SONG OF SORROW
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
My name is Mary O’Sullivan. I was sent to The Debtors’ Prison on Green Street in the year 1795 at the age of fifteen. My father’s name was Michael O’Sullivan, he was an assistant teacher in The Engineering School at Trinity College Dublin. Walking home on a dark winter evening, he was struck down and killed by a runaway carriage. A neighbor identified his body, and a policeman knocked on our door to give me the news. I was an only child, and my mother had died of influenza seven years earlier. The College paid for his burial and gave me his final wages.
Young girls seldom had access to schooling beyond a basic primary education. I was fortunate to receive continued education by my father in the evenings while I continued my work as a seamstress. Our resources were meager, but we managed as well if not better than most in our neighborhood, ten blocks from Trinity. Our apartment has one bedroom and a main room that serves as kitchen, dining, and living. Father would sleep on a small bed in this general room as he insisted a young woman should have her own bedroom.
We keep our pooled funds in a metal box stored in a cupboard behind a false back wall. After receiving the final wages from Trinity, I counted 17 pounds 87 pence. The sudden loss of my father left me in a state of confusion as to my way forward. Feeling abandoned and adrift in a storm without compass, I lived each day in a routine of what had been familiar only days earlier.
Rising early in the morning, I count out six pieces of coal for the cast iron stove that will heat my tea, bake a potato, and warm the main room. Once nourished, I take my kneeling pillow from the shelf and enter into a time of prayer. I feel my mother’s presence as she guided my sewing of this treasured cushion. While routine has served me well in my work life, so it has given structure to my prayer life. I find comfort in placing my palms upward upon my knees, and bow forward from the waist. I first lift up by name, those that have marked my blessed life, father, mother, and the merchants that request my services. I seek wisdom and guidance in all matters both large and small. Closing in prayer, I remember those with special needs in health, lack of funds, or the unjustly treated.
Gathering the clothes sewn the previous day, I make deliveries to the shops, and pick up new materials and patterns. My mother taught me how to sew from an early age. She was an accomplished dressmaker and well known in Dublin for the quality and style of her distinctive work. After her passing, I earned a small income from sewing simple items like scarfs. By the age of twelve, I was an accepted dressmaker and hatter. Father encouraged me to dress myself in a manner that would emphasize my talent in design and color selection. While I am shy and reserved by nature, my tall and slender frame, accented by red hair, gave me an opportunity to model my creative abilities.
Three weeks after my father’s death, I found a solicitor’s letter nailed to our door. It was a court-approved request for outstanding debts to be paid. The amount due was forty pounds. I had no awareness of our owing money to others, and assumed this was a case of mistaken identity. The collections court building was on James Street, near the river. Securing an appointment, I met with an official of the court and the solicitor representing the lender in question. I was chagrinned to see my father’s signature on the records, and to learn that we had been living beyond our means for the past three years. With the loss of father’s teaching income, and my young age, the lender was demanding immediate satisfaction of the full amount owed. My promises, pleadings, and protests were ignored. One week later, with my metal box emptied, and a discounted balance owed of twenty pounds, I moved a portion of my furnishings to The Debtors’ Prison.
The prison, also called the Marshalsea, was a U-shaped building of granite and limestone with three floors above ground and a basement below. It was built one year earlier with thirty-three cells rented either furnished or unfurnished, and basement rooms for the less fortunate with no means to pay their debts. The marshall, or warden, and his family lived on the main floor. The larger Irish cities each had their own debtor prison, and each was run by a poorly paid and too often corrupt marshall. Each person or family would pay a monthly rent for their cell and their food. It was common to find overcrowded cells that housed unrelated men, women, and children locked up together. Extortion was frequent, and those who could not pay were often violently beaten, abused, and stripped. The political view toward debtors at this time could be stated as “Let them care to keep out.” If you were so careless as to owe others without the ability to repay, then you were a wicked person who deserved the punishment you received. Debtors were not entitled to medical attention, so the downward spiral only accelerated for the unfortunate.
In the early months, I was able to maintain my schedule of sewing, delivery, and pick-up of new orders. Based on the cost of my incarceration, I considered it reasonable to repay five pounds per year toward my debt obligation. At this rate, I could be freed in four years. As time progressed, unfortunately, work slowed. The lighting in my cell was poor and the quality of my dresses and hats diminished. I was no longer as clean and presentable as before, often wearing soiled outfits. Several of the merchants saw my circumstance as shameful and embarrassing and no longer sought out my services. I became distraught and often cried in my cell, fearful for my future. The marshal opened a possible escape route for my troubled circumstance.
