Chapter 97
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 97
Chapter Title: The Guardian of Ireland (3)
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Needless to say, for the people of Ireland, a failed potato harvest was synonymous with having nothing to eat for the year.
In fact, anyone with a keen eye would have realized something was amiss from the moment the Queen herself arrived.
After all, if this were merely about quelling some baseless rumors, my presence alone would have been more than enough.
“However, it is not an immediate threat. The potato blight was first discovered across the Atlantic, in the New World. This disease is incredibly contagious; a single infected potato can spread it to an entire field in an instant. And once a field is infected, it will rapidly spread to the neighboring farms and eventually cover the entire country.”
“M-My Lord… no, Minister! Then shouldn’t we just block any infected potatoes from the New World from coming here?”
“Unfortunately, unless we stop every single ship from the New World, it is practically impossible to completely prevent the disease. But we will do our utmost to contain it, which will buy us ample time to prepare. We estimate we have a window of at least three to five years.
Therefore, in the meantime, we plan to improve Ireland’s agricultural structure, which is currently reliant on a single potato crop, and plant alternative crops to replace it.”
“But it’s not as if we enjoy planting only potatoes. Most of our wheat is exported to the British mainland, and no other crop grows as well as the potato, so we have no choice…”
To the people of Ireland, it must have sounded like an armchair solution.
They weren't fools; they knew the risks of monoculture farming.
But with no other famine relief crop that grew as well in this soil, they never had a choice to begin with.
“Of course. That is why, as soon as I learned of this blight, I sent people in all directions to find a crop that could replace the potato. And after two long years of research and testing, we have found a crop that, while not a perfect substitute, can serve as a viable alternative.”
“Ooooh! W-What is it?”
“To think you’ve done all this for us… We’ve never had a politician like you before!”
They must be moved.
The pride of the nation, an Irishman who endured persecution to become the youngest minister in the British Empire, returning after achieving great success in diplomacy and war.
Having learned of a disease that could spell disaster for Ireland, I personally sought out a replacement crop and even persuaded the Queen to come here. How must I look in their eyes?
“But I must warn you. This crop tastes even worse than the potato and has an unpleasant texture. It contains only sixty percent of the calories, so it is not as filling. However, it grows as well as the potato in Irish soil, so it will guarantee a sufficient harvest to prevent starvation.”
“W-Worse than the potato…?”
“Just how bad can it taste?”
“It must be the devil’s food, the devil’s food.”
Faced with starvation if they only planted potatoes, they had no choice but to eat it, yet their faces clouded over with gloom.
It was miserable enough living on bland potatoes, but how would it feel to be told to eat something even worse?
Under the anxious gazes of the citizen representatives, I placed a rutabaga on the table.
“This is a crop called the rutabaga. If anyone would like to try it, I will gladly offer you a taste.”
“Then I shall have a taste.”
An elderly bishop sitting in the front row raised his hand, and I personally brought the rutabaga to him.
With a mixture of concern and dread, the bishop slowly picked up the food and brought it to his mouth. His face contorted strangely as he swallowed it almost without chewing, then quickly drank some water.
“Ahem, cough! It’s… edible, I suppose.”
“Let me be honest. It is not tasty. I am not telling you to eat only this for the rest of your lives. But once the potato blight spreads across Europe, you will have no choice but to rely on this food for at least a few years. Of course, I will also lower the price of grain to create an environment where you can occasionally eat bread.”
But that didn’t change the fact that a time would come when rutabaga would be their staple food.
Indeed, the complexions of those who tasted the rutabaga after the bishop were far from good.
In my presence, and the Queen’s, no one dared to speak their minds, but their faces said it all.
*Wow… Live on this for years? I don’t think I can do it.*
I had anticipated this reaction from the very beginning.
No, I needed this reaction.
That’s why I threw in a few more policies.
“We will make every effort, but rutabagas are ultimately less filling than potatoes. Some of you may find it truly unbearable, even more so than the potatoes. Therefore, I will offer you another option: to immigrate to the New World across the Atlantic. To Canada.”
“Not the United States, or whatever it’s called, but Canada?”
“Canada is a territory of the British Empire, and its population is still small enough to easily accommodate any number of you who wish to move. We began preparations long ago, developing farmland, establishing factories, and building the necessary infrastructure for resource extraction.
This is not about sending you off penniless to start from scratch. We will help you establish yourselves through a systematic immigration process, and even those who were mere tenant farmers here will easily be able to own their own land. If you do not wish to farm, you can find work in the large-scale factories that will be built in the cities near the Great Lakes. I, Killian Gore, and Her Gracious Majesty the Queen will fully support your new beginning!”
