by Charles Egan
A week later, as the Works finished, he walked from Bramhope into Leeds. He had mentioned to Farrelly that he had friends in Sheffield, and wanted to spend a few days there. Murtybeg asked about these friends, but Danny gave no answer, and Murtybeg knew that it would be useless to press him.
Danny was in time for the last train to Sheffield, and stayed in a rough boarding house that night. Very early the following morning, he took the first train across the Pennines to Manchester. He was in time to catch a stagecoach to Stockport, some miles south of the city. He stayed in a boarding house on the outskirts of the town.
He was awake before dawn and left as the sun was rising. He walked out the new Works on the Stockport & Warrington line. Again and again he stopped at various gangs, talking to gangmasters and subcontractors, talking to the men on their own and assessing the work involved with a practiced eye. But he was short of time and barely managed to get the stagecoach back into Manchester that night. The next day was all travel, Manchester to Sheffield, Sheffield to Leeds and then walking along the rails to Bramhope. It was the early hours of the morning before he arrived back in the lodging house. The next evening he wrote a letter to Luke.
Mr. Luke Ryan Price’s Lodging House
C/o Knockanure UnionBramhope
KnockanureYorkshire
Co. Mayo
6th of September 1846
Dear Luke,
I was surprised to hear that you are working for the Union, and I hope this letter will find you.
It seems to me that the news from Mayo becomes more gloomy every day. Father has written to me, telling me terrible stories of fever and hunger. I understand though that you, Pat and uncle Michael all have good positions on the Relief Works, and I am happy to hear this. Here in Yorkshire we see the effects of the famine every day. There are many hungry people in England, but that is as nothing compared to the thousands of Irish flooding into this country.
Railway construction is growing very fast and attracts many Irishmen, but the English workers complain, because they say the Irish are driving down wages. This certainly seems to be true. In spite of all the rail building, the deals we have been able to negotiate are less than before. I have thought for a long time on these matters, and I have concluded that the future in this country is in general contracting as I already told you. Since wages are low, there are good gains to be made by any contractor, and the margin they add makes contracting even more profitable. If we were able to find men who had just arrived in England, perhaps men from Erris or the Ox Mountains who do not speak English, then we should be able to pay lower wages, and margins would be even higher. It would also be possible to employ many more men, making even more profit. Mayo men – that is the key.
This was something I had mentioned to Martin, but he feels it is too dangerous a course for us, and prefers to stay working as we are until we all have enough to go home with, though why anyone would want to go to Mayo now, I cannot imagine. So I have decided if anything is to be done I will have to do it myself. Of course, the problem is money. I estimate it would be necessary to have £100 in order to pay for workers and implements before an invoice could be raised. I have already been saving. I have £65 invested and would hope to increase that sum over the next few months. Please not to mention that to anyone in Carrigard or anywhere else.
So why am I writing to you? It is because you are my cousin and my friend. I feel the need for a good partner to work alongside me in developing this business. Such a partner would have to be someone I could trust, and God knows there are few enough of them. He would also have to have experience on the railways and be capable of dealing with accounts and dealing with men. As I say, it is vital to have a good supply of men from Mayo – they are where the profit lies. If this were part of your responsibility as partner, then it would involve travelling back to Mayo almost as often as you like. I know this is important to you.
I know too you have little enough money to invest, perhaps none, but I do not see that that should be a problem. If you wish to come in with me, I am willing to lend you the money to buy a one-quarter share with perhaps the option of purchasing a further one-quarter on account at a later stage. From my calculations, I reckon that we could together grow a business running a profit of £10, £20 or even £30 per month, and after that, who knows.
And so Luke, I would appeal to you to consider my offer. There is no future in Ireland. The blight has hit Mayo for a second time, and there is no guarantee that it will not come back. There is money to be made in this country.
As ever, your cousin,
Daniel
Chapter Eleven
Telegraph or Connaught Ranger, September 1846:
Our Foxford correspondent states that never in his memory was fever so prevalent in that locality as at present. In the villages between that town and the Pontoon entire families are lying, and many dying. He mentions one family in particular, 8 of whom are confined to the bed of sickness, their only attendant being a boy 6 years old.
Luke rode for four hours. The blackened stalks were still in the fields, flattened now. Some of the fields had been part dug, many in random spots across the field as the farmers had searched for any ridge where the blight might have been less. Most of the fields were undug though. There was no further point. This was total blight. 1845 had not been like this, nor 1840.
As it started to rain, he stopped by a stream and led the horse down to drink. Then he let it feed along the side of the road. He sat down under a thorn bush and started to eat the Indian meal. As he ate, he noticed the door of a cabin opening two fields away. A woman came down a track towards him, carrying an infant, another child walking behind, holding her skirts.
‘Tá an ocras orainn.’ The hunger is on us.
He asked her how many children she had. Eleven. He gave her the rest of the meal. He thought of the meal in his pack, but then he thought better of it. He did not know where he would be able to buy food again. He had been generous enough already.
