The Hungry Road Read online

  ‘I’ll meet you in Kathleen’s later,’ promised John, ‘and we’ll walk home together.’

  CHAPTER 3

  AS THE PEOPLE STREAMED BACK INTO SKIBBEREEN, MANY OF THE SHOPS and stalls had re-opened. Mary paused as she passed Honora Barry’s dressmaking shop where she had worked as a seamstress before her marriage. It was still closed but Miss Barry had wisely placed a pretty sprigged-cotton dress in the window to attract customers.

  She continued on her way and turned in to the narrow streets of Bridgetown, with its rows of small low cottages and cabins built almost on top of each other. Children played in the dirt and a group of women in shawls chatted loudly about the handsome Liberator.

  The Caseys’ cottage was down the end of a lane. Outside, her nephews and niece – Michael, Jude and Sarah – were busy with a piece of old rope they had found, and some sticks and a plank of wood.

  ‘We’re making a boat to float on the river,’ boasted eleven-year-old Michael as Mary ruffled his thick curly hair.

  Kathleen welcomed her younger sister warmly as she stepped inside.

  ‘You were up at the Liberator like Joe and the rest of them?’ she asked. ‘I’d a mind to go myself but Lizzie is teething and she’d have roared the place down.’

  Mary could see the baby’s hot red cheeks and felt an immediate sympathy for her once-beautiful sister, who now looked worn out. Things were hard for Kathleen as her husband, Joseph Casey, who had charmed her with his handsome looks, grand talk and promises to make a fortune, was a simple labourer who went from one job to another. He had been employed on building the large Union workhouse, but had had little work since then.

  Mary did not know how Kathleen could bear such circumstances. The small, one-roomed cottage with its half-door was in the worst part of town. It was cramped and gloomy. The three older children slept in a low space under the thatch roof, while Kathleen and Joseph slept on a pallet bed placed against one wall, with Lizzie in a makeshift crib near by.

  Kathleen flung more turf on the fire and brewed some leaves for tea while Mary told her excitedly about O’Connell and his stirring words.

  ‘I’ve no use for politicking.’ Kathleen shrugged. ‘What have all these members of parliament ever done for the likes of us?’

  She called the children in and insisted that Mary share their family meal of spuds and buttermilk.

  ‘There will be better eating in a few weeks,’ she apologized as they dipped the old, greyish spuds in salt and mustard. ‘Once Joe gets harvest work.’

  By the time John called to collect Mary it had grown dark and Kathleen was putting the children down to sleep. After saying their goodbyes, Mary and John took the road for home together.

  The stars shone high above them and John reached for her hand.

  ‘That was the grandest day ever.’ Mary’s heart was full of hope from the Liberator’s words. ‘One I will always remember.’

  ‘Aye, so many people gathered together,’ John agreed. ‘But it will all come to nothing if no one listens to us!’

  ‘Daniel O’Connell will win them over.’

  ‘I fear no matter what he promises, it’s the landowners of England who will decide our fate.’

  Even in the darkness Mary could sense her husband’s doubt.

  ‘Believe me, they will fight tooth and nail to stop Repeal,’ he warned her.

  ‘But we will win!’ She’d no intention of letting John dampen her enthusiasm.

  He reached down impulsively and kissed her. His lips tasted of porter, and as she responded he pulled her even closer to him, holding her so near that she could hear the steady beat of his heart. She ran her hand along his face tenderly, her fingers touching the stubble of his cheek and jaw.

  ‘Mo ghrá.’ He gave in, kissing her again, this time gently. ‘I pray that you are right.’

  They walked along the starlit road until they neared the familiar potato fields with the tall willow trees and scraggy hedges.

  ‘One day this will be ours,’ she affirmed as they walked towards the low thatched cottage where their children slept. ‘Every root, stalk and blade of grass, and every bit of earth beneath our feet will belong to us.’

  ‘Sullivans’ fields,’ John shouted, spinning her round and round in the darkness. ‘Sullivans’ fields.’

