The tea tasted good, as did the buttered scones with jelly. They could not wake me up, however. I’d be sleepy till the morning.
I was tempted to take another couple of pills for the ride back to Cleggan, especially since the sea seemed rougher. Bravely, or so it seemed to me, I decided against it. I felt queasy until we arrived in the sheltered waters of Cleggan Bay. My children, ensconced in the laps of their grandparents, loved every second of the ride.
“Poor Dermot,” my wife consoled me, “sure aren’t I a terrible eejit for taking you out on the ocean and yourself prone to mal de mer.”
“A rose is a rose,” I replied, “even if it is called ‘une rose.’”
Back in the bungalow the McGrails had a bite to eat—American-style hamburgers—and departed for Carraroe before it turned dark. Fiona was allowed a brief stroll outside while her pups whined for her. The kids were put to bed. Dermot Michael was already under the covers, not sure that he would ever wake up.
Nuala turned to her easel and with sure strokes continued on her portrait.
“Nora Joyce?”
“Poor brave thing,” she agreed.
“Did she really look like that?”
“Certainly! Why else would I paint her this way!”
“Poor Edward Fitzpatrick can’t even admit to himself that he wants to save her husband but he also wants her and he can’t have both.”
“Och, Dermot, doesn’t he know it. So does she. I don’t know what will happen. I promised her out beyond at St. Flannan’s holy well that we’d get back to work on the mystery tomorrow.”
“Which mystery?”
“Sure, Dermot, aren’t they both connected?”
20
Galway, December 10, 1882
I have come here for the hangings, five days hence. For some reason I am one of the reporters chosen to witness the actual event. I dread it. At the last minute I may flee. I have never seen a living man turned into a dead man.
It is bitter cold here in the West of Ireland. Ice has closed the docks and the wharves. Snow covers the frozen river and lake. People shiver when they leave their homes to walk down the street. Some children have frozen to death over in the Claddagh. I have been giving money to beggars and to hungry children who don’t beg.
Lord Spencer, the stupid fool who is Lord Lieutenant here for the Queen and despite some pressure from her, has agreed to commute the sentence of the five men who pleaded guilty to life in prison. It is widely believed that they will be released after twenty years. No mercy, of course, for Pat Joyce, Pat Casey, or Myles Joyce.
Nora wrote the Earl Spencer in a letter in the Freeman’s Journal, a simple plea for her husband’s life. It will have no effect on that terrible man who blames all of Ireland for the brutal murder last year of his Chief Secretary and Assistant Chief Secretary in Phoenix Park:
Dear Sir,
I beg to state through the column of your influential journal that my husband, Myles Joyce, now a convict in Galway jail, is not guilty of the crime. I publicly confess before high heaven that he never committed that crime nor left his house on that night. The five prisoners that pleaded guilty will declare he is innocent, they will swear now and at their dying moment that he never was implicated in that fearful murder. Does not everyone easily imagine a man going before his Almighty will tell the truth? In telling the truth they must confess that he never shared in it. Will the evidence of two informers, the perpetrators of the deed, hang an innocent man whilst the whole party on the scaffold will declare his innocence?
I earnestly beg and implore His Excellence the Lord Lieutenant to examine and consider this hard case of an innocent man who leaves a widow and an unborn child. I crave for mercy.
I am, sir, Yours truly, Nora Joyce, the wife of Myles Joyce that is to be executed on the 15th.
As her letter hints, there was a last desperate attempt to save Myles’s life, even as William Marwood, the public executioner, was supervising the construction of the scaffold in the jail yard.
Galway Town was rife with rumors about what actually happened. It was well known that the people up in the valley believed that most of the accused were innocent. Anger had somehow swept the valley—though not enough anger to be effective—and from the valley it had crept down to the town. The Bishop of Galway, Father Graven, the prison chaplain, the Mercy Nuns who visited the prisoners every day and provided housing for some of their relatives, even the governor of the prison—all working against time are trying to prepare a final memorial to the Lord Lieutenant. They have statements from two of the condemned men, Pat Joyce and Pat Casey:
I, Patrick Joyce, now a prisoner in this prison make the following statement of my own free will: Myles Joyce is as innocent as the child unborn of the crime of the murder of the Joyce family. Seven persons were present at the time of the murder in the house. Namely myself, Michael Casey (prisoner); Pat Casey (prisoner); Thomas Casey (approver); and three now at liberty and I don’t like to mention their names. Thomas Casey used three revolvers and it was he who did all the shooting. Two of the three men, now outside, had a hammer and used it to kill those of the Joyces not dead after receiving the pistol shots.
Anthony Philbin was not present, and I have never seen him in the neighborhood for the last three years. The Anthony Joyces, who swore against us, did not, nor could not, have seen us the night of the murder. There was no meeting whatever at Michael Casey’s house. The meeting took place in the house of one of the men who is out and is a farmer. The murder was not the work of a secret society, but was caused by this man, the farmer who is outside, for spite. I asked Thomas Casey (approver) when he shot at John Joyce, the man of the house, what was the cause for it? He said if I did not hold my mouth, he would soon let me know as I was not doing anything to help him. Myles Joyce and all the other prisoners are innocent of the crime and were not there at all.
