Skibbereen
September 1845
AS DAN DONOVAN WAS DOING HIS DAILY ROUNDS OF THE SKIBBEREEN Union Workhouse, the master stopped him outside the small infirmary for the sick. A tall, imposing man with bushy eyebrows and whiskers, Mr Falvey appeared a rather intimidating figure, but Dan found him to be meticulous in his duties with a great concern for the fair treatment of those who entered the Union.
‘Doctor, we’ve had a large increase in the number of admissions these past few days,’ the master explained. ‘No doubt the potato failure has contributed to it.’
‘With so little to eat, some will have no recourse but to enter here,’ Dan acknowledged. ‘I fear that it will likely get worse, so the Union must prepare, Mr Falvey, for this increase in our numbers to continue.’
The Skibbereen Union Workhouse had opened only three years ago and housed far fewer inmates than it was built to hold, for local people had a huge fear of crossing its threshold. Who could blame them, for it provided little comfort and operated under the same strict rules as other workhouses built across the country and throughout England and Wales. Men, women and children who entered were all separated and housed in different wings, and had little contact with each other.
Dan Donovan’s role as physician was to ensure the inmates remained healthy, that they were cared for medically, if necessary, and that there was no outbreak of contagion or disease among them. He did his best to ameliorate their conditions, treating them in the same way he did all his patients, for the Union was the last resort of the sick, the homeless and the mentally ill, who had no family or friends to care for them.
‘Then we are in agreement.’ The master nodded seriously as Dan continued on his way to the women’s ward.
There, he met with an elderly woman who begged him for help. Not for herself, but for her husband who was in the men’s ward.
‘He’s blind, doctor. These past years I’ve minded him all this time, but with the potatoes gone how am I going to feed and keep the two of us?’ she sobbed.
‘Mrs Reilly, I promise that he will be fed and looked after here,’ he assured her. ‘You both will.’
The relief on her tired, wrinkled face was visible.
‘Can I see him?’ she begged. ‘Tomás and I have never been parted and he will be afraid, for he knows nothing – only our small cabin and patch.’
‘In time your husband will get used to being here, but I will arrange with the master that you can visit him.’
Continuing on his rounds, Dan’s next stop was the men’s ward to see Mrs Reilly’s husband, Tomás. He found the poor man deeply upset, his hands clasped over his head and clearly terrified by his new surroundings.
‘I talked to your wife and will arrange that you are allowed to see her,’ Dan promised the elderly man, taking hold of his hands.
As he examined Mr Reilly, he could see the man was malnourished but otherwise well cared for by his wife. Both eyes showed cataracts, their lenses a dense milky white, but the right eye was slightly better than the left.
‘I lost the sight near ten years ago,’ Tomás sighed heavily. ‘I prayed that it would come back but it never has.’
Disorders of the eye had always fascinated Dan and he had studied ophthalmology in Scotland. He had considered practising as an oculist, but instead had become a general physician. However, he still maintained a keen interest in researching and treating eye conditions, and had developed quite a reputation in that area. Patients came from all over to consult him and he wondered if there was any way to restore even a little of Tomás’s vision.
Moving on to the children’s nursery, he examined two sisters who had been found by neighbours. The little girls were unwashed, uncared for and clearly malnourished.
‘The eldest girl told us her mother died and their father went away,’ declared the nurse angrily. ‘He left them like two unwanted puppies.’
Dan examined the children gently, for they were both terrified. Their matted hair was riddled with lice and scabies.
‘I’m Dr Dan,’ he told them kindly, ‘and the nurse is going to wash you both. She’s going to cut and comb your hair, and put a special lotion and ointment on your skin that will take away the terrible itch. I promise it will help you both to feel better.’
‘Do we have to stay here, sir?’ the older child asked tearfully.
‘Yes, I think it is for the best,’ he ventured, not trusting himself to say more. ‘You will be safe here.’
It angered him deeply how people treated their children, with no regard for their feelings.
As he was leaving the ward, young Will Hayes ran over to greet him.
‘Dan … Dan,’ the boy called, gripping the doctor’s leg.
Dan lifted up the two-year-old in the air. Will was a fine, sturdy fellow with straw-coloured hair and piercing blue eyes, and only a year younger than Dan’s youngest son. Whenever he saw the little boy on his rounds, he made a point of talking and playing with him, for being a workhouse child was no easy thing.
Will’s mother had absconded from the Union after six months, leaving her illegitimate child to be raised in the workhouse. His childhood would be one of hardship and work, with little affection shown to him. At twelve or thirteen, the boy would likely be apprenticed out to some local farmer or tradesman. Dan hoped that some day, far from the Union, little Will would find the love and happiness he deserved.
Riding back towards Skibbereen that evening, Dan stopped his horse and trap to survey the blighted fields all around him. Most of Carbery district had been affected by the murrain, with more than a good half of the crop ruined. Even the few acres he had purchased in Poundlick, where he grew mostly oats and barley, had seen heavy losses of potatoes.
He had ridden out there after church on Sunday to discover that most of the crop belonging to his tenants had been destroyed, leaving them fearful. They were decent men with families and he had assured them that, for the time being, he was prepared to forgo the rent payment, due to the circumstances in which they found themselves. As he told them, he had seen the gratitude and relief in their eyes.
Looking around him at the stinking, blackened potato stalks, he hoped that many of the local landowners were prepared do the same for their tenants.