by Charles Egan
Afterwards, when everyone else had gone home, Luke stayed talking to Mick outside the club. It was late, but moonlit with a clear sky.
‘Isn’t it time you thought of serious resistance, Luke?’ Mick asked.
‘I know,’ Luke replied. ‘You’ve said that to me before.’
‘And now you see the difference. First, we have a Union and what does that get us? Our own special famine in America. Unions are good for nothing, they’ve no power. What we need is a real revolution.’
‘God! That’s dangerous talk,’ Luke said. ‘Haven’t we already had one battle here, and see what’s happened.’
‘Forget your battles,’ Mick said. ‘That’ll never get us anywhere neither. What we need is the silent approach. Choose your man, hit when he’s not expecting it, and fade back into the darkness. It’s the only fighting we can do, and it’s the only language they can understand. Now, will you not join us?’
‘Us?’ Luke said. ‘The Molly Maguires, is that it?’
‘Maybe or maybe not. It’s not for you to know. Not yet.’
‘It’s dangerous talk, Mick,’ Luke said. ‘It’s the kind of talk that could get a man hanged.’
‘Arra, what? To hang a man, they’d have to catch him first.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Luke said.
‘Well, think fast. You know, your work on the weigh station puts you in a dangerous position. It could be argued that you are working for the Union and for the Operators.’
‘As if there were a Union,’ Luke said. ‘All I know is that I’m checking that Cantwell is giving us right measure. I don’t even know if there’s a Union any more. Come Saturday, I might not even be paid. For the next few days, I’m working for the miners, and, sure as hell, not for the Operators. After that we’ll see.’
As it turned out, the Operators were paying him, though Cantwell told him his responsibility was still to the miners, regardless of who was paying. He certainly put no pressure on Luke to be dishonest, but, as Mick had said, it could well be seen that way.
*
Winnie had other concerns. As soon as the strike was over, reports began to filter through of cholera in Philadelphia.
‘But sure it’s as far away as New York,’ Luke said. ‘Why worry? It hasn’t come up from New York in all that time, so why should it come up from Philadelphia? It’s always the coastal towns, they’re the ones to get it.’
Then stories began to spread of St. Louis.
‘And that’s as far inland as you can get,’ Winnie said. ‘And they’re saying that thousands are dying in St. Louis.’
‘Arra, it’s only stories,’ Luke said.
‘Afraid not,’ Ned said from across the table. ‘It’s a hell of a killer, this cholera.’
‘More like 1832,’ Ellen said. ‘I don’t know if it isn’t worse. It’s a new one. The Asiatic Cholera, they’re calling it. Kills in two days.’
‘Sure don’t we know,’ Luke said. ‘Liam has had it already. And he didn’t die, did he? Anyhow, he’ll have resistance to it by now. No, he won’t get it again.’
‘Whatever about ourselves,’ Winnie said.
‘No,’ Luke said. ‘We’ve been exposed to it when Liam had it. I doubt we’ll get it.’
‘But what of myself and Ellen,’ Ned asked.
‘Well, that’s a different question.’
Lying in bed that night, Winnie turned to him.
‘This thing of Liam not getting cholera again,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Just you don’t be worrying about it,’ Luke said.
‘But I do worry,’ she said. ‘The time he had it in New York, I thought he was going to die, I couldn’t have taken that. And I don’t think I could take it again now. Not after all this starving in America. And not knowing what’s going on in Mayo. How can we put up with this, Luke?’
Chapter 25
London Evening Standard. May 1849:
In the Ballinrobe Workhouse, the deaths for the past week amounted to 146, and upwards of four hundred paupers fled from it, preferring, as the account says, to die by the wayside than become victims to disease in that charnel house. The number of deaths in the Westport Workhouse for the week was 66. In some of the other Mayo buildings the mortality was equally terrible.
They followed the mountain down from Drimcaggy; the horse and donkey carefully treading around the holes in the gravel. That night, they stayed in a derelict cottage, wet and miserable. Pat found it difficult to sleep. Even when he did, he had little rest, as ghastly dreams of corrupted bodies and faces kept waking him.
