The shriek of the famine-stricken mother and the helpless infant, as well as the centuries of misery, call to heaven for vengeance. G.o.d is slow, but just! The blood of Tone, Fitzgerald, Emmett, and others has been shed--how much good has it done the tyrant and the robber? None. Smith O'Brien, McMa.n.u.s, and Mitchel suffered for Ireland, yet not their sufferings, nor those of O'Donovan (Bossa) and his companions, deterred Burke, McAfferty, and their friends from doing their duty. Neither shall the sufferings of my companions, nor mine, hinder my countrymen from taking their part in the inevitable struggle, but rather nerve their arms to strike. I would write on this subject at greater length, but I hope that I have written enough to show you that if a man dies for liberty, his memory lives in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the good and virtuous. You will also see that there is no necessity for my father, mother, sisters or relations fretting about me. When I leave this world it will be (with G.o.d's help) to go to a better, to join the angels and saints of G.o.d, and sing His praises for all eternity. I leave a world of suffering for one of eternal joy and happiness. I have been to Holy Communion, and, please G.o.d, intend going shortly again. I am sorry we cannot hear Ma.s.s; the good priest is not allowed to say it in this prison.

Give my love to my father and mother, to Mary, Ellen, John Phillips, Tim, Catherine, uncles, aunts, and cousins.

Farewell.

From your affectionate brother,

MICHAEL O'BRIEN (_alias_ William Gould).

The following is one of Allen's letters to his relatives, written the day before his execution:--

Salford, New Bailey Prison, Nov. 23rd, 1867.

TO YOU, MY LOVING AND SINCERE DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT HOGAN,

I suppose this is my last letter to you at this side of the grave. Oh, dear uncle and aunt, if you reflect on it, it is nothing. I am dying an honourable death: I am dying _for Ireland_--dying for the land that gave me birth--dying for the Island of Saints--and dying for liberty. Every generation of our countrymen has suffered; and where is the Irish heart could stand by unmoved? I should like to know what trouble, what pa.s.sion, what mischief could separate the true Irish heart from its own native isle. Dear uncle and aunt, it is sad to be parting you all, at my early age; but we must all die some day or another. A few hours more and I will breathe my last, and on English soil. Oh, that I could be buried in Ireland! What a happiness it would be to all my friends, and to myself--where my countrymen could kneel on my grave. I cannot express what joy it afforded me, when I found Aunt Sarah and you were admitted. Dear uncle, I am sure it was not a very pleasant place I had to receive you and my aunt; but we must put up with all trials until we depart this life. I am sure it will grieve you very much to leave me in such a place, on the evidence of such characters as the witnesses were that swore my life away. But I forgive them, and may G.o.d forgive them. I am dying, thank G.o.d! an Irishman and a Christian.

Give my love to all friends; same from your ever affectionate nephew,

W.P. ALLEN.

Pray for us. Good bye, and remember me. Good bye, and may heaven protect ye, is the last wish of your dying nephew,

W.P. ALLEN.

Larkin was the only one of the condemned four who was married. There were to weep his fall, besides his aged parents, a devoted wife and three little children--all young; and it redounds rather to his honour, that though flinching in nowise, lacking nought in courageous firmness, home ties were painfully strong around his heart. With him it was anguish indeed to part for ever the faithful wife and the little ones who used to nestle in his bosom. Ah! he was never more to feel those little arms twining round his neck--never more to see those infant faces gazing into his own--never more to part the flaxen curls over each unfurrowed brow! Henceforth they would look for his coming and hearken for his footfall in vain! They would call upon him, and be answered only by the convulsive sobs of their widowed mother. And who would now fill his place for them, even as bread-winner? Mayhap, when he lay in the grave, these cherished little ones, for whom he would draw the life-blood from his heart, would feel the hunger-pangs of orphanage in squalid misery and obscurity! But no. If such a thought approached Larkin's heart, it was at once repelled. a.s.suredly, he had more faith in his countrymen--more faith in the fidelity and generosity of his race--than to believe they would suffer one of those orphans to want loving, helping, guiding hands. As he himself said, he was not, after all, leaving them fatherless; he was bequeathing them to Ireland and to G.o.d.

