The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  Murtybeg was gagging and shaking his head. Pat took his arm and dragged him up.

  ‘Well, Murteen, it seems you’re not as tough as you thought you were. Come on, if you can’t take it, we won’t force it on you. Time for business.’

  Murtybeg followed him back to the Administration Block.

  When they had sat down across the desk from each other, Pat looked across to Murtybeg whose face was still red. ‘Well, Murteen. What do you think of County Mayo now?’

  Murtybeg shook his hand. ‘Forget that for a minute. I wanted to ask you about Luke, what are you hearing? What’s things like in America?’

  ‘How would I know,’ Pat answered. ‘We haven’t had a letter from him – no news at all.’

  ‘How long is it…?’

  ‘Ten or twelve weeks, I’d reckon. We should have news soon. Is he dead? Who knows? Now, enough of that. Let’s go over what you’re looking for.’

  Murtybeg leaned down into a satchel and took out some papers.

  ‘Danny is looking for four hundred men.’

  ‘But would ye have call for all this,’ Pat asked.

  ‘Might even be more. He needs ninety for the contracts he has already. Fifty for McManus, twenty each for Roughneen and Lavan. And that’s only the start.’

  ‘Only the start! Pat exclaimed. ‘You want ninety, and that’s only the start. What of the rest?’

  ‘We’ve just got a new contract, Pat’ Murtybeg said. ‘Our biggest yet. With Brassey.’

  ‘Who?’

  Murtybeg was surprised. ‘Who? Have you not heard of Tom Brassey?’

  ‘Never,’ Pat answered.

  ‘I’d have thought Luke would have told you about him. Brassey is the biggest railway contractor in the world. Employs well over fifty thousand men. And Danny is subcontracting to him for a cutting down in Staffordshire. He’ll be employing three hundred, at least, maybe more. That, with the other ninety, brings you to near four hundred.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Not all at once,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘Two hundred now, for certain. More to follow as we ramp up over the next three months.’

  Pat shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘So what do you want now?’ he asked.

  ‘Just this. Can you get them to a port? If it’s the west of Mayo I’d guess Westport would be the best way. Otherwise get them across to Dublin, if they have the strength to walk it. One way or the other, Danny will pay the costs, all the way to Stockport.’

  ‘Isn’t he very generous?’ Pat said, disparagingly.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Murtybeg said. ‘We’re doing the best we can.’

  Pat shoved his chair back and stood, eyes blazing.

  ‘Look, Murteen, don’t give me any of that. I know what you’re doing, I know the way Danny drives men. But the only reason I’m talking to you is because I have to. These poor devils out in Partry, they’ve no choice. They’re starving, and we have to take whatever you and Danny give them. And so, yes, in answer to what you’re looking for, I’ll give you what you need. Don’t think I like it though, and don’t make out that you or Danny are saints.’

  ‘Sit down, for God’s sake.’

  Pat sat again.

  ‘Now, if you’d refer to my previous correspondence with Danny, you’d see that we’ve already put this in train. Gaffney has already agreed, got it through the Committee too.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘Now, all you’ve got to do is to go over to Castlebar and get it all moving. Then we’ll see who else to visit. Gaffney reckons Ballinrobe is best.’

  ‘Why not Westport?’

  ‘The condition of Ballinrobe is worse than Westport.

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know. We’ll have to see Voisey first. Follow me.’

  Murtybeg followed him down the corridor.

  Pat knocked on the door of Voisey’s office and entered.

  ‘Remember all I told you about my cousin looking for workers in England,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Voisey answered.

  ‘This is his brother, Murtybeg Ryan. He’s over here to organise everything.’

  ‘Yes,’ Voisey said. ‘We met last night. Seemed too tired to talk then.’

  ‘He’ll be going on to Castlebar, and maybe after that to Ballinrobe. I understand it’s over-crowded.’

  ‘Just like everywhere,’ Voisey answered.

  ‘I’m proposing to go with him, if you can spare me.’

  ‘Spare you? You know we can’t spare you, Pat. But if it has to be done, it has to be done.’

