An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  “Well, thank heaven it isn’t.” He smiled. “And I’m sure a beautiful woman like you will have a beautiful child. You’re married to John McGuire, aren’t you? He’s a great man, has done so much for the Irish people. He’ll be thrilled knowing he’ll have a son or daughter. That is, if you catch up with him.”

  “I never thought I could love anybody as much as I love him. I don’t see him as much as I’d like, but I know he’s busy helping the people of Ireland in their great need. I’m so proud of him.”

  She opened her change purse.

  “How much do I owe you, doctor.”

  “Nothing. Your husband has more than repaid me with his good works.”

  “Bless you doctor,” she said as she was leaving.

  When Tara walked home, she was in a frightened state. A baby. She felt her heart had been cut by a sliver of glass. She didn’t know a thing about babies being born. Her mother, Kathleen, was so shy she had to read about the sex act in the library. And now she was having a baby! How in the world could a baby’s head and body emerge from that small opening in her vagina? And she had no one to ask. Certainly not Patrick. Oh, why had Maureen moved to America? She probably knew about such things. And then she thought of the one person she could always talk to, Father Boyle.

  She knocked on his door, he opened it, and she burst out crying.

  “Come in! Come in!” he said, seeing her despair.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “I just came from the doctor. I’m going to have a baby. I’m over three months pregnant.”

  “That’s wonderful! Wonderful!”

  “But I’m so frightened. How is a big baby going to come through—that opening?” She blushed as she pointed to her vaginal area.

  “Didn’t Kathleen, I mean, your mother explain to you about these things?”

  “She was too shy to talk about them, I think.”

  “Well, then I’ll tell you about the basics of them. That opening—it gets very, wide, much wider than the size of the baby,” he lied. And it just slips out.”

  He hadn’t the heart to tell her of the pain she would most likely endure. “It has what they call an imbilical cord, the doctor snips it, and it gets tied. And very basically, that’s it. Now that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

  “But what about the pain and agony some women have told me about when I’ve heard them talking about it?”

  “That?” Oh, that’s if the baby weighs over fifteen pounds and rarely happens, or if it comes out feet first, which happens in one in a million births.”

  In his heart he prayed to the Lord to forgive his lies.

  Tara sighed. “I feel much better now.”

  She left him in a much calmer state than when she had arrived.

  When Tara arrived home, Patrick told her he had seen John’s and Sean’s horse in Father Boyle’s barn. When she arrived at Father Boyle’s again he made a sign with his index finger to her to remain as quiet as possible. He filled her in on what had happened. When they arrived, Sean said John was not well and he immediately put him to bed. They had just come from Skibereen, had brought the people there twenty bags of food, but that area of Ireland seemed to be the hardest hit. He kept saying, “The things I saw,” “the things I saw.” He was totally depleted so Father Boyle had put him to bed and he was now fast asleep.

  Tara peeked into the room where John lay. She saw his face was white and his eye lids looked black and blue. She quietly left, giving him time to sleep.

  A few hours passed and she checked on him again. He was awake, and she lay down beside him.

  “Tara, I’m not good. The things I saw. I can’t get them out of my mind.”

  “Think about good things. Come spring the famine will surely be over, the flowers beginning to bloom. And all this horror will be over for you. We can begin to plan our lives together.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps we could start out by renting a cottage, grow a good crop of potatoes, have a few horses and pigs, chickens.” She blushed. “And eventually we’ll have children. These are the things you must think about.”

  His face brightened.

  “Do you really think so? Really?”

  “Of course I do. I never say anything I don’t truly believe. Listen I have some chamomile leaves in my pocket. I’ll have Sean make you some tea and lie down beside you. I want you to have a complete rest the next few days.”

  “But after what I saw, I have to get back. I have to get more food for the starving.”

  “No. I forbid it. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Father Boyle, and Sean the next few days,” she smiled.

  “I had no idea things were as bad as what I saw today. I’ve been mostly in the eastern part of Ireland, but I know now I have to concentrate on getting food to the people in the western part, which is much worse.”

  She handed him the cup of chamomile tea Sean had made and sat beside him on the cot holding his hand. When she was convinced he slept, she slowly got up and went to Father Boyle’s largest room where the furze was burning and Sean was there.

  Sean began to pace the room. “We must do more,” he said. “John is right. We must!”

  “He’s sleeping now,” Tara said when she entered the room. We have to keep him here for a few days, if it’s all right with you, Father. No one will suspect he’s here.”

  “Of course.”

  For a few days Tara tried to nurse him as best she could with the little food Father Boyle could spare. Then Sean, who was so unhinged by John’s demeanor, suddenly remembered they had a pillow case filled with food tied to his horse’s saddle and went to retrieve it and give it to Father Boyle.

  “The Lord is so good,” he said, accepting it with thanks.

  At least, while he was there they would be eating hearty food they had taken from the ship they had attacked.

