The McCullagh Line Of Tyrone
What of those who stayed at home? The man who sailed on the Zered left behind a sister Eliza, three years younger than him. At the age of twenty-nine on 9.8.1869 she married Luke Devlin. They were blessed with several children, one of whom James in later life married Susan McKee. Amongst the children of James and Susan was Sarah. Sarah married Pat Hagan and bore him eleven children. Sarah is my friend of the many photographs included here - the best discovery of all my research! Her son Teddy is my chief contact in Ardboe.
The next son of John and Ann (Mallon) was Michael (born 29.7.1845). His descendants - or some of them, still live in the locality. I have already explained how Francis (18.2.1847) eventually inherited the farm. Among the descendants of his line (the bulk of the surviving McCullaghs of Ardboe today) is John Campbell, friend of Teddy and Pat. Thomas (18.12.1849), the next youngest brother, did not marry until he was almost fifty-three. The date was 23.11.1902 and his bride was Mary Ann McKeown. They had no children. The youngest son of this family Felix (born 30.4.1854) married Bridget Lynd in January of 1879. She may have died for there is another record (6.6.1882) of the marriage locally of Felix McCullagh and Ellen Mullin. No issue is recorded. This is the historical record of the two McCullagh families of Annaghmore, Ardboe, County Tyrone. (For those who want a complete list of these descendents, see the Ardboe spreadshèet in Resource Files or Des Dineen's research!)
The 1901 Census return for Annaghmore shows living at [30].... Francis McCullagh (49), farmer, his wife Mary (46) and their children John (12), Francis (11), Thomas (9) and James (7). Next door [29] were my great grandparents Francis McCullagh (70) and Alice (65). When Francis was just eight years old, his parents had a baby girl whom they named Brigitta. The infant died. Three years later they again named the girl child born to them (on 11.4.1842) Brigitta. She later (8.2.72 -i.e. at the age of thirty) married Hugh Cassidy. They had no issue. It appears that our own line in Newry is the only surviving issue descended from our great great grandfather Patrick McCullagh and Maria Isabella (Devlin). Perhaps Eleanor and Joseph emigrated, married and began two separate lines of descendants in Australia!
Not perhaps -it is now certain. Back to the immediate family line! It isn't easy to enter the mindset of the youth Patrick. His father's farm, tiny as it was, was in two separate plots. There was little chance of ever making much of it. Increasingly the burden of working these few fields was falling to him. As a young man he wanted to see more of the world than this. He had few friends of his own age. His cousins in the neighbouring farm were much too young for him - Francis' eldest son John was twelve years his junior. He came to have friends much older than himself. They too wanted to get out! The beauty, peace and tranquillity of Ardboe hold little attraction for a restless and penniless youth. For Patrick the Battery Harbour on the Lough was less than a mile away. He would have spent many an idle hour there, watching the boats ply their wares to and from the mouth of the Upper Bann, within sight just across the Lough, and from there via the canal to Newry and all ports beyond. He wanted to take that route himself. I do not know when exactly he decided to go, or whether or how often he returned. His elderly parents died in poverty during the next decade. His father was the first to die. Teddy Hagan and his family asked locally for remembrances or stories handed down. The one we heard was disturbing.
The gombeen man is a much-despised character in Irish history. Like the usurer, he took advantage of the desperate plight of the poor to further his own ends. Francis and Alice were old and without a source of income when he became too feeble to work his land. Doubtless their son Patrick sent them what he could. It is unlikely it was enough.
The local shopkeeper and gombeen man was one Patrick Ryan. He planned to acquire Francis' farm on his death. Accordingly he allowed the old man to run up a credit bill at his shop. The local schoolmaster was Mr O'Neill. He was aware of this. It was he who discovered the dead body of Francis in his home in 1904. He informed Ryan, with a request that he help with his burial. Ryan took a halfpenny from his till and said he wouldn't help if it were to cost him even that amount. Ryan knew he had hold enough of the land without further expense. One local tale recounts that there were not enough able-bodied relatives to shoulder the coffin the mile or so to Moortown Cemetery. Master O'Neill helped. Yet all are equal in death. The accompanying photographs show the good schoolmaster's grave alongside our historic plot. Just a few feet behind is the last resting place of Patrick Ryan.
Just lately my son Steven unearthed the following record from the 1911 Census return. At number 15 in Glenmacoffer, Gortin Co Tyrone lived John and Ellen McBride and their 5 children (and the only children born to them), the eldest at 20 years being Francis and the youngest at 7 years being Joseph. Also living with them was a ‘mother-in-law' (as recorded by the head-of-family John) named Alice McCullagh, 75 years, RC born in Co Tyrone in 1836. These statistics match exactly those of my great grandmother Alice, mother of Patrick who came to Newry in the first decade of the twentieth century.
