by Charles Egan
‘Do ye know what’s going on over there?’ he asked.
‘They’re the fellows going back to Ireland.’
‘Not of their own free will, by the looks of it.’
‘Damned right. There’s no question of free will about it. It’s the Workhouses, terrified of fever they are. The powers-that-be reckon the fever is coming from Ireland, so they’re sending the Irish back out of the Workhouses. Now they reckon the best thing is not to allow them in either, so they’re watching the ships, and any they think might have fever, or are too weak to live, them they’re sending back too.’
‘God,’ Luke said, ‘Liverpool has changed this past year.’
‘That it has.’
He left and found his way down some steps beside the Mersey. He went down, washed his feet and rubbed down his trousers. Then he took off his shirt and greatcoat, and washed them in the river too. He knew his shirt would dry on him fast enough in the summer heat, and the greatcoat could wait ’till later.
When he had his shirt back on, he climbed back to the dock and went across Vauxhall Road up to Scotland Road. He saw white crosses on many doors. Everywhere, there were crowds of dirty, ragged people, some standing, many just sitting or lying beside the road. On Scotland Road he found Buckleys’, where the Mayo men had always stayed, coming and going from England. Three policemen were outside, turning people away. Luke noted too that some houses had white crosses on the doors. Fever?
He turned back. What now?
A cart rattled ahead of him, two corpses in the back. It stopped. The driver jumped off and knocked at one of the doors with white crosses. A woman looked out in fright. Her face was gaunt, her clothes thin and ragged. She nodded. A minute later, she and the driver carried out a naked corpse and threw it into the cart. Then the woman brought out the body of a baby, and carefully placed it by the other corpses. Luke could see inside the room. There was no furniture except a wooden chest. The beds consisted of straw thrown on the floor. There were half a dozen more children, and one man raving.
He returned to the Clarence Dock and made his way through the crowds, asking for the Centaurus, the ship that he had booked for Quebec. But no-one knew of the Centaurus here. Luke had been through Liverpool before, and knew the vast extent of the port. He started walking south along the Docks, questioning people about the Centaurus. The Canning Dock and the Liverpool Dock. No one had heard of the Centaurus. At the Albert Dock, he asked some sailors, but they did not speak English.
The Dukes Dock, the Kings, the Queens. No luck.
He found a bar by the Coburg Dock. It was crowded, but he sat at a small table in a corner and ordered a pint of ale and a pork pie. Two seamen on the next table were eyeing him. He could see by the insignia on their cuffs that they were officers.
‘Hey Paddy,’ one shouted. ‘What are you doing in this country?’
Luke did not answer.
‘Paddy, I’m talking to you. You’re Irish…’
‘What of it?’ Luke asked.
‘You shouldn’t be here. All you’re doing is costing the fair city of Liverpool to send you back home again. You don’t believe that, do you? Three hundred of them they’ve shipped back in the past days. Why should our Workhouses be paying for the likes of you?’
‘They only come to work.’
‘Yeah. The ones who get away, that is. If they don’t bring us fever, they’re off working as navvies on the railways. Lowering wages for everyone, all of God’s honest Englishmen. That’s what they do. Damned bastards.’
Luke’s ale had arrived. He sipped it, saying nothing. The barman had stopped and was listening.
‘Now lads, no need for this.’
‘And there’s another damned Paddy,’ the officer said, recognising the barman’s accent. ‘You’re all damned bastards, the whole lot of you.’
Luke stood up. ‘Outside.’
‘What…?’
‘You heard me.’ He strode to the open door and stood outside, fists raised. The bar was silent. The seaman stood.
His comrade put his hand on his arm. ‘No, John. Not that one.’
The other glared at Luke, then sat down abruptly, muttering ‘Irish bastard.’
Luke came in again and sat at a small table beside the door. The barman brought out his pint of ale.
‘Good move, that, asking him outside.’
‘No point in staying and wrecking your bar, was there?’
