The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  That afternoon, Voisey called Pat in to attend at the Guardians Meeting. For an hour, he was interrogated about accounts, most of all by Lord Clanowen. Pat sat beside Voisey, who examined the figures as Clanowen went through them.

  That night, when Pat returned to his bedroom, he saw one of the female inmates was there, lighting a turf fire.

  ‘And that will be most welcome,’ Pat said. He gave her a farthing. She left without a word.

  Just the sight of her had put him thinking of Sarah. He missed her intensely.

  The bed was still cold. He stood at the fire, trying to heat himself. At length he sat at his table and began to write.

  Knockanure Union

  Miss Sarah Cronin

  Administration Block

  Westport Workhouse

  Westport

  My Dear Sarah,

  Not having seen you for so long, I thought it well to write.

  The great news is that a letter from Luke has now arrived. All at home are pleased. It took so long everyone was worried sick, Winnie and mother most of all. When he wrote, he was working in a saw-mill in Quebec. He sent a bank draft with his letter, which will surely be spent well in Carrigard. He tells us he will be working the winter in the Canadian Forests, so we may not hear from him for quite a time again.

  Here at Knockanure, we still have no Matron. I am told it is difficult to find anyone for the post, but I think the real reason is lack of money. In the meantime, Mrs. Trinder has taken the position. So once again, we have a man and wife running Knockanure Workhouse. Since you left, they have given me no-one to assist me, and so I am working longer hours than I ever thought possible. I still manage to have a day every week or two in Carrigard, but most of that is helping father out around the farm. I don’t know how much longer this can go on, but I must do it.

  I fear for you all the time, working in the fever sheds, as you do. Your mother too. Surely there are others who could take the same duties, or even inmates who could be trained to it.

  We must meet again, my love, and the sooner the better. It would be great to have a reason to travel to Westport, but I do not think Murtybeg will be coming back over for more workers. I would walk over to Westport myself if I had the time, but I know Mr. Trinder will not allow it.

  I have nothing more to say, but remain, your faithful friend,

  Patrick Ryan

  When Pat went to the Hibernian Bank in Knockanure, he was accompanied by the lieutenant, and six soldiers. He checked the Workhouse’s account. Twenty seven pounds.

  ‘But we’ve more due in,’ he told the clerk. ‘Rates from the landlords.’

  ‘If you get them,’ the clerk answered.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know Mr. Trinder will be sending out two cheques over the next day or two. For oatmeal, the both of them.’

  ‘You have to keep feeding them.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘And we’ll need seven pounds in cash for the Workhouse, and perhaps you’d be good enough to cash this as well.’

  He passed over Luke’s bank draft.

  ‘From Quebec?’ the clerk said.

  ‘Your correspondent bank over there, I believe,’ Pat said.

  ‘Indeed. We used to see a lot more of these. Seem to be drying up now.’

  ‘I know. The timber trade isn’t doing as well as it did.’

  He took the cash and re-joined the soldiers.

  ‘At least you fellows get paid,’ the lieutenant said.

  ‘Not much,’ Pat answered.

  He left the soldiers at the Workhouse gate and entered. As he walked to the Administration Building, he could smell the stink of the death pit. Four corpses were laid at the edge, as the inmates extended the pit.

  Nauseated, he walked quickly to the back door of the building and climbed the stairs to his office.

  He sat at his desk, hands trembling. He was angry that he could not control his own emotions. He’d lived with the death pit for long enough, why should it keep affecting him like this.

  He noticed a slight improvement in the Workhouse. The number of inmates had dropped. As the harvesters returned from the eastern counties, and from the big English farms, they brought money with them, but Pat knew that that would not last, and in a month or so, they would be at the Workhouse gates again.

  He wondered whether Danny still needed men. Even if he did though, he would take no workers from East Mayo, so there would be no respite for Knockanure Workhouse.

  As Pat went to the dining room that night, he could hear the sound of argument. There was a silence as he entered the room.