Pat Joyce
Made before us at H.M. Prison, Galway, this 13th December, 1882.
Geo. Mason, Governor
Richard Evans, Chief Warden
Pat Casey’s statement was shorter and blunter:
H. M. Prison, Galway, 13th December, 1882. Statement of Patrick Casey.
Patrick Casey, now a prisoner under sentence of death, makes the following statement at his own request and of his own free will:
I say that prisoner Myles Joyce is innocent in that case, namely the murder of the Joyces. There were present at the murder and in the house: myself, Thomas Casey (approver), Pat Joyce, and Michael Casey; the other three are outside. I will not name them. Anthony Philbin was not there. Thomas Casey fired the first shot. John Joyce was the first man that was shot and that by Thomas Casey. All I did in the matter was to put my hand upon John Joyce’s shoulder.
Neither Anthony Joyce nor his family saw a sight of any of the men that committed the murder that night.
Pat Casey.
Made and signed in our presence at H.M. Prison, Galway, this 13th December, 1882.
Geo. Mason, Governor
Richard Evans, Chief Warden
These two documents are powerful proof of the innocence of most of the accused, especially Myles Joyce. They enjoy a certain credibility because the prison officials took them down and put them in a memorial to the Earl Spencer. The journalists here know about them, though they don’t have the text as I do. I have promised not to use the copies I have and I will honor that promise. However, I can and will write the substance of them in my dispatch tonight.
There’s great hope here in Galway Town that the memorial will be a success. Even the English journalists here concede that Myles Joyce is an innocent man. I wish I could share the hope.
I have not seen Nora. I sent my carriage up to Maamtrasna, but Josie tells me that, though Nora is almost eight months pregnant, she walked all the way herself. She is staying with the Mercy Sisters. I do not want to see her. I would feel obliged to try to ease her pain. That would merely make it worse. I am powerless to prevent her husband’s death an
d powerless to help her bear the agony of waiting and the even greater agony of the event itself. I pray that the memorial is successful.
“How is she?” I asked Josie as I slipped another twenty pounds into her hand.
“Sick.” The little ragamuffin was grinning no longer. “She doesn’t care whether she lives or dies. She’ll probably die.”
Tears streaked her dirty face.
“And the child?”
“Babies are already dying up in the valley, Mr. Fitzpatrick. People are afraid there’ll be another famine.”
“Is there anything I can do, Josie?”
“You’ve done all you can, Mr. Fitzpatrick … . Do you think Lord Spencer will spare Myles at the last moment?”
“No, Josie, I do not.”
“Neither do I.”
Galway Town, December 14, 1882
Still bitter cold. More snow. It’s almost like Chicago this time of the year. No word from Earl Spencer, except that he has authorized payment of $1,200 pounds to the Anthony Joyces, blood money if there ever was any.
Should I walk over to the Mercy Convent to see Nora? Josie says there’s nothing I can do. Am I being prudent or cowardly? I don’t know.
A long letter from my father today. Proud of me … Which is normal. No matter what I do he is proud of me. Would that I had his courage and wisdom—and his ability to love without hesitation. Everyone in Chicago, which means all his friends, are greatly impressed by my dispatches and horrified by the mockery of justice in Ireland. He adds, characteristically, that it is probably no worse than in the American South, despite the civil war in which he fought.
He adds that my mother and sisters all wept at my description of Nora. “They instruct me to tell you to bring her home with you when you return. I would not take such an instruction seriously. You know how women are always trying to make matches. On the other hand, if Mrs. Joyce and her child need a place of refuge, our home on North Park Avenue has plenty of rooms.”
My father is a shrewd man in the ways of the human heart. He also knows me very well. Has he sensed behind my dispassionate description of Nora Joyce other, and perhaps baser, feelings?
I cannot permit myself to think of such matters.
I saw Josie again today in front of the Great Southern Hotel, which by the way is almost empty save for reporters. She was waiting in the cold, her thin little body protected only by a shawl, shuddering in the wind.
“Are you waiting for me, Josephine Philbin?”
“I am, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir,” she said.
“If you wait again, come into the lobby.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Fitzpatrick, that’s too grand a place for the likes of me.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want to tell you that Nora is having pains. The nuns say that her time hasn’t come yet, but I think they’re worried too.”
“Is there something I can do?”
“No, sir. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Come, Josie, we’re going shopping.”
“For what, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir?”
“For a warm cloak.”
“For me?”
“I have a coat as you can see.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir! I couldn’t …”
“You can and you will. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.
“Does Nora have a warm cloak?”
“No, sir. Only that thin red one she prizes so much.
“Then we will buy her one too.”
“She might not wear it.”
“Tell her it’s an order from me that she wear it.”
“Yes, sir.”
So we bought two heavy winter cloaks.
Thus did I soothe my conscience.
I wrote back to my father. I told him that if Myles Joyce died tomorrow, as I think very likely, the fire will go out of his wife’s life.
Galway Town, December 15, 1882
Earl Spencer turned down the memorial. He sent a sixteen-word telegram to the governor of the prison: “Having considered statements, I am unable to alter my decision. The law must take its course.”
