Chapter 29

Breakdown

Christmas Day 1902 was a welcome break from the Home’s usual routine. Pat went to mass, which was celebrated in the chapel built on the grounds by the Catholic bishop of Rochester. He then made the long walk to visit Millicent, as previously arranged, to exchange season’s greetings and bring a gift, a pot of red roses he had bought from the Home’s greenhouse.

Pat felt immediately welcome as he looked into Millicent’s smiling face and the graceful sweep of her right arm motioning him in. She had captured the spirit of the season in her living room with a spruce tree decorated with candles and large, colorful, round glass ornaments. Beneath the tree was a manger set with a dozen or so glass figurines imported from Germany and laid out on a sheet of white cotton. A large fireplace with a crackling fire warmed the room and exhaled the smell of apple wood. Any strangeness he felt disappeared. What a perfect setting in which to celebrate Christmas!

“Mrs. Hastings, I hope this gift tells you how much I enjoy our friendship.”

“Indeed it does, Mr. Donohue, and I am most grateful for both the gift and the friendship.” She hesitated as if about to say more on that subject, but then said, “Now tell me how you will spend Christmas? In Buffalo, I presume? Tell me about it while we enjoy a glass of fruit punch and a piece of fruitcake, taken from a recipe of my great-grandmother.” Millicent poured Pat a generous glass of punch and then cut a large piece of cake, laid it on a crystal dessert plate, and passed it to Pat. He waited for her to do the same for herself. She motioned him to sit with her on her stuffed couch. They each cut into their slices of cake with sterling silver dessert forks.

“Oh, this is special. Drenched in juices,” he exclaimed, “that create a heavenly taste and a wonderful chewiness. I’ve never had anything like it.” Then after a few more bites, he raised his glass and said, “A salut to your great-grandmother and to the baker!”

“Believe it or not, I made this in September. That allowed the juices to become solid and as you say, ‘chewy’. Some of the best things take time—lots of it. Now tell me, how are you spending Christmas?”

“I truly miss my family and friends in the First Ward in Buffalo. For the next month, I’ll stay with my son, Bob, and his new wife, Mary Alice. She has two children by a previous marriage. They’re quite small, so I suppose I’ll spend much time on the floor playing with them.”

“Don’t you have a brother in Buffalo, too? Are you close to him?”

“Oh, I’ll certainly spend time with John and his family. I owed my life to him in the war. His wife Johanna could not be more kind to me. Their four kids are like my own. In fact, I get along with them better than I do with my own.” The two lapsed into their own thoughts. Millicent decided not to pursue Pat’s statement about his relationship to his children.

To break the silence, Pat blurted out, “The Ward has a hold on me like no other place in the world. I can’t wait to get home.” He took a sip of the punch and concluded, “Christmas is my favorite time of year and we celebrate it like the world’s coming to an end the following spring. So it’ll be fun. Now, what about you? Are you going home?”

“No, two friends are coming from Boston, old WCTU colleagues. They come every year at Christmas time. One’s a widow and one’s divorced. I look forward to their coming. We won’t do much, just sit and talk about what we’re doing with the WCTU.” She took another bite of cake and then went on. “It’s one of the highlights of my year. They are dear friends and they bring news from the East. We have so much to talk about. The week they’re here just flies by.”

“Do the Unitarians do Christmas, Mrs. Hastings?”

“Yes, they do, pretty much the same as any Christian church. They believe Jesus was the messiah that the Jews had been awaiting for hundreds of years. They just don’t believe he was God.” That led to more questions from Pat about the Unitarian Church.

“We really do love and admire Jesus just as you do, Mr. Donohue. One day we can talk about what and why Unitarians believe as they do. For today, let’s just share a beautiful Christmas together in the few minutes we have left.”

“Well, Mrs. Hastings, I agree with you,” replied Pat.

A half hour after arriving, Pat rose to take his leave, seeing that Millicent had a busy day in front of her, much of it at the Unitarian Church and with her local WCTU companions.

Millicent was about to ask him to avoid alcohol while he was at home in Buffalo. Then she thought about it and said, “Pat, please take care of yourself, and be moderate in your drinking. Maybe only drink beer and make sure you eat something with it.” Millicent broke her own rule never to advocate drinking in any way. She cared for Pat and was realistic about what he would do back home.

Late in the evening, Pat arrived in Buffalo and rented a room in a boarding house on Seneca Street near the foot of Main Street and the Erie Canal. He paid $.50 cents a day using money he had saved from his pension. He climbed to the third floor, resting on each of the two landings. His room held a twin bed, a nightstand, and a chamber pot. It was a stuffy, windowless room in the center of the building. Wincing at the smell of stale air and tobacco smoke as he entered, he thought, At least it’s got more heat than the outside rooms and their rickety windows.

As he lifted a beer at Kennedy’s, he remembered Millicent’s parting words and committed himself to having but a few. By 10 p.m., engrossed in conversation at the bar, his commitment to Millicent forgotten, he was drinking whiskey with the best of them.

He spent a few hours with John’s family on the day after Christmas. John was well and back to work. Later that evening, he walked the half mile to Bob’s home at 52 Marvin Street. For the first time, he met Bob’s new wife, Mary Alice. He had not been invited to their wedding and felt more distant from his family than ever. Her son, John, and daughter, Alice, both by her relationship with barkeep Michael Cavanaugh, were also there. He had no presents. He gave John and Alice a quarter each and wished them a Merry Christmas. He soon retreated to Kennedy’s.

His drinking at Kennedy’s and with friends throughout the Ward returned to its old level. After all, it was Christmas and everyone he met asked him to stop by for a drink. PM joined him occasionally at the bar. He was drinking less these days, but still enjoyed hanging out with old friends.

In early February, Pat returned to the Home in time to see Dr. Potter for a quick physical. After examining Patrick for five minutes, the doctor, sighing deeply, waited for Pat to re-robe so that he had his full attention. Then he began his commentary.

“Pat, your health is in serious decline. Perhaps we should transfer you to one of the national homes in the South, where it’s warmer.”

“I think that’s goin’ too far, Doctor,” replied Pat. “I’ll be back in shape in week or two.”

“I doubt it. Your face is yellowed. Your ankles are swollen. You have a rash on your stomach that you scratch. Pat, do you understand what these symptoms mean? They exist as a result of a lifetime of heavy drinking and they will not be reversed in a week or two, I guarantee you.”

He paused, and then asked, “Are you having difficulty urinating? Do you have pain in your back or side? Have you been vomiting recently? Do you feel cold much of the time?”

Pat nodded yes to all of Dr. Potter’s questions.

“These are all signs that your kidneys are diseased, and perhaps your liver as well.” He took Pat’s hand. “Pat, you may not live out the year.

“This is particularly distressing to me because when I saw you last, working with Mrs. Hastings and around the barracks, you looked better than when you entered. You have received a great deal of care here. Has it all been for nothing?”

Dr. Potter put his hands on Pat’s right and left side, feeling for his kidneys once again, double-checking to be sure he was correct.

“Patrick, where did you stay in Buffalo and what did you do?”

“Well, I stayed in a rooming house in downtown Buffalo. It wasn’t the best, to be sure, certainly not like here. I ate most of my meals at a tavern in the First Ward. I visited my son and brother there a few times. It was a long way from the Ward to downtown and the rooming house. Maybe I tired myself out with all the walking and staying up late, visiting family and friends.”

Dr. Potter was even more dubious. “Patrick, there is one thing that has been a problem for you: your drinking. You promised me you would curtail your drinking. Were you true to your word?”

“I did drink a bit, just a few beers and an occasional shot, doctor.”

“You will pardon me, Pat, if I’m a bit skeptical. One easy explanation for your weakened state is abuse of alcohol and all the other abuses of the body that go with it. Be honest with me, because if I find out you are storytelling as you are well able to do, I will see to it you are dismissed from the Bath Soldiers’ Home. I really had hoped you were at that crucial point in your life where you would admit that you cannot drink at all.”

Pat got up and pounded his fist on Dr. Potter’s desk. “I can handle the drink any day I want to! A few beers of an evening with my mates won’t kill me. I can tell you that.” And he stomped out of Potter’s office.