  CHAPTER 4

  THOUGH THE HOUR WAS LATE ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE DINNER IN the town’s large Temperance Hall, Father John Fitzpatrick sat talking with his guest by the fireside.

  A huge crowd had attended the Repeal Banquet and people had milled around, keen to be introduced to the great man. After dinner, a toast had been proposed to O’Connell and Repeal, which had nearly raised the roof.

  One young Irelander had declared boldly his determination to shed his blood for Repeal, even if it was on the scaffold. O’Connell had told young John Shea Lawlor that rather than die for Ireland, he would rather live for Ireland, for one living repealer is worth a churchyard full of dead ones! It had been inspiring to listen to the great orator.

  ‘You must be tired after such a successful day,’ Father John ventured as they sat back in their chairs. ‘And then to have to go and meet and talk to so many people again tonight.’

  ‘Father, that is what is expected of me in every town the length and breadth of the country.’ O’Connell yawned as he stretched out his legs in front of the fireplace. ‘But it does help to raise contributions and funds for the movement.’

  Father John could see his guest was weary. The man’s eyes were heavy and his face was slightly flushed. He looked every bit of his near seventy years of age.

  O’Connell chose that moment to confide in the priest that although he was often surrounded by crowds, he was lonely. He had his sons and grandchildren, but he desperately missed his late wife, Mary, and her conversation and company.

  ‘You of all men must understand. Here you are with a large parish yet come home at night to sit at a lonely hearth?’

  Father John did indeed know all too well. Answering the call to the priesthood meant that he would always remain a man alone with no wife or child of his own.

  The two men continued to chat easily. O’Connell sighed heavily as he reeled off a list of places that he was still to visit to speak at before the largest Monster Meeting of all.

  ‘It will be in October, in Clontarf in Dublin. I hope that you will join us, Father John, for there will be Repeal supporters coming from all over the country.’

  ‘I and a few of the Skibbereen committee will certainly try to attend,’ the priest promised.

  ‘We need to demonstrate – to Peel and to Parliament – the massive support our movement enjoys, and force them to respond to the demands and will of the Irish people,’ said O’Connell with fervour.

  ‘Such a large-scale event in Dublin will certainly attract their attention.’

  ‘I fear the authorities and Dublin Castle are already opposed to it. No doubt the military will be out in full force,’ O’Connell confided. ‘But I believe that Clontarf, the place where the great Brian Boru vanquished the Vikings, will be the place where we may gain our own victory. We will have such numbers that they will have no alternative but to grant us Repeal and the return of an Irish parliament to Dublin.’

  The next morning, Father John was glad to see that his guest looked more refreshed after a good night’s sleep. Bridey almost scalded herself with hot tea when she recognized the Liberator sitting at the dining table.

  ‘I’m sure Mr O’Connell would enjoy some of your bread and an egg or two before he sets off on his travels,’ said Father John with a smile.

  Ever the gentleman, O’Connell complimented the blushing housekeeper on her soda bread and begged her for a few slices more before he left.

  ‘Father John, until we meet again in Dublin,’ Daniel O’Connell said, shaking the priest’s hand and thanking him warmly for his kindness and hospitality.

  As the priest watched O’Connell’s carriage drive down North Street, he could not help
but wonder how much longer the Liberator could continue his fight for Ireland and her people. Surely the time was coming for a new, younger generation to take up the mantle and battle for the change Ireland needed so desperately.

  CHAPTER 5

  Creagh, County Cork

  October 1843

  AS MARY TIDIED HER SMALL VEGETABLE PATCH, SHE COULD FEEL THE warm autumn sun on her back. John teased her about growing cabbages, turnips and onions, saying it would be far better to plant potatoes there, but her mother had always grown a few vegetables and she wanted to do the same.

  When she had married John Sullivan, Mary had moved out of Skibbereen to the holding near Creagh that John shared with his father, Cornelius. The old man had welcomed his new daughter-in-law and had insisted she and John take the room he had shared with John’s late mother, Anne. He had also been glad, she suspected, to have a woman around again to clean the place and cook the meals.

