The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  ‘But what of mother? How will we take care of her, with father out travelling?’

  ‘Get her working. There’s plenty of cotton mills in Stockport.’

  ‘Like hell. She doesn’t stand a chance, and you know it. The mills are laying off people at a desperate rate. There’s thousands of mill-hands out of work in Stockport alone. Thousands. And there’s more lay-offs coming. The big mills are on the edge of bankruptcy.’

  Irene arched her fingers, thinking.

  ‘Fine,’ she said at length. ‘We won’t put her out working.’

  ‘Then what…?’

  ‘What you said already. Get a nurse to look after her.’

  ‘The maid will be fine. She can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Maybe she can for a while. But one way or the other, we get your father out on the road. That’s where we need him.’

  It was decided that Murtybeg would accompany his father on his first round of inspections. One morning, they left early.

  Murty was astounded as the train crossed Edgeley Viaduct. Far below, he could see the black greasy waters of the Mersey.

  Murtybeg could see the look of amazement in his father’s eyes.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s strange,’ his father replied. ‘Every day I’ve seen it, but it’s not until you’re going over it you see just how high it is.’

  ‘You’ve been over it before. Remember when you first came.’

  ‘I never noticed it then. Maybe I’d other things on my mind.’

  They changed trains in Manchester.

  They came to the end of the line where the construction began, and began to walk. At McManus’ site, everything was straightforward, since Murty had already seen the site with Danny. They met with McManus, checked through wages paid and required, timber on site and various other items on a list which had been prepared by Irene.

  ‘And many more men on site, I see,’ Murtybeg commented.

  ‘We could use more still, if we could get them,’ McManus replied. ‘Isn’t it strange though, us needing so many men, with sites closing all around us?’

  ‘I know,’ Murty said. ‘It’s Danny’s opinion that the faster we finish, the less likely we are to be suspended.’

  ‘Aye, there’s logic in that,’ McManus said.

  That afternoon, they travelled on to Kearney’s site. They saw a line of mud huts alongside the edge of the construction site. Murtybeg could smell the raw sewage, running out the front of the shacks, and forming a stinking rivulet, which looped between the huts, running down towards a distant canal.

  ‘What the…?’ Murty exclaimed.

  ‘The Irish Camp, they call it,’ Murtybeg replied.

  ‘They live in those? Mud cabins! Just like in Mayo.’

  ‘Sure it’s the same all over. And not just the Irish neither.’

  Murty walked over towards the huts. Murtybeg grabbed his arm.

  ‘No, father.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be checking the sites.’

  ‘Not these. There’s fever here.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Come on, let’s see if we can find Tim.’

  They spotted Kearney. Murty shouted at him. He came over.

  ‘Master!’

  ‘You don’t need to be calling me that. But tell me, I hadn’t known about this camp here.’

  ‘Not our concern,’ Kearney said.

  ‘What do you mean? Aren’t these our fellows working here?’

  ‘They might be, but the huts are for their families, and the women and children sure as hell don’t work here. And I wouldn’t go near them.’

  ‘Murtybeg says there’s fever.’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it spread to the men on the Works?’

  ‘We do all we can to stop that,’ Kearney replied. ‘Any fellow who shows the slightest sign of fever, we send him back to his hut. The last thing we want is to have it spread through all the workers.’

  ‘So what if he dies at home?’

  ‘It’s like I said. Not our concern.’

  Murtybeg and Murty copied down Kearney’s figures, and then travelled on towards Lavan’s site. Here they could smell the huts, well before they saw them. It was only as they came closer that they saw the encampment, just below the top of the embankment. The railway construction was continuing just above.

  Lavan spotted them.

  ‘Master!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today.’

  ‘Nor was I expecting to be here myself,’ Murty said. ‘It’s just that Danny is too busy now. He’s got a big business to run, as you can understand. He wants to have a better understanding of the books, week by week.’

  Lavan reached into his jacket, and pulled out a wad of papers.

  ‘Everything’s here,’ he said.

  Murtybeg looked at him in surprise.’

  ‘You must be the only one who does that.’

  ‘I have to. I wouldn’t remember it all otherwise.’

  He waved them across to a water barrel, and spread the papers on the lid.

  ‘Now, what do you want to know?’

  For a half hour, they went through the figures.

  ‘I can see I taught you well,’ Murty said with satisfaction.

  ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise,’ Lavan said. ‘Danny expects us to know our sums.’

  At that moment, the rough door of one of the huts was flung open, just below them.

  ‘Oh God, not again,’ Lavan exclaimed.

  A priest came out, followed by four men carrying a rough-made bier, a ragged body laid on top. Then the keening began, as two women followed the bier down the embankment, one grasping the hands of two children, the second carrying an infant on her hip.

  Murty strode across. Murtybeg followed his father, but Lavan did not. The funeral went between the lower huts and continued to the bottom of the embankment, where a rough grave had been dug.

  The bier was laid alongside the grave. Murty and Murtybeg knelt with the rest as the priest began the funeral service.

  At the end, he sprinkled the holy water over the corpse.

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

  The corpse was taken from the bier. Carefully the woman stripped the clothes from the body, and it was laid in the grave, naked for all to see. Now they could both see the ravages of fever, and could smell the gangrene.

