The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  Winnie quivered.

  ‘Oh look mother, I’m sorry, but I still can’t help thinking. There’s terrible stories about the ships to Quebec. There are some that say half the people on them died.’

  ‘And you believe stories like that, do you? Isn’t it the right amadán you are?’

  Or is she? Eleanor thought. Who knows? Do I?

  One morning, Michael was out digging potatoes for the first time. Winnie was inside with Eleanor, clearing up scraps after breakfast and mashing them for the hens.

  Everyone is saying it’s a great crop,’ Winnie said.

  ‘It is,’ said Eleanor. ‘Would you ever have thought it after the past year?’

  ‘I’m still not sure though. I’d thought the potato was finished forever?’

  ‘It's easy worried you are, child.’

  ‘Oh, I don't know – we might see the rot yet. There were many last year looked well enough when they were dug.’

  ‘Will you stop that now? If they were going to rot, they'd have begun by now. Don't you know that?’

  Why did I say that? she thought. Do I really believe it? They’ve still not rotted these past weeks, but are we really clear of it now? Is it really too late for the blight to return? Should I believe it now?

  Winnie had said nothing. Could she believe? Why worry her now?

  ‘The blight is gone, Winnie.’ Eleanor said. ‘We'll have enough potatoes now. Michael always kept his faith, never let us eat the seed potatoes, always made sure there were enough planted.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Winnie replied. ‘I'm sure you've the right of it. But what of everyone else? Sure there's hardly any potatoes planted at all. The people, they're dying all around us and they'll stay dying. The Food Kitchens are closed, the Relief Works are closed. Sure enough, the price of corn is dropping at last, but it won't drop far, and there's not much of that they'll get if they have no money. And the poor creatures are getting desperate. Roaming the country at night, digging at potatoes wherever they can find them.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Eleanor said. ‘Ours would all be gone by now, but for Michael sleeping out among the potatoes to guard them, though I doubt he gets much sleep out there. Thank God the nights are warm, God only knows what kind of shelter he’d get in that little hut if the rain comes.’

  Winnie picked up the bucket of mashed scraps and went out to feed the hens. She returned with an empty bucket.

  ‘They keep pecking at me.’

  ‘Maybe they want to eat you!’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame them for that. God knows, they’re scrawny enough. Still, if we have enough potatoes being dug, they won’t be hungry much longer.’

  She had started to make a brown bread loaf, putting the flour into a bowl and adding the baking soda. She poured in the buttermilk and mixed it all together, then turned it out onto the table to form into a cake.

  Leave that a minute and sit down there,’ Eleanor said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tell me about Luke. What really happened the months he was in the mountains with ye?’

  Winnie shook her head. ‘It’s hard enough to tell you. Working as a ganger was hard on him.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Well, the first thing – the pain and suffering he saw. We think we’ve seen it with starving people passing the road and working the Relief Works and queuing at the Kitchens.’

  ‘Indeed’ said Eleanor, ‘but that was before they closed them all. It’s worse since.’

  ‘It is, but you must understand, Luke was seeing that every day – hunger, fever and cold. Starving people being forced to work in the snow, dying every day. It’s hard for any man to watch that, far worse to have to do the forcing. And they hated him on the Works. He was their ganger, and they hated him.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ Eleanor said. ‘They were cruel, the roadworks were. But the Government wouldn’t let them earn money any other way, and the Workhouses were full. And coming into the time of the snows – that was desperate…’

  ‘It was. But worse than that, there was the going to the houses. When the people didn’t come back, he’d go around the houses to pay them, or whoever was left after them. Him and the priest, God only knows how they did it. I think that was the worst of all. It’s bad enough watching people dying of hunger, what it does to their bodies, to the children’s faces. But worse again was the fever. It’s a terrible way to die. Their faces and legs swell up, the fever eats at them, and they die screaming. And the stink of it.’