He probably felt that he had been too generous even in remitting the death sentences of the five men who had pled guilty.
I will leave now for the prison.
Later in the day.
It is all over now. Myles Joyce is dead. His body has been consumed by quicklime. The black flag hangs over the prison. I hear the mournful keening of the women of Maamtrasna. I imagine Nora’s brave, young voice among them. I cannot think. I cannot write. I can only sob with grief and rage. I will try to write tomorrow.
Galway Town, December 16, 1882
Martin Dempsey, fresh from Dublin, stood next to me in the bitter cold prison yard.
“Spencer will never live this down,” he said. “Even the Protestants in Dublin say that this is too much.”
The door of the jailhouse opened and the governor of the prison appeared, followed by the three prisoners, Myles Joyce, his arms tied behind his back, in the lead. Seeing us, Myles began to shout in Irish. One of the Irish reporters translated.
“I will see Jesus Christ soon. He was hanged in the wrong too.”
“Myles knows what he’s doing,” Martin said. “He’s creating a heritage.”
Most men, I thought, would not do that when they were about to die. Myles Joyce, however, was not most men.
At the foot of the scaffold, he slipped out of the hands of his guards and bounded up the steps.
“As God is my witness,” he shouted, according to the translators, “I never did it. It is a poor case to die on a platform when you’re innocent. May God help my poor. wife and her unborn child. I had no hand or part in it. But now I have my priest with me.”
Eight iron hooks hung over the scaffold. On three of them were ropes. Hangman Marwood had prepared for the execution of all the prisoners.
The hangman put leg straps around his victims and then adjusted the nooses around their necks. Pat Joyce and Pat Casey did not resist. Still shouting in Irish, Myles Joyce continued to fight the hangman. Marwood pushed him about roughly. Somehow Myles managed to twist his head out of position. Marwood pushed him back into place.
“The man’s a butcher,” Martin said to me. “He’s going to mess this one up.”
Marwood reached for the lever that would spring the three trapdoors. The noose slipped loose from Myles’s neck. The traps were sprung. The ropes around Pat Casey and Pat Joyce’s necks snapped taut. Both died instantly of broken necks. Myles Joyce’s rope spun back and forth. Myles screamed in terrible agony as he slowly strangled. Marwood, cursing Myles loudly, had to climb down the ladder, duck under the scaffold platform and, as Martin said to me, “kicked poor Myles into eternity.”
“Was the suffering worth it?” I later asked him.
“Come look down the trapdoors.”
I didn’t want to. I knew the image would lurk in my mind for the rest of my life. Somehow I owed it to Myles. The heads of the other two men were twisted to one side, broken necks. Myles’s head was erect. He had defied them to the end.
I had the lead for my dispatch.
Marwood told the reporters that Myles had died instantly. We laughed at him, even the English reporters.
Strangely, I did not vomit till I reached my hotel room. I did not look at the women keening outside for fear I might see Nora’s face.
Martin walked back with me, perhaps to keep an eye on me. “As long as Irishmen are alive anywhere in the world, the memory of Myles Joyce and his horrible death will never be forgotten.”
It is the darkest time of the year and still fiercely cold here in Galway. Many people claim to have seen the ghost of Myles Joyce and heard him running through the streets of the city. In this place, at this time of the year, and after what happened, I am prepared to believe almost anything.
Galway Town, December 17, 1882
As would be expected, they are already singing ballads to him in t
he pubs. I hope someday Ireland will have something more to sing about than dead heroes.
Apparitions continue in the town. I don’t believe them. Well, I think I don’t.
I am tempted to ride up to Maamtrasna and spend Christmas protecting Nora. Would Myles want me to? What else could those smiles have meant? Yet, I am afraid to do so. Maybe this is not the time. Maybe later. Am I a coward? Probably.
There was another inquest today. The Catholic minority on the jury wanted to question Marwood, to accuse him of deliberate sloppiness in the execution. The coroner, a Protestant of course, forbade it. I’m not sure what difference it makes anymore.
An Irish M.P. came to my room this afternoon. He carried a pile of my dispatches from the Daily News. Would I come to London and help them bring a motion before Parliament to investigate the Crown’s handling of the whole Maamtrasna affair?
“Will you win on the motion?” I asked.
“Not very likely. Yet we’ll tell the story so it will be heard again, both in Ireland and England.”
“All right,” I said. “I owe it to Myles.”
There was nothing else to do.
Martin Dempsey invited me to celebrate Christmas with his family in Dublin. I accepted.
I will leave tomorrow morning. In my heart, I promise Nora that I will return. In my head, I know that I won’t.
London, February 3, 1883
A brief letter from the Bishop of Galway today.
Nora Joyce, widow of Myles Joyce, delivered a baby girl three days ago after returning from her weekly keening outside Galway jail. Mother and child both survived. Their prospects, however, are poor. The child was baptized by her aunt, Josephine Philbin. She is called Mary Elizabeth.
I put the note away with a sigh. I hope that Josie still had some of the money I had given her. When spring returns I will go back to Galway to visit them. If they are still alive.
Irish Love Page 20
