Was this a reprieve? Were the odds reversing themselves? Could he really believe this was the beginning of the end, the final chapter in a lengthy tale of horrors? Sir William looked from his window towards Cork Harbour. Sailing ships were rafted there side by side, their hulls lined so tight together there was barely sight of water in between. How wonderful they looked in the sunset, like an armada, a fleet of hope and charity. He had spent the day watching them arrive as they manoeuvred their way up the river Lee to their moorings, their vast sails shivering as helmsmen brought their bows into the wind, the capstans spinning, the tangle of lines thrown from deck to deck, the running of the chains as the anchors dropped to steady them. ‘Yes, indeed,’ Sir William said to himself, tapping the window pane with his whiskey glass. It was indeed a splendid sight. Thirty thousand tons of Indian corn were now waiting to be unloaded, ready to be stored in the warehouses, corn that would turn Ireland around, corn that would feed the destitute and put an end to their hunger.
