‘YOU HAVE VISITORS, FATHER,’ INTERRUPTED BRIDEY, AS FATHER Fitzpatrick ate his breakfast and read the newspaper. ‘They are gentry,’ she reassured him, showing in two well-dressed young gentlemen who were students at Oxford.
‘Father Fitzpatrick, we apologize for disturbing you so early in the morning,’ explained Frederick Blackwood, as he also introduced his travelling companion, George Boyle. ‘Both Reverend Townsend and Dr Donovan told us we should speak to you before we leave Skibbereen later today. We have a great interest in Ireland and are keen to record the effects of this terrible calamity on this good land.’
Father Fitzpatrick sighed, for only a few days ago a wealthy philanthropist – an editor from an American newspaper, Mr Elihu Burrit, who was devoted to helping mankind – had called on him with similar intentions. He had agreed to take Mr Burrit around and had taken him to the soup kitchen and to the hovels and cabins where he ministered to the dying. Shocked by such scenes, Mr Burrit said he had no language to describe the suffering of the people consigned to this battlefield of life. With disease raging, the priest had worried for the health of the American visitor but admired the man’s courage and zeal to help the poor and vulnerable.
He smiled at his two young visitors for he could see they displayed a similar zeal!
‘We arrived only yesterday,’ Mr Blackwood went on, ‘but Reverend Townsend has been most generous with his time. He has shown us around the cottages, the town graveyard, and we have met some of his parishioners. Dr Donovan has also told us of the terrible state of affairs and of the people.’
‘Then you will have witnessed terrible things,’ replied Father Fitzpatrick, feeling pity for the privileged twenty-year-olds and their innocence in coming to visit a place like Skibbereen.
The pair intended to write an account of their journey to inform family and friends of the distress and suffering in Skibbereen and took notes as he endeavoured to answer all their questions.
‘It is far worse than we ever could have imagined,’ admitted Mr Boyle, trying to control his emotions.
‘We visited filthy hovels around the town where people lie dying with no food or furniture.’ Mr Blackwood’s voice broke as he folded his notes away. ‘How could we ever believe the terrible conditions that exist here if we had not travelled and seen them with our own eyes?’
‘Now, excuse me, please, gentlemen, for I am afraid that I must finish,’ Father John said, shaking their hands. ‘I am expected soon at St Patrick’s. Perhaps we shall meet and talk again later.’
George Boyle informed him that they were planning to leave on the next coach to Dublin.
‘Then I wish you both a good journey and safe return to Oxford.’ The priest smiled, sensing their reluctance to stay in the midst of so much disease any longer.
By chance, only a few hours later Father Fitzpatrick met the young men again, outside the Becher Arms.
‘The coach to Dublin was full,’ explained Mr Boyle, ‘but we have managed to hire a jaunting car with an extra horse to transport us to Cork.’
‘We have ordered some bread from the bakery to be distributed among the people here before we leave, Father,’ added Frederick Blackwood as they said goodbye again.
Father Fitzpatrick was heading home when he noticed a huge crowd surging along North Street towards the Becher Arms. What could it be? The noise was deafening. A hundred or more screaming women and children gestured wildly, begging and shouting up to a hotel window above them. Freshly baked loaves of bread were being thrown down from it, cascading into the grasping hands of the crowd below.
Word had spread of the young men’s deed and more people joined the fray, gathering outside the hotel as the bread rained down on them like manna from heaven.
Father John grew alarmed as women and small children screamed, fought and scrabbled fiercely over the scraps of bread and loaves that had fallen to the ground. Those who were successful held on tightly to their bounty. His young English friends were well-intentioned, but as the flow of bread from above began to dry up, the cries of the huge crowd intensified.
‘Bread! More bread!’ they demanded angrily. ‘Feed us! More bread for the hungry!’
He watched with dismay as the two students emerged from the hotel in fear. Struggling with their baggage, they had to fight their way through the crush of starving people to get to their waiting jaunting car. The two horses, terrified by the noise of the mob, reared and thrashed as some of the crowd began to run alongside the car, pleading and begging the gentlemen for more.
As the crowd realized their benefactors were well on their way, they dispersed with their precious spoils and the priest returned to his business.
A few weeks later he received a published copy of their journey from Oxford to Skibbereen, with the young Frederick Blackwood promising him that all the proceeds from their work would be donated to Skibbereen.