by Charles Egan
‘But there were others…’
‘There were,’ Eleanor said, ‘and there’ll be more yet. Many a family living in a mud cabin would be delighted to rent a farm with a good stone house. It’s happening already, and there’ll be many more. They’ll know the truth of it, and they’ll talk to us again. Give it time.’
‘Did Kitty see us as land grabbers?’
‘No, but Kitty is a rare girl. Such ambition for Brigid, and she not even her daughter. And that kind of ambition will cost money, don’t forget that. Your child too, there’ll be more money needed there too.’
‘I don’t know where we’d get money for all that?’ Sarah said.
‘There’s many ways of getting money, Sarah. Pat is working…’
‘For now.’
‘True for you, but there’s other sources too. There’s Luke. Luke will send money, I’m sure of it, and if he doesn’t, Winnie will do it for him. And there’s Murtybeg, don’t forget Murtybeg. He will surely give us money.’
‘Money from Murtybeg,’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘Blood money, is it? I remember the time – last year, was it – he came over to Mayo looking for inmates from the workhouses to work on the railways in England, at wages that were little better than what they paid them on the Famine Roads. He’s a tough man, Murtybeg is, no doubt about it. Even in Westport Union, I heard about him. There’s many that would prefer to die in Mayo than go working with Murtybeg. And there’s many that were sent with him from the workhouses ended up back in Mayo again. The fevered ones, Murtybeg wouldn’t have them when they arrived, and the Liverpool Union sent them straight back to Mayo. Did you know that?’
‘I didn’t,’ Eleanor said. ‘Not that it surprises me though.’
One Sunday, Sarah went with Eleanor to the byre to kill a chicken for dinner. Eleanor grabbed it by the legs and carried it along, wings flapping. She did not wring the neck, she simply held the head down, placed the handle of a spade on its neck, put one foot on the spade and brought her full weight down on top of it. At first, there was no movement, then the legs ran wildly, slowing to spasmodic quivers, until the chicken was truly dead. Sarah retched, but did not vomit.
She was quiet for the rest of the day. At first, Eleanor was concerned about her. Could she kill a chicken? Could she really live this life? But why worry? The death pit in Knockanure must have been worse, and the fever sheds in Westport that had killed Sarah’s own mother. No, Carrigard was Sarah’s future, and the future of her children.
Far more important now was the potato crop. They had been watching it for some time. Early on, the stalks and leaves were showing healthy and green, but then signs of blight began to appear.
The next few weeks were ones of high anxiety. Michael spent every night in the potato patch, guarding the potato ridges. The weather continued bright and dry. The hay was going to be a good crop, the corn too. But what of the potatoes? And what of Luke? Still no news.
*
Pat decided it was time to go home to Carrigard. He already had the letters of freedom from Knockanure and Westport, and he would have heard from Michael if there was any problem with Kilduff.
He explained the situation to Gaffney.
I must congratulate you, Pat,’ he said. ‘You and Sarah. She’s an excellent woman and you’ll go far in life with her.’
‘I would say so, Mr. Gaffney,’ Pat said. ‘My only concern is getting married at a time like this. I need to take a few days off, but I feel guilty at doing so, seeing what’s happening in the workhouse.’
‘No,’ Gaffney replied. ‘It is more important now than ever. For Mayo and for Ireland, we must never give up. There will be a time that this will end, we will need children to carry on.’
‘I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’m sure you’ve more for me to do?’
‘We have, Pat, but if you drive yourself too hard, you won’t be any good to anyone. Your wife, the Union or County Mayo. You must take a few days off for your own sake.’
Pat left Castlebar, walking.
There were the usual horrifying scenes in the town and on the road. Nearer Kilduff, everything had changed again. Where he had known dozens of houses, there was now only one, and it was still being built. A solid two-storey house, well mortared. The straight cut rafters on the roof had been finished, and were now being overlaid with grey Welsh slate. Already, cattle were grazing in large fields. Some fields were many times the size of the farms they had replaced.
