had been let down before laughed and cried to each other, “Sold again!”
but the younger ones, who had yet to learn the ways of politicians, took
the matter to heart, and started to brood over it.
There were several questions to which they badly wanted an answer; the
chief being, if there was to be this complete surrender, why had it not
been made long ago, when the lives of many of their relations and pals
in the Army and R.I.C. might have been saved, not to mention the lives
of many Loyalists? These valuable lives had been freely given in order
that Ireland should be freed from the murderous plague of gunmen, in the
same way as during the late war the lives of the Empire’s best were
sacrificed in order that we should be freed from the murderous plague of
the Boches.
Further, they wanted to know what terms had been made with regard to
their comrades who had fallen into the hands of the I.R.A.
The Loyalists were staggered, knowing that their worst fears would now
be realised; to be handed over to the murder gang, which was the reward
the cynics in the Dublin clubs had always prophesied, would be England’s
return for the efforts of the Loyalists during the war. However, they
could say nothing and do nothing, but simply make the best of their
fate.
The neutrals, most of whom had changed their flag as often as the
British Government had changed its mind, now, of course, openly threw in
their lot with Sinn Fein.
The townspeople and farmers openly rejoiced at the prospect of even a
temporary peace, though in their hearts many of them knew that there
could be no real peace in Ireland until the gunmen had been wiped out or
reduced to a state of impotence by disarming them. However, the future
could take care of itself as far as they were concerned.
For the first few days of the Truce the Sinn Feiners appeared to be
doubtful whether their wonderful good luck could be really true, and
consequently lay low. Then men and boys who had been on the run for many
moons returned to Ballybor, and gave an exhibition of “See the
Conquering Hero Comes” in the streets daily; among them men wanted badly
for atrocious murders, who now snapped their fingers openly in the faces
of the police. A policeman could not walk the streets of Ballybor
without meeting these swaggering fellows, who openly laughed and jeered
at them when they passed.
However, a considerable number did not return, and on their relations
inquiring about their whereabouts from the I.R.A. liaison officer, they
were told they never would come back.
Gradually, being sure they were indeed safe, and that in truth they had
the British Government on the run instead of being on the run
themselves, they grew bolder and more insolent.
One brute went up to the sentry outside the police barracks and
deliberately spat on him, hoping no doubt that the constable would lose
his temper and break the truce. The constable stepped into the barracks
and returned at once with the Sinn Fein flag, with which he carefully
wiped the offending stains off his face and tunic under the nose of the
astonished gunman. He then proceeded to stand on the flag in the mud,
and asked the gunman, “What about it?” For some seconds the gunman stood
irresolute, then turned and walked off, looking a complete ass, followed
by the loud laughter of the police.
From now the Republicans proceeded to take over the government of the
district, the police standing by helpless, bound hand and foot by the
strict order that on no account were they to disturb the peace
atmosphere. How the Boches must be laughing at us!
In every parish Republican Courts were advertised to be held in the
local papers, and were held without let or hindrance, the advertisements
stating that “Summons, &c., can be had on application to ——, Clerk of
the Court.” And why not? Had not the I.R.A. beaten Lloyd George to his
knees, and was not the British Government on the run?
To give the comical touch necessary in Ireland, the R.M. continued to
receive instructions from the Castle to attend the various Petty
Sessions Courts in every district and deal out the British version of
the law. Probably the first time (and please God the last) that any part
of Great Britain and Ireland has been governed by two sets of laws at
the same time.
With regard to this disgraceful state of affairs one particular case
will give a good illustration of how low British law has fallen in the
west of Ireland.
A very decent man called O’Brien, who had been a herd to the Congested
Districts Board, bought a farm from the Board with three other men, the
farm being divided into four.
This did not suit the landless members of the Transport Union in the
district, whose idea was that they should have the land without paying
for it. They told O’Brien to get out, but he refused; they then
proceeded to smash the fences and drive and injure his cattle. O’Brien
built up the fences and put his cattle back.
They next proceeded to beat O’Brien, who afterwards went into Ballybor
but returned without taking any action, as they told him there that
there was now no law in the country. That night they beat him again; the
process consisted of first holding him while a powerful man closed his
eyes with repeated blows of his fists, and then they hammered him to
their heart’s content and left him in the road for dead.
Hours afterwards O’Brien crawled home on his hands and knees—he was
practically blinded, and appears to have found his way home by
instinct,—and some days afterwards, when he had recovered a little, he
went to the police in Ballybor.
A magistrate happened to be at the barracks at the time, and insisted
that steps should be taken to protect O’Brien and punish the savages who
had beaten him, though the police told him that they were afraid that it
was quite useless to try.
However, the magistrate took O’Brien’s information, the case came on
week after week at the Ballybor Petty Sessions, always to be adjourned
at the request of the police, waiting instruction from the Castle. At
last O’Brien, in despair, took his case to the local Sinn Fein Court;
and here the chief offender was fined £27 and the others large sums, and
they were warned that if they interfered with O’Brien again they would
be dealt with very severely.
