place a village—there lived some years ago a shopkeeper named John
Dempsey, a steady hard-working man, who left politics alone and attended
to his own business. In due course Dempsey married and had three
children—two boys, Patrick and William, and a daughter, Sheila.
The children were educated at the national school, and as soon as their
minds were capable of understanding anything, the wicked and stupid
policy of hatred of and revenge on England was drummed into their ears
week by week, month by month, and year by year, until the English
appeared to their childish imaginations to be the greatest monsters of
brutality in the world.
After the late war started, not before, the British newspapers and
magazines impressed upon us the thoroughness of the German preparations
for this war, and amongst other things, of how the present generation
had had instilled into their minds from early childhood a hatred of the
British by every schoolmaster and learned professor in Germany. For
years past this German method has been carried on in Ireland, Irish
national school teachers preparing the present generation of young men
and women for the present Sinn Fein movement.
You have in England a saying that a little knowledge is a dangerous
thing, which applies very well to many national school teachers in the
west and south of Ireland, who, though they can tell you of every wrong
which England has inflicted on Ireland during the last three hundred
years, yet know nothing of the greatness and power for good of the
British Empire; nor do they realise the vast benefits which Ireland
reaps as a partner of the Empire.
As time went on John Dempsey made and saved much money on porter, eggs,
and other things, and as the boys appeared to be clever and anxious to
get on in the world, he decided that they should complete their
education in Dublin, Patrick eventually to become a doctor, and William
to enter the priesthood; but as soon as the father announced his
intentions, Sheila, who had never been separated from her brothers,
implored that she might go with them and become a hospital nurse.
In the end the old man gave way and the three children went to Dublin,
where Patrick duly qualified as a doctor, Sheila became a nurse in one
of the hospitals there, but William did not become a priest.
When the brothers and sister first went to Dublin, Sinn Fein was rapidly
becoming the great party of the Celts in Ireland, and every young man
and woman was pressed hard to join. Patrick and Sheila joined eagerly,
but William refused, and the idea of becoming a priest being now
distasteful to him, he joined the R.I.C., to the bitter resentment of
his brother and sister, who refused even to see him.
During the summer of 1919 the two brothers and sister met again at home,
Sheila on her summer holidays, Patrick waiting for an appointment, and
William, who was now stationed at the neighbouring town of Ballybor, on
leave. At first the other two resented the presence of William, and
there were bitter and passionate political arguments at every meal; but
after a time their natural kindliness prevailed, and the three became
nearly as great pals as formerly, but the shadow of William’s uniform
seemed always to come between them.
Sheila was the first to go back. A letter from her matron came one
morning asking if she would care to go abroad, to take entire charge of
a patient who had been ordered to live in Switzerland by the doctors.
She did not wait to answer, but returned to Dublin that day, lest she
should be too late.
Patrick and William were at this time typical of the two parties into
which the people of the greater part of Ireland were divided—in plain
language, Patrick was a rebel and William a loyalist! And though the
loyalist party was very small in comparison to the other, yet it would
never have been so small if proper support from the Government had been
forthcoming at the right time, but would have grown larger and larger as
the outrages increased, and the decent elements of the population ranged
themselves on the side of law and order.
During his time in Dublin, Patrick, young and enthusiastic, had become
deeply involved in the Sinn Fein movement, and when one day he found
himself bound hand and foot to a policy of outrage and murder, he made
strong efforts to regain his freedom, but was quickly made to realise
that he now belonged, body and soul, to Sinn Fein.
No sooner had Sheila gone than the two brothers began to quarrel—to end
in hot and bitter words at supper one night, when William left the table
and returned at once to Ballybor. A few days afterwards Patrick received
an order from Dublin to report at once to the Sinn Fein H.Q.’s there,
and though he would have liked to refuse, he dared not.
On arrival in Dublin, Patrick duly reported at H.Q.’s, and there learnt
that he had been chosen for a most unpleasant job. About this time,
after their signal initial successes, the I.R.A. were endeavouring to
organise a force which would entirely wipe out the police, or at any
rate reduce them to complete impotence.
