‘Take your sister!’ she ordered Nora as she made her way to the drills.
Within seconds, Mary too was assailed by a sickening stench – rotten and putrid. She had never smelt the like of it and was filled with apprehension. Taking the spade, she began to dig. As she reached with her fingers, she lifted a clump of shapeless blackened potatoes that resembled nothing she had seen before: the vegetables were a stinking mess in her hands.
Worried, she called for the boys to come and help her.
‘Ugh!’ grimaced Con, covering his nose with his hand.
‘Run and fetch your father!’ she urged. ‘He’s down in the lower woods with Flor, cutting logs. Tell him he’s needed here!’
Her eldest son took off while she and seven-year-old Tim dug a few more plants.
‘Mam, these are bad,’ complained Tim, for the ones he lifted were marked with signs of some strange disease.
Before long, John returned from the woods with Con. Uncle Flor, out of breath, followed behind them with Smokey, the old donkey, and the little cart. John grabbed the shovel from Mary immediately, cleaving deep as he dug into one drill after another, checking the potatoes.
‘God’s truth, I’ve never seen the like of it,’ he said with worry as he scrutinized the potatoes, his fingers touching the oozing softness of the blackened tubers.
‘I’m away to our place,’ declared Flor, his eyes filled with concern.
‘Any potatoes you find that are white and hard, throw them in the bucket,’ John told the boys as he turned the earth, searching the ridges desperately for any potatoes that could be saved from the pestilence that had fallen on their crop.
Mary could see in the neighbouring field that the Flynns’ crop appeared to be in the same sorry state as their own. How could potato plants have turned so quickly from growing strong and healthy one minute to this state?
Over in the small field, the drills seemed a bit better and John dug quickly, the lug of the spade turning up clumps of firm white potatoes that seemed untouched, unlike the other tubers.
‘Con, bring the buckets for me to fill!’ he called out.
Side by side, the family worked together, examining every smooth round shape closely in the hope of finding healthy and edible potatoes. In the surrounding fields, Pat, Flor, his wife Molly and their neighbours were digging and kneeling in the earth, backs bent, doing the same.
When he came to some of the drills at the far end of the field, John gave a shout of triumph. Despite having black spots dotted on their leaves, the potatoes seemed firm and healthy. The family filled four or five buckets with them, then John layered those that bore no sign of disease carefully in the potato pit where they would be kept until they were needed.
Annie began to cry hungrily, and Mary sat down on the stone wall to feed her.
‘Are ye all destroyed too?’ asked their neighbour Nell Flynn, coming towards them. Her hair fell around her face in dirty streels, and her skirt, blouse and feet were covered in mud. ‘There is divil a bit to eat in our patcheen of a field. I’ve never seen the like in all my years. What did we do to deserve this?’
Mary knew how hard things were for the Flynns, who lived with their three sons in a tiny cabin near the end of the lane. They had only a bare quarter-acre to feed them. Nell’s husband, Tom, with his bad hip, was unable to do the same heavy work as the other men, and he and Nell constantly borrowed and begged off their neighbours.
‘Nell, will you have some tea?’ Mary offered her. ‘It’s too hot to be sitting here.’
The older woman followed Mary, who was glad to get away from the sight of the rotting stalks, into the cottage.
‘The boys will go hungry for we’ve nothing to give them,’ Nell complained as she sipped her tea noisily.
‘They’ll not go hungry tonight for you’ll take a few eggs and a half of soda bread home with you,’ Mary found herself offering, for she was used to Nell and her ways.
‘But you might have need for them yourself,’ Nell wheedled, looking around her.
‘I have more flour in the barrel and my hens are good layers,’ Mary insisted as Nell left, trying not to give in to the rising panic she felt at the loss of most of their potato crop.
John stayed outside, searching their fields for any more healthy-looking potatoes, as Mary prepared their evening meal. The children were quiet, their eyes big in their heads, as she served up a pot of the first crop of new potatoes with some salt. To her mind there was a slight taint to them.
