The most audacious Australian prison break

Posted by Jim on August 26, 2017

The most successful prison break in Australian history was an
international rescue effort that took years to organise, and which
finally freed six Irish republicans from a British jail in Fremantle.

By Gilbert King (for smithsonian.com)

The plot they hatched was as audacious as it was impossible–a
19th-century raid as elaborate and preposterous as any Ocean’s Eleven
script. It was driven by two men–a guilt-ridden Irish Catholic
nationalist, who’d been convicted and jailed for treason in England
before being exiled to America, and a Yankee whaling captain–a
Protestant from New Bedford, Massachusetts–with no attachment to the
former’s cause, but a firm belief that it was “the right thing to do.”
Along with a third man–an Irish secret agent posing as an American
millionaire–they devised a plan to sail halfway around the world to
Fremantle, Australia, with a heavily armed crew to rescue a half-dozen
condemned Irishmen from one of the most remote and impregnable prison
fortresses ever built.

To succeed, the plan required precision timing, a months-long con and
more than a little luck. The slightest slip-up, they knew, could be
catastrophic for all involved. By the time the Fremantle Six sailed into
New York Harbor in August, 1876, more than a year had passed since the
plot had been put into action. Their mythic escape resonated around the
world and emboldened the Irish Republican Brotherhood for decades in its
struggle for independence from the British Empire.

The tale began with a letter sent in 1874 to John Devoy, a former senior
leader with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, known as the Fenians.
Devoy, who was born in County Kildare in 1842, had been recruiting
thousands of Irish-born soldiers who were serving in British regiments
in Ireland, where the Fenians hoped to turn the British army against
itself. By 1866, estimates put the number of Fenian recruits at
80,000–but informers alerted the British to an impending rebellion, and
Devoy was exposed, convicted of treason and sentenced to 15 years’ labor
on the Isle of Portland in England.

After serving nearly five years in prison, Devoy was exiled to America,
became a journalist for the New York Herald and soon became active with
clan na gael, the secret society of Fenians in the United States.

Devoy was in New York City in 1874 when he received a letter from an
inmate named James Wilson. “Remember this is a voice from the tomb,”
Wilson wrote, reminding Devoy that his old Irish recruits had been
rotting away in prison for the past eight years, and were now at
Fremantle, facing “the death of a felon in a British dungeon.”

Among the hundreds of Irish republican prisoners in Australia, Wilson
was one of seven high-profile Fenians who had been convicted of treason
and sentenced to death by hanging until Queen Victoria commuted their
sentences to a life of hard labor. After being branded with the letter
“D” for “deserter” on their chests, the Fenians were assigned
backbreaking work building roads and quarrying limestone beneath an
unforgiving sun. “Most of us are beginning to show symptom of disease,”
Wilson wrote. “In fact, we can’t expect to hold out much longer.”

Devoy was also feeling pressure from another Fenian–John Boyle O’Reilly,
who had arrived at Fremantle with Wilson and the others, only to be
transferred to Bunbury, another prison in Western Australia. O’Reilly
grew despondent there and attempted suicide by slitting his wrists, but
another convict saved him. A few months later, with help from a local
Catholic priest, O’Reilly escaped from Bunbury by rowing out to sea and
persuading an American whaling ship to take him on. He sailed to the
United States and eventually became a poet, journalist and editor of the
Catholic newspaper the Boston Pilot.

But it wasn’t long before O’Reilly began to feel pangs of guilt over his
fellow Fenians’ continued imprisonment in Fremantle. He implored his
fellow exile John Devoy to rally the clan na gael and mount a rescue
attempt.

It was all Devoy needed to hear. Escape was entirely possible, as
O’Reilly had proved. And he couldn’t ignore Wilson’s letter, imploring
him not to forget the other Fenians that he had recruited. “Most of the
evidence on which the men were convicted related to meetings with me,”
Devoy later wrote. “I felt that I, more than any other man then living,
ought to do my utmost for these Fenian soldiers.”

At a clan na gael meeting in New York, Devoy read Wilson’s “voice from
the tomb” letter aloud, with its conclusion, “We think if you forsake
us, then we are friendless indeed.”

Devoy put the letter down and in his most persuasive voice, shouted,
“These men are our brothers!” Thousands of dollars were quickly raised
to mount a rescue. The original plan was to charter a boat and sail for
Australia, where more than a dozen armed men would spring the Fenians
out of prison. But as the planning progressed, Devoy decided their odds
would be better using stealth rather than force.