  Little by little, Mary had made some changes. She had convinced John to mend the cottage’s thatch roof and wash its walls with lime, and to build a wooden pen for the pig to stop it from wandering about and destroying the place. Encouraged, she had even persuaded him to make a small hen-house to hold their hens.

  ‘With all these improvements, we will have the landlord down on us looking for more rent,’ John had said, worried.

  ‘They are only small things,’ Mary had assured him. ‘Things any bride would want.’

  Old Corney Sullivan’s eyes had filled with tears when he held his first grandchild, Cornelius John Sullivan, in his arms. He was a wonderful grandfather, who loved young Con – and his little sister, Nora, who followed soon after – dearly.

  Following his father’s death, John had been heartbroken. The only consolation was that his parents were finally reunited, buried together in the nearby graveyard.

  Soon after, John had gone to Henry Marmion, the land agent for their landlord, Sir William Wrixon Becher, and asked to take over his father’s holding. The tenancy was agreed but the rent was increased.

  ‘A young man like you should be well able to work harder and earn more than the old man ever did,’ Mr Marmion had told him as he gazed about the Sullivans’ well-ordered fields and cottage.

  Mary had felt guilty that her husband’s fears had been well-founded and that her few improvements had somehow caused the increase.

  ‘This is no fault of yours, Mary,’ John had reassured her. ‘That man has been waiting many a day for my father to die so he could do this and try to squeeze even more money and work from us.’

  In the years that followed, Mary and John had worked hard, raising Con, Nora and their third child, little Tim, and tending their holding of one and a half acres. They now fattened two pigs – one for the market and one for themselves – and kept a few sheep. She even had twelve hens, and supplemented the family’s small income by selling some of their eggs.

  Looking up from her work weeding the vegetable patch, Mary laughed as she watched the children play with Patch, their black-and-white collie. Eight-year-old Con was throwing a stick for him to fetch, but the dog began to bark as he spotted John and Pat returning from town in Pat’s small, horse-drawn wooden cart.

  ‘There is bad news,’ John called as he climbed down. ‘O’Connell’s Monster Meeting in Dublin was cancelled.’

  ‘The Lord Lieutenant had the military and the police surround the city,’ said Pat angrily. ‘They even had warships at the ready in Dublin Bay to attack the crowds. They are all afraid of O’Connell and the millions who follow him!’

  ‘O’Connell had no choice but to call it off, for many might have been injured or killed,’ John explained as he lifted a sack of oats from the cart.

  ‘There is talk that O’Connell himself will be arrested! Parliament and the authorities detest him and the Repeal movement.’

  ‘The Liberator will fight on,’ Mary insisted.

  ‘Then he should have fought earlier when he had the chance,’ Pat said sarcastically, urging the horse on as he headed across the fields to his own small dwelling.

  Later that night, as she and John sat by the fire, Mary’s thoughts were with the proud, strong man who had stood on Curragh Hill and promised to champion the cause of poor tenants like them.

  John stared into the glowing turf. ‘O’Connell may well be arrested, but he has shown us that we have the numbers. Pat and his Young Irelander friends are right. The time is coming that we should forget politics and fight properly for what is ours.’

  Mary loved her husband dearly but was suddenly afraid of what he might become involved in.

  ‘John, we have the children and the farm. Promise me that you will not—’

  ‘Hush,’ he said, placing his finger on her lips. ‘I cannot make a promise I may not be able to keep.’

  Even in the dull firelight she could see that he would brook no more discussion on the matter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Skibbereen

  September 1844

  ‘GRAND DAY, FATHER!’ BEAMED TIM MCCARTHY DOWNING.

  Father John Fitzpatrick had stopped in front of the large site on North Street where he hoped in time to build a much-needed new school for the town.

  ‘Like myself, you must be delighted to see Daniel O’Connell released from prison and a free man again,’ the local solicitor ventured.

  ‘Indeed I am, Mr McCarthy Downing, for his imprisonment was a travesty.’

