The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘We’ve not a penny either,’ John admitted angrily. ‘I have to get work.’

  ‘First thing in the morning we’ll take the horse and cart and set off to search,’ Pat agreed. ‘Two strong men with a cart must have some chance of paid labour.’

  Mary hoped that her brother-in-law was right.

  She was intent on travelling to town tomorrow to ask Honora Barry – nay, beg her – if she had any more sewing or mending for her. Every penny she earned would be needed to help feed the family. She had no intention of sitting by idly and watching her children weaken and starve.

  The Sullivan children were fretful and anxious. They could sense how bad things were and Annie clung to her mother like a little shadow. Mary did her best to reassure them that all would be well. She could not destroy their innocence and let them know the seriousness of their situation and the distress they might face.

  ‘Stop mooning around like a load of sick lambs. Let’s go up the fields and hunt for early blackberries,’ she coaxed, despite the strange heavy weariness and fear that assailed her, for she was desperate to distract them. ‘Now, grab a tin bucket and some cans, and we’ll be off!’

  No matter the scrapes and scratches from the thorns and brambles, the children enjoyed themselves. Patch barked with excitement as he ran among them. Little Annie opened her mouth like a baby bird to eat the fruits, getting used to the sweet but tart taste, her face stained with blackberry juice.

  ‘I wish we had blackberries to eat all year round.’ Tim grinned, his tin overflowing with plump berries.

  Back home, the smell of the pestilence lingered everywhere, awful in its intensity. Mary went to boil the few remaining potatoes but they had already turned grey and sludgy in the bottom of the bucket. Nausea washed over her as she threw them out.

  As she fetched a few turnips from her patch, she thanked heaven that they looked healthy and seemed not to have been affected by the murrain. At least she had something to put in the pot and feed the children with in the hungry days ahead.

  CHAPTER 16

  Poundlick, County Cork

  AS HE RODE AROUND THE DISTRICT VISITING THE UNION AND HIS patients, Dan grew accustomed to the sulphuric smell of rotting potatoes that emanated from field after field. It lingered heavily in the warm air and was nauseating.

  The signs of destruction were everywhere. He could see where tenants had tried to dig and pull the rotting crop from the rows of potato drills with their wilted blackened stalks and leaves. They had hoped to save some of the crop only to discover the putrid potatoes that broke apart in their hands and on their spades. Such was their atrocious state they could not be used even to feed an animal.

  From Ballydehob to Skeaghanore, Caheragh to Roscarbery, Glandore to Union Hall, Creagh to Baltimore, everywhere he rode it was a terrible sight to see. Most of the tenants grew nothing else in their small fields – no barley, no corn, not even turnips. Looking across the acres and acres of destroyed potato fields, he worried how the people would manage to feed themselves, let alone pay their rent, which was now due.

  Dan had then ridden out to Poundlick to inspect his own lands. Every single potato field there had been affected, and he could see fear and desperation written in the wary eyes of his tenants. His acres of barley had flourished and were due to be harvested, but in the small potato fields beside each cabin and cottage lay the rotting detritus of the crop upon which his tenants depended.

  ‘Dr Donovan, you can see yourself that all is lost to us,’ admitted Tim Driscoll – one of the tenant farmers – approaching Dan as he got down from his horse. ‘The murrain has destroyed us, for we have nothing.’

  ‘I can see that, Mr Driscoll,’ the doctor said, looking at the neatly kept holding where five small, stick-thin children gazed out at him nervously.

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, that I cannot keep my promise to pay the rent due to you at this time,’ the farmer said, his gaze clear and unwavering, man to man, one father to another.

  Tim Driscoll was a good worker, who took pride in his holding and was not one to shirk his responsibility. Dan had respect for the already gaunt-looking man. How could he possibly insist that this fellow pay his long-overdue rent when he had a wife and children to care for!

