Irish Estate

Copyright Oggbashan December 2020

Edited January 2021

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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I didn't like my great-uncle Rory. I thought he was a bigoted arsehole who treated his tenants like dirt. It seemed that he reciprocated the dislike.

I was with some of my relations at the reading of his will. As I expected, he had left his English estates to his other great nephews. They weren't overjoyed because all of the lands needed investment and had disaffected tenants who had been abused and neglected for years. They would have to spend money and regain trust.

I didn't expect anything from him but the family solicitor had told me there was a bequest to me. Finally he got to that part of the reading that referred to me.

"To my great nephew Andrew, whose dislike of me is as great as mine for him, I leave my Irish Estate which has been a thorn in my side for decades. He can have the useless title, Lord Strathbally, which goes with it. May it cause him as much grief as it has me..."

The Irish Estate is several thousand acres around a small harbour. Great-Uncle Rory's house, which he had rarely visited, was an artillery fort built by Henry VIII as a defence against French invasion. It had been updated with modern cannon, Gatling guns, and still had an operational drawbridge. Whenever Great-Uncle Rory had visited, the drawbridge had been raised to protect him from the anger of his tenants.

The tenants had suffered badly from the potato famine. Hundreds had starved and those that had or could borrow a few pounds had emigrated to America. The population of the estate was about a quarter of that before the famine, and those that had survived were desperately poor. None had been able to pay their rents for at least five years, and just before he died Great-Uncle Rory had instructed his agent, Mr Ferguson, to evict everyone and turn the estate over to sheep farming. His agent had stopped the evictions as soon as he heard that Rory had died and was waiting instructions from the new owner. He had written to the family solicitors requesting advice, saying that whether he evicted people or not, this year's harvest was expected to be so poor that he thought half of the remaining population would be dead by the end of winter.

I asked the solicitor to draft a letter to the Mr Ferguson, stopping the evictions, cancelling all outstanding rent arrears and that no rent should be paid this year. I arranged to see the solicitor by myself at three o'clock.

My cousins and I went across the road to an Inn for lunch. We were all unhappy that Great-uncle Rory's bequests were more liabilities than benefits. We all had English estates in good heart because of our fathers' rejection of Great-Uncle Rory's methods. But they all commiserated with me. The Irish estate would be a real drain on my resources. I already had a Scottish estate that barely paid its way. I had refused to take part in the Highland clearances so I still had hundreds of tenants living hand to mouth and the estate brought me less than a few pounds a year. But my English estates were very profitable, as were those owned by my cousins. We could afford to spend thousands of pounds to bring Rory's estates back to a profitable state, but whether the Irish one ever would, we all doubted.

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Back at the solicitors' office, I read the Mr Ferguson's letters to Rory and his replies for the last few months. They were dire news. The agent was pleading for clemency but Rory wanted his pound of flesh, or everyone evicted. Apart from stopping the evictions, the cancellation of the debts, and no rent for this year, I enclosed a banker's draft on an Irish bank for five hundred guineas and I asked the agent to acquire as much food locally as he could and distribute it in conjunction with the Anglican vicar and the Roman Catholic priest. I said I would be at my London house for the next week and would then come to Ireland.

The solicitor deals with Irish estates for other clients.

"Lord Strathbally, the problem with most Irish peasants is that they live on potatoes, and the potatoes have all been blighted. They don't know what to do with cereals such as wheat or rice. They have no idea how to bake bread nor have they got the ovens in which to do it. Flour is useless to them and there are very few mills capable of producing it, if wheat was grown. Without potatoes, they starve. But the fort, your Great-Uncle Rory's house, has a large bread oven to supply what was the garrison. If they had flour, they could make bread. Whether the people would eat it? That's another problem."

"OK, Thank you. I will try to alleviate distress but I will need the tenants' cooperation. Whether they will with an English landlord? That might be difficult but I'll try. I have asked the agent for my English estates to come to London tomorrow to advise me. I expect to spend a large amount of money. Whether that will change things? I don't know but I'll try."

"Why are you doing it, Mr Andrew?"

