The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘She’s hungry and tired, but I tell you she’s just asleep, Dr Dan.’

  James Mahony said little, his skin still pale and his countenance serious as he drew and sketched. He filled his drawing pad with images of the dead and the living; the starving men, women and children of Bridgetown.

  After their time in Bridgetown Dan brought Mahony to Old Chapel Lane. There they made their way to a tumbledown house with a window and door missing, which was crowded with destitute people trying to shelter from the cold. Some were already sick with typhus, and two or three were dead, including a big strong country fellow he bent down to examine. The man’s body was already cold.

  ‘Doctor, how could he be dead when he was only down here near me a few hours ago?’ demanded the man next to him.

  Dan sighed.

  ‘I suspect he had typhus. Stay outside, Mr Mahony,’ he begged. ‘Do not come inside this place, for there is rampant fever here, and I advise you not to engage with those standing around you at the door, for they may also be sick.’

  The artist moved down the street quickly, capturing with his pen the house and lane and those waiting admittance. Dan joined him shortly after and showed him the nearby watch hut that overlooked the graveyard in Chapel Lane. A matter of days ago, he and Jerrie had found a family hiding there, amid the decaying bodies.

  ‘They would have died here, among the skeletons and diseased corpses of the graveyard, except for the actions of my friend here,’ he said, praising Jerrie Crowley.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you that it was a shock to find the living, hidden among the putrefaction of this crowded graveyard, with not even a drop of water to sustain them,’ the doctor’s man told their companion.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Fortunately, Mr Mahony, the six of them were removed from this abode of the dead to the fever hospital, where they are improving. I will write it up in my diary,’ Dan affirmed.

  ‘Then certainly I must sketch this hut,’ Mahony said, trying to find a good angle from which to draw the structure without miring himself in the sodden, putrid ground around him.

  With a few swift swipes and scribbles of his pen, James Mahony captured the watch hut from which the family had been rescued.

  ‘Tomorrow I must attend my duties at the Union workhouse,’ Dan explained. ‘But Mr Everett is a good man. He will collect you in the morning and take you to Ballydehob and Schull.’

  ‘Thank you for your great kindness today, Dr Donovan,’ Mr Mahony said as he took his leave of them. ‘I hope to see you when I return to Skibbereen to take the mail coach.’

  Dan watched the artist walk down the street, hoping that somehow his sketches and drawings would help convey the terrible situation the starving people of West Cork were enduring.

  CHAPTER 47

  ON HIS RETURN TO SKIBBEREEN, MR MAHONY CALLED IN TO THE crowded dispensary. Dan was happy to see him again and accompanied him to the Becher Arms where the coach stop was. The coach wasn’t due for a short while, so they went inside to take a cup of tea.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Mahony, how did you fare on the rest of your visit?’ Dan asked.

  ‘The people in Ballydehob and Schull are in a terrible state too. I cannot understand how the authorities are allowing such extreme suffering to occur. These past few days I have seen women, children and babies all starving before my very eyes.’

  Dan could detect the huge emotion and strain in the man’s voice.

  ‘I’m sure that you will do your best to reflect this grave situation in which we find ourselves, Mr Mahony.’

  ‘In Ballydehob, Reverend Triphook told me that anyone who can gather a few pounds is leaving the town to escape the fever and the distress.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Mahony, you cannot blame them!’

  ‘And in Schull, I saw hundreds of women, desperate to buy meal which had been delivered by sloop to the town. Apparently, there are tons of Indian meal on board, but it is being guarded by a government steam ship. I saw only miserable quantities being doled out to those waiting and it was being charged at exorbitant prices.’

  ‘They are saving food for a rainy day,’ Dan said, exasperated, ‘when it is clear that the full force of the storm is already upon us.’

  ‘I was also introduced to the rector there, Dr Robert Traill. I found him to be a most charitable man. Every day, he and his good wife feed a few hundred people with a warm nourishing soup, from their own door at the rectory in Schull. Such are the numbers that they now employ a number of men to help them make and distribute it. The townspeople are fortunate to have such a dedicated vicar among them.’

