
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-0-7509-6586-6
Verlag: THP Ireland
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten

Dark Rosaleen is a story of love, murder and betrayal, of a failed rebellion and a national scandal. Sir William McCauley was appointed Director of the Famine Relief Programme at a time when hunger raged across Ireland and antipathy towards the plight of the Irish infused the politics of Britain. Kathryn, William's daughter, was forced to join her father, and felt no sympathy until the very scale of the tragedy became all too obvious. Joining the underground, she preached insurrection, stole food for the starving and became the lover of the leader of the rebellion. Known as Dark Rosaleen, the heroine of banned nationalist poem, she was branded both traitor and cause celebré. This is her story.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nicholson, Michael

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE

The coals were white hot. The face of the child was ringed by flames. Soon it would be engulfed by fire, soon it would die, soon it would be ash. She could do nothing but sit and watch. It was a small gaunt face, cursed by innocence, its eyes full of melancholy. Its image scorched her.

The tip of the flames touched his face but his eyes stared resolutely back. She looked for a name and a place but she dared not reach out, the heat too fierce. It troubled her, she who cared nothing for distant calamities that befell others. Why now was she suffocating? Why now this something she had never felt before, this guilt? What was one death among so many?

Until this moment she had been consumed by her own self-pity, wretched at her father’s selfish ultimatum, furious at his imposition dressed up as duty. Did she care that Irish peasants were hungry because they had lost their potatoes? Why should she waste a moment’s thought on brutes too lazy to feed their litters, too drunk to dig for their own food? How dare they disrupt her life so suddenly and so completely, forcing her headlong into a hostile land she despised, that filthy country of saints and savages they called Ireland?

He had told her so casually. The government, he said, was to provide aid to the Irish and he had been given the authority as Relief Commissioner to oversee its distribution. Soon he must leave for Ireland, and she was obliged to go with him.

The flames licked at her fingers. The heat scorched the skin of her forehead but still she could not move away. Sweat soaked the hair around her temples, the salt from her tears stung her cheeks and stung again as they eased into her cracked lips. Yet she remained close, compelled to share something in those final moments.

She waited for the flames to cremate the last of the image and in that waiting, as a hot poultice slowly draws out pain, so the fire gradually evaporated her anger. She was subdued. She felt only sadness, grief and something more, something she had never before known in all her young and very privileged life. She felt uncertain and afraid.

Kate Macaulay’s life that day changed as abruptly as the weather. The warm, bright early October morning sun had surrendered to a grey afternoon and by the time it was dark, the barometer had dipped further. The wind, stirred from the east and blowing unhindered from the Urals, swept across the North Sea to the Anglian Fens and froze all of Lincolnshire. It shook the house, piled snow against its walls and windows and forced smoke back down the chimneys, blackening the mantelpieces and spreading soot across the rugs.

She had become more furious by the hour. She had argued with her father at breakfast, at lunch and again at dinner. She had refused to eat and, in an attempt to offend him more, had barely touched her supper. Now she was hungry and defeated. She had tried every trick she knew but the cajolery that had won him over so often in the past had failed her. He was deaf to it and instead, addressing her as if he was speaking to one of his junior staff, reminded her of her duty, his duty and the duty of the government, so that it seemed to her that all of England was a slave to duty and that all pleasures and recreation, most especially her own, were to be entirely forfeited in the Queen’s service.

To quieten and comfort her, he promised that they would not be away from England long and that he expected his work would be over before next year’s summer ended. Then they would return to Lincolnshire or to their house in London, whatever suited her. He would retire from government service and they would travel north together to cousins at their Northumberland estate and perhaps go further still into the Highlands for the shooting. To dry her tears he told her that Irish society was almost as interesting as English society, with country estates as vast and as sumptuous as any she had known. She could have her own mare and she would not want for company. There were many of her own sort there.

Kate was accustomed to being soothed by promises. She had never had to wait long for something she wanted but he was offering nothing she did not already have. She would not be bargained with. She would not be pacified, refusing to believe his promises even though she had never known him break one. Her friends were here in Lincolnshire and London and she was in no mood to seek out new ones for her father’s or even Queen Victoria’s convenience.

