press, inflicted with as little compunction as if he were only a sheet
of paper; but, on arriving at the inn at Killcock, dawn just appeared,
and Mr. Fitzgerald, letting down a window, desired his servant, who
was riding with a pair of large horse-pistols before him, to rouse
the people at the inn, and get some cold provisions and a bottle of
wine brought to the carriage. “And, Thomas,” said he, “get five or
six pounds of raw meat, if you can--no matter of what kind--for this
foreign gentleman.”
‘The attorney was now petrified; a little twilight glanced into the
carriage, and nearly turned him into stone. The stranger was wrapped
up in a blue travelling cloak with a scarlet cape, and had a great
white cloth tied round his head and under his chin; but when Mr.
Solicitor saw the face of his companion he uttered a piteous cry, and
involuntarily ejaculated, “Murder! murder!” On hearing this cry, the
servant rode back to the carriage window and pointed to his pistols.
Mr. T---- now offered up his soul to God, the stranger grumbled, and
Mr. Fitzgerald, leaning across, put his hand to the attorney’s mouth,
and said he should direct his servant to give him reason for that cry,
if he attempted to alarm the people of the house. Thomas went into the
inn, and immediately returned with a bottle of wine and some bread, but
reported that there was no raw meat to be had; on hearing which, Mr.
Fitzgerald ordered him to seek some at another house.
‘The attorney now exclaimed again, “God protect me!” Streaming
with perspiration, his eye every now and then glancing towards his
mysterious companion, and then, starting aside with horror, he at
length shook as if he were relapsing into his old ague; and the
stranger, finding so much unusual motion beside him, turned his
countenance upon the attorney. Their cheeks came in contact, and
the reader must imagine--because it is impossible adequately to
describe--the scene that followed. The stranger’s profile was of
uncommon prominence; his mouth stretched from ear to ear, he had
enormous grinders, with a small twinkling eye, and his visage was all
be-whiskered and mustachioed--more, even, than Count Platoff’s of the
Cossacks.
‘Mr. T----’s optic nerves were paralysed as he gazed instinctively at
his horrid companion, in whom, when he recovered his sense of vision
sufficiently to scrutinize him, he could trace no similitude to any
being on earth save a bear!
‘And the attorney was quite correct in this comparison. It was actually
a Russian bear, which Mr. Fitzgerald had educated from a cub, and which
generally accompanied his master on his travels. He now gave Bruin a
rap upon the nose with a stick which he carried, and desired him to
hold up his head. The brute obeyed. Fitzgerald then ordered him to
“kiss his neighbour,” and the bear did as he was told, but accompanied
his salute with such a tremendous roar as roused the attorney (then
almost swooning) to a full sense of his danger. Self-preservation
is the first law of Nature, and at once gives courage, and suggests
devices. On this occasion, every other kind of law--civil, criminal,
or equitable--was set aside by the attorney. All his ideas, if any he
had, were centred in one word--“escape”; and as a weasel, it is said,
will attack a man if driven to desperation, so did the attorney spurn
the menaces of Mr. Fitzgerald, who endeavoured to hold and detain him.
‘The struggle was violent, but brief; Bruin roared loud, but
interfered not. Horror strengthened the solicitor. Dashing against the
carriage-door, he burst it open, and, tumbling out, reeled into the
public-house--then rushing through a back-door, and up a narrow lane
that led to the village of Summer Hill (Mr. Roly’s demesne), about
two miles distant, he stumbled over hillocks, tore through hedges and
ditches, and never stopped till he came, breathless, to the little
alehouse, completely covered with mud, and his clothes in rags. He
there told so incoherent a story, that the people all took him for
a man either bitten by a mad dog, or broken loose from his keepers,
and considered it their duty to tie him, to prevent his biting, or
other mischief. In that manner they led him to Squire Roly’s, at the
great house, where the hapless attorney was pinioned and confined in a
stable for some hours, till the squire got up. They put plenty of milk,
bread, butter, and cheese into the manger, from the cock-loft above, to
prevent accidents, as they said.’
