The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  ‘You’re right,’ Luke said. ‘There were times I was starting to wonder if we’d get there at all.’

  ‘Arra, it’s too gloomy you are, always thinking the worst. We’ll get there now, that’s for sure and certain.’

  Next morning, they took their packs over their backs and walked the trail down to the river. It was muddy as the snow melted.

  ‘We were lucky,’ Luke said.

  ‘Indeed. I wonder what the other fellows will do.’

  ‘Go back to Gilmours at Quebec? Who knows?’

  ‘I was just thinking about Conaire,’ Jack said. ‘He can’t read nor write.’

  ‘No, not a chance. It’s a miracle he can speak the little English he can.’

  ‘I wonder if he’ll get to New York.’

  ‘We’ll see. One way or the other, we’ve got his brother’s address, and that’s something to go on.’

  They walked on.

  ‘God Almighty, would you look at that,’ Luke said.

  They looked down at a park full of sleighs along one side. Directly back from the pier, there were lines of logs – short logs, long logs and a few very long.

  ‘They’ll be for masts, those big fellows,’ Jack said.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Luke said. ‘Forty foot if they’re an inch.’

  On the river itself, rafts of timber were being assembled. Further out, rafts were floating down the river, five or ten men on each.

  ‘Seems that’s the way to New York,’ Jack said.

  ‘Looks good to me,’ Luke answered.

  They went to the office. Both were paid, signing their names again.

  ‘Ye can both write, can ye?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘Sure enough. That’s the reason we got on the rafts, or so I understand.’

  ‘Could be you’re right,’ the clerk said. ‘They’re always short of men to keep an eye on all the cribs and rafts, and make out what’s in them.’

  ‘And what about our letters?’ Luke asked. ‘Would ye be able to forward them on to us?’

  ‘Doubt it, but we can try.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Luke said. He wrote down Farrelly’s address in Harrisburg. ‘This is where I’m headed. If any turn up, just send them on.’

  ‘What of New York?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I doubt I’ll be there for long enough.’

  They walked out.

  ‘Money at last,’ Jack said.

  ‘Aye, and more than I was expecting.’

  ‘What? Why’s that?’

  ‘They never took off the two weeks that I was supposed to pay for the horse.’

  Jack looked at him in surprise.

  ‘But if they didn’t take it…Will they take it from some other poor fellow?’

  ‘Arra, no. Unless they get Roarty for it, for being so damned careless.’

  Jack checked his own pay.

  ‘He was smart enough to take the three days for the riot, though.’

  ‘Aye. I saw that right enough.’

  They slept in the shanty with the Mayo men that night.

  ‘Still no sign of Conaire,’ Jack said.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to see him now. We’re going to have to wait ’till New York.’

  ‘We don’t have his brother’s address in New York.’

  ‘Damn it, you’re right,’ Luke said.

  ‘Can you remember it?’

  ‘I can remember his name was Costello, since that’s Conaire’s name. The only other thing I remember is about Five Points. That’s the part of New York the bar was in. Who knows, maybe we’ll find it there. Can’t be too many bars with the name of Costello.’

  Chapter 26

  The Times, London, April 1848: They represent, they carry with them, misery and degra-dation, a visionary temperament and a factious religion, a deep sense of injury and a burning hatred of the British name. Centuries will not efface from their vindictive memories and their inventive imaginations the dark circumstances of their banishment, their landing, their dispersion over the inhospitable wild. Let anyone read the extracts from Canadian journals in our columns last Friday, and find a parallel, if he can, in any annals. Is it possible that it should ever be forgotten? These hundred thousand, after the loss of thousands by disease on the passage, and as many more in hospital sheds, are forwarded up the river to Toronto, and thence to the Upper Provinces, still perishing, still scattering disease wherever they go, and entirely dependent for support on the piety and alms of the benevolent. The clergy, the medical men, and other charitable persons who have tendered to their wants, have fallen by wholesale, martyrs to that service.

