by Charles Egan
There were two posters in the window, one advertising a ship from Sligo to Quebec, the second a ship from Galway to Boston.
‘I wonder why the Sligo one is so cheap.’ Murtybeg asked.
‘God knows,’ Pat said, as he pushed the door open.
Inside, a paunchy man sat behind the desk, two other men in front. Pat noticed they were all well dressed, too well dressed for Ballinrobe perhaps? A silence descended.
‘Well, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ the man behind the desk asked at length.
Pat was uncertain, but the two men stood up and gave them the seats.
‘I’m sorry…’ Pat said.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ one of the men said.
Silence again.
‘Mr. McGuinness…?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was given your name in Castlebar…’ Pat said.
‘Who?’
‘George Gaffney. You know him?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes, he said you were the man to talk to in Ballinrobe. We’re trying to put together a group of fellows to go to Liverpool out of Westport.’
McGuinness picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, and started to write.
‘How many men?’
‘Hard to say at the moment. A hundred from Ballinrobe, we’re hoping. Probably more from Westport. Or Castlebar even.’
‘Could be two hundred or so?’
‘Could be,’ Murtybeg responded. ‘We’ll see.’
McGuinness held up his hand and wrote further.
‘So what’s your price?’ Pat said at last.
‘A shilling and ninepence a head.’
‘That’s costly,’ Murtybeg said.
The man looked at him in astonishment. ‘A shilling and sixpence so, I won’t go lower.’
‘Fair enough,’ Murtybeg said.
‘Now there’s the question of the deposit.’
‘Ten shillings,’ Murtybeg said.
‘Fifteen shillings.’
‘Fine so,’ Murtybeg said. ‘But when does the next ship go?’
‘Wednesday is the next. The Altair. After that – depends on the tides and the winds, but there should be another Friday or Saturday.’
McGuinness took another sheet of paper. Again he wrote.
He handed it to Murtybeg. ‘This is a receipt for fifteen shillings. Also an instruction for McDonagh & Wilson in Westport.’
Pat stood to leave as Murtybeg counted out the money. The two men had not said a word.
When Murtybeg came out, he laughed.
‘A shilling and sixpence a man. How could we have got it so cheap?’
‘I thought you said it was expensive.’
‘Ah, that was only bargaining. I was determined to get him down, whatever he said. But still – one and sixpence – I never expected that.’
They returned to the Workhouse building. Next morning, they joined the inmates for breakfast. Pat noticed the activity as men were assembled for the journey.
He nudged Murtybeg. ‘I wonder what they’re telling them.’
‘God knows,’ Murtybeg replied, ‘and to be honest, I don’t care. All I want is workers.’
The Workhouse had assembled eighty four men. Murtybeg counted and signed for them. As they came out, they saw an inmate waiting, holding the reins of both horses, already saddled.
‘All ready to go,’ he said to them.
Murtybeg smiled and handed him a penny.
They mounted their horses. As they went out, Pat saw the priest, leading a donkey.
‘Are you going the same way?’ Pat asked.
‘As far as Tourmakeady,’ the priest answered as he mounted the donkey.
The little procession started to move. Another donkey accompanied them, drawing a bread-cart. The three men rode together behind the cart, followed by the men from the Workhouse.
‘Is it like this all over?’ Murtybeg asked.
‘In Mayo, at least,’ the priest answered. ‘God knows what the rest of the country is like. And I’ll tell you this, I don’t want to know either. All I seem to do here is give the Last Rites, again and again and again. It never ends.’
‘Sure what else can you do,’ Pat said.
‘Write letters! And God knows, I’ve done enough of them. Letters to Lord Lucan, even to the Viceroy. All they can do is shake their heads and say how terrible it is. I’ve written to the Freeman’s Journal, but what good does that do either? The Telegraph in Castlebar, at least they print my letters, let the rest of the county know what’s going on in Partry.’
‘It wasn’t like this when I left last year,’ Murtybeg said.