  ‘Robert is indeed a good man,’ Dan agreed, ‘and well respected by all of us.’

  ‘It’s strange, Dr Donovan, but in normal circumstances, Skibbereen and these towns and villages are places I would visit to paint or sketch for their great beauty, their inspiring landscapes and views with the sea and river, and the coastline and islands nestling in the shadow of Mount Gabriel. Alas, my work now is of a very different nature.’

  ‘Mr Mahony, your work is of great importance to the people of this town and West Cork,’ Dan reminded him.

  ‘As are your reports in the newspaper,’ he admitted. ‘I perhaps doubted their accuracy somewhat, or suspected they may be highly coloured and exaggerated, but from my visit here I have seen at first hand the terrible truth of the extreme suffering of the people. Neither pen nor pencil could ever portray the misery and horror to be witnessed at this moment in Skibbereen.’

  Dan nodded gravely as he sipped his tea.

  ‘If anything, Dr Donovan, you have tried to make the reports less graphic and more palatable for the readers by hiding the hideous reality that you and Mr Crowley have to contend with day after day.’

  ‘That is true,’ Dan admitted calmly. ‘I have found that the human mind can only deal with so much distress and horror.’

  ‘I have observed that there is little sympathy shown between the living and the dead,’ Mahony continued. ‘Men driving carts filled with corpses show little respect for them, and foremen and managers on the work schemes show no care for the men they oversee. Men who may have walked miles stand in the mud and cold to break stones and build roads, with not even a scrap of food in their belly. It is a cruelty beyond any belief.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a shout that the coach to Cork would be ready to leave in a few minutes. The artist nodded and stood up to leave.

  ‘I’d better take my seat.’

  ‘Mr Mahony, we are very appreciative of your visit, as distressing as it has been for you. Thank you for coming to Skibbereen.’

  ‘Dr Donovan, I have filled my sketch pads and am as well informed of the situation as I can be. I promise you that I will endeavour with fidelity to portray what I have witnessed in order to make the suffering and afflictions of this famine-stricken people known to the charitable public and readers of the paper.’

  ‘Sir, God bless you and your work.’

  Dan caught Mahony by the shoulder and gripped his hand firmly as they bade each other farewell.

  A crowd of beggars swarmed around the horses and coach as the artist took his place aboard.

  ‘The hunger is on us,’ they called and shouted, over and over, as the remaining passengers climbed inside and sat back in their seats. ‘The hunger is on us!’

  The driver ignored them as he checked his fares were safely ensconced. He grabbed the reins swiftly and urged on the horses to pass the crowd and leave the hungry town behind them.

  CHAPTER 48

  FATHER FITZPATRICK’S HEART HAD GROWN HEAVY. NEARLY HALF THE town had fallen victim to the fever that was raging across the population. The wealthy and powerful had been afflicted just as badly as the beggars in the street.

  With his own eyes he had witnessed vermin, dogs and even pigs lay claim to abandoned and poorly buried bodies. On Windmill Lane a pair of dogs had tried to pull apart the body of a small baby but for the quick intervention of two soldiers who kil
led them.

  Anger and rage grew in him that the British authorities, who did so little to sustain the living as the country starved, still permitted food, grain and livestock to be exported to English cities, and made absolutely no provision for the inevitable – the interment of the dead.

  It was the town officials who declared that all dogs be culled, though it brought cries of outrage and protest from many who were reluctant to relinquish their animals, even if it was for the common good. Shame on all of them!

  Never had he imagined such a terrible end for the innocent people of Skibbereen.

  Charles Trevelyan, who controlled the Treasury, considered the failure of the potato crop and the ensuing hunger divine retribution from the Lord on the ever-growing Irish Catholic population for their indolence and laziness. That a man in such a crucial position should entertain such unchristian thoughts grieved and upset the priest deeply.

