by Charles Egan
Over the following weeks, Pat worked on the potato crop assessments as well as correspondence from all over the County. Many he replied to directly, more he referred to Gaffney.
*
One morning he left his office, carrying letters for Gaffney’s approval, and others for discussion.
As he came into Gaffney’s office, he saw a stranger.
‘There’s a man here I’d like you to meet, Pat,’ Gaffney said.
Pat walked over as the man stood up.
‘Pat Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Charles Gavan-Duffy, Pat. I’m delighted to meet you. Mr. Gaffney here has told me a lot about you.’
‘Mr. Gavan-Duffy is the proprietor of The Nation,’ Gaffney said.
‘The Dublin paper?’
‘That’s right,’ said Gavan-Duffy. ‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Of course. Who hasn’t?’
‘We’ve had a little trouble with the government about it from time to time. They’ve seen fit to proscribe it. But don’t worry. We’ll have it up and running again, soon enough.’
An inmate came, carrying mugs of tea on a tray. He offered milk but all three men refused. The man looked suspiciously at Pat and Gavan-Duffy and walked out.
‘Mr. Gavan-Duffy is trying to assess the condition of the country himself,’ Gaffney said. ‘He’s been a few weeks on the road now. You can tell him about Mayo yourself.’
‘It might be as well to hold on a few moments,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘Wait until we get Mr. Carlyle. I think he should hear some of what he might have to say.’
‘Mr. Carlyle?’ Pat asked.
Gaffney went to the door and shouted at one of the inmates to find Mr. Carlyle.
‘Yes, a certain Thomas Carlyle,’ Gavan-Duffy said, sipping at his tea. ‘A Scot, but also one of England’s greatest philosophers and a top rate historian with it. A great man, I understand. He’s travelling Ireland with me trying to find out everything he can so as to tell his English friends about it.’
‘What Mr. Gavan-Duffy is saying is true enough,’ Gaffney said, ‘but as he knows, there’s another side to Mr. Carlyle.’
‘How’s that?’ Pat asked.
‘I’ve been travelling Ireland these past three weeks with Mr. Carlyle,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘He reckons we’re all a pack of lazy ne’er-do-wells and we’re the cause of the famine ourselves. All he can see is lazy beggars, closes his eyes to the starvation. But sure you’ll see for yourself.’
The door opened.
The man who entered was tall, with wavy black hair, greying in parts. It was combed over from the right, half covering his ears above a white wing collar. Pat reckoned him at fifty years or so.
‘Well, Mr. Carlyle,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘A loving heart is the beginning of all knowledge, eh?’
Carlyle looked sourly at him.
‘One of Mr. Carlyle’s quotations,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘On which grounds our friend, Lord Lucan must, by now, be a most knowledgeable man.’
Pat went to speak, but Gaffney raised his finger to his lips.
‘You’re just so blind, Duffy, you cannot see it,’ Carlyle said. ‘I’ve seen Lord Lucan’s improvements with my own eyes, and they will do more for the people of Mayo than your Young Irelanders ever did, or ever could, for that matter.’
‘Through evictions?’ Gavan-Duffy asked.
‘It’s not the evictions you should be looking at, it’s the improvements that follow from them. You’ve seen it too, though you seem to forget it. Lucan is draining, he’s building, and he’s harrowing his land to make it produce more. And how could that be done with nothing but lazy, priest-ridden peasants? No, they have to be cleared, and for their own good too. Lease the land to men who are able to work it.’
‘Scots, no doubt,’ Gavan-Duffy said.
‘Yes, Scots. Lucan is leasing it to Scottish farmers who are well able to farm it in the best possible way. And there’s any amount of employment on the farms for any of your peasants who aren’t too lazy to take it.’
There was a pause. At last, Pat spoke.
‘And what of Ballinrobe?’
Carlyle looked at him, puzzled.
‘Our young man can speak, can he? Ballinrobe? Have we visited it, Mr. Duffy?’
‘Near enough,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘It’s not too far from Claremorris.’
