The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  Strangely, there were no bad feelings between Winnie and Kitty. Now that they were convinced that Luke was dead, there was an equality between them.

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ Kitty said. ‘Only a few weeks back, I was so jealous of you.’

  ‘I know,’ Winnie said quickly. ‘First you lost him. Now we both have.’

  ‘And in a way neither of us would ever have wished.’

  As time went on, their certainty increased. It was late October now.

  ‘We won’t hear from him now,’ Winnie said.

  ‘It’s all this talk of Canada,’ Kitty said. ‘Quebec, Montreal, and this Bytown place. Everything we hear is nothing but sickness and death. Now, we must accept it, and prepare for living our lives with the knowing that that’s the way it is.’

  Eleanor could see that Kitty was thinner than ever. Eleanor and Winnie still tried to feed her whenever she came around, but Kitty was beginning to feel that in a famine situation, she could not continue taking food from the Ryans. She told them she was not hungry, but the other women knew better.

  They also noticed the bruises on Kitty’s face. The beatings had never stopped. Fergus was a brute, and nothing would ever change.

  ‘She’s much thinner,’ Eleanor said one night, after Kitty had left.

  ‘More beatings too,’ Winnie answered.

  Then Kitty did not visit at all. After ten days, Eleanor decided she had to find out what was happening. She could put Luke to the back of her mind. That just had to be accepted.

  She resolved to visit Kitty. She told Winnie, who wanted to go in her place, but Eleanor wanted to see for herself, and insisted that Winnie stay and mind the child.

  She left early the next morning, taking a small bag of corn with her.

  The well was quiet in the early dawn. Four women in black shawls were drawing water, but there was none of the chatter and gossip that was common before. Eleanor could hear the distant howling of a dog on the Mountain. She went on and came face to face with another dog, a scrawny, mangy animal. He growled at her. She picked a stick, and walked on. He ran at her. She lashed hard as he jumped at her. He fell back and ran, howling, through a hedge and into a field.

  She walked on. In the distance, she could see the line of villages running across the Mountain.

  Abhann-an-Rí, Lios Cregain, Cnoc rua, Currach-an-Dúin, Áth-na-mBó, Craobhaín.

  She could see the smoke of the turf in some of the houses. In others, none. Some already had the thatch pulled off the roof, evidence of evictions. And the others? Abandoned? All the signs of never-ending emigration and death. How many houses still contained dead bodies? Most would have been buried in the bog. At Gort-na-Móna, she could just make out the burnt out remains of the village, remembering all too well the horrific day of the evictions.

  Árd-na-gCaiseal, Sliabh Meán and Baile-a-Cnoic stretched further up the Mountain. She looked away, and continued on her own road.

  She came to the cluster of houses where Kitty lived. She greeted an elderly woman, but got no answer.

  ‘God and Mary,’ she said to two children. They ran. She greeted two more women, but still no-one responded.

  Grey faces watched her. Grey clothes, frayed shifts and trousers, broken shoes. Broken men and women. Thin, gaunt, dying people.

  At length, an old man directed her to Kitty’s house.

  The half door was open.

  ‘Kitty,’ she shouted.

  Kitty came to the door. Eleanor saw fresh bruising on her face and a gash above one eye. She heard the sound of snoring from inside.

  Kitty stepped outside, and embraced her.

  ‘He’s drunk, as usual,’ she said. ‘At least it gives me peace.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Sure I had to come, we hadn’t seen you for so long.’

  ‘Did you have difficulty finding the house?’

  ‘Enough.’ Eleanor said. ‘But sure I’m here now. And I brought you some corn.’

  ‘May God bless you,’ Kitty said. ‘You’re a true friend. And it’s not that I want taking it, but I’ve little choice in the matter.’

  There was a roar from within. ‘Where are you woman?’

  Fergus stood up and came to the door, bleary eyed. He stared at Eleanor, unrecognising.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he roared. ‘I know,’ he said, before either could answer. ‘Luke Ryan’s mammy, that’s who it is. Am I right?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way,’ Eleanor responded.

