Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  ‘Spain, Naples, Frankfort and the rest of the German Confederacy, they’re all up in arms. Ireland too. You’re Irish, I would say?’

  ‘I am’ Murtybeg replied,’ but I can tell you, I am not into this kind of thing. I was never one for the Charter anyhow.’

  ‘I am not that kind either. Far too revolutionary, if you ask me. Votes for all men, we can’t have that kind of thing, can we? Votes should be confined to property, not every damned ruffian in the country. And they say they’re peaceable, but now they show their true colours. It’s all to do with this O’Connor fellow, Feargus O’Connor.’

  Murtybeg looked out the window. The train was beginning to climb towards Woodhead Tunnel.

  ‘It’s as you say,’ he said, ‘they should limit the vote to property.’

  ‘A man of property, are you?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘Edwardes & Ryan, we’re labour contractors. We work for the main contractors – Brassey, Mackenzie and the like.’

  ‘Men of the top rank and reputation.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘A good business then?’

  ‘It is. Last year was shaky, but it seems the panic is over.’

  ‘Let’s just hope another panic doesn’t begin. With all this talk of revolution, the financial markets are most unsteady.’

  After passing through the tunnel, they were drawing into another station. Two young men joined the compartment. Despite the time of year, they both wore canvas overcoats over knee-high leather boots. They too were talking about the Ashton riots.

  ‘It’s all these bloody Irish,’ one of them said. ‘O’Connor and his damned Repealers. They’re taking over the Charter. They should send them back to their own bloody country. Why should our rates pay for their damned laziness, when all we get in return is revolution? Shoot the lot of them, that’s what I say.’

  The old man took his top hat from the seat and held it on his knees. Neither he nor Murtybeg said anything. It was more than enough to listen to the endless hatred from the other two. He tried to ignore them.

  He went back to his newspaper. In Ireland, many arrests had followed on from the Ballingarry Revolt, and it was said that most of the ringleaders had been arrested.

  Liverpool was still a dangerous city. Thousands of troops and constables were keeping order in one of the most Irish cities in England. But what about Bradford?

  As they arrived, the two young men disembarked quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry you should have to listen to that kind of bilge,’ the old man said. ‘I thought it best we not talk while they were in the carriage.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Murtybeg said. ‘With my accent, God knows what would have happened.’

  The older man shook his hand.

  ‘It was most agreeable meeting you in any case, and I hope what you were saying about the railway business is true. Good luck with it all anyhow.’

  Murtybeg took a cab to the Mackenzie office.

  Crossing Kirkgate disgusted him. The rotten stink of sewage mixed with the phosphoric smoke pouring from hundreds of chimneys, came close to making him vomit. Was it worse than any other districts in other English towns? Vauxhall? Ancoats? Could Bradford be worse?

  Ackroyd showed him in.

  ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Mr. Ryan.’

  ‘Delighted to be here, too,’ Murtybeg said.

  Was Ackroyd too friendly? Had he been bribed too?

  ‘Which way did you come?’

  ‘By cab. Straight down from the L&Y at Mill Lane.’

  ‘Across Kirkgate?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘They’ve had quite a bit of rioting you know.’

  ‘I know. I hope you’ve had no troubles here.’

  ‘It was difficult enough to get to work some days. They had an armed guard on the office for a few days though, so we were safe enough when we got here.’

  The two men worked through the contract, discussing the labour requirements, quantities of muck to be removed in the cuttings, and many other things. It was some hours before they finished.

  Ackroyd stood.

  ‘It’s always a great pleasure to work with you, Mr. Ryan. Do return, we’re always happy to see you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Murtybeg said.

  Yes, he thought, as he left. He’s the one. He’s been bribed, no doubt about it. And I haven’t even been told.

  It was getting dark. He found a small inn and stayed there for the night. Next morning, he walked out the early stages of the Colne Extension, picturing all the work required in his own mind.

