by Charles Egan
‘Long enough,’ Luke answered. ‘But what of you, Father. That’s a big group you’re leading. Is it an eviction?’
‘A class of an eviction. Most of them are tenants from Viscount Palmerston’s Estate over by Classiebawn in County Sligo. Some sort of a Government Minister in London, he is, not that that made much difference. The Viscount wanted the land for sheep, and he saw the hunger as his chance to clear it. His agent bought all the tickets to send us to Canada, and then they evicted everyone. The most of them they sent out through ships they had hired running from Sligo Port to Quebec Town. Two thousand they sent out that way, God knows what’s happened to them, we haven’t had any word of them since. But there wasn’t enough room for them all on the Sligo boats, so they gave me a little money and a letter to Stewart & Kincaid, Palmerston’s agents in Dublin. So we walked across Ireland to Dublin, and there they gave me ships tickets, told me I was to take them to Liverpool, find the Centaurus and lead them all off to Quebec. Or America. Anywhere but Ireland, didn’t much matter to them where.’
‘You’re lucky they got you the tickets,’ Luke said. ‘When Clanowen carried out his evictions at Gort-na-Móna there were no tickets. Nothing. We all had to take people in, but many died and others have disappeared.’
‘Clanowen is the spawn of the devil.’
‘True, Father. I’m not sure that Palmerston is much better though.’
‘No. The end is the same. Now all the cabins are tumbled, and our church is empty. And why? Because Viscount Palmerston wants a sheep run. Sheep are more profitable than men. Those four-legged creatures will ruin Ireland.’
Another corpse had been brought up. A young man walked over to Luke and the priest.
‘That’s the end of them, Father.’
‘Well, thank God for that, Conaire.’
When the priest had returned to the passenger decks, Luke stayed outside, listening to the flapping of the sails and feeling the breeze on his face. Scrubbing the deck had exhausted him. The iceberg was receding into the distance.
The man called Conaire came alongside Luke. He was thin, but not as thin as most. The flesh on his face was drawn over his cheekbones and into the eye-sockets, but his eyes had none of the broken, defeated stare of many. His clothes were ragged.
‘They're saying it’s ice,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘Nothing but ice.’
He saw the man had lice, and drew away, He had seen enough of lice and fever in the Workhouses and on the Relief Works in the mountains.
The man had been talking again. He nudged Luke.
‘I’m sorry,’ Luke replied. ‘I'd been thinking. What did you say?
‘I said, you’re a quiet man. I’ve been watching you all this time, and you never talk to any of us.’
‘Perhaps I’ve nothing to say.’
‘Or perhaps it’s that you’ve nothing to say to people like us. You talk enough to the priest – and that officer fellow there. Perhaps we’re not good enough for you to talk to. Is that it?’
‘Believe what you want to believe,’ Luke said. ‘You will anyhow.’
‘So where are you from? Is it Mayo? You have the accent of it.’
‘Mayo surely. Over by Kilduff. Do you know it?’
‘Aye, I've heard of it. It was bad there?’
‘Bad enough.’
Yes, Luke thought, bad enough. But worse on the Mountain. And worse again in the mountains and wretched mud villages around Brockagh – Ardnagrena, Lisnadee, Burrenabawn, Teenashilla, and Benstreeva. And Croghancoe. The people dying along the Works. The hopelessness in their eyes. And the hate. Hating him because he was the ganger. The government man.
‘You’re well fed though,’ the man said.
‘I was working,’ Luke said
‘You were earning enough, I’d say though. Better than the most of us, I’d wager.’
Yes, Luke thought, gangers earned better than others. Men, women and children on the Works earned anything from eight pennies to as low as two pennies a day. But he himself earned more, and Pat was earning far more as a clerk. His father too, renting out the horse and cart as well as working. There was no need to mention all that.
‘What is it to you?’ he said abruptly.
‘What indeed’ the man replied. ‘What is it to me or any of the others?’
