Of late, her brother-in-law had surprised them on several occasions with bags of meal, a small round of cheese, a box of salted herrings, a sack of oats, and now this!
‘Don’t ask where he gets it from,’ warned John. ‘It’s better that we know nothing of where he and his wild boys get these goods.’
After they finished their feast, the children cleaned their bowls and licked their fingers. In the corner, Patch chewed hungrily at a bone and everyone sat around the warmth of the turf, talking. Pat then brought out a small bottle of poitín, which he insisted on sharing with his brother.
‘It’s grand stuff …’
‘That will warm your heart and spirit,’ Pat joked as the two brothers reminisced about their childhood.
Later, he confided in Mary and John about the cart of grain, bound for shipping to Liverpool, that he and two friends had managed to intercept.
‘I promise you, those three bags that we took while the cartman went for a piss won’t be missed until the sacks are unloaded in Liverpool!’
‘What if they catch you?’ Mary asked, worried.
‘They won’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, grain grown here should stay here.’
As the hour grew late, John fell asleep in his chair. Mary walked Pat to the door and thanked him again for the hare and sack of meal.
‘John is a lucky man to have found a woman like you. Truth to tell, I envy him.’ Pat’s hand reached up to touch her face. ‘From the day we met, Mary, I wished that I was the one who had saw you first.’
‘Hush,’ she laughed. ‘It’s just the drink talking. Sure, you have been in love so many times, and have half the women of the parish mad about you.’
‘But they are not you,’ he said, emotion showing in his eyes.
‘Pat, I am your sister-in-law,’ she reminded him firmly. ‘I love your brother with all my heart, and have always done so and always will.’
He stepped back, crestfallen and a little ashamed.
‘Away home with you to your own bed,’ she urged gently, watching him take the path for home.
There was no sign of Pat Sullivan for two days. Concerned, John went to his cottage, fearful his brother had fallen ill or, worse still, had been caught and arrested. Pat’s horse and cart were gone from the smallholding and John carried home the note he had found there.
‘I told you he would go away,’ Mary said as John read Pat’s words aloud.
The brief letter informed John that Pat would be taking the horse and cart, which were rightfully his to sell. He would be using the money to purchase a ticket to sail to Liverpool and then on to New York. He wanted a new life far from the hunger, and crossing the ocean to North America was his chance of a better future.
‘I cannot believe that he has just left with not a word to us!’ said John.
Mary was not surprised. She knew their last meal together had been a farewell of sorts as Pat had, in his own fashion, said goodbye to all of them. He had said nothing of his plans for he likely did not want them to stop him. She was angry, however, that the cart and the old horse were gone.
‘Pat has little enough with the cottage and only a small patch of land,’ her husband said in defence of his brother, ‘but my father gave him the horse and cart when he died. Although I used them at times, they were always his to sell.’
‘Then he was within his rights,’ Mary sighed. ‘Let’s hope that he got a good price for them.’
‘I’ll miss Pat. It’s likely we will never see him again, but I wish my brother good fortune wherever he travels.’
As she passed Pat’s empty cottage to hunt for haws, sloes, rosehips and rowan berries, Mary thought of him. She knew in her heart that he had made a wise decision to escape the hunger while he still could. It was a decision she sometimes envied, as she watched John grow weaker and her children turn pale, the flesh beginning to melt from their bones.
CHAPTER 23
Oldcourt, County Cork
October 1846
DAN WAS OUT NEAR OLDCOURT, RETURNING FROM A VISIT TO A MAN, weak with hunger, who had fallen and broken his leg, when he stopped his horse. The ships, boats and low barges that plied their trade in the small but busy harbour were loading and unloading their cargo. This was a place where the sea and river met. Ships and boats arriving from Liverpool and Newport and Cardiff sailed as far up the river Ilen as they could before they transferred their goods to smaller row boats that would transport them upriver to the town.
