by Charles Egan
‘But how…’
‘They’ll tell you of their brother who runs a boarding-house. Then they pick up your bags, and you have to follow them. If you’re lucky you end up with lodgings twice the going rate.’
‘And if you’re not?’
‘You get a knock on your head down some back alleyway, and your pack and money disappear.’
They were at the bottom of the gangplank.
‘Now, just hold your sack tight and follow me.’
They pushed through the crowd and walked a good hundred yards away.
Among the passengers disembarking was a woman with two children. She balanced a trunk on one shoulder, staggering as she descended the gangway. Her two children carried another trunk between them. All three were hollow-cheeked. Luke noticed that the girl was almost bald on the top of her head except for the growth of hair on the side of her face, clear evidence of starvation.
As the woman came to the bottom of the gangplank, she tottered and fell. At once, two men came to assist her, and stood her up. There was a hurried discussion, then the two men took the two trunks, leading the woman and her two children along.
‘Runners, for sure,’ Luke said. ‘I wonder what’ll happen now.’
‘Depends on what’s in the trunks, I suppose,’ Conaire said. ‘God protect her.’
More people had disembarked and a mêlée developed as the runners tried to get closest to those with trunks.
‘No sign of fever anyhow,’ Luke said.
‘No. I’d guess most of those would be dead on the island. I’ll tell you though, this lot look thin enough.’
An argument had developed between some of the passengers and the runners. A fight started.
‘Come on,’ Luke said. ‘Let’s get to hell out of here.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Conaire asked. ‘Last night was bitter cold. Another night like that, and we’ll wake up dead.’
‘Don’t you be worrying about it,’ Luke said. ‘By this evening we’ll be wrapped up in warm blankets in good beds.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you, but even if I did, the question is – whose beds?’
‘We’ll work that out as we go along,’ Luke said, hefting the strap of his pack onto his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at this town. It’s one way of keeping warm.’
Further along the docks, they passed many stacks of squared timber, more being erected.
‘Good looking timber, I’d say,’ Luke said. ‘And a lot of it too.’
‘Them fellows would know about working the forests so. Maybe we should talk to them.’
Luke walked up to the gang of men at the timber stacks.
‘We’re just wondering where we’d find boarding houses in this town?’
One of the men replied angrily in a language that Luke did not recognise, but guessed was French.
They walked on.
‘What now?’ Conaire asked.
‘Let’s see if we can find our way into the centre of the town.
They left the docks, and continued towards the buildings in the distance. The weight of their packs began to tell on them.
Conaire stopped.
‘Maybe we should ask someone now?’
‘There may be a better way than that,’ Luke said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Somewhere in this town we’ve got friends.’
‘Have we?’
‘We have. The only thing is, they don’t know it yet. All we’ve got to do is tell them.’
‘So how the devil…?’
‘Look, think it through, will you. We’re Irish. How many Irish are there in this town?’
‘Thousands.’
‘The first question is – where do all these Irish people live? The second is – where do they drink? Look over. See the bar there? Do you see the name over the door?’
‘I do, but if you’re a decent man you might read it to me.’
‘Thomas Ruane.’
‘Ruane?’
‘Aye. A rare enough name, but common enough in the east part of Mayo. What say you there’s Mayo men here?’
‘Sure there’s Mayo men everywhere.’
‘Come on, let’s try it.’
Inside there was a thick, stinking fug of tobacco smoke. He waited a few seconds while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw a long bar, groups of men leaning against it or standing beside it. A few tables lined the wall. Silence fell as they entered, but the hum of conversation and laughter started again soon enough.
They walked down the length of the bar. Luke looked to right and left, as if searching for someone. He listened intently to the voices, trying hard to place the accents. He stopped beside a group of four men with tankards of beer in front of them. Mayo – he was certain of it. He listened more closely. It was centre or east, certainly not west. He pushed behind one of them, waiting as the barman came over.
