The Killing Snows

by Charles Egan

  A girl? Or a woman?

  Kitty, bare feet, a patched grey shawl and the walk of a queen.

  Aileen once, laughing as she mixed the bread; rays of flour suspended in sunlight.

  Nessa in childbirth, her moans growing feebler as the wailing grew louder.

  Sorcha, ancient and stooped, outpacing the digging men through brute strength.

  Sabina, asleep by McKinnon after the storm, his old army greatcoat flung over them.

  Eleanor softly singing; gently rocking her youngest child, no longer breathing.

  Grey eyes.

  ‘And what might you be looking for, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘The priest sent me,’ he answered. ‘I’m looking for Gallagher’s.’

  ‘Gallagher’s,’ she said with a smile. ‘We’re all Gallaghers here. Half the street is Gallagher.’

  ‘It’s John Gallagher I’m looking for, but I suppose you’re going to tell me half the family are John.’

  ‘Two at least,’ she said. ‘But since my brother is only eight, you’ll be looking for my Pa. Come on in out of that. How do they call you?’

  ‘Ryan’s the name, Luke Ryan.’

  He entered, closing the door behind him. The hallway was dark. He could just see her profile against a chink of light from the door into the room behind. He could not see how close she was. He waited for her to name herself, but she did not.

  ‘Hold on here, Luke,’ she said. As she moved back, she brushed against him. He said nothing, lost to words.

  She went into the room, closing the inside door. Now there was no light at all. He felt unsteady. He could just hear whispered voices questioning. Then silence.

  At last, the door opened. A man came out. The girl had not followed him.

  ‘I’m told there’s a Mr. Ryan looking for me.’

  ‘That’s right. Luke Ryan.’ He held out his hand. It was not taken. The man opened the outer door, indicating to Luke to step outside. He leaned against the wagon.

  ‘Father Nugent sent you?’

  ‘He did. He spoke well of you.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that. But I’m sure he didn’t send you just to say that.’

  ‘No, no, not just that. Like I told him, they’ve decided to start Relief Works in Ardnagrena and Lisnadee on account of the hunger.’

  ‘Relief?’ He was questioning and suspicious.

  ‘Yes. And I’ve been sent up from Knockanure to get it all started. I need a good supervisor to help me. I’m looking for a man with numbers.’

  ‘I have that.’ No further information was offered.

  ‘You learnt it in England, the priest says.’

  ‘A long time ago. On the Navigation back in the ’twenties. And the railways later.’

  ‘So will you do it?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m out of practice, and I don’t read too well.’

  ‘That’s no problem – I’m able enough with reading. What I’m looking for is a man who can add – pounds, shillings and pence. And measure distance. Someone who can supervise the work and the workers.’

  The priest was right, he thought. This is the man. And this is the crisis. If he comes with me now, we have the village. If he goes against? He thought of Selection in Carrigard. Near rioting in Knockanure. Clerks attacked in Castlebar. Gaffney would know how to handle it. Would I?

  ‘How much are they paying?’ the man asked.

  ‘Eight pence a day for the men, seven for the women.’

  ‘God, it’s not much, is it?’

  ‘Damned little. More for a supervisor though.’ That was a stupid thing to say, he thought. Sounds like a bribe.

  ‘I’ve heard men on the railways can earn four shillings a day.’

  ‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve done it myself. Good wages, like you say, but we were working fourteen hours a day. And the railways had the money.’

  The man said nothing. He seemed to be thinking, staring at Luke. Weighing him up, testing him too. Luke thought of saying something, but reckoned it better to wait and force a response. The silence dragged.

  Then Gallagher spoke.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about the pay today,’ he said. ‘Come on in and rest yourself. Have you anywhere to stay tonight?’

  ‘Not yet. I should have asked the priest about that.’

  ‘Don’t bother him now. We’ll find something here for you. It’s not much, but it’s dry.’

  Luke followed him back into the house. The moment had passed. He was in.

  In the main room, there was a single rush lamp at one end and a turf fire at the other. There were three young boys close to the fire and a woman sitting with the girl at the table, both mixing dough.

  ‘This is my wife, Una,’ Gallagher said. ‘This is Luke Ryan up from Knockanure. He tells me they’re starting with Relief around here.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. The same eyes as the girl. Grey. Older, wiser perhaps, more haggard. She might have been forty.

  Gallagher gestured towards the table. The girl, who had left the room, came back with a bottle. She poured the drink, and then she stood at the far end of the table, still making bread. Luke sipped the clear spirit, feeling again the delicate yet burning sensation on his tongue. ‘From the Ox, no doubt?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gallagher said. ‘The best in Connaught. Times are rough, but we might as well enjoy the little we can.’

  The three boys crowded around the table, still staring at the stranger.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Luke asked of the youngest one.

  There was no answer.

  ‘He’s shy,’ the oldest said. ‘Aren’t you, Frankie?’

  ‘Francis,’ the woman corrected.

  ‘How old are they all?’ asked Luke.

  This time the man answered. ‘Young John here is our oldest – eight years now. Bernard and Francis are twins – they’re only four yet.’

