The Blight

The priest had no more to say. He took his gaze out the window, as did Routh. He did not mean to offend the priest—he simply believed strongly in his work and perceived the Relief Scheme he and Trevelyan were administering as the only way to save the people. He was compelled to believe his involovement in Irish Relief could work, lest he lose his mind. As the coach swayed from side to side, the mood of the pictures passing by the window began to change. Every so often, the road was interrupted by people working on the Public Works, and Routh noticed that even the horses looked thinner with each village they passed. Fields lay wild and untouched. Dark clouds seemed to appear out of nowhere, and upon passing one small village, a plain pine coffin stood on its end, leaning against a house. The road wound through barren, dismal mountains with no sign of cultivation or life. And every so often, foul, stagnant swampland appeared at the window. Finally the coach pulled into the town of Skibbereen, and as both men disembarked, a flutter of half-naked skeleton children engulfed them with tiny, boney hands outstretched and begging, “The kind gentleman fer one ha’penny to buy food.” Routh checked in at the only accommodation available in town and set out to find Mr. Townsend, the local clergyman he had arranged to meet through Trevelyan. As he walked through the center of the village, he noticed that all the stores except three were boarded up, making it resemble a ghost town. Two store merchants stood propped at their entrance waiting for somebody, anybody to buy something, and the only merchant busy was the carpenter making coffins. He had plenty of them standing on end outside the bustle of his store, and sawing and banging could be heard inside. One man waited while holding his dead wife in his hands, his head buried in her chest. With each thrust of the hammer heard inside, the man groaned and moaned as if he himself were being punctured. The thought of each nail piecing together his wife’s coffin made the reality of her death absolute and placing her in an oppressive wooden coffin intolerable. He sobbed over and over his agonizing emotions amid stoic onlookers who had deep troubles of their own. Routh continued walking with unease, knowing he was perhaps the only healthy person around. Human skeletons were everywhere, slowly shuffling aimlessly about, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, simply waiting to be stuffed inside one of the coffins they passed by. He witnessed one woman singing a lullaby, perhaps as a means to bear the gnawing pains of unmistakable hunger. Some people were propped against stores, rocking and mumbling, clearly in their own mad world of delirium. Routh made his way to the parish and found Mr. Townsend trying to comfort a woman who had just buried her fourth child. He waited in the back until the numb, filthy peasant limped past him. He introduced himself to Mr. Townsend and explained his intention of the visit. Mr. Townsend first offered information concerning the town and how it had once been a bustle of activity from morning till night, how God smiled upon the beautiful, flourishing village where good will and prosperity swam through the streets. Alas, he now believed the entire population would be destroyed, especially since typhus fever was prevalent. One of the worst things to report was that due to the frequency and multitude of deaths, it was impossible to grant the dying or dead proper church rites. He invited Routh to his home for tea to further discuss Skibbereen, and the two walked across the garden to a front door. Upon entering, he met Mrs. Townsend in the drawing room, sitting at a round table with large bundles of plain, brown linen strewed about. She smiled pleasantly, explaining she was sewing shrouds for the dead. Properly seated and sipping tea, Mr. Townsend went into further detail about the village. He estimated the population was about 20,000 and that since the blight a few hundred had perished. Hundreds more were ill inside the town hospital, which was bursting at the seams with three or four per bed. A person recovering might be sandwiched between two others raging with fever or dying. And they were the fortunate ones. Hundreds of others whom space would not allow had to endure the hardship of typhus in the dark confines of their own cottage. They lay on the damp floor, clinging to their only hope—that someone would die and a space might soon be available in the hospital for them. He further explained that now is the time for planting potatoes and the coming August is the time for harvesting, but as one can see for himself, no one has been planting. The small farmer must resort to the Public Works and spend all his earnings on immediate sustenance since he has no food; therefore, there is none left over to purchase seed. On the other hand, the larger farmer exports all he can and hordes away the money, saving to purchase a ticket out of Ireland to the fertile lands of America. After a while, Routh was tired and had heard enough for the day. He excused himself and headed back to his accommodation for the remainder of the evening. The next morning, Mr. Townsend came round to show Routh what he had come to see—the people themselves. They walked to one end of town where a cluster of homes stood. They tried to determine which home might be better than the other, since they were probably all ravaged with typhus. After much discussion, they decided on one and walked up to the threshold and peered inside. Routh was immediately struck with the absolute dark interior and foul, offensive stench that escaped from the entrance. They stood still, trying to make out objects as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then they slowly crept inside. The walls were bare and the home completely empty except for a few rags in one corner. The inhabitants had sold every piece of furniture and belonging in order to purchase food. It was as if every memory of the people had been erased. The floor was damp and there were remnants of a fire from long ago. They continued on to the house next door, and as Routh entered, his ears were filled with the sound of mud gushing out from underneath his shoes with every step he took. He immediately covered his nose from the putrid odor that hit him like a fist, lest he be sick. A woman with only a small rag covering her bony shoulders was hovered over some smoldering remains of peat, her only source of comfort as she clearly suffered from diarrhea. Mr. Townsend went to her and asked what was wrong in an attempt to determine her sanity, and she replied, “Tha shein ukrosh,” meaning “Indeed the hunger.” Routh would hear that reply again and again throughout his travels. “Everone be dyin’,” she repeated in a weak, shaky voice. “The world ’tis no longer … everone be dyin’.” Routh could hear moans and movement from each of the black corners, but could not see any people. This home had no furniture either except for one small bowl. Upon entering the next hut, Routh found an elderly woman partially clothed, lying on filthy straw, moaning piteously. She had barely enough strength to lift one shaking hand and implored the men to give her something to eat. She herself looked at her arm in aversion and swayed it from side to side, showing the men how her skin hung loosely from her bones. The next hut was deathly quiet except for Routh’s breathing that filled his ears. Each time they entered a home, he braced himself for whatever was inside, man or beast. He walked around thinking the hut was vacant until he spotted a mound of filthy rags in one corner. Upon closer observation, he saw that three little children were huddled together on a bit of foul, soiled straw. They did not stir, moan, or complain, evidently in the last stages before death.