Henrietta begged Dan to take Christmas Day off at least and spend it with his family.
‘What of my patients?’ he protested. ‘I can’t leave them.’
‘You must rest,’ she insisted. ‘Or you will fall ill!’
They had celebrated the birth of Jesus at a crowded mass, which many of his patients also attended. Excited, the children had fun outside in the snow with some friends and neighbours, before they returned home for their Christmas meal.
Dan stretched out in front of the fire as they played some new board and card games with the children, and read a few chapters of Mr Dickens’ wonderful new book.
‘Look at this.’
He called Henrietta over to read a long letter that had been published on the front page of The Times on Christmas Eve. Nicholas Cummins had kept his word and had written to the Duke of Wellington. He had told in great detail of his harrowing visit to Skibbereen and implored the duke, in the name of the starving thousands, to break the frigid and flimsy chain of etiquette and save the land of his birth, and the paper had published it in full!
‘That letter must have caused quite a stir at many a Christmas table,’ Henrietta mused. ‘For Mr Cummins requested that a copy of it also be given to the Queen.’
Dan smiled and began to re-read the piece. ‘This one voice can say more than a thousand.’
CHAPTER 34
ON HIS RETURN TO WORK IN THE DISPENSARY, DAN WAS CALLED OUT TO Bridgetown immediately, where there had been serious outbreaks of both typhus and dysentery. Nearly every cabin in one lane was affected. In Windmill Lane the police had found the body of a man which had turned green and been left to rot for at least five days. His wife and children – a boy and a girl – lay ill on the filthy floor near him.
‘Why didn’t you bury him?’ he asked the wife gently.
‘I have no coffin,’ she sobbed.
Seeing her shame at her near-naked state of undress, it was clear that the sick woman wanted to be left to die with her husband.
Dan was torn between anger at her situation and pity for her as he arranged for the children to be moved immediately to the fever hospital.
Back in the dispensary, a large crowd of patients waited to see him, most of whom were suffering from fever and bowel complaints too. They all clamoured for his attention and Dan’s heart sank when he saw Mr Hughes, the commissariat officer, arriving to enquire about the latest statistics for disease in the neighbourhood. Could the man not see he was inundated and had no time to give him?
‘Mr Hughes, as of this morning there are about eighty-five cases of fever on a single lane in Bridgetown,’ he reported succinctly.
The other figures were similarly grim and he could see the anxiety on the other man’s face as he listed them.
‘Also, Mr Hughes, I must inform you officially that many of the men employed on the public relief schemes are now succumbing to a new classification of sickness which I call “road fever”. It is prevalent among the famished and weakened labourers who are engaged in this work at the expense of their own lives.’
‘I will note your concerns, Dr Donovan,’ Mr Hughes returned coldly.
Dan was barely able to conceal his frustration. Not only did he battle against disease and hunger but also against a wall of hypocrisy and petty administration that had no intention of acting on any of his medical recommendations.
‘You must forgive me, but I am due soon at the Union and fever hospital,’ he said brusquely, dismissing the official and returning to his duties.
Over Christmas the workhouse had been overwhelmed by new admissions. Both the women’s and men’s sections were now so crowded that there was hardly a space in which to stand, let alone in which to lie down and rest or sleep. In the fever wards, the sick were forced to share their soiled straw pallets with other patients.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Donovan, but what are we to do?’ pleaded the matron. ‘My staff and I are doing what we can, but there are no blankets or even pallets left.’
He knew the good woman was trying to manage, but having so many patients packed together was no doubt contributing to the spread of disease. He was also concerned for the welfare of the exhausted staff, some of whom clearly were unwell.
‘Matron, I will speak with Mr Falvey and inform the Union guardians officially that we urgently need to acquire more buildings in the town in which to place inmates.’
In the children’s wing, a number of young children had also been admitted. He examined them and all were malnourished, with a few showing clear symptoms of dysentery too. They should have been placed in the fever ward, instead of there, where they were mingling with the other children.