‘You’ve got to understand,’ the priest said, ‘this is one of the most God-forsaken places on earth. All up the mountains they’re dying at an awful rate. Their families are burying them in ditches, turf banks, wherever they can.’
Pat noticed they were being followed by a woman carrying a baby. The priest turned back to her. Pat stopped, watching. He rode down.
‘She’s following her husband,’ the priest said. ‘They’re from Aghinish, she’d heard he was going.’
‘But we can’t take her,’ Pat said.
‘I know,’ the priest said. ‘But she won’t go back. You’ll have to take one little family anyhow.’
‘God damn it to hell,’ Murtybeg said. The priest winced.
‘Don’t be blasphemous,’ Pat said.
‘Arra, what.’
The woman followed. Pat could see she was very weak. He dismounted.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘sit up here and rest the baby.’ She sat side-saddle, grasping the saddle with one hand and her baby with the other. They went on, Pat leading the horse.
When they stopped to rest, a man came back from the group and took the woman down. Pat took the baby and handed it back to her. He noticed it was not moving.
He went over to the priest. ‘The baby’s dead,’ he said flatly.
The priest walked over to the huddled group. Gently he took the baby from the mother’s arms, and laid it on the bank at the side of the road.
He stood. Raising his right arm, he gave Extreme Unction.
Pat went back to Murtybeg.
‘What’s happening, Pat?’
‘It’s dead,’ Pat said.
‘Dead!’
‘Sure how would it not be. It’s carrying fever.’
‘And what of the mother?’
‘She seems fine to me. I think she’ll pull through.’
‘What if she has fever?’
‘She doesn’t have fever. Leastwise, no sign of it that I can see. And I’ll tell you this, Murteen, I’ve seen enough fever to know.’
Pat leaned on his horse, watching as the small group walked into a bog. The baby was placed in a bog hole, then the man and the priest went above it and started kicking at the side until the turf and heather started to collapse on top of the child. The mother was keening – a grisly, high-pitched sound.
‘Oh God,’ Murtybeg said, ‘can you not get her to stop it?’
‘If you can resurrect the baby…’
‘Shut up, God damn you.’
As they travelled, Pat discovered a lot more about the priest. His name was Peter Ward and he was Parish Priest of the enormous Partry parish, stretching right across the mountains from Ballinrobe to the coast and out to Clare Island. He told Pat and Murtybeg much of what had been happening – not only starvation but the ravages of fever, killing thousands.
The unending detail shocked Pat. From time to time, he asked a question, but most of the time there was no need as the priest spoke on. Even with such an enormous parish as Partry was, Pat wondered at how so many people could die in it. But he suspected Father Ward was not exaggerating.
Murtybeg rode alongside, listening, but saying nothing.
They stopped to rest in Partry village.
‘Now I’ll soon be going off,’ the priest said. ‘Up towards Tourmakeady and through the hills. What of ye?’
‘Well,’
Pat replied. ‘As you know, Murteen here will be going back to Liverpool. But after Westport, I’ll head back to Castlebar, meet Gaffney there and tell him how things have turned out. After that, it’s back to the Workhouse at Knockanure.’
‘You’ll be meeting Gaffney?’
‘I will.’
‘There’s one favour I’d ask of you so. The condition of the Workhouse in the Parish is in a terrible state. You must tell this to the County people as soon as you get to Castlebar.’
‘I will,’ Pat said, ‘I’ll make a full report to Mr. Gaffney. I promise you that.’
They watched as a convoy of three donkeys with carts passed by.
‘Castlebar Workhouse?’ Murtybeg asked.
The priest stood on the road watching as the convoy turned left as the road split.
‘No, they’re turning off. Heading for Westport, I’d say.’
‘Emigrating?’
‘Maybe, but God knows how. They won’t go to America, that’s for sure. They’re probably more your type of people. Heading to Liverpool, I’d say. They’ll get to Westport, sell the donkeys for meat and head out in the cattle boat to Liverpool.’
They took the left turn out along the Westport road. Shortly after Father Ward went to take the road towards Tourmakeady and the mountains.
