by Charles Egan
He wondered why Ardnagrena should be so much worse than Carrigard. He felt it was because of the more remote location; the land was worse and the farms smaller. Also it was now later in the year, and the hunger was more advanced. But most of all, he felt that it was Gallagher’s method of Selection that explained the difference – it had been more successful in locating real hunger and want. The Selection system that Gaffney had applied in Carrigard had been more random. Gallagher’s approach not only identified those most in need, but even found those higher in the mountains who would not even have applied for relief.
As the Works proceeded, he noticed that they were slower again than at Carrigard. Some of the men seemed to have difficulty raising the picks or even shovelling the loosened soil and gravel. He and Gallagher had allocated the women and children to lighter tasks, helping the gangers to mark out the drains in detail and later on cooking the Indian meal for food at midday. Even these actions were carried out very slowly. Luke was now worried whether the Works could be carried out either in time, or at the agreed budget. He wondered what Gaffney might have done in the situation, but Gaffney was not here, and he found it hard to think as Gaffney might have. He had been sent to Brockagh to improve roads and to relieve hunger, but it might be impossible to do both.
As they ate at midday, he noticed that one of the young boys was refusing food. The child’s thighs showed bare through the remains of the rags he was wearing. They were thin, with very little muscle left. His ankles were swollen and purple. As the Works started again, he stayed sitting. Luke saw he was shivering. One of the gangers came over and placed his own coat around him.
‘What’s wrong?’ Luke asked.
‘He’s no longer able to work, Sir. He’s not putting it on, he just can’t do it.’
Later in the afternoon the boy was lying down. One of the women came over and sat beside him, holding his head on her lap. Luke sent one of the men into Brockagh to call the priest, but he came back and told him that the priest had gone out towards Knocklenagh, no one knew where. Soon the boy was dead.
That evening, he rode back with Gallagher. As agreed at Knockanure, he had offered Mrs. Gallagher three pence per night for dinner and lodgings, and she had accepted. Every evening she and Winnie would cook. He found himself looking forward to dinner; he had become more relaxed about Winnie. He wondered what she thought about him.
A rough bed with hay had now been made up for him in the boys’ room. Every night he wrapped himself in his blanket and slept with his pack. He was always too tired to worry about the lack of comfort.
Every day, he would go down the line, visiting each ganger in turn and going down his section, calling out the roll. On the first day, he had already noticed that some of the men who had been there in the morning were missing in the evening. After that, he did the roll call twice each day.
On payday, Luke called the roll early and started to calculate the wages due. Afterwards he walked down to Durcan’s section.
‘I’ve noticed there’s four in your gang haven’t finished the week, Tim.’
‘I know. I’d expected it. Anthony Meero, I don’t know why. For the rest, they all had fever, even when they began. Eleanor Lavelle, I think she was dying when she started. I’d not expected to see her here on the first day.’
‘How can we pay them for the days they’ve worked? I have to get their signatures or marks. I can’t do that if they aren’t here.’
‘I don’t know what the answer to that is.’
He checked out the payroll with the other gangers. There were seventeen workers missing. He wondered how many would return.
Invisible pain.
When the pay clerk arrived from Castlebar, he was accompanied by two constables. It was the same man he had met at Carrigard and on the road from Knockanure. This time he introduced himself as Martin Davitt. He was from Straide, a small village closer to Kilduff than Brockagh.
‘How are things there?’ Luke asked him.
‘I haven’t been there this month past, but even then the blight had destroyed everything. I don’t know what’ll happen now, no idea.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Just as always. I do my work, send the money whenever there’s anyone going over that way, and hope for the best.’
‘You have children?’ Luke asked.
‘Two only, thank God. The youngest is only six months though. Great time to come along, eh?’
‘Just great,’ Luke said.
They started to organise the payment of the workers. This was a rapid procedure now. Luke, Davitt and Gallagher sat behind a single table. Each of the gangers came up in turn, and were asked to identify each worker. Luke witnessed each cross or signature, while Gallagher and Davitt paid out the amount due.
When all the workers had been paid, Luke and Davitt sat at the table, checking the cash.
‘What about the people who didn’t turn up,’ Luke asked. ‘How can I pay them?’
‘I’ll give you an advance on that,’ Davitt answered. ‘How much do you need?’
Luke added a column. ‘One pound, seventeen and nine.’
Davitt counted out the amount. ‘Can you check it?’
Luke counted the coins. ‘To the penny. But I mightn’t need it all.’
‘Why not?’
‘They mightn’t come back. In fact, I’m sure they won’t, the most of them.’
‘If they don’t come back, you’ll have to go to their houses.’
‘Will I?’
‘You will,’ Davitt said. ‘And there’s one other little thing too. If you’re not careful, Knockanure might accuse you of fraud.’
‘Fraud?’
‘How do they know you’ve paid them?’
‘I’ll get their marks.’
