THE DEPRIVED... Part 2.

A continuation of my book.

CHAPTER ONE.
MICHAEL.

COUNTY CORK… 1852.
A Meeting Hall.

It wasn’t exactly a meeting hall, it just happened that James McCarthy rented the largest cottage in the vicinity for ten miles around and he wanted a fight.  

“Sit down wherever you find a seat and if you can’t find a seat then sit on the floor.”                                    

James McCarthy was a large man with a flame of red hair which tussled itself from the mop on his head to the whiskers which covered most of his face. He stood on a chair so the men in the room raised their eyes to take in the man as he spoke.                    

“Now men.” he began. “I’ve had enough of those high and mighty Lords and land-agents who are stealing our lands with their greed and having the backing of the English government. We have suffered from years of famine and starvation, what with our crops failing and having to give what little we grow and sell as rent to grasping and greedy landlords while our children starve. And this gives those Whigs back in London the right to use our hurting for their benefit. It allows them to come and grab our lands. Is that right men? No I hear you shout! But what are we going to do about it? I say we fight for our land!”                                           
“James is right!” shouted Seamus Sullivan, rising to his feet. “The English have no stomach for a fight. When we don’t fight for our rights they take our rights away from us, stealing it bit by bit. Do you know what they did to my cousin in County Mayo?”       

“Tell these men gathered here, Seamus. Let them understand what is happening!” shouted James McCarthy.                

Seamus Sullivan walked forward to stand at the front.                     
“My cousin had a small piece of land with a cottage which he rented and because he could not grow any crops to sell, he could not pay the shilling for his rent. The land-owner took him to the English law and they put him in jail and threw his family out onto the streets. Is that fair? No! I say we fight the greedy English and their laws!”           

“Well spoken Seamus Sullivan!” applauded James McCarthy, his whiskers bristling.  

Other men rose to speak, some for taking the law into their own hands while others sued for peace, hoping that time would bring the blight of the potato to an end.           

“Let’s give it time!” shouted one.                                 
“Give it time?” thundered James McCarthy. “My parents starved to death. My grandparents died of broken hearts. My family have nothing to eat! Give it time, you say? Tonight I have to kill and eat my son’s dog. How long shall we allow those Lords in London to kill us off and steal what little is left of our lives?”                    

“Then I say we should go to London and steal from them!”                 
All heads craned round with eyes seeking the man who had called out.       
Michael O’Brien stood up, a middling man with broad shoulders and a quiet face, though his dark eyes betrayed a strength of determination, to see things through once began.

“Aye.” shouted James McCarthy, pointing to the man who stood up. “Say what you have to say and make your meaning clear.”                     
“You all know me. My name is Michael O’Brien and I have a cottage on land owned by Lord Thomas Jefferson of London.”                         
“So do we, Michael O’Brien. We are all in the same mess!” shouted Tom O’Keeffe, which had other men shouting the same.                       
“That I agree with, Tom O’Keeffe.  You men are all my neighbours and like myself and James McCarthy here, you have all seen your parents and grandparents suffer through the years of the potato blight. The famine has brought us nothing to eat except what could be scraped from the ground. And what have those fine Lords from London done about our problems? They have done nothing, except use the famine to their own ends by taking our land by whatever means open to them! There has been no word from them, those fine English gentlemen who have lived so well from our labours!”            

“Then what do you mean about stealing from those fancy Lords? Shall we march on them as we starve on the journey?” demanded James McCarthy.                             
“Aye!” shouted out the men in the hall. “They care nothing for us, for our wives and our children who are slowly starving to death!”                 
“I will answer you, James McCarthy. Yes, and I shall answer all you others.” shouted Michael Obrien. “I have seen death and watched it grow. I have lost my parents and my grandparents to deprivation.  My wife too has seen her mother and father die of starvation. Only yesterday, I helped bury Patsy Flynn’s mother. There were no prayers, not even tears.” 
“And you would have us go with you to London, Michael O’Brien? To steal from those fancy Lords, you say?” questioned James McCarthy.       
“No! I do not ask you to go with me. I speak only for myself and my family. As you all know, I have two children.” shouted Michael O’Brien. “I have my daughter Beth who is eleven years old and my son Sam who is nine years old. What do I tell my wife Mary when I come home with nothing to eat for her or my children except a few potatoes that are rotten with blight. What do I say to them?”                                                               
“Well you have the floor, Michael O’Brien.” shouted Tom O’Keeffe, walking up to the front of the hall. “Tell us what to do about it?”       
“I’ll tell you what I intend to do, Tom O’Keeffe. And I tell all of you men that I intend to take my wife and children away from this raped land. I am going to take my family on a boat over to England, that’s what I intend to do! Aye, go on and shout about a war you cannot win. But I intend to go to London and make enough money with which to feed my family and then to save up enough so when the famine is over I can come back as a wealthy man and buy my own piece of land. That’s what I intend to do!”
“Sure now, Michael O’Brien. And how do you propose to do that? How do you propose to take two young children and your wife as well?” cried one of the men. “If it was that simple then wouldn’t we all be doing that?”   
“It is simple for those who are willing to fight for their families rather than stay and fight for the sake of pride.” said Michael O’Brien, now quieter. “You may stay here and die from an English bullet or from starvation but I have it planned. I intend to sell what I have…”     
“Sell?” interrupted Tom O’Keeffe. “And who would be having the money to buy your stuff? We have nothing left, none of us!”                     
“Then I will leave it here and take only what I need, some of my furniture and my pony and cart. When I get to Dublin, it’s there I will sell the furniture and my pony and cart. That will gain me the money to pay for a ticket on a boat to England.”              

At this news there was silence in the room for a while.             
“Then may God protect you, Michael O’Brien.” shouted James McCarthy. “But for myself, I intend to join the rebels and fight for my rights and so will every red-blooded Irishman who has a heart in him!”           
These words were met by shouts of agreement as Michael O’Brien walked out of the meeting.                         
“Then go Michael O’Brien. See how your fancy Lords will treat you over there in that fat land!” shouted James McCarthy after him.                 
The door shut on the meeting, muffling out the words as Michael O’Brien walked away.

Author's Note

This is an 800 page book which needs to be script-written for a television series... Any takers? It is already published as a book and needs stretching.