FATHER JOHN WAS FEELING BONE WEARY. HE WAS SPENDING MOST OF HIS days ministering to the sick, giving them the last rites, or praying over those who had already died and trying to console their families. His brother James had written to him of similar conditions in his own parish.
He said prayers over the mass graves in Chapel Lane and in Abbeystrewery, where they had been forced to open deep burial pits to cope with the large numbers of men, women and children losing their lives to hunger and fever.
The parish house was besieged, and the minute he stepped on to the street he was pursued by starving people begging for a penny, a prayer or some bread.
‘Father Fitzpatrick, how can you fulfil your duties with so many following you?’ ventured his concerned neighbour, Tim McCarthy Downing. ‘You can hardly walk a few steps with them. Perhaps you should hire a man to accompany you?’
‘Do you really think such a person is necessary?’
‘I do, Father, for your own protection and to make it easier for you to walk about and perform your parish duties without being accosted constantly.’
Perhaps Tim was right. He should give it consideration, for he knew plenty of men who would be glad of a little paid work.
The priest’s heart had lifted at the news that Daniel O’Connell, the ageing Liberator, had journeyed across the Irish Sea to London despite his failing health. The purpose of his travels was to raise his voice in Westminster and the newspapers and journals were full of it. So too were the people as all across the nation they read of O’Connell’s last desperate plea to Parliament for help on behalf of the starving Irish citizens.
‘I go to Parliament as a food man,’ O’Connell had said as he stood up in the House of Commons to beg Parliament to give Ireland a loan of thirty to forty million pounds to buy food.
‘Ireland is in your hands. She is in your power. If you do not save her she can’t save herself. And I solemnly call on you to recollect that I predict with the sincerest conviction that one-quarter of her population will perish unless you come to her relief.’
Bridey had hugged Father Fitzpatrick tearfully as he read O’Connell’s words from the Southern Star to her twice over.
‘God bless the man for his love of the people. They must surely listen to him. Help will soon come, Father.’
In every cottage and cabin in Ireland’s villages, towns and cities, expectations were high. They were certain that large-scale official government assistance would now follow quickly. Such hopes were soon dashed, for the British parliament and its members, despite Daniel O’Connell’s entreaties, refused to provide any further assistance to Ireland.
Heartbroken O’Connell, whose health remained poor, was advised by his doctors to travel to warmer climes. Father Fitzpatrick had heard that it was the Liberator’s intention to journey to Rome to see the Pope, and plead with him on behalf of his people.
God speed his journey.