Young Will Hayes ran over to Dan, who gave the boy a small red ball he’d kept for him. His own children had received a number of toys for Christmas and he had encouraged them to be generous with their gifts.
The three-year-old’s eyes lit up, as he was unused to presents and playthings. Dan showed him how to catch the ball and roll it back and throw it himself. The boy laughed as he caught it successfully. It was heartwarming to see him play.
‘Now, I must leave you as I have to work,’ Dan said ruefully, bending down to his level.
The child reached out to touch him, and Dan lifted him up and spun him around in his arms, the way he did with his own children, before lowering him slowly to the floor.
‘Thank you,’ Will said, as he ran off to play with his new ball, followed by two other small boys.
On his leaving the workhouse, the waiting crowd outside assailed Dan, begging for his help to admit them.
‘Go home,’ Dan pleaded with them. ‘Take shelter somewhere else. There is no admittance as the workhouse is full, and many inside are sick with fever.’
It made no matter what he said. They refused to budge.
He arrived home to find Henrietta in a terrible state, weeping into her hands.
‘Dan,’ she said, throwing herself into his arms. ‘Poor Margaret Murphy has just died.’
‘What happened to her?’ He was shocked to hear of their good neighbour’s death.
‘Her daughter tells me she caught the fever. She sickened soon after visiting me here only a few days ago. It’s entirely my fault!’
‘My dear, why would you think or say such a thing?’
‘Because it is true. While she was here I opened the door to a patient of yours, Mr O’Shea. He wanted help to buy a coffin for his young son. The poor man was clearly ill and distressed, and Margaret, who as you know was always so kind, made him sit down here and consoled him.’
Henrietta broke down again tearfully as Sally, their maid, tried to calm her.
‘Margaret’s kindness to that poor man has killed her.’ His wife sniffed, her eyes and nose red. ‘If she had not crossed this door she might still be alive. Her children would still have their good mother, her husband his wife.’
‘Hush, my love, we do not know that for sure,’ he soothed, kneeling down beside her, taking her hand in his.
‘It is so, Dan,’ she said bitterly, taking the handkerchief from his hand. ‘Margaret came here because we are friends, and then was stricken.’
Henrietta broke down again, inconsolable.
As he held her hand, Dan’s mind was racing. He was growing increasingly worried about the safety of his own family. What would happen should Henrietta or any of the children fall ill, as their neighbour had?
If anyone was to blame it was he, for Patrick O’Shea and his son had been his patients. The child had died of typhus and, frantic to find a coffin in which to bury him, his bereaved father had left his own sick bed to come here for assistance, putting Dan’s own family at risk.
These past weeks it had been his greatest fear that the fever somehow would spread from the poor and starving to the rest of the town’s population. Now, here in his own home, that fear had come to pass …
CHAPTER 35
January 1847
MARY CAREFULLY FOLDED THE SMALL BUNDLE OF CLOTHES SHE HA
D patched and mended, ready to return them to Honora Barry. Of late, the dressmaker had been giving her less and less work but despite that, the good woman often parcelled up a cut of soda bread, a piece of cheese or a salted herring for Mary to take home to the children, insisting that she had more than enough to eat.
The fields around the cottage were blanketed with thick drifts of heavy snow, for it had fallen again these past two days. It was far too deep for Annie and Tim to walk into town, but despite the fierce weather, John was still working every day.
Taking down her heavy shawl, Mary wrapped it around her shoulders and told Con and Nora to stay inside in the warm and mind their younger siblings.
By the time she reached Honora’s shop, her fingers and feet were frozen with the cold. The window looked dusty and the same dress that had been in the window a few weeks earlier was still there. She rang the bell but no one answered. She tried to push the door but it was locked. Peering through the glass, she saw the dressmaker inside, sewing, her head bent in concentration. Mary knocked briskly on the window pane until she got her attention.
