Needless to say, for the Irish people the failure of the potato harvest meant only one thing.
No food for the year.
Those with quick wits had likely already realized the truth.
The Queen herself had come.
If this had merely been about calming rumors, it would have been more than enough for me to come alone.
"There is no immediate danger," I continued calmly.
"The potato blight has only recently been discovered across the Atlantic, in the New World."
"This disease spreads with terrifying speed. If even a single potato becomes infected, the entire field can be destroyed in days."
"And once one farm is infected, it spreads to neighboring farms… until eventually it could cover the entire country."
"Then—Minister!" one man cried out.
"If the infected potatoes come from the New World, can't we simply block ships from bringing them here?"
"I'm afraid that would be impossible," I replied.
"Unless we stop every single ship crossing the Atlantic, the disease cannot be completely prevented."
"However, we will do everything possible to delay it."
"We estimate we still have at least three to five years to prepare."
"During that time, we will reform Ireland's agricultural system, which currently relies on a single crop."
"And we will introduce alternative crops to replace potatoes."
"But we don't grow only potatoes because we want to!" someone protested.
"Most wheat is exported to Britain, and nothing grows here as well as potatoes!"
Their frustration was understandable.
To them, my proposal probably sounded like the sort of theory invented in a comfortable office.
They weren't fools.
Of course they understood the risks of relying on a single crop.
But the truth was simple.
No other food crop grew as reliably in Irish soil.
They had never really had a choice.
"Of course," I said.
"That is precisely why I began searching for alternatives the moment I learned of the blight."
"I sent people across Europe and the New World."
"After two years of research and testing, we have discovered a crop that can partially replace potatoes."
The crowd leaned forward eagerly.
"What is it?"
"You did all that for us?"
"No politician has ever gone that far!"
Of course they were moved.
A man of Irish descent had risen to become the youngest minister in the British Empire.
He had earned glory in diplomacy and war.
And now he had returned home.
He had discovered the coming disaster.
Found a substitute crop.
And convinced the Queen herself to come to Ireland.
How could they possibly see me as anything other than a savior?
"But I must warn you in advance," I said.
"This crop tastes even worse than potatoes."
"It has unpleasant texture."
"It contains only about sixty percent of the calories of potatoes."
"You will not feel as full."
"But it grows just as well in Irish soil."
"And it will produce enough harvest to prevent starvation."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"Worse than potatoes…?"
"How bad could that be?"
"That sounds like the devil's food."
Their faces darkened.
Living on potatoes alone was already miserable.
Being told they might have to eat something even worse was hardly comforting.
I placed the vegetable on the table.
"This crop is called rutabaga."
"If anyone would like to taste it, you are welcome to try."
An elderly bishop in the front row raised his hand.
"Then I shall taste it."
I personally handed him a piece.
With visible anxiety, he slowly lifted it to his mouth.
The moment he bit down, his expression twisted strangely.
He swallowed almost immediately without chewing and reached for water.
"Ahem… well…"
"It is… edible."
I nodded.
"To be honest, it has little flavor."
"I am not asking you to eat this for the rest of your lives."
"But if the potato blight spreads across Europe, there will be several years when rutabaga becomes the main food."
"Of course, we will lower grain prices so that bread remains available as well."
Still—
The fact remained that rutabaga would become a staple.
One by one, others tasted it.
Their expressions were terrible.
They were too polite to complain openly in front of the Queen.
But their faces said everything.
We have to eat this for years?
That sounds unbearable.
This reaction was exactly what I had expected.
No—
It was exactly the reaction I needed.
Because that was when I introduced the next part of the plan.
"Even with these measures, rutabaga will not satisfy hunger the way potatoes do."
"Some of you may find it unbearable."
"So I will offer another option."
"The New World."
"Specifically—Canada."
The crowd stirred.
"Canada?"
"Not the United States?"
"Yes," I said.
"Canada is part of the British Empire."
"Its population is still small."
"No matter how many Irish migrate there, the land can accommodate them."
"We have already begun preparing infrastructure for farming, industry, and resource development."
"I am not asking you to arrive with nothing and struggle blindly."
"This will be organized migration."
"You will receive assistance establishing farms."
"Even tenants who owned no land in Ireland will have the chance to own property."
"And those who prefer city life can work in the factories that will rise around the Great Lakes."
"Your new beginning will be supported by **me, Killian Gore—**and by our gracious Queen."
The crowd erupted with whispers.
"Mass migration…"
"Leaving our homeland?"
"But if land and work are guaranteed…"
"Then perhaps it's worth considering."
After all, their alternative was clear.
Remain in Ireland.
And survive on rutabaga.
When that realization began spreading through the crowd, I knew the moment had come.
I cleared my throat and turned slightly toward Victoria.
"But!"
"As a man born in Ireland, I will not ask you to endure these hardships alone."
"If the potato blight truly spreads and rutabaga becomes our staple…"
"Then I will abandon luxurious meals and eat rutabaga alongside you."
Gasps echoed across the garden.
"You… you would eat that as well?"
"Not only me," I said.
"I actually suggested that such sacrifice was unnecessary."
"But our Queen—who loves her people deeply—declared that she would share this burden as well."
"As an Irish citizen, I express my deepest respect for Her Majesty's resolve."
I bowed.
A servant stepped forward.
He placed before the Queen a plate of rutabaga prepared exactly the same way the others had tasted it.
The crowd watched in stunned disbelief.
Surely the Queen wouldn't eat that.
Even if she did, perhaps a single bite.
After all, she had lived her entire life surrounded by luxury.
But then—
Victoria calmly cut the rutabaga with her knife.
She lifted it with her fork.
And ate it.
One bite.
Two bites.
Three.
She finished the entire portion.
Not once did she flinch.
Not once did she gag.
The Irishmen who had complained moments earlier scratched their heads awkwardly.
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
The Queen truly is different…
Victoria set down her utensils with a soft sigh.
"I cannot honestly say it tastes good."
"But how could a monarch stand by and watch her people suffer?"
"Some claim that if famine strikes the Empire, Britain will abandon Ireland."
"That is wrong."
"You are my people."
"And I am your Queen."
"So just as the minister has promised to share your hardships…"
"I will share them as well."
"If the blight spreads and rutabaga becomes your food, the royal table will serve it as well."
"Until the famine ends, rutabaga will appear on my table."
"And when I eat it, I will remember you."
"So please—believe in me."
"Believe in this country."
"And believe in the minister who loves Ireland so deeply."
Nothing more needed to be said.
The entire garden fell silent.
No applause.
No cheers.
When emotion reaches its peak, people lose the ability to speak.
Perhaps that was what was happening now.
Then Victoria calmly picked up another piece of rutabaga.
And stood.
The crowd exploded.
"Your Majesty!"
"Thank you! Thank you!"
"Minister! We need you!"
"Savior of Ireland!"
"Hope of Ireland!"
This was different from earlier praise.
Something fundamental had changed.
In that moment, the Irish people no longer saw Victoria merely as the Queen of the British Empire.
They saw her as their Queen.
As Victoria and I left the stage, I glanced toward Daniel O'Connell, who stood frozen in shock.
"…To think I would live to see such a day."
His voice trembled.
Seeing his expression stirred something in me as well.
I had not lived in Ireland very long.
But perhaps I was Irish after all.
This visit had two goals.
To make Ireland accept the British Queen as their own.
And to extend my influence across the entire island.
But for O'Connell—
This moment was more than politics.
And honestly…
That alone made everything worthwhile.