The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  Pat read further. ‘And he might let men go?’

  ‘I know,’ the Clerk said, ‘and that worries me. Last year in Liverpool the Workhouses were sending men back to Mayo.

  ‘I know,’ Pat said.

  ‘I don’t know what Stockport and Manchester are like, but by God, I wouldn’t like to have more men back here. We couldn’t let them in anyhow. And one way or another, what’s going to happen to their families now, in England or Mayo?’

  Pat slept in Westport Workhouse that night, slumped over a desk in the Clerk of Union’s office. The Clerk had offered him a bed in one of the dormitories, but Pat was still too much afraid of fever to want to take it.

  Next morning, Sarah accompanied him across the breakers yard to the gate. ‘Now you take care of yourself,’ she said to Pat. She kissed him on the lips.

  ‘You too,’ Pat said, as he and the horse were led out of the gate.

  He held his nose against the smell of Westport’s streets. There were the usual crowds of people waiting for admission to the Workhouse. As he got further from the Workhouse, the crowds lessened but there was still the smell of shit mixed in with mud. He saw a woman at the side of the street, lying on straw. She was clearly far advanced in fever. Shortly after, a man’s corpse.

  All along the road to Castlebar, were the signs of famine, but he no longer noticed them now. Beggars everywhere, and the silence of the roads between. He wondered about it, as he passed quiet mud cabins. People starving, or in fever inside? Who knew? Who cared?

  At Castlebar Workhouse there were now thousands of people outside. He could see children screaming in the crush of the crowd, women shrieking as they tried to protect them. Approaching the Workhouse from the streets around were dozen of donkeys, side panniers holding one, two or three children. Some donkeys carried only animal bones, the remains of donkeys or cattle that had been eaten, Pat guessed. Bones to be crushed for animal meal? Or bones for glue?

  He travelled the direct route back to Knockanure, but avoiding Kilduff and Carrigard. More families staggering towards Castlebar, more donkeys.

  There was one thing that cheered him. There were men working the potato fields. The spring planting was going ahead. He wondered how much it would be, and whether the people had saved enough seed potatoes from 1847. If they had, there was cause for hope, and three years of famine and fever would come to an end in 1848.

  Yes, he thought. If there’s enough planted, and the blight doesn’t return, then it’ll be over. Then we’ll have a future.

  Chapter 28

  Dublin Weekly Register, May 1848: Famine in the West. We copy the following extract from a letter from Newport, Mayo, received this morning: ‘The distress in this part of the country is awful. Deaths by starvation are of daily occurrence. Here is a terrible instance: An entire family consisting of five souls died here of starvation ten days ago, and it was only on Friday the priest could procure a cart, and had the bodies carried to the graveyard, where they were all deposited in the one grave without coffins. Death by famine and un-coffined burials take place here every day. Fever, too, is awfully prevalent through the district. Notwithstanding, the people are making a good sowing here.’

  As it turned out, that future was to be very different for Pat.

  One morning Voisey entered the office. He threw a sheaf of papers on Pat’s desk.

  ‘I’ve been looking through these figures of yours, Pat. They’re terrible. They mean only one thing. We’re bankrupt.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said.

  ‘What’s worse is the merchants know it. They’re refusing credit. Stanton & Hyland are refusing to supply us. Dillon’s too. We’ll just have to cut back. Otherwise they’re all out in the rain.’

  ‘But what can we do, Mr. Voisey,’ Pat asked.

  Voisey picked up the sheaf of papers again, riffled through them, and took one out.

  ‘We could cut back on what we’re feeding them. Not that I want to, but I have to.’

  Pat was stunned. What were they feeding them already? One meal a day, and little enough in that. Most of the inmates were very thin, especially the children.

  ‘But what about the roadworks?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t they bringing in money?’

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid, Pat. There’s little work being done – the men are too weak. We might have to stop the roadworks, I don’t know. The question is – what else can we do to bring down our expenditure?’