  Trinder was at the table, together with his wife. Voisey was there too.

  ‘Don’t worry about Pat,’ Voisey said. ‘Everyone will know soon. And in any case, Pat is most reliable. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I hope I am,’ Pat said with a half laugh.

  ‘It’s just we’ve had news from Strokestown. Mahon has been shot dead.’

  ‘Mahon?’

  ‘Denis Mahon. Owner of the Strokestown Estate. Some fellow stood out in front of his horse and shot him. Dead.’

  Pat felt he was expected to feel something, but felt no sense of shock, though it was evident that others around the table did.

  ‘It’s a desperate thing when men can’t ride around without being shot,’ Trinder said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Voisey added, looking to Pat. Their glances locked. Trinder was talking again, but Pat was not listening. Finally he interrupted.

  ‘Why don’t you say it, Mr. Voisey? Why don’t you tell us what you’re thinking?’

  Voisey looked at Pat, half shocked.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Voisey said. I’ve always considered myself a Christian, and this kind of killing was not what I ever believed in. But to me it’s a strange thing. The whole country – the papers, the Government and the rest – are shocked when a man like Mahon is killed. But thousands – tens of thousands – die, and who cares?’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ Trinder interrupted. ‘We’re all doing what we can. All of us, yourself included. But we don’t go on about it, we don’t write to papers, we just do our work. Isn’t that it?’

  Voisey looked at him, pityingly.

  ‘Fine so,’ he said. ‘Let me go further, Cecil. Remember Mahon’s evictions. Did the people want to go? No. He forced them out. Thousands of them. And we all said he was a generous man, giving them free passage to America. What did we know then of the ships he sent them on. The Virginius, that ship was a disgrace. The victims cry out to Heaven.’

  ‘Cry out for what?’ Trinder asked.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Vengeance, is it?’

  ‘Your word, Cecil. Not mine.’

  Later that night, Voisey came to Pat’s room. Pat was still working on accounts.

  ‘I don’t know that I was right in what I said, Pat,’ Voisey said. ‘It’s a terrible thing for any man to say, especially a man in my position. ‘

  Pat hardly knew what to say. He’d always regarded Voisey as a man to respect, a man who was senior to him in every way. He thought the pressure of the past years was beginning to tell on him.

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say it,’ Pat said, ‘but I’ll say it anyhow. I think you were right. Mahon paid for his crimes. Penance, I’d call it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Voisey said. ‘Though that kind of punishment should be reserved to the Lord.’

  ‘And not to man?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Voisey said. ‘Or do I know?’ He shook his head in open doubt.

  ‘But who shot him?’ Pat asked, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Who knows?’ Voisey answered. ‘The Molly Maguire gang, that’s what people are saying.’

  ‘Do they know, though?’

  ‘They don’t, Pat. But I’ll tell you this, men will hang for this. And it doesn’t matter whether they shot him or not, they’ll be hanged. The Government needs a hanging, and they will not care who they are.’

  In Carrigard, Eleanor was becomi
ng more concerned. The price of corn was rising. Apart from the quarry, their main source of income now was from Pat, and she felt this was unfair. And what would happen if he lost his position in Knockanure?

  The work on the farm was much less during the winter months. The quarry though involved very heavy labour, as the roads around Carrigard became more furrowed. Pat was doing what he could to help, but now that was only every second weekend. One way or the other, Michael had to have more food than either of the women. Slowly, Eleanor began to cut back for herself and Michael, but because of her pregnancy, she did not cut back Winnie’s food. Nor Brigid’s.

  Winnie knew what Eleanor was doing, but did not comment on it. As the winter went on, Eleanor and Michael were losing weight. Winnie thought Eleanor’s face was becoming gaunt, but she reckoned, apart from hunger, Eleanor was also worrying about the future. So was she herself, but she was younger.

