One of the conspirators Mulvey was not able to distinguish; but the other that had spoken of dastardly murder he named as Shaymus Meadowes, lately of Clifden.
Immediately I sent Leeson and a number of men down to steerage to arrest him. A meticulous investigation was made of his belongings and therein was found a sample of revolutionary literature, that is, the words of a hateful ballad about landlords which a number of the men have heard him singing late at night when he was drunk. He has been placed in the lock-up until we arrive at New York, at which time he will be given into the custody of the authorities.
Lord Kingscourt thanked Mulvey most sincerely for what he had done and pronounced himself greatly in the latter’s debt. He said he understood that it must have been difficult, knowing very well the informer was regarded among the commoner Irish as a pariah. He offered Mulvey a reward for his courage but it was insistently refused. Mulvey said he had done nothing other than his Christian duty, that he should not have been able to sleep at night had he taken any other course. Again the memory of Lord Kingscourt’s mother was mentioned, Mulvey revealing that his own parents had benefited from her kindness on one occasion and often prayed for her repose still and once a year visited her grave at Clifden. (Queer; I had thought his mother to be deceased.) That a picture of the late Countess hung to this day in their humble cottage, a devotional candle burning constantly before it. That one of his own sisters had been christened ‘Verity’ in veneration of the memory of Lord Kingscourt’s mother. That to allow Lady Verity’s son to be murdered by a reprobate such as Shaymus Meadowes would be unrealisable for him. And that the thought of the two little boys being harmed or worse was simply more than he could bear to countenance.
At that point Lord Kingscourt became very distressed. Mulvey begged him not be sad but rather to believe that the great majority of Galwaymen would feel the way which he, Mulvey, did but that there was always one rotten apple in the orchard to get all the others a bad name. He said poverty and forgetting their faith had created such a hardship among the people that violence had sadly sprouted in that barren field where before was the naturally existing friendship between humble servant and sheltering master. Lord Kingscourt thanked him again and collected himself a little.
At that point it occurred to Lord Kingscourt that Meadowes being in the lock-up, and steerage being no sort of possible haven, there was no safe place on the ship for Mulvey to go to. ‘I suppose that is true,’ Mulvey replied. ‘I had not thought about it. But it is all in the hands of the Saviour, may His will be done always. He will protect me, I know.’ And he added: ‘If I am murdered for what I am after doing this day, at least I can die with my conscience unsullied. And I know I shall see your mother in Paradise this night.’
I said I could perhaps offer him a berth among the men, but Lord Kingscourt would absolutely not hear of it. He said it was not every day that a man had his life saved and he meant to show at least some variety of gratitude for it. His Lordship and Mulvey agreed with myself that he would be accommodated in the First-Class quarters for the remainder of the voyage; in a lazaretto next to Lord Kingscourt’s own stateroom which is used for the storing of linens and such. A subterfuge was agreed by which such an arrangement might be cloaked.
He, Lord Kingscourt, said he would need a short time to discuss it with his wife. (Her Ladyship, it appears, is the wearer of the britches.)
Countess Kingscourt’s Cabin
— about 10 a.m. —
‘You’re not serious,’ Laura Merridith said.
‘It is tiresome, I know. But Lockwood insists the poor chap is at death’s door.’
‘Precisely, David.’
‘What does “precisely” mean?’
‘He could have cholera or typhus: any kind of filthy infection. And you propose to allow him to sleep next to our children?’
‘Hardly next to them, for pity’s sake.’
‘In the cabin next door, then. And across from my own. How, convenient, should he require a trio of companions for bridge.’
‘Will you never understand that we have a responsibility to these people?’
‘I have done nothing to “these people”, David. And they have done rather a lot to me.’
‘I will help an unfortunate man who is down on his luck. With or without your blessing, Laura.’
‘Then do it without!’ she shouted. ‘As you do everything else.’
She went to the porthole and stared out hard, as though she expected she might see land from a distance of five hundred miles.
‘Laura – surely we can conduct ourselves without raising our voices.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot. We must never raise our voices, must we? Must never have a single human emotion about anything. Must insist on the same bloodlessness and lifelessness as one of your father’s damned skeletons.’
‘I had rather you did not turn these quarters into a barrack-room with your language, Laura. And what we must do is to think of the boys. You know they find it upsetting when we have words.’
‘Do not presume to give me instruction on my children, David, I warn you.’
‘I would never do that. But you know I am right.’
She spoke over her shoulder, as though he wasn’t worth the effort of facing. ‘How would you know what they find upsetting? Is it you they come to when they are upset? Their father who cares more for individuals he does not know than he does for his own wife and family.’
‘That is not fair.’
‘Is it not? Are you aware that today is your eldest son’s birthday? It would not have hurt you very much to mention it to him if you were.’
‘I’m sorry. You are right. I had momentarily forgotten.’
‘You might rather say sorry to the person your thoughtlessness has hurt. When you have quite finished saving the world from itself, of course.’
‘They are dying in tens of thousands, Laura. We cannot do nothing.’
She made no reply.
