The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  After a few days, Roarty came alongside as they started the horses down the trail.

  ‘Your friend there. He’s never worked with horses?’ he asked Luke.

  ‘What did he say?’ Conaire asked.

  ‘He says you’ve never worked with horses.’

  ‘Little chance I ever got of that in Torán. Horses were only for gentlemen.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Roarty asked.

  ‘He says he’s never worked with horses. Didn’t have them out his part of Mayo.’

  Luke wondered how a Donegal man could not understand Irish. Perhaps Erris was too far from Donegal, and the accent was too different. Or perhaps Roarty simply did not want to show he spoke the language.

  ‘We’ll send him down to the river so,’ Roarty said. ‘He’ll be better employed unloading at the dock.’

  Conaire left that afternoon for the dock on the Gatineau River.

  Chapter 20

  Quebec Gazette, January 1848:

  The temperature on the 10th and 11th inst., was the coldest of the season, and indeed in no season is the thermometer usually so low in Canada. It has been down for two days at sunrise according to position and thermometers to from twenty five degrees to thirty degrees below zero.

  For the winter Luke worked with horses. There were thousands of horses working in the forests. In Mayo he had been used to working with horses on ploughing, and carrying hay and turf. But that was only one at a time. Here the work was far tougher.

  But he found it more fascinating too. The enormous logs, the long lines of them being hauled down the trail – this was a vastly greater operation than he had ever seen in Mayo. In many ways, it compared to building English railways. There too, horses were used, pulling carts or rail wagons of spoil from the cuttings to the embankments.

  Around the cambooses in the shanties, Luke heard many stories of logging along the Outaouais. Stories of working in the logging ponds, the timber storage yards and the shipyards in Quebec and Montreal. Stories too of working in the lumber camps along the Gatineau River, as well as the Rideau, the Schuyan, the Quio and the Bonnechere. Working the saw-mills along the rivers and canals – Brewer's Mills, Davis' Mills, Chaffey's Mills, Kingston Mills and many more.

  Floating logs down the river, clearing log jams, floating enormous rafts of logs down the St. Lawrence. He thought again of what Jack had told him. The journey to New York after the rivers thawed. How long ’till he got there? Was it possible for Winnie to reach America in 1848?

  Luke noticed that there was one man who spoke little of lumber and forests. His name was Jim O’Neill, a Tyrone man as Luke discovered. But from all Luke could determine, the reason for his silence was that he had no interest in forests. Nor, it appeared, did he have much interest in travelling up and down the rivers and canals to New York. At times, Luke wondered what he was doing in Canada.

  O’Neill could have been in the Molly Maguire Gang. Certainly, he spoke enough about it. Luke remembered the night when he had been beaten by three men in the Ox Mountains for destroying an illicit shebeen on the Famine Relief Works. He was almost sure they had been Molly Maguires.

  He was certain though, that they had shot Clanowen’s agent in County Mayo. He felt the agent deserved what he got. Still, it had resulted in evictions right across the Clanowen estates, including the one he had witnessed just outside of Kilduff. Was it better to resist and take the consequences, or lie down and do nothing?

  Late one night, Luke returned to the shanty. He sat at the table by the camboose, and held his head in his hands.

  ‘By Christ, Roarty is a tough son-of-a-bitch to work for. Where did we get the likes of him?’

  ‘They’re all the same,’ O’Neill said. ‘Gilmours drive them hard, and they drive us like animals.’

  One of the older men, who had been lying in a bunk closest to the camboose, drew himself up and walked over to the table.

  ‘What are ye fellows going on about? You don’t know what tough work is. I’ll tell you this, if you had been working on the Rideau Canal back in the ‘30s, then you wouldn’t be whinging about tough work now.’

  ‘That was Gilmours?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Or the Wrights? Damned if I can remember. But I’ll tell you, it was the hardest work on God’s earth. So don’t you fellows be moaning and complaining.’ He walked back to his bunk.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Oh, the Rideau Canal,’ O’Neill said. ‘That was heading back to the St. Lawrence, but the other direction, so as to be sending timber up to Lake Ontario to supply the Americans that way.’

