by Charles Egan
‘Miners!’ Michael exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ said Winnie. ‘Luke’s intending we should join them as soon as I arrive in New York. They’d be better paid, I’m guessing.’
That afternoon, Winnie went down to Kilduff for corn. An hour later, she arrived back. She handed the corn to Eleanor.
‘I saw a notice stuck to a wall across the street from Dillon’s,’ she said.
‘What was that?’ Eleanor asked.
‘It was telling of a ship leaving Westport for Philadelphia, by way of New York.’
‘But…when?’
‘Leaving on the twenty first of July to arrive in New York sometime late August. Long before any winter season.’
Less than a week away, Eleanor thought.
They discussed it in Carrigard that night.
‘It would be a great chance for you, surely,’ Eleanor said. Not that she really felt it. She would be sad to see Winnie go.
‘It is, mother.’
‘I wonder what late August means,’ Michael said. ‘Could be the twentieth or the thirtieth. And how could they know anyhow?’
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Winnie said, ‘I’ll have to go over to the passage brokers in Castlebar.’
‘You will not,’ Eleanor said. ‘You’ve little Liam to be minding. You’ll stay here, we’ll go across for you.’
Early the following morning, Eleanor and Michael travelled to Castlebar in the horse & cart. Luke’s bank order was tightly wrapped inside Eleanor’s bodice.
Michael took a whip for the horse, together with a short whip and two sticks for protection. He drove the horse down towards Kilduff, passing men on the road, but no one spoke to them. There were three women outside Dillon’s, far less than the longer line of some months earlier. Less money, Eleanor reflected, but some at least should have had remittances. Perhaps they were too late for many.
Out the Castlebar road they twice met carts coming towards them, dead bodies piled inside. Eleanor gagged at the smell from one of them.
‘There’ll be no coffins for those,’ Michael said.
When they arrived in Castlebar, they asked their way to the passage broker’s office.
‘Are there no later crossings to New York?’ Michael asked the clerk.
‘Not until mid-October out of Westport, that’s for certain,’ the broker answered. ‘This is the only one.’
‘And what time for the crossing?’ Michael asked.
‘Four weeks. Certainly less than five. The ship is well able to travel the Atlantic, no matter what the weather.’
‘The price is high,’ Michael said.
‘What do you expect? There isn’t steerage, like on other ships. This isn’t the Ashburton.’
‘What of fever?’ Eleanor asked.
‘In a ship like this? The slightest sign of it, they’d quarantine them at once. This is a passenger ship, not one of those wrecks out of Cork or Liverpool.’
‘Fine so,’ Michael said, ‘we’ll come back in a while.’
Eleanor and Michael discussed it. Then they found the Castlebar branch of the Hibernian Bank, and cashed the full amount of the bank draft. Then back to the passage broker, where Michael walked to the desk and put most of the money on the counter.
‘One for New York.’
It was late when they arrived back in Carrigard.
‘Well?’ Winnie asked as they walked in.
Eleanor placed the ticket on the counter.
‘The thing is done,’ she said.
Winnie picked up Liam who was still awake. ‘We’re going to America,’ she said, ‘and you’re going to meet your daddy.’
Eleanor hugged both of them. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, though whether from joy for Winnie, or her own unhappiness at the loss of her, she could not tell.
Next day, Winnie sat down to write a letter to Luke. Eleanor sat alongside her, Brigid on her lap. Young Liam was asleep in the bedroom.
Gleeson’s Boarding House
Steuben Street
Jersey City
New Jersey
Mr. Luke Ryan
Carrigard
Kilduff
County Mayo
Ireland
United States of America
16 July 1848
My Dearest Luke,
I hardly need to tell you that we were delighted to receive your letter and the money with it. So now at last I have enough for myself and Liam to travel to New York. I must therefore tell you of our present plans.
I intend on leaving from Westport within six days on a ship called the Vega. They expect it to arrive in New York, perhaps towards the end of August. So the moment I arrive in New York, I will make my way either to Costellos, or direct to your address in Jersey City, and we will then be united again, my love.
But first, some happier news. You now have a son called Liam. He was born in March and he is getting on well. I had always said it was to be a son, even though your mother said I could not know that. She says he has your face, and that is no bad thing.
Your mother and father join me in sending our love and best wishes to you.
And so, until we meet again, I remain your loving wife,
Winifred Ryan
‘You know,’ Eleanor said, ‘with your letter and the ship being so close together, you might even be in New York before he knows you’re coming.’
Winnie went to Kilduff and posted the letter.
Early next morning, Michael went out to dig potatoes. There was a low mist lying above the crop, a sort of miasma, with a sweet fragrance. He could feel the tremor in his body as he saw it.
