Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  ‘Where’s Mr. Daly?’ he asked.

  ‘Not here.’

  He tried the next shed and the next.

  On the fourth, an inmate pointed down the ward. ‘Second bed from the end.’

  At the bed a man was kneeling beside a patient, holding his head up as he held a bottle to his lips.

  ‘Mr. Daly?’

  The man looked around. ‘Yes. Who’s wanting to know?’

  ‘Pat Ryan, we’ve met before.’

  Daly beckoned to a woman to take over the patient. She was not wearing the uniform of the workhouse. A nurse perhaps?

  ‘Yes,’ Daly said, ‘I remember you. Yourself and your brother, wasn’t it…?’

  ‘My cousin, Murtybeg.’

  ‘Whatever. You brought our men over to England for working on the railways. We’ve had many of them back.’

  ‘Back?’

  ‘The Manchester Workhouses, they had them sent back to Liverpool and shipped back here. Told us there were no jobs.’

  ‘There were jobs right enough,’ Pat said, ‘but soon after there was the Railway Panic. Then there were no jobs.’

  They both stood aside as the trolley came back again.

  ‘What brings you here now? Looking for more men for jobs that aren’t there?’

  ‘No,’ Pat said, ‘I’m working for the County now. They’ve heard reports of cholera in Ballinrobe, and they want to know the truth of it. Seems you’re the first town in Mayo to get it.’

  ‘The first? Surely…’

  ‘There’s none in Castlebar, though they’re reckoning it’s coming. But it’s here right enough. Isn’t it?’

  Daly gestured around him.

  ‘Here is right, and this is just from the workhouse. The people in the town, they just die in their houses.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said, ‘I’ve seen the crosses.’

  Abruptly, Daly took him aside.

  ‘Do the County really know nothing about cholera?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Pat said. ‘It’s like I told you, there’s none in Castlebar and the Grand Jury are trying to say it’s all a lie.’

  ‘A lie! God damn it, you’ve seen it yourself.’

  ‘I have, and I’m not denying it. In fact, I want to give Castlebar the truth of it all. But tell me this, is there nothing to be done?’

  ‘There’s only one treatment and that’s water – water with salt in it. They’ve a desperate thirst, but it goes in one end and comes out the other. That’s the reason for this mess. But if we stop giving them water, they’ll die. And even if we do, most still die. It all depends on how strong they are. Starvation doesn’t help, I can tell you. Most of those in the town will be dead soon, and it’s highly infectious. If one dies, the whole house will get it. It’s the police that started the system of marking the white crosses on the doors, a sort of home quarantine you might call it.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said, ‘I’d guessed.’

  Daly brought Pat out of the shed, and into the Administration block. He led Pat to an office and sat him down.

  ‘Well now, you’ve seen it yourself,’ he said to Pat. ‘It’s all over Ireland, God damn it. It’s killed millions of people around the world. Sure all you have to do is read the papers. It’s terrible what’s happened in England.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said.

  ‘And the papers are talking of cities losing thousands to cholera, and if that isn’t a killer, I don’t know what is. But it’s worse here. Fever spreading like wildfire, and now cholera. What in the name of God do the County expect us to do about it? We’re giving Outdoor Relief, but it’s not a fraction of what we need, and the ratepayer has to pay for it all. Wouldn’t be a problem for the likes of Lucan, but he’ll be damned to hell before he pays a penny. Most of the rest are bankrupt, you know that as well as I do. They expect us to feed all who need feeding; they expect us to cease the sickness; and they give us blasted little money to do it with. And here it’s worse than anywhere. Do you know, right here, right in this Workhouse, the fever is killing hundreds, every single week.’

  Pat looked up, stunned.

  ‘Hundreds…?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you. Look – we have two thousand in a workhouse built for six hundred. I’ve written to the County, I’ve written to Dublin Castle – no answer from anyone. Now go back and tell that to the accursed bastards in Castlebar.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’

  ‘And tell them what you’ve seen in the town, and what you’ve seen in the wards right here in the workhouse.’

