The media reported an estimate of 20,000 spectators at the event, excluding the armed forces and law enforcement. This happened on the 26th of August, 1824. The event of note was the public hanging of six males for a homicide that occured five months prior, near the same location, at Knockshinraw hill situated in Galmoy, a northwestern area of County Kilkenny. This large-scale execution attracted a lot of attention due to its uncommon nature.
On the night before St Patrick’s Day in the year 1824, an attempted assassination took place. John Marum and his offspring were travelling on horseback across Knockshinraw, when they suffered a sudden attack. Edmund, the son, bore the majority of the damage from the blunderbuss shot, but was able to keep moving down the hill. In contrast, John’s horse halted, leading him to be thrown off and subsequently killed with a bayonet. John Marum was aged 52.
Galmoy had earned a notorious reputation as a “murder triangle”, with over 20 murders being committed since 1819 without a single death sentence being carried out. The informant system that the authorities heavily banked on proved fruitless in the absence of any corroborating evidence. No individuals were willing to risk their or their family’s lives to provide such evidence.
Unlike the prior victims who mostly hailed from the agricultural working class, John Marum stood out due to his social status. He was from a family of eight brothers who had made their mark in various fields, including business, farming and the Catholic Church. Two brothers were priests, one of them – Kyran – even held the position of Bishop of Ossory.
John was a landowner in Galmoy and between the years of 1819 and 1824, he substantially expanded his property at the cost of his tenants, whose leases he assumed before ultimately displacing them. This prompted a backlash; his livestock were brutalised and killed, his remaining tenants terrorised, and death threats became a part of his daily routine. John recorded these threats, expressing concern for the fate of his young family should anything happen to him. His worst fears were realised on 16th March 1824, on Knockshinraw, where he met an unfortunate end.
The crime’s investigation was pursued with unusual vigour, likely due to John’s social standing. Within a matter of weeks, the main six culprits had been arrested and an informant enlisted. For the first time since the issue started, supporting evidence was available, provided by John’s two young servants. An action that would violate rights today, these servants were detained and coerced into testifying.
The trial took place on 23rd August in Kilkenny, lasting the entire day until a guilty verdict was reached. Charles Kendal Bushe, the chief justice, presented the sentence: the six convicted felons were to be hanged near the scene of their crime, and their bodies taken to the county infirmary for autopsy. The legal system allowed for such a penalty as a deterrent and to incite maximum fear among individuals who held the belief that the human body must be preserved for the Day of Resurrection.
On 26th August, on Knockshinraw, local officials, clergy, the high sheriff of Co Kilkenny and grand jurors separated from the local residents, the doomed men, and the executioner by a military and police cordon. The methodical calculations used in modern hangings were still several decades away. Hence, the multitude of people who had gathered watched in disbelief as six young men were strangled to death by suspension.
Historical accounts of the incidents that occurred at Knockshinraw can be traced back to government documents and newspaper articles. Simultaneously, a ballad was being composed, offering an authentic perspective from the local community who viewed the events as a result of false judgement. The song brought attention to the trial and seemingly dishonest individuals involved on behalf of the state, from Judge Bushe to a pair of servants. The precision of names and dates in the ballad eliminates any doubt of its contemporary roots.
Despite its profound detail, the ballad mysteriously vanished in later years, possibly due to the emotional impact of the March and August 1824 events on collective memory. Nonetheless, the ballad would have been widespread at the time. It even reached Newfoundland across the Atlantic where bits of it were captured by Aidan O’Hara in 1978. In the year 2000, I managed to capture a rendition of the ballad from my neighbour, Paddy O’Neill, who was 96 at the time. In Galmoy, he was the sole keeper of this song, an exceptional verbal testament to the dreadful incidents that took place two centuries back.