The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  I met a man from Erris on the ship, Conaire Costello is his name, and we intend to travel together. We found work today in the city at a saw-mill where they cut and stack the timber logs. God knows, it is hard work, but I must strengthen myself for the railways in Harrisburg, or wherever. We will be working some time here in Quebec before spending the winter working in the forests. In the spring we intend on travelling from the forests, following the rivers and canals from Canada down to the Hudson River in the United States. From there I may go with Conaire to his brother, John Costello, in New York, if I do not go direct to Harrisburg. Either way, I expect to arrive in May or June. God willing, I may then be able to send more money to you, and in time, enough for the American ticket.

  When I have a fixed address in New York, or Harrisburg, or wherever I may be, I will write again and await your reply, so you will give me news of our friends and relatives. I hope ye are all in good health, and that the potato crop continues fine.

  I have no more to say but remain your loving husband and son,

  Luke Ryan

  He folded the letter, and put it into the envelope.

  ‘Can you write a letter for me when we have the money for the post?’ Conaire asked.

  ‘Of course. What would you want to say?’

  ‘That I am well, and travelling to my brother in New York.’

  ‘What else.’

  ‘Nothing. What else would they need to know?’

  Luke took the letter out of the envelope again.

  ‘Right,’ Luke said, ‘let’s write.’

  ‘Write?’

  ‘Why not?’ Luke said. ‘You needn’t worry about the postage. What we’ll do is write it on this letter, and ask them to send information to your family in Torán. It’ll only cost them a penny stamp to send it from Kilduff to Torán. Save the cost of postage here.’

  ‘But you’ve no room there, front or back,’ Conaire said.

  ‘Don’t let you be worrying about that,’ Luke said. He started writing vertically up the page across what he had already written.

  ‘Conaire wants me to send a message to his people in Torán, which is down from Belmullet in Erris, but in view of the high price for winter letters from Canada, I would consider it a favour if ye would write a short note to his people instead.’

  ‘You’re destroying it.’

  ‘No, I’m not, they’ll read it easy enough. I’m just telling them what we want them to do. Now you tell me what you want to say.’

  ‘You know, as well as I do. Write whatever is needed.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Luke said. Again he wrote –

  ‘You will address it to his father, Tomás Ó Coisteala, care of the Parish Priest in Belmullet, and you will write it in the Irish language. You may instruct the good Father to have the letter carried down to the Ó Coisteala family in Torán when anyone is going down that way. The letter should tell the family that Conaire is alive and well. He has little enough money, but hopes to send some later. The rest of his news is the same as mine, except he will surely go to New York, and stay with his brother at Costello’s Bar, Orange Street, Five Points, Manhattan, New York City.’

  Luke read the letter out in Irish.

  ‘You’re good at giving them orders,’

  ‘Arra, pay no mind to that,’ Luke said. ‘They’re well accustomed to getting orders from me. Every time I’d send back money from the railways, I’d be giving them orders as to how it was to be given out or spent. No, they won’t complain.’

  They went to the Bureau de Poste again, and Luke paid them the cost of franking the letter for Ireland.

  They were transferred to the logging ponds. As it got colder, more Irish immigrants poured into the area, but most of them were unable to get work in Gilmours, since fewer rafts were coming down the river, and the final ships were being loaded to clear the St. Lawrence before it froze.

  Every morning now, they saw Irish and Quebecers at the gates, asking for work.

  ‘Hungry looking fellows,’ Conaire said one day.

  ‘They are,’ said Luke, ‘and not just the Irish. I don’t know where these Quebecer fellows are coming from, but they all look as if they could do with a damned good meal.’

  One evening Luke wrote a letter to Farrelly in Pennsylvania, also describing their experiences, and explaining that he could be very late arriving in Harrisburg.

  ‘At least the letter will be a lot cheaper to send than the Irish ones,’ he said to Conaire. ‘And I hope it arrives.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

  ‘The building of the railway may have moved on from there. The letter may not be delivered.’

  That evening, McGowan had more news for them.

  ‘Times are getting worse,’ he told them. ‘The mills are shutting.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Two of them closed yesterday, I hear. There’s talk of more closings, and many of those still open might close yet.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Some kind of money crash in England, I understand. They’re not taking our lumber. Not very much anyhow.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘God only knows. I just hope you hold on to your jobs, that’s all.’

  Their luck held, as thousands of men were thrown out of work right across Quebec, Then Gilmours started firing men. Soon, Luke and Conaire were on short-time working, three days a week.

  ‘I wonder how long this will last,’ Luke said.

  ‘God only knows,’ Conaire said. ‘Just be thankful we have a job, any job, and they can still afford to pay anything, so we get food and shelter.’

  ‘True enough,’ Luke said, ‘though God knows what our prospects are for winter in the forests if they’ve no call for timber here.’

  As word of the slump spread across the city, there were fewer men outside Gilmours looking for work, but Luke noticed many women and children begging on the streets.

  ‘Spare a farthing, sir?’

  As if he had a farthing to spare. He wondered how long it would be ’till he and Conaire joined them on the street.

