The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Luke. ‘But November, that’s two months away. There’s no logging here, is there?’

  ‘Not much, but there’s other work. The rafts of logs are still coming down, and there's plenty of work sorting them out, cutting them and loading them on ships.’

  ‘How would we find this work?’

  ‘My husband, he works in Gilmours. He’ll tell you.’

  ‘Jack Kilgallon, he mentioned your husband to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but the Kilgallons are in the shipyard, and Larry works up by the saw-mill. Gilmours are a big business. They bring the logs down from up river before they ship them to England. Sometimes they look here for men for the camps, if they can't find enough in Montreal. So you might be able to find work in the woods for yourselves, before you even leave Quebec. One way or the other, Larry will be able to put you in the right direction, if it’s work you want.’

  A young girl placed two plates on the table. Chops and fried potatoes.

  ‘A good looking breakfast, this.’

  ‘Ye’ll need it every morning, if ye’ll be working in the timber yards.’

  She left.

  ‘What was she saying,’ Conaire asked.

  ‘A lot about how to get work. Her husband knows. We’ll find out more tonight.’

  ‘Good breakfast too.’

  ‘Yes, a very good breakfast,’ Luke said, ‘and you’re going to learn English.’

  They went to their bunks and dropped their packs on the floor. Conaire lay down, and within minutes he was asleep.

  Luke lay down, but could not sleep. After a while, he got up and shook Conaire.

  ‘Come on, boy. We’ve lots to do yet.’

  ‘I’m too damned tired.’

  ‘Let’s see this city, now we’re here.’

  ‘What’s the hurry, we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I’ve a letter to write.’

  ‘Well write it.’

  ‘Can’t do that without a post office.’

  ‘Well, find one.’

  ‘Come on, no more excuses out of you.’

  They slipped out of the house and walked towards what seemed to be the centre of the city.

  They found no post office.

  ‘We’d better ask,’ said Luke. He went to approach an elderly woman, but when he tried to speak to her, she scurried away. He tried approaching a younger man, but he only growled at Luke and passed by.

  ‘Seems he didn’t like us,’ Conaire said.

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Luke.

  ‘Maybe they think we have fever.’

  ‘Maybe they do,’ said Luke. ‘Or maybe being Irish is cause enough. We’ll go back, and ask Mrs. McGowan.

  As they turned for home, Luke saw a building marked ‘Bureau de Poste’. Guessing the meaning of the last word, he spotted a post box.

  ‘Lucky chance, that,’ he said to Conaire. ‘Wait here until I get a stamp.’

  He came out and they went on. ‘By Christ! The post here is not cheap. We won’t be sending many letters home with these prices.’

  ‘Did you get one?’

  ‘Not a chance. They don’t sell stamps in Canada. I’ll have to wait until I have written the letter and then bring it back for them to frank it.’

  The next stop was the Bank of British North America, which they found easily. Luke opened an account in his own name, with no difficulty. He left the bank, and took a knife out of his pack. Carefully, he slit the thread along the edge of his pocket, and took the cash out, before returning to deposit the money ‘That was damned dangerous,’ Conaire said afterwards.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Carrying that amount of money around the streets. You could have been robbed.’

  ‘Arra, no. Sure no one would know I was carrying it.’

  In the next street two men approached them, and stopped on the sidewalk, not letting them pass. One was staggering. He came up to Luke, face to face, and snarled at him in French. As Luke was distracted, the second man punched Conaire in the stomach. Conaire staggered back, and fell. The man went to kick Conaire on the ground, but Luke moved fast, and swung his fist hard under the man’s jaw. He dropped to the ground without a sound. The other ran at Luke, but Luke grasped him by the buttocks, drew him in, and kneed him hard in the groin. He doubled over, retching.

  Conaire was standing again.

  ‘Come on,’ Luke said, gripping him by the shoulders. ‘Time to go.’

  Conaire staggered, then released himself and followed Luke.

  ‘By God, you can fight.’

