Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  There was one single reason against returning.

  Gaffney wanted Pat to observe Mayo, and Pat was frightened of what he might observe.

  *

  For a few days, he thought about it, and discussed it with Murtybeg, who had been sworn to secrecy. At length, he decided for Mayo and wrote to Gaffney, indicating his acceptance. Within a week, he had a reply confirming his position.

  He wrote to his mother and father to inform them he was returning, and a similar letter to Sarah in Westport.

  Irene, when he told her, did not seem in any way concerned. Pat knew that Murtybeg was the one who was really worried. As long as Pat was with him, he had some strength against her. With Pat gone, it would be hard to predict how matters might turn out between Murtybeg and Irene.

  The next day, matters changed again. He received a letter direct from Sarah. He saw from the date that they had crossed in the post – she had written to him on the same day as he had written to her. He opened it in pleasant anticipation, but what he received was a shock.

  Sarah’s mother, Mrs. Cronin, was opposed to any further contact.

  As head Matron in Westport Workhouse, she saw Sarah’s future in better terms than being married to a railway labourer. It appeared, that while Mrs. Cronin might have once been satisfied with Pat, that was when he was a clerk in what, at the time, was a permanent position. But his salary as a clerk in Knockanure Workhouse had dropped according as the workhouse moved closer to bankruptcy. It would be impossible to explain all that to Mrs. Cronin. He was earning far more with Edwardes & Ryan than he could in any clerical position in County Mayo. Nor was he a labourer, as Sarah herself pointed out in her letter, but it was impossible to convince Mrs. Cronin of this.

  Now Gaffney had invited him back to Mayo in a good position. The only problem was that Pat suspected that this would not be a permanent position. Then what future would there be when he was no longer a clerk in Mayo? Return to England? Or farm again in Mayo? Either way, Mrs. Cronin would not consent, that much was clear, and Pat could not expect Sarah to go against her own mother.

  He decided to say nothing to anyone. He was too hurt to think clearly.

  *

  Next morning, Murtybeg accompanied him to the station in a cab.

  ‘Don’t you have work to do?’ Pat asked.

  ‘I’m sure Edwardes & Ryan can do without me for an hour.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. That woman’ll have taken it over – lock, stock and barrel – if you’re away too long a time.’

  Murtybeg slapped him on the back.

  ‘Well, thank God, we’re still able to laugh.’

  At the station, a troop of cavalry stood across the street. They were being led by an officer, who wore a blue uniform with red piping, a Maltese cross on his shako. He was riding a tall chestnut horse, which pranced forward and back. Nervous perhaps? The officer made no attempt to control it, though the horses behind all stood in line, unmoving.

  ‘Who the devil are they?’ Pat asked the cabbie.

  ‘Those fellows, sir? That’s the Cheshire Yeomanry.’

  ‘What are they doing over here so? Aren’t they based in Chester.’

  ‘Oh, they are, but these lot, they’ll be the Stockport Troop. They’re based right here. They’re well spread around, the Cheshires are. They keep them in reserve so as to send them in whenever there’s trouble. They were in the Peterloo massacre. A savage lot. Pack of bloody murderers.’

  ‘That was all a long time ago,’ Pat commented.

  ‘Twenty or thirty years, who knows? They’ll never be forgotten for it though. And whenever there’s trouble – Liverpool, Manchester, Bradford, Leeds or wherever – they’ll have those fellows in. They’re off back to Chester now, I understand. Something to do with revolution in Ireland.’

  ‘Just because you know my accent…’

  ‘No, sir, it’s what they’re saying. It’s all over town. Though for my tuppence worth, I reckon it’s just an excuse to get them nearer to Liverpool. There’s talk of rioting there too.’

  Murtybeg paid off the cab, and they walked around the horses and into the station.

  ‘Was he serious?’ Pat asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That bit about revolution in Ireland.’

  ‘Damned if I know, though he seemed to know enough about it.’