  ‘Well isn’t it as well he got a hold of that other bitch. Won’t be rutting with other men’s wives now, will he? Or maybe he will.’

  Eleanor looked away. He grabbed her, and spun her around to face Kitty.

  ‘Look at her,’ he shouted. ‘He didn’t tell you about this, did he? Only last year, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. But, by God, I gave him a beating he’ll never forget.’

  ‘I know,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘And still you make friends with this one here.’

  ‘I do,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Arra, what kind of eejit are you. Where is he anyhow, the brave Luke? Over in England, is he? They’ve more married women over there to be rutting, that’s for sure.’

  ‘He’s gone to America,’ Eleanor said quietly.

  ‘Well, that’s one more bastard out of the country.’

  He went into the house and sat at the kitchen table. ‘Where’s my breakfast, woman?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ Kitty said. She turned to Eleanor.

  ‘You see how it is, my friend?’

  ‘I do,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘You’d better leave now.’

  Eleanor embraced her. ‘We’ll see you later,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve all been missing you.’

  ‘This evening, for sure,’ Kitty said.

  As Eleanor returned towards Carrigard, she saw two men harvesting turf in the bog. She walked across, then realised that they were digging a grave in the turf. At the edge, there were two corpses, a woman and a young child. She asked the road to Carrigard. One of the men directed her.

  He saw her looking at the corpses.

  ‘Isn’t it as well for them, they don’t have to feel the pain anymore. And leave enough food for the rest of us too.’

  ‘True for you,’ Eleanor responded.

  Without thinking, she dropped to her knees and blessed herself. The two men knelt beside her. The older man started to pray.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…’

  All three continued the Lord’s Prayer to the end.

  Then they stood. The men gravely shook hands with Eleanor.

  She continued her journey.

  ‘Now why did I do that?’ she thought. ‘I’m not even that sort of person. I’m not sure if I believe in it. Our Father! Is there any way to believe in God anymore? Any god? Still, it might have given them some comfort. Who knows? Oh God, I must get a grip on myself.’

  She reached Carrigard.

  ‘So how is she?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘It’s a tough life she has,’ Eleanor responded. ‘Fergus is nothing but drunk. On the poitín, day and night, and he’s still beating her. Getting worse, perhaps. She had a cruel gash over her eye. It wasn’t there last time we saw her. But I asked her down this evening. She said she’d come.’

  ‘Please God, she will,’ Winnie said. ‘But how was your journey?’

  ‘Dreadful. But sure you’ve seen it all already. Across on the Mountain, it’s in a frightful way. Empty houses in all the villages. And Gort-na-Móna, all burnt out. Do you remember that day?’

  ‘I do, full well,’ Winnie replied.

  ‘God, and the people. Even around here, they’re so thin and wasted. All they do is look at you. It’s so hard to get them to talk. Burying corpses in the bogs now, they are.’

  ‘I know,’ Winnie said. ‘I’d heard tell of that. Seen it too.’

  ‘How long can it go on like this? What kind of go
d does things like this? I don’t know that I believe in him anymore. Isn’t that a terrible thing to say?’

  ‘It is,’ Winnie said, ‘though often I’m not too sure myself.’

  Sabina arrived down that afternoon. At dusk, Kitty arrived too.

  ‘Do you have a bed for the night?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, child,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Just for the one night. I’ll go in the morning, I promise. I’ll still have to feed him, the swine. He was insulting about Luke too.’

  ‘Arra, pay no mind to that,’ Winnie said.

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ Kitty replied. ‘And still no word of him?’

  ‘Nothing, in the wide world,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s Sabina here you should be asking. She sees the papers.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ Sabina replied. ‘Quebec is in a terrible way with the fever. Not much talk of hunger though, which is one good thing.’

  ‘He’ll be hungry enough if he can’t get a job,’ Winnie said.

  ‘That’s not likely, though,’ Sabina said. ‘Luke is sharp and hard-working. He’d get a job ahead of any man.’

  ‘If he’s alive,’ Winnie said.

  Next night, the aurora blazed over Mayo.

