by Charles Egan
As they neared Scotland Road, the city began to change. Yes, he remembered the tenements and crowded courtyards from the first time he had come over in 1846, when he was working on the English harvest. Could it have been so little time? And even since then, Scotland Road had worsened. Hundreds of people in the streets and yards.
A soldier was standing at a door. The door had a white cross painted on it. Then more soldiers, more crosses. This time, he did not recognize the insignia. They were regular infantry.
They arrived at Buckleys’ and Murtybeg paid off the cabbie, twice fare, and no tips. He put his pack on his shoulder and walked to the door.
‘Be careful, gov,’ the cabbie shouted after him, ‘there’s cholera there.’
Murtybeg froze. He looked back at the cab, uncertain what to do. Cholera!
He walked back, and gave the cabbie a farthing.
‘Just hold on here a few minutes’ he said. ‘If I can’t get a room, you’ll have another fare. If I’m not out soon, just go on.’
The cabbie tipped his hat to him.
He walked into Buckleys’. A stench of urine hit him. He ignored it and went to the desk where Mrs. Buckley was sitting.
‘Tuppence a room, sharing,’ she said, before he even asked for anything.
‘Is there disease here?’
‘Sixpence for a room of your own,’ she said, without even answering his question.
He thought of that. Perhaps it was safe enough.
‘Fine.’
‘Payment up front.’
He put the sixpence on the desk.
A scruffy boy grasped his pack, without asking. Murtybeg followed up four flights of stairs. The room was on the top, under the eaves.
‘Is there cholera here in the hotel?’ he asked the boy.
‘There is.’
‘Was there any in this room?’
‘No.’
Murtybeg thanked him, and flipped him a farthing.
He looked at the bed. Despite the boy’s assurance, he decided not to risk it, and slept in his clothes on top of the blankets.
He rose early. As he descended the stairs, he saw a soldier standing at one of the corridors. He stopped in puzzlement. The soldier raised his hand.
‘Cholera.’
‘The whole corridor?’
‘Only three rooms,’ the soldier said. ‘Twenty people maybe. But they’re saying it’s a new kind, kills in days, no one lives. Worse than ’32.’
He left Buckleys’. The condition of Scotland Road no longer disturbed him. The soldiers and white crosses did. He cut down towards the docks. More soldiers. More crosses.
Cholera in Liverpool.
He took the Mersey Ferry, and on the Wirral side of the river, he took a cab to Birkenhead.
‘Brassey’s offices,’ he said to the cabbie. No need to give the address.
When he arrived, Johnson was waiting for him. He was friendly, and they quickly completed the business. Johnson stood up to walk him to the door.
‘Which way did you come?’
‘Through Liverpool. I hadn’t known about the cholera.’
‘Yes,’ Johnson said, ‘it was a dangerous way to come. I’d advise you to go back by the Birkenhead & Cheshire. Then you can connect across to Manchester or Stockport.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m intending,’ Murtybeg said.
After the meeting, he spent much of that day travelling. It did not matter. He had no desire to visit Liverpool again, at least not until the cholera was gone. But if he didn’t, where could he source workers? Strangely, he felt it would not be an impossible hurdle. There were enough starving men in Manchester, in the slums of Ancoats – Little Ireland. And there was no question of cholera in Manchester. Or perhaps he had just not heard of it yet.
*
It was late one evening when an unexpected visitor called by, carrying a folder. The young clerk showed him in.
‘That’s fine,’ Murtybeg told the clerk. ‘You can go now.’
The visitor sat in front of his desk.
‘I don’t think we’ve met?’ he said. ‘James Crawford is the name. Inspector Crawford. I’m from the Detective Police of Manchester City.’
‘You’re right that we haven’t met,’ Murtybeg said, ‘I’ve heard your name though. I understand you’ve had some meetings with my late brother.
‘I have indeed,’ Crawford said, ‘and might I say, here and now, how sorry I was to hear of your brother’s demise.’
Murtybeg was on his guard now. What did Crawford want?