He convinced George Smith Anthony, a Protestant sea captain with whaling
experience, that the rescue mission was one of universal freedom and
liberty. Before long, Anthony concluded that the imprisoned Fenians were
“not criminals,” and when Devoy offered the captain a “hefty cut” of any
whaling profits they would make, Anthony signed on. He was told to set
out to sea on the whaler Catalpa as if on a routine whaling voyage,
keeping the rescue plans a secret from his crew; Devoy had decided that
it was the only way to keep the British from discovering the mission.
Besides, they were going to need to return with a full load of whale oil
to recoup expenses. The cost of the mission was approaching $20,000 (it
would later reach $30,000), and one clan na gael member had already
mortgaged his house to finance the rescue.

Devoy also knew he needed help on the ground in Australia, so he
arranged for John James Breslin–a bushy-bearded Fenian secret agent–to
arrive in Fremantle in advance of the Catalpa and pose as an American
millionaire named James Collins, and learn what he could about the place
they called the “Convict Establishment.”

What Breslin soon saw with his own eyes was that the medieval-looking
Establishment was surrounded by unforgiving terrain. To the east there
was desert and bare stone as far as the eye could see. To the west, were
shark-infested waters. But Breslin also saw that security around the
Establishment was fairly lax, no doubt due to the daunting environment.
Pretending to be looking for investment opportunities, Breslin arranged
several visits to the Establishment, where he asked questions about
hiring cheap prison labor. On one such visit, he managed to convey a
message to the Fenians: a rescue was in the works; avoid trouble and the
possibility of solitary confinement so you don’t miss the opportunity;
there would be only one.

Nine months passed before the Catalpa made it to Bunbury. Captain
Anthony had run into all sorts of problems, from bad weather to faulty
navigational devices. A restocking trip to the Azores saw six crew
members desert, and Anthony had to replace them before continuing on. He
found the waters mostly fished out, so the whaling season was a
disaster. Very little money would be recouped on this trip, but
financial losses were the least of their worries.

Once Breslin met up with Captain Anthony, they made a plan. The Fenians
they had come for had been continually shifted in their assignments, and
for Breslin’s plan to work, all six needed to be outside the walls of
the Establishment. Anyone stuck inside at the planned time of escape
would be left behind. There was no way around it.

To complicate matters, two Irishmen turned up in Fremantle. Breslin
immediately suspected that they were British spies, but he recruited
them after learning that they had come in response to a letter the
Fenians had written home, asking for help. On the day of the escape,
they would cut the telegraph from Fremantle to Perth.

On Sunday, April 15, 1876, Breslin got a message to the Fenians: They
would make for the Catalpa the next morning. “We have money, arms, and
clothes,” he wrote. “Let no man’s heart fail him.”

Anthony ordered his ship to wait miles out at sea–outside Australian
waters. He would have a rowboat waiting 20 miles up the coast from the
prison. Breslin was to deliver the Fenians there, and the crew would row
them to the ship.

On Monday morning, April 16, the newly arrived Irishmen did their part
by severing the telegraph wire. Breslin got horses, wagons and guns to a
rendezvous point near the prison–and waited. He had no idea which
prisoners, if any, would make their way outside the walls that day.

But in the first stroke of good luck that morning, Breslin soon had his
answer.

Thomas Darragh was out digging potatoes, unsupervised.

Thomas Hassett and Robert Cranston talked their way outside the walls.

Martin Hogan was painting a superintendent’s house.

And Michael Harrington and James Wilson concocted a tale about being
needed for a job at the warden’s house.

Moments later, Breslin saw the six Fenians heading toward him. (It might
have been seven, but James Jeffrey Roche “was purposely left behind
because of an act of treachery which he had attempted against his
fellows ten long years before,” when he sought a lighter sentence in
exchange for cooperating with the British, Anthony later wrote. The deal
was ultimately rejected, but the Fenians held a grudge.) Once on the
carriages, the escapees made a frantic 20-mile horse-drawn dash for the
rowboat.

They hadn’t been gone for an hour before the guards became aware that
the Irishmen had escaped. Breslin and the Fenians made it to the shore
where Anthony was waiting with his crew and the boat. The Catalpa was
waiting far out at sea. They’d need to row for hours to reach it. They
were about half a mile from shore when Breslin spotted mounted police
arriving with a number of trackers. Not long after that, he saw a coast
guard cutter and a steamer that had been commandeered by the Royal Navy
to intercept the rowboat.

