Patrick Fahay. Known as "Old Fahay" was the gardener for the Dr. John W. Keyes family and lived with the family.  He was a Civil War veteran and suffered wounds.  He died at Estade, near Linhares, Brazil on Lake Juparan.  Probably born ib Alabama. He died of fever complicated by his war wounds on February 8, 1868 at the Keyes farm.   No apparent family.     Rio Doce Colony - Sailing to Brazil on the "Marmion" from New Orleans. with the Keyes family.
The only information (so far) that we have on Patrick is from the diary of Julia Keyes.
Source:
Julia Keyes Diary

Excerpts from the Julia Keyes Diary:

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June 16, 1867  Poor old Mr. Fahay is lying sick in the pretty little house which was intended for our kitchen and dining room. If it were not so far from our present home, we would have been using it. Mr. Spencer is having chills.

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January 20  Old Mr. Fahay gets no better. We gave him all the eggs as he likes nothing but buttercakes, eggs and tea.

Feb. 9th.

 

Yesterday, (February 8, 1868)  Mr. Farley died. His body was taken down to Linhares last night. His death has cast a gloom over us. I feel so tired I cannot write more this evening.

Feb. 11th.

 

We walked over to the new home this afternoon. Could not bear to go by the new kitchen. The awe of death was over it.

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The death of Mr. Fahy, which had been mentioned in the journals, shocked us very much, although we learned from our physician he could not recover but he did not think he would die so soon. The poor old man had received an injury on his leg from a shell during the war and was nearly cured when he went to Brazil but had for the past few months, suffered from renewed inflammation. This was the real cause of his illness. Inactivity and indifference to the greatest rules of health had at last caused the fever and then death.

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Mr. Spencer was very feeble, taking quinine to break chills at the time; but, he said he would go immediately after assistance from our neighbors, if someone could watch the body. Perhaps we all turned pale at this point, if not, we felt so, but “The Mother” should not go alone and any one of the number would have accompanied her. One only was sufficient.

 

The memory of the picture we made in misery as we eat in gloom, under the shelter of the new house, (one half open at the sides, like a large piazza), We had taken for a bench, one of the large sills near the center. About ten or fifteen feet from the corner of the building was our beautiful kitchen, (which we had hoped to be using before this) was now the abode of death.

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Its dread, grim presence was there and we would not enter. There was something too awful in the thought. We remained seated - listening and watching that nothing should come and harm the dead. The lonely hills, inhabited by wild animals, which rose on the slopes on each side, were very near. Beasts of prey might become conscious of what was below and seek to enter the house. We thought of all this and remained there - looking toward the door and waiting for the return of the canoes - the lake grew rough and the sun went down and still no one appeared - we could not account for this, as the distance around the point was so little. There was some detention, we were sure. We called to some of the children and when they came, we sent them to ask old Senorena or one of her daughters to stay with us. The scene was very solemn and we were growing lonely and filled with awe. After a while Josephine and her mother came. They looked in, upon the body, and then suggsted that we should make a blaze under the shelter to brighten the place. We agreed and they gathered together chips and sticks which were lying plentifully around and built a fire. Then came old Seraphim and he too walked into the room, speaking in jesting tones to the poor man, lying dead – “send for candles”, he said. It was not yet quite dark, but we sent for them and he lighted up the house. Cold chills ran over us, to hear him laughing and talking so carelessly at such a time. This was something novel and awful - watching the dead and in such company. We were such relieved, after a while, by the coming of two canoes.

 

​Dr. Johnson and Capt. Yancey came, bringing several negro men. The Lake was so rough, they came near to being swamped and had to go back till the breeze lessened and the water grew. When they came to our shelter, we returned to the hut and the gentleman then superintended the last attention to the poor old man. Everything was properly done and before the day his remains were on the way to the village where they were interred the following afternoon. A gloom was cast over us by this event which we could not throw off. We did not like to look towards our kitchen for, although without superstition, we too felt the awe of death was over it. We have sometimes thought that the mysterious dread of

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such events is increased by the solemnities of funeral rites and believed “The pomp of death   Is far more terrible than death itself.”

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 But here had died a poor sufferer without relatives, who did not wish to live. His life, from months of pain, had become a burden. His hearse with black and nodding plumes had come to bear his remains to the grave, no train of carriages followed behind with mourning friends. The only road upon which to travel was the water of the lake and river, the only vehicle to carry him away was a canoe and by the light of a cold oil-light he was placed in the rough hearse.

 

​Nursery fears of darkness, ghosts and goblins had never been childhood troubles, but there was something in the remembrance of that evening under that raw house shelter and the night that followed which made us shiver. So, it was not the “pomp of death” that brought these terrors, but rather the entire absence of ceremonies. We would do no better and yet felt that it resembled barbarism.

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It was with much difficulty that a coffin could be made as boards were scarce and the only method of making them was with a whip saw.

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