“Had you been in New York those days and shown yourself to the people,” said O’Mahony to Meagher, “you could have stopped all the rioting.”
“Not at all,” said Meagher, “the people those days were in a mood of mind to tear me limb from limb if they caught hold of me.”
I was in at John O’Mahony’s office one day. A soldier came in; tall and straight, light but athletic; unloosed his coat, unpocketed his papers and gave them to John O’Mahony. He was introduced to me as Captain Patrick J. Condon, of the Sixty-third Regiment; he brought from the seat of war $600, the monthly contributions of the Army Circles of the Fenian Brotherhood. This was history repeating itself. The history of Irish brigades in the service of France and Spain and Austria records that on every pay day the soldiers would contribute a part of their pay to a fund that was to equip them to fight against England for the freedom of Ireland.
That Captain Condon I speak of went to Ireland to fight for its freedom after the war in America was over. I meet him in New York these days I am writing these “Recollections”; he is as tall and straight and soldierly-looking as he was that day in John O’Mahony’s office, in July, 1863, but the hair of his head is as white as the driven snow.
Michael O’Brien, who was hanged in Manchester in 1867, was in New York those days of July, 1863. He told me that Major Patrick J. Downing of the Forty-second Regiment was on from the seat of war, and was up at Riker’s Island with a detachment to take the men who were drafted. We went over to Chambers street and got from Colonel Nugent, the provost marshal, a “pass” to visit Riker’s Island. Mike O’Brien and I went up to Riker’s Island that evening, and slept in Colonel Downing’s tent that night. Some days after that Mike came to me and told me he had made up his mind to join the army. I endeavored to persuade him not to do so; I told him he had pledged his life to a fight for Ireland, and what now, if he were to be killed fighting in America? He told me he did not know how to fight well; that it was to learn how to fight well he was going to enlist; that he had been out to the front to see Denis (Denis Downing was a brother of Patrick’s was a comrade clerk of Michael’s at Sir John Arnott’s in Cork; was now a captain in a Buffalo regiment), and that he went into a battle that Denis was going into.
What he saw that day showed him that he knew nothing about war, and he wanted, for Ireland’s sake to learn all he could about it; he had made up his mind to enlist, and I should go with him to the recruiting office in Jersey City. I went with him; I saw him measured and sworn in; the recruiting officer pressing me hard to go with him. I saw him on the street car that was to take him to the camp in the suburbs of the city. That street car came out on the street from under the archway there, near the ferry. Mike stood on the back of the car; I stood on the street; we kept waving our hats to one another till the car turned the corner and rolled out of sight. That is the last sight I had on earth of one of the truest Irish patriot comrades of my life—Michael O’Brien the Manchester martyr.
On my way through Chambers street to Provost-marshal Nugent’s office near the Emigrant Savings Bank, the day I got the “pass” to visit Riker’s Island, some policemen, having prisoners, were going to the marshal’s office, too. Each of them had hold of his man by the collar of the coat. Those prisoners were men who had been drafted for the war, and who had not promptly or voluntarily answered the call the Nation had made upon them for their services as soldiers. They had gone into hiding, but were arrested and forced into the fight; and, as likely as anything else, now that they were obliged to do their duty, some of them did it bravely, and when the war was over, came home with all the honors of war.
How often have I thought how well it would be for the Irish National cause of my day if it had a draft law that would make its votaries toe the mark at the call of duty. Those votaries swear it is by the sword alone they are to free Ireland, but when danger threatens it how many of them are found to think the country can be freed without using any sword at all?
That’s what made Parnell and parliamentary agitation so strong in Ireland, England and America a dozen years ago; the leaders of the “sword alone,” men “ratted,” and turned in to free Ireland by fighting her battles in the London parliament. That’s what paralyzed the spirit of the Irish National cause and makes it to-day so dead as it is. England has the whip hand in Ireland, and is whipping the Irish people out of the country. In one ship that came into New York harbor this week (April, 1898), 247 young Irish girls came in to New York!
When commencing to write this chapter, I looked into a New York City directory to see if I would find the Mr. Kelly whom I speak of, and who lived in Beaver street in 1863. I saw the name of Horace R. Kelly. I wrote to Horace R. I asked what was the Christian name of his father. In reply to my inquiry I get this note: