THE END.
On Saturday morning the little town of Carrick-on-Shannon again
became quiet and, comparatively speaking, empty. The judges left it
very early; most of the lawyers had taken wing and flown towards
Sligo, seeking fresh quarries, on the previous evening. The jury were
released, and had returned weary to their homes; the crowds of
litigants and witnesses who had filled the Record Court had also left
on the Thursday evening; and now those who had been wanted in the
criminal court were gone, and peace and quiet were restored. At
eleven o'clock neither of the hotels were open; the waiters and
servants who, during the last week had literally not known what a bed
was, and who, during that week, had snatched their only disturbed
naps before the kitchen fires, or under the kitchen dressers, were
taking their sleep out for the past week. It was still raining hard,
and the long, narrow, untidy street was still as dirty and
disagreeable as ever; otherwise there was no resemblance in it to the
street of the last few days. There was no crowd around the court
house, nor policemen with cross chains on their caps, nor sheriffs'
servants with dirty, tawdry liveries. The assizes were over; and till
next July--when the judges, barristers, jury, &c., would all return,
Carrick was doomed to fall back to its usual insignificance as a most
uninteresting county town.
As Father John left the town on the previous evening, he sent word up
to the governor of the gaol that he would see young Macdermot early
on the following morning. He did not go home to the Cottage, but
again passed the night at Mr. McKeon's, at Drumsna; and a most sad
and melancholy night it was. After witnessing Feemy's death, and
seeing that the body had been decently and properly disposed, Mrs.
McKeon had returned home, and her husband had found her quite ill
from the effects of the scene she had gone through.
Soon after the two men had made their apology for a dinner, Mr. Webb,
who had had the verdict brought to his own house, called, and the
three sat for some time talking over what possible means there might
be still left for saving the young man's life. It was at last agreed
that Webb should go up to Dublin on the morrow, and make what
interest he could to see the Lord-Lieutenant himself, as well as the
Under Secretary; and endeavour, by every means in his power, to
obtain a pardon.
After what had been said by the judge whilst pronouncing the
sentence, they all felt that there could be no reasonable ground for
hope; but still they would leave no chance untried, and it was
therefore settled that the counsellor should start by the morning
coach.
Early the next morning the priest left Drumsna for Carrick, to see
Thady for the first time since his condemnation. McKeon offered to go
with him; but he declined the offer, saying, that this morning he
would sooner be left alone with his doomed friend. He refused, too,
the loan of McKeon's car. He wanted to collect his thoughts and his
energy by the walk, for he felt that he had much to do to school his
own feelings before he could make his visit a comfort instead of a
cause of additional distress to Macdermot.
About ten o'clock he passed through the town, and rang the governor's
bell at the gaol door. He was a well-known visitor there now, and
when the door was opened he expected at once, as usual, to be shown
the prisoner's cell; but instead of that he was taken into the
governor's house.
This officer had always been extremely civil to Father John; and had
shown all the kindness in his power, and that was no little, to the
prisoner. He expressed himself to the priest greatly distressed at
the verdict, and the consequent fate of Macdermot.
"It's four years, Father John," said he, "since I had a prisoner in
my charge condemned to die. It's four years since there was an
execution here, and then the victim was a criminal of the blackest
dye--a man who had undoubtedly committed a cold-blooded,
long-premeditated murder. And then his death weighed heavy on me; but
I cannot but believe that this young man is innocent,--at any rate so
much more innocent than he was,--my heart has failed me since he was
brought back last night condemned."
"More innocent than he was!" said Father John. "Ah, indeed he is! If
we were all as innocent of guilt as this poor fellow is, it would be
well for most of us. I promised to see him early this morning. Will
you let me go up to him now? though God knows I know not what to say
to him!"
"Yes, of course. You shall go up now immediately; and God grant you
may be able to comfort him! But you know you cannot see him as you
have done always. That is, you may see him as often as you please,
but you cannot see him alone."
"Not alone!" said Father John.
"Not now," said the governor. "When brought back capitally condemned,
he was of necessity put into the condemned cell; and when once there,
no visitor may be left alone with him."
