prosperous stockbroker, by name Benjamin Briggs, a lonely bachelor, an
ardent fisherman, and a man of simple and kindly nature. Every year Mr
Briggs spent his entire summer holidays fishing in Scotland or Wales,
and it was not until after hearing a friend at his club recounting the
wonderful fishing that he had had in Ireland that he turned his
attention to that country.
One afternoon, when passing through Euston Station, a famous poster of
Connemara caught Mr Briggs’ eye, and the following summer he made a
complete tour of that delightful country of mountains, moors, and
rivers. So charmed was he with the scenery and the perfect manners of
the peasants that he determined to see more of the country, and on a
fine summer’s afternoon found himself in the little town of Ballybor,
reputed to be one of the best fishing centres in Ireland.
During a walk through the town before dinner, he happened to see a large
notice in an auctioneer’s window, offering for sale, at what seemed to
Mr Briggs a very low figure, a fishing-lodge on an island in the middle
of a large lake, famous for its salmon, trout, and pike-fishing, and
distant about six miles from the town of Ballybor. The notice also
stated that the auctioneer would be glad to give full particulars, and
that the lucky buyer could obtain immediate possession.
Now many of us have cherished a secret longing to possess an island, no
doubt an aftermath from reading ‘Robinson Crusoe’ when very young,
possibly in the sea if one has a weakness for that element, or, if not,
in the middle of some large lake full of salmon and trout. From
childhood Mr Briggs had had two great longings—first, to be a successful
fisherman, and secondly, to possess an island, to which he could
eventually retire and fish all day and every day.
The following morning, after an interview with the auctioneer, he drove
out to the lake on an outside car, was duly met by the caretaker, Pat
Lyden, with a boat, fell in love at sight with a comfortable little
six-roomed lodge built on the shore of a small green island far out in
the lake and commanding glorious views of mountains and water, and on
his return to Ballybor he wasted no time in completing the purchase. The
following day he moved to the island, and spent a happy fortnight
fishing with Pat Lyden before returning to England.
From the outbreak of war until 1920 Mr Briggs was unable to visit
Ireland, but during the summer of that year he decided to retire, and
after disposing of his business and suburban home, set out for Ballybor,
meaning to spend the rest of the year fishing on Lake Moyra. On a dull
morning he landed at Kingstown, as enthusiastic as a schoolboy on his
first sporting trip, and longing to see his beloved island once more.
Mr Briggs only read one newspaper,—a paper once famous throughout the
world for its impartial and patriotic news and complete freedom from
party taint,—and he had not the remotest idea that the Ireland of 1914
and the Ireland of 1920 were two very different countries. But so simple
was the little man’s nature that he did not realise the state of the
country until he reached a small junction about sixteen miles from
Ballybor, and where he had to change.
Here he had some time to wait, and while walking up and down the
platform a long-haired wild-eyed stranger sidled up to him and asked if
he was Mr Briggs; and on learning that he was, the stranger advised him
to return to England at once, as the air on Lough Moyra was very
unhealthy at present. This greatly disturbed Mr Briggs, but he
determined to take no notice of the mysterious warning, and, taking his
seat in the train, began to read his papers again.
Shortly before the train was due to start a small party of British
soldiers, under a N.C.O., marched on to the platform, and proceeded to
take their seats in a third-class carriage. At once the engine-driver,
fireman, and guard packed up their kits and prepared to leave the
station. The station-master did his best to induce them to take the
train on to Ballybor, but not one yard would they go as long as a
British soldier remained in the train; and in the end they marched out
of the station, amid the laughter of the soldiers, who continued to keep
their seats. The civilian passengers now left the train, and Mr Briggs
found himself dumped with all his kit on the platform.
For some time he sat there, feeling sure that in the end the train would
start, but after two hours he gave it up, and wired to a garage in
Ballybor for a car to be sent to the junction. After a further wait of
three hours a car turned up, and late that evening Mr Briggs arrived at
the hotel at Ballybor, weary and quite bewildered. He seemed to have
wandered into a South American republic instead of into the old and
pleasant Ireland.
