by Charles Egan
‘Didn’t I tell you, you shouldn’t go to Five Points?’
‘Oh no, that’s not what I’m saying. I wanted to, and now I have. I reckon too there’s many places like it in towns up and down this country. Still though, there’s good and bad. Sure, I saw hunger today, but no outright starvation, and that’s something.’
‘It is. When you’re hungry, it’s all that matters.’
*
‘I blame the landlords,’ Mick said one night.
‘I’d agree with you,’ Luke said. ‘All the evictions, people out on the roads dying. Lucan, Palmer, Gore-Knox and the rest of them, they’re right bastards. But there’s one thing you can’t blame them for.’
‘What’s that?’ Jack asked, intrigued.
‘The blight.’
‘The blight!’ Mick exclaimed. ‘Sure we don’t even know what brings the blight. Maybe the landlords are poisoning the crops.’
‘Why in the name of God would they do that?’ said Luke. ‘It would only hurt themselves. No, I agree with you as far as the evictions go, and right savage bastards they are there too, killing people like that. But the blight, that’s only silly. Everyone knows what causes the blight. The rain and the lightning, that’s what.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Mick said.
‘Open your eyes,’ Luke said. ‘Any time we’ve had blight; it’s been wet weather. A long dry summer, you never get it. That’s what you said yourself.’
‘That’s still doesn’t let the landlords off the hook,’ Mick said.
‘And I wouldn’t do that in a month of Sundays,’ Luke said. ‘If Lucan and Palmer and Clanowen were hung, drawn and quartered, I’d think it wouldn’t be enough for them. Lucan – the biggest landlord in Mayo – he was worse than any. And didn’t I see evictions myself at Gort na Móna, just beside Kilduff? A Clanowen eviction, that was. Easy on Lucan and the County fellows to ignore that, the bastards, and they sitting in Castlebar, not even caring what was going on over our side of the county. And where did the starving people all end up? Over in Castlebar Workhouse, with Lord Lucan doing the paying? Not a chance of that. No, it was Knockanure Workhouse had to take them in, those that would be taken. And do you think my good Lord Lucan would give a damn about the workhouse in Knockanure, and he not paying for it?’
‘I’m not too sure he’d give much of a damn about the workhouse in Castlebar neither,’ Jack said. ‘I can’t see him paying for that neither.’
*
Every weekend now, Luke and Winnie visited Five Points. On occasion, Luke accompanied Catherine and Winnie, selling gin around Cow Bay and The Brewery. Sometimes too, he went on other Hibernian missions distributing food and money around Five Points. He found these just as disturbing.
The Hibernians limited these to those families in direst need. Once again, he visited the cellars, tenements and rookeries, but no matter how much he saw the grinding poverty, it always sickened him.
He felt there was a conflict in Costello’s activities. While the food would all be eaten, some of the cash at least would go on drink. On another ‘gin run’ with Catherine, he recognised families who had received money and food. Whether Costello knew of this type of conflict, or whether he cared, Luke did not know.
One afternoon, Luke stayed working with Costello and did not accompany Winnie and Catherine.
‘What were you doing yourself all the time I was out?’ she asked him, as they crossed back to Jersey City.
‘Oh, a few things. Spoke with Costello and one or two of the fellows at the bar for a while. Then I went up to the Chemical Bank. Got five pounds out to send back to Mayo. I wrote them a long letter too to go with it; telling them how well you and Liam were looking and all about Jersey City and our plans for meeting all the fellows up in Lackan. I told them too to take thirty shillings out of the five pounds and send it up to your mother in Brockagh.’
‘It’s well you did,’ she said. ‘It’s a lot of money.’
It is, Winnie, but by God, even with Pat back, they’ll need it. The hunger in Mayo is only getting worse.’
*
At a Hibernians’ meeting in Costellos’ one night, there were heated arguments about the Young Ireland movement and the failed rebellion. Luke had only heard confusing stories of this across the summer.
‘It was a disgrace.’ Carroll said. ‘Thinking they could rise the whole country, and what did we get? A brawl in Tipperary.’
