Before I proceed to the details of some other narratives, I trust that my readers will not censure me for submitting to their perusal incidents connected with real or imputed crimes, and asking them to accompany me, even in imagination, to prison scenes. There is scarcely a novelist of celebrity that has not frequently introduced his readers to such places, and generally without exciting any repugnance to his description of them, or to the narratives which they supply or the subjects they suggest. Although the prison may disappear and be replaced by other structures, even of a different character, its ideal existence continues, and perhaps outlasts those that arose on its foundations or in its vicinity. In Paris, the Bastille is spoken of as if it still existed. The name is inscribed on omnibusses, and the cab-driver asks no further explanation when ordered to drive "a la Bastille." A house within a short distance of the place where it stood displays on a sign-board a view of the old fortress-prison; and few strangers pass it during the day without pausing to gaze on the picture of a building to which history refers so many fearful incidents, exaggerated nevertheless most enormously by the unscrupulous revolutionists who introduced a "reign of terror" of greater extent, and more sanguinary atrocity, than the records of all the state prisons of France could supply. The Chateau of Vincennes is an existing building; visited more for the memories of the past than for the attractions of the present or the hopes of the future; and few visitors leave it without gazing on the spot where, at midnight, the hapless Duc D'Enghien received the fatal volley and filled an untimely grave. Many prisons in England are associated with local traditions or historical events highly interesting; but the lapse of time and the habitudes of a people exceptionally romantic have deprived them of an extensive popular appreciation. The Tolbooth of Edinburgh and the building of the same designation in Glasgow have derived a lasting fame from the pen of Scott; and whilst the English language exists, the readers of the "Heart of Mid-Lothian" or "Rob Roy" will have the Tolbooths vividly impressed on their imaginations. There are anecdotes connected with the old prisons of Ireland, many of which would afford most ample subjects for the writer of Romance, whilst even their simple details would fully verify the adage that "Fact is stranger than Fiction." I shall now proceed to a narrative which refers to a period more than a century past, but in which, as to names and dates, the crown-office records of the time fully agree with the statements which I have heard from the descendants of some of the most respectable characters connected, but in no discreditable manner, with the circumstances detailed.
There may still be seen on the right hand side of the road leading from Dublin through Mount Brown to Inchicore, a small portion of a granite wall which formerly was in front of "Old Kilmainham," the common gaol of the County of Dublin. That building was considered one of the worst prisons of the kingdom, in consequence of its insufficient size and lax discipline. Swift is said to have been, in his youthful days, a frequent, although not a criminal visitor at this old gaol; and there, perhaps, in the conversation of its inmates, he acquired much of the coarseness and indelicacy which mar the wit and vigor of his productions. I shall, however, most willingly and scrupulously abstain from offering to my readers any specimens of the language of such a time and place, when the building echoed with drunken revelry, and the sufferings of a prisoner were aggravated by indecent buffoonery or ribald jests. To my narrative such expressions are neither necessary nor ornamental.
CHAPTER II. VESEY AND KEOGH.
On the 15th of February, 1743, a gentleman named James Vesey, who held a commission in the army, was returning to Dublin from a southern county where he possessed a respectable landed property. The facilities which now exist for the safe and prompt remittance of money were then almost unknown, and he had with him upwards of eighteen hundred pounds in specie. He was so unfortunate as to be stopped on the road at Castleknock, and robbed of the money, his watch, and its appendages. The highwayman who opened the door of the post-chaise had an associate who kept at the horses' heads, and could not be recognized. After the perpetration of the crime, the traveller proceeded on to Dublin and apprised the authorities of his loss. A vigilant search terminated, after a few days, in the apprehension of two brothers named Martin and Sylvester Keogh. They were men of a sinister reputation, who resided near Rathcoole, and spent more money than they could be supposed to have acquired honestly, being the occupiers of a thatched house of humble dimensions, and a neglected farm of six or seven acres. On being brought before a magistrate, Martin Keogh was fully identified by Mr. Vesey, as the man who, pistol in hand, opened the door of the chaise and despoiled him of his property. Against the other there was no criminating evidence, and after a detention of some days, he was discharged. The closest search after the money terminated unsuccessfully, not a guinea could be found. Martin Keogh was committed for trial at the ensuing commission of Oyer and Terminer for the county of Dublin, and was there convicted of the robbery, on the positive and undoubtedly true testimony of Mr. Vesey. Sentence of death was passed, and the doomed felon became an occupant of the condemned cell at Old Kilmainham, from the dreary precincts of which he was to issue at the end of twenty-one days, to die upon the gallows. Mr. Vesey's leave of absence had been extended until the result of the trial left him free to proceed to England to join his regiment; and he departed from Dublin without any other satisfaction for his eighteen hundred pounds than what might be derived from the impending punishment of the delinquent. He had ample opportunities for seeing Martin Keogh during the preliminary proceedings and in the progress of the trial, and the figure and features of the highwayman remained indelibly impressed on his memory. Soon after Mr. Vesey's arrival in England, he proceeded to encounter the dangers and privations of protracted foreign service; he attained the rank of Captain, and his regiment formed a portion of "the terrible English column" on the memorable field of Fontenoy, the 11th day of May, 1745.