  Pat bought the ticket. They both walked along the platform. Pat stepped into the carriage and stood by his pack inside the door.

  ‘You take care of yourself, Murteen,’ he said. ‘And watch your back.’

  ‘I will.’

  The train pulled out towards Manchester. The Manchester & Birmingham Line. The one that killed Danny. Let’s not think about that.

  In Manchester, he changed for Liverpool. He settled into a comfortable carriage for the journey.

  Going home to Mayo at last. Soon to meet the family. He knew his remittances had been vital, but what of the price of corn? Did they have enough to last out the winter?

  Lime Street Station. Liverpool at last.

  As the train came to a halt, he was not surprised to see more of the Cheshire Yeomanry disembarking from an open train on the other side of the platform. What did surprise him was the artillery; with horses yoked up to the gun carriages and the ammunition caissons. Already, a crowd was gathering around them.

  ‘That’ll sort the bloody Irish out,’ a woman in front of him said. ‘They’ll have enough of their bloody revolutions by the time our fellows are finished with them.’

  Pat did not reply. He had no desire for his accent to be recognized.

  One of the women tapped a young yeoman on the shoulder. ‘When are ye sailing?’

  ‘We’re not sailing at all,’ the soldier replied. ‘We’re for Liverpool, not for Ireland.’

  ‘Liverpool? Are you mad?’

  ‘You don’t have to go all the way to Ireland to find Irish rebels, you know. There’s plenty of them here in Liverpool. But don’t worry. They’ve thousands of us out at Everton. We’ll sort out the Irish Clubs. Show them who’s top dog in Liverpool.’

  The woman laughed in scorn.

  ‘Better be careful. The Afghans had ye running. And Liverpool’s a tougher nut to crack.’

  Pat walked towards Vauxhall, thinking. Thousands of troops in Liverpool. The city under military rule. Was this a war? Against who? The Liverpool Irish? Or Liverpool itself? Was England’s second city such a danger to the Crown? It made no sense.

  He decided to stay in Buckleys’. When he had come over, he had stayed at Brown’s Temperance Hotel. But that was last May, and all had thought that the blight was gone, and the Famine was disappearing. But now, it was back in full force. Every penny would be needed when he got to Mayo. No, there was no way he could waste money on the comforts of Brown’s.

  There was another factor in his thinking too. If Gaffney wanted him to ‘observe’ County Mayo, he might as well get used to doing it. Even at hundreds of miles remove, Buckleys’ was as good a place to start as anywhere.

  As it certainly was. It was as disgusting as he expected. He went into the dining-room, but the pigswill he was served, sickened him. He forced himself to eat it, but spoke to no one. From the accents, he could hear enough of Mayo around him. Almost all were speaking in Irish too. Most were desperately thin. Were these the people the yeomanry had to control in Liverpool? These were the men who would work the railways, if they could get work. But many more would end up in the squalid courts and cellars of the Liverpool slums all along Scotland Road, and the Manchester slums of Ancoats and Little Ireland.

  Next morning, he went to the George’s Dock, and walked towards the ticket office.

  A war steamer was docked close by. A group of soldiers were leading horses off the ship, more standing aside, watching them. Dragoons! He knew from passing through Liverpool before, that this part of the docks was for Irish shipping. Were they coming from Ireland? Why?

  One was standing apart, smoking a pipe. Pat stood besid
e him.

  ‘Come from Ireland, are ye?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Aye, and damned glad to be leaving it.’

  ‘Dublin, was it?’

  ‘Dublin! How I wish it was Dublin. We never got near Dublin. Mayo, that’s where we’ve been. Never got out of it.’

  ‘Mayo,’ Pat exclaimed.

  ‘Aye, and I have never been in a more cursed county.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said. ‘I’m from Mayo.’

  The soldier looked up in alarm. ‘Oh look, mate, I’m sorry…’

  ‘No need,’ Pat said, ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘It’s just that…with you looking all respectable and that.’

