Gluttony ~ Gula
Salthill House
Galway
County Galway
Wednesday iii ~ iii ~ 1847
My Dear Sir,
As Your Grace is undoubtedly knowledgeable of the situation that had afflicted this region of the country I need not digress, through repetition, of advising you of circumstances and statistical information that others have already relayed to you. Having this in mind you must please forgive me in bringing a matter of pressing urgency to your attention. It pertains to the state of the inhabitants of Kilmaden. This is a town land some thirty miles north-west of Galway nestled in the rural hinterlands surrounding the village of Clifden. The situation there is most exceptionally dire. Many of the people thereabouts have succumbed to the endemic starvation and died not only from want of hunger but related maladies stemming from the lack of adequate sustenance.
In my role as a magistrate of the city I have consistently endeavoured to render whatever aid I can to alleviate the plight of these unfortunates yet it is with burning regret that due to the immense scale of the crisis the beneficial affect of these efforts has proven to be only of temporary worth. In consequence I have decided to request any assistance you can kindly provide. I read with admiration the dedication that members of the established church have demonstrated in providing relief to the afflicted in both this county and in neighbouring counties. In particular the institution of a soup kitchen under the auspices of a capable churchman would prove to be of infinite benefit to the starving people of Kilmaden. The inhabitants of the district are of the Roman Catholic religion to a man yet this fact should not prevent the immediate dispatch of methods that would allay their wanton suffering. Indeed whoever you decide to employ on this venture could go with the intention of instructing them into the established church however I believe the primary aim should not be a mission of conversion but one of Christian aid. I do not doubt that Your Grace would appoint a worthy pastor for this necessary task and trust you will convey to him the need for utmost haste in expediting it as soon as time allows.
I end this humble plea for help by echoing my earlier admiration and gratitude for the works already progressing under the care of the church; works that I pray will smite the darkness and despair that has stained our beloved land and unmercifully scourges its most weakest citizens. I await Your Grace’s prompt and generous response.
I am your faithful friend and obedient servant,
Mr Ambrose Fitzmaurice.
Office of the Archbishop’s Secretary
Bishop’s Palace
Christchurch Place, Dublin
XXVI – III – MDCCCXLVII
To Rev. Lawrence W. Nicholson, Saint Nicholas’ Presbytery, Dunlavin, Wicklow County.
Sir, at the request of His Grace the Lord Archbishop of Dublin Richard Whatley, I have the privilege of informing you that you will be undertaking a new pastoral assignment. Please understand that this assignment is purely temporary in nature and will oblige you to remain no longer than a period of six months, or half a year. It his His Grace’s desire that you should report to the Presbytery of St. Nicholas’ Collegiate, Galway city by no later than the fourth Friday in April, the 23rd of the month. From that place you will receive further orders to continue west to the village of Kilmaden which lies in the vicinity of Clifden.
Due to the particularly woeful state of the inhabitants of that area His Grace has determined that hasty action must be undertaken in order to prevent them undergoing further misery. In the light of your achievements during your recent pastorship in Queen’s County His Grace has judged you to be of suitable character and disposition to succeed in this mission. This office awaits your reply in accepting this sudden but necessary position. The archbishopric will reimburse you for all expenses incurred from travel and accommodation. Full board and lodging will be provided for the duration of your ministry there.
Your obedient servant,
John Knowles
Secretary to the Archbishop
Bishop’s Palace
Christchurch Place, Dublin
XXVI – III – MDCCCXLVII
To Rev. Lawrence W. Nicholson, Saint Nicholas’ Presbytery, Dunlavin, Wicklow County.
Sir, at the request of His Grace the Lord Archbishop of Dublin Richard Whatley, I have the privilege of informing you that you will be undertaking a new pastoral assignment. Please understand that this assignment is purely temporary in nature and will oblige you to remain no longer than a period of six months, or half a year. It his His Grace’s desire that you should report to the Presbytery of St. Nicholas’ Collegiate, Galway city by no later than the fourth Friday in April, the 23rd of the month. From that place you will receive further orders to continue west to the village of Kilmaden which lies in the vicinity of Clifden.
Due to the particularly woeful state of the inhabitants of that area His Grace has determined that hasty action must be undertaken in order to prevent them undergoing further misery. In the light of your achievements during your recent pastorship in Queen’s County His Grace has judged you to be of suitable character and disposition to succeed in this mission. This office awaits your reply in accepting this sudden but necessary position. The archbishopric will reimburse you for all expenses incurred from travel and accommodation. Full board and lodging will be provided for the duration of your ministry there.
Your obedient servant,
John Knowles
Secretary to the Archbishop
Some lonely laneway in the midlands of Ireland
To Miss Rosa Tynte from Rev Lawrence N
19th of April 47’
Dear Rosa,
What a month it has been! A month of challenge, surprise and promise! I had barely a week to settle into my curacy at St Nicholas’s and barely less time to court you and spend time in your blissful company when my housekeeper presented me with the archbishop’s letter. This venture west is one that I relish with great heart though that same heart remains a tad lachrymose at having parted from you once more. Indeed, in my time at Abbeyleix, there was scarcely an hour that passed by when you did not enter my thoughts to warm my very soul. Now to be taken away from you again is a truly galling trial yet one that we both must bear with stoicism for we must retain our faith in the God who sends me. Let us not therefore be miserable or downcast. Let us trust rather in His wisdom and benevolence, dual virtues that our adherence to will inevitably reward us with each other’s grace, warmth and joyful company in a future radiant with promise.
You must forgive any errors in my handwriting! I write this letter in a Connaught-bound carriage which, despite its wooden sturdiness, is not immune to wobbles and bumps attributable to the potholes and cracks that besmirch every inch of the road from Dublin to Galway. I am alone in here and bar the driver who is quiet and surly I have not seen a single soul since we left Athlone at dawn! The grey and green wilderness that surrounds me is silent and acutely oppressive and the road grows steadily worst with every meter we go west. What ought it to be like in Connemara?
It will be hard, if not impossibly difficult, to convey a letter to you with as much regularity as we would both desire. Therefore I have resolved to keep a journal detailing all of my thoughts and activities for the six months I will be absent in the wild west of our little island home! So do be patient, my love. Remember me and think about me often for you have my word that, whatever length of time may separate us, you will dwell merrily in thoughts of mine.
Yours Always,
Lawrence~
Saint Nicholas’ Presbytery
Galway City
Thursday April 22nd 1847
Dear Mr Knowles,
This is a brief note of courtesy to advise you that I have arrived safely in Galway and have been welcomed by the pastor here with all due hospitality. On Monday next a carriage is destined to arrive and carry me out west to the imperilled village. I understand a house with adequate provision of food has been set aside for my use. For this I thank you. I am further grateful for having obtained receipt of the reimbursement for the monies I expended in reaching here. When I have established myself in the village I will ensure you remain advised as to how I fare.
I remain your faithful servant,
Reverend Lawrence Wilbur Nicholson Esq.
The Journal of Rev Lawrence W. Nicholson. Kilmaden, 5th May 47’
Thus begins my journal or an account of my time in the parish of Kilmaden. What a place! I almost never arrived. On the first day out from Galway the axel on the coach came free and tore the wood beneath it. Back! We returned to the city and ventured forth for the second time on the following morning, a Tuesday. I am told by the reliably informed coachman that the journey thence to our destination is some two days by horse and carriage. It took us five! With no prior notice an epic wind blew in off the great Atlantic bringing with it a cold and torrential rain. In a matter of minutes every pothole on the road was overflowing. The horses limped on with such a heavy reluctance that I was sorely tempted to alight and run on ahead! In such conditions we endured three miserable days and nights. After this ordeal the first sight of a habitation however small and meagre struck me like the fresh, warm air of a summer’s evening. At last we had arrived at Kilmaden village! I was met and shown to my lodgings; a modest yet comfortable cottage in the outer precincts of the hamlet, conducted by a kind young man named Arthur Kent. He was the verger of St. Nicholas’ in Galway and had been sent ahead by its pastor to prepare this place for my arrival. Furthermore he is charged with assisting me in distribution of the soup and food when it arrives on the eleventh of this month. I believe him to be an honest and clean-living man. What can I say about this land in which I now find myself? It is in itself a place of desolation, a desolation that has ravaged all of God’s living things; man, beast and plant. Around me loom tall, barren hills bereft of light and life. Ruined homesteads cluster their slopes while wraith-like animals totter vainly for a place to die. The village is like a hell. It always seems to me to be damp and wet. The huts, cottages, chapel and outlining buildings stand as if expecting to be swept away at any moment by an almighty wind. The people. O’ the poor people! I disembarked from the carriage on a Saturday, some eleven days ago. By the Monday three of the villagers were dead. By the Friday four more had expired. It is now the next Wednesday and a further two are gone! Nine then in only eleven days! May God help them. At their rate of depletion no one will be left alive come Christmastime! The folk hereabouts are ghosts. For all the pitiful flesh that hangs off their meagre bodies they more resemble skeletons than human beings. The men walk with bowed, fear-ridden faces while the women struggle with exhaustion and empty bellies to complete their daily chores. Alas for the children! For many of them a solid piece of wholesome food is but a distant and insubstantial memory. It is strange to see many of the older people surviving. One would have thought, naturally, that due to their age and weakened constitutions they would have succumbed before those half their age. Somehow a number of them endure. Laughter, mirth, even the faintest inkling of a smile is alien to the men, women and wretched children. Hope dies with them. I pray I can offer them some respite from this life of excruciating agony!
On my second day here I was intercepted by the village priest who is called Father Regan. I do not believe he has much esteem for me. He questioned me as to my intentions. I am of the opinion, judging by his veiled statements, that he thinks I am here primarily to try and convert the local people to join my church. In answer I told him firmly that I was here, first and foremost, to render aid, nothing more. He looked at me doubtfully and spoke that he would do everything to guard and protect his “flock”. By this he means the people who are of course all members of the Church of Rome. I am informed by Kent however that Regan is not popular amongst his congregation and has even received threats to harm his person from some of the men! Despite all this I must say that I sensed an innate goodness in the man and pray that although we hold different religious beliefs as men of faith we can jointly work together productively to alter the circumstances of the people to one of betterment. To me that end is more qualitatively important than quibbling over historic or theological disagreements.
The only other person of standing is the school master. I have not yet met with him and when I inquired of the priest as to his whereabouts the Father merely shook his head and spoke with husky bluntness that he did not know. Immediately I sensed an ill-will between the two men but before I could question him further the priest excused himself and departed. It is important that I speak to the school master given that he too has undeniable influence over the people. His name is Drake. That is all I know of him.
Saturday 8th May
It is difficult to achieve anything here. I had arrived in the village laden with energy and a desire to throw myself into work. Now however I realise how very naïve I have been. Nothing substantial can be done until the supplies I require can be delivered to the village and considering the problems I, an individual man, experienced on my route here one begins to doubt whether or not the food and requisite equipment will materialise as promised on Monday morning.
Sunday 9th May
Prayed. I went out over the hills for a walk. It was truly bracing and helped clear away my inner cobwebs! The views were beautiful and I could see all the way to the ocean. Beholding this vista makes it easy for one to forget the human tragedy unfolding below. This evening I passed the church and saw the people entering for the Mass service. For a moment I was tempted to follow them in for I desired some meaningful human company. (Kent has an errand in Clifden). I decided not to and went home for an early bed. From my house I could hear them singing in Latin! It sounded as beautiful to my ears as the view from the summits had appeared to my eyes.
Monday 10th May
As I thought and feared. I waited all day but no soup came. No sign of any carriage or transport of any form passes on the Galway road. My fears of disappointment have come true. I pray it will come soon. The people must be wondering who I am – a well-groomed stranger who has come amongst them only to sit in idleness! I must venture forth and converse with them.
Tuesday 11th May
Still there is no sign of the soup and its convoy.
To Miss Rosa Tynte from Rev Lawrence N
19th of April 47’
Dear Rosa,
What a month it has been! A month of challenge, surprise and promise! I had barely a week to settle into my curacy at St Nicholas’s and barely less time to court you and spend time in your blissful company when my housekeeper presented me with the archbishop’s letter. This venture west is one that I relish with great heart though that same heart remains a tad lachrymose at having parted from you once more. Indeed, in my time at Abbeyleix, there was scarcely an hour that passed by when you did not enter my thoughts to warm my very soul. Now to be taken away from you again is a truly galling trial yet one that we both must bear with stoicism for we must retain our faith in the God who sends me. Let us not therefore be miserable or downcast. Let us trust rather in His wisdom and benevolence, dual virtues that our adherence to will inevitably reward us with each other’s grace, warmth and joyful company in a future radiant with promise.
You must forgive any errors in my handwriting! I write this letter in a Connaught-bound carriage which, despite its wooden sturdiness, is not immune to wobbles and bumps attributable to the potholes and cracks that besmirch every inch of the road from Dublin to Galway. I am alone in here and bar the driver who is quiet and surly I have not seen a single soul since we left Athlone at dawn! The grey and green wilderness that surrounds me is silent and acutely oppressive and the road grows steadily worst with every meter we go west. What ought it to be like in Connemara?
It will be hard, if not impossibly difficult, to convey a letter to you with as much regularity as we would both desire. Therefore I have resolved to keep a journal detailing all of my thoughts and activities for the six months I will be absent in the wild west of our little island home! So do be patient, my love. Remember me and think about me often for you have my word that, whatever length of time may separate us, you will dwell merrily in thoughts of mine.
Yours Always,
Lawrence~
Saint Nicholas’ Presbytery
Galway City
Thursday April 22nd 1847
Dear Mr Knowles,
This is a brief note of courtesy to advise you that I have arrived safely in Galway and have been welcomed by the pastor here with all due hospitality. On Monday next a carriage is destined to arrive and carry me out west to the imperilled village. I understand a house with adequate provision of food has been set aside for my use. For this I thank you. I am further grateful for having obtained receipt of the reimbursement for the monies I expended in reaching here. When I have established myself in the village I will ensure you remain advised as to how I fare.
I remain your faithful servant,
Reverend Lawrence Wilbur Nicholson Esq.