  ‘I know,’ Eleanor said. ‘Didn’t my own daughter die of it?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Of course you didn’t, alanna. But what of Luke?’

  Winnie gulped.

  ‘It was everything all coming together. The suffering, the cold, and the hatred they had for him. He thought he was going mad, and I don’t know, maybe he was. There was something strange in the mountains, something that terrified him. You know Croghancoe, the mountain?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ Eleanor said,’ but I’ve never been over that way.’

  ‘He kept on telling me he saw something behind it, but there was nothing there. Something so powerful, it frightened the hell out of him.’

  ‘Something that wasn’t there?’

  ‘Well, that’s what he said. Like some class of a vision.’

  Eleanor thought of that.

  ‘It wasn’t any kind of a vision’ she said, ‘more some kind of madness. Something that only lasts a minute or so, isn’t that it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But one way or another, whatever it was about Croghancoe, there was something that scared him witless. Who knows what it was?’

  Michael came back, carrying a sack load of potatoes. Excited, Winnie took one out. She sliced it straight through. Good white flesh, and still no blight.

  That evening, they ate a good dinner for the first time in a very long time. Eleanor almost felt bloated. Long months without potatoes had accustomed her to being satisfied with very little.

  Next day, Luke’s letter arrived from Liverpool.

  ‘He’s saying the ship is a good one,’ Winnie said.

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘And he says there’s no blight on the English potatoes either. We’re going to be lucky this year.’

  ‘We are,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘And isn’t it the right pity, Luke couldn’t have stayed in England. I’d be there with him.’

  ‘And work with Danny, is it? No way would he do that. God knows, Danny would take Luke quick enough, and pay him well too, but he’s a rough man, and I reckon his ways of working men are rough too. Pays his gangers well, but the men are on starvation wages.’

  As Winnie returned to Carrigard one day, she spotted Kitty Brennan ahead of her. She ran to catch up.

  ‘God with you, Kitty.’

  Kitty turned around, startled. ‘You shouldn’t be sneaking up on me like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Winnie was startled by Kitty’s appearance. Thin, yes, but the bruising on her face had returned, and her shift was far more ragged than before.

  ‘Going to see Brigid, are you?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘Aye, and the rest of ye. And sure, why wouldn’t I?’

  When they arrived at Carrigard, Eleanor was in the kitchen.

  ‘Kitty, child.’

  Brigid ran across the room screaming ‘Kitty, Kitty…’

  Kitty drew the child up, and hugged her. Suddenly the baby drew back, fingering the bruises and cuts on Kitty’s face, and began to cry.

  ‘There, there,’ Kitty said, ‘stop crying, alanna.’ She handed the child over to Winnie who glanced across at Eleanor. Both women knew what had caused the bruising.

  Kitty sat at the table, trying hard to laugh. ‘I hope ye like my new dress.’

  ‘What happened?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Fergus reckoned my last dress was too goo
d for me, so he sold it. He said we needed the money for food, but the half of it he spent on poitín. He told me too he needed the money for his father’s funeral expenses. Not that much went on that – he was buried under the turf, poor man.’

  Winnie went into her bedroom. She came out with a dress. ‘Here, take this.’

  ‘Indeed, I will not. It’ll only go on whiskey and poitín, don’t you know that?’

  Eleanor placed a cup of buttermilk in front of her. She buttered a slice of brown bread, and put it alongside. ‘Here, you might as well eat while you’re here. At least he can’t sell that.’

  Kitty ate and drank. Then she took Brigid from Winnie and put her on her knee, gently rocking her up and down. Brigid started as if to cry again, but did not. Within a few minutes she was asleep.

  ‘Are things so bad on the Mountain?’ Eleanor asked. ‘What are you hearing?’