‘Two pints of beer,’ he said, placing a coin on the counter. The barman looked at him cautiously, then took the coin, and went to pour the beer. The group had gone silent.
Then one of them spoke. ‘Well, what part are you from?’
‘Ireland,’ Luke replied, feigning innocence.
‘Damn it, I know that. What part of Ireland?’
‘The same as yourselves, I’m guessing,’ said Luke. ‘County Mayo, where else?’
One of the men snorted. ‘By God, he’s a sharp one too.’
‘Well, come on,’ another said. ‘What part of Mayo?’
‘Kilduff.’
‘Kilduff!’ one of the men exclaimed. ‘Hey Tommy. We’ve a Kilduff fellow here.’
The barman returned with the beer.
‘Kilduff! Well by God…’
‘You’re Kilduff yourself, are you?’ Luke asked.
‘Not quite. Turlough, but I’ve cousins in Kilduff, or I used to, more like. You know the Roughneens?’
‘Didn’t I work with them in England,’ Luke replied.
‘You’re better informed than I am so. I haven’t heard tell of them in twenty years now. How are they doing, do you know?’
‘Not so badly,’ Luke replied. ‘Johnny Roughneen. Would you know him?’
‘He’d be some kind of cousin to me, though how close I don’t know.’
‘Johnny is working over in England, some class of ganger on the railways. Keeps sending his money back to Kilduff, or so I understand.’
‘Enough for them to keep body and soul together?’
‘Enough to keep the hunger off anyhow,’ Luke replied, ‘though I don’t know about the fever. It’s the real killer.’
‘Fever and famine, they always go well together.’
‘So what about yourselves?’ Luke asked. ‘Where are ye from?’
‘Turlough too,’ the first man answered. ‘All of us are from Turlough.’
‘Just beside Castlebar, isn’t it?’
‘It is. You know it?’
‘No, though I’ve passed through it often enough.’
‘What’re they saying,’ Conaire asked.
‘Just telling me where they’re from,’ Luke replied. ‘Turlough, they’re saying, just next to Castlebar.’
‘Be careful,’ the barman said. ‘We don’t allow Irish to be spoken in this bar.’
‘You don’t!’ Luke said, astounded.
‘Causes too much trouble. There are Quebec fellows drink in this bar. French speakers, the most of them. Dockers, woodcutters and the like. They reckon the Irish have caused all the fever. Blame us for everyone who dies. Speaking Irish only annoys them. God knows, there’s enough fighting between the Irish and the Quebecers as it is. And if we call the peelers too often, they’ll close us down.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Conaire asked.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Luke said. He switched back to English. ‘So ye must have been Irish speakers though.’
‘It’s long enough since we spoke it, and glad enough not to,’ one of the men said. ‘Remember that, lads? Couldn’t stop
speaking it fast enough, could we?’
‘Dead right, Jack,’ the barman said. ‘There’s no need speaking Irish in this town. French maybe, but there’s no thought for Irish. It’s English this fellow should be speaking.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Conaire asked.
‘He’s saying you must speak English,’ Luke replied in English.
Conaire looked at him, slightly puzzled.
‘Speak…English?’ he said, uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ Luke said. ‘English.’
‘That’s right,’ the man called Jack said. ‘Keep trying, and you’ll learn it soon enough.’ He raised a glass. ‘Here’s to English,’ he said.
Conaire raised his glass. Luke could see the fury in his eyes, but held his finger to his own lips. Conaire said nothing.
‘So how was your own journey?’ the barman asked.
‘Bloody hell,’ Luke said. ‘A hundred and thirty dead on the journey, and more in Grosse Île.’
‘And a damned awful place that is,’ Jack said. ‘Wasn’t even there when we came over.’
‘So what ship were you on, in the name of Christ?’ the barman asked.
‘The Centaurus, sailing out of Liverpool.’
‘Never heard of it,’ the barman said.
‘I have,’ Jack said. ‘Bad condition, right enough, from all I hear. How long did you spend in quarantine?’
