by Charles Egan
The Killing Snows
Blight and death alone
No summer shines
Night is interblent with day
In Siberia’s wastes always
The blood blackens, the heart pines.
In Siberia’s wastes
Are sands and rocks
Nothing blooms of green or soft
But the snow-peaks rise aloft
And the gaunt ice-blocks.
And the exile there
Is one with those
They are part, and he is part
For the sands are in his heart
And the Killing Snows.
Extract from ‘Siberia’ by James Clarence Mangan
Published in Dublin in 1846
Chapter Fourteen
Tyrawly Herald, November 1846:
We regret to state that on Tuesday last a worker named Bridget Thomash died of actual starvation within a short distance of Ballycastle. It was sworn to at the Inquest that she had not partaken of more than one scanty meal per day for the last fortnight, and on some occasions she had nothing whatever to support nature. There are hundreds of poor creatures in the same locality who are similarly circumstanced, and if immediate relief is not afforded, they too shall meet with the same dreadful death.
For three days, the sky was grey, and the air was still. Then it began to snow. At first it fell in large flakes, drifting to the ground and melting at once. That evening Luke rode home through the slush. Above him, the mountain and village of Croghancoe were white.
The next morning, the slush had frozen hard. As he rode towards the Works, it snowed again, and that day it did not stop. By evening the land lay white, all the way from the mountains to the sea.
The following day dawned bright and clear. It did not snow again, but it was bitterly cold. Then the wind began to blow. As he rode around the Works, he could feel the stabbing pain of the cold on his face and hands. At Ardnagrena, he called an early break at mid-morning, but the men in one gang protested that they would not make enough piecework if the Works were halted too often.
The Works continued through the cold and the wind. At Lisnadee the gangs refused to work at the top, where the road ran through the pass. The north-easterly wind was blowing across the lake below Croghancoe before it was funnelled through the narrow pass. The cold here was extreme. He decided that that part of the road could be left until later. Even lower down though, the people were fighting to work in the more sheltered sections. As the quarries deepened, many of the gangs were asking Durcan for the right to work in them. Luke agreed to this, and heaps of stones began to grow at the edges of the quarries. He decided that the laying of the stone could wait until later.
Then the weather improved as the wind swung to the south-west. He was relieved at this, and at Lisnadee they continued building the road across the pass. After a few days though, the snows returned, blown on another north-easterly gale. Again Lisnadee was worst because of its height. He thought of closing the Works, but when Durcan mentioned this to the gangs, it brought strong protests from the people. Luke was relieved. He knew that Morton would not listen to any excuses for the road not being built.
Again the wind swung to the south-west, and the snow melted, except for the white peaks above Ardnagrena and Croghancoe. The Works went on. When the snows returned, it was even colder than before. The people started to light fires, stealing turf from cottages nearby. This caused fighting, as the local people saw their only source of heat for the winter disappear. But it no longer mattered to the men on the gangs. He tried to have the stealing stopped, but survival was more important to desperate men and women.
One payday, he rode to Ardnagrena. The winds had died, but it was as cold as before. He noticed that the shebeen was back. He rode past without a word. When he arrived at the Works, he called Gallagher over.
‘Our friend Clarke is back again, John.’
‘I know. I’d noticed.’
‘We’re going to have to find some way of dealing with him, but I think we’ll wait until Davitt comes.’
For the next two hours, Gallagher measured out the work done with the ganger for each section. As he finished, he sent the gangers back to Luke to calculate each worksheet. Luke was surprised to notice that some of the payments had increased. In one gang, the men were to be paid a shilling a day each and the women ten pence. Even the women were earning more than men in the other gangs. At the end of his calculations, he commented on this to Gallagher.
‘There’s a simple explanation,’ Gallagher said. ‘If you examine it, you’ll see that the number in the gang dropped the day after Morton was here.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Nobody seems to know why, but I know the reason damned well. We’re paying the piecework on a gang-by-gang basis. So no one wants weak fellows in their gang. It drags everybody’s wages down.’
‘You mean they’ve been threatened? Run off the gang?’
‘I can’t prove it, and you can’t either. I’ve spoken to a few in their homes, and they just tell me they can’t do the work. And three of them are already dead.’
Davitt arrived, again with the two constables, both of whom seemed to regard Luke with some disdain. They too had noticed the shebeen. Luke brought Davitt and Gallagher aside for a few minutes, and spoke to them.
This time, things were done differently. Davitt and Gallagher, together with the constables, carried the table out of the tiny cottage which had been used as Luke’s office. Instead of setting it up outside the cottage, they started to carry it away. Some of the nearby workers were concerned by this, and grew more so when Gallagher and one of the constables returned for the bench and carried it away too. When he judged all was ready, and the working day was over, he walked down the line, and told each of the gangers that everyone was to assemble at the old cottage before being paid. Then he scrambled through the snow to the top of the thatch, and addressed the crowd.