Marshal O’Brian was a corpulent, feckless, and short tempered man who was seldom sober. His office resembled an accounting room after a tornado. The future of his position required passing periodic audits, and fearful of being sacked, he deducted fifty percent of my cost in the form of administrative services rendered. While this was a step forward for my financial needs, it sadly opened my eyes to the unbearable conditions of so many in the prison. As they say, “Choose your poison,” cheap alcohol, spoiled food, damp rat infested cells, and on and on.
One of my responsibilities was maintaining the register of collections. The marshal had great freedom in setting the monthly fee to be collected for each adult person. Added charges could be levied when he saw an opportunity, and deductions could be offered when he received favors, often of a sexual nature. What grieved me most was the daily loss of humanity I would witness in the lives of these anguished souls. One of the most outrageous acts was to charge a fee to leave the prison when a person was freed of his debt. This final act upon the less fortunate by those in power could poison a heart forever. I came to look at O’Brian’s drunkenness as a blessing, as I would alter the record with reduced charges whenever possible, and return back funds to the persecuted inmates.
Just when I felt my sorrow for others was at its limit, I had to deliver the evening meal to the various cells during a cold winter evening. This was the first time I witnessed firsthand the extreme hardship of so many others in the Marshalsea. It was eye-opening to see so many brothers and sisters suffering in the freezing musty cells. I observed coughing, moaning, shouting inmates, with many being driven to various levels of insanity. What struck me the deepest were the helpless children.
This was the evening I first met the Flynn girls, Nancy and Mercy. They were identical twins, age five. Huddled together against the wall in a corner of the cell with a blanket wrapped around them, they looked up to me with the bluest of eyes. Their father was drunk with his head down on the table, and their mother appeared to be in a confused state, muttering while she pulled at her hair. I placed the food on the table and walked over and sat on the floor next to the girls. Without saying a word, they stood, letting the blanket fall away, and again sat down, one on each side gripping my arm. I pulled my arms free and hugged them to my side while quietly weeping. They were dressed in thin clothing that was filthy and ragged. Back in my cell that evening, I gathered material and started making winter dresses. I was able to convince Marshall O’Brien that it was in his best interest that the children living in the Marshalsea be properly clothed. From that day forward, I was given an allowance to buy materials and recruited several of the mothers to assist in the sewing.
Cheap alcohol was a curse to many in Ireland at this time, but especially in the close confines of the prison. A noggin of whiskey could be purchased for one-and-a-half pence, and too often men and women would come back from their work in a state of drunkenness only to abuse those around them, often the children. After a short period with five deaths from alcohol poisoning, the marshall, fearing an inquiry, stepped up the confiscation of whiskey within the cells. Mr. Flynn was one of the five who perished, and I was deeply concerned for the welfare of Nancy and Mercy. Mrs. Flynn was acting more erratic each day and further detached from the care of her children. Again, I was able to use my position in the office to bring the girls up to my cell during the day.
What joy entered my life each morning as the three of us prepared for the day. They soon became talkative and lively, as we washed, combed hair, and sat for our morning meal. The kneeling cushion quickly became a highlight for them as they took turns saying a prayer for their mother. My heart swelled one day when Mercy added “and thank you for our mother Mary who loves us so much.” One morning as I picked up the girls, they each held a stick doll. “What beautiful dolls you have,” I said, “Who gave them to you?” They answered “Mr. Conor gave them to us.”
I had met Conor Fitzgerald on several occasions and knew him to be a boat builder from Kinsale, on the southern coast. The nearest debtor prison was in Cork, and at the time of his incarceration the facility had no room available, so he was sent to Dublin. Conor had borrowed funds to build a boat for a fisherman. The buyer advanced partial payments as the vessel was being constructed but fell behind as the completion neared. Conor trusted the buyer to honor his obligation, but once completed, he absconded with the boat. The fisherman tried to sail to Killorglin on the west coast, but the boat sunk in a ferocious storm, and the man perished. Conor’s remaining debt was down to fifteen pounds and he had found work building skiffs for the River Liffey in Dublin. He was nineteen, and like me, had no family that could be of possible help.
The girls chose pieces of fabric they fancied, and they helped me sew dresses for the dolls. Such a small treasure brought them tremendous joy. Soon Conor joined my efforts to help bring a brighter life to the children in our dark corner of the world. I continued with the making of clothes and Conor added soldiers for the boys and doll houses for the girls. We established an unofficial committee of inmates to help improve the conditions of our prison, seeking out the skills that each could contribute for the benefit of others. Many of us would make a small weekly contribution to a welfare fund for the most urgent of needs. One of the men was a doctor who lost his license due to alcohol addiction. Dr. Kelly was grateful to still be needed, and fellow inmates appreciated his medical attention.