Where all the evicted people had gone. One thing was certain, none of them could afford emigration. Very few of them could have gotten into Castlebar or Knockanure. For the rest, he had seen scavenged bodies and skeletons on the road. He had no doubt there were many more hidden under the sceilps and in the bog holes on the Mountain.
When he reached Kilduff, he knocked on the door of the house beside the church. An old woman answered. She was gaunt, and half toothless.
‘I’m looking for Father Reilly,’ he said.
‘Father Reilly is hearing confessions. Father Flynn may see you.’
‘No,’ Pat said, ‘I’ll wait for Father Reilly. You can tell him Pat Ryan is waiting.’
He was shown into a living room, an oaken table in the centre with six oaken chairs. Around the room were four armchairs and two couches. The armchairs had a floral damask cloth on them, ragged in places, and faded from age. The couches were covered in brown leather, cracked in many places.
He sat down. A few minutes later, Father Reilly arrived. ‘I’m sorry holding you,’ he said to Pat. ‘Confessions, though there’s not many of them these days. And God knows why they come anyhow. Expecting me to give them penance, as if they hadn’t done enough already.’
‘I understand,’ Pat said.
‘So you’re to be wed then? Your father came to see me, bringing your bride-to-be with him. A good woman, I would say, and God knows, we’ll need them in the years to come.’
‘I know.’
‘I understand she was brought up in Knockanure.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said. ‘As they might have told you, her father and mother were Master and Matron of the workhouse.’
‘Still, a hard place for a girl to be raised, even if not as an inmate.’
‘It was,’ Pat said.
‘You know we’ll require letters of freedom from Knockanure as well.’
Pat took them out of his sack. ‘I have them here.’
Father Reilly glanced down at the documents. ‘Well, that concludes our official requirements. Now, as to timing, I’ll be travelling the Mountain tomorrow. The Last Rites, you understand. Far too many people dying.’
‘And dead already I’d say,’ Pat added.
Father Reilly nodded. ‘And awful it is too. They bury them everywhere.’
‘I know.’
‘Tomorrow so, but early,’ Father Reilly said, ‘unless there’s many you intend to invite?’
‘No,’ Pat said, ‘that’ll be fine. It’ll be my family only.’
‘Fine so. As soon as the sun is above Nephin.’
Pat returned to Carrigard. Sarah threw her arms around him, crying. When Eleanor hugged him, there were tears in her eyes too.
‘Well, you made it,’ Michael said.
‘I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?’
‘We’d been hearing terrible stories. Fever, cholera and the rest of it.’
‘All true. But there is some better news. I dropped the letters of freedom into Father Reilly. We’re to be wed early tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Eleanor exclaimed.
‘Why not?’
She hugged him again. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in waiting. Sure young Sarah’ll be a great help around.’
Pat took five sovereigns out of his pack. ‘And this might help too.’
Eleanor took the money. She took a stool across to the dresser and placed the money on top, well out of sight.
‘It’ll have its uses,’ she said.
‘But what of the money I’ve been
bringing, and what Luke is sending back?’
‘We’ve got to last through to the harvest,’ Eleanor said. ‘Weeks away yet.’
‘And what if it fails?’ Sarah said. ‘What if the potatoes fail again?’
‘We’ll deal with that when it happens,’ Eleanor said.
After Michael and Eleanor retired, Pat and Sarah sat up late, talking.
‘So how’s Castlebar,’ she asked. ‘Has anything changed?’
‘There’s no cholera in Castlebar yet,’ Pat replied. ‘Fever, right enough, just like the rest of the county.’
‘The same as killed my father back in ’47 so, and he didn’t even work in the fever sheds. I was always terrified of my mother being there, in Knockanure and in Westport.’
‘Sure what choice did she have?’ Pat said. ‘It was her job.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’m not working in the fever sheds.’
‘Thank God for that too. But it’s too late for my mother, and now I’ve no way back to Westport. No way back to the workhouse. And no harm either, I’d say. They’ve killed my father, they’ve killed my mother, and I’m even afraid they’ll kill you if you visit them too often. I’ll tell you this, Pat, I’ll never forget the fever of ’47 and all it killed in Knockanure.’