He watched as large sacks of grain destined for McCarthy’s brewery were moved to two waiting barges ready to sail upriver. Grain that could have fed hundreds being used instead to make beer and porter for the busy taverns of Dublin and Cork! It made no sense to him.
Protesting livestock, squealing pigs and a few sheep arrived and were loaded quickly into the hold of a large ship ready for their journey to England. Baskets of cheese and dried fish, and barrels of butter were stacked tightly on to another vessel, destined to feed the factory workers of Liverpool, London and Manchester.
As he stood on the small quay, Dan noticed that one ship, the Mersey Lady, had not been reloaded, but the crew were hoisting the sail and making ready to leave.
‘Are you casting off?’ he called out.
‘Aye, sir, we have to catch the tide or we’ll be landed here till tonight.’
‘But you have no cargo?’
‘We delivered a cargo of corn for Swanton’s and will return from Newport with another delivery next week.’
‘Do you not usually return with a cargo from here?’
‘Rarely,’ replied the man whom he presumed to be the captain.
‘You have an empty hold returning to Liverpool or Wales regularly?’ he pressed.
‘Aye.’ The man nodded. ‘Those are Mr Swanton’s orders.’
An empty ship leaving Ireland was a lost opportunity. Surely such a vessel could provide passage to a new life in Liverpool, or another one of England’s great cities, for those who had lost everything.
‘Would you give consideration to taking a few passengers on your return journey from here next time?’
‘This is not a passenger ship,’ the man retorted gruffly. ‘We transport grain from place to place, not people.’
‘Even a few people desperate to escape from this ravaged place?’
‘I am employed by Mr Swanton,’ the captain replied brusquely. ‘You would need to discuss the matter with him.’
James Swanton was one of the town’s most prosperous businessmen. He owned a large mill and several warehouses, but unlike other local business owners, he had joined the relief committee and might be prepared to assist Dan.
‘We are well acquainted.’ Dan smiled at the captain. ‘Thank you. I will, as you advise, discuss the matter with him and perhaps we can reach some agreement.’
CHAPTER 24
JAMES SWANTON WAS BUSY IN HIS OFFICE DOWN ON LEVIS QUAY, BUT greeted Dan warmly.
‘Can I help you, doctor?’ he asked, curious about the reason for this visit from his fellow committee member.
‘I am not here on committee business but with regard to another matter,’ Dan replied. ‘I was riding to Oldcourt yesterday and I noticed one of your ships had unloaded corn, but was preparing to return to Newport with no cargo. I spoke to her captain.’
‘The import of corn, grain and materials from Liverpool and Newport is the backbone of my milling business.’ James Swanton leaned forward and fixed the doctor with his gaze. ‘Despite this calamity, business must go on.’
‘I understand that, Mr Swanton.’ Dan had not meant to sound critical in any way, for he needed to get the merchant on his side. ‘It is the empty cargo hold that I want to discuss with you.’
‘I may be a businessman, Dr Donovan, but while Irish men and women starve I am not prepared to export any food goods from this country on the ship I have hired. Timber and fuel, yes, but no foodstuffs or livestock! I have considered using the hold to transport those who are willing to leave this sorry place
but I’m not sure if any would accept such an offer.’
‘Believe me, Mr Swanton, they most certainly would,’ Dan declared firmly. ‘If such an offer was made, would it be possible to use your empty ship to transport those desperate to escape from here with no fare payment?’
‘It is not a passenger ship,’ Swanton reminded him. ‘There would be no comfort for people on such a voyage, but it would at least transport them quickly and with no charge.’
‘That is most generous of you.’
‘I need to talk to the captain about it, but I will not agree to provide passage to any who are sick or infirm. I don’t want to risk the captain and crew falling ill or have them turned back at the docks.’
‘I promise that I will medically examine every passenger travelling and ensure they are strong and well,’ Dan assured him.
‘Then I will find out from the captain how many passengers he can safely accommodate and agree dates for the sailings with him.’