And the Father of the Fatherless, even on the instant, raised up a friend for them--sent an angel missioner of blessed comfort to give poor Larkin, even on the brink of the grave, a.s.surance that no pang of poverty should ever wound those little ones thus awfully bereaved. One day the confessor met the prisoners with beaming face, holding in his hand a letter. It was from the Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury, to the condemned Irishmen in Salford gaol, and ran as follows:--

MY DEAR FRIENDS--

It may be that those few lines may minister some consolation to you on your approaching departure from this world. I send you by the hands of a faithful messenger some help for your wife, or wives, and children, in their approaching irreparable loss, and with the a.s.surance that so long as I live they shall be cared for to the utmost of my power.

Mr. M'Donnell, the bearer of this for me, will bring me their address, and the address of the priest who attends you.

It will also be a comfort for your precious souls, to know that we remember you here at the altar of G.o.d. where the daily remembrance of that all-glorious sacrifice on Calvary, for you all, is not neglected.

We have daily Ma.s.s for you here; and if it be so that it please the good G.o.d to permit you thus to be called to Himself on Sat.u.r.day morning, the precious body and blood of our Lord and Saviour and our Friend will be presented for you before G.o.d, at eight o'clock, on that day--that blood so precious, that cleanses from all sin. May your last words and thoughts be Jesus. Rest on Him, who is faithful, and willing and all-powerful to save. Rest on Him, and on His sacrifice on that Cross for you, instead of you, and hear Him say, "_To-day thou shalt be with me in Paradise_." Yet will we remember your souls constantly at the altar of G.o.d, after your departure, as well as those whom you leave in life.

Farewell! and may Jesus Christ, the Saviour of sinners, save us all, and give you His last blessing upon earth, and an eternal continuance of it in heaven.

CAROLINE QUEENSBURY.

This letter enclosed 100. On hearing it read, poor Larkin burst into tears; the other prisoners also were deeply affected. Surely, never was act more n.o.ble! Never was woman's s.e.x more exalted--never was woman's mission more beautifully exemplified, than by this glorious act of bravery, tenderness, and generosity.

Two days before the fatal 23rd, the calm resignation which the condemned by this time enjoyed was once more cruelly disturbed, and almost destroyed. Once again the government came to fill their hearts with the torturing hope, if not, indeed, the strong conviction, that after all, even though it should be at the foot of the gallows, they would one and all be reprieved. _Another man of the five included in the vitiated verdict was reprieved_--Sh.o.r.e was to have his sentence commuted.

This second reprieve was the most refined and subtle torture to men who had made up their minds for the worst, and who, by G.o.d's strengthening gracs, had already become, as it were, dead to the world. It rendered the execution of the remaining men almost an impossibility. Maguire notoriously was innocent even of complicity in the rescue--the verdict of the sworn jury, concurred in by the "learned judge," to the contrary notwithstanding. But _Sh.o.r.e_ was _avowedly a full partic.i.p.ator in the rescue_. He was no more, no less, guilty than Allen, Larkin, O'Brien. In the dock he proudly gloried in the fact. What wonder if the hapless three, as yet unrespited, found the wild hope of life surging irresistibly through heart and brain!

To the eternal honour of the artisans of London be it told, they signalized themselves in this crisis by a humanity, a generosity, that will not soon be forgotten by Irishmen. At several crowded meetings they adopted memorials to the government, praying for the respite of the condemned Irishmen--or rather, protesting against their contemplated execution. These memorials were pressed with a devoted zeal that showed how deeply the honest hearts of English working-men were stirred; but the newspaper press--the "high cla.s.s" press especially--the enlightened "public instructors"--howled at, reviled, and decried these demonstrations of humanity. The Queen's officials treated the pet.i.tions and pet.i.tioners with corresponding contempt; and an endeavour to approach the Sovereign herself, then at Windsor; resulted in the contumelious rejection from the palace gate of the pet.i.tioners, who were mobbed and hooted by the tradesmen and flunkeys of the royal household!

In Ireland, however, as might be supposed, the respite of Sh.o.r.e was accepted as settling the question: there would be no execution. On the 21st of November men heard, indeed, that troops were being poured into Manchester, that the streets were being barricaded, that the public buildings were strongly guarded, and that special constables were being sworn in by thousands. All this was laughed at as absurd parade.

Ready as were Irishmen to credit England with revengeful severity, there was, in their opinion, nevertheless, a limit even to that.

To hang Allen, O'Brien, and Larkin now, on the broken-down verdict, would, it was judged, be a measure of outrage which even the fiercest hater of England would frankly declare too great for her.

