Eighteenth Century Waifs

‘Baggs immediately started on his legs and advanced on Fitzgerald, who, throwing the empty pistol at him, quitted his station, and kept a zig-zag course across the field, Baggs following. I saw the flash of Bagg’s second pistol, and, at the same moment, Fitzgerald lay stretched on the ground. I was just in time to catch Baggs as he fell, after firing his second shot. He swooned from intense pain, the small bone of his leg being broken. Mr. Fitzgerald now came up, saying,

‘“We are both wounded; let us go back to our ground.”’

But this could not be allowed, and the wounded were carried home. Fitzgerald’s wound was in the thigh, and rendered him slightly lame ever after.

When he got well, he returned to Ireland, and, thanks to his uncle, the Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry, he lived in very fair style, either in Merrion Street, Dublin, or at Rockfield, near Turlough. While living in Dublin he fought a duel with John Toler (afterwards Lord Norbury), fired a pistol at Denis Browne, Lord Altamont’s brother, in Sackville Street, in broad daylight, and insulted and struck John Fitzgibbon, afterwards Lord Chancellor Clare.

Death now took away his guardian-angel, his amiable and patient wife, leaving him a little daughter. His grief for her loss was extravagant, and amounted to little short of frenzy. After the funeral he behaved more than ever like a madman. He took to hunting by night, and hunted anything that was about after dark. In this wild chase he was always accompanied by a band of mounted servants, carrying torches, and, when the peasants were roused from their slumbers by the noise of hounds, and the cries of men, they knew that Mad Fitzgerald was abroad.

When he hunted by day, he would peremptorily order home anyone to whom he had even a fancied dislike. He would tell one man to go home for he was more fitted to follow the plough than the hounds; another would be bidden to go and mind his sheep, and a third would be told to quit the field, as he was too fat for the sport. And they had to go, for their monitor would not have scrupled to have used his whip, and, if that had been objected to, there was always the ultima ratio of a duel, and men were rather shy of meeting ‘Fighting Fitzgerald.’

He had a particular dislike to the family of Lord Altamont, and behaved in a most high-handed and outrageous manner towards them. For instance, he heard that a relation of my lord’s, a Mr. Browne, was out shooting on a bog near Westport, so he got together his men and dogs, and went in quest of him. When Mr. Browne saw him enter on the scene, he retired; Fitzgerald pursued, Mr. Browne increased his pace, so did Fitzgerald, until he literally hunted the offending sportsman home. Another time he rode over to Lord Altamont’s house, and asked to see the wolf-dog, which, for its size and fierceness, was the admiration and terror of the neighbourhood. No sooner was he shown the dog than he shot it, charging the servants to tell their master that, until he became more charitable to the poor, who only came to his door to be barked at and bitten, he should not allow such a beast to be kept, but that he had no objection to the three ladies of the family each keeping a lap-dog.

After a time, his grief at the loss of his wife subsided, and he fell in love with the only child and heiress of a Mr. Vaughan, of Carrowmore, County Mayo, and singularly, although she well knew his reckless character, she returned his affection. We know how he ran away with his first wife; the story of his wedding with his second is yet more romantic.

Mr. Vaughan was, not unnaturally, averse to Fitzgerald marrying his daughter, but, at the same time, he did not forbid him the house. So one night Fitzgerald was suddenly attacked by a very acute illness, writhing about in great agony, and at last begged to be allowed to remain there that night. In the morning he was much worse, and at death’s door, lamenting the iniquity of his past life, and begging that a priest should be sent for. Of course one soon came, but, in the midst of his spiritual exercises, Fitzgerald sprang out of bed, and, presenting a pistol to the head of the priest, swore he would blow out his brains if he did not instantly marry him to Miss Vaughan, and the terror-stricken priest had no option but to comply. Mr. Vaughan had to bow to the inevitable, and the new Mrs. Fitzgerald never had reason to complain of her husband’s treatment of her, as he was uniformly kind and affectionate to her.

