‘Where are you working?’
‘Over beyond Oldcourt.’
‘Are they putting a new road there?’
‘Aye, some kind of road down near the harbour.’ He shook his head heavily. ‘They have us digging out the ground for it, while some are set to breaking stones.’
‘At least you will earn some money.’
‘Eight pence a day,’ he said bitterly. ‘That is all they are paying us, and the like of Tom Flynn get even less. All the Board of Works wants is for us to be employed doing some sort of heavy work. One man told me that the works schemes are designed to occupy the like of us building roads and walls to nowhere!’
‘Why would they do such a thing?’ Mary puzzled as she warmed up the yellow meal for him.
John was all done in, too tired to talk. He went to bed early, and fell into a heavy sleep, snoring as he lay against her.
Every day, John would set off early in the morning with his head down and only a cut of bread or a few spoons of gruel inside him. He would return home exhausted, saying little to Mary about the works. She would serve him an evening meal of stew with wild onion, turnip and cabbage, for there was little left to forage these days.
‘We do the work they ask, yet they still haven’t paid us,’ John grumbled. ‘Not a penny for any of the men. How can we keep on working and get nothing in return? A poor young fellow collapsed beside me this morning. He told me his belly was empty these past two days. A man cannot work on that!’
‘What will happen?’
‘We complained to the foreman but he cares not a toss for us. He just said that we had to wait for our wages.’
Mary grew alarmed that John was labouring for no reward. Digging, lifting, and the breaking of stones and laying them was backbreaking work. She could see it in the stiffness that had developed in his shoulders and arms, and in the taut look on his face, which betrayed how difficult the job truly was.
The following week, he finally got paid. The paltry few shillings he earned was used immediately to purchase a bag of meal and oats.
‘Pat has gone to Maguire’s,’ he sighed.
‘Well, I’m glad that you didn’t join him there, drinking porter,’ Mary said sharply.
‘He has no wife or chicks to feed,’ her husband said defensively, ‘and deserves a few pints for all his hard work.’
Two days later Mary found it hard to stifle her annoyance and anger with Pat. He was back at their table, sitting across from them and eating their hard-earned food, as most of his wages were gone. She served him only a small portion of the soup, for no matter what John said, she had no intention of letting him steal the food from her children’s mouths.
‘This is no life for man,’ he said, eating some of the bread she had made to go with the cabbage soup. ‘I’ll not stick this, for it’s no life at all.’
CHAPTER 20
Skibbereen
AS DAN DONOVAN RODE THROUGH THE FALLING LEAVES, HE SLOWED down his horse. Some distance away was a large group of men bearing shovels and spades that glinted in the autumn sunlight as the men marched along the road. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, a dishevelled rag bag, poorly clad and poorly fed. Stalwart men now emaciated, likely employed on the new public roadworks near Caheragh.
For the most part they looked too undernourished to lift a pick or shovel and be set to hard physical labour. Dan had protested at the treatment of these men, advising the authorities to feed them and allow them to return to strength before employing them, but they refused to listen.
Lately, Dan had heard of the failure to pay the men the subsistence money they were due. No doubt this half-starved mob was making its way to town en masse in some form of protest.
Dan feared what would happen when this massive army of nearly a thousand men reached Skibbereen, where they would face the armed military forces. Skibbereen had asked for food supplies but instead they had been sent more soldiers, who were now stationed in the town to protect the district’s food stores.
There was little time and so Dan rode on quickly to forewarn Major Parker, the head of the Board of Works, about the workers.
‘There are near a thousand of them,’ he warned. ‘I presume that they are in search of food or money. You must appease them, Major, or else there will be violence this day on the streets of Skibbereen.’
Dan could sense that the major was reluctant to believe him. Immediately, he turned his horse quickly and went to warn some of the townspeople, before heading home to alert his own family.
‘My dear,’ he told his wife, ‘you must stay inside with the doors locked and make sure that the children do not go outside.’
‘What is happening?’ Henrietta cried, alarmed.
‘Hundreds of men from the roadworks are marching into town, no doubt to protest to the head of the Board of Works, and I fear they will not be deterred in their purpose.’
‘Promise me that you will be careful, Dan,’ she cautioned, ‘for you have done these people no wrong.’
As he headed back into town, Dan passed the courthouse. There he met his cousin, magistrate Michael Galwey, who had been attending court, and told him of the situation.
Confirming Dan’s suspicions, within a short time hundreds and hundreds of angry workers poured into Skibbereen, protesting that they could not afford to buy food for their families as they were owed their pay by the Board of Public Works.
Terrified merchants, shopkeepers and the bank staff all rushed to close their doors, but many of the townspeople were sympathetic to the workers’ plight.
The men kept coming, like some pale spectral army, and the intensity of their demands and anger seemed to grow and grow. Seventy soldiers, with their guns ready and loaded, awaited them in front of the town’s new school.
‘We are famished!’ the men chanted again and again, clanging their shovels and spades on the ground.
‘We have no food! Our wives and children are starving! We work and get not a penny in payment! Not even a piece of food!’ they yelled, shouting out their grievances to the passers-by. ‘The hunger is on us!’