A few there were, however, who did not view the situation thus. They read in the respite of Sh.o.r.e, _fear_; and they gloomily reflected that justice or magnanimity towards the weak seldom characterizes those who exhibit cowardice towards the strong. _Sh.o.r.e was an American._ By this simple sentence a flood of light is thrown on the fact of respiting him alone amongst the four men admittedly concerned in the rescue.

Sh.o.r.e was an American. He had a country to avenge him if legally slaughtered on a vitiated verdict. To hang _him_ was dangerous; but as for Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, _they had no country_ (in the same sense) to avenge them. America was strong, but Ireland was weak. If it was deemed dangerous to sport with the life of the American, it was deemed safe to be brutal and merciless towards the Irishmen. On these the full arrear of British vengeance might be glutted.

But there were not many to discern, in the first flush of its proclamation, this sinister aspect of Sh.o.r.e's respite. The news reached Ireland on Friday, 22nd November, and was, as we have already said, generally deemed conclusive evidence that the next day would bring like news in reference to Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien.

Early next morning--Sat.u.r.day, 23rd November, 1867--men poured into the cities and towns of Ireland reached by telegraphic communication, to learn "the news from Manchester." Language literally fails to convey an idea of the horror--the stupefaction--that ensued when that news was read:--

"_This morning, at eight o'clock, the three condemned Fenians, Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, were executed in front of Sulford Gaol._"

Men gasped in awe-struck horror--speech seemed denied them. Could it be a dream, or was this a reality? Had men lived to see the day when such a deed could be done? For the reason that incredulity had been so strong before, wild, haggard horror now sat on every countenance, and froze the life-blood in every heart. Irishmen had lain quiescent, persuaded that in this seventh decade of the nineteenth century, some humanizing influences would be found to sway that power that in the past, at least, had ever been so merciless to Irish victims. But now!

Alas!--

In that dreadful hour the gulf between the two nations seemed widened and deepened, until it gaped and yawned wide, deep, and dark as h.e.l.l itself. There was a scowl on every brow. Men went about--sullen, moody, silent, morose--with clenched teeth and darkened faces, terrible pa.s.sions raging in their bosoms. For all knew that the sacrifice of those three Irish patriots was a cold-blooded and cowardly act of English policy, more than a judicial proceeding--an act of English panic, cowardice, hate, and terror. All knew that Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien would never have been hanged on the evidence of those forsworn witnesses, and on the verdict of that jury whose perjury or blunder was openly confessed and proclaimed, but for the political aspirations and designs of which the rescue was judged to be an ill.u.s.tration. Had their offence been non-political, they would not have been held a day on such a verdict. They were put to death for their political opinions. They were put to death for political reasons. Their execution was meant to strike terror into Irishmen daring to mutter of liberty. Had they been Americans, like Sh.o.r.e, they would have been respited; but as they were Irishmen, they were immolated.

The full story of how those patriots met their fate at the last reached Ireland two days afterwards, and intensified a thousandfold the national emotions. Men were alternately melted into tears or maddened into pa.s.sion as they read that sad chapter of Irish martyrdom.

Even before the respite of Sh.o.r.e the government had commenced the most formidable military preparations in view of the b.l.o.o.d.y act of State policy designed for the 23rd. Troops were hurried by rail to all the English cities and towns where an "Irish element" existed; and Manchester itself resembled a city besieged. The authorities called for "special constables," and, partly attracted by the plenteous supply of drink and free feeding;[1] and partly impelled by their savage fury against the "Hirish" or the "Fenians,"--suddenly become convertible terms with English writers and speakers--a motley ma.s.s of several thousands, mainly belonging to the most degraded of the population, were enrolled. All the streets in the neighbourhood of the prison were closed against public traffic, were occupied by police or "specials," and were crossed at close intervals by ponderous wooden barriers. Positions commanding the s.p.a.ce in front of the scaffold were strategetically scanned, "strengthened," and occupied by military. The scaffold was erected in a s.p.a.ce or gap made in the upper part of the outer or boundary wall of the prison in New Bailey-street. The masonry was removed to the width necessary for the scaffold, which was then projected over the street, at the outer side of the wall. It was approached or ascended from the prison yard below, by a long wooden stair or stepladder, close alongside the wall on the inside. Against the wall on the inner side, on either hand of the scaffold, were erected platforms within about four feet below the wall coping.

