The Dock and the Scaffold written by Unknown
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THE DOCK AND THE SCAFFOLD
The Manchester Tragedy and the Cruise of the Jacknell
[Illustration: THE "ERIN'S HOPE" SALUTING THE GREEN FLAG.]
"GOD SAVE IRELAND."
"Far dearer the grave or the prison
Illum'd by one patriot's name,
Than the trophies of all who have risen
On liberty's ruins to fame."
MOORE
The 23rd day of November, 1867, witnessed a strange and memorable
scene in the great English city of Manchester. Long ere the grey
winter's morning struggled in through the crisp frosty air--long ere
the first gleam of the coming day dulled the glare of the flaming
gas jets, the streets of the Lancashire capital were all astir with
bustling crowds, and the silence of the night was broken by the
ceaseless footfalls and the voices of hurrying throngs. Through the
long, dim streets, and past the tall rows of silent houses, the full
tide of life eddied and poured in rapid current; stout burghers,
closely muffled and staff in hand; children grown prematurely old,
with the hard marks of vice already branded on their features; young
girls with flaunting ribbons and bold, flushed faces; pale-faced
operatives, and strong men whose brawny limbs told of the Titanic
labours of the foundry; the clerk from his desk; the shopkeeper from
his store; the withered crone, and the careless navvy, swayed and
struggled through the living mass; and with them trooped the legions
of want, and vice, and ignorance, that burrow and fester in the foetid
lanes and purlieus of the large British cities: from the dark alleys
where misery and degradation for ever dwell, and from reeking cellars
and nameless haunts, where the twin demons of alcohol and crime rule
supreme; from the gin-palace, and the beer-shop, and the midnight
haunts of the tramp and the burglar, they came in all their
repulsiveness and debasement, with the rags of wretchedness upon
their backs, and the cries of profanity and obscenity upon their
lips. Forward they rushed in a surging flood through many a street
and byway, until where the narrowing thoroughfares open into the space
surrounding the New Bailey Prison, in that suburb of the great city
known as the Borough of Salford, they found their further progress
arrested. Between them and the massive prison walls rose piles of
heavy barricading, and the intervening space was black with a dense
body of men, all of whom faced the gloomy building beyond, and each of
whom carried a special constable's baton in his hand. The long railway
bridge running close by was occupied by a detachment of infantry, and
from the parapet of the frowning walls the muzzle of cannon, trained
on the space below, might be dimly discerned in the darkness. But
the crowd paid little attention to these extraordinary appearances;
their eyes were riveted on the black projection which jutted from the
prison wall, and which, shrouded in dark drapery, loomed with ghastly
significance through the haze. Rising above the scaffold, which
replaced a portion of the prison wall, the outlines of a gibbet were
descried; and from the cross-beam there hung three ropes, terminating
in nooses, just perceptible above the upper edge of the curtain which
extended thence to the ground. The grim excrescence seemed to possess
a horrible fascination for the multitude. Those in position to see it
best stirred not from their post, but faced the fatal cross-tree, the
motionless ropes, the empty platform, with an untiring, insatiable
gaze, that seemed pregnant with some terrible meaning, while the mob
behind them struggled, and pushed, and raved, and fought; and the
haggard hundreds of gaunt, diseased, stricken wretches, that vainly
contested with the stronger types of ruffianism for a place, loaded
the air with their blasphemies and imprecations. The day broke slowly
and doubtfully upon the scene; a dense yellow, murky fog floated round
the spot, wrapping in its opaque folds the hideous gallows and the
frowning mass of masonry behind. An hour passed, and then a hoarse
murmur swelled upwards from the glistening rows of upturned faces.
