The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  Dismayed, the guardians expressed their deep concern for the staff members and thanked Dan warmly for his dedication to his patients and the inmates.

  ‘I am only doing my duty as a physician,’ Dan acknowledged humbly.

  ‘So, Mr Falvey, you are telling us here today that the Union is dangerously full with the sick and dying, there is no food, no money to purchase food, and many of the workhouse staff are ready to give notice and resign.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Chairman, but that is the extent of it,’ the master said with a sigh of despair, relieved to sit down finally after bearing such calamitous news.

  Following the recommendations of both Dan and Mr Falvey, the Board of Guardians voted to agree to the immediate closure of the Skibbereen Union Workhouse to all further admissions. They also agreed to issue an urgent appeal for increased funding to ensure that they could continue to operate the workhouse. A few of the guardians decided generously there and then to make a personal donation, while others offered to advance a temporary loan to the Union in order to rescue the desperate situation in which they found themselves.

  They all knew it wasn’t a permanent solution to the crisis they faced, but at least for the present the inmates would be fed and the sick would be cared for as best they could.

  CHAPTER 37

  HENRIETTA WATCHED DAN AS HE PICKED DISTRACTEDLY WITH HIS FORK at the mutton they were eating. He never complained of tiredness, for he was blessed with a vigour and energy few men possessed. However, of late, she could not help but worry, for her husband looked careworn, with dark shadows under his eyes. He was rarely home any more, gone from early morning to late at night, seemingly at the beck and call of every beggar and sick person in the district. When he did appear, he usually excused himself to attend some committee meeting or other.

  The children missed their father and his attention, just as she missed their chats and walks together, or the hours they used to spend sitting reading a book, sharing a story or discussing an item in the newspaper, for Dan was not just her husband but her dearest friend.

  Ellen, Fanny and Harriet vied for his attention, waving to see if he noticed they had had their hair cut. Dan remained lost in a world of his own as he ate slowly.

  ‘Dada, you must notice something different about me today,’ demanded Fanny, coming over to sit on his lap, waggling her pretty head.

  Henrietta laughed to herself and gave Dan a warning kick under the table to attend to Fanny’s antics.

  ‘Fanny, you have grown taller!’ he ventured, which drew cries of ‘no’ from his daughter. ‘Fanny, you have got heavier since yesterday!’

  ‘No,’ she protested.

  ‘You learned to speak French!’

  She pouted. ‘Dada, you know I can’t speak French.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You have cut and curled your pretty hair just like your beautiful sisters!’

  Fanny jumped up and did a few twirls to show off her new hairstyle. Ellen and Harriet joined in, while young Daniel laughed and their older brother Jerrie threw his eyes to heaven at the antics of his sisters.

  ‘Certain little girls had developed a bit of an aversion to my bristle brush,’ Henrietta confided, ‘so losing a few inches of hair will make it a lot easier.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, putting down his napkin and standing up from the table. His eyes showed he had little interest in her simple tittle-tattle about the children.

  ‘Dada, play with us!’ pleaded Fanny.

  ‘I’m sorry, children, but I have to work,’ Dan said, excusing himself and disappearing to the confines of his small study.

  It was late and Dan was still working, no doubt writing his diary again. Passing his study door, Henrietta decided to wish him goodnight as she was about to retire. She found her husband sitting at his desk as usual, but he was not working. Instead, he held his head in his hands, deeply upset over something.

  Henrietta flew to him.

  ‘Oh, my dear, what is it?’ she asked, fearful that he might be unwell. ‘What has upset you so?’

  Dan let out a shuddering, heavy sigh.

  ‘Today I lost a patient. A small boy only a year younger than our Daniel, a workhouse boy,’ he said, trying to control his emotions. ‘He died from dysentery.’

  Henrietta had never seen her husband so upset. Every day he saw the most awful sights and endured huge distress dealing with the dead and dying. Often he would discover putrid, rotting corpses and foul-smelling bodies, things she knew well he kept and protected her from.

  ‘But Dan, all the sick you attend,’ she ventured gently.

  ‘It is ridiculous of me, but the boy, Will, was a fine little fellow. I helped to deliver him, the day the Liberator came. His young mother abandoned him to the Union’s care. Yet the boy had such spirit. Every time he caught sight of me doing my rounds, he just wanted to play or talk to me, even if it was only for a few minutes. He was a bright child and I’m sure he would have made his way in the world when he was older. We were his guardians, responsible for his care, such as it was, and we let him down. I let him down.’

  His eyes welled with unshed tears as he slumped in misery.

  ‘You looked after that boy, Dan, and cared for him as best you could,’ she assured him, running her hands along his shoulder. ‘I know that, for I see it every day – the dedicated way you look after all those who need your help.’

  ‘Instead of any hope of a good life, young Will has ended up buried in the workhouse graveyard.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Henrietta held her husband as he gave in to the onslaught of emotion, stroking his hair like a child’s. She kissed the top of his head and soothed him until all the hurt and pain that had built up in him was released.

  ‘What must you think of me for being so foolish?’ he apologized.