The next morning, Pat recounted the episode to Dolan. “I won’t let Potter treat me like some boy. I can still drink with the best of them.”

Dolan listened in silence and then slowly turned away, shaking his head.

Given the press of hundreds of vets entering Bath, Dr. Potter and the other surgeons did nothing further to curb Pat’s self-destructive behavior, nor did Potter act on his threat to dismiss Pat. And because he returned to a disciplined regimen once more, Pat’s health did improve over the next three months.

In late February, Pat heard through PM that John Cavanaugh, the five-year-old son of Mame Donohue, had died when he slipped through ice playing on the Buffalo Creek. As bitter as his feelings were toward his son, who had not written to tell him, he wrote a brief letter of condolence.

Dear Mary Alice,

How terribele to lose your son! I almost feel your pain these many miles away. My prayers and best wishes are with you. Please give my son and daghter my best. I wish I could have been at the funerel to share your sadness.

Love,

Dad

Nearly the whole Ward had turned out for the boy’s wake, which was held at the house, and his funeral at St. Bridget’s. John Cavanaugh was buried on a bitter cold day in wind-swept Holy Cross Cemetery. Mame sank into deep and untouchable sadness. Throughout this period, Bob doted on his wife, rubbed her neck and back, bathed her, and kissed her even when she would not lift her lips to him. Eventually, his affection wore down her sadness and cemented their relationship. They never talked of the drowning again. Their daughter, Alice, never knew where the boy was buried.

In early May 1903, Pat gladly accompanied Mrs. Hastings and her companions, Kirsten and Abigail, to Elmira. Both women were short, grey-haired widows, Kirsten heavier than Abigail. They looked to Pat like sisters. The two laughed at Pat’s jokes and imitated his Buffalo Irish accent when they wanted to get a rise out of him.

As in the past and in keeping with his Christmas promise to Millicent, he helped the women unload their materials and told them he was going to a Civil War cemetery, but would be back in time to help them load up again. He rushed off, somewhat excited about what he might find. He had heard from veterans at the Home that there had been a notorious Union prison in Elmira, perhaps the worst Civil War prison, North or South. He wanted to see it for himself.

There were no signs to direct visitors, so he stopped at St. John’s Rectory and asked to see the pastor, who introduced himself as Father Hogan. Pat recognized the name, even though he could not remember where he heard it. They talked for a while before Pat told the priest of his interest. Father Hogan asked Pat if he would like to take a walk to the old prison site and see its cemetery.

It was a pleasant day and the priest seemed to be in no hurry. As they strolled over the tree-lined streets of Elmira, he described the prison. “Most young folks hereabouts don’t even know such a prison existed. Truth be told, treatment of prisoners here duplicated what the Union Army learned about treatment of Northern prisoners in the South.”

They walked about a mile through a pleasant residential area, past spacious lawns ribboned with daffodils and narcissus, before coming to a vegetable farm.

“This was once a Union assembly camp, Camp Rathbun,” Father Hogan explained, “at which many Western New York regiments received their training before being sent south. In 1864, the camp was converted to a prison called ‘Hellmira’ by the inmates. Some 12,000 prisoners were held here between July 1864 and September 1865, when the prison was closed.”

They walked on to get a better view. “It occupied thirty acres,” continued Father Hogan, “and held at its most overcrowded peak 10,000 men in horrible conditions: meager food, unheated shacks, open latrines, and inadequate medical supplies and doctors. Smallpox and dysentery, one of the worst winters on record, and a Chemung River flood ravaged the prison population. Some 3,000 prisoners died and were left to one man, John W. Jones, a runaway slave, to bury in a cemetery a short distance east of here.”

Arriving at the far side of the farm, Father concluded, “The prison was razed shortly after the war and sold to a farmer. It was a national disgrace and everyone wanted to wipe it off the earth. In large measure, they have. You can’t find it in history books. It was as bad as Andersonville.”

“Or Salisbury, where I was.”

They walked on to the cemetery. “The federal government declared this a national historic cemetery in 1877 in a political trade-off with Southern senators for federal designation of cemeteries in their states.” Pat listened quietly throughout the account, articulated knowledgably by the priest.

