The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  ‘Murtybeg will tell you about that.’

  ‘The hell, I will,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘And there’s your answer,’ Pat said. ‘There’s a man who knows Liverpool Workhouse, and many others too in England, and he can’t even talk about Knockanure. I showed him the overflow ward and the pit, and it gives him nightmares.’

  ‘Not nightmares,’ Murtybeg said, ‘but close enough. I’ll tell you, I don’t want to see anything like that again.’

  ‘But what Workhouses have you seen since Knockanure?’ the Clerk of Union asked.

  ‘Castlebar, Ballinrobe and now Westport,’ Pat said.

  ‘How would ye compare them?’

  ‘We never saw the insides of Castlebar or Ballinrobe,’ Pat replied, ‘only the Administration.’

  ‘And let’s leave them at that,’ Murtybeg said. ‘Damned if I want to see the inside of any more Workhouses in County Mayo.’

  ‘But ye’re no good at all,’ Sarah said. ‘Here ye are, travelling all over the county, and ye can’t tell us a thing.’

  Pat held out his hand. ‘It’s just we’ve seen so many bodies on the roads and beside them.’

  ‘Sure we’ve got that here in Westport,’ she said.

  ‘You know all about it so,’ Pat said. ‘But Ballinrobe Workhouse could only get us eighty four men. How many are there – a thousand? More? Who knows? And of the eighty four they gave us, four weren’t even able to walk as far as Westport here.’

  As Murtybeg left for the Warehouse, Pat stood beside Sarah outside the dining room.

  ‘What do you think of me now, Sarah?’ he asked.

  ‘Doing what you have to do. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘Ye were hard enough on Murtybeg.’

  ‘True enough,’ she said. ‘But you’re not working them as slaves in England.’

  ‘I’m not sure that it's much better than here.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she answered. ‘Fever’s killing them in terrible numbers. Not as bad as the spring though.’

  ‘They’re still dying,’ Pat interrupted. ‘The fever is still running.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’ Sarah said. ‘If we want them to live, we have to get them out of Mayo. There’s no other way.’

  ‘I’d agree with you, but for one thing,’ Pat said. ‘Danny won’t take families. Sure, he wants men with families, but he prefers them to leave the women and children behind. That way he can control them the easier.’

  ‘Yes. I know all about Danny and his ways.’

  The following morning, Murtybeg arrived back at the Workhouse, and commenced counting the inmates for England.

  ‘A hundred and fifty, as requested,’ one of the junior officials told him.

  As Murtybeg was signing, Pat noticed Sarah at the door of the Administration block. He went over and hugged her.

  ‘Till we meet again, my love.’

  ‘When might that be?’ she asked.

  ‘God only knows,’ Pat said.

  ‘Well, don’t let it be worrying you. We can always write, the both of us. And one way or the other, we’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  ‘Well, you’d better believe it. I’m always here for you, Pat. Don’t forget it. And don’t be worrying.’

  Later, Pat and Murtybeg left the Workhouse. They walked to the post office where Murtybeg bought a stamp, a letter and an envelope.

  ‘What are you writing?’ Pat asked.

  ‘A note to Danny. Just telling him the ship we’re on, and when it might arrive in Liverpool.’

  He sealed it and left it with the clerk. They went back to the docks, and asked for the captain.

  ‘A hundred and fifty more,’ Murtybeg said.

  The captain looked at him, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Fifteen pounds,’ he said.

  ‘Damn it to hell,’ Murtybeg said. ‘That’s two shillings a man.’

  ‘Your choice,’ the man said. ‘Do you want to go to England or not?’

  Murtybeg took out his pack, and found a bag. Very carefully he counted out fifteen sovereigns. The captain nodded.

  They returned to the warehouse and gained admission easily enough. Then they made their way out through the gates, leading their horses as the miserable group of inmates followed them to the docks.

  ‘Where’s the donkey?’ Murtybeg asked.

  ‘I sold it last night. Ten shillings for the donkey, a pound for the cart.’

  ‘I wonder how long the donkey will live.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Pat answered.

