by Charles Egan
‘You might be right,’ Luke said, ‘and he was surely right when he said about taking the hatred from them. It’s rough, I can tell you, when four hundred men hate you like that. Not just men, mind you, women and children too. And worst of all, the dying. Forcing them to work in the snows and the winter winds on the mountains. That was terrible, and it wasn’t even the worst of it. What was far worse were the selections, deciding who would work and who would not. Christ, we were paying them starvation wages, and even so, they fought like savages for the right to work. Working for pennies was one thing, working for nothing was death. Can you understand this?’
‘I’d heard of it around Kilkenny,’ Cantwell said.
‘Kilkenny! That was nothing like Mayo. Sure, it was places like Kilkenny the starving people made for, when they hadn’t the money for England or America. They knew they could get work on the harvests in the midlands, and God knows, that was better paid than the Famine gangs in Mayo. I know the hunger and fevers would have killed them around Kilkenny too, but it wasn’t a fraction of what was happening in Mayo.’
‘It won’t be like that here.’ Cantwell said. ‘There’s no starving here…’
‘There was a few weeks back.’
‘That was the Union.’
‘And the Operators too,’ Luke said.
He realised, that if he was not careful, he could talk himself out of the position.
‘But sure that’s in the past,’ he said, ‘and let’s leave it that way. Like you say, this isn’t Ireland.’
‘It isn’t,’ Cantwell said, ‘and there’s one other thing too. Don’t forget you’ll have good foremen under you. They’re the ones who’ll have to take the aggression, not you. They’ll be looking to you for orders and decisions, and you’re the one who’ll decide how the breaker is run.’
They left the office and walked towards the breaker.
‘One other thing,’ Cantwell said. ‘I was telling Celia about you. She thought perhaps you and your wife might like to join us for dinner come Sunday? Salt pork or hog maw, she hasn’t decided. What do you say?’
‘We’d be delighted, Stan.’
*
Luke found his position as Breaker Boss more difficult that he had expected.
His first problem was that he had only worked on mining and loading wagons before. But there were many other activities in a breaker. Assembly yards, thawing sheds, the breaker itself, the screening line, the picking lines and the water recovery unit. The operation of the giant conveyor belts, feeding the anthracite to the breaker fascinated him. The continuous operation of the breaker itself intrigued him too. He soon began to understand that his own idea of a breaker had been very limited.
As Cantwell had said, he discovered that the important part of managing the breaker was to have reliable foremen. He thought of the many foremen who had worked for him in the mountains of Mayo during the savage winter of 1846 and 1847. Men like Winnie’s own father. He had to work hard to win their respect, and that would have been impossible without his years working on English railways, and working in his own father’s quarry in Carrigard. He would have to win the respect of these men too.
The working men were not as easy to manage as starving men on the Famine Relief in Mayo had been. Their appearance was less disturbing perhaps, but they were tougher than the gaunt scarecrows in the Ox Mountains, and more liable to dispute Luke’s orders, or those of the foremen. For the most part, Luke left the foremen to manage them, though from time to time he had to settle disputes directly.
The men in the single contract gang loading the breaker wagons were tough in other ways. They reckoned their ways of filling it were none of Luke’s business, provided the work was done. Thinking back on his work with Farrelly’s gang, he thought this might well be true, and left them alone, dealing only with their elected foreman. His relationship with the man was straightforward. Every Saturday the account was agreed. Luke ensured there were no mistakes in the account, and there was never any dispute between them.
The boys in the breaker disturbed him more than ever, now he was responsible for them. At least the breaker provided shelter, but a dollar a week? It was more than what children had been earning on Famine Relief, but not by very much, and he himself was earning many times more.
He had thought that he could better their lives, but now he knew that he could not. This was how the breakers worked all across the coal patches, and always would.
*
On the weekend, they moved to the new house, well above the mine and the breaker. Luke found it a relief. While no one had directly attacked him, many of Farrelly’s gang were now hostile. At least they did not work at Number One.
When they arrived, they spent much of Sunday arranging their possessions, and rearranging the company furniture. At last, Winnie flopped down on a sofa.
‘God, I’m tired.’
‘Me too,’ Luke said.
‘Sure you’re always tired.’
‘I know. It’s not easy being a Breaker Boss, I can tell you. They’re hard men.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. Just like Farrelly and the boys. They were never ones to take nonsense.’
‘No, but I never thought I’d be the one to be giving out nonsense.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ Winnie said.
‘I know, my love, but you know what I mean. And I’ll tell you something else. They’ve got young lads working on the slate belts, picking out the stones. They’re only children.’
‘I know,’ Winnie said, ‘I’d heard about that kind of thing.’
‘It’s just like working in the mountains in the Hunger. What kind of people are we?’
‘At least they’re not starving.’
‘That’s true, but damn it, Winnie, that’s not what we came to America for. The breaker is breaking young lives.’
‘Do you want to quit?’
‘Of course, not. I’d be frightened to quit, now we’ve got it. But that’s a bad reason. Give me some good reason, Winnie, something to make me believe that it’s all worthwhile.’