A mass exodus now would only create chaos, but there were still nearly five years before the Great Famine would truly begin.
In the meantime, if we continued to plant rutabagas and transport the surplus population to Canada, we could efficiently kill two birds with one stone.
Westward expansion could also proceed much faster under the pretext of granting land to Irish immigrants.
The ultimate goal was to extend our influence to the Pacific before the Mexican War broke out.
And to make the Irish the definitive majority in Canada.
According to records, the current population of Canada is about 1.2 million in Lower Canada, and just over 1.7 million including Newfoundland.
A large-scale migration of the Irish might not give us control over all of Canada, but we could certainly dominate one region.
I also had a few other small measures in place to boost the population, so I expected a much faster growth rate than in the original history.
“Mass immigration…”
“Does this mean we have to leave our homeland?”
“But if they guarantee us stable jobs and land, is there really a reason to insist on staying here?”
“True, if we stay here, we’ll just be surviving on rutabagas or potatoes. But over there, we might get decent jobs.”
If I had simply told them to immigrate, they would have turned a deaf ear, but now I had dangled the bait of the Great Famine and the rutabaga.
Hearing tempted whispers from all around, I decided the time was right. I cleared my throat once and turned slightly toward Victoria.
“Of course! As an Irishman myself, I will not ask you to bear this hardship alone. When the potato blight truly spreads across Europe and you are forced to live on rutabagas, I will be the first to give up my lavish meals and eat the same rutabagas as you to get by!”
“G-Good heavens, Minister! You would eat this food every day?”
“Not just me. I insisted it wasn’t necessary, but Her Majesty the Queen, who always thinks of and loves her people, has declared that she too will gladly share this burden. As a citizen of Ireland, I express my deepest respect for Her Majesty’s resolve.”
As I bowed my head in respect, an attendant who had been waiting placed a rutabaga, identical to the one the people had just tasted, before the Queen.
*No way. Surely the Queen wouldn't eat that?*
*Even if she does, she’ll just have a single bite. Would a royal, who has eaten nothing but the most luxurious delicacies her entire life, eat such a lowly food?*
A flood of gazes filled with doubt, shock, and confusion fell upon her, but unbelievably, it actually happened.
Before everyone’s eyes, Victoria calmly cut the rutabaga with a knife, speared a piece with her fork, and brought it to her lips.
One bite, two bites, three. Her hand did not stop until the entire rutabaga on her plate was gone, and she didn’t even gag once while eating what was surely the most awful-tasting food.
The Irishmen who had just been making a fuss about how terrible the rutabaga tasted now looked sheepish, scratching their heads.
Murmurs of “Her Majesty the Queen truly is different” rose from the crowd.
Victoria let out a soft sigh and set down her silverware.
“I cannot say it is delicious, not even as a pleasantry. But as your monarch, how can I simply stand by and watch your tragedy unfold? Some say that if a food crisis befalls the British Empire, Ireland will be abandoned. That is wrong. You are my people, and I am your Queen. Therefore, as your minister, the hope of Ireland, has said, I too shall share in your suffering.
Earlier, the minister said he would live on rutabagas when the famine begins. Realistically, I cannot go that far, but from the day the potato blight begins until the day it ends, the rutabaga will always be on the royal table, and I shall eat it and think of you. So please, trust in me, in this country, and in our minister, who loves you dearly, and overcome this hardship.”
What more needed to be said?
It was as if time had stopped. Not a word was spoken, not even a clap was heard from the audience.
They say that when people are deeply moved, they are left speechless.
I believe this was exactly that kind of moment.
Soon after, the Queen ate another piece of rutabaga and rose from her seat. The people, jolted back to their senses, erupted in cheers, tears streaming down their faces.
“Her Majesty the Queeeeeen!”
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
“Ministeerrrr! We cannot do without you! The savior of Ireland! The hope of Ireland!”
The cheers resonated on a completely different level than the simple praise from before.
In that moment, the people of Ireland had accepted her not just as the Queen of the British Empire, but as the true Queen of Ireland.
As I left with Victoria, I glanced over at Daniel O'Connell, who was watching the entire scene with a completely dumbfounded expression.
“...Something like this... I never thought I’d live to see such a day.”
Seeing the turbulent emotion on O’Connell’s face, I felt a lump form in my own throat.
I haven’t lived in Ireland for very long, but perhaps I am, after all, an Irishman at heart.
Making the people of Ireland accept the Queen of the British Empire as their own true queen.
Extending my presence not just over the north, but over all of Ireland.
This tour had been for those two purposes, but in this moment, it seemed to have become a gift for O’Connell that transcended any political calculation.
Well, as long as everyone's happy.