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.