St. Audoen’s Church is located in Cornmarket just south of the River Liffey by the ship yards. Father Murphy would make weekly visits to the various boat builders to meet the men and encourage their Sunday attendance. When he met Conor, he was saddened to hear that there was no church ministry at the prison. The next Saturday, Conor missed work so we could take Father Murphy on a tour of all the cells and meet as many of the inmates as possible. He was troubled by seeing so many vulnerable and abandoned souls. He pledged to join our committee and to offer both a spiritual presence inside the prison, but just as important, be an outside voice for reform. I stressed the sensitive thin line we walked with Marshall O’Brian, and that any change or improvement needed to be presented in a way that assuaged both his ego and the security of his position. I soon found I had no worry as Father Murphy was a master at threading the needle of delicate relationships.
Consumption was the laymen’s succinct name for the silent terror that struck so many children in Dublin and elsewhere. The highly infectious tuberculosis bacillus thrived in the crowded tenements of the inner city, and our damp, dark, and cold prison cells were an ideal breeding ground. Daily, I would examine Nancy and Mercy, looking for any evidence of weight loss, or breathlessness. My greatest fear was realized one early morning when I arrived at their cell and found them wrapped in a blanket, shivering and coughing. I quickly brought them up to my cell, wrapped them more warmly, and gave them a mixture of warm tea and milk. Running to Dr. Kelly’s cell, I was infuriated to find him drunk at his table. Taking a bowl of cold water, I continued to dunk his head in water until he slowly regained his cognizance. His examination of the girls was inconclusive, and he strongly recommended that they stay in my better ventilated cell, under my close supervision. Saying nothing to the marshal until I could devise a plan for this need, I simply did not return the girls to the basement that evening. I did go down and wrap Mrs. Flynn as warmly as possible, and tried to coax her to eat. She asked nothing about the girls, and seemingly did not understand my concern for their health. The ways of our Creator are surely a mystery to us mortals, Mrs. Flynn quietly passed away that night.
Nancy and Mercy would be sent to an orphanage. As cruel as this judgement would be, the risk of separation could be a fatal blow to such fragile lives. Conor and I sought out Father Murphy to intervene on behalf of their plight. No thought entered my mind other than I was to be their mother, the only question was how we could proceed. Father Murphy felt strongly that we needed to start with a small step. He spoke to the marshal and cautioned him about sending sick children to the orphanage who might spread a contagious disease. He further stated that the community leaders at St. Audoen’s had been hearing of improved conditions at the Debtors’ Prison led by Marshal O’Brian and his administrative assistant Mary O’Sullivan. Allowing these girls to stay temporarily with Ms. O’Sullivan would be looked upon favorably by the community, the priest stated. The marshal hesitantly agreed.
Every day I clung to the doubts of Dr. Kelly, that the girls may just have winter congestion and not the deadly consumption. After two weeks, the coughs lessened, and a healthy color slowly returned to their cheeks. Conor was a godsend, bringing back small amounts of meat and vegetables that I made into soup for the four of us. I was sure he was neglecting his debt payments to care for the girls. While Conor and I grew closer as friends, it was a shared love for the twins that empowered our actions. Just as my father educated me in evening school lessons, my next overpowering goal was to teach my girls how to read and write.
I still maintained a small dressmaking business thanks to one particular store owner. Years earlier, Mrs. Walsh had spent three years in a debtor’s prison and understood the unfairness of this punishment system. She vowed to help others in a similar situation if the opportunity ever arose. She did not turn her back on me as others did, and went out of her way to provide work whenever possible. Father Murphy collected several early level reading and writing books from parish families for my evening lessons. Our class of two quickly became three when Conor confessed his hidden illiteracy.
September 30,1796 marked the end of my first year in prison. Rather than feeling sorrow, I was filled with joy and gladness for such meaning in my life. Nancy and Mercy filled my days with unbridled love and shared affection. I had only reduced my debt by two pounds, but rather than despairing this slow progress, I felt like Mrs. Walsh, determined that a brighter future lay ahead.
The winter of 1796 was one of the coldest in the recorded history of Dublin. Our prison committee worked tirelessly to keep our people as warm as possible, through outside donations sponsored by St. Audoen’s. In early 1797, a different cold front swept over us. Marshal O’Brian announced that he was being replaced by Marshal Murray from Waterford. He confided to me that Murray was a stickler for rules, and as I was an unmarried woman, the twins would surely be sent to the orphanage. He said that other changes would surely come, but I heard nothing further as my mind closed out his words, and my thoughts centered on a solution for the welfare of Nancy and Mercy.