‘And what of it,’ Carlyle asked.
‘Well, if it’s Lord Lucan you want to know about, it’s there you’ll see his improvement,’ Pat said, laying emphasis on the last word. ‘I’ve seen his improvement. Wrecked villages, starving people. What kind of improvement is that?’
‘The starving people are not Lord Lucan’s fault,’ Carlyle said. ‘Nor should they be any concern of his. His only concern is to improve the land so that these beggars can be given employment.’
Pat made to rise, but Gaffney placed a hand on his arm.
‘Shush, Pat, just listen. You can give your opinion later on. I promise.’
‘So what solutions might you offer then?’ Gavan-Duffy asked. He was smiling, and Pat wondered whether it was through derision.
‘Simple, Carlyle replied. ‘In the first place, if your newspaper had encouraged proper husbandry and encouraged the peasants to respect those who can show them how it’s done, then that would be a beginning. That, and some respect for the British Crown, instead of provoking them to useless rebellion.’
‘Yes,’ said Gavan-Duffy, taking a notebook out. ‘I’ll certainly bear your recommendations in mind.’ The look on his face was one of derision now, Pat was sure of it.
‘Please do so,’ Carlyle said.
‘And how should I teach them to eat, when the blight has destroyed their food?’ Gavan-Duffy asked.
‘Like I said, if they weren’t so damned lazy, there would be no famine. All they want to do is live on their potatoes, no work involved. That way they can live the autumn and winter in their filthy cabins, doing nothing. Look at Scotland…’
‘There’s famine in Scotland too,’ Gavan-Duffy said.
‘Only in the Highlands. Look at the Lowlands. There, the farmers don’t depend on the potato for their very existence. They plant corn – a far more reliable crop and one that involves more labour too, but the Scots aren’t afraid of hard work.’
‘An interesting opinion,’ Gavan-Duffy said. ‘In the first place, corn cannot feed Ireland’s population. It takes up too much land.’
‘Your over-population is not my concern, Mr. Duffy, that’s the fault of the government that allowed it.’
‘The British Government?’
‘No, Dublin Castle. And what’s their solution? Feeding the lazy. Encouraging paupers to spawn more paupers. And what do the young gentlemen of this country want? A rebellion, against the only country that can show them how to live.’
‘So you’d depend on corn, would you?’ Gaffney asked. ‘How much destruction of the corn crop have we seen?’
‘Not as much as the potato, that’s for sure,’ Carlyle said.
‘So that’s the solution, is it?’ Gavan-Duffy asked.
‘Better than any solution of yours,’ Carlyle replied. ‘What answer do you have? Half the population of Mayo are paupers. It’d all end in cannibalism if it wasn’t for the support of our empire. Look at the workhouse here. Look at Westport. Men breaking stones, just like you had them on the roads. Swinging hammers as slow as they can, pretending to work. And what do you get from that? Human swine, that’s all.’
‘Swine?’ Pat asked.
‘Yes, swine. I’ve been through Westport Workhouse, shown every part of it. A human swinery, that’s all it is.’
Abruptly, Pat jumped from his chair. He crossed the room and slapped Carlyle violently across the face.
‘Pat, for God’s sake…’ Gaffney shouted.
Carlyle rubbed his jaw.
‘By God, you’ll pay for that.’
Pat left the office, slamming the door.
*
He went back to
working on reports and assessments, but found he could not. Then Gaffney came in.
‘Pat, what in hell possessed you?’
‘He deserved it, the bastard.’
‘I’d agree with you there,’ Gaffney said, ‘but we can’t treat him like that.’
‘And what’s that Gavan-Duffy fellow doing with him?’
‘Taking him around to see famine. He was hoping it would soften his heart.’
‘Soften his heart…’
‘Yes, and get him to write of it in England. Gavan-Duffy’s a nationalist as you know, Young Irelander too. He was arrested last year after the Rebellion.’
‘So what’s he doing with that bastard?’