Costello stood, furious.
‘We’ll have none of that kind of talk,’ he said. ‘That’s playing into the hands of the British. Mitchell and Smith-O’Brien – they did what they could.’
‘Yes,’ Carroll said, ‘and let the British papers make propaganda out of it. The Cabbage Patch Rebellion! They want to make fools of us all, and we let them. And what did the rest of the country do, for all their grand talk? Burnt a railway station. Did they even do that? Great heroes, aren’t they?’
‘Well, they tried, at least,’ Costello said, ‘and now they’re paying the price.’
‘What price? Tell me that.’
‘The prison ships to Van Diemen’s Land,’ Costello said. ‘Eaglehawk Neck most like, that’s where they keep the worst. No one’s ever escaped from Eaglehawk.’
‘They will though,’ another man said. ‘We’ll get them out, bring them to America. You’ll see.’
One of the younger men brought up the subject of the Molly Maguire gang. At once, Luke was on his guard. He was gratified though when he heard Costello condemning it.
‘The Church is against all kinds of oath bound societies. You should know that.’
One of the others made to protest but Costello silenced him.
‘Any such organisation has no need to take an oath of silence, unless they have something to hide. And that gang sure have a lot to hide. Including murder.’
‘But no one can prove that,’ Carroll said.
‘It’ll be proven in time,’ Costello said, ‘and in the meantime, none of us will have anything to do with it.’
After the meeting had broken up, Luke assisted Costello in cleaning the bar.
‘I was troubled to hear talk of the Mollys again,’ he said to Costello.
‘Yes, and it’s a troubling problem to us too. The police, they find it hard to distinguish between the various Irish societies. There’s many of them convinced that there’s gangs in the Hibernians. But I can tell you, here and now, that is not the case. If we thought any man was in the Maguires, they’d be thrown out straight away.’
‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘and I’d agree with you on that. But tell me this, John, if they’re oath bound, as we say, then there’s no way of knowing whether a man is a member or not. He could join the Hibernians, and no one would know.’
Costello stopped wiping the table he was working on.
‘I suppose you’re right, Luke, and there’s damned little we can do about that. All we can do is keep our eyes open. Think of it this way. If a man is a murderer, he’s not going to tell anyone about it, oath-bound or not. That’s the reason you have to be recommended when you join the Order. Vouched for, if you like. The only reason you’re a Hibernian is because I vouched for you, and I know damned well, you’re not a member of the Molly Maguires, nor a murderer either.’
Luke hesitated. He remembered the battle of Lord Sligo’s wall back in Mayo, when they had to defend their own corn supplies against starving men and women who wanted it for themselves. He remembered too how he himself had saved Michael’s life by hitting an assailant with a rock. That man had died; he was sure of it. Was he, Luke Ryan, a murderer? Perhaps not. He had only been defending his own father’s life. Still, he was a killer, he was sure of that.
‘You’re right John,’ he said, ‘I’m surely not a murderer. There’s just one other thing though. We describe the Mollys as oath-bound. Don’t we take an oath ourselves when we join the Order?’
‘Ah yes, but that’s a different matter. It’s more in the line of a pledge. We pledge our loyalty to our fell
ow members, and while we may have our secrets, they are not criminal secrets. The Mollys are oath-bound killers.’
‘There’s some who’d think them patriots,’ Luke said.
‘Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t. And anyone who might, is only deluded.’
*
Next morning, they took the ferry back to Jersey City.
‘Did Costello say anything about cholera?’ Winnie asked.
‘Cholera? Where did you hear that?’
‘Catherine just said it to me. There’s some question it’s come to New York. All kinds of wild stories, you wouldn’t know the truth of it. But still…’
‘Arra no. We’d have heard of it if it had come to New York. Where would she have heard it anyhow?’
‘The Dutch and the Germans. She says they’re all talking about it. The ships coming in from Hamburg – they’re carrying it. There’s terrible stories from over there. Thousands – tens of thousands – dead, that’s what they’re saying.’
‘I just hope to God they’re only stories,’ Luke said. ‘Or that it stays in Hamburg.’