  ‘Worse than here, that’s for certain. The people from the Gort-na-Móna evictions, the half of them are dead. The rest of them, they’re sleeping in bog holes with branches and sods of turf over them. They’ve no chance, and wherever they go, they bring the fever with them. The people from Currach-an-Dúin tried to run them away, fighting them off with sticks and stones, but where else could they go, poor devils. And there’s no food for them, none at all. When they came off the Mountain, we had to stand guard over our corn and what was left of the potatoes. Every night. Fergus or me, depending. At least it meant I had a bed to myself some of the time. In the end, we had to dig the potatoes and bring them inside, the donkey too. There’s not many donkeys left now. They were all killed and eaten, raw the half of them, every bit they could, fresh or rotten. That’s killed a lot of people now, vomiting up all they ate. If they had horses, they’d be gone too, but they’ve no horses on the Mountain.’

  ‘We’d best watch over our own so,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘You’d better,’ Kitty said. ‘There’s scarce half a dozen sheep left on the Mountain, I hear.’

  ‘You don’t surprise me,’ Winnie said. ‘Even down here I’ve seen and heard all those kind of things, but we’re hoping it will get better. The potatoes at least are looking good.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Kitty replied, ‘for those who had potatoes to plant.’

  She hugged the baby, still breathing gently on her breast.

  ‘And at least there’s one little angel isn’t too worried. Look at the smile on her face, and she not even awake.’

  ‘Long may she smile, so,’ Winnie said. ‘And we’re the ones who are going to keep her smiling. We’ll school her, she’ll be a teacher. We will do it, even if they all think we’re mad. If we can’t have hope in Brigid, Mayo is finished.’

  ‘True for you,’ Kitty said, ‘but she’s not our only hope. There’s your baby coming – there’s other chances too.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, ‘but not in Ireland.’

  ‘What does it matter if it’s Ireland or not,’ Kitty said. ‘It’s a future for Irish people, isn’t it? And anyway, there’s good money there, and whatever ye have left to send back will help everyone here.’

  When Michael came in the meal was ready. He sat at the table, glancing at Kitty. ‘I’d heard Fergus’ father was dead.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kitty replied, speaking in English now. ‘We buried him three days ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Sure if you tried to make every funeral, you’d never get any work done,’ Eleanor said. ‘There aren’t enough hours in the day for all the funerals. If they even get funerals.’

  Brigid had woken. Eleanor took her from Kitty, and started to feed her buttermilk. At first Brigid refused the spoon, but then she swallowed it down.

  ‘Well Michael, do you still think we’re mad?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Michael answered. ‘Having a teacher in the family, sure it’s pure mad. But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone else, they’ll all be laughing.’

  ‘Let them laugh so. They’ll be laughing the other side of their faces when she comes back here, and she a teacher. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Damn it to hell,’ Michael replied, ‘you’re infecting me with your madness now. I still don’t know how we’ll do it, I don’t know where the money is to come from. I don’t even know how long we’ll feed ourselves. And none of us knows if the baby has the brains for it.’

  ‘…brains…’ Brigid repeated.

  ‘And there’s your answer,’ Winnie said. ‘Trying to talk already. There’s brains there right enough.’

  Eleanor passed a plate to Kitty. ‘Here, if your husband’s not feeding you, we’ll have to get something inside you.’

  Kitty took the plate, as Michael passed her over a potato.

  ‘Tell us this,’ she asked, ‘what are ye hearing about Pat? Has he been over lately?’

  ‘Not for two weeks now,’ Michael replied, ‘but we’re reckoning he’ll be back tomorrow night.’

  ‘And thank God for that’ Eleanor said. ‘You’re going to need help with the potatoes with such a great crop.’

  ‘Arra, hell,’ Michael said.

  ‘No, a ghrá. You take help where you get it. I’m sure Pat’ll stay out with the potatoes for a night or two, keep an eye on them, and let you sleep. Isn’t that what sons are for?’

  Eleanor had been amazed at how accepting Michael was of Kitty. He certainly had not accepted her at first, when he had learned of the affair between her and Luke. But that had been over a year ago, and in that year Michael had come to despise Kitty’s husband, and had come to respect Kitty in a way that Eleanor had never expected. Now he would defend her against anyone who made sly comments about the past liaison between Luke and Kitty. Not that many made such comments anymore. Famine and fever gave them other things to think about.

