Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

‘Hey, Paddy, isn’t it time you went back to your own country?’

  Luke pulled his arm away.

  ‘If you’re not careful, it’s Kingdom Come, you’ll be going to.’

  The man stared at him, but said nothing.

  ‘Step outside,’ Luke said. ‘You can fight me there.’

  The line had gone silent. Luke walked away. There was a scream from behind him.

  ‘Bloody Irish. Cholera laden scum, that’s all you are. Why don’t you get out of this country? We don’t want your filthy diseases here.’

  But no one followed him out.

  ‘It’s a story we’d heard before,’ Mrs. Gleeson told him that evening. ‘There were stories of the cholera in 1832. That time they blamed the Irish fellows working on the railway gangs for bringing cholera to Pennsylvania, and then to New York. There was a big gang of Irish lads, most from Derry and Donegal, working at a place called Malvern. Damned near sixty of them. All died of cholera, almost every one of them. Or that’s the story, if you want to believe it. There were two lads lived; said it was murder.’

  ‘Murder!’ Luke exclaimed.

  ‘Just like I said. The story was the Philadelphia people reckoned if they killed the Irish fast enough, the cholera would go away. Now, mark you, I’m only telling you what I heard. What the truth of it is, I just don’t know. But let’s just hope they don’t get any ideas like that around here.’

  ‘But we’re the ones who are suffering,’ Luke said.

  ‘Aye,’ Mrs. Gleeson said, ‘and a good excuse for the bastards to attack us. The cholera has made them frightened. But it’s not your fault Luke, nor little Liam’s either.’

  *

  At last, it was time to go. Luke paid Mrs. Gleeson the rest of his rent. After they had breakfast, Luke packed their bags, and slung them over his shoulders. Then Winnie took the baby in her arms, and they walked along the street to the New Jersey Railroad.

  Chapter 13

  Telegraph & Connaught Ranger, Mayo. December 1848:

  In short, wherever men have erected their miserable hut in our county, starvation and death have ferreted them out. The declining sun beholds the mourning orphans weeping on the high roads over the inanimate bodies of their starved parents. The stars of night keep vigil over the dead; the broad canopy of heaven their shrouding sheet; the loud howling night blast wailing over the dead, until the sun again and again makes his journey around the earth. Mayo! Mayo! To mourn thy dismal fate is indeed poor consolation. Throughout the length and breadth of the county, it is one vast howling wilderness.

  In December, another letter arrived from Luke, enclosing money for the family and for Mrs. Gallagher, and telling of their plans for Lackan. His letters brought great relief to the family. It was clear to them that he was well settled in America with Winnie and Liam, and could afford to send money back to Carrigard as long as the hunger lasted.

  Next day, Pat left Carrigard to travel to Castlebar. Two dead bodies this time. And again, the carts with miserable families in them, creaking their way towards Castlebar.

  When he arrived at the Union buildings in Castlebar, it was bitterly cold. Despite this, there was a large crowd in front of the workhouse gates, six soldiers in greatcoats standing guard in front of them. The crowd was very quiet though, no keening and only one baby wailing. Four fires burned along the edge of the wall.

  He pushed his way through, identified himself. This time, the gate was opened a little, and he pulled the horse through. There was the same crowd of men, women and children in the Stonebreakers Yard. Some were wearing rough coats to protect against the bitter cold, but many were not. Some had rags wrapped around their hands, but many others had not. Their hands showing white and blue as they grasped the sledgehammers, rising and falling on the rock they were breaking.

  He walked around the side of the yard, left his horse with a stable-hand and entered the administration block.

  ‘Pat!’ Gaffney exclaimed, standing up from his desk. ‘You’re looking cold.’

  ‘And so are the people outside, I’d say,’ Pat said.

  ‘I know, I know. And I wish there was more we could do for them. I’d turn heaven into hell, but we just don’t have the money. Now what have you got to tell me?’

  Pat took a chair and sat close to the fire in the corner. For some time, he spoke in a low monotone; Gaffney straining to hear but saying nothing. When Pat had spoken himself out, Gaffney stood up.

  ‘It’s as bad as all that?’ he asked.