  Murtybeg raised his hand.

  ‘One other question, do we have to walk or is there any other way?’

  ‘Well, we’ve no carriages,’ Voisey said, ‘but there are horses. You could take two of those perhaps.’

  ‘That would be kind of you,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘It would have been kind of us,’ Voisey said, ‘but that would have been a year ago. We’re short of money now, I’m sure you can understand that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘A shilling and sixpence per horse per day. How does that sound?’

  ‘That will do fine,’ Murtybeg said. ‘Do you need a deposit?’

  ‘No,’ Voisey replied, ‘we’ll be kind with you on that. I’ve always trusted Pat here, so I know the horses will come home, and the money with them.’

  When they returned to Pat’s office, he passed an open ledger to Murtybeg.

  ‘Here, Murteen, you might like to see this.’

  Murtybeg glanced down the figures.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but it looks to me as if the Workhouse is damned near bankrupt.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said.

  They left the Workhouse, riding Union horses.

  ‘How did you get here yourself?’ Pat asked.

  ‘The Bianconi coach to Ballaghaderreen, and I walked from there. The Bianconi isn’t so bad.’

  ‘For those that can afford it. But don’t forget, both these horses must come back here.’

  ‘Fine,’ Murtybeg said.

  They rode on. ‘Is this the right road?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘The road to Castlebar.’

  ‘Aren’t we going to visit Carrigard?’

  Pat stopped his horse.

  ‘Now, Murteen, do you really think I’m going to bring you there, and tell them what the pair of us are about? It’s bad enough as it is, let’s just keep going and forget Carrigard.’

  They arrived in Castlebar. Again, Murtybeg held his nose against the stink of manure heaps along either side, and human faeces running from an open sewer.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Pat told him.

  They passed a woman lying on the side of the street.

  ‘Fever, I’d say,’ Pat said. ‘Don’t go near her.’

  They saw a company of horse soldiers advancing towards them dressed in bright red jackets with white straps.

  ‘Dragoons,’ Murtybeg exclaimed as he dismounted and pulled his horse into the side.

  ‘The Inniskillings, I’d guess,’ Pat said.

  ‘How do you know that,’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘Never mind.’

  When they arrived at the Workhouse in Castlebar, there were still people along the walls, but soldiers were lined up in front of the gates.

  ‘More dragoons,’ Murtybeg exclaimed.

  ‘Thirteenth Light I’d say.’

  ‘You seem to know them well.’

  ‘Sure how wouldn’t I? They’re crawling all over Mayo. They need them to keep the starving in rein. Eat our corn too.’

  He spotted the lieutenant he had spoken to on the Knockanure road. He rode over to him, explained his business, and both he and Murtybeg rode inside.

  As an inmate took their horses from them, Pat noticed the sound of hammers on rock.

  ‘Stone-breaking?’ he asked.

  ‘Stone-breaking is right,’ the inmate replied. ‘They’ve no
thing for us to do, so they put us to breaking stones that might or might not be needed, God knows when or where.’

  When they met Gaffney, Pat introduced Murtybeg quickly. Within minutes, the business between them was finished, with the agreement that Ballinrobe was the best Workhouse to visit.

  ‘Daly is the Clerk of Union,’ Gaffney told them. ‘There’s one other matter you must consider though. You’ve got to have some way of shipping out of Westport. I’d have recommended you to talk to William McAliskey here – he represents many of the shippers in Westport and Killala. The only problem you’ll have though is you don’t know the number of men you’ll have with you, or even if you’ll have any at all.’

  ‘So what can we do then?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘Wait until you get to Ballinrobe. McGuinness is the passage broker there. The Workhouse will put you in touch with him.’

  That night they stayed in the Administration block.

  Next morning, they left, holding a letter from Gaffney to the Clerk of Union in Ballinrobe Workhouse.

  ‘If we’re lucky we might make Ballinrobe tonight,’ Pat said. ‘And if we don’t, we can sleep in any shack we can find. But don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

  As they rode away, Pat saw the same lieutenant again, mounted this time.