  Eleanor had been even more surprised at Winnie’s relationship with Kitty. Winnie knew Kitty had been Luke’s lover, she knew too of the scandal it had caused, and yet she accepted her. At first this had been because of their shared ambition for Nessa’s orphaned daughter, but now Eleanor knew that it was deeper than that. Much deeper.

  Chapter 4

  Mayo Constitution, September 1847:

  The Unions throughout our county being in debt, and without a vestige of credit, what is to become of the people? Are they to starve by the wayside? Are they to be left to plunder and rob, and turn our prisons into poor house Bastilles? Are the Government determined to try one or other experiment in the shortest period of getting rid of the surplus population? Are they determined to admire once more how ‘nobly these Irish die?’

  Pat’s position in Knockanure Workhouse was a good one, and he knew it. A clerical position at thirty five pounds a year was one of the most sought after positions in the county, and even more so given the fever and starvation around. Looking at the hundreds of inmates in the Workhouse, and the dozens who died every month, he knew he was lucky indeed. Yes, he had to work hard, but that was only to be expected at a time like this. Still, his position was a secure one, or so he hoped. It was permanent, unless he did something terrible, and he certainly did not intend that, especially given his growing rapport with Sarah.

  One morning, he sat in the office with her.

  ‘You’re nervous, Pat,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I am. Not so much nervous though, just concerned that I get everything right. Mr. Voisey needs these figures to persuade the Guardians to keep the place going. And the Workhouse is going through money at an awful rate, given the times that are in it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yes, and Clanowen was never a man to let anything by, or have anything put over on him. And this Trinder fellow, what do we know about him since he’s taken over as Master? No, it’s going to be a difficult meeting and Voisey’s depending on me.’

  ‘And hundreds of others depend on you too.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t remind me.’

  Twenty minutes later, one of the inmates called for him. Pat gathered up all his
papers, and went to the Boardroom for the Guardians Meeting.

  At the head of the table sat Lord Clanowen, by far the largest land owner in the area, whose estate covered much of the land from Knockanure up to the lower slopes of the Ox Mountains. Pat had once considered him as a fair man, but his opinion had changed after the Clanowen evictions. For Clanowen, as for the Workhouse, money was the key issue.

  Pat knew that many landlords in Mayo were being bankrupted by the Famine. Many of the smaller landlords could not afford to pay the Rates, no matter how hard they squeezed the small tenant farmers under them. It was the tenants who paid the rents, and the landlords who paid the rates that paid for the Workhouses. And even if Clanowen himself could pay, the Guardians included a number of other smaller landlords and magistrates, and Pat had no idea who among them could pay, or who could not.

  Cecil Trinder, the new Master of Knockanure Workhouse, was an unknown factor too. Sarah’s own father had been Master, until he had died of fever, like so many hundreds of the inmates. Since then, the Workhouse had been running without any Master, until Trinder was promoted from an assistant position in the South Dublin Workhouse. But Dublin was not Mayo, and Pat wondered how long it would take Trinder to appreciate the difference between common Dublin poverty and the outright starvation and brutal fever that was crushing Mayo and the rest of the West.

  Voisey had been the Poor Law Inspector for Knockanure Union since the beginning of the Famine in 1845. Pat always thought of him as a deeply religious man, more concerned for the welfare of the inmates than the landlords were. Still, it was a delicate balancing act, maintaining the stinginess of the Guardians against the voracious demands of the Workhouses for cash.

  ‘Do you have the sums there, Pat?’ Voisey asked.

  Pat handed out ten copies of a single page, which he and Sarah had only just finished transcribing. It contained the key figures for the Workhouse’s accounts, with total spending for the month at the bottom.

  When Clanowen received his copy, he glanced down and shuddered.