The Irish Famine Relief Mission | Ship of Hope | 1
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Imagine it's December 1846 in Cork County, Ireland. You stagger through bare, desolate hills, shivering against bitter cold. You're the mother of five young children and a farmer, or at least you used to be, until all your crops failed in a blight that swept the countryside. All around you, fields are choked by stinking, rotten potato vines destroyed by disease.

Hunger is gnawing at your stomach, but your primary concern is your children, who haven't had a decent meal in weeks. You clutch your two-year-old daughter to your thin chest while your older children try to keep up, shuffling along the road. Their blank eyes terrify you. You hear wagon wheels draw nearer, and you raise your eyes in hope.

Some of your neighbors, just as desperate as you, begin to gather, blocking the narrow road as three wagons roll toward you, covered in thick canvas sheets and guarded by six British soldiers with rifles. They roll to a stop and a commander steps forward. You're blocking an official transport carrying the goods of Her Majesty. Clear the road. But no one moves and you step forward tentatively. Sir, may we know what is in the wagons?

"'Commander fixes a harsh gaze in your direction. "'Ma'am, this is an official convoy, and that is all you need to know. "'As I said, clear the road. "'Oh, sir, have mercy on us. "'Our field is just over that hill, and it's now also where my husband is buried. "'We've had no harvest this year or last. "'I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot help you. "'I have orders to make sure these wagons get to the port in Cork. "'Now please, stand aside.'

You stare back at the commander. You can feel the tension behind you as a crowd draws closer. One man grips a scythe in his hand.

Then suddenly, the man lunges toward the wagon and tears at the canvas. But a soldier swiftly hits him in the head with his rifle, knocking him to the ground. As he falls, the canvas slips from the wagon, revealing a bed full of grain, vegetables, and oats. Oh, sir, please. These wagons, they could feed us all, keep our children alive. You stop there. Anyone else moves and we will use force.

This cargo is going to the port, but we're starving here, in front of you. You only have yourselves to blame. Blame us all you want, but you have the power to save us. From the port, all this food will cross the ocean, won't it? To Liverpool, yes, and then to the markets in England, as it should. You step closer, holding your frail daughter up for the officer to see. Just a basket, sir. Just for the children, I beg you.

When the man sees the child in your arms, his eyes soften, but then his jaw clenches with resolve. No, ma'am, but you may try the next convoy. By then we will all be dead. I pray that won't be the case. He glances at you one last time, then pushes you aside as the wagons begin to move forward again.

But as the soldiers hurry away, a sack falls off the back of one of the wagons. A neighbor picks it up and kindly scoops some oats into your hands. You thank him, knowing that two of his children died last week from hunger and fever. With this kind gesture, you may be spared another day. But without more food, you're all doomed.

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By the early 1800s, small waves of Irish immigrants had arrived in America, fanning out across the eastern states, establishing communities in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine. Over the next 40 years, they put down roots, becoming merchants, laborers, and church leaders. But by 1846, Irish families in America began to hear disturbing reports from their homeland—

Winter that year had been cold and harsh, and the all-important potato crop, which most Irish peasants depended upon for survival, was failing for a second year in a row. A blight was ravaging the potato, devastating the countryside and driving desperate families into the cities in search of food.

Without an alternative to the potato, famine spread all across Ireland, and in just a few years, more than one million Irish would perish from starvation and disease, while many more would flee their homeland forever. In the midst of this horror and despair, British officials who governed Ireland failed to provide relief. Instead, vital assistance would come from much further away.

After hearing news of the blight, sympathetic Americans took up the call and organized relief missions to bring food and supplies across the Atlantic directly to the shores of Ireland. In March 1847, the first of these voyages departed from Boston, carrying hundreds of barrels of food and aid. Many of the goods were donated by ordinary citizens, farmers, shopkeepers, and immigrants, who all gave generously to help a people an ocean away.

