by Charles Egan
Eleanor and Michael made for home. He took side streets to avoid the workhouse. Many were open sewers stinking with shit and piss, but even so, families sat or slept along the walls at the side.
They cleared Westport, driving out the road towards Castlebar. As they passed the wall surrounding Lord Sligo’s estate, Michael pointed out where their convoy had been attacked a year or two before, as they had returned, carrying relief corn from the Westport docks, to the soup kitchens in Kilduff.
‘You never spoke much about that,’ Eleanor observed.
‘Maybe I didn’t want to. It’s a hard thing fighting starving men and women.’
‘But if you hadn’t fought them, the corn would never have made Kilduff, and our own people would have been starving. Wasn’t that the way of it?’
‘True for you,’ Michael said. ‘But it was a savage battle, I can tell you. One fellow near killed me with a rock, but Luke got him first.’
Outside Westport, most of the houses between the wreckage were mere mud cabins. The people were digging potatoes in the afternoon sunshine, but while a small number of fields were untouched by blight, most were already black. Eleanor thought there were more blackened fields than when they had come in, but perhaps she was imagining it.
What kind of people were these? The kind of starving men and women who had attacked the Kilduff convoy. No different here than all around Kilduff though, or Carrigard either. They were not even tenants, she guessed, and doubted that any could read or write, nor sign their name beyond an ‘X’. Not to say that she herself could read well, not like the rest of her family. Eleanor herself came from the Mountain, and there was little call for reading or writing there. But, as with so many around Carrigard, these people here would never even see money. Their small ridges of potatoes were all they had, and rent was paid in labour, not in cash. And now the potatoes were gone; once again, they had nothing.
Beyond Westport, it was raining. ‘Let’s shelter a while, Michael,’ she said.
Among the shattered houses, they spotted one where the roof had collapsed in the centre but still clung to the walls at the gable end.
‘In here,’ he said.
It was dark inside and Michael stood at the splintered window, holding the donkey. As Eleanor’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, she realized there were people inside. One woman and four children. A heap of rags lay in the corner. She could hear the squeaking of rats, and smell the stink of rotting flesh.
‘Ocras,’ the woman murmured. Hunger.
But Eleanor knew they had little to give. Did they provide charity, or did they protect themselves? A hard question.
‘What has happened here?’ she asked.
‘The agents of Lord Lucan,’ the woman whispered. ‘They would have us here no longer. They drove us from the houses.’
‘A terrible thing.’
‘Worse than terrible. A violent afternoon, wet and windy, and the night the same. I lost one of my daughters that night. But when the tumblers had done their work, we crept back in here and stayed since. And now my son. He has died too.’
‘God help us all,’ Eleanor said.
They left before the rain had stopped. Eleanor could no longer bear being there, though she did not want to upset the woman by leaving too soon. But they had to.
‘We didn’t leave them any food,’ she said.
‘That’s right, we didn’t,’ Michael said. ‘We’ve little enough of our own.’
‘I know.’
In Castlebar, they saw the same scenes as in Westport, as wasted people slogged towards the workhouse. There was much military activity in the town, far more than before. The military barracks was heavily guarded.
‘It wasn’t like that, and we going out,’ Michael said.
‘No indeed,’ Eleanor said. ‘I wonder why it is now.’
More dead bodies in the streets. Even more out the road towards Kilduff. The rain had cleared, and at last the sun came out, steam rising from Michael’s shirt.
*
It was dark when they arrived in Kilduff. A waning moon hung in the sky. No more bodies in the streets, though perhaps it was just too dark to see them.
In Carrigard, the house was warm. Kitty held her finger to her lips.
‘She’s asleep, don’t be waking her now.’
She took three cups and a bottle of poitín.
‘There’s strange news afoot.’
‘What’s that,’ Eleanor asked.
‘There’s revolution,’ Kitty said. ‘The country is in rebellion.’
Michael looked up. ‘What’s that you say?’
‘Revolution,’ Kitty said. ‘They’re all talking of it. There’s desperate fighting going on in Tipperary and Kilkenny, thousands of people fighting the police and army. They’re burning the trains, and there’s places the army is refusing to fight.’
‘Is it war?’ Eleanor asked.
‘It is. And it’d be more of a war if the army would stand and fight.’
‘Who told you all this?’ Michael asked.
‘We went up to town yesterday, Brigid and myself. The cattle drovers, they’re talking of nothing else. They’re saying Dublin is to be taken over too. They’re wanting change in the government. They’re saying we won’t have to pay any rent anymore.’
‘I wish I could believe that,’ Michael said, ‘but I don’t think I’ll live to see that day. I saw enough of ’98. They slaughtered us then, and they’ll slaughter us now.’
*
The day dawned bright, with a near cloudless sky.
Over the shoulder of the Mountain, Nephin stood sharp; brown against blue. Kitty and Eleanor stood outside the half door.
‘I’d better go home, and feed the brute,’ Kitty said. ‘I don’t know that he’s able to cook for himself, the state of him.’