‘We’ll have our money!’ a grey-haired man shouted to the crowd, raising his shovel high in the air as the mob surged towards the bank.
The soldiers began to surround them, bayonets at the ready, but they were far outnumbered and would surely come under attack before long.
Dan pulled aside one of the soldiers.
‘Go and tell Mr Hughes at the depot that he must distribute some food to them,’ he told him. He abhorred the unfair treatment of these men and believed that they were justified in their actions.
‘I’ll speak to them,’ offered Michael Galwey. ‘Perhaps they will listen to me.’
He stood up in front of the school and the men came to a halt.
‘As the local magistrate, I inform you that this riot is unlawful. You must all return to Caheragh and not disturb this town or, I warn you, the military here will be forced to use their weapons and take action against you.’
‘We may as well be shot as starved!’ they shouted back loudly. ‘We have not eaten a morsel for twenty-four hours!’
Michael Galwey raised his voice and ordered the seventy soldiers to prepare to fire. The town fell silent. There were only slight mutters of dissent as the rioters took a few steps back.
The grim-faced soldiers held firm.
Afraid of the army that now faced them, with their guns raised and ready to fire, the protesters stopped. A voice declared loudly that there would be no trouble.
‘Return to work and I promise that the money due to each of you will be distributed in a matter of days,’ urged Michael Galwey.
At that point, Mr Hughes from the food depot appeared.
‘Open the food store immediately, Mr Hughes,’ the magistrate ordered, ‘and issue these men with a quantity of biscuits. Three cheers for the Queen and plenty of employment tomorrow!’
A few half-hearted cheers rose from the crowd of workers, but most kept their heads down and sai
d nothing. Their riot defeated, the exhausted men sat quietly and devoured hungrily the biscuits they were eventually served.
Dan had to assuage his own anger. How could the Board of Works not understand how desperate the men were for the eight pennies a day they were being paid? For them, it was the difference between life and death. He wished they had fought harder for their demands. They had strength in numbers and should have refused to leave the town till they were paid.
But Dan could see it everywhere: hunger and disease were slowly killing the people’s spirit and their ability to fight for any kind of justice.
CHAPTER 21
HENRIETTA DONOVAN WAS MOVED AND UPSET BY THE GROUPS OF paupers who loitered constantly near her front door in the hope of seeing her husband. It had been the same scene every day since the hunger had come.
The hungry and sick were everywhere, flooding into town looking for work and food. They sought assistance from Dan as the Union’s physician: a ticket for a visit to the dispensary with a sick child or wife, or for Dan to visit them in person; a ticket to be employed on the public roadworks; or a pass to be admitted to the Union workhouse. Desperate people during this desperate time!
Henrietta worried as she watched her husband set off every morning, dressed in his usual frock coat and tall black hat, sporting his neat side whiskers, his countenance filled with concern for the care of his patients. She and the children scarcely saw him, as Dan worked longer and longer hours, returning home later and later every day.
She had tried to persuade him to move away from the area for the sake of their family. He was a renowned oculist who not only had papers published regularly in The Lancet and other medical journals, but also had patients travel to consult him on his medical expertise in the area of eye diseases. They came from as far away as Dublin and Galway as well as from overseas.
‘Dan, we could leave here and you could practise as an oculist in Dublin or Edinburgh, such is your reputation,’ she cajoled. ‘Or you could take up a position in one of the big city hospitals, for you are a skilled surgeon.’
‘Hetty, I have a rewarding position here,’ he reminded her. ‘And I have no intention of leaving it …’
At night, despite his tiredness, Dan sat at his desk for hours, writing his ‘Diary of a Dispensary Doctor’ and reporting truthfully on the state of affairs in the town and district. His accounts were now being published in the Southern Reporter and in other newspapers further afield. Henrietta was so proud of him and dearly hoped that his words would shame the authorities into providing the relief needed.
‘Why does Dada not care for us any more?’ puzzled Fanny, her brown eyes serious. She wore a tight little frown on her brow as she wondered what they had all done to upset him so.
‘Your dada does love you all so much,’ Henrietta tried to reassure her children. ‘It is just that he is kept very busy looking after the sick.’
‘And there are sick people everywhere,’ Ellen pronounced knowledgeably.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ her mother agreed.
‘That is why we cannot go out to play like before?’
‘Your father would prefer you to stay at home or play in the garden for the moment, until things improve.’
‘When will that be?’ Fanny pressed.
‘Soon,’ she tried to reassure them. ‘Soon.’
She too found it suffocating to spend so much time confined to their home, trying to teach the children and amuse them. Glad to escape the confines of New Street, she welcomed invitations to visit Dan’s relations. Visiting their country houses for afternoon tea or a walk in the nearby woods always cheered her. There, she could watch the children run and play and laugh and chase around like children should. For the most part, the youngsters of Skibbereen were now silent and quiet, all childhood fun and games for many banished by the hunger.
