Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 45 – Bidwell · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 45I Find the Fenians with Me in the Toils
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 45
I Find the Fenians with Me in the Toils
BidwellEnglish
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.
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.
Spotted a mistake or have an idea?
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 46
