Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  Cold is the Dawn

  Also By

  Also by the author

  The Killing Snows

  The Exile Breed

  Epigraph

  ‘Mayo! Mayo! To mourn thy dismal fate is indeed poor consolation. Throughout the length and breadth of the county, it is one vast howling wilderness.’

  Telegraph & Connaught Ranger

  County Mayo, December 1848

  Dedication

  For Carmel

  Preface

  1848 and 1849 were tough years for Europe. But Ireland was worse than any.

  In 1848 the blight, which had almost disappeared in 1847, came back in full force, right across the country. Famine, which had never really gone away, intensified to a shocking climax in 1849.

  Emigration intensified too. Most travelled to the traditional destinations of Great Britain and North America, but conditions in both worsened, in different ways.

  England, along with the rest of Europe was suffering its own shortages. The financial crash of late 1847 had thrown many hundreds of thousands out of work. In English mines and mills, rising unemployment caused riots. Much of the violence was targeted at poor Irish emigrants, who were accused of stealing English jobs. Homeless and jobless, they squeezed as best they could into the slums of British cities.

  Of an estimated two hundred thousand Irish navvies working on the railway construction in 1847, one hundred thousand were without work by the middle of 1848. For the labour contractors on the railways, many of them Irish, this was an excellent opportunity to exploit hungry Irish workers.

  Another factor in 1848 was revolution, which broke out in many European countries. France, Prussia, Austria, Hungary, Denmark and Sicily were all rattled by revolt. In London, the Government was terrified of a similar revolution, either through the Chartist Movement in Great Britain or the Young Ireland Movement in Ireland itself.

  The Government faced down Chartism, and it slowly faded away. The Young Ireland Rebellion in Tipperary, was very limited, and put down by a few hundred police in a single day. But none of this quelled the Government’s fears, and they were convinced revolution might break out any time, either in the English cities with large Irish populations, or in Ireland. The British Army was over-extended, with fifty thousand troops in Ireland alone, awaiting another rebellion which never came.

  Across the Atlantic, the exile faced different challenges. The forest industries of the Canadian provinces had been badly hit by the 1847 collapse. Widespread unemployment across Quebec and Ontario, meant there was no work for the Irish, even if they had survived the coffin ships on the Atlantic, or the quarantine stations of Quebec and Montreal. Hunger, fever and cold killed many thousands of the emigrants. Thousands more made their way south into the United States, dying as they went.

  The 1847 crash did not hit the United States so hard. This was because the country had a huge surplus of food, much of which was exported to the starving countries of Europe, mostly for cash, and some for Irish relief. Very few Irish worked in American farming though, and other employment could be erratic. 1840-1860 was a time of heavy railroad construction, but this was liable to be terminated at very short notice, throwing thousands of men out of work.

  As in Britain, the Irish squeezed into the slums of American cities. For the most part, Irish men took the heavy, unskilled labouring jobs. Along the waterfronts in New Jersey and New York, there were thousands of Irish stevedores, which resulted in bitter battles for union recognition and Irish control. In the anthracite mines of Pennsylvania, the late 1840s saw a similar struggle for better conditions and Union recognition. But a series of strikes and lock-outs ended in defeat for the miners.

  Then, in 1849, cholera appeared. For once, Ireland was not alone in its suffering. The Asiatic cholera killed tens of millions as it spread around the world. It was a new type, and few had immunity to it. Millions died in the crowded cities of Europe and America. England and the United States suffered appallingly.

  But Ireland was already on its knees.

