Speeches from the Dock Part 13

The men inside attempted to separate and escape, but they were instantly grappled by the police. One of the force seized Captain Mackay by the collar, and a vigorous struggle between them at once commenced.

The policeman was much the larger man of the two, but the Fenian Captain was wiry and muscular, and proved quite a match for him. They fell, and rose, and fell, and rose again, the policeman undermost sometimes, and at other times the Fenian Captain. They struggled for nearly twenty minutes.

"Dead or alive, I'll take you," said the policeman, as he drew his revolver from his pocket.

"I have but one life, to lose, and if it goes, so be it," replied Mackay drawing a weapon of the same kind.

In another instant there was a clash as of striking steel, and a discharge of one of the weapons.

"Good G.o.d! I'm shot!" exclaimed Constable Casey from, the end of the room, and he fell upon the floor.

Captain Mackay's revolver had gone off in the struggle, and the ball had struck the constable in the leg, inflicting on him a serious wound.

By this time several parties of police had arrived in the street and stationed themselves so as to prevent the formation of a crowd and deter the people from any attempt at rescue. A reinforcement having turned into the house in which the struggle was going on, Captain Mackay and others who had been in his company were made prisoners, and marched off in custody.

Some days afterwards, the wounded constable, who had refused to submit to amputation of the wounded limb, died in hospital.

On the 10th of March, 1868, at the Cork a.s.sizes, Judge O'Hagan presiding, Captain Mackay was put on his trial for murder. The evidence established a probability that the discharge of the prisoner's revolver was not intended or effected by him, but was a consequence of its having been struck by the revolver of the policeman who was struggling with him. The verdict of the jury therefore was one of acquittal.

But then came the other charge against him, the charge of treason-felony, for his connexion with the Fenian Brotherhood, and his part in the recent "rising." For this he was put on trial on the 20th day of March. He was ably defended by Mr. Heron, Q.C.; but the evidence against him was conclusive. To say nothing of the testimony of the informers, which should never for a moment be regarded as trustworthy, there was the evidence and the identification supplied by the gunners of the Martello tower and their wives, and the policemen of Ballyknockane station and the wife of one of them. This evidence while establis.h.i.+ng the fact that the prisoner had been concerned in the levying of war against the crown, established also the fact that he was a man as chivalrous and gentle as he was valorous and daring. Some of the incidents proved to have occurred during the attack which was made, under his leaders.h.i.+p, on the police barrack, are worthy of special mention in any sketch, however brief, of the life and adventures of this remarkable man. After he, at the head of his party, had demanded the surrender of the barrack in the name of the Irish Republic, the police fired, and the fire was returned. Then the insurgents broke in the door and set fire to the lower part of the barrack. Still the police held out. "Surrender!" cried the insurgents; "_You want to commit suicide, but we don't want to commit murder._" One of the policemen then cried out that a little girl, his daughter, was inside, and asked if the attacking party would allow her to be pa.s.sed out? Of course they would, gladly; and the little girl was taken out of the window with all tenderness, and given up to her mother who had chanced to be outside the barrack when the attack commenced. At this time a Catholic clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Neville, came on the spot. He asked the insurgent leader whether, if the police surrendered, any harm would be done to them?

"Here is my revolver," said Captain Mackay, "let the contents of it be put through me if one of them should be injured." Well did Mr. Heron in his able speech, referring to these facts, say, "Though they were rebels who acted that heroic part, who could say their hearts, were not animated with the courage of Leonidas, and the chivalry of Bayard."

On the second day of the trial the jury brought in their verdict, declaring the prisoner guilty, but at the same time recommending him to the merciful consideration of the court, because of the humanity which he had displayed towards the men whom he had in his power. The finding took no one by surprise, and did not seem to trouble the prisoner in the faintest degree. During the former trial some shades of anxiety might have been detected on his features; the charge of "murder" was grievous to him, but when that was happily disposed of, the world seemed to brighten before him, and he took his treason-felony trial cheerily. He knew what the verdict on the evidence would be, and he was conscious that the penalty to be imposed on him would be no trivial one; he felt that it was hard to part from faithful comrades, and dear friends, and, above all, from the young wife whom he had married only a few short months before; but then it was in Ireland's cause he was about to suffer, and for that he could endure all.