‘Two weeks, I’m guessing,’ Luke answered. ‘It’s easy to lose track of time, though. And any of us who were healthy, we were put to work on the island.’
‘You saw the cemeteries, did you?’ Jack asked. ‘They’re pretty rough, from all accounts.’
‘Not as bad as you might think,’ Luke replied. ‘Mayo’s worse.’
He thought of the mass grave at Knockanure Workhouse, but he knew if he mentioned it, the trembling might start again.
The barman was washing tankards. He turned back to Luke.
‘We’ve heard Liverpool is a rough town.’
‘Yes’ Luke said. ‘Liverpool is a damned rough town.’
‘An Irish town too,’ Jack said.
‘And a fever town,’ Luke said. ‘And not just in the docks either.’
Yes. We’ve heard stories of that.’
‘So what of Quebec?’ Luke asked.
‘There’s fever here, right enough,’ Jack told him. ‘They keep them in the Emigrant Hospital. Hundreds dead, mainly Irish, but many local people, and that’s where the hatred springs from. But from all we hear, nothing like Montreal. Our countrymen, most don’t stay around Quebec, they head up to Montreal, by boat, or walking, any which way they can, spreading fever as they go. Montreal doesn’t want them, but what can they do? They can’t keep them out, but they don’t like it, I can tell you. They’ve another Emigrant Hospital there. Dreadful place, I believe. They hate the Irish in Montreal.’
‘I can understand that,’ Luke said. ‘Fever alarms everyone. I’ve heard of the hospital in Montreal. There was a priest out at Grosse Île told us about it.’
‘And he should know,’ the other man said. ‘There’s been an awful lot of them fellows died too. Priests, nuns, medical people, the lot.’
Conaire had said nothing. Luke could still see the anger in his eyes.
‘Later,’ he whispered in Irish. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘But enough of that,’ Jack said. ‘What about you fellows? Have ye work yet?’
‘I was reckoning on asking ye that,’ Luke said. ‘Where can a man get work in this town? Are there many openings along the docks?’
‘This isn’t the place you should be looking,’ the barman replied. ‘This is the first place everyone comes looking as soon as they get off the boat. The gangers, they have the pick of anyone they want. It’s further up you’ll find work. Along the river in the logging ponds and the saw-mills. That’s where ye’d go. There’s not many hiring right now, what with the money troubles in England. There’s the Gilmour place along at Wolfe’s Cove.’
‘Gilmours!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘The Centaurus was a Gilmours’ ship.’
‘Yes,’ Jack said, ‘we all know about their ships. There’s many who’d describe them as floating hells. It’s not so bad working for them though. They work you hard enough in the mills, but you won’t die of fever. And they’re one of the few places hiring. I warn you – they take only the best though. Have to be strong, and able to work.’
He glanced at Conaire, but Conaire said nothing.
Luke decided to change the subject.
‘And what of lodgings,’ he asked. ‘We need a place to rest our heads. Where do ye stay yourselves?’
The men whispered among themselves.
‘Are you sure you’re not carrying fever?’
‘Now what do you think?’
‘You’d better not. For ourselves, we bunk at McGowan’s – Mary McGowan. She’s cheap enough, good breakfast and dinner too.’
‘Fine so,’ said Luke.
‘Will ye go there then?’
‘We’ve nowhere else to go. And if ye say it’s good, it’s surely worth the visit.’
‘It is. And when ye get there, ye can tell her one of the Kilgallons sent you. Jack Kilgallon, to be exact. We all work at the Gilmours’ shipyard. Her husband, Larry McGowan, he works at Gilmours’ saw-mills up in Wolfe’s Cove. Some kind of clerk there. He’d be able to get you in if anyone could.’
‘He’d be a good fellow to know.’
‘He would.’
‘And where would we find this Mary McGowan.’
‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ Jack said. ‘You lot, too,’ he shouted at the others. ‘Enough of the talk. Time for work.’
They left the bar. Jack gave Luke instructions, and then followed the others back towards the docks.