  ‘I do not think it foolish to mourn,’ Henrietta said gently. ‘Especially when there are so many to mourn and grieve for.’

  She took his hand and kissed it, knowing that she loved him more deeply than any other human in the world, and that though Dan may not say he needed her, she would always be there for him …

  CHAPTER 38

  Creagh

  MARY EXAMINED JOHN’S FEET GENTLY AND BATHED THEM IN WARM water and salt. They were blistered and sore, and his big and second toe on one foot were blackened and swollen from where a heavy stone had fallen on them yesterday. She suspected they may even be broken.

  ‘Stay home,’ Mary pleaded with her stubborn husband, who had also had a fierce bad cough these past few days and looked ill. ‘You are not able for such work tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be grand,’ John insisted, though he could barely walk.

  Watching him join Denis Leary and Tom Flynn the next morning, she felt increasingly fearful for him, for he was walking like an old man, limping along beside them.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ she cried on his return home that evening.

  Her husband’s face was grey, and he could barely talk without provoking a fit of coughing. His body was hot then cold, and although she had piled the turf high on the fire he was unable to get warm. She watched helplessly as he shivered and sweated. Mary worried that he had caught road fever like so many of the men had.

  In the morning he made an attempt to rise for work.

  ‘You are going nowhere, John Sullivan. You are too sick to work!’ she screamed at him like a harridan.

  For the next few days he barely stirred, and she dared not leave his side.

  ‘Con, take Nora and Tim and search for anything we can eat!’

  She could see the fear in her eldest son’s eyes as they set off for the woods and fields.

  Despite their best efforts, the children returned empty-handed, so Mary added more water to the remnants of the thin gruel in the pot. She ignored the gnawing hunger pains in her own stomach as she fed her children.

  For three days John was lost in a heavy sleep. As he lay wrapped in a blanket, barely waking or drinking, he
r mind filled with the awful possibility that her already-weak husband might not recover.

  If they still had the horse and cart she would be able to take him to the dispensary or ask for a ticket for the doctor to visit him. But she did not dare to leave him, for he was gravely ill. His body and the blanket were soaked in sweat, and as the fever progressed he tossed and turned and wandered in his sleep as if in some kind of nightmare. She feared for him, as the sickness had overtaken him and he had not the strength left to fight it.

  The children were scared and watched their father furtively. Nora wept openly at the sight of him in such a state.

  ‘Hush, Nora. We just have to wait and see what will happen,’ Mary said, hugging her close.

  ‘I don’t want Da to die,’ her daughter begged.

  ‘Your father is fighting as hard as he can to get better,’ she tried to reassure her, ‘but he is in God’s hands now.’

  All the night long, Mary sat with her husband. She did not know whether to be alarmed or pleased when at last he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. He neither stirred nor made a sound until the early hours of the morning when he opened his eyes slightly and winced at the candlelight before returning to sleep.

  Hope flickered inside her. She allowed him to slumber but a few hours later, when she called his name softly, she was rewarded by him opening his eyes again and staring at her.

  ‘Oh, John!’ she burst out. ‘You are awake again.’

  She managed to get him to take a little water, and then a spoon or two of watery gruel. By the end of the week his breathing was easier and his colour had improved, though he was still too weak even to sit up.

  Exhausted, Mary curled up like a small girl and slept on the ground near him …

  CHAPTER 39

  FATHER JOHN WAS FEELING BONE WEARY. HE WAS SPENDING MOST OF HIS days ministering to the sick, giving them the last rites, or praying over those who had already died and trying to console their families. His brother James had written to him of similar conditions in his own parish.

  He said prayers over the mass graves in Chapel Lane and in Abbeystrewery, where they had been forced to open deep burial pits to cope with the large numbers of men, women and children losing their lives to hunger and fever.

  The parish house was besieged, and the minute he stepped on to the street he was pursued by starving people begging for a penny, a prayer or some bread.

  ‘Father Fitzpatrick, how can you fulfil your duties with so many following you?’ ventured his concerned neighbour, Tim McCarthy Downing. ‘You can hardly walk a few steps with them. Perhaps you should hire a man to accompany you?’

  ‘Do you really think such a person is necessary?’

  ‘I do, Father, for your own protection and to make it easier for you to walk about and perform your parish duties without being accosted constantly.’

  Perhaps Tim was right. He should give it consideration, for he knew plenty of men who would be glad of a little paid work.

  The priest’s heart had lifted at the news that Daniel O’Connell, the ageing Liberator, had journeyed across the Irish Sea to London despite his failing health. The purpose of his travels was to raise his voice in Westminster and the newspapers and journals were full of it. So too were the people as all across the nation they read of O’Connell’s last desperate plea to Parliament for help on behalf of the starving Irish citizens.

  ‘I go to Parliament as a food man,’ O’Connell had said as he stood up in the House of Commons to beg Parliament to give Ireland a loan of thirty to forty million pounds to buy food.

  ‘Ireland is in your hands. She is in your power. If you do not save her she can’t save herself. And I solemnly call on you to recollect that I predict with the sincerest conviction that one-quarter of her population will perish unless you come to her relief.’