And this is a good example of how British law protects a decent citizen
in Ireland at the present time; but one forgets that the peace
atmosphere must not be disturbed at all costs! But is there any wonder
that the people are fast leaving the King’s Courts for those of Sinn
Fein, and of their own free will now?
Republican Local Government inspectors appeared in every district, and
quickly ousted the King’s inspectors; held courts of inquiry on
unfortunate road surveyors who had refused to take the oath of
allegiance to Dail Eireann, and tried to sack loyal dispensary doctors.
The chief amusement of the local gunmen on leave, and of their friends,
male and female, was now to spend their time joy-riding through the
countryside, flying Sinn Fein flags on their commandeered lorries and
singing the “Soldier’s Song” whenever they passed any police or a
barracks.
One expedition of this kind went out to Ballyrick on a Sunday and
returned to Ballybor about midnight. Blake happened to be passing down
the main street at the time, and encountered a party of drunken bank
clerks trying to see how much row they could make.
Blake remonstrated with them, and told them that if they did not go home
quietly he would have them arrested. One clerk at once started to sing
the “Soldier’s Song” at the top of his voice, and another shouted at
Blake in an insolent voice, “What about the truce, Mr B——, D.I.?” Blake
saw red—he had borne and suffered much for many days,—and he gave the
bank clerk a full drive on the chin which sent him flying. The whole
party then swiftly retreated in silence.
The following day Blake paid a visit to the bank, and said to the clerk
he had ousted the previous night, “Look here, Mr Bank Clerk, don’t think
I hit you last night because you were drunk. There’s a fine open yard at
the back of the barracks, and if you will come round now, we can fight
it out.” Abject apologies from Mr Bank Clerk, and Blake left the bank.
One morning a woman arrived at the barracks in a state of great distress
and asked to see the D.I. She told Blake that she lived in a small house
in Cloonalla, which she rented from another woman in the village. Twice
her landlady had tried in a British court to evict her, and had failed.
The landlady then applied to the local I.R.A., who promptly turned the
unfortunate woman with all her furniture and belongings into the street,
and there she remained. When she remonstrated with them they showed her
a warrant signed by the village Sinn Fein magistrate and left her.
Blake at once applied to the County Inspector for instructions, who
applied to the higher authorities. Back came the answer, “See circular
so-and-so,” which on being turned up stated that all breaches of the
Truce should be at once reported. Meanwhile the woman remained homeless:
neighbours in an Irish village nowadays fight shy of an I.R.A. victim,
and circulars are not substitutes for roofs.
Again Blake tried to get leave to take action, and this time the answer
was to forward four copies of the case to the police adviser in
Scotland. In despair he put his pride in his pocket and applied to the
I.R.A. liaison officer of the district for help.
And the next day the liaison officer arrived in Ballybor—an ex-soldier
and a well-known murderer. Blake felt that he could hardly stand this
final insult to an honourable uniform; but duty is duty, and a truce
must be kept.
The liaison officer went out in a car to Cloonalla, and ordered the
local braves to put the woman and her furniture back in her house, which
they flatly refused to do. And that was the end of the matter.
After some weeks’ rest the chiefs of the I.R.A. issued an order calling
all men to the colours, whether they liked it or not.
It has been mentioned that the country round Ballybor was famous for its
excellent shooting, grouse, snipe, woodcock, duck, and geese chiefly;
and in the days before the rebellion many Englishmen must have spent
happy times shooting and fishing in the many shooting-lodges dotted
about on the mountains and moors to the east and west of Ballybor.
Now all these lodges are occupied by instructors of the I.R.A., who take
so many of the young men and boys of the district in relays for an eight
days’ intensive training course—drilling, musketry, instruction in the
use of Lewis and Thompson machine-guns, bombing, and twenty-five-mile
route-marches in full fighting order, the latter most unpopular.
Not only have all old members of the I.R.A. to attend these courses, but
every young man and boy, who had previously refused to join up, have to
go; and there is no refusing to go now.
You may miss your garden-boy or shop-assistant, to meet him in the
course of the week taking part in a route-march; or if you are foolishly
inquisitive, you may see him at dawn advancing across your demesne in
company with other boys, or firing his musketry course.
Blake watched two lorry-loads of these recruits setting off on a Monday
morning from the main street of Ballybor under his very nose, Sinn Fein
flags flying; and they sang the “Soldier’s Song” for his special
benefit.
About two miles from Ballybor there lives a retired officer in a nice
house with a good demesne, a man who served the Empire well and truly
for many years. When the war was over he retired, fondly hoping to spend
the remainder of his days in peace and comfort in his old family home.
But not so: he happened to be the owner of a demesne which the Transport
Union had promised to its members. So they tried repeatedly to stampede
him out of the country, but that failed. Now his place is occupied by
what the I.R.A. call a week-end camp for the drilling and instruction of
the Ballybor shop-boys. They use his cooking utensils, burn his turf,
and make the night hideous with their yells and oaths, so that the
officer and his family find it impossible to get any rest. Moreover,
they, the I.R.A., do not appear to be strong in sanitary sections. And
they told him that if he took any action they would burn his place to
the ground.