  The evening of the fourth day, John appeared much better. She undressed, as did he, and they made love. She felt that she had touched heaven and knew he felt the same way.

  Later he said, “I’m leaving tonight. I’ve lost too much time already.”

  “John, please,” she begged. “Can’t you wait a few more days until you are truly better?”

  “I’m fine. On the contrary, I realize now I have to do more. You didn’t see what I did a few days ago, thank the Lord.”

  “I’ve seen plenty. Just in this town.”

  “Well, then, you must understand.”

  “It’s not as important to me as your life, God forgive me. What I said before, about the famine being over next year and us, rebuilding our lives. That’s what’s important too.”

  “I will try to think of that,” he promised.

  That night he and Sean left in the darkness, Tara’s heart slashed to pieces. They met up with the twenty Irish peasants who were accompanying them on the raids, plus his other three Irish guards, and they planned for the next raid.

  John did not know that the reason why the British government did not feel bound to send food to Skibbereen was that ample food was to be found there already. There was a market filled with meat, bread, fish, and much else. This strange contradiction occurred all over Ireland during the famine years, but the British government failed to realize the Irish no longer had any money and, therefore, it was inaccessible to the Irish wretches, many of whom now lived by the side of the road. And so the food might just as well have not existed. Those who starved in places like Skibbereen died not because there was no food but because they were jobless and had no money to buy it. Money to pay wages had quickly run out because the numbers unemployed were so unbelievably higher than expected and laborers were also left with no work. Also, prices rocketed, and the speculators made fortunes, especially out of Indian corn.

  Finally there was a new and powerful organization which was beginning to help Ireland, The British Association, and their goal was
to relieve the sufferers who were beyond the reach of the British government and distribute food, clothing and fuel to them, but in no case were they to obtain money. The Queen gave five thousand pounds and the group was able to give minimal relief.

  Soup kitchens were also established via The Soup Kitchen Act, its object being the free distribution of soup so that the farmers could work on their own plots of ground and thus tend to produce food for the next harvest and perhaps earn small wages to help support their families. But a far more drastic bill accompanied it, a Relief Bill which followed and depended on the collection of rates to be collected which was practically impossible in a large number of districts. When the famine was raging only sixty two pounds had been collected. Six hundred destitute paupers were in the workhouse with no funds to feed them.

  The introduction of soup was at first greeted with enthusiasm. There were many private persons, good-hearted souls, who kept hundreds of people alive by distributing it. But much of it turned out to be not only soup for the poor but poor soup. It was a tasteless compound and gave the peasants who drank it bowel complaints. Soup ran through them without giving any nourishment. And food was not the answer for it had risen so high in price that women and children would return home crying with grief at the lack of food they were able to receive with the wages of their husband and father.

  February was the worst month of the horrible, unexpected winter. The Irish began to feel God had forgotten them. There were heavier falls of snow and fiercer gales, roads became impassable, carts could not travel, horses sank in drifts and had to be dug out. The streets and towns were filled with starving paupers. Families without food or fuel took to their beds and many perished unknown. Other horrors were reported; a woman and her two children were found dead and half eaten, a parish priest found a roomful of dead people; a man was still alive, and was lying in bed with a dead wife and two dead children, a starving cat eating another infant. When would it all end?

  Tara lay on her cot, extremely cold, with one blanket around her. She felt miserable and threw up in the small back room basin that acted as their bathroom area. As usual, she was feeling guilty for Captain Litchfield was still paying their rent and leaving them just enough money for food for the month. She checked the furze in the fireplace and saw that it was very low, and she and Patrick would have to go and dig up a few feet of snow to find some furze beneath it, cut it up, and bring it home in large pails as soon as possible before the fire went out completely. She felt pangs in her stomach and weak overall but she must help. She prayed she had not contacted the “famine fever” which was now invading Ireland, along with starvation.

  “Patrick! Wake up! The fire will be going out soon. We must get some furze to keep it going.” He turned away from her to the other side of his cot. She shook him even harder. “Come on! Get up!”

  They looked across Patrick’s section of the room to the cot their father had previously sat on, dazed it seemed in the world far away he had created for himself.

  They donned their clothing and tied thick bundles of newspaper around their boots, grabbed the buckets and shovels, ready to search for furze under the snow.

  The wind was howling when they opened the door but they were fortunate Patrick had found an area about fifty feet away where there was furze no one had yet found beneath the snow. They trudged along until they reached it and began shoveling the snow away. And there it was! The life-saving furze they needed for warmth in their cottage. They filled their pails to the brim with it when they saw a figure bundled up and running towards them yelling, “Stop! Stop!” They did not recognize him from far away, but the closer he got, they realized it was Father Boyle.

  “Tara! Don’t you lift those heavy pails!”

  She stood, befuddled.

  “But we only have just a bit of furze left. The fire will go out!”

  “I’ll carry them for you.”

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “And I know you aren’t. And don’t ask me right now how I know. I want you to get to the doctor again tomorrow.”