‘Sorry about that,’ Luke said to Conaire. ‘They wouldn’t speak in Irish. But they gave us enough information to be going on with.’
‘Are they ashamed of their own language?’ Conaire asked.
‘In one word, yes. They’re saying the locals here hate us. They reckon the Irish brought the plague over the ocean. It causes trouble speaking it, if others hear you.’
‘Yes,’ Conaire said. ‘I can understand that only too well. And here I am, the poor amadán, who can’t even speak English.’
‘You will,’ Luke said. ‘You will.’
They followed the directions Luke had been given, and soon found the McGowan house. It was a well-built stone building with mullioned windows, a heavy wooden door and dormer windows jutting out from the slate roof. They knocked, and waited.
The woman who opened the door was well-dressed, wearing a red blouse and a muslin skirt. Her hair was tied back behind her shoulders, and Luke noticed at once the strong face and eyes.
‘We’re looking for lodgings,’ he said. ‘We met some of your lodgers. They recommended you.’
‘Which were they?’
‘The Kilgallons.’
‘Them lot, eh?’
‘They said the meals were good,’ Luke added.
‘Did they, now?’ she said, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘There’s more important things than that.’
‘Like…?’
‘Ye have money?’
‘Enough, and we’ll have more. We came to work.’
‘Ye have fever?’
‘We were quarantined. We’re clean. Never a touch of fever between the two of us.’
‘Ye’d better not.’ She looked closely at both of them, appraising them. ‘Come on in so,’ she said suddenly.
She explained that she had four rooms in the house, each sleeping ten, men only. She was able to offer cheap lodgings, but she kept everything clean. She named a price. Luke agreed.
‘Ye’ve had breakfast?’
‘Not yet,’ Luke said.
‘What about this fellow?’ she said, indicating Conaire. ‘Has he been struck dumb or what?’
‘He doesn’t speak English yet.’ Luke said.
‘He’d better learn.’
&
nbsp; She led them to a dining room and sat them down at the table. She went away but returned almost at once.
‘You’ll have your breakfast soon,’ she said. ‘Now you were saying about working. What are your intentions?’
‘Work here a while, then go for America. Conaire here has a brother owns a bar in New York. I’ve friends working the railways out in Pennsylvania. That’s what we’re intending anyhow.’
‘Do ye know about the way there?’
‘I’d heard a little,’ Luke said, ‘but I’m sure ye know better.’
‘You should go down by Lake Champlain, through the canal and down the Hudson to New York. It’s not a bad way to go, if you have money. You’ll get to New York fast enough. But what will you work at while you’re here?’
‘We were told the logging was good,’ Luke said.
‘It is, but not here. The best logging is up the Rideau River on the north side of the St. Lawrence, though I hear that the Gatineau is even better. It's tough work. They were crying out for good men, last year. It’s a lot tougher now.’
‘I’m surprised what you say,’ Luke said. ‘With thousands coming through here every month, surely they’d have the pick of any workers they wanted?’
‘That’s not true at all. There's a great need for men, but that’s in the forests, and most of the men who come through Quebec and Montreal aren’t able for it. The Quebecers, they're fine, but there's never enough of them. The Irish are too sick, or too weakened from fever, or just from travel. And most of them just want to stay in Quebec. Or Montreal. The forests are hard on such men.’
‘Is it well paid, this forest work?’ Luke asked.
‘It’s good, but not great. I’ve heard about working on the rails in England, it's not as good as that. Or New York, that's why everyone goes there.’
‘But we'll need money for that,’ said Luke.
‘You’ll save enough to get down to New York without any trouble. There’s not much to spend your wages on in the woods.’
‘How do we get to the woods?’ asked Luke.
‘First, you have to have patience. They don’t start gathering the men for the logging until early November and then they work all winter.’
‘Winter! Why winter?’
‘Because it’s easier getting the timber out. There’s too much brushwood in summer. During the winter they slide the logs down on the snow.’
