Far differently that night was spent by the thronging countrymen of
Broadhead, who came as to a holiday to see the "Fenians" die. Early
on the preceding evening crowds had taken up their places wherever the
occupying bodies of military, police, or specials did not prevent; and
the pictures drawn of their conduct by the newspaper reporters, one
and all, are inexpressibly revolting. It was the usual English crowd
assembled to enjoy an execution. They made the air resound with
laughter at obscene jokes, shouts, cries and repartees; and chorused
in thousands [beneath the gallows!] snatches of "comic" ballads and
pot-house songs, varied by verses of "Rule, Brittania" and "God save
the Queen," by way of exultation over the Irish. Once or twice, in
the early part of the night, the police had to remove the mob from the
portion of the prison nearest the condemned cells, as the shouts and
songs were painfully disturbing the hapless men engaged at that moment
preparing for eternity.
Saturday, the 23rd November, dawned misty, murky, dull, and cold over
Salford. During the first hours after the past midnight the weather
had been clear and frosty, and a heavy hoar covered the ground; but as
daylight approached, a thick mist or fog crept like a pallid pall over
the waking city.
The condemned were roused from sound and tranquil slumbers about a
quarter to five o'clock.
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