"How is he to receive--how am I to perform the sacred duties of my
profession?"
"When the prisoner is about to confess, the turnkey will step outside
the door, which you can close. You know, Father John," continued the
governor, "it is not from my own heart I give these orders; you know
I would give him every indulgence I could; but you also know that I
must obey the rules of my office, and they imperatively forbid that
any visitor shall be left alone with a condemned prisoner."
"I know it isn't your fault; and if it must be so, it must. But will
you desire the man to be sent for, for Macdermot will be expecting
me?"
In a minute or two the gaoler arrived with his huge keys, and, with a
palpitating heart, Father John followed him to the condemned cell.
The priest, during his walk from Drumsna, had made up his mind
exactly as to what he would say on seeing Thady; how he would mix
pity with condolence; how he would use such words as might strengthen
him in his determination to bear his sufferings with resignation; how
he would teach him to forget the present in the thoughts of his
future prospects. But when the iron door was opened, and he saw
Macdermot seated on the one small stone seat in the wall beneath the
high, iron-barred window; when his eye rested on the young man's pale
and worn face, he forgot all his studied phrases and premeditated
conduct, his acute grief overcame his ideas of duty, and falling on
the prisoner's bosom, he sobbed out, "My boy--my boy--my poor
murdered boy!"
It would be useless to attempt to describe at length the scene
between them. Father John remained with him nearly the whole of that
day,--the patient, silent turnkey leaning up against the corner of
the cell during the whole time. For a long time Thady was the most
tranquil of the two; but at length the priest regained his composure,
and was able to listen to the various requests of his friend, and to
say all that could be said to comfort and strengthen him.
Thady's first request was that he might see his father. This, Father
John felt, would be impracticable, and if accomplished would only be
in the highest degree painful. Larry was now so perfectly a lunatic,
and at the same time so resolute in his determination not to put
himself in the way of being arrested by Keegan, that it would be
impossible either to make him understand the fate which awaited his
son, or to induce him, by any means short of force, to leave his own
room. Besides, were a meeting to be effected, the idiotical father
would probably not cease to abuse his son, and would certainly not
comprehend his tenderness and affection. It was difficult to tell the
son that his father had so utterly lost his intellects as to be
unable to be brought to see him; but even this was better than
allowing him to think that he was to see him, and then deceive him.
Thady bore this blow even worse than Father John had expected that he
would do; it made him feel so desolate--so alone in the world! Stupid
and cross as his father had been for years past--cruel and unjust as
he had been on the last time they met,--still, the long time which
had passed since that meeting, and the manner in which the interview
had been passed by Thady, made him forget his father's treatment, and
only remember that he was his last surviving relative. He submitted,
however, to Father John's advice, and consented not to urge his
request.
He then talked of his sister, and began to speak more feelingly of
Ussher, and to allude to the deed which had brought him to his
dreadful doom, with more freedom than he had ever done before. The
facts of his last month's residence at Ballycloran seemed to be made
less obscure than they had been, to his mind's eye, by the distance
through which he looked at them. He appeared to comprehend more
clearly both Feemy's conduct and that of her lover, and he spoke with
the greatest affection of the former, and with justice to the latter.
"Oh! Father John," he continued, after they had been talking together
for hours, and when they had become so habituated to the presence of
the turnkey as almost to forget it, "no one but yourself can ever
know how far murder was from my thoughts that day!--nor all that I
had suffered for having listened for one moment to the plots which
them boys were making for his death. But who can wonder that I hated
him! God knows I have forgiven him for all that he has brought on
us--both me and Feemy; but who can wonder that I didn't love him
then? I knew in my heart he never meant to marry her. And oh! Father
John, av I hadn't seen her that night, what would she have been now?
