The Exile Breed

by Charles Egan

  The financial markets dropped further. Pat would not have noticed it, but Murtybeg mentioned it to him. That night, Danny said nothing over dinner.

  It had been a warm day. Afterwards, Pat and Murtybeg stood together outside the house, smoking their pipes.

  ‘He’s taking it badly, I’d say,’ Murtybeg said.

  ‘And how,’ Pat responded.

  ‘God knows, the sackings were bad enough, but Danny was hoping things could only get better from here. And now this. The banks, the railways, they’re all dropping. Things are going to get an awful lot worse, Pat, before they get better. And I’m not sure that Edwardes & Ryan can take it.’

  The sun was setting in the North West. Pat could hear the screech of a train whistle from the tracks.

  ‘I’m not sure Danny can either,’ he said. ‘But it surely can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Murtybeg said, ‘I’m not a money man, I don’t understand all these things. But from what I read in the Guardian, they’re saying it’s the worst crash ever.’

  ‘I didn’t know you read the Guardian.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, but Danny has it in every day. The Times too. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, he sees how the markets are, what the banks are doing, how the railway shares are. I think he’s obsessed. And I’ll tell you something else, Pat, that woman of his gives him damned little support. Danny’s an ambitious man, I don’t need to tell you that, but between the banks, the markets and Irene, he’s being torn asunder.’

  The sackings eased the pressure on Edwardes & Ryan, but only for a few weeks. More railway contracts were being suspended all around them, and those that remained tightened in price. As time passed, Danny became more desperate.

  He thought of Irene’s assumption that the increasing pressure would bankrupt their competitors first. In certain ways she had been right, Baxendales had proved that, but it was not enough. He had been able to convince himself that Irene was right at first, but as the squeeze went on, he found himself less and less able to do so.

  He thought of her utter callousness. Surely there were other ways out. He would have liked to discuss it further with her, but by now he no longer wanted to know whether she had any answers, nor what those answers might be.

  There was also the question of their forthcoming wedding, even if it was still a long way off. Now the date had been agreed. Yes, the business needed her, but did he? He could walk away from it all, just tell her it was over. Or tell her to leave. That would result in one hell of a row. And what then?

  She would leave the business, that’s what, and take it all with her. Even without taking the papers, Irene, he was certain, had it all in her head. She knew the contractors, she knew the competitors, the rates charged and all the details about the contracts still running. What was worse, she might take his top men too. And what could she do with them? Roughneen, Kearney and Lavan, the best in the business. Steele too. Yes, Irene could set up as a competitor, and bankrupt Edwardes & Ryan all on her own.

  What then? It was not as if he was any less tough than he had been in 1846. It was only that Irene was tougher, and he was going to marry her?

  A few days later he received a letter from the Manchester & Salford Bank. In it, Winrow explained that it had come to their notice that the Edwardes & Ryan contract on the North Staffordshire Railway was nearly finished. Danny wondered how he could have known that, but then remembered being told that the bank was acting for the North Staffordshire on a share issue. But one way or another, Winrow was aware of the contract finishing, and pointed out that, as per agreement, the full loan had to be repaid within two weeks. He requested confirmation that this would be done.

  Just as he was considering the implications of this, the maid knocked on his door.

  ‘A Mr. Crawford to see you,’ she said.

  Danny looked at her in horror.

  ‘Show him in,’ he said at last.

  Crawford shook his hand.

  ‘You seem in a bad way, Mr. Ryan,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should come back at a more appropriate time?’

  ‘That’s fine, Inspector,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve just had a rather bad shock. Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘A personal bereavement?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He waved Crawford to a chair. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to bring me good news, are you?’

  Crawford shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Ryan. There’s been another murder.’

  ‘Another!’

  ‘A Mr. Worsley. He was a ganger with Baxendales on the site beside yours, where Mr. McManus was killed.’

