The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘Then you will have witnessed terrible things,’ replied Father Fitzpatrick, feeling pity for the privileged twenty-year-olds and their innocence in coming to visit a place like Skibbereen.

  The pair intended to write an account of their journey to inform family and friends of the distress and suffering in Skibbereen and took notes as he endeavoured to answer all their questions.

  ‘It is far worse than we ever could have imagined,’ admitted Mr Boyle, trying to control his emotions.

  ‘We visited filthy hovels around the town where people lie dying with no food or furniture.’ Mr Blackwood’s voice broke as he folded his notes away. ‘How could we ever believe the terrible conditions that exist here if we had not travelled and seen them with our own eyes?’

  ‘Now, excuse me, please, gentlemen, for I am afraid that I must finish,’ Father John said, shaking their hands. ‘I am expected soon at St Patrick’s. Perhaps we shall meet and talk again later.’

  George Boyle informed him that they were planning to leave on the next coach to Dublin.

  ‘Then I wish you both a good journey and safe return to Oxford.’ The priest smiled, sensing their reluctance to stay in the midst of so much disease any longer.

  By chance, only a few hours later Father Fitzpatrick met the young men again, outside the Becher Arms.

  ‘The coach to Dublin was full,’ explained Mr Boyle, ‘but we have managed to hire a jaunting car with an extra horse to transport us to Cork.’

  ‘We have ordered some bread from the bakery to be distributed among the people here before we leave, Father,’ added Frederick Blackwood as they said goodbye again.

  Father Fitzpatrick was heading home when he noticed a huge crowd surging along North Street towards the Becher Arms. What could it be? The noise was deafening. A hundred or more screaming women and children gestured wildly, begging and shouting up to a hotel window above them. Freshly baked loaves of bread were being thrown down from it, cascading into the grasping hands of the crowd below.

  Word had spread of the young men’s deed and more people joined the fray, gathering outside the hotel as the bread rained down on them like manna from heaven.

  Father John grew alarmed as women and small children screamed, fought and scrabbled fiercely over the scraps of bread and loaves that had fallen to the ground. Those who were successful held on tightly to their bounty. His young English friends were well-intentioned, but as the flow of bread from above began to dry up, the cries of the huge crowd intensified.

  ‘Bread! More bread!’ they demanded angrily. ‘Feed us! More bread for the hungry!’

  He watched with dismay as the two students emerged from the hotel in fear. Struggling with their baggage, they had to fight their way through the crush of starving people to get to their waiting jaunting car. The two horses, terrified by the noise of the mob, reared and thrashed as some of the crowd began to run alongside the car, pleading and begging the gentlemen for more.

  As the crowd realized their benefactors were well on their way, they dispersed with their precious spoils and the priest returned to his business.

  A few weeks later he received a published copy of their journey from Oxford to Skibbereen, with the young Frederick Blackwood promising him that all the proceeds from their work would be donated to Skibbereen.

  CHAPTER 51

  THAT MORNING, FANNY WAS STRANGELY QUIET AT BREAKFAST. DESPITE Henrietta’s entreaties, she refused to take even a spoonful of porridge.

  ‘I’m not hungry, Mama,’ she declared.

  By mid-morning Fanny was burning hot and running a fever. Henrietta tried not to give in to the mounting sense of alarm she felt as she tried to cool her daughter with a flannel cloth soaked in water.

  ‘Sally, you must mind the others while I stay with Fanny,’ she told her maid.

  Children always get fevers, she tried to reassure herself as she wished that Dan was at home rather than being away at the workhouse or seeing one of his patients.

  During the course of the day Fanny slept fitfully and Henrietta was up and down attending to her.

  ‘Mama, my head hurts,’ she cried quietly.

  As she helped her back into bed, she noticed a reddish rash developing on her child’s stomach, which she had itched.

  About half an hour later, Sally called to her. Young Daniel was now sick too.

  ‘He has vomited his lunch, ma’am, and says he has a bad headache.’