‘Carlyle asked for someone to show him Ireland, Gavan-Duffy thought it would work out well. He’d read Carlyle, and from his writing and philosophy you’d think him a decent man. No, it wasn’t Gavan-Duffy’s mistake, that’s for sure.’
The door opened. Two policemen came in.
‘Which one’s Ryan?’
‘I am,’ Pat said.
Without further comment one policeman tied Pat’s hands behind his back, and hauled him away. He was brought down to the Stonebreakers’ Yard, shoved roughly onto a cart, and driven through the crowd at the gate, the soldiers forming a line against the crowd. Then they took him to the County Jail.
They were admitted through a steel door, beside the main gates. Pat had only ever seen the building from afar, over the high wall. What he saw now was a grey granite building with a grey slate roof, turreted battlements on top. He reckoned them as ornamental. It was not as if a prison would ever be besieged.
They brought him across the yard, where there were prisoners breaking stones. Another Stonebreakers’ Yard! For what?
Above the main entrance to the building, there was a large clock. One of the policemen saw him looking at it.
‘You needn’t be worrying about that now,’ he said. ‘You’ll only be measuring time by the passing of the days.’
They came to another locked door in the side of the building. The turnkey who answered wore a black uniform, crumpled and dirty. There was a sweet odour. Fever? Pat was sure of it. No cholera though.
The turnkey led them down along the corridor and stopped outside a door. One of the police untied Pat’s wrists. He was pushed into a cell. It was gloomy. There was one single window, high up the wall, admitting light. There was a stink of shit and piss, but no smell of fever. One thing to be grateful for perhaps. The door slammed behind him.
Through the semi-darkness, he saw three men, all in prison uniforms.
‘What are you doing here?’ he was asked.
‘Arrested for assault,’ he answered.
‘Assault…’
‘A Scottish gentleman who came visiting.’
‘Come to steal our land, was he?’
‘Not him. Only getting others to do it.’
He lay back on a bunk.
‘And ye? What are ye doing here?’
‘We’re here to get fed.’
Pat sat up again.
‘To get fed?’
‘Well, we can’t get fed outside, so isn’t it better to come to the jail and live?’
Pat shook his head.
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
‘It does. There’s a trick to it though. Whatever crime you commit must be good enough for a few weeks in prison, but not too good, or you might be transported, or hanged. Michael Flanagan, he stole a sheep. Transportation he got. Van Diemen’s Land. We’ll never see him again.’
‘And ye? What kind of crimes must ye commit?’
‘Give a soldier a thrashing. It’s enough for jail, but they’ve little enough respect for their soldiers, so they won’t transport you. Everyone knows that.’
Pat was surprised, though he said nothing.
‘And what about the stone yard outside?’ he asked. ‘Are they not working ye?’
‘They are right enough,’ one of the men answered. ‘Ten hours a day smashing stones, with a break for food and rest. We’ll be back on soon.’
‘And what when it’s dark?’
‘A few braziers to keep us going.’
A short time later, Pat was out in the Stonebreakers Yard himself. He thought how ironic this was. All the times he had been in Workhouses he had seen other people breaking stones.
It was not difficult though. The men worked very slowly. From time to time, the wardens shouted at them for being lazy good-for-nothings, but the men ignored them, and worked on in silence.
They returned to the cells. The stink was frightful, but he slept well, in spite of it.
He found the next few days hard enough. Not that breaking stones was hard, but the slopping out system disgusted him. Crapping and pissing in a cell with three other men. He was concerned about fever, and even cholera, but the men in his cell showed no signs of either, and he could only smell it as they passed by the infirmary wards from their cell.
On the third morning, Pat had slopped out with the others and gone to breakfast. Stirabout porridge. He never got to eat it.
Two warders came to his table.
‘Up.’
A handcuff was put on one of his wrists, linking him to one of the warders.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Governor’s office.’
‘What for?’
‘Who knows? You haven’t been tried yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Pat replied.
‘Assaulting a gentleman like that. Maybe they’ll hang you.’