I did hate him then;--and hadn't I cause? And for that one night at
the wedding, when I was mad with the name they had called my sisther;
I did think I'd be glad av the boys that hated him so should murther
him at last. But when I woke in the morning and remembered that the
sounds of murther had been in my ears, I felt as though I could never
more be quiet or at ase in this world. And I never was; every man's
hand was against me since then, Father John, except yours. I felt, as
I walked through the fields that morning, that it was here I should
spend my last days, and here I am. And I was warned of it too; I was
warned of what would come of it, av I meddled with them boys that
night at Mrs. Mehan's. He himself called me out that night when I
first got there, and tould me what it was Brady was afther. And I
believed him, and yet I went; for my heart was full of hatred for the
man who warned me. Oh! why, Father John, could he not let us alone.
We were poor, but we were no worse; but there's an end of us now
altogether, and perhaps it's for the betther as it is!"
He then earnestly begged Father John to attend to his sister's
burial, and to take some little heed of his father during his few
remaining years; and all this the priest promised. He spoke of the
property, and of the chance there might be of saving something out of
it for the old man's support. Father John, however, told him that for
his, Thady's sake, and for the love he bore him, his father should
never want till he wanted himself; and though this promise, for many
long months, entailed a heavy burden on the priest, he most
religiously kept his word.
Thady then spoke of his own coming death; and though he had made up
his mind to die, and could think, without regret, of leaving the
world where he had known so many sorrows and so few joys, still he
shuddered when he remembered the gaping crowd which would be
assembled to see his expiring convulsions, and the horror which he
could not but feel, when the executioner's hands should touch his
neck, and the dreadful cap should be drawn over his eyes. Oh! that
that horrid moment might be over--when he would still be alive--still
sensible to the thoughts of life--but when the light of the sun would
have been for ever excluded, and his last thoughts would be wandering
between doubtful hopes of Heaven's mercy, and awful fears of his
coming agony.
The cold sweat stood upon his brow as he endeavoured to explain his
feelings to the priest. And assiduously, patiently, warmly, and
kindly, did that friend endeavour to allay his sufferings, and make
him feel as confident of God's pardon for his sins as he was of the
executioner's doom. He told him also that, if possible, no crowd
should be assembled to gaze at his death; and he promised himself to
stand by him, and hold his hand to the last moment of his life.
At six the priest left him promising to see him again on the Sunday,
and on every day till it was all over. He then returned to McKeon's,
where he dined.
At about ten they were sitting together with Mrs. McKeon by the fire
talking over the affairs of Ballycloran, and consulting as to what
had better be done with Larry after the execution, when the girl
entered and said a man was waiting outside wishing to speak to Mr.
McKeon. Tony accordingly went out; and standing at the back-door, for
he would not enter the kitchen, with his hat slouched over his face,
he found Pat Brady. He was very much astonished at seeing this man;
more especially so, as since the trial Brady's name had been
mentioned with execration by almost every one, and particularly by
those, who like McKeon, had taken every opportunity of showing
themselves Macdermot's friends; and it would have been thought
therefore that McKeon's house was one of the last places to which he
would be likely to come.
Pat was the first to speak.
"There's a word or two I want to spake to you, Mr. McKeon."
"To speak to me," said Mr. McKeon; "well, what is it?"
"I couldn't just be telling you here; av you wouldn't mind stepping
out, a minute or so--it's not five minutes I'd be keeping you."
McKeon accordingly went out into the dark yard, about thirty paces
from the house, and Brady continued--
"It's about the young masther, yer honor."
"You've said enough about him; you've hanged him; now, what more have
you?"
"May I niver see the Blessed Virgin in glory av I towld a word of a
lie agin the masther. Av I iver towld the truth it was that day; an'
worse luck--av I'd lied then maybe it'd been betther for Mr. Thady."
"It wasn't to tell me that, you came here;--if you've anything to
say, let me hear what it is."
"Why then, yer honor, is Mr. Larry, the owld man, a going to see the
young masther?"
"And what if he is?"
"Why jist this thin; av he do, Keegan's boys is to saze him as he
comes out on the road from Ballycloran."
"Gracious God! would he arrest the man coming to see his own son for
the last time!"
"Faix, he will, Mr. McKeon; so don't let him do it; I heard him
telling the bailiff."