"Probably because I am annoyed with great-uncle Rory. He was an arsehole and I want to prove that the Irish estate could be much better even if it is a drain on my finances for years. My Scottish estate was similar if not as bad. After a decade of improvements my tenants are surviving but it will be a few more years yet before they can do more than exist. They will because they are beginning to spin tweed in their cottages and that is giving them a small cash income. When the cattle herds start to increase? They could pay my low rents easily. But now it is amazing that at least half can already."

"I think you are taking on a thankless task, Mr Andrew. The tenants hate the English and your great-uncle gave them good reason for that hate."

"I hated him... No that's not true. I despised him. He had an income but only by grinding his tenants' noses in the dirt. That is no way to run any estate and he was particularly obnoxious to his Irish tenants..."

"I wish you well. Mr Andrew but..."

"You're worried I might not succeed? At worst I could give the estate to the tenants but as it is they possibly couldn't survive even if they owned the land."

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Mr English agent, Mr Simmonds, was a valuable source of information and advice. His brother had managed an Irish estate before the famine but had moved to England when that estate was hit by the potato blight.

Mr Simmonds told me that Mr Ferguson and his three sons, my Irish agents, who had been Rory's, were in fear of their lives for what they had do to on Rory's orders. It would be better to replace them with an Irish Catholic who could speak Gaelic.

I asked him to arrange for a ship and supplies with some Irish Catholic workers -- a baker, a mill wright, a miller, some builders and farm experts. He did all that and better. He found an Irish gentleman's younger son, Seamus O'Connor, who had come to London because his father's estate could no longer support the whole family. Seamus O'Connor had been his father's agent for some of the subsidiary estates so knew the conditions in Ireland very well.

But that took time. Instead of the week I had intended, it was three weeks before we set sail for Strathbally harbour. During the voyage I spoke to my new employees and told them the task ahead -- to make lives easier for the tenants, to repair or replace their cottages, to improve the land and grow crops not affected by the potato blight, and help the people on the estate. As they were all Irish they had a good idea of what they would face.

When we entered the harbour I could see signs of neglect. The breakwater had been breached in several places and the quay was weed grown. The fort was on a hill beside the harbour with a church and large stone built Priory barn beside it. Except for a couple of houses near the church every other building was mud-walled and thatched with very poor state thatch, doubtfully waterproof.

I had arranged to pay the sailors to move the cargo into the barn. While they did that, I met Mr Ferguson and his sons. We walked together up to the fort and across the drawbridge. My new Irish workers followed. I asked my new servants to prepare for tea in a half an hour's time. It was actually three quarters of an hour before the tea was ready as they had had to unpack everything.

I spoke to Mr Ferguson and his sons and suggested to them that they could be the agents for my Scottish estate because my factor there, Mr Campbell, should retire. As I expected they jumped at the chance.

"We are hated here," Mr Ferguson said," because we had to carry out your great-uncles impossible orders and because we are Protestants in a catholic community."

"How many Protestants are there?" I asked.

"Us three, the vicar, two agents and their families from neighbouring estates and two gentlefolk -- less than a dozen."

"In that large church?"

"Yes, It is stupid. The church could hold three hundred and the congregation each Sunday is usually six."

"The Catholic church?"

"They haven't really got one. They meet in a tumbledown barn that leaks. I wanted to offer them the Priory barn but your great-uncle wouldn't allow it."

"I'm not my great-uncle," I said.

"I know, Lord Strathbally. You've already shown that by stopping the evictions, forgiving rent arrears and providing money for food, I couldn't spend it all because there is little food to buy. There are still three hundred guineas left. Except that your tenants would never forgive us our history, we'd like to stay, but we would be safer and happier in Scotland."

"You will be. If you can be ready in time, the ship sails on tomorrow's midday tide and you could be on it."

"Thank you, Lord Starthbally. We will be."

"Before you go, can you give my new agent, Seamus O'Connor, information about the estate?"

"Of course. But we won't need to tell him much. His family is a prominent one locally and well respected. And the vicar has just arrived. Shall I introduce you?"

"Yes please."

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The vicar was an elderly man in very shabby vestments.