  It was the same for the rest of his tenants – the McCarthys, the Lynches and the Murphys – who all had large families to feed. The half-year rent was due, but looking at the ravaged fields around him and knowing the men and women who tilled and tended this land, Dan could not put any extra demand on them this time. He knew well there was not a penny to pay him. These people lived hand to mouth at the best of times.

  This trouble was no fault of theirs, so the only decent thing he could do to ease their burden was to forgo his rent again this year. It would affect his finances badly, which no doubt would displease his bank manager, but Dan would not impose such penury on his tenants or threaten to evict them.

  ‘The barley has done well this year, but given the failure of the potato crop and your need to sustain and feed your families, there will be no rent collected here,’ he reassured them.

  Men shook his hands warmly with relief and gratitude.

  ‘You’re a gentleman, Dr Donovan,’ pronounced Michael McCarthy, his eyes filled with tears. ‘God bless you.’

  The men would help to harvest his barley and he would make sure that each received a large bag of grain in return for their work.

  As he bade them farewell, he turned his horse and set off for Skibbereen, for he had an important meeting that evening with the relief committee.

  CHAPTER 17

  Skibbereen

  ‘I’VE NEVER SEEN SUCH PANIC AND FEAR, FOR THE PEOPLE ARE ALREADY weak and starving,’ Dan said, enraged, at the urgent meeting being held in the Union workhouse. ‘Can the bureaucratic fools in London and Dublin not see that with nearly the entire Irish potato crop devastated, hunger is surely staring us in the face?’

  ‘We have done our best to buy oatmeal and Indian corn from the Cork depot for the needy,’ their designated chairman Thomas Somerville admitted as the committee members voiced their concerns. ‘But without government assistance, I too fear we are facing impending disaster.’

  ‘The potato crop is all but destroyed,’ declared Father John Fitzpatrick, his voice racked with emotion, ‘and hungry hordes of labourers travel the streets and countryside with poverty depicted on their countenance. Relief is urgently needed, and I deplore the many landlords who have not subscribed, and those who have given only stingily!’

  ‘There are landlords here who get rental of two thousand pounds a year from Skibbereen and have only given a measly two hundred pounds in relief,’ denounced Tim McCarthy Downing. ‘That is less than they would spend at the races in Cheltenham! I appeal to those same landlords to reduce rents.’

  ‘The government has sanctioned public works for Skibbereen, which will employ the destitute, but unfortunately, little work has commenced,’ Michael Galwey, the local magistrate and a cousin of Dan’s, complained.

  ‘The men desperately need work,’ added Reverend Fitzpatrick. ‘I did my best to ensure that men from Bridgetown and Windmill Lane and the district were employed as labourers building the new school, but now, with the school finally finished, unfortunately there is no further work for those poor souls.’

  ‘Without employment, the whole fabric of society may dissolve,’ worried landlord Lionel Fleming.

  ‘How are the people to buy food?’ Father Fitzpatrick interjected. ‘Are there any plans by the government to supply food and meal to the needy?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Thomas Somerville. ‘The government food depots are instructed to remain closed until the end of the year, even though food supplies are already scarce in the town.’

  ‘Gentlemen, we do not have months, or even weeks, to solve this!’ Dan warned. ‘If the authorities do not take action immediately to feed these people, there will be terrible consequences. I have already seen outbreaks of cholera, which I suspe
ct were caused by eating rotten potatoes.’

  He could see dismay written on the faces of the good men of the town.

  ‘Over six hundred people have already been admitted to the workhouse, and we have doubled the number of patients in the fever hospital,’ he informed them. ‘Though they are very sick, some must sleep three to a bed. It is intolerable! Unless there is some sort of intervention, these numbers will continue to grow.’

  ‘Doctor, we are all in agreement with you,’ reassured Thomas Somerville. ‘We have already written letters of appeal with regards to the crisis, to little avail. So I suggest instead that we send a delegation from here to meet the new Lord Lieutenant, Lord Bessborough, in Dublin to inform him of the alarming state of Skibbereen district and to request relief, to save it from anarchy.’