  At the end, the family clambered back up to their hut. The work on the railway went on, with no break. No one else seemed to have noticed the little funeral, though Murty was sure they were all well aware of it.

  The priest began to shovel clay onto the body. Murtybeg grasped the shovel from the priest.

  ‘Here, Father, I’ll finish it.’

  Murty stood with the priest.

  ‘A hard way to die, Father.’

  ‘It is,’ the priest replied. ‘Hard for the dead, and harder for the ones left living. Though that won’t last long. There’s fever in that hut. There’s another girl in there, she’ll be dead soon. And God knows who else she’ll infect before she does.’

  Murty shuddered.

  ‘You’re Irish, Father?’

  ‘Of course,’ the priest replied. ‘Letterfrack. Near Clifden, out the far end of Connemara. ‘

  ‘You’ve seen worse than this, I’d guess.’

  ‘You might say that. Connemara was bad enough, though I’ve been out of it this long time. I remember 1840 all too well. It’s worse now, from all I hear.’

  ‘A lot worse,’ Murty replied. ‘The West is in a desperate way.’

  ‘God help them all.’

  Murty gestured at the rough grave.

  ‘How do you put up with it, Father?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just get on with it. It’s a desperate hazard, I know. The fever might get me in the end. But death comes to us all, so why worry.’

  Murtybeg finished the filling. He handed the priest the shovel.

  ‘Is it like this
all over?’ Murty asked.

  ‘All along the railway lines,’ the priest answered. ‘The English camps aren’t so bad, and do you know why not? Because they keep the Irish out. They’re scared of fever, they reckon the Irish carry it. And I think they’re right. But if you consider this is bad, I’ll tell you where it’s worst. Have you ever heard of Little Ireland?’

  ‘Up in Ancoats?’ Murty asked.

  Murtybeg was becoming restless. He wanted to end this conversation, but could not over-rule his own father.

  ‘Yes, Ancoats,’ the priest replied. ‘They’re evicting men and women to make way for the railway. They’ve mud cabins there. Sceilps alongside them, if you could call them that. Worse than the huts, they are. As bad as Connemara ever was in the hungry years. All run by this Ryan fellow. Daniel Ryan. Same as here.’

  Murtybeg pulled again at his father’s elbow. ‘Come on, father, time to go.’

  Again, Murty waved him away.

  ‘Yes, I know Daniel Ryan,’ he said.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’m his father. And may God forgive me for that.’

  Next day, Murty and Murtybeg travelled down to the Brassey site. Roughneen was in his office. For some time, they went through figures. When they were finished they walked out.

  ‘Where are the huts?’ Murty asked.

  ‘Just over here.’

  Murty stood back in astonishment. ‘Good God, these are better than I expected.’

  ‘I’d hope so.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this, Johnny, I haven’t seen anything like these before. All the other sites, they’re hardly better than sceilps. But by God, these are solid. Well-built too.’

  ‘I don’t know about the other sites,’ Roughneen said, ‘but you’ve got to remember one thing, Murty. This is a Brassey site. We’d enough sceilps here when we were starting, and damned lucky we didn’t have an inspection that saw them. But now we’re ready for anything.’

  Murtybeg went to examine a shack more closely. ‘Solid timber, I see. No shit out the front neither.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Roughneen replied. ‘We had to buy in pipes for that. Dug trenches too. All runs down to a soak-away pit at the end of the field. It’s like I say, Murty, we’ve got to keep Brassey happy.’

  Murty took out his pipe, and tamped down the tobacco. ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The shacks are better than the other sites. But the wages…’

  ‘Like you just saw. A shilling a day. A shilling and tuppence for some of them.’

  ‘Not much, is it?’

  ‘We feed them too…’

  ‘Offal. Doesn’t cost much to feed them kidneys and livers.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So what does Brassey think of that?’ Murty asked.

  ‘I don’t think he wants to know. The food and wages are no concern of his.’

  Murty lit his pipe.

  ‘But you fellows. You’ve worked with Brassey. What was he paying you?’

  ‘Four shillings a day, sometimes five shillings. But that’s a different matter. You’ve got to understand that Brassey has two different ways of working. Before we came working for Danny, we’d been working with Farrelly, before he went to America. The same gang that Luke and Danny worked with, in years gone by. But we were running a butty gang, working for ourselves, and contracting direct to the agents of the big railway contractors – Brassey, Mackenzie and the rest of them. Surprising, isn’t it, a gang of twelve or fifteen Mayo fellows working direct with the big contractors. We always elected our own gangers, Farrelly in the past, Tim Kearney until he came over to work with Danny, Joe Gilligan now, I believe. Healthy fellows we were, no question of hunger or fever. Farrelly, or whoever, he’d quote per cubic yard to be removed. It’s great working that way. We could work as hard as we liked, and we’d be earning the best wages on the railways. And that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Murty, all the fellows on the butty gangs, you taught us, we’d never have book learning without you. There were no government schools in Mayo when we were being educated. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be working as low Irish navvies, just like this lot.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Murty said. ‘They’ve not much strength, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It’s not only a matter of strength, it’s everything else they’re missing. These are landless men, and you know yourself what that means.’