The bar was loud again. Soon, the two seamen left.
His pie arrived. He paid for it, thinking of starving Irishmen being brought in to work for starvation wages on the railways, pushing English wages down. He knew it was true. Danny did that and lived off starving Irishmen.
‘I’m looking for a ship,’ he said to the barman. ‘The Centaurus. Bound for Quebec.’
‘It’s those two fellows you should have asked,’ the barman replied. ‘They’d have known.’
‘I don’t think they’d have answered me.’
‘No, but they’re on the Centaurus.’
‘But where…?’
‘She’ll be sailing out of Brunswick Dock, next one down. She’s a lumber trader.’
‘Lumber?’
‘Carries lumber out of Quebec, she does. They change them into passenger ships for the homeward run. They’re not designed for passengers, but they pack them in anyhow. Most of them Irish too, just like yourself, though you look better than most of the poor devils we see coming through for the lumber ships. Half starved, the most of them.’
Luke thought of what he had been told. A lumber ship! He should have known it. He had heard stories of these, and the many who died of fever on them. Yes, he had booked ‘below decks’ for his crossing, but he had thought that would have been on a passenger ship. He swore softly, thinking of the agent in Kilduff who had sold him the ticket, knowing full well the conditions on the lumber ships.
He walked to the Brunswick Dock, noting the huge timber yards landward of the ships. There were no passenger boats there, only two enormous cargo vessels unloading heavy lumber. He watched in wonder as bundles and bales of planks, boards and railway sleepers were discharged. Further down, massive squared logs of incredible length and weight were being hauled onto a sloping quay, which led to more timber yards behind.
He went up to the first ship. He saw the name on the prow. The Mary Emma. The next was the Centaurus. He could see the age of the ship by the appearance of it. It was patched in places, planks replaced in parts of the hull.
When he reached the ship there was no one there. Unsure what to do, he looked around and spotted the dockmaster’s office. He knocked on the door but there was no response. He knocked again. The door opened. ‘What in hell do you want?’
‘The Centaurus…’
‘Won’t be leaving for a few days yet.’
‘But…why?’
‘It’ll take days to rebuild the inside of it, and they haven’t even started.’
Luke shook his head, still puzzled. Hoisting his pack over his shoulder, he walked back towards the city. He had two immediate purposes. One was to find lodgings, the other was to buy food for the voyage.
On the docks, he spotted the Mersey Ferry to the Wirral Peninsula. If, at least, he could get away from the city, he might find better places to stay. He paid his farthing to Birkenhead.
He leaned on the rail as the ferry began to move. Then he noticed the two men beside him were speaking in Irish. He listened closely. County Mayo. He was sure of it.
‘Well, where are ye lads going?’ he asked, speaking in Irish.
The two men looked around in surprise.
‘Birkenhead.’
‘Are you working out that way?’
‘We are. On the Birkenhead & Chester Railway. You know it?’
‘I do,’ Luke replied. ‘They’re still building it, are they? I’d heard it was finished.’
‘So it was, but now they’re adding a second track, all the way from Birkenhead to Wallasey. Is it work you’re looking
for?’
‘No. It’s America I am headed to. I’m only going to Birkenhead to see if I can find a bed for the night.’
‘You’re Mayo, aren’t you?’ the second man asked.
‘Indeed,’ Luke said. ‘The best county. I’ve worked the railways too in my time.’
‘Well, if you’re a railway man from Mayo, you may come and stay with us, if you wish.’
When they arrived in Birkenhead, they walked along the tracks snaking towards Wallasey. Birkenhead was crowded, but closer to Wallasey, it became less so. They passed potato fields, and Luke noted that there was no blight on the leaves.
They came to a shack. Inside, there were two other men, a woman and a baby.
Poitín was passed around. Luke sipped at it.
‘Why don’t you stay working on the rails yourself?’ one of the men asked.