And yet, Ireland was not his native land. He was born in Cincinnatti, Ohio, in the year 1841. But his parents, who were natives of Castle-Lyons, near Fermoy, in the County Cork, were true children of Erin, and they taught their son to love, even as they did themselves, that green isle far away, from which a hard fate had compelled them to roam. Patriotism, indeed, was hereditary in the family. The great-grandfather of our hero suffered death for his fidelity to the cause of Ireland in the memorable year 1798; and a still-more remarkable fact is that Captain Mackay--or William Francis Lomasney, to call him by his real name--in leaving America for Ireland in 1865 to take part in the contemplated rising, merely took the place which his father wished and intended to occupy. The young man induced him, to remain at home, and claimed for himself the post of danger. Well may that patriotic father be proud of such a son.

When called upon for such remarks as he might have to offer on his own behalf, Captain Mackay, without any of the airs of a practised speaker, but yet with a manner that somehow touched every heart and visibly affected the humane and upright judge who sat on the bench, delivered the following address:--

"My lord--What I said last evening I think calls for a little explanation. I then said I was fully satisfied with the verdict--that it was a fair and just one. I say so still, but I wish to state that I consider it only so in accordance with British law, and that it is not in accordance with my ideas of right and justice. I feel that with the strong evidence there was against me, according to British law, the jury could not, as conscientious men, do otherwise. I feel that. I thank them again for their recommendation to mercy, which, I have no doubt, was prompted by a good intention towards me, and a desire to mitigate what they considered would he a long and painful imprisonment. Still, I will say, with all respect, that I feel the utmost indifference to it. I do so for this reason--I am now in that position that I must rely entirely upon the goodness of G.o.d, and I feel confident that He will so dispose events that I will not remain a prisoner so long as your lords.h.i.+p may be pleased to decree. The jury having now found me guilty, it only remains for your lords.h.i.+p to give effect to their verdict. The eloquence, the ability, the clear reasoning, and the really splendid arguments of my counsel failed, as I knew they would, to affect the jury. I feel, therefore, that with my poor talents it would be utterly vain and useless for me to attempt to stay the sentence which it now becomes your lords.h.i.+p's duty to p.r.o.nounce. I believe, my lord, from what I have seen of your lords.h.i.+p, and what I have heard of you, it will be to you a painful duty to inflict that sentence upon me. To one clinging so much to the world and its joys--to its fond ties and pleasant a.s.sociations, as I naturally do, retirement into banishment is seldom--very seldom--welcome. Of that, however, I do not complain. But to any man whose heart glows with the warmest impulses and the most intense love of freedom; strongly attached to kind friends, affectionate parents, loving brother and sisters, and a devotedly fond and loving wife, the contemplation of a long period of imprisonment must appear most terrible and appalling. To me, however, viewing it from a purely personal point of view, and considering the cause for which I am about to suffer, far from being dismayed--far from its discouraging me--it proves to me rather a source of joy and comfort. True, it is a position not to be sought--not to be looked for--it is one which, for many, very many reasons there is no occasion for me now to explain, maybe thought to involve disgrace or discredit. But, so far from viewing it in that light, I do not shrink from it, but accept it readily, feeling proud and glad that it affords me an opportunity of proving the sincerity of those soul-elevating principles of freedom which a good old patriotic father instilled into my mind from my earliest years, and which I still entertain with a strong love, whose fervour and intensity are second only to the sacred homage which we owe to G.o.d. If, having lost that freedom, I am to be deprived of all those blessings--those glad and joyous years I should have spent amongst loving friends--I shall not complain, I shall not murmur, but with calm resignation and cheerful expectation, I shall joyfully submit to G.o.d's blessed will, feeling confident that He will open the strongly locked and barred doors of British prisons. Till that glad time arrives, it is consolation and reward enough for me to know that I have the fervent prayers, the sympathy and loving blessings of Ireland's truly n.o.ble and generous people, and far easier, more soothing and more comforting to me will it be to go back to my cheerless cell, than it would be to live in slavish ease and luxury--a witness to the cruel sufferings and terrible miseries of this down-trodden people. Condemn me, then, my lord--condemn me to a felon's doom. To-night I will sleep in a prison cell; to-morrow I will wear a convict's dress; but to me it will be a far n.o.bler garb than the richest dress of slavery. Coward slaves they lie who think the countless sufferings and degradation of prison life disgraces a man. I feel otherwise. It is as impossible to subdue the soul animated with freedom as it will be for England to crush the resolute will of this nation, determined as it is to be free, or perish in the attempt. According to British law, those acts proved against me--fairly proved against me I acknowledge--maybe crimes, but morally, in the eyes of freemen and the sight of G.o.d, they are more enn.o.bling than disgraceful. Shame is only a connexion with guilt. It is surely not a crime to obey G.o.d's law, or to a.s.sist our fellow-men to acquire those G.o.d-given rights which no men--no nation--can justly deprive them of. If love of freedom and a desire to extend its unspeakable blessings to all G.o.d's creatures, irrespective of race, creed, or colour, be a crime--if devotion to Ireland, and love of its faithful, its honest, its kindly people be a crime, then I say I proudly and gladly acknowledge my guilt. If it is a disgrace, all I can say is I glory in such shame and dishonour; and, with all respect for the court, I hold in thorough and utmost contempt the worst punishment that can be inflicted upon me, so far as it is intended to deprive me of this feeling, and degrade me in the eyes of my fellow-men. Oh, no, it is impossible, my lord; the freeman's soul can never be dismayed. England will most miserably fail if she expects by force and oppression to crush out--to stamp out, as the _Times_ exclaimed--this glorious longing for national life and independence which now fills the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of millions of Irishmen, and which only requires a little patience and the opportunity to effect its purpose.