  ‘The Gilmours and the Wrights. All good English names. No Quebecers?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ O’Neill said, ‘but at least we got one Irish.’

  ‘That crook,’ one of the other men grunted. ‘He’s worse than the Gilmours.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Egan,’ O’Neill answered. ‘John Egan. A Galway man, wouldn’t you know it.’

  ‘A tough breed, too,’ the other man said. ‘Galway fellows are worse than the Quebecers for fighting.’

  ‘Arra, go on,’ Luke said, ‘Mayo can beat Galway any time. But enough of that, tell us more about this Egan fellow.’

  ‘He’s the one that’s opening up the Bonnechere,’ O’Neill replied. ‘Said to be the richest man in Canada. And I’ll tell ye this, men like that don’t get rich by being easy on their workers. No, he’s a right son-of-a-whore, may God damn him to Hell.’

  ‘There’s one thing I can’t understand here,’ Luke said. ‘These Irish fellows, like Egan, and the gangers, nearly all Irish. I’d have thought you’d have more Quebecer and English fellows up this way to keep us in order.’

  ‘Ah now, that’s a little hard to understand, right enough,’ O’Neill said. ‘Right now, we’re working for Gilmours, and they’re sure as hell not Irish, even if they’re good friends with that Egan bloodsucker. But it all goes back, twenty years damn near, to the time of the Shiners.’

  ‘The Shiners?’

  ‘Aylen and his gang. He’d only hire Irish fellows for his shanties, all here up in the Gatineau. And when he had a good number of them, he reckoned he had an army. Enough to scare the devil out of the Quebecers. Wrecked their rafts too, he did. Same in Bytown, the Shiners damn near wrecked the place. Don’t hear much of Aylen now though. Made his money, sold out, and now he’s as respectable a fellow as you can get. They all get respectable in the end, and then they’re part of the club.’

  ‘Like Egan?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Yes, just like Egan.’

  Luke found he was becoming accustomed to the shanty and shanty life. Because it was winter, the men spent all their time after work within the shanty. It was warm, and after hours working in the snow, Luke was thankful for that. They were very dark though, with the only light coming from the camboose and the odd guttering candle. It would have been impossible to read, but since they had no books or newspapers, this made very little difference. At first, Luke found it disgusting to wash in the same trough as the other men, and use the same towel, but this too, he grew accustomed to. His blankets were almost black with soot and grease, and the unceasing stink of smoke, soot and grease permeated the shanty.

  The stink of human bodies was even worse. Many of the men never removed their clothes, sleeping in them until they were close to disintegrating. Luke made sure to wash his clothes regularly, though since this was in the common trough, he wondered how much difference it made. At least there was some soap alongside, which might have had some effect, he thought. But, unlike Luke, most of the men never washed their feet. They were quick enough to take off their boots and socks though, and very few seemed to worry about the effect this might have had on anyone else.

  In ways, the stink reminded Luke of the appalling sweet stink of gangrene in the mud cabins around the mountains in Mayo. Benstreeva, Teenashilla, Burrenabawn. And Croghancoe. But here at least, there was no fever. The men were well f
ed too, and Luke was thankful for that. Death was one thing which no longer upset him as it once might have. The savagery of famine and fever in Mayo had hardened him long since.

  On one occasion, he had seen an axe-man with a broken leg. On that occasion he had been asked to take the man back down to the shanty. He was loaded up on top of the log that Luke was taking down, two of his workmates at each end of him and a greatcoat underneath. The axe-man screamed at every bump and jolt as Luke led the horses along. One of the men tried to tourniquet the leg, and staunch the flow of blood, but it was impossible, and drip by drip the blood stained the snow. When they came to the shanty, he was carefully brought inside. A second tourniquet was applied, which stopped the flow of blood at last, but it was too late. That night, the axe-man died.

  When Luke awoke the following morning, the body was gone. He did not ask what had happened to it, nor did he have any wish to know.