‘Indeed, Inspector,’ he replied. ‘I don’t have to tell you; it was a terrible shock to all of us.’
Crawford took a pad and a pen from his folder. ‘Would you have some ink, Mr. Ryan?’
Murtybeg fetched ink from the cupboard and set it beside him. ‘You seem to have an interest in my brother’s death,’ he said.
‘Indeed, we do,’ Crawford said. ‘We had at first assumed it to be murder, and we carried out a detailed inquiry.’
‘Murder? Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘It appeared likely at the time,’ Crawford said, ignoring the question. ‘But tell me Mr. Ryan, what was your opinion?’
Murtybeg stared out the window, not saying anything. A train was crossing the Edgeley viaduct, the Birmingham to Manchester line. An image of Danny’s mangled corpse flashed through his mind.
‘At first, we thought it was an accident,’ he said, ‘but from all I heard afterwards, I’m more inclined to think that Danny killed himself. Or if you prefer, if it was murder, he only murdered himself.’
Crawford was scribbling fast.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Our investigations brought us to the engine driver, and from all we can deduce, Mr. Ryan stood out on the tracks intentionally. We were of the opinion that the man was telling the truth. He would have no reason to do otherwise. So in the end, we dropped it as a murder investigation.’
Murtybeg was more on his guard than ever. He knew that Crawford’s meetings with Danny related to other matters, including the Molly Maguire gang. He was certain of Danny’s involvement, and he guessed that Crawford was too.
‘I’m a little confused here,’ he said to Crawford. ‘If you have concluded it wasn’t murder, then why are we talking?’
Crawford put his pen down.
‘We are still investigating an earlier killing,’ he said. ‘Mr. James McManus. He was one of your brother’s foremen, I believe.’
‘He was,’ Murtybeg replied. ‘Do you know anything about his murder yet?’
Crawford shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Ryan. We’ve tried many leads, but all of them have come to a dead end. I do know one thing for certain though. Mr. McManus was a member of the Molly Maguire gang.’
Now Murtybeg knew for certain that he was on dangerous ground.
‘I didn’t know that,’ he said, thankful that at least was truthful.
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t,’ Crawford said. ‘Our reckoning though is that he was killed in revenge for an earlier killing. A Mr. Eckersley.’
‘Yes,’ Murtybeg said,’ I know the name. That was the fellow who ran a shebeen once. He was beaten up, I understand.’
‘And died afterwards.’
‘Died? Do you know who might have been guilty?’
‘Again, I cannot say for certain. I suspect strongly though that it was a Molly Maguire killing.’
‘I see.’
‘In any case, it was after that, that Mr. McManus was shot. And that in turn was followed by another murder. A Mr. Worsley, a foreman on the Baxendales’ contract next to your brother’s. So you can see the pattern, Mr. Ryan. First, Eckersley was beaten and died. James McManus was killed in revenge. Then Mr. Worsley was killed in revenge again. I have no doubt that Eckersley and Worsley were killed by the Molly Maguires. What’s more, Mr. Ryan, I suspect they were acting on your brother’s orders.’
Murtybeg was speechless.
‘But…but…�
��
Crawford held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Ryan, I can see I’ve shocked you, and in fact, from your reaction, I see too you were totally unaware of this. If you weren’t, you would be an accessory to murder, and that would certainly be a criminal charge, twice over. Whether it would be a hanging charge is debatable.’
Murtybeg recovered his composure.
‘But if what you’re saying…a hanging charge?’
‘Yes, Mr. Ryan. Your brother knew that we knew of his involvement. We had insufficient evidence, as yet, to convict him. But it was only a matter of time.’
‘I see,’ said Murtybeg. ‘And you’re saying that’s the reason he killed himself?’
‘One of them anyhow. Now I’ll just say one thing further, Mr. Ryan. Like I say, I don’t think that you were an accessory to the murders. It is possible though, that you knew of your brother’s involvement, post facto, so to speak. If you did, and you had not reported that to the police, that would be a criminal offence in itself. A lesser charge again than being an actual accessory, but serious none the less.’
