MY FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA.--MY MOTHER, JOHN O’MAHONY, THOMAS FRANCIS
MEAGHER, ROBERT E. KELLY, AND HIS SON HORACE R. KELLY, MICHAEL
CORCORAN, P. J. DOWNING, P. J. CONDON, WILLIAM O’SHEA, AND MICHAEL
O’BRIEN THE MANCHESTER MARTYR.
On a fine sunny morning in the month of May I found myself on board the
City of Edinburgh steamer, steaming into the harbor of New York.
She stopped while the quarantine doctor came on board to make
examinations as to the state of her health.
Gazing around from the deck of the ship, the scenery was grand--the
hills of Staten Island looking as gay and green as the hills of
Ireland. John Locke’s words, in address to the Cove of Cork, may be
addressed to Clifton:
And Clifton isn’t it grand you look
Watching the wild waves’ motion.
Resting your back up against the hill,
With the tips of your toes in the ocean--
And the two forts--Hamilton and Wadsworth--situate so like to the two
forts, Camden and Carlisle, got me to think that if the ocean was
baled out and the two countries, Ireland and America, were moved over
to each other, Fort Camden touching Fort Hamilton and Fort Carlisle
touching Fort Wadsworth, there would be no incongruity or break
observable in the grandeur of the scenery, sailing down the River Lee
through the Cove of Cork and up the Hudson River through the harbor of
New York.
They were war times in America the time I arrived in the country (May
13, 1863). Walking up Broadway, I saw a policeman speaking angrily to
another man on the sidewalk near Fulton street; giving him a pretty
hard stroke of his stick on the side of the leg, the civilian screeched
with pain and limped away crying. An impulse came on me to tell the
policeman he had no right to strike the man that way. I did not act on
that impulse; I suppose it was well for me I didn’t. It showed me there
was more liberty in America than I thought there was.
In a few minutes after, I was in the City Hall Park among the soldiers.
The ground on which now stands the post office was a part of the park,
and was planted with little trees and soldiers’ tents. Here I met
several people who knew me, and I was very soon in the office of John
O’Mahony, No. 6 Centre street.
That night I went with O’Mahony to the armory and drill rooms and other
rooms of the Fenian Brotherhood societies. All the Fenians seemed to
be soldiers or learning to be soldiers; many of them volunteering to
go into the battlefields of America that they might be the better able
to fight the battles of Ireland against England. I saw this spirit
in most of the speeches I heard delivered that night, and there was
speech-making, as well as recruiting and drilling everywhere we went.
I made my home, during the few weeks I was looking around, with one of
the Rossa family who came to America in the year 1836--Timothy Donovan,
No. 276 Schermerhorn street, Brooklyn.
I brought with me from Ireland, some letters of introduction to
people in New York. I had a letter from John Edward Pigott to Richard
O’Gorman, a letter from John B. Dillon to Mr. Robert E. Kelly, a
tobacco and cigar importer in Beaver street, and several letters from
Edward O’Sullivan, a Cork butter merchant, to others. The letter from
Mr. Dillon to Mr. Kelly is the letter about which there is a story that
I must not forget telling. I delivered it. After reading it, he talked
with me in his office for a couple of hours. He asked me about Ireland
and the Irish cause--would I give up the cause now, turn over a new
leaf, have sense, and turn my attention to business and money making?
Also asked me what other letters of introduction I had to friends and
how the friends received me. Then he told me what those friends were
likely to do, and likely not to do. All that he told me turned out
true. “And I suppose Mr. Kelly,” said I, “you cannot see the way of
doing anything yourself?” “Not much,” said he, “not much that will be
any permanent good to you. You told me that if you remained for any
time in New York you may go into the cigar business in partnership with
a cousin of yours. Now, if you do that, I will give you goods to the
amount of $2,000; but you’ll lose the money and I’ll lose the money.”
“Then,” said I, “why would you give me your goods if you’re sure you’ll
lose the money?”
“Well,” said he, “from the talk I have had with you, I see you are
disposed to follow up your past life, and I like to give you some
encouragement. There are so few who stick to the cause, once they get a
fall in it, or meet a stumbling-block of any kind.”
“I thought,” said I, “that if I said I would give up the cause, and
sensibly turn my attention to commercial business, that then you might
offer me the credit of your house.” “No,” said he, “I wouldn’t give you
credit to the worth of a dollar in that case.”