When Fitzgerald returned to Ireland, he found his father, a weak, false, vicious old man, almost in his dotage, and entirely under the control of his younger son Lionel, a low woman whom he had taken as his mistress, and an unscrupulous pettifogger named Patrick Randal MacDonnell. Charles Lionel, the younger son, was his brother’s enemy, because he saw nothing but poverty before him if his father paid George Robert the £1,000 a year to which he was entitled, for the old spendthrift was always in debt. The mistress had every reason to keep things as they were, and MacDonnell did not like to see his pickings done away with. It is questionable whether Fitzgerald had ever received any portion of his settlement – at all events, it was £12,000 in arrear. He saw the estate that was ultimately to come to him being wasted, his father getting more hopelessly into debt, and spending his substance on an immoral and greedy woman, and he was determined to put a stop to it. He had a difficulty to get a solicitor in Dublin to undertake his case, but at last he found one, and arranged with him to accompany him in his carriage to Mayo. The story of that ride is told by Sir Jonah Barrington (vol. iii, p. 170, ed. 1832) as follows:

‘Mr. Fitzgerald sent for the attorney, and told him that, if his going down was previously known, there would be several of the tenants and others, under the adverse influence of his father and brother, who would probably abscond, and that, therefore, since spies were watching him perpetually, to give notice in the county of his every movement, it was expedient that he should set out two or three hours before daybreak, so as to have the start of them. That his own travelling-carriage should be ready near the gate of the Phœnix Park to take up Mr. T – , who might bring his trunk of papers with him in a hack-carriage, so that there should be no suspicion.

‘All this was reasonable and proper, and accordingly done. Mr. Fitzgerald’s carriage was on the spot named, near the wall of the Phœnix Park. The attorney was punctual, the night pitch dark, and the trunk of papers put into the boot; the windows were all drawn up. Mr. T – stepped into the carriage with as great satisfaction as ever he had felt in his whole lifetime, and away they drove cheerily, at a good round pace, for the county of Galway.

‘Mr. T – had no idea that anybody else was coming with them, Mr. Fitzgerald not having mentioned such a thing. He found, however, a third gentleman in a travelling-cloak sitting between himself and his client, who was dozing in the far corner. The stranger, too, he found not over-courteous; for, though the carriage was not very roomy, and the gentleman was bulky, he showed no disposition whatever to accommodate the attorney, who begged him, with great suavity and politeness, to “move a little.” To this he received no reply, but a snoring both from the strange traveller and Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. T – now felt himself much crowded and pressed, and again earnestly requested “the gentleman” to allow him, if possible, a little more room; but he only received a snore in return. He now concluded that his companion was a low, vulgar fellow. His nerves became rather lax; he got alarmed, without well knowing why; he began to twitter – the twitter turned into a shake, and, as is generally the case, the shake ended with a cold sweat, and Mr. T – found himself in a state of mind and body far more disagreeable than he had ever before experienced.

‘The closeness and pressure had elicited a hot perspiration on the one side, while his fears produced a cold perspiration on the other, so that (quite unlike the ague he had not long recovered from) he had hot and cold fits at the same moment. All his apprehensions were now awakened; his memory opened her stores, and he began to recollect dreadful anecdotes of Mr. Fitzgerald, which he never before had credited, or indeed had any occasion to remember. The ruffians of Turlow passed as the ghosts in “Macbeth” before his imagination. Mr. Fitzgerald, he supposed, was in a fox’s sleep, and his bravo in another, who, instead of receding at all, on the contrary, squeezed the attorney closer and closer. His respiration now grew impeded, and every fresh idea exaggerated his horror; his untaxed costs, he anticipated, would prove his certain death, and that a cruel one. Neither of his companions would answer him a single question, the one replying only by a rude snore, and the other by a still ruder.

‘“Now,” thought Mr. T – , “my fate is consummated. I have often heard how Mr. Fitzgerald cut a Jew’s throat in Italy, and slaughtered numerous creditors while on the grand tour of Europe. God help me! unfortunate solicitor that I am, my last day, or rather night, has come!”

‘He thought to let down the window and admit a little fresh air, but it was quite fast. The whole situation was insupportable, and at length he addressed Mr. Fitzgerald, most pathetically, thus:

‘“Mr. Fitzgerald, I’ll date the receipt the moment you choose, and whenever it’s your convenience I have no doubt you’ll pay it most honourably – no doubt, no doubt, Mr. Fitzgerald – but not necessary at all till perfectly convenient, or never, if more agreeable to you and this other gentleman.”

‘Fitzgerald could now contain himself no longer, but said, quite in good humour,

‘“Oh, very well, Mr. T – , very well, quite time enough; make yourself easy on that head.”