Eleanor handed her a groat.
‘Fourpence might help.’
‘Arra, not at all. Sure it was a pleasure feeding little Brigid, and having the odd bit of your food.’
But Eleanor insisted. Kitty took the coin, and left to walk home to the side of the Mountain.
Eleanor went up towards the cornfield to call Michael for his breakfast. She was surprised to see him scything.
‘I thought we’d better make a start, seeing as the day that’s in it,’ he said. ‘We mightn’t get more days like this.’
The corn was harvested rapidly. It was now the only immediate source of food on the farm. The weather was warm and continued so. Every morning, Michael was up before sunrise, and Eleanor accompanied him. Mostly, it was Michael who scythed the corn, but sometimes he would pass the scythe to Eleanor while he rested.
She carried Brigid up to the fields, lying her in a blanket, where she slept till sunrise and played most of the day. She, at least, thought it was all fun, chasing the frogs that leapt out ahead of the scythe.
They worked long hours, from sunup to sundown. As the scything progressed, the sheaves of corn were stooked, and before the harvesting was finished, the early stooked corn was already being threshed.
Every night, one of them stood guard high up by the rath, where all the fields and house could be seen from one single vantage point. As the weather continued warm, the nights were clear. On one occasion, Eleanor thought she saw movement in the fields, but when she came closer, there was no one there, or perhaps there had been, but he had left. She slept late that morning, leaving Michael to work on his own.
She was proud of Michael’s strength as a scytheman. Most men could manage a half acre a day, but Michael cut half as much again through the long, long days. Whatever his age, he could still work hard. When she was younger, he used to entertain her with stories of working with other Mayo men on the English harvests, during the time of the French wars.
And then it was over. The corn was saved. That night, the rains started.
‘And, by God, that was good timing,’ Michael said.
The corn too was taken into the house where it could not be stolen. Micha
el decided they should keep it, and pay the rent using the money from Luke and Pat. Eleanor knew the high price of corn had tempted him to sell some at least of what he had, but that would destroy their own food reserves. For the next months, they must depend on Pat. It was hardly a month since Luke’s last letter with the remittance, most of which had been spent on Winnie’s ticket for New York. She doubted there would be another letter from America for some time. Either way though, their own food reserves and their reserves of cash meant that the family would not starve.
She thought again about Michael’s insistence on always paying the rent, regardless of any other calls for cash. What would happen if they refused? Was Mr. Burke in a position to do anything about it if they did? Or would he be ruthless enough to evict them? In the end, she knew she had no say in the matter. Michael would pay the rent, and there was no question of their being evicted.
But if the Ryans were secure, they lived in an ocean of increasing horror. Yes, there were other families who were receiving remittances from England and America, but these were few, and with many of them the few shillings received could never be enough.
The stories filtered back to Carrigard in different ways. Whenever Kitty came down, she brought desperate stories from the Mountain and the farms around. On one occasion, Michael walked five miles to Knockanure to buy a spade handle. She guessed that he was only walking off his own powerlessness. When he returned, he was quieter than before and would not discuss what he had seen or heard, either in Knockanure or on the road.
But the early talk of revolution had died down. Kitty did not mention it again on any of her visits, but that was not surprising since she lived well out of town, and was not close to sources of news. In any case, starvation around the Mountain was worse, and people had other things to think of.
One morning, when Eleanor was in Kilduff, she called into McKinnons’ on her way home.
The bar was dark, with a candle burning at either end of the counter. Four men sat around a table by the far wall, smoking at clay pipes with their drink. It was warm, and the fireplace was empty, stacked sods of turf alongside.
Sabina looked morose. This surprised Eleanor. Michael’s sister was not one to be easily put down. She handed Eleanor a gin, and waved away Eleanor’s coin.
‘Not that there’s much other business,’ she said. ‘The fellows down the end, they nurse their pints all day. All they talk of is the rebellion in Ballingarry, and I’m sick of it.’
‘I’m sure you are, but we hear nothing.’
‘Arra what. They were all on about it for weeks, they’re much quieter now. Damned if I know what’s happening.’
*
There was less need for Eleanor to go to Kilduff now. They had enough corn for now, but sometimes she bought a few pounds at Dillon’s, if only to listen to the talk of the women around her. In many ways, it troubled her, and even put her at risk of fever. Still, she had to keep abreast of what was happening in Mayo, and through the women’s gossip, she heard the reality of famine.
The failure of the potato had caused outright panic. The appearance of the potatoes in June and July had brought back confidence, but the total blight of August resulted in terror. Many people resigned themselves to death, but others fought for life.
She knew too that all the workhouses were either penniless, or close to it. She heard that roadworks for Famine Relief had started again, but it was as nothing compared to what it had been in the winter of ’46. Starvation was back, and with it, fever. Week by week, the number of deaths climbed. Now, she heard no one was being buried with coffins, and very few were even buried in churchyards. The priests tried to bring more corpses to trenches within consecrated ground. But, as the level of deaths soared, these too were filled, and new trenches were dug out along the Castlebar road, and hastily blessed. And still, the death carts clattered past Carrigard, jangling her nerves.