I did go into business this time, during the few months I spent in New
York with my cousin Denis Donovan, in Madison street, but we did not
deal in such high class goods as Mr. Kelly imported, and I did not
avail myself of his offer of credit. I went back to Ireland in August
’63. I was put in prison in 1865; came out of prison in 1871, came to
New York and was called upon by Mr. Kelly. At his invitation I called
a few times to his house and he called to where I lived, and met my
family. In 1874 I rented the Northern Hotel. I called to Mr. Kelly’s
office, in Beaver street, to talk to him about the offer he made me
eleven years ago. He was out of town--down in Cuba; but, said his son,
Horace: “There is an order made on the books here, by my father, that
you are to get $2,000 worth of goods at any time you desire to have
them.”
I took about $200 worth of cigars that time--I paid for them before I
gave up the hotel business. I have not met any of the family since.
The old gentleman must be gone to the other world. He was what may be
called a real old Irish gentleman, with a touch of the Irish aristocrat
in him in trim and tone. He must have had his boyhood education in
one of the colleges of the continent of Europe in the early years of
the century. He was of the O’Kellys of Connaught; tall and straight
and handsome; the form of him my mind retains now, may be fairly
represented in the form of John D. Crimmins, as I see him passing along
the street.
And, the words he spoke to me, did put some life and strength into me,
and make me strong to-day, even though the fight I’m fighting be a
losing one, and a deserted one--deserted by many who swore to be strong
and true to it.
I returned to Ireland in the month of August, 1863. I was in New York
during the months of June and July, except one week that I spent in
Philadelphia, where lived my mother. I went to see her. She was living
with a brother of mine. It was ten o’clock in the evening when I got to
the house. She did not know me. She was told it was Jerrie. “No, no,
’tis not Jerrie,” and saying this, she passed the tips of her fingers
searchingly across my forehead. She found the scar that is on it--from
the girl having hoisted me over her head and thrown me on the pavements
when I was a year or two old, and then came the kissing and the crying
with the memories of the ruined home and the graves we left in Ireland.
In July, 1863, was fought the battle of Gettysburg. The day after the
battle a carriage stopped at the door of the house in which I lived
at New Chambers and Madison streets. I was told a man in the carriage
wanted to see me. The man was William O’Shea of Bantry, who had spent
eight or nine months with me in Cork Jail, a few years before then. He
asked me to sit with him in the carriage; we drove to some hospital at
the west side of Broadway; he registered his name on the books, gave
up his money to the clerk, was taken to a ward, and a doctor called.
He was dressed in the uniform of a captain; he was a captain in the
Forty-second Tammany Regiment; his uniform was all begrimed with earth;
he had fallen in the fight; he had four wounds on his body--one bullet
having entered in front just below the ribs and come out at the back,
and another having struck him in the wrist, traveling up his hand, come
out near the elbow. He remained two weeks in that hospital; walked
about among the friends in New York two weeks more, then rejoined his
regiment, and got shot dead in the next battle. While he was in New
York, a brother of his was killed in a battle; he had the brother’s
body brought on to New York, and buried in Calvary. As he and I were
coming from Calvary, we met the funeral of the wife of Colonel Michael
Corcoran going to Calvary, and with it we went into the graveyard again.
I have an old relic of his--a letter he wrote me after he rejoined his
regiment. In Ireland I familiarly called him “Billy O’.”
With fearless Captain Billy O’
I joined the Fenian band,
And swore, one day to strike a blow
To free my native land.
Here are some words of that memento letter of Billy O’s;
U. S. GENERAL HOSPITAL, NO. 1, ANNAPOLIS, MD.,
August 17, 1863.
JER--You see I lose no time in jerking you a line as soon as I
can.
Do, Jer., give me credit for being so prompt and thoughtful,
as it is but seldom I claim praise. Now, for the history of my
route to here.
I got in to Baltimore very peaceably indeed. I had a little
trouble of mind on the cars, but I soon got over that. My
uneasiness was caused by a beautiful New York girl that was
going to Washington to a boarding school, to complete her
studies.