  Michael was the first to see it as he returned from milking the cow. High over the Mountain, the sky swirled with colour. Pat, who had been spending the weekend in Carrigard, stood beside him.

  ‘Go and tell the rest of them,’ Michael said.

  Pat went in, and told the women. Brigid was awake, and Winnie took her in her arms before following Eleanor outside.

  She pointed to the sky. ‘Look Brigid. See the lights.’ Brigid looked, but whether the Lights meant anything to her, Winnie could not say.

  ‘They’ll all be going on about this down by the well tomorrow,’ Eleanor said. ‘Just wait and see.’

  ‘I know they will,’ Winnie said, ‘and they’ll see things in the Lights that aren’t there at all. They’ll all be frightened of dying.’

  ‘Arra, nonsense,’ Michael said. ‘That’s all piseógs and fairy tales. Anyone with a trawneen of sense would know they’re nothing but lights.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Eleanor said, ‘it’s not whether it’s true or not, it’s the believing that’s the thing. And it’ll terrify many people. And in one way, they’d be right. There’s enough death all around, though it doesn’t take coloured lights to tell us that.’

  Eleanor most certainly was not superstitious. She did not believe that the aurora affected people’s destiny in any way. But still, she remembered the aurora of January 1839 on the Night of the Big Wind, and hundreds of people had died that night. Weeks later, the aurora had returned as Alicia sickened with fever, and died. She knew these events were not connected, but still she felt a certain dread when she saw the Northern Lights.

  It brought Luke to mind again. How long now? Over three months, and still no word. She knew that Luke might well be dead, but she was powerless to do anything.

  With Brigid it was different. Eleanor was determined Brigid would not die. Alicia had died. But even if everyone else starved, Brigid would be fed. She was the future.

  But only silence from Luke. Now she was frightened.

  Oh God, my son, where are you?

  Chapter 16

  Freeman’s Journal, Dublin, November 1847:

  We have been informed that in the neighbourhood of Belmullet, and within the Mullet, instantaneous death from starvation can only be expected – that the people are already sinking into premature graves from lack of food – and that disease is rapid in its ravages. We regret to say that Belmullet is not the only district where destitution exists. In the populous islands in the Clew Bay and along the sea coasts, the peasantry are in the most dreadful condition. Hundreds are at this moment solely dependent for support on turnip leaves boiled, with a sprinkling of raw meal, which in a very few days will be consumed. And we have been assured, by an official who visited Clare Island and Innisturk that he saw several emaciated wretches expiring in agonies from utter want.

  Luke’s letter arrived.

  Eleanor had been feeding the hens when she saw the postman riding out from Kilduff. She was too frightened to hope. Many times she had watched him ride past with no letter. This time he stopped. She held her breath, as he dismounted and walked across.

  ‘Where’s it from?’

  The postman peered at the postmark. ‘Quebec, by the looks of it.’

  Eleanor took the letter, her hands trembling.

  ‘Good news, I hope,’ the postman said, but Eleanor had already seen the handwriting.

  ‘It can only be good news,’ she said.

  She went into the kitchen where Winnie was still washing the crockery and pots. Without a word, she placed the letter on the table.

  Winnie glanced across to her. ‘You’re quick feeding the hens.’

  She saw the letter.

  ‘Oh God!’

  She ran over and tore the letter open, then she broke down crying.

  ‘What’s wrong, alanna?’ Eleanor asked, alarmed.

  ‘Alive. He’s alive.’

  ‘Sure I’d worked that out. He wouldn’t be writing letters, and he dead. But what does he say? What’s wrong?’

  Winnie took a quick look through the rest of the letter, gulping and trying to draw her breath.

  ‘He’s in Quebec, in good health.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Sure it’s like I always told you, he’s a tough fellow.’

  ‘He had no fever. He’s working in a saw-mill. He’ll go logging in the forest, and then head towards New York.’

  She stopped.

  ‘What else does he have to say? What’s upsetting you?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘He’ll write again when he has a fixed address.’

  She gazed up at Eleanor.

  ‘But I won’t be able to travel to America until has an address and he tells me to,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that the way of it?’

