OUR ESCAPE.
Now began our career of real excitement. If we had disarmed the police
without firing a shot the thing would not have been so serious. But the
shots had alarmed the countryside. In a moment men and women would appear
at every doorway. On the roadside were the two terrified civilians,
James Godfrey, the driver of the cart, and Patrick Flynn, the County
Council employee. Within an hour hundreds of police and military would
be scouring the countryside for us. Henceforth I realised we were to be
outlawed rapparees with a price on our heads.
But it was a time for action. We seized the rifles and equipment of
the police, mounted the cart, and drove away with our booty. The cart
contained more than a hundred-weight of gelignite, but thirty electric
detonators which Flynn had in his pocket escaped us, as we learned a week
later.
Never was a poor horse called upon to give such gallant service in a dash
for life and liberty. Sean Hogan held the reins; Sean Treacy and I sat
behind. The others of the party had been ordered to escape in different
directions, and all got clear away.
On we sped, urging our poor horse to greater speed, while school children
and farmworkers watched us in amazement as we went by.
We were heading for Donaskeigh. For a great part of our journey not a
word was spoken. Treacy was the first to break the silence. He spoke in
the same cool tones that he might have used if he were sitting round a
fire discussing a game of cards.
“Do you remember, Dan, when we were reading about explosives? The book
says that they are dangerous if frozen, or if they get jolted?”
This reminder did not add to our peace of mind, for if ever explosives
got a jolting ours did. The road was rough and uneven; heaps of loose
stones were scattered along the way; the cart was one of the ordinary
farmyard type, heavily and roughly built, and without springs.
But on we had to go until we reached the spot where we had decided to
hide our booty. There we quickly deposited the gelignite, all except
two sticks which I kept for a decoy. These I threw on the roadside at
the spot where we eventually abandoned the horse. For months later, day
after day, police and soldiers actually walked over our dug-out, but
never discovered it. They had been deceived by the two loose sticks, and
kept themselves warm by digging trenches all over the country, but their
search was in vain.
When we had hidden the booty our trouble began. The poor old horse could
go no further. Besides we had no desire to keep him much longer, for he
would only furnish the enemy with a clue to getting on our track later.
We left him on the roadside and went our way. A few hours later that
district was spotted with khaki figures, for the horse was found that
evening at Aileen Bridge, about four miles from Tipperary town on the
main road to Thurles.
Difficulties were now looming up before our eyes. Tipperary was no longer
safe. The weather was against us. We were tired with the excitement of
the day, and the suspense of the days before, but we could not think
of rest for a long while yet. The weather was intensely cold, and,
to make things worse, it started to snow. That not only added to our
difficulties, but there was the danger that if the snow lodged we might
easily be traced.
At Ryan’s Cross, near Aileen Bridge, we abandoned the horse. Then we
turned to the right. Previously we had been going north, but now we
went south-east, and gradually south towards where the Galtee mountains
towered above us. We walked forty miles over these mountains and valleys,
for like many before us we felt that they would give us hope and
shelter. All through the ages since Geoffrey Keating penned his famous
_History_ when there was a price on his head, the Galtee mountains and
the Glen of Aherlow have been the first refuge of the Tipperary felon.
We had travelled four miles after leaving the horse when we took our
first rest at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s, of Rathclogheen, near Thomastown. There
we had our first square meal since my mother gave us breakfast early
that morning, and right heartily we enjoyed the ham and eggs and tea our
hostess set before us. It was in that house that our famous countryman,
Father Mathew, was born.
But we could spare no time for lingering; we had yet to put many more
miles between us and Soloheadbeg. We resumed our journey towards the
mountains. At Keville’s Cross we crossed the Cahir and Tipperary Road.
The cold was bitter, and the wind was piercing. The only other living
things we saw out in the open were two mountain goats, spancelled
together near the cross-roads. Several times we lost our way after that.
We dare not call to a strange wayside farmhouse, for at that time the
people had not learned to keep a shut mouth. At one point Sean Treacy
fell into a drain about twenty feet deep, and we thought he was killed.
When we got him out we found he was little the worse for his fall, and
he assured us he would fire another shot before handing in his gun. We
continued our journey towards the summit. Once when we had traversed the
Glen and climbed Galteemore’s rugged slopes from the Tipperary side,
we lost our bearings on the top. In the height of the summer you will
find it chilly enough on Galteemore. You can imagine how we felt that
evening in the heart of winter. It had taken us three hours to climb,
but after all our exertions we wandered back to the two goats—back to
our starting-point. In despair we abandoned all hope of crossing the
mountain. As Sean Hogan said then, “’tis all very well for poets sitting
in easy chairs at the fireside to write about the beauties of mountains,
but if they had to climb them as we had, hungry and cold, they would be
in no mood to appreciate the beauties of nature.”
When we returned to Keville’s Cross we decided on a new plan. We crossed
on to the railway line, and determined to face for Cahir. It was lucky we
did so. We had not gone many miles along the line when we saw the lights
of the military lorries that were scouring the roads in search of us. Had
we been down on the road we could never have avoided them.