I asked him about his congregation. He confirmed what Mr Ferguson had said.

"How is the church financed?" I asked.

His face fell.

"It isn't. Your great-uncle was supposed to collect the tithes but none have been paid for at least five years."

"What about your salary?"

"Salary? That would be a nice term except that he paid me five pounds a year. I couldn't afford to live in the vicarage. It's too large. I live in what had been a precentor's house which is much smaller but large enough for me."

"OK, Vicar. What would be your reaction if I suggested that your church should be used by the Catholics and you hold your services in the fort's chapel?"

"Um. You would need the Bishop's agreement but it could be possible, I suppose. But the church needs maintenance,"

"How about this? Temporarily the Catholics use the Priory barn until you can get the Bishop's agreement to the change. In the meantime your salary will be twenty-four pounds a year, paid monthly, and if you get the bishop's agreement? Thirty-six pounds."

"Twenty-four pounds? That sounds like bribery but it would be nice to have a reasonable income. I'd still like to live where I do. The vicarage is too big."

"OK, perhaps the Catholic priest could have the vicarage too."

"Priests. There are two. They would be very comfortable in the vicarage -- if it was repaired."

"It will be, and the church and your house, Vicar."

"Then I agree, I will try to persuade the bishop, Lord Strathbally."

"When he agrees, he can have one hundred pounds for his diocese."

"That sounds like more bribery but I'm sure he would appreciate that."

"OK. Call on me tomorrow and I will pay your annual salary at the increased rate -- for last year. Are the Catholic priests here?

"Yes. Do you want to meet them?"

"Yes please."

"Ok." The vicar went to fetch two young men dressed as priests but in even shabbier clothes than his.

"This is Father Simon and Father Michael. I'm afraid their English isn't very good, Lord Strathbally."

"And my Gaelic is non-existent. I'll have to learn."

"Sirs, I understand you are the Catholic priests for this estate. How do you live?"

The Vicar had to translate that and their replies.

"We are hedge priests, Milord," Father Michael said.

"That means that we live on what your tenants give us," Father Simon added.

"But my tenants have nothing," I protested.

"That was true until you asked Mr Ferguson to buy food. Now we and they have something. It is great not to be starving."

"But you look after your people," I insisted.

"As best we can -- with nothing but words and prayers, Milord."

"Gentlemen, I need your help -- all three of you. Can you come to see me tomorrow morning about ten am? Until then, I give you two priests permission to use the Priory barn for your services. I assume that is better than where you meet now?"

"The Priory barn?" Father Michael said. "Yes. It is large enough and waterproof. But your Great-Uncle would never let us use it."

"I'm not my great-uncle." I retorted.

"We know you aren't and thank the Lord for it," Father Simon said.

"And, because I will need your help for months, I think you should be more than hedge priests. I think you should have a salary -- each, and a house. The vicarage perhaps?"

The vicar nodded.

"OK. Gentlemen, the vicarage is now your home. It will be repaired but you can move in whenever you like. And your salary? The same as the Vicar -- twenty-four pounds a year each paid in monthly instalments."

Father Michael was shocked. "Twenty--four pounds? That is more than the estate pays you a year -- if it pays you anything, that is. And that three times over? The estate could never afford that."

"But I can. My great-uncle left me this estate as a burden. For the next few years it will be, but in a decade's time? Maybe not. Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

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I could see that Seamus O'Connor was deep in conversation with Mr Ferguson who was introducing him to some of the tenants. It was pointless for me to meet them individually yet. They didn't speak English and I couldn't speak Gaelic. I had arranged for Mr Ferguson and Mr O'Connor to announce me, in Gaelic, in a few minutes and to explain that Mr O'Connor would be taking over from Mr Ferguson.

When that happened, I and Mr Ferguson were surprised that someone called for three cheers for Mr Ferguson and his sons. Apparently the community recognised that the Fergusons had done their best while working for an unforgiving master. Whether that goodwill would have continued if the Fergusons had been staying? Possibly not.