The Journal of Rev Lawrence W. Nicholson. Kilmaden, 5th May 47’
Thus begins my journal or an account of my time in the parish of Kilmaden. What a place! I almost never arrived. On the first day out from Galway the axel on the coach came free and tore the wood beneath it. Back! We returned to the city and ventured forth for the second time on the following morning, a Tuesday. I am told by the reliably informed coachman that the journey thence to our destination is some two days by horse and carriage. It took us five! With no prior notice an epic wind blew in off the great Atlantic bringing with it a cold and torrential rain. In a matter of minutes every pothole on the road was overflowing. The horses limped on with such a heavy reluctance that I was sorely tempted to alight and run on ahead! In such conditions we endured three miserable days and nights. After this ordeal the first sight of a habitation however small and meagre struck me like the fresh, warm air of a summer’s evening. At last we had arrived at Kilmaden village! I was met and shown to my lodgings; a modest yet comfortable cottage in the outer precincts of the hamlet, conducted by a kind young man named Arthur Kent. He was the verger of St. Nicholas’ in Galway and had been sent ahead by its pastor to prepare this place for my arrival. Furthermore he is charged with assisting me in distribution of the soup and food when it arrives on the eleventh of this month. I believe him to be an honest and clean-living man. What can I say about this land in which I now find myself? It is in itself a place of desolation, a desolation that has ravaged all of God’s living things; man, beast and plant. Around me loom tall, barren hills bereft of light and life. Ruined homesteads cluster their slopes while wraith-like animals totter vainly for a place to die. The village is like a hell. It always seems to me to be damp and wet. The huts, cottages, chapel and outlining buildings stand as if expecting to be swept away at any moment by an almighty wind. The people. O’ the poor people! I disembarked from the carriage on a Saturday, some eleven days ago. By the Monday three of the villagers were dead. By the Friday four more had expired. It is now the next Wednesday and a further two are gone! Nine then in only eleven days! May God help them. At their rate of depletion no one will be left alive come Christmastime! The folk hereabouts are ghosts. For all the pitiful flesh that hangs off their meagre bodies they more resemble skeletons than human beings. The men walk with bowed, fear-ridden faces while the women struggle with exhaustion and empty bellies to complete their daily chores. Alas for the children! For many of them a solid piece of wholesome food is but a distant and insubstantial memory. It is strange to see many of the older people surviving. One would have thought, naturally, that due to their age and weakened constitutions they would have succumbed before those half their age. Somehow a number of them endure. Laughter, mirth, even the faintest inkling of a smile is alien to the men, women and wretched children. Hope dies with them. I pray I can offer them some respite from this life of excruciating agony!
On my second day here I was intercepted by the village priest who is called Father Regan. I do not believe he has much esteem for me. He questioned me as to my intentions. I am of the opinion, judging by his veiled statements, that he thinks I am here primarily to try and convert the local people to join my church. In answer I told him firmly that I was here, first and foremost, to render aid, nothing more. He looked at me doubtfully and spoke that he would do everything to guard and protect his “flock”. By this he means the people who are of course all members of the Church of Rome. I am informed by Kent however that Regan is not popular amongst his congregation and has even received threats to harm his person from some of the men! Despite all this I must say that I sensed an innate goodness in the man and pray that although we hold different religious beliefs as men of faith we can jointly work together productively to alter the circumstances of the people to one of betterment. To me that end is more qualitatively important than quibbling over historic or theological disagreements.
The only other person of standing is the school master. I have not yet met with him and when I inquired of the priest as to his whereabouts the Father merely shook his head and spoke with husky bluntness that he did not know. Immediately I sensed an ill-will between the two men but before I could question him further the priest excused himself and departed. It is important that I speak to the school master given that he too has undeniable influence over the people. His name is Drake. That is all I know of him.
Saturday 8th May
It is difficult to achieve anything here. I had arrived in the village laden with energy and a desire to throw myself into work. Now however I realise how very naïve I have been. Nothing substantial can be done until the supplies I require can be delivered to the village and considering the problems I, an individual man, experienced on my route here one begins to doubt whether or not the food and requisite equipment will materialise as promised on Monday morning.
Sunday 9th May
Prayed. I went out over the hills for a walk. It was truly bracing and helped clear away my inner cobwebs! The views were beautiful and I could see all the way to the ocean. Beholding this vista makes it easy for one to forget the human tragedy unfolding below. This evening I passed the church and saw the people entering for the Mass service. For a moment I was tempted to follow them in for I desired some meaningful human company. (Kent has an errand in Clifden). I decided not to and went home for an early bed. From my house I could hear them singing in Latin! It sounded as beautiful to my ears as the view from the summits had appeared to my eyes.
Monday 10th May
As I thought and feared. I waited all day but no soup came. No sign of any carriage or transport of any form passes on the Galway road. My fears of disappointment have come true. I pray it will come soon. The people must be wondering who I am – a well-groomed stranger who has come amongst them only to sit in idleness! I must venture forth and converse with them.
Tuesday 11th May
Still there is no sign of the soup and its convoy.
I sent off a letter to the Bishop’s office in Dublin. In it I submitted a detailed description of the situation in Kilmaden and offered some recommendations.
Wednesday 12th May
To my eternal shame I can hardly even speak to these people. What smattering of Gaelic I do possess is scarcely sufficient to sustain a meaningful conversation with any of them! The small number who do speak English are shy, surly and uncommunicative. Unfriendliness is a way of life here yet for this they cannot be blamed. Their very survival hangs by a precarious thread thus I, a well-fed outsider, should not be surprised to be treated with quiet contempt.
O’ I should also mention this. I laid eyes on the school master for the first time today. What a fellow! I was visiting two of the less unfriendly women, two sisters, in their cottage on the main thoroughfare. These ladies were generous enough to furnish me with a minute jug of black tea and when the older one, the matriarch, was pouring it her attention was diverted to something on the other side of the window pane. A tall man entered my field of vision and paused directly outside. He was lean yet stocky and sported attire that was as good as my own; tailored trousers, firm boots, waistcoat and jacket. His head was bald apart from two black, flat bushels of hair around both his ears. What struck me most was the face. It was as haughty and as mean as a mountain eagle. The eyes were dark yet alert, his nose undulated along the same contours as the beak of the aforementioned bird and his mouth was set in one cruel expression of disdain. He stopped only briefly and turned his head left and his dark eyes met mine. I threw him a friendly wave but his countenance did not alter in the slightest. He looked away, as if thoughtful, then resumed his gait and went off on his way! The younger of the ladies blessed herself, that is, she made the sign of the cross which is what the Catholics do before engaging in prayer. Her older sister seemed to hiss at the sight of the man and when he had gone she said in Irish: “D’imigh an’ diabhal air!” *Note: decipher the meaning in gaelic dictionary. Again to my embarrassment I could not understand her and using an elaborate combination of both the English and Irish tongues I succeeded is asking my question which was; “Who was he?” In reply the younger sister said the word “teacher”. So it is this strange man who is the school master. I will seek him out and try to speak to him. I hope he is friendlier than he appears!
Thursday 13th May
Alleluia! I was beginning to abandon all hope but my prayers have been answered! The day was looking entirely dismal but shortly after lunch there came a knock at the door. It was a coachman, dispatched as he rightly said to transport an enormous supply of vegetable soup, five steel cooking pots, ladles, bowls, plates, spoons and bread. In total three whole cartloads of goods now take up all the space in my small house! Tomorrow morning Kent and I will begin work in setting up all this cooking paraphernalia and feed these hungry people! ‘Ask and ye shall receive!’ ~ Philippians 4:6.
Ere I forget here is a copy of a letter I gave the coachman on his departure:-
White’s Cottage
Kilmaden, County Galway
Thursday the 13th of May 1847’
Dear Rosa,
Please forgive me twofold. Firstly, for the shortness of this letter. Secondly, for the length of time since you received my last. The situation here is one of mounting hopelessness. Death, disease and madness are ways of life here yet chinks, bearing the rays of the light of hope have the capacity to shine through! My presence here alone is but one of them. Had I refused this position, far from home, could my conscious have rested easily with no tinge of guilt for, as you read in the newspapers, you yourself know the depth the pestilence of hunger has brought to our green isle. Therefore I am determinedly resolved to stay here and fight, endeavouring to do some good however small and inconsequential it may seem. I would be no man to do otherwise. It is not all bad news however. Why only today our first shipment of food supplies came at long last. Substantial work can now commence and you will one day read all of my adventures and deeds in the journal in which I am recording the events of each passing day!
The thought that I will one day return to you is a profound source of personal strength for me. May we walk hand in hand in the glens of Ireland’s garden! I pray that you are well. Send my best wishes to your mother and brother and I hope to see you all again very soon.
Affectionately, your loving future husband,
Lawrence Wilbur
Sunday 16th May
What a trying few days these have been! I am utterly spent in both body and soul. O’ Rosa I hope that when you read this you won’t think ill of me in my speaking so honestly of my frame of mind but I find that by writing things down, in a concise and frank manner, serves to function as an outlet for unburdening myself of the disappointments and things I have witnessed. I came here to help. Nothing more and nothing less was my goal. Perhaps you justifiably accuse me of selfishness by stating my inner feelings so frequently. Instead now I will describe the events as they occurred and if any man or woman may criticise my conduct so be it but it is a truthful account.
My friend Kent, who is full of boundless enthusiasm despite our situation, assisted me. Together we walked a short distance from our lodgings and, out on the street for all to see, we erected several sturdy tables on which we set the pots, utensils and the ingredients. Then, with great hardship, we filled three of the pots with water from the village well which, thankfully, was only a short walk away from our open air kitchen. We then lit a fire to boil the water after which we applied the sack filled with the ingredients. A throng of people began to gather around us in anticipation of the feed they were to receive. Some of them even made the effort to smile. One little girl with a mouthful of deformed teeth offered a smile also which brought great joy to my soul the effect of which still persuades me that the work I am performing here has some degree of worth. By midday Kent and I were almost ready to dish out the soup and a number of the women kindly came forth with the offer to assist us. It was perhaps not the best quality in terms of taste and sustenance however my stomach was so panged in anticipative hunger that I was sorely tempted to gorge myself into one the cauldrons with their fine, wholesome, aromatic smells.
The atmosphere became one of general mirth yet throughout the morning, in the recess of my mind, their dwelt a faint, insubstantial and dark thought, an ill idea that though not wholly discernable, was one I construed as an omen of woe. It was something that would prove vindicated and this realisation was first heralded by the arrival of Regan the priest. When he came around the corner and saw us with all our pots containing the brewing soup and his parishioners who eagerly awaited their dinner the dear man practically leapt out of his skin and clothes!
“What are you people doing?” he asked them as he pushed his way through the queues. All of them fell silent and gave him looks ranging from sheer anger to concern. He came up to me, eyes wide in rage, and asked me what I was doing. I answered calmly that I was there to feed the people gathered there and at this he stabbed his stubby forefinger into my chest and announced to them the following: “This dupe of Luther is here to snatch you away from the arms of the one true church! I implore you, my good people, to ignore his subtle entreaties and banish him from our town. May God forgive any of you who take one drop of this bile!” Arcing back his neck the priest croaked up a solid ball of spittle and discharged it into the most prominent of the pots! The people roared! Some of them laughed but most had shouted in anger and several of the men swore at him and ordered him to leave. I put a friendly hand upon his shoulder which he immediately swept away so I remonstrated with the priest, assuring him several times over until my throat was dry and hoarse, that my intention was one of humanitarian relief and asked if he could not see the wisdom in providing them with food and not demanding, in return, any money by means of payment for it. I think I made my case successfully however the man’s pride meant he did not outwardly display his grudging consent to my objective nor would he retract what he said. This worried me for many of the more superstitious amongst them regard the priest’s word as the voice of God and will obey him to the hilt. I can never agree with this. Any man who uses his clerical office to deny others the means with which to prolong their existence is no Christian.
The priest showed no signs of leaving and some long awkward minutes passed until I saw a familiar face observing him from the far end of the crowd. It was the school master, the one they call Drake whom I had not seen since my inaugural glimpse of him on the Wednesday just past. Father Regan’s face turned pale when he clasped eyes on the man and he spoke softly to me that he had go home for luncheon and could I please see to it that the villagers be adequately fed. In spite of my surprise at his reaction and sudden change of demeanour I promised that I would and when he was out of earshot I announced to them that the priest wished them all a good dinner of soup and with my ladle in hand I beckoned them to come forward to received their allotted shares.
As Kent, the women and myself doled out the various portions I noticed the school master watching me with a queer severity. Even now I cannot clearly interpret whether it was a look of hostility or one of curiosity or a blend of these two emotions. However I did not let it discourage me though I admit it did serve to trouble me in no small way. Not long before we had finished distributing the soup to the children (for they were served first) the school teacher walked slowly over to our bubbling cooking pots and stared sternly into each one of them in turn! He passed so close to my person that I was obliged to glance up and acknowledge him with a nod. He nodded in return before continuing on his way. We exchanged no words. I soon forgot any thoughts about the teacher for now we had begun to serve the hungry adults their allotments and as they surged up to where we stood at the tables they earnestly expressed their deep hearted appreciation for our generosity. It pleased me to receive their gratitude but my happiness was tempered with the thought that any good we achieved would not be lasting and that in a month or year from the now their station would remain hopeless and still unchanged. Thus a week of hardship ended with a happier note than any evening hitherto. I wish, with intense sincerity, that the cancer that has blighted the crops of potatoes could be expunged with the same ease as feeding one small horde of villagers in a tiny hamlet between the mountains and the sea.
Saturday dawned. It has become the worst day thus far in my stay here in Kilmaden. There were reports that morning that at least five men died during the night. This tragedy would otherwise be unremarkable had it not been the case that the five deceased in question were fit young men, none older than thirty-five years and none younger than twenty-one years. I knew the men to speak of and recall their partaking in the day before’s souping session. There was nothing to indicate that their demise would strike with such sudden immanency and I confess that I was deeply moved and indeed shocked upon hearing the awful news. Furthermore there were additional reports emerging that a significant number of the residents have become ill. Hearsay relayed that perhaps one-third of the villagers had fallen sick virtually overnight! In this I feel some guilt. Is it not possible that these people, having gone without appropriate nourishment for so long a time, were negatively impacted by eating a large, substantive and piping hot meal? I cannot be certain that the illness has been caused by the abrupt replenishment of their stomachs but I believe it is possible as I once studied biological science at my university. O’ dear God if it is true that I am to blame for this it would have been better for me and for those who are sick, dying and dead that I have never come to this desolate waste.
Now Sunday has arrived, my second Sabbath spent here. Kent came in this morning. His brow was downcast when he told me three more people had passed away. I said nothing but I called him to prayer then we sat in silent meditation for a while. An aura of despondency has seized my soul. Here the only thriving trade is in coffin-building! Death is so endemic that funeral processions nearly collide with each other when they meet at the cemetery gates. The churchyard itself resembles a plot of agricultural ground for it has been churned, dug and re-dug with such frequency that it is more akin to a tilled field than a storehouse for the dead. Its only crop is bones.
There will be no soup on Sundays. Kent and I and our generous helpers had spent a time yesterday distributing more of the broth of which great quantities remain. Once again that man Drake lingered nearby, saying nothing and beholding me with the same semi-contemptuous gaze as previously. We have still to exchange a single word. The coming week promises more hardship. I must try to engage with the people, talk to them, know them more and help where I can.
