Death on the Holy Mountain (20 page)

‘These are the words of a Protestant gentleman farmer on the potato crop of 1846,’ he began. The young man checked his words.

‘On 1st August I was startled by hearing a sudden rumour that all the potato fields in the district were blighted; and that a stench had arisen emanating from their decaying stalks. I
immediately rose up to visit my crop and test the truth of this report, but I found it as luxuriant as ever, in full blossom, the stalks matted across each other with richness and promising a
splendid produce. On coming down from the mountain I rode into the lowland country and there I found the leaves of the potatoes on many fields I passed were quite withered and a strange stench
filled the atmosphere adjoining each field of potatoes.

‘Five days later I went back up the mountain again. My feelings may be imagined when, before I saw the crop, I smelt the fearful stench. No perceptible change except the smell had as yet
come upon the apparent prosperity of the deceitfully luxuriant stalks, but the experience of the past few days taught me that all was gone and that the crop was utterly worthless, the luxuriant
stalks soon withered, the leaves decayed, the disease everywhere.’

The audience was whispering anxiously. ‘My God, it’s the famine.’ ‘What’s James doing with these children and the famine, in God’s name?’ ‘What
are they going to do now, for heaven’s sake?’

The answer came from right behind them. A tall girl with bright red hair had crept round to the back of the audience and was reading her account, the candle steady in her left hand and casting a
dramatic light on her hair.

‘An eyewitness sent to Skibereen in December 1846,’ she began, ‘found that there had been as many as one hundred and sixty-nine deaths from starvation in that little town alone
in the previous three weeks. His report contained the following detail. On Sunday last, 20th December, a young woman begging in the streets of Cork collapsed and was at first unable to move or
speak. After being given restorations and taken home to her cabin she told those helping her that both her mother and father had died in the last fortnight. At the same time she directed their
attention to a heap of dirty straw that lay in the corner and apparently concealed some object under it. On removing this covering of straw the spectators were horrified on beholding the mangled
corpses of two grown boys, a large proportion of which had been removed by the rats while the remainder lay festering in its rottenness. There they had lain for a week or perhaps a
fortnight.’

‘Oh, my God!’ ‘How frightful!’ Lady Lucy was holding Powerscourt’s hand very tight.

The next voice came from the centre of the stage. Another young man, another book, another candle, another report from the front line of the famine.

‘The parish priest of Hollymount, County Mayo,’ the young man said clearly. ‘Deaths, I regret to say, innumerable from starvation are occurring every day. The bonds of society
are almost dissolved. The pampered officials, removed as they are from scenes of heart-rending distress, can have no idea of them and don’t appear to give themselves much trouble about them
– I ask them in the name of humanity, is this state of society to continue and who are responsible for these monstrous evils?’

By the light of the candles on the stage the audience now saw two girls moving across the arena. The smaller one leant heavily on the shoulder of the taller one, her clothes in tatters, her hair
streaked with dirt, her feet bare and bleeding, her face, what they could see of her face, ashen. They moved slowly and began to climb the steps at the back of the table.

‘This is the Black Room,’ said an invisible voice. Was it meant to be God? Powerscourt wondered. Surely not in a story like this. ‘This is a County Roscommon workhouse in the
year of our Lord 1848.’ The rest of Europe was having revolutions, Powerscourt remembered. In Ireland people were dying in their thousands, or tens of thousands. ‘The Black Room,’
the voice went on, ‘was where people were brought to die. Up to seven people were permitted in here at any one time.’ As he spoke the girl in rags lay down on the floor to join the
other two bodies already there. ‘Nobody would disturb you in here. No efforts would be made to stop you dying.’

Now another voice came from underneath the shutters in the centre of the gallery.