  It was bitterly cold.

  But still their luck held. One day, Carlier came over to them.

  ‘Time for the logging, if you still want to go.’

  Luke and Conaire looked at each other.

  ‘We’ll be lucky yet,’ Conaire said.

  They followed Carlier to the office. There was a man writing at the desk.

  ‘We're taking on men for the Gatineau’ he said, without looking up. ‘You'll be there all winter. The wages are four shillings a day.’

  ‘Four shillings!’ Luke said. ‘It was five.’

  ‘Ah yes, but that was last year. Do you want it or not?’

  ‘We don’t have much choice, do we?’

  ‘Not much. You want to get to New York after?’

  ‘That's our intention, anyways,’ Luke said. ‘We're trying to save money for it. This won’t help.’

  ‘You'll save plenty on the Gatineau. There's nothing to spend your money on. If you want to work twenty hours a day, that’s your decision. It’s still four shillings a day. Most men work seven days a week, except for Sunday morning, when the priest comes out. They work all winter and then come back to Bytown or Montreal for a few days, and raise hell. Still want it?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Good. There’s a boat leaving from the timber piers on Wednesday.’

  That evening they were paid. The next morning, he went to the bank for a bank draft, and cashed the remainder. He wrote his second letter to Carrigard.

  Quebec

  Canada

  Ryan Family

  Carrigard

  Kilduff

  County Mayo

  Ireland

  5 November 1847

  Dear Winnie, Dear Father and Mother,

  Ye may be surprised to hear from me so soon again, but now, I can send more money for ye. God knows, ye have been waiting long enough for it, and I am sorry I could not send more earlier, nor more now.
Still another three pounds might help ye through the rest of the winter, please God.

  We’ve been working at Gilmours saw-mill, and it’s heavy work. But we’re earned more money, and what I am now sending is most of what I have with me right now.

  Tomorrow, we will travel to the Gatineau Forests, We will be working there for the rest of the winter and perhaps as far as April. The snows in this country are very deep in the winter, so I might not have another chance to write until then, nor will I be paid until our time in the forests is finished. So if you do not hear from me for that length of time, let it not worry ye. I hope to have a lot more money that I can send to ye at that time, and then we may be able to plan for Winnie’s arrival in the United States.

  I hope ye are all well and have no more to say but remain your loving husband and son,

  Luke Ryan

  If it would not be asking too much of you, it would be good if you could pass another message to Conaire Costello’s people in Erris that he continues well. He will be travelling with me to the Gatineau Forests.

  Luke woke in the early hours of the morning. The other men were snoring. He got up, and walked to the window. Outside, a wan sun was rising over the timber yards of Quebec.

  Yes, he thought, it will be a long time ’till I get to Pennsylvania, or even New York. And when can I ask Winnie to come over? I can’t do that until I’m certain where I’ll be. I’ll probably write to her again after the winter, when I’m sure we are on our way down there. But then, where should I ask her to go to? It would be hard for a woman with a little baby to make her way to Harrisburg. Impossible maybe. So should I stay in New York? Would that be better? Then I might never get to Harrisburg. So? They’re not building railways in New York, they’re all built. Or should I tell Winnie to wait a year or so ’till I get back to Ireland. If I ever get back to Ireland? No, don’t be silly, Ireland’s in the past now. Pat will have the farm. He’ll settle with it. There’ll be no place for me. I’m not going home.

  Oh God, Winnie, will I ever see you again?

  Chapter 15

  Telegraph & Connaught Ranger, October 1847:

  Poverty in Mayo is now so great that in the town we live – the capital of Mayo – dead bodies remain unburied for days for want of coffins – and this is a time when the agent and drivers of the landlord are busily engaged in driving and seizing whatever has remained with the tenant after the last hard season.

  One day, Eleanor insisted on going into Kilduff to buy corn, in spite of Winnie’s protests.

  She met a family walking the other way.

  ‘Dublin,’ they told her, though Eleanor doubted they had the strength for six days walking. And where would they get food on the journey?

  She joined the long line outside Dillon's shop. Some of the women ahead of her seemed healthy, but most were thin and gaunt. It seemed to take forever, but at last she reached the counter. She ordered her corn, but when she heard the price, she was shocked.

  ‘That’s the price’ the attendant told her. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Eleanor realised that she did not have enough money for what she wanted, but she took all the corn she could afford.

  She walked back to McKinnon's bar, unlatched the front door and walked in. It took her a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness. At the far end of the bar, three men were hunched around a candle. They stopped talking as she came in, gazing at her silently.

  The bar was no different to what she always remembered it, except it was emptier. It had the same long bar, made from a trunk of bog oak, sawn transversely with the planed side up. The floorboards were well worn after many years of heavy use. Sawdust was sprinkled all over it to soak up spilt beer.

  Sabina had been seated behind the bar, knitting. She stood up to serve her.

  ‘No, no,’ Eleanor said, ‘I’ve nothing left, just been to Dillon's.’ She placed her sack of corn on the counter.

  ‘Yes,’ Sabina said, ‘it’s a terrible price. I know.’

