Fitzwilliam scowled as he surveyed the meager farms that bordered his own. One in particular, owned by one Aiden O'Dell, grew nothing but the wretched root. Apparently the folk here were simple enough to enjoy living on it.

And foolish enough to depend on a single crop for sustenance, he mused inwardly, pleased at himself for being so much better than the mere peasants.

He whistled as his convoy of carriages continued on the road to the port, its armed escort trudging along in silence, but ever watchful, in case of attack by the occasional band of ungrateful Irishmen. He busied himself with thoughts of how much his crops of vegetables and pork would fetch on the market in London. His own, ample farmlands contained no potato plants and were mercifully free of the blight.

Those silly Irish, he thought. Man does not live by potato alone! When would they ever learn?