But this massive undertaking required unprecedented coordination between the public and the U.S. government and sparked a fierce debate in the nation's capital over the role of government in humanitarian aid for foreign nations. The relief missions that eventually departed would not only serve to strengthen the unique bond between Ireland and the U.S., but set a precedent for America's growing role in the world for many decades to come.

This is a special episode of American History Tellers on the Irish Famine Relief Mission, Ship of Hope. In July 1846, Father Theobald Matthew rode by horse from the city of Cork on the southern coast of Ireland to Dublin. Along the way, he felt his spirits lift when he saw fields full of thriving potato plants. The 56-year-old Catholic priest was a tireless advocate for Ireland's poor farmers and a well-known figure in the countryside.

Born in Tipperary, just north of Cork, to a family of twelve children, Matthew was ordained when he was twenty-four and had spent most of his life serving the residents of Cork. Over the years he developed a reputation for his commitment to his parishioners, learning Gaelic in order to deliver sermons, and keeping his chapel open late at night in order to allow farmers to make confession after their long days in the fields.

A decade earlier, when a cholera epidemic swept through Cork, he had administered to the sick and dying, even as the illness spread around him. And when conditions improved, he watched his parishioners return to their fields, struggling to recover their livelihoods on small plots of land. Matthew knew they depended on their crops, especially the potato, to survive. And in recent years, some parts of the country had been hit hard by a blight that wiped out crops and cut into the harvests.

So when he saw on his way to Dublin that the potato crops appeared healthy and abundant, he was relieved. As he rode through the countryside, he started to compose his next sermon, giving thanks for the blessing.

But less than a week later, on August 3rd, during his return trip to Cork, Matthew was shocked to see the same fields blackened by blight. He began to fear the worst, later writing that he beheld with sorrow one wide waste of putrefying vegetation, and saw along the road the wretched people seated on the fences of their decaying gardens, wringing their hands and wailing bitterly against the destruction that had left them foodless.

So when he arrived back in Cork, he wasted no time in warning British officials of the emergency, declaring the food of a whole nation has perished.

Since 1801, Ireland had been governed directly from London after England abolished the Irish Parliament and put down an attempted rebellion. In the following decades, the Irish had gained some limited rights, such as voting in municipal elections. But in 1846, the English still held firm control over the economic, military, and political affairs, including humanitarian relief.

From Father Matthew's view, now that the blight had taken hold, only the resources of the Crown could alleviate the suffering. And after some initial skepticism, newspapers in England began to echo his worry with dire reports. The Times of London observed that crop failure had spread across the entirety of Ireland. From the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear, from Limerick to Dublin, not a green field is to be seen.

And by September 2nd, 1846, the Times concluded that the Irish potato crop had suffered total annihilation. For generations, the potato served Irish farmers as their primary form of sustenance. It was easy to grow and store, and provided good nutrition for poor families who had few other options, helping to grow Ireland's population. But the crop was also vulnerable to disease, especially a black fungus known as the blight, which spread quickly in Ireland's damp weather.

So as the winter of 1846 arrived and conditions in the countryside only grew worse, more hungry and desperate farmers fled to Irish cities along the coast, including Father Matthew's parish in Cork. Daily, he was called to minister to the sick and dying and to help find housing and food for the starving. He was frustrated that since his initial warning, British officials had taken no action and he began to fear that catastrophe lay ahead.

Imagine it's December 20th, 1846 in London. You're an inspector in England's Treasury Department. But for the last month, you've been in Ireland, where you were sent to review conditions on the ground there. You worked diligently, recording the widespread suffering from the hunger and illness you witnessed, and then reported back. But your reports have failed to spur any action. Now that you've returned to England, you're hoping to change that.

As you enter the main offices of the Treasury, you can tell you've caught the staff by surprise. A lavish spread of roasted goose, mince pies, and bottles of wine cover a table in the corner. A clerk recognizes you and invites you to join their holiday party, but you wave him away and head for the door of the office of the Assistant Treasury Secretary, the man you came to see. Mr. Trevelyan, good afternoon, sir.