‘I have to be careful these days,’ Honora apologized as she opened the door. ‘The town is full of beggars.’
Mary blushed as she followed Honora inside, for by all appearances she herself was no better. The older lady gestured for her to sit down as Mary passed her the small bit of mending she had done.
‘Your usual good work, Mary,’ she thanked, examining it briefly.
Mary could tell she was distracted and upset.
‘I’m so sorry, but I won’t be able to give you any more work, for I have little enough of it myself these days.’
Mary was gutted with disappointment but had suspected as much as Jane had stopped working there in November and returned home to Bantry.
‘Will you have a cup of tea with me?’ the dressmaker offered.
Mary nodded, for a warming drink would hopefully take the chill out of her.
‘Business is bad these past months,’ Honora admitted as they sat in the back room and she poured the tea. ‘The good ladies who used to come to me for their style are fearful of being seen to be extravagant or frivolous in these hardest of times. So, any repair or alteration work for my customers I will now do myself.’
‘I understand.’ Mary nodded, trying to remain calm and not give in to the fear and sense of foreboding that gripped at her heart.
‘I should have moved to Dublin or Cork last year,’ the dressmaker said ruefully. ‘Closed up my shop and gone like many others. But alas, now it is too late for that.’
She paid Mary a shilling – a bit more than she owed her – taking the money from the tin box that was kept in a drawer in the dresser, and also gave her a half loaf of oaten bread.
‘’Tis too big for a woman on her own,’ she said with a smile as they said their farewells. ‘Hopefully we will both soon see better times.’
Back on the street, Mary felt faint and so went to the dispensary to get a ticket for that day’s soup kitchen. Clutching the piece of paper, she made her way to the large mill and joined the long line waiting to be fed. Once she’d eaten, she bought a small bag of oats and some flour with the little money she had, before calling briefly to her sister.
Kathleen commiserated with her when Mary broke the news to her about Honora Barry not being able to give her any more work.
‘I don’t know how we will manage without the money,’ she said tearfully.
‘Things will get better,’ promised Kathleen, telling her the good news that Michael, her fifteen-year-old son, had found employment as a servant in Mr O’Brien’s house in Clonakilty.
‘The boy who worked for him took sick, so Michael will replace him. To tell the truth, I’m happy for him not to be labouring on the roadworks like his poor father,’ she admitted.
‘At least they both have work.’
‘Though they earn divil a bit for it,’ Kathleen said bitterly. ‘Not enough to keep a family. At least with Michael away there will be one less mouth to feed, for the boys have me scalded looking for food!’
‘Con and Tim are the same, but at least you have the soup kitchen close by,’ Mary said enviously. ‘The icy roads are too bad these days for the children to walk them.’
‘Half the town would be dead without it, for near every soul in Bridgetown has a ticket for it.’
Despite the soup, Mary could not help but notice that her three-year-old niece Lizzie’s face was as pale as the snow outside and her stomach distended. Realizing it would soon get dark, Mary wrapped herself up warmly, said goodbye to her sister and set off home.
CHAPTER 36
DAN TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND FILLED HIS LUNGS WITH FRESH AIR before he entered the workhouse where the conditions were increasingly deplorable. Every square foot and yard of floor space was taken up by a mother, child or decrepit old man near to his end of days. Crowded and stinking, there was little space for a body to stretch or move, and certainly there was no comfort here for the ill or weak. Was it any wonder that in this festering environment, typhus fever and dysentery were rampant among the inmates?
Dan’s heart sank in the fever hospital when he spotted three-year-old Will Hayes. The little boy was hunched up under a badly soiled blanket with two other children, all sick with dysentery. His skin was hot to touch, his heartbeat rapid and his breathing shallow.
‘Come on now, Will, try to take a little water for me,’ Dan coaxed.
At the sound of Dan’s voice, the small boy slowly opened his blue eyes. He was seriously ill and Dan asked the assistant to bring him a clean blanket and damp cloth so that he could try to cool him down.