‘They paid what they paid, and they paid little enough in Kilduff, though there were other places that were worse, I can tell you that. The Ox Mountains…’
‘How would you know that?’
‘Because I was there.’
‘You were there? Why were you there?’
‘Because they sent me,’ Luke replied, realising at once he had made a mistake.
‘They sent you. They wouldn’t be sending ordinary people though, would they? They came because they had to. Why would they send you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes it does. They sent you because you were different. Isn’t that it? Why else would they send you?’
‘Because I could read and write.’
‘So you were a ganger. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps it is. Is it any business of yours?’
‘Yes it is,’ the other man said. ‘It most surely is. Over in Torán, we had gangers. Utter brutes they were. The lowest of the low.’
Abruptly, Luke grabbed him by the shirt, and shoved him back out over the rail.
‘And you might go a lot lower too,’ he said, nodding towards the waves below.
The other man looked at him in fright. Then he relaxed.
‘You wouldn’t do it. You’re not the murdering type. Are you?’
‘Just try me,’ Luke said. He let go his grip, but still the other man taunted him.
‘Gangers are worse than animals. Madmen. Mad for power. What else do they understand?
‘Maddened by power, more like’ Luke answered, ‘but you’d not understand that. Having power over people’s lives, all it brings is hatred.’
‘And you can’t understand why?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said, wearily, ‘I can understand it well. But you – it’s you cannot understand the place of someone like me. I became a ganger because I could read and write. I was told it was my duty to help my people, and few others could. And I believed that. But then came Selection. In a famine, no matter what you do, you never have enough. It doesn’t matter whether it’s work or food. You think at first it’s great, you’re helping people, giving them work. But there’s never enough, so you have to select those who get the work. And that means selecting those who do not. Those that have to die. And that means hatred.’
‘It does, it most surely does.’
‘But what would you have had me do?’ Luke asked. ‘Give out no work. That’d be worse. And even when you do give out work, those who receive it will hate you. They hate you because they hate charity. They have their pride. Every man or woman wants to be able to feed their own. When they cannot do that, it breaks their pride, so they have to hate someone. They could hate the blight that brought the hunger, but no, they have to hate the ganger. Isn’t that right?’
‘Even so there are the others who love power. Love the feeling it gives them that they are better than other men or women.’
‘Love power!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘I told you, that’s a madness. All I ever wanted to do was to get away from it. Not have to make choices that broke people. But always they told me that if I didn’t do it, somebody else would. And if nobody would, then the starvation would be worse. And whether you like it or not, that’s true.’
‘It might be true of you, but it certainly wasn’t true of all.’
‘So you admit that I’m a man. Better than a brute?’
The other man looked at him, surprised. ‘If I were to believe all you’re saying, maybe I would believe you were better than a brute. But not much. It’s not just the sense of power that some men have. It’s the way they do things. The way they drive the people. And piecework. The accursed piecewor
k. Was that needed?’
‘I agree,’ Luke said, ‘but it is not the ganger that devises things like that. The orders come from the County fellows in Castlebar, or direct from Dublin Castle, and if the orders are not obeyed, then no work, no food. Piecework – that came from Castlebar. And any time the wages were reduced, I can swear that came from Castlebar too. They wanted everything done faster, at a lower cost, no matter what the pain. The men of power, the top men in the Union or in the County, many of them hated the Irish. Many of them were Irish too, they hated their own. Can you understand that?’
‘I can, I understand it well. There’s many people like that. Put them in a place of power and they despise those under them.’
‘True, too true. But even so, I must tell you something else. Even in the Union and the County, there are good men too. Men who understand suffering and pain. But still the system breaks them. I know it. I’ve seen it. My own uncle. He was a good man. A Surveyor with much responsibility in the county, but there was not much he could do, and it broke his heart. He’s dead now. The fever got him. And don’t tell me he was a mad brute. If you do, you really will end up down there.’
Conaire leant on the railing, looking straight at Luke.
