Cold Is the Dawn

by Charles Egan

  *

  A letter arrived in Carrigard. Eleanor handed it to Michael. ‘Where’s it from?’

  Michael looked at the postmark, ‘Bradford.’

  ‘Bradford? Who on earth could be writing to us from Bradford?’

  He ripped it open.

  ‘Murty.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Bradford?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘They’ve moved there to live. The two of them.’

  ‘Bradford,’ she exclaimed. ‘After we just talking about it.’

  ‘What else does he say?’ Pat asked.

  ‘Nothing much. He’s well. Aileen’s well, and that’s about it.’

  ‘I’ll have to tell Sabina,’ Eleanor said. ‘Kitty too.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said, ‘I suppose you will. He’d certainly be able to advise them about Bradford, no doubt about that.’

  That afternoon, Eleanor took Brigid up to Sabina’s bar. She threw the letter on the counter. Sabina glanced through it.

  ‘Kitty,’ she shouted.

  Kitty came from the kitchen, where she had been washing the empties.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Aileen’s living in Bradford. Murty too.’

  ‘And we only talking about Bradford last night!’ Eleanor added.

  ‘So are ye saying I should go then?’

  Eleanor held her hand up.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ she said. ‘First, I’d suggest we write a letter to Murty and Aileen, and explain that you are thinking of it.’

  That evening, Sabina wrote to Murty. Six days later, Sabina and Kitty appeared at Carrigard with his reply.

  Sabina spoke first. ‘He says that they’re staying with a Mayo family by the name of Kerrigan. They own some sort of boarding house. Mrs. Kerrigan might be able to board one or two girls. Her next-door neighbour, the same. And there’s more than that.’

  ‘What is it?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘He says there’s a desperate call for workers in the mills.’

  ‘Well, it’s all clear then,’ Sabina said. ‘I’ll write another letter to Murty, and confirm the four girls are coming.’

  Some days later, Kitty left Kilduff with the three Kilduff girls. Sabina had given her thirty shillings for travelling, which Kitty insisted was only a loan.

  Eleanor was heartbroken to see her go, but she knew there was no future for Kitty anywhere in County Mayo.

  Next day, a letter arrived from America. Eleanor gave it to Pat.

  ‘Lackan, Pennsylvania,’ he read out. He opened it and passed it to Michael.

  ‘They’ve left New York,’ Michael said. ‘Off working in the coal mines. They must be doing very well.’

  ‘Well thank God for that,’ Eleanor said.

  She took the bank draft and passed it to Pat.

  ‘Perhaps you’d drop this in to the Hibernian Bank in Knockanure tomorrow.’

  *

  So there it is, she thought, that night. Exile, Your only answer. Is this the land You promised us? Mayo, a land flowing with milk and honey? Or four long years of torture. No milk, no honey, not even potatoes, only death. Kitty is leaving now, how it breaks my heart. What future for her, poor girl, working the machines in their mills? She has no idea of what awaits her, nor do I, except there’ll be precious little milk, and no honey. The same with Luke and Winnie and little Liam. What kind of hellholes are these mines? Your punishment, but for what? And Sarah, breeding stock for jailbirds at the other end of the earth. Is this some kind of joke? No, I won’t let You do that. Sarah stays, damn You. She’s ours.

  Chapter 20

  Telegraph & Connaught Ranger, Mayo. March 1849:

  Horrible Deaths! Ballintubber! We have just been informed that last week, a poor woman with three children, turned out of the workhouse on the Outdoor Relief, which as stated to us, they never got, were found dead in a lime kiln in the townland of Culladeer, Parish of Ballintubber, from fever and starvation, and in a decomposed state. The police got some straw thrown over them and then covered them with earth.

  After Pat had left for Knockanure with the bank draft, a letter came from Castlebar. Eleanor knew full well what it meant. She handed it to him when he returned that evening.

  ‘You haven’t opened it,’ he said.

  ‘Sure it’s none of my business, that’s what I was always taught. Don’t open letters that aren’t addressed to you.’

  ‘Arra what. It’s our business that’s for certain. If it’s from Castlebar, it’s your business.’