‘I think they taste grand,’ said ten-year-old Con, who always made the best of things, as he helped himself to more.
‘What are we going to do, Mammy, when the taties are all gone?’ ventured Nora.
‘Your daddy and I and all of you will be fine,’ she assured them, trying to hide her worry and fear. ‘We have three sacks and some in the pit. We have plenty of flour in the barrel and vegetables, pigs and sheep to sell at the market. We’ll not go hungry, for your father will always get work.’
The children were gone to bed when John finally crossed the door, his black hair wet with sweat. Mary flung her arms around him and made him sit by the fire. She dished up the new potatoes with a mug of buttermilk, which he ate hungrily.
‘At least we’ve three good sacks and some in the pit to feed us,’ she said, serving him a few more.
‘Near two-thirds. The best part of our crop is gone,’ he said forlornly.
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she replied quietly. ‘We’ve lost part of the crop before.’
‘Nothing like this!’ he said bitterly. ‘It is like some quare disease that has fallen on them. Denis Leary says it is everywhere across the Mizen and that the pestilence came in the mist and the clouds and the rain.’
She thought of her brothers’ fields in Goleen, and wondered if they too were badly affected.
‘I don’t know what we will do, Mary,’ he said in despair, ‘for we still have to find the rent money.’
‘We can sell the animals,’ she said reassuringly.
‘Aye,’ he agreed with a yawn. ‘Besides, without potatoes we have nothing left to feed the pigs with.’
They were both worn out and so made ready for bed. John finally gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep beside her, but thoughts crowded Mary’s mind. She stared up at the dirty thatch, wondering how, with so much of their crop gone, they would manage during the hungry months to come.
CHAPTER 8
Skibbereen
September 1845
AS DAN DONOVAN WAS DOING HIS DAILY ROUNDS OF THE SKIBBEREEN Union Workhouse, the master stopped him outside the small infirmary for the sick. A tall, imposing man with bushy eyebrows and whiskers, Mr Falvey appeared a rather intimidating figure, but Dan found him to be meticulous in his duties with a great concern for the fair treatment of those who entered the Union.
‘Doctor, we’ve had a large increase in the number of admissions these past few days,’ the master explained. ‘No doubt the potato failure has contributed to it.’
‘With so little to eat, some will have no recourse but to enter here,’ Dan acknowledged. ‘I fear that it will likely get worse, so the Union must prepare, Mr Falvey, for this increase in our numbers to continue.’
The Skibbereen Union Workhouse had opened only three years ago and housed far fewer inmates than it was built to hold, for local people had a huge fear of crossing its threshold. Who could blame them, for it provided little comfort and operated under the same strict rules as other workhouses built across the country and throughout England and Wales. Men, women and children who entered were all separated and housed in different wings, and had little contact with each other.
Dan Donovan’s role as physician was to ensure the inmates remained healthy, that they were cared for medically, if necessary, and that there was no outbreak of contagion or disease among them. He did his best to ameliorate their conditions, treating them in the same way he did all his patients, for the Union was the last resort of the sick, the homeles
s and the mentally ill, who had no family or friends to care for them.
‘Then we are in agreement.’ The master nodded seriously as Dan continued on his way to the women’s ward.
There, he met with an elderly woman who begged him for help. Not for herself, but for her husband who was in the men’s ward.
‘He’s blind, doctor. These past years I’ve minded him all this time, but with the potatoes gone how am I going to feed and keep the two of us?’ she sobbed.
‘Mrs Reilly, I promise that he will be fed and looked after here,’ he assured her. ‘You both will.’
The relief on her tired, wrinkled face was visible.
‘Can I see him?’ she begged. ‘Tomás and I have never been parted and he will be afraid, for he knows nothing – only our small cabin and patch.’
‘In time your husband will get used to being here, but I will arrange with the master that you can visit him.’
