“Doctor, dear, don’t say that; you can save him. I’ll pay you well, if I have to mortgage my farm to get the money.”
“There is no saving of him, poor fellow; he’s going as many like him are going,” and with that the doctor moved away.
I knelt beside my nephew and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning hot. His lips were going and he was muttering something, what I could not make out. “Gerald, won’t you spake; I’m your uncle come to take you home wid me.” Never a word. I went over to one of the men in charge and he pointed where the water was. I filled a noggin and pressed it to my nephew’s lips and wet his face. I watched by him for what seemed a long while and saw others die and heard the groans of those in pain and the screams of those that were raving, and the beseechings for water to drink. I attended to those near by as well as I could, and it was when I was coming back with a pail of water I noticed the flush had left my nephew’s face. I was bathing his forehead when he opened his eyes and stared at me. “I’m your uncle, me poor boy; you feel better?”
“May God bless you,” says he, “but what made you come to this fearful place?”
“Sure its nothing; its little to do for my own sister’s child.”
He squazed my hand and closed his eyes and I knew he was praying for me.
“Bring me a priest.”
A man that was passing told me I’d find one in the next shed. It was worse than the one I left, for it had one row over the other of berths. At the far end I saw a priest, and found he was giving the last rites to an ould man, whose white hair was matted with dirt. I waited till he was done and asked the father to come with me. I left Gerald and him alone, and the priest had no sooner said the last prayer than there was a message for him to go to another poor soul for whom there was no hope. When Gerald saw me, he said, despairin’ like, “Take me out o’ here; ye can carry me. I want to die in God’s free air.” These were his very words.
“That I will,” says I, “and you’ll be home wid me in Huntingdon afore three days.” He smiled a sorrowful smile, and said nothing. I lifted him in my arms and carried him out of the shed. I was powerful strong when I was young, and tho’ he was tall and broad-shouthered he was wasted to skin and bone. I laid him down in the shade of a tree, for the sun was hot. He didn’t look at the river or the hills beyant, but fixed his eyes on a spot that I took to be a burying-place. “Go back,” he whispered, “and bring the bag below my berth.” I went, and found a woman had already been put in the poor bed I had lifted him out of. I reached for the bag and took it to him. Pointing to a spot in the burying-place he told me to go there and I would see a grave with a cross at its head and the name Aileen cut on it. “You can read?” “Yes,” says I. I did his bidding and coming back told him I had found the grave. “Promise me, you’ll bury me beside that grave.” I promised him. “Open the bag and you’ll find in it a little book.” I reached it to him. “Take it,” says he, “there are pages in it I would tear out were I able. Let it go. Save the book; it will tell to those now unborn what Irish men and women have suffered in this summer of sorrow.”