  He slit it open.

  ‘He’s expecting me tomorrow. He wants me to travel to Partry.’

  ‘Partry. How bad is it there?’

  ‘Bad enough, he says, and isn’t it my job to find out? But I’ll tell you this, mother, if it’s anything like Erris, it’s savage.’

  ‘Erris! You’ve not said a word about Erris.’

  ‘Sure you knew I was attacked.’

  ‘I knew that much, but you never told me anything more, and never mentioned it since you came home.’

  ‘Ye never asked me.’

  ‘We thought it better not to ask you, and that you’d tell us in your own good time.’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t want telling you.’

  ‘But I’m your mother. If it’s that terrible, I’d be able to comfort you.’

  ‘You will in time. Wait till I get back from Partry.

  *

  When Pat arrived in Castlebar, Gaffney was at a meeting.

  He found a map and an empty office. Partry, south west of the county. Many mountains, that was for sure.

  After some time, Gaffney entered.

  ‘Hiding away, were you?’

  ‘I’ve just been studying this map. Partry is a long way.’

  ‘It is, and I’m thinking this time you should take a horse,’ Gaffney said. ‘I don’t think that knock on the head did you much good.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr. Gaffney?’

  ‘It’d be easier for you to ride. Partry is tough enough – as much as Erris perhaps, but at least you won’t have the same kind of swamp and bog as you had going up to Glenamoy. And there’s many things I’d like you to do, so it won’t be easy.’

  ‘Like what?

  ‘First, see if you can call on Father Ward in Ballinrobe. He’s a most informative man.’

  ‘I know,’ Pat said, ‘I’ve met him.

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten. The time you were down there last year.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He passed a letter to Pat.

  ‘This is from the good Father. I don’t know that you should believe everything that he says. Whatever you do, you must accompany him on his calls and make your own assessment.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Gaffney.’

  ‘He says there’s cholera in Ballinrobe.’

  ‘I’d heard.’

  ‘Which is a bit odd, since there’s none here.’

  ‘You think he’s lying?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d like you to find out.’

  ‘How in hell…’

  ‘I’m sure Father Ward will show you. Otherwise the workhouse certainly will.’

  Gaffney crossed to a cabinet and took out another map. He unfolded it in front of Pat.

  ‘Now before you even get to Ballinrobe, there’s something else. I’d like you to travel by Claremorris. I want you to get some idea of the appearance of the country after the Lucan evictions.’

  ‘In Claremorris?’

  ‘No. After Claremorris, but closer to Ballinrobe. Just here,’ he said, pointing at the map.

  ‘Levally?’

  ‘Yes, and Caheredmond just after it. As you can see there’s more villages in here to the side. There’s been massive evictions here too.’

  Pat looked at the map.

  ‘I’d never heard of any of this. I thought Lucan was only evicting around Westport and Castlebar.’

  ‘No, no,’ Gaffney said, ‘Lucan owns thousands of acres in the south of the county. A right murderer he is too. And for God’
s sake, don’t tell anyone I said that. If he hears, we’ll sure as hell never get any rates out of the bastard for the workhouse. Nor for anything else neither.’

  Pat examined the map more closely. There were many villages to the east of the road, none of which he had ever heard of.

  Gaffney extracted another map, and placed it on the table.

  ‘Next point. Father Ward keeps sending us terrible stories of the mountains here – the Partry Mountains and Maumtrasna to the west. Like I’ve said before, I don’t know how much to trust his reports, but if you can find him in Ballinrobe, he might direct you to the worst places. Can you do that?’

  ‘It has to be done,’ Pat replied, ‘isn’t that it?’

  ‘It does, I’m afraid. And one more thing too. The last area I’d like you to look at is over here. When you’re finished with Father Ward, it’s easy enough to follow the road down here, and then up to Killary. It’s after that the problem is. This area running along the coast by Killary Harbour, under Mweelrea Mountain, and on up the coast to Roonagh, Louisburgh and Westport. We got terrible reports from Louisburgh back in ’47. The area was badly hit by the fever epidemic in that year.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pat said. ‘It was terrible up the Ox Mountains that time too.’

