The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll not involve you. I’ll get my secretary to write out a letter, ostensibly coming from an embittered creditor, who is terrified he will not be paid anything, and wants to know what the Manchester & Salford intend to do about it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then they’re finished. Baxendales are finished. The Manchester & Salford and the others will demand accurate accounts. When they realise what’s happening, they’ll close in on them like vultures. Not that you should feel bad about it. If we didn’t do this, Baxendales would try to trade their way out of it, but I doubt they’d succeed. It’s going to happen sooner or later, but no reason not to do it now.’

  Danny grinned.

  ‘This is all possible?’

  ‘Why not? It’s one way of getting rid of one of your major competitors.’

  Danny was stunned at the idea. What would happen if Baxendales went down? They had already taken business from Edwardes & Ryan. What now? Could Edwardes & Ryan bid again for what they had already lost?

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That could be very interesting. There’s a second point though. We lost a bid at Ormskirk to Baxendales because the Manchester & Salford would not lend to us on it.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that contract. But I’ve visited the site, and I can tell you they’ve only just started working on it.’

  ‘After all this time!’

  ‘Yes. And if the bank pull their lending, Baxendales won’t be able to proceed at all.’

  ‘Which might mean the bank would lend to us instead,’ Irene asked.

  ‘They might, Irene. In fact they might have to. If they don’t lend to Baxendales, the East Lancashire might sue the bank for stopping the contracts. And that could cost the Manchester & Salford a lot of money. So they might have to lend to Edwardes & Ryan, whether they want to or not.’

  Danny was thinking rapidly now. Could they have the Manchester & Salford lend to them after all? There were certainly other bidders, but he was confident they could under-bid any of them. Baxendales had been the second lowest bidder before. There was another point though. The McManus site.

  Irene had been thinking the same.

  ‘That would be excellent, Nick,’ she said. ‘But it could advantage us in other ways too.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘I told you about the trouble we had with a full-scale riot between our men and Baxendales. They are on a site beside one of ours. If they go bankrupt, we would be the obvious contractor to work that site.’

  ‘You might. And I remember what you told me about the riot. You mentioned you met Inspector Crawford afterwards.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and that’s the downside to all this. I thought he was a dangerous man, and you confirmed it. He’s getting a little more dangerous now. He’s been to see us again.’

  ‘He has? But…why?’

  ‘I’ll explain this, Irene,’ Danny said, abruptly.

  Roscoe looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You see, Mr. Roscoe,’ Danny went on, ‘we’d been having problems trying to get enough workers through the Liverpool Docks. There was a fellow who we’d been using in Liverpool to help get Irish workers into the country, paying the local police to look the other way.’

  ‘Does Crawford know about this?’

  ‘I doubt it, but that’s not the problem. The real difficulty is that we decided to use this fellow again to sort out the shebeens on some of the sites. Drunkenness is one of the key reasons for the riots. Regrettably, he and his Manchester associates went too far. One of the shebeen owners was beaten extremely badly. There’s some question he might not work again. And the very next day we had another visit from Inspector Crawford.’

  ‘This is getting risky, Mr. Ryan.’

  ‘More than risky,’ Irene interjected. ‘He definitely suspects Danny of having some involvement, but he’s got no proof, and I don’t even think he’s certain. Still, it’s a dangerous situation.’

  ‘It is.’

  Danny rose.

  ‘I doubt there’s much we can do about it today, though. Let’s just concentrate on Baxendales for now.’

  ‘Fair enough, Mr. Ryan. But will you let me know if there are any developments with Crawford?’

  ‘Of course,’ Danny said.

  Irene went to the dresser, and opened a drawer.

  ‘Now, Nick, how much?’

  ‘As agreed. Ten pounds for the month. Another one pound and seventeen shillings for the out-of-pocket expenses.’ He passed an invoice across the table. ‘As detailed.’

  She smiled. ‘No need, Nick. I trust you.’ She counted out the exact amount.

  They waited until Roscoe had left.