  Six men were working, hammering stakes into the ground and linking them with rope. Just beyond, a man was taking a sighting as another held a post some distance away. Murtybeg remembered the days when the Ordnance Survey had been working around Carrigard. What was it? Ten years ago? That was when McKinnon had come to Mayo and married Sabina.

  He walked to the first surveyor, who turned out to be friendly, and delighted that someone should be interested in his work. Within a few minutes, Murtybeg had sufficient information, including the width and breadth of the cutting and the depth of the clay to be removed at a number of points along the length of it. It was sufficient to give him a rough idea of the contract, and it confirmed Ackroyd’s figures and his own.

  When he returned to Kirkgate, he waved down a cab and returned to the Lancashire & Yorkshire terminal. It was unnaturally quiet.

  He walked to the ticket desk. ‘Single for Manchester.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ the clerk said. ‘All the Manchester trains are cancelled.’

  ‘Cancelled?’

  ‘Something to do with the riots. The army is out at Ashton. I think they’re worried the Chartists might cut the line, and there’s all sorts of stories about Manchester too.’

  Murtybeg walked out again, cursing his luck, the Chartists and the army. Now he was caught in Bradford.

  He reconsidered the matter. He was very close to where his parents lived outside Leeds, and where the Gilligan gang worked. He could visit, and still return to Stockport the following evening. But would the trains on the Leeds & Bradford line be running today? There was only one way to find out.

  He looked for a cab to go to the Leeds & Bradford station, but there were none. He began to walk back in the direction he had come. Again, he thought, it was very quiet. Being a Sunday, there were few men working.

  The silence was shattered by a sound of screaming. Several police officers were coming towards him, dragging a man with them. They were being followed by a large and angry crowd. He began to retrace his steps, but another mob was forming behind him too, and quickly he was engulfed in the yelling crowd.

  The policemen were being attacked. Their helmets were knocked off, and one of them had his coat and shirt ripped off, until he was stripped bare to the chest. Most of the assailants were women, and it was with a sense of surprise that Murtybeg realized that they were shouting in Irish. Many of their accents were clearly from the West. They began to throw bricks and broken paving stones at the police, some of which hit the prisoner and other rioters. Then the police were down, and the women caught hold of the prisoner and pulled him back out of sight.

  Then, a brick hit the top of his forehead, and he fell. Concussed for a few moments, he returned to consciousness, with a vicious pain in his head. He felt blood on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his wound. He crawled onto his hands and knees, and looked around him.

  The clamour was less, as one woman took control of the situation. She kicked and hammered at the police, encouraging the other women to do likewise. Soon afterwards, she was captured by the police, and they carried her away, still screaming. People were going down under the shower of missiles, some of whom appeared to be badly injured.

  More police arrived. Incredibly, they were carrying sabres. Across the road, a group of dragoons had appeared. They sat on their horses without moving. Murtybeg realised the danger. He stood up and staggered away. Stil
l weak, he pulled himself into a doorway.

  The police charged the crowd again, waving their sabres, but again they were beaten back. Then the dragoons moved slowly forward, and the crowd began to disperse.

  As order was restored, he left the shelter of the door. Going around through filthy back streets, he managed to evade most of the remaining crowd, as well as the police and soldiers.

  When he reached the Leeds & Bradford Station, the bleeding had stopped. He stared at the bloodied handkerchief. How much blood had he lost? He felt his forehead again, but there was no severe pain, and he guessed that his skull was not broken.

  He made his way to the ticket office. The ticket glanced at him.

  ‘Caught in the riots, sir?’

  ‘Yes, and may God damn them all to hell.’

  It struck him at once that his accent would have given away the fact that he was Irish. For a moment, he thought the clerk might try to have him arrested, but the moment passed.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Leeds.’

  ‘You’re lucky, sir. There haven’t been trains for hours now. There’s one leaving for Leeds in ten minutes though. Platform Two.’

  Murtybeg took the ticket and boarded his train. He was thankful to find an unoccupied carriage. He had no desire to have people staring at him and questioning where he might have been.