  ‘Worse. Words aren’t enough…’

  ‘Have you got your notebooks?’

  Pat opened his pack, and brought them out. Gaffney sat again and began to flick through them.

  ‘You met Father Nugent, did you?’

  ‘I did. He told me much, but sure I didn’t need the telling; I could see it with my own eyes.’

  Gaffney read on. At last he put the notebooks down.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s worse than even I had thought. And that’s just the Ox. The workhouses can’t even feed the people inside, but, from all you’re saying, it’s even worse in the mountains, and I’m beginning to think it’s there we’ll have to concentrate whatever funds we have. Now what I want you to do is this. I want a proper report put together out of all your notes here. Your best copperplate too. We want it so as the Grand Jury and the rest of the fellows will read it. Make it as detailed as you like, but make sure it’s accurate. And when you’re finished, I’d like you to copy it out three times more.’

  *

  Pat spent that day and the next in the Union building, writing. Many times, he had to stop and think, so as to marshal his thoughts. Sometimes, he choked on what he had written. Even the memories were enough to sicken him. He would have to control his mind and stop reacting like this. How did Father Nugent put up with it? And Voisey? And what of the people themselves? Perhaps they were numbed by how much they had seen.

  Gaffney came in and took up what had already been written, glancing through it quickly.

  ‘Very good, Pat,’ he said, ‘you’ve certainly a way with words.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Gaffney.’

  ‘There’s one thing from all you say that causes me great concern though. It’s all this you say about the underclass…’

  ‘The underclass?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Just a word I use for it. The landless men – the people in the mud cabins – the ones who are never on any rent rolls, never enumerated…’

  ‘No one even knows they exist,’ Pat said. ‘Isn’t that what I’m telling you?’

  ‘I know it is,’ Gaffney replied. ‘It’s just what I’ve always known myself. You know, I was reading in Dublin once that there were half a million cabins in this country at the time of the last census. 1841 that was. I’d have said the number would have been higher by the time all this began. It would have been higher again with all the people the census missed. Can you imagine it, Pat? Five hundred thousand tigíns. More? How many people would live in each of them?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Mr. Gaffney. Three? Four? Five?’

  ‘So there you have it. Two million people, give or take. A quarter of the whole country, and the half of them we don’t even know about. How much money do you think these people have?’

  ‘Sure they wouldn’t have any money at all. They’ve nothing to sell.’

  ‘And there’s the point again. These people will never emigrate. They don’t have the strength to get to Dublin, or the chance to get across to Liverpool even if they got that far. And they sure as hell don’t have the money to get to America. The landlords won’t pay their way either – they don’t even know they’re there. Or don’t want to know perhaps. So these people have to stay here, isn’t that it? No money for leaving, no money for corn neither, so what do they do when the potato runs out?’

  ‘They starve,’ Pat said.

  ‘Yes, Pat,’ Gaffney said, ‘starve is right. The tenant farmers, they can still buy corn, even if it’s damned little. They’ve got enough mon
ey to make it to Liverpool, and most have family in America who can send them money to cross the Atlantic. But the underclass, they’re not tenants. Their people never went anywhere, because they never had the money, and people who never went will never send back remittances. This is what the fools in Dublin Castle can never understand. This famine is going to wipe these people out, the whole famished brood of them. By the time this is over, there’ll be damned few mud cabins left.’

  When he handed over his completed reports, Gaffney took one copy, and locked it in his cabinet. ‘For posterity, you might say,’ he said. ‘No one’s ever going to destroy that one.’

  Then he and Pat went through the remaining copies, paragraph by paragraph, for the rest of the morning. At last, Gaffney took three large envelopes. Carefully, he inserted a copy of the report in each.

  ‘This one is for the Grand Jury here in Castlebar,’ he said to Pat. ‘And this one is for those damned fools in Dublin Castle. And this – this is for the Connaught Telegraph. Mr. Cavendish will know what to do. He’ll be selective, mind you. We wouldn’t want people to know he was copying a County report, would we?’

  The weather continued cold. Pat worked on correspondence and accounts under Gaffney’s instructions. In many ways, he found it relaxing. Had Gaffney known how worn out he had been. Perhaps. But his rest was not to last.