Months ago, Conor and I had discussed marriage as a way to protect the twins, and we now saw this as our only option. Within a week, Father Murphy had married us, and by the end of the month, thanks to his pressure on politicians, the girls were our adopted children. Conor had an unfurnished cell and rented his bed, table, and chair. A donated bed was our only need as he settled into my cell. We quickly became excited by the prospect of our combined earnings with fewer expenses, and set a new goal of being debt free and our family living a normal life away from prison.
Irish last names carry a meaning or origin, and Murray refers to lord or master. As soon as the new marshal arrived, we quickly learned that the man and the meaning fit like a tight glove. Within the first week, I was excused from my administrative work and my rent was increased to the original full amount plus a surcharge for our family unit. All inmate-led committees were suspended, and a curfew was established that required all people to be in their own cell by 9 p.m. Those of us that had led reform continued to do our best in a closeted way. The one program that Marshal Murray allowed was the schooling of children between the ages of five to ten. Father Murphy had raised a small amount of funds to support my role as teacher, and I continued sewing clothes for the children. Conor supported my decision to place child welfare above paying down my debt.
The end of my second year brought little financial improvement as my debt was still eighteen pounds. The good news was that Conor had reduced his debt to seven pounds, leaving our combined obligation at twenty-five pounds. The twins were now seven years old, healthy, and able to read and write. They were my proud assistants in our brief daily schooling, and both professed a desire to become teachers. Each evening before bed was story time, and their favorite topics were Grandpa Michael and Trinity College. At least once per week, the three of us would deliver several dresses to Mrs. Walsh, pick up new material, and walk to Trinity before going back to the prison. Walking around the college grounds and gardens opened their eyes to the beauty of the outside world, and offered the hope of a better future. Even at this young age, their minds were a sponge for knowledge, and the history of Ireland was a cherished subject. They delighted telling Conor about the Book of Kells, and describing the beautifully illuminated pages. This Gospel book was over one thousand years old and widely regarded as Ireland’s finest treasure.
My soul was breaking as I would lie awake and gaze at my beautiful daughters. Suppressing my cough was not easy, but I constantly carried a handkerchief to muffle the sound and discreetly collect the blood and mucus. Conor was surely aware of my slow but progressive weight loss and increasing lack of energy, but neither of us wanted to have the discussion. By the end of 1798, I was no longer able to sew for Mrs. Walsh, and I stopped teaching for fear of passing my consumption on to others. One evening, at my request, Conor brought Father Murphy to our cell, and the five of us sat around the table. This dear priest spoke as if guided by angels, as he helped my family understand the seriousness of my condition. He gave the girls an insight to eternity, and said that we would always be together in spirit.
The twins would cling to me daily, and I would do my best to carry on in a normal manner, but seldom was I able to rise from the bed. Each week Conor would take the girls to Trinity, and now a new chapter was opening for them, boat building and a love for the water. They would return home and share with excitement, what they had learned at the boat yard, and recount to me stories that Conor would tell about Kinsale. As our parting neared, I found a new reserve of mental strength and peace in my heart. My greatest joy was received on the evening Father Murphy came back to sit at our table.
They pulled my bed to the table, and the girls said we all had to hold hands. Our priest said I was being recognized for the reforms I had initiated at the prison and that a special financial gift of thirty-five pounds had been collected for the O’Sullivan-Fitzgerald family. It took a few minutes for Nancy and Mercy to understand the implication of this gift, a new life away from the debtor’s prison.
How does the spirit know what the mind cannot comprehend? I pulled the girls close to my side, and expressed my deepest love, my absolute belief in their future happiness. I squeezed Conor’s hand and thanked him for his love for our family. I fell into a peaceful sleep.
EPILOGUE
Mary O’Sullivan was buried in the cemetery at St. Audoen’s. The stone cross spoke of her prison reform and her loving family. Marshal Murray was a stickler for the law, and there was no fee for leaving the prison once the debts were paid. With ten pounds in his pocket, Conor Fitzgerald walked out of The Debtors’ Prison on Green Street in the year 1799. Nancy held his left hand and Mercy held his right hand. Before taking the coach to Kinsale, they walked through the gardens of Trinity and said a prayer as they looked upon the Book Of Kells. Conor resumed his boat building business, and never incurred a debt for the remainder of his life. Nancy and Mercy became teachers, and never married, living together in Kinsale for the remainder of their lives. Every year on the anniversary of their mother Mary’s death, they would travel to Dublin to visit her grave, and visit Trinity. 1864 was a special visit when the Small Debtors Discharge Act was signed, ending debtor’s prisons in Ireland.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
My name is Mary O’Sullivan. I was sent to The Debtors’ Prison on Green Street in the year 1795 at the age of fifteen. My father’s name was Michael O’Sullivan, he was an assistant teacher in The Engineering School at Trinity College Dublin. Walking home on a dark winter evening, he was struck down and killed by a runaway carriage. A neighbor identified his body, and a policeman knocked on our door to give me the news. I was an only child, and my mother had died of influenza seven years earlier. The College paid for his burial and gave me his final wages.