He rode on through the afternoon, sometimes passing people on the roads, but no one addressed him. He met a horseman coming the other way, and he recognised him as the pay clerk he had met in Carrigard. They both stopped.
‘It’s a dangerous job,’ he told Luke. ‘One of the clerks was robbed as he rode into Foxford. There’s stories too of clerks being robbed further west. One of them got a knock on the head, I hear he’s still in Castlebar Infirmary.’
‘Thank God I’m not a pay clerk so.’
‘Oh, it’s not just us. It’s you fellows too. Have you been through a Selection yet?’
‘Of course. Back in Carrigard.’
‘Had any riots?’
‘Not in Carrigard. But we had the peelers in, kept order pretty well.’
‘They weren’t so lucky in Castlebar. Had a riot at the Selection there. A few of the clerks got roughed up. You need a tough man to oversee the process.’
‘Gaffney’s tough.’
‘Damned right he is. Tell me though, how did you decide who was to get tickets in Carrigard?’
‘Gaffney’s decision. He didn’t take single people nor any children. And he wouldn’t take anyone with less than four children in the family, excepting widows.’
The pay clerk nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s fair. Not like what they did back in Roscommon.’
‘What did they do there?’
‘Oh, the landlord decided it was a great way to get their back-rent in. They only gave tickets to fellows who were behind in their rent, and then they deducted the back rent on pay day. Caused riots I can tell you. They had to call the militia in.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘No. The landlords are terrified though, and not just in Roscommon. They reckon the Molly Maguires would string them up if they got half a chance. Tough fellows, those bastards.’
‘They are,’ Luke said, ‘
There’s some question that they were the ones shot Coogan.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that.’
He asked Luke where he was going. Luke told him of the two new Works he was expected to start around Brockagh.
‘That’s impossible,’ the other man said.
‘I know.’
‘Just be careful with your selecting.’
‘I will,’ Luke said.
As the sun set, he looked for a shed with hay in it, but could find none. He lay in a derelict cabin, his back against a clamp of turf, the horse blanket wrapped around him, and he slept until morning.
It was still raining when he started out again. As he rode, he saw a corpse near the middle of the road. He halted his horse, staring at it, undecided what to do. He thought of putting it over his saddle and carrying it to Brockagh. But what if the man had died of fever? He dismounted, and walked to the other side to see the face. It was a white, yellowish colour, not purple or black as he would have expected with black fever. But was he sure of that? It could be another form of fever. In the end, he pulled the corpse to the side and left it on the bank beside the drain for someone else to notice. Then he crouched down and washed his hands in the rivulet. He mounted his horse and rode on.
When he arrived at Brockagh, the rain had stopped. The mountains rose behind the town, trailing grey rain still clinging to the peaks of the Ox. There was no one outside, no sound.
As he rode through the town, he felt he was being watched, but he could see no eyes. He saw the church, a little larger than the houses. There was a small house beside it. He tied his horse to the bush outside, and knocked.
The priest who answered was tall and elderly, dressed in a stained and patched soutane. His face was gaunt.
‘I’m looking for Father Nugent.’
‘You’ve found him.’
‘I’m Luke Ryan from Kilduff. I’ve been sent over by Mr. Voisey in Knockanure to start with the surveying.’
‘Not Jim Voisey, surely?’
‘Yes, Father. He’s one of the Commissioners…’
‘I know well who Jim Voisey is. So he sent you over? Surveying you say.’
‘For the Works, Father. They’re planning for Relief…’
‘Now, that is good news.’
‘…and I’m supposed to get it all started. The roads have to be surveyed…’
‘The explanations will do later. If you don’t dry off those clothes, there won’t be much surveying done.’
He followed the priest inside. There was a turf fire burning. There was a table with an empty plate, three stools, a dresser and little else. The priest took a bottle from the fireside, uncorked it, and poured two small measures of a clear spirit into mugs.
‘Here, this should warm you.’
Luke tasted it, rolling it on his tongue.
‘It’s good, Father. The man who made this knew what he was doing.’
‘He did – he’s the best in the Ox. Always one step ahead of the Excise too.’ He raised his mug and drank. ‘Your health.’
‘Good health, Father.’ Luke drained the rest of his mug, fire scorching his throat and lungs. He ignored the searing pain as all men did, and shook his head in ritual appreciation. Already, he felt warmer.
‘But back to serious matters now,’ the priest said. ‘How’s Knockanure these past weeks.’
‘Not good, Father. Far worse than last year – there’s scarce a potato left. The people have nothing. Now even the Workhouse is turning families away, they’ve no room, not even for children. And I hear they’ve no money to buy food for those inside.’
‘Have you seen any sign of fever?’
‘No, but I believe it’s started. They’re building sheds for fever by the Workhouse. It follows the hunger.’
‘It does, it does,’ the priest said. He stared into the fire, as if looking for answers. ‘But what about Jim Voisey, I haven’t met him in many years.’
‘Not since ’40 he says.’
‘God, is it so long?’