‘I wish I could take you with me,’ he said to Pat and Murtybeg. ‘If you thought you’d seen famine or fever, the mountains here would still have the power to shock you.’
Pat thought of Luke’s stories of the Ox Mountains. ‘I’d believe you,’ he said.
‘Tell that to the fellows in Castlebar.’
Pat watched the diminishing figure of the priest and donkey, until the next corner.
Murtybeg put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Pat. Time to go.’
Once they saw a body lying in a ditch but they did not stop. Soon after, they passed three men digging turf in a bog.
‘Do you know what I’ll tell you, Murteen,’ Pat said, ‘it’s got this way with me. Any time I see anyone digging in a bog, I think they’re digging a grave.’
‘You’re just letting it all get to you,’ Murtybeg said. ‘Now come on, let’s get to Westport.’
They rode on.
‘Now, there’s one other thing I must tell you,’ Pat said. ‘My girl works in the Union.’
‘Your girl? Sarah, isn’t it.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is she breaking stones?’
Pat laughed. ‘Arra, no. Sarah’s not for that kind of thing. She’s working on accounts with the Clerk of Union, I understand. Her mother is matron in the Workhouse. We’ll marry soon.’
‘But…? When?’
‘God knows, but soon enough.’
‘At a time like this?’
‘Luke did it too, didn’t he? Yes, Murteen, we’re getting married. We won’t give up. Whatever you and Danny might think of this county, there’ll still be men and women living here when this is all over.’
‘But what would you live on?’
‘Right at the moment, my wages at Knockanure.’
‘But you saw it yourself. It’s near bankrupt.’
‘Sure what of that,’ Pat replied. ‘If I can’t get a job there, I’ll get it somewhere else. And if that’s not possible, I’ll farm.’
‘Did you never think of the railways?’
‘The railways!’
‘Danny’s looking for good men.’
‘To be worked into the ground?’
‘No, not as one of those fellows. We’re growing fast. We need good men managing the business – gangers, accounts clerks, everything. And I’m damned sure, being family, Danny would have you high up.’
‘Oh the devil take that,’ Pat said.
Cloonee. Drumminroe. Kiltarsaghaun.
They stopped in each village. In Drumminroe one of their men could not get up. In Kiltarsaghaun, another was unable to rise. They were both put on the bread cart.
‘God,’ said Murtybeg, ‘are they all like this?’
Killavally. Devleash. Drummin. Knockrooskey. Ballydonnellan.
Now two more men were not walking, and the woman was on the bread cart.
They walked down Altamont Street into Westport. Neither were riding, each carrying a man on his horse.
‘So much for these fellows being in good condition,’ Murtybeg commented.
‘It’s only a few,’ Pat said, ‘and just be thankful it wasn’t more.’
They crossed the town, and so to the quays.
As they came closer, they saw people lying along the road in shacks made from weeds, potato tops and little else.
‘How can anyone make shelter out of that?’ Murtybeg asked.
‘And how can anyone live in it either?’ Pat replied. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.
It was drizzling.
‘What now?’ Murtybeg asked.
‘We’ve got to get these fellows under shelter. But where?’
They left them in the lee of a warehouse wall. Both mounted their horses, and rode down onto one of the warehouses.
‘Wait here, Murteen,’ Pat said.
He went inside. He saw a clerk at a desk on the other side of a large hall sitting alongside a mound of stacked sacks. Pat went over to him.
‘You’re looking official,’ the man said to him.
‘Just over from Castlebar,’ Pat said, not wishing to mention Ballinrobe. I’ve men going to England. We’re looking for shelter.’
‘Fair enough,’ the clerk said. ‘You can shelter them in the next shed. Can’t risk it here – the corn wouldn’t last long.’
‘Good to see corn is still coming in,’ Pat said.
‘Coming in!’ the clerk exclaimed. ‘That’s going out.’
‘What? Isn’t it needed for feeding the people?’