Much has been said on these trials, on the objects and intentions of Fenianism. I feel confidently, my lord, as to my own motives. I shall not be guilty of the egotism to say whether they are pure or otherwise. I shall leave that to others to judge. I am not qualified to judge that myself; but I know in my soul that the motives which prompted me were pure, patriotic, and unselfish. I know the motives that actuate the most active members of the Fenian organization; and I know that very few persons, except such contemptible wretches as Corridon, have profited by their connexion with Fenianism. My best friends lost all they ever possessed by it. Talbot and Corridon, I believe, have sworn on previous trials that it was the intention of the Fenians to have divided the lands of Ireland amongst themselves in the event of success. Though an humble member of the organization, I have the honour and satisfaction of being acquainted with the great majority of the leaders of Fenianism on both sides of the Atlantic, and I never knew one of them to have exhibited a desire other than to have the proud satisfaction of freeing Ireland, which was the only reward they ever yearned for--the only object that ever animated them. As to myself, I can truly say that I entered into this movement without any idea of personal aggrandis.e.m.e.nt. When, in 1865, I bade my loving friends and parents good-bye in America, and came to Ireland, I was fully satisfied with the thought that I was coming to a.s.sist in the liberation of an enslaved nation; and I knew that the greatest sacrifices must be endured on our parts before the country could be raised to that proud position which is so beautifully described by the national poet as--

"'Great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, first gem of the sea.'

"Well, it was with that only wish, and that only desire I came to Ireland, feeling that to realize it were to an honest man a greater reward than all the honours and riches and power this world could bestow. I cannot boast of learning, my lord; I have not had much opportunity of cultivating those talents with which Providence may have blessed me. Still I have read sufficient of the world's history to know that no people ever acquired their liberty without enormous sacrifices--without losing, always, I may say, some of the purest, bravest, and best of their children. Liberty, if worth possessing, is surely worth struggling and fighting for, and in this struggle--of which, although the crown-lawyers and the government of England think they have seen the end, but of which I tell them they have not yet seen the commencement--I feel that enormous sacrifices must be made.