  And what of Luke? Yes, he was safe and well and that had been a huge relief to everyone. But now it was winter. How many ships did the winter crossing? Where would Luke’s next letters come from? The forest? How long would the next letter take to arrive from there?

  She knew though that, however hungry they were, the area around was worse. Very few seed potatoes had been planted early in the year, and the starvation went on. Fever too. Walking to the well for drinking water had become a nightmare, for her or for Winnie. Going up to the town for corn was even worse.

  At the well and in the lines outside Dillon’s shop, people were thinner and more ragged than they had been in the summer and autumn. There were fewer of them too. She wondered about that, but she knew the cause. Added to all, there was a silence which she found totally un-nerving.

  Then Luke’s second letter arrived.

  ‘Another letter from Luke,’ Eleanor exclaimed.

  ‘Another?’ Winnie said. ‘Sure it’s no time since we got the last one. What’s he doing writing so often?’

  Eleanor opened it, her hands trembling. She gave the letter to Winnie, while she took out the bank draft.

  ‘We’ll live a while yet, Winnie girl.’

  But Winnie was not listening.

  ‘He’s still working in a saw-mill, but going to the forest until April, and he might not be able to write for that length of time. After April though he hopes to send us a lot more money.’

  Carefully, Eleanor took the letter and put it in the drawer in the dresser, with the bank draft on top.

  When Pat arrived to work with Michael. Eleanor placed Luke’s letter on the table.

  ‘Here’s something for you to see,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t he fast writing again,’ Pat said.

  He glanced through it quickly. ‘He’ll be working hard now, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What else can he do, poor fellow?’

  Eleanor placed the bank draft beside him.

  ‘Well, this will keep ye going for a while,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor said, ‘and it might take some of the strain off you, and thank God for that.’

  ‘Arra, don’t be worrying about me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do, and I worry about your clerking too. How long will it last?’

  ‘God knows, mother, but it’s fine for now, and let’s be thankful for that.’

  When Pat had left to join Michael, Winnie took the inkwell from the cupboard, and set it on the table.

  ‘What are you doing, alanna?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Writing a letter.’

  She took a pen from the drawer, and sat. Eleanor put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘To Luke?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘But we don’t have an address. We need an address to send a letter.’

  ‘We’ve address enough,’ Winnie said. ‘He’s in Quebec, isn’t he?’

  Chapter 17

  Salisbury & Winchester Journal, November 1847:

  Railways. It has been stated in a letter received from Messrs. Brassey’s office, the great railroad contractors, that since the pressure on the railroad interests, those gentlemen have discharged 12,000 labourers, with a proportionate number of officials.

  There came the day of the riot.

  It was at McManus’ site. The Irishmen had been working alongside a Baxendale gang. English and Welsh men traded insults with the Irish. Many Irish did not respond, since they did not know English, but enough did, and some evenings there were fist fights. The shebeens on both sites made matters worse. McManus himself had been concerned about the Irish shebeen. By late afternoon, men were already a little drunk, but the man at the shebeen stated that he was legal, only selling spirits with all excise duty paid, and only accepting the Queen’s currency.

  But one evening matters went further. A few fist fights, a few traded insults, and within minutes it had developed into a full-scale brawl, involving a hundred men. McManus sent one of his foremen on a horse to Stockport to notify Danny, while he tried to have the riot stopped. But a Welsh navvy knocked him unconscious. When the police arrived, McManus was conscious again – just in time to see a constable go down. By now there were twenty police. They lined up. An order was shouted and the police charged with batons. The navvies scattered.

  When Danny arrived, he was shocked by what he saw. Men were lying on the gravel and in the mud. Others were sitting, some being helped by their mates to retreat from the battleground. The police were still standing guard. Danny saw McManus talking to a police sergeant.

  ‘Jamesy, what in the name of…’

  ‘Yes, Danny,’ McManus replied, ‘a riot. With the Baxendale crowd.’

  ‘We’d been expecting it,’ the sergeant interrupted ‘There’s been fights for long enough. It was bound to grow into a riot sooner or later.’