Trevelyan looks up from his desk, surprised and annoyed. "'Ah, I hadn't realized you'd returned. Please, take a seat. That won't be necessary, because I will be brief. I understand you've rejected the calls for relief in Ireland?' "'That's correct.' "'But surely you've received my latest reports?'

Yes, I am aware, but I believe your sentimentality is getting in the way of your perspective. My sentimentality, sir? Yes, I don't intend to use the precious funds of Her Majesty's treasury to aid a foreign people.

Well, sir, if we can't aid them directly, might we impose price controls, make food more affordable for the Irish who so desperately need it? Disrupt the food market and threaten the financial ruin of our own grain traders? No, I have heard directly from London businessmen who have warned me not to act so rashly. Then simple charity at the very least. Send our excess of flour, our cornmeal. Sir, we are talking about starving families with mothers and children.

Trevelyan shifts in his chair. I've heard enough. God has sent this calamity to teach the Irish a lesson, and it must not be mitigated. They must work to rise above their station, earn wages to purchase their own food on the open market. You stand still, stunned by the secretary's position, and you can see that your visit will do no more good. Well, very well. God forgive us for what's to come.

You turn and stalk out of the office. You've devoted your career to your service in the British government and are proud of your work. But you feel ashamed that you've been unable to respond to this latest crisis. And now if there's anything to be done to help the people of Ireland, you understand it must come from somewhere else other than the British government.

As conditions in Ireland grew worse, England sent inspectors to monitor the deteriorating conditions. Many of them were shocked at the horrors they found. One inspector sent to County Sligo in the northwest of Ireland wrote back to London pleading for action, saying, I assure you that unless something is immediately done, the people will die. Pray do something for them. Let me beg you attend to this.

The man who received these reports was Charles Trevelyan, the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury in the British government and the person in charge of relief for Ireland. Trevelyan had made his name as an efficient and loyal official in the East India Trading Company posted in Delhi, and upon his return to England, he was promoted to the Treasury Department.

There, Trevelyan practiced moralism, a popular ideology in Victorian England which insisted on individualism and self-reliance. This belief helped guide his policy of denying direct aid and instead requiring those in need to sign up for a work program to earn wages. But the pay was low and many of the projects Irish workers were assigned to turned out to be redundant or wasteful, especially in regions where transportation and trade had ground to a halt because of the crisis.

One Irish writer observed, women with infant children could be seen breaking stone for bridges where there was no water, or for roads that led nowhere and benefited no one. Still, Trevelyan refused to budge, going so far as to blame the blight on the Irish's Catholic faith and what he called a lack of initiative. He believed it was Britain's responsibility to foster the transition to modernity and reason, even at the cost of great suffering.

And Trevelyan was not alone in this philosophy. Newly elected Prime Minister John Russell supported the position that England should not lend direct assistance to the Irish. In the fall of 1846, Russell feared an economic crisis in Britain due to grain shortages in Europe and a looming trade deficit. He responded to the mounting crisis in Ireland by restricting relief, warning that if the government were to apply the resources of the Treasury for the purchase of food in foreign countries, all trade would be disturbed.

As a result, the starving Irish were forced to look on as wagons loaded with produce for export traveled through the countryside protected by armed guards. This food was then taken to English markets and, in some cases, even returned to Ireland to be resold at higher prices. In the midst of this crisis, one limerick merchant recorded more than 387,000 barrels of oats and 46,000 barrels of wheat leaving port destined for England.

Desperate residents responded in anger. At a port near Cork, violence erupted as people tried to seize a boat filled with oats. And at Dungarvan, on the southeast coast of Ireland, British soldiers beat back residents who were clamoring for food and shot into a crowd, killing two people and wounding even more. Afterwards, the British sent navy escorts to safely transport the food out of Ireland.