  Luke’s Family and Locations Luke Ryan

  Winnie, his wife

  Liam, his son

  Michael, his father

  Eleanor, his mother

  Pat, his younger brother Murty Ryan, Luke’s uncle Aileen, Murty’s wife

  Danny, their eldest son Murtybeg, their youngest son Nessa, their daughter, deceased Brigid, Nessa’s daughter, adopted by Eleanor Sabina McKinnon, Luke’s aunt Ian McKinnon, Sabina’s husband, deceased In County Mayo, the East Mayo towns of Kilduff, Knockanure and Brockagh are fictitious, as are the settlements and mountains around them. The county towns of Castlebar, Claremorris, Westport, Ballina and Louisburgh are real, as are the Ox Mountains, the Erris peninsula, the Partry Mountains and Mweelrea, together with the settlements within and around them.

  All the English railways, cities and slums are real as described. In Pennsylvania, the mining town of Lackan is fictitious. All the other towns in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania are real.

  Fr. Peter Ward’s letter to The Freeman’s Journal is genuine, as is Dean Callanan’s letter to the Dublin Evening Packet.

  A note about italic use in this book. Where the dialogue is in italics, the character is understood to be speaking in Irish.

  Prologue

  Cold fear.

  For the rest of her life, Eleanor would remember that first baffled moment of startled bewilderment, leading to an awful surmise, and then to the appalling certainty.

  She grasped her daughter-in-law by the arm.

  ‘Easy, Winnie. Stay easy.’

  ‘It cannot be,’ Winnie whispered. ‘Not again. Not so soon.’ Her face was pale.

  ‘It is,’ Eleanor replied. ‘There’s no doubting it.’ She felt the need to vomit, but did not. The shock had hit her with brutal force.

  Winnie stared at the putrefied potatoes on the table, both cut open to show the dark purple rims, deepening to a sodden wet black at the centres.

  ‘But…not all…’

  ‘The most of them,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve dug up and down and across the big field. There’s damned few left, and I reckon they’ll rot soon.’

  ‘There’s the ones in the loft,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s as well we dug them in time.’

  ‘They’ve rotted too,’ Michael said.

  ‘They couldn’t…’

  ‘They did. Can’t you smell it?’

  Eleanor sensed the cloying sweet smell. Why had she not noticed it earlier?

  ‘But the high field…?’

  ‘Little enough, you’d find there.’

  She steadied herself on the table, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s back, so.’

  ‘It is. The blight is back, and the crop is gone.’

  Chapter 1

  Morning Post, London. July 1848:

  Imperial Parliament, London. At Belmullet, 140 families were turned out by one landlord, and 700 persons turned houseless upon the high road. From the estate of Lord Lucan, in the poorest part of Mayo, 1,200 evictions took place. George Scrope, Member of Parliament, condemns the evicting landlords of County Mayo.

  Michael made to the door, taking the spade. The women stayed behind. Outside, a grey, knee-high mist had settled over the potato field.

  ‘Will he find anything?’ Winnie asked, slipping into Irish.

  ‘Not much,’ Eleanor replied. ‘He knows that as well as we do. He’s only working out his anger.’

  ‘And fear?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. We might have money enough with Pat working in England and Luke in New York. Who knows? Still it’s a matter of pride. Having to rely on our sons for money – it’s not easy for any man.’

  *

&n
bsp; Liam was crying. ‘It’s the noise we’re all making,’ Winnie said. ‘It’s time for his feed anyhow.’

  She brought him into the kitchen, rocking him gently. She opened her blouse and gave him to suck.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘It’s like I told you before,’ Eleanor said. ‘Us women, we’re hard because we have to be. You’ve lived through hunger before. And what do you feel? Pity for the dying. Disgust at the rat-eaten bodies. The fear of death. Many times, I have felt these things, and then I can’t think. But we must think plainly to see what is vital to us. Even when our babies die, we cannot allow our feelings dim our reason. So now we go cold. Cold in our heads, and cold in our hearts. Otherwise we lose all charge. Are you cold?’

  For some time, Winnie said nothing.

  ‘I am,’ she said at length. ‘I have the understanding of it now. Our families come first.’

  ‘They do,’ Eleanor said. ‘Always.’

  Then there was only the sound of the baby feeding. When he had finished, Winnie rocked him until he fell asleep.