‘That won’t be enough. When you’re paying out on the Works, you’ve got witnesses – myself and the peelers. You’ve none when you’re riding about.’
‘What can I do so?’
‘That’s simple,’ Davitt said. ‘All you do is get the priest’s signature. The Union have always recognised a clergyman’s signature.’
‘Even a Catholic priest?’
‘It’s no matter to them what religion he is.’
After Davitt had left, Luke rode with Gallagher towards Brockagh. They noticed a crowd of about fifty gathered around a very rough shed which had not been there in the morning. When they came closer, he realised that many of the crowd were drinking out of bottles. As they rode up, the man behind the rough bar looked to them, and turned back to serving his customers. Between times, he was shouting ‘whiskey, two shillings a bottle, shilling and thruppence a half.’ Many of the people were carrying half bottles, some were empty. A few who had been paid an hour earlier were already drunk. Luke noticed two of the gangers sitting on the wall on the other side. Durcan was not with them. Luke rode over.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asked the gangers.
‘Our friends are buying drinks for us.’
He looked at them, almost too stunned to speak. He pulled the reins on his horse and rode over to the shebeen. This time, the man behind the bar did not even glance up.
‘I want you to get out of here,’ Luke said.
The man did not answer him. ‘French Brandy, three shillings the bottle.’
‘Did you hear what I said? GET OUT.’
‘Why should I?’ answered the man, still not looking at him. He put a half bottle of whiskey on the counter for one of the workers. ‘I’m legal. I’m only selling spirits, duty paid. The Excise are happy.’
‘Get out,’ Luke repeated. ‘Now.’ The man said nothing, as his customer counted out his coins. Fifteen pennies, each observed closely. Eleven heads of Victoria and four of King George.
Luke turned to the crowd.
‘Go home to your families.’
No one moved.
Gallagher rode over. ‘Come on, Luke. There’s nothing we can do.’
He looked at Gallagher in fury. Then he realised it was pointless. He pulled his horse away.
‘Like he says, it’s legal,’ Gallagher said, as they rode away. ‘It’s like they did on the Works on the Shannon, and that wasn’t even Relief. I’ve heard about this in Sligo and Roscommon too.’
‘And what about the gangers.’
‘They get free whiskey.’
‘Damned sure they do. And a share of the profits too?’
‘Look, I’m sorry. John Luby – I recommended him. Hanrahan – he was Father Nugent’s suggestion. We both thought they’d make good gangers.’
‘Damned right they would. Just like the bastards on the railways. Get every penny out of you – grind you into the mud.’
‘Don’t I know.’
‘One and thruppence a half bottle of whiskey, though. That’s a hell of a profit, John. These people are starving, they can’t afford that, they need the money for food. And if they don’t, there’s others who do. I’ll fire those bloody gangers – that’ll do for a start.’
As they rode on towards Brockagh, the shebeen preyed on his mind. How could it happen? How could starving people even think of buying drink? And how could any man even think of battening on their misery for profit?
That night he went to see Father Nugent. He told him about the shebeen, the deaths on the Works and the workers who had not completed the week.
‘Do you know who the seventeen are?’ the priest asked.
‘Of course. They’re all on the payroll here.’
‘The priest went down the names. ‘Seven of these are dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, Luke, dead.’
‘That’s nine in a week.’
‘I know.’
‘So what can we do now?’ Luke asked.
‘Not much if they’re dead. It’s their families I’m worried about, they’re the ones who’ll need us. We’ll just have to visit them all on Sunday. Both of us.’
‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘and you can help with another matter too. I’ll need a clergyman’s signature as a witness each time I make a payment. Otherwise they’d accuse me of fraud.’
‘Fine so.’
‘But on a Sunday, Father? You’ve Masses on Sunday.’
‘I have, but that’s no excuse. We’ll have to do it. You’ve no choice, and neither do I. I’m a priest, I’m supposed to give the rites to the dying.’
‘If you can,’ Luke said.
‘It’s not a question of ‘can’ any more – it’s a question of ‘must.’ That day with you and John showed me how many I was missing, and I’ve decided not to wait. I’ve spent the last two days riding around, asking who was near dying or dead already. I’ll do the same for the next few days, and we’ll do the same on Sunday, you and me. Perhaps we can find these people. That way you can pay them or their people, while I do the praying.’
It was late when he left the priest-house. As he walked back towards Gallaghers, he thought again about the shebeen. His anger flared. He led out his horse, not waiting to saddle it. As he rode up towards the shebeen, he saw men and women walking back. He noticed a few men and one woman stretched out on the road or in the ditches. When he arrived, there was no one there except the owner, huddled around a fire, counting his coins.
‘I told you to get out of here,’ Luke said.
‘And I told you, I’m legal. There’s no poitín here. You can check if you want.’
Luke walked around the side of the bar. He brought out two bottles of whiskey and smashed them on a rock.