‘He remembers you well though, Father.’
‘How’s he coping with all this?’
‘I think he’s worn out, from all I hear. They say the Workhouse is bankrupt. He wants to feed everyone, but it just isn’t possible.’
‘It won’t be possible here either. And we don’t even have a Workhouse.’
‘That’s why Mr. Voisey sent me, Father. But I can’t do it all on my own.’
‘I’ll do what I can, though it mightn’t be much. Relief Works, you say?’
‘Yes, Father. They’re still against Outdoor Relief, unless the people work for it. They’re starting Works all across the barony. The committee has decided to build two sections of new road around here – Ardnagrena and Lisnadee. They’re intending to employ two hundred.
‘What will they pay?’
‘Eight pence a day for the men. Seven pence for the women.’
‘It’s little enough, isn’t it?’
‘Very little, Father.’
‘Still, it’s not your fault – we must take what we’re given. What can I do?’
‘The hardest thing I’d ask of you is to help us with Selection. I know it’s not easy – I’ve been through it myself. The instructions are no more than a hundred for the Ardnagrena Works and a hundred for Lisnadee. They’re supposed to be the neediest according to Castlebar. Those who have suffered the most from the failure.’
‘How do we decide that?’ the priest asked. ‘There’s thousands starving in this parish.’
‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ Luke said. ‘When they did it in Knockanure, they had to call the peelers in. It wasn’t much better back home around Carrigard and Kilduff. People are desperate. It’s impossible to make a Selection, but a Selection has to be made. Around Kilduff we took only one from each family, and only from families with four children, two for widows. The older people living on their own were left to die. So no matter what we do, we’ll be wrong. There are just too many hungry, and we can’t help them all. It’s a dirty business, this Selection.’
‘Well, I hope I’ll be able to help you, Luke. But first, you must dry those clothes.’
Luke brought in the horse blanket. He stripped down and wrapped it around him. The priest hung his clothes alongside the fire, then both pulled stools over and sat close to the heat.
‘What age are you, Luke?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Why did they choose you?’
‘I don’t know. Gaffney, he’s the Chief Supervisor in Kilduff, he reckoned I could help. When he heard I could write and add, he asked me to help him. They’ve not enough surveyors or clerks, so Gaffney decided to use me instead; writing down names, adding wages, measuring out the roads, all that class of thing. Then he told me and my brother to go over to Knockanure because they needed us more there, and then Mr. Voisey asked me to come up here and get everything started.’
‘And what are you supposed to do?’
‘Select the workers, like I said. Find shovels and picks and hammers, mark out the roads. But first I must find some good men for gangers. That’s why I need your help. That and the Selection. You know the people here.’
‘If it’s gangers you’re looking for, John Gallagher is the best man to talk to,’ the priest said. ‘He’s a reliable fellow, spent a long time in England – Liverpool, Manchester and the rest. He hasn’t much schooling, I’m afraid, but he’s well respected around Brockagh. ‘
‘He sounds like the kind of man we need.’
‘One way or another, you’ll need him on your side. You should go over and see him straight away. I’d take you across, but I’ve got a few sick calls. But you can come back in the morning. We’ll work it all out then. And bring John with you. If he’ll come.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. He ca
n get suspicious of outsiders at times. He hates Government men.’
Luke did not respond. Government men? He dressed himself.
‘You’ll have no problem finding Gallagher’s,’ the priest said. ‘Just ride back the street you came, turn second left, and you’ll see Gallagher’s over on the right. The house with the wagon outside. He might lodge you. If he doesn’t, come back, and I’ll see what I can do.’
He followed the priest’s directions. As he rode down the street, two women stood by the door of a mud cabin, watching him in silence.
The second street seemed more prosperous than the rest of Brockagh. The houses were built out of rough stone; a little more solid than the cabins. There was no-one about.
He found the house with the wagon alongside. It was chained into an iron ring in the wall and padlocked. The wheels were high, rimmed with steel, and were chained onto the body of the wagon. Curious, he stooped to examine the axles. They were both forged, and carried the name of a foundry in Shropshire. He knew this was no ordinary cart from Mayo. It was similar to the heavy road wagons used for carrying brick to the railway construction sites, but not as heavy. It had been designed for lighter loads than brick, but for longer distances. From the way that the wood had been bolted together, he knew it had been designed to last. He wondered how it came to be in Brockagh.
He knocked on the door, and waited.
The young woman who opened it was dressed in a shift. She was his own age, maybe a little younger. Under her eyes were high cheekbones over thin cheeks. On one side her long hair was flung back by her neck, the other side hanging forward loose. The skirt of her shift covered little more than her knees. It was sprinkled with flour, and her hands were white with flour.
She held his gaze with grey eyes, unwavering, almost challenging him. Penetrating eyes, testing his strength. He thought of all the fashionable ladies he had seen in Dublin and Liverpool and London and Bath. Trying to make up for all they would never have, but that could be carried by a girl in a worn out dress, in an unknown village in Mayo.