The platform was no longer empty; three pinioned men, with white caps
drawn closely over their faces, were standing upon the drop. For a
moment the crowd was awed into stillness; for a moment the responses,
"Christ, have mercy on us," "Christ, have mercy on us," were heard
from the lips of the doomed men, towards whom the sea of faces were
turned. Then came a dull crash, and the mob swayed backwards for an
instant. The drop had fallen, and the victims were struggling in
the throes of a horrible death. The ropes jerked and swayed with
the convulsive movements of the dying men. A minute later, and the
vibrations ceased--the end had come, the swaying limbs fell rigid
and stark, and the souls of the strangled men had floated upwards
from the cursed spot--up from the hateful crowd and the sin-laden
atmosphere--to the throne of the God who made them.
So perished, in the bloom of manhood, and the flower of their
strength, three gallant sons of Ireland--so passed away the last
of the martyred band whose blood has sanctified the cause of Irish
freedom. Far from the friends whom they loved, far from the land for
which they suffered, with the scarlet-clad hirelings of England around
them, and watched by the wolfish eyes of a brutal mob, who thirsted
to see them die, the dauntless patriots, who, in our own day,
have rivalled the heroism and shared the fate of Tone, Emmett, and
Fitzgerald, looked their last upon the world. No prayer was breathed
for their parting souls--no eye was moistened with regret amongst the
multitude that stretched away in compact bodies from the foot of the
gallows; the ribald laugh and the blasphemous oath united with their
dying breath; and, callously as the Roman mob from the blood-stained
amphitheatre, the English masses turned homewards from the fatal spot.
But they did not fall unhonoured or unwept. In the churches of the
faithful in that same city, the sobs of mournful lamentation were
mingled with the solemn prayers for their eternal rest, and, from
thousands of wailing women and stricken-hearted men, the prayers for
mercy, peace, and pardon, for the souls of MICHAEL O'BRIEN, WILLIAM
PHILIP ALLEN, and MICHAEL LARKIN, rose upwards to the avenging God.
Still less were they forgotten at home. Throughout the Irish land,
from Antrim's rocky coast to the foam-beaten headlands of Cork, the
hearts of their countrymen were convulsed with passionate grief and
indignation, and, blended with the sharp cry of agony that broke from
the nation's lips, came the murmurs of defiant hatred, and the pledges
of a bitter vengeance. Never, for generations, had the minds of the
Irish people been more profoundly agitated--never had they writhed
in such bitterness and agony of soul. With knitted brows and burning
cheeks, the tidings of the bloody deed were listened to. The names of
the martyred men were upon every lip, and the story of their heroism
and tragic death was read with throbbing pulse and kindling eyes
by every fireside in the land. It is to assist in perpetuating that
story, and in recording for future generations the narrative which
tells of how Allen, O'Brien, and Larkin died, that this narrative is
written, and few outside the nation whose hands are red with their
blood, will deny that at least so much recognition is due to their
courage, their patriotism, and their fidelity. In Ireland we know it
will be welcomed; amongst a people by whom chivalry and patriotism are
honoured, a story so touching and so enobling will not be despised;
and the race which guards with reverence and devotion the memories
of Tone, and Emmett, and the Shearses, will not soon surrender to
oblivion the memory of the three true-hearted patriots, who, heedless
of the scowling mob, unawed by the hangman's grasp, died bravely that
Saturday morning at Manchester, for the good old cause of Ireland.
Early before daybreak on the morning of November 11th, 1867,
the policemen on duty in Oak-street, Manchester, noticed four
broad-shouldered, muscular men loitering in a suspicious manner
about the shop of a clothes dealer in the neighbourhood. Some remarks
dropped by one of the party reaching the ears of the policemen,
strengthened their impression that an illegal enterprise was on foot,
and the arrest of the supposed burglars was resolved on. A struggle
ensued, during which two of the suspects succeeded in escaping, but
the remaining pair, after offering a determined resistance, were
overpowered and carried off to the police station. The prisoners, who,
on being searched, were found to possess loaded revolvers on their
persons, gave their names as Martin Williams and John Whyte, and were
charged under the Vagrancy Act before one of the city magistrates.