Fitzgerald, finding the estate going to the dogs--for his father was
letting the lands at absurdly low prices to his favourites; as, for
instance, he let his son Charles Lionel a valuable tract of land worth
fifteen shillings an acre at one shilling and sixpence, and the deer
park at the same price--took the necessary legal proceedings to protect
himself; and, whilst they were pending, his father was arrested for
a debt of £8,000, and taken to a Dublin sponging-house. Although his
father had been trying to injure him by all the means in his power, yet
Fitzgerald paid the debt, and became responsible for the other debts of
his father, who, in return, ratified the settlement which had been in
abeyance so long.
Fitzgerald then applied to the Lord Chancellor for possession of the
estate, on the grounds that, under its present management, the property
was deteriorating, and as security for the money his father owed him,
which amounted to £20,000--£12,000 of which were arrears of his income
of £1,000 per annum, and £8,000 lent to obtain his release; and, in
1780, the Chancellor made the order as prayed. Had Fitzgerald gone with
bailiffs, and demanded possession, there would have been bloodshed,
in all probability; for the King’s writs did not run easily in that
part of Ireland. So he waited until one day, when his father went over
to Turlough, and he then made a forcible entry into Rockfield, with a
troop of armed dependants, and dislodged the servants then in the house.
Naturally his father did not take this quietly, and possession was
not held peacefully. There were many collisions; and old Fitzgerald
indicted his son for having headed a riotous mob, one of whom, he
alleged, had, at his son’s instigation, attempted to take away his
life, by firing a loaded musket at him. The charge could not be
sufficiently proved, and Fitzgerald was acquitted.
He now turned his attention towards improving his estate, and imported
some Scotch Presbyterians, a sober and industrious set of men, to whom
he gave five hundred pounds towards building a meeting-house, and
settled fifty pounds per annum on their minister; but his father’s
party were always annoying him, and, in consequence, he refused to
give maintenance to his father, who, thereupon, had recourse to the
law-courts in Dublin to compel him so to do; and a writ was issued
empowering the father to secure the body of his son until a maintenance
was granted him. It would have been perfectly useless to have served
the writ upon him at Turlough: it is probable no man could have been
found bold enough to attempt it. So they waited until the next assizes
at Balinrobe; and then, when they thought they had him safe in the
grand jury room, they made application to the judge to arrest him
there. Leave was granted, but Fitzgerald got wind of it, and when they
went to capture him, lo! he was not to be found.
He evidently thought two could play at that game, and he determined to
get the old man into his power. In those days, in that part of Ireland,
law was not much regarded, especially by men of Fighting Fitzgerald’s
stamp; and he speedily put his plan into execution. As his father was
going from Balinrobe to Dublin, he was waylaid by his son and a party
of armed men, and carried off _vi et armis_ to George Robert’s house at
Turlough.
This open violation of the law could not be submitted to tamely, and
his younger brother went to Dublin, and stated his case before the
judges, who granted him a writ of _habeas corpus_. But no one would
serve that at Turlough, so they waited, as of aforetime, until he was
at the grand jury room, and, leave having been given, his brother, who
was bigger and stronger than he, went in, and, literally collaring
him, dragged him out, spite of all his protests that he was a grand
jury man, and could not be touched while in the exercise of his
functions. He was at once put on his trial, and the grand jury found a
true bill against him, unanimously: nay, more, they publicly addressed
the judge in court, expressing their abhorrence of the charge made
against Fitzgerald. After the finding of a true bill, his trial at
once took place, in despite of all efforts to postpone it to the next
assizes, and it lasted from nine in the morning until nearly twelve at
night, when, the judge having summed up, the jury found him guilty, and
he was fined £1,000, to be imprisoned for three years, and until he
should pay the fine.
What happens next in this man’s extraordinary career is almost
difficult to believe, and shows the lawless state of the country.
