The Killing Snows

by Charles Egan

  One evening, as Luke came in for dinner, his mother told him that McKinnon had fever.

  ‘Who told you?’ he asked.

  ‘One of the fellows coming out of town. I haven’t been down yet.’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Would you not wait for your dinner?’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  He walked to Kilduff. Sabina was not in the bar. He went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. She was sitting in a chair beside the bed. Even from the door, he could see the rash on McKinnon’s face.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Complaining of headaches all the time,’ Sabina said.

  McKinnon interrupted. ‘There’s no need to ask about me like that. I can still speak, you know.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anyhow, in answer to your question – I’m not great, but I’ll live.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s fever?’

  ‘It’s the fever alright. But I wouldn’t worry. I had it before, back in Scotland when I was a child. It didn’t kill me then, and it won’t kill me now.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Luke said.

  Pat and Sarah were in the office, Pat at the main desk, Sarah at the table in the corner. He tried to work, but he was watching her too, thinking. After an hour, he put his pen down.

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah, without looking up.

  ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘You heard.’

  She stared at him. ‘You asked me to marry you?’

  ‘I did.’ His heart was pounding. He felt a rush of blood to his face and hoped it was not obvious.

  ‘But we hardly know each other.’

  ‘You don’t even believe that yourself.’

  He was beginning to feel more confident. She had not refused. If she had wanted to refuse, she would have said it at once. Still she said nothing. She was playing for time, he was sure of that. He decided to press on.

  ‘You haven’t answered.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to say. A young fellow like you, haven’t you got the right cheek.’

  ‘Have I? Maybe I have. But you still haven’t given me an answer.’

  ‘Let me ask you one thing,’ she said. ‘What age are you?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘It makes a big difference. Now it’s you who can’t do the answering.’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Nineteen I said. And what’s wrong with that. There’s fellows around our place get married at sixteen.’

  His heart was still pounding, but it was calming now. She still had not refused.

  ‘Do you know how old I am?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t. Does it matter?’

  ‘I think it does.’

  ‘Go on so. What age are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one. I’m two years older than you. Two full years.’

  ‘That’s not much.’

  ‘You never give up, do you?’

  ‘Not till I get an answer. You can say ‘no’ if you want. If you do, I’ll never ask you again.’

  Damn it, he thought, that was stupid. All on one card now. If she says no, it’s over.

  She was silent. He knew better than to say anything, and waited. At last she spoke.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to say no. But I’m not going to say yes either, because I still think you’re too young. So I’ll make you a deal. You can ask me again when you’re old enough. The day you’re twenty-one, you can ask me then. That’s if you still want to.’

  ‘Of course I’ll still want to. But what will your answer be?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  One afternoon Voisey came into the office. There had been a meeting of the Guardians all morning. He took the chair across from Pat, and sat down.

  ‘There’s two things I want to discuss with you,’ he said to Pat. ‘The first concerns you. The Guardians have decided that we need an additional clerk here in the Union. They are advertising for a new Master – we had been intending that you stay on until then in any case, but they now feel, even after that appointment is made, that another permanent clerical position will be required. This will be at a remuneration of thirty five pounds annually. I took the liberty of putting your name forward, and should you be minded to accept, the position will be yours as and from next Monday.’

  Pat and Sarah glanced at each other. He did not hesitate.

  ‘Of course. I’d be delighted to accept.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t interfere with any other plans you might have had.’

  ‘Not at all. As you might know, Luke has gone back to Carrigard to take over the farm. My only other option would be emigration, and I don’t want that if I can avoid it.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll notify the Guardians of your acceptance. But before I do, there is another matter I’d like to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Voisey.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re well aware from working on the accounts that the Union cannot go on like this. Rates are uncollected all over the county, and even if we brought the Military in to enforce collection, our opinion is that little more could be raised in this way. The rates have increased four times over in this barony, and most of the landlords would be bankrupted if we tried to enforce payment.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ Pat said. ‘But what else can we do?’

  ‘We’ve decided on another approach. The stronger sort, both in the Workhouse and those who are on relief in the Kitchens, will be given the opportunity for emigration.’

  ‘But they can’t afford it, Mr. Voisey. Where would they get the money from?’

  ‘That’s the point, Pat. We are going to pay them to leave. The Union has agreed with Lord Lucan and Lord Clanowen to put a fund together for anyone who wants to go. We’ve already chartered a ship to carry them from Westport to British America.’

  ‘British America!’ Pat echoed.

  ‘Canada. Quebec to be exact. You may be aware that many of the American ports have not been allowing Irish ships to land their passengers. So it seems to us the only destination that is open is Canada, and Quebec will be the main destination. The first ship will be in Westport in two weeks, and God willing, she’ll make Quebec in six weeks. And this is where you come in.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Voisey?’

  ‘I want you to start arranging who will go. We’re offering each person one pound to leave and families no more than three pounds in total. This should be sufficient to assist them once they reach Quebec. There’s any amount of work in the forests of Canada for a man who wants it.’