Young girls seldom had access to schooling beyond a basic primary education. I was fortunate to receive continued education by my father in the evenings while I continued my work as a seamstress. Our resources were meager, but we managed as well if not better than most in our neighborhood, ten blocks from Trinity. Our apartment has one bedroom and a main room that serves as kitchen, dining, and living. Father would sleep on a small bed in this general room as he insisted a young woman should have her own bedroom.
We keep our pooled funds in a metal box stored in a cupboard behind a false back wall. After receiving the final wages from Trinity, I counted 17 pounds 87 pence. The sudden loss of my father left me in a state of confusion as to my way forward. Feeling abandoned and adrift in a storm without compass, I lived each day in a routine of what had been familiar only days earlier.
Rising early in the morning, I count out six pieces of coal for the cast iron stove that will heat my tea, bake a potato, and warm the main room. Once nourished, I take my kneeling pillow from the shelf and enter into a time of prayer. I feel my mother’s presence as she guided my sewing of this treasured cushion. While routine has served me well in my work life, so it has given structure to my prayer life. I find comfort in placing my palms upward upon my knees, and bow forward from the waist. I first lift up by name, those that have marked my blessed life, father, mother, and the merchants that request my services. I seek wisdom and guidance in all matters both large and small. Closing in prayer, I remember those with special needs in health, lack of funds, or the unjustly treated.
Gathering the clothes sewn the previous day, I make deliveries to the shops, and pick up new materials and patterns. My mother taught me how to sew from an early age. She was an accomplished dressmaker and well known in Dublin for the quality and style of her distinctive work. After her passing, I earned a small income from sewing simple items like scarfs. By the age of twelve, I was an accepted dressmaker and hatter. Father encouraged me to dress myself in a manner that would emphasize my talent in design and color selection. While I am shy and reserved by nature, my tall and slender frame, accented by red hair, gave me an opportunity to model my creative abilities.
Three weeks after my father’s death, I found a solicitor’s letter nailed to our door. It was a court-approved request for outstanding debts to be paid. The amount due was forty pounds. I had no awareness of our owing money to others, and assumed this was a case of mistaken identity. The collections court building was on James Street, near the river. Securing an appointment, I met with an official of the court and the solicitor representing the lender in question. I was chagrinned to see my father’s signature on the records, and to learn that we had been living beyond our means for the past three years. With the loss of father’s teaching income, and my young age, the lender was demanding immediate satisfaction of the full amount owed. My promises, pleadings, and protests were ignored. One week later, with my metal box emptied, and a discounted balance owed of twenty pounds, I moved a portion of my furnishings to The Debtors’ Prison.
The prison, also called the Marshalsea, was a U-shaped building of granite and limestone with three floors above ground and a basement below. It was built one year earlier with thirty-three cells rented either furnished or unfurnished, and basement rooms for the less fortunate with no means to pay their debts. The marshall, or warden, and his family lived on the main floor. The larger Irish cities each had their own debtor prison, and each was run by a poorly paid and too often corrupt marshall. Each person or family would pay a monthly rent for their cell and their food. It was common to find overcrowded cells that housed unrelated men, women, and children locked up together. Extortion was frequent, and those who could not pay were often violently beaten, abused, and stripped. The political view toward debtors at this time could be stated as “Let them care to keep out.” If you were so careless as to owe others without the ability to repay, then you were a wicked person who deserved the punishment you received. Debtors were not entitled to medical attention, so the downward spiral only accelerated for the unfortunate.
In the early months, I was able to maintain my schedule of sewing, delivery, and pick-up of new orders. Based on the cost of my incarceration, I considered it reasonable to repay five pounds per year toward my debt obligation. At this rate, I could be freed in four years. As time progressed, unfortunately, work slowed. The lighting in my cell was poor and the quality of my dresses and hats diminished. I was no longer as clean and presentable as before, often wearing soiled outfits. Several of the merchants saw my circumstance as shameful and embarrassing and no longer sought out my services. I became distraught and often cried in my cell, fearful for my future. The marshal opened a possible escape route for my troubled circumstance.