Dan thanked him warmly and they agreed to meet up in a few days’ time to organize things further.
James Swanton arranged free passage on his grain ship for a hundred people. Over the course of the long week that followed, Dan approached a number of orphaned young men to see if they were interested in his plan. He also spoke to Helena Collins, a widow with three boys who had planned to leave Ireland with her husband, and a desperate young couple who had been evicted and were sleeping rough in the fields. All were anxious to escape the hunger and desperate to begin a new life away from the sadness of their homeland.
Many he talked to were utterly destitute, with not even a coat on their back. They could not be sent to Newport or Liverpool in such a state and so, taking their pawn tickets, Dan redeemed them. Using some of the donations he received, he returned much-needed coats and shawls, boots and britches, and dresses to their rightful owners.
As word got around, Dan became inundated with requests from people wanting to take the free passage across the sea but regretfully he could only issue so many tickets.
Two weeks later, Dan returned to Oldcourt with the Mersey Lady’s first passengers. The water was choppy and a strong wind was blowing. The young men and women, and few children he had handpicked for this first voyage waited anxiously as the sailors unloaded their cargo on to the waiting barges and the captain shouted orders.
He waited patiently on the quay alongside James Swanton.
The relief committee had agreed to issue two shillings to each passenger just before their departure, for they would need it on their arrival in Liverpool. The waiting passengers had few other possessions with them, only a blanket and some oatcakes that Mr Swanton had donated to them.
‘I am very glad to be of assistance.’ The miller smiled as he introduced Dan to the ship’s captain.
‘Once we land these people I cannot provide any further assistance to them,’ the captain explained. ‘They must find work themselves or journey on across the Atlantic, but it is not my care what happens to them. The sea ports are filled with starving Irish, who do little to help themselves and plague the taverns and hostelries. Many of them are being returned to your shore.’
‘That is understood, Captain, but I promise you that these people are willing to work.’
‘Dr Donovan, I will only transport passengers who are strong, healthy and fit for a sea voyage.’
‘That is only prudent and I have checked each one personally. Though they are malnourished, they are otherwise healthy,’ he assured him. ‘Captain, I thank you sincerely for agreeing to help these people.’
‘We will sail in less than half an hour,’ the captain announced peremptorily. ‘We cannot tarry as rough weather is expected.’
The passengers soon began to board the vessel. Dan was filled with sympathy for Mrs Collins, who wept openly as she and her children stepped on the deck of the ship.
‘Thank you, Dr Donovan. We will never forget it for you.’ Michael and Jane Carmody, filled both with excitement and plans for their future, smiled as they shook his hand.
‘Our uncle has a boot factory in the town,’ grinned Donal Harrington, who was travelling with his brother Tommy. ‘We hope to get work there.’
One of the doctor’s own tenants, Michael McCarthy, had welcomed the opportunity to leave Cork with his family. A few of the other passengers were young men from the lanes of Skibbereen who were more than ready to work and escape their lowly background.
One of the crew untied the ship from its mooring and the sails were hoisted as the vessel moved off. Pulling his coat tightly around him as the wind blew, Dan watched from the harbour wall with James Swanton.
‘I’m glad that we managed to assist a few souls today to escape from this place of hunger,’ James Swanton declared firmly. ‘Thank you, doctor, for your help in arranging such matters.’
‘I was glad to do it.’
‘Next time my grain ship is here, I’ll see to it that it will transport a few more of those who you consider suitable for free passage,’ he offered as the two men shook hands.
As he turned for home, Dan was already mentally drawing up a list of deserving passengers.
CHAPTER 25
Skibbereen
DAN STARED AT THE EMACIATED CORPSE OF DENIS MCKENNEDY, A labourer on the relief roadworks. As he prepared his instruments for the post mortem, he remembered his days as an undergraduate in Edinburgh. Many of his fellow medical students were overcome when confronted with a cadaver, but he had never been affected in that way. He was innately curious about the human body, discovering how it worked and why life had been taken from it. The examination of organs, tissue and bone revealed more than any textbook and usually provided proof of cause of death.
