FATHER JOHN FITZPATRICK WAS DEEPLY MOVED BY THE HUGE CROWDS HE observed along Ilen Street as they converged on the mill. Despite the freezing chill of the November day and its biting wind, the gaunt and poorly clad figures all walked with great purpose towards the newly opened soup kitchen to be fed. Gaunt-faced men carried scrawny, stick-like children on their backs.
The grand opening of the soup kitchen had attracted much attention, and many of Skibbereen’s traders and merchants were both curious and concerned to see how this kitchen might help alleviate the terrible hunger suffered by so many. Word must have spread quickly, for all through the town, along the river’s edge and across the bridge the hungry walked in their hundreds: barefoot mothers and young children; fathers in ragged coats, carrying infants; elderly men bent over sticks and skeletal old women. Their desperation was etched on their faces.
A few in the parish had raised fears that the relief committee’s soup kitchen might attract indigents from the surrounding areas, with more beggars and sick crowding into Skibbereen than before. But looking around him, Father Fitzpatrick felt nothing but pride in what the committee had accomplished.
The enticing smell of the soup was carried on the wind. As he made his way to the back entrance of the mill, the priest saw the tall figure of Reverend Trench in full command of the situation as three women stirred the soup in an enormous boiler. Others were serving it from large cooking pots into tin bowls and cups, and whatever rusty mugs and containers the people carried with them. Those who did not have a suitable receptacle for their portion were given a tin bowl, which was rinsed quickly when they had finished eating so that it might be reused.
The serving women’s faces were flushed from the heat and effort of their work, unaware that hundreds more people were queuing outside, desperate to be fed.
Following Reverend Frederick Trench’s orders, requests for an extra serving were refused.
‘Come again tomorrow,’ the servers urged. ‘The soup pots will be full again then.’
‘This is a good day’s work we have done here, Father Fitzpatrick.’ Reverend Townsend smiled as he approached the parish priest.
‘You are right, Reverend Townsend. We have saved lives this day.’
They watched as the long lines of hungry people continued to swell and grow.
‘What if they run out of soup?’ he asked, worried. ‘We can’t turn people away.’
‘They won’t,’ reassured Reverend Townsend. ‘Reverend Trench assures me that the women have another two huge pots cooking, ready to use when needed.’
‘I never imagined that so many were going hungry. We will have to raise additional funds if we are to feed all these people day after day.’
‘Reverend Caulfield and I are set to travel to London as part of a delegation from the relief committee to lodge an official appeal to all those in authority with regards to the situation and relief needed here in West Cork.’
‘The government must surely intervene, Richard, for things cannot continue in such a vein.’
‘We hope to have a meeting with Charles Trevelyan in which we can inform him first hand of the calamity and terrible conditions we witness daily.’
‘I pray that you manage to exert some influence on the treasurer and all those in London who can provide assistance here,’ Father John offered sincerely, for he had a high regard for the Protestant minister and his devotion to the people of the town.