  They were put to work, assembling a crib. Twenty pieces of squared timber were locked between two larger logs. Oarlocks were fitted. Planks were fitted on top, and the crib was ready.

  Then they were pushing off into the Gatineau River. As they did so, Luke noticed a small cross nailed onto one of the uprights on the pier.

  ‘What’s that,’ he asked an older man.

  ‘Oh, that? That’s for O’Shea. Killed there five years ago.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Caught between a log and the pier.’

  ‘Poor fellow.’

  ‘And not the only one either. A hundred men get killed on the river drives in Ontario every year. You should know that.’

  ‘I do now,’ Luke said.

  When they reached the Outaouais River, the crib was floated across to Bytown, and tied up.

  Luke and Jack met a group of three other men on the quays, who had rowed in from another raft. Luke knew they were Irish from their accents, but certainly not Mayo.

  Bytown was a rough looking place, but no one seemed to mind.

  ‘There’s a place I know down here,’ one of the men said, leading them into a side alley. He pushed at a door. Luke entered, Jack following.

  It was a bar. Luke was surprised, since there was no name over the door, but guessed at once it might have been more of a rough shebeen than a bar. He wondered what the citizens of Bytown used instead of poitín. The other man put a sixpence on the counter.

  ‘We’ll have whiskey for all my friends here,’ he said. Jack winked at Luke, but within a minute they were sipping at whiskey.

  There were two old men in the bar. They both finished their drinks and left.

  ‘Don’t seem to like us shanty fellows,’ Jack said.

  ‘No way do they like us,’ one of the other Irishmen said. ‘Frightened would be more the word. Especially when we finish work.’

  ‘Finished work, are ye?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Dead right, we are,’ one of the other men said. ‘Had enough with sawing for one season. And what about yourselves?’

  ‘We’re going with the rafts,’ Luke said.

  ‘To Quebec?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Jack said. ‘New York is where we’re heading for.’

  ‘New York? What’s bringing you there?’

  ‘More money,’ Luke answered.

  ‘Have they fever there?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Luke said. ‘I haven’t heard about it, if there is.’

  ‘Couldn’t be any worse than what we had here last year. God knows how many died in Bytown. Toronto and Kingston too. Thousands of them were buried in mass graves.’

  ‘I can guess what it was like,’ Luke said. ‘We’ve come through Quebec and Montreal. I saw what happened there.’

  ‘Ye don’t have fever, do you?’

  ‘Not now, we don’t,’ Jack answered. ‘If we had it last year, we’d either be well mended or dead.’

  Luke and Jack paid for a round of drinks. A while later, they left.

  ‘That’s lightened our pockets a bit,’ Luke said.

  ‘Arra, not much. I’m sure we’ll earn plenty in New York.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Luke said. ‘And now for a bank.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ Jack replied. ‘It’s dangerous, walking around with this money in our pockets.’

  ‘It is. Thou
gh if we weren’t jumped back there, I think our prospects are better now.’

  They searched for some time, without success.

  ‘Let’s ask someone,’ Jack said.

  ‘They’d only jump us if they know we need a bank.’

  ‘Good point. Let’s ask a woman so. She wouldn’t jump you, even if you asked her.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Luke said.

  He saw an elderly woman across the road, and walked over to her. She looked apprehensive at his approach. At that moment, it struck Luke that his appearance, after all those months in the forests, might be a little off-putting.

  ‘Not meaning to alarm you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m just looking for a bank.’

  ‘Which bank would that be?’

  ‘The Bank of British North America.’

  ‘You’re outside it.’

  Luke looked up.

  ‘By God, so we are. Thanking you, ma’am.’

  They entered. Luke took out his savings book from Quebec. He passed across his money, and asked for a banker’s draft for most of it, keeping a few dollars for himself.

  They found a post office, and Luke borrowed a pen and ink.

  Bytown

  Ontario

  Carrigard

  Kilduff

  County Mayo

  Ireland

  28 April 1848

  My Dear Winnie, Dear Father & Mother,

  I hope ye are all well. The bank draft I am now sending you should help, though it might be best to hold most of it for the boat ticket for America.

  We are now finished with working in the forests, and heading to New York. We heard that the Gilmours were intent on sending a cargo of lumber from Bytown to New York. The cargo was to be assembled on the river, and when word came out that men were needed to travel with it, there was a race to be on it, but we were preferred to many others because we could read and write and add. We did not see Conaire again though, and I doubt we ever will.

  I will travel to New York with Jack Kilgallon, where I intend to write to Farrelly, and will travel out to Harrisburg after I hear back from him.

  Should you have sent any letters to me at the Gatineau camp, I have already asked that they be forwarded to me in Harrisburg, but I do not know if they will be sent, nor whether the gang will still be in Harrisburg. I can only pray.

  I hope I will have a fixed address for you to write, and so Winnie can come to America. It will be two or three months’ time though, so please stay until you hear from me again.

  I remain, your loving husband and son,

  Luke Ryan

  When they returned to the docks, Luke saw their crib was assembled together with other cribs.

  ‘We make a real raft now,’ an older man said.

  ‘Some raft!’ Jack said. ‘I thought there were enough logs in a crib but how many cribs are here?’

  ‘I’ve not counted them,’ the other man said. ‘Fifty, sixty, something like that.’

  ‘Where are they all coming from? Luke asked.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Down the Gatineau.’

  ‘Well, half of these are down the Rideau – the Wrights’ concessions. Most of the rest comes down from the Bonnechere – John Egan’s lot. Lost a lot in the Falls too. And there’s talk they’re opening up the Petawawa all the way back to Lake Nipissing, but I don’t know if there’s any of them here yet.’

  ‘You know a lot about it,’ Jack said.

  ‘Sure why wouldn’t I? I’ve been here long enough. Now can any of you fellows read and write?’

  ‘Both of us,’ Jack said, surprised.

  ‘Add and subtract?’

  ‘Of course,’ Luke said.

  ‘Ye’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Not much,’ Luke said.

  ‘Not much, says he. You sure?’

  ‘Sure, I’m sure. We’re not into that class of thing. Are we Jack?’

  ‘Not much,’ Jack said, copying Luke.

  ‘Right, I want you two working with me.’

  ‘You? Who’re you then?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Mick Conlon. Your ganger since you ask.’

  ‘Our ganger!’ Luke exclaimed.

  ‘Yes. Do ye have a problem with that?’

  ‘Well…no.’

  ‘Good. Now listen. We’re trying to work out how much timber is in this beast. We’ve got to divide it down too between the Gilmours, the Wrights and Egan. Them lads won’t be too happy if we start making mistakes.’

  He gave them both pencils and notebooks, and Luke and Jack followed him. Luke was intrigued by the process. Each crib had been marked with the name of the owners. Their task was to work out the amount of timber in each crib, as well as the quality of it, the length of the logs and the type of pine – white or red. All the logs had already been planed square.

  Luke noticed that Conlon knew the lengths of the logs without even measuring them.

  ‘It’s easy enough,’ Conlon told him. ‘They’re standard lengths. It’s the diameters that are important, but even that, you get used to.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Luke said, ‘though a square diameter isn’t something I’d come across before.’

  ‘Arra what, enough of your guff. Just write down what I tell you.’

  ‘Fine so,’ Luke said, as he wrote down the figures Conlon called out.

  The raft had begun to move.

  That evening, Luke and Jack sat inside one of the shanties that had been erected on the raft.

  ‘Our office,’ Conlon explained. ‘You sober now?’

  ‘Never better,’ Luke said.

  ‘We’re going to be doing a lot of arithmetic so you might as well understand this. Simple enough. For square logs you’re given the figures in feet – breadth by depth by length gives you the volume.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jack.