  “But I can’t afford it. It’ll take from our food money,” she said, feeling dizzy and weak but not wanting to acknowledge it.

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “You’re so kind to us, Father.”

  They trudged back to the cottage and threw some furze on the half-lit flames already there.

  “That should do it for a few days,” she said, her face pale.

  “Patrick, the next time you need furze come get me with the pails and shovels.”

  “I will. And we thank you, Father.”

  In her heart Tara was grateful for Father Boyle’s offer for she had not been feeling well lately but refused to acknowledge it.

  Dr. Beel had been the family doctor in Monaghan for over thirty years now.

  When it was her turn, which took over an hour since the office was always filled with patients, he took one look at her and asked her to remove her blouse and pants. This surprised her since she thought she was catching a cold, flu, or fever.

  He examined her thoroughly.

  These times are so hard, I know. Nevertheless, I’m happy to tell you you’re going to have to visit me at least once a month now that you’re pregnant.”

  She felt she would fall off the cot she lay on. Where would she get the money?

  “I’m sure you’ve been generally feeling weaker at times, almost not like yourself, with sickness and throwing up at times in the morning?”

  “Yes, I have”

  “Well, thank heaven it isn’t famine fever.” He smiled. “And I’m sure a beautiful woman like you will have a beautiful child. You’re married to John McGuire, aren’t you? He’s done so much for his people. And I’m sure he’ll be thrilled knowing he will soon have a son or daughter. That is, if you ever catch up with him. Bless him. He’s so busy helping the people of Ireland in their need.”

  “Yes, I know. I never thought I could love anybody as much as I love him. I don’t see him as much as I’d like but I know he’s so busy helping the people of Ireland in their great need. I’m so proud of him.”

  She opened her change purse.

  “How much do I owe you, doctor?”

  “Nothing. Your husband has more than repaid me with his good works.”

  She must remember to give Father Boyle the money back he gave her for the visit.

  “Bless you, doctor” she said to him as she was leaving.

  She decided to visit Father Boyle.

  “I’m glad you came. And I’m so thrilled you and John will have a child. You’re both such attractive people he or she will be a beauty.”

  “Do you think so?”

  He dared not mention that he wanted to jump for joy at the thought of being a grandfather.

  “And it’s been at least three months since I’ve seen John. I want him to know.”

  “Rest assured you’ll see him again and he’ll be overwhelmed with joy.”

  “And from now on you’re to share my food rations. You must give the baby as much nourishment as possible during these horrible times.”

  “Oh, Father, you’re so good to me,” she said as she left.

  After she closed the door, he whispered:

  “My daughter ... my grandchild ...”

  The Irish people spoke of “famine fever” but, in truth, two diseases were present, typhus and relapsing fever, both caused by the common louse, already very familiar in Ireland. The excrement of a typhus-stricken louse can only deposit on the skin and allow invasion, without a bite, through any tiny abrasion, even when the excrement dries to a fine dust. Usually the person scratches at the bite of the louse and the skin is broken. Rickettsia enter and that is the beginning of the infection. And so infectious is the excrement of a typhus-stricken louse its mere deposit on the skin allows invasion, without a bite, through any minute abr
asion. Even when the excrement has died to a fine dust Rickettria remain active and can enter through the eyes and even be inhaled. Kind and benevolent people who gave aid to the victims of the great Irish epidemic—clergy, nuns, doctors, contracted typhus and died, even though they may have never harbored a louse.

  Tara prayed every night that she would not be struck by typhus and tried to stay away from other people as much as possible. She had read about how Rickittsia attacks the small blood vessels of the body, especially the skin and brain; the face swells and the person turns a very dark color which has given typhus its Irish name, “black fever.” The limbs twitch violently, the person throws himself about in delirium, is in terrible pain, vomits, develops gangrene followed by the loss of fingers, toes, and feet. A terrible odor comes from his body. More than often the person will jump in the river and commit suicide.

  The problem was that conditions were favorable to these illnesses. The Irish people were filthy. They had sold every piece of clothing that would give them a fraction of a penny, wearing the same dirty rags day in and day out. Most of their bedding had been sold, and they slept covered with rags and old coats. Groups of beggars and homeless paupers tramped the roads, drifting from place to place without a destination, filthy, starving and louse infested, often with fever actually on them and once an infection had been brought to a district, it spread like lightning. A brush in passing was enough to transfer the fever. Transmitting louse or its dustlike excrement to a new victim, and one fever-stricken person could pass an infection to a hundred others within a day.

  Tara entered the confession box. The darkened door of the box opened and a light shined through. She could see the profile of Father Boyle as he readied to hear her confession.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “How long has it been since your last confession?”

  “Two weeks, Father. And since then a British soldier has been paying our rent and now he’s sending money for our food. I feel so terribly guilty; but, of course I share whatever we have with Maureen O’Flanagan’’s aunt and the family she’s living with.”