Moriarty The Life and Times of a Criminal Genius

by Michael Charton

  I suddenly found my voice, "Hope you enjoy what you see!" I said cheerfully. Father smiled. The judge did not see the joke. He bellowed at the Redcoats, "Take this brat outside and teach him some manners!" I was hustled outside. The redcoats must have been afraid of me. They tied me to a hitching post so they could beat me with their fists. I would not give them the satisfaction of crying out. I was bloodied but unbowed. I bested them! Roughly ten minutes after being brought outside, I was brought back in. The judge looked down at me and said, "Maybe you will learn to hold that tongue of yours, lad." I would have responded but Mother was angrily addressing the court.

  "I insist we attend my husband's murder."

  "Madame, this is a sentence of execution sanctioned by the Crown. It is not a murder and it is no place for a woman and her children."

  "He is our family and they will remember this! You may use your fancy legal terms, but to us and to many Irish people it is cold-blooded murder!"

  "Very well, Madame, if that is your wish."

  I am guessing the last thing the British authorities wanted was to have me see my father's execution. I also suspect the judge feared NOT allowing us. This way no one could claim there was some sort of secret cover up. After all, they were right and it was part of what would drive the rest of my life. I was very surprised the judge allowed us to go in the end. I can see why he did, but the son of a swine sadly did not live to see what he helped create. I would have so enjoyed throwing it back in his face.

  The following day we sat in the cell with my father. Father Feeney was secretly in favor of what my father had been doing but asked the ritual question whether he had any final things he wanted to say to him.

  "Father Feeney, I confess not to what I did, but that I could not do more to save our people."

  The day after, we were up at dawn and rode in the cart with Father and Father Feeney to the gallows. Father was in a rather jaunty mood, for someone about to be hanged. He recited poetry, told stories and then looked at me.

  "Jamie, my lad, you must take care of the family now. I'll be watching from a better place. Do me proud, my boy!"

  The two redcoats were stone faced. I can only imagine what they thought. One of the redcoats was McGuiness. He was taking an interest in Mother I did not like. Father noticed it as well. I am thinking that if Father could smite McGuiness from the heavens, he would do so. Mother glared at both redcoats, but saved her worst for McGuiness.

  We arrived. Father Feeney walked up the stairs to the scaffold with Father as McGuiness escorted them. The judge was waiting on the scaffold and read again from a paper.

  "James Moriarty, you have been tried and convicted by a jury of your peers. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?

  "Yes I do," Father said firmly. Father was so calm and content; an observer might have thought him happy. He seemed rather jaunty and ready to meet his maker. He gave another grand speech from there. Father's speech was certainly more interesting than that of the British judge. Then again, I am definitely biased here.

  "To the English who are murdering me today: I am not the first Irishman you will murder and surely, I will not be the last. You will be paid back in kind one day. Do you really think I will be the last and that others will not attempt this?

  "To my Irish compatriots: Do not be disheartened by my death. Continue the fight. Avenge me when you can.

  Erin Go Bragh! Do your worst and be done with it!" Father Feeney prayed in Latin. The trap door was open and that was it. I bit my lip.

  Mother hissed in my ear. "You will not cry in front of these evil people. As your father said, their ruin shall come." She bent her head, crossed herself and looked up at the gallows containing my father's broken body. She then moved her gaze to glare at the representatives of Her Majesty's rotten government. My mother was stone faced and hard. She would do her weeping where no English or traitorous Irish eyes could view.

  Potatoes were the most common crop. A good potato crop could feed a large number of people on a small area of land. Well, the potatoes rotted in the fields, starting in the year 1846. People would open the potato and it oozed black slime. I remember those days when I heard the horrified cries of tenants. I felt those awful potatoes myself. My family spared what it could for people who were now running out of things to eat. The potatoes of course were inedible, forcing people to eat their seed potatoes. The rot was worse the next year. You don't forget watching people starve to death. People you have known all your life and who would have done anything in their power for you dying of disease. I watched people I grew up knowing hold out a bony hand to me and I could do nothing! It was all preventable. Alas, the English made sure it happened. Whether deliberate or not, I do not care. It happened, and that is it. Immediately after Father was hanged, there was more rot in my beloved family as well.

