THE CATALPA RESCUE
“…The subsequent mission to rescue seven fellow Fenians in far-away Western Australia was four years in the planning …”
Now generally forgotten, a prison break in 1876 at Fremantle, in Western Australia, organised by a group of exiled Irish Fenians in the USA, is still celebrated in a famous folk song.
The incident began in Ireland in 1866 when a group of “British” soldiers, all Irishmen, were convicted of treason against the British crown and were quickly despatched to Western Australia’s infamous gaol at Fremantle, south of Perth.
The Irish Republican Brotherhood, formed in 1858, had its extension in America known as the Fenian Movement, whose one objective was to establish a free and independent Irish Republic in their homeland.
Consequently, the Irish rebels were apprehended as political prisoners for uniting with Ireland’s fight for independence from intrusive English rule, all charged with treason.
The seven men – John Boyle O’Reilly, Robert Cranston, Thomas Darragh, Michael Harrington, Thomas Hassett, Martin Hogan, James Wilson – were all members of the Fenian Brotherhood. Initially condemned to death, their sentences were commuted when Lord Derby and his cabinet colleagues feared the effect on trade if carried out, and so they were transported overseas for a lifetime of labour in the service of the English queen.
John Boyle O’Reilly (1844 – 1890) made an early escape from penal servitude in Western Australia. He was one of the 62 convicts on board the “Hougoumont” in 1867, delivered to Fremantle Gaol. Aided by a Catholic priest, Father Patrick McCabe, O’Reilly escaped from a road party in 1869, near Bunbury, and was secretly rescued by the American whaler, “Gazelle,” which delivered him back to the USA where he became a journalist with the “Boston Pilot” newspaper and went on to establish himself as a famous humanitarian, author, poet and orator.
The convicted Fenians had been released from custody by 1871 – all, that is, but the former Irish-born “British” soldiers incarcerated in Western Australia.
From the Fremantle prison, one of the Irish convicts, James Wilson, smuggled out a letter that was duly posted to the USA, later to be received by John Boyle O’Reilly and his colleague, John Devoy …
“Fremantle Prison, 15 June, 1874 …
remember, this is a voice from the tomb. For is not this a living tomb …
Think that we have been nearly nine years in this living tomb since our first arrest, and that it is impossible for mind or body to withstand the continual strain that is upon them. One or the other must give way In the tomb it is only man’s body that is good for worms, but in this living tomb the canker worm of care enters the very soul … .
“And what a death is staring us in the face, the death of a felon in a British dungeon and a grave amongst Britton’s (sic) ruffians.
“I am not ashamed to speak the truth … that it is a disgrace to have us in prison today. A little money judiciously expended would release every man that is now in West Australia …”
A seasoned Fenian rebel, Devoy, a journalist with the “New York Herald,” was active in Clan na Gael (“Descendants of The Gaels”) cultivating the radical group into one of the most important Irish republican movements in Ireland and the USA, later aligning the membership with the Irish Republican Brotherhood in 1877.
The subsequent mission to rescue seven fellow Fenians in far-away Western Australia was four years in the planning and the venture was totally funded by Irish families internationally.
A whaling vessel called “Catalpa” was eventually purchased for $5,250 , was re-fitted, and it departed from New Bedford, Massachusetts, in 1875, for Australia under its 31-year-old Quaker captain, George Smith Anthony (1843 – 1913).
In between times, a secret agent, John Breslin (1833 – 1887), accompanied by Thomas Desmond, enshipped in disguise to the Western Australian convict colony, giving them ample opportunity the make the necessary arrangements for the rescue of their Fenian brothers by March 28, 1876, when the “Catalpa” finally arrived in Australian waters.
Desmond, who later became the Sheriff of San Francisco, worked in conjunction with his comrade to survey the work allocations of prisoners doing public works beyond the gaol walls, to convey the impression of being Yankee entrepreneurs with monies to invest, and to quietly work out the logistics of stealing seven fellow Irishmen from the shackles of the British, setting them free.
Luckily, because of their good conduct, the seven prisoners were “trustees”, which allowed them the freedom to work outside the gaol walls.
The escape plan was conveyed to them and they were to make themselves available at the appointed time.
On the day of the escape the seven men unobstrusively made their way south in a rented horse-drawn cart from Fremantle to Rockingham beach, a distance of 50 or so kilometres.
A rowboat was waiting to convey them out to where the “Catalpa” was anchored.
When at last the convict’s absence was noted, police pursued them on horses, but they were greatly out-paced.
The seven Irishmen were hauled aboard the “Catalpa” and the vessel at once unfurled her sails and headed for the safety of international waters.
A British gunboat, “H.M.S. Georgette,” captained by Michael O’Grady, was despatched from Fremantle to apprehend the escaping Fenians, her engines being far superior in power to that of her quarry.
The “Georgette,” on sighting “Catalpa”, fired a warning shot across the whaler’s bows, together with the order to hand over any escaping prisoners she had on board.
Captain Anthony denied having any prisoners, shouting at he pointed to his flag fluttering aloft in the ocean breeze: “That’s the American flag. I am on the high seas. My flag protects me. If you fire on this ship, you fire on the American flag. That’s an act of war, sir!”
“I am going to board your ship,” yelled the superintendent of the Water Police, John Stone, “I’m going to board you and search for prisoners.”