  ‘I’ll just put him in the back room.’

  Eleanor took the rotten potatoes from the table and threw them on the turf fire, where they sputtered as they burned. Winnie joined her by the fire, but neither spoke.

  Brigid came into the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Puzzled, she looked from one woman to the other.

  ‘She knows there’s something wrong,’ Winnie said.

  ‘She does,’ Eleanor said. ‘Now come on, we’ve work to do. Let’s clear the loft.’

  Winnie went outside and took in a bucket and shovel. Eleanor climbed into the loft. Winnie passed up the shovel and bucket, and followed up the ladder. Most of the potatoes were black. Some had turned to slush, and a viscous fluid was seeping across the floorboards. Eleanor took a bucket and filled it with the foul-smelling potatoes. Winnie took it down and dumped it outside. Brigid held her hand to her nose, her face wrinkled with disgust.

  At last Eleanor joined Winnie. She could just see Michael sitting at the top of the field, smoking his pipe. Slowly, the mist above the potatoes burned off in the sun, but the rotten stench remained.

  Later the women joined him. Winnie carried the baby in a shawl tied around her back, while Brigid sat at the edge of the field, watching. Many of the potato stalks had blackened. The mist had disappeared.

  ‘What of the high field?’ Eleanor asked.

  Michael knocked his pipe on the rock to clear the ashes.

  ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  The two women followed him to the high field. It was no more than a few tiny ridges of potatoes below the rath. Here some of the stalks were green, and a few of the potatoes that Michael had dug were firm and clean.

  ‘There’s no sign of these ones rotting anyhow,’ Winnie said.

  ‘They will,’ Michael said. ‘Look here.’

  Under the leaves, there was a white, down-like substance.

  Eleanor rubbed her finger on the leaf, and looked close. Again, she felt the shock in her stomach, but calmed herself quickly. Go cold.

  ‘It’s blight right enough.’

  ‘It is,’ Michael said.

  ‘But let’s get these ones out while we have the chance.’

  ‘We can try, if ye want.’

  Eleanor went to the lower field and picked up two hessian sacks. They filled the sacks with the few firm potatoes and carried them back to the house, where they were stored in the loft.

  But she knew they were working to no purpose. A day or two in the loft, and they too would rot.

  *

  That afternoon, she walked up towards Kilduff. There were men and women in the fields on either side of the road, digging potatoes. As she walked, she heard a weird keening sound. She had heard that sound before at funerals, but this was different. These people were keening their own funerals.

  When she arrived in Kilduff the line at Dillon’s was shorter than she had expected. A few women stood outside, all gaunt with hunger. Then a woman ran out of the shop. She was weeping.

  The women in front turned to Eleanor. ‘The price is up,’ one said, ‘there’s not many that’ll afford it.’

  After a few minutes, Eleanor entered the shop. ‘Fourpence per pound,’ Dillon said, before she even opened her mouth.

  She gasped. ‘But that’s four times the price…’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Eleanor was undecided. Then she thought it better to take a small quantity, even less than a quarter of what she normally would. As she walked back, she saw a family kneeling outside a mud cabin, scrabbling through a heap of rotten potatoes. She went on.

  When she arrived in Carrigard, she placed the bag of corn on the table.

  ‘So little?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘The price has gone up four times. At these prices, we might have to start eating our own, whether it’s full grown or not.’

  That night, they ate corn with turnip. Eleanor had decided to leave the new potatoes for a few days. There was no point in sickening themselves on hidden rot.

  Dinner was quiet the next evening. Again, they fed on corn and turnips. The potatoes in the loft were rotten.

  ‘They looked well enough when we dug them,’ Winnie commented.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, ‘but the rot was there, only waiting to show itself. This is ’46 again. ’42 too. There’s nothing left. Not a damned thing.’

  ‘And what of the ones from last year?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Still sound,’ Michael said, ‘but we should keep them for next year’s seed.’