*
Luke’s membership of the Hibernians was something that Mick deduced very rapidly.
One afternoon in the terminal, they sat on a bollard for the break. On the passenger docks across the Hudson, one ship was discharging, two waiting behind. Where were they from? Ireland? Liverpool? Or anywhere else in Europe? He had seen ships from Bremen and Hamburg; Bordeaux and Le Havre. But most were from Liverpool, carrying Irish men and women fleeing Ireland through England’s biggest port.
Mick was nudging him.
‘I don’t know why you’re in with those Hibernian fools,’ he said. ‘Hot air, that’s all they’re good for. Hot lead is what we need.’
‘I might half agree with you,’ Luke said. ‘Hot lead is what some of those Know-nothing gangs might need. We can’t do things that way though, can we?’
‘Why not? There’s others that would.’
‘And I suppose you’re part of these others, are you?’ Luke asked.
‘I’m not saying I am,’ Mick said.
‘And you’re not saying you’re not.’
‘Never mind me,’ Mick said. ‘Isn’t it about time you thought of doing something serious.’
‘Like what, working harder?’
‘Resisting.’
‘Resisting?’
‘Resisting like we’ve always done. Stand up for our rights. Ireland or America, it doesn’t matter. We fought the landlords, we shot enough of them, didn’t we. Their agents too. And now we’re carrying on the fight in a new land. Have you ever thought of where you’re going?’
Luke looked across to another dock where another train was coming, drawing many wagons of anthracite.
‘Going to join Farrelly,’ he said. ‘Digging anthracite instead of shovelling it.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Mick said, ‘and what kind of foremen will we have when we get there? God knows, these ones are bad enough, but once we get up to the anthracite belt, then you’ll know what foremen are. Then you’ll know what resistance is.’
Realisation was slowly coming to Luke. It was as he had always suspected. A terrorist group in Ireland and America. There was only one group that fitted that description.
‘You’re talking about the Molly Maguires, aren’t you?’ he said to Mick.
‘I never said I was,’ Mick answered. ‘Whatever I’m talking about, you’re going to be one, whether you know it or not. Whether you join in Jersey City or up by Lackan, you’ll join. You’re not the kind of man to bow down and take defeat.’
A barge had stopped, and had been tied up. A whistle blew.
‘Yes,’ said Mick, as they walked towards the barge, ‘you’ll join, and so you should, since you know so many already.’
‘Around here?’ said Luke, surprised. ‘In the terminal?’
‘How would I know,’ Mick replied, cagily. ‘Maybe there are, and maybe there’s not. And maybe there’s more in Five Points, and you don’t even know it. Inside the Hibernians too.’
‘I can assure you of one thing,’ Luke said. ‘The Hibernians don’t even allow it.’
‘You can believe what you want on that one,’ Mick said. ‘But how would they know who is and who isn’t a resister. One way or another, the Hibernians aren’t resisting…’
‘Violence isn’t their way,’ Luke said.
‘Sure, it isn’t. And what do the Hibernians go for instead? Going all weepy about the old country. Is that resistance? The Young Irelanders showed us what that was all about, with their little rebellion. I’ll tell you this Luke, the next time there’s a rebellion in Ireland, it’ll be a real rebellion led by real men.’
They climbed up on the wagon and started shovelling.
So what was Mick? A man who might or might not be a member of an organisation that might or might not be violent, and might not even exist. An organisation with no name. Was Mick only trying to inflate his own importance? Maybe, maybe not.
As the weather became colder, more and more Irishmen appeared in Jersey City. They stood forlornly outside the terminal, shivering.
‘And there’s just no jobs for them,’ Jack said.
‘Sure how could there be?’ Mick said. ‘They’re just pouring into New York. And it’s not that I wouldn’t like to give my fellow Irishman a start, but not at the expense of losing my own job.’
‘You’re right,’ Jack said. ‘Still, I find it hard to take. Look at them there, hardly an ounce of meat on their bones, nor a thread of clothing neither,’
‘Damn it to hell,’ Mick said, ‘what choice do we have. It’s either them or us. They starve or we starve.’