“You try it and you’ll be goddam good and sorry,” shouted Captain Anthony. “You’ve got no right to board me. What the hell did we lick the pants offn’ you damn Britishers in 1812 about? You don’t own the ocean.”
“Georgette” kept abreast of the “Catalpa” for an hour or so, then, with her coal supply running low, she steamed slowly across “Catalpa’s” stern, but did not discharge any shots. The two ships missed each other by inches.
Once again, almost as a plea, the “Georgette” called across the water: “Can I come aboard you?”
Captain Anthony responded: “No, sir. Not you nor any other Britisher on the high seas. I’m bound for home and I won’t stop.”
Britain had just lost a £3 million case involving a similar situation with an American ship and the “Georgette’s” captain, not wanting to ignite an international incident, felt he had no choice but to abandon the confrontation forthwith.
Empty-handed, she steamed back to Fremantle, her mission unaccomplished, her crew shame-faced with embarrassment.
Breslin said to the other “Catalpa” men: “There goes the last you’ll see of England.”
The “Catalpa” finally reached her New York destination at 1.30pm, August 19, 1876.
Captain Anthony said to his men: “And now you are at liberty to go ashore when you please.”
Darragh said: “Captain, we’re too choked up to say much. But … God bless you for everything. May the road rise before you.”
The Clan na Gael paid off “Catalpa’s” crew generously.
Captain Anthony was given $4,045.62.
First Mate, Sam Smith, received $2,230.41, plus an extra gift of $200.
The total cost of the voyage was $25,858.02.
George Smith Anthony could no longer sail in international waters because the Royal Navy could have arrested him on sight. With the help of a journalist, Z. W. Pease, he published an account of his journey, “The Catalpa Expedition,” in 1897.
The “Catalpa” was gifted by the Clan to Captain Anthony and his father-in-law, John T. Richardson.
The vessel eventually passed out of the American registry in 1884; she became a coal barge and ended her days ingloriously on a beach in British Honduras where she was condemned and burned.
“Catalpa’s” flag was presented by Captain Anthony to the Clan na Gael’s John Devoy , who said: “It is the flag which symbolises the highest development of human liberty on this earth … Many of those who took part in the rescue … are here to do you honour and thank you in the name of the Irish race for the gallant feat you accomplished …”
John Joseph Breslin died at his New York home on November 18, 1887.
A local newspaper, “Irish World,” reported: “Between three and four thousand people, four deep, marched in procession after the hearse that bore the remains … to their last resting place. All the various elements of Irish nationalism were represented …”
“The Catholic News” editorialised: “There was no more romantic figure in the stormy history of modern Island than Breslin, whose unselfish life, burning love of country, wild, mad, chivalry and unparalleled bravery are written in the hearts of Erin’s sons and daughters …”
Captain George Anthony died at New Bedford on May 22, 1913.
John Devoy was editor of the “Gaelic American” from 1913 until his death in New York City in 1928.
His body was returned to Ireland and was buried in Glasnevin Cemetery, in Dublin.
His tombstone carries the legend: “John Devoy … 1842 – 1928 … REBEL.
FOOTNOTE: Professor Richard Cowan, affiliated with the University of Sydney, has privately published a 96-paged book, “Mary Tondut: The Woman In The Catalpa Story” as a means of explaining his unofficial lineage to one of the Catalpa’s heroes, John Joseph Breslin.
Largely unsubstantiated conjecture, the rather rambling text essentially tells the tale of Breslin’s lusty liaison with a 20-year-old Fremantle barmaid, Mary Tondut (or Tonduit), a promiscuous lass of French extraction.
Before slipping away from West Australia, the author claims, Breslin slipped into Mary leaving her pregnant.
With the “Catalpa” gone, Mary moved from Fremantle to Sydney in 1876, her hope being to eventually re-join her lover in the USA. She, however, finished up marrying, in Sydney, a 24-year-old Harry James Thomas in 1880.
The author’s assumption that Mary Tondut and John Breslin were planning marriage, or even that Breslin knew of his illegitimate son (to be named John Joseph Thomas) is pure conjecture. Factually, Mary Tondut was obviously a sexually active girl who had earlier, in 1871, at the age of sixteen, produced an illegitimate daughter – a child she virtually abandoned when absconding interstate.
Professor Cowan’s book is, basically, a family history that attempts to link with a famous “Catalpa” person, giving it some sort of vague promotional value. The reader is left doubting that Breslin was even informed of his lover’s pregnancy – if, indeed, he was the culprit responsible. Overall, the story is a rather disjointed, unco-ordinated array of speculation and unverified assumption with all the hallmarks of a family history that has degenerated into a very colourful mythology of little substance.
I believe your comments on Mary Tondut are a bit rough ole Son. Dig a bit deeper and you will see originally she was in all probability and unlawfully taken advantage of by her father’s friend. How was she to complain that her Dad’s best friend was having unauthorised sexual intercourse with her. Secondly her liaison with John Breslin was a true love affair and under “usual” circumstances found them to marry. However the escape of the fenians situation came into being and Mary had to make her decision as best she see fit. Remembering in those times it was a life changing and probable permanent event to emigrate to another county. I say God bless her.
— Chris Willcocks · 31 May 2009 · #