  ‘Any dead?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Thankfully not,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Mind you, there’s some with skull gashes, and a few skulls broken, I wouldn’t wonder. Some might die later, but right now the situation is under control.’

  ‘And your men?’

  ‘No problem, thank the Lord.’

  Danny stayed in the office with McManus that night. McManus slept on a bunk in a corner, while Danny slept slumped over the desk, his greatcoat wrapped around him.

  It was well past midnight when he realised there was a smell of smoke. He could see flickers of flame through the window.

  ‘Jamesy…’

  McManus leapt up. ‘What, in the name of God?’

  ‘The shacks are on fire.’

  Already they could hear the screaming. The two men ran across, but there was little that they, or anyone else could do. The shacks were too far from the stream. Danny watched as they burnt to the ground.

  ‘Anyone burnt?’

  ‘No one,’ a navvy replied. ‘We all got out in time.’

  ‘No idea who did it?’

  ‘Sure how could we see? They were gone well before we could get out. But they weren’t speaking English. Irish neither.’

  ‘Welshmen,’ another navvy said. ‘That’s what they were.’

  The next morning, Danny had a visitor in Stockport.

  ‘Inspector James Crawford,’ he introduced himself. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr. Ryan.’

  Danny shook his hand, and indicated to a chair across from his desk.

  ‘Happy to see you too, Inspector. We haven’t met?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m with the Detective Police, working for the City of Manchester.’

  ‘The Detective Police, you say.’ Danny said. ‘I’d heard of you, but I hadn’t met anyone in your line of business.’

  ‘We’re unknown to most people,’ Crawford said. ‘I’m here for one specific reason though. It seems there was a fight yesterday. Anyone killed?’

  ‘Not as I understand it,’ Danny replied. ‘I was out on the site within an hour of it starting. Some cracked skulls right enough, but nothing serious.’

  ‘Yes,’ Crawford said. ‘That was my understanding. Nothing more than a navvy riot. The Baxendale fellows hate the
Irish. I was disturbed though by what followed. Burning the shacks. That’s very dangerous. Have you any idea of the culprits?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Danny said. ‘My information is that they were Welsh. I can’t say for certain. Only a few heard their voices. Said they couldn’t understand the words, so the language wasn’t English or Irish. One man said he recognised the accent.’

  Crawford nodded.

  ‘Well, they’re probably right, but I doubt we’ll ever find the perpetrators. Most disturbing, I’d say. I’m sorry that events like this happen. The Constabulary pride themselves on keeping the peace. So any way we can help you, I’d be delighted.’

  Danny considered the matter.

  ‘There is one thing. We have a shebeen on site. Not by my request, I can assure you.’

  ‘Ah yes, we know about that one. Like you, I wish we could get rid of him. It appears he’s legal though. Nothing either of us can do about it. There’s many like him on the Railway Works.’

  After Crawford had left, Danny went over to Irene’s desk.

  ‘Seems a friendly fellow.’

  ‘Friendly?’ Irene echoed. ‘You just watch Inspector Crawford. I reckon he’s very dangerous.’

  That Saturday, Danny met with his gangers. Irene, Murtybeg and Murty were there too.

  ‘What now?’ Kearney asked. ‘It’s dangerous mixing Irish navvies with English or Welsh.

  ‘One thing it shows,’ Irene answered. ‘We’re losing control of our navvies.’

  McManus made to speak, but Danny held his hand up. ‘And before anyone says it, it wasn’t Jamesy’s fault. A riot could happen on any of our sites. We must put a stop to it. And by God, we will.’

  ‘But how the devil can we do that?’ Roughneen asked. ‘It’s not that I’m afraid, but there will be men killed soon. We’ve all families to be supporting back in Mayo, and we can’t afford to be leaving the sites just because we’re afraid of the Welsh and English fellows.’

  ‘And It’s costing us money too,’ Murty said.