FATHER FITZPATRICK’S HEART HAD GROWN HEAVY. NEARLY HALF THE town had fallen victim to the fever that was raging across the population. The wealthy and powerful had been afflicted just as badly as the beggars in the street.
With his own eyes he had witnessed vermin, dogs and even pigs lay claim to abandoned and poorly buried bodies. On Windmill Lane a pair of dogs had tried to pull apart the body of a small baby but for the quick intervention of two soldiers who killed them.
Anger and rage grew in him that the British authorities, who did so little to sustain the living as the country starved, still permitted food, grain and livestock to be exported to English cities, and made absolutely no provision for the inevitable – the interment of the dead.
It was the town officials who declared that all dogs be culled, though it brought cries of outrage and protest from many who were reluctant to relinquish their animals, even if it was for the common good. Shame on all of them!
Never had he imagined such a terrible end for the innocent people of Skibbereen.
Charles Trevelyan, who controlled the Treasury, considered the failure of the potato crop and the ensuing hunger divine retribution from the Lord on the ever-growing Irish Catholic population for their indolence and laziness. That a man in such a crucial position should entertain such unchristian thoughts grieved and upset the priest deeply.
He sat down to write to Frederic Lucas, editor of the English Catholic journal Tablet, which had published some of his letters, to thank him and his readers for their generosity towards the town’s starving and sick. He’d been overwhelmed by the post office orders and donations sent to him by congregations, charitable ladies and good men from Aberdeen to East London, and Cardiff to Cornwall. The British people, unlike the government, had shown themselves to be both charitable and most generous. Mr Lucas had kindly opened a bank account in London for such purpose.
Father Fitzpatrick had also appealed for much-needed clothing by asking readers of the journal to send him items care of Thomas Galwey at the Skibbereen coach office in Cork, and this had already borne results.
A British Relief Association had been founded, raising huge sums of money, which the charity intended to be used to give grants of food aid, and Queen Victoria had issued her Queen’s Letter, an appeal for money to relieve distress in Ireland, to which many had contributed, including the Queen herself, who had donated one thousand pounds.
The priest’s eyes grew heavy and he was suddenly conscious of Bridey trying to rouse him.
‘Father, you must away to your bed or you will not be fit for tomorrow,’ she warned.
He stood up stiffly. His back and right knee ached.
‘You need your rest, Father,’ she persisted.
‘I am finished here,’ he assured her, signing and folding the letter. ‘And will be glad to get some sleep.’
Lying in the darkness, his mind was crowded and tormented by the memory of those to whom he had attended during the day. He said a quiet prayer for them all, before rolling on to his side and giving in to the utter exhaustion that he felt.