Therefore, my lord, looking straight before me now, I say I was determined and was quite ready to sacrifice my life if necessary to acquire that liberty; and I am not now going to be so mean-spirited, so cowardly, or so contemptible as to shrink from my portion of the general suffering. I am ready, then, for the sentence of the court, satisfied that I have acted right, confident that I have committed no wrong, outrage, or crime whatever, and that I have cast no disgrace upon my parents, my friends, upon my devoted wife, or upon myself. I am, with G.o.d's a.s.sistance, ready to meet my fate. I rest in the calm resignation of a man whose only ambition through life has been to benefit and free, not to injure, his fellow-men; and whose only desire this moment is to obtain their prayers and blessings. With the approval of my own conscience, above all hoping for the forgiveness of G.o.d for anything I may have done to displease Him, and relying upon His self-sustaining grace to enable me to bear any punishment, no matter how severe, so long as it is for glorious old Ireland. I had intended, my lord, to refer to my notes which I took at the trial; but I feel that was so ably done by my counsel, it would be a mere waste of time for me to do so, but I just wish to make an explanation. Sir C. O'Loghlen made a statement--unintentionally I am sure it was on his part--which may or may not affect me. He said I sent a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant praying to be released from custody. I wish to say I sent no such thing. The facts of the matter are these:--I was liberated in this court because in reality the crown could not make out a case against me at the time; and as I could, at the same time, be kept in prison until the next a.s.sizes, I, on consultation with my friends and with my fellow-captive, Captain M'Afferty, consented, as soon as I should receive a remittance from my friends in America, to return there. On these conditions I was set at liberty, understanding, at the same time, that if found in the country by next a.s.sizes I would be brought up for trial. I did not want to give annoyance, and I said I would go to America. I honestly intended to do so then--not, however, as giving up my principles, but because I saw there was no hope of an immediate rising in Ireland.

While agreeing to those conditions, I went to Dublin, and there met M'Afferty, and it was on that occasion I made the acquaintance of Corridon. I met him purely accidentally. He afterwards stated that he saw me in Liverpool, but he did not see me there. I went over with an object, and while there I was arrested by antic.i.p.ation, before the _Habeas Corpus_ Act was really suspended. I defy the government to prove I had any connexion with Fenianism from the time I was released from Cork jail until February, 1867. I was afterwards removed to Mountjoy prison, and, while there, Mr. West came to me and said he understood I was an American citizen, and asked why I did not make that known. I said I had a double reason--first, because I expected the crown would see they had broken their pledge with me in having been so soon arrested; and also that I expected my government would make a general demand for all its citizens. By Mr. West's desire I put that statement in writing; and I do not think that there is a word in it that can be construed into a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant. One of the directors of the prison came to me and asked me was I content to comply with the former conditions, and I said I was. I was liberated upon those conditions, and complied with them; but there was no condition whatever named that I was never to return to Ireland nor to fight for Irish independence. At that time I would sooner have remained in prison than enter into any such compact. Now, with reference to Corridon's information. He states he met me in Liverpool after the rising, and I stated to him that somebody 'sold the pa.s.s' upon us--to use the Irish phrase. Now, it is a strange thing, my lord, that he got some information that was true, and I really was in Liverpool, but not with the informer. The fact is, the month previous to that I knew, and so did M'Afferty, that Corridon had sold us. We left instructions at Liverpool to have him watched; but owing to circ.u.mstances, it is needless now to refer to, that was not attended to, and he came afterwards to Ireland and pa.s.sed as a Fenian, and the parties here, not knowing he had betrayed them, still believed in him. But I knew very well that Corridon had betrayed that Chester affair, and so did Captain M'Afferty; and if I had met him at that time in Liverpool I don't think it would be him I would inform of our plans. I only want to show, my lord, how easily an informer can concoct a scene. I never in my life attended that meeting that Corridon swore to. All his depositions with respect to me is false. I did meet him twice in Dublin, but not on the occasions he states. I wish to show how an informer can concoct a story that it will be entirely out of the power of the prisoner to contradict. With reference to the witness Curtin, whom I asked to have produced--and the crown did produce all the witnesses I asked for--your lords.h.i.+p seemed to be under the impression that I did not produce him because he might not be able to say I was not in his house that night. Now, the fact is that, as my attorney learned the moment Mr. Curtin was brought to town, he knew nothing whatever about the circ.u.mstance, as he was not in his own tavern that night at all. That was why I did not produce the evidence. But I solemnly declare I never was in Curtin's public-house in my life till last summer, when I went in with a friend on two or three occasions, and then for the first time.