They declared themselves American citizens, and claimed their
discharge. Williams said he was a bookbinder out of work; Whyte
described himself as a hatter, living on the means brought with him
from America. The magistrate was about disposing summarily of the
case, by sentencing the men to a few days' imprisonment, when a
detective officer applied for a remand, on the ground that he had
reason to believe the prisoners were connected with the Fenian
conspiracy. The application was granted, and before many hours
had elapsed it was ascertained that Martin Williams was no other
than Colonel Thomas J. Kelly, one of the most prominent of the
(O'Mahony-Stephens) Fenian leaders, and that John Whyte was a brother
officer and co-conspirator, known to the circles of the Fenian
Brotherhood as Captain Deasey.
Of the men who had thus fallen into the clutches of the British
government the public had already heard much, and one of them
was widely known for the persistency with which he laboured as an
organiser of Fenianism, and the daring and skill which he exhibited
in the pursuit of his dangerous undertaking. Long before the escape
of James Stephens from Richmond Bridewell startled the government from
its visions of security, and swelled the breasts of their disaffected
subjects in Ireland with rekindled hopes, Colonel Kelly was known in
the Fenian ranks as an intimate associate of the revolutionary chief.
When the arrest at Fairfield-house deprived the organization of its
crafty leader, Kelly was elected to the vacant post, and he threw
himself into the work with all the reckless energy of his nature. If
he could not be said to possess the mental ability or administrative
capacity essential to the office, he was at least gifted with a
variety of other qualifications well calculated to recommend him to
popularity amongst the desperate men with whom he was associated. Nor
did he prove altogether unworthy of the confidence reposed in him. It
is now pretty well known that the successful plot for the liberation
of James Stephens was executed under the personal supervision of
Colonel Kelly, and that he was one of the group of friends who grasped
the hand of the Head Centre within the gates of Eichmond Prison on
that night in November, '65, when the doors of his dungeon were thrown
open. Kelly fled with Stephens to Paris, and thence to America,
where he remained attached to the section of the Brotherhood which
recognised the authority and obeyed the mandates of the "C.O.I.R." But
the time came when even Colonel Kelly and his party discovered that
Stephens was unworthy of their confidence. The chief whom they had so
long trusted, and whose oath to fight on Irish soil before January,
'67, they had seen so unblushingly violated, was deposed by the
last section of his adherents, and Colonel Kelly was elected
"Deputy Central Organiser of the Irish Republic," on the distinct
understanding that he was to follow out the policy which Stephens had
shrunk from pursuing. Kelly accepted the post, and devoted himself
earnestly to the work. In America he met with comparatively little
co-operation; the bulk of the Irish Nationalists in that country had
long ranged themselves under the leadership of Colonel W.R. Roberts,
an Irish gentleman of character and integrity, who became the
President of the reconstituted organization; and the plans and
promises of "the Chatham-street wing," as the branch of the
brotherhood which ratified Colonel Kelly's election was termed,
were regarded, for the most part, with suspicion and disfavour. But
from Ireland there came evidences of a different state of feeling.
Breathless envoys arrived almost weekly in New York, declaring that
the Fenian Brotherhood in Ireland were burning for the fray--that they
awaited the landing of Colonel Kelly with feverish impatience--that
it would be impossible to restrain them much longer from fighting--and
that the arrival of the military leaders, whom America was expected
to supply, would be the signal for a general uprising. Encouraged
by representations like these, Colonel Kelly and a chosen body of
Irish-American officers departed for Ireland in January, and set
themselves, on their arrival in the old country, to arrange the plans
of the impending outbreak. How their labours eventuated, and how the
Fenian insurrection of March, '67, resulted, it is unnecessary to
explain; it is enough for our purpose to state that for several months
after that ill-starred movement was crushed, Colonel Kelly continued
to reside in Dublin, moving about with an absence of disguise and
a disregard for concealment which astonished his confederates, but
which, perhaps, contributed in no slight degree to the success with
which he eluded the efforts directed towards his capture. At length
the Fenian organization in Ireland began to pass through the same
changes that had given it new leaders and fresh vitality in America.