  ‘Young man, you are going back to bed too,’ Henrietta ordered, plumping his pillow as she settled him and brushed back his fair hair.

  She made her way into the bedroom next door to check on Fanny, whose condition had deteriorated rapidly. The poor child was shivering, her teeth chattering with rigors. She would barely open her eyes when Henrietta tried to rouse her.

  ‘Sally! Sally!’ she shouted in alarm. ‘You must go to the dispensary immediately and fetch Dr Dan. Tell him that the children are sick and he must return home.’

  Nearly two hours passed before Dan returned. By that point Fanny was in a deep sleep, her skin burning with fever, while young Daniel tossed and turned in his small bed.

  Dan examined each child in turn, talking gently to them as Henrietta looked on.

  ‘It is typhus,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh, Dan, don’t say such a thing!’

  ‘They both have the symptoms,’ he admitted dejectedly. ‘Half the town is sick with it.’

  ‘Then you must make them better,’ she demanded in fear, her hysteria rising.

  ‘My dear, the fever will run its course. Unfortunately there is little else I can do except ensure the children are kept comfortable and drink some water.’

  ‘What about all the people who have it? What do you say to them?’

  ‘Many who have the fever are severely malnourished and weak, but our children are strong, young and healthy,’ he explained quietly.

  ‘You are a doctor and you will make them better,’ she insisted. ‘I will not have anything happen to our children, Dan. Do you hear me?’

  Henrietta broke down when she saw the powerlessness in her husband’s eyes and the pain he felt that the disease was now within their own home.

  Harriet too soon fell sick with fever. The Donovan family were now in the grip of typhus, as were so many other families in the town. As death lingered at her own door, courting her beloved children, Henrietta was filled with a mother’s fear like that of every poor mother in the town.

  Dan too was consumed with worry, but he still had to attend to his professional duties. Henrietta knew that her husband blamed himself for their children being ill. She thanked heaven that Henry, Jerrie, Ellen and twenty-month-old Maggie displayed no signs of the fever yet and insisted that Sally tend to them.

  Fanny’s small body was now covered with a dark spotty rash and her fair hair clung damply to her head in curls. Her fever refused to break and her breath came raspingly in her small chest, like a butterfly trying to escape from a net.

  ‘She is much worse,’ Dan sighed as he took her wrist and felt her pulse.

  Henrietta had no words for him, for her heart was heavy with anger. How she wished she had packed up the children and fled this place when she was able to. She had condemned them to this. Why had she not acted to protect them!

  CHAPTER 52

  DAN HELD FANNY IN HIS ARMS AS SHE SLEPT. SHE WAS STRUGGLING TO breathe, her small life slipping away. His heart was heavy as he looked at his sick daughter, for he knew only too well the path of the disease at this stage, and how little could be done to aid the afflicted.

  He slipped her back into the bed gently and dampened her bare skin with a flannel he’d soaked in water, washing her face, brow, neck and chest, and wetting her cracked, dry lips.

  ‘Dada is here with you, Fanny. You must try to get better.’

  He wanted her to hear his voice, to cling to it, and to fight to hold on to life.

  ‘Mama and I, and all your brothers and sisters want to see you back up playing and running
around, singing your funny little songs for us.’

  Fanny exhaled, and fell deeper and deeper into sleep. Dan stretched out in the chair beside the bed and watched over her. She was normally so lively and full of chat. Named after his mother, Frances, his daughter had inherited much of her grandmother’s spirit. To see her lie so quietly like this was alarming.

  As the week ended, young Daniel seemed a little better.

  ‘Good boy,’ Dan praised his son, who, with a little coaxing, took a few spoonfuls of broth. Harriet remained weak and slept a lot, but he was hopeful that she too would recover. Unfortunately Fanny’s condition showed little improvement and her breathing was still laboured. His wife was so tired that she felt giddy.

  ‘Henrietta, you must sleep,’ he insisted.

  ‘How can I sleep, Dan, when I fear the worst will happen to one of them if I am not there?’ she protested.

