Hell itself could not be much more miserable than Kilmainham Gaol, Connor thought as he leaned his head back against the slimy stone wall and contemplated the progress of a roach as it made its way across the mildewed granite of the ceiling.
The harsh January winds howled outside and whistled along the dark, dank rabbit warren of passageways that led to the cells. Kilmainham was as bone-chillingly cold as Hell was reputed to be hot. Soon he would be able to compare the two at first hand. His trial had concluded a se'ennight ago. He was to be hanged at dawn tomorrow, publicly, on a gallows even now being constructed at the edge of Phoenix Park. Enormous crowds were expected to attend. Any hanging was the occasion for a public holiday, but the execution of the notorious Dark Horseman promised to be something special.
He would be taken to the site chained in the back of an open cart so that all might witness his downfall. The guards, who were reasonably affable on account of his notoriety, informed him that people were already setting up camp on the best spots along the route and close to the gallows in order to have the choicest views of the next day's entertainment. Disembowelment, a high treat for the crowd, which involved cutting out the hanged man's entrails and burning them, would follow the hanging. To Connor, that was a mere bagatelle. They could do what they wished with his body once he was dead.
Shivering, he pulled what remained of his silver brocade coat closer around his neck. He had not been warm in the near six weeks since he'd been taken. The air in his small cell was so cold that every time he breathed, a tiny cloud of vapor formed in front of his face. Were he not to be hanged, he'd doubtless die of pneumonia before long. Many like him did, if Liffey fever did not claim them.
They'd taken him from Newgate across England in irons in a prison cart, then put him in a cage like an animal for the ferry ride across the channel to Dublin. Within a fortnight after his arrest he'd been locked up in Kilmainham Gaol, and he had not left the grounds since. He would not until he was taken forth to be hanged.
He was hungry. Sweet Jesus, was he hungry! He'd had no more than moldy bread and scummy water during the entire time he'd been imprisoned. Oh, no, there had been a bit of briny cod's head included with the meal on Christmas Day. No one could say the bloody British were not hospitable to their prisoners.
But hunger, like disembowelment, was something that he would soon not have to worry about.
He should be thinking of the state of his soul, worrying about making his peace with God. He should not be envisioning a juicy mutton stew, or wishing for a pint of ale or a roaring fire to warm himself at. Though such physical needs did keep him from thinking of other, less palatable things.
He did not want to die, and there was the plain truth of it. He was not yet thirty years old; he had a lot of living yet to do. He did not want to die, and he especially did not want to die in the way they had planned for him. To be dropped through a trapdoor with a rope tight around his neck and his hands tied behind him was a horror he would rather not contemplate. He would face it when he must, with courage, he hoped. Until then, he would not allow himself to dwell on his fate.
The trial had been held in the prison itself; it had been short and to the point, his guilt a foregone conclusion. The bloody Sassenach magistrate had practically rubbed his hands with glee as he had passed sentence on the Dark
Horseman. His execution would be a sign to the Irish that their English masters were firmly in place and in control.
He had been allowed no visitors since his arrest. Not that it mattered. The only people he cared to see were the ones who would face mortal danger if they came. His brothers had ridden with him and faced the same fate he did if taken. His prayer was that they would have the common sense to lie low until all was over. And Caitlyn… Caitlyn. It was torture imagining what was happening to her. He prayed that she had not fallen again into Sir Edward's hands. His only regret was that he had not managed to kill him before he had been taken. It galled him to think of quitting the earth while Sir Edward still breathed. Had he it all to do over again, he would have broken the man's neck while he had the chance. But, of course, he could do nothing over again. No one ever could.
One of the guards, taking pity on him because he was to die on the morrow, had provided him with quills, ink, and parchment. Connor shivered, tugged at his coat again, and bent himself once more to the task of writing farewell messages to those he loved. If all fell out as it was supposed to, he would not see them again on this earth.