‘The carriage now arrived at Maynooth, where the horses were instantly changed, and they proceeded rapidly on their journey, Mr. Fitzgerald declaring he would not alight till he reached Turlow, for fear of pursuit.

‘The attorney now took courage, and, very truly surmising that the other gentleman was a foreigner, ventured to beg of Mr. Fitzgerald to ask “his friend” to sit over a little, as he was quite crushed.

‘Mr. Fitzgerald replied, “That the party in question did not speak English, but when they arrived at Killcock the matter should be better arranged.”

‘The attorney was now compelled for some time longer to suffer the hot press, inflicted with as little compunction as if he were only a sheet of paper; but, on arriving at the inn at Killcock, dawn just appeared, and Mr. Fitzgerald, letting down a window, desired his servant, who was riding with a pair of large horse-pistols before him, to rouse the people at the inn, and get some cold provisions and a bottle of wine brought to the carriage. “And, Thomas,” said he, “get five or six pounds of raw meat, if you can – no matter of what kind – for this foreign gentleman.”

‘The attorney was now petrified; a little twilight glanced into the carriage, and nearly turned him into stone. The stranger was wrapped up in a blue travelling cloak with a scarlet cape, and had a great white cloth tied round his head and under his chin; but when Mr. Solicitor saw the face of his companion he uttered a piteous cry, and involuntarily ejaculated, “Murder! murder!” On hearing this cry, the servant rode back to the carriage window and pointed to his pistols. Mr. T – now offered up his soul to God, the stranger grumbled, and Mr. Fitzgerald, leaning across, put his hand to the attorney’s mouth, and said he should direct his servant to give him reason for that cry, if he attempted to alarm the people of the house. Thomas went into the inn, and immediately returned with a bottle of wine and some bread, but reported that there was no raw meat to be had; on hearing which, Mr. Fitzgerald ordered him to seek some at another house.

‘The attorney now exclaimed again, “God protect me!” Streaming with perspiration, his eye every now and then glancing towards his mysterious companion, and then, starting aside with horror, he at length shook as if he were relapsing into his old ague; and the stranger, finding so much unusual motion beside him, turned his countenance upon the attorney. Their cheeks came in contact, and the reader must imagine – because it is impossible adequately to describe – the scene that followed. The stranger’s profile was of uncommon prominence; his mouth stretched from ear to ear, he had enormous grinders, with a small twinkling eye, and his visage was all be-whiskered and mustachioed – more, even, than Count Platoff’s of the Cossacks.

‘Mr. T – ’s optic nerves were paralysed as he gazed instinctively at his horrid companion, in whom, when he recovered his sense of vision sufficiently to scrutinize him, he could trace no similitude to any being on earth save a bear!

‘And the attorney was quite correct in this comparison. It was actually a Russian bear, which Mr. Fitzgerald had educated from a cub, and which generally accompanied his master on his travels. He now gave Bruin a rap upon the nose with a stick which he carried, and desired him to hold up his head. The brute obeyed. Fitzgerald then ordered him to “kiss his neighbour,” and the bear did as he was told, but accompanied his salute with such a tremendous roar as roused the attorney (then almost swooning) to a full sense of his danger. Self-preservation is the first law of Nature, and at once gives courage, and suggests devices. On this occasion, every other kind of law – civil, criminal, or equitable – was set aside by the attorney. All his ideas, if any he had, were centred in one word – “escape”; and as a weasel, it is said, will attack a man if driven to desperation, so did the attorney spurn the menaces of Mr. Fitzgerald, who endeavoured to hold and detain him.

‘The struggle was violent, but brief; Bruin roared loud, but interfered not. Horror strengthened the solicitor. Dashing against the carriage-door, he burst it open, and, tumbling out, reeled into the public-house – then rushing through a back-door, and up a narrow lane that led to the village of Summer Hill (Mr. Roly’s demesne), about two miles distant, he stumbled over hillocks, tore through hedges and ditches, and never stopped till he came, breathless, to the little alehouse, completely covered with mud, and his clothes in rags. He there told so incoherent a story, that the people all took him for a man either bitten by a mad dog, or broken loose from his keepers, and considered it their duty to tie him, to prevent his biting, or other mischief. In that manner they led him to Squire Roly’s, at the great house, where the hapless attorney was pinioned and confined in a stable for some hours, till the squire got up. They put plenty of milk, bread, butter, and cheese into the manger, from the cock-loft above, to prevent accidents, as they said.’

