Dr O’Doherty’s oration at the O’Connell commemoration in St Stephen’s Cathedral was followed by the chanting of an ode composed by Eva, and reminiscent of the clarity of the lines she had written for the Nation.
Led by his prophet might
Rose ye to manhood’s height,
Flashing the sword of right,
Forth from its sheath!
In Fremantle, the metaphorical sword of right lay at Breslin’s side in the Emerald Isle Hotel, awaiting the arrival of Catalpa that it might be unsheathed.
As February progressed, Breslin understandably began to hang around the ship’s bulletin board outside the telegraph office in Fremantle. He telegraphed Kenealy in obscure terms saying that the Californian finances had not arrived: he would be able to play the Yankee investor only until about the first week in March.
His financial situation was growing desperate when in early March, John King, the Fenian from the Petersham quarry, arrived on Georgette in Fremantle carrying funds. He had somehow evaded being quarantined in Albany with the rest of his shipmates, and now signed himself into the Emerald Isle under the less than inspired soubriquet of George Jones. Breslin was away on a swing through the bush, and King told Maloney he had a personal letter for Mr Collins, from Collins’s banking connections in Sydney. When Collins returned from a dusty interior, King came to his room, opened his shirt and undid a money belt. There was £800 sterling in it. King said he had been communing with Kenealy by coded letter, and it was Kenealy’s and King’s considered idea that King should lend Breslin assistance in engineering the rescue and escape on Catalpa. Breslin was pleased for such reliable company.
For the American Clan na Gael too, March was a difficult month. Judge Cooney got a letter from Breslin stating anxiety over the late arrival of Catalpa. Cooney sent the letter on to Devoy in New York, who began to wonder if Anthony had in fact deserted the project. The ship would however arrive in Bunbury two days after the date on the letter which so alarmed Devoy.
In the stress of waiting, Breslin had, like O’Reilly before him, fallen in love with a local woman, and in drawing close to her, committed a rare but egregious breach of his normal caution. The young woman, Mary Tondut, was the daughter of a French immigrant and Perth winegrower Charles Tondut. Breslin was not a man of outrageous charm, nor a philanderer. But in March, Tondut conceived a child by him. This was no casual fling—Breslin and Tondut were contemplating marriage, and if Mary Tondut knew anything of Mr Collins’s true purpose she never revealed it.
At ten o’clock on the night of 6 March, Fauntleroy, Acting Comptroller General, asked for a private word with Superintendent Doonan on the road outside the great white prison of Fremantle. Doonan suspected Fauntleroy was seeking a means to spread responsibility should any attempt at escape succeed, and sat up afterwards writing a detailed minute on the conversation. According to it, Fauntleroy told him, ‘When you visit the prison of a night, I want you to examine the exterior doors of the division and be exact about it.’ Doonan thought he was entitled to know the reason why, and after argument Fauntleroy took Doonan into his confidence on Carnarvon’s confidential dispatch. Doonan said that if there was any chance of a rescue, the Fenians should be kept inside the prison. Certainly Darragh should be shifted from his billet as chaplain’s groom, for at the stable ‘he has every opportunity of communicating with pensioners and their wives and other people.’ But Fauntleroy backed away from the idea that special precautions must be taken. The Fenian prisoners were nearly all convict constables, Fauntleroy argued, and suddenly to lock them in by day would merely create suspicion.
Doonan told him that one of their warders, Booler, in whose charge two Fenians worked on the pier, held communistic views. ‘Shall I shift these two from him?’ But Fauntleroy said no. So Doonan would claim that, ‘except the order to myself to examine the exterior doors of the division the Acting Comptroller General never issued a single verbal or otherwise order to anyone … consequent upon the warning.’ The Western Australian authorities seemed more concerned to obey Carnarvon’s order for secrecy than to render an escape utterly impossible.
