‘So we can see from the Bible that the dead have no use or care for such earthly forms. I tell you that our Christian duty is to the living. It is paramount that we follow the faith we profess and obey the commandments and, despite all the difficulties we face, continue to love our fellow man,’ he concluded, blessing himself.
Father John caught sight of approving nods from some of the relief committee members and their families in the front pews. However, it was to the rear and sides of the large stone cathedral that his missive was directed.
After mass and communion the congregation flocked around him, asking him to clarify what they had heard.
‘Neither God nor man expects you to pauper or starve yourself for the sake of a wooden box,’ he assured them.
The gratitude, and even tears of relief in some of their eyes, was evident. He prayed that they would accept his words.
Later, as he set about locking up the doors of the magnificent church that stood high over North Street, built to serve the large and growing population of the once prosperous Skibbereen, Father Fitzpatrick reflected on the beggars and destitute, the hungry and the poor of the town. He was tempted to fling open the heavy doors of St Patrick’s Cathedral and admit all those who needed comfort and shelter. It is what Jesus Christ would have done. Father John’s ideals were in conflict with the bishop’s, however, who certainly would not approve of this house of God being used as some kind of shelter for the hungry.
A few members of the congregation still knelt in the pews, their heads bent, praying for help in their time of need.
‘The church is closing,’ he reminded them gently.
Once they had left, he himself knelt before the cross in the solitude and quiet of the church. He prayed for God to give him the strength and courage to continue to do his work.
CHAPTER 44
Oldcourt
ON THE STONE ROAD, MARY’S SKIN TOUGHENED WITH THE BACK-BREAKING work. Her feet were swollen and sore, often numb with the cold and the damp. Her hands were cut, her nails broken, and two fingers were hot with chilblains. But she kept her head down every day as she was set to breaking up stones to make them smaller and more usable. She ignored the stiffness in her arms and shoulders, and the weakness that came over her at times. She forced herself to keep working.
The men were like beasts of burden, made to lift and move the heavy baskets. Sometimes the stones fell, injuring some poor fellow, while other men such as Denis Leary were set to dig the heavy, near frozen earth to create the channels and surfaces where the stones would be laid.
She witnessed one poor man break his arm and be sent on his way with only four days’ wages, and only two days ago, a grey-haired old woman, Mary Pat O’Donovan, had fainted on the ground beside her.
‘Be on your way, grandmother,’ the foreman had told her sarcastically. ‘You are no use to us.’
‘Not a word,’ Ellen had warned Mary under her breath, ‘or we will all be in trouble with him.’
Mary, petrified of losing her job, said little as she worked. She missed being with her children as she shivered in the frost and the freezing wind and rain where she felt chilled to the marrow. The one consolation was that she could at least buy some food, though it angered her that the price of corn and meal had risen substantially, making it even worse for them all.
The only good news the family had had was that John had received a short letter from Pat, who was now living and working on a building site in New York. His sea journey had been long and arduous but her brother-in-law was well and living in a fine house. By all accounts he was enjoying his new life in America.
John read his few words over and over again. They were both glad to hear that Pat was well and had escaped from the hard life they were still enduring. She imagined his life in New York, far from the stone roads, the hungry faces and the weeping land.
When she returned home most evenings, Mary barely had the energy to set the pot over the fire. After serving a hot meal to her family, she would curl up and try to warm herself, relaxing her aching muscles as she let sleep overtake her.
On Monday, Mary and the other women were surprised as there was no sign of Ellen.
‘She has the road fever, God help us!’ one of her neighbours told them. ‘They say she is bad with it.’
As Mary hit the stones, splitting them and mixing them together for the men to use, she cursed the officials that had designated such work for the poor and starving.
On Friday, news of Ellen’s death reached the women. It upset everyone deeply and they all said a few prayers in remembrance of her.
As she was paid her wages, Mary considered the pennies in her hand. Her head filled with thoughts of how Ellen’s children, now orphans, would survive without their mother.
‘Mary, you cannot keep on,’ warned John when she told him about Ellen. ‘I fear you will collapse and get sick, and then what will happen to the children?’
She knew in her heart that he was speaking the truth. The heavy work and hunger were draining the life from her, but there was nothing else for it. She had to work or else they would surely starve.
‘I am well again and ready for the work!’ her husband insisted, but anyone could see that his eyes were still sunken in his head and he was not the man he used to be. She knew he was still weak and his muscles were gone. There wasn’t a chance that he was yet strong enough to swing a heavy shovel or pickaxe.
They argued hotly over it, but Mary refused to give in. As long as she had the strength to work, she would break all the stones in the world if it meant her family would survive the hunger.
‘John, I will only do it until you are better,’ she conceded. Her back and shoulders ached constantly, but she wrapped herself up in his heavy coat and set off for the works.
CHAPTER 45
Skibbereen
February 1847
DAN WAS FROZEN TO THE BONE. THERE HAD BEEN A FEW MORE SNOW flurries during the day and he had got damp doing his rounds. Returning home, he was glad of the warmth of the fire and the plate of comforting beef stew with dumplings. Henrietta, with her hair softly curled and pinned up, looked more beautiful than ever as she served him some tea.