They walked up and down the long rows of grave markers, only the chirping of birds breaking the silence. Suddenly Pat straightened up and pointed to a tombstone. “My regiment may have captured this man at Cold Harbor. I may have run that poor bugger back myself,” he said, as he pointed in surprise at the gravestone marked, “Silas Perkins, 17th Virginia CSA.”

“We fought against the 17th there and captured several of their pickets.”

The priest and the Bath veteran walked back to the rectory and sat out on its spacious white veranda. The midday sun shone warmly upon them and a gentle breeze puffed at their faces. Father Hogan asked Pat if he would like a beer, which he gladly accepted. They walked to a neighboring bar to get it and then returned to the rectory. The priest drank a tall glass of water and asked him about his Civil War experiences. He himself wove tales of Galway and coming to America into a two-hour conversation in which both men, with unusual honesty for men, explored one another’s lives.

Father Hogan drew their conversation to a close. “Pat, in recent years I’ve spent more time alone thinking and praying, meditating on the banks of the Chemung River.”

“I’ve heard monks do that kind of thing, Father, but I always thought it was foolish, a waste of time,” replied Pat.

“I had a terrible time with loneliness and celibacy. I sometimes mistreated parishioners and neighbors. You know why, Pat? Because I used alcohol to douse my feelings.”

“Maybe I have also, especially when my wife died. That was a terrible time for me. But I always got control back again and often stopped drinking for months at a time.”

“Besides giving up the drink, Pat, I learned over the years to meditate on each incident in order to mine from it my hostility.”

“What did that do for yah, Father?” asked Pat.

“Well, reflection calmed me down and made me more accepting of people.” He concluded, “I think I’ve become a better priest: less judgmental, critical, sarcastic. And believe me, Pat, I was all of those.”

He hesitated before going on. “Lastly, let me tell you, it took me years and many sad experiences to realize that alcohol was not for me. I did not give it up all at once. Only after it made a fool out of me and hurt my people did some of them come to talk to me courageously and honestly.”

Pat brought up the issue of Darwin and evolution. The priest explained how easy it was to reconcile that theory with a doctrine of a good and generous God, once one accepted Sacred Scripture for what it was. In fact, God came out the better for it. Their conversation lasted the rest of the afternoon.

“What a once-in-a-lifetime day it had been,” Pat said to himself, as he walked back under a clouding sky to meet the WCTU women, just in time to board the evening train for Bath.

Millicent knew where Pat had been and asked him if he had met with Father Hogan. Kirsten and Abigail stopped talking and listened. Pat gave them a short version of his meeting and then lapsed into silence for the rest of the ride. The women let him be.

Pat resolved to spend time alone on the banks of the Cohocton. He walked to the river often over the next months, weather permitting, and found favorite spots—a sandy beach, a large rocky outcropping, and a dock—where he thought about fights he had had with his wife and children, the way his anger had hurt those he loved. Still, he was not convinced he needed to do away with his drinking, even though the worst things he did were often after he got drunk. PM might have needed to, but not him.

Gradually, time spent alone became a habit and something Pat relished. He brought his newfound calmness to the Belgian horses when he tended them or plowed. He not only drove the WCTU carriage and carried in presentation materials—large boards with phrases and charts—for the women, he remained with them throughout the day. He used his mechanical ability to help set up and stage presentations. He entered into their conversations when eating together. His mildly sarcastic sense of humor leavened their discussions with brief stories of Mallow, the Ward, and the war that kept the women from taking themselves too seriously.

The women, for their part, felt more secure having him along. Taunts from tavern doors ceased after Pat stopped the carriage, got down from the driver’s seat, and addressed the men. In a firm but respectful fashion, he asked them to curtail their vulgar language and show respect. They didn’t have to agree with the work the women were doing, but they should act civil toward any woman.

The three women looked forward to their time together. He knew how to claim their attention and then build a ladder of events before bringing his stories to a sharp and poignant climax. He never drank when he was with them and seemed to be learning that he did not need it to enjoy himself.

The WCTU women returned to Elmira a year later in 1904. Pat brought the presentation materials into the local Baptist Church hall and rushed off to see Father Hogan. When he knocked on the door of the rectory, a young priest answered and told him apologetically that Father Hogan had died almost a year ago. Pat was stunned, his expectation of a unique and intelligent conversation dashed. He had so looked forward to seeing him. He wondered to himself, Did Father know he was dying? Was that why he revealed so much about himself?