  ‘Oh God…’

  ‘We’ve only just started the investigation, Mr. Ryan. We can only conclude that it was done in revenge for Mr. McManus’ death. We think it must have been a professional killing. He was shot at close range by a shotgun, fair tore him asunder. Not only that, whoever it was had taken trouble to trace him, since, as you know, Baxendales are no longer working on the site beside yours.’

  ‘Where was he so?’

  ‘He was working on the Manchester South Junction Railway, just beside your site in Ancoats. Little Ireland, as we say. It seems Mr. Worsley was being watched for some time.’

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ Danny said.

  ‘Only too believable, I would say, Mr. Ryan. We know Mr. McManus was a member of the Molly Maguire gang. We know too, that they always exact their revenge. The question, once again, is – who is the bodymaster in the Manchester area?’

  ‘You had been questioning someone on that,’ Danny said, careful not to mention Brady’s name.

  ‘We have indeed, Mr. Ryan. We’ve been making excellent progress too. Inspector Lloyd in Liverpool has passed information to our Manchester branch. We hope to make an arrest soon, and hang the bastard.’

  For many days Danny turned it over in his head.

  Could he buy off Crawford by means of fingering Sheridan? No. That was far too dangerous. The threat from the Molly Maguire gang had terrified him.

  But what if the police arrested Sheridan anyhow? How could he prove he was not involved? Would they suspect him, and kill him anyhow? Would Sheridan talk? Would Brady? Would Crawford arrest him on a hanging charge?

  Could Irene save him? Did he want that? To admit that she was, after all, the strongest.

  He was surprised to find that he was becoming more fretful about firing Irish navvies. For the first time ever, he felt he himself was vulnerable. He was facing death, as so many in West Mayo were facing it. Would he be forgotten, like so many thousands of them were? Or just reviled?

  When would Winrow realise that Edwardes & Ryan had finished the Brassey contract? Did they have enough cash to repay the loans? Day after day, he went through accounts, until the figures swam in his eyes.

  Then he would start thinking again. His thoughts were going around and around, faster and faster.

  Anderson. Brassey. Winrow. Would they bankrupt him?

  His father and mother. Did they despise him now?

  The threat from the Molly Maguire gang. The threat of a trial on a hanging offence.

  Brady. Sheridan. Crawford. Who would get him first?

  One evening, he left the house. He went by back streets around the south of Stockport, and strode away from the town until he came to railway tracks. He walked along between the tracks, still heading south.

  It was the Manchester & Birmingham line. This stretch was said to be one of the longest straights in England, and when the train’s headlight appeared it was still miles distant, running along the straight at full steam with nothing to slow it.

  He stood to the side, watching the distant light, transfixed by it. For three minutes, he waited, until the train was only seconds away. Then he stood out between the rails.

  He heard the high pitched screech of steel on steel, then all was black.

  Chapter 31

  Brooklyn Eagle, New York, June 1848:

  If our Irish fellow citizens were to be co
ntrolled by priests, and obey conduct dictated from the pulpit, the naturalisation law would be changed in a year, and no man would ever cast a vote who was not born in this country. We have seen murder preached by a minister of God in Ireland within a year, not in such bold terms, but in equivalent language. We have seen humane men shot in open day for some slight supposed wrong, and a neighbourhood leagued to protect the offender. Such things cannot be and will not be unavenged.

  Luke was intrigued by New York’s shipping. He knew London was larger, and Liverpool much larger, but the activity inside New York’s harbour fascinated him. Manhattan, surrounded by the shorelines of New Jersey, Staten Island and Brooklyn created a harbour far vaster than the Pool of London, and comparable even to the anchorages on the Mersey Estuary. These New York place names were familiar to him from stories in emigrant’s letters, through all the extended family of the Ryans’ and the many people they knew around Carrigard, Kilduff and the Mountain. Even in Knockanure Workhouse, people knew of Staten and Brooklyn.

  When they arrived at the Box Street Lumber Terminal in Brooklyn, there was another day of rough work sorting out the logs, and Conlon still expected Luke and Jack to help out with measurements and calculations when called upon.

  Next day, they went to the pier, and walked to the end to the pay office.