  He sat down to write to Frederic Lucas, editor of the English Catholic journal Tablet, which had published some of his letters, to thank him and his readers for their generosity towards the town’s starving and sick. He’d been overwhelmed by the post office orders and donations sent to him by congregations, charitable ladies and good men from Aberdeen to East London, and Cardiff to Cornwall. The British people, unlike the government, had shown themselves to be both charitable and most generous. Mr Lucas had kindly opened a bank account in London for such purpose.

  Father Fitzpatrick had also appealed for much-needed clothing by asking readers of the journal to send him items care of Thomas Galwey at the Skibbereen coach office in Cork, and this had already borne results.

  A British Relief Association had been founded, raising huge sums of money, which the charity intended to be used to give grants of food aid, and Queen Victoria had issued her Queen’s Letter, an appeal for money to relieve distress in Ireland, to which many had contributed, including the Queen herself, who had donated one thousand pounds.

  The priest’s eyes grew heavy and he was suddenly conscious of Bridey trying to rouse him.

  ‘Father, you must away to your bed or you will not be fit for tomorrow,’ she warned.

  He stood up stiffly. His back and right knee ached.

  ‘You need your rest, Father,’ she persisted.

  ‘I am finished here,’ he assured her, signing and folding the letter. ‘And will be glad to get some sleep.’

  Lying in the darkness, his mind was crowded and tormented by the memory of those to whom he had attended during the day. He said a quiet prayer for them all, before rolling on to his side and giving in to the utter exhaustion that he felt.

  CHAPTER 49

  ‘DAN, IS IT TRUE THAT POOR JOHN CLERKE IS VERY ILL?’ HENRIETTA asked, for he and the bank manager were close friends.

  ‘I fear his condition is grave,’ her husband admitted, his voice breaking. ‘The Provincial Bank sent a replacement manager to take over the running of it, but apparently he has already fled the town for fear of contagion. The new official they sent is apparently no better as he too is threatening to leave!’

  ‘You can’t blame them, Dan. Anyone with an ounce of good sense would pack up and go,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘Unfortunately that is precisely what the matron, the apothecary and some of the staff in the workhouse have done,’ he told her, clearly worried. ‘And a number of staff there have also fallen ill.’

  ‘Oh, Dan, what will you do?’ she asked, shocked at such news.

  ‘We will have to manage with a limited staff.’ Her husband sighed, a heavy tiredness in his eyes. ‘We must treat the sick, feed the hungry and bury the dead. Fortunately, Mr Mahony’s graphic illustrations of the tragedy of our terrible situation have resulted in massive donations to help Ireland and our people. Hundreds of thousands of pounds by all accounts, not just from the readers of his paper but from all around the world.’

  ‘Oh, thank heaven,’ she said, relieved.

  ‘Such contributions are badly needed and we have now arranged to have soup brought to the sick in the town and delivered by cart to Kilcoe, Ballydehob, Rath and outlying areas to stop more people flooding into town. We are feeding near eight thousand people, Henrietta, and delivering fresh straw for bedding throughout Bridgetown and the lanes to try to cope with the filth and sickness. Unfortunately, there are even fewer people now to assist us with such work.’

  ‘Dan, you are working too hard. You must rest,’ she pleaded with him, ‘or you will fall ill yourself.’

  ‘I have a strong constitution, my dear,’ he reminded her gently, ‘and my duty is to attend to my patients.’

  As she made her way to the market that morning, Henrietta was lost in thought. She stopped in her tracks when she bumped into Reverend Townsend, who doffed his black hat to her.

  ‘Good day, Reverend,’ she greeted him politely.

  He paused, appearing upset by her words.

  ‘I’m afraid that as far as my household is concerned, Mrs Donovan, this is not a very good day. For we have suffered a great loss.’

  ‘Oh, no. Is Mrs Townsend unwell?’

  ‘She is quite well,’ he assured her, ‘but she is distressed by events. Our two servants were both stricken with fever these past few days. Despite our best efforts, both died during the night.’

  Henrietta felt herself grow weak as she thought of the new pretty little maid who had played with her children only a few weeks ago.