  In spite of tough conditions, the work fascinated him. The fellers were the most experienced, and many worked year round with the lumber companies, not part-time like most of the shanty men. Luke wondered at their expertise in bringing trees down precisely as they wanted. It was vital that they not hang up on other trees, or sustain damage falling on rocks. Also, they had to be in the best possible position for squaring the log and for hauling. They were all axe-men, the sawyers being regarded as a lesser breed. The sawyer’s job was to saw off the branches, and this was regarded as unskilled work. Then it was back to specialist axe-men to square off the log. Sometimes this was done at the edge of the forest, more often alongside the shanty.

  Then the logs had to be hauled to the nearest available water. This was easier where Luke and Jack were working, as compared to other shanties further inland. Here the nearest available stream was the Gatineau itself, and there was no need to bring the logs down by smaller streams, where log jams grew.

  All through November, it had been snowing, but there were many clear periods, and the snow was not heavy. Each time, Luke found it easy enough to lead his horses back up from the shanty to the logs at the edge of the uncut forest. Because of the weight of the logs, there was little problem in bringing them down, and most times the other teamsters had already flattened the snow on the trail to an icy consistency.

  But January was when the real snow came. For two days, they stayed inside the shanty, as the blizzard went on. The third morning dawned bright, and gangs of men were set to digging trails through the snow. Luke and the other teamsters were spared this work, and it was only the next morning they started to lead their horses back up the slope to the forest edge.

  One morning, Luke had dragged his logs down to the assembly point. He unhitched the chains, threw them over the horses’ backs and started leading them back up the slope. The area alongside, and stretching to the distance, had already been clear-felled. There had been a fresh fall of snow during the night, and most of the landscape was covered with it, stumps of cut trees poking through. In the distance, on top of a slight rise, men were burning branches and shavings in a bonfire. The smoke swirled up against a vivid blue sky.

  Like white smoke over a white mountain.

  Images flashed through his mind in quick succession. Frozen people building frozen roads in ragged shifts and straw-filled boots. The mud houses on Croghancoe – the screams, the gangrene, the rat-eaten faces. The stink of the fever sheds at Knockanure. The death pit.

  His hands were trembling. He grasped the chains, and clung on to the side of a horse, waiting until the trembling stopped. Then he pushed himself back, shook his head, and went on.

  One Sunday came the battle.

  It started easily enough. One of the Quebecers came over from where they were working, turned around and walked back.

  ‘My axe,’ one of the Irish axe men shouted. He’s got my axe.’ He ran after the Quebecer who raised the axe, and swung it at the axe-man, who jumped aside and came back with a swinging fist. The Quebecer fell on the ground, but jumped up, and came back, swinging the axe again.

  Dozens of Irish and Quebecers came out of the shanties to watch. Then the fight became general. Within minutes the whole clearing was a mass of brawling men, with axes and horse chains swinging. Through it all, there was the constant shrieking of the gangers’ whistles.

  ‘We’ll stay back here,’ Jack said.

  ‘Dead right we will,’ Luke said. ‘No need to get caught up with that bloody lot.’

  ‘What kind of cowards are ye?’ one of the Irishmen said.

  ‘No cowards,’ Jack said, ‘it’s just that we have a trawneen of sense, that’s all.’

  Luke watched in horror as one of the Quebecers brought an axe down on the shoulder of one of the Irishmen.

  ‘Lucky he missed the head too,’ Jack said.

  Now there was blood on the snow. One of the Quebec fighters was hit by a chain across the face, and fell screeching. It got worse.

  Two men came close to them, grappling a knife. At last it jerked down, slithering across a ribcage. The knife fell. As the other man went to pick it up, he was hit a blow on the head from behind with an axe handle, and fell onto the man he had come so close to killing.

  By the time it was over, many men lay on bloodied snow, as the gangers re-established control.

  Men staggered back to their shanties, some walking, some limping and carried by other men. Luke and Jack were ordered in to help. They tried to pick up one of the Irishmen, but he fell back screaming.