Murtybeg was thinking fast, but still confused.
‘I don’t know what to say, Inspector.’
‘Don’t say anything. We’ll assume you did not know about the murder, but you may well have known about your brother’s involvement with the Molly Maguires.’
‘Well, I…’
Crawford waved his hand again. ‘No, don’t worry. You will not be the subject of a prosecution. I promise you that. But can I ask you this, and I would advise you to answer truthfully. Have you yourself any association with the gang?’
Murtybeg was relieved. ‘I can promise you, absolutely, I have never been involved with them.’
‘And I believe you. Your name has never come up in our investigations.’
Nervously, Murtybeg twisted his own pen. Was Crawford aware of how he and Danny brought workers through the Port of Liverpool, and who had organised the payoffs to the police and port authorities? It seemed Crawford knew nothing of this.
‘Nor should it come up,’ Murtybeg said.
‘No. But there is one other possible reason for your brother’s death. We believe he was trading fraudulently. He was not in a position to repay his bank debts. So at the very least, he might have been facing the Debtors Prison. That is, if the Manchester & Salford Bank decided to prosecute him.’
‘But how do you know all this?’
‘Our Fraud Department. Now I must admit I am not an expert in that area, so I leave it to my commercial colleagues to deal with it. Once again though, can I ask you were you aware of this?’
‘Not while my brother was alive.’
Crawford held his pen in anticipation.
‘But afterwards?’
‘At my very first meeting with the bank after my brother’s death, they made me aware of the situation. They could have bankrupted us there and then, but they did not. I proved to them that we had enough new contracts which would be profitable enough to pay off our debts within a reasonable time. It was all a matter of timing. The bank knew that, and that was why they were prepared to deal with me.’
Crawford looked satisfied.
‘Very well, Mr. Ryan, ‘but I must ask you one further question. Since your brother’s death, have the Molly Maguires tried to contact you?’
‘No. I can assure you of that.’
‘I’m happy to hear that,’ Crawford said. ‘I had been very concerned that they might have tried to restart the contact with Edwardes & Ryan.’
‘I wonder why they haven’t,’ Murtybeg said.
‘Most likely, because of your brother’s death, following so close on his foreman’s murder. They may have felt it was too dangerous to continue dealing with Edwardes & Ryan. Or it might just be a matter of time. I must ask you one thing though. If any of them make contact with you, could you let me know at once.’
He took a page from his pad.
‘Here’s my address.’
Murtybeg took it, as Crawford went on.
‘There are two men in particular you should watch for – Gene Brady in Liverpool and Aidan Sheridan, right here in Manchester. They’re the gang leaders, top men. If either of them approach you, just drop me a line, and be very careful. They are most dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Very dangerous, Mr. Ryan. We intend to hang both of them. When we have enough evidence, of course.’
When Crawford had left, Murtybeg spent quite some time staring out of the window. He was relieved at what Crawford had said, and he believed he himself would not be prosecuted. Still, his parting remarks had disturbed him. If any of the gang were to contact him, what could he do? Inform the police? Give evidence to hang men? He knew well the fate of informers, especially Irish informers. Even Crawford would not be able to protect him from that.
And McManus? Crawford had appeared certain of his ground when he stated McManus was in the Molly Maguire gang. But if McManus was, who else might be? Lavan, Gilligan or Roughneen? No way of knowing. The Molly Maguire gang were bound to silence, and there was no way any of them would have told him. Or would they? Would they have wanted to enrol him? He decided he was becoming too suspicious. They were his key men, and he could not afford to lose them. As it was, he was short of top level foremen. In fact, he was short of all sorts of men. He had thought again of his father, but dismissed it from his mind.
*
Over the following weeks, he employed two more clerks and a bookkeeper. Since he had sacked Irene, much of the burden fell on himself. At least the bookkeeper could assist him in carrying out costings for bids, and preparing projections for the Manchester & Salford Bank.