  ‘But who owned the cart?’

  ‘Ballinrobe Workhouse, I presume,’ Pat answered, ‘but I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve taken eighty four men off their hands, and they’ll be glad enough for that. No, they won’t be concerned about any donkey and cart.’

  The Ballinrobe men had already been brought on the ship, and were sheltering under a canvas cover just beside the cattle.

  ‘There you go, Murteen. Not like the ship you came over on, I’d guess?’

  ‘Don’t sound so glad of it,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘You’ll write to me when you get to England?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Pat said. ‘The hire of the horses.’

  ‘From Knockanure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Murtybeg, ‘I was hoping you’d forget that.’

  ‘One and sixpence a day by two is three shillings. Five days, I reckon.’

  ‘And you want fifteen shillings now, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  Murtybeg swore. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a half sovereign, followed by two half-crowns.

  Pat rode out the Castlebar road from Westport, leading the second horse past the walls of Lord Sligo’s estate. He stopped at Castlebar again, and went to see Gaffney.

  ‘Well, Pat, you’ve seen a lot.’

  ‘I have,’ Pat replied. ‘Too much at times.’

  ‘Now you know the conditions of four of Mayo’s Workhouses.’

  ‘When you look at it like that…’

  ‘I want you to do a report before you go back to Knockanure. Compare the conditions of the four Workhouses, and tell us what else you’ve seen.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I met the priest down in Ballinrobe. He asked me to do a report too.’

  ‘Father Ward, was it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Everyone knows Father Ward. He does enough of his own reports too – for the Telegraph and any other paper that’ll print them.’

  Pat spent the rest of the afternoon writing. He told of what he had seen of the three other Workhouses, comparing them to Castlebar. He described his journey between them. In particular, he described Ballinrobe, and included the priest’s descriptions of the Partry Mountains.

  ‘But you weren’t in the mountains,’ Gaffney said when he saw the report that night.

  ‘Hardly. We couldn’t go that way with all the men.’

  ‘You couldn’t, but it’s a hell of a pity even so. We keep on getting letters from the good Father. I’d visit Partry myself if I could, see the truth of what he’s saying. Still, it’s an excellent report, Pat. You write well. Very well indeed.’

  That night he stayed at the Workhouse. As he left Castlebar the next morning it was raining. He thought of Murtybeg’s suggestion of travelling to England and working with Danny. As what? A clerk? A ganger? One way or the other, treating men like slaves, and leaving Sarah too?

  No. Not that.

  He rode directly to Knockanure, not caring to go by Carrigard. The rain had stopped by the time he had reached Knockanure, but a deep depression settled on him.

  Chapter 11

  Friedrich Engels, The Condition of the Working Class in England: Heaps of refuse, offal and sickening filth are everywhere interspersed with pools of stagnant liquid. The atmosphere is polluted by the stench and is darkened by the thick smoke of a dozen factory chimneys
. A horde of ragged women and children swarm about the streets and they are just as dirty as the pigs which wallow happily on the heaps of garbage and in the pools of filth. In short, this horrid little slum affords as hateful and repulsive a spectacle as the worst courts to be found on the banks of the Irk. The inhabitants live in dilapidated cottages, the windows of which are broken and patched with oilskin. The doors and the door posts are broken and rotten. The creatures who inhabit these dwellings and even their dark, wet cellars, and which live confined amidst all this filth and foul air – which cannot be dissipated because of the surrounding lofty buildings – must surely have sunk to the lowest level of humanity.

  Description of Manchester’s ‘Little Ireland’ at the start of the Irish Famine Pat’s letter from Knockanure Workhouse some weeks before had galvanised Danny. Even before Murtybeg had left England, Danny felt there was little doubt that he could get workers directly from the Mayo Workhouses.

  Now he wrote a letter directly to Tim Kearney at a site near Leeds. Three days later, a reply arrived. As Danny had anticipated, the offer of six shillings a day had ensured Kearney’s interest.

  At the ganger meeting that morning, he told everyone that Kearney had accepted his offer, and would be starting over the next week or so.

