Poor old Patch watched her from the door. The collie was a changed animal, for there were no more scraps from the table and she hadn’t seen him catch a rabbit in months. God knows what the wretched creature was living on, for they had nothing to give him.
The dog sidled up to her and Mary rubbed his black-and-white coat gently. His fur had begun to fall out, and she could feel his ribs. He was a good dog, who used to love to chase and roll around in the grass, but since the hunger had come all the playfulness had gone from him.
‘You poor old thing, you are suffering like us all,’ she soothed. The dog rolled over at the kindness of her words to have his scrawny belly rubbed.
‘Aww,’ she sighed, bending down to tickle him like he was a child.
She called the children and John to come and sit by the turf fire as she spooned out the yellow meal.
‘I’ll not take it,’ protested Tim.
‘You’ll eat it or you’ll feel the strap,’ interjected John. ‘None of us likes it, but there is nothing else and it will keep the hunger off us.’
‘There is a scrapeen of some nice salt bacon that your auntie gave me. It will make it taste a bit better,’ she promised them.
Tim looked dubious, his bottom lip stuck out as if he was going to cry. Lifting the bacon off her own helping, she passed the grey-looking strip towards her son’s bowl. Though she was hungry, the fatty meat turned her stomach.
As Tim reached to put it into his mouth, Patch sprang up and flung himself at the boy. He grabbed the bacon, growling and biting, as he dragged it literally from the child’s mouth.
‘No! No!’ Mary shrieked as Con, Annie and Nora all began to cry and scream.
Terrified, young Tim dropped his food as he tried to push the snarling dog from him.
John caught Patch with a kick but the dog kept going, crazed with hunger, gobbling at the meal and bacon that was spilt on Tim’s clothes and lap. He bared his teeth at John as his master tried to pull him away.
John kicked Patch again, catching the animal’s scrawny body. Despite the dog’s biting and snapping, John somehow managed to get him to the other side of the room, where Patch hunched, a deep low growling coming from him. Mary grabbed the willow switch brush and forced the collie out the door.
Tim was as white as a ghost. He was bleeding from the corner of his mouth and there was a gash on his lower lip. His right hand bore the imprint of the dog’s teeth.
‘Why did Patch do that?’ sobbed Nora. ‘He loves Tim.’
‘He’s hungry, pet,’ Mary explained sadly. ‘And when dogs are hungry, they get fierce and dangerous and forget that you love them.’
She lifted Tim on to her lap and told John to get some water. She began to wash her son’s lip, face and hands. He was shaking, terrified that the dog would come back and attack him again.
‘Dada and I won’t let him near you,’ she promised. ‘He’s not coming back in here ever again.’
John disappeared outside.
The children were quiet as they finished the meal. Con was still upset and asked her if he could go outside to see Patch.
‘You are all staying here with me till your father returns.’
‘We love Patch,’ said Nora softly. ‘It’s not his fault that he’s hungry like the rest of us.’
An hour later, John returned. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes red-rimmed. She could tell he was deeply saddened by what he had had to do, but he’d had no choice.
‘Where’s Patch?’ demanded Con. ‘What did you do to him?’
‘I put the poor creature out of his misery,’ he explained haltingly as the children stared wide-eyed at him. ‘It was the kindest thing to do.’
‘You had no right to do that!’ protested Con, upset. ‘Patch is our dog and we care for him.’
‘We all cared for him,’ John explained gently. ‘He was a fine dog, but what would you have me do? Let him attack Nora or Annie like he attacked Tim? We have little enough to eat and there is not a scrap to give the dog when we are hungry ourselves. Would you have us watch Patch starve to death?’
‘No,’ said Tim. ‘Dada is right. I wouldn’t want Patch here with us, biting and attacking me again.’
‘But I’ll miss him.’ Nora began to cry, sobbing loudly.
Mary tried to steel herself as she looked at the tear-stained faces of her children. Truth to tell, she felt like crying herself, for the dog was part of their lives.
Later, as she lay beside John while the children slept, he told her about Patch.