  Within two days, my beautiful younger sister Mairead came down with typhoid. She was nine years old. Typhoid was all around the area. I loved my sister, who provided a less rough edge in the family. It was bad enough to watch the other people in the district suffer. When it came into my own house, it was like a black cloud being over the home. Doctor McArthur came to the house and told mother and there was nothing to be done. He placed a sign on the door saying we were quarantined. It was a miracle mother and I did not get it. Mairead suffered from her fever and thirst. Two days later, she was dead. We were burying another family member in a short time. The church service and the walk to the grave was becoming a sad part of life. Church had become a sad occasion for something that was an important part of community.

  The holy mother church is an important part of Irish life. Take away the church and much of what holds Ireland together vanishes. Famine makes the job of the English in attacking Irish culture easier. Many churches lost parishioners to starvation and emigration. There were many "America Wakes." A wake would be held for the person emigrating because a betting man would say you would never see that person again.

  The death and discouragement around us was appalling. After my father was hanged and Mairead died, my mother did not weep but became harder. "Now is the time you need to rise to your destiny."

  "How?" I cried. "I am only 13 years old!"

  Mother did not care. "By your age, David had slain the evil giant Goliath."

  "I am not as grand as the great King David. I am not ready for such a challenge. How do you suggest I carry this out?"

  Mother put her hands on her hips and glared at me. "You are an intelligent boy. God will guide you."

  For several days, I thought about it. Then I found father's old shotgun. I was about to commit my first "crimes". At least, they were crimes in the eyes of British "justice."

  I continued to watch my neighbors starve. We were not much better off. I would become an Irish Robin Hood. A week later, my first target presented itself. I came out from behind the trees one day while James McGrath, the rent agent for Lord Fitzmaurice, was out collecting rents from people who could ill afford to pay. I was small, only five foot three and maybe nine stone, but I was determined.

  "Stand and deliver," I cried in a voice cracking from the beginnings of puberty. McGrath, a stereotypical drunken stage Irishman--fat, bloated and cowardly looked at me through drunken eyes. McGrath was a bully who enjoyed being cruel to tenants and helping with evictions. With the blight of the potatoes, there were many more evictions. Landowners were actually paying shipping lines to ship their tenants to America is some cases. It was the ruination of the communal Irish rural culture--our version of the Scottish Highland Clearances decades earlier. McGrath enjoyed being the agent of the English. "Ah, well if it isn't Jamie Moriarty. Might that be a gun yer pointin' at me, lad? You know I am a Queen's Agent. I could have you transported to Australia right now or swing from the gallows like your idiot father. Do you want that same fate, me lad? It is easily arranged."

  "Not this time you won't," I snarled, shocked at how cold my voice had suddenly become.

  "Run away now, Ja
mie. Run while ye an, lad. I'll forget this if you leave now and never attempt it again."

  The next seconds were a blur. The shotgun fired, knocking McGrath on his arse. He looked at me shocked, while he held his hands to his abdomen to keep his disgusting guts from spilling out.

  "You killed me, ya bloody bastard; I'm gut shot." He continued to hold his guts as the blood oozed through his fingers. He gurgled and moaned. He wasn't so brave any more. Shows you what a coward he was. I was overcoming the shock over the shotgun discharge and just looked at him. I rather enjoyed looking at him in his present state. He could no longer bully helpless tenants. "Shoot me in the head and put me out of me misery, would ya?" he snarled with all the strength he could muster.

  I suddenly found my voice and my confidence. "You look good lying there, McGrath, you fat swine. No redcoats to help you now. No constables. I am just sorry none of your victims is here to see this day!"

  "You've given your speech, ya little bastard, now just finish me off."

  I didn't have to finish the job. He died in front of me. He was too big to move. I knew how hard I was when I didn't even react to the mess. I emptied his pockets. Four pounds! I had never seen four pounds before in one place. I folded the shotgun back so I could run safely and ran as fast as I could. I hid the money under my mattress and in the coming days, gave it back to the tenants he had robbed.