‘I’ll never forget that either. It was a terrible time in the workhouses.’
‘And now that’s all behind me at least. You’re my family, my love. You and your mother and your father, and, like we said, it’s a farmer’s wife I’ll be, so I’d better get used to it.’
‘A hard life, being a farmer’s wife,’ Pat said. ‘Didn’t I tell you so?’
‘And a lot harder it would be without your mother,’ Sarah said, ‘and sure that at least was something I knew since I first met her here. You know as well as I do that there would have been no marriage between us except for the knowing that your mother would soften things. It’s very different to Westport.’
‘So how is it so different?’
‘In every way,’ Sarah replied. ‘There’s a famine on, and we might be grateful that we don’t suffer like those around us, but hunger is something I’ve never felt. I’ve been too soft.’
Early next day, Pat Ryan and Sarah Cronin were married in Kilduff. The wedding was attended by Michael, Eleanor, Brigid and Sabina.
They returned to Sabina’s bar, and sipped whiskey. Eleanor dipped her thumb in hers, and gave it to Brigid to suck. She looked for more.
‘Now look what you’ve started,’ Pat said. ‘She’ll be looking for whiskey for the rest of her life.’
‘I know,’ Sabina said. ‘It’ll be the ruination of her.’
‘Arra no,’ Michael said. ‘It won’t be whiskey she’ll be drinking. We can’t afford that class of thing. Poitín will do her well enough.’
‘That’s worse,’ Eleanor said. ‘With the price of it, she’ll be drinking it all day!’
They returned to Carrigard, and they spoke of the quarry, the farm and the prospects for the potatoes.
After some time, Eleanor tapped Michael on the shoulder.
‘Are you forgetting what night tonight is?’
Michael looked puzzled. ‘What’s that?’
‘The first night of their marriage,’ she said.
He slapped his knee.
‘Of course. And we shouldn’t be going on with gloomy talk like this.’
Sarah stood.
‘Come on, Pat.’
He followed her into the corridor, his heart pounding. She opened the door. When they were inside, he embraced her and kissed her fiercely.
She pulled herself away – ‘No. no, slowly.’
They kissed again, this time more gently. She started to open his shirt, and slowly he began to open the buttons of her dress. After a few minutes, they were on the bed together, kissing, caressing, and embracing.
Afterwards they lay exhausted for a long time, not speaking. Later they made love again. In the morning, yet again.
‘Three times a night,’ she said, ‘it’s the right bull you are.’
‘It takes two. A good heifer is needed too.’
She laughed. ‘It’s worth it all for this.’
He raised himself up and leaned his cheek onto his hand, looking at her.
‘You had me worried yesterday. It’s not just the hunger, is it? It’s more than that.’
‘Arra, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing more than we knew was going to happen anyhow. Sure amn’t I used to a different life, isn’t that it? I’ve been living in an institution all my life, with very little hard work expected of me, beyond pushing a pen and adding sums. Sometimes I’d do a little bit of cooking for my mother and father, but most of the time we were fed by the Union, served hand and foot by the inmates. We never wanted for anything. And it’s not as if the cooking with your mother is hard. I’ve learnt quick enough. But digging the turf, that’s harder, though your mother’s well able for it, twice as fast as me. Maybe they should have put me on the stone-breaking at Westport.’
‘You can still joke anyhow.’
‘Sure why not. But I’ll tell you this, hard and all as the turf is, digging for the potato planting will be a lot worse. Did you know your mother can keep up with your father in any kind of work? Sure, she’s a gentle, loving woman, but by God, Pat, she’s tough. But still, I can’t help feeling homesick. My own mother, in a grave thirty miles away. And I miss the office too. I lie awake thinking that I’ll never be writing and adding again. I never thought I’d miss that.’
‘There’s things that’ll make up for that,’ Pat said.
‘Like what?’ she asked.
‘Our children. Brigid too. That’ll give you plenty to be thinking about.’
‘You know the one thing I find really unbelievable is Brigid. They’re determined she’ll go all the way to teacher training college.’