  ‘A man has to be able to defend himself.’

  ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘Oh, all along the railways. Those Welsh fellows, they never gave up on us.’

  Yes, Luke thought. And more than that. He thought of starving people attacking the cart convoy bringing food back to Kilduff. It was not just the Quebecers and the Welsh. Starving Irishmen and Irishwomen – they had to be fought too.

  They walked on until they found the St. Lawrence again, and followed it until they found the lumber terminals. There were long lines of men, waiting to be selected for work. Slowly, they discovered each terminal and saw-mill, and then the rest of the city, until they had a better knowledge of Quebec. At last, they found the side street leading to the McGowan house.

  There were six men at the table, playing cards. Luke recognised three of the men from the bar. Jack was dealing.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you think of it here?’

  ‘It’s as you said,’ Luke said. ‘Good food and good beds.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be so?’ He was looking at them, puzzled. ‘Ye both look a bit shook.’

  ‘We were attacked,’ Luke said.

  ‘I hope ye were able to defend yourselves.’

  ‘We were, well enough,’ Luke replied. ‘We knocked one over and gave the other fellow such a kick he’ll never make children!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be telling that to Mrs. McGowan. She prides herself on not having brawlers in this house.’

  After dinner that evening, Luke sat by Mrs. McGowan and her husband, while the Kilgallons and two others played cards on the other table.

  Luke questioned the McGowans about the logging trade in Quebec. McGowan himself worked as a clerk in Gilmours. Most of his work consisted of writing out letters and contracts for the Gilmours’ agents in London, Liverpool, Bristol, New York and Boston.

  ‘I heard you crossed on one of Gilmours’ ships,’ he said to Luke, at length.

  ‘The Centaurus,’ Luke replied.

  ‘Yes. Everyone’s talking about it. Pretty rough, I believe.’

  ‘It was,’ Luke said.

  ‘The Gilmours are rough too. As Mary might have told you, they do everything from beginning to end. They own the logging camps up the Gatineau, them and the Wrights. They float the logs down to the St. Lawrence, some of them they send up the Champlain and down to New York.’

  ‘New York?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s where you’re intending travelling, I understand.’

  ‘It is,’ Luke replied.

  ‘I’ll tell ye more about that some other time, we can go over the route with ye, see if we can find anyone else that’s travelling that way.’

  ‘Surely the lads here are staying with the saw-mills?’

  ‘Not always. Some of them go with the logs down as far as the Champlain, or the Hudson, and come back up again to work in the mills, or out in the forest, whatever they feel like.’

  ‘Know any going to the forest?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Here’s one,’ Jack said from the other table.

  McGowan looked across in surprise. ‘You never said that before.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Jack said. ‘I did now.’

  McGowan laughed. ‘So there you are, Luke. There’s your answer.’

  Jack started dealing the cards on the other table, five to each man. He looked across to Luke.

  ‘Well, what do yo
u think of that?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ Luke said. ‘Conaire too, I’d say. Four or five months in the Gatineau, that’s what I’m thinking.’

  Jack picked up his five cards, looked closely, and threw his coins to the centre of the table.

  ‘Then down with the logs to New York?’

  ‘New York, for sure,’ Luke answered. ‘But you’d know better than us how to get there.’

  Jack quickly threw three cards down, waited for the others to discard, and dealt to their discards.

  ‘It’s a long way from the Gatineau,’ he said. ‘But the logs are the best way – you can earn money while you’re travelling. Get fed too. It’s hard to beat that.’

  ‘It is,’ Luke said, and waited as the betting began. But all interest had switched to the cards. After a few moments, he turned back to McGowan.

  ‘Do all the logs go to New York then?’ he asked.