‘I’ve been thinking of it,’ Luke answered. ‘My cousin works the rails too. I don’t think I’d be too welcome.’
‘Your cousin?’
‘Daniel Ryan.’
There was a silence. ‘Daniel Ryan is your cousin?’
‘He is, and I don’t want to meet him again. He’s destroyed the name of Ryan on the railways.’
‘He has too,’ the woman commented. ‘A savage man.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you so, but I can’t help being his cousin, we were born as cousins. My own family are decent enough. Danny’s family too. But Danny’s a tough man, and I know if I stayed in this country, I’d end up working for him, and I don’t want that.’
‘None of the fellows around here want that,’ the woman replied. ‘The men who work for him are fast enough getting away.’
Luke groaned. ‘They are. And now you understand why I can’t work the rails here. They say there’s better chances on the rails in America though.’
‘So we’ve heard,’ one of the men said. ‘And sure, if you’re not having anything to do with Daniel Ryan, you’re welcome to stay here.’ He raised a glass. ‘Your health.’
That night, Luke tried to sleep, listening to the low snoring of the men. The baby started to cry, but the woman fed him, and he quietened.
Watching her in the light from the embers of the fire, Luke felt intensely lonely. Winnie, his family and friends were behind him. The business with the seaman had sickened him. It had come very close. He knew he had no friends in Liverpool and none on the crossing, nor in Quebec. Again he thought of travelling to Danny in Stockport and working with him. Yes, and make good money too. Danny would have him as a ganger, not as a low-paid navvy. It could be a better choice, in that he could send money back to Mayo sooner and leave travelling the Atlantic until it was easier to do so. But Danny was no longer the young man he had known when they first worked on the railways together. His savage reputation had shocked Luke, and the fact that even a woman in the Wirral despised Danny so much was no longer a surprise. America was his only choice.
Next morning, he joined his hosts for a breakfast of porridge and tea. He felt relaxed with these people. This was County Mayo as he knew it. Even the men were gentle in their ways, though Luke knew just how tough and strong they had to be to work on the railways.
They spoke of railways they had worked on up and down Britain, and sometimes they spoke of County Mayo. No one mentioned famine or fever. As Luke left, he paid them tuppence for his lodgings. At first, they refused, but in the end the woman took it.
‘You must understand one thing,’ she told him as he left. ‘You should be careful of mentioning the name of Daniel Ryan. There is great bitterness against him on the railways. You cannot help being born as his cousin. We understand that, but others might not.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll not mention his name again. For me, he is dead.’
He walked to Birkenhead and took the ferry back to Liverpool. He wanted to check the ship again, but first he had to write home. He found a post office, bought paper, an envelope and a penny stamp. He paid an extra farthing for the use of the pen and ink on the counter, and began to write.
Dear Winnie, Dear Father and Mother,
I am now in Liverpool and thought to drop ye a note before leaving for America. I visited our ship yesterday, and it is indeed a well-built one and will make Quebec without difficulty, but it may be five or six weeks before it arrives. I will, of course, write to you at once, but you may not hear from me for three months. But please not to worry.
I must also tell you that the potato fields in this country look most healthy. I hope they will continue so, both here and with ye.
I remain your loving husband and son,
Luke Ryan
A well-built ship? Who knows? No point in mentioning it was a battered old lumber ship. Why worry them? He bought his food for the voyage – a stone of porridge oats, flour, butter, salted beef and a small pot, and returned to the Brunswick Dock.
The Mary Emma was loading, long lines of people waiting to board. More people were walking from the direction of the city to join them. He could see by their filthy clothes that they had come from the Dublin cattle ships, others coming direct from Westport, Ballina, Sligo and the other ports of the West of Ireland, the real centre of the famine and fever that killed, and went on killing.
He made his way to the Centaurus. No-one was boarding. He showed his ticket to a ganger.
‘Sailing in three days,’ the man told him.