I got into Baltimore about seven o’clock the next morning
after leaving you. I wanted to be here in time, so as to save
my distance, as the horse jockeys say, which I did in right
good order. The next day, I was admitted into this hospital
where I now rest. I’d have saved three or four hundred dollars
by coming here first, instead of going to New York. Kiss
Cousin Denis and Tim in remembrance of me. Remembrance to Mr.
O’Mahony. Send a line as soon as you get any news to
BILLY O’.
Accompanying that letter was the following letter:
ANNAPOLIS, MD. Aug. 1 1863.
CAPTAIN WILLIAM O’SHEA, 42d N. Y. VOLUNTEERS,
SIR--Having reported to the Board of Officers for examination,
you are informed that orders from the War Department require
that you remain in hospital.
You are hereby directed to report in person to the surgeon, B.
A. Vanderkieft, U. S. A., in charge U. S. A. general hospital,
Division No. 1, Annapolis, Md., for admission and treatment
therein. You will comply with all rules and regulations,
governing inmates of the hospital, and the instructions given
you.
J. S. M’PARLIN.
Surgeon, U. S. A.
On the envelope in which I find those two preceding communications I
find indorsed the words: “Capt. Billy O’ was killed a month after he
wrote this.--ROSSA.”
A few nights after the burial of Mrs. Corcoran I was at an
entertainment that was at Colonel Corcoran’s house; many priests were
at it, and many officers were in town on leave and on duty. John
O’Mahony told me that Gen. Thomas Francis Meagher was in town the day
before, and fixed upon a day that he and I would go out to his home
in the Orange Mountains of New York to have a talk about how affairs
were in Ireland. We fixed upon a day; Meagher was to meet us with a
coach at the railroad station in the Orange Mountains. The appointed
day came. On the ferry boat to Jersey City we met Captain Jack Gosson
going out to see Meagher too. He was one of Meagher’s aides in the war.
When we got to the Orange Mountains, Meagher and Mrs. Meagher were at
the railroad station before us. We got into the carriage; the general
took the whip and drove us to the mansion of his father-in-law, Mr.
Townsend. After partaking of some refreshments we walked out into the
orchard; birds of all kinds seemed to have their homes there and in
the surrounding wood. A little humming bird, little bigger than a big
bee, seemed to have its home in every tree. Meagher would go around
the blackberry trees and whenever he’d see a large gubolach of a
blackberry, he’d pluck it and bring it to me; he and Captain Gosson all
the time laughingly reminding each other of the many strange incidents
of battles, and of camp life, and of the many queer things officers and
men would do.
O’Mahony whispered to me to entertain Captain Gosson for awhile, as
he and Meagher were going to walk up the wood-path to have a private
talk. Coming to New York that evening, O’Mahony told me it was for the
purpose of initiating General Meagher into the Fenian Brotherhood that
he did this, and that he did initiate him.
Meagher was a handsome make of a man that day. Somewhere, I should
say, about five feet nine, or five feet ten inches in height, firmly
straight and stoutly strong in proportion. When I saw General George B.
McClellan some years after, it appeared to me as if he was physically
proportioned somewhat like Thomas Francis Meagher.
At the dinner table that evening Meagher and O’Mahony got talking of
the draft riots that were in New York the week before. I said I saw
some of the riots; that I saw the crowd that hanged Colonel O’Brien,
and saw a man put the muzzle of a pistol to my face, threatening to
blow my brains out for lifting from the ground a man who was thrown
down by the rioters. “You had a pretty narrow escape,” said Meagher.
“Had you been in New York those days and shown yourself to the people,”
said O’Mahony to Meagher, “you could have stopped all the rioting.”
“Not at all,” said Meagher, “the people those days were in a mood of
mind to tear me limb from limb if they caught hold of me.”
I was in at John O’Mahony’s office one day. A soldier came in; tall and
straight, light but athletic; unloosed his coat, unpocketed his papers
and gave them to John O’Mahony. He was introduced to me as Captain
Patrick J. Condon, of the Sixty-third Regiment; he brought from the
seat of war $600, the monthly contributions of the Army Circles of the
Fenian Brotherhood. This was history repeating itself. The history of
Irish brigades in the service of France and Spain and Austria records
that on every pay day the soldiers would contribute a part of their
pay to a fund that was to equip them to fight against England for the
freedom of Ireland.