  ‘What if the Lord Lieutenant does nothing?’ Dan demanded.

  ‘Then the delegation will go on to London, if necessary,’ Somerville replied firmly, ‘to meet the prime minister, Lord John Russell, and appeal to him for relief!’

  There was unanimous approval for such action to be taken, though Dan worried that it would have little effect.

  ‘Thank the Lord the public works are finally going to open,’ declared a delighted Michael Galwey the following week, on hearing that the prime minister had introduced the new Labour Act, which would employ people on public works relief schemes. ‘It’s exactly what we hoped for.’

  ‘We must apply immediately to the Board of Works’ presentment sessions and put forward proposals for new roads, piers and harbours that will benefit the district,’ urged Thomas Somerville.

  When the relief committee discovered that many of the most useful and beneficial proposals had been rejected, Dan and his fellow committee members were perplexed.

  ‘A road to a bit of a village? Building a new wall across from an empty field? It makes no sense!’

  ‘Work is work,’ Michael Galwey consoled. ‘At least the men will be paid and able to buy food.’

  CHAPTER 18

  September 1846

  FATHER FITZPATRICK WALKED PROUDLY AROUND THE RECENTLY OPENED St Fachtna’s School on North Street. For the past two years he had put much work and effort into its planning, organization and construction.

  Now the school was finished, it did his heart good to see the rows of new pupils, girls and boys. However, some were ragged and gaunt, poorly nourished with scabs around their lips. It was a sight different from that which he had expected – rows of healthy, energetic pupils – but, despite the calamity that raged around them, he could see a spark in the children’s eyes that showed they were still eager and ready to learn.

  The large girls’ classroom upstairs was already half full, there were only a few places left in the boys’ one downstairs, and the numbers were growing in the two smaller infant classes. The parents of Skibbereen, despite their troubles, were determined that their children would enjoy an education that few of them ever had.

  As he listened to the young sing-song voices reciting the alphabet with their teacher, he gave thanks that these children had the opportunity to fill their hearts and minds with learning. Education had been the way forward for him. He had attended a small school for boys in Fermoy, run by his older brother James, a priest. With an aching thirst for knowledge and learning, he had decided to follow in his brother’s footsteps and later study for the priesthood. A choice he had never regretted.

  Bidding the children farewell, he returned home to discover a man in broken-down boots and a stained top coat that flapped about his bony legs waiting patiently for him.

  ‘Come inside,’ he offered, leading Jeremiah O’Driscoll into the dining room.

  He asked Bridey to provide them both with a cup of tea, and gestured for Mr O’Driscoll to sit down. He listened considerately as the man outlined the dire circumstances in which he found himself: yet another rent demand from his landlord, Reverend Stephen Fitzgerald Townsend.

  ‘I cannot read or write, Father,’ the man admitted, embarrassed. ‘So I am begging for your help to intercede on my behalf and write a letter from me to Reverend Fitzgerald Townsend, pleading for leniency.’

  Father Fitzpatrick sighed, for he had heard this story from many tenants, repeated over and over again. So many were illiterate! Hopefully the new school would help to change things.

  ‘I have done my best, Father. Last year I sold all we possess to pay rent, but now there is nothing left, and my wife and children are suffering distress, and the hunger—’ The man’s voice broke. ‘I appealed to Reverend Fitzgerald Townsend’s agent, but he insists that the rent must be paid or we will lose our holding and be put off it.’

  Father John had grown up as part of a large family. His had been a relatively humble background, for he’d been raised on a smallholding and knew well the concerns of tenants such as Jeremiah O’Driscoll.

  It had been almost eleven years since he’d been appointed parish priest here and he had already written officially to every landlord in the district – Lord Carbery and Reverend Stephen Fitzgerald Townsend, who owned nearly half the town and townlands between them, along with R. H. Becher and Sir William Wrixon Becher. He’d pleaded for leniency for their tenants and asked that rents be forgone during this time of affliction, citing the deplorable condition of the people, but all to no avail.