What action could he take? There is no law in the country except the law
of the pistol. The police are now bound hand and foot. They report these
outrages to the Castle, and what happens? Nothing. The Government are
far too busy hunting for that elusive formula which is to turn this
Irish hell into a paradise, to worry about a stupid old retired officer.
He has no vote in England, nor can he ever affect their political
careers.
And why all these feverish military preparations? Either to invade
Ulster when the time of a settlement and peace comes, or, if the Truce
is broken, to massacre the R.I.C. and the Loyalists.
About this time a constable, transferred from the south-west to
Ballybor, brought with him a story—he swore it was true—which will take
a queer lot of formulæ to explain away. Not long ago the I.R.A. ran a
cargo of arms on the coast where he was stationed, openly, with the
police looking on. The police at once reported the affair, and were told
that it did not matter as the arms would never be used.
Presumably the authorities meant that these arms would not be used
against the Crown forces; but what about loyal Ulster, and those most
unfortunate of people to-day in Europe, outside of Russia, the southern
Irish Loyalists?
Apparently the I.R.A. chiefs are believers in games for their men, as
witness the following advertisement which appeared in the Ballybor shop
windows:—
GREAT FOOTBALL MATCH.
NORTH BALLYRICK FLYING
COLUMN, I.R.A.
_v._
BALLYBOR PATRICKITES.
PAY YOUR SHILLING AND SEE
HOW WE ENJOY THE TRUCE.
The Transport Union unwittingly supplied the comical element of the
situation when they started a great row with the I.R.A. people in
Ballybor. It appeared that the I.R.A. had been in the habit of not
paying the Union rate of wages to the stalwarts of the Transport Union
for digging trenches across roads and breaking down bridges during the
war, and now they were furious because the I.R.A. refused to pay up the
difference, and threatened them with all sorts of horrible things. And
the I.R.A. laughed at them.
People in England have not the remotest conception of the terrible
Frankenstein monster which De Valera & Co. have reared up and armed in
Ireland, a hideous monster of murderous and armed gunmen, fearing
neither God nor man, which in the summer of 1921 was on the point of
being exterminated by British bayonets to make this beautiful island of
Ireland once more a clean and wholesome land, where men might dwell in
peace.
That chance has gone. Will it ever occur again? And if it does will the
British Government seize their opportunity like men and rid Ireland of
this terrible menace? Or will they again be found wanting, groping after
some wretched formula?
Do people realise why De Valera acts the part of the coy fly in
hesitating to enter Mr Lloyd George’s talking parlour? The sinister
reason is that if he once gives up his claim to an Irish Republic he
seals his own doom. The day he enters into a conference with the British
Government on these conditions, the Irish Republican Brotherhood signs
his death warrant, and well he knows it.
But if, for argument’s sake, a so-called settlement is arrived at, what
becomes of De Valera’s Frankenstein monster?
Will it beat its automatics into reaping-hooks and convert its
machine-guns into potato-sprayers? Possibly in the minds of English
Radicals, but nowhere else.
And when the Welshman and the Mexican have fooled the English and the
southern Irish with a formula, do they think that any formula ever
phrased would fool Ulster?
On the day that an Irish Republic is set up (Dominion Home Rule is only
another name for it), Sinn Fein, its _raison d’être_ accomplished, dies;
but out of its corpse will arise two parties, or rather armies (for all
men in Ireland are armed to-day except the Loyalists), one consisting of
the farmer shopkeeper class, while the other will be the Citizen Army of
the Bolshevist Labour Party.
The rank and file of the I.R.A. consists of farmers’ sons, young
townsmen, shop assistants, and the like; they expect either a fat
pension for life or twenty acres of land. Both have been freely promised
to them, and both are equally impossible.
And these disgruntled gunmen, all armed, will take sides according to
their sympathies, and before many months are past these forces will be
at each other’s throats. And the national air of Ireland will be the
“Red Flag.”
Like Kerensky in Russia, De Valera will disappear in the welter of
revolution.
The R.I.C. will have vanished—they have already been told that when the
“Cease fire” sounds, they will be given a month to clear out of Ireland,
lock, stock, and barrel.
The surrender to Sinn Fein by the British Government is a good example
of the evil which can be brought about by that modern plague, skilful
and unscrupulous propaganda.
The sooner the good elements in England wake up and combine to insist
that the necessary action is taken in Ireland to enforce law and order,
the better it will be for both countries and the Empire.
The English people have been fooled by a press which carefully
suppressed all news of the true state of affairs in Ireland, and then
gave lying and distorted accounts.
It is futile to say that the remedy for false reports lies with the law.
All honest men know that a clever lawyer in a court of law can make a
half or three-quarter black lie appear a whole truth white as driven
snow, as easily as a smart and up-to-date accountant can juggle with a
balance-sheet to show + or - half a million as the necessity arises.
The day will come in Ireland when men will pray to God for a sight of
the good old green uniform of the R.I.C. And it will be too late.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Changed fight to light on p. 198.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors.
3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of the R.I.C, by Unknown and The Royal Irish Constabulary