  ‘According to the Connaught Telegraph, the fever killed an awful number along the coast beyond Louisburgh, all the way to Killary. Wiped out whole fishing villages, they say. Again, what the truth of it is, I just don’t know. Cavendish often exaggerates; all editors do. Not that I mind Cavendish shocking them in Dublin Castle now and again, but we must find out what’s really happening. Lord Sligo is landlord for the area west of Louisburgh, but I’m not sure he’d know much, or tell us if he did. The real problem in this area is the lack of roads. All along the strip between Mweelrea and the shoreline, there’s almost no roads at all. The surveyors did well in surveying it back in ’38 and even the census takers got some information there, but I reckon there’s many areas they did not reach. The fishermen see no need for roads when they can go everywhere by boat. There’s some fields cultivated too, and I’d guess between potatoes and fish, they’ve enough to eat in a normal year. But what I’d really like to know is what happened to them during the epidemics of ’47 and what’s happening there today.’

  ‘How would I get across without a road?’ Pat asked.

  ‘I reckon you’d be able to lead your horse across. There should be some kind of trails in the grass and heather going from one settlement to another. Going over the rocks might be tricky, but it’s most important we try it.’

  ‘Fine, so.’

  ‘One other thing’ Gaffney said, ‘when you get to Louisburgh, you might see if you can find Dean Callanan. He might be a proselytiser, but what of that? Here, read this.’

  He passed Pat a copy of the Dublin Evening Packet, and pointed:

  The Famine years of 1846, 1847 and 1848 were halcyon years when contrasted with the dismal year of 1849! To give you a few examples of the suffering of our poor, four of one family travelled 60 Irish miles (for they had to go three times from Louisburgh to Westport) to the Westport Poor-House to seek for aid; they sought it in vain; two of the number perishing (being exhausted by famine) in endeavouring to cross the rivers; the remaining two lagged behind from exhaustion and thus were saved – saved from the water, starved on the land! Another poor man was found dead in my parish from hunger a short time since; the only property he had on him was a ticket to the poor-house; he died before he reached it! He was huddled on a horse’s back, and buried in his rags in a sandbank! Frequently, I have known of two of the family lying dead in one cabin from starvation, and it causes not the least excitement in my locality. I hear parents about me returning God thanks for taking away by death their famine stricken children, their poor children who had died from the effects of hunger and cold; the sandbanks about me are studded with the bodies of the dead! Often, I have given some aid to the poor to buy coffins; for the small sums they receive from me, they bought some food, and then buried their dead in the sandbanks. The very graves in my churchyard have, in my presence, been assailed by the starving dogs! From morning until night, I am now hourly beset with crawling skeletons begging for food! The poor persons set down as entitled to outdoor relief are not this moment receiving half the quantity ruled for them! The poor in my parish ought to have received their trifle of relief for this week last Thursday. No meal has yet arrived from Westport nor is any distribution expected here before Sunday next. The recipients of outdoor relief are starving three days in the week! Such, my dear friend, are the sufferings of our poor – here now my own case. For the last year and a half, I received only £20 from the parish and I have had to pay more than £22 in poor rates and cesses in this period.

  PJ Callanan incumbent of Louisburgh.

  John, Archbishop of Tuam.

  ‘What do you think?’ Gaffney asked.

  ‘Sounds just like Erris. Maybe worse, I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, it could be worse. It’s most important that you talk to Dean Callanan. The local priest too, I don’t know what his name is. Not that it matters. I’m sure Dean Callanan is not exaggerating. Protestant or not, you see the name under his.’

  ‘The Archbishop?’

  ‘McHale.’

  ‘McHale,’ Pat exclaimed. ‘But sure he’s Catholic.’

  ‘He is,’ Gaffney said. ‘And Bishop McHale is supporting a Protestant vicar, no less. There’s no arguments about proselytising or anything else either. Protestant, Catholic or Presbyterian, they’re all singing off the same hymn sheet now. And about damned well time too.’