Next morning, the storm had passed, and a warm sun dried their clothes. Soon, they reached Tourmakeady. Straggling groups of people were walking south along the main road. Father Ward dismounted. He crossed the road to a small family group, sitting alongside a wall.
‘Where in the name of God are ye all going?’
‘Home,’ the man answered. ‘Home to Bóthar na hAbhainn.’
Pat thought of the wreck of a village he had seen at Bóthar na hAbhainn. Why would anyone go there? He said nothing.
The man’s clothes were in tatters. The woman’s costume was in better condition. Pat recognised it as the uniform of the workhouse.
‘But where have ye been?’ Father Ward asked.
‘The Workhouse. Ballinrobe Workhouse.’
‘Were they not feeding ye?’
‘They were feeding us right enough, but the cholera was killing us in great numbers. It’s better taking our chances with the hunger outside.’
The next group along the wall were from Ballinrobe Workhouse too. The man spoke of their home in Killadoon. Pat remembered the wards he had seen with Mr. Daly. The child was not moving. Trying not to stare, he tried to see if it was breathing. Killadoon? He knew from the maps in Castlebar where that was. Could they make it? The child certainly would not. And what of the mother? Gaunt and pale. Unlikely.
‘Ye left the workhouse, did ye?’ Pat asked. ‘They made ye go?’
‘There was no forcing about it,’ the man said. ‘We broke out through the gates. Masses of us.’
Father Ward went to the child, and raised his hand in blessing.
‘Per istam sanctam unctionem…’
The man took off his hat, held it at his chest and bowed his head alongside the woman. Then he arose, carrying his dead child, and walked away.
Father Ward mounted his donkey.
‘I’m just going back towards Ballinrobe,’ he said. ‘Would you not come?’
‘I’ve seen enough of Ballinrobe,’ Pat said. ‘Anyhow, Gaffney’s asking me to go back to the coast at the Killaries and follow around to Louisburgh and Westport. He says there’s terrible things happened there in ’47 during the fever.’
‘And he’s right. But he sure doesn’t let up on you, does he?’
‘There’s work to be done,’ Pat said.
‘Well, if it’s the Killaries you’re going to, there’s a good road I’d advise you taking over the mountains and down to Griggins Bridge, and then there’s an easy road up to Leenane. After that it’s best to go by Delphi and Killadoon. You’d find it a far rougher ride than following the coast by the Killaries. There’s few enough tracks along Killary Harbour.’
‘I’d guessed that. There’s not much on my map. But it’s the way Gaffney asked me to go.’
‘Fair enough so. You’ll find much more when you get the other side of Mweelrea. The schoolmasters and priests will tell you much. There’s schools in Kinnakil, Gowlaun and Cloonlaur. We’ve a chapel in Gowlaun too. Everywhere you go, you can mention me. The churches and schools in Louisburgh will tell you everything you want to know, and a lot you don’t.’
Pat mounted his horse.
‘God be with you, Pat,’ Father Ward said, as he raised his hand in a blessing. ‘You and yours.’
Pat dropped his head. Then he pulled his horse away.
*
He rode, always overtaking small groups; all, as he discovered, fleeing the ho
rror of Ballinrobe Workhouse.
There was an eerie silence. There were no other horses on the road, no donkeys either. Some groups of people spread across the road from side to side as they walked. Then Pat would ride slowly behind them, as no one parted to let him through. Sometimes he led the horse along the side of the road till he got past them.
Then he heard keening. Off the road, a woman sat beside the corpse of a man. But what could he do? He rode on.
Following a road across two passes, a lake between, he found the bridge. It was raining heavily now. He scrambled down under the bridge. There were people under the arches, some asleep. He took his pencil and notebook out of his pack and began to write. Grey eyes watched him, but no one spoke. The rain got heavier, and this time it did not let up. He slept beside them, leaving before they had awoken in the early dawn.