  *

  One morning, Gaffney came into Pat’s office with an inmate. He was young, Pat guessed. Twelve or fourteen, perhaps.

  ‘Pat, I’d like you to meet Thady McLaughlin,’ Gaffney said. ‘I know how much you are overworked, and I thought you might need someone to help.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Pat said. ‘All help would be appreciated.’

  ‘Thady here can read and write. Best of all though, he’s fast at arithmetic. Very fast.’

  ‘That could be useful,’ Pat said.

  After Gaffney had left, Pat fetched a chair from the other side of the room and sat Thady down. He was dressed in the striped workhouse garb. The stench was overwhelming.

  ‘So you can add?’ he asked.

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Let’s try you so. Try adding this column.’

  Pat went back to the letter he was writing and was surprised when Thady told him he was finished, less than a minute later.

  ‘My God, that’s fast,’ he said. ‘They taught you well. Where did you learn adding like that?’

  ‘Croghancoe.’

  ‘Croghancoe!’

  ‘Séamus Doherty would come around every second week, stay two days. Blackboard on his back, and a leather strap in his pocket. He beat the hell out of us. We learnt fast enough.’

  Thady could do his numbers! What of Cairbre Mór, another man from Croghancoe who could do his numbers. Might Thady know him? He decided not to ask.

  ‘I didn’t think many could read and write on Croghancoe, let alone do arithmetic,’ he said.

  ‘There weren’t many in the class,’ Thady said. ‘Only a dozen or so. The rest had no use for book learning.’

  ‘But how did you get here?’

  ‘Walking. They wouldn’t let us on the Works at Croghancoe, so we walked all the way over. My mother and father died on the journey.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘My father and myself, we buried my mother in a bog. Then he died, and I had to do the same for him.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Pat said.

  ‘Oh God! What call is there for that? Blessings won’t bring them back. Whinging neither. Here, give me another.’

  Pat slipped him another page and pointed.

  ‘Here. This one. Do it at your own pace.’

  Pat watched as Thady worked on the column. As he did so, Pat checked the first column he had added, but Thady was ready before Pat was. Without being told, he went on to adding another column. By now, Pat had finished the first, and found Thady was precisely right.

  He was very quiet. Pat sensed some sort of resentment there, though whether it was directed against the workhouse, or against him personally, was hard to say.

  A female inmate entered, and put a bowl of oatmeal in front of Thady. She left without a word. Pat realised it was lunchtime. Thady started to eat the oatmeal, and between mouthfuls, continued with his work. He looked at Pat.

  ‘There’s no need for you to stay. I don’t need overseeing.’

  Pat was a little surprised. He locked his letters away.

  ‘Do you not trust me?’ Thady asked.

  ‘I trust no-one with these letters.’

  ‘Must be dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous enough.’

  He left to go to lunch in the administration canteen. Better eating here than living on workhouse fare. Afterwards he took part of his steak and brought it back up to the office. He held it out to Thady.

  ‘I’ve no need of your charity,’ Thady responded. ‘You may eat it yourself.’

  Pat munched on the steak, still watching Thady working. He had completed a lot over lunchtime.

  ‘You’re fast,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  At dinner time Thady left the office and returned to the main workhouse canteen.

  Work continued the same way over the next few days. By now, Thady was doing almost all the arithmetic, while Pat concentrated on letters. Sometimes, after working hours, he checked Thady’s calculations, and found they were always correct. But very few words passed between them.

  ‘You’re a strange fellow,’ Pat said one morning.

  ‘No stranger than yourself.’

  ‘You talk very little.’

  ‘I don’t talk to the Ryans.’

  Pat looked up in amazement.

  ‘You don’t? Why on earth not?’

  ‘You lived through the Hunger.’

  ‘So did you, Thady. Aren’t you alive now?’

  ‘I am, but damned near wasn’t. Your brother was a right bastard.’

  ‘My brother!’

  ‘Luke Ryan. He was the one wouldn’t let my father or my mother on the Relief Works. And now they’re dead.’

  Pat was speechless. He knew there was little he could say that would change Thady’s thinking.

  ‘And you,’ he said at last. ‘Did Luke take you on the Works?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Sure he couldn’t take everyone.’