That must have been in June or July, after the trials were over in Dublin. So that everything Corridon said in connection with my being there that night was absolutely false. I solemnly declare I was never there till some time last summer, when I went in under the circ.u.mstances I have stated. In conclusion, my lord, though it may not be exactly in accordance with the rules of the court, I wish to return your lords.h.i.+p my most sincere thanks for your fair and impartial conduct during this trial. If there was anything that was not impartial in it at all, I consider it was only in my favour, and not in favour of the crown. This I consider is the duty of a judge, and what every judge should do--because the prisoner is always on the weak side, and cannot say many things he would wish, while the crown, on the other hand, have all the power and influence that the law and a full exchequer can give them. I must also return my sincere and heartfelt thanks to my able and distinguished counsel, who spoke so eloquently in my favour. As for Mr. Collins, I feel I can never sufficiently thank him. He served me on my trial at a great sacrifice of time and money, with n.o.ble zeal and devotion, such as might be more readily expected from a friend than a solicitor. There are many more I would like to thank individually, but as this may not be the proper time and place to do so, I can only thank all my friends from the bottom of my heart. I may mention the name at least of Mr. Joyce, who, in the jail, showed a great deal of kind feeling and attention.

And now, my lord, as I have already stated, I am ready for my sentence I feel rather out of place in this dock [the prisoner here smiled gently]. It is a place a man is very seldom placed in, and even if he is a good speaker he might be put out by the circ.u.mstance of having to utter his remarks from this place. But speaking at all is not my _forte_; and there are such emotions filling my breast at this moment that I may be pardoned for not saying all I would wish.

My heart is filled with thoughts of kind friends--near at hand and far away--of father and mother, brothers and sisters, and my dear wife. Thoughts of these fill my breast at this moment, and check my utterance. But I will say to them that I am firmly convinced I will yet live to see, and that G.o.d will be graciously pleased in His own good time to order, the prosperity and freedom of this glorious country. I would only repeat the powerful, touching, and simple words of Michael Larkin, the martyr of Manchester, who, in parting from his friends, said, 'G.o.d be with you, Irishmen and Irishwomen,' and the burning words of my old friend Edward O'Mara Condon, which are now known throughout Ireland and the world, 'G.o.d save Ireland!' And I, too, would say, 'G.o.d be with you, Irishmen and women; G.o.d save you; G.o.d bless Ireland; and G.o.d grant me strength to bear my task for Ireland as becomes a man. Farewell!' [A sound of some females sobbing was here heard in the gallery. Several ladies in court, too, visibly yielded to emotion at this point. Perceiving this the prisoner continued:--] My lord, if I display any emotion at this moment, I trust it will not be construed into anything resembling a feeling of despair, for no such feeling animates me. I feel, as I have already said, confidence in G.o.d. I feel that I will not be long in imprisonment; therefore I am just as ready to meet my fate now as I was six weeks ago, or as I was six months ago. I feel confident that there is a glorious future in store for Ireland, and that, with a little patience, a little organization, and a full trust in G.o.d on the part of the Irish people, they will be enabled to obtain it at no distant date."

During the concluding pa.s.sages of this address many persons sobbed and wept in various parts of the court. At its close the learned judge in language that was really gentle, considerate, and even complimentary towards the prisoner, and in a voice shaken by sincere emotion, declared the sentence which he felt it to be his duty to impose. It was penal servitude for a term of twelve years.