‘Laura,’ he said, and he made to touch her hair. As though sensing the gesture, she moved to avoid it.
‘It will not trouble us to help a little, Laura. Surely you can agree. We shall be in New York in only three days.’
She spoke very quietly, as though it hurt her to speak. ‘They’ll never love you, David. Why can’t you see it? Too much has already happened for that.’
He gave a blunt laugh. ‘That is a strange thing to say.’
She turned. ‘Is it?’
‘The only love I have ever wanted is yours. Yours and that of the boys. If I have that, I have everything.’
‘You must think me even blinder than I am. Do you?’
A wave doused the porthole and dribbled down the glass. Through the walls they could hear their shouting sons. A knock sounded on the door: the chirp of the cleaning-steward.
‘May I have your agreement to help the man, Laura?’
‘Run to them, David. Like you always do.’
The Lock-up
—10.41 a.m. —
I … John Lowsley … seaman Duty-Officer, state that at … 10.41 … on this day a prisoner … P. Mulvey … was released from my charge and his belongings returned to him in full degree for which he signed; viz ... one bible six pennies and one farthing.
Pius Mulvey’s Lazaretto
— about 11 a.m. —
(Extracts from a letter from George Wellesley, Agent of the Royal Mail, to G. Grantley Dison, 11 February 1852)
On the morning of Wednesday, December the first … a steward came to my quarters and said they needed to take back the Linen Garderobe or Glory-Hole in which I had stowed two trunks … A supposedly sick man from steerage was to be lodged in there, it was said. I was a little irritated to hear this, I own; but the steward said he was under orders and no more about it … I had some papers I needed to keep about me in one of the trunks but I could not remember which one. My clodpate of a servant, Briggs, was puking like a geyser with seasickness that morning, so I said I would fetch them myself. [??
?]
Guards had been placed in the First-Class accommodations that morning; one man at every door. The steward did not know why, but I thought little about it. My own view is that we should have been guarded from the very moment of leaving Queenstown and that it was an outrageous disgrace that this had not been done, given the moral complexion of most of our fellow travellers. […]
When I arrived at the little room – perhaps six feet by eight feet, shelved all around with no porthole – Lord Kingscourt and his eldest son Jonathan Merridith were assisting a man to make up a rough cot out of cushions and blankets on the floor. I should say the man in question was about five feet and four inches in height, very slender with morose blue eyes. He was ragged and emaciated and obviously of that type who would at all times rather be idle than work. The usual unpleasant odour hung about him. One would have thought his disfigurement would be the most noticeable thing – he had a ‘game’ foot and limped heavily in consequence of it – but his eyes were in fact the most memorable feature. Being looked at by him was rather like being regarded by a mongrel that has been kicked out in the rain for the night.
I cannot say I saw anything violent or criminal in his facial cast. Far from it; he appeared as one in whom innocence was strong, perhaps even to the degree of mild idiocy. He was rather like a Caucasian nigger, if such a horrid centaur exists. Not evil as such but more childlike and stupid.
Nor can I remember at this remove if there was any conversation; but if there was, it was entirely inconsequential. But I do recollect that at one interval I looked up from searching my chests and became aware of a sort of strained silence in the cabin. Lord Kingscourt and the man – I am damned if I can express it – but they seemed uneasy being together in such a small space. And yet they were grinning like freakish idiots at each other. It is hard to explain. Rather like a débutante having to dance with an ugly baron, perhaps, or Mama will scold her and the family will be ruined. Nothing was being said and yet profound unease was there; and shared, indeed, by both the parties.
I went back to my search and found the documents I needed. The young lad had begun to fiddle about with the sheets on the shelves and his father told him to behave himself. It was quiet and good-humoured; nothing unusual about the scene. And it was just at that moment that the girl came in.
She stood very still in the doorway, as motionless as a plaster madonna. I never saw any woman stand quite so still in my life; not before or since. You know how they fuss and fidget like lepers. But this was stillness like that of a sentry. The girl could be decidedly odd in her manner, possessing the usual slatternly attitude of that ingrate class and nationality; entirely lacking in grace or good humour, and would look at you like devil’s daggers if you paid her a simple compliment; but this appeared, at least to myself, some new kind of eccentricity or oddness. It was as though the sight of the cripple had profoundly shocked her. As for the cripple, he looked similarly aghast.
There were two pillows in her arms, which I assume she had been ordered to fetch. But she simply stood there in the doorway without putting them down. She did not grow pale or make any displays. She just did not move for a weirdly long time.
Then Merridith began to make introductions, as though some kind of queer house party was about to commence: ‘Oh Mulvey. I don’t know if you’ve met my children’s nanny. Miss Duane.’
‘It’s yourself, Mary,’ the mick said very quietly.
Kingscourt appeared mildly confused. ‘You know each other?’
Again nobody said anything for a considerable period.
‘You’ve knocked into each other going about the ship, I suppose?’
Very meekly the hopfoot said: ‘Miss Duane and myself, sir, we knew each other when we were young people, sir. Our families was friends one time. Back in Galway I mean.’
‘I see. Well that is nice. Isn’t that nice then, Mary?’
