by Charles Egan
‘I never believed it’d happen at all.’
‘But it did, didn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It did.’
Again she took his hands. ‘Now tell me about you.’
He held her hands into his chest. ‘You’re cold.’
‘No, I’m not. Now tell me.’
‘What’s there to tell? A little farm near Kilduff, that’s where I come from, no different to most around. A brother, a sister dead of fever and another baby girl my mother is fostering. And I’m supposed to inherit the farm, at least I was supposed to before all this began. We’ve eight acres. My father works it. He’s sixty three now, going on sixty four. I don’t know what else to tell you.’
She cleared the snow from a flagstone and sat down, patting the space beside her. ‘God, you’re hopeless. So you spent all your life on the farm before the Relief started. Is that all there is to it?’
She took his hand and placed it on her knee. Through the thin shift he could feel the full shape of it, the roundness, soft hollows on either side. She put her hand on his. He said nothing, his mind was empty. He no longer noticed the cold.
‘Well, come on,’ she said. ‘Have you been struck dumb?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sorry. No, no, I didn’t stay all the time on the farm. I had to go to England, just like everyone else. We needed the money to pay the rent, buy the food in the bad years. I worked on the railways. I went over by Liverpool.’
‘I’ve heard of Liverpool.’
‘Of course you’ve heard of Liverpool,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your father worked there, didn’t he? Or near it anyhow.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t know.’ She looked away.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset. Anyhow you were saying you’d got to Liverpool.’
‘Yes, and from Liverpool we went down to London, and then I worked on the Great Western Railway.’
‘I haven’t heard of that.’
‘You haven’t? But your father, he worked on the railways.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He never spoke about England. I used to ask him, but he said it wasn’t meant for little girls. All he’d say was that it was terrible, and that I wouldn’t want to know about it.’
‘Terrible? How did he mean, terrible?’
‘I don’t know. He never told me.’
In the distance, he could hear that the Works had started again. The sound of picks and shovels. He thought again of the gang on the Great Western – Danny and Owen and Martin and Bernie. Hard work. Good money. All the laughing and joking. Easy Sundays, always talking, long arguments into the night. Terrible?
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. I’d been thinking of going back. Make more money. My cousin Danny, he keeps writing to me, telling me I should go back over.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Only because all of this started. They were looking for fellows who could read and write and add. I was going to go back to England, but my father said I should stay on and work as a clerk. It was better than being a labourer on the railway, he said. Only a quarter the money but everyone looks up to clerks. I think Mother put him up to it.’
He knew he should be back at the Works. It was a bad example for the senior officer to be away chatting with a girl, but he was still curious.
‘Your father is a tough man,’ he said.
‘You know, everyone says that. I don’t know why?’
‘He’s a man of few words.’
‘Not with us, he’s not. Well, at least he wasn’t. But he’s been through a lot. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘The wagon.’
She shook her head. ‘God, you’re sharp. You come right to the heart of it. The wagon.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing it. We used wagons like that for building railways in England, but I never saw any of them around here. I wondered where he’d got it from.’
‘Why didn’t you ask him.’
‘I reckoned he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Maybe you’re right. You see, it was when he was in England, he was a wagon driver there. Down along the docks and on the railways. Or at least that’s what I understand. But he wanted to be more than that. Do you know, he’s so much like you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. He wanted to get on, but he wanted to come home too. Home to Brockagh, but what could he do here? Everyone else wanted to farm, but he reckoned he could do better than that. So he decided to start his own little business. Do what he knew best – driving wagons. Hauling freight, as he would say. So he bought three carts in England.’
‘Three?’
‘Yes, three. He had them built; brought them home with him. He thought they’d be needed around here. And do you know, I think he was right. I remember them from back when I was a girl. Backwards and forwards to Ballina, Killala, Castlebar – sometimes even Westport. I’d always beg to go with him, sitting beside him in the driver’s seat. So that’s how I’ve been to Castlebar and all. But Ma didn’t like it, so I didn’t get out with him often.’
‘So what happened to them? The wagons?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Pa started to drink when he came back from England, more than was good for him. And when the first of the hunger came, he had to sell one of the wagons.’
‘Last year?’
‘No, no, years ago. 1840 I think. It was a terrible time here.’
‘It was terrible all over Mayo,’ he said.
‘But he hung on to the other two wagons. He wanted one of them for Young John. He didn’t like wasting money paying other fellows for driving. So sometimes he’d trust me enough to drive one of the wagons, following behind him. But I never drove too far – Killala was the furthest he’d let me. Not fit work for a girl, you see. But then the hunger came again. We had no money, and there was no call for wagons in Brockagh anymore. I remember he started drinking again, and then one day he disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes, only a few months ago. Took two of the horses and one of the wagons, and went off. We still don’t know where – Castlebar maybe. He was away five days. Ma near went mad.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before,’ he asked.