  ‘We could stop taking in any more people.’

  ‘We’ve already done that,’ Voisey said.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘We’re cutting back on staff.’

  ‘Teachers…?’

  ‘We can’t. The Port Phillip scheme must go ahead. You know that.’

  ‘Orderlies? Kitchen staff?’

  ‘They’re all inmates this long time, working for nothing. Mrs. Trinder is working for no salary. Mr. Trinder is on half salary. And so am I. So that leaves you.’

  ‘Half salary?’

  ‘At the very most.’

  Late that afternoon, Pat walked back to Carrigard. Once he saw a pig sniffing at a corpse, but he no longer cared.

  They sat around the table that evening, talking quietly. Michael had come back in from the fields. Winnie was feeding the baby, saying nothing.

  ‘So what now?’ Michael asked. ‘The quarry’s gone with Knockanure underbidding us, and now this. Half salary. They cut you back already. It’s hardly worth it what you’re earning now.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Pat said. ‘Still, it’s getting harder for Knockanure to bid against us now. They’re cutting back on feeding the inmates. I doubt the most of them would be able to work on roads anymore. And even if they do, they’ll be too slow for the contract.’

  ‘We had starving people working on roads through the winter.’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t for the purpose of profit. No – from all I hear I reckon it’ll be impossible for the Union to keep this up.’

  Pat wrote a letter to Danny.

  Eleanor watched as he folded it, and inserted into the envelope. She saw Danny’s name. ‘Does your father know about this?’

  ‘Not yet, and let’s keep it that way until we have a reply. There’s little chance of work in England now, but I must try. Any work with Danny will be better paid than Knockanure. Have we stamps left?’

  She walked to the dresser and pulled a drawer open. ‘Three.’

  Carefully, she took the scissors and cut one off. Pat stuck it on the envelope – one black portrait of Queen Victoria.

  He walked up to Kilduff with the letter, accompanying Winnie.

  ‘At least we have Luke’s money,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but where will he go next? When will he have settled work?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Winnie said. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Pat said, ‘I didn’t mean upsetting you.’

  Winnie joined the corn line. Pat posted the letter, and then returned to the line. Winnie was at the top, and soon they were inside.

  ‘Tuppence ha’penny a pound!’ Winnie exclaimed. ‘That’s robbery.’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’

  They walked back. Inside the well, there were only three women talking.

  ‘Hold on here,’ Pat said. He ran to the house, left the corn in to Eleanor, and grabbed four pails. He returned to the well, and he and Winnie filled the pails with clear spring water. None of the women said anything. They walked back up the track from the well. Winnie pointed across the road. Two men had just come out of a cottage, bearing a child’s corpse on a roughly-made stretcher consisting only of a few branches roped together.

  ‘Johnny Tolan,’ Pat said. ‘Éamonn too.’

  The men were followed by one woman, two children alongside her. She was holding their hands as they walked along. Pat nodded at them but no one seemed to see him.

  ‘They used to be great friends of ours,’ Pat said. ‘Playing cards every week. Now no one talks to anyone.
Especially us.’

  A few days later, Danny’s reply arrived. Michael opened it, even though it was addressed to Pat.

  ‘You hadn’t told me you were writing,’ he said to Pat on the Saturday. ‘Now Danny’s asking you to England.’

  ‘I didn’t want saying anything until I had his answer,’ Pat answered. ‘I’d thought he wouldn’t be taking anyone. I only wrote on the off-chance.’

  ‘Six shillings a day. It’s better than Knockanure.’

  Pat took the letter.

  ‘Six shillings. By God, I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he says,’ Michael said.

  ‘It is,’ Pat said. ‘Between this, and whatever Luke can send back, ye shouldn’t be too bad.’

  ‘Where will he have you working though?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Out shovelling in the rain?’

  ‘No,’ Pat replied. ‘Some kind of clerical work I’d think.’