Anxiously, he dug into the potato ridge, carefully easing the potatoes out. Then he picked one potato, held his hand against a clear blue sky, and squeezed hard. The potato disintegrated, a grey slimy mess seeping out between his fingers and running down his forearm. He flung it on the ground, picked up a second and did the same. Then a third.
He moved around the field, but everywhere he dug, the result was the same. He thought back over the past week. In Kilduff he had heard reports of an excellent potato crop, bigger potatoes than in previous years. All seemed to be in excellent condition, no mention of blight then. At that time he had decided to leave the potatoes in the ground to get a little more growth before digging them. But now it was over.
He felt a cold fear like he had never felt in his life before. Even 1846 – that had been terrible, but this was worse. The crop in 1847 had been a good one, and all had thought the failure was over. But now? What future for Mayo? What future for any of them?
He picked up some potatoes, and carried them home in one hand, his spade over his shoulder. He left the spade in the cowshed and went to the house. Eleanor was making brown bread. He placed the potatoes on the table. She saw the look on his face.
‘No, Michael,’ she gasped. ‘Not that.’
She took a knife and cut one of the potatoes cleanly in half. It was grey all the way through.
‘All gone,’ he said. ‘Not a single one left.’
Winnie came out from the back room, where she had been feeding the baby.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
She saw the rotten potatoes.
‘Oh, Mother of God…’
Michael picked one, and squeezed ’till the slime oozed out.
Winnie staggered back, stunned by the shock of it.
‘Sweet Jesus, no.’
Glossary of Words and Expressions
Acushla: Darling.
A ghrá: My love.
Alanna: Dear child. My love. From A leanbh (child).
Amadán: Fool.
Arra: Implies ‘No’ or ‘don’t be silly’. From Aire (care).
Biddy. Short for Brigid, but also used as a slang word for a maid.
Boreen: A narrow road or track.
Bytown: Original name of Ottawa before Federation.
Camboose: Either living quarters for lumbermen, or the open fire inside it.
Cloc
hán: A tiny settlement of primitive houses.
Crubeens: Boiled pig trotters. From the Irish Crúibín.
Eejit: Idiot. From the English word.
Gossoon: Boy. From the Irish Garsún, and originally, Old French.
Grá: Love.
Hoor: Irish slang, mostly for a crafty fellow who is not to be trusted. Not related to ‘whore’.
Lumper: A large potato.
Molly Maguires: A nineteenth century Irish terrorist group.
Musha: Indeed. Probably from the Irish word Muise. Mainly used by older women.
Outshot: A bed built into the inside of a wall, often in the kitchen.
Piseóg: Superstitious story.
Poitín: An illicit spirit distilled from potatoes. Moonshine.
Rath: The remains of an ancient fort or settlement. There are about 30,000 in Ireland.
Sceilp: A primitive lean-to shelter made of branches and sods.
Shebeen: A small or unlicensed bar or pub. From Síbín.
Sleán: A special spade for digging turf.
Spailpín: A seasonal or migrant harvest worker.
Sláinte mhaith: Good Health, as in a drinking toast.
Ticket-of-leave men: Ex-convicts, released on condition of good behaviour.
Tigín: A tiny house.
Townland: A rural sub-division of land.
Trawneen: Something or someone of little value. From Tráithnín, a blade of grass.
Turf: In Ireland, peat dug from a peat bog for burning as fuel.
Union: Organisation running the Poor Law. Also a word for Workhouse. Not related to Trade Unions.
Whisht: Hush. Silence. Be quiet. From Middle English.
About the Author
Charles Egan was born in Nottingham, England of Irish parents.
When he was five, the family returned to Ireland, as his father had been appointed Resident Medical Superintendent of St. Luke’s, a psychiatric hospital in Clonmel, in County Tipperary.
Every summer they visited his father’s family’s farm, outside Kiltimagh in County Mayo for a month, where his grandmother and uncles spent many evenings, talking about family and local history.
The family subsequently moved to County Wicklow, where he initially attended the De La Salle Brothers School in Wicklow town. He then went to the Jesuits’ Clongowes Wood College (James Joyce’s alma mater), and subsequently studied Commerce in University College Dublin, graduating in 1973.
After an initial career in the private sector, including Marubeni Dublin, (where he met his future wife, Carmel), he joined the Industrial Development Authority (IDA) in Dublin. After a few years, the desire to be his own boss, led him to resign and set up his own business, which ran for 30 years.
His main interests are history, film, and worldwide travel.
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Copyright Notice
Published in 2015 by SilverWood Books SilverWood Books Ltd
14 Small Street, Bristol, BS1 1DE, United Kingdom
www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk
Copyright © Charles Egan 2015
The right of Charles Egan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-78132-452-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-78132453-0 (ebook)