Marshal O’Brian was a corpulent, feckless, and short tempered man who was seldom sober. His office resembled an accounting room after a tornado. The future of his position required passing periodic audits, and fearful of being sacked, he deducted fifty percent of my cost in the form of administrative services rendered. While this was a step forward for my financial needs, it sadly opened my eyes to the unbearable conditions of so many in the prison. As they say, “Choose your poison,” cheap alcohol, spoiled food, damp rat infested cells, and on and on.
One of my responsibilities was maintaining the register of collections. The marshal had great freedom in setting the monthly fee to be collected for each adult person. Added charges could be levied when he saw an opportunity, and deductions could be offered when he received favors, often of a sexual nature. What grieved me most was the daily loss of humanity I would witness in the lives of these anguished souls. One of the most outrageous acts was to charge a fee to leave the prison when a person was freed of his debt. This final act upon the less fortunate by those in power could poison a heart forever. I came to look at O’Brian’s drunkenness as a blessing, as I would alter the record with reduced charges whenever possible, and return back funds to the persecuted inmates.
Just when I felt my sorrow for others was at its limit, I had to deliver the evening meal to the various cells during a cold winter evening. This was the first time I witnessed firsthand the extreme hardship of so many others in the Marshalsea. It was eye-opening to see so many brothers and sisters suffering in the freezing musty cells. I observed coughing, moaning, shouting inmates, with many being driven to various levels of insanity. What struck me the deepest were the helpless children.
This was the evening I first met the Flynn girls, Nancy and Mercy. They were identical twins, age five. Huddled together against the wall in a corner of the cell with a blanket wrapped around them, they looked up to me with the bluest of eyes. Their father was drunk with his head down on the table, and their mother appeared to be in a confused state, muttering while she pulled at her hair. I placed the food on the table and walked over and sat on the floor next to the girls. Without saying a word, they stood, letting the blanket fall away, and again sat down, one on each side gripping my arm. I pulled my arms free and hugged them to my side while quietly weeping. They were dressed in thin clothing that was filthy and ragged. Back in my cell that evening, I gathered material and started making winter dresses. I was able to convince Marshall O’Brien that it was in his best interest that the children living in the Marshalsea be properly clothed. From that day forward, I was given an allowance to buy materials and recruited several of the mothers to assist in the sewing.
Cheap alcohol was a curse to many in Ireland at this time, but especially in the close confines of the prison. A noggin of whiskey could be purchased for one-and-a-half pence, and too often men and women would come back from their work in a state of drunkenness only to abuse those around them, often the children. After a short period with five deaths from alcohol poisoning, the marshall, fearing an inquiry, stepped up the confiscation of whiskey within the cells. Mr. Flynn was one of the five who perished, and I was deeply concerned for the welfare of Nancy and Mercy. Mrs. Flynn was acting more erratic each day and further detached from the care of her children. Again, I was able to use my position in the office to bring the girls up to my cell during the day.
What joy entered my life each morning as the three of us prepared for the day. They soon became talkative and lively, as we washed, combed hair, and sat for our morning meal. The kneeling cushion quickly became a highlight for them as they took turns saying a prayer for their mother. My heart swelled one day when Mercy added “and thank you for our mother Mary who loves us so much.” One morning as I picked up the girls, they each held a stick doll. “What beautiful dolls you have,” I said, “Who gave them to you?” They answered “Mr. Conor gave them to us.”
I had met Conor Fitzgerald on several occasions and knew him to be a boat builder from Kinsale, on the southern coast. The nearest debtor prison was in Cork, and at the time of his incarceration the facility had no room available, so he was sent to Dublin. Conor had borrowed funds to build a boat for a fisherman. The buyer advanced partial payments as the vessel was being constructed but fell behind as the completion neared. Conor trusted the buyer to honor his obligation, but once completed, he absconded with the boat. The fisherman tried to sail to Killorglin on the west coast, but the boat sunk in a ferocious storm, and the man perished. Conor’s remaining debt was down to fifteen pounds and he had found work building skiffs for the River Liffey in Dublin. He was nineteen, and like me, had no family that could be of possible help.
The girls chose pieces of fabric they fancied, and they helped me sew dresses for the dolls. Such a small treasure brought them tremendous joy. Soon Conor joined my efforts to help bring a brighter life to the children in our dark corner of the world. I continued with the making of clothes and Conor added soldiers for the boys and doll houses for the girls. We established an unofficial committee of inmates to help improve the conditions of our prison, seeking out the skills that each could contribute for the benefit of others. Many of us would make a small weekly contribution to a welfare fund for the most urgent of needs. One of the men was a doctor who lost his license due to alcohol addiction. Dr. Kelly was grateful to still be needed, and fellow inmates appreciated his medical attention.