She had fought him all day but she had not won a single concession, not even the compromise of a further few months’ stay so that she might enjoy her Christmas and New Year in England. He cared nothing that she would miss the Belvoir Hunt weekend with Colonel Arden-Walker, who had been so generous and so attentive since the last. She would have to send her apologies to the Earl of March for not attending his Goodwood Ball and to Lord Abercrombie, whose night of fancy dress and charades at London’s Ritz so glamorously and entertainingly welcomed in the New Year.

Her year’s social calendar had been painstakingly planned. There was never a weekend when she was not the centre of somebody’s attention, never an evening in the London season that was not filled by one or other of her many adoring young suitors. Now, without warning or apology, it was all to be cancelled. She was being forced to leave behind people who were both dear and necessary to her simply because of something despicable far away. The prospect appalled her and all day she cried tears that for once she had no way of stopping.

In one final attempt that evening she had screamed at her father deliberately in front of the servants, demanding her independence, threatening to leave the house and never return. She was twenty-two years old and she would not let him re-arrange her life. She was not a minor, obliged to do his bidding. She could leave him as she pleased, go wherever she wanted with whoever she chose, even marry if that was her whim. The law was the law and that was what the law allowed. The servants took refuge in the kitchen. They had cosseted her since she was a child and knew well enough her moods and contrariness. But they had never seen her in such a state before and they were all agreed that when her father left for Ireland, he would have no choice but to leave her behind to do as she pleased. They were wrong.

Sir William Macaulay was a long and faithful servant of the Crown. He had served with distinction as Commissariat General of the British Army, had seen action in the Peninsular Campaign, had been with Wellington at Waterloo and had been knighted for devotion to duty during the Canadian Rebellion. As the man in charge of army supplies he was a devoted cheesepare, ready to save a penny wherever a penny could be saved. It made him ideally suited to oversee the distribution of aid to the starving Irish.

He was about to embark on the last great challenge of his career and was concerned with more urgent matters than his young daughter’s hysterical obstinacy. He was a gentle and patient man and loved her more intensely than he had ever had the courage to show. Her tears and tantrums had been painful and made him relive a part of his life that still haunted him, memories that he had for so long been trying to erase, memories of the wife he loved, of the day she had given birth to Kate and that final, fateful day when she had left them both. Even now, all these years on, he could not remember that time without his fists tightening, the muscles of his jaw hardening and a pain in his chest so severe it left him breathless. And he cursed the God that made her go.

That day, he had returned from London after an interview in Whitehall with the austere, pious and powerful Sir Charles Trevelyan, Secretary to the Treasury. Despite a title that suggested he was of a lesser order, he controlled all government expenditure. He was a young and handsome man of rigid integrity, a devout evangelical, impatient, blunt, arrogant, uncompromising. He considered himself to be always on the right side of a question and many of those who dared cross him found their careers blighted soon afterwards. As guardian of the nation’s coffers, his guiding principle was balancing humanity with practical economics. It was he who would steer the course of Ireland now.

He sat upright at his desk and, as was his practice, made no effort to acknowledge the presence of the man he had summoned. He made no gesture towards the chair opposite him, so Sir William stood to attention, as he had done all his military life in the presence of superiors.

Trevelyan spoke, as ever, to the point.

‘I waste no time on courtesies, Sir William. I am familiar with your record of public service and know you are more than capable of the employment I am about to charge you with. I break no confidences when I tell you that Prime Minister Peel is alarmed by events in Ireland. It would appear that this year’s potato crop has failed there as it has in England, Scotland and almost every country in Northern Europe. We understand the disease comes from America but it cannot be identified. What we do know is that it is more thoroughly destructive than anything before. You may have read of this?’

‘Yes, Sir Charles. I have read much about it. It is a serious matter.’

‘Serious indeed. Unlike the peasantry in England, the Irish are entirely dependent on their potatoes. It is their entire diet. Monday to Sunday, January to December, they eat nothing else. Without potatoes they starve.’

‘So it appears, sir.’

‘Yes Sir William, it is exactly as it appears. For that reason and with commendably swift decision, the Prime Minister has authorised a Commission to oversee relief and the...