Meanwhile, hungry Irish families were being evicted from their small farms and losing their last hope of survival. Because rather than fund relief efforts directly, British officials tried to shift the burden to Irish landowners through taxes. Most of the landowners were wealthy Protestants or Anglo-Irish, and one-third lived outside of Ireland, overseeing their vast properties from abroad. And specifics of the tax law meant that the fewer tenants were on the land, the less the landowners would have to pay.

This incentivized mass evictions, with one landlord in Roscommon taking advantage of the misery and evicting 1,500 Irish families from his land, pushing them further into helplessness.

Many of those evicted from their farms fled into the city seeking relief. In Cork, Father Theobald Matthew struggled to help the refugees who arrived daily to his parish, but his repeated letters to British officials yielded no relief. In one sent directly to Secretary Trevelyan in December 1846, Matthew concluded, "...no understanding can conceive, no tongue express the misery that prevails."

But by then, the news of the growing catastrophe was starting to spread beyond Ireland and Britain. Asenith Nicholson was an American writer, teacher, and advocate from Vermont who had traveled to Ireland two years before the beginning of the Blight. And as the winter of 1846 grew more dire, she witnessed the suffering of the Irish people firsthand and sounded the alarm and dispatches back to American readers.

She painted stark, vivid images of suffering from hunger and disease as she traveled the Irish countryside, writing that, The Irish themselves also described the crisis in letters to their family members in the U.S., and soon newspapers picked up on some of the accounts.

And then on January 20, 1847, an Irish ship, the Hibernia, arrived in Boston Harbor carrying refugees. Their story stunned the public and confirmed the harrowing descriptions that had been made out so far. It was now undeniable the Irish people were facing an unprecedented famine.

Two weeks later, on February 7, 1847, the new bishop for Boston's Catholic Archdiocese took up the cause in his first pastoral letter, declaring, "...a voice comes to us from across the ocean, a loud cry of her anguish has gone through the world." He urged the public to respond, saying, "...apathy and indifference on an occasion like this are inseparable from crime."

And as the news spread from Boston and New York to the nation's capital, political leaders began to take up the debate over if and how to respond. The United States was in the midst of a controversial war and bitterly divided over slavery and expansion in the West. But this new crisis demanded attention and would test America's willingness to act.

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That's 20% off your first order when you shop Better Hydration today using promo code TELLERS at liquidiv.com. On February 4, 1847, former Senator Henry Clay stepped before a crowd in New Orleans and issued an urgent call to help the people of Ireland. The 70-year-old Clay described the situation as appalling and heart-rendering and urged Americans to join a generous and magnanimous effort to contribute to the relief of suffering.

Clay was a former Secretary of State and presidential nominee and co-founded the National Republican Party and the Whig Party, and even at 70 years old, maintained a prominent influence in national politics.

And as far as he was concerned, support for Ireland was not only the moral thing to do, but would help strengthen America's standing and influence abroad. Clay also reminded his fellow Americans that the Irish had stood shoulder to shoulder with them during the Revolutionary War, and that the Irish people, who are now being ravaged by hunger, were bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh.

Clay's speech was reprinted in newspapers across the country, achieving his goal of bringing widespread attention to the famine in Ireland. And soon, calls for action picked up momentum, and additional relief meetings took place in Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. There in New England, the abolitionists Harriet Beecher Stowe and William Lloyd Garrison and writers Henry David Thoreau and Emily Dickinson all joined the effort.

Even in Scullyville, Oklahoma, members of the Choctaw Nation, who had suffered their own tragedy of starvation just 16 years prior during the Trail of Tears, took up the call and gathered $170 in aid to send to Ireland. In Richmond, Virginia, black congregants of a Baptist church, some of whom were enslaved, also collected funds for the suffering Irish.

But some of the fiercest advocates were Irish immigrants, who knew firsthand from their families back home how dire the situation had become. And by February 1847, the news was worse than ever, and these Irish immigrants called for greater action from their adopted country of the United States.