To this end the General Staff of the I.R.A. were determined to leave no
stone unturned to achieve success in the ambuscades of patrols and
attacks on barracks. During the preliminary attacks the rebels had lost
heavily through lack of medical care, and it was now determined that a
doctor should attend all ambuscades and attacks.
Funds were plentiful, and in a few days Patrick found himself set up as
a practising doctor in a large house in Dublin, and it was arranged
that, when an attack was to take place in a certain district, he should
receive a wire calling him to hold a consultation in a district close
by. They supplied him with a good car, there were no restrictions on the
movements of doctors, so that the busy young Dublin doctor, hurrying to
the sick-bed of a country patient, excited no suspicion.
The plan was quite simple, and worked smoothly. An ambuscade would be
arranged at H.Q.’s in Dublin to take place at a certain point where it
was known that a police patrol passed. The day before Patrick would
receive his wire, and early the next morning would leave Dublin for the
scene of operations. When within a short distance of the attack he would
stop his car, and remain there until the fight was over, attend to the
wounded, and afterwards return to Dublin.
On two occasions he was surprised by relief parties of military, but
each time he was able to explain his presence—that it was a mere chance
that he happened to be passing, and that his professional instincts were
at once aroused by the sight of the wounded men.
In the case of an attack on police barracks the procedure was somewhat
different. Some days before Patrick would receive his usual wire—never
from the place where the attack was to take place, but from a
neighbouring town—and at the same time would receive instructions in
Dublin of the time and place of the attack.
On arriving at the place of attack he would put up at the best hotel,
giving out that he had come to attend a consultation in the town, from
which the wire had been sent. After a talk with the local Volunteer
captain, a house would be decided on as a temporary hospital, to which
the wounded would be taken, and after the attack Patrick would simply
disappear.
At first the danger and excitement appealed to his high-strung
temperament, but soon the novelty wore off, and he saw that there could
only be one end for him—exposure and professional ruin, if not a long
term of imprisonment. In vain he asked to be allowed to resume his
profession, but he might as well have begged for mercy from the
Inquisition of old.
One evening, on his return from an ambuscade, Patrick found a wire from
Sheila, saying that her patient had suddenly died in Switzerland, and
that she was crossing to Dublin that night. The next morning she
arrived, radiant with health, and eager for news.
Under her patient’s will Sheila received a legacy of about £2000 and a
car, which was stored in a Dublin garage, and now she was free to devote
herself to the cause of Ireland’s freedom. On hearing of Patrick’s
occupation, she at once determined to join him.
Patrick was devoted to his sister, and tried hard to put the idea out of
her head, but in the end had to give way. That very day she made him
take her to H.Q.’s, where she offered the services of herself and car to
the I.R.A.
Owing to an insufficient number of rifles for ambuscades and attacks on
a large scale all over the country, the General Staff had decided to
collect rifles in Dublin and send them down to the scenes of attacks in
cars. Sheila’s offer coincided with this decision, and to Patrick’s
horror he and Sheila received orders to attend attacks, and also to
carry the rifles and ammunition.
The car was found to be a large touring car, to which a false bottom was
fitted to take rifles, whilst further false bottoms under the seats gave
sufficient room to hide revolvers, and a dummy space which was packed
with S.A.A. Sheila had large red crosses painted on the lamps and
wind-screen, and the camouflage was complete.
For months the brother and sister—Patrick looking a typical young
doctor, and Sheila dressed as a hospital nurse—carried arms and first
aid to ambuscades throughout the south and west, and not the slightest
suspicion appears to have been aroused in the minds of the authorities.
Sheila thoroughly enjoyed the excitement, and soon became known as the
Florence Nightingale of the I.R.A.
One day there came a wire from home that their mother was dangerously
ill, and begging them to go to her at once. Patrick knew that if they
asked leave to go, their taskmasters would refuse, and so decided to
take “French leave.”
