by Charles Egan
‘I will.’
Pat took his pencil and notebook out.
‘It was the time of the great dying,’ the old man said. ‘Yes, I know you saw it in Knockanure Workhouse, but what happened here was terrible. Disgusting too. Ardnagrena, Croghancoe and more. They forced them to work on the roads when they were already too weak to lift a spade. Then, when the roads weren’t built fast enough, they brought in piecework so they would have to work to death to feed their families. Then when the snows came, the men still had to work. Women and children too. They died on the Works, they died walking to them and walking home. The bodies of those who died working – your brother and his gangers carried them home on their donkeys and horses. The others who died on their way to the Works and on their way home, we buried them where they dropped, sometimes digging a hole in the bogs, sometimes just throwing them into the ditches with a few scraws of heather over them, hoping the foxes wouldn’t find them, but knowing full well they would.’
The narrative went on and on. Much of it concerned Luke and the Roadworks. This fascinated and horrified Pat. More horrifying though were the old man’s descriptions of the people dying in their cabins from starvation and fever. Again and again, the old man named names. Pat was writing very fast, but even so he found it difficult to keep up. People, roads, fields, mountains, houses and villages. And always death. Death, death, death.
The old man paused. Pat stopped his scribbling, and looked around.
‘Go on,’ he said.
The pause was only momentary before the narrative went on.
‘When the snow covered the land, all these villages here disappeared. Sure how could they not? They’re only little tigíns and the snow was ten, twelve and fifteen feet deep. When we dug them out in the spring, all of two months later, there were none left living. In most, the foxes had found them first as the thaw began, and there was little left. You can’t blame the foxes; they were starving too. You’ve seen the village below, no one alive. We tumbled the houses on them, or buried them in the bogs. The same with the bodies that appeared from the drifts when the snows thawed – they’d been buried in ice by their people, or died in the snow trying to find their way back from the Relief Works. The foxes got many of them too. Foxes and rats. And that was the story right across the mountains.’
For a moment, Pat thought the old man had said enough, but then he went on again. Pat was concerned he might not get back to Knocklenagh. But the story had to be told, and the old man was telling it.
‘So how many died?’ you’ll ask,’ Cairbre Mór said to him. ‘You’ll have to have that for your report, won’t you? The officers want figures, it’s what they love in the way a man loves a woman.’
‘It is so,’ Pat said.
‘I’ll tell you then. Over on Benstreeva there were well over seventy families scattered across the mountain. Teenashilla, forty families in two villages and more in the farms around. Burrenabawn, over sixty in three villages, the same again on the mountain, Croghancoe, sixty in two villages, God knows how many on the mountain. You do the sums. Well over three hundred families I can tell you of, and I’m only a half-schooled man. How many in each tigín then? How many in each family? Six? Seven? Eight? Work it out yourself. How many are left? You can count them from those few with smoke still streaming out the doors or the roofs, and there’s damned few of those. But I know you know that, and you’ve counted them all already. You’re that kind of lad, so you can do the sums. A few dozen families made it out by Sligo, though from what we hear of the Sligo ships, many of those are dead. So there’s your report for you. The report we all depend on. No one ever came up here to count them, when they were counting people everywhere else in their census. When they die, no one will ever know, and their little cabins will fall and melt into the ground, leaving not a trace behind. And in years to come, your report will be the only proof that men ever lived on these mountains. Remember this. Few of these people can write…’
‘But you can? Read and do numbers too?’
‘I can,’ the old man said. ‘No mystery there. There was a young fellow used to come around the mountains, teaching, carrying a blackboard on his back. But that was many years ago. Most of the men of my age are dead, and few are left to read or add. For the rest, there’s many would hold letters and numbers to be some class of magic.’
‘They’d be right,’ Pat said, wryly, still surprised at the old man’s facility with arithmetic.
Cairbre Mór stood. ‘Now I’ve said enough, young man. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll be lost.’
So saying, he shook Pat’s hand and walked back up the mountain.
*
Pat watched, until he disappeared. Then, concerned that he would not find his way, he made his way down slowly, leading the horse with him until he came to the edge of the road. He mounted and rode down to Knocklenagh without stopping. As he rode, it began to rain. The horse stumbled, and he dismounted and walked along the edge of the road, leading the horse. Whenever the rain was heaviest, he would shelter, sometimes under trees or rocks; sometimes in cabins, sharing them with the dead. At times, he doubted he would reach Knocklenagh at all.
He thought of the old man’s story. His tale of leaving Erris was a silly one, but still, he had a good knowledge of the north of Erris, and the boglands to the east of it. That at least was solid information, whatever about his story of chasing a woman.
His story of what had happened in the Ox Mountains was horrific, but Pat had expected that. He had seen just as bad, even in the lowlands around Castlebar. He had been surprised by the old man’s ability with arithmetic, but he had heard stories of itinerant schoolteachers before. Even so, the fellow’s easy facility with figures was unreal. It had been as if figures were sacred to him, as they had once been to wise men in the mountains of ancient lands. Magic indeed.
Enough of that. What now? He would have to meet with Father Nugent again. That might not be easy.