After breakfast the next morning he determined to call on his old friend
the D.I. before leaving for the lake, but he hardly recognised the
police barracks, which had been transformed from a homely whitewashed
house into a sandbagged and steel-shuttered fort. Here he found that his
old friend had retired on pension, and in his stead reigned a young and
soldier-like D.I., with a row of orders and war ribbons on his breast.
Mr Briggs introduced himself, but found that neither the D.I. nor the
Head Constable had ever heard of either Mr Briggs or his island, but
they told him that only the previous day a police lorry had been
ambushed on the road to the lake, and advised him to return to England.
However, having got so far, Mr Briggs determined to see his island, come
what might; and after a lot of difficulty, and at a very high price, a
driver was at last found with sufficient courage to drive him out to the
place where Lyden was to meet him.
Lyden was a typical western peasant, and on former visits Mr Briggs had
asked no better amusement than to listen to his quaint remarks and
stories for hours on end whilst fishing; but, like the rest of the
people, he now seemed a different being. During the row out to the
island he did not utter a dozen words, and long before they landed on
the little stone quay Mr Briggs had ceased to ask the man any questions.
After his long absence the island appeared more enchanting than ever,
and from the kitchen chimney he could see the blue turf smoke rising in
the still summer’s air, reminding him of Mrs Lyden’s good cooking.
On approaching the house he was startled to hear loud talking and
laughter in the dining-room, and on entering found the room full of
strangers, eating a hearty meal. At the head of the table sat a
soldierly-looking man, who wished Mr Briggs good-day, and asked who the
devil he might be.
On first hearing the voices, Mr Briggs had jumped to the natural
conclusion that a fishing party had landed and asked Mrs Lyden to give
them something to eat, and he was prepared to welcome them as became a
host; but to be asked who the devil he might be, in his own house, was
the last straw of the nightmare, and transformed him from a mild English
gentleman into a foaming fury. However, the only effect on the strangers
of Mr Briggs’ rage was to move them to greater mirth, and as he rushed
out of the room he heard one man saying that they must have sent them a
lunatic this time.
In the kitchen he found Mrs Lyden in tears, and explanations soon
followed. For some time past the island had been used as a Sinn Fein
internment camp, and his unbidden guests consisted of a British colonel,
two subalterns, a D.I., and a magistrate from a neighbouring county, who
had given trouble to the Volunteers by insisting on holding Petty
Sessions Courts in opposition to the newly-established Sinn Fein Courts.
Realising that he was a prisoner in his own house, he returned to the
dining-room, explained this extraordinary situation to his
fellow-prisoners, and then joined them at their meal. When he had
finished he went for a stroll with the colonel, who explained matters
more fully to him. Most of the prisoners had been on the island for some
time, and so far had found no chance of attempting to escape. The
colonel himself had been captured whilst salmon-fishing on a river in
the south, and then brought blindfolded at night in a car to Lough
Moyra.
On inspecting the boat-house, Mr Briggs found that all his boats had
gone, even the one Lyden had rowed him out in, which the colonel told
him had been brought over from another island, where their guards lived,
and that the guards must have returned in her; further, that they were
visited every second day by these guards, who brought them food, for
which they had to pay a stiff price.
The colonel had unearthed two packs of patience cards, and the three
soldiers, with the D.I. for a fourth, played bridge from after breakfast
until they went to bed. In the sitting-room there was a small library of
Mr Briggs’ favourite books, and these kept the rest of the party from
drowning themselves in the lake.
Two days after his arrival, and just as he was thinking about retiring
for the night, Lyden came in to say that an officer wished to speak to
Mr Briggs outside, and on following Lyden he found a man dressed in a
wonderful green uniform waiting at the front door. The officer informed
Mr Briggs that he had come to take him to a republican court, which was
to be held that night on the mainland, and where the case of the
Republic _v._ Briggs would be heard. Mr Briggs had never heard of such a
thing as a republican court, but could get no further information from
the gentleman in green, and shortly afterwards the party set out in a
boat for the mainland.
