The Dock and the Scaffold | Page 2

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glistening rows of upturned faces. The platform was no longer empty;
three pinioned men, with white caps drawn closely over their faces,
were standing upon the drop. For a moment the crowd was awed into
stillness; for a moment the responses, "Christ, have mercy on us,"
"Christ, have mercy on us," were heard from the lips of the doomed
men, towards whom the sea of faces were turned. Then came a dull
crash, and the mob swayed backwards for an instant. The drop had
fallen, and the victims were struggling in the throes of a horrible death.
The ropes jerked and swayed with the convulsive movements of the
dying men. A minute later, and the vibrations ceased--the end had come,
the swaying limbs fell rigid and stark, and the souls of the strangled
men had floated upwards from the cursed spot--up from the hateful
crowd and the sin-laden atmosphere--to the throne of the God who
made them.
So perished, in the bloom of manhood, and the flower of their strength,
three gallant sons of Ireland--so passed away the last of the martyred
band whose blood has sanctified the cause of Irish freedom. Far from
the friends whom they loved, far from the land for which they suffered,
with the scarlet-clad hirelings of England around them, and watched by
the wolfish eyes of a brutal mob, who thirsted to see them die, the
dauntless patriots, who, in our own day, have rivalled the heroism and
shared the fate of Tone, Emmett, and Fitzgerald, looked their last upon
the world. No prayer was breathed for their parting souls--no eye was
moistened with regret amongst the multitude that stretched away in
compact bodies from the foot of the gallows; the ribald laugh and the
blasphemous oath united with their dying breath; and, callously as the
Roman mob from the blood-stained amphitheatre, the English masses
turned homewards from the fatal spot. But they did not fall unhonoured
or unwept. In the churches of the faithful in that same city, the sobs of
mournful lamentation were mingled with the solemn prayers for their
eternal rest, and, from thousands of wailing women and
stricken-hearted men, the prayers for mercy, peace, and pardon, for the
souls of MICHAEL O'BRIEN, WILLIAM PHILIP ALLEN, and
MICHAEL LARKIN, rose upwards to the avenging God. Still less
were they forgotten at home. Throughout the Irish land, from Antrim's
rocky coast to the foam-beaten headlands of Cork, the hearts of their

countrymen were convulsed with passionate grief and indignation, and,
blended with the sharp cry of agony that broke from the nation's lips,
came the murmurs of defiant hatred, and the pledges of a bitter
vengeance. Never, for generations, had the minds of the Irish people
been more profoundly agitated--never had they writhed in such
bitterness and agony of soul. With knitted brows and burning cheeks,
the tidings of the bloody deed were listened to. The names of the
martyred men were upon every lip, and the story of their heroism and
tragic death was read with throbbing pulse and kindling eyes by every
fireside in the land. It is to assist in perpetuating that story, and in
recording for future generations the narrative which tells of how Allen,
O'Brien, and Larkin died, that this narrative is written, and few outside
the nation whose hands are red with their blood, will deny that at least
so much recognition is due to their courage, their patriotism, and their
fidelity. In Ireland we know it will be welcomed; amongst a people by
whom chivalry and patriotism are honoured, a story so touching and so
enobling will not be despised; and the race which guards with
reverence and devotion the memories of Tone, and Emmett, and the
Shearses, will not soon surrender to oblivion the memory of the three
true-hearted patriots, who, heedless of the scowling mob, unawed by
the hangman's grasp, died bravely that Saturday morning at Manchester,
for the good old cause of Ireland.
Early before daybreak on the morning of November 11th, 1867, the
policemen on duty in Oak-street, Manchester, noticed four
broad-shouldered, muscular men loitering in a suspicious manner about
the shop of a clothes dealer in the neighbourhood. Some remarks
dropped by one of the party reaching the ears of the policemen,
strengthened their impression that an illegal enterprise was on foot, and
the arrest of the supposed burglars was resolved on. A struggle ensued,
during which two of the suspects succeeded in escaping, but the
remaining pair, after offering a determined resistance, were
overpowered and carried off to the police station. The prisoners, who,
on being searched, were found to possess loaded revolvers on their
persons, gave their names as Martin Williams and John Whyte, and
were charged under the Vagrancy Act before one of the city magistrates.
They