Of late, Dan had taken to entering their home via the back scullery door. He had requested that Henrietta or their maid, Sally, leave a clean shirt, waistcoat, topcoat and pair of shoes there for him to change into, following his visits to the decrepit cabins and cottages of his patients, which had become dens of effluent and human waste. She would watch as he removed his soiled and often foul-scented clothing meticulously, and washed and scrubbed his arms to the elbow in the scullery sink before re-dressing. A handsome man, he had always been a fastidious dresser, and took care of his appearance, with his starched white shirt and tailored top coat with its brass buttons and lined lapels.
On his return home, she felt Dan deserved the reward of a good meal after his work and endeavours throughout the day. He was partial to beef and so she tried to ensure it was served a few times a week. There were no potatoes for the present, but turnips, pastry, boiled onions and dumplings pleased him, followed by a pudding.
That evening there was beef and vegetable pie served with turnip, then an apple and raisin pudding, a favourite of his. Dan enjoyed the meal, but left the pudding untouched, and pushed the bowl away.
‘Is it not to your taste?’ she queried.
‘I fear that I do not have the stomach for it. Perhaps one of the children will take it.’
She passed the bowl to their eldest son, Henry, a growing boy who was certainly partial to pudding. It concerned Henrietta that her husband’s lack of appetite was perhaps a sign of some kind of illness.
‘Are you feeling unwell, Dan?’ she asked him in the drawing room, after the children were all in bed.
She was fearful that he might be developing a fever, like so many others in the town.
‘I am not ill,’ he reassured her, as if reading her mind. ‘It is just that I cannot countenance enjoying such a rich table while all around us the people are starving. It is abhorrent to me.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ she demanded, upset by him. ‘Empty our larder and pantry, and put the food and provision out on the street for the beggars to eat? Though I must remind you that we have a large family of our own that needs feeding … Our own flesh and blood, our children to care for.’
She could not hide her anger, for it was Dan who, despite her pleas to move away, insisted on remaining in Skibbereen so that he could minister to his patients and the people who thronged into the town.
‘My dear,’ he soothed. ‘I do not intend to upset you. There is no better mother who cares more for her family than you. It is just that, given the present circumstances that pertain in the district, it would be better if no pudding or cake were served with meals under this roof. I believe the food should be kept plain and nourishing with no lavish, rich or luxury ingredients. Good meals simply served for the family.’
Immediately, Henrietta felt contrite. She was ashamed that she herself had not thought of such a matter, given the scenes she witnessed daily on her own doorstep. She was in agreement with him.
‘Very well. I will instruct Sally and, if you wish, I will ensure that no more puddings and cakes will be served for the present,’ she promised, knowing full well that Dan would miss such delicacies more than the rest of the household. ‘No treacle pudding or slices of the ginger cake that you favour.’
She leaned over and kissed the worry line on his forehead that seemed to be there almost permanently these days, then his cheek and then his lips.
‘Sometimes I think that you are far too good for your own good,’ she teased him gently, ‘but I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘I know how hard it must be for you and the children with my work and the constant demands on my time.’
‘Dan, you are a doctor. I knew that when I married you and accepted what being a doctor’s wife means.’
‘But what is happening here is beyond any expectation!’ He sighed heavily.
Tears welled in her eyes unbidden as she remembered the early days of their marriage when they lived near the coastal village of Union Hall. Much happier times!
‘Hetty, you are an angel to put up with me,’ Dan said as he pulled her gently on to his lap. Tenderly, he wiped the tears fro
m her eyes. ‘My own beloved angel.’
CHAPTER 22
Creagh
MARY WAS GROWING WORRIED FOR JOHN’S HEALTH. WORKING ON THE roads was taking a toll on him, sapping his strength, energy and spirit.
‘They work us like slaves,’ he admitted as he hunched over the fire, bone weary and exhausted.
‘Well, I am no slave,’ declared Pat angrily as he sipped a warming mug of tea she’d made with leftover tea leaves. ‘They want to break us all – every man, woman and child – but I’ll not let them break me. I’ll leave this poisoned place and make a life somewhere else. I’ll not die laying stones at the side of a road.’
‘Ah, brother, how could you go? Where would you find the money?’
‘I’ll find it somehow,’ he declared testily, refusing to be drawn any further.
Mary studied her brother-in-law and could see he was intent on it. He did not have the same ties to the land as she and John; his was only a smallholding, barely enough to support a family. He had no sweetheart or wife, or child to bind him here. Why would he stay amid such calamity when a better life beckoned him across the sea?
As Mary and John readied for bed that evening, John sighed.
‘Patrick and his old talk of leaving! He’ll never leave this place.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I think he means it,’ she said, tracing the curve of her husband’s bony shoulder. ‘For there is nothing to keep him here any more.’
Every second or third day Pat called to the cottage, joining them to share whatever little they had. Shamefaced, he would sometimes bring something at least to add to the pot. Mary was caught by surprise one evening when, with a flourish, he produced a big bag of meal and a large hare that he had somehow managed to catch.
‘How this wily old fellow has managed to escape all this time.’ He grinned and passed the skinned and cleaned hare to Mary. ‘But today was not his lucky day. I got him fair and square lying in the ferns.’
‘You are good to share him with us,’ she thanked him appreciatively as she transferred the hare to cook slowly in the pot.
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