The phantom notion clings to my heart. Black thoughts and the prospect of doom. Will it not go away? The memory of Rosa lightens it. Do you dream of me? I know I dream of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Goodnight out there, wherever you are. ~
Monday the 17th
I awoke this morning with an odd compulsion: I would set out to find Drake. It was my opinion that the man could perhaps provide me with information that may be useful in my work. Thus I set of for the school house which is adjacent to the Catholic church. My friends informed me that the institution was barely functioning as a consequence of the country’s food problems but when I arrived thither a solitary candle burnt within the window so I went to the door and let myself inside. The school room was cold and empty. A door beyond the master’s desk was open ajar and I went up to it. Before I could put my hand on the handle I stopped! From beyond the door wafted the sound of a deep, and dare I say it, callous laugh. Peering through the gap I saw the master standing, facing the wall, as he erectly bellowed out his fit of mirth yet I could not see his face. Without even looking around he went silent then said; “Come through,” in a commanding tone of voice. I obeyed and entered the room which turned out to be a comfortable little parlour. “Reverend Nicholson. I knew you would come.” He spoke these words still with his back to me. Let me try to describe his voice for you. It had only the slightest wisp of an Irish accent about it. Truth be told its intonation was neutral and hard to ascribe to any British or Irish region or any foreign land I am familiar with. It was firm and clearly indicated the speaker’s own self-assuredness. This, combined with his strange behaviour made me lost for words.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said with nerves infiltrating my own weak voice. Only then did he turn. I am above the height of the average man but the school master Drake was at least one head taller than I. He gave me the same expressionless look as he had before. I found it unnerving enough in the light of day but in the close quarters of his dim little lounge it nearly overwhelmed me and I instantly wished that I had not sought him out! “Why are you thankful?” he asked. Again I was found wanting for words and with many a verbal stumble I politely explained my business in the district. When I had finished he pointed to an arm chair by the fire. “Sit,” he ordered. I did so while he remained standing. He appeared to be pondering my words. “I want to help,” he said eventually. “The children are especially important to me. Many of them are orphans. Their mothers and fathers have been taken from them this last year. The number of orphan’s rise weekly and accordingly I have set aside some properties where they are cared for.”
“That is most generous of you,” I said, commending him. He ignored my remark and continued: “The emotional stresses endured by the children are indeed great. You and I must do what we can to protect them from further trauma, whether it be from malnourishment, disease or (he paused and glanced briefly out the window to the church) something else. I must preserve the children. They are pure.” Although his words were compassionate I detected no trace of emotion whatsoever and concluded that in having witnessed so much suffering and human horrors for two years or more this explained his stoic countenance. We agreed that I would prioritise the feeding of the children and elderly as these constituents were the community’s most vulnerable. I asked him about Father Regan and if he would be agreeable to providing further assistance. For the first time Drake’s expression altered. His resolute semi-scowl, for the briefest of moments, became a wry smirk upon my mentioning the priest. “He acts according to his own conscious,” said Drake. “If he sees it in his interests to help he will. If not he won’t. He cannot be relied upon whereas I can.” He bade me rise and said that I must now go and prepare today’s soup and that he would send all the children in his care to be fed at the appointed time. At the door I offered him my hand which he took with a firm, icy grip! “I will speak to you soon,” I gasped, dismayed as the might of his palm. “You will,” he said, releasing me. “With the help of God we will make a difference to the lives of the people,” I said in parting. My words overlapped with the arrival of another funeral cortege led by the solemnly robed Father Regan. As it vanished into the confines of the graveyard master Drake surveyed me hard.
“Look around you Reverend,” he said, nodding gently in the direction of the cluttered cemetery. “God has chosen not to help. Good day.”
I cannot adequately explain, even to myself, why I am recording such intricate details about one individual. He does possess a uniquely innate power and I wonder why a man of his calibre plies his teaching trade in such an obscure region as this. It is not for me to question. I have neither the time nor the inclination to burn up my energy on such concerns yet I do wonder where he came from.
Tuesday 18th May
Alas! Throngs of people have given up. They are packing their meagre belongings onto carts, saying goodbye to the diminishing numbers that remain and have embarked unto fortune. They bid farewell to the land that gave them birth and are due to set sail across the wild Atlantic for America! Part of my self envies them. What an adventure that would be! Shall we join them Rosa? Shall we, one day, say goodbye to our homeland and traverse the ocean? Perhaps. It is nice to dream of it.
Dear Lord. I am not privy to accurate numerical figures but I am of the opinion that in the last few weeks half the village has either died or fled! Having been so absorbed in my duties the increasing amounts emigrating has only today been noticed by my busy brain. I feel overburdened with the task I am bound to complete. As if to complement my own morbid feelings I am afflicted by a profound weariness. Even the effort of gauging my thoughts to maintain this diary is a source of angst to me. Nonetheless I am resolved to continue with it. I am due to write to the archbishop’s secretary and report to him as to my progress and the overall situation. I will find the time later in the week. I must add, before I take a rest, that Kent himself, normally so zestful, is quiet and forlorn and for that I cannot apportion blame. He was kind enough to offer his services in liaising with Drake and I gave him all due authority. The school master, I will confess, has not been far from my lonely thoughts. I cannot explain why nor do I wish to know.
Wednesday 19th
Additional soup and supplies have arrived! I have been resting and Kent reports that Drake has given him no difficulty in administering the food to the poor orphaned children. I am tempted to give the lad further responsibilities should it mean I am less likely to come into the proximity of that man. I saw him today. He was maintaining a tight eye on the children, watching them like a hawk before its dreaded swoop down to seize an unsuspecting rabbit. I must go for a walk later to clear my head of these uneasy, absurd contemplations.
Thursday 20th
I came back for a walk and helped Kent and the women clean the apparati for the meals. Strange to say the young man has gone quiet and sullen. I thought he was naturally upset at the deaths we have had over three days (nine in totality) but then he mentioned Drake. Apparently the school teacher ordered him to give any child who so desired it, a second helping. Conscious of the strength of our supplies Kent, whilst not averse to bestowing extra charity, was reluctant to oblige Drake’s command. I admit I was concerned to hear about this and quietly told my young friend to pretend to acquiesce.
Friday 21st May 47’
Today my soup distributers were very busy. It seemed the whole village turned out to receive food. I returned from my walk and saw Kent and Drake talking beside one of the cauldrons. It was clear from the language of their bodies that they were in the midst of a heated confrontation! I ran up to them but by the time I had arrived Drake had gone. Kent was flustered and shaken and said Drake had in fact demanded the children be given as much soup as they should ask for. I had a mind to follow and confront Drake on the matter however we were swamped by the young people who nearly crushed us in their eagerness to be fed!
Saturday 22nd
Kent has fallen ill. It was with horrific suddenness that he fell in the hallway outside my chamber as I stepped forth. I set him on the couch and went out seeking help. He was (as he remains) flat upon his back yet breathing heavily. There is no doctor to be found for miles about but one of the men, a kind old gent, travelled off to find one. Instead an old nurse maid came to the cottage to watch over and care for him. She has no reckoning as to what caused his collapse and I am reminded of the unexpected deaths of the young men the week before this one. It is night fall now and another kind woman is caring for him. Dear God be with him.
Sunday
What a gloomy Sunday. At nine o’clock this morning Kent died. When my black mood lifts I shall write more.
Wednesday 25th of May
The priest Father Regan has refused to allow me to bury Arthur Kent in his churchyard so I purchased a coffin and will keep his remains in it at home until I can get it transported back to his family. And I am sorely tempted to depart along with my friend. The doctor (who finally arrived!) could not attribute death to any known cause but such are the sicknesses of these parts I am not surprised and nor do I seek to know the reason. If there is some contagion lurking in these airs so be it. I die at my post. Poor Kent. He fought to the bitter, final end and gave up the ghost with great defiance. May we meet him again in paradise.
Thursday 26th
A coach hearse bound for Galway called and took away the body of my companion Arthur Kent. Fare thee well Arthur! My labours are now weightier for I am one worker now. True, the women lend help but these volunteers are themselves growing weaker and have responsibilities in their own dwellings. In my distractions over Arthur’s death I had been ignorant of the fact that ten more adults have followed him into the great beyond! These deaths occurred during the past seven days! O’ we are but insects in the general scheme of fate. God help me.
Saturday 27th May
*(Dispatched a short letter to Rosa dear – post haste!) In it I told her of Kent’s death and gave her an account of the general situation. I did not mention Drake for I would hate to give her nightmares! My only wish now is to be with her.
Wednesday 12th May
To my eternal shame I can hardly even speak to these people. What smattering of Gaelic I do possess is scarcely sufficient to sustain a meaningful conversation with any of them! The small number who do speak English are shy, surly and uncommunicative. Unfriendliness is a way of life here yet for this they cannot be blamed. Their very survival hangs by a precarious thread thus I, a well-fed outsider, should not be surprised to be treated with quiet contempt.
O’ I should also mention this. I laid eyes on the school master for the first time today. What a fellow! I was visiting two of the less unfriendly women, two sisters, in their cottage on the main thoroughfare. These ladies were generous enough to furnish me with a minute jug of black tea and when the older one, the matriarch, was pouring it her attention was diverted to something on the other side of the window pane. A tall man entered my field of vision and paused directly outside. He was lean yet stocky and sported attire that was as good as my own; tailored trousers, firm boots, waistcoat and jacket. His head was bald apart from two black, flat bushels of hair around both his ears. What struck me most was the face. It was as haughty and as mean as a mountain eagle. The eyes were dark yet alert, his nose undulated along the same contours as the beak of the aforementioned bird and his mouth was set in one cruel expression of disdain. He stopped only briefly and turned his head left and his dark eyes met mine. I threw him a friendly wave but his countenance did not alter in the slightest. He looked away, as if thoughtful, then resumed his gait and went off on his way! The younger of the ladies blessed herself, that is, she made the sign of the cross which is what the Catholics do before engaging in prayer. Her older sister seemed to hiss at the sight of the man and when he had gone she said in Irish: “D’imigh an’ diabhal air!” *Note: decipher the meaning in gaelic dictionary. Again to my embarrassment I could not understand her and using an elaborate combination of both the English and Irish tongues I succeeded is asking my question which was; “Who was he?” In reply the younger sister said the word “teacher”. So it is this strange man who is the school master. I will seek him out and try to speak to him. I hope he is friendlier than he appears!
Thursday 13th May
Alleluia! I was beginning to abandon all hope but my prayers have been answered! The day was looking entirely dismal but shortly after lunch there came a knock at the door. It was a coachman, dispatched as he rightly said to transport an enormous supply of vegetable soup, five steel cooking pots, ladles, bowls, plates, spoons and bread. In total three whole cartloads of goods now take up all the space in my small house! Tomorrow morning Kent and I will begin work in setting up all this cooking paraphernalia and feed these hungry people! ‘Ask and ye shall receive!’ ~ Philippians 4:6.
Ere I forget here is a copy of a letter I gave the coachman on his departure:-
White’s Cottage
Kilmaden, County Galway
Thursday the 13th of May 1847’
Dear Rosa,
Please forgive me twofold. Firstly, for the shortness of this letter. Secondly, for the length of time since you received my last. The situation here is one of mounting hopelessness. Death, disease and madness are ways of life here yet chinks, bearing the rays of the light of hope have the capacity to shine through! My presence here alone is but one of them. Had I refused this position, far from home, could my conscious have rested easily with no tinge of guilt for, as you read in the newspapers, you yourself know the depth the pestilence of hunger has brought to our green isle. Therefore I am determinedly resolved to stay here and fight, endeavouring to do some good however small and inconsequential it may seem. I would be no man to do otherwise. It is not all bad news however. Why only today our first shipment of food supplies came at long last. Substantial work can now commence and you will one day read all of my adventures and deeds in the journal in which I am recording the events of each passing day!
The thought that I will one day return to you is a profound source of personal strength for me. May we walk hand in hand in the glens of Ireland’s garden! I pray that you are well. Send my best wishes to your mother and brother and I hope to see you all again very soon.
Affectionately, your loving future husband,
Lawrence Wilbur
Sunday 16th May
What a trying few days these have been! I am utterly spent in both body and soul. O’ Rosa I hope that when you read this you won’t think ill of me in my speaking so honestly of my frame of mind but I find that by writing things down, in a concise and frank manner, serves to function as an outlet for unburdening myself of the disappointments and things I have witnessed. I came here to help. Nothing more and nothing less was my goal. Perhaps you justifiably accuse me of selfishness by stating my inner feelings so frequently. Instead now I will describe the events as they occurred and if any man or woman may criticise my conduct so be it but it is a truthful account.
My friend Kent, who is full of boundless enthusiasm despite our situation, assisted me. Together we walked a short distance from our lodgings and, out on the street for all to see, we erected several sturdy tables on which we set the pots, utensils and the ingredients. Then, with great hardship, we filled three of the pots with water from the village well which, thankfully, was only a short walk away from our open air kitchen. We then lit a fire to boil the water after which we applied the sack filled with the ingredients. A throng of people began to gather around us in anticipation of the feed they were to receive. Some of them even made the effort to smile. One little girl with a mouthful of deformed teeth offered a smile also which brought great joy to my soul the effect of which still persuades me that the work I am performing here has some degree of worth. By midday Kent and I were almost ready to dish out the soup and a number of the women kindly came forth with the offer to assist us. It was perhaps not the best quality in terms of taste and sustenance however my stomach was so panged in anticipative hunger that I was sorely tempted to gorge myself into one the cauldrons with their fine, wholesome, aromatic smells.
The atmosphere became one of general mirth yet throughout the morning, in the recess of my mind, their dwelt a faint, insubstantial and dark thought, an ill idea that though not wholly discernable, was one I construed as an omen of woe. It was something that would prove vindicated and this realisation was first heralded by the arrival of Regan the priest. When he came around the corner and saw us with all our pots containing the brewing soup and his parishioners who eagerly awaited their dinner the dear man practically leapt out of his skin and clothes!
“What are you people doing?” he asked them as he pushed his way through the queues. All of them fell silent and gave him looks ranging from sheer anger to concern. He came up to me, eyes wide in rage, and asked me what I was doing. I answered calmly that I was there to feed the people gathered there and at this he stabbed his stubby forefinger into my chest and announced to them the following: “This dupe of Luther is here to snatch you away from the arms of the one true church! I implore you, my good people, to ignore his subtle entreaties and banish him from our town. May God forgive any of you who take one drop of this bile!” Arcing back his neck the priest croaked up a solid ball of spittle and discharged it into the most prominent of the pots! The people roared! Some of them laughed but most had shouted in anger and several of the men swore at him and ordered him to leave. I put a friendly hand upon his shoulder which he immediately swept away so I remonstrated with the priest, assuring him several times over until my throat was dry and hoarse, that my intention was one of humanitarian relief and asked if he could not see the wisdom in providing them with food and not demanding, in return, any money by means of payment for it. I think I made my case successfully however the man’s pride meant he did not outwardly display his grudging consent to my objective nor would he retract what he said. This worried me for many of the more superstitious amongst them regard the priest’s word as the voice of God and will obey him to the hilt. I can never agree with this. Any man who uses his clerical office to deny others the means with which to prolong their existence is no Christian.