‘The poor dog was terrified. He knew that he had overstepped himself and that we could never trust him again. He was licking my hands the way he always does and looking at me with those big eyes of his as if to say sorry. I kept thinking of when he was a puppy.’
‘He was always a good dog,’ she agreed sadly.
‘I took him over near the trees and sat down with him. I got him with two quick blows to the head. I buried him there—’ His voice broke as he told her. ‘I was always fond of that collie.’
‘I know,’ Mary soothed, ‘but it had to be done.’
‘The children are fierce upset, but when things are better next year we’ll get them a new pup.’
‘John Sullivan, you are the kindest-hearted man I know,’ she said, kissing him and pulling him into the warm comfort of her arms.
CHAPTER 27
Skibbereen
DAN CALLED TO A SICK FAMILY IN CORONEA, MOST OF THEM SIMPLY weak with hunger, and then to a young boy who was suffering from bad seizures in Bridgetown. His last ticket was to visit the Murphys’ cabin in Windmill Lane. Julia Murphy was a gentle type of woman, a young widow who had last come to him when her son had fallen and broken his arm. He was one of two children and Dan wondered who in the family was ailing and required a visit from him on this occasion.
‘Mrs Murphy?’ he called as he knocked lightly on the low door of the small cabin.
A young girl of five or six appeared in filthy rags and held the door for him. In the dim, smoky light of the one room Dan’s senses were overwhelmed by the obvious smell of putrefaction.
‘Where is your mother?’ he asked the child.
‘There.’
She pointed nervously at a hunched figure that lay sleeping on the floor among the filthy straw.
‘Julia, it’s Dr Donovan,’ he called softly.
There was no response. As he approached her a voice moaned, and he bent down to look more closely.
‘Julia?’
He stopped suddenly, realizing that there was also a boy of about four years old under the blanket, sobbing tearfully. Beside him lay his mother, cold and pale. He moved her gently and checked, but there was no pulse or sign of life. Her body was already beginning to decay. He lifted up the half-starved child.
‘It’s all right, little man,’ he soothed the scared child. ‘You are safe.’
The small girl ran over to join her brother.
Neither of them was anything more than bones, their small stomachs swollen. Lord knows when they had last eaten. Dan searched the damp cabin and found no trace of any type of food. How long had poor Julia Murphy gone without eating? No doubt the little she had she had given to her children while she grew weaker.
Overcome with sadness, he stared at the once-beautiful woman who had lain down and died here in her own home. There was no furniture, no comfort, and she and her children had little clothing. Likely she had pawned their every last possession.
Was there no one in the town who might have helped her or her children? If only they had come to the dispensary, he could have at least had them admitted to the Union! Perhaps pride or fear or shame had prevented Julia Murphy from seeking help.
The small boy clung to Dan’s neck. Both children needed to be cared for, so he resolved to take them to the workhouse straight away. Following a proper examination, he would make arrangements for the burial of their poor mother.
‘What are your names?’ he asked the girl.
‘I�
��m Maria and he’s Owen,’ she said as she stared at the doctor, her eyes sunken in her face.
‘Well, Maria and Owen, I have a fine horse and trap, and I am going to take you to a place where you will be fed and looked after as your mother cannot do that any more,’ Dan tried to explain.
‘Is my mama dead?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. But she would want the two of you to be well cared for.’
As he took the children by the hand and led them down to where he had tethered his horse, one or two curious neighbours appeared at their doorways.
‘Mrs Murphy is unfortunately deceased, so please do not enter there,’ he warned. ‘On my return I will attend to things.’
As he drove the young Murphys to the workhouse, Dan thought of his own children and prayed that they would never face such sadness. No boy or girl deserved to see their beloved mother meet her end in this terrible way.
CHAPTER 28
November 1846
‘GENTLEMEN, I HAVE SEEN TERRIBLE THINGS RECENTLY,’ DAN ADMITTED, trying to control his emotions as he recalled the tragic deaths of poor Julia Murphy and Denis McKennedy. ‘Women and children in a weakened and perilous state, hungry men who are not fit to work on the public relief schemes. It is incumbent upon we who sit on the relief committee to find some other means to assist them, for we can no longer stand by and watch our people as they starve and die before our very eyes.’