These platforms were filled with soldiers, "crouching down," as the reporters described, "with the muzzles of their rifles just resting on the top of the wall." The s.p.a.ce in the street immediately beneath the scaffold was railed off by a strong wooden barrier, and outside this barrier were ma.s.sed the thousands of police, special constables, and volunteers.

[Footnote 1: The Manchester papers inform us that the specials were plentifully fed with hot pork pies and beer _ad libitum_, which seemed to have a powerful effect in bringing in volunteers from the lower cla.s.ses.]

On Friday the doomed men took leave for the last time of the few relatives allowed to see them. The parting of Larkin and his family is described as one of the most agonizing scenes ever witnessed. Poor Allen, although not quite twenty years of age, was engaged to a young girl whom he loved, and who loved him, most devotedly. She was sternly refused the sad consolation of bidding him farewell. In the evening the prisoners occupied themselves for some time in writing letters, and each of them drew up a "declaration," which they committed to the chaplain. They then gave not another thought to this world. From that moment until all was over, their whole thoughts were centred in the solemn occupation of preparing to meet their Creator. In these last hours Father Gadd, the prison chaplain, was a.s.sisted by the Very Rev. Canon Cantwell and the Rev. Father Quick, whose attentions were unremitting to the end. From the first the prisoners exhibited a deep, fervid religious spirit, which could scarcely have been surpa.s.sed among the earliest Christian martyrs. They received Holy Communion every alternate morning, and spent the greater part of their time in spiritual devotion. On Friday evening they were locked up for the night at the usual hour,--about half-past six o'clock. In their cells they spent a long interval in prayer and meditation--disturbed ever and anon, alas! by the shouts of brutal laughter and boisterous choruses of the mob already a.s.sembled outside the prison walls. At length the fated three sought their dungeon pallets for the last time. "Strange as it may appear," says one of the Manchester papers chronicling the execution, "those three men, standing on the brink of the grave, and about to suffer an ignominious death, _slept as soundly_ as had been their wont." Very "strange," no doubt, it appeared to those accustomed to see _criminals_ die; but no marvel to those who know how innocent men, at peace with G.o.d and man, can mount the scaffold, and offer their lives a sacrifice for the cause of liberty.

Far differently that night was spent by the thronging countrymen of Broadhead, who came as to a holiday to see the "Fenians" die. Early on the preceding evening crowds had taken up their places wherever the occupying bodies of military, police, or specials did not prevent; and the pictures drawn of their conduct by the newspaper reporters, one and all, are inexpressibly revolting. It was the usual English crowd a.s.sembled to enjoy an execution. They made the air resound with laughter at obscene jokes, shouts, cries and repartees; and chorused in thousands [beneath the gallows!] s.n.a.t.c.hes of "comic" ballads and pot-house songs, varied by verses of "Rule, Brittania" and "G.o.d save the Queen," by way of exultation over the Irish. Once or twice, in the early part of the night, the police had to remove the mob from the portion of the prison nearest the condemned cells, as the shouts and songs were painfully disturbing the hapless men engaged at that moment preparing for eternity.

Sat.u.r.day, the 23rd November, dawned misty, murky, dull, and cold over Salford. During the first hours after the past midnight the weather had been clear and frosty, and a heavy h.o.a.r covered the ground; but as daylight approached, a thick mist or fog crept like a pallid pall over the waking city.

The condemned were roused from sound and tranquil slumbers about a quarter to five o'clock. Having dressed, they attended Ma.s.s, Rev.

Canon Cantwell, Rev. Mr. Gadd, and Rev. Mr. Quick officiating. They heard this, their last Ma.s.s, with a fervour and solemnity which no words could describe. The Holy Sacrifice having been offered, the condemned and the three priests remained in prayer and spiritual exercises until seven o'clock, when the prisoners partook of breakfast. "The last preparations," says an English eye-witness, "were then begun. At twelve minutes to eight o'clock the executioner, Calcraft, and his a.s.sistant, were introduced into the cell in which the prisoners were placed, and the process of pinioning their arms was gone through. The priests stood by the side of the unhappy men, administering the consolations of religion, and exhorting them to firmness to meet the last dreadful ordeal. The convicts, at this time," continues the English reporter, "manifested a remarkable fort.i.tude. Not one of them flinched in the least."

