Father McCormick, of Wigan, a patriotic Irish priest, used to tell me, too, of the men coming to confession to him on their way to Chester, and afterwards to Ireland, for the rising on Shrove Tuesday.  And yet these were the kind of men for whom, according to a certain Irish bishop, “Hell was not hot enough nor Eternity long enough.”

When John Ryan informed me of the plans that were being matured for the seizure of the arms and ammunition in Chester Castle, I volunteered for any duty that might be allotted to me.  It was settled that I should hold myself in readiness to carry out when called upon certain mechanical arrangements in connection with the raid with a view to prevent reinforcements from reaching Chester.

These arrangements were to consist of the taking up of the rails on certain railway lines and the cutting of the telegraphic wires leading into Chester.  I, therefore, surveyed the ground, and besides the required personal assistance, had in readiness crowbars, sledges, and, among other implements, the wrenches for unscrewing the nuts of the bolts fastening the fishplates which bound together the rails, end to end.  I now held myself prepared for the moment when the call to action would reach me.

This, however, never came, for I found afterwards that the leaders had learned in time of Corydon’s betrayal of the project, and made their arrangements accordingly.

I heard nothing further of the projected Chester expedition until Monday, February 11th, 1867.

My employment was at this time in Liverpool, but I lived on the opposite bank of the Mersey, at New Ferry.  Anybody who has to travel in and out of town, as I did by the ferry boat, to his employment gets so accustomed to his fellow-passengers that he knows most of them by sight.  But this morning it was different.  In a sense some of those I saw were strangers to me, but I had a kind of instinct that they were my own people.  They were fine, athletic-looking young men, and had a travel-stained appearance, as if they had been walking some distance over dusty roads.

When I reached the landing stage and saw the morning’s papers I got the explanation—­the police had heard of the projected raid.

These were our men returning from Chester, having been stopped on the road by friends posted there for the purpose, and turned back—­and were now on their way through Liverpool to their homes in various parts of Lancashire and Yorkshire.  It seemed that the information of the project being abandoned had not reached them in time to prevent many of the men leaving their homes for Chester.

I heard from John Ryan, whom I saw a few days afterwards, that the word had been sent round to a certain number of circles in the North of England and the Midlands to move a number of picked men, some on the Sunday night and some early on the Monday morning, and that the promptness and cheerfulness with which the order was obeyed was astonishing; so that, probably, not less than two thousand men were, by different routes, quietly converging on Chester.  Among these was Michael Davitt and others, from Haslingden as well as from several other Lancashire towns.