  ‘So that’s where you all get your information?’ Danny asked.

  ‘It is. And I’ll tell you this, Danny, he’s the best. He knows exactly how the Detective Police work, both in Liverpool and Manchester. I’ve been using him for years, all the time I was with Rothwells. And ever since too.’

  That evening, the family was at dinner when the maid came over to Danny. She whispered in his ear. ‘Inspector Crawford to see you.’

  ‘Show him into the office.’

  He walked down, Irene following.

  ‘What the hell does he want now?’ Danny said angrily.

  ‘God only knows.’

  The inspector was sitting at the office table. His visit was brief.

  ‘Mr. Ryan. Miss Miller. I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Eckersley has died.’

  ‘Died!’ Danny exclaimed.

  ‘The blow to his head. It seems it caused some kind of clot in his brain. He died this morning.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Yes, and now this is a full-blown murder investigation. And I know you will help.’

  ‘Of course, inspector. I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. One thing in particular, do you know if any of your men are members of the Molly Maguire gang?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, Inspector. I will say though, we’ve hundreds of men, and I cannot speak for them all.’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Of course not. Even so, can I ask you to keep your eyes and ears open? Any members of the gang, we would like to question them.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector.’

  After Crawford had gone, Irene stood up from the table.

  ‘I’m sure of one thing, Danny. It’s you he’s after. He reckons you’ve some involvement with the gang.’

  ‘But I’m not a member,’ Danny said. ‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  Chapter 19

  Quebec Morning Chronicle, November 1847:

  Scarcely more than half the usual number of mills are working full time; the diminution in the week having been no less than fifteen. The number of unemployed hands is upward of ten thousand, and there are more than twelve thousand working short time. The total number at full work is only about fifteen thousand, no less than five thousand having been placed on short time, or thrown altogether out of employment during the course of last week.

  On a bitterly cold morning in November, Luke and Conaire set out for the forests. They boarded a steamboat in Quebec, along with many other Irish and Quebec lumbermen.

  Luke leaned on the rail, watching the loading of the ship. Ice was forming in sheets on the edge of the St. Lawrence. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, and saw Jack Kilgallon.

  ‘Christ, don’t frighten me like that.’

  ‘A man with a guilty conscience, eh?’

  Luke laughed. ‘Not that, but fear enough from watching all this ice. If it’s cold here, what’ll it be in the forests?’

  ‘Arra, what are you on about? If it’s cold that’s worrying you, ‘tisn’t the forests you should be working.’

  Luke looked around.

  ‘Where are your brothers?’

  ‘Oh, they didn’t come. Thought it would be too cold out in the forests across the winter.’

  ‘Maybe they were ri
ght.’

  ‘Said they’d be better off working in the mills for a while. If they keep working, that is. Damned fools, if you ask me.’

  ‘To be honest, I never thought you’d come either. You never mentioned it again.’

  ‘I didn’t want shouting about it. But the shipyards are on short time, so…’

  ‘And what about New York? You still heading that way in the spring?’

  ‘I am,’ Jack said. ‘I’m not sure the others will come though. If they don’t go to the Gatineau, I doubt they’ll go to New York. We’ll see.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll make the Gatineau now,’ Luke said. ‘This’ll be the last boat up the river, that’s what they’re saying. After this, it’s horse wagons, and I reckon that’ll be a lot slower, and a hell of a lot colder. And, from all I hear, the Gatineau is going to be damned cold.’

  ‘Cold isn’t the word for it. Freeze you, it would, right to the bone.’

  They had begun to move.

  During the journey Luke, Conaire and Jack leaned on the rail of the ship, watching villages go by.

  Neuville. Portneuf. Deschambault.

  The Quebec loggers stayed on one side of the boat, the Irish on the other. From time to time, insults were traded.

  As they travelled, the weather got warmer. Soon there was no ice.

  ‘Bit odd, that,’ Jack said. ‘You don’t see the St. Lawrence clear, this time of the year.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll be summer, when we get to the forest,’ Luke said.