  The lieutenant nodded to him in recognition. ‘You were right about Castlebar,’ he said to Pat.

  ‘It’s not the worst,’ Pat said. ‘Like I told you, if you go to Belmullet, you’ll see a lot more famine and fever face to face. More than here, I’ll tell you’

  ‘Yes,’ the lieutenant replied, ‘you’d warned me of that. But thank the Lord, we’re not going there. It’s the Forty Ninth Regiment – they’ve just been sent out in that direction. And good luck to them too.’

  As they rode through the town, a funeral procession was coming down from Staball Hill. Four men were carrying a corpse by the hands and feet. The corpse was wrapped in rushes from the knees to the top of the head, tightened onto the body with rough cord.

  They stopped to allow the procession to pass. There were only five or six mourners following. Even at that distance, they could pick up the stench of decomposition.

  ‘No coffin,’ said Murtybeg.

  ‘It’s like this all over,’ Pat said. ‘You don’t think anyone can afford coffins, do you?’

  For some hours they rode on in silence.

  Outside Ballintubber they saw a man lying at the side of a mud cabin twenty yards away from the road.

  ‘What's wrong with him?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘Let's go and ask him,’ said Pat.

  They rode up the narrow lane, half overgrown with brambles, and dismounted.

  ‘I think he's dead,’ said Pat, as they came closer.

  The corpse was thin, dressed in torn rags. Pat knelt down to examine it. The flesh was decaying, giving off a repulsive sweet stench. Murtybeg leaned against the side of the cabin, gagging.

  Pat stood up abruptly.

  ‘It's fever.’

  ‘Like hell, it is,’ said Murtybeg.

  ‘I'm telling you it is. I know that smell. Gangrene, that’s what it is. Comes with fever.’

  He turned away. Murtybeg ran after him, and grasped him by the elbow.

  ‘Damn it, Pat, we can't just leave him there.’

  ‘You stay if you like,’ said Pat. ‘I don't want catching fever.’

  ‘We've got to do something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We can't just let on we never saw him.’

  ‘Fair enough, so,’ said Pat. ‘I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go on into town and find the priest, that's what we'll do. Let him sort it out.’

  They rode into Ballintubber, and found the church. When they told the priest, he said nothing at first. Pat repeated their story in Irish, though he felt certain it had been understood the first time.

  ‘Fine,’ the priest said after another long pause. ‘I'll see to it so.’

  ‘He didn't seem surprised,’ said Murtybeg as they rode back out of Ballintubber.

  ‘He didn't, did he?’ said Pat. ‘Nor very interested neither.’

  Beyond Ballintubber the road was being repaired. Cartloads of rock had been dumped at the side, and for a mile along the road, hundreds of men, women and children were smashing the rock into ever smaller stones. The horses slowed as they came to broken parts of the road, and stumbled on the unlevelled stone. Pat and Murtybeg dismounted and led the horses along.

  ‘I’d thought this road building was over?’

  ‘So it is,’ Pat replied, ‘this is only annual repairs. The Workhouses do most of it.’

  ‘Which Workhouse?’

  ‘Who knows? Castlebar or Ballinrobe I’d say, one or the other.’

  As they came towards the end of the roadworks they saw a donkey and cart coming towards them. A man and a woman were sitting inside with a baby and four older children. They were very thin. The cart swayed over the broken road. Pat and Murtybeg held their horses at the side as the family went past.

  ‘I wonder where they’re going.’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘Castlebar Workhouse, most likely. We’re still nearer Castlebar than Ballinrobe.’

  They came to Partry village. Many houses were empty, some with collapsing thatch, others with their doors swinging open.

  They went on, Lough Carra to their left, Lough Mask to their right, the Partry Mountains rising above. ‘And by all I hear,’ Pat said, ‘the mountains there are where you’ll be getting your people from. We hear stories all the time in Knockanure of starvation in Partry. They’re the ones we’ll find in Ballinrobe Workhouse.’

  ‘You seem to know all about it.’