‘Dada, we have a big surprise for you!’ announced Fanny once he had eaten.
Young Daniel grinned. ‘We made it all ourselves.’
Henrietta smiled but would give him no clue as to what they were up to.
To tell the truth, Dan was exhausted. After an awful day he would have liked nothing better than to stretch and relax in the armchair undisturbed, but he could see from his young son’s eyes that he was bursting with excitement.
‘Very well, what is it?’ he asked, curious.
‘You have to come upstairs to see it,’ coaxed Ellen, pulling him by the hand. ‘We have been working on it all day.’
‘For days,’ Daniel added.
‘It was a secret,’ whispered Harriet as Dan followed them upstairs as they trooped to the nursery.
Henrietta said nothing as she bounced Margaret up and down on her hip.
‘You and Mama are to sit in those two chairs where you can watch the show.’
He laughed. ‘What is it?’
‘You are invited to the amazing, daring and delightful Donovan Puppet Show,’ declared Ellen, pulling back a sheet to reveal a large, home-made puppet theatre.
‘Henry and Jerrie made most of it,’ said Ellen, beaming at her older brothers.
‘And we all made the puppets and painted them,’ added Harriet proudly. ‘The show will start in two minutes, Father, so do please sit down.’
‘They have been working on it these past few days,’ whispered Henrietta.
Her eyes shone as the young puppeteers disappeared behind the tall, red-and-yellow striped box. The curtains were pulled back to reveal the painted cardboard figures of Cinderella and her two ugly sisters. Ellen did the voice of Cinderella, and Fanny and Harriet used thin sticks to move the ugly sisters.
It was a wondrous show an
d even young Daniel managed to operate and move a few figures … A dog, a cat, and a jiggling glass slipper.
Entranced, Dan watched and listened to the children having fun as the snow fell outside. He, Henrietta and Margaret gave a huge round of applause as Cinderella and her prince took a final bow.
A few minutes later, Dan was roped in with Jerrie to help tell a variation of the story. This time the dog took to barking at the ugly sisters, and was the one who found Cinderella’s lost slipper. It was a long time since Dan had laughed quite so much or had such fun, and he chased the children to bed with the promise of a story.
‘Only a happy one, Dada,’ reminded Fanny as he tucked her into bed.
‘Once upon a time …’ Dan began.
CHAPTER 46
‘MR MAHONY, WELCOME,’ SAID DAN AS HE GREETED JAMES MAHONY, the illustrator and journalist from the Illustrated London News, at the Becher Arms. ‘I trust you had a good journey despite this terrible cold weather.’
‘Yes, it was fine, though I saw crowds of hungry walking the icy roads as we passed in the carriage from Cork. At Clonakilty, where we had breakfast, they flocked around us, looking for money and food. One poor woman was carrying the corpse of a fine child in her arms—’
The artist’s voice broke off.
‘She was begging alms of us passengers to purchase a coffin to bury her dear little baby,’ he managed. ‘It was an awful sight. One that I will never forget.’
‘Unfortunately, you will see many such tragedies in this town, and worse,’ warned Dan.
‘Dr Donovan, I have avidly read the diary you publish in the Southern Reporter, which my own paper then publishes. Your words have reached many,’ he explained, his brown eyes serious. ‘Each of your reports is both moving and informative. They are why my editor suggested this visit, so that our readers are made aware of the terrible suffering faced by so many.’
Dan nodded. ‘Words in a newspaper can do so much.’
Nicholas Cummins’s letter published in The Times before Christmas had resulted not only in a huge wave of donations but also in the setting up of the British Relief Association, which had already raised substantial funds to aid Ireland. Dan’s published diary had been reprinted not only by some English newspapers but in some American ones too, his words helping to raise much-needed donations and subscription for relief from many quarters.
‘It is why I allowed them to be published,’ the doctor continued. ‘Too many people have ignored the plight of the hungry and needy in these terrible times.’
‘Then perhaps I can do some good also,’ James Mahony offered modestly, ‘by my reporting and illustrating the truth of the matter.’
Dan worried that the artist might not be able to cope with the terrible deprivation and human misery he would witness.
‘My assistant Mr Crowley and I are more than happy to have you accompany us on our visits to the sick and needy, Mr Mahony. But I have to warn you, it is exceptionally distressing work, even for a medical man.’
‘Dr Donovan, I have seen much in Cork City. The hungry and homeless roam the streets and the Cork workhouse is crowded out, but here, judging from your reports, the situation appears much worse.’
Dan had taken an immediate liking to the artist. He had watched him earnestly carrying his leather bag containing his paper and pens, and had decided that he trusted him. He might have slender hands and the long fingers of an artist, but it was clear that this Cork man was determined to do his best for his fellow man in his own fashion.
‘Have you been to other towns yet and seen the results of hunger and starvation there?’ the doctor asked.
‘No,’ Mahony admitted. ‘This is my first time undertaking such work. My forte is to paint in watercolour – French and Italian, and sometimes Irish landscapes. I endeavour to capture the beauty of such places.’
