I Became A Hidden Powerhouse Of The British Empire [EN]: Chapter 97

Ireland’s Guardian Deity (3)

It goes without saying that for the Irish, a failed potato harvest is synonymous with starvation.

In fact, the astute among them would have realized the gravity of the situation from the Queen’s personal visit. Sending anyone else, even myself alone, would have sufficed to quell mere rumors.

“But that’s not the immediate concern. Potato blight [a disease that rots potatoes] has been discovered in the New World, across the Atlantic. It’s incredibly infectious; a single affected potato can rapidly contaminate an entire field. From there, it spreads to neighboring farms, eventually engulfing the entire country.”

“Minister! Shouldn’t we block potatoes from the New World that are infected with this disease?”

“Unfortunately, completely preventing the disease is unrealistic unless we block every ship from the New World. However, we will implement the strictest quarantine measures possible, buying us time to prepare. We estimate we have at least three to five years.

During that time, we intend to diversify Ireland’s agricultural structure, which currently relies on a single potato variety. We’ll introduce alternative crops to supplement, and eventually replace, potatoes.”

“It’s not that we *want* to only grow potatoes. Most of the wheat is exported to Britain, and no other crop thrives as well as potatoes here. That’s why we’re stuck with them…”

To the Irish, this sounds like detached theorizing.

It’s not as if they’re ignorant of the risks of monoculture [cultivating a single crop].

However, no other crop yields as much food in this soil as potatoes, so they’ve never had a real choice.

“Of course. That’s why, as soon as I learned of this blight, I dispatched people to find potato alternatives. After two years of investigation and trials, I’ve found a crop that can replace potatoes, not perfectly, but adequately.”

“Oh! What is it?”

“To go to such lengths for us… We’ve never had a politician like this!”

It must be a moving sight.

An Irishman, rising from oppression to become the youngest minister in the British Empire, achieving diplomatic and military successes, returning as the pride of his country.

Knowing about a disease that threatens Ireland, personally seeking alternative crops, and persuading the Queen to come here – how could they not be moved?

“But I must be upfront. This crop is less palatable and has a worse texture than potatoes. It provides about 60% of the calories, so it’s less filling. However, it grows as well as potatoes in Irish soil, guaranteeing a harvest sufficient to prevent starvation.”

“A crop that tastes worse than potatoes is… concerning.”

“Just how bad *is* the taste?”

“It’s the devil’s food.”

They’ll have to eat it to avoid starvation, but predictably, their faces are grim.

Life is already hard enough with bland potatoes; being told to eat something even worse is a cruel blow.

I placed a rutabaga [a root vegetable, similar to a turnip] on the table, meeting the anxious gazes of the citizen representatives.

“This is a rutabaga. I’ll gladly offer a tasting to anyone who’s willing.”

“I’ll try it.”

An elderly bishop in the front row raised his hand. I personally brought him the rutabaga.

The bishop’s eyes narrowed with a mix of worry and apprehension as he picked up the food, barely chewed it, and swallowed it before gulping down water.

“Cough, cough! Well, it’s edible… I suppose.”

“Let me be blunt: it doesn’t taste good. I’m not suggesting you eat only this for the rest of your lives. However, if potato blight devastates Europe, you’ll likely have to rely on this as a staple food for several years. Of course, we’ll lower grain prices to make bread more accessible.”

Even so, the reality remains: there will be a time when rutabaga becomes their main source of sustenance.

In fact, the complexions of those who tasted the rutabaga after the bishop were, to put it mildly, unfavorable.

They couldn’t openly complain with the Queen and me present, but their expressions spoke volumes.

‘Wow… You expect us to live on this for years? I don’t know if I can.’

I had anticipated this reaction.

No, it was essential.

That’s why I’m adding a few more policies.

“We’ll explore every avenue, but rutabaga is ultimately less filling than potatoes. Some of you may struggle to endure even potatoes, and this may be unbearable. So, I’ll offer another option: immigration to Canada, across the Atlantic.”

“Canada? Not that country called the United States of America?”