  The girl had not been mentioned. He glanced at her, but said nothing.

  They talked into the night. He told them all he had seen over the past two months. The potato crop in Brockagh was the same as Knockanure and Kilduff – complete failure. They talked about Relief and the help it might give to the starving, though Gallagher’s opinion was that it would be no use to many families in the high Ox Mountains where men were already too weak to walk, let alone work.

  Later he joined the younger lads in a room at the back. He stretched out in a blanket on the floor, his head on his pack. It was cold, but the poitín and the exhaustion of the ride overcame him, and he slept until the girl shook him awake in the morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mayo Constitution, September 1846:

  A multitude of people also assembled in Mayo, exceeding, we should think, 5000. The assemblage of such a vast number of people, declaring themselves on the brink of starvation, was truly deplorable.

  Gallagher accompanied him back to the priest’s house, and they sat around the small table. The priest spoke first.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’ve some ideas I’d like to put to you. Given that we can’t take everyone who will apply for work, I thought of the way you did it in Kilduff, and we could use that here. If we’ve not enough work tickets, we must help to feed those most in need. If we apply the same rules here, one person per family and only for those with four children, then these are the ones we would take.’

  He handed him a sheaf of papers, each with a list of names of families. Luke glanced down the first page. ‘You’ve been up all night, Father.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘But how could you remember all these names? How did you think of them?’

  ‘I’ve been here for thirty years. I just think of the roads, think of the cabins to left and right, and remember the names. My only
worry is the small lanes and boreens. There’s so many of them, I can’t remember every one. There’ll be more names before we finish this.’

  Gallagher pointed to one of the names on the list. ‘This name. Is this Gallagher?’

  ‘It is,’ the priest said. ‘Eileen Gallagher from up by Burrenabawn. She’s a widow.’

  ‘She doesn’t have four children anymore,’ Gallagher said.

  ‘She had five.’

  ‘Two died in the last few weeks. And the older ones are gone to England.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard that.’ A look of horror came into his eyes. ‘But why didn’t anyone tell me, John? Why did nobody say anything?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father.’

  Luke was not listening to the others. He was still counting down the columns, front and back on each page.

  ‘This list is terrible, Father. There must be three hundred families here.’

  But the priest was staring into space. He turned towards Luke. ‘You see what it’s like here. I can’t give the sacraments to the dying or even the dead. There’s too many. Hundreds of them. Hundreds.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Luke, what did you say?’

  ‘The list, Father. We can’t take more than a fraction of these.’

  ‘Why? How many tickets did you say we have for Ardnagrena.’

  ‘A hundred, no more. One supervisor, three gangers and three gangs, each of thirty-two.’

  The priest started to read through the list again, tracing down the columns with his finger, whispering the names to himself.

  ‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘A hundred.’

  ‘A hundred,’ Luke said.

  ‘So what we must do now is go through all these names again, the three of us. We must decide which families need relief the most.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Widows,’ the priest continued. ‘Very large families, whatever we think best. When we have a hundred names, then we stop. Those names, and those names only, can be announced, perhaps at Mass on Sunday. That way, we’ll not bring in anyone with false hopes.’

  ‘It may be too rough, Father,’ Gallagher said. ‘Family size won’t measure hunger. Or fever.’

  ‘What other way is possible?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Death.’

  ‘Death?’ echoed the priest.

  ‘Yes,’ Gallagher said. ‘Death for three months past perhaps. Any family who has already lost someone to fever or hunger, they’re already in a bad way. They’re already hungry.’

  For a few seconds no-one spoke, the priest and Luke looking at each other in surprise. Death, Luke thought. The measure of everything.

  ‘You’re right,’ the priest whispered. ‘Lord, you’re right, why didn’t I think of it. It’s so clear. We already know where people are dying. So let’s go through these names and see how much we know.’

  For the next hour they worked on the list. Father Nugent already knew many families where he had been called out for the last rites. Gallagher knew many more who had died in his own area without any sacrament. When they could remember no more, they stopped.

  ‘Seventy-six families,’ Luke said.

  ‘But I’m sure there are many more we don’t know about,’ the priest said. ‘Out towards the mountains – Teenashilla. Burrenabawn.’

  ‘If I can make a suggestion,’ Luke said, ‘we still need three more men for gangers around Ardnagrena. If we knew one man in each area, we might be able to send for them, and they might be able to help us.’

  The priest and Gallagher agreed three names. Then the priest went outside, and three young men were despatched to bring them back. Within two hours, two men had arrived. Another fifteen families were added to the list, representing thirty dead. Both men were signed up as gangers.

  When the gangers had left, Father Nugent sat back at the table, staring down at the ticks made against each family.

  ‘Thirty more dead,’ he said. ‘Most of them I hadn’t even known about. What kind of priest am I? I can’t even minister to my own. They die, and I don’t even hear about it.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t send for you, Father,’ Gallagher said. ‘They’re too weak. They’re not able to send for a priest.’

  They left.

  Later that evening, there was a knock at the door. The girl went to answer it and came back. ‘There’s a message for you, Mr. Ryan.’