  ‘I will stay with Fanny, and will wake you if need be.’

  All through the night Dan sat with his young daughter as she moaned softly in her sleep. Her skin was clammy to touch and all the colour was gone from her face. Looking at her pretty face and pert little nose, he was overcome with emotion. He held her small fingers to let her know he was there and that she was not alone.

  As he watched the sun come up, he breathed a sigh of relief that his little daughter had somehow survived the night and seemed to be sleeping easier.

  Hearing Henrietta stir, he went to tell her the news, only to find her slumped by her bedside, saying that the room was spinning all around her.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ he said, rushing to her side and putting her back into bed.

  ‘I must stay with the children,’ she protested, trying to get up, but a fresh wave of exhaustion overcame her and she fell back against the pillows.

  ‘Henrietta, you are most unwell. You need to remain here in bed.’

  His wife eventually closed her eyes, too weak and sick to move. Her throat and head hurt, she told him, as she was stricken with a sudden bout of coughing.

  Dan removed her dressing gown and the warm blanket from the bed, for she was too weak even to move a muscle as she gave in to the waves of fatigue that overpowered her.

  CHAPTER 53

  FATHER FITZPATRICK WENT TO CHECK THE ALTAR AND ENSURE THAT the chalice, chasuble and heavy leather-bound Bible were stored away safely for the night.

  He said mass every day and these days he presided over funerals mostly. Often they took the form of a simple blessing and prayers over a shrouded corpse, for most of the deceased were penniless. Earlier that morning he had officiated at the funeral of William Crowley, a young man of means, who had been struck down with famine fever and now lay buried in Abbeystrewery with so many others from the town.

  He was about to go into the sacristy when he became aware of a man kneeling in a pew to the side of the altar, his head held in his hands, lost deep in prayer. The man’s tall black hat sat beside him on the bench. It was Dan Donovan. The priest hesitated but decided not to disturb him and moved on to the room behind the altar.

  The people came to the church every day, heads bent in prayer, begging the Lord to help them in this time of need. Father Fitzpatrick ensured that the church door was opened early before mass so at least his congregation could come inside to shelter from the harsh elements and could sit quietly or doze in the pews. He had been warned not to leave the church open all day and night for it would soon become home to the poor and needy, and those who walked the roads.

  The bishop had reminded him that the church was a sacred place, the house of God meant for prayer and contemplation and the sacraments. However, Father Fitzpatrick suspected that if Jesus Christ still walked the earth, every Christian church in the country would have flung open their doors to the hungry and sick during this time of calamity.

  When Father Fitzpatrick returned from ensuring that his vestments were clean and in good condition for Sunday mass, he was surprised to find Dan still kneeling down, his shoulders hunched, his countenance miserable. Filled with concern for his friend, he went over to him.

  ‘Dan, are you all right?’

  The doctor looked up with reddened eyes.

  ‘Father John, it’s Henrietta and the children. They are sick, so sick with fever.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I blame myself, Father, for bringing sickness and contagion to our door. No matter what time of day or night I return home, the sick are there awaiting me. I tell them to go to the dispensary, but they all know well where my home is. We have had to harden our hearts to those who come inside our door, but now illness besets my family. I have been so busy with my medical duties that I did not pay enough attention to my own family and wife. What kind of man am I?’

  ‘Dan, I know you to be a good person, who does his best for his fellow man. The town is filled with fever – not just in the poor lanes and cabins, but in the big houses too. Death, unfortunately, does not discriminate the way we do.’

  Dan sighed heavily. ‘I know you are right, Father John.’

  ‘Will we say a prayer or two together, for Henrietta and the children?’ the priest offered.

  Dan nodded, his face filled with misery and despair as they began.

  Pater noster, qui es in caelis,

  sanctificetur nomen tuum.

  Adveniat regnum tuum.

  Fiat voluntas tua,

  sicut in caelo, et in terra …

  When they had finished, the priest urged his friend to return home.