  He could not believe what he had seen. Bradford was a city at war.

  *

  He arrived at Leeds Station, and two hours hard walking brought him to Bramhope. Sometimes he travelled by road, sometimes along the new tracks of the Leeds & Thirsk. At times, he was faint, and could feel a swelling on his forehead, but he walked on and asked his way to the house where the Gilligan gang were staying. Jim Doyle answered his knock.

  ‘Murteen! Come in, come in.’

  The rest of the gang were at dinner, together with Murty. Gilligan stood up and came to shake his hand. ‘My God, you look rough. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Murtybeg said, casually.

  Aileen was not at the table.

  ‘Where’s mother?’ he asked Murty.

  ‘Just resting. Don’t you be worrying about her. What about you?’

  ‘I was caught in the riots.’

  ‘Riots?’ Gilligan exclaimed. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Bradford. Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Oh, Bradford, is it? We’d heard stories of fights right enough, but not what you’d call a riot. Was it as bad as all that?’

  ‘It surely was.’

  ‘So who was doing the fighting?’

  ‘It was those damned Chartists again. The peelers arrested some fellow, but the mob wasn’t having it, and they took them on.’

  ‘But…what in the name of God were you doing in Bradford?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘We’ve a new contract there. Surely you know…?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Gilligan answered. ‘I’m sure you’ll tell us all about it. But first, what about the riot?’

  Murtybeg recounted all he had seen of the riot.

  ‘Dragoons,’ Doyle exclaimed, at length. ‘They brought in dragoons for women and children.’

  ‘They had to,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘They’re tough women in Bradford, I can tell you.’

  ‘And Bradford isn’t the only place,’ Gilligan said. ‘There’s talk of a rising in Liverpool. They’ve thousands and thousands of troops there.’

  ‘I know,’ Murtybeg said, ‘I’ve read all about Liverpool. Ireland too.’

  ‘Arra, what kind of rising was that?’ Murty said. ‘Nothing like ’98, they weren’t that kind of men. But what can you expect, a gang of coalminers, what would they know? And their leaders, soft fellows, poets and the like. And this Smith O’Brien fellow, a landlord! Was he even on their side? Did he betray them, that’s what I’m asking?

  But Murtybeg was thinking of other things.

  ‘But…how’s mother?’ he asked again.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Murty said. ‘She was quiet enough before, but God, Danny’s death has rattled her. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.’

  Gilligan spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say. Danny dead. I could never understand it. Your father, he says Danny killed himself.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of it,’ Murtybeg replied. ‘We went to the morgue – Pat and myself. The story was that Danny had just stood up between the rails facing the engine. I saw what was left of him. That could only have come about by being dragged along under the train.’

  He looked across at Murty.

  ‘I’m sorry, father.’

  ‘No need. Whatever grief there was ever in me, it’s all burnt out this long time.’

  Murtybeg spent the night on the floor in his parents’ room, wrapped tightly in his greatcoat, and a heavy blanket wrapped around that.

  Murty woke him the next morning. He and Aileen were dressed.

  ‘Come on, Murteen, time for breakfast. The lads will be going out in half an hour.’

  Aileen said nothing. Murtybeg was more concerned than ever, but what could he do?

  ‘So what of Pat?’ Murty asked him. ‘How’s he getting on, with Danny gone?’

  ‘He’s gone back to Ireland,’ Murtybeg said. ‘I didn’t like saying it last night.’

  Murty was quiet for a few seconds.

  ‘Gone back to Ireland? What the devil would he do that for?’

  ‘He’s got some job with the County back in Mayo, though I’d reckon that’s not the only reason. There’s some girl he fancies in Westport too.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Murty said. ‘I’d heard tell of that.’

  When they went down, the others were already at their breakfast.

  ‘A hard day ahead, lads?’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘Hard is right,’ Doyle said. ‘Gilligan here, he works us into the ground, didn’t you know?’