When he reached the village, it was still raining heavily. His coat and clothes were wet through. He was hesitant about going to Durcans’ as there was no man present, and people might talk, but the cold overcame any concern he might have had about that.
Mrs. Durcan answered his knock.
‘I was looking for Father Nugent,’ Pat said.
‘He’s just been,’ she replied. ‘He said you’d come back this way. He’s staying up at Tommy Gill’s, and said you should join him there. They’ll have a bed ready for you.’
She gave him directions, and Pat went out into the rain again.
He found Gills’. The woman of the house welcomed him in. Father Nugent was sitting by the fire with Gill and two children.
‘Come in, come in, Pat,’ Father Nugent said. ‘I knew we’d meet soon. Let’s hear your story.’
‘He’ll dry off first,’ the woman said.
She led him into a room and gave him a short length of rope and a blanket.
‘Here, wrap this around yourself and bring your clothes out.’
Soon after, Pat was sitting beside the fire, his clothes drying on a wooden rack, and a cup of poitín in his hand. He sipped at the poitín, and told them of what he had seen in the mountains.
‘Worse than here so?’ the woman of the house asked.
‘Much worse, I’d say.’
‘It is,’ Father Nugent said.
‘I met a fellow told me about the time of the snow. Cairbre Mór was his name.’
He had no doubt that the priest would know who he was talking about.
‘That old rogue,’ Father Nugent said. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He’s all piseógs and fairy tales.’
‘That’s as might be,’ Pat said, ‘but he knew who I was at once.’
‘That’s easy enough,’ Father Nugent said. ‘He’d have heard of someone coming from Castlebar and Knockanure. Sure we all knew of that, these past days; the world and his wife knew it. He’d have heard of you too from the workhouse last year. And if he’d seen you taking notes, he’d have
guessed from that too. No, there was no magic. All a matter of common sense, taking a few facts and filling the spaces in between.’
‘You might be right,’ Pat said.
‘So what did he tell you?’ Gill asked.
‘A lot about Luke, to start with. A lot too about what happened here in the mountains through the winter, the kind of thing Luke would never talk about.’
Pat told them all that Cairbre Mór had told him about what had happened in the villages of the Ox. He told too of what he had seen himself. When he was finished, he thought of the old man’s story about chasing a woman. Should he mention it? Or it might only be a fairy-tale, and telling the story might make him look a fool. He decided not to mention it. The story of the misery of the Ox Mountains was enough.
When Pat was finished, Father Nugent began to speak, telling more of what had happened around Brockagh, Lisnadee, Knocklenagh, and further up the mountains. Again, Pat took his notebook out, and scribbled as fast as he was able. He was desperately tired, and his whole body was aching for sleep, but this could not be missed. Father Nugent’s knowledge was unending. Village by village, road by road, boreen by boreen; naming families; detailing hunger and fever; evictions and death. From time to time, Gill or his wife would add detail, but for the most part they left it to the priest. Sometimes Pat would interrupt with a question, but it was hardly necessary. By the time Father Nugent finally stopped, the family had gone to bed. Pat was far beyond exhaustion when he finally retired. He slept till the sun was high in the sky.
*
For the rest of the day, he accompanied Father Nugent around the lower end of the mountains, as he sought out families needing the last rites. Pat’s mind was numb, but still he took notes, while fighting the urge to throw up. Again, they spent the night in Gills’.
When he left Knocklenagh, he rode direct to Knockanure Workhouse and asked for Voisey. He gave a full report of the places he had visited and all that he had heard from Father Nugent. He spoke too of the horrific stories Cairbre Mór had told of Lisnadee, Ardnagrena, Teenashilla, Burrenabawn, Benstreeva and Croghancoe.
Again, Voisey gave more detail, corroborating and adding to the information Pat already had.
Riding back towards Castlebar, Pat decided to divert by Carrigard. He saw Michael in the distance, repairing stone walls around the rath. He waved at him.
When he arrived at the house, Eleanor hugged him close.
‘Pat, my son… How are you?’
‘I’m fine, mother.’
‘Sit down there, and hold till I put the porridge on.’
Then Michael came in.
‘Well, Pat. What have you seen?’
‘What I’ve seen, you don’t want to know.’
Eleanor was surprised. She silenced Michael with a finger to her lips.
‘We had a letter from Luke yesterday,’ she said.
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Not so bad. Winnie has arrived safely, little Liam too. They sent some money.’
‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘I sent a pound to the Gallaghers this morning.’
‘It’ll certainly be valued,’ Pat said. ‘John Gallagher has gone over to England working. It’s only Mrs. Gallagher and two of the young fellows who are still there.’
Eleanor handed him another letter.
‘What’s this?’ Pat asked.
‘I wouldn’t know. It’s for you, so I didn’t open it.’
He saw the Westport postmark and he ripped it open.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Sarah. She says her mother is dead.’
Chapter 9
Leeds Intelligencer, England. September 1848:
Two contracts upon the original line remain to be completed, namely the Bramhope & Leeds contracts, situated between Weeton Lane and Leeds. These contracts include the heaviest work to the line; they have made considerable progress during the last six months and are expected to be opened early in the course of next year. All the arches of the Wharfe and the Aire Viaducts are keyed in, except one arch of the latter erection over the canal at Armely. The works of the tunnel are fast advancing towards completion.