But the U.S. was one year into a war with Mexico and bitterly divided over the expansion of American territory in the West and the future of slavery. Political parties, state governments, and federal agencies all clashed over whether to take action on the Irish problem when there were so many domestic issues tearing the nation apart.

Then, on February 18th, 1847, some of Boston's most prominent residents gathered at Faneuil Hall, the same place where Samuel Adams and other patriots met on the eve of the Revolutionary War. Fifty-three-year-old Edward Everett, a Unitarian pastor and the recent ambassador to Great Britain, was the key speaker. Everett was a well-respected and influential orator, and he passionately took up Ireland's plight, calling on those in attendance to make the hall in which he spoke burn with fervor for the cause.

The crowd thundered their support as he concluded, "'I beseech you, what you do, do quickly.'" In attendance that day was Robert Bennett Forbes, a private ship captain who had retired from the sea after making a fortune in the opium trade in China. He was nearly moved to tears by Everett's speech and became determined to act.

Imagine it's February 20th, 1847, in Boston, Massachusetts. You are a ship captain and a merchant from a wealthy Boston family. You trudge through the sleet and ice, bracing your shoulders against the frigid cold. It's been just two days since you attended a meeting at Boston's Faneuil Hall, and since then, you haven't been able to forget the terrible descriptions of suffering in Ireland. Losing your life in the war,

Losing two of your own children as newborns nearly destroyed you and your wife with grief, so you can't imagine watching your entire family die from hunger. But you know that's exactly what's happening in Ireland. And maybe you think there's a way you can stop it. You reach the office of your brother, who's a partner in your shipping business. You let yourself in, and without taking your coat off, you sit down across from him, your brow furrowed.

Your brother John looks off from his work, confused and concerned. Robert, you look troubled. What's on your mind? Remember when we took that cargo to China in record time? Even though many said it could not be done, or even should not be done. Yes, I recall. I also recall we were nearly swept out to sea, attacked by pirates. I believe you were even put under arrest. Yes, I was. But John, I am captured now by the thoughts of the Irish. My body and soul have not been at rest since the meeting at Faneuil Hall.

People in Ireland are suffering. They're dying. Well, it is troubling indeed, but what are we to do about it? I believe we should organize a relief effort, and it must be done quickly. Fine, but who will you get to donate? People in Boston are generous, to be sure, but meeting the needs of an entire nation. That would require raising money on a scale that's not yet been attempted. Yes, but it's not money I'm thinking of. That's what most aid efforts have given. But the price of food in England is rising, and the dollar won't go as far.

Instead, I believe we should ask people to give food. Many would part with a few bushels of grain rather than open their pocketbook. Oh, but Robert, the food would need to be collected and stored and loaded and then transported. Yes, it will.

Your brother looks at you with confusion. You can't be suggesting we do it. You know very well we have no ship in our books fit for that kind of voyage. Perhaps not, but there are navy ships presently at the docks, nearly ready for use. One could be loaded with food and taken to the suffering people in Ireland. Oh, but wait a moment. In case you forgot, there's a war going on. The military needs those vessels. Surely the navy can spare one ship for a situation this dire.

Your brother sits back in his seat and eyes you, his look serious. Okay, well, let's say you can get a vessel and fill it with goods. Who will you get to captain the ship, or should I guess? You can guess, but I'll tell you. It'll be me. Didn't you promise your wife not to take on any more voyages? Your last nearly drove her to a nervous breakdown. She will understand, because, John, this is something I must do.

You can see a look of concern on your brother's face, and then it softens. Well, if you're that determined, I can't stop you, can I? You jump to your feet. No, you cannot. I'm going to draft a letter to the mayor's office before the end of the day, so please start getting the paperwork together. Because mark my words, if we have to move heaven and earth, we will see this through.