  The priest, along with most people, had been deeply troubled by O’Connell’s arrest the previous year on charges of conspiracy. Following the ban of last autumn’s Monster Repeal Meeting in Clontarf, the great man had been treated like a common criminal. Along with his son, John, and five followers, he’d been sentenced to a year in Richmond Prison.

  Father John had written to his former house guest, and his heart had lifted on hearing that O’Connell was in good spirits. He received news that he was being treated fairly, and his family and friends were permitted to visit him. Then, earlier that month, the House of Lords had thankfully deemed the trial unfair and O’Connell was released.

  ‘By all accounts, he’s had a hero’s welcome in Dublin, with over two hundred thousand supporters coming out to cheer him. It must have been a fine sight to see,’ laughed Tim McCarthy Downing. ‘The Liberator transported through the streets of Dublin in that gilded carriage drawn by six horses!’

  ‘It is only what the man deserves,’ the priest acknowledged.

  ‘How are the plans for the new school here going?’ enquired McCarthy Downing.

  ‘I’m afraid there are still funds to be raised and a great deal of paperwork and planning details to be worked out before we begin,’ Father Fitzpatrick admitted honestly, ‘but we will persist until we get our school.’

  ‘If there is any assistance I can give, please call on me, Father,’ the solicitor offered.

  ‘I may well take you up on that, Mr McCarthy Downing.’

  The construction of St Fachtna’s School had been a long-cherished hope of Father John’s. In his eyes, the children of Skibbereen deserved a good education and to attend a school where they would learn to read and write. In his mind, it was the only way to a fairer society.

  ‘Father Fitzpatrick, if you are free on Sunday would you care to join us for lunch?’

  ‘That is most kind of you,’ he said, accepting the offer, for McCarthy Downing was a generous man and a most considerate host with a beautiful home. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  ‘We can celebrate O’Connell’s release,’ the other man said with a smile, and took his leave.

  There was indeed much to celebrate, but the priest’s delight at Daniel O’Connell’s freedom was tempered somewhat upon hearing that some considered the Liberator’s health to have deteriorated during his incarceration, and there was the suggestion that he was a changed man. Father John prayed that Ireland’s great leader would be restored in strength of mind and body before long and, with his usual courage and conviction, would soon take up the fig
ht for Repeal once again.

  CHAPTER 7

  Creagh

  August 1845

  ALL AROUND MARY, THE WHITE POTATO BLOSSOM FLUTTERED IN THE fields. The pale flowers crowned each lazy bed of the crop, for the drills were nearly ready to be dug. The air was heavy and warm. Patch lumbered over to sit near her feet, panting with the strange, intense heat of the day. Mary pulled up her streels of light-brown hair as it was so warm, and closed her eyes momentarily as Con, Nora and Tim played together, while ten-month-old Annie slept in her crib inside the cottage. She was roused from her moment of stillness by Nora, whose freckled face was flushed from running.

  ‘Ma, it’s too hot for us. Can we get some water?’

  The hens clucked around Mary as she walked to the well and filled the bucket with cold, clear water. She dipped the can into it again and again as she and the children drank their fill and splashed water on their faces and arms to cool down. Each time she refilled the bucket and tipped it into the hens’ dish, Patch lapped up the spilt liquid.

  Within half an hour the heat of the day was gone, for the sun had disappeared behind a dark heavy cloud. Without warning, rain began to lash down and she called to the children to join her inside as they ran to escape the torrential downfall. As the heavy raindrops beat the ground and the straw roof, she worried how their plants would tolerate such a deluge.

  It was the second time this week that the strange rain had come.

  ‘Mam, there’s a fierce bad smell outside,’ announced Nora. ‘’Tis everywhere.’

  Curious, Mary stood up immediately and, with Annie in her arms, went to investigate.

  As she looked around, she could neither see nor smell anything except for the peaty scent of smoke from the fire. She was about to go back inside when she glanced towards their fields. Her attention was caught by the strange, sudden wilting of the tall potato stalks, which seemed to have blackened and collapsed. Row after row of their potato plants were stricken.