How is this possible? Ellen McBride was 45 in 1911. She had married in 1890. Had she been a daughter of Alice's, she would have been born to her about 1866, some ten years before Alice's marriage to Francis. Did Francis take on an illegitimate 10 year old foster child in 1876, when he married Alice? Ellen McBride was only 24 at her marriage to John, so a child by a previous marriage seems highly unlikely. A child out of wedlock less so.
Why is any of this important? Well, if the above speculation comes to anything, there may well be one or more family lines (and living descendants thereof) that were previously unknown.
I can think of no other reasonable possibility as this Alice - my great grandmother on my (spear) McCullagh side - was indeed the mother of the Patrick whose photo we possess and who started the Newry line. Time to return to the Ardboe records for further research!
The Land
Included (see Source Files) are the Griffiths Valuation records and maps relating to Annaghmore, which were compiled in the decade up to 1864. The neighbouring farms were then still held by John and Patrick McCullagh. Their houses were rated equally at 15/- (fifteen shillings) but John's sixteen acres had a valuation of £5.15.0 while Patrick's was £3.5.0. Patrick Ryan in 1904 on Francis's death seized his land “in part-payment” for the debt owed to him which (I'm told) he claimed to amount to £100 - (a preposterous amount! Old Francis could not have run up such a debt in the local shop). He held it until his death. Ownership then went to his brother Joseph. On Joseph's death it went to his widow Mary Ryan. She held it from 20 May 1936 until her death on 21 December 1973. Since then it has been held by her son Joseph Ryan. Some of the acreage consists of two parcels of land of 4 acres 2 rods 5 perch in Annaghmore and 1 acre 1 rod in Anneter Beg. It is held in Folio 27057, if any dedicated family member wishes to scour the land records. Most of the remainder is in a separate plot Folio 27058, in Annaghmore and is 3 acres 3 rod and 17 perch. These in turn were passed from Patrick to Joseph to Mary to Joseph Ryan.
The McCullaghs
For some reason the “other” McCullagh line (or some part of it) - that is, the descendants of John McCullagh - are known locally as Dunedry's. There remain none of the descendants of the Francis McCullagh line (our closest line) living in Ardboe. (Eleanor and Joseph emigrated. Brigitta died as a child. A second Brigitta [b. 11.4.1842] married Hugh Cassidy on 8.2.1872. No baptisms or births are recorded in the parish to this couple).
These “Dunedrys” received a less than flattering description from my contacts in Ardboe. Many are dour, surly, introverted and given to forthright disagreement with others. Nor are they, as one puts it, “easy on the eye”. Sometimes known as the Mad McCullaghs, several members of this line were given to the “head-staggers”, a reference I believe to a common degenerative mental illness. (Sarah joked that she'd have to keep a wary eye on me for any signs of this complaint!)
We were treated to a video showing a recent marriage of one of this line. None of us present could detect any physical similarities between them and us (not that we particularly wanted to after that description!). There is also a local story of one of those old McCullaghs who was so bad with the head-staggers that - when he took a notion of a widow, whose lands he was interested in - he had to get someone to wheel him in a wheelbarrow to her house so that he might propose to her. But it's not all bad! Most of the family line was remarkably long-lived. Both of my great grandparents for example survived into their old age, as did their parents before them.
I include these comments and remarks because they add a little local colour. Clearly these are subjective opinions which I for one cannot endorse. By way of balance, I will point out that Des Dineen was well received by some of these people in 1988 when he visited. From them he learned a great deal and he has favourable memories of his visit. Des's researcher, on his behalf, traced the John McCullagh line up to the present. This family tree is available for inspection.
The following pages are included not because I am certain of their direct relevance to our family history but rather because the story related permits the reader to empathise with the emigrant in general, and more specifically with the Ardboe emigrant. The author, possibly of an age with my oldest surviving relatives, might also indeed be a McCullagh. AL
The following is an extract from an article that came into my possession some time ago. I do not know the author of the document of which this clearly forms only one chapter but several clues lead me to speculate that the author might well be "one of us". His name is Michael and with his parents and siblings he left Ardboe in the early decades of the twentieth century to settle in St Brides, Canada where he later gained a doctorate degree and practised psychiatric medicine.