  He went to the door. A small boy stood there, dressed in rags, his trousers hanging in tatters just below his knees. His feet were bare, spattered with mud.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Luke asked. The boy did not reply, but just turned his head to one side to indicate to Luke to follow him.

  Gallagher had come out. ‘I’d better go with you,’ he said. ‘Who sent you,’ he asked the boy.

  ‘The priest.’

  When they reached the priest’s house, they saw the third man had arrived. ‘You’re most welcome here,’ he said to Luke. ‘We never thought we’d see Relief around here.’

  ‘Let’s wait, and see how it works out,’ Luke said.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ the priest said. ‘Tim here, he’s one of the Durcans – there’s a big crowd of them up in Knocklenagh. He’s worked on the railways too. You won’t get better than Tim nor John around Brockagh. Now let’s get going – we’re trying to find another nine for Relief between Ardnagrena and Knocklenagh.’

  Luke explained the new system of Selection to Durcan. Within a few minutes the list had reached a hundred.

  He slept at Gallaghers again.

  It was only the next morning that he picked up the girl’s name when Mrs. Gallagher addressed her as ‘Winnie.’ Winifred he thought. An English name. Why Winifred, why not Una? Perhaps it was a name that Gallagher picked up when he was working in England.

  And she was attractive. Her grey eyes still transfixed him, he could not say why. Once or twice he thought he saw her glancing at him. He wondered if she felt the same as he did, but he had no way of finding out. On one occasion he thought he saw Gallagher looking at him, but with a different expression. Perhaps he had imagined it, but it put him on his guard.

  He went to Sunday Mass with the family. The church was tiny – larger than most of the cabins and houses in Brockagh, but small compared to the church in Kilduff. Like the cabins around it, it had a rough thatched roof. Most of the men stood outside the entrance, a few standing inside at the back of the church.

  During the Kyrie one of the men clutched his hand to his chest and collapsed. The priest looked up and signalled to the altar boys to wait. Then he walked down the narrow aisle to where the man lay. He turned him on his back. The man was gasping. A woman had come back from the front of the church. She knelt beside the man, holding his hand.

  ‘Will he live, Father?’

  ‘Of course he will,’ the priest replied, though even from where he stood, Luke could hear the lack of conviction in his voice. ‘Can you carry him home now?’

  Two men lifted him with his arms around their shoulders, and two more grasped their hands under him to form a rough seat. The priest walked back to the altar and went on with the Mass.

  At the end, he explained about the new Relief Works, and gave the names of the families selected. Luke could feel a marked atmosphere of tension as the names of each family selected were read out, road by road. The one workman per family rule was explained. Selection by death was not mentioned.

  A queue started to build up at a small table at the back of the church, where Luke sat with Gallagher. He had a single sheet of paper headed ‘Checklist of Workmen employed on the New Line of Road at Ardnagrena.’ He started to write the names, followed by the daily wage.

  Patrick Lynagh, 8d.

  Bridget Murtagh, 7d.

  Edward Richards, child, 5d.

  He hesitated. Should they have children working? Gaffney had not al
lowed it.

  Martin Mullan, 8d.

  Michael Meagher, 8d.

  Jamy Judge…

  He stopped. This was another child, ten years old perhaps. His bare arms were like sticks, thin ribbons of wasted muscle showing through. Much of the hair on the top of his head was missing, bald patches showing through where it had fallen out. But on his forehead, on his cheeks and on the rest of his face, there was a light covering of hair, as if trying to make up for the lack of hair elsewhere. The face of a fox, Luke thought.

  ‘Is this the strongest man in this family?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘He is,’ one of the waiting men answered. ‘His father’s dead, his mother can’t walk, and all the other children are younger.’

  …child, 5d.

  Martin Dunne, 8d.

  Thomas Flynn, 8d.

  Anthony Meero, child, 5d.

  Catherine Brown…

  ‘A widow,’ Gallagher said.

  …7d.

  Patrick Foley, 8d.

  Margaret Conlon…

  ‘She’s not a widow yet,’ Gallagher whispered, ‘but she soon will be.’

  …7d.

  Eileen Dunne, 7d.

  Michael Padden, 8d.

  Eileen Monaghan…

  A girl with the same baldness and the same facial hair, darker this time. The bare skull and hair strewn face gave her the appearance of a boy in girl’s clothes.

  ‘Surely she’s not the strongest…’

  ‘There’s no-one else left.’

  …child, 5d.

  ‘That’s unfair to the men who have families to feed,’ the next man in line said.

  ‘Five pence is the rate for a child,’ Luke replied.

  ‘You won’t get five pence of work from her.’

  ‘That’s no business of yours.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘Do you want a ticket or not?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Edward Reilly,’ the man said in English.

  Edward Reilly, 8d.

  That shut him up, the bastard. He’s right though. She’s not worth fivepence. But she’ll never last it out, she’ll be dead soon. She won’t affect the work-rate for long. Oh God, now I’m thinking like a Government man. And sounding like one too. How in hell did I get to this?