It is unnecessary to introduce here any lengthened or distinct description of the obstinate valor with which the English advanced, thinned, but undismayed, by the concentrated fire of the French artillery, and unbroken by the repeated charges of veteran troops led by the most chivalrous of a gallant nobility. They were not broken until assailed by the Irish Brigade, who rushed upon them with irresistible fury. Then, penetrated and scattered, the column became completely disorganized, and subjected to fearful slaughter by the impetuous Irish and exulting French. Captain Vesey remained on the field of battle. He had been wounded, almost simultaneously, by two balls, and also received a blow from the butt of a musket, which reduced him to a state of utter insensibility.
Louis XV was present at Fontenoy, and in the hour of victory displayed the only virtues which, in his character, were associated with many great vices. He was generous and humane, and at once directed that the wounded English should receive the same care as was bestowed on his own soldiers. Considerable numbers were conveyed to Lille, where surgical skill and the soothing attentions of religious communities and kind-hearted inhabitants effected numerous recoveries. Captain Vesey was soon convalescent. During his illness, several officers of the Irish Brigade forgot he was an enemy, but recollected that he was their gallant and suffering countryman, and from them he experienced the courtesy of gentlemen and the sympathy of friends. Amongst them was the Count de St. Woostan, an officer in the regiment of Berwick, who was acting at Lille in a capacity similar to that of town-major in an English garrison. One evening, at the Count's quarters, the conversation turned on the various incidents of the battle in which they had been so recently engaged, and an officer remarked that Vesey owed his life, in all probability, to a private in Berwick's regiment, who procured assistance to convey him from the field whilst in a state of insensibility, and manifested the utmost anxiety for his preservation. This elicited a very natural remark from Vesey, that it was extraordinary the man had never since approached him, either to evince any satisfaction at his recovery, or to claim a recompense for his services. On further enquiry, he ascertained that the soldier's name was Martin Vaughan, and that he was in the garrison of Lille. On the following day he proceeded, accompanied by the Count, to seek out the man to whom his safety was ascribed, and found that he had been sent, on escort duty, a short distance from the town. The Count, thereupon, left directions for Martin Vaughan to present himself at his quarters on a certain evening. The soldier attended accordingly, and was ushered into the presence of the Count and Captain Vesey, the latter of whom felt inclined to distrust his own senses, when he beheld Martin Keogh, whom he believed to have been, for more than two years, mouldering in a felon's grave. Suddenly, however, the idea occurred that a recognition might be irreparably injurious to the man who had recently rendered him such material service. He felt at once that Keogh's escape from the ignominious fate to which he had been doomed was like an interposition of providence, highly beneficial to both of them. He approached the man and briefly expressed his thanks for the care to which he ascribed his safety. He then tendered him twenty louis d'or, but the gift was at once respectfully declined. The soldier appeared greatly agitated, and exclaimed—"No, Captain Vesey, not a penny of your money will I ever touch again."
The Count remarked the expression, and observed—"Why, Vaughan, it would appear that you have met the captain before you took service with us."
"We have met," said the soldier; "he knows when and where; he will tell you what he knows, but he does not know all. Ye are two gentlemen on whose honor I can rely, and I shall tell you on one condition."
"Excuse me," said the Count, "my curiosity is not so intense as to make me desirous of a confidence disagreeable either to Captain Vesey or to you. You have been a good soldier, in every respect, since you entered the regiment. I have known you only in that capacity. I have no wish to be informed on any previous transaction."