By the time they landed it was quite dark, and after a walk of about
twenty minutes they arrived at a large building, which Mr Briggs
recognised as Cloonalla chapel, and here the officer handed him over to
a local publican, who told him to follow him into the chapel. Inside
there was a large crowd of country people, while at one end was a raised
table, at which were seated the three judges—two in civilian attire, and
the third in the clothes of a priest.
After his eyes had got accustomed to the poor light of the few
oil-lamps, Mr Briggs recognised in the presiding judge the parish priest
of a neighbouring parish, and in the other two judges a butcher and a
good-for-nothing painter from Ballybor. At the time of his entry a river
fishing-rights case was before the court, with a Ballybor solicitor
acting for the defendant, while another well-known solicitor from the
same town acted as “Republican Prosecutor.”
After a time the case of the Republic _v._ Briggs came on for hearing,
and Mr Briggs learnt, to his great astonishment, that they proposed to
take his island and fishing rights on Lough Moyra from him compulsorily
for the sum of £200, to be paid in Dail Eireann Bonds, whatever they
might be, and that he was to be deported to England as soon as
convenient. At the end of the case the presiding judge asked Mr Briggs
if he had any objection, but he wisely refused to say anything, and
shortly afterwards was handed over to the green officer, who took him
back to the island.
A few days after, as Mr Briggs was sitting disconsolately on a rock at
the north end of the island, gazing across the lake and wondering if he
would ever fish there again, he heard the distant hum of a motor-engine,
and in a short time saw a ‘plane approaching the island from the
south-east. Wild with excitement, he dashed into the house, calling the
colonel to come out at once. The colonel got up from the card-table, and
on seeing the ‘plane quickly collected all the sheets and blankets he
could find, and hurriedly spread them out in the form of rough letters,
spelling the word “HELP” on the grass in front of the house, and then
ran down to the end of the quay, where he waved a sheet frantically over
his head.
For what seemed an age to the prisoners, the ‘plane took no notice of
the colonel’s signals; then, to their great joy, the pilot cut off his
engine, dropped to about 800 feet, and flew low over the island, turned,
flew over the island again, and then made off at full speed in a
southerly direction. That night none of the prisoners slept a wink,
expecting every minute to hear the sounds of their deliverers’ approach.
On the return of the ‘plane to the aerodrome a cipher message was at
once despatched to Blake, with instructions to investigate the trouble
on the island; but, as usual, the message was delayed in the post
office, and received too late to take any action that evening. On
inquiry, Blake found that, though formerly two police boats were kept on
the lake for the purpose of raiding poteen-makers on the islands, some
time ago these boats had been burnt, and there was no means of getting
out to the islands.
Early the next morning the police borrowed a motor-launch lying in the
river at Ballybor, and with difficulty mounted it on a commandeered
lorry. Taking a strong police force with them, Blake and Jones then set
out for the lake, deciding to launch the boat at a bay close to
Cloonalla chapel. Here the road ran about fifty yards from the lake, but
by the aid of rollers they soon got the launch off the lorry and afloat.
Leaving a guard over the cars and lorry, the police then set out for the
islands, and all went well until they reached the neck of the bay, which
was only about 200 yards wide. Here they came under heavy rifle-fire
from the north shore, the attackers being hidden amongst bushes and the
ruins of an old cottage.
Unfortunately one of the first shots cut the magneto wire, and the
launch at once started to drift helplessly in the wind towards the
attackers. While Blake repaired the wire, Jones swept the attackers with
a Lewis gun, which quickly smothered their fire, and the wire being soon
repaired, the launch got under way again, and made for the open lake at
full speed.
Blake had never been on Lough Moyra before, but had brought with him a
sergeant who had often taken part in poteen raids on the islands in
former days. On looking at an Ordnance map he found that there were two
large islands—one with only a fishing-lodge marked on it, and the other
with seven houses shown—and on the sergeant’s advice they made for the
latter, on the assumption that something must have gone wrong with their
boats, and that the people might be short of food.
When within about 400 yards of the island they again came under
rifle-fire, and realising that they had called at the wrong house, and
that it would be impossible to effect a landing except at a heavy loss,
they changed their course and made for the second island; but before
they got half-way a boat put out from the first island, and made off in
the direction of the far shore.