‘Will, when you are well again, I promise that I will bring you another ball to play with,’ he said, stroking his hand.
The boy gripped the doctor’s forefinger and Dan could see he was trying to fight this illness, just as he had once fought to come into the world and to survive in this place.
‘You are such a brave boy, Will,’ he urged him as he sat quietly by his side. ‘Stay strong!’
A short while later, with great reluctance, Dan had to leave his young friend as the matron needed him. The nurses and assistants were doing what they could to help the living and dying, but Dan could see that they too were exhausted and worn out.
‘We endeavour to do our best for them, Dr Donovan, but we are overwhelmed and do not have enough beds or blankets, or buckets even,’ the usually stalwart matron confided in him, close to tears. ‘One of my nurses is sick and I fear another will leave.’
Mr Falvey was equally concerned and called Dan into the privacy of his office.
‘The situation here is intolerable,’ he said. ‘We cannot continue like this, trying to manage such numbers. Some of our staff have fallen ill and others are threatening to leave.’
Dan could see that the poor man was grey-faced and near the end of his tether.
‘And such is our dire financial situation, Dr Donovan, that by tomorrow the kitchen will not be able to serve even a small bowl of gruel to the inmates, for we do not have enough money to replenish our stores.’
Shocked to hear of the perilous and precarious position of the workhouse, Dan called an urgent meeting of the Board of Guardians of the Union, deciding to move the meeting from their usual boardroom in the workhouse to the courthouse – for their own safety.
‘We have one thousand, one hundred and sixty-nine inmates. Three hundred and thirty-two of them have fever and are in either the infirmary or the hospital,’ Mr Falvey explained nervously as he addressed the board. ‘Gentlemen, these numbers are far greater than the Union was built to hold, and I have no other choice but to request that the Board of Guardians give full consideration to closing the Skibbereen Union to all further admittances.’
‘In my medical opinion, given the level of illness and contagion,’ added Dan, ‘I agree with the master. This is the only safe and wise thing for the board to do.’
‘I also must inform the board that there is not suff
icient food in the workhouse to provide meals,’ Mr Falvey continued, his voice breaking. ‘We will not be able to serve the inmates with breakfast tomorrow morning. I will be obliged to pay in ready cash for any food that I purchase, for nobody will give us credit.’
No food! There was utter shock around the table at such a disastrous state of affairs.
‘Why is that?’ demanded chairman Thomas Somerville.
‘I assume it is because we already have many creditors among the suppliers in the town.’
‘I am a creditor,’ signalled Daniel Welply, the local linen and woollen supplier. ‘For I am owed three hundred pounds.’
‘And will you give further credit?’
He nodded. ‘Given the dire situation, I suppose that I am prepared to give you more if it is required.’
‘But where are we to find money for meal, or milk or firing, or other necessities that are required?’ worried wealthy landowner James Redmond Barry, who, of late, had taken on feeding a hundred people from the soup kitchen run from his own home at Glandore House. ‘There must be some sort of funds, surely.’
‘James, we have exhausted our funds,’ the treasurer admitted. ‘We have one hundred and sixty-five pounds only in the bank, while the demands we have to meet are one thousand four hundred and twenty-nine pounds.’
‘Given the urgency of the situation, these funds must be used today to make such purchases,’ insisted the chairman. ‘We cannot have it that people who fled to the Union for protection and shelter go hungry. They deserve at least to be fed.’
‘To fund the Union we will have to somehow raise the poor rate and more subscriptions,’ admitted Daniel McCarthy. ‘No easy task!’
‘There is another matter,’ added Mr Falvey. ‘Seven members of the resident staff have been attacked by inmates this past week. One of the nurses has demanded her discharge, the apothecary signified his intention to tender his resignation yesterday, and Dr Donovan is nearly broken down in his bodily powers by his persevering exertions.’
The Hungry Road Page 12