‘Sure what’s wrong with that?’ Pat said, ‘isn’t that the best calling for any girl. Unless, of course, she wants to be a nun?’
‘You’re right in that,’ Sarah said, ‘but it’s just the sheer strength of mind of the women here that amazes me.’
‘And don’t forget, it’ll be the same for our children too.’
‘But where on earth will we find the money?’
‘Luke, perhaps and…God only knows where else, but we will find it Sarah. You’ll see.’
Pat spent the next few days working with Michael, smashing stones in the quarry and digging turf too. Sometimes Sarah or Eleanor joined them. Yes, Sarah was slower than either of them, but far faster than he had expected from what she had said. And at night, she showed no sign of being worn out.
*
On the Monday morning, he prepared to leave. He hugged Sarah close.
‘And it’s sorry I am that I must leave so soon,’ he said. ‘The County is waiting for me, and ye’ll be waiting for my wages.’
Sarah squeezed his hand.
‘Don’t you be worrying, my love,’ she said. ‘I’ll be well taken care of.’
He left. Sarah and Eleanor stood on the road, waving.
Married and separated, all in a few days. To hell with it, another few weeks in Castlebar, and he could take leave again. Gaffney would understand.
Chapter 32
Reminiscences of my Irish Journey in 1849:
Human swinery has here reached its acme, happily. 30,000 paupers in this Union, population supposed to be about 60,000. Workhouse proper cannot hold above 3 or 4000 or them, subsidiary workhouses, and outdoor relief the others. Abomination of desolation; what can you make of it! Outdoor quasi-work: 3 or 400 big hulks of fellows tumbling about with spades, picks and barrows, ‘levelling’ the end of their workhouse hill; at first glance you would think them all working; look nearer, in each shovel there is some ounce or two of mould, and it is all make-believe; 5 or 600 boys and lads, pretending to break stones. Can it be a charity to keep men alive on these terms? In face of all the twaddle of the earth, shoot a man rather than tra
in him (with heavy expense to his neighbours) to be a deceptive human swine.Thomas Carlyle, British historian and philosopher, discusses Westport Workhouse in 1849.
When he returned to Castlebar, he went directly to Gaffney’s office.
‘Pat – good to see you back again. The wedding went well?’
‘Very well, Mr. Gaffney.’
‘Excellent. I reckoned you’d needed a break after Partry. That was a terrible time for you.’
‘Partry was savage,’ Pat replied.
‘And Carrigard?’
‘Not like Partry, but bad enough. There’s starvation all around it, and plenty of it. But it should be easing soon.’
‘Yes,’ Gaffney said, ‘and we’re keeping a close eye on the potatoes, I can tell you. There’s many are digging them too early, but how can they wait? No sign of rotting though. I think even Partry and Erris will be better than they were. Too late for thousands of people though, but what can we do? And even now there’s still people starving. Those that hadn’t planted enough, we can’t forget them.’
‘I know,’ Pat said.
‘You heard the workhouse here is bankrupt?’
‘Yes, I knew there was some question of that.’
‘Even so, I’d like you to stay on a while. Not that Lucan will like it, but let me deal with that.’
‘So where do you want me to go now? Mr. Gaffney.’
‘Nowhere. To be honest, I could do without you, if I really wanted to. At least from the point of view of travel. But now Dublin Castle is looking for all sorts of new reports. I think they’re still worried about the potato crop, and they’re getting the Royal Irish Constabulary to assess the crop everywhere, so they’ll be doing whatever travelling is needed. But we need someone to compile a proper report for County Mayo as those figures come in. They’ll miss a lot, I’m sure. Will you do it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even so, I must warn you that your position here may not last the end of next month or so.’
‘I know, Mr. Gaffney, I’d always understood that.’
‘So what will you do? Go back to England?’
‘I would, if I could, to be totally honest with you, but my father in Kilduff, he’s running two farms now and two quarries. He’s over sixty, there’s no way he can go on like that. My brother is in America, so all it leaves is me. If I stayed on here, we might be able to hire a man to work with him, but otherwise, I’m afraid it’s my duty.’