  ‘We’ll have none of your joking,’ Jack replied. ‘When you get to the Gatineau, you’ll learn what real cold is.’

  Grondines. Sainte-Anne. Batiscan.

  Trois Rivières.

  The boat was stopping. Luke was puzzled. He tapped a man on the shoulder.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘Why are we stopping?’

  The man looked at him in puzzlement, then he pointed at a river and said simply ‘St. Maurice’, and went on.

  ‘What did he say?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Something about St. Maurice. Must be saying his prayers.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. It’s another logging river.’

  Some of the other Irishmen began to disembark. Then a man came up beside them.

  ‘Time to get off,’ he said, in a clear Donegal accent.

  ‘What’s this? Where…?’

  ‘Trois Rivières. We walk from here. The ship’s going up the St. Maurice with the Frenchies. So we got to walk the St. Lawrence to Montreal. They say there’ll be another ship there.’

  ‘The devil take it,’ Jack said. They went down to the lower deck, packed their packs, and raced after the other men. Behind the column, a horse and wagon creaked along.

  ‘Grub wagon,’ Jack said.

  As they walked towards Montreal, they started to overtake other groups – men, women and children. One group was carrying a rough rope-made stretcher with a man on it. Luke recognised the reek of gangrene. He noticed too the group were speaking – whispering almost – in Irish.

  The St. Lawrence widened. They sat down to rest, close to the edge.

  ‘How long to Montreal?’ Luke asked one of the other men.

  ‘Three days total, they’re reckoning,’ the man replied. ‘Seventy-seven miles the last time I walked it. Think you can keep it up?’

  ‘Six days for crossing Ireland, that’s normal,’ Luke said. ‘I’d guess they’d be more or less the same.’

  That evening they stopped alongside Gilmour shanties, just off the road.

  ‘Are these like the shanties on the Gatineau?’ Luke asked, concerned.

  ‘Not a chance,’ the other man replied, ‘these are only for resting. No bunks. The Gatineau shanties will be better than these wrecks.’

  They stood around the grub wagon. It was only as he caught the smell of cooking that Luke realised just how hungry he was. After a long wait, he was handed a tin bowl and joined a queue behind the other men. The first man ladled out veal glue which had been boiled into soup. The second handed him cold salted pork with sourdough bread.

  Luke, Conaire and Jack took their bowls across the road and sat by the river.

  ‘A grand looking sight,’ Luke said, ‘or it would be, if we could forget some of those poor beggars we’re seeing on the road. Half-starved they are, and fever too. Will we never get away from it?’

  That night they wrapped their greatcoats and blankets around themselves and lay down on the hard wooden floor.

  ‘Bit rotten, I’d say,’ Jack said.

  ‘Who cares?’ Luke answered.

  Next day, they passed many more family groups on the road. Some spoke Irish, or sometimes English with Irish accents. Most were silent. Once Luke noticed a clear Mayo accent, but he did not stop.

  They passed a family group sheltering under waste timber and bark. There was a man inside, groaning in pain. A woman knelt beside him, holding his hand. Two children sat alongside, whimpering. Another woman was outside, trying to start a fire.

  Luke hesitated.

  ‘Come on,’ Jack said. ‘He’s in fever. You don’t want to get it, do you?’

  They walked on.

  That evening they were passing a river flowing into the other side of the St. Lawrence.

  ‘That’s the way up to Lake Champlain,’ Jack said. ‘The way to New York. Come April, that’s the way we’ll all be going.’

  ‘Ever gone that route yourself.’

  ‘Not all the way,’ Jack replied. ‘As far as Fort Edward on the Hudson.’

  ‘And the American border?’

  ‘They let us across easy enough. We were strong. Nothing like the poor devils they were turning back.’

  ‘Irish, were they?’

  ‘Most were. And a few Quebecers. But they’re terrified of fever in the United States.

  ‘So when did you arrive in Fort Edward?’