A railway is a tiresome road to travel, even at ordinary times. For us
in our condition that night it was cruel. Yet we had to keep on. Once in
the thick darkness I saw a black figure a few paces ahead. I was walking
in front and promptly levelled my revolver, with the order “hands up!”
The figure remained motionless, having apparently halted at my command. I
advanced, with my gun still levelled, and walked into a railway signpost
with the warning, “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” Unhappy though our
plight was, the boys laughed at my mistake, and I had to laugh myself
with them.
A little farther on Sean Hogan asked us to stop for a moment, as his
boot was feeling loose. Sean Treacy tied the lace, but he did not travel
much farther till he again complained that it was loose. Sean stopped to
examine it, and found that the whole boot was practically worn away by
the rocks and boulders. Only a bit of a sole and the laced portion of the
upper remained.
All the time Sean Treacy tried to keep our spirits from drooping.
Several times we asked him how far more was it to Cahir, and always got
the reply, “the next turn of the road.” He was right, of course; but
as the road and the railway which runs parallel to it are an almost
perfect straight line for three miles, the next turn was a long way off.
Now and again we were so exhausted that we used to stand and rest our
heads against the ditch by the railway side to take a sleep—or what we
persuaded ourselves was a sleep—for five minutes.
At last we reached Cahir. We were now as near to absolute collapse as
men could be. We were becoming desperate. For the first time we had
to assume that outward coolness, and take that risk which later became
almost part of our daily routine. We walked right through the town of
Cahir, a garrison town on the main road from Limerick to Clonmel and
Waterford, and only fifteen miles from Soloheadbeg. But we had to take
the risk. Our blood was almost congealed with cold, we were ravenously
hungry, and there was little life left in us. But we knew one good friend
on whom we could rely for a night’s shelter. That friend was Mrs. Tobin,
of Tincurry House, near Cahir. I shall never forget her kindness to us
that night and to others of the boys later. The British afterwards bombed
and destroyed the house in daylight as an “official reprisal” for the
shooting of District-Inspector Potter, an incident to which I shall refer
in a later chapter.
We got to bed the first time for a week. The three of us were in the
same plight. Excitement, cold and exhaustion all combined to make sleep
impossible for us. But we lay limp for four hours, and in this way we got
some rest for our weary limbs.
We got up full of anxiety to hear the news. Since we left Soloheadbeg
we had spoken to nobody and had not seen a newspaper. Sure enough,
there were the big splash headings, just as we anticipated, announcing
this “Tipperary Outrage,” “Fearful Crime,” “Murder of Two Policemen,”
and such like. We saw, too, an account of the inquest on the dead men,
Constable McDonnell and O’Connell. Most of the news of the incident was
absolutely wrong, as it often was later on. We learned, too, that two
young men had been arrested on suspicion, but neither had anything to do
with the affair, and they were released in a few days. Two schoolboys
from the locality, Matthew Hogan, aged fifteen, a brother of Sean’s; and
Timothy Connors, aged eleven, were also arrested by the British, as they
were supposed to have seen us. The father of the boy Connors had been
a workman employed on the farm of Sean Treacy’s mother. Both boys were
detained for months in an effort to get them to give information, and,
in the case of Connors, a great legal action ensued, which resulted in
a verdict against the Commandant of the R.I.C. Headquarters for illegal
detention.
[Illustration: POLICE NOTICE.
£1000 REWARD
WANTED FOR MURDER IN IRELAND.
DANIEL BREEN
(calls himself Commandant of the Third Tipperary Brigade).
Age 27, 5 feet 7 inches in height, bronzed complexion, dark hair (long in
front), grey eyes, short cocked nose, stout build, weight about 12 stone,
clean shaven; sulky bulldog appearance; looks rather like a blacksmith
coming from work; wears cap pulled well down over face.
The above reward will be paid by the Irish Authorities, to any person not
in the Public Service who may give information resulting in his arrest.
Information to be given at any Police Station.
S.O. 14591. (G. 40). 5,000. 11.20.—A. T. & Co., Ltd.]
Meantime our episode at Soloheadbeg had had its first effects. South
Tipperary, that is half the county, had been proclaimed a “military
area.” That, for all practical purposes, meant martial law. Fairs,
markets and meetings were prohibited; military reinforcements were rushed
into the district and garrisons were established at villages which had
never before sheltered a British soldier. Night and day they patrolled
the roads and scoured the fields. Our little band had unmasked England.
She had now to come out in the open and let the world see that she held
Ireland by naked force, and by force alone.
We also learned that a reward of £1,000 was offered for any information
that would lead to our capture. A few months later this offer was
increased to £10,000. Nobody earned it nor indeed tried to earn it,
except a few members of the R.I.C. They failed, and most of them never
tried a second time.
These are the plain, unvarnished facts concerning the first shots fired
after the Insurrection of 1916. These shots were the first of a series
that were to bring Ireland’s name once more before the world, and to make
the nations look on in admiration at Ireland’s fight for freedom.