The members of the organization at home began to long for union
with the Irish Nationalists who formed the branch of the confederacy
regenerated under Colonel Roberts; and Kelly, who, for various
reasons, was unwilling to accept the new _regime_, saw his adherents
dwindle away, until at length he found himself all but discarded by
the Fenian circles in Dublin. Then he crossed over to Manchester,
where he arrived but a few weeks previous to the date of his
accidental arrest in Oak-street.
The arrest of Colonel Kelly and his aide-de-camp, as the English
papers soon learned to describe Deasey, was hailed by the government
with the deepest satisfaction. For years they had seen their hosts of
spies, detectives, and informers foiled and outwitted by this daring
conspirator, whose position in the Fenian ranks they perfectly
understood; they had seen their traps evaded, their bribes spurned,
and their plans defeated at every turn; they knew, too, that Kelly's
success in escaping capture was filling his associates with pride and
exultation; and now at last they found the man whose apprehension they
so anxiously desired a captive in their grasp. On the other hand, the
arrests in Oak-street were felt to be a crushing blow to a failing
cause by the Fenian circles in Manchester. They saw that Kelly's
capture would dishearten every section of the organization; they knew
that the broad meaning of the occurrence was, that another Irish rebel
had fallen into the clutches of the British government, and was about
to be added to the long list of their political victims. It was felt
by the Irish in Manchester, that to abandon the prisoners helplessly
to their fate would be regarded as an act of submission to the laws
which rendered patriotism a crime, and as an acceptance of the policy
which left Ireland trampled, bleeding, and impoverished. There
were hot spirits amongst the Irish colony that dwelt in the great
industrial capital, which revolted from such a conclusion, and there
were warm, impulsive hearts which swelled with a firm resolution to
change the triumph of their British adversaries into disappointment
and consternation. The time has not yet come when anything like
a description of the midnight meetings and secret councils which
followed the arrest of Colonel Kelly in Manchester can be written;
enough may be gathered, however, from the result, to show that the
plans of the conspirators were cleverly conceived and ably digested.
On Wednesday, September 18th, Colonel Kelly and his companion were
a second time placed in the dock of the Manchester Police Office.
There is reason to believe that means had previously been found of
acquainting them with the plans of their friends outside, but this
hypothesis is not necessary to explain the coolness and _sang froid_
with which they listened to the proceedings before the magistrate.
Hardly had the prisoners been put forward, when the Chief Inspector
of the Manchester Detective Force interposed. They were both, he said,
connected with the Fenian rising, and warrants were out against them
for treason-felony. "Williams," he added, with a triumphant air, "is
Colonel Kelly, and Whyte, his confederate, is Captain Deasey." He
asked that they might again be remanded, an application which was
immediately granted. The prisoners, who imperturbably bowed to the
detective, as he identified them, smilingly quitted the dock, and were
given in charge to Police Sergeant Charles Brett, whose duty it was to
convey them to the borough gaol.
The van used for the conveyance of prisoners between the police office
and the gaol was one of the ordinary long black boxes on wheels, dimly
lit by a grating in the door and a couple of ventilators in the roof.
