When I was wakened the following morning I was informed that I had to
be ready for removal in an hour’s time. The Chief Warder did not know
where I was to go, only that at six a guard of soldiers would come for
me. It was his opinion that I was to be taken for the courtsmartial in
Dublin. That meant anything; it meant, to be more precise, whatever
the police desired or intended, for the reign of terror was abroad in
the land, and every man’s fate was decreed by whatever the police had
decided would make an appropriate chapter in his _leabhran_ at Dublin
Castle, without other evidence than the evidence of the compilers.
During those days that man was safest who was permitted to remain in
any one place for a length of time, for presumably the present orgy
of blood and long sentences, of courtsmartial, and authority on its
war-steed champing the ground, would begin to pall. Nevertheless, I
welcomed the change. Anything seemed better than inaction. It was
better to go out and take one’s fate than to stay skulking in a cell.
My only anxiety was for my wife, who would know nothing of my removal,
and from whom it seemed decided to withhold all knowledge of me.
P. J. D. came down after me to the office where our “effects” were
handed back to us. We were to be fellow travellers on the road, and we
were marched through the streets of Castlebar to the Railway Station
under a sergeant’s guard of eight men. It was too early for the town
to be astir, and those who were abroad seemed rather abashed by the
spectacle. At the station, as the train came in, to my great joy I
was hailed by my wife, who, not getting the promised daily letter,
had travelled down by the same train that was to take me to Dublin
to discover what was happening. A little tactful authority with the
sergeant included her in the same carriage with ourselves; and thus
began a co-operation, from without and from within jail, that was to be
of rare value in the future.
Again I was fortunate in my custodian. The sergeant belonged to one
of the North Staffordshire battalions that had been rushed over for
the Rising-Out, and he was a kindly, homely man, very much unlike some
of his guard. The songs that came from the adjoining compartment were
clearly meant to hearten us with the thought of friendship. There was
no timidity in the choice of theme, and the peeler who accompanied us
(as guide to the strangers in charge of his own countrymen) was clearly
restive hearing songs it had become his first instinct to baton. But
the sergeant was in command, and he maintained a strict dignity. At
Athlone our companions next door managed to convey the state of affairs
to others on the platform, with the result that the cheering crowd had
time to vent their feelings outside our door before they were swept
away. Then a peeler on the platform beckoned to our sergeant, and
whispered something to him. When he returned to his seat beside me, I
asked him what had been said to him.
“He was telling me to be careful, as there are sympathisers of yours in
the next compartment and on the platforms.”
“That doesn’t surprise you, sergeant, does it?” I asked.
He thought for a moment; then, “No, sir, it doesn’t,” he said. And
after a minute’s further thought, he added: “It’s easy for me to see
who has the people’s wish, and who has the unpleasant job. You mustn’t
think, sir, I like it; for I don’t. It wasn’t for this kind of thing
I joined up. Why every nation can’t manage its own affairs without
other nations butting in, I can’t for the life of me imagine. I thought
it was to stop that kind of thing they told me I was wanted out in
Belgium.”
Apparently he had been driven to thought. He was a tall, strongly-built
man, with a long head and grave face—the kind of man who takes life
very seriously and very earnestly. He came from the pottery district,
where he had been employed in some clerical capacity; and when he told
me he was fond of books I knew at once what kind of company he kept
and what kind of books he read. In that company the cause of small
nationalities had given him much heart-searching. Very earnestly he
had thought the thing out, and in an international morality not at
all lightly gotten-by, he had donned khaki, won his stripes, and been
dispatched to Ireland for first service. I have wondered sometimes how
he got on in Belgium. Perhaps he laid down his life in order that small
nations should have freedom declared as their indefeasible right.
At Dublin, when I suggested that P. J. D. and I should hire cars across
to Richmond Barracks, and that he should divide his guard between us,
he willingly accepted the proposal.