‘I fear there will be nothing like that for you here,’ snorted Jerrie Crowley, who had joined them. ‘Believe me, there is nothing beautiful left to see in this poor town of ours.’
‘I am fully aware of that, Mr Crowley, and will endeavour to record accurately all that I see.’
‘Well then, let us begin with a visit to Bridgetown,’ Dan said, ‘where there is enormous suffering and many of those weakened by starvation have succumbed to fever.’
‘It is a poor area, with nigh on a few hundred cabins and cottages – if you can call them that,’ added Jerrie Crowley, turning up the collar of his heavy coat to try to keep out the biting wind as they walked along.
‘So many of the people here have no coats or shawls, or clothes,’ Mahony remarked as they passed a group of paupers and beggars, and women and children who sat along the street, shivering. ‘How do they not perish in this freezing weather?’
‘Unfortunately, many do,’ Dan admitted. ‘In desperation, many sold or pawned every piece of clothing or blanket they possessed months ago to try to feed themselves.’
As they entered the narrow lanes of Bridgetown, Dan could not help but notice the artist wrinkle his nose at the fetid odours of urine and excrement that seemed to envelop the place, where human dunghills abounded.
‘Be careful where you walk,’ he warned.
‘Is it always like this?’
Jerrie grinned. ‘It can be worse on a hot summer’s day, but you just get used to it.’
The artist stopped and immediately began to sketch. He drew the curving line of low cabins and hovels with their rotting straw roofs and the cluster of barely dressed children and women who moved among the lanes.
‘Our first visit is to the Murphys,’ Dan said as he led them into the darkness of a low cabin where the sound of moaning filled the air.
In the dim light it was difficult to see, but the family lay on the floor, as near to the dying embers of the fire as they could get. An old woman with streeling white hair lay on the straw in a filthy shift.
‘Doctor, my son Paddy died a day – no, maybe two or three days – ago,’ she announced. ‘The daughter-in-law, Brigid, went not long after him. God be good to them, but I’m weak myself and left with the two young boys here.’
A bout of coughing consumed her as she pointed at the children lying on the rough earth.
‘And not even a soul to bring us a bit of food or sup of water.’
Dan caught the look of utter shock and disbelief on Mahony’s face as he realized that, with the exception of the old woman, the rest of the family were dead. Their eyes were staring and their bodies were already beginning to decay.
The artist pushed past Dan and rushed outside, gasping for fresh air.
Dan followed him.
‘Sit down,’ he ordered. ‘Put your head between your knees. The faint will pass. Just try to breathe slow and easy.’
He reached for the small bottle of smelling salts he kept in his inside pocket. He opened it and passed it back and forth in front of the man’s ghastly pale and clammy face.
‘Any better?’
After a few minutes, Mahony nodded.
‘Yes. It’s just the smell. The cabin and the children. I’ve never seen such horror. That woman, how did she not know they were dead?’
‘She’s old with no one to help her …’ Dan tried to explain.
Dan and Jerrie made their way back inside the cabin to make clear to Mrs Murphy that they would arrange for the bodies of her family to be collected by the death cart in a few hours’ time. There was little they could do to comfort her, but Dan promised to return the following day to visit her.
The next stops on Dan’s rounds were the Connollys’ and the Carews’ cabins. Both families had children sick with dysentery. The ominous signs of bloody flux from terrible diarrhoea were spattered all over the mud floor.
‘Keep back, Mr Mahony, it is dysentery,’ Dan explained. ‘There is little I can do about it except tell them to try to keep the children away from the rest of the family. If they don’t, they will likely all get it.’
In the Cotters’ cabin they were greeted by a sk
eletal young woman with two small children.
‘Have you a biteen of food for us?’ she pleaded. ‘For the hunger is fierce bad on us.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cotter, but we are here on our medical duties.’
Dan examined the middle boy, who was about five years old. The child’s belly protruded and his little legs were like gnarled sticks. He was quiet and listless, and his huge eyes simply stared up at Dan.
‘Have you been to the soup kitchen today?’ he urged the young mother. ‘You must go and try to get some nourishment for you and the children.’
‘Denis is too weak to walk there, and I do not have the strength to carry him and Peggy together,’ she admitted tearfully.
The artist was visibly upset as he began to draw a simple sketch of the cottage and child.
‘I will arrange that soup is delivered to you and your family today, and for as long as it is needed,’ Dan promised.
With so many too sick or weak to walk to the soup kitchen, Dan and the relief committee had arranged for a number of men to deliver soup to his patients and those in desperate need.
‘I will also arrange for fresh straw bedding to be brought here.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Mrs Cotter said, her eyes filled with gratitude.
Over the course of the next few hours, the trio visited cabin after cabin. They saw typhus, dysentery and starvation everywhere. The snowy lanes were quiet, with no sight of a dog nor a cat nor even a bird. The silence was broken only by the scurry of rats darting down the tracks and among the rotting roof thatch of the miserable huts and hovels.
‘Rats are the only things thriving in this poor place,’ pronounced Jerrie. ‘There is not a cat in the place to hunt them.’
One crazed man, Peadar Dempsey, refused to let them take the body of his dead wife.
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