He rode along Joyce’s River in the direction of Leenane. Families were sheltering under bushes and trees; many more in the ruins of wrecked houses.
As he passed one family group, a man came across and grasped the horse’s bridle.
‘We’re going to Leenane, but the child cannot make it.’
Pat dismounted and helped the man put the child on the horse. They laid him across the saddle.
‘He’s still sleeping,’ the man said.
Pat nodded, though he could see the child was dead. Together with the rest of the family, including two other children, he walked slowly towards Leenane, leading the horse with the small corpse. These people too were among those who had broken out of Ballinrobe Workhouse. The woman told of the horror of the workhouse, and Pat said he had already seen it. The couple had already lost two children to cholera.
Just before Leenane, the man indicated a boreen to the right.
‘It’s up here we live.’
Pat said nothing for a moment. Leenane was not far.
‘It’s the church you’ll be needing,’ he said.
There was a silence. The mother looked at him in horror, then she began to cry. Her husband took her by the arm.
‘Stay easy, Caitlín. You take the children back to our house, and I’ll go on with this young man to the church.’
The woman’s face had crumpled in shock.
‘You take her home, Seánín,’ her husband said.
One of the children took her by the arm.
‘Come on mother.’
When they arrived in Leenane, Pat brought the horse into the graveyard. Together with the man, he eased the child off the horse, and left it lying inside the graveyard wall.
‘I’ll find the priest,’ he said to Pat. ‘Now you go on.’
Pat saw a rat by one of the graves.
‘I’ll guard the child till you return,’ he said.
‘That God may bless you.’
The man returned with a gravedigger and two shovels. The gravedigger was lean enough. The two men began to dig.
Pat took the father’s shovel. ‘Here, I’ll do it for a while.’
He dug at the other end of the grave from the gravedigger. He was surprised to see that despite the man’s gaunt figure, he could still dig faster than he could himself.
At length, the grave was finished. Two feet only. Why think about that? It was enough to cover any scent from the dogs. The rats might burrow down, but why worry about that?
The child’s father shook his hand. ‘God be with you, my friend.’
‘And with you,’ Pat said.
*
He mounted his horse and left Leenane, crossing the Erriff River at Ashleigh Falls, under the flanks of Devilsmother Mountain. He rode along by the long, straggling inlet of Killary Harbour and under Ben Gorm Mountain. Still there were groups, and sometimes single men and women, heading west, very few going the other way.
He came to a split in the road and took out his map. To the right was the road to Delphi Lodge. Straight ahead, the road went under Mweelrea Mountain, still along the inlet.
Father Ward had told him of the difficulty of following Killary Harbour here. As against that, Gaffney wanted to know more about this area. Was there any point, if there were so few houses?
The map decided him. Delphi would be a long way around, so he decided to go by Killary. At the first village, Bundorragha Town, according to his map, he counted 25 houses, spread widely. Many were empty, some collapsed.
An old man sheltered under the ruins of one house. The man stared at him with grey eyes. He was desperately thin.
‘What has happened in this village?’ Pat asked.
‘The fever back in ’47, wiped out the half of it. That and the hunger. And these past years, even the herring have abandoned Killary. We starve.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Arra, it’s little you can do. It’s not only starvation though.’
‘No?’
‘There’s far more than that. Lord Sligo’s men, they wished to clear the mountain for sheep, and men get in the way. They’ve only started, but I’ve no doubt they’ll finish their savage work.’
‘They will,’ Pat said.
He left the village. Then the road ran out. The horse picked its way along narrow boreens and tracks between the Mweelrea range and the edge of the inlet.
At Bunnaglass there were three houses on his map. On two, the thatch had been burned and the roofs collapsed.
An abandoned currach lay at the edge of the water, holed and ripped. There was no need for roads in these settlements. They lived for the most part off fishing, what need was there of roads?
There were none now. He dismounted and led his horse across fields with rough tracks beaten into the grass or heather, passing isolated houses and cabins, very few now. Some were occupied; most empty. Doors were swinging open on a few of the houses. From the outside, he looked into one. More corpses, one only a skeleton.
