“After the examination of the witnesses, I rose and went forward to the table; I stated what appeared to me to be unlike truth in the evidence that had been given by the witnesses for the prosecution, expressing a hope that they would not consider such evidence sufficient to take away life; the testimony of one witness impeaching the character and credit of the approver, on whose statements the charge was mainly dependent for support.
“Harry had taken notes of the trial, and before its termination said to me in a whisper, ‘You must be prepared for my conviction’; all his friends could then do for him was to endeavour to get his sentence commuted to banishment. Before the close of the proceedings I hastened home with this intelligence, and my mother went instantly to General Nugent’s house, and requested an interview, but he refused to be seen. I returned to the Exchange before my mother came back, but found that Harry had been removed. I little expected that any efforts to save him would be successful; but I felt I had a duty to perform—to prevent misrepresentation, and to put it out of the power of his enemies to injure his character while living, or his memory when dead. I followed him to the artillery barracks, where I saw Major Fox just going in, and asked his permission to see my brother; he desired me to wait a little, but I followed him, and when he came to the door of my brother’s cell, I remained behind him at a few paces distance; the door of the cell was opened, and I heard him say, ‘You are ordered for immediate execution.’ My poor brother seemed to be astonished at this announcement; indeed he well might be, at the shortness of time allotted to him; but seeing me falling to the ground, he sprang forward and caught me. I did not, however, lose consciousness for a single instant, but felt a strange sort of composure and self-possession; and in this frame of mind I continued during the whole day. I knew it was incumbent on me to avoid disturbing the last moments of my brother’s life, and I endeavoured to contribute to render them worthy of his whole career. We conversed as calmly as we had ever done. I asked him if there was anything in particular he desired to have done. He said, ‘I wish you to write to Russell, inform him of my death, and tell him that I have done my duty....’ He said he would like to see Mr. Kelburne, who was our clergyman. I told him I feared that Mr. Kelburne would be unable to come, but that if he wished to see a clergyman, Dr. Dickson was then under the same roof, and would come to him. He replied he would rather have Mr. Kelburne, as it would gratify his father and mother. He, of course, was sent for, but being confined to his bed by illness, it was a considerable time before he made his appearance. In the meantime Dr. Dickson was brought to him; they retired to the far end of the room, when I observed Dr. Dickson take out his pocket book and write something in it; he afterwards said that he never met with any person whose mind was better prepared to meet death. Mr. Kelburne soon after arrived, and when he did, he burst out crying, and said, ‘Oh! Harry, you did not know how much I loved you.’ Mr. Kelburne, after some time, endeavoured to assume composure.... Harry, perceiving the effort at appearing more concerned than he really was, looked at Dr. Dickson and smiled. Mr. Kelburne knelt down, as I believe did all present, and joined in prayer; he soon after retired, and wished me to accompany him, which I refused.
“During the early part of the day Harry and I had conversed with tranquillity on the subject of his death. We had been brought up in a firm conviction of an all-wise and overruling Providence, and of the duty of entire resignation to the Divine Will. I remarked that his death was as much a dispensation of Providence as if it had happened in the common course of nature, to which he assented. He told me there had been much perjury on his trial, but that the truth would have answered the same purpose. After the clergymen were gone, I asked for a pair of scissors, that I might take off some of his hair. A young officer who was on guard went out of the room and brought a pair of scissors but hesitated to trust them into my hand, when I asked him indignantly if he thought I meant to hurt my brother. He then gave them to me, and I cut off some of Harry’s hair which curled round his neck, and folded it up in paper, and put it into my bosom. Fox at that moment entered the room, and desired me to give it to him, ‘as too much use had already been made of such things.’ I refused, saying I would only part with it in death; when my dear brother said, ‘Oh! Mary, give it to him; of what value is it?’ I felt that its possession would be a mere gratification to me, and not wishing to discompose him by the contest, I gave it up.