  ‘May, June time. It would have taken a month longer to get to New York. But we reckoned then there were better wages to be had back in Quebec. We kept hearing these stories. They still couldn’t get enough men, even off the boats from Liverpool. Nor Ireland neither. No way could they get enough. No, it was a good time in the mills and the shipyards in Quebec. And like yourself, we had to send money back to Ireland. Even last year there was call enough for it. So we said ‘forget New York’ and went back to Quebec.’

  Luke was thinking rapidly. How long to get down to New York? Depends on when we leave. April perhaps. Arrive when? June or even July? No fixed address until then. So if he wrote back to Carrigard, it could be August, or even into September before Winnie could leave. Or later? Getting into the winter season. What then?

  They arrived at Montreal. More ragged families, some walking, some begging.

  ‘It’s like I told you,’ Jack said. ‘Montreal is worse than Quebec.’

  At last, they arrived at the docks.

  ‘So where do we sleep now?’ Conaire asked.

  ‘Seems we make our own way.’

  They were directed to the Gilmours’ agent. Luke knocked on the door of a small shack.

  ‘Enter.’

  Luke went in. ‘We’re looking for Gilmours.’

  ‘We’re Gilmours.’

  ‘There’s a crowd of us outside, travelling from Quebec up the Gatineau.’

  ‘Ah, yes, we’ve been waiting for you. We’re expecting the ship to leave tomorrow, probably about the middle of the day. You’ll have to wait over until then.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Luke said. ‘Do we sleep on the ship or where?’

  ‘If the ship were here, there’d be no problem, but it’s not arrived. You’ll have to seek your own sleeping quarters.’

  They left.

  ‘So where do we go now?’ Conaire asked.

  ‘God only knows,’ Luke said, ‘but I don’t want to stay outside.’

  Jack pointed to some timber sheds further along the docks. ‘Let’s try these,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could force one of them.’

  Jack and Conaire went ah
ead. As Luke saw, there was no need to force any door. Jack opened one and stepped inside. Within a moment he was out. ‘Oh Christ Almighty,’ he gasped.

  ‘What’s wrong,’ Luke asked.

  ‘Fever, that’s what’s wrong. They’re fever sheds. Oh God, the stench of them.’

  ‘Well we can’t stay here, that’s for certain.’

  Just as they started to walk away, one of the other men shouted. ‘This one’s empty.’

  Luke went over and went into the shed, sniffing carefully. Conaire was behind him. ‘Was there fever here?’ he asked.

  ‘Not lately,’ Luke answered. ‘I reckon it’s safe enough.’

  ‘Beds too.’

  ‘If that’s what you’d call them,’ Jack said. ‘The half of them are in a state of collapse.’

  ‘Well, ye may use them,’ Luke said. ‘I’m going to sleep on the floor.’

  ‘A bit early for that,’ Jack said.

  ‘You’re right,’ Luke answered, ‘and I’m hungry too.’

  Two of the other men had lifted one of the broken beds, and were carrying it outside.

  ‘What are ye doing?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Making dinner.’

  ‘With a bed?’

  Luke, Conaire and Jack followed them. The bed was quickly smashed by jumping on it until the boards cracked. Rough straw that had been used in place of a mattress was placed underneath, a match produced and within minutes there was a roaring fire, as more shattered beds were thrown on top. The wagon men began to collect water to boil the dried veal glue into soup. Luke took sourdough bread from the wagon, and, holding it on his fork, he held it as close to the flames as he could. By the time it was toasted, the soup was ready.

  ‘Pocket soup only,’ Conaire commented. ‘No salted ham.’

  ‘Be thankful to have it,’ Luke said. ‘There’s others have nothing. What do you think, Jack?’

  ‘To be honest, there’s only one thing wrong.’ Jack said. ‘The front of me is roasting hot, the back is freezing.’

  ‘He’s got the Irish after all,’ Conaire said.

  ‘I have,’ Jack said. ‘And the English. As will you.’

  Luke stood up, stamping his feet. In the distance, he saw two robed figures approaching across the snow.

  Nuns.

  ‘What the devil…?’ Jack said.