  Pat soon discovered that his new task was not as difficult as he had anticipated. Almost all the younger men in the Workhouse volunteered at once. America was seen as the land of opportunity, and few had the knowledge to distinguish ‘British America’ from the United States. Not that it seemed to matter. Pat had heard stories of Irishmen landing in Canada and making their way to the United States across the long, unguarded border between the two countries.

  At the Soup Kitchens, there was a different kind of problem in that too many families volunteered, families that Pat knew well could not make the voyage. He was also concerned about fever. He decided that any family with any member showing signs of fever would not be permitted to join.

  Two weeks later, Winnie was cooking with Eleanor in the kitchen. It was a warm day.

  ‘Look, Mother!’ Outside the door, a long ragged procession of people were walking. Between them, wagons and carts creaked towards Kilduff.

  They both ran outside.

  ‘There must be hundreds,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Water?’ asked one of the w
omen. ‘Do ye have water?

  Winnie and Eleanor brought out all the mugs they had, as well as all the jars of water. Each mug was swallowed, and passed back until there was no water left.

  ‘Where in the name of God are ye all going?’ Eleanor asked one woman.

  ‘America,’ she replied, and walked on.

  McKinnon did not improve. Every day now, Luke dropped by to see the old warrior. Often McKinnon would only speak in Scots Gaelic, the same rough northern dialect that he had tried to teach Sabina. Luke could just about understand enough to hold a conversation, speaking himself in the dialect his mother had used when he was a baby – the language of the Mountain. Sometimes McKinnon spoke of the crofts and fishing villages of the Hebrides and Sutherland. Sometimes he talked of the days when he had first come to Kilduff with the Survey, of meeting Sabina, of the different languages and cultures. Sometimes Luke asked him about the Peninsular Wars, it brought back old memories and friendships. But to the end, he would never talk of Waterloo.

  But then the full horror of black fever became more evident. McKinnon’s memory lapsed into ravings, and Luke spoke to him no more. Every day, he called around. Gangrene was well advanced by now, but Luke was well used to the stench of it. Sometimes he told Sabina to rest, while he mopped McKinnon’s face with cold water.

  The fever was coming to its climax. One evening, Luke and Winnie walked down to the bar. Sabina met them. ‘He’s much worse. I don’t think he’ll live.’

  Winnie put her arm around her.

  ‘That’s right,’ Luke said. ‘You stay here.’

  He went upstairs on his own, and sat in silence beside the bed. Then Winnie and Sabina came up with Eleanor. Luke went to find the priest, but he was already out on a sick call. He returned to the bedside, and waited with the women.

  An hour later, Father Reilly arrived.

  McKinnon’s breathing was shallower now, and his face was pale. For an hour past he had been shouting strange words, but even this had stopped. Sabina cradled his head, sobbing. There was no response.

  The priest started ‘I anoint thee with the chrism of salvation…’ dubbing McKinnon on the forehead, lips and heart. The women were silent.

  The priest turned to them. ‘Let us pray,’ he said. They went to their knees. The priest led the prayer –

  ‘Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…’

  They gave the response –

  ‘…Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.’

  Suddenly McKinnon moaned, his eyes open, the eyeballs rolling wildly, but unseeing.

  The priest continued –

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…’

  Again they answered –

  ‘…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’

  They repeated the prayer –

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace…

  Ostende!

  …the Lord is with thee…

  Bruges!

  …blessed art thou amongst women…

  Ghent!

  …and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

  Aalst!

  …Holy Mary, Mother of God…

  Brussels!

  For the past hour, the carriages had been rolling in to the sound of the music. Another carriage passed.

  ‘The Iron Duke,’ McNulty exclaimed.

  ‘Another Irishman,’ Geraghty said.

  ‘He never thought so,’ McKinnon said.

  ‘Who cares what he thought,’ Geraghty said. ‘He can’t stop being Irish just by not thinking it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ McNulty said. ‘And anyhow, isn’t half the army Irish.’

  ‘Might be,’ McKinnon said, ‘but don’t forget, you fellows, this is a Scottish regiment. Some of us here might even be Scots.’

  ‘Scots be damned. There’s more Irish than Scots. Where are the Highlanders when they’re needed.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, or you might find out.’

  …pray for us sinners…

  Quatres Bras!

  Ney’s cavalry had lined up.

  ‘Oh God,’ McNulty said. ‘They’ll ride right over us. They’ll kill us all.’

  ‘Charge,’ Henderson screamed.

  ‘Charge? Charge what – cavalry?’

  ‘Charge, or by God, I’ll have you all flogged.’

  The battalion started to move forward. ‘Oh Jesus,’ cried McNulty, ‘we’re charging cavalry. Oh Mary, oh Mother of God.’ A few of the horses facing them pawed at the ground.