‘It’s needed for the landlords to pay their land rates. Not that it’ll save the most of them from bankruptcy. The rates are far higher than they were two years back.’
‘And what’s coming in?’ Pat asked. ‘Is there nothing coming in at all?’
‘Little enough,’ the clerk said. ‘See the sacks over there?’
‘It’s not much,’ Pat said.
‘Not much at all, and the half of it is rotting. It came over from America in barrels, but they sold the barrels, and put all the corn into sacks. What they wanted the barrels for, I’ve no idea, but once they put the corn into the sacks it started to rot with the damp.’
Pat went outside again, and he and Murtybeg brought the men to the adjoining shed.
‘Is that them?’ the clerk asked as he unlocked the shed. ‘You’re not sending them to England like that?’
‘How else would you expect them to be?’ Pat asked.
They rode further along the quays. There were two boats, one being loaded with cattle. As they spoke, the other started to pull out. They were directed towards the captain of the first ship.
Pat saw the name on the second. The Altair
Murtybeg handed him McGuinness’ requisition and receipt.
‘For how many?’
‘Eighty four, so far. More later, but we’ll pay then.’
‘Either of you travelling?’
‘Just me,’ Murtybeg said. ‘And I presume, as ganger, I go free.’
A scratched calculation. ‘Three pounds nine shillings.’
‘Less deposit?’
‘Two pounds fourteen.’
‘Do you have it?’ Pat whispered.
‘Of course. But no Bianconi to Dublin now.’
‘Might be good for you, Murteen’ Pat said.
‘That’s not funny.’
They rode back along the quays. At the warehouse, a few of the men were smoking clay pipes. Pat stopped and explained the plans for the morning. Then he rode on to the Workhouse with Murtybeg.
The gates were locked, and three soldiers were standing outside in the rain. Quickly they were admitted. A soldier entered with them, and led both their horses towards the Workhouse stab
les.
‘Nice horses,’ he said. ‘We’re short enough of them since the Inniskillings left.’
‘Did ye not bring enough?’ Pat asked.
‘We would have, but they told us there were more here.’
‘Well, don’t let ye be tempted to take ours.’
At the Administration block, Pat asked for the Clerk of Union. They were ushered into an office.
A man rose to greet them from behind a desk.
‘Egan’s the name,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Clerk of Union for these parts.’
Pat handed him the letter.
‘Pat Ryan so, is it?’
‘It is,’ Pat said.
Sarah was staring at them from the corner.
Quietly, Pat explained their business, but knew Sarah was listening intently.
‘I can understand what you’re looking for,’ the Clerk replied, ‘and God knows, the Workhouse here is over-crowded, and bankrupt too.’
‘Bankrupt!’ Murtybeg exclaimed.
‘Aye. And it would be shut long since, if it wasn’t for Lord Sligo, paying for it from his own pocket too.’
‘I’m surprised by that,’ Pat said.
‘What choice do you think he has? They’re dying all around him.’
‘I hadn’t thought he was that kind of man though. Why would he care?’
‘I won’t comment on that,’ the Clerk said.
Quickly it was agreed that a hundred and fifty men from Westport Workhouse would be taken to England. The Clerk organised two officials to do the selection.
‘You’ll stay the night,’ the Clerk asked. Pat hesitated. He thought of the men in the warehouse. By rights he should sleep there. He whispered to Murtybeg. He was surprised when Murtybeg agreed to return to the warehouse after dinner.
Sarah was at dinner that evening, together with her mother and the Clerk of Union. Pat sat beside Sarah’s mother, and introduced her to Murtybeg. Mrs. Cronin shook his hand gravely.
‘I don’t know how you do the job you do,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it better than leaving men starving in Mayo,’ said Murtybeg.
‘Is it? I don’t know that it is. Let that be your opinion. Now let’s hear what you’ve been seeing since you left Knockanure.’
‘I don’t know that you’d want to know,’ Pat said.
‘You needn’t worry about that,’ Sarah said, from across the table. ‘We’re all well used to it. How’s Knockanure?’