Just days after the meeting in Boston, Robert Forbes drafted a letter to the mayor with an unusual proposal. He wanted to use an American naval ship to bring food and supplies directly to the people of Ireland. And to ensure the success of the mission, Forbes offered to captain the ship himself. Boston's mayor, familiar with Forbes' reputation, forwarded the plan to the governor, and within days it was brought before Congress, and found a receptive audience.

Forbes was not alone in his zeal, and soon his proposal was joined by a plan from Kentucky Senator John Crittenden to devote half a million dollars, or one percent of the federal budget, to help the Irish with the famine. This measure cleared the Senate on February 26, but opposition to the bill in the House was shaping up to be formidable.

Though most lawmakers recognized the suffering that the Irish were enduring, the extent of the expenditure and the unusual proposal sparked broad criticism. Some argued that Congress could not use public funds to aid a foreign nation. One senator from Virginia vowed to vote against the measure, calling it a perversion of the trust reposed in me under the Constitution of the United States. Others warned that the move, though well-intended, could risk setting a precedent for future conflicts in more unpopular nations.

Still others call it hypocrisy, noting that people were also suffering in other countries like Prussia and France, and no aid was headed their way.

Senator Crittenden tried to rescue the bill, assuring his fellow senators that the gesture would be a powerful symbol, saying, Can you imagine any spectacle more sublime than that of one nation holding out the hand which is full of plenty to the suffering people of another nation? He insisted that the move would create a common brotherhood that would bind nations together. But his efforts were not enough. The House defeated the funding bill.

But supporters believed they had one more chance. Congress was nearing the end of its session, and if they could strip the request for funding and instead focus on Forbes' proposal to use a Navy ship to bring direct aid, they might still have a chance. They made a final push, and on March 3, 1847, Congress approved the measure, along with a similar proposal for an aid ship from New York. Two days later, President James Polk signed off on the deal.

Captain Robert Forbes immediately went into action, calling for donations, gathering a private crew, and preparing for voyage. He had chosen the U.S. Navy vessel at the USS Jamestown for the journey. This battleship was more than 150 feet long and rose three decks high. And on the first day of preparations, its cannons were removed and more than 1,000 barrels of food and 20 barrels of clothing were placed on board.

Many of the workers who loaded the goods were Irish immigrants themselves and worked around the clock without wages, determined to help their families back home.

As these crews readied the Jamestown for departure, Forbes wrote a flurry of letters to officials in London and Ireland hoping to ease the distribution of aid and speed up the bureaucratic maze of customs once he arrived. British officials met the news of an aid shipment with a mix of relief and anxiety. They knew that the offer of provisions would lessen the burden of the famine, but it would also shine a light on their inability to successfully deal with the crisis on their own. But despite ambivalence, the British agreed to accept the aid.

Now, Forbes knew that the Jamestown would have to be outfitted, caulked, and loaded in record time. Aware that even minor delays might cost lives, Forbes readied for the voyage across the ocean in a race against hunger.

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By March 1847, Father Theobald Matthew's efforts to fight the rising tide of death and hunger in Cork, Ireland, had left him battling despair and exhaustion. He estimated that there were now more than 10,000 people crowding the city's streets looking for food and shelter, a number that was double that of just one month before. Adding to the misery was a brutally cold winter. Matthew wrote,

I am in horror whilst I walk the streets and I return to my besieged dwelling in sadness and hopelessness. His despondency was understandable. Three months earlier, in January of 1847, British lawmakers in London had passed the Temporary Relief Act, finally promising to open soup kitchens in the hardest-hit areas of Ireland. But so far, not a single bowl of soup had been served.

Instead, Charles Trevelyan, the Assistant Secretary of Treasury, directed British officials in Ireland to spend weeks building an office, developing tracking cards, and finding ways to deter what he expected would be cheating from the starving Irish recipients of food aid. Trevelyan also insisted on only serving food that was cooked so that the Irish couldn't steal it and sell it later.