The priest showed no signs of leaving and some long awkward minutes passed until I saw a familiar face observing him from the far end of the crowd. It was the school master, the one they call Drake whom I had not seen since my inaugural glimpse of him on the Wednesday just past. Father Regan’s face turned pale when he clasped eyes on the man and he spoke softly to me that he had go home for luncheon and could I please see to it that the villagers be adequately fed. In spite of my surprise at his reaction and sudden change of demeanour I promised that I would and when he was out of earshot I announced to them that the priest wished them all a good dinner of soup and with my ladle in hand I beckoned them to come forward to received their allotted shares.
As Kent, the women and myself doled out the various portions I noticed the school master watching me with a queer severity. Even now I cannot clearly interpret whether it was a look of hostility or one of curiosity or a blend of these two emotions. However I did not let it discourage me though I admit it did serve to trouble me in no small way. Not long before we had finished distributing the soup to the children (for they were served first) the school teacher walked slowly over to our bubbling cooking pots and stared sternly into each one of them in turn! He passed so close to my person that I was obliged to glance up and acknowledge him with a nod. He nodded in return before continuing on his way. We exchanged no words. I soon forgot any thoughts about the teacher for now we had begun to serve the hungry adults their allotments and as they surged up to where we stood at the tables they earnestly expressed their deep hearted appreciation for our generosity. It pleased me to receive their gratitude but my happiness was tempered with the thought that any good we achieved would not be lasting and that in a month or year from the now their station would remain hopeless and still unchanged. Thus a week of hardship ended with a happier note than any evening hitherto. I wish, with intense sincerity, that the cancer that has blighted the crops of potatoes could be expunged with the same ease as feeding one small horde of villagers in a tiny hamlet between the mountains and the sea.
Saturday dawned. It has become the worst day thus far in my stay here in Kilmaden. There were reports that morning that at least five men died during the night. This tragedy would otherwise be unremarkable had it not been the case that the five deceased in question were fit young men, none older than thirty-five years and none younger than twenty-one years. I knew the men to speak of and recall their partaking in the day before’s souping session. There was nothing to indicate that their demise would strike with such sudden immanency and I confess that I was deeply moved and indeed shocked upon hearing the awful news. Furthermore there were additional reports emerging that a significant number of the residents have become ill. Hearsay relayed that perhaps one-third of the villagers had fallen sick virtually overnight! In this I feel some guilt. Is it not possible that these people, having gone without appropriate nourishment for so long a time, were negatively impacted by eating a large, substantive and piping hot meal? I cannot be certain that the illness has been caused by the abrupt replenishment of their stomachs but I believe it is possible as I once studied biological science at my university. O’ dear God if it is true that I am to blame for this it would have been better for me and for those who are sick, dying and dead that I have never come to this desolate waste.
Now Sunday has arrived, my second Sabbath spent here. Kent came in this morning. His brow was downcast when he told me three more people had passed away. I said nothing but I called him to prayer then we sat in silent meditation for a while. An aura of despondency has seized my soul. Here the only thriving trade is in coffin-building! Death is so endemic that funeral processions nearly collide with each other when they meet at the cemetery gates. The churchyard itself resembles a plot of agricultural ground for it has been churned, dug and re-dug with such frequency that it is more akin to a tilled field than a storehouse for the dead. Its only crop is bones.
There will be no soup on Sundays. Kent and I and our generous helpers had spent a time yesterday distributing more of the broth of which great quantities remain. Once again that man Drake lingered nearby, saying nothing and beholding me with the same semi-contemptuous gaze as previously. We have still to exchange a single word. The coming week promises more hardship. I must try to engage with the people, talk to them, know them more and help where I can.
The phantom notion clings to my heart. Black thoughts and the prospect of doom. Will it not go away? The memory of Rosa lightens it. Do you dream of me? I know I dream of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Goodnight out there, wherever you are. ~
Monday the 17th
I awoke this morning with an odd compulsion: I would set out to find Drake. It was my opinion that the man could perhaps provide me with information that may be useful in my work. Thus I set of for the school house which is adjacent to the Catholic church. My friends informed me that the institution was barely functioning as a consequence of the country’s food problems but when I arrived thither a solitary candle burnt within the window so I went to the door and let myself inside. The school room was cold and empty. A door beyond the master’s desk was open ajar and I went up to it. Before I could put my hand on the handle I stopped! From beyond the door wafted the sound of a deep, and dare I say it, callous laugh. Peering through the gap I saw the master standing, facing the wall, as he erectly bellowed out his fit of mirth yet I could not see his face. Without even looking around he went silent then said; “Come through,” in a commanding tone of voice. I obeyed and entered the room which turned out to be a comfortable little parlour. “Reverend Nicholson. I knew you would come.” He spoke these words still with his back to me. Let me try to describe his voice for you. It had only the slightest wisp of an Irish accent about it. Truth be told its intonation was neutral and hard to ascribe to any British or Irish region or any foreign land I am familiar with. It was firm and clearly indicated the speaker’s own self-assuredness. This, combined with his strange behaviour made me lost for words.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said with nerves infiltrating my own weak voice. Only then did he turn. I am above the height of the average man but the school master Drake was at least one head taller than I. He gave me the same expressionless look as he had before. I found it unnerving enough in the light of day but in the close quarters of his dim little lounge it nearly overwhelmed me and I instantly wished that I had not sought him out! “Why are you thankful?” he asked. Again I was found wanting for words and with many a verbal stumble I politely explained my business in the district. When I had finished he pointed to an arm chair by the fire. “Sit,” he ordered. I did so while he remained standing. He appeared to be pondering my words. “I want to help,” he said eventually. “The children are especially important to me. Many of them are orphans. Their mothers and fathers have been taken from them this last year. The number of orphan’s rise weekly and accordingly I have set aside some properties where they are cared for.”
“That is most generous of you,” I said, commending him. He ignored my remark and continued: “The emotional stresses endured by the children are indeed great. You and I must do what we can to protect them from further trauma, whether it be from malnourishment, disease or (he paused and glanced briefly out the window to the church) something else. I must preserve the children. They are pure.” Although his words were compassionate I detected no trace of emotion whatsoever and concluded that in having witnessed so much suffering and human horrors for two years or more this explained his stoic countenance. We agreed that I would prioritise the feeding of the children and elderly as these constituents were the community’s most vulnerable. I asked him about Father Regan and if he would be agreeable to providing further assistance. For the first time Drake’s expression altered. His resolute semi-scowl, for the briefest of moments, became a wry smirk upon my mentioning the priest. “He acts according to his own conscious,” said Drake. “If he sees it in his interests to help he will. If not he won’t. He cannot be relied upon whereas I can.” He bade me rise and said that I must now go and prepare today’s soup and that he would send all the children in his care to be fed at the appointed time. At the door I offered him my hand which he took with a firm, icy grip! “I will speak to you soon,” I gasped, dismayed as the might of his palm. “You will,” he said, releasing me. “With the help of God we will make a difference to the lives of the people,” I said in parting. My words overlapped with the arrival of another funeral cortege led by the solemnly robed Father Regan. As it vanished into the confines of the graveyard master Drake surveyed me hard.
“Look around you Reverend,” he said, nodding gently in the direction of the cluttered cemetery. “God has chosen not to help. Good day.”
I cannot adequately explain, even to myself, why I am recording such intricate details about one individual. He does possess a uniquely innate power and I wonder why a man of his calibre plies his teaching trade in such an obscure region as this. It is not for me to question. I have neither the time nor the inclination to burn up my energy on such concerns yet I do wonder where he came from.
Tuesday 18th May
Alas! Throngs of people have given up. They are packing their meagre belongings onto carts, saying goodbye to the diminishing numbers that remain and have embarked unto fortune. They bid farewell to the land that gave them birth and are due to set sail across the wild Atlantic for America! Part of my self envies them. What an adventure that would be! Shall we join them Rosa? Shall we, one day, say goodbye to our homeland and traverse the ocean? Perhaps. It is nice to dream of it.
Dear Lord. I am not privy to accurate numerical figures but I am of the opinion that in the last few weeks half the village has either died or fled! Having been so absorbed in my duties the increasing amounts emigrating has only today been noticed by my busy brain. I feel overburdened with the task I am bound to complete. As if to complement my own morbid feelings I am afflicted by a profound weariness. Even the effort of gauging my thoughts to maintain this diary is a source of angst to me. Nonetheless I am resolved to continue with it. I am due to write to the archbishop’s secretary and report to him as to my progress and the overall situation. I will find the time later in the week. I must add, before I take a rest, that Kent himself, normally so zestful, is quiet and forlorn and for that I cannot apportion blame. He was kind enough to offer his services in liaising with Drake and I gave him all due authority. The school master, I will confess, has not been far from my lonely thoughts. I cannot explain why nor do I wish to know.
Wednesday 19th
Additional soup and supplies have arrived! I have been resting and Kent reports that Drake has given him no difficulty in administering the food to the poor orphaned children. I am tempted to give the lad further responsibilities should it mean I am less likely to come into the proximity of that man. I saw him today. He was maintaining a tight eye on the children, watching them like a hawk before its dreaded swoop down to seize an unsuspecting rabbit. I must go for a walk later to clear my head of these uneasy, absurd contemplations.
Thursday 20th
I came back for a walk and helped Kent and the women clean the apparati for the meals. Strange to say the young man has gone quiet and sullen. I thought he was naturally upset at the deaths we have had over three days (nine in totality) but then he mentioned Drake. Apparently the school teacher ordered him to give any child who so desired it, a second helping. Conscious of the strength of our supplies Kent, whilst not averse to bestowing extra charity, was reluctant to oblige Drake’s command. I admit I was concerned to hear about this and quietly told my young friend to pretend to acquiesce.
Friday 21st May 47’
Today my soup distributers were very busy. It seemed the whole village turned out to receive food. I returned from my walk and saw Kent and Drake talking beside one of the cauldrons. It was clear from the language of their bodies that they were in the midst of a heated confrontation! I ran up to them but by the time I had arrived Drake had gone. Kent was flustered and shaken and said Drake had in fact demanded the children be given as much soup as they should ask for. I had a mind to follow and confront Drake on the matter however we were swamped by the young people who nearly crushed us in their eagerness to be fed!
Saturday 22nd
Kent has fallen ill. It was with horrific suddenness that he fell in the hallway outside my chamber as I stepped forth. I set him on the couch and went out seeking help. He was (as he remains) flat upon his back yet breathing heavily. There is no doctor to be found for miles about but one of the men, a kind old gent, travelled off to find one. Instead an old nurse maid came to the cottage to watch over and care for him. She has no reckoning as to what caused his collapse and I am reminded of the unexpected deaths of the young men the week before this one. It is night fall now and another kind woman is caring for him. Dear God be with him.
Sunday
What a gloomy Sunday. At nine o’clock this morning Kent died. When my black mood lifts I shall write more.
Wednesday 25th of May
The priest Father Regan has refused to allow me to bury Arthur Kent in his churchyard so I purchased a coffin and will keep his remains in it at home until I can get it transported back to his family. And I am sorely tempted to depart along with my friend. The doctor (who finally arrived!) could not attribute death to any known cause but such are the sicknesses of these parts I am not surprised and nor do I seek to know the reason. If there is some contagion lurking in these airs so be it. I die at my post. Poor Kent. He fought to the bitter, final end and gave up the ghost with great defiance. May we meet him again in paradise.
Thursday 26th
A coach hearse bound for Galway called and took away the body of my companion Arthur Kent. Fare thee well Arthur! My labours are now weightier for I am one worker now. True, the women lend help but these volunteers are themselves growing weaker and have responsibilities in their own dwellings. In my distractions over Arthur’s death I had been ignorant of the fact that ten more adults have followed him into the great beyond! These deaths occurred during the past seven days! O’ we are but insects in the general scheme of fate. God help me.
Saturday 27th May
*(Dispatched a short letter to Rosa dear – post haste!) In it I told her of Kent’s death and gave her an account of the general situation. I did not mention Drake for I would hate to give her nightmares! My only wish now is to be with her.
Father Regan is at his tricks again. With the amount of daily funerals I fail to see how he possesses the time to interfere in my affairs! He came down to the soup kitchen and assumed himself in charge! Then he bade the women and elderly come forward first on the insistence that the children had been getting more than their due shares for many days at the expense of neglecting these other groupings While I was somewhat agreeable to his demanding suggestion (for it is true the children have grown rather greedy of late) I was upset by his manner of behaviour which seemed as much intent to diminish my authority as it was in redressing the imbalance of who gets what amount of soup! To my astonished amusement he then went forth into the small gathered crowd and attempted to line them up according to his preference; that is, he pushed the children and younger folk to the rear and the scrawnier older ones to the forefront! The more sick and desperate males did not take kindly to his meddling and a few acrimonious words were exchanged in Gaelic! Regan extricated himself from them, trotted to the main table where I stood ready to fill their bowls and announced that from now on the elderly would be receiving the soup first, before any other classification of villager. Imagine my surprise (and alarm) when upon this loud utterance Drake appeared, as if he slipped in from nowhere. Fr Regan was more alarmed than I at his arrival and the people (the orphans in particular) laughed to see the change brought upon him by the dramatic appearance of the school-master. I did not hear their hushed talk but I gauged that Drake was opposed to Regan’s relegation of the children down the line. In the end the priest summoned by what little courage he has and, with jabbing finger, made his point quite forcefully in the end. That was that. The priest went off to officiate the next funeral and as he walked away Drake beheld him with his trademark gaze. After a little while he walked over to the children in his care and spoke some words to them. Whatever he said caused them to laugh but Drake neither blinked nor smiled before disappearing again. I sorely wonder what he said to them!
Sunday 28th
Yet more deaths. Thirteen in total from yesterday and today. I realised this afternoon that there are now more children than adults! I do believe there are no more than sixty or seventy people left in the village. I counted forty-six children today. All the younger men and women of twenty to thirty years of age have either died or gone to the boat to emigrate. This leaves some thirty or forty men and women, half of whom are elderly and roughly divided equally between the sexes. True, there are deaths daily, but I believe my soup kitchen has helped pervert deeper misery. The children and elderly would not be alive but for me.
All the days are becoming a blur. Only when I viewed the people entering for mass did I realise it was Sunday so I came home, prayed and wrote this down. Goodnight Rosa. Kiss kiss.
Monday 29th May
The children came first to my kitchen this morning. May God forgive me for laughing during this bleak time but they marched from the school building up the soup stalls like little solders! Unlike the rest of the people their clothes are almost pristine, their hair neat and their bodies washed and clean. They were discipline and waited with unusual patience. Seeing them thus I was prompted to attempt an ironical joke by exclaiming; ‘temperance children, temperance’, but it was no surprise when they failed to appreciate my humour. None of them barely spoke a single word or sentence other than “thank you” when their food was handed to them. When they had finished they placed their bowls, spoons and plates upon the clearing desk then marched back to the school in the same orderly manner with which they had come! (Two more deaths today. Both old men).