  ‘I do,’ Murty said. ‘Sure I’ve seen it all around back in Mayo.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. I know for a certainty your brother Michael had a fellow on his land, growing a patch of potatoes every year, and paying in labour. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘He had. I’m not sure that he still has. It was a woman, anyhow. Her man was well past working, so she worked Michael’s land for him instead. She went to the Workhouse long ago.’

  ‘And how much was she paid?’ Roughneen asked.

  ‘Paid! Nothing. Sure she was glad enough to have her potato patch to live on and feed herself and her man.’

  ‘Some class of slaves then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Let me ask you this, so. Your school. How many children would you say were from landless families?’

  ‘None I’d say,’ Murty said. ‘They wouldn’t be able to pay a penny for the schooling.’

  ‘And that’s the point, isn’t it. They come over here, and they’ve no book learning at all. Can’t add or subtract, read or write, they can’t even speak English. There’s no way any of those fellows could form a butty gang and work direct with Brassey’s agents, or the like. Danny knows that, and he knows it well.’

  ‘So why do the big railway contractors put up with Danny when they could be working with proper gangs?’

  ‘That’s not fair, father,’ Murtybeg interrupted.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Murty said, ‘but the question stands.’

  ‘It’s just what’s been happening over the past two or three years,’ Roughneen replied. ‘We’ve had this Railway Mania and a massive need for navvies. None of the contractors could get enough of them. At the same time, we’ve famine in Ireland, and hundreds of thousands of Irish navvies pouring into England, looking for work. The big contractors, they knew they had to use them, but they couldn’t do it direct. You don’t think Tom Brassey speaks Irish, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And it’s not just that. There’s the fear of fever. Riots too. No, the contractors know they can’t get these fellows direct, so what do they do? They find Irish labour contractors, that’s what.’

  ‘Like Danny?’

  ‘Just like Danny. To be a labour contractor, you might need to be able to play one side against the other. You have to be able to speak Irish, and deal with the Irish navvies. On the other side, you’ll speak English and have proper book learning, so you can negotiate with the big contractors. They know the wages we’re paying, but they don’t want to pretend they know. They want to keep the Irish navvy at arm’s length, that’s what.’

  ‘So, if the money was so good over around Leeds, why did you leave?’

  ‘One simple answer, Murty. Money. Danny’s paying his gangers six shillings a day. We can’t get that anywhere else.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’

  ‘By God, it is. Don’t forget, all of us are sending money back to Mayo. And it’s not just our own families. You know how it works in Mayo. My mother, for example, she’s helping to feed our other kin around. There’s never enough money, and we have to earn it where we can.’

  ‘So how do you find working for Danny? It must be damned rough, directing starving men, working them at starvation wages.’

  ‘I just don’t think about it. Do you, Murteen?’

  ‘Never,’ Murtybeg replied. ‘We’re giving work, aren’t we?’

  Murty shook his head in despair.

  ‘I don’t know about ye, I never stop thinking about it. And it’s worse for me. Danny is my son. And I’ll te
ll you this, I don’t like his way of working. That woman of his, too, she’s just as bad. And it’s not that I blame you for what you’re doing, Johnny, but I’m seeing it all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Roughneen said. ‘I can understand that. But what else could you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was thinking of doing some sort of clerking around, but there’s nothing going. What do you think?’

  Murtybeg looked at his father in astonishment.

  ‘You were thinking what?’

  ‘You heard, Murteen. But it’s Johnny’s opinion would interest me.’

  Roughneen looked from father to son.

  ‘In confidence?’

  ‘Of course,’ Murty said. Murtybeg only nodded.

  ‘Fair enough so,’ Roughneen said. ‘Why don’t you go over to Yorkshire? Leeds, Bradford, Halifax, wherever. Work with Joe and the lads?’

  Murty’s eyes opened.

  ‘Are you mad? I’d never be able for that kind of work.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Roughneen said. ‘You’re an able enough man…’

  ‘At my age!’

  ‘And you mightn’t have to work as much as you think, neither. I know one thing, the fellows are trying to grow the gang, maybe twenty in all. And they’ll easy get that. There’s enough lads around Kilduff would work with them.’

  ‘Landless men? They’ll get plenty of them.’

  ‘No way. They’ll have no rednecks in the gang. The only ones they’re interested in are the fellows with book learning. All your pupils, Murty. But they’ve a problem if they have twenty working.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Murty asked.

  ‘Too much paperwork,’ Roughneen replied. ‘They’re all young lads, strong and able. They want to be out with a pick and shovel, earning high wages. They need a fellow like you to do the paperwork. All the bidding, paying out the wages, and sending the money back to Mayo. There’s a lot more work than you think, and from what I know of the lads, they don’t want to be doing that class of work. Look, Murty, why don’t you write to Joe Gilligan. Better still, go over and see him.’

  Murtybeg was stunned. He looked from Roughneen to Murty.

  ‘I don’t know, father. I don’t…’

  ‘Arra, what,’ Murty said, before Murtybeg could continue. ‘So what now, Johnny?’