Continuing on his rounds, Dan’s next stop was the men’s ward to see Mrs Reilly’s husband, Tomás. He found the poor man deeply upset, his hands clasped over his head and clearly terrified by his new surroundings.
‘I talked to your wife and will arrange that you are allowed to see her,’ Dan promised the elderly man, taking hold of his hands.
As he examined Mr Reilly, he could see the man was malnourished but otherwise well cared for by his wife. Both eyes showed cataracts, their lenses a dense milky white, but the right eye was slightly better than the left.
‘I lost the sight near ten years ago,’ Tomás sighed heavily. ‘I prayed that it would come back but it never has.’
Disorders of the eye had always fascinated Dan and he had studied ophthalmology in Scotland. He had considered practising as an oculist, but instead had become a general physician. However, he still maintained a keen interest in researching and treating eye conditions, and had developed quite a reputation in that area. Patients came from all over to consult him and he wondered if there was any way to restore even a little of Tomás’s vision.
Moving on to the children’s nursery, he examined two sisters who had been found by neighbours. The little girls were unwashed, uncared for and clearly malnourished.
‘The eldest girl told us her mother died and their father went away,’ declared the nurse angrily. ‘He left them like two unwanted puppies.’
Dan examined the children gently, for they were both terrified. Their matted hair was riddled with lice and scabies.
‘I’m Dr Dan,’ he told them kindly, ‘and the nurse is going to wash you both. She’s going to cut and comb your hair, and put a special lotion and ointment on your skin that will take away the terrible itch. I promise it will help you both to feel better.’
‘Do we have to stay here, sir?’ the older child asked tearfully.
‘Yes, I think it is for the best,’ he ventured, not trusting himself to say more. ‘You will be safe here.’
It angered him deeply how people treated their children, with no regard for their feelings.
As he was leaving the ward, young Will Hayes ran over to greet him.
‘Dan … Dan,’ the boy called, gripping the doctor’s leg.
Dan lifted up the two-year-old in the air. Will was a fine, sturdy fellow with straw-coloured hair and piercing blue eyes, and only a year younger than Dan’s youngest son. Whenever he saw the little boy on his rounds, he made a point of talking and playing with him, for being a workhouse child was no easy thing.
Will’s mother had absconded from the Union after six months, leaving her illegitimate child to be raised in the workhouse. His childhood would be one of hardship and work, with little affection shown to him. At twelve or thirteen, the boy would likely be apprenticed out to some local farmer or tradesman. Dan hoped that some day, far from the Union, little Will would find the love and happiness he deserved.
Riding back towards Skibbereen that evening, Dan stopped his horse and trap to survey the blighted fields all around him. Most of Carbery district had been affected by the murrain, with more than a good half of the crop ruined. Even the few acres he had purchased in Poundlick, where he grew mostly oats and barley, had seen heavy losses of potatoes.
He had ridden out there after church on Sunday to discover that most of the crop belonging to his tenants had been destroyed, leaving them fearful. They were decent men with families and he had assured them that, for the time being, he was prepared to forgo the rent payment, due to the circumstances in which they found themselves. As he told them, he had seen the gratitude and relief in their eyes.
Looking around him at the stinking, blackened potato stalks, he hoped that many of the local landowners were prepared do the same for their tenants.
CHAPTER 9
October 1845
HENRIETTA DONOVAN AND HER CHILDREN STROLLED HAPPILY AROUND the crowded Carbery Agriculture Society Show, admiring the prize-winning livestock on display.
Her eldest boys, Henry and Jerrie, and daughters Ellen, Fanny and Harriet were beside themselves with excitement at seeing all the animals. The big bulls that blew steam from their nostrils; the grunting, smelly pigs; the sheep; the flocks of fowl that squawked and quacked; and the gentle plough horses that let the children pat them. There were ploughs for sale and new items of farm equipment on display, and a tea tent for the ladies to enjoy. Henrietta took great pleasure at browsing the stalls with their rounds of creamy cheese and prize-winning displays of fruit preserves and pickles, to which she was partial.