  *

  That evening, Pat wrote a brief letter to Carrigard, explaining about his plans for Ballinrobe, Partry and Killary. Then he slept.

  He left Castlebar early, reached Claremorris fast enough, and rode on towards Ballinrobe. Even before Levally, there were signs of evictions. When he reached the village, he saw that there were two houses standing. The rest had been demolished. Caheredmond was the same – two houses standing. A woman was standing at one.

  ‘What has happened here?’ he asked, feigning ignorance.

  ‘The evictions of Lord Lucan.’

  ‘Many people?’

  ‘Hundreds. Thousands. Who knows?’

  ‘But ye remain?’ Pat asked.

  Her husband had joined her.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Just asking,’ Pat said.

  The man dragged his wife inside, and the door was shut.

  He remembered Gaffney’s instructions and turned to the side off the road, working his way back, parallel to the main road.

  Bawn. Cavan. Saleen.

  He found many shattered villages, some with no remaining life at all. Some had ceased to exist – even the wreckage of the houses was gone. At each village, he counted the houses, noting any that were left standing. Whenever he met anyone, he asked for names of evicted families, and noted them down.

  Rathnaguppaun. Knocknacroagha. Ballinteeaun.

  A pattern was becoming obvious. Most villages had dozens of houses before the evictions, with only one or two houses left now.

  But why the remaining houses? Men were working in the fields. Some were digging ditches, some were tearing down hedgerows, but the majority were constructing dry-stone walls. The countryside was slowly being converted from one of small fields with hedgerows to one of enormous fields with stone walls, all running in regular straight lines, intersecting at precise right angles.

  Cappacurry. Ballynakillew. Cloonacastle.

  He stopped his horse, and sat in the saddle, watching. Stones were being taken from the ruins of one village, and carted to where the walls were being built. Here the natural hedgerows had already disappeared.

  He saw a man riding towards him. He drew up in front of Pat.

  ‘Good work, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Pat recognised the accent as Scottish.

  ‘It is,’ Pat agreed, ‘I’ve rarely seen dry
-stone walling done so well.’

  He was thinking fast. Why aggravate the man? He was here to get information.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said, ‘we train them well. They work far better as employees than as tenants. They know they’re lucky to be working for us, and they see how few are needed to run a farm efficiently. That’s what I call improvement.’

  ‘Is Lord Lucan the landlord around here?’

  ‘He is,’ the Scot replied, ‘And Lord Lucan knows what improvement is.’

  Pat made his way towards Ballinrobe. Improvement? Another word for slaughter.

  He found a wrecked house. He pulled the horse in under the remaining roof and slept beside it.

  *

  As he entered Ballinrobe, it was unnaturally quiet.

  He spotted a door with a white cross painted on it.

  He walked on, trying to ignore the stink of the open sewer. More white crosses. Then a church. The dead body of a woman lay outside, one arm missing. He did not gag. It no longer meant anything to him.

  Outside the priest’s house, hundreds of people were sitting or lying on the ground, a few more leaning against the wall. He made his way through, stepping over and around them. No-one challenged him. The silence was unsettling.

  The woman who answered his knock was old and very much stooped. He asked for Father Ward.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘He said something about Partry. That’s all I know.’

  She shut the door.

  What now? Gaffney still expected a report on cholera. The white crosses might be evidence of that. If Father Ward had gone, that left the workhouse. Who was Gaffney’s contact when he had brought Murtybeg to Ballinrobe to recruit navvies? Daly? Yes, Daly. That was all a long time ago.

  The crowd at the workhouse gate was far less than he had expected, and he gained entry easily enough. He asked for Daly.

  ‘Mr. Daly’s over there,’ an inmate told him, pointing to the sheds along the wall. Pat’s heart sank. Fever sheds?

  He entered, and was hit by a sweet-sour stench of diarrhoea and vomit. There were beds down both sides of the building, each, Pat noted, with a single patient, unlike the practice in Knockanure Workhouse during the typhus epidemic of 1847. In front of each bed was a chamber pot, many full. An inmate was pulling a trolley-load of chamber pots to the door while other inmates were mopping the floor. He stood aside as the trolley passed.