Captain Mackay's revolver had gone off in the struggle, and the ball had struck the constable in the leg, inflicting on him a serious wound.
By this time several parties of police had arrived in the street and stationed themselves so as to prevent the formation of a crowd and deter the people from any attempt at rescue. A reinforcement having turned into the house in which the struggle was going on, Captain Mackay and others who had been in his company were made prisoners, and marched off in custody.
Some days afterwards, the wounded constable, who had refused to submit to amputation of the wounded limb, died in hospital.
On the 10th of March, 1868, at the Cork Assizes, Judge O'Hagan presiding, Captain Mackay was put on his trial for murder. The evidence established a probability that the discharge of the prisoner's revolver was not intended or effected by him, but was a consequence of its having been struck by the revolver of the policeman who was struggling with him. The verdict of the jury therefore was one of acquittal.
But then came the other charge against him, the charge of treason-felony, for his connexion with the Fenian Brotherhood, and his part in the recent "rising." For this he was put on trial on the 20th day of March. He was ably defended by Mr. Heron, Q.C.; but the evidence against him was conclusive. To say nothing of the testimony of the informers, which should never for a moment be regarded as trustworthy, there was the evidence and the identification supplied by the gunners of the Martello tower and their wives, and the policemen of Ballyknockane station and the wife of one of them. This evidence while establishing the fact that the prisoner had been concerned in the levying of war against the crown, established also the fact that he was a man as chivalrous and gentle as he was valorous and daring. Some of the incidents proved to have occurred during the attack which was made, under his leadership, on the police barrack, are worthy of special mention in any sketch, however brief, of the life and adventures of this remarkable man. After he, at the head of his party, had demanded the surrender of the barrack in the name of the Irish Republic, the police fired, and the fire was returned. Then the insurgents broke in the door and set fire to the lower part of the barrack. Still the police held out. "Surrender!" cried the insurgents; "You want to commit suicide, but we don't want to commit murder." One of the policemen then cried out that a little girl, his daughter, was inside, and asked if the attacking party would allow her to be passed out? Of course they would, gladly; and the little girl was taken out of the window with all tenderness, and given up to her mother who had chanced to be outside the barrack when the attack commenced. At this time a Catholic clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Neville, came on the spot. He asked the insurgent leader whether, if the police surrendered, any harm would be done to them? "Here is my revolver," said Captain Mackay, "let the contents of it be put through me if one of them should be injured." Well did Mr. Heron in his able speech, referring to these facts, say, "Though they were rebels who acted that heroic part, who could say their hearts, were not animated with the courage of Leonidas, and the chivalry of Bayard."
On the second day of the trial the jury brought in their verdict, declaring the prisoner guilty, but at the same time recommending him to the merciful consideration of the court, because of the humanity which he had displayed towards the men whom he had in his power. The finding took no one by surprise, and did not seem to trouble the prisoner in the faintest degree. During the former trial some shades of anxiety might have been detected on his features; the charge of "murder" was grievous to him, but when that was happily disposed of, the world seemed to brighten before him, and he took his treason-felony trial cheerily. He knew what the verdict on the evidence would be, and he was conscious that the penalty to be imposed on him would be no trivial one; he felt that it was hard to part from faithful comrades, and dear friends, and, above all, from the young wife whom he had married only a few short months before; but then it was in Ireland's cause he was about to suffer, and for that he could endure all.
And yet, Ireland was not his native land. He was born in Cincinnatti, Ohio, in the year 1841. But his parents, who were natives of Castle-Lyons, near Fermoy, in the County Cork, were true children of Erin, and they taught their son to love, even as they did themselves, that green isle far away, from which a hard fate had compelled them to roam. Patriotism, indeed, was hereditary in the family. The great-grandfather of our hero suffered death for his fidelity to the cause of Ireland in the memorable year 1798; and a still-more remarkable fact is that Captain Mackay—or William Francis Lomasney, to call him by his real name—in leaving America for Ireland in 1865 to take part in the contemplated rising, merely took the place which his father wished and intended to occupy. The young man induced him, to remain at home, and claimed for himself the post of danger. Well may that patriotic father be proud of such a son.