  ‘Kearney!’ Lavan exclaimed.

  ‘None other,’ Danny answered. ‘One of the old gang.’

  ‘Isn’t that great?’ Lavan said. ‘I always had great respect for Tim. A hard worker.’

  For the next hour, the discussions were of a more general nature, covering one contract after another, but always coming back to the key subject of labour shortage, and the risk of bringing workers in through the Port of Liverpool.

  As the meeting finished, McManus slipped Danny a blank envelope. No one else noticed.

  Danny retired to his office. Inside the envelope was a letter. It read: ‘Danny – I wrote to Brady, and he wrote back saying there would be no problem in bringing the navvies through the port. He would like to meet you in Liverpool first, and would prefer that no-one else comes. I have not mentioned you by name, nor Edwardes & Ryan. If you mention me though, you will have no problem. He lives beside McCabe’s bar in Vauxhall. McCabe will know him. Just go to the bar, and ask McCabe for him.’

  Vauxhall, Danny thought. Just off Scotland Road. A rough area. Many Irish too.

  Afterwards, he showed the letter to Irene.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve no choice, you’ll have to go.’

  ‘I wonder why he wants to meet me alone.’

  ‘These kind of people always do. They like to exercise their influence quietly. The less who know, the better.’

  Kearney arrived in Stockport.

  That evening, he joined Danny and Irene for dinner.

  ‘Your letter caused some remarks among the other fellows,’ he told Danny.

  ‘I’d say it did.’

  ‘You know I’d been elected as ganger after Farrelly left for America.’

  Danny laughed. ‘I hadn’t. But it certainly seems as if we have the ability to pick the very best. So have they elected anyone to replace you?’

  ‘Joe Gilligan.’

  Danny smiled. Roughneen had been correct in his assessment of the best men on the gang.

  ‘And how’s the gang going?’

  ‘Very well,’ Kearney answered. ‘We were up to full strength before I left. We’d write home to find out which of the fellows were working the railways here. Chiefly the ones who had book learning from your father’s school. There’s some hard workers among them, and while most of them were earning well enough, they knew they’d earn better on the gang with us. So we’d find out from their families at home where they were working, then a quick letter would be enough to bring them over. And I’ll tell you one thing, Danny, there’s many more good Kilduff men out there, all around the country.’

  ‘Worth remembering,’ Danny said. ‘I reckon we’re going to need more gangers ourselves here.’

  Yes, he thought. There’s any number of good gangers out there.

  ‘You can rest here a while,’ he told Kearney. ‘Tomorrow I’ll bring you over to Mrs. O’Brien’s. She’ll have a room for you. Good food too, as the fellows will tell you.’

  Irene had said nothing. He noticed Kearney was looking closely at her. Assessing her, perhaps. And, he reckoned, she was assessing him.

  Next day, Danny took Kearney out to meet Roughneen. Three of the old gang together. There was much laughter, and exchanging of stories since they had last met.

  ‘And Farrelly gone to America,’ Kearney said.

  ‘Yes,’ Roughneen replied. ‘Wasn’t that the biggest surprise of all?’

  They walked the site. Danny could see that Kearney was surprised by the low quality of the labour.

  ‘They’d never make it on the old gang,’ he commented to Danny.

  ‘Sure as hell, they wouldn’t,’ Danny replied. ‘They’re all from west Mayo. All out that way, the Hunger has them famished. But we’ll build them up in time.’

  ‘But their rate of work. It’s hardly half of what we’d be doing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny, ‘but that was working the butty system. Damned good money for hard workers.’

  ‘And these.’

  ‘They just work directly with us. We pay them damned little. A shilling a day if they’re lucky.’

  ‘A shilling!’ Kearney exclaimed.

  ‘Sure it’s all they’re worth. And it’s better than they’d be getting on the Relief Works in Mayo, and even that’s closed. And they’d be getting nothing at all in the Workhouse. But it’s not only the pay that’s better for them. We feed them up too. Get them used to hard work.’

  ‘But…how easy is it to find these fellows.’