William had also been sent for, and again the two brothers and sister
met. After a few days their mother took a turn for the better, but
Patrick, who dreaded returning to Dublin, insisted on staying, in spite
of Sheila’s urgings to get back to their work.
Soon after their mother was out of danger Sheila received an invitation
to a dance at a large farmhouse about two miles away, and drove there in
the car, resplendent in a Paris evening dress. Patrick and William
refused to go, the former making the excuse that he did not like to
leave his mother, the latter because he knew that the presence of a
policeman would break up the dance.
That evening, after it was dark, William walked across the fields to see
an old school friend, one of the few men in the district who would speak
to him at all, and then only at night in his own house. When William
left, this man warned him that Knockbrack Wood would not be a healthy
place for the next few days, but when pressed for an explanation would
say no more.
When William reached home he learnt from his father that during his
absence a stranger had called for Patrick, and that soon afterwards the
two had left hurriedly to fetch Sheila, Patrick saying that he would
have to return to Dublin that night by car.
Old Dempsey seemed much upset, and after the warning received that night
William’s suspicions were aroused. As soon as supper was over he retired
to bed, or rather to wait in his room until the house was quiet, when he
meant to bicycle back to Ballybor.
William had not been in his room more than ten minutes when he heard
Sheila’s car drive up, and the front door open and shut. Then he heard
Sheila come upstairs to her bedroom, followed by Patrick and strange
footsteps, and then the closing of Patrick’s door.
The bedrooms of the two brothers were separated by a thin partition, and
William managed to overhear enough of their conversation to make out
that there was to be an ambuscade in Knockbrack Wood on Wednesday night
(this being Monday), and that Patrick was returning at once to Dublin.
William lay as still as a mouse, hoping that Patrick and Sheila would
not realise that he was in the house, and in their hurry forget about
him. He could tell from the tone of his brother’s voice that he was not
for it, but further conversation was cut short by Sheila calling out
that she was ready to start.
Shortly afterwards William heard the three leaving the house and the car
go off in the direction of Dublin. He waited for a few minutes to give
the stranger time to get well away, then got out his bicycle, and with
his revolver ready in his right hand, started off for Ballybor.
While William was riding for dear life to Ballybor, Sheila and Patrick
were tearing across Ireland to fetch the arms for the ambuscade. They
reached Dublin without any trouble, had a short rest and a meal,
collected the arms from the secret hiding-place, and then started off on
the return journey by a different route.
By previous arrangement they were met outside the town after dark by the
local Volunteer captain and a party of men, who took over the arms from
them, when they drove on home. Owing to the fact that they had left and
returned at night, no one in the town had any idea that they had been
away.
For some weeks past the police had been bringing tremendous pressure to
bear on the rebels throughout the south and west, which pressure
corresponded with the appointment of a new Inspector-General of the
R.I.C. So strong was the pressure growing that the rebel staff were
afraid of a collapse, and when their secret service learnt that the I.G.
would be motoring to Ballybor on this particular Wednesday night, they
determined to ambush him in Knockbrack Wood, and to kill him at all
costs.
Knockbrack Wood lies along both sides of a main road for a distance of
about a mile and a half, and in the middle the road makes a sharp bend
to avoid a huge granite rock which towers above the trees and makes this
corner quite blind. On the far side of this bend from the direction of
Ballybor the road rises suddenly, so that a car going towards that place
would be likely to approach the bend at a good pace, and be unable to
avoid an obstacle or trench just round the corner.
Here it was settled to make the attempt on the I.G.’s life, and on the
Wednesday the local Volunteers, under the direction of staff officers
from Dublin, started to make the preparations. By dark all was complete,
except to cut a trench across the road, and a large party of Volunteers
had taken up positions on each side of the road at the bend.
It was expected that the I.G.’s car would be wrecked, or at any rate
brought to a standstill, just beneath the big rock, on the top of which
there was a bombing post, with orders to drop a flare as soon as the car
was below, to enable the riflemen to aim in the dark, and to follow up
the flare with a shower of bombs.