The race was on. The men rowed desperately, with the authorities and the
British, armed with carbines, in hot pursuit. To spur on the men,
Breslin pulled from his pocket a copy of a letter he had just mailed to
the British Governor of Western Australia:

This is to certify that I have this day released from the clemency of
Her Most Gracious Majesty Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, etc., etc.,
six Irishmen, condemned to imprisonment for life by the enlightened and
magnanimous government of Great Britain for having been guilty of the
atrocious and unpardonable crimes known to the unenlightened portion of
mankind as “love of country” and “hatred of tyranny;” for this act of
“Irish assur- ance” my birth and blood being my full and sufficient
warrant. Allow me to add that in taking my leave now, I’ve only to say a
few cells I’ve emptied; I’ve the honor and pleasure to bid yon good-day,
from all future acquaintance, excuse me, I pray. In the service of my
country,

John J. Breslin.

The Fenians let out a cry and the crew kept rowing for the Catalpa,
which they could now see looming in the distance. But the steamer
Georgette was bearing down, and the wind was rising–the beginnings of a
gale. Darkness fell and waves came crashing down on the overloaded boat
as it was blown out to sea. Captain Anthony was the picture of
confidence, giving orders to bail, but even he doubted they’d make it
through the night.

By morning, the Georgette reappeared and went straight for the Catalpa.
The Georgette’s captain asked if he could come aboard the whaler.

Sam Smith, minding the Catalpa, replied: “Not by a damned sight.”

The Georgette, running low on fuel, then had to return to shore. Anthony
saw his chance, and the Fenians made a dash for the whaler, this time
with a cutter joining the race. They barely made it to Catalpa before
the British, and the ship got under way. Anthony quickly turned it away
from Australia, but the luck of the Irish seemed to run out. The wind
went dead, the Catalpa was becalmed, and by morning, the Georgette,
armed with a 12-pound cannon, pulled alongside. The Fenians, seeing the
armed militia aboard the British ship, grabbed rifles and revolvers and
prepared for battle.

Captain Anthony told the Fenians the choice was theirs–they could die on
his ship or back at Fremantle. Though they were outmanned and outgunned,
even the Catalpa’s crew stood with the Fenians and their captain,
grabbing harpoons for the fight.

The Georgette then fired across Catalpa’s bow. “Heave to,” came the
command from the British ship.

“What for?” Anthony shouted back.

“You have escaped prisoners aboard that ship.”

“You’re mistaken,” Anthony snapped. “There are no prisoners aboard this
ship. They’re all free men.”

The British gave Anthony 15 minutes to come to rest before they’d “blow
your masts out.”

The Catalpa was also perilously close to being nudged back into
Australian waters, with no wind to prevent that from happening. It was
then that Anthony gave his reply, pointing at the Stars and Stripes.
“This ship is sailing under the American flag and she is on the high
seas. If you fire on me, I warn you that you are firing on the American
flag.”

Suddenly, the wind kicked up. Anthony ordered up the mainsail and swung
the ship straight for the Georgette. The Catalpa’s “flying jibboom just
cleared the steamer’s rigging” as the ship with the Fenians aboard
headed out to sea. The Georgette followed for another hour or so, but it
was clear the British were reluctant to fire on an American ship sailing
in international waters.

Finally, the British commander peeled the steamer back toward the coast.
The Fenians were free.

The Catalpa arrived in New York four months later, as a cheering crowd
of thousands met the ship for a Fenian procession up Broadway. John
Devoy, John Breslin and George Anthony were hailed as heroes, and news
of the Fremantle Six prison break quickly spread around the world.

The British press, however, accused the United States government of
“fermenting terrorism,” citing Anthony’s refusing to turn over the
Fenians, and noted that the captain and his crew were only “laughing at
our scrupulous obedience to international law.” But eventually, the
British would say that Anthony had “done us a good turn; he has rid us
of an expensive nuisance. The United States are welcome to any number of
disloyal, turbulent, plotting conspirators, to all their silly
machinations.”

The Fremantle Six still carried the torment from their ordeals at the
Convict Establishment, and despite their escape, the men remained
broken, Devoy noted. He’d known them as soldiers, and he was not
prepared for the changes that ten years under the “iron discipline of
England’s prison system had wrought in some of them.”

Still, the Fenians had reinvigorated the spirits of their fellow Irish
nationalists at home and abroad, and the tale of their escape inspired
generations to come through both song and story:

So come you screw warders and jailers
Remember Perth regatta day
Take care of the rest of your Fenians
Or the Yankees will steal them away.