  ‘The devil take it’ Eleanor said, ‘and Dillon too. But enough of that. I wanted to know if we’re seeing you soon.’

  ‘I’ll be up later, so.’

  Eleanor left the bar. The street outside was almost empty, and silent. Three women stood by the bar window. They were very thin with pinched faces. One held out her hand to Eleanor, but she brushed past her. As she went on down the street, she wondered if that had been the right thing to do. Perhaps she should have given her a farthing. But if she did that, they would always be following her.

  Outside the town, she saw a dog standing in the centre of the road. It too was very thin. As she came closer it growled in a low, threatening way. Eleanor stopped. She went back, and cut up one of the side roads along the back boreens to Carrigard.

  Sabina arrived that evening. ‘God with ye all.’

  Michael looked up in surprise. ‘My little sister!’

  ‘Little to some,’ Sabina said. ‘Though, at my age, there’s not many would think me little. Or young.’

  ‘You’re early,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I be. It’s not worth keeping the bar open for two fellows drinking so slow.’

  ‘I’m surprised there’s anyone with the money to drink at all.’

  ‘A drover and a dealer, who else would have money? When they were finished their beer, I told them it was time to shut up for the night.’

  ‘They didn’t like that?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Maybe they didn’t,’ Sabina replied, ‘but the next time they pass through these parts they’ll have forgotten about it.’

  She slipped a half bottle of whiskey from under her cloak. ‘There’s little enough call for it. We might as well drink some of it here.’

  Eleanor fetched four cups. Michael took one and waited as Sabina poured.

  ‘Well, tell us this,’ he said, ‘what are you hearing in the bar? You must be hearing more than any others.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Sabina said. ‘I’m only getting half the story. The ones who are dying, they don’t come in at all. The drovers and the cart men, you have to drag it out of them, but they’ve seen enough on the roads and roadsides. One of the cart men, he’s working for the Poor Law all around the county, been delivering corn from Westport to all the Workhouses. Ballinrobe, Westport itself, Castlebar, Ballina, Knockanure…’

  ‘We’ve heard enough about Knockanure already,’ Michael said.

  Sabina went on.

  ‘Ballinrobe was the worst he’d seen, the fellow said. All up the Partry Mountains, they’re dying at an awful rate. And the stories of Louisburgh, the fever near wiped them out. Out the Killaries was dreadful. But no one seems to know anything about Erris. It’s so frightful, no-one talks about it.’

  ‘God, Mayo is finished,’ Michael exclaimed.

  ‘No it’s not,’ Sabina replied. ‘As long as we’ve got Brigid, it’s not.’

  ‘Arra hell, are you still on about that?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Eleanor said sharply. ‘We will educate her. You, even you believe it.’

  ‘I surely did. But look at what’s happening around us, woman. What chance have any of us got?’

  ‘Give it time, ‘Eleanor said. ‘We will do it.’

  ‘We will,’ Sabina said. ‘There’s no doubting that. But it’s Luke we should be thinking of.’

  ‘And we’ve no news there,’ Eleanor said quickly. ‘But it’s not late yet. We should hear within the next few weeks. Early October, that would be the time.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sabina said. ‘There’s bad news coming from Canada. One of the drovers passing by, he was reading the Telegraph. They say there’s sickness in Quebec, brought over by the Irish ships.’

  Winnie dropped her head to the table. Eleanor walked around the table, and placed her hand on Winnie’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ Sabina said.

  ‘For nothing,’ Eleanor replied. ‘It’s as well to know. What else were they saying?’

  ‘They’re
saying it’s hard to get work in Quebec. The timber trade is in a bad way.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Eleanor asked at length.

  ‘It’s clear as water,’ Winnie said. ‘Luke’s gone to a country with no work, but plenty enough of hunger and fever.’

  ‘But we never knew…’ Eleanor exclaimed.

  ‘We do now.’

  Winnie had been badly shaken by Sabina’s news. Over the next days, she tried to hide it, but Eleanor knew well the pain it was causing her.

  ‘But that news is six weeks old at least,’ she said to Winnie. ‘Anything could have happened since then.’

  ‘It could,’ Winnie answered. ‘And it could be worse. Even if he lives through the fever, where will he get work, if there’s none to be had?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know the answer to that,’ Eleanor replied, ‘but one way or another, I’m thinking we’ll know very soon. We’ll be hearing from Luke in the next week or two. It’s no surprise we haven’t heard from him yet. The ships aren’t that fast, as you well know.’

  *

  In Carrigard tension increased all through October as no letter arrived from Luke. Eleanor still consoled Winnie, but her own voice showed that she too was concerned. She was coming to accept that Luke was dead.

  Still the two women fed Brigid, cleaned her and played with her. Eleanor thought it was odd how they both depended on a little baby to keep them amused and bring back laughter. Sometimes Kitty dropped by, and at times like that, Brigid became even more important to them. But Kitty too was concerned about Luke. She had accepted, for more than a year, that her own relationship with Luke was over, but even so, the thought of him dying in fever or drowning in the Atlantic was more than she could bear.