  However, if writing a letter was the only hope this poor man had, Father John would not deny him the opportunity to state his case in yet another appeal to Reverend Stephen Fitzgerald Townsend, one of the largest and wealthiest landowners in Carbery district.

  This so-called man of the church was another oppressive absentee landlord, who lived in England. He had demonstrated not a bit of interest or care for his tenants and their families in Ireland, and their deprived circumstances, but perhaps this time might be different.

  ‘My father, my grandfather and great-grandfather were all tenants of the family,’ Jeremiah O’Driscoll explained. ‘We have always paid what is due, and I give my word to Reverend Fitzgerald Townsend that once things improve and our crops have returned, I will pay him the rent.’

  Father John Fitzpatrick could see the man’s sincerity and concentrated on writing down his words exactly, listing carefully all the relevant details.

  Bridey appeared with a tray with the tea and two cups, and Jeremiah O’Driscoll stared as she poured their drinks.

  ‘Is my meal ready yet?’ Father John enquired.

  ‘Aye, Father, I have it kept warm for you.’

  ‘Then you can serve it now, Bridey. Please bring two plates, for Mr O’Driscoll and I will share my repast.’

  He could see by his housekeeper’s disgruntled expression that she did not approve, but she returned and served them with two plates of bacon, cabbage and mashed turnip.

  Father John watched with satisfaction as his guest ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. Afterwards, he insisted that the man take the remaining bacon and vegetables home to his wife and children. Then he presented to Mr O’Driscoll the letter he had written for him to make his mark.

  ‘I will send it to England tomorrow by post and shall contact you if I get a reply,’ he promised.

  The man nodded, full of hope that his letter writing would bear fruit as he bade the priest goodnight.

  Father John yawned, for he had lost count of the number of similar letters he had written.

  ‘I keep warning you, Father, not to let those people through the door, but you pay not a bit of heed to me,’ Bridey sighed heavily, her plump face flushed as she tidied away the plates.

  ‘I know you have only my interests at heart, Bridey, but Mr O’Driscoll is one of my parishioners,’ he reminded her gently, as she flounced out of the room.

  CHAPTER 19

  Creagh

  ‘THE TICKETS ARE BEING ISSUED FOR THE NEW RELIEF WORKS,’ DENIS Leary had told John when he called in to the Sullivans’ cottage to share the news with his neighbour. ‘You and Pat and Flor should sign on, for everyone needs the work!’

/>   The following day, Pat had taken the three of them in the horse and cart to register their names in the hope that they would get on the scheme. John and Pat returned with their tickets, but poor Flor was upset because an official had judged him too old for heavy labouring.

  ‘There is more strength in me than in most men!’ he complained bitterly.

  A few days later Mary watched as John made ready to leave for his job on the new roadworks.

  ‘The pay is said to be poor,’ she said with worry, ‘and the work very hard.’

  ‘Will you whisht, Mary! Hard work never killed a man,’ he said quietly, pulling on his brown jacket and worn leather boots. ‘And ’tis better surely for me to earn the few pennies we need every day than to sit home and watch you and the children go hungry?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled and reached out to bid him well.

  He set out to join a few of the neighbours who were walking to the works along with Pat, Denis and Tom Flynn. They had all been surprised when Tom, who complained of a bad hip, had been issued a ticket for the new scheme, but Flor had been refused.

  Mary was filled with hope that now John was working, the huge burden of feeding and keeping their family would ease a little. At last there would be meal and oats for the pot, and perhaps a little bread to keep the starvation and hunger off them. The whole family was weak and badly in need of nourishment, and every penny he earned would give them a little more strength.

  ‘Oh, you’re soaked to the skin,’ she fussed, when John returned that evening. She took off his jacket and shirt, and put them near the fire to dry.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he protested as she made him rest easy and warm himself in a blanket, huddled close to the turf fire.