And the saucy cockades on their head!
No braver tale could be told of any woman than the story of Mary Dwyer during the years that followed. She stood by her husband, ready to endure to the end in the struggles of ’98 and ’03; she shared the horrors of the prison ship that bore him into exile. She stood by his deathbed in 1805, and lived on, herself, to rear his children in a manner such that their father and their native land might be proud of them—though, alas! it was not Ireland that was to enjoy the finished work. When she died in 1861, the touching obituary notice of her in the Sydney Freeman’s Journal could say of her with truth: “All her wishes in life were accomplished before her eyes closed in death. When she lived to see her two grandchildren sheltered under the guardianship of Mother Church—one a holy young priest, the other a dweller in the peaceful shadow of the cloister, she sang her hymn of resignation, ‘Now Thou dost dismiss Thy servant, O Lord.’”
Another brave woman whose Nunc Dimittis was sung in a foreign land was Mrs. Gallagher. Her husband was a confidential clerk of James Moore’s, and he often acted as one of Lord Edward’s bodyguard when the Chief went abroad for any purpose during the weeks he was “on his keeping.” On the night on which Lord Edward was going to Magan’s and was met by Major Sirr, Gallagher was wounded in the encounter, which ensued with the Major’s men. He was afterwards identified through this wound, and ordered for execution. He managed, it is said, to save his life at the foot of the scaffold by his possession of the Masonic signal. He was then taken back to prison. During all this time the executions were proceeding in Thomas Street, and the blood from the block on which “the rebels” were beheaded and quartered flowed in such quantities that it clogged the sewers, and was licked up by the dogs. The Lady Lieutenant, passing one day, fainted at the horrible sight; and at her urgent entreaties the executions were stopped. Transportation to one of the Penal Colonies was substituted for the death-sentence. Gallagher was conveyed from his prison to one of the convict ships, heavily ironed. But by a special grace the irons were taken off him while he bade farewell to his wife, who had made her way on board to see him for the last time. She stayed on until nightfall, and before she took her departure she managed to convey to her husband one end of a coil of rope she had concealed under her cloak. The other end she carried ashore with her, as she rowed back. After her departure Gallagher was about to be ironed again, but he pleaded so eloquently for “one minute more” that it was granted him. That minute was sufficient for him to leap into the dark waters—and be towed ashore by his faithful wife. He subsequently made his escape to France in a lugger of smuggled salt—and died, in 1813, a wealthy ship-broker of Bordeaux.
Miles Byrne knew the Gallaghers very well. He tells us of meeting Mrs. Gallagher, who was then on a visit with Mrs. Thomas Addis Emmet, when he called to take leave of the latter before joining his regiment in 1803. Mrs. Gallagher he found “handsome and highly accomplished, and worthy of her patriotic husband. I had the pleasure of dining with them at Bordeaux, in 1812, when I was returning from Spain; and I was happy indeed to see them so prosperous; he was in the shipbroking trade, and he was carrying on a vast business with the Americans. Their children were growing up very handsome. Poor Gallagher’s health was then delicate. He died at Bordeaux the following year, much regretted by his countrymen and friends. To his last moment, he spoke of Lord Edward Fitzgerald with the greatest veneration.”
No story of the Women of ’Ninety-Eight would be complete without some mention, at least, of Rosie Hope, the heroic wife of James Hope. But in truth her life deserves a fuller account than the plan of this work now allows for her.
It was while he worked in her father’s house as a journeyman linen weaver that James Hope first met and loved Rosie Mullen. He himself has described her for us both in prose (“a young woman gifted with noble qualities, with every advantage of mind and person, she was everything in this world to me, and when I lost her, my happiness went to the grave with her. She died in 1831”); and in very tender and dainty verse, with a pretty play of words on her name:—
The Rose-Bud
In life’s sprightly morning, how pleasant the hours,
When roaming the fields, and surveying the flowers,
I picked up a rose-bud, select from the rest,