In that late summer, while his liaison with Tondut was in full flower, Breslin was driven to maintain his cover by pretending to a passion for wool-marketing and mineral exploration—prophetically, since a gold rush would bring thousands into the Western Australian desert later in the century. And to add to Breslin’s acute but well-hidden stress, two new Irishmen, agents of the IRB in Dublin, had arrived in town after a month’s quarantine in Albany. These men were in fact in Fremantle to carry out the very conspiracy of which Carnarvon had warned Governor Robinson, and knew nothing of Breslin as he knew nothing of them. Detective Sergeant Rowe, given the job of reporting on new arrivals in Western Australia, noted that they booked into the Port Hotel, one of the other Irish establishments in Fremantle, under the names Alfred Dixon and Henry Hopkins. Dixon’s true name was Denis McCarthy.
Nearly thirty years later, King would tell the readers of the Gaelic American the story of the testing out of the newly arrived Irishmen. He started out that evening to meet Dixon/McCarthy. Strolling up the main street and spotting him, King chatted with him and agreed to meet him for fuller discussions on the beach within the hour.
There, by the scattered light from the town behind them and with the immense Indian Ocean stretching into illimitable darkness to the west, McCarthy showed King a document which proved that he and his companion Walsh, alias Hopkins, were acting as agents of the IRB of England and Ireland. King was so convinced that despite the lateness of the hour he took McCarthy and Walsh back to the Emerald Isle and introduced them to Breslin. Walsh had in his possession a large sum of money collected in Ireland, about $5,000 US. The two Irishmen offered their services and this sum of money to Breslin. ‘We declined their money but took their revolvers.’ In Fremantle in that season of waiting, the accession of Denis McCarthy and John Walsh to the scheme was both logistically and emotionally welcome. It did spread the secret amongst five men plus the Fenian prisoners, but on the day of escape, if ever it should come, McCarthy could cut the telegraph wire between Fremantle and Perth, and Walsh the wire southwards between Fremantle and Bunbury.
Breslin had already made a reconnaissance journey to Bunbury in early March—Sub-Inspector Wisby later reported him to have come down and gone shooting along the estuary. ‘Collins did ask about the whale ship Catalpa but it was not thought of any more at the time.’ He was long gone when on 27 March Catalpa got its first sight of Western Australia—Geographe Bay within which sat Bunbury. Anthony eased the Catalpa south into the Leschenault Inlet and dropped anchor in the harbour of Bunbury as darkness came on.
In Fremantle early the next morning, Breslin read the telegraphed news of Catalpa’s arrival on the bulletin board, went back to the Emerald Isle Hotel in an exhilarated state and took from the bottom of his bag a code he and Devoy had devised. When the telegraph office opened at nine, he sent off the neutral message. ‘To Captain Anthony, Master barque Catalpa, Bunbury. Have you any news from New Bedford? Can you come to Fremantle? J. Collins.’ Anthony also had a code, and telegraphed back: ‘No news from New Bedford. Shall not come to Fremantle.’ The message thus declared that no suspicion attached to Catalpa. Breslin booked a seat on the next day’s stagecoach to Bunbury. Meanwhile, he got a note to the prisoner Wilson. ‘Our friend has reached port with greetings from Old Erin,’ Breslin’s message read. ‘He wishes you all well, and hopes you are always amenable to your warders. He hopes to see you soon.’
While waiting for the arrival of the Fremantle coach, Anthony bought meat for the ship. A wholesale butcher remarked that since Anthony was a Yankee he might be interested to know there was another Yankee in the region, a rich one named Collins. The butcher was standing beside him when the mail coach ground into Bunbury at four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and pointed out Collins. ‘That’s the very man … Come to Spencer’s Hotel and I’ll introduce you.’
Brought togeth
er by the butcher, it was quite natural that Anthony and Collins should dine together. Anthony told Collins that the only men he could trust were the men in his own whaleboat; already he had seven men in irons aboard ship for desertion. Breslin in return told Anthony that by reconnaissance he had chosen a beach south of Fremantle, Rockingham Beach, as the place from which the prisoners could be lifted by Anthony’s whaleboat. He and Anthony should catch Georgette, he said, due into Bunbury the next day, and visit Fremantle and inspect the place. With the arrival of the Georgette, however, the escape became suddenly over-staffed. Travelling under the name Hall, the unstoppable, hulking Brennan came ashore, and hunted down Breslin at Spencer’s hotel. From that first meeting, Brennan and Breslin would never respect each other, Brennan accusing Breslin of behaving as if he owned the escape, Breslin finding Brennan a malcontent and bully. Even now, Brennan wanted to go aboard Catalpa straight away, which would have been noticed at once. Breslin insisted that Brennan go on to Fremantle in his own time, and board Catalpa only at the time of the escape.