Luke concentrated on shovelling. He had found over the years that hard physical labour was one way to work out his own fears. Still, it gnawed at him. Irishmen, hungry and freezing, come all the way to America, and what did they find waiting for them? Hunger and death in the land of plenty.
*
They were working beside a group of English coal heavers one morning.
‘These fellows,’ Mick said. ‘They’ve got far too many of them here.’
‘The English, is it?’
‘Them and the rest. The Taffs and the Jocks too.
‘Damn it, there’s a lot of people you don’t like,’ Jack said.
‘And rightly so,’ Mick said. ‘Look at the Polack and the Dutchman. We’ve got to keep wages up here. Can’t do that with all these fellows pouring in, and them not even able to speak English. You mark my words, the New York docks will be Irish, from one end to the other. But by God, we’re going to have to fight for it.’
Irish from end to end, Luke thought. Doubt we’ll see that.
‘How could we make that work?’ he asked.
‘The Union. An Irish Union. Once we have our own Union, we’d have our own wages. Strike for it if need be. But first we’ve got to make sure and keep the other fellows out.’
‘And what of the black fellows?’ Jack asked.
‘Keep them out too,’ Mick said. ‘Sure what are they only slaves? Used to working for nothing at all. What do you think that’ll do for wages in New York City? No, they’re only good as cotton pickers or cowboys.’
‘Sure look at the work we’re doing?’ Luke said. ‘Shovelling anthracite – any amadán could do that. There’s more skill in cotton picking. So who’s the slave in New York? The black man or the white man?’
‘Yes,’ Mick said, ‘but we get paid.’
‘And damned little too,’ Luke said, angry now. ‘And the slaves – they get fed and sheltered. We have to pay for our board and lodging, and there’s damned little left after that. How can we stay sending money back to Mayo, when our savings run out? These wages are damnable.’
‘And that’s the reason we have to send the escaped slaves back down south,’ Mick said. ‘We sure as hell don’t want them here in New York. Whatever chance we have of getting higher wages, we won’t have a hope in hell once those fellows start coming here b
y the thousand. And it’s not just New York, I’ll tell you. If they’re ever to free the slaves – which they won’t – they’d spread everywhere. Can you see Liverpool and Manchester, overrun by the black man?’
‘There wouldn’t be much cotton picking over there,’ Luke said.
‘Maybe not, but you’d find them working all the low paid jobs on the railways. Your cousin – Danny – he would have been glad of them, I’m damned sure. He’d would have had them in his gangs fast enough.’
‘And what about Mayo?’ Luke asked.
‘Arra, sure they’re starving there.’ Mick said. ‘Even the black man knows that.’
Luke went back to shovelling anthracite. Mick’s comments had disturbed and angered him. He felt that he had been right in one way though. Freed slaves could always undercut Irish wages. And Irish wages were low enough already.
*
One evening, a letter was awaiting as they returned from the terminal. Mick flicked it across to Luke. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
Luke opened it.
‘It’s from Farrelly, up in Lackan. Says if we’re interested in working as miners, now would be the time to go.’
‘It would,’ Mick said. ‘except we’ll need more money for travelling. We’ll be a while here yet.’
That evening, Luke replied to Farrelly’s letter, saying they would travel to Lackan as soon as they had the money.
Chapter 12
Dublin Evening Post, November 1848:
Judging from the intercourse kept up by Mr. McMurray of New York with this city, and the continual presentation of his cheques, and the cheques and orders of bankers and agents in the States on the Provincial Bank, Royal Bank, the Bank of Ireland and others, we do not exaggerate the sum received from emigrants in the States by their friends in this country in setting it down at about a million during the year 1848.
They both went to deposit Luke’s wages at the Chemical Bank. On the way back, in the ferry, Winnie fed Liam at the breast. There were only two women beside them.
‘A wise precaution,’ one of them said, observing her.
‘Don’t I know it,’ Winnie said. ‘I’d been trying to wean him, but breast feeding is the one way of protecting against cholera, and God knows, we’ll need protection, the times that are in it.’