‘I don’t like talking about it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault. But anyhow, after five days he came home, walking. But the wagon and horses had disappeared. He’d sold them. He looked terrible. He’d walked all the way back from wherever he’d been. Sleeping in ditches and God knows where. We all knew what had happened, but we didn’t dare ask how. But anyhow he brought some money home. Thirty five shillings.’
‘For a wagon and two horses?’
‘Maybe they knew he was desperate. And I’m sure he drank the most of it. But anyhow, we had the thirty five shillings. Ma took it off him and hid it. She won’t let him go drinking now. And she keeps a close eye on all he drinks at home.’
‘So that’s why he’s so quiet.’
‘Yes, that’s why. Shame, I suppose you’d call it. And that’s why he was so careful about you. He likes you a lot, but it took a long time. He was against you at the start.’
‘Don’t I know.’
‘But he likes you now. That’s very important.’
‘Likes me,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘But it’s true. He didn’t like working under you at first, but he’s got more respect for you now. Reckons you’re more of a man than he thought you were, he even told my mother that. You might be young, but he reckons you’re well able for thing
s. Tough too. And that business with Clarke, he respected you for that.’
He thought about that. Beating a man, that’s what it took to gain respect! Yes, that and being able to handle dying people on the Works.
He hugged her. This time, she did not resist for a few moments. Then she pushed him away. She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘Go on back now, we’ll talk again later.’
She helped him to mount the donkey. He kept the animal still, and watched as she walked across the other road.
Young John jumped down from the wall. She took his hand, and walked back through the snow towards Brockagh.
Chapter Sixteen
Telegraph or Connaught Ranger, December, 1846:
Starvation. The accounts we have received from Clare Island are of the most distressing nature. The Reverend Peter Ward writes to say ‘that a great majority of the inhabitants are literally starving – that many of them have perished for want of food – that the last victim was Catherine Malley of the village of Maan, and there are at the present time 200 families without the means of support, members of which have fruitlessly endeavoured to obtain employment.’ The reverend gentleman describes them as resembling birds of prey screaming for something to feed on. He gives it as his opinion that unless immediate relief be afforded, the most appalling consequences may be expected to ensue.
For the rest of the week, he left Gallagher and Durcan in charge of the Works and accompanied the priest on his calls around the parish. Always he carried his worksheets with him. So they travelled the back roads and boreens, the Government man and the priest, searching out the houses of missing workers and dying parishioners. As before, the worst was the arc of mud cabins and sceilps stretching across the mountains from Benstreeva to Croghancoe. Again and again he paid out wages as the last rites were administered to the dying or the dead in the bitter cold.
A sceilp leaning against a dug-out bank of turf, one end half buried in snow. Inside the dug-out the ragged corpse of a woman lay on a pile of heather, a silent man seated beside her. The woman’s shift was torn, her legs showing bare, the skin on her thighs hanging loose from the bone.
Catherine Devine. 1/2¼.
Luke added one stark word after the amount to be paid.
Deceased.
Then he handed the pen to the man.
‘I need your mark here.’
X.
Luke wrote – Catherine Devine. The mark of her husband.
He handed the pen to Father Nugent, who scribbled his signature alongside as witness. Then the priest knelt by the woman. He dubbed chrism on her forehead, whispering –
‘Per istam sanctam Unctionem…’
Through this Holy Unction, may the Lord free you from sin and raise you up on the Last Day.
Another sceilp. One woman alone and frightened.
Widow Carney. 9½d.
She grasped the pen, he held it too to stop the trembling.
X.
Widow Carney. Her mark.
Again he handed the pen to the priest.
The woman took the coins. Luke said nothing.
A mud cabin, still standing, well thatched and white washed. One woman with three emaciated children.
Eileen Caulfield. 9½d.
‘Just here.’
She signed as Eileen Caulfield.
Another cabin, blackened thatch showing through patches of snow. One woman, a child grasping at her ragged skirts.
Brigid Walsh, Child. 11¼d.
The woman grasped at the coins, but he held them away, pointing to the worksheet.
X.
Brigid Walsh. The mark of her mother.
A rough mud cabin. A woman, six children and a man’s corpse in the outshot. The man’s face was white, his lips blue and black. No sign of fever there. Killed by hunger. The woman pointed to the corpse. ‘Only yesterday,’ she murmured. He nodded, and scribbled.
Edmond Ivers. 1/3. Deceased.
Then he handed her the pen.
Brigid Ivers.
Edmond Ivers. The signature of his widow.
‘Per istam sanctam Unctionem…’
A mud cabin, thatch collapsing at one end. The stink of gangrene. One man, three children with the fox faces, and a heap of rags in the corner. Rats.
John Jennings. 8d.