  The two women walked up the back fields to where Michael was re-building a stone wall. Eleanor handed him the letter, wordlessly. He glanced through it.

  ‘He’s alive,’ he said.

  ‘He is,’ Eleanor replied.

  ‘Three pounds!’

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘For food.’

  Late that night, Pat arrived from Knockanure. Shyly, Winnie handed him the letter before he had taken off his greatcoat. He looked through it rapidly and then read it a second time.

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’d feared the worst.’

  ‘As had we all,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Aye, but none of ye mentioned it, did ye?’

  ‘We didn’t want worrying you,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Arra, wasn’t I worried enough already,’ Pat said. ‘We read newspapers in Knockanure too. Trinder leaves them lying around, just to frighten us, I’m thinking. The accounts of the crossings from Liverpool to Quebec are terrible, and that was what I was most worried about. One way or another though, Luke is in Canada now, and that’s healthier than being on the ocean, or here in County Mayo.’

  ‘So what are you hearing of Mayo?’ Winnie asked.

  ‘The same thing all over. And it’s what I see with my own eyes in Knockanure. When you get away from the Workhouse, you see the bodies lying for days unburied. No coffins. But the only ones that are busy are the landlords’ agents, demanding the rent, or evicting. Their drivers too, driving the poor man’s cattle for payment of rent.’

  *

  Pat stayed two nights in Carrigard. Early next morning. Eleanor gave him a breakfast of porridge and buttermilk.

  ‘That’ll keep you going for the day.’

  ‘Thanks, mother.’

  She handed him the bank draft.

  ‘Can you cash this in the Hibernian Bank when you get to Knockanure?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll drop the money into you next weekend.’

  He walked out the road to Knockanure. It was a bright morning, but bitterly cold. A thick
hoarfrost clung to the branches of the trees and bushes.

  Halfway to Knockanure, he saw soldiers. He recognised the uniforms of the Thirteenth Light Dragoons again. He wondered if they had been moved to Knockanure permanently.

  He heard a woman scream. As he came abreast of the soldiers, he saw they were driving a cow ahead of them. It was a scrawny beast, but Pat guessed it was the only one the family might have owned. It was followed by two horses drawing a cart, which he guessed was military. It was loaded with grain. Behind it, two soldiers were holding the woman back as her husband stood powerless beside them. He walked on.

  When he arrived at Knockanure Workhouse, there were the usual crowds outside.

  There were fires burning along the Workhouse wall, dragoons mixing in with starving people, all trying to get closest to the flames.

  A lieutenant strode over when he saw Pat.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I’m a clerk with the Union.’

  ‘Very well, sir. This way.’

  Pat followed him towards the gate.

  ‘I thought you fellows were more often in Castlebar?’ he said.

  ‘And wish to God we were, too,’ the lieutenant replied.’ Our lodgings here are no more than mud cabins. Six of the men down with fever too.’

  ‘I saw your fellows out the Kilduff road,’ Pat said.

  The lieutenant groaned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Collecting Lord Lucan’s rent for him.’

  ‘The Exterminator!’ Pat exclaimed. ‘A right bloody bastard too. Won’t do his own dirty work.’

  ‘No way. If the people can’t pay it, His Lordship demands we bring it in for him.’

  ‘You know those people will starve.’

  ‘They will. But orders are orders.’

  An inmate had opened the gate. The soldiers lined up, holding the crowd back, as Pat made his way through.

  He spent the rest of the morning working on accounts. The figures told a tough story. If the Workhouse was not bankrupt already, it was certainly close to it. When he finished with the accounts, he started writing letters. This was a new responsibility that Trinder had given him. Trinder himself signed all the letters when Pat was finished writing them. He was grateful for that. At least his name did not have to appear on them.

  He wrote three letters to merchants in Knockanure and Castlebar, who had been demanding payment. Trinder left it to Pat’s own judgement as to which had to be paid at once, and which could be deferred further. Those demands accompanied by solicitor’s demands, Pat paid first, though he noticed more and more solicitors’ demands as time went on.