“The time allowed him was now expired: he had hoped for a few days, that he might give his friends an account of all the later events in which he had taken a part. About five p.m. he was ordered to the place of execution, the old market-house, the ground of which had been given to the town by his great great grandfather. I took his arm, and we walked together to the place of execution, where I was told it was the general’s orders that I should leave him, which I peremptorily refused. Harry begged I would go. Clasping my hands around him (I did not weep till then) I said I could bear anything but leaving him. Three times he kissed me, and entreated I would go; and looking round to recognise some friend to put me in charge of, he beckoned to a Mr. Boyd, and said, ‘He will take charge of you.’ Mr. Boyd stepped forward; and fearing any further refusal would disturb the last moments of my dearest brother, I suffered myself to be led away.... A Mr. Armstrong, a friend of our family, came forward and took me from Mr. Boyd, and conducted me home. I immediately sent a message to Dr. McDonnell and Mr. McCluney, our apothecary, to come directly to our house. The latter came, and Dr. McDonnell sent his brother, Alexander, a skilful surgeon. The body was given up to his family unmutilated; so far our entreaties and those of our friends prevailed.
“From the moment I parted with Harry, the idea which occurred to me in the morning that it might be possible to restore animation, took full possession of my mind, and that hope buoyed up my strength, and supported me at the moment of parting with him. Every effort that art could devise was made, and at one time hopes of success were entertained, but the favourable symptoms disappeared, and the attempt was at length given up. I was present when the medical men entered the room where the body was laid, and then retired and joined the rest of the family, awaiting the result with indescribable anxiety. My heart sank within me when we were told all hope was over, and that a message had been brought from the General that the funeral must take place immediately, or that the body would be taken from us. Preparations were made for immediate burial. I learned that no relative of his was likely to attend his funeral. I could not bear to think that no member of his family should accompany his remains, so I set out to follow them to the grave.
“A kind-hearted man, an enthusiast in the cause for which poor Harry died, drew my arm within his, but my brother John soon followed, and took his place. I heard the sound of the first shovelful of earth that was thrown on the coffin, and I remember little else of what passed on that sad occasion. I was told afterwards that poor Harry stood when I left him at the place of execution, and watched me until I was out of sight; that he then attempted to speak to the people, but that the noise of the trampling of the horses was so great that it was impossible he should be heard; that he then resigned himself to his fate, and the multitude who were present at that moment uttered cries which seemed more like one loud and long-continued shriek than the expression of grief or terror on similar occasions. He was buried in the old churchyard where St. George’s church now stands, and close to the corner of the school-house, where the door is.”
A weaker nature than Mary McCracken’s would have surely broken down after the strain of those tragic hours. But she came forth from them, only with fresh ardour to serve God, and country and friends.
Early in the new century she received a pitiable account of the state of destitution to which poor Russell’s sister, Margaret, had been reduced. He himself after his arrest in September, 1796, had been kept until March, 1799, in Kilmainham, whence he was conveyed with the other State prisoners to Fort George. More than three years’ internment in Fort George was followed by deportation to the Continent in 1802. During these years Miss Russell had been deprived of his support, and she was in a pitiable condition. Mary Anne McCracken got up a subscription for her among Russell’s friends in Belfast, but there were a great many claims on their resources just at that time and the response to her appeal was not very gratifying. Her charity nearly cost her dear; for a person who saw the list of subscribers reported to Government that she was raising money for arms.
The autumn of 1803 marked the close of Mary McCracken’s pathetic romance. In October of that year Russell, who had come over from France, in the early summer to assist Robert Emmet, and who had undertaken, with the faithful Jamie Hope, to rouse the North to a new stand for freedom, was taken prisoner in Dublin, and carried back in chains to Downpatrick to be tried for his life. Once more Mary McCracken, stifling the pain of her wounded heart, made superhuman efforts to save her doomed friend. During the weeks when he was in hiding she and her sister had already visited him, and provided him with funds for his journey to Dublin. When he was taken, the two sisters pledged their credit to the last penny, to raise the necessary money for his defence. It was Mary’s earnest desire to go to Downpatrick to be present at the trial, and only the representations of her family prevented her. On the eve of the trial she received a letter from Russell. It was all the reward her faithful heart obtained for the years of silent love it had lavished on the writer—but perhaps those words of farewell from the condemned cell in Downpatrick seemed to her better worth treasuring than the love letters of happier women.