  Murtybeg laughed. ‘And he’ll work ye for a long time yet, I’ve no doubt of that.’

  ‘If he gets the chance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s like this,’ Gilligan said. ‘A lot of the heaviest work has been done already, all the way from here into Leeds. They’re saying it’ll be finished in three or four months. The tunnels are near done, and that’s the snag.’

  Murtybeg was puzzled.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They want to keep the tunnellers as a gang. The Donegal fellows, that is. I can see why. They’ve no work for them, so what they’re aiming to do is to put them working on the cuttings. Not their kind of work, but at least it keeps them as one, until another tunnel comes up. And until it does, there’s many of us fellows being let go.’

  ‘So where will ye go?’

  ‘Well, there’s one thing for sure and certain, we’re not going back to Ireland. It’s in a desperate mess. Utter starvation.’

  ‘Don’t I know.’

  ‘No, we’re going to have to stay here. Like yourself, we’re looking at Bradford. The only question is – can we get work with Brassey? If not, we won’t hang together as a gang.’

  Murtybeg looked across at his father. If they could not stay together, then there would be no need for anyone doing their paperwork. And where would that leave Murty? As a labourer? A navvy?

  And what of Aileen?

  A bowl of porridge was placed in front of him. He took the buttermilk from the centre of the table and poured. Doyle was talking.

  ‘What of this business you have in Bradford, then? Is that through Edwardes & Ryan?’

  ‘It is,’ Murtybeg answered.

  ‘But how are you managing without Danny?’

  ‘I’m dealing with Mackenzie’s direct. One of his bosses.’

  ‘You got the work easy enough.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Still the cheapest on the railways?’

  ‘We must be.’

  Murtybeg was thinking of the question of bribery, but no need to mention that.

  ‘And still using fellows from the far end of Mayo?�
� Gilligan asked.

  ‘No need,’ Murtybeg answered. ‘There’s plenty of fellows in Bradford.’

  ‘And how do you think Bradford is for wages?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘They’d be low, that’s for certain, but I don’t need to tell you fellows that. You know how they live in Bradford, and if you don’t, sure it’s just like in Leeds. If I were in your shoes, it isn’t Bradford I’d be looking at, unless you can find Brassey contracts there.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Gilligan said, ‘and there’s the real nub of the matter. What will we do if we can’t get work with Brassey? Work with Edwardes & Ryan, is that it?’

  Murtybeg hesitated.

  ‘I think ye’d be better off with Brassey.’

  Gilligan stood and pulled on his donkey jacket.

  ‘Well, I’ve no doubt we’ll meet again, Murteen,’ he said. ‘In Bradford, I’d say, unless we all end up back in Ireland again.’

  ‘No way are we going to do that,’ Doyle said. ‘The blight is back, and we all know what that means. The only thing waiting in Ireland is death.’

  Soon afterwards, Murtybeg left to walk back to Leeds. Then he took the short train journey to Bradford. Crossing the centre of the city from the Leeds & Bradford Station to the Lancashire & Yorkshire Station, he passed close by Adelaide Street and Manchester Road. The mills were open, but there were very few on the streets, except police officers and mounted dragoons. As he walked, a woman turned and spat at him. A dragoon raised his sabre, and she scuttled into a nearby lane. The man smiled at Murtybeg.

  ‘Glad to be of service, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Murtybeg said and walked on. It was as Danny had said. It was always best to dress well. Even the army knew who their betters were.

  He bought a ticket at the station, and sat in his carriage, brooding.

  England in revolution! Yes, there had been riots in Manchester, Danny had spoken of that before he had died. Now, he too had seen it with his own eyes. The violence in Bradford had shocked him. And what of Liverpool? The newspapers said it all. Thousands of troops keeping order, the government terrified of an uprising in Liverpool, more violent than the one in Ireland. And yes, Ireland was quiet, but why? Tens of thousands of troops. Was that what it took to keep Ireland down? Martial law?