St. Audoen’s Church is located in Cornmarket just south of the River Liffey by the ship yards. Father Murphy would make weekly visits to the various boat builders to meet the men and encourage their Sunday attendance. When he met Conor, he was saddened to hear that there was no church ministry at the prison. The next Saturday, Conor missed work so we could take Father Murphy on a tour of all the cells and meet as many of the inmates as possible. He was troubled by seeing so many vulnerable and abandoned souls. He pledged to join our committee and to offer both a spiritual presence inside the prison, but just as important, be an outside voice for reform. I stressed the sensitive thin line we walked with Marshall O’Brian, and that any change or improvement needed to be presented in a way that assuaged both his ego and the security of his position. I soon found I had no worry as Father Murphy was a master at threading the needle of delicate relationships.
Consumption was the laymen’s succinct name for the silent terror that struck so many children in Dublin and elsewhere. The highly infectious tuberculosis bacillus thrived in the crowded tenements of the inner city, and our damp, dark, and cold prison cells were an ideal breeding ground. Daily, I would examine Nancy and Mercy, looking for any evidence of weight loss, or breathlessness. My greatest fear was realized one early morning when I arrived at their cell and found them wrapped in a blanket, shivering and coughing. I quickly brought them up to my cell, wrapped them more warmly, and gave them a mixture of warm tea and milk. Running to Dr. Kelly’s cell, I was infuriated to find him drunk at his table. Taking a bowl of cold water, I continued to dunk his head in water until he slowly regained his cognizance. His examination of the girls was inconclusive, and he strongly recommended that they stay in my better ventilated cell, under my close supervision. Saying nothing to the marshal until I could devise a plan for this need, I simply did not return the girls to the basement that evening. I did go down and wrap Mrs. Flynn as warmly as possible, and tried to coax her to eat. She asked nothing about the girls, and seemingly did not understand my concern for their health. The ways of our Creator are surely a mystery to us mortals, Mrs. Flynn quietly passed away that night.
Nancy and Mercy would be sent to an orphanage. As cruel as this judgement would be, the risk of separation could be a fatal blow to such fragile lives. Conor and I sought out Father Murphy to intervene on behalf of their plight. No thought entered my mind other than I was to be their mother, the only question was how we could proceed. Father Murphy felt strongly that we needed to start with a small step. He spoke to the marshal and cautioned him about sending sick children to the orphanage who might spread a contagious disease. He further stated that the community leaders at St. Audoen’s had been hearing of improved conditions at the Debtors’ Prison led by Marshal O’Brian and his administrative assistant Mary O’Sullivan. Allowing these girls to stay temporarily with Ms. O’Sullivan would be looked upon favorably by the community, the priest stated. The marshal hesitantly agreed.
Every day I clung to the doubts of Dr. Kelly, that the girls may just have winter congestion and not the deadly consumption. After two weeks, the coughs lessened, and a healthy color slowly returned to their cheeks. Conor was a godsend, bringing back small amounts of meat and vegetables that I made into soup for the four of us. I was sure he was neglecting his debt payments to care for the girls. While Conor and I grew closer as friends, it was a shared love for the twins that empowered our actions. Just as my father educated me in evening school lessons, my next overpowering goal was to teach my girls how to read and write.
I still maintained a small dressmaking business thanks to one particular store owner. Years earlier, Mrs. Walsh had spent three years in a debtor’s prison and understood the unfairness of this punishment system. She vowed to help others in a similar situation if the opportunity ever arose. She did not turn her back on me as others did, and went out of her way to provide work whenever possible. Father Murphy collected several early level reading and writing books from parish families for my evening lessons. Our class of two quickly became three when Conor confessed his hidden illiteracy.
September 30,1796 marked the end of my first year in prison. Rather than feeling sorrow, I was filled with joy and gladness for such meaning in my life. Nancy and Mercy filled my days with unbridled love and shared affection. I had only reduced my debt by two pounds, but rather than despairing this slow progress, I felt like Mrs. Walsh, determined that a brighter future lay ahead.
The winter of 1796 was one of the coldest in the recorded history of Dublin. Our prison committee worked tirelessly to keep our people as warm as possible, through outside donations sponsored by St. Audoen’s. In early 1797, a different cold front swept over us. Marshal O’Brian announced that he was being replaced by Marshal Murray from Waterford. He confided to me that Murray was a stickler for rules, and as I was an unmarried woman, the twins would surely be sent to the orphanage. He said that other changes would surely come, but I heard nothing further as my mind closed out his words, and my thoughts centered on a solution for the welfare of Nancy and Mercy.
