FATHER FITZPATRICK WENT TO CHECK THE ALTAR AND ENSURE THAT the chalice, chasuble and heavy leather-bound Bible were stored away safely for the night.
He said mass every day and these days he presided over funerals mostly. Often they took the form of a simple blessing and prayers over a shrouded corpse, for most of the deceased were penniless. Earlier that morning he had officiated at the funeral of William Crowley, a young man of means, who had been struck down with famine fever and now lay buried in Abbeystrewery with so many others from the town.
He was about to go into the sacristy when he became aware of a man kneeling in a pew to the side of the altar, his head held in his hands, lost deep in prayer. The man’s tall black hat sat beside him on the bench. It was Dan Donovan. The priest hesitated but decided not to disturb him and moved on to the room behind the altar.
The people came to the church every day, heads bent in prayer, begging the Lord to help them in this time of need. Father Fitzpatrick ensured that the church door was opened early before mass so at least his congregation could come inside to shelter from the harsh elements and could sit quietly or doze in the pews. He had been warned not to leave the church open all day and night for it would soon become home to the poor and needy, and those who walked the roads.
The bishop had reminded him that the church was a sacred place, the house of God meant for prayer and contemplation and the sacraments. However, Father Fitzpatrick suspected that if Jesus Christ still walked the earth, every Christian church in the country would have flung open their doors to the hungry and sick during this time of calamity.
When Father Fitzpatrick returned from ensuring that his vestments were clean and in good condition for Sunday mass, he was surprised to find Dan still kneeling down, his shoulders hunched, his countenance miserable. Filled with concern for his friend, he went over to him.
‘Dan, are you all right?’
The doctor looked up with reddened eyes.
‘Father John, it’s Henrietta and the children. They are sick, so sick with fever.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I blame myself, Father, for bringing sickness and contagion to our door. No matter what time of day or night I return home, the sick are there awaiting me. I tell them to go to the dispensary, but they all know well where my home is. We have had to harden our hearts to those who come inside our door, but now illness besets my family. I have been so busy with my medical duties that I did not pay enough attention to my own family and wife. What kind of man am I?’
‘Dan, I know you to be a good person, who does his best for his fellow man. The town is filled with fever – not just in the poor lanes and cabins, but in the big houses too. Death, unfortunately, does not discriminate the way we do.’
Dan sighed heavily. ‘I know you are right, Father John.’
‘Will we say a prayer or two together, for Henrietta and the children?’ the priest offered.
Dan nodded, his face filled with misery and despair as they began.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis,
sanctificetur nomen tuum.
Adveniat regnum tuum.
Fiat voluntas tua,
sicut in caelo, et in terra …
When they had finished, the priest urged his friend to return home.
‘The Lord will understand, Dan. Your place is not here in the church with me, but at home with your family, where you are needed. I promise that I will keep them all in my prayers.’