You Are There… Graphic History Series.
Historical Backdrop & The Subject
In 1917, Portugal was a tense, poor country. A democratic revolution in 1910 had toppled the monarchy and pushed hard against the Catholic Church, closing convents and mocking religion in their newspapers. Out in the countryside near the village of Fátima, life was harsh — farming thin soil, walking barefoot. Starting that May, three shepherd children — ten-year-old Lúcia dos Santos and her young cousins Francisco and Jacinta Marto — claimed a “Lady” appeared to them each month and promised a great sign on October 13. Word spread, and tens of thousands came from around the region. Our subject is Avelino de Almeida, age 44, the chief editor of Lisbon’s big secular newspaper O Século. A former seminary student turned sharp anti-clerical writer, he was there to mock the whole affair.
October 12, 1917 — Late afternoon, muddy road outside Vila Nova de Ourém, central Portugal
You grip the seat of the rattling motorcar as it slides through deep ruts of orange mud. Rain streaks the cracked windshield. Ahead, you see them — hundreds of peasants on foot, soaked to the skin, some barefoot, carrying bundles and children. They sing hymns into the wind. You light a cigarette, smirk, and tell yourself this will make an easy story to mock in tomorrow’s paper.
October 13, 1917 — 7:00 AM, an inn courtyard in Vila Nova de Ourém
You wake stiff and cold on a thin straw mattress. Rain hammers the roof. You wash your face in a chipped basin of frigid water, button your damp collar, and step into the courtyard. Mud is everywhere. Chickens scatter. A boy hands you bitter black coffee in a tin cup. The innkeeper says the roads are jammed with pilgrims all heading the same way. You sigh and ready your notebook.
October 13, 1917 — 9:30 AM, the road descending toward the Cova da Iria
You walk now, the car abandoned in the mud behind you. Rain soaks through your fine wool coat. Around you stream thousands of people — far more than you expected. An old man crawls on his knees through the mire toward the field. Men carry sick relatives. The crowd’s murmured prayers blend into a low hum. You scribble notes, half-amazed, half-cynical, counting the heads you cannot possibly count.
October 13, 1917 — 10:30 AM, the edge of the Cova da Iria field
You reach the great natural bowl of the field and stop. Mud and water stretch to the horizon, packed with humanity — you guess thirty, maybe seventy thousand souls. Umbrellas bob like a sea. In the center stands a holm oak and a crude wooden arch and two lanterns - you climb up to see everything, noting the soaked banners, the candle smoke, the smell of wet wool and earth. Skeptics around you mutter that nothing will happen.
October 13, 1917 — 11:30 AM, near the holm oak, center of the crowd