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I took advantage of the conversations going on to walk around the ramparts of the fort. It had six modern breech-loading guns and two Gatling guns. For what? To defend against the tenants. I didn't expect to need to defend myself. If I did, it would have been because I wasn't behaving like a proper landlord. I would ask that the guns be loaded on to the ship and taken back to London to be sold.

But I had a view across the village. I sighed. Almost every house had a sagging and neglected thatch roof. Many of the windows had been covered to keep out the rain. The smallholdings looked very wet and that probably hadn't helped the potato crop. The harbour had a few small inshore fishing boats that looked as if they would sink in any heavy sea, and the harbour itself was in a bad state. What should be done first?

I think that the houses were the most urgent. They would be very cold and wet when winter came. I would like a water mill. There was a stream that ran into the harbour. Even in late summer It looked as if it flowed enough to drive a mill when built. The harbour itself would have to wait.

I went down into the fort's basement. Although it had a deep dry moat, because the fort was on a hill the storerooms were dry and cool. Apart from the well-stocked wine and beer store most of the rooms were empty. I'd have to get everything moved out of the Priory barn into the fort's storerooms if the barn was to be used as a church. I'd pay the sailors to do that tomorrow morning.

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The nest morning I met Mr O'Connor, the Vicar and the two Catholic priests. I asked how the houses could be repaired. Apparently a few of my tenants had the skills but lacked materials. I asked Mr O'Connor to order the materials from Belfast urgently. The conversation with the four of us was illuminating but slow because either Mr O'Connor or the Vicar had to translate from my English to Gaelic and back again.

I asked: "Is there anyone who could teach me Gaelic? Someone who has a reasonable command of English, if possible?"

That led to an animated discussion in Gaelic that I couldn't follow. Eventually all four nodded agreement. Mr O'Connor spoke for them.

"Milord, we decided there is no one currently on your estate that would do. None of them, except the Vicar and I, have sufficient education for such a role. But we came up with a contender. That is my sister Kathleen. She was widowed last year. Her husband died of influenza. She had been a school teacher before she married and has a good command of English. Do you want me to ask her?"

"Yes, please, Mr O'Connor. If I am the landlord I need to be able to speak to our people."

"When that was translated, Father Michael queried: "Our people? What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that all four of us, including me, are here to try to make lives better for the people on this estate if we can. I am responsible for them."

"But what about the rents and your income?" Father Michael asked.

"Bugger the rents!" I exploded. "I don't need them. Great-Uncle Rory left me this estate as a sign of his hatred for me. I intend to prove him wrong by making this a great place to live and work. If that means no income for me for ten years and a lot of expense? So be it. The people matter far more than any money."

The three priests were startled. They hadn't expected that from an English landlord.

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Over the next week I went around with the Vicar and one or other of the Catholic Priests to meet all my tenants. It was frustrating to be unable to speak their language but the tenants seemed pleased to see me.

I kept Seamus O'Connor busy. He had to recruit some skilled Irish builders to work on the Priory Barn, the Vicarage and the Church as well as refurbishing the harbour which was far more busy as building materials were arriving daily. The builders had to renovate part of the old priory buildings for themselves, and it took them a fortnight to make a small dwelling for Kathleen. It had two rooms and a kitchen and a bedroom upstairs but it was stone built with a Welsh slate roof.

I was worried at the slow rate of progress on re-thatching the tenants' houses. It wasn't for lack of materials or men but because of the incessant rain which delayed progress. I hoped all would be done before the winter but wasn't sure it could be.

A month later I was feeling more optimistic. The weather had been better and two-thirds of the thatched roofs had been replaced. Kathleen had been teaching me Gaelic and I knew enough to exchange greetings with my tenants, to ask how they were and to understand most of the replies. Even if I couldn't, Kathleen was alongside me all the time, ready to translate.

That day I had spent on correspondence about my English and Scottish estates. A few weeks ago the Fergusons had asked whether I would allow some of my Scottish tenants to emigrate to America. I wrote back offering to pay the family's passage and one hundred pounds grant to get established in America. Four families had accepted that offer and I was sending the money to the Fergusons. I had a message that the Vicar wanted to see me. He had received a letter from the Bishop. I sent a message back saying I could call after dinner if that was convenient. It was.