SOLOHEADBEG.
At the beginning of January, 1919, we received information to the effect
that a quantity of explosives was to be conveyed to Soloheadbeg Quarry
for blasting purposes. The consignment, we knew, would be guarded by
armed policemen, as was always the rule at that time.
I spoke to Sean about it. “Here is our chance,” I said, “let us start
the war soon, or the army will lose heart.” I knew we had but a very
small number of men with determination enough for such a job, but I knew
too that the number would increase with time; and, in any case, it is
quality, not quantity, that counts in guerilla warfare.
We discussed the proposal for a long time. Finally we decided to disarm
the guard and seize the explosives, for, as Sean said, there was nothing
we needed more at that time than guns and explosives. We made a careful
survey of the locality. We selected the spot for our first ambush. We
knew every inch of the ground, we had been born and reared in the
vicinity, and Sean’s own farmhouse was not a stone’s throw from the
quarry.
Soloheadbeg is a small townland about two and a half miles from Tipperary
town, and less than a mile from the Limerick Junction. The quarry
stands on an eminence on a little by-road. Farmhouses and cottages are
dotted here and there in the neighbourhood, though there is no village
nearer than Donohill, a mile and a half distant. It was in this plain,
overshadowed by the gigantic figure of Galteemore away to the south, that
Brian Boru and his brother Mahon fought their first great battle with
the Danes in 968, when Brian with his gallant army of Tipperary men and
Clare men routed the invaders, and never ceased from the pursuit till he
reached Limerick twenty miles away and burned the town over their heads.
The right wing of his army swept across the hills where the quarry now
stands, as the defeated Danes fled to their stronghold.
The quarry itself stands on the right, down the little by-road. There
is a high ditch on each side of the road by which it is approached from
Tipperary, and here and there is the further cover afforded by thick
whitethorn bushes. I should explain that what we call a “ditch” in
Tipperary is really a bank, or dike.
Unfortunately our information regarding the date of the arrival of the
explosives was not quite correct. We expected it on January 16th, but
it did not come till five days later. During these five days we waited
in readiness for the attempt. Our men had left their homes without
giving any indication of their plans. After three days I had to send all
home except eight. We had neither provisions to feed them nor money to
purchase the provisions.
And so the nine of us who remained were watching and waiting. The men
who were with me were—Sean Treacy, Seumas Robinson, Sean Hogan, Tim
Crowe, Patrick O’Dwyer, of Hollyford; Michael Ryan, of Grange (Donohill);
Patrick McCormick, and Jack O’Meara, Tipperary.
Our chief concern during these days of waiting was to avoid attracting
attention. We did not want to be seen by any of the people in the
locality. Those were nearly all employed at the quarry, and as the times
were then disturbed enough any report that strangers were hanging around
the neighbourhood might have completely upset our plans. Every morning
before daybreak we went as noiselessly as possible to our hiding place,
there to remain under cover, but ever on the alert, while one of our
number acted as scout from the by-road to the main road from Tipperary,
along which the peelers were bound to approach. There we waited in
silence until 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and then we abandoned our
position, knowing they would not come later, as they liked to be back in
town before darkness set in. We spent the night at my own home, where
my mother prepared breakfast each morning about 4 o’clock. On the fifth
morning she declared, “If you don’t do something to-day you can get your
own breakfast to-morrow.”
At last came the fateful morning of January 21st, 1919, the day that
was to see our country rejoice at the first meeting of the Parliament
of Ireland, the first Dail Eireann setting up the Government of the
Republic, and sending its message to the free nations of the earth.
We had taken our place behind the ditch, and had spent many weary hours
waiting and watching. We were quietly discussing the great event that was
to take place in Dublin that day. Our scout was away with his eyes fixed
on the Tipperary road. Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by our
scout. Dashing towards us from his look-out, his eyes sparkling with the
light of battle, and a grim smile on his countenance, he whispered the
word of warning—“They’re coming, they’re coming!”
Every man knew his post. For days we had thought of nothing but the
position we were now in. If any of our number felt nervous or excited he
showed little outward sign of it. Like a flash every soldier manned his
post. Our hour of trial was at hand; we were to face the enemy, with
life or death in the balance. And incidentally we were to open another
phase in the long fight for the freedom of our country.
Our scout was again on the alert, and again he returned to report. This
time he gave us the actual distance, and he told us their number.
Nearer and nearer they come. In the still clear air we hear the sound of
the horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of a heavy cart over the rough hilly
road.
That day I did not feel the same coolness that I afterwards strove to
develop. My nerves were highly strung; I realised what we were doing, and
I foresaw the consequences whether our plans succeeded or failed.
We were facing men trained to the use of firearms, especially disciplined
for such emergencies as this. In all probability they had but just
completed the special course in bomb-throwing, which had lately been
added to the accomplishments of the R.I.C. My little squad had little
experience in the practical use of firearms. We had never been in a
position to fire one round of ball-cartridge for the sake of practice. We
had often chaffed one another about this want of experience, and jokingly
referred to the probable consequences if our nerves got jumpy when
the real time came. But we always brushed aside these idle fears, and
maintained a calm and cheerful exterior, consoling ourselves with the
thought, “We’re Irish anyhow, and all Irishmen are fighters by nature.”
But now the hour had come. From my point of vantage I shot a hurried
glance down the road as the party approached. The driver and the County
Council employee who was to take over the explosives walked beside the
horses. Two policemen in their black uniforms were also on foot carrying
rifles in their hands. They were a little distance behind the cart.
Only a moment before the blood was rushing madly through my veins; now
when I saw them actually at hand all my nervousness disappeared, and I
felt cool and strong again. I believed I could fight a dozen of these
enemy forces all by myself. For the men who were now approaching had
deserted their country, and were the spies and hirelings of her enemy.
Nearer still they come. They talk in low tones. They are almost under the
shadow of our revolvers.
“Hands up!” The cry comes from our men as with one voice. “Hands up!” But
no! They seize their rifles, and with the best military movement bring
them to the ready. They were Irishmen, too, and would rather die than
surrender.
Again and again we called upon them to put up their hands. We would have
preferred that they should surrender without bloodshed, but they were
dogged and stubborn, and now ’twas our lives or theirs.
Their fingers were on the triggers. Another appeal on our side would be
useless—perhaps too late for ourselves.
Quick and sure our volleys rang out. The aim was true. The two policemen
were dead.