‘What are you doing, you damned bastard,’ the other man screamed. He broke an empty bottle, holding the jagged glass, he rushed at Luke. Luke ducked, then punched his right fist under the man’s chin. The man staggered, eyes glazing, mouth slackening, as his knees fought to stay upright. Luke drew back, aimed again, and smashed his fist up again into the hanging jaw. He heard the crunch as the front teeth broke. The man slumped onto the road, face down, and did not move.
Luke pulled the prostrate body across the road and dumped it in the ditch. He listened for a few moments to see that he was still breathing. Then he went back to the shed and smashed more bottles. He smelt the fumes, strong and pungent. Brandy perhaps. He thought he felt light-headed, even drunk.
He hesitated. He looked to the fire.
Then he took a burning log. Standing back, he threw it into the shed. There was a purple flash. Within seconds, the whole structure was ablaze.
He mounted his horse and rode towards Brockagh. The shebeen lit the night sky, bottles exploding in the flames.
As he rode with Gallagher to the Works the next morning, he told him what had happened.
Gallagher looked at him in surprise. ‘You knocked him senseless?’
‘I did.’
‘And burned the shack?’
‘That’s right. The shack and all that was in it.’
‘Well, by God. I never thought you had it in you.’
Luke thought about that. He did not know whether it was praise or condemnation. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
Later they passed the burnt remnants of the hut, shattered glass lying around.
‘You did a good job.’
‘I didn’t do half enough to the bastard.’
‘You must be more careful though. You could have killed him.’
‘I wish I had.’
‘No you don’t. You don’t want to be hung. And we don’t want you hung either. Brockagh can’t afford to lose you. Too many people depend on you.’
‘I know, John, I know.’
They rode on.
‘I was talking to Father Nugent last night,’ Luke said. ‘He was worried about people dying, wants to ride around the mountains to give them Extreme Unction. I’m going with him.’
‘For what?’
‘It’s just we owe them money. Whether they’re dying or dead, we still owe them. I’ll have to go and pay them what they’re owed. Them or their widows.’
‘Or mothers? Or children?’
‘Whatever.’
As they arrived at the Works, the men and women seemed to look at him with a new respect. Again he watched the workers, concerned about how weak and slow they were. A small gang were filling a wagon with shale. He doubted they were doing a twentieth as much as would be done on a railway cutting in England.
England had been different.
They had earned more in England, but it was hard work, and filling wagons was the hardest of all. Many men in other gangs found it impossible to keep up with the physical effort required. The full shovel load had to be lifted well over a man’s height. The men worked in pairs; two men together could fill ten or twelve wagon loads in a day. But the Mayo men worked longer hours – Farrelly and Corrigan often filled sixteen or seventeen wagon loads a day. On one long summer evening, they filled twenty.
Tunnelling in England was tough work too. The tunnels always seemed to be damp, and the sputtering lamps did little to allay the darkness. The rail had to keep up with the tunnelling, close enough for the wagons to be filled, but not too close. There was always the danger of rock falling from the roof. From time to time, the blast of the explosions echoed along the tunnel. In every tunnel they worked, there seemed to be a permanent smell of explosive, mixed in with the raw stink of urine and horse manure. The rail men followed the tunnellers, and the bricklayers followed both. The work continued day and night.
In the tunnels, the other Irish gangs were in an endless struggle with their supervisors, many of whom were Welshmen from the coalmines of the Rhondda. The Irish men – Donegal and Mayo – hated the Welsh with passion. Mayo men saw their supervisors as the scum of the earth. Sometimes in the tunnels Luke had heard plans of murder, but he
had reckoned it was only talk, and paid little heed to any of it.
But it was different here.
Now he was the supervisor.
When he arrived back at Gallagher’s, he was exhausted. There were two other men there. One was the shebeen owner, now missing three front teeth, his tongue scarred. Beside him was a constable.
‘We’ve had a complaint of assault and arson, Mr. Ryan.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr. Clarke states that you assaulted him last night and burned out his business. A very serious charge.’
‘I told him to move out yesterday, but I haven’t seen him since.’
The constable ignored him. ‘Mr. Clarke had every right to be there,’ he went on. ‘All his stock has always been duty paid.’
‘I know. He told me. I accepted what he said and left him to it.’
‘And where were you after you left?’
‘I rode back here with Mr. Gallagher.’
Behind the two men, Winnie nodded at him.
‘And after you rode back, where were you then?’
From the shadows, Winnie pointed to her open mouth; then she made a pillow of both her hands, leaning her cheek into them.
‘I stayed here,’ Luke replied. ‘I had dinner with these people, and then I slept.’
‘Perjury is a very serious offence, Mr. Ryan.’
‘You heard what Mr. Ryan said, constable,’ Winnie said. ‘He’s an honest man, and if you think he’s not, then everyone here is a liar too.’
The constable looked at each of them in turn. He went to each of the children, holding their faces up to look into their eyes. No one flinched. He turned to leave.
‘Come on, there’s nothing to be done here.’