  ‘Not all,’ McGowan answered. ‘The most of them, they bring down here to Quebec, square them off in the saw-mills, and send them over to Glasgow and Liverpool in their own ships that they build here and in Glasgow. And when they're finished, they bring the immigrants back in the ships, as you well know. Scottish immigrants too – it’s not just the Irish. And if you think the Centaurus was bad, it wasn’t by any means the worst. The Argo back in May time – that was one of theirs. By the time that one put in to Grosse Île, it was in a terrible state. God knows how many died. There was a report sent to Parliament in London, the Quebec Gazette carried the whole story. Not that any of it seemed to worry the Gilmours very much.’

  ‘So why do you work for them?’ asked Luke

  ‘Two reasons’ said McGowan. ‘First, you have to work for somebody. Second, they're not the worst, provided you're not one of their passengers.’

  The betting had finished.

  ‘Two pairs, aces high.’

  ‘Three kings.’

  ‘Full house, tens on top.’

  ‘Full house, aces on the roof,’ Jack said, as he swept the kitty across to his side. ‘By God, Luke, you’re bringing me luck already.’

  That night, Luke lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. ‘Are you awake, Conaire?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Sounds like we might be a long time in Canada.’

  ‘A lot longer than we thought.’

  The next morning, they went with McGowan to the saw-mill. He brought them directly to the office of the senior manager. After he had explained everything, the manager offered them work on the timber piers, half a crown a day, three pence per hour for a ten hour day. He took their names and asked McGowan to bring them down to the ganger on one of the docks.

  They turned to go.

  ‘Hold it!’

  They turned back.

  ‘That fellow won’t have the strength for this kind of work,’ he said, looking at Conaire.

  There was a stunned silence. Then Luke spoke.

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  The man looked doubtfully at McGowan.

  ‘The other one is powerful enough,’ McGowan said. ‘He’ll work enough for two men.’

  The man nodded. “You’d better be right, McGowan.”

  “I am. I know these fellows.”

  They left.

  ‘I understood that ‘brother’ bit, easy enough,’ Conaire said. ‘It was good of you to say it.’

  ‘And why not,’ Luke said. ‘We wouldn’t want you out on the street, begging. Would we?’

  They followed McGowan, along by the side of the saw-mill.

  ‘That wasn’t as good as I’d hoped,’ said Luke. ‘Half a Canadian crown a day is only half what we were earning on the Great Western Railway.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said McGowan, ‘but work is hard to get this season. There’s many a man would take your place.’

  They reached the dock. There seemed to be thousands of logs. Up river, there were thousands more, lashed together in enormous rafts of hundreds of logs, at least a dozen rafts that Luke could see. McGowan brought them to the ganger, a burly Quebecer.

  ‘I’ve brought you a few more Irishmen, Carlier.’

  ‘More Irish, McGowan! They can work, yes?’

  ‘They’ll work as hard as you want,’ McGowan said. ‘No fever, neither, before you ask.’

  ‘For how much time they want work?’

  ‘Until it’s time to go up the forests. Either the Rideau or the Gatineau, I was telling them.’

  ‘I take them so. I do not do but for a friend.’

  McGowan turned to go. ‘I'll see you fellows tonight.’

  Carlier brought them down to his office in a tiny shack to sign them on.

  ‘You want to work? You better know well how to work, or by God, I’ll want to know why not.’

  He led them down the timber yard, in and out between stacks of sawn lumber. They came to where a stack was being erected. They were given rapid instruction by a ganger in a language that mixed French and English. They joined two other men who spoke French between themselves. They started working at the bottom, hefting planks and beams up to the two Quebecers above. If they slowed down, there was a shout from the ganger. They carried on.

  It was tough work. Soon, Conaire was sweating heavily. Luke began to take more of the load, lifting more weight so as to give Conaire less of the load each time the beam went up. After some hours, they stopped for lunch. Neither Luke nor Conaire had anything with them, and the two other men offered them rolls and cheese. Afterwards, Luke lay back in the warm sun, his muscles aching. Then back to work for more long hours, only stopping for water.

  At the end, they sat on a squared-off log, gasping heavily.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able for it for this length of time,’ Luke said.

  ‘And I surely wouldn’t have, but for your strength added to my own.’