‘Dr Donovan is right,’ agreed chairman Thomas Somerville as they sat around the table in the meeting room of the workhouse. ‘We can no longer wait for Charles Trevelyan and his cronies in the Treasury to act. We must try to find an affordable solution.’
‘Perhaps here could be further utilized for such urgent assistance?’ suggested Michael Galwey, looking in Dan’s direction.
‘I’m sorry, Michael, but the workhouse is already full,’ Dan admitted regretfully. ‘There is talk of us having to procure more buildings here in town, to house the additional sick and destitute.’
‘Then what can we do to help the hungry?’ Father Fitzpatrick demanded.
‘The roadworks are oversubscribed. The men flocked to them only because they needed to be fed,’ interjected Daniel McCarthy. ‘Food is what is urgently needed!’
‘Then it is our Christian duty to find some way to feed them,’ insisted Reverend Richard Boyle Townsend.
‘We must provide relief that does not involve hard labour or people agreeing to enter the workhouse,’ Dan proposed.
‘I agree with the good doctor.’ Reverend Townsend nodded, his thin features animated. ‘If we provide food for the poor, there must be no conditions. It must be gratuitous relief.’
‘Gentlemen, you do realize the enormous task we may be undertaking here?’ warned Daniel McCarthy. ‘We may have to feed hundreds – nay, thousands – of poor souls a day.’
‘The workhouse serves soup or gruel to the inmates mostly every day, along with bread or some rice,’ Dan informed them. ‘I believe there is great need to provide a similar type of meal once a day for the hungry here in the town. Miss Penn of the Society of Friends told me of large soup kitchens in Manchester and London which the society ran. They kept thousands of poor people alive by serving similar gallons of soup and rice.’
‘Providing a soup kitchen here in town to feed the hungry is exactly what is needed.’ Reverend Townsend nodded, excited.
‘There must be no charge for the soup,’ warned Father Fitzpatrick. ‘We must provide gratuitous relief, as Reverend Townsend suggested, with no conditions.’
‘No charge? But feeding such a large number will be costly,’ reminded the town’s brewery owner.
‘Mr McCarthy, you know well that they have not a penny to purchase food.’
‘That I do. God help us, I see them every day, hungering. But how are we to raise the funds ourselves for such a large endeavour?’
‘By subscription, rates money and, of course, charitable donations,’ Tim McCarthy Downing said slowly and deliberately, looking around the group. ‘The money will have to come from that.’
A low mumble passed around the committee.
‘A large soup kitchen will cost a tidy sum to operate, what with ingredients and a few cooks or servers. Then there is the business of having to find suitable premises to hold such numbers!’ Daniel McCarthy reminded the room.
‘I would offer my church grounds, but we have no building large enough to house such a kitchen,’ sighed Reverend Townsend. ‘My church will fully support it, however, and contribute towards the running cost.’
‘I am in a similar position,’ nodded Father Fitzpatrick, ‘in that we have only the church itself, which is the house of God.’
‘What about that property on the river? The new steam mill?’ ventured Michael Galwey.
‘The steam mill is not yet in use,’ suggested Tom Marmion, the land agent for Stephen Fitzgerald Townsend, one of the largest absentee landowners in the district. ‘It might be suitable for such a venture.’
‘Tom, I cannot see Reverend Fitzgerald Townsend agreeing for it to be used for such an endeavour when he refuses even to consider forgoing rent payments from his suffering tenants during this calamity.’
‘I suspect there is little generosity or charity in the man.’ Father Fitzpatrick sighed despondently.
‘This matter does not concern Reverend Fitzgerald Townsend,’ Tom Marmion responded. ‘The property does not belong to him.’
‘Then to whom does it belong?’ quizzed the chairman. ‘Who do we approach?’
‘I am the proprietor of the mill.’ Tom Marmion’s cheeks flushed. He knew full well that he had surprised the assembled gathering. ‘I had hoped that it would be busy milling these past few months. However, given the situation, it is not the proper time to open such a venture. That is why I would like to offer it for use temporarily. To serve as a distribution centre, be it for soup or as a food depot, or whatever is considered necessary by the committee.’