Pat found a pub and drank whiskey before returning to the hall. On the train back to Bath, he was quiet and stayed to himself. That evening he left the station and went to a tavern. He was melancholic at the loss of this unusually spiritual, honest, and human priest and drank to ease his feelings.

The day after, the women were to travel by carriage along the Cohocton River to nearby Savona. Inside, they talked about how moody Pat remained from the day before. At the Savona Free Methodist Church, he carried in the materials and spent the afternoon in a tavern to douse his hangover. After their presentation, the women stored their materials in the rear trunk and seated themselves in the covered carriage. Kirsten, seated at a window, saw Pat stagger as he mounted to the driver’s seat. She sounded an alarm to the other women. Pat pulled awkwardly on the reins, one before the other and the horses took off in confusion. He fumbled while trying to gain control and dropped one rein. The four horses careened across the countryside. Twice the carriage wheels slid over the edge of the road toward a ditch. The women screamed at him to slow down but by now, he was hanging onto a railing himself for dear life. By the time the horses slowed of their own accord, the women were frantic. Two horses had broken legs and had to be destroyed by a farmer who happened upon the scene. The farmer hitched their wagon to the two remaining animals and drove the women to Millicent’s house. Pat straggled back to Bath and on to the Home, arriving in the wee hours of the morning.

The next morning, Major Shillings sent word that Pat was to come to him before breakfast. When Pat got there, not only was Major Shillings present, but also the farm director and the horse barn manager. They chastised Pat angrily for the way he had endangered the women’s lives and the inhumane way he had treated the horses. They demanded he repay the Bath WCTU for the cost of the horses. Pat promised he would, but all knew how unlikely that was, given his income. Shillings finally said, “Despite repeated warnings about your drunken behavior and in view of this most recent transgression, you leave us no choice but to dismiss you. You will have to leave the Home at once.”

Pat had no defense, nor did he want any. He was crestfallen by what he had done to the women and the horses and began to choke up. “I know the rules of the Home well. I know my drinking screams to heaven for punishment and I’ll take whatever you mete out. But I am begging you not to throw me out of the Home. I can’t do heavy labor. The Home is all I got. I’ll die like a dog on the streets. Please, I promise I will never drink again. I will never see the inside of a tavern if you will let me stay. And I’ll work hard to pay for the horses.”

Dr. Babcock intervened. “I would like to give Pat one more chance to see if we can come up with a program to help him overcome his abuse of alcohol.” The room went silent for several seconds. Then Major Shillings relented, saying, “There will be no compromise with Bath policy the next time.”

The next day, Pat went to the barn, intent on apologizing to Millicent, Kirsten, and Abigail when they arrived. He was supposed to drive them to their presentation in nearby Hammondsport. Millicent met him in the barn as he was hitching horses to the carriage. “I no longer trust you,” she told him; her words rushed out of her mouth in a torrent. “Let me say I was horribly hurt by your lack of loyalty to me, to Kirsten, and to Abigail, who I thought had become your friends, as well as to our mission. Once again, you gave in to drink in spite of your promises to me and Dr. Babcock and to yourself. You nearly killed us all. I had to replace the two horses myself. They had carried us faithfully for over five years and I was very fond of them. I feel totally betrayed by you.

“I’ve found another veteran to drive us, and I demand you stay away from me wherever I am and whatever I am doing. I never want to see you again as long as I live.” She pivoted and left the barn.

Pat turned away in despair born of self-hatred and disgust over the immense impact of his actions.

Major Shillings summoned him the next morning. Millicent had recounted to him every word she had said to Pat. The director forbade him to go within sight of the woman and re-assigned him to work with Henry Drummer every day from after breakfast till noon.

Drummer gave Pat his work-order first thing each morning and then left him. Usually it was to clean out the horse stalls. He returned at noon, inspected his work, and dismissed him. Pat spent afternoons petting the Belgian draft horses or sitting quietly in the cemetery. His sense of guilt declined over time and in its place reigned self-pity.