Fitzgerald, finding the estate going to the dogs – for his father was letting the lands at absurdly low prices to his favourites; as, for instance, he let his son Charles Lionel a valuable tract of land worth fifteen shillings an acre at one shilling and sixpence, and the deer park at the same price – took the necessary legal proceedings to protect himself; and, whilst they were pending, his father was arrested for a debt of £8,000, and taken to a Dublin sponging-house. Although his father had been trying to injure him by all the means in his power, yet Fitzgerald paid the debt, and became responsible for the other debts of his father, who, in return, ratified the settlement which had been in abeyance so long.

Fitzgerald then applied to the Lord Chancellor for possession of the estate, on the grounds that, under its present management, the property was deteriorating, and as security for the money his father owed him, which amounted to £20,000 – £12,000 of which were arrears of his income of £1,000 per annum, and £8,000 lent to obtain his release; and, in 1780, the Chancellor made the order as prayed. Had Fitzgerald gone with bailiffs, and demanded possession, there would have been bloodshed, in all probability; for the King’s writs did not run easily in that part of Ireland. So he waited until one day, when his father went over to Turlough, and he then made a forcible entry into Rockfield, with a troop of armed dependants, and dislodged the servants then in the house.

Naturally his father did not take this quietly, and possession was not held peacefully. There were many collisions; and old Fitzgerald indicted his son for having headed a riotous mob, one of whom, he alleged, had, at his son’s instigation, attempted to take away his life, by firing a loaded musket at him. The charge could not be sufficiently proved, and Fitzgerald was acquitted.

He now turned his attention towards improving his estate, and imported some Scotch Presbyterians, a sober and industrious set of men, to whom he gave five hundred pounds towards building a meeting-house, and settled fifty pounds per annum on their minister; but his father’s party were always annoying him, and, in consequence, he refused to give maintenance to his father, who, thereupon, had recourse to the law-courts in Dublin to compel him so to do; and a writ was issued empowering the father to secure the body of his son until a maintenance was granted him. It would have been perfectly useless to have served the writ upon him at Turlough: it is probable no man could have been found bold enough to attempt it. So they waited until the next assizes at Balinrobe; and then, when they thought they had him safe in the grand jury room, they made application to the judge to arrest him there. Leave was granted, but Fitzgerald got wind of it, and when they went to capture him, lo! he was not to be found.

He evidently thought two could play at that game, and he determined to get the old man into his power. In those days, in that part of Ireland, law was not much regarded, especially by men of Fighting Fitzgerald’s stamp; and he speedily put his plan into execution. As his father was going from Balinrobe to Dublin, he was waylaid by his son and a party of armed men, and carried off vi et armis to George Robert’s house at Turlough.

This open violation of the law could not be submitted to tamely, and his younger brother went to Dublin, and stated his case before the judges, who granted him a writ of habeas corpus. But no one would serve that at Turlough, so they waited, as of aforetime, until he was at the grand jury room, and, leave having been given, his brother, who was bigger and stronger than he, went in, and, literally collaring him, dragged him out, spite of all his protests that he was a grand jury man, and could not be touched while in the exercise of his functions. He was at once put on his trial, and the grand jury found a true bill against him, unanimously: nay, more, they publicly addressed the judge in court, expressing their abhorrence of the charge made against Fitzgerald. After the finding of a true bill, his trial at once took place, in despite of all efforts to postpone it to the next assizes, and it lasted from nine in the morning until nearly twelve at night, when, the judge having summed up, the jury found him guilty, and he was fined £1,000, to be imprisoned for three years, and until he should pay the fine.

What happens next in this man’s extraordinary career is almost difficult to believe, and shows the lawless state of the country. Fitzgerald was committed to Castlebar prison, but he seems to have been at large therein, for, four days after his committal, he calmly walked out of gaol, armed with a brace of pistols, and scattering a bag of silver to be scrambled for by the gaolers. The doors were all open, a horse was in readiness, and off he went, tantivy, for Turlough, where he was welcomed by his people with volleys of small arms and discharge of cannon. These latter Fitzgerald had procured from a ship, under the pretext that they would be useful for his volunteers, of which he was the colonel. These he mounted as a regular battery, and it was garrisoned in a perfectly military manner by his volunteers.