‘This is for Quebec, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘But it isn’t a passenger ship.’
‘Not now, it isn’t,’ the man replied. ‘It will be, you just see. Lumber from the Canadas, passengers back. How do you think they make money? Ship them out by the ton, that’s how.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Luke said. ‘See you Wednesday so.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Birkenhead. I’ve some friends there on the railway.’
‘You’ve worked the railways, have you?’
‘Six years…’
‘Six years? You’ll be well used to heavy labour so. We might have some use for you. Two shillings a day if you’re interested.’
Luke hid his surprise.
‘Of course I’m interested.’
‘Go on up so, and ask for John Starkey. Tell him I sent you.’
Luke climbed the gangplank. He saw that carpenters and seamen were working inside the hold, where a second floor was being built. All around the sides, bunks were being built, three high. Down the centre of the ship were two double rows of bunks.
He spotted an officer.
‘I’m looking for John Starkey,’ he said. The man swung around.
‘Who asked for me?’
‘The officer below told me to…’
Their glances met.
‘By God, if it isn’t our fighting Irishman.’
‘I was told you were looking for workers.’
Starkey laughed. Then he shouted to another officer.
‘Louis, look who’s arrived.’
He turned back to Luke. ‘Well, you may work on this ship, but by God, I’ll break you. You don’t talk to me like you did in the bar. Not here. Not now. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mr. Starkey.’
‘Mr. Starkey, Sir. And don’t you forget it.’
‘No, Mr. Starkey, Sir.’
Starkey turned to the other officer. ‘Remember this fellow?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let’s see now just how tough he is. No need to waste him hammering nails. Get him over there, and start him carrying the timber.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And make sure you work him hard.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Luke followed the officer to a high stack of timber.
‘Don’t worry about Starkey,’ he told Luke, when they were out of hearing. ‘More bark than bite, though don’t say I said that. Still, he’ll work you hard so long as you’re in his clutches. Just stay with me and you should be fine.’
‘He was all game to fight me there, yesterday.’
‘I know, but he had drink taken. That’s why I stopped him. I reckoned you had the build of a man who might flatten him. And whatever you do, don’t try that here. You’d be flogged. He’s the First Mate. Sailed the seven seas he has, and sure as hell doesn’t like being on this boat. He’s a Liverpool man. Speaks naught but the Queen’s English. No French, nor would he want to, even if he got it for nothing. He hates French speakers, hates all the Irish.’
‘They all do.’
‘I know, I know. But what about you. Who are you? Where are you from?’
‘Luke Ryan, I’m called. From County Mayo, if you’ve heard of it.’
‘Heard of it? Haven’t we all heard of it? Seems half our passengers are from County Mayo. See that lot behind the stacks.’
Luke saw another group of workers. Men, women and children, gaunt and dirty, the men all bearded.
‘They’re from Mayo?’
‘They are. They’re working their passage, unpaid. Not enough strength for real work. Unlike you. Now, Starkey is watching. Let’s get you working too.’
Luke followed him again. Child workers! No different to Famine Relief Roadworks. And not even paid here, not even tuppence a day. How many would survive the passage? How many already had fever?
They crossed the hold to where a bundle of sawn timber had been un-roped. Two men loaded a beam on to his shoulders, and watched as he carried it across to the carpenters. He spent hours carrying timber, as instructed. He did not take off his pack, fearful it would be stolen.
A break was called. Luke sat down, sweating heavily. Starkey saw him.
‘I was thinking how long it would take to break you.’
‘I’m not broken,’ Luke said. ‘Mr. Starkey. Sir.’
‘Not broken? We’ll see about that. Fine, rest a few minutes, then back to it. What’s your name?’
‘Luke, Sir. Luke Ryan, Sir.’
‘Luke Ryan, aye. Well I’ll tell you this Luke Ryan. I’ll have uses for you. And, by God, I’ll make a sailor out of you, long before we get to Quebec.’