Patrick and Sheila waited until it was nearly dark, when they motored to
Knockbrack Wood, leaving the car up a narrow lane in the wood, about a
hundred yards from the big rock on the Ballybor side. They then retired
to a safe distance to await events.
After several hours of waiting they left the wood and walked up and down
the road to Ballybor, as by this time they were half frozen with cold.
Shortly afterwards they were joined by the Volunteer captain, and as it
would soon be daylight, Patrick suggested to him that the men should be
sent home.
The Volunteer captain was a stupid fellow, and further, he resented any
suggestion as to what he should do from Patrick; and the three of
them—Sheila, Patrick, and the captain—began a heated argument in the
middle of the road: the captain argued that an order was an order, and
that he would keep his men there until the next night if necessary, or
even longer.
Patrick saw the mistake he had made, shrugged his shoulders, and started
to return to the car with Sheila.
Now their whole attention had been centred on the direction from which
the I.G.’s car was expected to come, and the last thing they expected
was a counter-attack from the direction of Ballybor; but as Patrick and
Sheila turned to leave the Volunteer captain, they found themselves
covered by a party of R.I.C., with Blake at their head, and at the same
time heavy firing burst out in the wood on both sides of the road.
Patrick and Sheila had no alternative but to put up their hands, but the
Volunteer captain tried to escape, and was promptly shot by a constable.
Blake asked what they were doing at such an hour on the highroad, and
Patrick was starting his usual story of how he and his sister were on
their way from Dublin to attend an urgent case in the country, but when
he caught sight of his brother William standing behind Blake, he
faltered and remained dumb.
Before Blake could ask any more questions they had to jump to one side
to avoid a Crossley full of Auxiliaries, which dashed past, and stopped
a few yards beyond them, the Cadets at once jumping out and taking up
positions on each side of the car with Lewis guns trained to sweep the
road as far as the big rock. Blake, after ordering William and a
constable to take Patrick and Sheila down the Ballybor road out of the
line of fire until he could deal with them, took command of the
Auxiliaries, and waited for the action to develop.
By this time it was daylight, and the police, who had worked round the
flanks of the ambushers, began to make it pretty hot for the men in the
trenches. Now it is one thing to shoot an unfortunate policeman perched
up in a stationary lorry in the middle of the road, and quite a
different story when the policeman starts to shoot you in the back from
behind a tree, and very soon the Volunteers broke from their trenches
and started to stream down the Ballybor road.
There was a momentary lull in the firing, broken by two hurricane bursts
of fire from the Cadets’ Lewis guns, and the Volunteers fell in little
heaps on the grey limestone road; the remainder hesitated, and then ran
for their trenches, to be met by a hail of bullets from the police, who
had taken up positions commanding the trenches while the Volunteers were
trying to escape by the road. Again they tried to escape along the road,
and again the Lewis guns spat out a magazine of bullets whilst a man
could count five, the noise of the guns being intensified by the dead
wall of trees.
The few Volunteers now left threw down their arms, put up their hands,
and the fight was over.
In the meantime William had taken his brother and sister down the
Ballybor road until they came to the lane where the car was, and here he
told them to wait. After a few minutes Sheila asked him to send the
constable out of hearing, as she wished to talk to him.
After the constable had retired up the lane there was a terrible silence
for several minutes. Patrick and Sheila both realised too late that
William must have been in the house when they started on their journey
to Dublin for the arms, and that he must have gone straight to Ballybor
to warn the police of the impending ambuscade. They knew that, even if
they were not sentenced to death, they could not escape a long term of
imprisonment, and that they had been betrayed by their own brother, but
would not—or could not—realise that William had only done his duty.
Suddenly Sheila burst into a passionate denouncement of William’s
treachery to his country and his own flesh and blood, to be stopped by
Patrick with great difficulty, who, controlling his rising passion and
terror by a great effort, implored William for their mother’s sake to
let them escape while there was yet time. At any rate to let Sheila
go—surely the British Government did not wage war on women.