Tuesday May 30th
There has been an altercation. It occurred late this afternoon outside the parochial lodge. This is where the priest lives and is beside the church. From the evidence I have seen and heard I have construed the following explanation as the cause for the incident. It involved Father Regan and the other party was Drake. The priest had been insulted, stung if you will, by his verbal dual with the master on the afternoon of Saturday last. While publically consenting to Drake’s desire, demand I should say, that the children be first served the soup Fr Regan rounded up the older folk and urged them to assemble at my stalls before the children came at the dinner hour of twelve noon. Now I had desired some free and personal time to myself so I left the two sisters I am friendly with in charge of the kitchen and walked up a hill for some hours. Upon arriving back the younger sister whose name is Mary told me that the orphans had waited patiently but to her alarm she had judged that the quantities of soup remaining would be insufficient to feed everyone and it would take some hours to brew more to provide for the children. Fr Regan had discretely been overseeing matters and I am told that once the older people and the adults were served their meals his interest waned and subsequently withdrew back to the lodge. The children were left standing for some long while and, presumably because they had not returned to the school at the normal time, Drake emerged and approached the youngsters who obviously explained in considerable detail why they remained waiting; because Regan had prevented them from eating before the others. Without another word the school teacher turned and walked directly towards the church and although he had given no order each and every one of the children spun around and, in little square groups akin to military units, followed their master! Several of the adults followed also and one of these named Tomas afterwards recounted the next part of the chapter.
Drake ascended the steps and knocked on the priest’s door. A short time passed and Father Regan presented himself and opened it. Drake gestured to the children who stood obedient and silent in a broad semi~circle behind him. Tomas reports that the assembled youths did hardly blink let alone make a sound! Drake stated that due to their age they should be fed first. Regan countered, using age for his argument, that the older members were frailer and deserved initial preference. It lapsed into argumentative bickering and while Drake retained his quietly commanding posture the poor priest yelled until, as they say, he was blue in the face! In the end the door was slammed in Drake’s face but not before the master had given Regan a lengthy, stare, colder than he is usually want to give, according to Tomas’ account. After that Drake led the children off over the way into the school room. He closed all the windows and blinds then blew out all the interior candles for Tomas states all went dark inside. O’ what to make of this dispute. Cannot these two supposedly intelligent men not set aside their personal animosity and self-righteous indignation and co-operate in a rational, prudent manner that could practically assist those in their spiritual and educational charge? Lo and the good Lord Jesus wept. I feel I must make a labourious effort to reconcile them. It is apparent that this is what I must do before they become so estranged their weak underlings endure more unnecessary misery.
Wednesday 31st
It is now ten in the morning. At the third hour past midnight there came a tap at my window. It was young Tomas and Mary. They asked me to dress quickly and come with them to the parochial house. Father Regan was dying! He had asked to speak to me! I hastily dressed and ran out after them through the pitch of the night. When I arrived in his chamber the priest was propped up in his bed. Candles burned upon the bedside table on either side of a large brass crucifix. He smiled when he seen me enter. I was struck by how the scene resembled that Sunday night two years ago when my own father died! Then too I had raced all through the night over half the length of Leinster from Queen’s County to Dublin to visit him one final time.
The dying priest spoke to me:
“Forgive me sir if I have annoyed you. Forgive me for not being lenient with you and your young fellow.”
“I do forgive you,” I answered him kindly, and I placed my hands on his own which clutched a small wooden cross.
“Save your strength Father,” I whispered.
“It is too late to send for a fellow priest to grant me the last rites,” he said with roughness in his voice. “Will you, as a man of God, do so for me? Here is my breviary, my prayer book. Can you read the Latin? Do so please ere I depart.” Father Regan closed his eyes for the last time and clasped my free hand. With my right I held open the book of prayer and recited it word for solemn word, fulfilling his last wish.
“Ye are a good fellow, you are,” he said. A moment later he breathed a long hoarse sound which ceased suddenly. His head tilted back onto the pillow. Father Regan had gone home. The poor man! I wept at the sight, covering my face with his breviary so that my humid tears splashed onto the pages! I was touched that he should have the humility to reach out to me, a Protestant churchman, and request that I perform the quiet, respectful and holy ritual. If certain members of my co-religionists discovered what I had done they would lobby for my head and a lot of Roman Catholics would be far from pleased that an adherent of the Reformation should administer this sacrament to one of their holy ordained. What neither faction can understand is that I kindly acted upon a kind, sincere request and in the atmosphere of the old man’s death bed common decency will always overwhelm the narrow opinions of those who care more for the maintenance of powers and authorities than a simple act of Christian love. And it is that that is more important that adhering to stifling rules and regulations that if applied with cold, rigid disregard will squander both the soul and the potential of man to rise above himself and his constraints.
I closed the breviary and placed it in his hands with the crucifix. What seemed like hours passed in a few minutes and leaving the body in the care of Tomas, Mary, her older sister Therese and another old woman I said goodnight.
O’ Rosa! ~ I recount now an event that shook my very fibres.
I left them to pray with the body and I exited the priest’s house. At the foot of the steps I happened to glance up. By a window of the school house a figure watched me. It was Drake! Upon the instant our eyes met the curtains fell together and he was hidden from my sight! Thank God I was so weary not to dwell on morbid thoughts but since then I have done so. I will tell you of them soon for now I must sleep.
1st of June
We will bury him the day after tomorrow, Saturday. Because of Fr Regan’s passing, the late hour of the night on which it occurred and the disorganisation it has caused there could be no soup today and I doubt if there will any tomorrow. More of the produce was delivered today but I have no energy to distribute it or work to make all the pots and equipment ready. About a dozen or more people loaded their carts and set off for the boat to America. May God’s blessing go with them. The children now outnumber the adult by two to one. I cannot describe exactly why I feel uneasy with them, they are polite and gentle but they do not act that children. Rather they behave as though they are mindful of something that prevents them from noisily relishing their young lives. It could be the simply attributable to their individual loses of their parents and kin but I am unsure. They arrived on time for soup but I had to clamber out of bed and tell them the sad news of their priest’s death. One of the boys, a leader of sorts, was unmoved and instead of enquiring after Fr Regan asked where the soup was. I told him there would not be any for a few days and without a further word the phalanx of children went home.
Ten minutes later my front door was knocked. I stumbled out from under my warm covers and shuffled up the hall like a drunkard whose intoxicant is not liquor but sleep! I opened the door and prepared to send the knocker packing. There stood Drake. He enquired about the soup. I explained my reasons for not opening the kitchen but he interjected that circumstances, however inconvenient, should not be so cumbersome that would allow good children to go hungry. I acknowledged this point but said I was so tired there was no way I could open it today but would do so in the morning. He was agreeable to this but asked for the key to the store in order for him to unlock it and cook the soup himself. I was about to say no but then his permanent look of intimidation appeared, to my sleep-deprived mind, to transcend itself and accentuate its potency so that my hand was compelled to open the nearby drawer that houses the key, remove it and lay it on his outstretched palm. No further word was spoken. I shut the door and heard him trot away.
To my knowledge Drake has still not called at the priest’s house to pay his respects. Drake. That man! What motivates him? Why his obsession with feeding his orphans? Now I am a good reader of souls and I discern that while he wants them to eat heartily he has another, darker reason much closer to his heart.
Friday 2nd June
Drake has commandeered my work! He has the store key still in his possession and with the help of the older orphans is running my soup kitchen! I am looking out my parlour window at the sight as I write this!
Dear God, Drake is only feeding the children! The remaining villagers lined up, expecting to be fed their respective shares, but Drake refused and ordered them to leave! Tomas, the fiery young man, objected and tried to procure some by force but Drake gave a command and the orphans immediately formed a ring between Tomas and the stalls! I had to intervene! Dashing out I ran to help Tomas. Before I reached him a tall orphan strode forth and struck him! Tomas, despite being a good head taller than the boy collapsed to the muddy ground. At this the children laughed! The rogues! Blood trickled out from poor Tomas’ nostrils and I shouted for help. Young Mary ran up to him and with great difficulty brought him home while I stayed to confront Drake. He said he regretted that Tiernach (the boy who punched Tomas) had used violent force but it had been necessary to protect his fellow orphan’s provisions. Drake further explained in his cold and frank manner that all the adult people were dying or leaving and that there was neither sense nor justice in wasting food on them. I was indignant and said so but he ignored me saying that from now on the older people could have whatever soup the children leftover and did not eat! “If you disagree”, he said, “then write to your superiors. Order them not to send any more supplies.”
I answered that I would but no sooner had I wrote a letter to the bishop’s office that one from the same arrived at my door by dispatch rider. I have attached it here below:
Office of the Archbishop’s Secretary
Bishop’s Palace
Christchurch Place, Dublin
XIV – V – MDCCCXLVII
To Rev. Lawrence W. Nicholson, White’s Cottage, Kilmaden, County Galway.
Dear Sir,
Further to your letter dated Friday the 14th May of this year I am pleased to acknowledge your request for the prompt dispatch of extra food supplies, in particular soup of the vegetable variety. Please note the inventory listed below:~
20 (Twenty) barrels of vegetable soup,
150 (One hundred and fifty) loaves of bread,
10 (Ten) kilograms of salt,
10 (Ten) kilograms of pepper.
All will be delivered to your address above on or before the week ending Friday the 9th of June 1847. You will be required to sign your name before receipt.
Yours Truly,
Patrick Wallace
Undersecretary.
My request? My? In God’s honest name I made no such request! Someone has copied my handwriting and sent a letter in my good name! Furthermore no mention of my letter of May the 11th indicating the office has not even received it! I have scrapped and torn the letter I had genuinely written this morning and wrote another explaining recent events, the fake letter where “I” asked for more provisions and also the added request that I be relived of this dismal post with immediate effect! To my annoyance the delivery coach had left by the time I had completed the letter so I gave an orphan boy a shilling and told him to run after the trundling speck in the distance and hand the driver my dispatch along with its postage fee. Off he darted and upon his return he assured me that it had safely been entrusted to the coachman. The weather worsens. The sky is a permanent grey. It has become such a gloom that I can no longer see the hills. A mist descends.
I have read back through my journal this evening and wish I hadn’t! Therese, the older sister, on the day I first saw Drake pass her kitchen window, uttered the word ‘diabhal’ when she saw him. I only remembered to reference this word tonight when I read my earlier account. The meaning is thus: ‘Diabhal’ = diabolic. Or, ‘devil’.
Lord help me. Keep me free and safe from all evil things. Amen.
Saturday 3rd June
The body of Father Regan was interred into the soil of the earth this morning. A priest from the next village, a tall and thin old man, conducted the funeral mass and burial ceremony. I attended both. It was the first time I have been to a mass and the beauty of the Latin prose moved me into a deep, prayerful contemplation that I had no idea was possible. For this I blame my previous (and by that I mean erroneous) misconceptions of the Catholic religion. I am thankful to God that I had a reconciliation with Fr Regan prior to his death for it reminds me while more evil may come to pass out here in this wilderness there is always a constant incentive for good to be done and ultimately prove itself triumphant.
At souping Drake continues to hold forth. I insisted in helping and he agreed, with him acting as though he was my master and had authority over me! Of particular notice was the fact that the number of children present had decreased! I only counted thirty and previously there had been forty-six if my earlier count was indeed accurate. They could not have left the village for they have no kith or kin to ferry them elsewhere and no one is so charitable as to pay their way whether to the city or the ship bound for New York. Why do I even record such a fact? To my shame I am beginning not to care. Rosa dearest, why don’t you write to me?
Sunday 4th June
The first glimpse of sunlight in many days! Drake has broken my Sabbath ban on administering the soup. I said nothing and decided to contribute nonetheless. In three days there have been at least ten to fifteen additional deaths bringing the number of adults to a very low amount, no more than a dozen at most. Having witnessed so much of the reaper’s handiwork I am reminded that I should be grateful to have survived and if feeding hungry people on a Sunday is a sin then God is insane and the world is done for! There seems little point in me remaining here. I have a mind to get on the next coach (presuming there even is one) and head back east to home. To Rosa dear. Why has she not written?
Thursday 8th of June 1847
My God. Lord, curse this place unless thou hast already done so. Additional food was delivered on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and this morning. Today I spoke with the coach drivers to try and gain news from outside but they said little of substance. I also asked them to give me information about scheduled coaches departing the village but they replied that there would not be any for some weeks! When I asked why they stated that the reason for this was because of the death toll in Kilmaden over the past month and that, to state it with blunt simplicity, there was no business to be done here! Instantly I asked them to take me, offering to pay whatever they wished. They agreed and I went back to the cottage to hastily pack all my belongings. I caused a great deal of commotion in my speed to leave that did not go unnoticed to attentive eyes and ears. When I had fastened my case and stepped outside to tell the driver that I would not be much longer a mighty noise almost knocked me to the ground! Upon rushing outside an oppressive wave of heat halted me! The coach was aflame! Its two occupants lay lifeless in the mud, thrown as they had been with great force onto the ground! There was nothing I could have done. The handful of villages left came up and watched alongside me. Some minutes passed and there was not a dry eye present. Then, with the same abruptness as the explosion, Drake showed himself.
“A tragedy,” he said in his flat, uncaring tone. “Such incidents are not uncommon. Look and see where the oil lamp inside disintegrated. One of them must have thrown a lit match into it in error.” His words sounded scripted and Drake explained the cause with such calmness that I could not help but become suspicious. He gave me the kind of look, an almost friendly glance, that two knowledgeable professors would exchange in the midst of more ignorant company.
We let the fire die then took away the bodies and left the charred wooden skeleton of the coach stay as it was. Later as I lay at home on the parlour sofa he peered in through the window and pointed at the door. I let him in. He spoke a single, solitary and ultimately shattering sentence:
“It is good that you are staying Nicholson because the longer you do the more nutrients the children will receive.”
As I watched him saunter into the twilight I then knew with certainty. Drake, somehow, blew up that coach! Lord in Heaven help me.
Friday 9th June
Tiernach, the tall lad who assaulted Tomas, arrived at my door this morning.
“Master Drake wishes you to come.”
In the school room I met a sight! All the barrels of soup and packs of food had been relocated from my store to the school!
“We moved them here,” answered Drake to the question my shocked and indignant eyes appeared to ask. “It is less dirty here and the children can access the food more readily.”
A wilful man would have objected. A tougher man would have fought. A weak man would have faltered and so my heart gave up. What use was there in arguing with someone so determined? What use was there in disputing his usurpation of my duty when he had such sway over the orphans? And what use was there in opposing his logic? The children were in the majority and feeding them in the school was better than having them march all the way to the open place by my cottage. I said nothing.
“Reverend,” he said, “you and the women will be more comfortable cooking and serving indoors than in the damp air. You may begin when you are ready.” With that he left for his quarters and as I prepared to start my work all the children stared at me in complete silence. “Are you all here?” I asked Tiernach. “Yes sir,” he replied. As I brewed the soup I took the time to count them. There were now only five and twenty children! This blighted land swallows even the young. I now chide my excited mind for making me believe he could have destroyed the coach yesterday. For all his mystery and frigid manner I am beginning to appreciate Drake’s concern for the children. We must preserve them.
Wednesday 14th June.