  Pat laughed. ‘I’m glad someone thinks so.’

  ‘There weren’t many in any kind of decent clothes in Castlebar. Rags – that’s all they wear. Doesn’t even cover their decency.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said ‘and it’s getting worse, from all I hear.’

  The unloading of the horses had finished.

  ‘Tell me,’ Pat said, ‘what’s this about revolution in Ireland. Is it all stories?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that, rightly,’ the soldier answered. ‘For myself, I think it’s all stories. After all, if there was a revolution, why would they be sending us home to England, and why would they be sending the Scots Greys to Mayo? There’s no talk of revolution in Mayo, that’s for sure.’

  ‘There’s talk of them sending the Cheshires over though.’

  ‘All talk, I’d say.’

  A convoy of six carts arrived alongside the ship, carrying sacks. One of them had burst and was trailing corn along the quay.

  Pat discovered that the HMS Orion was now to take forty of the Scots Greys to Westport, and on to Castlebar. At first, he thought the corn they were loading was for soup kitchens in Mayo, but it turned out that this was not the case. The corn was only bound for the military depot in Castlebar and for constabulary stations around the county.

  For what? Who were the army fighting in Mayo?

  He went to buy his ticket.

  ‘Any tickets for Westport?’ he asked.

  ‘None. The military have them all taken.’

  ‘Dublin so?’

  ‘Cattle boat or Kingstown?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Kingstown boat is the steam packet and it has no cattle. I’d advise you to go that way.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking to go the cattle boat anyhow.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘A shilling more. Shilling and four pence total.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Pat said. ‘Kingstown.’

  He put down a half-crown and took his change.

  ‘The Arlene,’ the man said. ‘Fourth along on your left.’

  Pat found the Arlene and walked up the gangplank. It was a single funnel vessel, streaming dirty black smoke. There were three masts, but all sails were furled. A red ensign flew from the rear.

  The crossing was a quiet one. It was crowded inside, but he found a single seat at a table with three other men. They were talking about the revolution. Pat said little, but listened. As far as he could deduce, it had centred on Ballingarry, a mining town in Tipperary or Kilkenny. But for all their excited discussion, they seemed to know little more. Nor were they too concerned about any question of famine.

  He went out on deck and walked towards the front of the ship. There was a strong breeze from behind, and, despite the time of year, it was cold. He had only been a short time in England, but already Ireland was a foreign country to him. He had never expected all the talk of revolution, but Mayo concerned him more. The potatoes had failed again, and Mayo would be starving. The lack of concern among the other passengers unsettled him. Did they not know? Or did they not care?

  Chapter 4

  Manchester Times, August 1848:

  Serious disturbance at Ashton. A policeman killed. Last evening, about 12 o’clock, the town of Ashton was thrown into consternation and alarm by a report that Chartists were intending to rise in insurrection at that hour, and from what occurred, it would appear that the report was not without foundation. About 10 minutes before 12, Police Constable James Bright was passing down Bentinck Street, and, when about 50 yards below the Chartist room, he was shot in the breast by some person at present not known to the authorities, although he must be known to at least 50 persons who were in company with the assassin, most of whom were armed with pikes or guns, and all were more or less armed with warlike weapons of some kind or other.

  In the weeks following Pat’s departure, Murtybeg found himself in an ever more impossible situation. Without Danny or Pat, he was the only Ryan in the business, and even his parents lived in Yorkshire, on the other side of the Pennine Mountains, leaving him alone in the evenings with Irene and the maid. They shared a large house, built for many more. It was almost as if they were man and wife. Perhaps people thought that, but Murtybeg did not care.

  Edwardes & Ryan were doing better than before. They won more contracts, including many contracts that Murtybeg had not expected. He did the pricing, but they had to be cleared through Irene first, who gradually started to do some of the pricing herself. When contracts were won, he did not complain, and when Edwardes & Ryan won a large contract in Bradford he was stunned, but relieved.