  ‘Is it worth keeping them, if the crop will only rot next year?’

  ‘We must try,’ Michael replied. ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘There’s the hens. We could kill them. Then we wouldn’t have to keep feeding them. Yes, we’d have no eggs, but we could eat their feed ourselves.’

  ‘They won’t last long,’ Winnie said.

  ‘No,’ Michael said, ‘but we’ve still some flitches of salted beef left. It won’t be enough though.’

  ‘We may kill the pig,’ Eleanor said, ‘and won’t it be strange? Not able to buy corn but living on meat.’

  ‘And what of the horse?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘We’ll eat it last,’ Michael said. ‘The donkey too. But one thing’s for certain, we can’t leave any animals outside. We’ll have to bring them in or they’ll disappear. As for eating, we’ll stretch them out long enough. But we’ll have to sell something for the rent, and I’m not sure we’ll have enough corn if we eat it ourselves.’

  They drove the animals inside, and tied them to the rings under the loft, away from the kitchen. There was a smell of animal sweat, and soon a stink of dung. Michael spread straw over it.

  ‘We’ll dig it out in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we were finished with this kind of thing,’ Eleanor said.

  Michael sat back at the table. Brigid sat close to the fire, playing with a straw doll.

  ‘So what now?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘We’ll have to write to Pat in England,’ Michael said, though Eleanor knew from the tone of his voice that he would not write any time soon.

  ‘Don’t forget I’ll be sending money to ye from America,’ Winnie said.

  ‘I’m sure ye will,’ Eleanor said, ‘though I don’t like that it has to be that way. And anyhow, it’ll be months till we’d have it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Winnie, ‘but sure what else can we do?’

  The women were alone in the kitchen the next morning, as Michael had gone to the rath, where he could overlook the cornfield, and protect the growing crop against theft.

  ‘There’s no choice now,’ Winnie said. ‘It’s America for me, whether I like it or not. It’s where Luke is, so I have to go.’

  ‘You’re right, Eleanor said. ‘We’ve bought the ticket. We have his address. There’s only the hunger here, so why stay. Anyhow, you can get work in New York or Jersey City.’

  ‘Worki
ng as a bridget in one of their big houses?’

  ‘Any work you can get.’

  *

  Brigid was fed on chicken and corn. Winnie fed Liam by breast. Eleanor was thankful she could do so. She had heard of women whose babies had died in famine, but knew that this was only in the last stages of starvation.

  She would have to cut back on what the rest of the family were eating, and all their reserves of food, either in storage or on the hoof, would have to be guarded. The turnips were dug, and brought inside. By now they were guarding the cabbage patch, but since it was beside the house this was not difficult.

  Eleanor went up to Kilduff to buy more corn. Just outside the town, a woman’s body lay face down in a ditch. She knelt beside her, and turned her over. She listened. There was no breathing. She walked on to the town. At the priest’s house, there was a line of people, where Father Reilly was giving out soup. She made her way to him.

  ‘Delia Loughney is lying dead out the road towards Carrigard,’ she whispered to him in English, knowing few others would understand.

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ he replied, blankly.

  In Dillon’s the price had dropped, but it was still expensive.

  When she returned, Winnie was sitting at the table with Liam and Brigid. There was a letter.

  ‘Where’s it from?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘England.’

  Eleanor examined the stamp.

  ‘Pat then.’

  She slit the envelope.

  ‘Look at this. Three pounds.’

  Winnie took the notes, wide-eyed.

  ‘But why? We never even asked him.’

  ‘No, but he’d have known, wouldn’t he? He’d have heard all about the potatoes and that we’d be needing money.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Sure by now they’ll know all about it, up the length and breadth of England. And they’ll have had their own blight, they’ll know full well what’s happening.’

  She slipped the letter to Winnie.

  ‘Here, you read it, and tell me what he says.’

  Winnie glanced through it.