He came close to vomiting. Unable to speak, he pointed to the space for the signature.
‘John Jennings’ the man wrote alongside.
He asked for Patt Jennings. The man pointed to the rags.
Patt Jennings, Child. 11¼d.
Again he scribbled one extra word in the jotter. Deceased.
He handed the pen to the man again. ‘Here too,’ he whispered.
John Jennings, the man wrote again.
Patt Jennings. The signature of his father.
The priest signed twice, and knelt by the child –
‘Per istam sanctam Unctionem…’
‘I thought we were only supposed to take one from a family,’ Luke said as they left.
‘Isn’t it hard enough getting a hundred a gang as it is?’ the priest replied. ‘There’s few enough coming forward now, and there’s still roads to be built. And God knows, they have more call for the money than the Union or Castlebar.’
They rode their horses across a bog to avoid the drifts on the roads. The surface was frozen, crunching under the horses’ hooves, but they had to thread their way between icy pools of water and around the edges of turf banks to the other side of the bog.
He started to question the priest.
‘There’s something I can’t understand here, Father. All these people who signed their full name, I wouldn’t have expected it up here.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the priest answered, ‘it’s rare enough, but I’ll tell you how it’s done. Séamus Doherty, he’s a fellow from up these parts, spent years on the harvest in England every summer from the age of eight. He learnt how to read and write over there. Don’t ask me how, but he did. Then he came back here and started teaching it. No school, mind you. He just went from one place to another, the blackboard strapped to his back, and taught them their reading and writing. Adding and subtracting too. He’s dead five years now, but they still remember what he taught them. And here’s another thing that might surprise you. Eileen Caulfield and her family, they came from better land down towards Killala.’
‘Killala!’
‘Edwina Hughes too. Remember her a few weeks back?’
‘What are they doing up here so?’
‘They’re the ones that didn’t go to America after the evictions.’
‘What evictions?’
‘Oh, Lord Clanowen. Months back. The time his agent was murdered.’
‘Coogan?’
‘Yes, Coogan, that was the man. It seems his Lordship reckoned the people weren’t sorry enough for his murder, but I’m not sure that that was true. That might have only been an excuse. Anyhow, they were evicted, and the most of them went through Sligo to America. But Eileen stayed back, Pat and Edwina too, God only knows why. And now this is all they have.’
At the next cabin, they helped an old man to bury his wife. Luke felt nauseated by the stink of decomposition, but he took the man’s sleán and dug a shallow grave in his cabbage patch. The Coogan murder, he was thinking. Bonfires right across the Mountain. So Clanowen had got his revenge around Killala. But what about the Mountain?
No point in thinking about it. They had enough other problems trying to find more workers as the numbers in each gang dropped. He took the priest’s advice on this, still trying to apply the same rule. Death for three months past. There were many more families now, but they would only offer a ticket to those who were able to work, and there were few such men or women anymore.
They laid the woman’s corpse into the grave
, and Luke shovelled clay and soil over her. Now he felt he was hardening himself to the sights he was seeing. As Gaffney had said, there was a job to be done, and he had to do it.
Through it all, he kept thinking of Winnie.
She might be his only anchor in a world gone mad.
December. It had been milder for a few days, and the snow around Brockagh had turned to slush, but now it froze again. Then it snowed. It was light, an inch deep on top of the frozen slush, but it did not melt. The cold intensified.
On the first Sunday, as he accompanied the priest around Brockagh and over towards Knocklenagh, they met a small cart coming down from Lisnadee. There were four corpses in it, two of which Luke had seen alive only a few days before. The priest gave all four the last rites, and directed them back to Durcan’s house for burial to be organised.
‘I’m intending to spend most of this week coming at Lisnadee, Father,’ said Luke.
‘It must be bad up there?’
‘Desperate. I don’t know what we’re doing there. We’re building a road, but how much we’re helping the people, I just don’t know. They keep right on dying.’
‘Whatever you’re doing, it’s helping. I saw a cartload of corn going up towards Knocklenagh two days ago.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, I did. And they wouldn’t be going there excepting they knew they could sell it.’
For the next two days, he rode from Brockagh to Lisnadee, until Durcan suggested it might be easier to stay over a few nights in Knocklenagh since it was closer than Brockagh. That evening he explained his plans to the Gallaghers. Winnie made up two loaves of brown bread for him. He would have protested, but he knew Winnie had decided and would not accept a refusal.
*
Wednesday. He rode towards Lisnadee. It was snowing. By the time he arrived at the Works, the light sprinkling of snow had turned the landscape white. A wan sun appeared, but it was intensely cold. Durcan had already sent some of the men out to collect dead wood in a small copse a mile away. They had also found a turf rick which they helped themselves to, without wanting to know who owned it. There were two fires burning. Every hour now the gangers called a break to allow the frozen people to warm themselves at the fires.