But an escape from prison was, by the law of Ireland, deemed a capital felony, and the sheriff of the county issued proclamations and rewards for his apprehension, at which Fitzgerald only laughed, for he could rely on his men, and he had his father still in his custody, as the old man did not go away when his son was, as he thought, safely imprisoned. He was some fifteen months at large before the majesty of the law asserted itself. Then a little army, consisting of three companies of foot, a troop of horse, and a battery of artillery, under the command of Major Longford, was sent to reduce this rebel. But, when they got to Rockfield, they found the cannon spiked, and the birds flown to Killala, whither they were followed by Charles Lionel, at the head of the Castlebar volunteers. But many people gathered round Fitzgerald, and he soon had a party which was too strong for them to attack. But, a large reinforcement arriving, he had to flee, and, with his father, and two or three attendants, he put to sea in an open boat, landing on a small island in the bay of Sligo.

Here his father offered him terms, that if he would give him £3,000 to clear off his debts, and pay him a small annuity, he would give him up the estate, and completely exonerate him of all blame in his capture and detention. To these terms Fitzgerald assented, and set off with his father through bye, and unfrequented roads to Dublin. But no sooner had the old man got into his old lodging, than he refused to ratify his bargain, and set his son at defiance.

Fitzgerald, although there was a reward out of £300 for his apprehension, took no pains to conceal himself, and, consequently, had not been long in Dublin, before Town-Major Hall heard of his whereabouts, and, taking twelve soldiers of the Castle guard with him, arrested Fitzgerald, and safely lodged him in the Castle, where he was confined in the officer’s room; and there he abode till the general election, when, through the influence of his powerful friends, he was released. During his incarceration he wrote an appeal to the public on his case, although some say the author was one Timothy Brecknock, a somewhat unscrupulous lawyer whom Fitzgerald employed.

The first use he made of his newly-acquired liberty was to revenge himself on a man who he fancied had done him some grievous injury, a somewhat eccentric gentleman named Dick Martin, and he determined to insult him in the most public manner. He met him at the theatre, struck him with his cane, calling him the bully of the Altamonts, and walked away. Of course, in those days a gentleman so insulted could but do one thing, and that was to send a challenge – and Martin did send Fitzgerald one by the hand of a cousin of the latter, a Mr. Lyster. While he was explaining the object of his visit, Fitzgerald rang the bell, and requested his footman to bring him his cudgel ‘with the green ribbon.’ This being brought, he walked up to his cousin, and ferociously asked how he dared to deliver such a message to him: then, not waiting for a reply, he belaboured him most unmercifully, with such violence indeed, as to break a diamond ring from off his finger. When he considered him sufficiently punished, he made him pick up his ring and present it to him – but he did not keep it, he wrapped it up in paper, and returned it, telling his cousin not to go about swearing that he had robbed him of it.

Martin could get no satisfaction out of Fitzgerald in Dublin, the object of the latter being to let his adversary have the reputation of being an insulted man. But, afterwards, they met at Castlebar, and a meeting was arranged. Martin was hit, and his bullet struck Fitzgerald, but glanced off: according to some it hit a button; according to others, Fitzgerald was plastroné, or armoured.

His behaviour was more like that of a lunatic than of a sane man. Take the following example, for instance. He had a house and grounds near Dublin, and his neighbours all fought shy of him – nay, one of them, a retired officer, Captain Boulton, would neither accept his invitations nor invite him to his mansion. This conduct galled Fitzgerald, and he devised a novel method of avenging himself of the insult. He would shoot on the captain’s grounds without leave. So he went down with his man and dogs and began killing the game in fine style. This soon brought out the steward, who began to remonstrate with the trespasser. Fitzgerald’s answer was a bullet, which whizzed close to the head of the poor steward, who turned, and ran for his life, Fitzgerald after him with a second gun, with the certain determination of shooting him. Luckily the man got safely into the mansion. Baffled of his victim, Fitzgerald began abusing Captain Boulton, calling on him to come out, and give him satisfaction for his man’s behaviour. But the captain, not seeing the force of the argument, refrained, and Fitzgerald fired his gun at the dining-room window. As this, however, did not bring out the captain, he fired at the windows as fast as his man could load, and only left off when he had smashed every one of them.