Leaving command of the whaler in Sam Smith’s hands, Captain Anthony boarded the Georgette with Breslin for the journey up the coast. Anthony was introduced to Captain Grady, the master, and even before the ship had cleared Bunbury, Anthony was already in Georgette’s pilot house, chatting with Grady about the coast, courses, bearings, Australian winds and storms.
But as they arrived at Victoria Quay in Fremantle, Anthony and Breslin were appalled to see a British gunboat, HMS Conflict, moored at the opposite end of the quay. Conflict possessed two guns and a crew of thirty. With steam up, and in light wind, Conflict would quickly catch and sink Catalpa. Inquiries in Fremantle pubs indicated that Conflict’s men believed they would be in Perth in eight to nine days. With no option but to go on preparing, Anthony and Breslin rode down to Rockingham, timing the journey at two hours twenty minutes at most. Anthony was pleased to see the way the extent of Garden Island sheltered the long arc of Rockingham Beach from the open ocean. Devoy had wanted the boats which picked up the escapees to be procured in Australia, but suitable boats were scarce and rental likely to cause comment, so Anthony would use his own whaleboat. If Breslin could deliver the men, Anthony himself would ship them out to Catalpa, twelve to sixteen miles out, at most a five hour row. Anthony enthusiastically marked the chosen spot for Breslin to deliver the men with two driftwood logs he and Breslin hauled high to the edge of the sand dunes.
HMS Conflict for the moment made these calculations academic. There was doubt too about whether, when Conflict left Fremantle, it would head north to Darwin or east to Adelaide. If it headed north, it would remain on the flank of Catalpa’s escape route. It was agreed before Anthony returned to Bunbury and his whaler that when Conflict left Fremantle, Breslin would send Anthony a telegram which would read: ‘Your friend N (or S) has gone home. When do you sail?’ If the gunboat headed to Adelaide (S), it would leave the seas off Western Australia clear.
Before leaving Fremantle, Captain Anthony was invited to dinner at the residence of Governor Sir William Cleaver Robinson up the Swan River in Perth. As Anthony was about to go in to dinner, a government aide put his hand on his shoulder and said bluntly, ‘Excuse me, sir, but what is your name and business and what are you doing here?’ Breslin, also a dinner guest, stepped up laughing to explain to Anthony that this was the blunt way inquiries were frequently made in Western Australia. But even when casually buying an up-dated map at the hydrographic office in Fremantle, Anthony was harshly questioned. He was glad to catch the mail coach at last back to the slightly less complex environs of Bunbury, a thirty-two hour journey over sandy roads. Back with the ship, he passed Sam Smith the job of calling regularly at the telegraph office in Bunbury, while he himself directed the building of additional cabins in the steerage area forward. He told the crew to keep it quiet, but that they might be taking some passengers back to the US to supplement their profit from whaling.
On Tuesday morning, 11 April, Breslin woke up in Fremantle to find the warship Conflict gone from the wharf. The bulletin board showed that it had sailed for Adelaide, leaving open the escape route. Breslin sent his coded telegram and as soon as Anthony received the news, he ordered his boat over the side to go ashore and seek port clearance. Customs men and water police were dispatched to the whaling bark to search her for stowaways and contraband, while Anthony sat in the customs office signing endless papers. A quarrel began over a barrel of caulk Catalpa had landed and not paid duty on. The vessel was under custody. Rowed out to Catalpa, Anthony found that a uniformed customs official was sitting in the cabin beside the first mate Smith, who had landed the barrel as pig feed. Dealing with this minute point took hours. By the time it was settled and Catalpa permitted to proceed, the day had been lost.