McKeon seemed lost in astonishment, at this fresh instance of the
attorney's relentless barbarity, and Brady turned round to go away.
But after having walked a few yards, he came back, and said, in a
hesitating whisper--
"You'll be seeing Mr. Thady afore it's all over, Mr. McKeon?"
"Well; I shall see him."
"Would you mind axing him to pardon a poor boy, Mr. McKeon?"
"May God pardon you, Brady. Your master that was, has been taught
before this to forgive all his enemies; but I wouldn't dirty my mouth
with your name the last time I see him."
"Sorrow a word of a lie thin I towld, Mr. McKeon."
"Never mind; truth or lies it's much the same." And McKeon returned
to the house, and told Father John what he had heard from Brady; and
the priest and he agreed together that it would be by far the best
course to make Thady understand that his father could not leave his
home to see him, for fear of falling into the hands of the attorney.
On the next day, Sunday, Father John performed mass and preached as
usual in the parish chapel. When the service was over, he addressed
his congregation from the altar on the subject of Thady's approaching
execution, and he begged them all, as they valued his good opinion,
not only not to be present at it themselves, but also to do all in
their power to prevent others from being so. The same thing was done
in Carrick, where the priest moreover begged his parishioners not to
open their shops on that morning until the execution should be over.
The ensuing week passed slowly away. Father John was with the doomed
man constantly, and McKeon saw him two or three times. On the
Wednesday Mr. Webb returned from Dublin, but his journey had been a
fruitless one; he had seen the Lord-Lieutenant, and had been kindly
received by him; but at the same time he was informed that he could
not exercise his privilege of mercy in this case, as he had been
strongly advised not to do so, both by those in office under him and
by the judge.
Macdermot kept up his heart wonderfully through the whole week. He
never repined, nor once even alluded to Keegan. Father John spent the
whole of Sunday with him. It was to be his last in this world; the
last time he was to watch the light growing out of the darkness--and
the darkness following the light. As the minutes flew by, his face
became gradually paler, and his hand occasionally trembled. The brave
soldier goes to meet Death, and meets him without a shudder when he
comes. The suffering woman patiently awaits him on her bed of
sickness, and conscious of her malady dies slowly without a struggle.
A not uncommon fortitude enables men and women to leave their mortal
coil, and take the dread leap in the dark with apparent readiness and
ease. But to wait in full health and strength for the arrival of the
fixed hour of certain death--to feel the moments sink from under you
which are fast bringing you to the executioner's hand;--to know that
in twelve--ten--eight--six hours by the clock, which hurries through
the rapid minutes, you are to become--not by God's accomplished
visitation--not in any gallant struggle of your own--but through the
stern will of certain powerful men--a hideous, foul, and dislocated
corse;--to know that at one certain ordained moment you are to be
made extinct--to be violently put an end to;--to be fully aware that
this is your fixed fate, and that though strong as a lion, you must
at that moment die like a dog;--to await the doom without
fear--without feeling the blood grow cold round the heart,--without a
quickened pulse and shaking muscles, exceeds the bounds of mortal
courage, and requires either the ignorant unimaginative indifference
of a brute, or the superhuman endurance of an enthusiastic martyr.
Thady was neither the one nor the other; and the blood did grow cold
round his heart--his pulse quickened, and his nerves shook within
him; but these were involuntary signs of his human nature. He spent
the day in the performance of his religious duties, and made
continual efforts to fix his mind on those subjects to which it was
directed by the priest; and at last he received from him final
absolution for his sins, with a full assurance in its efficacy. And
if true and deep repentance can make absolution available, the
priest's assurance was not ill grounded.
Father Cullen, at Drumsna, and different priests in the neighbouring
parishes again desired their congregations to absent themselves from
the execution, and on the Sunday evening before the fatal day it was
thoroughly understood through the country, that it was the wish of
the priest that no one should be present.