‘I know it has been a very hard week for you all. I’m sorry that this way of working has been started, and I know some could not finish the week. For the rest of you, it has been very tough. As you all now know, we only have a hundred work tickets for Ardnagrena. That too, I can do nothing about.’
He hesitated.
‘I know too that there are many other families who need work tickets. Father Nugent has told me about them. Because of this, I am asking any of you who do not need your ticket next week to step forward. We’ll then be able to give your place to someone who needs it more.’
As he expected, no one moved.
‘I must also tell you that these Works are for the relief of hunger. The money you earn is not much, but it will help you to feed your families. If we see that you do not need it for this, we’ll know that you no longer need a work ticket, and again we’ll give it to a family that needs it more.’
He climbed down and walked to the pay station. No one spoke to him. Once or twice he heard hostile murmurs, but he ignored them. He joined Gallagher and Davitt on the bench which had been set up just across from the shebeen. The first ten or twelve workers were paid and walked towards Brockagh. Then one man took his wages and walked to the shebeen. All eyes turned to Luke. He crossed out the man’s name on the payroll. A woman ran across to the shebeen and spoke to the man. They both looked to Luke, the Government man. He looked back at them, holding his pen, waiting. Then they turned their backs on the shebeen.
He re-entered the name.
He rode back to the priest-house on his own. He and the priest had almost agreed the list of a hundred families to be announced for Lisnadee, and it did not take long to finish. A half an hour later, he left and rode back towards Gallaghers.
There was a movement in the shadows. Then there were two women grabbing at his leg and jacket, and he was pulled to the ground. They dragged him up into a half kneeling position, while a third
woman punched him on the nose and mouth and eyes. He screamed through the red flashes of pain. Between blows, he could see half a blackened face, rough rags covering the mouth and nose. He heard men’s voices and realised his assailants were all men. He was held prostrate on the ground, one man on his chest, his dress rucked high. Another held his feet as the third lifted a rock and smashed it on his knee. Again he screamed. They lifted him up, and he was cudgelled from behind. He passed out.
When he came to, his head was spinning and throbbing as he lay on the hard ice, unable to see or hear through the pain. After a few minutes, his senses returned. His knee was aching, his horse was gone, and there was no one around. He was cold, shivering and convulsing. He shouted for help, he screamed. Nothing. He knew he could not stand and tried to roll over on his stomach, but the pain was too much. He waited, then tried again. Forcing himself through the wall of pain, he rolled over. For some time he lay gasping, his face to the mud until the pain waned. Then he started to drag himself over the frozen snow. He tried not to pull his injured knee, but he could not avoid it, and again the pain got worse.
At the nearest cabin, he tried to knock on the door, but could not. He shouted. The door opened – and slammed.
Again he lost consciousness. When he came to his senses, he was shaking, and his tongue was bleeding. He had no idea of how long he had lain there. When the shaking stopped, he started to drag himself again.
At the next cabin, a dog barked, but no one came. At the third cabin, the door opened, and there was a woman’s cry. He was aware of people handling him as he passed out again.
When he came conscious again, he could still feel the pain in his knee. He saw he was back in Gallagher’s. Winnie and Mrs. Gallagher were both there and another woman, very old. He had no idea who she was. She spoke in a rough, guttural Irish.
‘She says to tell you that you’ll be alright,’ Winnie said in English. ‘You’ll walk in time.’
‘I know, I understood.’
‘Our friend Mr. Clarke, I suppose?’
‘Yes, and two other bastards dressed as women. I couldn’t see their faces. Could have been the Molly Maguires for all I know.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Winnie said.
‘Sorry.’
It was then he realised that the lower part of his body was bare.
‘What happened my trousers?’
‘We had to cut them off you,’ Mrs. Gallagher said, ‘but don’t worry. John will get you another pair, and I’m washing and stitching your old ones for rough use.’
‘You could have put the blanket over me.’
After the old woman had gone, Winnie brought him porridge. He was still unable to sit up, but this time the blanket covered him.
She fed him through his battered lips. ‘They could have killed you.’
‘They tried their damnedest.’
‘I know,’ she said.’ You’ll have to be more careful. Take care of yourself better.’
‘You’ve been crying.’
‘You’re quick to notice. And anyhow, why shouldn’t I?’
She turned her face away and said nothing. She fed him for a few minutes before she spoke again.
‘You’ll have to rest two weeks at least.’
‘I can’t do that. There’s people depending on me. I can’t stop now.’
‘You’ll have to. You have to think of yourself. And if you don’t, I will.’
He smiled at her. ‘Well, you think of me, and I’ll think of other people. Is that a deal?’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘And talking of other people, whose bed is this?’
‘Bernie and Frankie and Young John, they share it. Surely you remember that.’
‘I think the belt on the head knocked some of the remembering out of me.’
‘I’ll have to do the remembering for you too, so.’
‘But I can’t be taking a bed from the lads. Where will they sleep?’
‘They’ll find somewhere.’
That evening, John Gallagher and Father Nugent came.