  ‘Now sometimes breadth and depth will be given in inches, so once again, multiply out and divide by one hundred and forty four. Think you can do that?’

  Jack looked hesitant.

  ‘Well, I can anyhow,’ Luke said.

  ‘A smart fellow so,’ Conlon said. ‘Where did you learn that class of thing?’

  ‘My uncle used to run a kind of a school back in County Mayo. He’d be giving us problems like that all the time. Expected us to be sharp, right enough.’

  ‘Fine,’ Conlon said, ‘now, do you know how to measure a round log? See if you’re smart enough for this?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Luke said, ‘but try me.’

  ‘Right. You take the girth at both ends.’

  ‘Girth?’

  ‘Circumference,’ Conlon explained.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Luke said.

  ‘You take the girth at both ends, add them, and divide by two which gives you the average girth. You then multiply the length in feet by the square of a quarter of the average girth.’

  ‘I’d better write this down,’ Luke said.

  Conlon repeated it. ‘Just remember it.’

  ‘So, that’s it,’ Luke said.

  ‘Yes. That gives you four fifths of the cubic volume.’

  ‘Only four fifths?’

  ‘That’s to allow for waste in sawing. Can’t be charging our customers for waste, can we?’

  They spent the next hour going through figures, multiplying figures and adding columns so as to work out the number of cubic feet of each type of log to be allocated to each of the lumber companies.

  ‘Quite some business this,’ Jack said, that night.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Luke said.

  He was thinking of other times, multiplying figures and adding columns on Famine Relief Works. Starving people, frozen people. Men, women and children with fever. The dying and the dead.

  And the man from Lisnadee who had recognised him back at the Gatineau dock in the winter. To hell with that. I’ll not meet him again. Nor any of the other Mayo fellows there. And thank God for that.

  How could it have come to this? County Mayo, his own c
ounty, his own home. Yet he had had to leave it because so many hated him. And even here, even in the forests of Canada, the hate still followed him.

  And what of Conaire? Anything could have happened to him. He might still be alive, but Luke was beginning to doubt it. He thought again of Conaire’s hard opinions about his own people. He had not started that way, Luke was sure of it. Was it all just the bluster of a man who was frightened, trying to put on a front of uncaring coldness? That kind of attitude could get a man a knife between the ribs.

  Conlon entered. ‘Come on you fellows, time to get moving.’

  Then they were outside, casting off the ropes, as the more experienced men began to pole the raft towards the centre of the river.

  They left Bytown, moving down the Outaouais River to the St. Lawrence, through the Lachine Canal and past Montreal to Sorel.

  They came to the mouth of the Richelieu River.

  ‘Seems like we’re changing here,’ Conlon said. ‘This lot is going up to Quebec, and you fellows are trying to get to New York. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Luke.

  ‘There’s another raft behind us.’

  Two men rowed out to the raft. Luke and Jack followed Conlon onto it, and they arrived at the village of Sorel.

  Another office. A clerk went through Conlon’s figures.

  ‘All correct, no doubt?’

  ‘As near as I can get it.’

  ‘Sign here so.’

  Conlon signed, leaving a space for Luke’s signature as witness.

  They were taken out to another smaller raft of cribs. A steamboat was being attached to the front.

  They travelled the Richelieu River, through the Chambly Canal, back to the Richelieu, to St. Jean-sur-Richelieu, and then up to Lake Champlain.

  The raft was far too wide for the canals, and had to be broken up into the smaller cribs again, and each poled separately through the canals.

  ‘Hard work,’ Jack said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Still – all these canals. Can you picture the work it took to dig them out?’

  ‘Sure wasn’t that what I was doing on the railways?’ Luke answered. ‘Hard work right enough, digging it all out, shovelling it up into the wagons, I’m well used to it. And so will you be, if you want to work the railways.’

  ‘Ye’re lucky, ye’re coming this way,’ Conlon said one morning.