Nearly every grown person has departed. There remains myself, Tomas, Mary, Therese and I think five other adults. And of course there is Drake. He is a law onto himself. There has been no contact with the world outside since the destruction of the coach last week but supplies of soup remain high. I have eased into a new, modest routine of feeding them all in the school room. Drake, I suppose, is being kind by not spreading word of the deaths to the surviving orphans. I counted twenty-two this afternoon.
Thursday 15th
Tomas is unhinged. The young man was starving and at noon he burst unannounced into the classroom, snatched a bowl and steeped it into a cauldron, helping himself to the broth! I did not object as our supplies are adequate but I was alarmed at his frantic, desperate behaviour as it could upset the orphans. Drake entered from his quarters. Outwardly he retained every vestige of icy tranquillity. He approached Tomas, who had seated himself on the master’s desk, and placed a hand on his shoulder. With one delicate tug he had Tomas upon his feet. The metal bowl flew out of his hands and seconds later Tomas found himself being unceremoniously yanked toward the door. He fought and swore and kicked but Drake did not even blink or relax his grip. When they disappeared through the door Tomas gave a yelp and I saw him running down the side of the building to the window next to me. He pounded it with his fist and when I approached with the intention of opening it to implore him to act with sense he yelled a single word before bolting away:
“Traitor!”
Friday 16th June
My old fears and suspicions have returned with a new vengeance! Tomas has hanged himself…. At least he has been found hanged. Mary, who is his love, found him. Poor woman is naturally beside herself with woe! When her weeping sister passed the news to me a blindness was lifted from my mind. There is a trail. A trail that in my folly I have not seen or, perhaps, have excused or ignored deliberately. Lord give me the power to overcome the trial I face.
My realisation is thus: Every man who dared challenge Drake now lies dead: Kent, Fr Regan, Tomas and, when it is considered, every adult man and woman who once dwelt in Kilmaden! When I tried to leave in the coach it was destroyed! This means, clearly, that he needs me to stay here. I must ponder as to why.
I have it! The soup. I am his guarantor. As long as I am here soup will arrive. It was obviously he who sent the letter in my name and only God knows how he got an opportunity to view my handwriting in order to copy it! This endeavour was a venture, a scheme to bolster his agenda, ere I should depart prematurely. What is his agenda? What is his goal? I can only deduce that it pertains to the soup and the children. Yet let anyone explain to me, if he can, the weight of his obsession? No one man could be so altruistically concerned about the welfare of these orphans purely for their own benefit when he is capably willing to add murder to his list of discourteous, immoral deeds!
My deep-seated instinct now screams out to me that there is something more. What that is I dare not think. It is a secret I am reluctant to uncover. But uncover it I must. And uncover it I will.
Saturday 17th at nightfall.
I write this entry huddled in a ditch between a barn and a hedge! What I have seen is impossible yet my eyes saw it happen. I decided to try to keep away from Drake as much as was possible and leaving the two sisters in charge I went out to try and think of a strategy! In the hills I found no answer nor idea by which to combat him so, resigned and ridden with despair, I trudged home. At the limits of the village I heard an uproar. In response I leapt behind one of the many abandoned cottages that litter this place. Peering round the side wall I looked up the road and saw the school door open. The distance from my hiding place to the door would be, at my best estimation, one-forth of a mile. It was close enough for me to see the two sisters, Therese and Mary emerge. Their hands were bound to their backs! Drake, Tiernach and a few taller boys led them out and bade them stand at the cemetery wall. It resembled an execution by a firing squad of soldiers! The youths then stood well back and the school master approached and stopped some ten paces from the women. In his hands was a small steel pot and a spoon. He leaned his face over the pot as though he were sticking his head fully into it. I judged that he looking at its contents. After less than a minute he raised his head, filled the spoon with what I presume was the soup and thrust it into the mouth of Mary. He was about to apply the same to Therese but the older woman cried out and swore at him so Drake, with only a wave of his finger, had Tiernach and another accomplice grab the woman by the head and jaw and force her mouth to open wide. This being done he poured the remaining contents of the pot down her reluctant gullet! Upon its dispensement Drake and the boys stepped back and watched. The women’s bodies began to tremble. Their head’s tilted backwards and despite the distance I could hear them splutter and choke. They continued to writhe and contort then dropped onto their knees before finally keeling over and lying motionless in the mud. Dead! Drake said something I did not clearly hear then indicated to his acolytes that the corpses of the women should be moved and interned in the graveyard nearby. I know of no poison that causes death with such speed as this! If I recollect it accurately I recall that on one occasion Drake made a point of glancing into our cauldrons. That following night an amount of villagers died! What manner of man is it that can purloin the soup and inflict death with his very gaze!? Tis something lesser yet more powerful than any of God’s creations. If one he be.
I go back now to earlier. The youths took the women for burial and Drake went into the school house. He soon emerged again and walked off in the direction of my cottage! When he returned a short time later he summoned twelve children from the interior and I construed that he was giving them instructions to search for me. He went back inside and the children panned out along every laneway. With a trepidatious heart I concealed myself in a few abandoned cottages then sneaked and crawled my way into this hollow on the periphery on the hamlet. It is dry and deep and a thick hedge partially covers it allowing me to hide. On the other side the stone-wall of what was once the pig’s house shields me opposite. I cannot and will not stay here however. When it is fully dark I will return home by stealth, try and steal some sleep and plan for the morrow.
Sunday 18th June
I successfully reached the cottage and slept there for a few torrid hours. Sleep. I should hardly call it sleep for I and tossed and turned uncomfortably even though the night air was cool. I got up before the sun, procured some food and drink and have settled into the cottage of the late Therese and Mary. I will linger here, behind drawn curtains, for as long a time as possible. It is better that I move at night or at any time I know for certain that Drake and the children are on the move. Some inner thought persuades me to check the school house.
I have an opportunity. I espied Drake and the orphans (nine of them!) walk toward my cottage. I will hide this diary under a large, loose, tiled stone on the floor of the kitchen. If I do not succeed then farewell Rosa! Kiss.
O’ to see what I have seen! I am back and in one piece! Uncovered truths. They are thus. Drake did indeed copy my style of writing and I have seen the proof. I crept over to the school house and entered with quiet caution. It was devoid of all life. I opened the door to Drake’s parlour and went in. There was little of value here and I passed through another door at the far end and found myself in a small, unlit corridor with no windows. There was one door to my right which was made of iron and solidly locked. The other was straight ahead and open. It led into Drake’s chamber. Again there was little of worth and I was about to return to my sanctuary when I chanced to spy under the huge bed a large leather trunk. Yanking it out from beneath I flung it open as if enraged! God in Heaven help us!
Therein: Objects I can’t identify. Writings I do not understand. Symbols and drawings of obscure shapes and unknown creatures! What are these things? Why does he possess them? And to what unholy ends does he purport to use them? The sight of this chaotic paraphernalia served to strike me back from the trunk as though I had received a knuckled blow! But more woe followed. I dug into the trunk and saw papers that I could read. I seized one. It was the letter I had sent to Rosa on May the 13th! Over a month past! Then beneath it was my letter of the 27th! My beloved wife-to-be never received either of them! What must she think of me in supposedly not writing to her!
Sunday 28th
Yet more deaths. Thirteen in total from yesterday and today. I realised this afternoon that there are now more children than adults! I do believe there are no more than sixty or seventy people left in the village. I counted forty-six children today. All the younger men and women of twenty to thirty years of age have either died or gone to the boat to emigrate. This leaves some thirty or forty men and women, half of whom are elderly and roughly divided equally between the sexes. True, there are deaths daily, but I believe my soup kitchen has helped pervert deeper misery. The children and elderly would not be alive but for me.
All the days are becoming a blur. Only when I viewed the people entering for mass did I realise it was Sunday so I came home, prayed and wrote this down. Goodnight Rosa. Kiss kiss.
Monday 29th May
The children came first to my kitchen this morning. May God forgive me for laughing during this bleak time but they marched from the school building up the soup stalls like little solders! Unlike the rest of the people their clothes are almost pristine, their hair neat and their bodies washed and clean. They were discipline and waited with unusual patience. Seeing them thus I was prompted to attempt an ironical joke by exclaiming; ‘temperance children, temperance’, but it was no surprise when they failed to appreciate my humour. None of them barely spoke a single word or sentence other than “thank you” when their food was handed to them. When they had finished they placed their bowls, spoons and plates upon the clearing desk then marched back to the school in the same orderly manner with which they had come! (Two more deaths today. Both old men).
Tuesday May 30th
There has been an altercation. It occurred late this afternoon outside the parochial lodge. This is where the priest lives and is beside the church. From the evidence I have seen and heard I have construed the following explanation as the cause for the incident. It involved Father Regan and the other party was Drake. The priest had been insulted, stung if you will, by his verbal dual with the master on the afternoon of Saturday last. While publically consenting to Drake’s desire, demand I should say, that the children be first served the soup Fr Regan rounded up the older folk and urged them to assemble at my stalls before the children came at the dinner hour of twelve noon. Now I had desired some free and personal time to myself so I left the two sisters I am friendly with in charge of the kitchen and walked up a hill for some hours. Upon arriving back the younger sister whose name is Mary told me that the orphans had waited patiently but to her alarm she had judged that the quantities of soup remaining would be insufficient to feed everyone and it would take some hours to brew more to provide for the children. Fr Regan had discretely been overseeing matters and I am told that once the older people and the adults were served their meals his interest waned and subsequently withdrew back to the lodge. The children were left standing for some long while and, presumably because they had not returned to the school at the normal time, Drake emerged and approached the youngsters who obviously explained in considerable detail why they remained waiting; because Regan had prevented them from eating before the others. Without another word the school teacher turned and walked directly towards the church and although he had given no order each and every one of the children spun around and, in little square groups akin to military units, followed their master! Several of the adults followed also and one of these named Tomas afterwards recounted the next part of the chapter.
Drake ascended the steps and knocked on the priest’s door. A short time passed and Father Regan presented himself and opened it. Drake gestured to the children who stood obedient and silent in a broad semi~circle behind him. Tomas reports that the assembled youths did hardly blink let alone make a sound! Drake stated that due to their age they should be fed first. Regan countered, using age for his argument, that the older members were frailer and deserved initial preference. It lapsed into argumentative bickering and while Drake retained his quietly commanding posture the poor priest yelled until, as they say, he was blue in the face! In the end the door was slammed in Drake’s face but not before the master had given Regan a lengthy, stare, colder than he is usually want to give, according to Tomas’ account. After that Drake led the children off over the way into the school room. He closed all the windows and blinds then blew out all the interior candles for Tomas states all went dark inside. O’ what to make of this dispute. Cannot these two supposedly intelligent men not set aside their personal animosity and self-righteous indignation and co-operate in a rational, prudent manner that could practically assist those in their spiritual and educational charge? Lo and the good Lord Jesus wept. I feel I must make a labourious effort to reconcile them. It is apparent that this is what I must do before they become so estranged their weak underlings endure more unnecessary misery.
Wednesday 31st
It is now ten in the morning. At the third hour past midnight there came a tap at my window. It was young Tomas and Mary. They asked me to dress quickly and come with them to the parochial house. Father Regan was dying! He had asked to speak to me! I hastily dressed and ran out after them through the pitch of the night. When I arrived in his chamber the priest was propped up in his bed. Candles burned upon the bedside table on either side of a large brass crucifix. He smiled when he seen me enter. I was struck by how the scene resembled that Sunday night two years ago when my own father died! Then too I had raced all through the night over half the length of Leinster from Queen’s County to Dublin to visit him one final time.
The dying priest spoke to me:
“Forgive me sir if I have annoyed you. Forgive me for not being lenient with you and your young fellow.”
“I do forgive you,” I answered him kindly, and I placed my hands on his own which clutched a small wooden cross.
“Save your strength Father,” I whispered.
“It is too late to send for a fellow priest to grant me the last rites,” he said with roughness in his voice. “Will you, as a man of God, do so for me? Here is my breviary, my prayer book. Can you read the Latin? Do so please ere I depart.” Father Regan closed his eyes for the last time and clasped my free hand. With my right I held open the book of prayer and recited it word for solemn word, fulfilling his last wish.
“Ye are a good fellow, you are,” he said. A moment later he breathed a long hoarse sound which ceased suddenly. His head tilted back onto the pillow. Father Regan had gone home. The poor man! I wept at the sight, covering my face with his breviary so that my humid tears splashed onto the pages! I was touched that he should have the humility to reach out to me, a Protestant churchman, and request that I perform the quiet, respectful and holy ritual. If certain members of my co-religionists discovered what I had done they would lobby for my head and a lot of Roman Catholics would be far from pleased that an adherent of the Reformation should administer this sacrament to one of their holy ordained. What neither faction can understand is that I kindly acted upon a kind, sincere request and in the atmosphere of the old man’s death bed common decency will always overwhelm the narrow opinions of those who care more for the maintenance of powers and authorities than a simple act of Christian love. And it is that that is more important that adhering to stifling rules and regulations that if applied with cold, rigid disregard will squander both the soul and the potential of man to rise above himself and his constraints.
I closed the breviary and placed it in his hands with the crucifix. What seemed like hours passed in a few minutes and leaving the body in the care of Tomas, Mary, her older sister Therese and another old woman I said goodnight.
O’ Rosa! ~ I recount now an event that shook my very fibres.
I left them to pray with the body and I exited the priest’s house. At the foot of the steps I happened to glance up. By a window of the school house a figure watched me. It was Drake! Upon the instant our eyes met the curtains fell together and he was hidden from my sight! Thank God I was so weary not to dwell on morbid thoughts but since then I have done so. I will tell you of them soon for now I must sleep.
1st of June
We will bury him the day after tomorrow, Saturday. Because of Fr Regan’s passing, the late hour of the night on which it occurred and the disorganisation it has caused there could be no soup today and I doubt if there will any tomorrow. More of the produce was delivered today but I have no energy to distribute it or work to make all the pots and equipment ready. About a dozen or more people loaded their carts and set off for the boat to America. May God’s blessing go with them. The children now outnumber the adult by two to one. I cannot describe exactly why I feel uneasy with them, they are polite and gentle but they do not act that children. Rather they behave as though they are mindful of something that prevents them from noisily relishing their young lives. It could be the simply attributable to their individual loses of their parents and kin but I am unsure. They arrived on time for soup but I had to clamber out of bed and tell them the sad news of their priest’s death. One of the boys, a leader of sorts, was unmoved and instead of enquiring after Fr Regan asked where the soup was. I told him there would not be any for a few days and without a further word the phalanx of children went home.
Ten minutes later my front door was knocked. I stumbled out from under my warm covers and shuffled up the hall like a drunkard whose intoxicant is not liquor but sleep! I opened the door and prepared to send the knocker packing. There stood Drake. He enquired about the soup. I explained my reasons for not opening the kitchen but he interjected that circumstances, however inconvenient, should not be so cumbersome that would allow good children to go hungry. I acknowledged this point but said I was so tired there was no way I could open it today but would do so in the morning. He was agreeable to this but asked for the key to the store in order for him to unlock it and cook the soup himself. I was about to say no but then his permanent look of intimidation appeared, to my sleep-deprived mind, to transcend itself and accentuate its potency so that my hand was compelled to open the nearby drawer that houses the key, remove it and lay it on his outstretched palm. No further word was spoken. I shut the door and heard him trot away.