‘That is most generous of you, Tom,’ Father Fitzpatrick offered.
Dan nodded in agreement. Though he suspected that the purchase of land and construction of a new mill must have cost Tom a pretty penny, money likely amassed from the large rents he collected for Reverend Stephen Fitzgerald Townsend and his like.
‘You are a good fellow,’ cheered Daniel McCarthy. ‘The mill would be ideal for such a venture to feed the people. Perhaps the good doctor can enquire at the Union about the composition of a soup or meal to sustain the hungry of the town during this time of crisis. And we will endeavour to purchase large boilers and such like.’
The soup provided by the large Union kitchen to the workhouse inmates was unappetizing but cheaply produced. It provided the necessary sustenance, though to Dan’s mind many of them still suffered from poor nutrition.
‘I’m sorry not to be able to help further, doctor,’ the cook apologized when he consulted her, ‘but we are already overstretched here with the huge numbers that must be fed.’
Mrs Hegarty from the Becher Arms offered to assist them, but the soup usually served in her hotel was too rich and expensive for their needs.
‘But it is no problem to make a cheaper standard soup,’ she advised, ‘that will be both filling and nutritious.’
Henrietta and the Donovans’ maid, Sally, had both been intrigued when he questioned them on the merits of the good restorative soup that he regularly enjoyed in his own home.
‘We use some meat – often left over from another meal – turnips, parsnips, onion and carrot, doctor,’ explained Sally. ‘We used to have potato but now barley or another form of meal has to suffice.’
Dan made a note of the quantities needed.
‘Mary McCarthy and Elizabeth Townsend both told me that their husbands have got a sudden notion for soup and tasting it,’ Henrietta teased him as she spooned some oxtail broth into his bowl. ‘Abigail Penn kindly provided us with a recipe that the Society of Friends has used successfully to make gallons of soup for the needy.’
/> Although the provision of adequate nutrition for an adult was the aim of his research, Dan soon realized that taste and texture were also important. The soup they provided must be palatable to those who desperately needed it. Good cuts of meat would be impossible to obtain, but Sally assured him that poorer quality meat, and even offal, was just as good once some sort of seasoning was added during the cooking process.
Dan, along with Father Fitzpatrick and Michael Galwey, Tim McCarthy Downing, Reverend Townsend, Daniel McCarthy and Tom Marmion retired to the Becher Arms. There, Mrs Hegarty, after much consultation and perusing of the recipes of the Union, Miss Penn and others, had agreed to prepare and serve them each a bowl of standard soup that would be nutritious and suitable for serving the large numbers required at a reasonable cost.
Though he felt the meat had become rather stringy, Dan declared that the soup itself, which was thick and similar to a stew in its consistency, was good to taste.
‘I like it,’ agreed Father Fitzpatrick.
‘It’s a nourishing meal,’ proclaimed Michael Galwey as he spooned the last of it from his bowl.
‘A little more barley, perhaps,’ suggested Daniel McCarthy, ‘will make it more filling.’
‘Dr Donovan, it is a good soup to fill a hungry belly,’ enthused Reverend Townsend.
Mrs Hegarty and her cook were both proud that they had managed to provide a nourishing basic soup capable of feeding so many.
A few days later, escaping the heavy rain, Dan joined the committee at the large, impressive steam mill which stood at the side of the river.
‘The first thing we need is to find someone who will agree to organize and manage the soup kitchen. Someone who is available to do it on a full-time basis,’ proposed Thomas Somerville. ‘We are all busy men. Unless there is someone here, ready to take on such a task …’
Dan looked around him. Who among them could give up their own work for such an onerous duty?
‘I may know someone,’ interjected Reverend Townsend. ‘A fine clergyman of my acquaintance who may be available. That is, if he has not already been assigned to a new parish. Reverend Frederick Trench has great strength of character and determination, and I believe he would be the type of man to take on such a challenge as part of his Christian duty. I will write to him immediately to inform him of our plans and see if the position here is of interest to him.’
The Hungry Road Page 9