Murtybeg’s initial reaction to the solicitor’s letter was one of shock. He had known he would have to be tough with Irene, but through all this, he had never even considered the ownership of Edwardes & Ryan. In a vague sort of way perhaps, he had thought it might be owned by himself and his parents, but further than that, he had not gone. He had never heard of common-law marriage, and never thought that Irene might be the true owner.
Many times, he woke up in the middle of the night, trying to work out what to do next, but his thinking went around in circles, until he would fell asleep again through sheer fatigue.
For some time, neither he nor Irene commented on the letter. He tried to minimise his contact with her, and said little when they met, beyond discussion of bids and contracts.
He said nothing either to any of the gangers about the ownership of Edwardes & Ryan. It appeared to him that Irene had not either. Perhaps she too wanted to keep it quiet, for now anyhow. She was clearly playing a long game, and if she could, so could he.
He had reckoned that anything he said might be used against him, and the other clerks would back up Irene. So he said nothing, and this did not seem to concern her. Perhaps she wanted him to stay working with Edwardes & Ryan, so long as he knew his place.
One evening, he decided to bring up the issue over dinner. He waited until the maid had brought out the tureen, and ladled soup out for both.
‘So you wish to own Edwardes & Ryan.’
‘I do own it,’ she said, her face icy cold.
‘I don’t think Danny ever intended it that way.’
‘What Danny intended, is of no consequence. The law is the law.’
Murtybeg was very tempted to walk out at once. He held himself back. He had negotiated the Manchester & Salford Bank into a corner. Could he do the same with Irene? It would take much longer, that was for sure.
‘So what now?’ he asked.
‘You just do as you’re doing. Negotiate with the banks, you’re excellent at that. Deal with the big contractors and source our labour.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the business does need me.’
‘You can be replaced fast enough.’
‘You expect me to believe that.’
‘Try me,’ she said.
He hesitated.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay on. There is, of course, the question of my salary.’
‘I’m not going to reduce it.’
‘No, you’re not’ he said. ‘We’re going to increase it. Another two shillings a day.’
He stared straight into her eyes, challenging her.
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘two shillings extra, and, by God, you’re going to work for it.’
A small win for me, he thought that night. But where the devil do I go from here?
*
The next morning, she threw a copy of the Manchester Times onto his desk.
‘The East Lancashire Line are requesting bids.’
He looked where she was pointing. ‘That’ll be a big one.’
‘It will. And we’d better get it. You’re going to have to prove you’re as good as what I’m paying you.’
Again, Murtybeg held back on saying anything abrupt. How long would this continue though?
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but this time, I think we better talk to the Manchester & Salford first.’
‘And have them wreck all our prospects?’
‘Not so long as we have proper projections.’
Murtybeg wrote to the East Lancashire offices, requesting a copy of the proposed works. When he received it, he went through distances and depths, estimating cubic yards of soil and rock to be removed, horses and carts required and many other items.
That evening, and well into the night, he and Irene worked on the figures until they were both content that they had everything righ
t.
Through the long hours, Murtybeg observed her closely. A most attractive woman, no doubt about it. He could understand what had attracted Danny to her. Still, he hated her for the woman she was, and considered her approach to business to be pure evil. How to break her grip? That was the problem.
He arranged a meeting with the Manchester & Salford Bank. The morning of the meeting, he met with Irene for breakfast.
‘I want to warn you of one thing,’ she told him. ‘You had better get the Bank on side.’
‘I’ll try,’ he said.
‘Trying isn’t good enough,’ she said. ‘I’ve already submitted our bid to the East Lancashire.’
She placed a copy of the contract on the table.
‘Wasn’t that a bit hasty,’ he said.
‘Why? Aren’t the estimates accurate?’
‘They are, but if we don’t get the bank lending, we’ll look like fools to the East Lancashire.’
‘So?’
‘So we can always go back and withdraw our bid. They’ll have plenty of other bids.’
‘It won’t be so easy to do that,’ she said, as she threw a letter on the table.
‘What?’
‘They’ve already accepted it.’
He looked at the letter in horror. Who had been bribed this time? And what would the Manchester & Salford do?
Murtybeg found his negotiations with the Bank surprisingly easy. An eight-thousand-pound loan was granted, with few questions. Winrow barely glanced through the projections.
Had he been bribed? No, not possible.
Or maybe someone at a higher level – one of the directors? Not possible, either. Perhaps he was just becoming too suspicious of everyone.
*
There were other matters to consider. Most vital was the Mackenzie contract in Bradford. On this occasion, he took Roughneen with him. They took the train from Stockport Station into Manchester Piccadilly Station, where he bought two newspapers.
‘I don’t have to tell you Johnny, that this is a vital contract for us now. The North Staffordshire is well under control. Our original contract is finished, but I’m hoping we’ll have more. Brassey is certainly happy with all we’ve done. Now we have to prove to Mackenzie that we can operate at this level. I’ll want you to run the contract.’