‘You’re a strange man so,’ he said. ‘I think I might even start to understand you. With time. Who knows?’
‘Do you think I’m worth understanding?’
‘I do. By God, I do.’
‘Understand me or not, there is only one thing I would ask of you. Don’t judge me until you know me. And until then, keep your damned mouth shut. Not a word to anyone.’
‘Would I dare?’
A man came across from the hatch, and tapped Luke on his shoulder.
‘They’re asking who’s next on the pumps.’
Luke cursed. ‘Come on,’ he said to Conaire. ‘Time to go.’
‘Still the ganger?’ Conaire said. ‘County Mayo or out on the ocean. You don’t change, do you?’
‘Go to hell,’ Luke replied.
He followed the other man, but Conaire stayed on the outer deck. Luke selected three men to work the bilge pump, and worked alongside them for some hours.
When he returned to the passenger deck, he saw the next line of people waiting to climb up the ladders. He could see the hairy faces of starving children along the line. At the end of the line another corpse was being carried out, the priest following.
‘No end,’ he whispered to Luke as he passed.
The next day, Luke was lying on his bunk, when Conaire walked past with a pot. He thought to ignore him, but changed his mind.
‘Going cooking, are you?’ he called out.
‘I am. Are you?’
‘Hold on.’ He took out his pot and flour from his bunk, and followed him down to the line for the kitchen.
‘So how do they call you?’
‘Luke. Luke Ryan is the name to me. And you? Conaire, isn’t it?’
‘Conaire Ó Coisteala. Or Costello in the English speech. From Torán, out the far end of Erris.’
‘Erris,’ Luke echoed.
‘Yes, Erris. And what of it?’
‘Nothing,’ Luke replied. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘You’ve been there, have you?’
‘Never. I’ve heard much about it though. You remember I said about my uncle.’
‘The Surveyor?’
‘Yes. He travelled the county. He spoke of Erris as a wild place on the edge of the ocean. Bitterly cold through the winter, it was. That’s what he told me.’
‘He was right too,’ Conaire said. ‘A wild place even in the summer, when the wind came in off the ocean. This last winter, it came off the land, but it was far colder. Many, many people died of cold, those who were not already dead from hunger, and the gangers forced them to work on – work ’till they dropped. And whether you like it or not, your uncle was part of that system.’
Luke bristled, but did not react. He changed the subject.
‘And I suppose the Workhouse wasn’t able to do much.’
‘Workhouse! There is no Workhouse. For years they’ve been talking about it, but that’s all they ever do. Talk, talk, talk. No, the Poor Law fellows never wanted a Workhouse in Erris. The nearest was in Ballina. Many tried to walk there, but most dropped on the way in the desperate cold. And those who reached Ballina Workhouse, they weren’t allowed in because they weren’t local. So those with sense, they stayed on the Relief Works in Erris. We had two gangers there – McHale and Barrett. Irishmen they were. Erris men what’s worse. And they were savages. And when the Works ended, there was no food, and the hunger killed many more. Then the fever came from the East, from the rest of Mayo and down the length of Erris. It was almost as if the Poor Law sent that too.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Luke said.
‘It surely is, though many believed it. The charitable ladies from Westport and Castlebar, the Protestant kind, they sent us clothes during the winter. Many would not wear them. They held that the clothes brought the fever.’
Yes, Luke thought. Second-hand clothes with lice. No need to say anything on that though.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go on with your story.’
‘So me and my brother left Erris. Men spoke of ships leaving Ballina for America, and more spoke of Sligo, though few knew where that was. So we went for Ballina, but my brother died on the journey and when I got to Ballina, there were no ships that would take me. So I walked to Dublin, working on the big farms as I went, for pennies and food. Enough pennies to cross over to Liverpool. I had to work my own passage from there though, so here I am, cleaning out the shit buckets with the women and children. Dark to dark, they work us. That Starkey fellow is a right bastard.
‘He is,’ said Luke. ‘Even so, it’s lucky you are, or at least you will be if you don’t get fever from that class of work. You’d never work your passage any other way though, the price would be too high.’