The women in the corn line were panicked by fever, and often no one would even approach houses or cabins where it was known to be present. Families died in total isolation. Sometimes the houses were tumbled over them, sometimes they were not. Many were buried in ditches and bog holes by people who were too scared to give them a proper burial. The rats feasted on the remains. She did not need the women to tell her this. Every time she went to Kilduff, she heard the squeaking from the ruins of the cabins, and from the ditches along the road where bodies and skeletons still lay.
And the flight from the land went on. Hordes of people passed through Kilduff and Carrigard.
‘Erris and Achill, that’s where they’re all coming from,’ Sabina said one day. ‘Partry too, I’ve heard.’
‘You’re right,’ Eleanor said. ‘And you know what I’m thinking, there’s many out there who’ll never make Dublin, let alone Liverpool.’
‘There’s many won’t even make it out of Mayo.’
*
She lay awake that night, listening to the wind rustling the leaves among the ash and birch trees.
Sabina was right, she thought. And it’s not just young people that are fleeing. Now the babies and old people escape with them. They dream of America, but there’s crowds of them will never get that far, nor nowhere near it. Even if they make it to the ports, the fever ships are waiting; death stalks the ocean trails. Oh God.
Were they the guilty ones? They were guilty of nothing. What difference does it make to You? What difference did it ever make to You? Guilty or not, they’ll suffer Your anger and pay Your price.
Oh, to hell with it, I’ll have to stop thinking like this. It only upsets me.
Chapter 3
Manchester Times, July 1848:
Liverpool. Several thousand special constables have been sworn in, and for the last few days the police have been exercised in the use of firearms, in addition to the sword exercise, and, liking the task, have attained great efficiency. About 600 additional policemen have been appointed. The additional soldiery who have already arrived are the entire regiment with the exception of one company of the 9th Infantry, three companies of the 31st Infantry, and three or four troops of the 4th Royal Irish Dragoons. A brigade of artillery has also arrived from Chester; and an official communication has been received that another body of 1,000 men will arrive here direct from London. Several hundreds of the servants of the Dock Trust have been sworn in as special constables, and a strong extra guard has been placed around the docks. Several thousand stand of arms have been received from Chester.
Danny was dead.
Pat was stunned. Since he had come to England again some months before, he had been working with his cousin, and he knew Danny as a ruthless man. Scrupulous too. Yet here he was being told that Danny had had an accident on the railways. That such an accident could have happened on the Manchester & Birmingham Line was bewildering for two reasons. First, none of Danny’s contracts were on that line, so why was he there? Second, it had happened on one of the longest straights in England. How could Danny have fallen under a train that would have been visible for miles? Had he been drunk or what?
It fell to Murtybeg to identify Danny’s corpse, but he asked Pat to accompany him. As the clerks went on their eleven o’clock break, they stepped outside, and flagged down a hansom cab.
‘You’ve no idea how thankful I am,’ Murtybeg said. ‘This is not going to be easy.’
‘I know,’ Pat said. ‘Your own brother…’
‘Yes, it’s rough. Not that it’d be much easier on you. Still, I think you’re more used to this kind of thing than I am.’
‘Because I lived longer in Mayo?’
‘Perhaps. But still, we’ve both got to face it. Danny killed himself.’
‘But how can we know that?’
‘We can’t know for sure. The police say he stood out on the track, straight in front of the train, as if he knew what he was doing. Leastwise, that’s what they say the driver said.’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’ Pat said. ‘Do you believe him though?’
‘I don’t know,’ Murtybeg said, ‘I’m inclined to believe him. It’s like I told you, Danny was under giant pressure, between the business and Irene.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said, ‘even I knew that.’
‘That woman, she had him where she wanted him. That’s what it was. Danny knew he had no chance. He had to marry her, and that was an end to it. If he tried anything else, she’d bring the business down. You know, Pat, it’s a strange thing when you think about it. Most men might look forward to marriage, and with good reason. But Danny was terrified of it.’
‘It’s hard to believe,’ Pat said.
‘Hard enough. We all thought of Danny as a right tough fellow, but I don’t know, these tough men are never quite what they seem.’
‘I know. I’ve met fellows like that. Hard as nails on the outside, but it’s all for show. Hiding what they really are.’
‘You’re right. But, like I say, there were other burdens on him.’
‘Like what?’
‘The Manchester & Salford Bank. He was in some kind of trouble with them, but what it was, I’ve no idea.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘For God’s sake, Pat, do you not see what’s under your own eyes.’
‘I haven’t been here as long.’
‘I know. But I think there was worse than that.’
‘What, in God’s name, could be worse?’ Pat asked.
‘That Inspector fellow who kept calling.’
‘Wasn’t that about the killings on the railway works?’
‘It was.’
‘But sure that was nothing to do with Danny. Surely you’re not saying…’
‘That’s just what I’m saying, Pat. I think Danny was more tied up in those killings than we thought.’