It was divided interiorly into a row of small cells at either side,
and a passage running the length of the van between; and the practice
was, to lock each prisoner into a separate cell, Brett sitting in
charge on a seat in the passage, near the door. The van was driven
by a policeman; another usually sat beside the driver on the box; the
whole escort thus consisting of three men, carrying no other arms than
their staves; but it was felt that on the present occasion a stronger
escort might be necessary. The magistrates well knew that Kelly
and Deasey had numerous sympathisers amongst the Irish residents in
Manchester, and their apprehensions were quickened by the receipt of
a telegram from Dublin Castle, and another from the Home Office in
London, warning them that a plot was on foot for the liberation of the
prisoners. The magistrates doubted the truth of the information, but
they took precautions, nevertheless, for the frustration of any such
enterprise. Kelly and Deasey were both handcuffed, and locked in
separate compartments of the van; and, instead of three policemen,
not less than twelve were entrusted with its defence. Of this body,
five sat on the box-seat, two were stationed on the step behind, four
followed the van in a cab, and one (Sergeant Brett) sat within the
van, the keys of which were handed in to him through the grating,
after the door had been locked by one of the policemen outside. There
were, in all, six persons in the van: one of these was a boy, aged
twelve, who was being conveyed to a reformatory; three were women
convicted of misdemeanours; and the two Irish-Americans completed the
number. Only the last-mentioned pair were handcuffed, and they were
the only persons whom the constables thought necessary to lock up, the
compartments in which the other persons sat being left open.
At half-past three o'clock the van drove off, closely followed by the
cab containing the balance of the escort. Its route lay through some
of the principal streets, then through the suburbs on the south side,
into the borough of Salford, where the county gaol is situated. In all
about two miles had to be traversed, and of this distance the first
half was accomplished without anything calculated to excite suspicion
being observed; but there was mischief brewing, for all that, and the
crisis was close at hand. Just as the van passed under the railway
arch that spans the Hyde-road at Bellevue, a point midway between
the city police office and the Salford gaol, the driver was suddenly
startled by the apparition of a man standing in the middle of the
road with a pistol aimed at his head, and immediately the astonished
policeman heard himself called upon, in a loud, sharp voice, to "pull
up." At the spot where this unwelcome interruption occurred there
are but few houses; brick-fields and clay-pits stretch away at either
side, and the neighbourhood is thinly inhabited. But its comparative
quiet now gave way to a scene of bustle and excitement so strange
that it seems to have almost paralysed the spectators with amazement.
The peremptory command levelled at the driver of the van was hardly
uttered, when a body of men, numbering about thirty, swarmed over
the wall which lined the road, and, surrounding the van, began to
take effectual measures for stopping it. The majority of them were
well-dressed men, of powerful appearance; a few carried pistols or
revolvers in their hands, and all seemed to act in accordance with a
preconcerted plan. The first impulse of the policemen in front appears
to have been to drive through the crowd, but a shot, aimed in the
direction of his head brought the driver tumbling from his seat,
terror-stricken but unhurt; and almost at the same time, the further
progress of the van was effectually prevented by shooting one of the
horses through the neck. A scene of indescribable panic and confusion
ensued; the policemen scrambled hastily to the ground, and betook
themselves to flight almost without a thought of resistance. Those
in the cab behind got out, not to resist the attack, but to help in
running away; and in a few minutes the strangers, whose object had by
this time become perfectly apparent, were undisputed masters of the
situation. Pickaxes, hatchets, hammers, and crow-bars were instantly
produced, and the van was besieged by a score stout pairs of arms,
under the blows from which its sides groaned, and the door cracked and
splintered. Some clambered upon the roof, and attempted to smash it in
with heavy stones; others tried to force an opening through the side;
while the door was sturdily belaboured by another division of the
band. Seeing the Fenians, as they at once considered them, thus busily
engaged, the policemen, who had in the first instance retreated to a
safe distance, and who were now reinforced by a large mob attracted
to the spot by the report of firearms, advanced towards the van, with
the intention of offering some resistance; but the storming party
immediately met them with a counter-movement. Whilst the attempt to
smash through the van was continued without pause, a ring was formed
round the men thus engaged, by their confederates, who, pointing