The flanks of Mweelrea ran steeply down to the water, broken rock and scree along the edge of the inlet. He considered turning back. It was already late in the afternoon though. If he did, he would take days by the other route. Warily, he continued, treading along rocks at the edge of the inlet, and sometimes slipping and sliding on the scree. Cursing himself for his foolishness, he kept moving.
Then the horse slipped, falling heavily forward. It rolled on its side and did not move. Pat examined the horse’s fetlocks. There was a gash above one, but when he pressed on the fetlock bones, the horse did not react. At least he had not broken the horse’s leg, but it was clear he would have to rest the animal. He sat against a rock, took food out of his pack and ate. He felt drowsy, and soon he fell asleep. When he woke, it was dawn. How long had he slept? He looked around in alarm. The horse was standing. Carefully, he went up to it. There was no sign of distress. He placed his pack on the saddle, and again began to lead it forward.
At last, he reached a group of houses. One was built of stone, but the roof had collapsed. The rest were mud.
He glanced at his map. Gubnafunshoge and Derry were marked, four or five houses in each. He saw a man trying to bring in a currach. He was very thin, and was struggling with the boat.
‘Perhaps that I can help,’ Pat said.
The man looked up in fright. ‘Who are you?’
‘You need not fear me,’ Pat said.
‘Lord Sligo’s agent, are you?’
‘No,’ Pat said, ‘I am no agent. A man travelling, nothing more.’
He grasped the currach and between the two of them, they dragged it out of the water. He sat on a rock, the man still standing; still suspicious.
‘Have you been fishing?’ Pat asked.
‘I have. But what of you? How have you got here?’
‘I’ve come from Leenane,’ Pat said.
‘With a horse! ’Tis lucky you did not break a fetlock.’
‘I know,’ Pat said.
‘What class of amadán are you?’
‘There’s those would say I’m foolish enough. But what’s done is done, and I’ve made my way here. But now I must go on to Killadoon.’
> ‘It’s easier travel from here.’
‘Which way would I go?’
‘Just follow the road to Uggool, and across the sands to Doovilra.’ It was clear he did not wish to talk further.
I thank you for that,’ Pat said, ‘and now I will take my leave of you.’
There was no answer.
At Gublea, women were gathering seaweed from the sea and carrying it back to the tiny fields between the rocks. He guessed they were using it as manure, though he saw more drying on the roof of a cabin. Were they eating seaweed? What else was there to eat?
He mounted his horse and rode west across the side of the mountain to the village of Uggool.
More wrecked houses. More people now though; fear in their eyes. Anger too. He thought of the man’s question about being an agent. Was he in danger? If Lord Sligo was clearing these mountains, these people might seek vengeance.
He reached the beach. He led the horse across the open sands, thankful at least for the flat feel of them. In places, the sand was dry, sometimes damp where the horse’s prints showed clear. Then he realised the tide was coming in. He led the horse across to the dunes, continuing alongside them for some time. Then, where there was a gap, he made his way through.
To one side, where the wind had scoured the dune, he saw the hollow eye sockets of a human skull, broken ribs beneath. He stared at the skull, half hypnotised by the empty eye sockets, which he fancied were staring back at him. All the horror of the village of skulls came back to him. He felt dizzy, then paralysed by an irrational fear. The clouds were spinning.
When he came to, he was lying on the ground, shivering. It was near dark, and the moon had risen in a cloudless sky. Stars sparkled, well above the sunset. He could not see the horse. In a panic, he ran forward. No horse. He ran back onto the beach, and at last saw the horse some distance back, munching at the edge of the dunes. He followed it down and grasped the bridle. Then he turned and walked on, the horse following. He went out between the dunes, looking away from the place of the skull.
He found the wreck of a cabin, and slept beside the horse. The nightmares returned, but this time, he did not wake. Next morning, he reached Doovilra. A dozen houses, half derelict, half occupied. But at last he was on a gravelled road. He mounted the horse.