Not one word or syllable came from the skivvy.
‘Should I let you alone for a while to catch up?’ asked her unfortunate master.
She put the pillows on a shelf and left without a word. Merridith gave a dissatisfied chuckle as of confusion at the performance.
‘Bloody women, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. ’
‘She was bereaved of her husband not so terribly long ago. She has been a little out of sorts. You must forgive her.’
He answered in his ugly and ridiculous accent: ‘I understand, sorr. Tank you, sorr. Blessins o’ God an his mudder on you, sorr.’ They murder the Queen’s English as well as everything else.
And that is all I have to tell you. I locked up my trunk and went away.
The girl was standing at the end of the passageway with her back to me now. The guards were looking at her but she did not seem to notice. I thought no more about it and returned to my quarters. […]
One would have thought that to be in the presence of murderer and victim would have left more of an impression; but to be completely plain, it did not. I was more concerned with having had to leave my trunk in the presence of one who would have gnawed it open had he thought it contained a bottle, a pistol or a Rosary beads.
Main Passageway in First-Class Quarters
— about 1 p.m. —
From a statement sworn to Officer Daniel O’Dowd and Captain James Briggs of the New York Police Department, 20 December 1847, a fortnight after the murder. John Wainwright, a Jamaican sailor on bodyguard duty in the First-Class quarters, recalled the following angry exchange from the main stateroom or sitting room, which he first assumed to be an argument between Lord and Lady Kingscourt. ‘They were always feuding and quarrelling,’ he explained, ‘but the Captain had ordered they were to be left alone.’
WOMAN: Get out of my sight, you low bastard.
MAN: I beg you. Five minutes.
W: And I’d known you were on this ship I’d’ve thrown myself off of it. Get out!
M: No excuse could ever excuse it. I’m bitter ashamed of what I done.
W: You’ll never be ashamed enough. Never! Do you hear me, you bitch’s leavings? If you blaze in Hell for all eternity it wouldn’t be a minute of what you deserve.
M: I loved you. I was maddened.
W: My own innocent child? To be drowned like a mongrel?
M [distressed]: It’s not myself went doing that to her, Mary.
W: It’s yourself did it and you know it, too. As certain as if you held her down in the water and squeezed the life from her body with your own murderer’s hands.
M: – Mary, forgive me, for the love of Jesus –
W [screaming]: The child of your own brother? That your people’s blood was running in? What kind of devil of Satan’s bitch are you? What kind of crawling excuse for a vermin?
M: Mary, I never thought he’d go doing what he did. On the life of me I didn’t. Sure and how could I know?
W: You knew well enough when you saw us put out on the road like dirt.
M: I didn’t know it’d ever come to that. I didn’t know they were going to give him the beating. If I was there that day they came, I’d’ve stopped it, I swear.
W: Joined in with it more like.
M: Mary, I wouldn’t. As true as Jesus, I’d have stopped it. I’m after being denounced to the Else-Bes [?] over it, Mary.
W: Good enough for you, then. I hope they kill you. I will laugh. [The male speaker “gave a very loud and piercing cry”.]
M: Look, then! Look what they are after doing to me. Do you like that? Can you see it clear enough? Did I deserve that, Mary? Would you have held the knife that did it?
[The woman said nothing.]
M: I walked every inch of Connemara looking for you, Mary. Yourself and Nicholas and the little one, too. I walked every field from Spiddal [?] to Westport, till the skin was pared off my feet with the walking.
W: [shouting] You blackened, filthy sleeveen har. I curse the living day I ever let you near me. You bitch’s bastard excuse for a man.
M: It – doesn’t suit you to be ta
lking that way, Mary.
W: He cursed you before he died. I hope you know that. The curse of a priest is on your head and can never be lifted.
M: Mary, don’t go saying that.
W: That you may never look at water without seeing his ghost in fire. That you may never sleep a night again in your life. That you may die in the agonies. Do you hear me? May you die!
A scuffle was heard. The woman now gave a loud scream.
At that point the sailor knocked hard on the door. No answer was made. There followed a furious exchange in a language the sailor was not able to understand. Something smashed in the room. The man now disregarded his orders and opened the door, fearful that the disturbance might end in fatal violence.
The steerage passenger, Mulvey, was in the room with Miss Mary Duane, the Merridith family servant. His shirt was open and he was in tears.
The sailor asked Miss Duane if everything was in order. She made no reply but left the stateroom, clearly in a state of great distress.
Mr Mulvey was asked to leave the cabin and return to his quarters. When he turned, the witness was horrified to see that a large scar ‘shaped like a heart with a H in it’ had been slashed across Mulvey’s chest and upper abdominal area. The scar was suppurating badly and his skin was turning black with gangrene. ‘I could get the stench of it from across in the doorway.’
He did leave the room, without saying anything else.
First-Class Dining Area on the Upper-Deck
— about 2 p.m. —
‘What is going on?’
‘Luncheon at the moment. Though perhaps it has just finished.’
‘I have been told by Captain Lockwood that the children and I are to remain behind the gates from now on. Why?’