  ‘The Lord will understand, Dan. Your place is not here in the church with me, but at home with your family, where you are needed. I promise that I will keep them all in my prayers.’

  CHAPTER 54

  THE MORNING SUN STRETCHED ACROSS THE BED AND ITS SILK COUNterpane. As Henrietta began to wake, she felt its warming rays on her face. It was as if she had been in a deep sleep for days, but the reality was that she had been ill with fever and had little memory of it, only Dan tending to her, washing her and changing her like a child, and encouraging her to get well again.

  She opened her eyes slowly as she became used to the light. She took in their bedroom, and the heavy oak wardrobe and chest of drawers. Dan, his long thin face serious, sat in a chair, watching her, his writing pad on his lap.

  ‘My dearest, how are you feeling?’ he asked with concern.

  ‘Strange,’ she replied, her mouth and lips parched.

  He filled a glass from the water carafe on the small table. He helped to prop her up in the bed and held the vessel to her lips.

  ‘It is good to see you sitting up and able to speak to me,’ he said, overcome with relief.

  She was filled with a profound alarm.

  ‘The children?’ she asked, dreading his response.

  ‘They are well,’ he reassured her. ‘All of them, I promise you, are well.’

  Hours later she woke again, conscious of someone watching her.

  Harriet sat in the chair next to her, sipping from a cup of milk.

  ‘Oh, Harriet, you are well again,’ she said with relief, and reached for her daughter’s hand. ‘I was so fearful. So fearful.’

  ‘Dada said I must drink some milk to help get my strength back.’

  Harriet gave her mother a smile and licked at the creamy whisker of milk on her top lip like a little kitten.

  ‘Well, your dada is right, and tomorrow I will take a little milk too. Where are Fanny and Daniel?’

  ‘Daniel is downstairs, playing with Henry and Jerrie, and Ellen is next door reading a story to Fanny. She still has to stay in bed,’ she said seriously, ‘but Mama, I am much better.’

  ‘I can see that, darling girl.’

  Later that evening, Henrietta went and sat beside Fanny’s bed. Her daughter’s face was pinched and gaunt, but her eyes lit up when she saw her mother.

  Dan appeared in the doorway and smiled.

  ‘You are the best medicine for her.’

  CHAPTER 55

  DAN’S
BREATH FORMED ICY CLOUDS IN THE COLD AIR AS HE DROVE OUT to Lough Hyne. He was thankful for his heavy grey coat and Henrietta’s gift of a knitted scarf and gloves to keep him warm, as it was near freezing outside. He was on his way to see Daniel McCarthy’s wife after his fellow committee member had stopped him at the end of Monday’s meeting and asked him to pay her a visit.

  McCarthy’s voice had been filled with concern. ‘I don’t like asking you to come out so far with this bad weather, but she is tired all the time, and her legs and feet these past days are badly swollen.’

  Dan knew the worry of having a sick wife and had agreed immediately to see Mary McCarthy.

  He turned his horse off the main road and took a small winding track down through the green forest that led down towards Lough Hyne. The ancient saltwater lake was a place of stunning beauty. Shaped like a bowl and surrounded by tall trees and steep rocks, its crystal-clear waters contained fish like you’d never seen before. It was a wondrous place.

  The track began to slope suddenly, and grew slippery with ice. Dan soothed his mare as she began to lose her footing on the steep descent. He stopped for a minute, got down from the trap and began to lead the horse instead.

  The McCarthys’ large house with its magnificent view of the lough came into view, but he also became aware of a group of men working down at the edge of the water. Surely they were not doing works in this appalling weather?

  As the ground levelled off, he climbed back into the trap and continued towards the house. He watched in disbelief as men in rags stood partially immersed in the freezing water, lifting heavy stones, shivering and shaking with the wet and cold. They were building some kind of sea wall in the rapids at the edge of the lough.

  ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded, slowing the horse and coming to a halt.

  ‘We are part of the public works scheme,’ replied the foreman, a tall fellow in a warm, heavily-lined coat. ‘The men are building a wall here.’