‘But what are we doing this for?’ Winnie asked. ‘You’ve got to think of that.’
‘Well, you tell me,’ Luke said. ‘Why are we doing it?’
‘So we don’t starve. Our families neither. Look at you. You’re on fifteen dollars a week. We won’t starve, no matter how many children we have. And we’ll have the money for their lessons too, Liam and the rest of our sons and daughters. If your mother and the other women can talk about sending Brigid to teacher training, just think what we can do with our own.’
‘They’re expecting to perform miracles, mind you,’ Luke said.
‘Yes,’ Winnie said, ‘but don’t forget we’ll be part of the miracle. Even when the Hunger is over, we’ll still be paying for Brigid. And proud to do it too.’
That evening, they dined with the Cantwells. Celia Cantwell was a pleasant Kilkenny woman, and Luke knew she and Winnie would get on well. That would make it easier for Winnie to settle into Lackan, and find new friends. She would know the better shops and schools in Lackan, Scranton and Philadelphia.
Yes, he had made the right decision for Winnie and Liam, but even so, he had left his friends behind, and there was no way back.
*
They had already begun to pay off his debts at the truck store, but there were other things that were more important. The truck store could wait. When he received his first salary as a breaker boss, he made his way into Scranton, and went to the Chemical Bank. There he bought a bank draft.
‘And they’ll need it,’ he said to Winnie that evening. ‘My people and your mother.’
‘I know,’ Winnie said.
He wrote a letter to Carrigard.
Lackawanna Street
Lackan
State of Pennsylvania
United States of America
Ryan Family
Carrigard
Kilduff
Co. Mayo
Ireland
>
My Dear Father and Mother,
First, I must say how sorry I am that I had not written to you before. Times were much harder here in Lackan than I had ever expected. The mine owners locked us out, and when the lockout ended, the Union went on strike. We had no wages for months, and were hungrier than I had ever expected to be in America. Still, I am sure you don’t want to know about my troubles, having enough in Ireland. The strikes are now over, and this money should help ye through these hard times.
Things have changed very fast for Winnie, Liam and myself. You can imagine what a mighty relief it was for us when the strike ended and we had wages again. Within a few weeks though, the mine boss came to me and offered me a new position. He had seen how fast I was with my figures, and when he heard that I had been a ganger back in Mayo, with large numbers of workers under me, he asked at once whether I could do the same in Lackan. So now I am a Breaker Boss, on $15 a week, far more than I ever thought possible. You might wonder what a breaker is. It is where they break the large lumps of coal as soon as they come out of the mine, and then sort them out into different sizes for houses, or for mills. The mine has given us a house of our own, just for the three of us, soon to be four, with no rent. So as you can see, our state of affairs has changed from near starvation to having very good pay.
We have heard much of the hunger in Ireland, and I know apart from yourselves, Mrs. Gallagher will need some of this. I would consider it a favour therefore if you could send some of it on to her – perhaps a quarter – and Winnie would be thankful for this too.
And what of little Brigid? Is she going to school yet? This money will surely help.
In your next letter, you will tell us what you know of Winnie’s family, as well as what Pat is doing, and how Aunt Sabina is holding out. We send our love to all of you.
I remain, your loving son,
Luke Ryan.
As he soon discovered, there were other complexities in the breaker. Many of the Irish could not speak English, and he was lucky to find a Mayo man from Inishturk who had spent years in the mines in Bradford.
There were no Welsh in the Number One Breaker now, and few English. Some of the other workers only spoke German, especially the older men working as slate pickers, men who had never learnt English, and never would. Even among the other German speakers, Luke discovered there were other complexities. They came from different places – the Rhineland, Bremen, Alsace and Baden. These meant nothing to him, until the day of the riot.
When it came, it was among the German speakers only. Luke had no understanding what had caused it, and never found out. This time, the Irish stayed well out of it, though there were mutterings about allowing poor emigrants into the coal patches. There was no militia now, and Luke had to wait until the foremen had brought the riot under control. No deaths, as it happened. A few broken limbs, but what of that.
He thought of the riots in the Canadian forests. On the Gatineau, they had to keep the French and Irish apart, but it did not always work. He remembered the savage riot between the French and the Irish that winter. Blood on the snow. Axes were far more vicious than knives. There were men along the St. Lawrence who would never work in the forests again. It all seemed so long ago.
*
As he left the breaker one night, it was stormy, rain lashing at him in the rising wind. He walked alone, hunched into the gale. There was no one else around. It was difficult to follow the line of houses in the dark and rain, but at length he came to his own. A candle was lighting in the window. He stepped inside.
‘There’s a letter for you there, Luke,’ Winnie called out from the kitchen. He turned back to the dresser.
‘Who is it from?’
‘I don’t know, my love. I didn’t open it.’
He slit it open. Winnie, still drying a plate, came across to him.
He took out the single page, and unfolded it. It had a rough sketch of a coffin with a cross drawn on it. Beneath the cross, a rough hand had scribbled the words: Luke Ryan RIP.