  ‘Getting harder,’ Danny said, ‘As you might know Murtybeg is in Mayo. We’re expecting him back very soon. And don’t worry, he’ll have workers with him, I’m sure of it. I’m hoping it’ll be enough to get the present sites back on course to complete in time. And I’d be disappointed if he didn’t have at least a hundred for the North Staffordshire.’

  Roughneen nodded. ‘I hope to God he does.’

  Danny left Kearney with Roughneen. It had been agreed that Roughneen would stay on for another two days until Kearney had a proper grasp of the site. Then Roughneen would leave Kearney, travel to the North Staffordshire to mark out the site, and locate suppliers. Danny told him that Irene would be able to help him with the suppliers.

  When Danny arrived back that evening, the letter from Murtybeg was waiting for him.

  ‘An efficient fellow, your brother,’ Irene commented.

  Danny glanced through it. ‘Two hundred and thirty four…’ he gasped. ‘That should sort us out.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Irene said.

  ‘I know,’ said Danny, reading on. ‘Oh my God! Friday?’

  ‘That’s not to say it’ll arrive on time,’ Irene said, ‘but it certainly won’t be early. But there’s one matter that concerns me.’

  ‘I know,’ Danny said. ‘The ship. Disembarking them.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And we’ll have to have someone waiting there too. And it’s going to have to be you.’

  ‘It will,’ he said. ‘With a pound or two to grease some palms. After I meet this Brady fellow.’

  ‘I hope it’ll work,’ Irene said.

  ‘It’ll have to.’

  Next morning, Danny left for Liverpool. He went directly to the Docks, and found the harbour master’s office.

  ‘Not arrived yet,’ he was told. ‘There’s been no storms though, and the winds have been good. I’m guessing later this evening perhaps. Or sometime tomorrow.’

  He walked across to Vauxhall. He knew what he was going to see, but even so, it shocked him. The ‘courts’ behind the buildings, the low cellars, the gaunt faces, the stink of poverty. And the white crosses on doors. Fever! Murtybeg was right. There was fever here.

  When he found
the street, he saw it was lined with Irish beggars. Many were not even able to beg in English, others had only a few words. Half were mothers, babies clasped close, begging for money for the child.

  He found McCabe’s, and went in. The bar was full, with a loud buzz of conversation. There were many men, most dressed in the rough clothes of the navvy. A sharp smell too, mixing beer and cabbage with the smell of raw sewage.

  The moment Danny entered, the noise died away. There was a deep hush, as dozens of men turned around to look right at him. He walked towards the bar, the crowd opening for him, and closing behind, still silent.

  ‘Mr. McCabe?’ he asked the barman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr. Brady.’

  ‘We’re all looking for Mr. Brady.’

  There was a sound of raucous laughter, and the hum of talk started again. McCabe indicated Danny should come to the end of the bar, and let him in.

  ‘In the name of God, what did you come in like that for?’

  ‘How else could I come in?’ Danny asked. ‘I was told to come to McCabe’s and ask for Brady. Am I right or am I wrong?’

  McCabe muttered a curse under his breath. ‘It’s still a damned dangerous thing to do,’ he said to Danny. ‘Now, how do I know you’re looking for Brady, or who you are?’

  ‘Ryan is the name. I’m a friend of Jamesy McManus. Mr. Brady knows him, and is expecting me.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘No. But the matter is urgent.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Danny followed down a long corridor, crates and barrels of beer on the sides. McCabe knocked on a door and opened it. There was a whispered exchange. Then he led Danny further down the corridor, and brought him into a dark room, without windows. There was a chair, a table and a candle which McCabe lit. He told Danny to sit, and left.

  Danny sat, staring at the candle. He was far away from the bar now and could scarcely hear the talk and laughter. As the minutes dragged, he began to have misgivings. He had surely taken a risk coming here. He only had the word of McManus that Brady was reliable. After a while, Danny realised he was only panicking himself. For a long time he tried to think of nothing at all.

  The door opened, and a woman entered. Too well dressed for Vauxhall, Danny thought.