He visited all his sites. He felt better being out of the office. Travelling the rails still fascinated him. He realised he had a pride in the railway system, even on tracks where Edwardes & Ryan had no contracts. He was part of an enterprise that was changing the face of England, and in time, would change the world.
He was more relaxed tramping the sites with his foremen. Roughneen and the rest, these were men he had known since childhood, men he understood, and could rely on in any situation. The sites too, with their endless activity, energised him. He saw it all as an enormous challenge. This was what he was born for.
Back in Stockport, one of the big gaps he had, related to dealing with his suppliers for carts, horses, shovels, timber and many other items. He was no longer holding weekly meetings of the foremen in Stockport because of distances, but he ensured they all met every second or third Saturday. Long discussions were held at these meetings regarding suppliers, and Murtybeg encouraged them to deal with the suppliers in the same ruthless fashion as Irene had. Did they have it in them? Did he?
Roughneen’s truck shop was running well, and, as Irene had anticipated, it increased profits for the business considerably. Murtybeg was surprised and gratified to find it was being run in conjunction with the Grenadier Inn.
‘Geldart is a sharp fellow,’ Roughneen told him. ‘He knows enough of Mayo, and all about the bar trade. We split our ten percent half and half, and we’re all happy.’
Roughneen had been a little more reluctant about the idea of paying in scrip, and taking the scrip in their own truck bar. But in the end, the profits involved were too tempting. At times, Murtybeg wondered what his workers were living on, but decided to put it out of his mind.
One other irony struck him. Eckersley, the man whose killing had started Danny’s problems with the Molly Maguires, had been running his own shebeen on Danny’s works. If all of what Inspector Crawford had said was true, then Danny must have been using the Mollys to force the shebeens off the sites. Perhaps he knew all this already, but preferred to ignore it, and let Danny run things his own way. But murder?
Now he was bringing the shebeens back. But that was different. Truck bars were managed by Edwardes & Ryan. Could they really control them though? Roughneen pointed out to him that previous riots and randies had arisen from Irish works that were
alongside other works employing English, Welsh or Scottish labour. So long as the bars and the shacks were not close to other works, there would be no problem. Local people would object, but that was of little concern to him.
He was becoming more confident. For the first time since Danny’s death, he felt he could make Edwardes & Ryan succeed, without having to pay the price that Danny had paid, and without Irene too.
But glad as he was to be rid of her, she had been Danny’s woman, and that brought him to think of other matters. There was no woman in his own life. Perhaps he should do as Danny had done, and hire a female assistant. Idly, he fantasised about this. There were few Irish girls who would be as able as Irene with figures and negotiation. Perhaps look for an English assistant so? No, better to wait until he was better established, and Edwardes & Ryan was a top-level business, working for only the top contractors. Then he would have his choice of women. But work came first.
*
One evening, he noted the maid had left a letter on his bed. It was addressed to him and marked ‘Eyes Addressee only.’
He slit it open. It was from Louis Sternberg.
Irene was appealing the decision of the Probate Court.
Chapter 17
Brooklyn Eagle, New York. December 1848:
The Cholera. In 1832, when we were visited by the Cholera, it made its entrance by way of Canada. It has now approached us at a more southerly point. It is said that it has made its appearance simultaneously in New York and New Orleans. The weather appears to be favourable for the propagation of the disease, and our city is in just the condition to be inoculated with it at an early day. We suppose no place was ever so outrageously filthy. We hear it said that the streets have not been relieved of their filth thoroughly since just before the last election and that heaps of muck and mush are standing in them, from month to month.
When Luke took Winnie and Liam to Lackan, it was bitterly cold. As they walked across to the terminal of the New Jersey Railroad, Luke wondered what their lodgings in Lackan might be like. He suspected the company-operated lodgings would not be of the same standard, nor have a landlady with the same concern for her lodgers. Mrs. Gleeson had been concerned about the baby travelling in such cold, but Winnie assured her Liam would be held close and warm.