The same eye-witness describes as follows the last act of the tragedy, with a brief general sketch of which we commenced this narrative:--

"At a quarter to eight o'clock the interior court of the gaol presented a strange and striking spectacle. Behind the wall in New Bailey-street was erected the long staircase leading to the scaffold, and by its side were platforms for the use of the military. The fog was so dense, that objects could be but faintly distinguished at a distance of thirty yards. Suddenly the words of military command were heard, and a company of the 72nd Highlanders marched round the Roundhouse, and took up a position in line at the foot of the staircase. Simultaneously, small detachments of the same regiment ascended to the platform, and crouched there, with their loaded rifles slightly projecting over the prison wall. At almost the same moment the heads of a line of soldiers arose above the parapet of the railway viaduct. A line of warders was formed in the gaol court. The sentries on duty ceased their walk; magistrates and reporters stood aside, and a dead silence prevailed for a few moments, as a signal was given from the corner of the Roundhouse. At three minutes past eight o'clock the solemn voice of a minister repeating the litany of the Catholic Church was heard, and the head of the procession became visible through a thick fog, about thirty yards from the foot of the staircase. The Rev. Canon Cantwell walked first by the side of Allen. The convict was deadly pale; his eyes wandered alternately from the priest to the individuals standing round, and then he uplifted his gaze, in a vain endeavour to pierce the dense canopy which hung above him. He walked with a tolerably steady step, and uttered the response, 'Lord, have mercy upon us,' in a firm voice."

Next to him came Larkin, in whose appearance confinement and anxiety of mind had wrought a striking change. His physical strength seemed shaken, and he required to be a.s.sisted by one of the warders in ascending the long wooden stair that led to the scaffold. Last of all came O'Brien, whose n.o.ble, firm, and dignified bearing won the approbation of everyone who beheld him. A part.i.tion running in the line of the wall divided the scaffold into an outer and an inner platform, a small door opening between them. Allen and O'Brien, and their attendants, having reached the top of the stair, waited on the inner platform until Larkin and the rest of the attendant warders and officials came up. Then, all being ready, the door was flung open, and the boy-martyr was first led out upon the drop. His face, which was deathly pale, appeared working with the effects of strong mental agony. The high priest of English rule over Irishmen, Calcraft, came forward, placed the treacherous noose around Allen's neck, pulled a thin white cap over his ashen face, and then stooped, and securely tied his feet together. The pinioning of the arms, which had been done in the cell, allowed his hands, from the elbows downward, sufficient freedom to clasp on his breast a crucifix, which ever and anon, as he spoke aloud the responses of the litany, the poor young fellow seemed to press closer and closer to his heart.

Next O'Brien was led forth. On his fine manly face the closest scrutiny could not detect a trace of weakness. He looked calmly and sadly around; then, stepping up to where Allen stood capped and pinioned, he clasped him by the hand, and kissed him affectionately on the cheek, speaking to him a word or two not overheard. Then O'Brien himself was placed by Calcraft on the drop, the rope was fixed upon his neck, the cap was drawn on his face, and his feet were securely bound.

Larkin was now brought out, and led directly to his place on the left hand of O'Brien, who was in the middle. The sight of his two brother-martyrs capped and pinioned, and with the fatal cord around each neck, seemed to unman the poor fellow utterly. He stumbled on touching an uneven plank on the scaffold, so that many thought he had fainted; but it was not so, though he unquestionably was labouring under intense agony of mind. O'Brien, firm and unshrinking to the last, turned and looked at him encouragingly, and to him also spoke a few words in a low tone.

Calcraft now disappeared from view, and the three men stood for a moment before the mult.i.tude, their voices ringing out clearly in the still morning air, "Lord Jesus, have mercy on us." Suddenly the click of the bolts was heard; the three bodies sunk through the traps; England's three halters strained, and tugged, and twitched convulsively for a few moments, and the deed was done--her vengeance was accomplished.

That afternoon, her functionaries bore to three grave-pits in the prison-yard three lumps of lifeless clay, that a few short hours before had been three of G.o.d's n.o.blest creatures. Like carrion, they were flung into those unconsecrated pits, and strewed with quicklime.

For this was British law. The wolf and the tiger leave some vestiges of their victims; but a special ordinance of English law required even the corpses of those martyred Irishmen to be calcined.