  ‘United States dollars,’ Jack said, as he came out, waving a roll of notes.

  ‘Yes,’ said Luke, ‘I thought the day would never come.’

  They slept on one of the rafts that night. They rose early next day, shook hands with Conlon, left the lumber terminal, and asked their way along the pier until they found a ferry to Manhattan.

  They disembarked, and asked directions to Five Points. Luke noticed that the man they asked had looked strangely at them, but he thought no more of it. They followed the directions, then asked again, and again.

  It was still early. Sometimes they saw men walking towards the terminal. Further on they saw single women or groups of women, dressed in black, some with white pinafores, walking towards the city.

  ‘It’s a long way,’ Luke said.

  ‘And I hope we get there soon,’ Jack said. ‘These packs are getting mighty heavy.’

  Luke was uneasy.

  ‘This territory is getting mighty rough,’ he said. ‘Better watch your pack, or it won’t be its weight you’ll be worrying about.’

  ‘Arra, don’t worry. Two strong lads like ourselves would scare the devil out of any of them.’

  ‘Watch your pockets too, that’s all I’m saying.’

  There were fewer working men or women now. Those they met wore ragged clothes, and some were very thin. A group of lousy children played at a street corner, but their play was sluggish and limp.

  There was garbage everywhere, and the stink of shit. Four dogs were scavenging a heap of rubbish and waste food, growling at each other. They heard the squealing of pigs.

  ‘A lot of four legged bacon in there, I’d say,’ Jack said.

  ‘Two legged too, I’d say.’

  On a street corner, two girls eyed them.

  ‘They don’t seem to have too much to do,’ Luke said.

  One of them lifted her skirt above her knees.

  ‘I’m sure they would if we asked them,’ Jack said. ‘I wonder how much they charge.’

  ‘Not much from the look of them. And with lice like that, it’s I who’d need the paying.’

  They passed an alleyway, hardly wide enough to take a man walking. At the end, there was more squealing of pigs.

  ‘I wonder how they get them fellows out.’ Jack asked.

  ‘A hell of a lot of pushing, that’s what I’d say,’ Luke said.

  They passed a bar. Four men stood outside. Luke asked directions, but there was no answer.

  ‘Damned Irish,’ one snarled. ‘Over to steal our jobs.’

  A big man, Luke reckoned, well built at the shoulders too. He thought of the fight in Quebec. No point in trying that again. They were outnumbered twice over.

  He pretended not to have heard and walked on.

  They reached Five Points.

  ‘I can see why it’s called Five Points,’ Jack said. ‘The question is – which point do we take?’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ Luke said. ‘Do you see the name of that street?’

  ‘Orange Street. What of it?’

  ‘I’m just doing a bit of hard remembering now,’ Luke said. ‘What was the name of the street that Conaire said to me, the time we were still on the ocean?’

  ‘How would I know? Orange Street, you’re going to say.’

  ‘Come on,’ Luke said, picking up his pack. ‘Can’t be far now.’

  He was more anxious now. Whatever he had expected of Five Points, it was not this. All he could see around him were derelict tenements. This was not what America was supposed to be. Once again, he recognised Irish voices, though that was not surprising. Still, the poverty was extreme. It brought to mind the Irish tenements of Liverpool along Scotland Road. Could it be that bad?

  Could it be worse?

  There was one difference though. Black people. He had never seen so many before. Yes, he had seen them in Liverpool. But that was normal in Liverpool, once a major centre of the slave trade. But New York?

  Jack had been asking directions for Costello’s bar. Luke followed, saying nothing. At length, they stood outside Costello’s.

  ‘Doesn’t look great, does it?’ Jack said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be fooled by that,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll wager it’s a damned good business for the Costellos, and we know Conaire, don’t we? Come on, let’s go in.’

  They walked into a thick haze of tobacco. The bar was crowded, and Luke noticed the Irish voices at once. Also, all the faces were white, and, unlike the street outside, there were no exceptions. Jack sat at a table with their packs while Luke went to the bar. He ordered two beers.