‘I suppose another man from the works,’ nodded Dr Patrick Dore, who was assisting him.
They both found this work difficult of late, for they had to carry out post mortems on some of the unfortunates found dead in the district’s fields and ditches, roads and laneways. Men who had once been strong and able and willing to work, but had died of starvation and fever contracted from the poor conditions they were forced to endure.
Recently, Dan had carried out a post mortem on a similar case – Jeremiah Hegarty, another labourer discovered dead by the side of the road. On examination, his intestines had been found to be devoid of food. At the official inquest, Dan had reported that Hegarty had died from lack of nourishment and exposure.
‘I see this man died on the seventeenth of October,’ noted Dr Dore as he consulted Mr McKennedy’s notes. ‘His body is in a worse state than most we have examined.’
Dan could see immediately that the corpse was lacking any sign of muscle or fatty tissue. It was one of the most attenuated that he had ever examined. There was no trace of fat anywhere around the abdomen and scarcely a vestige of omentum. All the adipose matter had been absorbed by the body.
‘There is no food in the stomach or small intestine,’ he remarked as he examined the man’s innards, which were blanched and empty. ‘And all I can see is what appears to be a small quantity of cabbage mixed with excrement in his bowel.’
The two doctors looked at each other, both moved by the plight of the man before them.
‘How did this poor fellow manage to find the strength to work at all?’ questioned Dr Dore.
‘Apparently, Mr McKennedy had not been paid since the tenth of October,’ Dan said angrily. ‘It’s appalling that another good man was forced to walk miles and do heavy labouring work for a pittance without any sustenance and nourishment. This travesty cannot continue!’
There were few in attendance at the inquest into Denis McKennedy’s death held at the courthouse in Skibbereen. The Board of Works tried to lay the blame on a pay clerk, Mr Hungerford, who had made an administrative error, which had resulted in Mr McKennedy not being paid when due.
Dan took up his notes and began to read aloud the detailed record of the autopsy.
‘The only sign of any form of food I could find in Mr McKenn
edy’s bowels was some cabbage leaf.’
A woman near the back sobbed loudly and he could sense the embarrassment of the court officials.
‘Therefore, following a full autopsy and examination of the body of the deceased, I find that Mr Denis McKennedy died of starvation owing to the gross negligence of the Board of Works.’
There was a stunned silence at his direct accusation of the Board, followed by a murmur of dissent from the officials. He could see the clerk cast his eyes to heaven, but Dan continued, for he was the court-appointed physician carrying out post mortems on such men.
‘And this shall be entered in the records,’ Dan concluded loudly, determined that the truth be told and written up officially.
CHAPTER 26
Creagh
AS MARY COOKED THE YELLOW MEAL IN THE POT, SHE TASTED A LITTLE of it on the wooden spoon. No matter how hard she tried to soak and grind and cook it, it had a terrible consistency. Nora and Tim both complained that it made them sick. After eating it a few days ago, they had doubled up from sharp pains in their stomachs, but she had cajoled them into eating more of it to give them some nourishment.
On the way from the dressmaker’s earlier that day, she had called to see her sister, who had given her a narrow strip of dried-out fatty bacon.
‘Use it to feed you and John and the children,’ Kathleen had urged. Mary suspected that her sister or her husband, Joe, may have stolen it, but in these desperate times the poor had no other option but to look after their own.
Mary sliced the meat thinly. She would scrape a tiny bit on top of each plate in the hope that it would give the yellow meal some taste as well as a little extra sustenance. Most of it she would give to John, for her husband was fading before her eyes. His muscles were gone, and his arms were long and thin, like those of a boy. To see him lose his strength was enough to make her cry.
The Hungry Road Page 8