‘Don’t frighten him,’ the other warder said. ‘You didn’t kill him. Transportation, that’ll be enough of a sentence for the beak to give you.’
Transportation? That would be the end of the farm in Carrigard. How long could Michael keep working a farm with two quarries? The two women might help, but still, it would not be for long. Would they be evicted? And Sarah. Married for so short a time, and now this.
How long? Twenty years in the colonies? Would he ever come back? Would Sarah wait for him? The irony of it struck him strongly. She could end up being married to a colonial convict after all, but oceans apart.
They came to a door. The warder unlocked the handcuffs and knocked. Pat was pushed inside. Gaffney was there.
‘So this is the fellow?’ the man behind the desk said.
‘One of my best workers,’ Gaffney said. ‘We can’t do without him.’
‘Well, Mr. Carlyle has not preferred charges, and from all I hear it’s doubtful that Mr. Gavan-Duffy will.’
‘They’re both gone to Sligo,’ Gaffney said. ‘We’ll not hear from them again.’
‘Which leaves you as the only witness, George.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of what, indeed. Now, if you’ll just sign here. And here.’
Gaffney signed. Then he and Pat walked back to the Union building.
‘That was foolish, Pat’.
‘Don’t I know? Still…’
‘Yes, still. I know what you’re thinking, and you know what I think too. But Carlyle has left, and we won’t be hearing from him again. Lord Lucan might be a different matter.’
‘He knows?’
‘Of course, he knows. Carlyle told him. It caused a hell of a row at the Grand Jury meeting. Lucan was insisting you leave, but I told him to go to hell. He was threatening to close the workhouse, but the other fellows wouldn’t have that. The bastard’s paying damned little of his County Rates, so what say could he have in the matter. Still, it was a close-run thing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
They returned to the workhouse and went to Gaffney’s office.
‘The other thing I must tell you, Pat,’ Gaffney said, ‘is that even if we’ve faced Lucan down, your employment isn’t going to last long anyhow.’
‘Sure I knew that.’
‘Yes, well, I’d say early September is the limit. God knows, I’d like to have you here in a permanent position, but there’s no way we can do that. The workhouse can’t af
ford it. There’s talk of a great crop of potatoes, so they’re saying I’ve no need for extra staff. Mind you, there’s talk of blight too, but we’re praying it doesn’t spread. If it does, the workhouse will be pushed to the limit, which means even less money. So one way or another, you’ve only a month or so.’
*
In many ways, his work was easier now, in that he did not have to travel the County, but Gaffney was well aware of what the workhouse needed, and was trying to get as much as possible out of him while he was still in the office. He spent long days and nights on reports, correspondence and even drafting rough maps to show where the worst ‘distress’ was.
At last, the time came to leave Castlebar.
Gaffney called him to his office. He opened a moneybox and counted out several coins.
‘At least we can pay you. It’ll help for the next few months.’
‘It will,’ Pat said.
‘And good luck to you from here,’ Gaffney said. ‘In spite of what Lucan might say, you’ve done a great job. I’m heartbroken to see you go, but still, in the time you were with us, you did great things for County Mayo.’
Pat left the office. He went to his bed and took his bag of possessions with him, then he crossed the Stonebreakers Yard and left Castlebar Union.
*
In the months that Pat was away, Sarah and Eleanor developed a close relationship, looking after Brigid, and running the house. But then, the blight came.
Sarah, who had gone to Kilduff to buy corn, was ashen.
‘I saw it in two fields,’ she said. ‘Not much, mind, but in Dillon’s they’re saying it’s all over the county.’
Eleanor went cold.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.
‘That’s what they’re saying,’ Sarah said.
Blight again, Eleanor thought. If it really has returned, the country is finished. So are we. Already, we’ve little enough money left. And still no word of Luke.
When Michael came in, the women told them of the blight.
‘Strange,’ Michael said. ‘There’s surely not the slightest sign of it here. Where did you say, you saw it?’