That Captain Condon I speak of went to Ireland to fight for its freedom
after the war in America was over. I meet him in New York these days
I am writing these “Recollections”; he is as tall and straight and
soldierly-looking as he was that day in John O’Mahony’s office, in
July, 1863, but the hair of his head is as white as the driven snow.
Michael O’Brien, who was hanged in Manchester in 1867, was in New York
those days of July, 1863. He told me that Major Patrick J. Downing of
the Forty-second Regiment was on from the seat of war, and was up at
Riker’s Island with a detachment to take the men who were drafted. We
went over to Chambers street and got from Colonel Nugent, the provost
marshal, a “pass” to visit Riker’s Island. Mike O’Brien and I went up
to Riker’s Island that evening, and slept in Colonel Downing’s tent
that night. Some days after that Mike came to me and told me he had
made up his mind to join the army. I endeavored to persuade him not
to do so; I told him he had pledged his life to a fight for Ireland,
and what now, if he were to be killed fighting in America? He told me
he did not know how to fight well; that it was to learn how to fight
well he was going to enlist; that he had been out to the front to see
Denis (Denis Downing was a brother of Patrick’s was a comrade clerk of
Michael’s at Sir John Arnott’s in Cork; was now a captain in a Buffalo
regiment), and that he went into a battle that Denis was going into.
What he saw that day showed him that he knew nothing about war, and
he wanted, for Ireland’s sake to learn all he could about it; he had
made up his mind to enlist, and I should go with him to the recruiting
office in Jersey City. I went with him; I saw him measured and sworn
in; the recruiting officer pressing me hard to go with him. I saw him
on the street car that was to take him to the camp in the suburbs of
the city. That street car came out on the street from under the archway
there, near the ferry. Mike stood on the back of the car; I stood on
the street; we kept waving our hats to one another till the car turned
the corner and rolled out of sight. That is the last sight I had on
earth of one of the truest Irish patriot comrades of my life--Michael
O’Brien the Manchester martyr.
On my way through Chambers street to Provost-marshal Nugent’s office
near the Emigrant Savings Bank, the day I got the “pass” to visit
Riker’s Island, some policemen, having prisoners, were going to the
marshal’s office, too. Each of them had hold of his man by the collar
of the coat. Those prisoners were men who had been drafted for the war,
and who had not promptly or voluntarily answered the call the Nation
had made upon them for their services as soldiers. They had gone into
hiding, but were arrested and forced into the fight; and, as likely as
anything else, now that they were obliged to do their duty, some of
them did it bravely, and when the war was over, came home with all the
honors of war.
How often have I thought how well it would be for the Irish National
cause of my day if it had a draft law that would make its votaries toe
the mark at the call of duty. Those votaries swear it is by the sword
alone they are to free Ireland, but when danger threatens it how many
of them are found to think the country can be freed without using any
sword at all?
That’s what made Parnell and parliamentary agitation so strong in
Ireland, England and America a dozen years ago; the leaders of the
“sword alone,” men “ratted,” and turned in to free Ireland by fighting
her battles in the London parliament. That’s what paralyzed the spirit
of the Irish National cause and makes it to-day so dead as it is.
England has the whip hand in Ireland, and is whipping the Irish people
out of the country. In one ship that came into New York harbor this
week (April, 1898), 247 young Irish girls came in to New York!
When commencing to write this chapter, I looked into a New York City
directory to see if I would find the Mr. Kelly whom I speak of, and who
lived in Beaver street in 1863. I saw the name of Horace R. Kelly. I
wrote to Horace R. I asked what was the Christian name of his father.
In reply to my inquiry I get this note:
COLORADO SPRINGS, May 8, 1898.
DEAR MR. ROSSA--Your card was forwarded to me here, and in
reply, I inform you that my father’s name was Robert E. Kelly;
and I am delighted to see how kindly you remember him.
I am no longer in Beaver street; but have moved to our Factory
building at the corner of Avenue A. and 71st street, where
I expect to be in about two weeks. I hope you will let me
know where I can get a copy of your book, when you will have
published it.
I remain, sincerely yours,
HORACE R. KELLY.
It has often surprised me the number of Americans who are in New York,
whose blood is Irish, and who would show themselves Irish in heart and
soul and pocket, if enslaved Ireland was trying to do anything that
would be worth assistance or sacrifice.