  ‘It won’t be too hard on you so,’ Eleanor said. ‘But you won’t be returning weekends to work the farm.’

  ‘We’ve not so much call for him now,’ Michael said. ‘There’s not much need for extra labour when the quarry’s not working. And any which way you look at it, we’ve no choice.’

  ‘We’ve not,’ Pat said.

  ‘There’s more news yet, though,’ Michael said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Pat asked.

  ‘It seems Murty and Aileen have left them. Murty’s gone to work with the gang over in Yorkshire.’

  Pat read down further down the letter.

  ‘What! The old gang? Joe Gilligan and the lads?’

  ‘Seems so. Ed Higgins and Jim Doyle, they’re there with the gang too.’

  ‘And Murty’s working with them! But sure that’s impossible. He wouldn’t be able to swing a pick at his age. And the life of a teacher, that’d never toughen a man up for anything like that.’

  ‘I don’t know how much he’ll be working on the railways though. Seems to be mainly there as some class of a clerk.’

  Pat felt torn. He knew now he had no choice, but still it meant he was leaving Mayo, and leaving Sarah. But he reasoned that he would be back soon. There was a good potato harvest coming, he was sure of it. Yes, when that happened, he would come home for Sarah. Marry perhaps? Why not? What would she think of the life of a Mayo farmer’s wife, though? Strangely, he felt confident of that. Yes, she would wait for him. The main thing was to get back to Mayo as soon as possible.

  There was only one disturbing aspect. He knew from Sarah and the Clerk in Westport that Danny was not taking on new workers, and was even reducing what he had. Why would Danny offer him a job so? Because he himself had asked for it? Perhaps. Still, Danny had replied at once.

  He wrote a letter back to Danny, indicating his acceptance of his offer. Within days he had another letter from Danny confirming it all.

  On the Monday, he gave in notice to the Poor Law Union, and left Knockanure for Carrigard.

  A few days later, he went to Westport once more. Eleanor gave him a small package of brown bread and cold cooked potatoes. It was early, and Kilduff was silent. The sun was well up by the time he had walked to Castlebar. The town was even filthier than he remembered. He saw the usual crowds outside the Workhouse and a detail of soldiers, but fewer this time, probably ten or twelve, he reckoned. He went out the Westport road.

  As he walked, he saw again that many potato fields had been planted, and in more the planting was still going ahead. He wondered where the seed potatoes had come from, but one way or another, it gave some hope for the future. Certainly, more was being planted than in 1847.

  Yes, 1848 would be a good year, no doubt about it.

  At Westport Workhouse he was admitted with little difficulty. When he reached the Clerk of Union’s office, he was surprised to be told that Sarah was not there, but was spending the morning working with her mother in the fever sheds. Concerned, Pat left the Union building, crossing the stone-breaking yard to the fever sheds. At the third shed, he found Mrs. Cronin with Sarah. Mrs. Cronin was directing three inmates as they cleared the straw and faeces from the floor, and carried sheets to baskets for the laundry.

  Sarah was standing beside her mother, a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. An inkwell stood on the window-sill. She looked up as Pat came in.

  ‘Pat! What are you doing here?’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ Pat replied.

  Mrs. Cronin nodded at him briefly before turning back to her task.

  ‘I’m still working on accounts,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Here?’ Pat exclaimed

  ‘We still have to keep the figures. Numbers in fever, numbers dead. The Union wants the reports.’

  She opened the door and stepped outside.

  ‘You said you weren’t working in the sheds, Sarah.’

  ‘And what of it? There’s work to be done.’

  ‘You’ll get fever.’

  ‘Maybe I will. And maybe mother will too. It’s what we have to do, isn’t it?’

  They walked down between two of the sheds, out of sight of the stone yard and the Union building.

  ‘I’ve other news for you,’ Pat said. ‘That’s why I’m over. I’m finished with Knockanure.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They’re bankrupt. Can’t afford me anymore. Not at any real wage, anyhow.’