  No one told on me and people were grateful. Of course, Lord Fitzmaurice was far from grateful. He posted wanted signs promising a reward for the murder of James McGrath. The signs also had an ominous warning that rents would be increased as punishment. He called his tenants together in a field. Lord Fitzmaurice spoke with a very arrogant air. He was a retired British Army officer, cruel and sure of himself. He stood tall over his stooped tenants and stared down his long aristocratic nose at them. His speech went as follows:

  "The cold blooded, barbaric murder of Mr. McGrath is a blot on peace and order in the British nation. I don't care if there is a blight. I eat well. If you don't live up to your obligations, I shall evict you. Just that simple. Those are the laws of the market and of man. Many friends of mine are deporting their tenants. You can work for your sustenance digging canals in New Orleans. I've a good mind to send the lot of you off now. It would be less expensive than putting up with you wretched refuse. The Scottish lairds were lucky. They had their clearances and could make their land more productive. I shall make my land more productive. It's a shame none of you will start a Jacobite rebellion. On second thought, I think I will evict you. You will enjoy your new homes in New Orleans. I will pay your passage. Maybe this is for the better that McGrath died. I will still pursue justice for his murder, only because it disturbs the harmony of the nation and the Queen's Justice. "

  I stood in the back and listened to this in pure horror. I also knew who my next target was. Of course, Lord Fitzmaurice ate well. He was a wealthy man with many interests. I would have loved to kill him there, but now was not the time.

  Ireland did not have to starve. We actually exported food. Potatoes were grown because they could feed a large group inexpensively. The population rose because of it. Now, potatoes faced blight and only poorhouses were providing limited food. This is why many, including my mother and I felt it was a deliberate policy to lower the Irish population. The English also wanted all of the Irish to become Protestant. It was blackmail, pure and simple. Become Protestant and you can come and eat at the table. Remain Catholic and you would be allowed to eat the scraps if you were lucky and did not starve. Starvation in itself was not the killer, but the myriad of diseases that appeared because people had become so weak. My mother would sooner have died than allow us to do that. We were lucky though. Unlike some of our brethren, we were not starving yet. Now you understand Lord Fitzmaurice's hateful speech. For him, we were just people to make money from, much like serfs in the Middle Ages.

  I had no one else with me. For now, I felt safer carrying this out by myself. I would gain help from my mates later. I was happy to have the gratitude of the local people. It seemed I had a special gift. I had intelligence and cruelty in my favor. I discovered I had no feelings about being cruel one way or another. I found after I killed that fat swine McGrath, it was easy to think of killing again. I had butchered animals for people as a young lad, and cruelty was not part of the equation.

  If I weren't going to kill Lord Fitzmaurice immediately, I was certainly going to get pleasure from finding ways to make his life difficult. I knew he liked horses. I knew he liked to eat. Well, I was going to hit him where it hurt. Think of the Pharaoh, Moses and the Ten Plagues. I was going to work my way up gradually. Maybe I would not have to kill him, though I still wanted to.

  First, I made his favorite racehorse lame by cutting a tendon in its foot. Lord Fitzmaurice put out more reward posters.

  Then, I burned his wheat fields. If we couldn't eat, he couldn't eat and sell his crop.

  He was enraged. The idea of being bested by people he considered beneath him was just too much. You may think us mad for burning wheat. We took just what we could use. Soldiers were sent to scour the countryside looking for the people responsible. No one gave it away. He finally offered all sorts of rewards, including free tenancy to those who would give evidence.

  Eventually there was one Judas, and it only takes one to ruin everything. That Judas was Donal McSweeney. He is the reason we had to leave Ireland like bloody thieves in the night. Donal, unbeknownst to me, had seen me setting Lord Fitzmaurice's wheat alight. Now, I brought my lifelong friends Sean Cahill and Cathal Daly in to help me. We confronted him one day in his field. He was a small, ferret like boy of fifteen.

  "You betrayed me, Judas! Why?"

  "Ah, Jamie, I did no such thing."

  "Liar! It is all over that Lord Fitzmaurice is giving your family free rent!" He tried to get away, but my friends Sean and Cathal grabbed him. I didn't want to kill him, but I made an example of him. We cut out his tongue so he would betray no one else. Then while Sean held him with a knife, I carved into his each of his cheeks traitor. I carved it in English on the left cheek and treatuir, the Gaelic, on the right cheek. There would be no mistaking. We left him sobbing in his field like the coward he is and ran for it.

