LIV.
This, then, is my story; and in it must be found the justification, if such be needed, for the part I have played. I have no apology to make for my twenty and odd years’ work in the Secret Service. I took up that work from a conscientious motive, and in a conscientious spirit I pursued it to the end. I have in no sense been an informer, as the phrase is understood. I allied myself with Fenianism in order to defeat it; I never turned from feelings of greed or gain on the men with whom I at first worked in sympathy. I never had any sympathy with Irish Revolutionists. Quite the opposite. Nor have I been an agent provocateur. Although I always voted for politic reasons on the side of the majority, even to the joining in the vote which meant dynamite, on no single occasion was I instrumental in bringing an individual to the commission of crime. True, I had to take many oaths. But what of that? By the taking of them I have saved many lives. Which counts the weightiest in the balance of life? And who is it that sneers at me for my conduct in this regard? An honest man’s criticism I can accept; but for the judgment of these double-oathed gentlemen who, having first taken the Fenian oath, then rushed to Westminster to swear allegiance to the Crown and Constitution they had aforetime sworn to destroy, I have nothing but contempt and derision. Away with such rubbish and cant as they indulge in to the regions where common-sense finds no place.
I said I have saved lives by my action as a Government agent. I hope I shall have done more by my appearance in the witness-box. To me no more satisfactory result could attend my disclosures than the realisation by the poor deluded Irish in the States of the way in which they have been tricked and humbugged in the past years. For these poor weak people, animated by the purest, if the most mistaken of patriotic motives, who give their little all in the hope and trust that the day will come in their lives when Ireland will be a land flowing with milk and honey, I have the deepest and the most sincere sympathy. To know these people, to come into contact with them, and to discuss with them the eternal subject of Irish nationality, is to respect their honesty of purpose, no matter how much we feel called upon to condemn their methods of procedure. But, for the blatant loud-voiced agitator, always bellowing forth his patriotic principles, while secretly filling his pockets with the bribe or the consequences of his theft, there can be no other feeling but that of undisguised loathing.
I speak of what I know from personal experience, when I say there is no greater fraud in this nineteenth century of ours than the modern Irish patriotic agitator in America. Gold is his god, his patriotic principles—save the mark!—his breviary and his beads, holding aloft which he stands at the corner of the market-place so that he may be seen of all men, and paid tribute to by some. By jobbery, trickery, treachery, and delusion of the meanest and most despicable type he works his way along, rising higher and higher in the ranks of his fellow-conspirators, till at last, in the position of responsibility and power, he sells the votes he can command, and pockets the funds over which he has control. Brave and blustering in speech, he advocates, in the safety of his American city, three thousand miles from the seat of danger, the most desperate of enterprises; and without the slightest pang of compunction or twinge of conscience he rushes his poor dupes across the water to their fate on the scaffold or the living death of penal servitude; while his lips unctuously mumble of the righteousness of their beloved cause, and his whisky-laden breath blasphemously calls for the blessings of Heaven upon the foul enterprise.
It has been in fighting such scoundrels as these that I have spent the last quarter of a century. From them I would fain deliver their poor dupes ere I completely efface myself from Irish affairs. I have no stronger, no sincerer wish than to see an end put once for all to the delusion which is practised upon thousands of poor Irishmen throughout the States by the men of whom I have written. With the rank and file it has assuredly been a case of “theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.” I hope it may not be so in the future. I trust that what I have penned, and what the sad murder of Cronin has writ large upon the page of history, may not be without its effect; and that to-day men may pause ere they continue in such a way as I have pictured, the mere tools of an unscrupulous faction, the miserable dupes of a reckless and improvident executive. Gallahers, Dalys, and Mackay Lomasneys there always will be—men inspired with fanatical hatred of all things English, and ready at all times to risk freedom and life in working out their designs; but, apart from them, there are thousands whose criminality reaches no further point than the paying of those subscriptions so frequently and so persistently demanded.
With such men I hope these words of mine will have weight; and if, awakening to a true sense of their situation, and realising that their combination and support help not Ireland but Ireland’s professional mendicants, they turn to a better path, and a clearer and more honest view of Irish matters as they really are, then shall I feel that I have not struggled or written in vain.