Fitzgerald was committed to Castlebar prison, but he seems to have been
at large therein, for, four days after his committal, he calmly walked
out of gaol, armed with a brace of pistols, and scattering a bag of
silver to be scrambled for by the gaolers. The doors were all open, a
horse was in readiness, and off he went, tantivy, for Turlough, where
he was welcomed by his people with volleys of small arms and discharge
of cannon. These latter Fitzgerald had procured from a ship, under
the pretext that they would be useful for his volunteers, of which he
was the colonel. These he mounted as a regular battery, and it was
garrisoned in a perfectly military manner by his volunteers.
But an escape from prison was, by the law of Ireland, deemed a capital
felony, and the sheriff of the county issued proclamations and rewards
for his apprehension, at which Fitzgerald only laughed, for he could
rely on his men, and he had his father still in his custody, as the old
man did not go away when his son was, as he thought, safely imprisoned.
He was some fifteen months at large before the majesty of the law
asserted itself. Then a little army, consisting of three companies of
foot, a troop of horse, and a battery of artillery, under the command
of Major Longford, was sent to reduce this rebel. But, when they got
to Rockfield, they found the cannon spiked, and the birds flown to
Killala, whither they were followed by Charles Lionel, at the head of
the Castlebar volunteers. But many people gathered round Fitzgerald,
and he soon had a party which was too strong for them to attack. But,
a large reinforcement arriving, he had to flee, and, with his father,
and two or three attendants, he put to sea in an open boat, landing on
a small island in the bay of Sligo.
Here his father offered him terms, that if he would give him £3,000 to
clear off his debts, and pay him a small annuity, he would give him up
the estate, and completely exonerate him of all blame in his capture
and detention. To these terms Fitzgerald assented, and set off with his
father through bye, and unfrequented roads to Dublin. But no sooner had
the old man got into his old lodging, than he refused to ratify his
bargain, and set his son at defiance.
Fitzgerald, although there was a reward out of £300 for his
apprehension, took no pains to conceal himself, and, consequently,
had not been long in Dublin, before Town-Major Hall heard of his
whereabouts, and, taking twelve soldiers of the Castle guard with him,
arrested Fitzgerald, and safely lodged him in the Castle, where he was
confined in the officer’s room; and there he abode till the general
election, when, through the influence of his powerful friends, he was
released. During his incarceration he wrote an appeal to the public on
his case, although some say the author was one Timothy Brecknock, a
somewhat unscrupulous lawyer whom Fitzgerald employed.
The first use he made of his newly-acquired liberty was to revenge
himself on a man who he fancied had done him some grievous injury, a
somewhat eccentric gentleman named Dick Martin, and he determined to
insult him in the most public manner. He met him at the theatre, struck
him with his cane, calling him the bully of the Altamonts, and walked
away. Of course, in those days a gentleman so insulted could but do one
thing, and that was to send a challenge--and Martin did send Fitzgerald
one by the hand of a cousin of the latter, a Mr. Lyster. While he was
explaining the object of his visit, Fitzgerald rang the bell, and
requested his footman to bring him his cudgel ‘with the green ribbon.’
This being brought, he walked up to his cousin, and ferociously asked
how _he_ dared to deliver such a message to _him_: then, not waiting
for a reply, he belaboured him most unmercifully, with such violence
indeed, as to break a diamond ring from off his finger. When he
considered him sufficiently punished, he made him pick up his ring and
present it to him--but he did not keep it, he wrapped it up in paper,
and returned it, telling his cousin not to go about swearing that he
had robbed him of it.
Martin could get no satisfaction out of Fitzgerald in Dublin, the
object of the latter being to let his adversary have the reputation of
being an insulted man. But, afterwards, they met at Castlebar, and a
meeting was arranged. Martin was hit, and his bullet struck Fitzgerald,
but glanced off: according to some it hit a button; according to
others, Fitzgerald was _plastroné_, or armoured.
His behaviour was more like that of a lunatic than of a sane man. Take
the following example, for instance. He had a house and grounds near
Dublin, and his neighbours all fought shy of him--nay, one of them, a
retired officer, Captain Boulton, would neither accept his invitations
nor invite him to his mansion. This conduct galled Fitzgerald, and he
devised a novel method of avenging himself of the insult. He would
shoot on the captain’s grounds without leave. So he went down with
his man and dogs and began killing the game in fine style. This soon
brought out the steward, who began to remonstrate with the trespasser.