But as Trevelyan and other British officials stalled, Father Matthew stepped up his own efforts at his parish soup kitchen, relying on donations as well as money from his own savings to feed 5,000 to 6,000 people every week. But still it wasn't enough. Every day, more starving and sick people arrived from the countryside, and Matthew was called to preside over dozens of funerals. During March and April of 1847, he buried as many as 36 bodies a day.

This death toll meant that new refugees to Cork awoke to the constant buzz of the lumber mill, where planks for coffins were being cut day and night. These mills also cut lumber for sheds, meant to shelter those suffering from a fever that was sweeping through the weakened and malnourished population. The sawmills also provided wood for the building of more ships for those lucky few who could scrape together funds and were healthy enough to set sail for England, Canada, and the U.S. to flee the misery.

All across Ireland, the suffering accelerated, with March 1847 becoming the deadliest month of the entire famine. American writer Asenith Nicholson, who had gathered private donations from New York and was providing what limited aid she could, witnessed the grim scenes from her apartment in Dublin, writing after the fact, "...my bedroom overlooked the burying ground. I often arose to look at it, that some haggard father was bringing a dead child, lashed to his back, and leaving him to the mercy of whoever might find it a grave."

An English volunteer was shocked to watch people dying like cattle around him and witnessed others clawing the bark from tree trunks to eat or walking along the shoreline like ghosts looking for seaweed to cook. He wrote back to England declaring, "...the whole country is one vast tomb."

Across the Atlantic Ocean on March 28, 1847, Captain Robert Bennett Forbes finally departed from Boston Harbor on the American naval ship USS Jamestown. The relief goods on board made the ship so heavy it dropped several feet below the waterline and soon began to leak. But Forbes directed his crew to keep the vessel sailing as fast as possible even as ice began to cover the decks and freezing wind lashed the sails.

On April 8, 1847, ten days into the journey, the first fair weather broke over the ocean, and Forbes was able to increase speed. A week later, on April 12, the Jamestown arrived on Ireland's south coast, and the next day, a tug pulled the ship into Cork's inner harbor.

When Forbes and the crew of the Jamestown reached Port in the evening, they were stunned to see thousands of people lining the wharves, weeping and cheering. A band played Yankee Doodle and church bells rang out from the hills. It was like nothing Forbes had seen before.

Imagine it's April 14th, 1847 in Cork County, Ireland, and you're standing outside the American Consul's office in the city. Your eyes are red and your shoulders stooped with exhaustion, but you've taken a rare break from your duties serving your congregants at the parish soup kitchen to play host to an honored guest, an American captain who has recently arrived into the harbor bringing a ship laden with aid. You were nearly brought to tears by the miraculous sight of the ship, and now you're eager to express your gratitude.

Captain, it's an honor to welcome you to Cork. Please, follow me inside. You must be exhausted from your journey. Here, take a seat. Everyone is excited to see you. Thank you, Father. I must admit, their enthusiasm is a bit overwhelming. We've seen so much misery. Your arrival, it's like a dream. It's still hard to believe. But certainly, you're the answer to our prayers.

Well, I wish I could have been here sooner. But I assure you, Father, I've traveled on behalf of the people of America who are determined to help. And we couldn't be more grateful, Captain. But I regret to inform you that the situation still grows worse every day. While you were at sea, our bishop here in Cork died. And right at this moment, the mayor is in bed fighting for his life. Both of them were hoping to greet you in person, but struck by the fever like thousands of others. Well, now that I've arrived, Father, I understand.

"'I've read reports of this situation, but what I've seen the past few days is far worse than anything I could have imagined. Indeed, it must come as a shock. And there's one more thing I hesitate to bring up, but I feel I must. Well, go on. Distribution will soon become a pressing issue for all of us. Outside of Cork, some have started to request a share of the aid that you've brought, and even demand it. You must understand that the need is great here in the city, enough to consume everything on your ship, but the rest of the country suffers as well.' "'Yes, I see.'