their pistols at the advancing crowd, warned them, as they valued
their lives, to keep off. Gaining courage from their rapidly-swelling
numbers, the mob, however, continued to close in round the van,
whereupon several shots were discharged by the Fenians, which had the
effect of making the Englishmen again fall back in confusion. It is
certain that these shots were discharged for no other purpose than
that of frightening the crowd; one of them did take effect in the heel
of a bystander, but in every other case the shots were fired high over
the heads of the crowd. While this had been passing around the van, a
more tragic scene was passing inside it. From the moment the report
of the first shot reached him, Sergeant Brett seems to have divined
the nature and object of the attack. "My God! its these Fenians," he
exclaimed. The noise of the blows showered on the roof and sides of
the van was increased by the shrieks of the female prisoners, who
rushed frantically into the passage, and made the van resound with
their wailings. In the midst of the tumult a face appeared at the
grating, and Brett heard himself summoned to give up the keys. The
assailants had discovered where they were kept, and resolved on
obtaining them as the speediest way of effecting their purpose. "Give
up the keys, or they will shoot you," exclaimed the women; but Brett
refused. The next instant he fell heavily backwards, with the hot
blood welling from a bullet-wound in the head. A shot fired into the
key-hole, for the purpose of blowing the lock to pieces, had taken
effect in his temple. The terror-stricken women lifted him up,
screaming "he's killed." As they did so, the voice which had been
heard before called out to them through the ventilator to give up the
keys. One of the women then took them from the pocket of the dying
policeman, and handed them out through the trap. The door was at once
unlocked, the terrified women rushed out, and Brett, weltering in
blood, rolled out heavily upon the road. Then a pale-faced young man,
wearing a light overcoat, a blue tie, and a tall brown hat, who had
been noticed taking a prominent part in the affray, entered the van,
and unlocked the compartments in which Kelly and Deasey were confined.
A hasty greeting passed between them, and then the trio hurriedly
joined the band outside. "I told you, Kelly, I would die before I
parted with you," cried the young man who had unlocked the doors;
then, seizing Kelly by the arm, he helped him across the road, and
over the wall, into the brick-fields beyond. Here he was taken charge
of by others of the party, who hurried with him across the country,
while a similar office was performed for Deasey, who, like Colonel
Kelly, found himself hampered to some extent by the handcuffs on his
wrists. The main body of those who had shared in the assault occupied
themselves with preventing the fugitives from being pursued; and not
until Kelly, Deasy, and their conductors had passed far out of sight,
did they think of consulting their own safety. At length, when further
resistance to the mob seemed useless and impossible, they broke and
fled, some of them occasionally checking the pursuit by turning round
and presenting pistols at those who followed. Many of the fugitives
escaped, but several others were surrounded and overtaken by the mob.
And now the "chivalry" of the English nature came out in its real
colours. No sooner did the cowardly set, whom the sight of a revolver
kept at bay while Kelly was being liberated, find themselves with some
of the Irish party in their power, than they set themselves to beat
them with savage ferocity. The young fellow who had opened the van
door, and who had been overtaken by the mob, was knocked down by
a blow of a brick, and then brutally kicked and stoned, the only
Englishman who ventured to cry shame being himself assaulted for his
display of humanity. Several others were similarly ill-treated; and
not until the blood spouted out from the bruised and mangled bodies
of the prostrate men, did the valiant Englishmen consider they had
sufficiently tortured their helpless prisoners. Meanwhile, large
reinforcements appeared on the spot; police and military were
despatched in eager haste in pursuit of the fugitives; the telegraph
was called into requisition, and a description of the liberated
Fenians flashed to the neighbouring towns; the whole detective force
of Manchester was placed on their trail, and in the course of a
few hours thirty-two Irishmen were in custody, charged with having
assisted in the attack on the van. But of Kelly or Deasey no trace was
ever discovered; they were seen to enter a cottage not far from the
Hyde-road, and leave it with their hands unfettered, but all attempts
to trace their movements beyond this utterly failed. While the
authorities in Manchester were excitedly discussing the means to
be adopted in view of the extraordinary event, Brett lay expiring
in the hospital to which he had been conveyed. He never recovered
consciousness after receiving the wound, and he died in less than two
hours after the fatal shot had been fired.
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