‘It’s high enough on this wreck.’
‘Lower than others though. Dublin, then Liverpool to Quebec. That’s the way we both came, and why? Because it’s the cheapest way to America. All the American ports, Savannah to Bangor, they won’t allow most of the Irish ships. Only those that are designed as passenger ships with few people in them, and none with fever. That’s why we must go to Quebec.’
Luke wondered whether he had been rooked. The thought had struck him in Liverpool, but he had dismissed it. No one had told him about travelling on a lumber ship, and he felt certain that the fare would have been lower than what he had paid the shipping agent in Kilduff.
They shuffled forward with the queue. The girl in front of him had long black hair, reminding him of Winnie. It was greasy though, and he could see the white lice eggs standing out against the black. And there lay the difference. Winnie with lice? Never.
Many passengers, having run out of their own supplies, no longer used the kitchen. They ate ship biscuits, putrid with maggots. Luke wondered if his own supplies might run out before they reached port, and he would be forced to eat the same.
‘Are you intending staying in Quebec,’ Conaire asked him.
‘Not if I can help it. It’s America I’m headed for, if I can cross the border.’
‘So where would you go in America?’
‘Pennsylvania,’ Luke said. ‘Some place called Harrisburg. I never heard of it before, but that's where I'm headed.’
‘You've family there?’
‘Friends. I'd worked with them on the railways in England for years. They've gone to America, the half of them. There's good work on the railways there.’
‘Yes. I've heard that,’ Conaire said.
‘They’d always said I was a fool to go back to Mayo.’
‘Maybe you were, but who'd have known all this was going to happen. When did you return?’
‘Last year.’
‘Last year!’ Conaire exclaimed. ‘You left England, and went back to Mayo. You left England then?’
‘I did.’
> ‘Good God, weren’t you the right amadán. Couldn't you have seen it coming by then?’
‘Maybe you're right. I should have.’
‘And you must have been making good money on the railways.’
‘I was,’ said Luke.
Yes. Four shillings a day. What a fool he had been to leave it all.
‘So if you were earning such good money in England, why did you go home in a famine?’
‘It wasn't so bad at the start of '46,’ Luke replied. ‘We hadn’t heard much of it when I left England. And by the time I got back, the potatoes were only half gone.’
‘It was bad enough, though. Surely you knew that? And anyhow, the money was better on the rails, isn't that what you said?’
‘Arra, it wasn't just the money. It was the lease too.’
‘Yes,’ said Conaire, ‘it’s always the lease. Or the lack of it for the most of us.’
They had reached the top of the line. Luke felt his eyes watering in the smoke. He put his pot on the fire, scooped water from the barrel, threw in his flour and placed it on the fire.
Now he had very little smoked beef left, and knew it was not sufficient to last the journey. So there was no beef today.
They moved away from the kitchen, and sat in a quiet corner to eat.
‘You’re right about the lease,’ Luke said. ‘We had a twenty-one year lease…’
‘Twenty-one years! Sure no one has that much on a lease.’
‘I know. It's rare enough. Still we had it, but it had come to an end, and my father was too old. We had a quarry for spreading stone on the roads, and the landlord’s agent said father couldn’t work that on his own. So there was no argument – he wouldn't let him sign again.’
‘The bastard.’
‘They’re all bastards. But I've a younger brother, Pat, could’ve worked the quarry, but the agent said he was too young to sign. So they'd been running two years without a lease, and the agent was insisting that something had to be done, or they’d have to go. And the only way he'd let them have a new lease was if I co-signed it with my father – they'd have been evicted otherwise.’
‘But they'll be evicted now, with you gone,’ Conaire said.
‘Not now, they won’t. The agent is finding it impossible to get rent-paying tenants around Kilduff. So he’s happy if we pay the rent, and he knows Pat will be old enough in a year or two. So that was what we agreed with him. No, they’re safe enough.’