  ‘Oh God, Pat, what now? When?’

  ‘A few days back.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’ He had never expected to see her quite as shocked.

  ‘But what will you do?’ she asked. ‘Work with your father?’

  ‘I would, if I could. But the quarry’s stopped for now. And while there’s money coming from Luke, we can’t rely on it. And anyway, once Winnie and the baby go to America, he won’t be able to afford much to be sending back to Ireland. No, I’ve no choice in the matter. I’m going to England.’

  ‘England!’

  ‘Working with Danny. He’s offering me six shillings a day. I couldn’t possibly refuse.’

  ‘But what will we do, and you in England?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back.’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘Sometime. I have to come back. Someone’s going to have to run the farm when father isn’t able for it anymore.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Or otherwise you could join me in England.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do that. Not as long as mother is here.’

  Yes, Pat thought, as long as Mrs. Cronin lives. That’s it, isn’t it? But working in the fever sheds like that. How long will she live? More important, how long will Sarah live, if she doesn’t keep out of them?

  Pat grasped her by the arm.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarah, we’re young yet.’

  ‘Even so.’

  He opened the Workhouse door. They went to the gate, and were let out.

  They walked down towards the docks, talking quietly.

  There was a small shed, with one door open. Pat could see a heap of sacks inside. There was no-one there. He grasped her arm again.

  ‘Come, Sarah,’ he said. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘In this cold!’

  ‘It’s not cold. And anyhow, we’ll warm ourselves soon enough.’

  ‘Fine so,’ she said, and followed him inside.

  He stayed in the Union building that night. Dinner with the Workhouse and Union staff was very quiet. Neither the Clerk nor Mrs. Cronin asked him of what he had seen around the county, nor did Pat wish to say much about it. It was clear they knew enough already.

  Sarah roused him before dawn. She brought him to the kitchen and buttered a slice of bread for him. For some time, they spoke of Westport, of Carrigard and of England but there was no certainty of the future. The only thing they knew was that Pat would have to leave Mayo within a few days.

  At the door of the Union, they kissed. Sarah hugged him closely.

  ‘God bless yo
u, Pat, and always remember me.’

  ‘I’ll write, I promise.’

  He walked to the gate. A soldier let him out. He slipped through, stepping over sleeping forms outside the gate, and walked out the Castlebar road.

  He wondered if he would ever see Sarah again.

  When he arrived back at Carrigard, his father handed him a letter. He glanced through it.

  ‘The Contract!’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘It’s ours again. Ours and Benson’s old one.’

  ‘But – how?’

  ‘God only knows,’ Michael said. ‘Perhaps it was something you said.’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Pat said.

  ‘Or maybe it was that Voisey wanted to keep you in Mayo,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘So what should we do?’ Pat asked. ‘Should I not go to England after all? There’ll be plenty of work in the quarry.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘I think you should still go,’ Michael said. ‘I know your mother’s worried about all the work with two quarries, but the spring planting is done, and there’s little enough work on the farm ’till the main harvest. No, I think the best thing is to go over for a few months anyhow, see what the lie of the land is, and we’ll see how things turn out back here. I reckon by August you’ll be home.’

  Through all the horror, the women still met. Now there were two babies, and the women’s ambitions increased.

  ‘We mustn’t let Brigid think we’ll want any the less for her,’ Kitty said one day.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any fear of that,’ Sabina replied. ‘And anyhow, it’s Winnie who’ll have to worry about Liam once the pair of them are settled in America.’

  ‘True for you,’ Winnie said, ‘but the poor fellow will only have one mother, and he’ll be used to four.’

  ‘Sure he’ll have Luke as well,’ Eleanor said. ‘A man with his schooling, he won’t let ye down. And he’ll be proud of his son, you wait and see. No, there’ll be no problem with little Liam’s schooling, nor your hopes for him.’

  ‘Nor Brigid’s schooling, neither,’ Kitty said.