  ‘Arra, what. Come on, let’s go home.’

  They left, joining a long mass of men streaming out of the mills.

  ‘That fellow is a right hoor,’ Conaire said suddenly.

  ‘The ganger fellow?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘No less than the rest of the bastards here it would seem,’ Luke said.

  ‘The two fellows we’re working with seem decent enough, though.’

  ‘That’s true, though I doubt there’s many like them.’

  ‘But the gangers. Are they like that all over, do you think?’ Conaire asked.

  ‘Sure wasn’t it the same on the English railways. The Welsh, the English and the rest of them. Work you into the ground if they got half a chance.’

  ‘It must have been hard on ye.’

  ‘Not so hard in that we had our own gang, and ran things our own way. We chose our own ganger, one of our own. But for the rest of the fellows it was rough, and it wasn’t just the Welsh gangers. The Irish gangers, they were just the same.’

  ‘Like Daniel Ryan, are you saying?’

  Luke flinched. ‘Yes’ he said, ‘just like Daniel Ryan. But Danny’s no ganger, as well you know. Like all contractors, he knows well how to squeeze the last penny out of his workers. I told you Danny once wrote to me, asking me to join him as a partner. Told me before that I was a fool going back to Carrigard. He reckoned working as a contractor would make him a rich man, and he offered me a share in it. Can you think of it? But I turned him down, told him I had no interest in that kind of thing.’

  ‘What kind of fool are you, turning down a chance like that.’

  Yes, Luke thought. What kind of fool had he been?

  He was drained when they arrived back in McGowan’s, but he knew the time had come to write to Winnie.

  When dinner was over, he stayed at one end the table, as the card game started at the other. Conaire sat watching the game.

  ‘Come on and join us,’ McGowan said.

  ‘I’ve a letter to write,’ Luke answered. ‘They’ll be waiting for it at home.’

  ‘They will, I’m sure,’ McGowan said.

  ‘I doubt I’
ll be writing many of them though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I never knew postage was going to be as much as that. One hell of a shock it gave me in the post office there.’

  ‘What did you expect? It’s a long way to Ireland.’

  ‘It must be, by God. Do you know you’d have to take a whole day on the railways to earn that kind of money, even in England?’

  He set down a sheet and an envelope. ‘Could ye lend me a pen and ink?’

  Mrs. McGowan fetched them from the dresser.

  ‘There’s another problem I’ve got too’ Luke said. ‘It was hard enough trying to ask about postage – they only spoke French. At least they didn’t understand my English. I asked them about the St. Lawrence, but either they knew nothing, or did not want to understand me.’

  ‘What about the St. Lawrence?’ McGowan asked.

  ‘Well it’s just this. If the St. Lawrence is freezing, how long does it take for the letters to get to Ireland, or England for that matter?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that’ McGowan said. ‘It’s quick enough. Even in the winter, they go overland to Halifax. It’s ice-free year round.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to hear that’ Luke said. ‘So how long do you reckon on?’

  ‘Depends on the storms, of course, but from here, it could be six or eight weeks to Liverpool.’

  Luke dipped the pen in the ink.

  Quebec

  Canada

  Ryan Family

  Carrigard

  Kilduff

  County Mayo

  Ireland

  26 September 1847

  My Dear Winnie, Dear Father and Mother,

  This is to let you know that I have landed in Quebec and I have good health. The journey was not great, but I was not troubled by fever. The ship was blown a long way north, and this added to our journey. I was lucky enough to get work on the ship out, and then the First Mate asked me to act as a ganger over some of the others. I was paid four pounds and six shillings Canadian, though it is less than the British pound by a little. When we arrived close to Quebec, we had to stay some weeks in quarantine on an island in the St. Lawrence River. I was not sick, but they would not let us travel further until they could be certain. There was no bank on the island, and I had no chance of writing to ye. I now enclose three British pounds for you. You should be able to cash it at the Hibernian Bank in Knockanure. It is little enough, but it is most of what I have, and I will send more later.