“Canada is a territory of the British Empire with a relatively small population, so it can accommodate many people from Ireland. We’ve already begun preparing infrastructure for farmland development, factories, and resource extraction.

I’m not simply telling you to go there penniless and fend for yourselves. We’ll provide systematic immigration assistance, and even tenant farmers here will easily own land there. If you don’t want to farm, you can find work in the large-scale factories being built near the Great Lakes. I, Killian Gore, and Her Gracious Majesty the Queen will fully support your new beginning!”

Large-scale immigration now would create chaos, but we have nearly five years before the Great Famine truly hits.

In the meantime, if we steadily plant rutabaga and ship the surplus population to Canada, we can kill two birds with one stone.

The westward expansion will also accelerate, as there’s justification for granting land to Irish immigrants.

The ultimate goal is to extend our influence to the Pacific before the Mexican War erupts.

And to make the Irish a clear majority in Canada.

According to records, Canada’s current population is about 1.2 million in Lower Canada; even including Newfoundland, it’s only about 1.7 million.

If we relocate Irish people en masse, we can definitely control at least one region, if not all of Canada.

I’ve also prepared additional measures to subtly boost the population, so I wonder if we can achieve a much faster growth rate than in the original timeline.

“Large-scale immigration…”

“Does that mean we have to abandon our homeland?”

“But if they guarantee jobs and land, is there any reason to stay here?”

“Well, even if we stay, we’ll just scrape by on rutabaga or potatoes. Over there, they say we can get a decent job.”

If I had simply told them to immigrate, they would have ignored me. But now, I’ve baited them with rutabaga and the looming Great Famine.

Hearing the excited murmurs, I judged the moment right, cleared my throat, and turned slightly towards Victoria.

“Of course! As an Irishman, I won’t ask you to endure these hardships alone. If potato blight truly ravages Europe and you have to rely on rutabaga, I will forgo luxurious meals and eat the same rutabaga as you!”

“Are you saying you’ll keep eating this, Minister?”

“It’s not just me. Her Majesty the Queen, who always thinks of and loves her citizens, has also declared that she will gladly share this burden. As an Irish citizen, I commend Her Majesty’s resolve.”

As I bowed my head, a servant placed a rutabaga, identical to the one the people had tasted, before the Queen.

Surely the Queen wouldn’t eat that, no matter what? Even if she did, she’d only take a bite. Would a royal who’s only known luxury eat such a degrading food?

Such doubts, shock, and confusion swirled, but surprisingly, it happened.

Before everyone, Victoria calmly cut the rutabaga, picked it up with a fork, and ate it.

One bite, two bites, three bites. Her hand didn’t stop until the plate was empty, and she didn’t even gag once while eating the clearly awful food.

The Irish people, who had complained about the rutabaga’s taste moments before, scratched their heads in embarrassment.

Murmurs arose, acknowledging the Queen’s exceptional character.

Victoria sighed softly and put down her silverware.

“I can’t honestly say it tastes good. But as a monarch, how can I stand by and watch my citizens suffer? Some say that if the British Empire faces a food crisis, it will abandon Ireland, but that’s false. You are my people, and I am your Queen. So, like the Minister, who is the hope of the Irish, I will share your pain.

The Minister said he would eat rutabaga when the famine starts, correct? I can’t realistically do that all the time, but until the potato blight starts and ends, rutabaga will always be on the royal family’s menu, and I will eat it while thinking of you. So, please trust me, this country, and our Minister, who loves you so much, and overcome this hardship.”

What more could be said?

Time seemed to stop; no one spoke, not even a clap was heard.

They say when emotions peak, people become speechless.

I believe that’s the situation.

Soon, the people, jolted back to reality as the Queen ate another piece of rutabaga and rose from her seat, shed tears and shouted.

“Her Majesty the Queeeeeeeen!”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Minister! We can’t live without you! Savior of Ireland! Hope of Ireland!”

It was a resonance unlike simple praise.

At that moment, the Irish people accepted her not as the Queen of the British Empire, but as the true Queen of Ireland.

I left with Victoria and glanced at Daniel O’Connell, who watched the entire process dumbfounded.

“…Such a thing… To think I’d see such a day.”