"If you have the money,
"you should still get yourself a gun,
"it costs less than two pounds,
"smuggled goods cost only twelve shillings,
"otherwise the Volunteer Cavalry will take your life,
"those who died merely wanted to afford sugar..."
The children sang the nursery rhyme happily, without understanding its meaning in the slightest.
Inside a red-brick house on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland's capital, the great landowner Ian Patrick glanced at the children playing by the road and frowned at the steward beside him.
"Who taught them this damned nonsense? If the British Police hear it, they'll probably get the whip."
The steward immediately gave the servant at the door a meaningful look. Two fierce-looking men rushed out, kicked each child in the backside several times, and loudly called out their parents' names, warning them to keep their children in line.
Patrick withdrew his gaze and said to the people around the table,
"Could this be a scam? After all, a bushel of wheat was still under four shillings last year."
The shriveled old man beside him pondered for a moment.
"That is indeed possible, but as long as those people are willing to pay a sufficient deposit, we won't suffer any losses."
"I think so too." The only noblewoman in the room nodded in agreement. "Even if the overseas market changes later, we can simply leave the grain in the warehouse for a year.
"Besides, Mr. McCracken is willing to guarantee those people. I think it's worth trying."
The bearded man beside her said gruffly,
"I heard that, in order to stabilize the situation in the Caribbean Sea, the French send dozens of ships of grain over there every month. They even banned grain from North Africa from being exported because of it, so rising prices are nothing