The launch was fairly fast, and in a very short time they were within
600 yards of the boat, when Blake fired a single shot as a signal to it
to stop. In reply the boat opened fire on the launch, but one short
burst of Lewis-gun fire quickly brought them to their senses, and the
occupants put up their hands.
After disarming these men Blake took their boat in tow, and this time
succeeded in reaching Mr Briggs’ island safely, where he was astonished
to meet the prisoners on the quay, and more especially the D.I., who had
been missing for some time, and of whom all hope had been given up. The
whole party then set off for the mainland, found that the guard had
successfully beaten off an attack on the cars, and eventually all
returned safely to Ballybor with only two constables slightly wounded.
Two days afterwards Mr Briggs embarked on the s.s. _Cockatoo_, bound for
England, where he will probably remain until the war in Ireland is over.
IX.
THE REWARD OF LOYALTY.
For some time after the death of Anthony Mayne, the murdered R.M., Petty
Sessions Courts ceased to be held in Ballybor, and the Sinn Fein Courts
reigned supreme. At length Mayne’s successor arrived, and endeavoured to
start the Courts in his district again, but found that not only were the
country people too terrorised to bring any cases before a British Court,
but that most of the magistrates had resigned, and none of the few
remaining ones would face the bench.
However, Fitzmaurice, the new R.M., stuck to it, and in the end a
retired officer, living just outside Ballybor, became a magistrate for
the county; and suddenly, to the intense excitement of the whole town,
it was given out that some countryman had had the audacity to defy the
edict of Dail Eireann, and to summon a neighbour to appear before the
British magistrates.
The court-house at Ballybor is a most curious-looking edifice of an
unknown style of architecture, shabby and dismal outside and like a
vault inside. On the day that the Court reopened the place was packed to
the doors, and when the clerk stood up to announce the Court open, and
ending with the words, “God save the King!” the silence could be felt.
It was what is known in the west of Ireland as a “saft day”—a day of
heavy drizzling rain and a mild west wind off the Atlantic, and after a
time the crowded court-house of countrymen in soaked home-spuns and
women with reeking shawls over their heads literally began to steam, and
the strong acrid smell of turf smoke from the drying clothes became
overpowering. At first all eyes were fixed on the two magistrates
sitting on the raised dais at one end of the court-house, and many,
remembering poor Mayne’s end, wondered how long the two had to live. The
R.M., they knew, was well paid by the British Government, but the second
magistrate’s unpaid loyalty must surely be a form of madness, or most
likely he received secret pay from the Government.
After the disposal of cases brought by the police for various offences,
the only civil case on the list—in reality the beginning of a trial of
strength between Sinn Fein and the British Government—came on for
hearing, and in due course the magistrates gave a decision in favour of
the complainant, a herd by name Mickey Coleman.
Taking advantage of the suspension of the law, a neighbour, Ned Foley,
had thought to get free grazing, and day after day had deliberately
driven his cattle on to Coleman’s land. Coleman, having remonstrated
repeatedly with Foley in vain, consulted a Ballybor solicitor, who
advised him to bring Foley into a Sinn Fein Court, where, he assured
him, he would get full justice. This Coleman refused to do, and after
consulting a second solicitor, brought the case before the Ballybor
Petty Sessions Court.
Coleman appears to have been a man of great determination and courage,
as he had been repeatedly warned by the Volunteers that if he persisted
in taking Foley into a British Court they would make his life a hell on
earth; and as he left the court after winning his case, a note was
slipped into his hand to the effect that the I.R.A. neither forgets nor
forgives.
Coleman had started life as a farm labourer, eventually becoming herd to
a Loyalist called Vyvian Carew, whose ancestors came over to Ireland in
the time of Queen Elizabeth, and who lived alone in a large house about
eight miles from Ballybor, where he farmed his own demesne of four
hundred Irish acres.