‘This is a Justice of the Peace, writing to the Duke of Wellington,’ the young man said. ‘Six famished and ghastly skeletons, to all appearance dead, were huddled in a corner
on some filthy straw, their sole covering what seemed a ragged horsecloth and their wretched legs hanging about, naked above the knees. 1 approached in horror and found by a low moaning they were
alive, they were in a fever – four children, a woman and what had once been a man.’

The audience were silent now, as if transfixed. A girl took up the story from one of the great doors opposite.

‘An eyewitness from County Cork in April 1847 described how: Crowds of starving creatures flock in from the rural districts and take possession of some hall door or the outside of some
public building where they place a little straw and remain until they die. Disease has in consequence spread itself through the town. There are now over four hundred afflicted with fever and
dysentery. The graveyard has its entrance in the centre of the main street, and in several instances when the gates were closed and parties seeking to bury the remains of their friends, the coffins
were placed on the wall and abandoned.’

Now a boy from the back of the room.

‘Every avenue leading to and in this plague-stricken town has a fever hospital having for its protecting roof the blue vault of heaven. Persons of all ages are dropping dead in each corner
of the town, who are interred with much difficulty after rats have festered on their frames.’

A girl from the back of the Black Room.

‘A parish priest with five hundred out of three thousand dead in his congregation, most with no coffins. They were carried to the churchyard, some on lids and ladders, more in baskets, aye
and scores of them thrown beside the nearest ditch, and there left to the mercy of the dogs which have nothing else to feed on.’

Another young man, wearing a white coat and flanked by two burly attendants, now made his way across the stage and up the stairs into the death chamber. ‘Medical staff,’ the
invisible voice resumed its melancholy commentary, ‘made regular inspections of the Black Room.’ The white-coated figure knelt down and inspected two of the wretches. He shook his head
slowly. The two attendants picked up the first body and brought her over to the edge where the planks were waiting. ‘It was necessary, to avoid infection, to remove the bodies of the dead as
soon as possible.’ The corpse was rolled down the planks into the bath. The second one followed immediately afterwards. The white-coated young man and his colleagues left. A girl wearing an
apron and carrying a sack approached the bath and began emptying large quantities of what looked like flour over the bodies. ‘The workhouse had no coffins,’ the invisible voice went on,
‘lime was thrown over the bodies as they were dumped in a pit outside the window of the Black Room and they were eventually buried in an unknown grave.’ The voice stopped for a moment
and then resumed. ‘Over one million men, women and children died in Ireland in the famine.’

There was a pause for about five seconds. The tableau on stage remained absolutely still. The dead did not attempt to rise from the bathtub. Then there must have been some signal from James for
the vicar rose to his feet.

‘Let us pray,’ he began. ‘Let us pray for the souls of all those who departed this life in that terrible famine. Let us pray for their descendants, those who came after, whose
lives were so deeply affected by the tragedy that had devastated their families. Let us pray for all those in poverty or sickness or hunger in this unhappy world today.’ The vicar paused to
let his congregation address their Maker.

‘Lighten our darkness, Oh Lord,’ he said, moving into the closing words of Evensong, ‘and defend us from all perils and dangers of this night. May the Lord bless you and keep
you, may the Lord make the light of his countenance shine upon you and be gracious unto you and give you His peace, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’

The Reverend Cooper Walker turned to the young people on stage. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘let there be light!’ As the curtains were pulled and the great shutters opened, he
turned to Sylvia Butler. ‘I’ve always wanted to make that announcement,’ he said, ‘let there be light, never have, until today.’

Richard Butler raised his voice above the hubbub. ‘Interval time!’ he cried. ‘Punch! Cake! Jellies if you’re small! In the garden!’

On his way out Powerscourt bent down to pick up one of the famine scripts that had fallen on the floor. It was written in a very distinctive, rather ornate hand, and had the reader’s name
at the top and ‘Good Luck, James’ at the bottom. He put it in his pocket. Outside he joined Lady Lucy and found Johnny Fitzgerald standing by himself with two glasses of punch, one in
each hand.