Chapter 31
Tuam Herald. July 1849:
On Saturday last the churchyard of the Neale Parish, near this town, presented the awful and revolting spectacle of the remains of a human being partly devoured by dogs, and the head removed from the body. It appeared that the deceased was a pauper of the district, for whom a coffin was given by the Relieving Officer, who also (as I understand is the custom in such cases) sent home some of those people on the Outdoor Relief Lists to have the remains of the poor man interred; but those unfeeling wretches did not take the trouble of digging the grave half the depth of the coffin, and merely threw some loose scraws over it: in which state it was an easy prey to the dogs of the country. Mr. D. O’Connor of the Neale had the remains collected, and re-interred, and reported the circumstance to the proper quarter.
Eleanor sat at the table, kneading the dough for brown bread, as Sarah read out Pat’s latest letter.
‘At least he’s alive,’ Eleanor said.
‘He is,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m just hoping he stays out of the fever sheds.’
‘You’re worrying too much.’
They finished the loaves, carefully placed them in the pots hanging off the cranes, and Sarah swung them over the fire.
‘How can I stop worrying, mother. I can hardly sleep. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, thinking of them. And it’s not just Pat. It’s my own mother too. She was always in the fever sheds, and look what happened to her.’
‘He’ll live, though. You know it.’
‘I don’t know. What worries me too is that they might send him around the County again. It was hard enough on him; we both know that. But what happened? Do we know any of that? Why will he not tell us?’
Eleanor knew it was time to feed the hens, but she no longer had the inclination. Winnie was gone, Liam too. And Brigid would go in time. But Sarah would stay, she was sure of it. And Sarah’s children, when the time came.
At length, she stood up and started to mash the corn for the hens. There was little else she could feed them, since even potato skins were no longer to be found. She took Brigid out to the yard, but the hens frightened her. She took her up in one arm, holding the pot in the other, and had Brigid throw whatever corn there was to the hens. This, at least, provided fun for the child.
They went back inside. She took two empty pails.
‘Going to the well?’ Sarah asked.
‘I am,’ Eleanor said. ‘You just stay and mind Brigid.’
‘That’s what you always say. This time, I’m coming. We’ll take Brigid with us.’
She took two pails from the corner.
‘With two of us, we won’t have to go too often.’
She went out. Brigid followed Eleanor, grasping her skirt tightly.
There was a time Eleanor had looked forward to going to the well. A time when the women clustered around, gossiping and laughing. It was different now.
Nor was it just a matter of hunger. As she approached, the women quietened. One was coming back along the track to the road carrying a pail of water. Eleanor opened the gate for her, and greeted her. There was no answer.
Eleanor and Sarah filled their pails in silence. After the storm in 1839, a low wall had been built around it to keep back the boggy soil and rushes. The water was crystal clear, unlike the brackish water stagnating around. At the bottom, it bubbled up through grey flinty clay.
No one else tried to greet them.
They started out for the house, carrying the buckets, Brigid still grasping Eleanor’s skirt. Yes, Eleanor was thinking, why should they talk to us anyhow? All this time we’ve lived, right through the worst of the hunger. Luke working as a supervisor and Pat as a clerk and Michael even working the quarry. The Ryans had had enough earnings to see them through it, and now that hunger had returned, Pat was working, and Luke was in America. Still she had to ration the corn and oatmeal, but others had little to ration. Or nothing.
And these women? Women she had known all h
er married life. All of them had buried some or all of their children through the hunger. Husbands too. And many of the women would die too over the next months, she was certain of that. Yet none of the Ryans had died through hunger or fever, and she was determined that none would. But there was a price to be paid. When it was over – if it would ever end – there were families who would never talk to them again.
In many ways, she felt guilty about this but decided there was no other way. Her first loyalty was always to her own family, whether in Ireland or America, but Ireland most of all. No matter what, the family would have a future. Brigid most of all.
‘They’re quiet, aren’t they, mother?’
‘They’re always quiet. We lived, all of our family lived, while all around us they were dying. They’re saying with the road building in ’46 and ’47 we were making more money out of Famine than we had before. Supervising, clerking and running the quarry, it was probably true enough. But we were given our chances, we had to take them. If we didn’t, the family would be dead. And it’s the very same now. Let’s just hope the potatoes are as good as they’re looking now.’
‘So what comes first?’ Sarah asked, ‘the family or the neighbours?’
‘The family always,’ Eleanor said. ‘Not that that means just us. Sabina too, though with the bar, she’s hardly starving. Murty and Aileen when they were still here, though again they had the money from Danny.’
‘True enough,’ Sarah said. ‘Do you think though it would have been possible to have done more for the neighbours?’
‘With the way it was during the hunger; sure how could we do that alanna?’
‘No wonder they won’t talk to us,’ Sarah said.
‘And they’re not the only reasons,’ Eleanor said. ‘Us taking the Benson’s farm, their quarry too.’
‘But the Bensons had gone.’
‘True enough, and of their own accord too. They weren’t evicted. But people never see it that way. There’s terrible bitterness about evictions, and now they’re saying that the Bensons were evicted. Not true, but that’s the way it will always be remembered. And we’ll always be seen as land grabbers.’