Fitzgerald’s answer was a bullet, which whizzed close to the head of
the poor steward, who turned, and ran for his life, Fitzgerald after
him with a second gun, with the certain determination of shooting him.
Luckily the man got safely into the mansion. Baffled of his victim,
Fitzgerald began abusing Captain Boulton, calling on him to come out,
and give him satisfaction for his man’s behaviour. But the captain, not
seeing the force of the argument, refrained, and Fitzgerald fired his
gun at the dining-room window. As this, however, did not bring out the
captain, he fired at the windows as fast as his man could load, and
only left off when he had smashed every one of them.
Another time he waged war against all the dogs in Castlebar, shooting
them whenever he got a chance; but the people did not stand it tamely;
they rose, visited his kennels, and shot his dogs.
His father died; but his brother, his father’s mistress, and
MacDonnell, took advantage of every circumstance in their power to
maliciously vex him. Law-suits were stirred up against him, and had to
be met with the assistance of Timothy Brecknock, who was Fitzgerald’s
legal adviser, and the followers of both parties were not particular in
exchanging a shot or two, one with the other.
At length MacDonnell kidnapped one of Fitzgerald’s servants, and kept
him prisoner for twenty days. Then the man escaped, and Fitzgerald
applied for, and obtained warrants against, MacDonnell and two other
men, named Hipson and Gallagher. To execute these warrants personally
must have been a congenial task to Fitzgerald, and he set out for that
purpose, followed by a large body of men. On their approach, MacDonnell
fled to the neighbouring village of Ballivary, and his friends did the
best they could to defend themselves, firing on his party and wounding
six or seven of them. They then went after MacDonnell, and, after more
firing, succeeded in apprehending MacDonnell, Hipson, and Gallagher.
These unfortunate men begged to be taken before the nearest magistrate;
but Fitzgerald had them bound, and taken to his house, where they
remained all night.
Early the next morning they were sent, guarded by a man of his, one
Andrew Craig, and about eighteen or twenty more, all well armed, to be
examined by the magistrates. Before their departure Fitzgerald gave the
guard strict instructions to kill the prisoners should they attempt to
escape. When they had gone about three-quarters of a mile a shot was
fired, and one of the escort was laid low. But very little was wanted
to rouse their wild blood, and it was at once considered that a rescue
was intended. Remembering the instructions given them by Fitzgerald,
they fired on their prisoners, killing Hipson, who fell into a ditch,
dragging Gallagher with him, wounded with three bullets in his arm.
MacDonnell, by the same volley, had both his arms broken, but he was
soon afterwards despatched. Gallagher was then discovered, and they
were about to kill him, only Fitzgerald ordered him to be taken to his
house.
News was sent to Castlebar of what had taken place, and Fitzgerald
calmly awaited the result. Fully aware of the dangerous character they
had to deal with, the authorities sent a large body, both of regular
troops, and volunteers, to Turlough, and these were accompanied by an
immense mob of people. What happened is best related in the following
graphic account:
‘Brecknock was for remaining, as with the calmness of conscious
innocence, and boldly demanding a warrant against Gallagher and
others. This opinion, however, did not agree with Fitzgerald’s own,
who justly dreaded the fury of the volunteers and the populace, with
whom MacDonnell had been so popular. Neither did it coincide with that
of the Rev. Mr. Henry, the Presbyterian clergyman of Turlough, who had
been latterly a resident in the house, and was now wringing his hands
in wild alarm for what had occurred. This gentleman’s horse was at the
door, and he strongly urged George Robert to mount, and ride for his
life out of the country altogether, till the powerful intercession he
could command might be made for him. In compliance with this advice,
which entirely coincided with his own opinion, it is stated that he
made several attempts to mount; but that, splendid horseman as he was,
whether through nervous excitement, guilty terror, or the restiveness
of the animal, he was unable to attain the saddle, and, in consequence,
obliged to fly into the house again, as the military were announced to
be approaching near. It is also generally asserted that the Rev. Mr.