Anthony waited for the telegraph office to open next morning, and sent a message to Breslin. ‘I sail today. Goodbye. Answer if received. Anthony.’ This message, picked up at the Fremantle telegraph office, galvanised Breslin. He calculated that if Anthony left Bunbury that day, Wednesday, he would be off Rockingham Beach on Friday morning. Friday was Good Friday—government buildings would be closed, the prisoners locked up inside the prison. Breslin therefore sent off a further desperate telegraph. ‘Friday being Good Friday I shall remain at Fremantle and start for York on Saturday morning. I wish you may strike oil. Collins.’ Fortunately, Anthony went ashore before sailing to seek an answer to his original message. He found everyone speaking pessimistically about the weather, and predicting north-westerlies.
At five o’clock on Easter Thursday, just as the telegraph office in Fremantle was closing, Breslin was delighted to receive a reply from Anthony. ‘Yours received. Did not sail today. Winds ahead and rising. Sailing in morning. Goodbye. Anthony.’ The Catalpa would be off Rockingham on Easter Saturday morning then. Breslin now alerted Tom Desmond, care of his modest lodgings in Perth. Desmond was to set out for Fremantle on Friday night with the trap and matching team of horses he had already ordered from the livery stables in Perth. As part of his luggage he would carry guns, ammunition and clothing. Late on Thursday, someone—perhaps a pro-Fenian warder named McMahon—was able to warn the prisoners that the break would be on Saturday, appropriately enough the eve of Resurrection. Amidst all this, Breslin had the matter of the maid Mary Tondut. About to leave her, he made arrangements for her to have money to follow him to America. To what extent she was let into the plan is not known.
That night, as Breslin attempted sleep, a gale which had struck the town early in the evening now increased in force. Breslin understood that the same gale was audible to the Fenians in their cells, and wondered how in their tormented expectation another delay would sit. In Bunbury, by seven o’clock that Thursday evening, the Catalpa was taking the brunt of a north-westerly storm, and in the middle of the night, she dragged her anchors. Only by expert seamanship was he able to prevent the ship running aground and drop the anchors again. As Good Friday morning broke, the sun was seen, though the wind was still ferociously against him. Catalpa obviously could not clear Bunbury for Rockingham Beach that day. Anthony composed from Devoy’s book of codes a message for such an eventuality. ‘It has blown heavy. Ship dragged both anchors. Can you advance more money if needed. Will telegraph you again in the morning.’
It was afternoon on Good Friday before a whaleboat could be launched from Catalpa without swamping. Sam Smith went ashore to send his message to Breslin, and found the telegraph office locked. But he had over the past weeks got to know the telegraphist, Beatrice Warren, and ran to her house. Smith was able to persuade Beatrice to leave her home, walk through rain and gale with him, open the office and tap on her transmitter the letters FR for Fremantle. The telegraphist at the end of the line in Fremantle took the message: that Anthony needed money—that is, more time—because of storm damage.
Breslin received from Father McCabe that Good Friday a note which indicated that the men were all now ready to break away the next day, Saturday. In the hope that Ch
rist would smile on Fenians, Breslin attended the Mass of the Presanctified on Good Friday. In the pews behind him, each involved in apparently singular worship, sat Desmond, King, Walsh, McCarthy and Brennan.
But then, leaving Mass, Breslin received the telegram Anthony had devised. There would be no Catalpa tomorrow. The prisoners would now have to be notified yet again of a change, and Walsh and McCarthy must be prevented from cutting the telegraph wires out of Fremantle the next day. Desmond had driven into town with a team of chestnuts drawing a wagonette. He would need to be sent back to Perth for the moment. In some anguish, Breslin went to see if Father McCabe could get a further message to the prisoners, and fortuitously found Martin Hogan, a ravaged version of the young swordsman who had argued in a pub with McCafferty the virtues of the sword over the revolver. Hogan had been sent from the prison with some message to Father McCabe and had stayed on in understandable fervour to make the Stations of the Cross, a traditional Good Friday devotion. Breslin told him the news directly. The soldier Fenian, who had been honouring Christ’s anguish in the Garden of Gethsemane, now displayed his own. He warned Breslin that the authorities were thinking of building a new road, which would involve the dispatch of road gangs to various widely separated parts of the bush. No one might be in Fremantle to flee by the time the ship arrived. Breslin told Hogan that at Easter Mass he would signal if the attempt was to be made on Easter Monday by putting a finger alongside his nose, and then drawing it across his right cheek. On such flimsy gestures depended all hope.
The Great Shame Page 79