  ‘It’s what Mr. Gaffney asked me to do. He doesn’t just want my thoughts, he wants real numbers to convince Lord Lucan and the rest of the Grand Jury.’

  ‘As if any of them will do anything about it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pat said. ‘We can only try. What other numbers can you give me?’

  Daly stood, and took a large book from a shelf.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘These are the deaths, day by day, week by week, for the past twelve months. Now you can sit and look at this.’

  Pat turned the pages. Long lists – Surnames, Christian names and Townlands, all totalled at the end of each day. He took out his notebook and pencil, and began copying in dates and numbers.

  ‘And here,’ Daly said, ‘you can see the increase coming up to the potato harvest. Then the failure and the numbers increase again. Then the fever really took off – you can see it in the numbers here. And here’s where the cholera began. And if this doesn’t wake the whoresons in Castlebar, then God help us all.’

  Pat had been scribbling very fast. Between the figures, he took down Daly’s comments, as he described what had happened in the workhouse, day by day.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Daly said at length. ‘There’s times I get upset about this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ Pat said.

  ‘No, I should have given it to you slower. Are you sure you got it all down?’

  ‘Near every word,’ Pat said. He passed the notebook over to Daly.

  ‘By God, you do it fast. Accurate too. Will they see this?’

  ‘Mr. Gaffney will,’ Pat said, ‘and he’ll make sure everyone else does. And if the Grand Jury don’t understand it, the Connaught Telegraph sure as hell will.’

  Daly came around and shook his hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Pat. I’m sorry I was a little rude earlier. Now go with God.’

  *

  Pat left the workhouse. He rode past the dogs. He turned his face away, but on the other side of the street, he saw what was left of a leg, gnawed down to the bone, a shoe hanging off the end. Two rats scurried off as he approached.

  He checked the position of the sun, and went in what he reckoned might be a north-westerly direction. He was not certain though. He dismounted and knocked on the door of a cabin. There was no answer.

  He led the horse to the next cabin and knocked again.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘I’m looking for the road to Partry.’

  ‘It’s not this way.’

  ‘Which way is it?’

  Silence.

  He rode back to the centre of the town. He took another road, and saw a woman approaching him. As he came nearer, she pulled her shawl tighter around her wizened face.

  ‘I’m looking for the road to Partry.’

  She pointed in the direction he was riding.

  As darkness fell, it became cold, and he looked for somewhere to sleep. He found a turf shed and stepped inside. There was a movement in the shadows.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘You may stay if you want.’

  He went out to tie his horse. Then there was a scream. Fever? Typhus or cholera? How could he tell? He got back on his horse, and went on.

  Two more sheds had people sleeping in them. The next shed was empty. There was no turf, but a little straw in the corner. He pulled his blanket around himself and slept.

  In the morni
ng, he arrived in the village of Partry. A ragged man walked towards him, carrying a bundle of kindling. He was thin, but he carried no signs of hunger or fever.

  ‘I’m looking for Father Ward,’ Pat said.

  ‘He was here last night right enough, but I’d heard he’d gone on to Tourmakeady.’

  ‘Is he long gone?’

  ‘Not so long. The sun was just risen when he left. You might catch him if you ride fast.’

  ‘Which direction did he go?’

  ‘Left at the crossroads ahead.’

  ‘Was he walking?’

  ‘Riding. You’ll have no difficulty though. He’s on a donkey and won’t be going fast.’

  Pat thanked him. He whipped the horse into a canter. He realised he had to be careful not to miss Father Ward, who might have stopped at any cabin along the road. He watched every cabin for donkeys, but there were none.

  He overtook a horse and cart with a man, a woman and four children. The woman was holding a baby. All were thin, but there was no sign of fever or the extreme stages of hunger. Two of the children were sitting on crates, and at the front of the cart there were three sacks, all full and knotted tight.

  He slowed to their pace and asked if they had seen Father Ward, but they had not.