The Monday morning came. Though Father John had not been allowed to
remain all night in the prisoner's cell, he did not leave it till
eleven, and was with him again at six. When the gaoler turned the key
in the door, Father John found the prisoner still sleeping on his
pallet. Even the loud noise of the key in the lock, and the dropping
back of the heavy bolt had failed to awaken him. Before he left him
on the previous evening he had insisted on his partially undressing,
and he now found him exactly in the position in which he had left
him.
Eight was the hour fixed for the execution, and though it seemed
cruel to rob him of his last human comfort, still as so few minutes
of life remained, the priest thought it better to rouse him. He laid
his hand on his shoulder, and calling out his Christian name, gently
shook him. It was wonderful how soundly the poor fellow slept; and at
last he jumped up with a smile on his wan face, uttering those
confused words of acknowledgment which so readily come to the lips of
any one conscious of being caught sleeping too late, to the neglect
of his worldly duties. He had been dreaming--and in his dreams he was
again at Ballycloran--again sitting over the warm turf fire, talking
with his father, after his hard day's work, of their lands, and their
rents, and their difficulties. Father John's presence--the cold close
white wall and his own memory soon made him again conscious of the
truth; and as he pressed his hands to his forehead, remembering that
he should never again feel the luxury of sleep, the expression of his
face was dreadful to be seen.
There is nothing further to relate respecting him. As the clock
struck eight he was standing on the iron grate over the front
entrance into Carrick gaol. He had supported himself firmly--though
evidently with difficulty. The cap was over his face--his hands were
tied behind his back--and the rope was round his neck. The last sound
that met his ear was the final prayer which Father John sobbed forth
that God would receive him into his mercy; the bolt was drawn--and
Thady Macdermot was soon no more.
Not one human form appeared before the gaol that morning. Not even a
passenger crossed over the bridge from half-past seven till after
eight, as from thence one might just catch a glimpse of the front of
the prison. At the end of the bridge stood three or four men guarding
the street, and cautioning those who came, that they could not pass
by; and as their behests were quietly obeyed the police did not
interfere with them. Among them were Joe Reynolds and Corney Dolan,
and they did not leave their post till they were aware that the body
of him to whom they showed this last respect had been removed. The
shops were closed during the whole day; but it was many days before
the sad melancholy which attended the execution of Thady Macdermot
wore away from the little town of Carrick-on-Shannon.
Printed by J. S. Virtue, City Road, London.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Chapter XII, paragraph 13. The blind piper from County Mayo who
plays at the wedding of Mary Brady and Denis McGovery is here
named Shamuth na Pibu'a. The reader might recall that in Chapter
VIII he was called Shamus na Pe'bria. The discrepancy was left
unchanged from the original text.
Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below.
Chapter VI, paragraph 77. "Miles" was changed to "Myles" in
the sentence beginning: Feemy looked from one to the other;
she knew well by MYLES' look, that he still expected her to
go, . . .
Chapter VI, paragraph 123. The word "began" was changed to
"begun" in the sentence beginning: He was not aware how very
uncouth his own manner had been; that instead of reasoning
with her gently he had BEGUN by sneering at her lover, . . .
Chapter XIII, paragraph 52. An em-dash was added to the
sentence: "Go asy now, masther Morty,"--the swain rejoiced in
the name of Mortimer Kelley.
Chapter XIV, paragraph 1. The order of the words "were she"
was transposed in the last sentence: He thought that if SHE
WERE at present domiciled at Mrs. McKeon's, . . .
Chapter XIX, paragraph 70. The spelling of the nickname of Mrs.
McKeon's daughter Lydia was changed from "Liddy" to "Lyddy,"
to match the spelling elsewhere, in the sentence: LYDDY, give
Captain Ussher a glass of sherry.
Chapter XXV, paragraph 21. "Mr." was changed to "Mrs." in the
sentence containing: . . . that Pat, at last, consented to come
forward at the trial and swear to all the circumstances of the
meeting at MRS. Mehan's, . . .
Chapter XXIX, paragraph 55. The word "you're" was changed to
"your" in the sentence beginning: Well, now, on YOUR oath,
have you ever, in the prisoner's presence, heard such language
used . . .