Fare Thee Well, Old Ardboe
I remember the morning we left Ardboe for Canada. The previous evening my father took me to say goodbye to his mother - my grandmother - whom I had always known as Old Eliza. Old Eliza and my grandfather Old Felix had always lived on the shore of Lough Neagh. Their house was a good half-mile as the crow flies from where we lived but at night we travelled the longer way, by the road. I had seen them often unlike my maternal grandparents who had died when I was young.
In silence in the gathering dusk that evening in early spring we walked along the cobbled road together, my father and I, me taking little runs for he was a great walker and walked with long swift strides. At the stile we turned left and continued down the loanan towards the lough. As we approached it I could hear the waves whispering along the shore as I knew they lapped at the base of the mound not far away on the right by the ruins of the ancient Abbey, the crumbling tombstones of its cemetery and the high Celtic Cross which lends fame to this remote place, full of myth and legend, and the place of my birth.
The house seemed somehow different, I thought. Although it was a warm evening a turf fire was burning brightly in the hearth, its flames projecting shadows on the walls. My grandmother was standing by the window leaning on her black hawthorn stick as we arrived as if she had been waiting for us. I noticed with wonder, as if seeing for the first time her snow-white hair gathered up in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. A knitted black shawl was drawn tightly around her thin, stooped shoulders. Old Felix, seated in his usual corner, a short-stemmed clay pipe in his hand was gazing at the glowing turf embers. Two of my uncles, Mark and John acknowledged our arrival with a glance and a nod. John refilled his briar pipe and Mark continued to repair fishing nets. Old Eliza shuffled back and forth between the hearth and the kitchen table making tea. It was very quiet in the room. This lack of conversation was not unusual in itself between people who were comfortable in one another's company. Now they were all preoccupied with their own thoughts. The flames made a little popping sound as they licked at the dry turf. A cricket wintering in the wall at the side of the fireplace was misled by the heat into thinking high summer had come. It commenced chirping as if in the hope of attracting a mate.
"So yous are away th' morra".
Grandmother leaned over a large iron cauldron and ladled hot water into a brown teapot. In contrast to her frail body her voice was strong and unwavering. It was a statement rather than a question. It carried a note of resignation. The woman like so many before her long ago had learned to accept the inevitable without quibbling.
She was about to lose her last born, her favourite of all of them. A daughter had left for England years before. This parting was different. Though death had not yet intervened in her immediate family, she knew that this last farewell was akin to it. They both knew that they would not meet again.
"Aye! We're laving at ten o'clock th' morra. The bus is comin' for us."
My father avoided her eyes and continued to gaze into the fire. A sod, its centre burned out, suddenly collapsed in a shower of sparks, the faint sound loud in the subsequent silence. He sat on a low stool, twirling his thumbs around and around, first clockwise, then anti-clockwise, then clockwise again. He had not looked at his mother since he came in.
"You'll write when you're settled." Another statement. My father got up to go.
"Aye", he said. "We'll likely see yous in the morning before yous leave."
This was from Uncle Mark. Old Eliza followed us to the door. My father turned to face her. She was on the threshold, a frail shrunken figure, her face silhouetted in the shadow thrown by the firelight. Above and behind the house a patch of light still lingered in the northern sky. Behind lay the dark lough, its untroubled waters lapping gently at the hulls of the swaying boats and against the rocks lining the shore.
(note: today a son of Sarah Hagan lives at this point beside the Battery Harbour in Ardboe. Sarah's grandmother was Eliza McCullagh, sister of the first Australian Henry McCullagh).
My grandmother put a free hand on her son's shoulder and said in a strong, clear voice
"Goodbye then, and God go with you."
He embraced her suddenly with a strangled sob in his throat. Then just as suddenly he turned and together we walked swiftly away into the night - past the budding rosebushes and along the grassy loanan to the road. Half a mile away through the trees the light glimmered faintly in our kitchen window. We walked home in silence.
I felt that we had hardly lain down when it was time to get up again. It was well after sunrise and light from the east window flooded into the bedroom. The house was abuzz with activity and excitement. People had come from everywhere to wish us a safe journey and a happy landing. Many of them I hadn't seen before. I didn't know we had so many friends and relatives. From Armagh and Omagh and Dungannon and Ballylunnen they came, with names like Coyne, Coyle, Devlin and Cohen, Moody and Macklin and at least one Quin, spelled with a single "n" - from Belfast he was, and, God help him, my father said, a Protestant. Some people had purchased our bits of furniture and they were there in carts to claim them. Some came on bicycles. It was a brilliant morning, with not a cloud in sight.
