I FIND THE FENIANS WITH ME IN THE TOILS.
I had, of course, for many years heard much of the Fenian prisoners in
the English prisons, particularly Sergeant McCarty and William O'Brien.
Soon after my arrival at Chatham I was placed in the same party with
them. We were all three strongly drawn together, but were shy of being
the first to speak. Of course, it was strictly against the rules to
talk, but as a matter of fact the prisoners find many opportunities for
talking, particularly if they do their work. The officers are reported
and fined if their men fall behind in their task, so if a man is any way
backward in working the officer keeps his weather eye open, and reports
him for any infraction of the rules.
One day, soon after they were put in my party, I gave O'Brien a hand in
fixing his run. We spoke a few words. The ice was broken; we soon became
fast friends, and our friendship remained unbroken until their happy
release some years after. They were fine, manly fellows, and I in time
came to have a warm affection for them.
McCarty had for nearly twenty years been a sergeant in the English army.
He had come out of the Indian mutiny with a splendid record, and had
been recommended for a commission. But while wearing the British
uniform, his heart was warm for Ireland and her cause, so when, in 1867,
his battery being then stationed in Dublin, he was informed many devoted
adherents to the Fenian cause had determined to try and seize Dublin,
with a view of starting a wide revolt against English domination,
perilous as it was, he cast his lot in with them, and speedily found
sufficient adherents in his own field battery to seize it and bring it
into action against the English. The plan miscarried. Sergeant McCarty,
along with many others, was arrested and tried for treason; as a matter
of course was speedily convicted, and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and
quartered. This sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life.
O'Brien was an enthusiastic youngster of 17, and an ardent patriot. He
had enlisted in a regiment then stationed in Ireland for no other reason
than to familiarize himself in military affairs, also to win over
recruits to the Fenian cause, and when the revolt began to be in a
position to seize arms. The result of it all, so far as my two friends
were concerned--they found themselves by my side in the great Chatham
ship basin loading trucks with mud and clay, and that upon a diet of
black bread and potatoes. The cars, or trucks, held four tons, there
were three men to a truck, and the task was nineteen trucks a day, and
between the urging of officers, frightened themselves for fear the task
might not be done, and the mud and starvation, it was despairing work.
The punishments were not only severe, but were dealt out with a liberal
hand. The men, as a rule, were willing to work, but between weakness,
brought on by perpetual hunger, and the misery of the incessant bullying
of the officers, some few suicided every year, but many more did worse
to themselves; that is, the poor fellows, seeing nothing but misery
before them, would when the trucks were being shifted on the rail
deliberately thrust an arm or leg under the wheels and have it taken
off. No less than twenty-two did this in 1874. Of course, the object was
to get out of the mud. When once a man's leg or arm was off he would no
longer be able to handle a shovel, and would necessarily be placed in
an inside or cripples party and set to work picking oakum or breaking
stones, with the result that, being free from severe toil and sheltered
from the storms, they would not be so hungry. Then, again, they could
more easily escape being reported, and that meant much.
[Illustration: CONDEMNED TO BE HANGED.]
[Illustration: WEIGHING OFFICE, BANK OF ENGLAND.]
There was never anything but black bread for breakfast and supper, save
only one pint of gruel with the bread for breakfast. For dinner every
day we got a pound of boiled potatoes and five ounces of black bread;
three days a week five ounces of meat--that is, fifteen ounces a week
for a man toiling hard in the keen sea air. We were always on the verge
of starvation; our sufferings were terrible. In our hunger there was no
vile refuse we would not devour greedily if opportunity occurred.
O'Brien was a slight, delicate fellow, quite unfitted for the hardships
and toil he was subjected to, but he was a high-spirited, brave
youngster, and his spirit carried him through, while many a man better
fitted physically to endure the toil gave in and died, or became utterly
broken down, and would be sent away to an invalid station a physical
wreck. McCarty and I used to do extra work so as to shield O'Brien, and
so long as our trucks were filled on time the officer made no complaint.
The prisoners were certainly very good to each other, and usually did
all in their power to help and cheer up the weaker men.
In 1877 my two friends were liberated. I was glad to see them go, but I
missed them sadly. But McCarty had suffered too much. He only survived
his liberation a few days, dying in Dublin, to the grief of all Ireland.
O'Brien started a tobacco store in Dublin, where he still is.
I knew all of the dynamiters--Curtin, Daily, Dr. Gallagher, Eagan, etc.
However misguided, yet they meant to serve their country, and dearly
have they paid for their zeal. I pitied poor Gallagher. The strain on
his spirit was too great. He soon broke down, and his dejected, forlorn
looks, his stooping shoulders and listless walk made me and all think
his days were numbered; but he had immense vitality and still lived when
I was liberated; but he was truly a pitiable object, and if he is ever
to live to breathe the air a free man then his friends must secure a
speedy release, for he is slowly sinking into his grave.
[Illustration: RETROSPECTIONS.]