Another time he waged war against all the dogs in Castlebar, shooting them whenever he got a chance; but the people did not stand it tamely; they rose, visited his kennels, and shot his dogs.

His father died; but his brother, his father’s mistress, and MacDonnell, took advantage of every circumstance in their power to maliciously vex him. Law-suits were stirred up against him, and had to be met with the assistance of Timothy Brecknock, who was Fitzgerald’s legal adviser, and the followers of both parties were not particular in exchanging a shot or two, one with the other.

At length MacDonnell kidnapped one of Fitzgerald’s servants, and kept him prisoner for twenty days. Then the man escaped, and Fitzgerald applied for, and obtained warrants against, MacDonnell and two other men, named Hipson and Gallagher. To execute these warrants personally must have been a congenial task to Fitzgerald, and he set out for that purpose, followed by a large body of men. On their approach, MacDonnell fled to the neighbouring village of Ballivary, and his friends did the best they could to defend themselves, firing on his party and wounding six or seven of them. They then went after MacDonnell, and, after more firing, succeeded in apprehending MacDonnell, Hipson, and Gallagher. These unfortunate men begged to be taken before the nearest magistrate; but Fitzgerald had them bound, and taken to his house, where they remained all night.

Early the next morning they were sent, guarded by a man of his, one Andrew Craig, and about eighteen or twenty more, all well armed, to be examined by the magistrates. Before their departure Fitzgerald gave the guard strict instructions to kill the prisoners should they attempt to escape. When they had gone about three-quarters of a mile a shot was fired, and one of the escort was laid low. But very little was wanted to rouse their wild blood, and it was at once considered that a rescue was intended. Remembering the instructions given them by Fitzgerald, they fired on their prisoners, killing Hipson, who fell into a ditch, dragging Gallagher with him, wounded with three bullets in his arm. MacDonnell, by the same volley, had both his arms broken, but he was soon afterwards despatched. Gallagher was then discovered, and they were about to kill him, only Fitzgerald ordered him to be taken to his house.

News was sent to Castlebar of what had taken place, and Fitzgerald calmly awaited the result. Fully aware of the dangerous character they had to deal with, the authorities sent a large body, both of regular troops, and volunteers, to Turlough, and these were accompanied by an immense mob of people. What happened is best related in the following graphic account:

‘Brecknock was for remaining, as with the calmness of conscious innocence, and boldly demanding a warrant against Gallagher and others. This opinion, however, did not agree with Fitzgerald’s own, who justly dreaded the fury of the volunteers and the populace, with whom MacDonnell had been so popular. Neither did it coincide with that of the Rev. Mr. Henry, the Presbyterian clergyman of Turlough, who had been latterly a resident in the house, and was now wringing his hands in wild alarm for what had occurred. This gentleman’s horse was at the door, and he strongly urged George Robert to mount, and ride for his life out of the country altogether, till the powerful intercession he could command might be made for him. In compliance with this advice, which entirely coincided with his own opinion, it is stated that he made several attempts to mount; but that, splendid horseman as he was, whether through nervous excitement, guilty terror, or the restiveness of the animal, he was unable to attain the saddle, and, in consequence, obliged to fly into the house again, as the military were announced to be approaching near. It is also generally asserted that the Rev. Mr. Ellison, who headed the soldiers, sent them on to Gurth-na-fullagh, without halting them at Turlough, where he himself stopped.

‘Were this circumstance even true, however, Fitzgerald gained but a short respite by it, as the volunteers, with many of the populace, came furiously up immediately after; and, some of them being placed about the house, the remainder entered to search and pillage it. Brecknock and Fulton were immediately captured, but, after ransacking every corner and crevice more than once without finding him, the volunteers were beginning to think that Fitzgerald must have effected his escape before their arrival, when one of them, forcing open a clothes-chest in a lower apartment, discovered him among a heap of bed-clothes in his place of concealment.

‘“What do you want, you ruffian?” he said, on finding himself detected.

‘“To dhrag ye, like a dog’s head, to a bonfire,” replied another volunteer, named Morran, a powerful man, who seized him at the same time by the breast, and drew him forth by main force.