Carew belonged to a class of Irishman fast dying out in the west, and
considering that it has always been the policy of every Liberal
Government to throw them to the wolves, it is almost beyond belief that
any are left in the country. A type of man any country can ill afford to
lose, and all countries ought to be proud and glad to gain. After
serving throughout the late war in the British Army, Carew had returned
home, hoping to live in peace and quiet for the rest of his days, but
had soon been undeceived. Though working himself as hard as any small
farmer, and farming his land far better than any other man in the
district, it was decided by men who coveted his acres that he possessed
too many, and the usual steps in the west were taken to make him give up
three of his four hundred acres, and if possible force him to sell out
all.
Coleman started with a heavy heart for his cottage in Rossbane, Carew’s
demesne, and from the moment he left the court-house until he lifted the
latch of his door found himself treated as a leper by townsfolk and
country people alike. Probably some of the people would have been
willing to speak to him, and most likely many admired his pluck, but a
man who comes under the curse of the I.R.A. is to be avoided at any
costs. No man can tell when that sinister curse, which is often a matter
of life and death to a peasant, may be extended to an unwary
sympathiser.
In the evening, when going round the cattle, he met his master, who, on
being shown the threatening note, at once wanted Coleman to bring his
family up to the big house; but he refused, knowing that if he did his
cottage would probably be burnt and his own few cattle either stolen or
maimed.
Soon after eleven that night there came a loud knock at the door, and
Coleman, who had been sitting by the fire expecting a visit, rose up to
meet his fate, but was caught by his terrified wife, who clung to him
with the strength of despair. At last Coleman succeeded in opening the
door, and to their utter astonishment in walked a British officer,
dressed in khaki topcoat, steel helmet, and with a belt and holster. The
officer explained that he came from Castleport, that he had a large
party of soldiers on the road outside, and that he was going to scour
the countryside for rebels that night. Lastly, he said that he had been
told Coleman was well disposed, and would he help him by giving
information?
Coleman, who at the sight of a British officer in a steel helmet, when
he expected a Volunteer with a black mask, had been overcome with joy,
at the mention of that sinister word “information” regained his senses,
and answered that he had none to give; that he was only a poor herd
striving to do his work and keep a wife and a long weak family, and that
he had nothing to do with politics.
The officer said nothing, but sat down by the fire on a stool and
started to play with the children; presently he returned to the charge
again, and asked the herd where the Foleys lived, and if they were
Volunteers. The mention of the name of Foley confirmed Coleman in his
growing suspicion, and he replied that he knew the Foleys for quiet
decent boys, and he believed that they had nothing at all to do with
politics.
Shortly afterwards the officer wished them good-night, leaving Coleman
and his wife a prey to conflicting emotions. If he really was a British
officer, then at any rate they were safe for that night, but if not,
then probably some terrible outrage was brewing. Only a week before the
Volunteers had set fire, while the inmates were in bed, to the house of
a farmer, who had bought the farm a few days previously at a public
auction, contrary to the orders of the I.R.A.; and though the inmates
just managed to escape in their night attire, their two horses and a cow
were burnt to death, and their charred bodies could still be seen lying
amid the ruins from the main road—a warning to all who thought of
disobeying the I.R.A.
After the time it would take to walk to the Foleys’ house and back there
came a second knock, and the officer entered again, pushing one of the
young Foleys in front of him with his hands up. “Here’s the young
blighter,” said the officer to Coleman, “and if you will give the
necessary information about him, I’ll have him shot by my men outside at
once.”
But Coleman, whose suspicion by now was a certainty, refused to be
drawn, and replied that he knew nothing against the Foleys, and that
they were quiet respectable neighbours.
For some time the officer tried his best to get Coleman to give evidence
against Foley, but at last, finding it was useless, left, taking his
prisoner with him.
By now the Colemans were too unhappy to go to bed, and sat round the
fire in silence. After an hour there came a third knock, and again the
officer appeared; but this time Coleman could see quite a different
expression on his face, and in a brutal voice, not taking the trouble to
hide his brogue, he bade the unfortunate herd “get up out of that and
come outside.”
Coleman followed his tormentor outside, and there found a mob of young
men and boys waiting for him, who proceeded to kick him along the road
for a mile, when he could go no farther, and fell on the road. They then
tied his hands and ankles, and left him in the middle of the road for a
police car to run over him. And here he lay all night in the rain.