  Bridey had hugged Father Fitzpatrick tearfully as he read O’Connell’s words from the Southern Star to her twice over.

  ‘God bless the man for his love of the people. They must surely listen to him. Help will soon come, Father.’

  In every cottage and cabin in Ireland’s villages, towns and cities, expectations were high. They were certain that large-scale official government assistance would now follow quickly. Such hopes were soon dashed, for the British parliament and its members, despite Daniel O’Connell’s entreaties, refused to provide any further assistance to Ireland.

  Heartbroken O’Connell, whose health remained poor, was advised by his doctors to travel to warmer climes. Father Fitzpatrick had heard that it was the Liberator’s intention to journey to Rome to see the Pope, and plead with him on behalf of his people.

  God speed his journey.

  CHAPTER 40

  Oldcourt

  MARY LIFTED THE SHOVEL AND BROUGHT IT DOWN AS HARD AS SHE could to break the stones. She did it once more, watching them crack and split as she hit them again and again. Her shoulders, back and arms ached, for she was still not used to such heavy work, but at least she was getting paid for it.

  ‘A little smaller,’ advised Ellen Clancy, the woman working alongside her.

  Mary continued to pound the stones with the shovel and was relieved to see that a few had finally broken up to resemble those in the growing pile in the basket beside her.

  ‘’Tis the divil of a job but we all need the four pennies,’ sighed Ellen.

  She went on to explain what was expected of Mary and showed her how to lift the baskets of stones and rocks as needed.

  The foreman walked over to where they were working. Mary could tell that he was watching her, but she kept her eyes down, glued to the ground, for she wanted no trouble with him.

  ‘He’s gone,’ whispered Ellen a few minutes later, and relief washed over her.

  With John sick, Mary desperately needed this work. She had come to the foreman to collect John’s pay but, seeing the other women at work with their backs bent, she had begged him to employ her until John was fit to return. He’d been reluctant at first, but she had won him over by telling him how strong and steady she was and that she would not let him down. Flor and Molly had kindly offered to keep a good eye on her husband and the children in her absence.

  The jagged stone was rough and hard and heavy, and soon Mary’s hands were scraped and cut. Her muscles strained as she went from basket to basket. She shivered against the cold, but was glad of the warmth of John’s heavy wool coat; many of the women around had only shawls and rags as scant protection from the elements.

  The gang of women and young boys put to work breaking and sorting the stones for the men to use was only small in number. They would only get half pay, but half pay was better than no pay.

  ‘My husband died four months ago,’ Ellen told her as together they lifted a basket from the cart. ‘It was the saddest day of my life … but I have two little girls to look after and I’ll not see them follow their father.’

  Mary was filled with sympathy and admiration for the other woman, who was prepared to work so hard for her children, in much the same way as she was doing for her own family.

  ‘John, my husband, took sick with road fever three weeks ago,’ she confided to Ellen. ‘He nearly died on me. For six days I didn’t know whether he would live or die, but thank God he survived it. He’s still very weak, so if he can’t work then I will … I’ll break every stone on this road if I have to for the money they pay.’

  It was so cold that the women’s breath formed clouds of steam. Mary watched Denis Leary and the other men work, lifting boulders and rocks and layers of stone. A few looked near to collapse as they laboured on.

  John had objected to her working, saying the relief works were no place for a woman. Mary did not want to go against his wishes, but she was still strong and prepared to work …

  At the end of that first day Mary was footsore and weary, her muscles ached all over and she did not know how she would have the strength to walk home. But the four pence she had earned would ensure that tomorrow her family would not go hungry.
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  CHAPTER 41

  Skibbereen

  A FREEZING GALE BLEW UP THE RIVER ILEN AND THE LASHING RAIN pounded on the roofs and windows of the homes of Skibbereen. On such a night, Dan was glad of the comfort and warmth of his own hearth.

  He had decided to hand over to Tom Marmion the task of selecting passengers who were suitable to travel on James Swanton’s ship. He had so many competing demands on his time that he could no longer dedicate himself to the endeavour, though he still ensured that those chosen were medically fit to sail.

  His rest was disturbed by a knock on the door.

  He opened it hesitantly to an awful apparition: a poor woman who could barely stand, emaciated beyond belief and soaked to the skin. She was so pale and skeletal that it was as if she had appeared from the grave itself.

  ‘Dr Donovan, you have to help me,’ she wept. ‘My boy is dead and I have not even a coffin to bury him.’

  Shocked by her appearance, Dan racked his brain trying to recognize her, for no doubt she was a patient of the dispensary.

  ‘Mrs …’

  ‘It’s Mrs Keating. Mary Keating,’ she said, taking a shuddering breath. ‘My husband died two weeks ago. I had only buried him in Chapel Lane when my little boy was taken from me. I was sick with the fever myself and there was nothing I could do, but now I have to get a coffin for my boy and bury him decently.’

  ‘Where is your son now?’ Dan asked.

  ‘I laid him out in the ditch, near my cabin. A coffin is all I want for him,’ she begged, trying to control her emotions. ‘You are a good man, and I trust that you will help me, because no one else will. Please, Dr Donovan, help me to find a coffin to bury my boy.’