‘I was holding this one for a chap,’ he explained, looking suspiciously at the drink, ‘but he seems to have disappeared. Ah well, duty calls.’ He began work on the glass
in his left hand. ‘Hasn’t Young James a fine eye for the dramatic,’ he went on. ‘Quite moving it was, all those voices coming at you from all quarters. Maybe he’ll be
a great impresario fellow like that chap Beerbohm Wood over in London.’

‘Tree,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Tree?’ said Johnny, peering at the glass in his left hand, now bereft of liquid. ‘Are you obsessed with trees now, Francis? Not content with bumping into them, you’re
now referring to them at every opportunity.’

‘Tree,’ said Powerscourt, ‘the theatrical fellow, he’s called Tree, not Wood. Beerbohm Tree.’

‘Well, I knew it was something like wood anyway.’ Johnny had started on his other glass. ‘Will you look at this lot, Lady Lucy, it must be the memory of the famine.
They’re eating everything in sight. You’d think they hadn’t been fed in weeks.’

Sure enough the Butler spread was disappearing fast. Four whole cakes had been polished off in minutes. Three great salvers of sandwiches had nothing left. Two of the smaller children had
collected three bowls of jelly each and were scoffing them happily underneath the tables where the food was set out.

‘Johnny, Lady Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘one of the things the Archbishop told me concerned the fires of hatred that still burn strong in the minds of some of the younger
priests and Christian Brothers because of the famine. Do you think Young James feels the same thing? That famine stuff was pretty powerful. Do you suppose something dreadful happened to his family
back then?’

‘I think it’s more likely he just has an eye for the dramatic, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I have a cousin like that, always putting on amateur theatricals and rushing off
to see the latest plays.’

Powerscourt resisted the temptation to say that any member of Lucy’s family involved in amateur dramatics would always be able to command a large cast.

‘I think I’ll just get hold of a glass of this punch before the second half,’ said Johnny, ambling off towards the drinks department. ‘Maybe I should get two in case that
fellow comes back. You never know.’

‘Do you know what was in that bath tub, Francis?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘Those little girls could have been hurt rolling down into it.’

‘No, they couldn’t, Lucy. Whole thing was filled with pillows. I looked at the time. Pillows everywhere.’

Lady Lucy tucked her arm into her husband’s as they climbed the stairs. ‘Let’s hope there’ll be some more songs and romantic poetry, Francis. Much nicer than the
political speeches and all that.’

Some of Lady Lucy’s wishes were granted, and some were not, in Part Two of Young James’s entertainment. A lad of about ten with the voice of a choirboy gave a spirited rendering of
‘The Minstrel Boy’. A lively reading from a novel by George Moore followed. James himself was involved in the finale. Powerscourt noticed with interest that the candles were back again,
for the young man came to the front of the stage, surrounded by three girls, all with lighted candles. James waited for complete silence and then he began.

The first girl looked at James, blew out her candle and left the stage. James was now looking at Lady Lucy.

Powerscourt squeezed Lady Lucy’s hand. The second girl had now blown out her candle and she too departed. James’s eyes moved off to another female.

Powerscourt wondered if the words bitch goddess were about to appear but they did not. The third girl blew out the third candle of lost love and left. James said, ‘William
Butler Yeats’ in a voice of great reverence and bowed. There was tumultuous applause and cheering. All the children came back on stage and formed a great semicircle. James returned to the
piano. They gave a united rendering of ‘Molly Malone’ with the audience belting out the chorus. As the last Alive Oh was fading away, people beginning to rise from their seats and
stretch themselves, there was a loud knock on the door in the centre of the Long Gallery. As it opened two footmen stood there, carrying a large parcel almost six feet across and about four feet
high.

‘This was dumped at the bottom of the drive, sir,’ said the senior footman. ‘We thought you’d like to see it straight away.’ Everybody in the room, looking at the
shape of the package, wrapped in brown paper secured with heavy string, knew what it was,