To my knowledge Drake has still not called at the priest’s house to pay his respects. Drake. That man! What motivates him? Why his obsession with feeding his orphans? Now I am a good reader of souls and I discern that while he wants them to eat heartily he has another, darker reason much closer to his heart.
Friday 2nd June
Drake has commandeered my work! He has the store key still in his possession and with the help of the older orphans is running my soup kitchen! I am looking out my parlour window at the sight as I write this!
Dear God, Drake is only feeding the children! The remaining villagers lined up, expecting to be fed their respective shares, but Drake refused and ordered them to leave! Tomas, the fiery young man, objected and tried to procure some by force but Drake gave a command and the orphans immediately formed a ring between Tomas and the stalls! I had to intervene! Dashing out I ran to help Tomas. Before I reached him a tall orphan strode forth and struck him! Tomas, despite being a good head taller than the boy collapsed to the muddy ground. At this the children laughed! The rogues! Blood trickled out from poor Tomas’ nostrils and I shouted for help. Young Mary ran up to him and with great difficulty brought him home while I stayed to confront Drake. He said he regretted that Tiernach (the boy who punched Tomas) had used violent force but it had been necessary to protect his fellow orphan’s provisions. Drake further explained in his cold and frank manner that all the adult people were dying or leaving and that there was neither sense nor justice in wasting food on them. I was indignant and said so but he ignored me saying that from now on the older people could have whatever soup the children leftover and did not eat! “If you disagree”, he said, “then write to your superiors. Order them not to send any more supplies.”
I answered that I would but no sooner had I wrote a letter to the bishop’s office that one from the same arrived at my door by dispatch rider. I have attached it here below:
Office of the Archbishop’s Secretary
Bishop’s Palace
Christchurch Place, Dublin
XIV – V – MDCCCXLVII
To Rev. Lawrence W. Nicholson, White’s Cottage, Kilmaden, County Galway.
Dear Sir,
Further to your letter dated Friday the 14th May of this year I am pleased to acknowledge your request for the prompt dispatch of extra food supplies, in particular soup of the vegetable variety. Please note the inventory listed below:~
20 (Twenty) barrels of vegetable soup,
150 (One hundred and fifty) loaves of bread,
10 (Ten) kilograms of salt,
10 (Ten) kilograms of pepper.
All will be delivered to your address above on or before the week ending Friday the 9th of June 1847. You will be required to sign your name before receipt.
Yours Truly,
Patrick Wallace
Undersecretary.
My request? My? In God’s honest name I made no such request! Someone has copied my handwriting and sent a letter in my good name! Furthermore no mention of my letter of May the 11th indicating the office has not even received it! I have scrapped and torn the letter I had genuinely written this morning and wrote another explaining recent events, the fake letter where “I” asked for more provisions and also the added request that I be relived of this dismal post with immediate effect! To my annoyance the delivery coach had left by the time I had completed the letter so I gave an orphan boy a shilling and told him to run after the trundling speck in the distance and hand the driver my dispatch along with its postage fee. Off he darted and upon his return he assured me that it had safely been entrusted to the coachman. The weather worsens. The sky is a permanent grey. It has become such a gloom that I can no longer see the hills. A mist descends.
I have read back through my journal this evening and wish I hadn’t! Therese, the older sister, on the day I first saw Drake pass her kitchen window, uttered the word ‘diabhal’ when she saw him. I only remembered to reference this word tonight when I read my earlier account. The meaning is thus: ‘Diabhal’ = diabolic. Or, ‘devil’.
Lord help me. Keep me free and safe from all evil things. Amen.
Saturday 3rd June
The body of Father Regan was interred into the soil of the earth this morning. A priest from the next village, a tall and thin old man, conducted the funeral mass and burial ceremony. I attended both. It was the first time I have been to a mass and the beauty of the Latin prose moved me into a deep, prayerful contemplation that I had no idea was possible. For this I blame my previous (and by that I mean erroneous) misconceptions of the Catholic religion. I am thankful to God that I had a reconciliation with Fr Regan prior to his death for it reminds me while more evil may come to pass out here in this wilderness there is always a constant incentive for good to be done and ultimately prove itself triumphant.
At souping Drake continues to hold forth. I insisted in helping and he agreed, with him acting as though he was my master and had authority over me! Of particular notice was the fact that the number of children present had decreased! I only counted thirty and previously there had been forty-six if my earlier count was indeed accurate. They could not have left the village for they have no kith or kin to ferry them elsewhere and no one is so charitable as to pay their way whether to the city or the ship bound for New York. Why do I even record such a fact? To my shame I am beginning not to care. Rosa dearest, why don’t you write to me?
Sunday 4th June
The first glimpse of sunlight in many days! Drake has broken my Sabbath ban on administering the soup. I said nothing and decided to contribute nonetheless. In three days there have been at least ten to fifteen additional deaths bringing the number of adults to a very low amount, no more than a dozen at most. Having witnessed so much of the reaper’s handiwork I am reminded that I should be grateful to have survived and if feeding hungry people on a Sunday is a sin then God is insane and the world is done for! There seems little point in me remaining here. I have a mind to get on the next coach (presuming there even is one) and head back east to home. To Rosa dear. Why has she not written?
Thursday 8th of June 1847
My God. Lord, curse this place unless thou hast already done so. Additional food was delivered on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and this morning. Today I spoke with the coach drivers to try and gain news from outside but they said little of substance. I also asked them to give me information about scheduled coaches departing the village but they replied that there would not be any for some weeks! When I asked why they stated that the reason for this was because of the death toll in Kilmaden over the past month and that, to state it with blunt simplicity, there was no business to be done here! Instantly I asked them to take me, offering to pay whatever they wished. They agreed and I went back to the cottage to hastily pack all my belongings. I caused a great deal of commotion in my speed to leave that did not go unnoticed to attentive eyes and ears. When I had fastened my case and stepped outside to tell the driver that I would not be much longer a mighty noise almost knocked me to the ground! Upon rushing outside an oppressive wave of heat halted me! The coach was aflame! Its two occupants lay lifeless in the mud, thrown as they had been with great force onto the ground! There was nothing I could have done. The handful of villages left came up and watched alongside me. Some minutes passed and there was not a dry eye present. Then, with the same abruptness as the explosion, Drake showed himself.
“A tragedy,” he said in his flat, uncaring tone. “Such incidents are not uncommon. Look and see where the oil lamp inside disintegrated. One of them must have thrown a lit match into it in error.” His words sounded scripted and Drake explained the cause with such calmness that I could not help but become suspicious. He gave me the kind of look, an almost friendly glance, that two knowledgeable professors would exchange in the midst of more ignorant company.
We let the fire die then took away the bodies and left the charred wooden skeleton of the coach stay as it was. Later as I lay at home on the parlour sofa he peered in through the window and pointed at the door. I let him in. He spoke a single, solitary and ultimately shattering sentence:
“It is good that you are staying Nicholson because the longer you do the more nutrients the children will receive.”
As I watched him saunter into the twilight I then knew with certainty. Drake, somehow, blew up that coach! Lord in Heaven help me.
Friday 9th June
Tiernach, the tall lad who assaulted Tomas, arrived at my door this morning.
“Master Drake wishes you to come.”
In the school room I met a sight! All the barrels of soup and packs of food had been relocated from my store to the school!
“We moved them here,” answered Drake to the question my shocked and indignant eyes appeared to ask. “It is less dirty here and the children can access the food more readily.”
A wilful man would have objected. A tougher man would have fought. A weak man would have faltered and so my heart gave up. What use was there in arguing with someone so determined? What use was there in disputing his usurpation of my duty when he had such sway over the orphans? And what use was there in opposing his logic? The children were in the majority and feeding them in the school was better than having them march all the way to the open place by my cottage. I said nothing.
“Reverend,” he said, “you and the women will be more comfortable cooking and serving indoors than in the damp air. You may begin when you are ready.” With that he left for his quarters and as I prepared to start my work all the children stared at me in complete silence. “Are you all here?” I asked Tiernach. “Yes sir,” he replied. As I brewed the soup I took the time to count them. There were now only five and twenty children! This blighted land swallows even the young. I now chide my excited mind for making me believe he could have destroyed the coach yesterday. For all his mystery and frigid manner I am beginning to appreciate Drake’s concern for the children. We must preserve them.
Wednesday 14th June.
Nearly every grown person has departed. There remains myself, Tomas, Mary, Therese and I think five other adults. And of course there is Drake. He is a law onto himself. There has been no contact with the world outside since the destruction of the coach last week but supplies of soup remain high. I have eased into a new, modest routine of feeding them all in the school room. Drake, I suppose, is being kind by not spreading word of the deaths to the surviving orphans. I counted twenty-two this afternoon.
Thursday 15th
Tomas is unhinged. The young man was starving and at noon he burst unannounced into the classroom, snatched a bowl and steeped it into a cauldron, helping himself to the broth! I did not object as our supplies are adequate but I was alarmed at his frantic, desperate behaviour as it could upset the orphans. Drake entered from his quarters. Outwardly he retained every vestige of icy tranquillity. He approached Tomas, who had seated himself on the master’s desk, and placed a hand on his shoulder. With one delicate tug he had Tomas upon his feet. The metal bowl flew out of his hands and seconds later Tomas found himself being unceremoniously yanked toward the door. He fought and swore and kicked but Drake did not even blink or relax his grip. When they disappeared through the door Tomas gave a yelp and I saw him running down the side of the building to the window next to me. He pounded it with his fist and when I approached with the intention of opening it to implore him to act with sense he yelled a single word before bolting away:
“Traitor!”
Friday 16th June
My old fears and suspicions have returned with a new vengeance! Tomas has hanged himself…. At least he has been found hanged. Mary, who is his love, found him. Poor woman is naturally beside herself with woe! When her weeping sister passed the news to me a blindness was lifted from my mind. There is a trail. A trail that in my folly I have not seen or, perhaps, have excused or ignored deliberately. Lord give me the power to overcome the trial I face.
My realisation is thus: Every man who dared challenge Drake now lies dead: Kent, Fr Regan, Tomas and, when it is considered, every adult man and woman who once dwelt in Kilmaden! When I tried to leave in the coach it was destroyed! This means, clearly, that he needs me to stay here. I must ponder as to why.
I have it! The soup. I am his guarantor. As long as I am here soup will arrive. It was obviously he who sent the letter in my name and only God knows how he got an opportunity to view my handwriting in order to copy it! This endeavour was a venture, a scheme to bolster his agenda, ere I should depart prematurely. What is his agenda? What is his goal? I can only deduce that it pertains to the soup and the children. Yet let anyone explain to me, if he can, the weight of his obsession? No one man could be so altruistically concerned about the welfare of these orphans purely for their own benefit when he is capably willing to add murder to his list of discourteous, immoral deeds!
My deep-seated instinct now screams out to me that there is something more. What that is I dare not think. It is a secret I am reluctant to uncover. But uncover it I must. And uncover it I will.
Saturday 17th at nightfall.
I write this entry huddled in a ditch between a barn and a hedge! What I have seen is impossible yet my eyes saw it happen. I decided to try to keep away from Drake as much as was possible and leaving the two sisters in charge I went out to try and think of a strategy! In the hills I found no answer nor idea by which to combat him so, resigned and ridden with despair, I trudged home. At the limits of the village I heard an uproar. In response I leapt behind one of the many abandoned cottages that litter this place. Peering round the side wall I looked up the road and saw the school door open. The distance from my hiding place to the door would be, at my best estimation, one-forth of a mile. It was close enough for me to see the two sisters, Therese and Mary emerge. Their hands were bound to their backs! Drake, Tiernach and a few taller boys led them out and bade them stand at the cemetery wall. It resembled an execution by a firing squad of soldiers! The youths then stood well back and the school master approached and stopped some ten paces from the women. In his hands was a small steel pot and a spoon. He leaned his face over the pot as though he were sticking his head fully into it. I judged that he looking at its contents. After less than a minute he raised his head, filled the spoon with what I presume was the soup and thrust it into the mouth of Mary. He was about to apply the same to Therese but the older woman cried out and swore at him so Drake, with only a wave of his finger, had Tiernach and another accomplice grab the woman by the head and jaw and force her mouth to open wide. This being done he poured the remaining contents of the pot down her reluctant gullet! Upon its dispensement Drake and the boys stepped back and watched. The women’s bodies began to tremble. Their head’s tilted backwards and despite the distance I could hear them splutter and choke. They continued to writhe and contort then dropped onto their knees before finally keeling over and lying motionless in the mud. Dead! Drake said something I did not clearly hear then indicated to his acolytes that the corpses of the women should be moved and interned in the graveyard nearby. I know of no poison that causes death with such speed as this! If I recollect it accurately I recall that on one occasion Drake made a point of glancing into our cauldrons. That following night an amount of villagers died! What manner of man is it that can purloin the soup and inflict death with his very gaze!? Tis something lesser yet more powerful than any of God’s creations. If one he be.
I go back now to earlier. The youths took the women for burial and Drake went into the school house. He soon emerged again and walked off in the direction of my cottage! When he returned a short time later he summoned twelve children from the interior and I construed that he was giving them instructions to search for me. He went back inside and the children panned out along every laneway. With a trepidatious heart I concealed myself in a few abandoned cottages then sneaked and crawled my way into this hollow on the periphery on the hamlet. It is dry and deep and a thick hedge partially covers it allowing me to hide. On the other side the stone-wall of what was once the pig’s house shields me opposite. I cannot and will not stay here however. When it is fully dark I will return home by stealth, try and steal some sleep and plan for the morrow.
Sunday 18th June
I successfully reached the cottage and slept there for a few torrid hours. Sleep. I should hardly call it sleep for I and tossed and turned uncomfortably even though the night air was cool. I got up before the sun, procured some food and drink and have settled into the cottage of the late Therese and Mary. I will linger here, behind drawn curtains, for as long a time as possible. It is better that I move at night or at any time I know for certain that Drake and the children are on the move. Some inner thought persuades me to check the school house.
I have an opportunity. I espied Drake and the orphans (nine of them!) walk toward my cottage. I will hide this diary under a large, loose, tiled stone on the floor of the kitchen. If I do not succeed then farewell Rosa! Kiss.
O’ to see what I have seen! I am back and in one piece! Uncovered truths. They are thus. Drake did indeed copy my style of writing and I have seen the proof. I crept over to the school house and entered with quiet caution. It was devoid of all life. I opened the door to Drake’s parlour and went in. There was little of value here and I passed through another door at the far end and found myself in a small, unlit corridor with no windows. There was one door to my right which was made of iron and solidly locked. The other was straight ahead and open. It led into Drake’s chamber. Again there was little of worth and I was about to return to my sanctuary when I chanced to spy under the huge bed a large leather trunk. Yanking it out from beneath I flung it open as if enraged! God in Heaven help us!