Poor William was torn between love for his brother and sister and his
duty to his King. In those short moments he went through the agony of
hell, knowing well that if he refused to let them escape he would carry
for the rest of his life the brand of Cain; on the other hand, if he let
them go he would not only be betraying his King, but also he would ruin
his own career, and probably Blake’s as well.
To William’s great credit be it said, his sense of duty prevailed, and
he refused to let them go; and to his great relief the unhappy scene was
cut short by the sudden appearance of Blake.
Shortly afterwards the constable returned, and reported to Blake that he
had found a Red Cross car up the lane. Blake gave orders for the car to
be brought on to the highroad, and after collecting his men, started for
Ballybor with Patrick and Sheila prisoners in their own car.
V.
THE R.M.
Since the period of Charles Lever, no book of Irish life has equalled
‘Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.’ in successfully portraying the
character or “chat” of the true western peasant; but, at the same time,
this book only shows the social side of a Resident Magistrate’s life,
and hardly does justice to his work in the wild parts of the south and
west.
And of recent years the life led by Resident Magistrates has become more
and more dangerous as the country became more and more unsettled. A D.I.
can always take an escort with him, also he can go where and when he
pleases; but an R.M. has to drive alone about the country, and,
moreover, every one knows that at a certain hour on a certain day the
R.M. will drive to a certain Petty Sessions Court, and after the Court
is over he must drive home, though possibly by a different road. It is
one thing to face death with half a score of rifles at your back, and
quite a different tale unarmed and alone.
Soon after Blake came to Ballybor, the R.M. stationed there retired on
pension, and in his place there came a young man, Anthony Mayne, who had
served with distinction in an Irish regiment during the war. Being
unmarried, Mayne took up his quarters in a small hotel close to the
police barracks, and in a short time struck up a friendship with Blake.
In addition to attending at Ballybor Petty Sessions once a week, Mayne
had to go to several other small towns twice a month. The district was
very large, chiefly wild mountainous country, and some of the places
were many miles from Ballybor, one place in particular, Ballyrick, being
over thirty miles away on the shores of the Atlantic.
The first Court which Mayne attended happened to be at Ballyrick,
probably one of the wildest and most thinly populated districts in
Ireland. Soon after leaving Ballybor the road crossed a railway line by
a level crossing close to the sea, and then ran for many miles between
the sea and a chain of mountains to the small seaside town of Ballyrick.
Mayne found that the people of this district were a race of small men;
they looked as though the terrific Atlantic gales had stunted them in
the same way as the trees are stunted on this coast, and, moreover,
their faces were not pleasing. During his first Court here the nature of
the cases showed plainly that the chief amusement of the peasants was to
beat and batter each other on all opportunities, especially on dark
nights after a fair, and the distillation of illicit whisky their chief
occupation.
In Ireland the penalty for harbouring, keeping, or concealing a still or
illicit spirits is £100, which can be mitigated to £6, luckily no lower;
and from time immemorial the custom of the shopkeeper class of
magistrate has always been to reduce every fine to the minimum, with the
natural result that the peasants have come to regard the £6 fine as the
legal penalty for the bad luck of being caught by the police. £6 is a
mere fraction of the profits of a successful brew of poteen, and is
looked upon in the light of a tax paid to the Government.
In one case a man was caught red-handed by the police with fourteen
barrels of treacle, 200 gallons of wash, a complete still, and enough
poteen to stock a fair-sized public-house. The man brought the £6 into
Court with him, being certain he would be convicted and fined the usual
amount.
But Mayne, the only magistrate on the bench, took a very serious view of
the case, knowing the amount of crime and misery caused by this
abominable drink, and fined the man £50.
Such a sentence had never been heard in Ballyrick Court-house within the
memory of man; even the police received a shock, and a noise resembling
a swarm of angry bees arose to defy the shouts of the police for silence
and order. That evening, when Mayne returned to Ballybor, he was
followed by a police car for many miles, but the peasants had not had
time to organise their revenge.