  When they were delivered and paid for, he asked for John Costello.

  ‘Who’s asking,’ the barman asked.

  ‘Luke Ryan’s the name. Mr. Costello wouldn’t know me yet. I’m a good friend of his brother Conaire though.’

  The barman looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. Luke returned to the table.

  A man came, and sat with them. He was well-built, with grey, wiry hair. His clothes were spattered, trousers held up with a broad well-worn belt.

  ‘So which of you knows Conaire?’

  ‘We both do,’ Luke said.

  ‘So you know Torán?’

  ‘Well, no…’ Luke said. ‘I met him on the Atlantic back in July, coming over to Quebec.’

  He was beginning to feel something was amiss. One thing was certain, Conaire had not arrived in New York before them.

  ‘Quebec,’ the man exclaimed. ‘So he’s left Mayo.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Luke. ‘The same ship that I travelled on. Left Liverpool back in July.’

  ‘Before the evictions?’

  ‘What evictions?’ Luke asked. The man groaned.

  ‘I can see this is going to take time,’ he said. He signalled to the barman who nodded. ‘But first, let’s sort ourselves out. I’m John Costello…’

  ‘Luke Ryan,’ Luke said, ‘and this is Jack Kilgallon.’

  ‘Both from Mayo then?’ Costello asked.

  ‘Of course. I’m Kilduff myself, over the east side. Jack is from Turlough, just beside Castlebar.’

  The barman had arrived with another beer. Costello grasped it.

  ‘Sláinte mhaith. To your very best health. And may ye do well in America.’

  They clinked glasses. Costello took a long draught, and wiped his lips.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s start again. You left Mayo in July.’

  ‘He did,’ Jack said pointing to Luke. ‘I’d been over in Quebec from long before.’

  ‘Let me give you the story so,’ Luke said. ‘I met Conaire on the ship. We were about half way across when we met. He told m
e he was trying to find his brother who ran a bar in New York. As it happened, I was planning to link up with friends I have working on the railways out at Pennsylvania. I had thought of going to Pennsylvania by New York, so we thought we’d go together.’

  ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand though,’ Costello said. ‘Why did I never hear of any of this?’

  ‘Had they not written to you?’ Luke said.

  ‘Now, what do you think,’ Costello answered. ‘Do you think anyone in Torán could write? Still, you’d have thought he’d get someone else to write for him.’

  ‘I think he was intending on that after he got to Canada, perhaps after we left the forests. But then we lost him.’

  ‘Lost him?’

  ‘We were working in the forests, up the Gatineau from Montreal. They separated us – Conaire was put working loading and unloading on the river dock, but Jack and I were sent up to the forest as teamsters.’

  ‘Teamsters?’

  ‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘driving teams of horses, pulling the logs out of the forest. One time we had to go down to the dock, and met up with Conaire, but when we went down the last time as we were leaving, he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Where had he gone?’

  ‘God only knows,’ Luke said. ‘We asked around but no one knew a thing.’

  ‘So when did ye leave the forests?’

  ‘In April.’

  Costello ordered three more beers.

  ‘There’s little chance we’ll see him so,’ he said. ‘If he isn’t here, and we’ve no letter, he’s dead.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Luke said. ‘But when I wrote home first, Conaire couldn’t pay his own postage, so I asked my people to send a note to a Mr. Tomás Ó Coisteala in Torán, through the Parish Priest in Belmullet, to say that he was alive and well.’

  ‘When was that?’ Costello asked.

  ‘When we were yet in Quebec. He may have intended that your family would write direct to you when they heard of it.’

  ‘Sure how could they do that when they couldn’t write, and they wouldn’t have the money for a stamp anyhow. Or maybe they were just evicted first, and the letter from your people never arrived.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Luke said. ‘But I never heard of him having any letter sent direct to you, though I know he had your address – he showed it to me once. I reckon he would have asked me to write the letter for him, if there was to be a letter. But then we lost track of him, so there was nothing sent that I ever heard of. Letter or no letter though, he was intending to come to New York, I know that for certain.’