  ‘Are ye going far?’ he asked.

  ‘Westport,’ the man answered.

  ‘And further than that, I’d guess?’

  ‘America, if we can make it.’

  ‘Have ye money for a ticket.’

  ‘We have, but whether it will be enough, I don’t know. We had held back corn from last year’s crop to pay the landlord in June.’

  ‘He won’t see that so,’ Pat commented.

  ‘The devil he will. He can go swing for it.’

  Pat lashed his horse and went on. In the village of Cloonlagheen were two more corpses, but he did not look closer. Two miles outside, he saw a black figure astride a donkey in the distance.

  ‘Father Ward,’ he shouted. He lashed the horse on.

  ‘Father Ward,’ he shouted again. The donkey stopped.

  ‘Who’s looking for me?’

  ‘Pat Ryan.’

  The priest peered closer at him as he came up. He was wearing a patched grey soutane, ripped at the lower hem. His shoes were cracked.

  ‘By God, Pat Ryan. I hadn’t known you. What are you doing out this way again? More men for England, is it?’

  ‘Not this time, Father.’

  The donkey stumbled.

  ‘Careful, Father.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  They rode on, side by side. It was clear the road had not been repaired after the winter. Even where it had been repaired, the pot holes had not been levelled, and in more the gravel had been washed out.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened last time,’ Pat said. ‘I’ve been to the workhouse. Mr. Daly told me all about it. Many arrived back, I understand.’

  ‘They did. Not that the workhouse could take the most of them.’

  ‘I won’t try to excuse myself,’ Pat said. ‘All I can say is that when we brought them to England, there was a great need for labour. Railway Mania, they called it then. Then it was followed by the Railway Panic. There’s thousands – hundreds of thousands – out of work right across England.’

  ‘A bad time for them then?’

  ‘It was. And you’ll remember my cousin, Murtybeg. It was his brother who was running the business.’

  ‘Ah yes, Daniel Ryan, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ Pat replied, ‘and he couldn’t take it either. He killed himself.’

  Father Ward looked at him, whether in surprise or shock, Pat could not tell. The donkey stopped.

  ‘Killed himself? I’d heard he was dead. I didn’t know…’

  Pat halted the horse alongside. ‘It happens,’ he said, ‘and anyhow, I decided to come home after it. Mr. Gaffney in Castlebar, he asked me to help out. He said I was to meet with you. He was most definite about it.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘He reckoned you know far more about the south of the County than anyone else. He’s seen your letters to the Telegraph. He reckons you’re the one who tells it like it is. But the Grand Jury don’t believe it, so Gaffney wants me to confirm everything.’

  ‘As if it needed confirmation.’

  ‘I agree,’ Pat said. ‘But if that’s what they want, that’s what I have to get. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to ride around with you. Then I’ll make a report to the County.’

  ‘A report?’

  ‘I’ve seen the letters you’ve been sending. They want me to see the truth of it all and report back.’

  ‘So they’re asking you to measure distress?’

  Pat winced. ‘Something like that,’ he said, ‘and before you say it, yes, it is impossible to measure, what with the cholera and all.’

  ‘Cholera! May God damn it to hell. It’s inflicting terrible destruction in Ballinrobe.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said. ‘I’ve seen the sheds in the workhouse. I’ve seen the crosses on the doors too, but I’ve not been inside the houses.’

  ‘Isn’t it a terrible thing for the Almighty to visit upon us now? Does he want to crucify us all? I’d always believed we shouldn’t question his ways. Now I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Father. It will all end. It will.’

  ‘Yes, but when? Two years ago, we thought it was finishing, but last year the starvation was worse than ever. Fever too, seven of my priests dead…’

  ‘Seven!’

  ‘Close to eight. I was ill myself, but God saved me, and for what? To see all the misery that He sends us. Now cholera on top of fever. And you think it will end! It will – when we’re all dead. And still no supplies from Castlebar. Four cartloads of grain once, but we’ve had nothing in these months past.’

  They rode on.