  ‘Sure why wouldn’t I? Half the county knows. And isn’t this what you’re looking for? Desperate men, desperate for work. Good for business, eh Murteen?’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Now they were passing small groups of men, women and children walking towards Ballinrobe. They were all thin, dressed in grey shredded clothes.

  ‘The better clothes are auctioned,’ Pat explained. ‘One way of buying food. A good way of spreading fever too.’

  ‘Just shut up, would you.’

  It was nearly dark when they arrived in the town. They rode down a street of thatched cottages, some with decaying roofs. On some the roofs were burnt.

  ‘Evictions?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘God knows,’ Pat replied.

  They arrived at Ballinrobe Workhouse. What they saw outside the Workhouse astonished even Pat.

  Right along the wall of the Workhouse, fires were burning. Men, women and children crouched around each one. Ghostly black figures flickered against the light of the fires. Further out, hundreds more were sleeping on the open ground, without any fires.

  Carefully Pat and Murtybeg led the two horses through the sleeping bodies up to the gate. There was no one there. They shook the rails and shouted, but there was no response.

  ‘It seems like we’ve no beds for tonight.’

  They led the horses back, and found a burnt house on one side. Some half burnt straw lay on the ground.

  ‘Right, Murteen, you can sleep for now. I’ll wake you in four hours.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep?’

  ‘And have no one watching the horses. They’d be eaten before morning.’

  At sunrise, they led the horses back to the gate. There was still no one there, but then a horse and cart came from behind the Administration building. An inmate came to let it out.

  ‘A heavy load that,’ Murtybeg commented, looking at the broken rock it was carrying.

  ‘It is,’ Pat said. ‘More road repair, I’d guess.’

  Pat showed Gaffney’s letter to the inmate, but he was unsure whether the man could understand it. He certainly spoke no English.

  ‘Mr. Daly,’ Pat said, ‘that’s who we’re looking for.’

  The man led them inside. He shouted in Irish, and a young boy came over to take their horses. Another inmate
led them to the Administration building and down a long corridor to an office. He knocked on the door and handed the letter inside.

  ‘Wait here.’

  They waited. Sometime later, a man came out and waved them in. Another man was sitting beside a desk, a priest standing alongside him. The priest was holding Gaffney’s letter.

  ‘Four hundred men, ye want?’ he asked, without waiting for introductions.

  Pat glanced across at Murtybeg.

  ‘Three hundred for now,’ Murtybeg said, ‘though if you can’t do it all at once, I’ll understand. Two hundred, anyhow.’

  ‘And men only?’

  ‘Men only,’ Murtybeg confirmed. ‘Twelve years and up.’

  ‘Well,’ the other man said, ‘we won’t have three hundred for you today. Nor tomorrow neither. There’s too many in fever in this Workhouse, and those that aren’t are too weak from hunger. I’d say we could have near a hundred men together for you though.’

  ‘That’d be good for a start,’ Murtybeg said. ‘According as you can strengthen them up, then you could send more?’

  ‘That’s what we’d plan,’ the man said. ‘But there’s another matter too. Who’d pay for this? We must get them to the ships, then to England.’

  ‘Edwardes & Ryan will pay,’ Murtybeg replied without hesitation. ‘But the question in my mind is – where could we ship them from?’

  The priest answered. ‘Dublin’s too far, that’s for certain. They’d never be able to walk that distance. So that leaves Westport. We could consider Galway or Killala either, but they might be too far too.’

  ‘Westport so,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ the man at the desk said. ‘It shouldn’t cost you too much either, a few shillings a head maybe. Hardly cost you two or three sterling for shipping.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Murtybeg said. ‘McGuinness I understand.’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  They left.

  ‘I guess we’ll have to talk to this McGuinness fellow now,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pat. ‘We’ll find him easy enough.’

  ‘And who’s to get these fellows to Westport?’

  ‘We are,’ Pat said. ‘And you’re going to Liverpool with them.’

  They left the Workhouse walking, leaving their horses inside. They asked their way to the passage broker. As they went down the street, Pat guessed his location from a group of people at the window.