  ‘That’s what they all say. And before you say it again, yes, I’m still alive and no thanks to ye, nor your breed neither. Ye crucified our family, but I’m the one that feels guilty. Can you explain that?’

  ‘You’ve nothing to feel guilty about,’ Pat said.

  ‘Oh, but I do. I lived through it all, I saw it all and I’m still living. But if I feel guilty, so should you. Your brother more so.’

  And there the conversation stopped.

  Any further attempts at discussion were met with – ‘I’ve work to do.’

  *

  One day, Gaffney called him to his office.

  ‘Time to go, Pat.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Now let me tell you about Erris.’

  He took out a map.

  ‘You should take this with you. There are three areas that concern us. The first is this part north of Nephin and Nephin Beg, running all the way up by Sheskin to Slieve Fyagh and Ben Mór. The Ballina Belmullet coach road runs through it, but there’s little else. That’s why the map is blank.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ Pat said. ‘And I’ve heard of Sheskin.’

  ‘Nothing but bog, the most of it. Some of it is very difficult to cross, and our problem is that we know very little about it. We have no idea how many people are in there or even what they’re living on. You can approach it from Newport, from Castlebar or from Foxford, I’ll leave that choice to you.

  ‘Fine,’ Pat said.

  ‘Now the second area is this strip running up to Dooncarton and Pollatomish. Stories we’re getting from there have been dreadful and I’d like to know what you think. You can read them before you go.’

  ‘I will,’ Pat sai
d.

  ‘Good. Now, there’s just one area out here we categorically need information on. That’s the Mullet Peninsula and we’ve heard terrible things about that place since the Walshe evictions. A savage business. Just before Christmas too.’

  ‘I’ll find it and see what’s there,’ Pat said.

  ‘I knew I could depend on you. There’s just one little problem though. I’m afraid on this occasion we can’t let you have a horse. There’s been too much piracy out Erris and all down the Mullet, and the County reckons that if we gave you one, it’d only be stolen for eating.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But I must stress, on this occasion, your report will be of the highest importance.’

  He handed Pat a newspaper.

  ‘This is The Times,’ he said. ‘The Times of London no less. Look here.’

  Pat took the paper.

  ‘Erris! They’re writing about Erris.’

  ‘They are. And isn’t it about time they did.’

  For a minute, Pat read through it, while Gaffney remained silent. Then Pat folded the paper.

  ‘This is…this is horrible.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gaffney said. ‘Appalling, isn’t it? Even The Times is beginning to understand what’s happening in Mayo. This will really shock the nice gentlemen in London, and make them throw up their breakfasts with the fright of it.’

  ‘Lucan can’t ignore this then,’ Pat said.

  ‘He can try. And it’s not as if we’ll be able to shout louder than The Times can. The Times hates Ireland and the Irish. They’ve been calling this famine a blessing. We’ve got to shame the bastards. And Lucan.’

  ‘But how…?’

  ‘Through your reports, Pat. If we do it right, Mr. Cavendish will select whatever extracts he wants and have them re-written in the Connaught Telegraph. Some will find their way into the English papers, and counter The Times and their vicious bigotry. They might even force The Times itself to print more of the truth about Mayo. So that’s why you’re going to Erris, Pat. We can’t have a London paper knowing more about it than we do. Especially the bloody Times.’

  Chapter 14

  The Times, London. January 1849:

  At Doona, a village in Erris, two families, Lennane and Quin, nine in number, occupied a small mud cabin, Lennane, the father, was in prison for sheep stealing. His wife and children were therefore compelled to enter the workhouse, but lately left it that they might eat a small quantity of potatoes that were growing on a patch of ground attached to the cabin. The Quins were allowed a stone and a half of meal a week, but, one of them catching fever, went to the hospital, whereupon the allowance of meal was reduced half a stone. The children of Lennane also caught the fever. The eldest died in a few days, and was buried in the potato garden. Seven others died, but the survivors were too weak to remove their bodies, which lay putrefying amid the living until the neighbours burst in the cabin door, when they found one of the bodies devoured by rats, and the stench from both intolerable. As the survivors crept from their hovel, their appearance horrified the spectators.