Therein: Objects I can’t identify. Writings I do not understand. Symbols and drawings of obscure shapes and unknown creatures! What are these things? Why does he possess them? And to what unholy ends does he purport to use them? The sight of this chaotic paraphernalia served to strike me back from the trunk as though I had received a knuckled blow! But more woe followed. I dug into the trunk and saw papers that I could read. I seized one. It was the letter I had sent to Rosa on May the 13th! Over a month past! Then beneath it was my letter of the 27th! My beloved wife-to-be never received either of them! What must she think of me in supposedly not writing to her!
So it is this that Drake used as a template for his spiteful task of requesting additional foodstuffs in my name! If I recall correctly, and my journal supports me, the acknowledgement of ‘my’ request had specified the 14th of May as the date it was sent! Drake copied my writing format the very night my letter had been sent and subsequently stolen!
But ye sorry reader who will lay eyes on this pitiful account, there is more. O’ Lord God there is more! Not only has that Drake (for serpent he is) taken to confiscating my dispatches but he has selectively appropriated, by a method I know not, of getting hold in his sinewy hands of letters intended for me! I dared not take them all but I had to take her’s which I have fastened here:~
Forristeen Priory
Sparrow Road
Dunlavin
County Wicklow
Friday May 7th 1847
My dear Lawrence,
I was delighted to receive your post of April 19th and trust that the trundling carriage has finally brought you safely to your destination. It rekindled a memory I have of the time you and I, together, rode father’s carriage up the lanes past Donard! Do you remember that? I dearly wish we could have enjoyed many such blissful days in each other’s company but I know that we both must bear our separation with patience.
My days are spent reading, visiting friends and relations often with mother by my side! She asks me constantly concerning our engagement and what the wedding will be like but I shant worry you any more as I believe you are as nervous about it as I am myself!
I too pray that your mission to the west bears fruit and that we will walk hand in hand in the beautiful meadows of home once more.
Do write to me soon and do keep me abridged of your progress as I shall cherish even the smallest note from you.
With Love and affection,
Your Rosa
Then this heartbreaker:~
Forristeen Priory
Sparrow Road
Dunlavin
County Wicklow
Thursday June the 1st 1847
Dear Lawrence,
Why have you not written to me as you promised? It has been over a month since your message. I can appreciate that lines of communication from Dublin to the wild district in which you are located are far from desirable yet I know for a fact that you have written to the archbishop’s office. On Tuesday past His Grace’s secretary Mister Knowles stopped to greet mother in the street and told her in glowing terms of what wonderful things you have already achieved in Kilmaden as you described in your letters to him!
Now I do not grieve at the necessity of reporting to your superiors however surely I, your betrothed, must also reckon in your considerations and your correspondence! Surely I should be at the forefront of your thoughts always, representing the dream to which you aspire! That you cannot even find a moment of time to sit down and pen a love note to me galls me to my very core! How have I offended you? Have you another? Have you seduced some country wench and taken her to replace the esteem I once held in your affections. I do not know. I would be glad to think otherwise and cling to the vain hope that your duties so constrict your time that any correspondence to me is an outright impossibility.
I waited long enough for you during your absence in Abbeyleix and then at the first opportunity you abandon me again? Was I chasing a chimera? Was our love such a mirage, a falsehood? Yes, and I pray that spite rather than tempered reason makes me say so but, yes I think it was.
I fear that I must foreswore our long engagement and release you. If I receive no word or letter from you by the end of the month of June then it is goodbye forever dear Lawrence.
Yours with Faith,
Rose Tynte
Never before has she signed herself by her given name and not the affectionate pet name I gave to her! Rosa! I may well have lost the woman I was destined to spend my life with because of the machinations of this vile man! At the earliest opportunity chance gives me I will abandon this accursed realm of darkness and woe, walk all the way to Galway if I have to and journey the breadth of this island to be reunited with her forever! Alas! My letter to the bishop of 1st June also lay within that musty box. Its envelope had been opened and the message no doubt read and digested. My duty now is to discover the truth and in this I have an ally; an ally that can shoot and kill a man for in Drake’s trunk there was one object I was familiar with: a pistol! It is naval in origin, if I judge correctly, and is already armed with a solitary projectile.
Brace yourself reader. Read on if thy nerve be strong. There too was a key, nestled in a leather tag within the trunk’s lid. Immediately I knew it was for the locked door I had passed and I knew also that beyond it was housed Drake’s final, terrible and most disgusting secret. I lit a candle and went to the door. With a hand that trembled with violence I unlocked the door and pushed it in. Not only were my ears afflicted by the opening of that creaking threshold. A stench that could have corroded my body by its power steeped out the door like the heavy vapour of a stinking oven! With my kerchief I blocked it entering my mouth but my poor eyes were stung and welled with my existing tears. I raised the candle and its light betrayed the odour’s source: Bodies. Skeletons. Rotting flesh. It was a charnel house! I edged back not from the stench but from my own abject horror for I saw that these remains were not those of grown men or women. They were too small; of a size not large enough to be mature. Children! They had been children! The orphaned children once in Drake’s care! Not only had these innocents been murdered but their flesh had been cut for upon the wall hung five cruel blades, more like swords or scimitars than household knives and beside them was a huge, three pronged fork! Drake, school-master and demon has been devouring them! The revelation hit me thus! The soup, the deliveries, his preference for feeding the orphans to excess was all explained: to fatten them in order for him to slaughter them like cattle and consume their remains! What vile creature could be so low as to take the lives of those in his charge to satisfy its perverse and unholy gluttony!?!
As I stared at the sight in dismay I heard a growing noise akin to swarm of bumble bees. From the dark depths of the room a grey shadow loomed up then approached. Louder and louder came the insect noise and I beheld a moving wall of flies, thriving on the filth within, charge toward me! I dropped the candle and lurched to the door, pulling it shut with no time to spare. I locked it, left the key where it was and ran back here breathlessly.
He must be destroyed. IT must be destroyed. There is no movement on the streets; no noise or light. Even the stars are hidden by a black cloud. I know they are all congressed at the school house again; he and his depleted livestock. I must kill him. It’s my holy duty. When he has eaten this town he will move on, he will move on and eat another, then another and another! Wherever there is famine and despair he will go. How long has he been doing this? How long? For there is no age of history that has not known the earthly hells concocted by Beelzebub! War, pestilence, hunger….
I must be composed and calm and take all practical measures. I am safe here for the present. I have his weapon and he knows this for I fled from his dwelling, abandoning the trunk in the mess I had left it. No matter. Act I must and act I shall. If I am defeated then this journal must be preserved. He will know of its existence for I mentioned it to Rosa in my letter of May 13th. So I have chiselled around a big stone slab on the kitchen floor. There is a dry, hollow space beneath it in which I will place you, my journal. You have been a good and loyal friend. Perhaps I will write on your yellow leafs one final time.
I will!
For this is my last entry on this, what is to be my last dawn.~
I believe in God. Given that evil, with the force and power of which I have witnessed tonight, can exist I can state with certainty that it has an opposite in divine goodness. If black has white and night has day then evil has good. They each balance the other.
Drake said he was expecting me. There were seven children with him. Four boys, three girls. He strode out from behind the master’s desk and reached out his arms in welcome. Then, for the first time, he smiled. It was a wholesome, sincere smile but behind it I detected all the spite and rage that underlined his usual complexion. I raised the piston and aimed it at his bald head but his expression did not change. When he saw my shaking hand he laughed.
“Move away children,” I ordered them.
The orphans beheld me with a gaze that was as disinterested as Drake’s had been hateful. In response to my order they formed a ring around their master; becoming his shield against any shot I dared to fire!
“Children, come away now!” is what I think I said but I could not hear my weak and tear-laden entreaty.
Drake laughed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again they glowed; glowed a molten red. His voice was a disembodied monstrosity:
“Flee now child. Depart. You are of no further use to us.”
His red eyes flickered and from them sprung dual streams of yellow light! These beams struck the pistol, knocking it from my hands and I instantly recollected the day the coach had exploded. This ability, surely, had been his means of destroying it. I had been right after all but this knowledge brought me no comfort. It did very much the opposite.
The gun dropped and it discharged, sending the bullet into the wall. Defenceless now, I watched aghast as my eight foes slowly advanced.
Now I am back in the sister’s cottage, adding to you, journal, for what is sure to be my final time. They are all outside with sticks of fire except for Drake who stands at a distance with his shining eyes near the same spot I first laid eyes on him. All are silent. Soon they will set the fire on the cottage’s roof of thatch and I will be forced to try to escape or surrender to their non-existent mercy. If I go then I will go with the same quiet dignity as those good souls Kent and Father Regan. And so on this cold Monday morning it ends. I have learned a lot in fair Kilamaden. Shall my soul linger here or go straight up to the heights of Heaven? But before I hide you again under the stone, journal, let me say goodbye to those I love.
To my mother and brother! Farewell Ma’am, kiss kiss. Good luck Richard. Kiss. God bless and keep you both. Father, I hope to see you soon!
To Rosa, I love you and have missed you. If you ever read this, please never forget that. Goodbye my sweet love. I longed for you the most.
The poet said:
Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep,
Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
Goodbye diary. Goodbye all.
Master’s Residence
The School-House
Kilmaden
County Galway
Ireland
Monday XXVI - VI - MDCCCXLVII
Deliver to: Mr John Knowles, the Office of the Archbishop’s Secretary, Bishop’s Palace, Christchurch Place, Dublin.
Dear Sir,
I write from the impoverished parish of Kilmaden far to the west. In two years the blighted crops and associated diseases have caused the population of this village to drop from several hundred to one. I am the only living thing left. All have been lost to hunger, plague or departure.
The primary purpose of my letter is to convey to you a tragedy as I must regretfully report that a man in your charge, one Reverend Lawrence Nicholson, has also died. He arrived in good spirits and due to his kind facilitation of the church-sponsored soup kitchen he brought great cheer and genuine hope to the declining populace especially the dear children most of whom became orphans before they themselves expired from want of food or medication. Sadly Reverend Nicholson bore a great deal of anxiety at witnessing death on an endemic scale that it served ultimately to agitate his already compromised mind. Despite my best efforts I was unable to help the Reverend who did his duty right up to the end whether it was liaising with your office to procure further assistance or joining with me in educating the sick and starved children. Eventually, and it is my unfortunate burden to relay this news to you, the Reverend descended into a state of unrecoverable madness from which I was unable to save him. He confined himself in a vacated cottage and set fire to it from within. When we heard of this deed myself and the village men were unable to rescue him due to the intensity of the flames and the good Reverend was scorched to death within the inferno. All of his papers and correspondence were also burnt. Please accept my most sincerest condolences and please also pass these sentiments to his family and fiancée.
I have already seen to the burial and have conducted all the necessary administration over the death to my able friend the Galway magistrate Mr Ambrose Fitzmaurice. Please contact his office should the family desire to relocate Reverend Nicholson’s body and I trust that, as a churchman, you can appropriately inform his kin the news of his untimely demise. I myself am leaving for parts elsewhere as I have no purpose or intention to remain alone and hungry in this forsaken wasteland.
I am your obedient servant,
Master Drake.
The Office of the Overseer
Bridge Street Workhouse
Manchester
Lancashire
Monday 6th September 1847
Goodbye diary. Goodbye all.
Master’s Residence
The School-House
Kilmaden
County Galway
Ireland
Monday XXVI - VI - MDCCCXLVII
Deliver to: Mr John Knowles, the Office of the Archbishop’s Secretary, Bishop’s Palace, Christchurch Place, Dublin.
Dear Sir,
I write from the impoverished parish of Kilmaden far to the west. In two years the blighted crops and associated diseases have caused the population of this village to drop from several hundred to one. I am the only living thing left. All have been lost to hunger, plague or departure.
The primary purpose of my letter is to convey to you a tragedy as I must regretfully report that a man in your charge, one Reverend Lawrence Nicholson, has also died. He arrived in good spirits and due to his kind facilitation of the church-sponsored soup kitchen he brought great cheer and genuine hope to the declining populace especially the dear children most of whom became orphans before they themselves expired from want of food or medication. Sadly Reverend Nicholson bore a great deal of anxiety at witnessing death on an endemic scale that it served ultimately to agitate his already compromised mind. Despite my best efforts I was unable to help the Reverend who did his duty right up to the end whether it was liaising with your office to procure further assistance or joining with me in educating the sick and starved children. Eventually, and it is my unfortunate burden to relay this news to you, the Reverend descended into a state of unrecoverable madness from which I was unable to save him. He confined himself in a vacated cottage and set fire to it from within. When we heard of this deed myself and the village men were unable to rescue him due to the intensity of the flames and the good Reverend was scorched to death within the inferno. All of his papers and correspondence were also burnt. Please accept my most sincerest condolences and please also pass these sentiments to his family and fiancée.
I have already seen to the burial and have conducted all the necessary administration over the death to my able friend the Galway magistrate Mr Ambrose Fitzmaurice. Please contact his office should the family desire to relocate Reverend Nicholson’s body and I trust that, as a churchman, you can appropriately inform his kin the news of his untimely demise. I myself am leaving for parts elsewhere as I have no purpose or intention to remain alone and hungry in this forsaken wasteland.
I am your obedient servant,
Master Drake.
The Office of the Overseer
Bridge Street Workhouse
Manchester
Lancashire
Monday 6th September 1847
For the attention of the Parish Council, London Borough of Islington ~ With reference to the applicant (No.6) for the position of Master of Clerkenwell, Workhouse.
My dear Sir,
Concerning your request in providing credentials for applicant Number 6. I can do so with unparalleled pleasure. I have known the candidate for ten years and first knew him when we served together in India in the year 1837. In those days he acted as a Doctor and demonstrated great personal independence by venturing alone into the famine-stricken wilds and attending to the poor health of the natives. I recall that he showed an undeniable concern for the welfare of native children and always persevered in his duty to provide them with medical assistance and all proper nourishment.
In recent years I understand that he had been employed in western Ireland in the role of a school master. This occupation has seen him demonstrate the same Christian decorum he displayed in India. I can state without risk of hyperbole that this candidate has worked relentlessly to stave the plight of innumerable starving people who suffer even now as a consequence of the potatoe blight. Once again his benign interest in the lives of the children in his care is paramount. I have witnessed his good work with my own eyes when I toured Ireland on government business at the onset of the national distress in the year 1845.
Therefore to conclude I heartily recommend the candidate, Mister Drake, for the position of Workhouse Master of Clerkenwell or indeed any vacant role you believe his many undoubted skills are suited for. I have every confidence that he will discharge his duties impeccably and do all that is within his power to improve the lot of that institution’s destitute residents; the men, the women and especially the children.
I am as always Yr Ob Srt. etc,
Albert J. Manningford
Head Overseer.
© Ciaran McVeigh 2011
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