  ‘His collarbone’s gone,’ Luke said.

  ‘Well come along then,’ Roarty shouted, ‘get a mattress.’

  When they had carried the mattress out, they carefully tried to put the man on it, though he screamed all the time. Then four men carried him back to his own shanty.

  ‘He won’t be doing too much work now,’ Luke commented.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Jack said. ‘Not with a broken collarbone. Won’t be swinging axes anymore.’

  That evening the news went around the shanties, that one of the Quebecers was dead.

  ‘And three day’s wages deducted too,’ Jack said. ‘From every single one of us.’

  ‘What class of eejits were ye?’ an old man asked from his bunk.

  ‘But we were no part of it,’ Luke said.

  ‘Don’t matter to Roarty, he ain’t going to go around the shanties asking who was there and who wasn’t. We’re all going to pay the price, and that’s an end of it.’

  One evening they sat close to the camboose, talking of their future plans.

  ‘Well, Luke, going building rails, are you?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘What if he is?’ Jack asked. ‘He won’t be the only one.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re all fools,’ O’Neill said. ‘All this good land here, and ours for the taking. Are ye mad or what?’

  ‘Arra what? Everyone knows there’s better chances in the United States. Luke’s going to the railways, he knows the chances there. Don’t you, Luke?’

  ‘Of course,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve worked the rails in England and by God, it was tough there…’

  ‘And what makes you think it will be any easier here,’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Luke. ‘In fact I’m hoping it might be even worse. The harder the work, the more the money we make, and the faster we build up a stake for anything else we might want.’

  ‘But that’s saying nothing about what you might have to send home either?’ said O’Neill. ‘You’d have a stake right enough, if your family don’t take it all from right under your nose.’

  Look peered at the flames in the camboose.

  ‘Maybe you’re right’ he said, ‘but as long as the hunger is running, we can’t stop sending the money home. We can’t starve them, can we?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be starving anyone on a Canadian farm,’ O’Neill said. ‘Damn well you know it too. Your own food, and not potatoes either. And look at the land, they’re charging almost nothing for it. No landlords, cheap land, lots of food. And you want to stay
on the railways.’

  Yes, Luke thought, the railways. More and more he was coming to accept that he would never return to Ireland.

  ‘So what would you suggest then’ he asked. ‘Go out bush? I’d still need my stake money, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re here for?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be enough. Food, tools and the down-payment. You’d never make enough here in one year.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why O’Neill has been here twenty,’ Jack said. ‘Still trying to get the grub stake. That right, Jim?’

  ‘Arra whisht, what would you know about it?’ O’Neill said. He knocked his pipe on his boot. ‘Don’t be a fool, Luke, you should consider it. Once you go working on the railways, you’ll never stop, and you know that well enough yourself. It’ll be just another year, a new line here, a new line there, and by the time you’re half ready, you’ll be an old man, not able for farming bush, nor nothing.’

  ‘You’re too glum,’ Jack said. ‘Luke’s right, and you know it. You’ve as good a chance of earning your stake working the American railways, better even. They pay higher wages than here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But he’d never stop working the railways, would you, Luke?’

  ‘Of course he would,’ O’Neill said. ‘You’ve more sense than that, Luke, haven’t you?’

  Luke stared into the flames. ‘What you’re forgetting, Jim, is that there’s cheap land in the United States too. Once the railways are built, the land on either side comes up for sale.’

  ‘That’s if you get there. Any which way you look at it, getting into the United States is not going to be easy. Don’t seem to like Her Majesty’s subjects, do they? A cousin of mine, he was caught on the border and sent all the way back to Quebec.’

  ‘Arra, will ye stop your worrying,’ said Jack ‘It’s easy enough, just get off the boat at the lake, walk a few miles, pick up the boat again, and no one asks any questions.’

  ‘I doubt it’s that easy, Jack,’ Luke said.

  ‘You worry too much, Luke. And anyhow, there’s talk they’re going to end all that nonsense, and then a man can sail or walk into the United States whatever which way he pleases.’