When called upon for such remarks as he might have to offer on his own behalf, Captain Mackay, without any of the airs of a practised speaker, but yet with a manner that somehow touched every heart and visibly affected the humane and upright judge who sat on the bench, delivered the following address:—
"My lord—What I said last evening I think calls for a little explanation. I then said I was fully satisfied with the verdict—that it was a fair and just one. I say so still, but I wish to state that I consider it only so in accordance with British law, and that it is not in accordance with my ideas of right and justice. I feel that with the strong evidence there was against me, according to British law, the jury could not, as conscientious men, do otherwise. I feel that. I thank them again for their recommendation to mercy, which, I have no doubt, was prompted by a good intention towards me, and a desire to mitigate what they considered would he a long and painful imprisonment. Still, I will say, with all respect, that I feel the utmost indifference to it. I do so for this reason—I am now in that position that I must rely entirely upon the goodness of God, and I feel confident that He will so dispose events that I will not remain a prisoner so long as your lordship may be pleased to decree. The jury having now found me guilty, it only remains for your lordship to give effect to their verdict. The eloquence, the ability, the clear reasoning, and the really splendid arguments of my counsel failed, as I knew they would, to affect the jury. I feel, therefore, that with my poor talents it would be utterly vain and useless for me to attempt to stay the sentence which it now becomes your lordship's duty to pronounce. I believe, my lord, from what I have seen of your lordship, and what I have heard of you, it will be to you a painful duty to inflict that sentence upon me. To one clinging so much to the world and its joys—to its fond ties and pleasant associations, as I naturally do, retirement into banishment is seldom—very seldom—welcome. Of that, however, I do not complain. But to any man whose heart glows with the warmest impulses and the most intense love of freedom; strongly attached to kind friends, affectionate parents, loving brother and sisters, and a devotedly fond and loving wife, the contemplation of a long period of imprisonment must appear most terrible and appalling. To me, however, viewing it from a purely personal point of view, and considering the cause for which I am about to suffer, far from being dismayed—far from its discouraging me—it proves to me rather a source of joy and comfort. True, it is a position not to be sought—not to be looked for—it is one which, for many, very many reasons there is no occasion for me now to explain, maybe thought to involve disgrace or discredit. But, so far from viewing it in that light, I do not shrink from it, but accept it readily, feeling proud and glad that it affords me an opportunity of proving the sincerity of those soul-elevating principles of freedom which a good old patriotic father instilled into my mind from my earliest years, and which I still entertain with a strong love, whose fervour and intensity are second only to the sacred homage which we owe to God. If, having lost that freedom, I am to be deprived of all those blessings—those glad and joyous years I should have spent amongst loving friends—I shall not complain, I shall not murmur, but with calm resignation and cheerful expectation, I shall joyfully submit to God's blessed will, feeling confident that He will open the strongly locked and barred doors of British prisons. Till that glad time arrives, it is consolation and reward enough for me to know that I have the fervent prayers, the sympathy and loving blessings of Ireland's truly noble and generous people, and far easier, more soothing and more comforting to me will it be to go back to my cheerless cell, than it would be to live in slavish ease and luxury—a witness to the cruel sufferings and terrible miseries of this down-trodden people. Condemn me, then, my lord—condemn me to a felon's doom. To-night I will sleep in a prison cell; to-morrow I will wear a convict's dress; but to me it will be a far nobler garb than the richest dress of slavery. Coward slaves they lie who think the countless sufferings and degradation of prison life disgraces a man. I feel otherwise. It is as impossible to subdue the soul animated with freedom as it will be for England to crush the resolute will of this nation, determined as it is to be free, or perish in the attempt. According to British law, those acts proved against me—fairly proved against me I acknowledge—maybe crimes, but morally, in the eyes of freemen and the sight of God, they are more ennobling than disgraceful. Shame is only a connexion with guilt. It is surely not a crime to obey God's law, or to assist our fellow-men to acquire those God-given rights which no men—no nation—can justly deprive them of. If love of freedom and a desire to extend its unspeakable blessings to all God's creatures, irrespective of race, creed, or colour, be a crime—if devotion to Ireland, and love of its faithful, its honest, its kindly people be a crime, then I say I proudly and gladly acknowledge my guilt. If it is a disgrace, all I can say is I glory in such shame and dishonour; and, with all respect for the court, I hold in thorough and utmost contempt the worst punishment that can be inflicted upon me, so far as it is intended to deprive me of this feeling, and degrade me in the eyes of my fellow-men. Oh, no, it is impossible, my lord; the freeman's soul can never be dismayed. England will most miserably fail if she expects by force and oppression to crush out—to stamp out, as the Times exclaimed—this glorious longing for national life and independence which now fills the breasts of millions of Irishmen, and which only requires a little patience and the opportunity to effect its purpose. Much has been said on these trials, on the objects and intentions of Fenianism. I feel confidently, my lord, as to my own motives. I shall not be guilty of the egotism to say whether they are pure or otherwise. I shall leave that to others to judge. I am not qualified to judge that myself; but I know in my soul that the motives which prompted me were pure, patriotic, and unselfish. I know the motives that actuate the most active members of the Fenian organization; and I know that very few persons, except such contemptible wretches as Corridon, have profited by their connexion with Fenianism. My best friends lost all they ever possessed by it. Talbot and Corridon, I believe, have sworn on previous trials that it was the intention of the Fenians to have divided the lands of Ireland amongst themselves in the event of success. Though an humble member of the organization, I have the honour and satisfaction of being acquainted with the great majority of the leaders of Fenianism on both sides of the Atlantic, and I never knew one of them to have exhibited a desire other than to have the proud satisfaction of freeing Ireland, which was the only reward they ever yearned for—the only object that ever animated them. As to myself, I can truly say that I entered into this movement without any idea of personal aggrandisement. When, in 1865, I bade my loving friends and parents good-bye in America, and came to Ireland, I was fully satisfied with the thought that I was coming to assist in the liberation of an enslaved nation; and I knew that the greatest sacrifices must be endured on our parts before the country could be raised to that proud position which is so beautifully described by the national poet as—
"'Great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, first gem of the sea.'