Ellison, who headed the soldiers, sent them on to Gurth-na-fullagh,
without halting them at Turlough, where he himself stopped.
‘Were this circumstance even true, however, Fitzgerald gained but a
short respite by it, as the volunteers, with many of the populace, came
furiously up immediately after; and, some of them being placed about
the house, the remainder entered to search and pillage it. Brecknock
and Fulton were immediately captured, but, after ransacking every
corner and crevice more than once without finding him, the volunteers
were beginning to think that Fitzgerald must have effected his escape
before their arrival, when one of them, forcing open a clothes-chest in
a lower apartment, discovered him among a heap of bed-clothes in his
place of concealment.
‘“What do you want, you ruffian?” he said, on finding himself detected.
‘“To dhrag ye, like a dog’s head, to a bonfire,” replied another
volunteer, named Morran, a powerful man, who seized him at the same
time by the breast, and drew him forth by main force.
‘A pistol was now presented at him by a third to take summary
vengeance; but a comrade snapped it from his hands, asking if there was
not murder enough already.
‘“What mercy did himself or his murdherers show to those every way
their betthers?”
‘“Well, let them pay for that on the gallows, but let us be no
murdherers; let us give him up to the law.”
‘He was, accordingly, hauled out to the front of the house, where,
perceiving Mr. Ellison, he exclaimed,
‘“Ellison, will you allow me to be handled thus by such rabble?”
‘Mr. Ellison’s response to this saved him from further molestation for
a time, and exertions were then made to withdraw the pillagers from the
wholesale plundering they were practising within. One fellow had girded
his loins with linen almost as fine as Holland--so fine that he made
some hundred yards fit round his body without being much observable.
Another, among other valuables, made himself master of the duellist’s
diamond-buttoned coat; while a third contrived to appropriate to
himself all the jewels, valued at a very high amount. In short, so
entire were the spoliation and destruction that, before sunset, not a
single pane of glass was left in the windows.
‘The remainder of those implicated in the murders were speedily
apprehended, except Craig, who escaped for the time, but was taken soon
after near Dublin.
‘We must now pause to sustain our character as an accurate chronicler
to relate an act as unprecedented, as lawless, and as terrible as the
most terrible of Fitzgerald’s own. He was alone, on the night of his
capture, in the room assigned to him in the gaol. It was not a felon’s
apartment, but was guarded on the outside by two armed soldiers, lest
he should make any desperate attempt to escape. It was some hours after
nightfall that Clarke, the then sub-sheriff, removed one of those
sentinels to another portion of the prison, where he stated he required
his presence. They had scarcely disappeared, when the remaining
soldier, McBeth (according to his own account), was knocked down, and
his musket taken from him, while the door was burst open, and a number
of men, all armed with pistols, sword-canes, and the sentinel’s musket,
commenced a furious and deadly attack on Fitzgerald, who, though
totally unarmed, made a most extraordinary defence. Several shots were
discharged rapidly at him, one of which lodged in his thigh, while
another broke a ring on the finger of one of his hands, which he put up
to change the direction of the ball.
He was then secured by John Gallagher, one of the assailants, and
a powerful man, and, whilst struggling in his grip, thrust at
with blades and bayonets, one of the former of which broke in the
fleshy part of his arm. The latter, too, in forcing out two of his
teeth, had its point broken, and was thereby prevented from passing
through his throat. After having freed himself, by great exertions,
from Gallagher’s grasp, he was next assaulted with musket-stock,
pistol-butts, and the candlestick, which had been seized by one of the
assailants, who gave the candle to a boy to hold. By one of the blows
inflicted by these weapons he was prostrated under the table, and,
while lying there, defending himself with unimpaired powers against
other deadly-aimed blows, he exclaimed,
‘Cowardly rascals, you may now desist; you have done for me, which was,
of course, your object.’
The candle had by this time been quenched in the struggling, and the
gaol and streets thoroughly alarmed, so that the assailants, fearing to
injure one another, and deeming that their intended victim was really
dispatched, retreated from the prison, leaving Fitzgerald, though
wounded, once more in security.