  He himself had done the pricing, and he knew they had strong competition. The contract was on the Colne Extension running west out of Bradford to connect the Leeds Bradford Railway with the East Lancashire. It was a Mackenzie contract. Three days after Danny’s funeral, Murtybeg himself had travelled to Bradford to negotiate the details with a Mr. Ackroyd, one of Mackenzie’s senior managers.

  Mackenzie was one of the top three contractors in Britain, along with Brassey and Peto. The ease with which Edwardes & Ryan had won the contract was surprising.

  He was checking through a far smaller quote for Andersons, when he saw something most odd.

  He had done the pricing himself, costing out labour, materials, overheads and a margin for profit. The total came to £520.

  He had then sent it out to Roughneen to double-check all the figures. What he had received back, was a new quote in someone else’s handwriting. The total now came to £572 – ten percent higher than his own quote. He checked through the detailed figures. Every single one had also been increased by ten percent. Of his own quote, there was no sign.

  Roughneen came into the office on other business.

  ‘Johnny, I want a word with you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This quote. I sent it out to you to check through. Mine seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘Miss Miller’s orders. All the prices are to be jacked up.’

  ‘But the wages and materials are supposed to be at cost.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Have we put up the wages?’

  ‘Of course, not.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘I just did what I was told.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t tell you.’

  Roughneen was downcast.

  ‘Sorry, Murteen.’

  Murtybeg approached Irene that afternoon.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked.

  ‘Increasing our margins. You do want to make a profit, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But that’s only after actual costs.’

  Irene leaned back in her chair. She glared at him, haughty and arrogant.

  ‘Look, you just do your job and I’ll do mine.’

  Over the next week, Murtybeg saw three more quotes increased by similar margins, but said nothing. Then, one day, he was working through a ledger, totalling outgoings. One single entry stood out starkly. To Nicholas Whittle, Anderson & Son. £50. Cash.

  Now all was clear. He stood in front of her desk, furious.

  ‘This is bribery.’

  ‘And what of it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not the way Edwardes & Ryan do business.’
>
  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Look, I want none of this. Even Danny wouldn’t do this. And it’s got to be stopped. This is our business, not yours.’

  ‘Is it?’

  *

  He decided to consider matters for a few days. At some point, he would have to confront Irene on policy, but first he decided to visit the Mackenzie site in Bradford again. There were technical issues to be resolved.

  He travelled into Manchester Piccadilly and bought a ticket to Bradford, and a copy of the Manchester Times. As he settled into his seat, the first item he saw related to riots and a murder at Ashton-under-Lyne. Astonished, he read the details. It had been a violent riot, and a policeman had been killed.

  Killing a policeman, how could they do that?

  The train stopped at Ashton, twenty minutes later. An older gentleman settled in the seat across from Murtybeg. He wore a long morning coat over a chequered waistcoat. Carefully, he took his top hat off, and placed it on the seat beside him.

  ‘It’s a dreadful business, this rioting,’ he said to Murtybeg.

  ‘I’ve only just read it,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘Absolutely shocking.’

  ‘I never expected violence like that.’

  ‘One doesn’t, does one. Though with the country the way it is, anything is possible. Where are you going yourself, young man?’

  ‘Bradford,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘I pass through Ashton, and here I am reading about it. What do you know yourself?’

  ‘Everyone’s talking about it. This country is in a state of war. They’ve got a troop of cavalry in, I hear. I doubt whether that will be sufficient to keep order though. The police are over-stretched too. The rumours are they’ll be bringing more of the Yeomanry from Chester. They say there’s hundreds of them, these damned Charter fellows, trying to overturn parliament. And the revolution is not just in Great Britain. There’s revolution all over the world. Paris is in a desperate way, I hear.’

  ‘Yes,’ Murtybeg said, ‘I’d read that.’