The children ran around the showground, stopping to watch some small piglets squirming over each other in a pen, and pleaded for Dan to buy them one.
‘Please, Dada,’ begged Ellen. ‘Can you buy us the middle one with the black tip on his ear?’
‘Little pigs soon become big smelly ones.’ Dan laughed before distracting them with a visit to the toffee-apple man.
Later that evening, Dan attended the Agriculture Society Dinner and Henrietta stayed awake until he arrived home at eleven, to see how he had enjoyed it.
‘You should have heard them, Henrietta,’ he fumed, unable to hide his annoyance. ‘All the big landowners talked about was the progress and improvements being made in agriculture that could help them increase their tillage or livestock.’
‘That is a good thing, surely?’ Henrietta asked, confused.
‘These men are blinkered!’ he cried. ‘The loss of the potato means little to them. How can they not see the devastation it is having on their tenants, who cannot feed their families?’
‘Perhaps some of their lands have not been affected,’ Henrietta suggested gently as she brushed her hair.
‘I have travelled the six parishes in the county and the potatoes are destroyed most everywhere,’ Dan explained forcefully. ‘Attempts to store undamaged potatoes are proving hopeless. Reverend Traill from Schull and his landowner friend Mr Thomas Somerville have both devised some exacting new storage methods, using special pits to preserve whatever is left of the crop, but I doubt them.’
‘Reverend Traill is a most intelligent man?’ she ventured.
‘Their method is useless! It makes no matter if the potatoes are stored in pits or in cabins or in outhouses, for I suspect they will likely carry the hidden disease that has caused this devastation. I’ve read reports that it is the same in England and Scotland, and on parts of the continent. Fortunately, these places do not have millions of poor people who depend on the crop like we do.’
‘What will happen?’ Henrietta asked, suddenly fearful.
‘Unless they are helped, the people will go hungry,’ Dan said as he undressed. ‘It may even lead to famine.’
‘Oh, Dan, don’t say such a terrible thing!’
‘I only speak the truth, but thank heaven that Henry Marmion, Mr Welply, and Mr Clerke from the bank have good sense. They suggested that we have a duty to buy corn to protect the county from famine and each pledged one hundred pounds. But I fear no matter what we try to do, it will not be enough as most have no means of buying food.’
Henrietta grew anxious thinking of their children and the new baby, dark-haired little Margaret, who lay asleep in the crib near her parents’ bed.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I did not mean to distress you at this late hour, but I am distracted by it and we have always shared our concerns and worries.’
‘Dan, I am here by your side always,’ she assured him. ‘I am glad that you told the tenants on our lands in Poundlick that you would not take rent from them while they are under such duress.’
‘It was the least I could do.’
‘My love, you are generous-hearted but are you sure that you can afford it?’
‘I will not touch any money that should be used to buy grain for these men’s families,’ he insisted. ‘They are good tenants and will no doubt repay me with their labours when I need it.’
As they kissed goodnight, Henrietta thanked heaven that she had followed her heart ten years ago and married the serious-minded young medical man with the long narrow face, intelligent eyes and quick wit who had swept her off her feet. She loved Dan dearly.
CHAPTER 10
Creagh
MARY HAD WATCHED AS JOHN AND PAT LOADED THE TWO SQUEALING pigs into the cart to sell at the busy market in Skibbereen.
‘I didn’t even get a fair price for them,’ John had complained bitterly on his return.
Three weeks later he sold their few sheep to O’Driscoll’s butchers on North Street.
‘We should have got far more for them, but at least we have money in our pockets,’ he pronounced firmly.
Mary was relieved that John had managed to collect money for the rent in this way, but worried all the same, for there was very little remaining from the sale of their livestock to keep them.
The Hungry Road Page 3