Months ago, Conor and I had discussed marriage as a way to protect the twins, and we now saw this as our only option. Within a week, Father Murphy had married us, and by the end of the month, thanks to his pressure on politicians, the girls were our adopted children. Conor had an unfurnished cell and rented his bed, table, and chair. A donated bed was our only need as he settled into my cell. We quickly became excited by the prospect of our combined earnings with fewer expenses, and set a new goal of being debt free and our family living a normal life away from prison.
Irish last names carry a meaning or origin, and Murray refers to lord or master. As soon as the new marshal arrived, we quickly learned that the man and the meaning fit like a tight glove. Within the first week, I was excused from my administrative work and my rent was increased to the original full amount plus a surcharge for our family unit. All inmate-led committees were suspended, and a curfew was established that required all people to be in their own cell by 9 p.m. Those of us that had led reform continued to do our best in a closeted way. The one program that Marshal Murray allowed was the schooling of children between the ages of five to ten. Father Murphy had raised a small amount of funds to support my role as teacher, and I continued sewing clothes for the children. Conor supported my decision to place child welfare above paying down my debt.
The end of my second year brought little financial improvement as my debt was still eighteen pounds. The good news was that Conor had reduced his debt to seven pounds, leaving our combined obligation at twenty-five pounds. The twins were now seven years old, healthy, and able to read and write. They were my proud assistants in our brief daily schooling, and both professed a desire to become teachers. Each evening before bed was story time, and their favorite topics were Grandpa Michael and Trinity College. At least once per week, the three of us would deliver several dresses to Mrs. Walsh, pick up new material, and walk to Trinity before going back to the prison. Walking around the college grounds and gardens opened their eyes to the beauty of the outside world, and offered the hope of a better future. Even at this young age, their minds were a sponge for knowledge, and the history of Ireland was a cherished subject. They delighted telling Conor about the Book of Kells, and describing the beautifully illuminated pages. This Gospel book was over one thousand years old and widely regarded as Ireland’s finest treasure.
My soul was breaking as I would lie awake and gaze at my beautiful daughters. Suppressing my cough was not easy, but I constantly carried a handkerchief to muffle the sound and discreetly collect the blood and mucus. Conor was surely aware of my slow but progressive weight loss and increasing lack of energy, but neither of us wanted to have the discussion. By the end of 1798, I was no longer able to sew for Mrs. Walsh, and I stopped teaching for fear of passing my consumption on to others. One evening, at my request, Conor brought Father Murphy to our cell, and the five of us sat around the table. This dear priest spoke as if guided by angels, as he helped my family understand the seriousness of my condition. He gave the girls an insight to eternity, and said that we would always be together in spirit.
The twins would cling to me daily, and I would do my best to carry on in a normal manner, but seldom was I able to rise from the bed. Each week Conor would take the girls to Trinity, and now a new chapter was opening for them, boat building and a love for the water. They would return home and share with excitement, what they had learned at the boat yard, and recount to me stories that Conor would tell about Kinsale. As our parting neared, I found a new reserve of mental strength and peace in my heart. My greatest joy was received on the evening Father Murphy came back to sit at our table.
They pulled my bed to the table, and the girls said we all had to hold hands. Our priest said I was being recognized for the reforms I had initiated at the prison and that a special financial gift of thirty-five pounds had been collected for the O’Sullivan-Fitzgerald family. It took a few minutes for Nancy and Mercy to understand the implication of this gift, a new life away from the debtor’s prison.
How does the spirit know what the mind cannot comprehend? I pulled the girls close to my side, and expressed my deepest love, my absolute belief in their future happiness. I squeezed Conor’s hand and thanked him for his love for our family. I fell into a peaceful sleep.
EPILOGUE
Mary O’Sullivan was buried in the cemetery at St. Audoen’s. The stone cross spoke of her prison reform and her loving family. Marshal Murray was a stickler for the law, and there was no fee for leaving the prison once the debts were paid. With ten pounds in his pocket, Conor Fitzgerald walked out of The Debtors’ Prison on Green Street in the year 1799. Nancy held his left hand and Mercy held his right hand. Before taking the coach to Kinsale, they walked through the gardens of Trinity and said a prayer as they looked upon the Book Of Kells. Conor resumed his boat building business, and never incurred a debt for the remainder of his life. Nancy and Mercy became teachers, and never married, living together in Kinsale for the remainder of their lives. Every year on the anniversary of their mother Mary’s death, they would travel to Dublin to visit her grave, and visit Trinity. 1864 was a special visit when the Small Debtors Discharge Act was signed, ending debtor’s prisons in Ireland.
RICHARD SWAIN