  ‘I must call to her,’ she blurted out, knowing how deeply affected her friend would be by such loss. ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded gravely. ‘I need to attend to the arrangements for them. Please convey our gratitude to your husband, for he was most kind and attentive to them during their travails.’

  Henrietta watched as he walked away, and decided to call to Glebe House immediately.

  Through the long drawing-room window she could see Elizabeth sitting sewing, head bent in concentration. She rang the bell twice and her friend came to answer the door herself. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and she looked utterly grief-stricken.

  ‘I met your husband and he told me about what happened to your servants,’ Henrietta ventured. ‘I wanted to come and offer my condolences on their deaths.’

  ‘I still cannot believe it!’ Elizabeth’s voice broke with emotion. ‘The two of them taken from us like that in a matter of days. Young women with their lives ahead of them, taken by fever. How can such a thing happen?’

  ‘I am so sorry. I know how good you were to them.’

  ‘Kate had worked for us since she was sixteen years of age. She had such a kind heart and helped out with serving in the soup kitchen only last week. And as for young Jane, she was like a little bit of sunshine that came into our lives. They were part of our small family and will for ever be greatly missed,’ she sobbed.

  Henrietta took hold of her arm gently and led her back into the drawing room, where Elizabeth lowered herself into the velvet armchair.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ Henrietta offered. ‘Can I help in some way?’

  Elizabeth Townsend shook her head and slowly took up her sewing again.

  Henrietta realized that the linen she was stitching neatly and carefully was a white shroud.

  ‘This one is for Jane,’ Elizabeth explained.

  Another shroud lay spread out on a nearby chair.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Henrietta offered.

  ‘Thank you, but I just need to finish my sewing so these will be ready for the funeral of my two girls.’

  ‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ Henrietta repeated, words escaping her.

  Tears ran slowly down Elizabeth’s pale face. ‘They were like our family. I don’t know how people can bear such sadness – children, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, parents all stricken by fever.’

  ‘These are terrible times,’ Henrietta consoled her friend.

  ‘Nobody is safe from this disease and torment, no one!’ warned Elizabeth.


  Distressed, Henrietta hurried home, her head bent low as she avoided meeting or talking to anyone. Skibbereen had become a blighted town and she dearly wished that Dan would give consideration to fleeing as others had done. However, she knew well that, despite her entreaties, her dutiful and steadfast husband would never desert the town and people he loved so much.

  CHAPTER 50

  ‘YOU HAVE VISITORS, FATHER,’ INTERRUPTED BRIDEY, AS FATHER Fitzpatrick ate his breakfast and read the newspaper. ‘They are gentry,’ she reassured him, showing in two well-dressed young gentlemen who were students at Oxford.

  ‘Father Fitzpatrick, we apologize for disturbing you so early in the morning,’ explained Frederick Blackwood, as he also introduced his travelling companion, George Boyle. ‘Both Reverend Townsend and Dr Donovan told us we should speak to you before we leave Skibbereen later today. We have a great interest in Ireland and are keen to record the effects of this terrible calamity on this good land.’

  Father Fitzpatrick sighed, for only a few days ago a wealthy philanthropist – an editor from an American newspaper, Mr Elihu Burrit, who was devoted to helping mankind – had called on him with similar intentions. He had agreed to take Mr Burrit around and had taken him to the soup kitchen and to the hovels and cabins where he ministered to the dying. Shocked by such scenes, Mr Burrit said he had no language to describe the suffering of the people consigned to this battlefield of life. With disease raging, the priest had worried for the health of the American visitor but admired the man’s courage and zeal to help the poor and vulnerable.

  He smiled at his two young visitors for he could see they displayed a similar zeal!

  ‘We arrived only yesterday,’ Mr Blackwood went on, ‘but Reverend Townsend has been most generous with his time. He has shown us around the cottages, the town graveyard, and we have met some of his parishioners. Dr Donovan has also told us of the terrible state of affairs and of the people.’