  There was a shout of ‘Remember Badajoz,’ and a wild screaming as the entire division ran forward, bayonets fixed. The French cavalry wavered…

  …now and at the hour of our death.’

  WATERLOO, 1815. They had been standing on the ridge for four hours, watching the battle below. They had already been in action earlier in the afternoon when their desperate bayonet charge against overwhelming odds had brought the French infantry advance to a halt. Since then they had suffered no direct attack. It was hot though, and still there was no water.

  ‘We’ve nothing behind us,’ McNulty said. ‘No reserves, no water, no nothing.’

  ‘Maybe we are the reserves,’ Geraghty said.

  ‘The French are beaten anyway,’ McKinnon said. ‘They’ve done their damnedest, their bolt is shot.’

  For twenty minutes no one spoke. Then they saw more troops moving into position below them.

  ‘If the French are beaten,’ McNulty said, ‘what’s this?’

  ‘Oh Christ Almighty,’ Geraghty said, ‘the Garde.’

  ‘The Garde?’ McNulty echoed.

  ‘The Garde Imperiale,’ Geraghty repeated, pronouncing it as if in English. ‘We’re finished now. They’ve never retreated. Never.’

  ‘Aye, and cavalry never retreated before infantry either,’ McKinnon said. ‘But we showed them…’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Geraghty said. ‘These damned bastards are the worst. They don’t retreat. They’ve no signal for it. They don’t even know how.’

  ‘I know,’ McKinnon said. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  They watched, almost in terror, as the Garde started to assemble.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to have to fight them,’ McKinnon said after a few minutes. ‘They’re not facing in our direction. They’re going to hit the right.’

  A single horseman rode to the front of the Garde. There was a roar from the French troops – ‘Vive l’Empereur!’

  ‘Napoleon!’ exclaimed McNulty.

  ‘By God,’ McKinnon said. ‘After all these years. That’s him, that’s the man.’

  ‘Doesn’t look much from here,’ Geraghty said. ‘Bit of a small fellow.’

  ‘Aye,’ McNulty said, ‘a bit small alright.’

  Napoleon started to lead the Garde forward to screams of ‘Vive l’Empereur! Vive Napoleon!’ After a few hundred yards, he retired, passing command to Ney, now leading the attack. Then the entire French line was moving forward alongside the Garde.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Geraghty said, ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’

  ‘My God,’ McNulty muttered, ‘there’s thousands of them.’

  McKinnon said nothing. The division was stood to attention in three ranks.

  ‘Ready,’ roared Henderson. The first rank moved forward.

  ‘Aim.’

  At the same moment, the leading French officer pointed his sabre forward, screaming – ‘Pour la Gloire de la…’

  ‘FIRE.’

  ‘Glory be to the Fat
her, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost…

  The officer and many other figures in the French front line dropped, but the rest reformed, filled the gaps, and came on. Another French officer barked an order, and the French muskets came up. There was a fusillade.

  McNulty slumped forward, a small hole in his forehead, the back of his head a shattered mass of brains. McKinnon stepped forward with Geraghty, flicked brain off his sleeve, and aimed as commanded. The British ranks fired again, more Frenchmen fell, they reformed again, and fired again.

  Geraghty fell back with a cry. The side of his throat had been torn asunder. He made a strangled choking sound, his legs kicking as he inhaled his own blood, suffocating. McKinnon knelt over him.

  ‘Stand up you bastard, and face the foe,’ shouted Henderson. ‘Stand up, or by God, I’ll kill you myself.’

  McKinnon stood, and reloaded. Geraghty’s choking went on, his face purple, his spasms fouling him, his legs still thrashing.

  …as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be…

  The French had halted. Now they fixed bayonets, and charged. When they were only yards away, McKinnon saw a French giant coming straight at him, bayonet forward. With no time to spare, McKinnon raised his gun, and fired. The Frenchman’s face exploded in blood and brain and bone. His bayonet fell at McKinnon’s feet.

  McKinnon was powerless now, but the next Frenchman stopped, looked in horror at his companion, and then directly at McKinnon, his bayonet shaking. For a few seconds, both men stared into each other’s eyes.

  A scream came through the din – ‘le Garde recule!’ To the right, Napoleon’s Imperial Guard had broken.

  The Frenchman dropped the bayonet and fled, vomiting as he ran. Around him, other Frenchmen were already running.

  The cry became general – ‘le Garde recule, le Garde recule!’

  Geraghty was dead, but from time to time an eyeball flickered, and one of his legs still quivered in spasm.

  …world without end, amen.’

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Liverpool Mercury, June 1847:

  We were assured yesterday by a medical gentleman that the fever that now rages is the most malignant with which our town has been visited, and that at least 10,000 persons are now labouring. He stated that it is now spreading amongst small shopkeepers, bread bakers, publicans, and others who come more immediately in contact with the poorer classes. It is to be hoped that the operation of the act for the removal of the Irish poor to their own country and the exertions now making by the parish authorities, will soon produce a favourable change in the health of the town.