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.