‘The bastards really got you,’ Gallagher said.
‘They took no half measures, that’s for sure.’
‘I gave you the Last Rites last night,’ the priest said. ‘That’s how bad it was. That blow on your head was enough to kill a man.’
‘Maybe that’s what they wanted,’ Luke said.
‘You’re going to be in bed a few weeks,’ Gallagher said.
‘I can’t do that. You know that as well as I do.’
‘You’ll have to. We’re just going to have to take care of things while you’re recovering.’
‘But what about Lisnadee?’
‘One or two little matters to straighten out. Nothing that won’t wait a week.’
‘And how’s Ardnagrena?’
‘No different to yesterday,’ Gallagher replied. ‘One of the gangers left, but I’ve replaced him.’
‘Why did he leave?
‘He couldn’t take the hate from his own people. He told me he’d die sooner. Starving’s better.’
‘It must be tough on you too.’
‘I’ve less friends than I used to, that’s for sure. Even some of my own cousins don’t seem to know me anymore.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Luke said. ‘I should have warned you of all this.’
‘It’s not your fault. I’d have done it anyhow.’
‘I know you would.’
‘Now you’re to stop worrying,’ the priest said. ‘John will look after the Ardnagrena Works as we agreed. Tim is looking after Lisnadee, and I’m helping him. And you’re to just rest.’
Winnie fed him again that night. There was some meat mixed in with the meal, cut very fine.
‘Does your father know you’re here?’ he asked.
‘You’re not on about that again.’
‘I’m just worried, that’s all.’
‘Well, you needn’t. I’ve told him already there’s nothing between us, and he’s not to be worrying his head about it. And anyhow, aren’t you a sick man. What trouble would you be causing the way you are.’
‘Just so long as he understands that.’
He opened his mouth as she held the spoon of meal to him.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘We didn’t mean to shame you like that. We should have covered you up.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’
‘No, no, you’re right. It’s just that us women are more used to it. That’s what Ma always says. We’re always nursing – nursing the children, nursing the men. We never worry about it.’
‘I’m sure I took a lot of nursing.’
‘More than you think. You were in a terrible way when they brought you in. We had to wash you down well.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed.’
‘Ma didn’t want you catching fever.’
‘It’s nice to know that one of you was worried.’
She hesitated, holding the spoon a few inches from his mouth.
‘Now you’re to stop teasing. If you want to be fed, you’ll have to be nice to me.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll be nice. I promise.’
His horse was never found. Rumours in Brockagh had it that it was taken to Ballina and sold. Gallagher was able to borrow a donkey for a few weeks. Its owner had no oats to feed it.
When he brought it home, Gallagher told him that he would be happy to use the donkey himself and let Luke, as the senior officer, use the horse. But as they all realised, a donkey was easier to mount for a man with a twisted knee.
The next day, he insisted on visiting the Works. When Winnie and Mrs. Gallagher saw that he would not be put off, they prepared him for the journey. Mrs. Gallagher tied a branch as a splint f
or his knee. Luke winced with pain as it was tied tight. Then Winnie made up a rough crutch, and together they managed to get him on the donkey from a kitchen chair.
He rode up towards Ardnagrena.
It was grey and overcast, but it was not raining or snowing, and for the past few days at least the freezing cold had disappeared. As he rode down the line now, people stopped working and turned to stare at him, anger and hate in their eyes. The Government man, the man who kept them working regardless, the man who killed them in the cold.
When he came to the end of the line, John Gallagher came over.
‘I’m not getting off,’ Luke said.
‘You’re right, you’re not,’ Gallagher said. ‘And you shouldn’t be here at all.’
‘How did this morning go?’
‘Well. We only had eighty nine starting the week, but Father Nugent got it back to a hundred this morning.’
‘So you’ve got everything under control?’
‘We have.’
‘That’s great. I’m just going to go up to Lisnadee now.’
‘Don’t be crazy,’ Gallagher responded. ‘Go back to bed. That’s an order.’
‘I thought I was supposed to be supervising you.’
‘Not as far as your health is concerned. Go on home now.’
‘Do you have the worksheets for the last two days? I might as well work on them when I’m resting.’
Gallagher gave them to him. He rode back through the accusing lines of gaunt, starving people, and on towards Brockagh.
When he arrived at Gallaghers, he spread his papers over one end of the table, away from where Winnie and Mrs. Gallagher were working. Then he took out Danny’s letter, knowing that the women would not notice it among the other papers. For a few minutes he stared at it. He had come to a decision, and he knew it. The whole business of exploiting starving people nauseated him. But Danny was his cousin, and had been his best friend for all the years on the rails. He could not go with Danny, but there was no point in annoying him. So he wrote him a letter, a polite and friendly one, refusing his generous offer. He gave no reason for his refusal beyond the fact that he was very busy, and could not spare the time. He put it in an envelope. When he had written the address, he stared at the envelope. Then he put it in his coat, and dismissed it from his mind.