Well then, let this be but the first of many arrivals to your shore. Let it be a symbol of our friendship and our commitment. You clasp the captain's hands in yours. It's clear that he's still shocked by the reality of the situation here in Cork, but you sense a genuine friendship in his demeanor. Even more than the goods at the port, you realize that the arrival of his ship means that for the first time in months, there is reason to hope.

Soon after his arrival in Cork, Captain Forbes met with Father Theobald Matthew at the American consulate. Matthew praised Forbes for the friendship and goodwill that the Americans were displaying. The Jamestown brought 800 tons of life-saving food and supplies, including corn, wheat, rice, and meat. But while Matthew and other local officials could see that the aid Forbes had brought was generous, they also knew it would not be enough to meet the needs of all the hungry residents in the areas surrounding the city.

Soon disputes erupted about how best to divide the aid among the numerous towns and villages in need, and eventually it was agreed that the food would be taken in boats to coastal villages and divided throughout County Cork. Once the provisions had been unloaded and were bound for needy communities, Forbes knew it was time to return home. On April 22, 1847, the Jamestown departed from Ireland, arriving safely back in Boston three weeks later on May 16th.

and Forbes' return was met with jubilation. His journey had proved that Americans, once motivated for a cause, could come together and their government could act quickly to marshal its resources and respond to a crisis. So Forbes' mission was only the beginning of America's response to the Irish famine. For the rest of 1847, 114 more ships left for Ireland, distributing crucial aid to cities and towns throughout the island. And dozens more continued the following year as the famine persisted.

Meanwhile, though, British officials continued to stumble. In the summer of 1847, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury Charles Trevelyan moved to close all government-funded soup kitchens, despite three million Irish still depending upon them for survival. Once again, he blamed the Irish for their own suffering, saying, It is my opinion that too much has been done for the people. Under such treatment, they have grown worse instead of better, and we must now try to see what individual exertion can do.

American writer Asenith Nicholson remained in Ireland until 1848, helping victims of the famine and writing about her experiences. When the time came for her to depart, she declared, Never again will the emaciated fingers of a starving child be linked in supplication for a bit of bread as I pass in the busy street, though the painful visions will forever haunt me.

Her book, Annals of the Famine in Ireland, published in New York in 1851, would become the most in-depth documentation of the famine by an American.

The Irish Famine would continue through the mid-1850s. In the end, more than one-third of the nation perished or emigrated, seeking new lives abroad, with more than half a million arriving in American cities, greatly reshaping the places they settled, including Boston, where Captain Robert Bennett Forbes continued to work as a successful merchant. He considered his role in bringing aid to Ireland one of the most important acts of his life,

calling it a great privilege and a beautiful mission, which is to be remembered by us and our children with feelings of satisfaction until time is no more. In 1995, to mark the 150th anniversary of the famine, Ireland's President Mary Robinson visited America and acknowledged the vital aid that the U.S. provided in her country's time of need, calling it a reminder of the hope of solidarity and a shared humanity. ♪

From Wondery, this has been a special episode of American History Tellers on the Irish Famine Relief Mission. On the next episode, in 1866, Congress creates six new all-Black Army regiments, and for the first time, Black men have a permanent place in the U.S. military. These men, known as Buffalo Soldiers, are sent west to make way for America's rapid expansion, and will have to fight fierce battles against the elements, American Indian warriors, and the prejudice of their own army.

If you like American history tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. ♪

If you'd like to learn more about America's response to the Irish famine, we recommend Voyage of Mercy by Stephen Puglio and Black Potatoes, the Story of the Great Irish Famine by Susan Campbell Bartoletti. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bond. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Dorian Marina. Edited and produced by Alida Rozanski. Managing producer, Desi Blaylock.

Senior Managing Producer, Callum Clues. Senior Producer, Andy Herman. Executive Producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marsha Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery.

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