My parents were still packing and discarding items from one container to another. Questions demanded answers but there was nobody who could help. This was the most momentous experience of their lives. The indecisiveness of the last few months, the concern over predictions of doom and uncertainties of the future were replaced with pressure and stress of the moment and by a rising tide of excitement. The arrival of close relatives and fast friends helped to hold at bay for another few minutes that outflowing of strong emotions which accompanies every final farewell.
I was caught up in the excitement too but my enthusiasm was undiluted either by fear of the future or regret for the past. I felt strangely calm and objective. It felt as if I was standing apart, on a height, looking down on this scene, watching people coming and leaving, some lingering by the roadside: inside the house Sally and Mary Ann fluttered about like butterflies in their new dresses, with Maggie toddling after them and getting in their way: my father in a clean white shirt with his good trousers incongruously held up by a pair of galluses and him trying to shave by a cracked mirror on the wall: my mother surrounded by her sisters and aunts and a few close friends, fussing with her purse, laughing and crying both at the same time, keeping busy, doing anything to avoid being alone with her thoughts, striving valiantly to delay the moment of the last farewell.
I was startled out of my reverie by the sudden appearance of Old Felix by the corner of the house, his cloth cap pulled down over his eyes, the pockets of his venerable coat sagging from years of carrying stone sinkers, floats and packages of fish hooks. It was the only time I ever remember seeing Old Felix at my father's house. I had never even visualised him or Old Eliza separate from their little cabin by the lough: in my world they were part of the landscape there. They had never been young. They had always been there, just as had the Old Cross and the Abbey ruins. Only half a mile away he seemed now an incongruous figure, out of place. And suddenly too I saw the significance of last night's meeting between my father and his mother. She would not be here this morning. From the roadside a cry went up, "The bus is coming!"
A loud wail made me turn towards the house. There was a flurry of activity around the door. My mother and her sisters were embracing each other passionately, crying in each other's arms. Swept up in the emotional storm Sally and Mary Ann and Maggie clung to their mother. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around. My uncle Stewart, one of my mother's brothers, was standing behind me.
"Goodbye and good luck, laddie,"
he said with a smile. He placed a small silver coin in my hand, closed my fingers around it and then tousled my hair. My father and grandfather were walking side by side amidst the rows of newly drilled potatoes. I ran over to join them. They talked quietly as they walked, heads bowed, to the end of the garden and then turned to return, retracing their same steps. I walked first by my father's side, then my grandfather's. The bus driver was helping my mother into the bus - her sisters reluctant to let her go.
Suddenly it became very quiet. Curious neighbours stood about in little knots on the road, their hands in their pockets, smoking, chatting quietly, moving from one group to another. The sky had clouded over. Gone was the carnival-like atmosphere of a couple of hours earlier. My father and Old Felix shook hands. My father then turned abruptly and walked swiftly towards the bus. Old Felix placed his hand on my head and said something in Irish. I thought it meant goodbye. It might have been a blessing. I extended my hand and looked up to him. "Goodbye, grandpa."
Tears were coursing down the old man's cheeks. As I ran towards the waiting bus, leaping over rows of young potato plants, I saw my father shaking hands with little groups of men who had been waiting by the roadside for two hours or more.
As the decrepit old bus, with a smoking exhaust and a grinding of gears pulled away I looked back through the rear window at the little house. Gradually the distance lengthened but before we passed out of sight round the bend in the road, I saw for the last time the straight, stalwart figure of my grandfather alone in the middle of the potato garden where I had left him, his cap in his hand, his gray head bowed. And I wondered who would now dig the new potatoes.
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The author goes on to describe his new life in St Brides, which is sixty miles west of the Alberta-Saskatchewan border and fifty-three degrees north of the equator. First they lived on a farm in Sunnyside about fourteen miles northeast of Edmonton. The baby of the family was called Felix. The author "spent the second decade, plus two or three years " of his life in St Brides, which brings him to the early forties. Therefore he left Ireland in the late twenties of this century. In 1958 he graduated from the University of British Columbia with a degree in Genetics and Physiology only to begin again, taking a Masters in Psychology. He proceeded to gain a doctorate at UBC in the autumn of 1969. He worked at Riverside Mental Hospital until he retired.
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Whether or not the author is of our line (and I believe he is), his story relates the heartbreak of an "American Wake" as such partings came to be known. It is especially relevant as his family's departure point was precisely the same as that of our own emigrants.
This ends my story of the McCullagh line.
Bernadette at McCullagh Grave, Ardboe