  • Chapter Three

  • We Must Leave Ireland!

  I learned a sorry lesson. My mother, Sean, Cathal and I had to flee literally in the night. We made a terrible mistake in not killing Donal in the fields. The next time I set an example, the person must not live. Cutting out a tongue was not enough. We discovered one night how much jeopardy we were in.

  Paddy Reilly, owner of the Tall Cliffs Pub, told us we were in danger. He came to our home to tell us this.

  "Paddy, surprised to see you, but glad to see you. Sit by the fire and warm yourself," mother said softly.

  Paddy worked his way into an old wooden chair by the fire. "Oh, Mrs. Moriarty I wish I could say this was a social call. The bloody redcoats and the constabulary have a warrant and will be arresting you in two nights. You Jamie, Sean and Cathal must leave at once!"

  Mother shot up like a lightning bolt. "Paddy, I shall do no such thing! I shall fight the bloody bastards when they come through my door this time. They will not soil my home again. I shall kill as many as I can and I will!"

  "Mrs. Moriarty, you have great spirit, and I admire your courage. These bloody bastards may just kill you because they said you resisted. They may just kill Jamie. Oh surely, you wouldn't be wantin' that now would ye?

  Ah, Mrs. Moriarty, I have no money to spare, or by God, I would. Your husband was a good man. Your lads, Sean and Cathal are good boys. None of youse deserves this. Donal saw you in town and dragged the constable out to point her out then pointed to his tongue. The constable is an old drunk who thinks he is important because he is solvin' a major crime, he does. That stupid constable Hurley went and told that bastard Captain Fitzhugh, who arrested your blessed husband. Lord Fitzmaurice is rewarding Donal further. Don't worry, Donal will g
et his. Jamie me lad, your error was not killing Donal as well as that stupid constable. I know the entire plan. None of them lads can shut their mouths when the drink is in them. The warrant has been drawn up. That big lout of a redcoat McGuinness is the bloody worst. He says he looks forward to returning to your home and having fun with you Mrs. Moriarty. I mean no disrespect there. I thought I had better warn you."

  Mother took charge immediately. "Jamie, go bring Cathal and Sean here. We are to be arrested in two days? Well the house shall be here, but we will not! Now go lad, and be quick!"

  It was a quick and dirty business. Sean and Cathal came quickly and quietly. Their heartbroken families understood though. I ran to their cottages to retrieve them and was back as quickly as possible.

  I got back in time. Paddy said his goodbyes and wished us Godspeed. We would leave in the night, like thieves but it had to be this way. Revenge would have to be another day. Again, mother did not cry, but took charge. We stuffed our pockets with potatoes and headed out. We grabbed money, not bothering to count it, and headed out in the night.

  Before we left Kerry for the last time, I went out to the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic and threw the shotgun into the cruel, roiling seas. The shotgun had served me well, but would serve us no purpose now. I certainly could not carry it to Cork and on board ship.

  We headed the one hundred miles to Cobh Harbor (Queenstown in English opposite Cork). This was the nearest major port. We intended to head for Boston or New York. We had no other transportation but our own feet. It was a walk through hell, watching people starving and suffering, dying of typhus and cholera, begging as they stumbled out of their hovels knowing we were in no position to do anything and we were on the run. The images of the starving are seared in my mind and will never go away. We could eat along the journey. We had some food and money for pub food on the way. Knowing we could eat and survive and many could not. I later read Dante and of his circles of hell. I did not have to read Dante. I lived it! My mother still spoke of revenge, but I could not see a light guiding me as to how while we walked away from our former lives and to who knows what. We didn't want to flee our beloved country; however fate made the decision for us. We couldn't help but wonder what path God was guiding us on, and why were we his chosen vessels in this matters. We discovered to our horror ,after several hard days of walking, exhaustion and little food and drink that we only had five pounds among us. We discovered we could not afford the passage to America. Playing Robin Hood and not keeping more money for my mother and me had proven expensive.