  ‘You know Father,’ Pat said, ‘one reason they’re very concerned about Ballinrobe is because of the cholera. There’s none in Castlebar, nor Westport, I understand. And I didn’t see any sign of it in Claremorris.’

  ‘Did they not believe me so?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve seen it in Ballinrobe though, and it will be in my report. But, like I say, Ballinrobe might be the only town in Mayo to have it yet. There’ll be more though. They’re preparing a cholera hospital in Castlebar, I understand, and I’d say they’ll have use for it.’

  They were passing a cabin. A man and a woman stood outside, thin, bare-foot and ragged. They both bowed their heads to Father Ward. He stopped briefly and gave a mumbled blessing. Then the woman was crying. Neither had said a word.

  They rode on.

  ‘Which way did you come to Ballinrobe?’ Father Ward asked.

  ‘By Claremorris. And before you say it, I’ve seen the Lucan villages, or what’s left of them anyhow.’

  ‘Lucan is a pig. God knows how many thousands he’s evicted.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Some made it to the workhouse in Ballinrobe, but damned few. The rest – they’re scattered to the four winds. Or dead.’

  They passed through Tourmakeady. It was quiet. Some stone houses, surrounded by mud cabins. They continued west, Lough Mask on the left, the mountains of Partry rising off to the right.

  They were approaching a village. It was very quiet.

  ‘Bóthar na hAbhainn,’ Father Ward said. River Road.

  He knocked at the first cabin. A man answered.

  ‘God with you, Eoin.’

  ‘God and Mary, Father Peter. You’re travelling?’

  ‘I am. How are you and your family now?’

  ‘One of the girl’s in fever. The rest might live.’

  ‘I’ll only be a moment,’ Father Ward said to Pat. Ducking down, he entered the cabin. Pat did not dismount.

  A few minutes later, they both came out of the cabin. Pat followed them for a hundred yards. They stopped outside another cabin. A man answered their knock.

  ‘We
’re looking for your cart, Dónal,’ Father Ward said.

  ‘Have you food, Father?’

  Father Ward put his hand into the pocket of his cassock and brought out two slices of brown bread. Pat saw a light dusting of blue mould on them.

  ‘This is all I have. There’s no supplies from Castlebar.’

  The man tore one of the slices in half and began to eat it. He brought the remaining bread inside. When he came out he led them to a cart behind the cabin.

  They backed the donkey into the shafts of the cart. Dónal strapped it tightly, and drove it out. They stopped outside another cabin.

  ‘Peadar Flanagan’ Father Ward whispered to Pat.

  ‘Two daughters and two grand-daughters gone,’ said Eoin. ‘All four dead in an hour, they say, though I’m not sure I’d believe that.’

  A gaunt woman answered. Pat reckoned she might have been in her sixties.

  ‘Is Peadar here?’ Eoin asked. She pointed inside. Father Ward entered. Pat went to follow him.

  Eoin grabbed him by his arm. ‘Are you mad? It’s enough for Father Peter to be risking his life.’

  ‘I have to see it,’ Pat said without any further explanation. He broke free, stooped under the bog-oak lintel, and went inside.

  In the corner, Father Ward was kneeling beside a man, who was moaning. He lay on a bed of turf with straws on top. A rough blanket had been thrown over him.

  The blessing was given – ‘Per istam sanctam unctionem…’ Through this Holy Unction, may the Lord free you from sin and raise you up on the Last Day.

  The room stank of smoke and something worse. Pat stepped around to see what was in the corner. He stood on a hand. Four bodies were thrown in the corner on top of each other, a baby and a young child on top of two young women. All had bloated faces, two half-eaten away. From under the bodies he heard the screeching of rats.

  One of the women’s legs showed the unmistakeable signs of gangrene. Fever. Now he knew the risks he was running.

  He expected Father Ward to give Extreme Unction to the four corpses, but he did not.

  ‘We’ll have to bury them,’ he whispered to Pat in English.

  ‘Oh God…’