HELPED BY THE BRITISH.
We spent two nights in Mrs. Tobin’s house. Then we went to Ned McGrath’s,
of Tincurry, and from there we were taken by Ned to Gorman’s, of
Burncourt Castle. We then arranged to go to Ryan’s of Tubrid, and sent
on word that they might expect us. But after sending word we changed
our minds and did not go to Tubrid; and lucky it was for us—or for
somebody else. Just at the time we had expected to be there the house was
surrounded by eight peelers, and Ryan himself was arrested.
We decided to go on to Mitchelstown in County Cork, at the other end of
the Galtees. We spent a night in O’Brien’s, of Ballagh, and while we were
there a strange thing occurred. We were sleeping upstairs when strange
voices aroused us. We looked out and saw several peelers just entering
the house. We at once got ready for a fight, expecting to see them
mounting the stairs at any moment. But they never came. In a few minutes
they took their departure. Then we learned that the object of their
visit was to ascertain if the owner of the house had paid the licence for
his dogs.
Finally we reached Mitchelstown where we met Christie Ryan, who welcomed
us and gave us the shelter of his house. While we were there we saw eight
armed policemen pass the door. They were guarding a little packet of
blasting powder. Evidently the Soloheadbeg affair had taught them to take
no chances, and now they had quadrupled the escort.
Later we came across into East Limerick, where Ned O’Brien, of Galbally,
put us up, and then we travelled farther to the Maloneys, of Lackelly,
the scene of a great battle with the British two years later. At Lackelly
we stayed about a week.
But you must understand our position all this time since the affair at
Soloheadbeg. We were still within a radius of ten miles of the scene.
Police and military were scouring the countryside for us, searching
houses, ditches and woods. The clergy, the public and the press had all
condemned our action. Our only consoling thought was that so were the
men of ’98, and the Fenians of ’67, and then the men of 1916 condemned
in their day, and we knew that as the cause of these men had been
vindicated, so too would our cause when the scales fell from the people’s
eyes. At this time, however, scarce a word would be heard in our defence.
Our point of view was not even to be listened to. The people had voted
for a Republic, but now they seemed to have abandoned us who tried to
bring that Republic nearer, and who had taken them at their word.
Our former friends shunned us. They preferred the drawing-room as their
battle ground, and the political resolution rather than the gun as their
weapon. We had heard the gospel of freedom preached to us; we believed in
it, we wanted to be free, and we were prepared to give our lives as proof
of the faith that was in us. But those who preached the gospel were not
prepared to practise it.
Even from the Irish Volunteers or the Irish Republican Army, as it has
now come to be called, we got no support. Ned O’Brien and James Scanlan
of Galbally, Paddy Ryan of Doon, and Davy Burke of Emly, certainly stood
by us; but they were the exceptions.
When the news of the Soloheadbeg affair became public, a meeting was
actually summoned in Tipperary town by a man who should have been our
friend. His purpose was to dissociate Sinn Fein from the incident, and
to denounce us for our action. The meeting was, however, called off
by another prominent man. A local clergyman in a sermon, in which he
denounced us as murderers, said that it used to be the custom to say,
“Where Tipperary leads Ireland follows,” but he hoped this would not be
so in the case of Soloheadbeg, the men responsible for which would, he
said, go to their graves with the brand of Cain on their foreheads. Such
were the things said about us, but we kept on our course.
In many places we were refused shelter on a night that one would not put
out a dog. I remember on one occasion we were sitting in a farmhouse by
the fireside when a loud knock was made at the door. It was dark, and the
farmer did not care to open without knowing who was outside.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“Police!” came the prompt reply.
Simultaneously we drew our revolvers. The door was opened, and a young
neighbouring farmer entered, laughing heartily at his attempted joke.
Before we could put away our guns the owner of the house observed them.
At once his attitude towards us changed. He informed us point blank that
he would not permit men with guns to stay under his roof. It was bitterly
cold, but we had to go out into one of the outhouses for the night. So
chilled were we there that we had to drive in some of the cows to keep us
warm.
We had to keep tramping from parish to parish without a penny in our
pockets. Our clothes and boots were almost worn out, and we had no
changes. Many whom we thought we could trust would not let us sleep even
in their cattle byres.
When we reached the village of Dono, in County Limerick—still only seven
miles from Soloheadbeg—we again met with Seumas Robinson, and I need
hardly say that our joy at the reunion was unbounded. Although it was
only a few weeks since we parted after the fight at Soloheadbeg, we all
felt like brothers meeting after years of separation. When we met we
continued our night’s march linked arm in arm.
While we were in this neighbourhood Paddy Ryan, a well-known local
merchant and an old worker in the cause of freedom, proved a staunch
friend to us. With Seumas again one of our band we discussed the outlook
and the chances of winning over the people to engage in “one good
stand-up fight” against the old enemy. We then drafted a proclamation
ordering all the enemy forces out of South Tipperary. We sent it on to
Dublin, but both An Dail and General Headquarters refused their consent
to let us go ahead. We never found out their reason for doing so. Ours
was the only logical position.
Withholding their support was a bad blow enough—but what was our horror
when we found that someone had actually worked up a plan to ship us
away to America! We were not consulted at all, but calmly told to be
ready to sail in a couple of days. It was surely a sugar-coated pill! A
deportation order in disguise, issued from the very source that should,
if consistent, get behind us in the war. We refused to leave Ireland.
We told them that we were not afraid to die, but would prefer to live
for Ireland. To leave Ireland would be like an admission that we were
criminals, or that we were cowards. Now, more than ever we declared that
our place was in Ireland, and Ireland’s fight would have to be made
by Irishmen on the hills and at the cross-roads in Ireland, not with
printer’s ink in America, or in any other country. This was apparently
regarded as a breach of discipline. We were members of an organised body
and should obey our superior officers. They persisted in their plan
of sending us away, and we, just as obstinately, refused to leave. At
length we won, but only on condition that we should remain away in some
remote part of the country. We felt that we could very soon overcome that
difficulty too.
While these little quibbles were going on between G.H.Q. and ourselves
we were suffering intensely. The cold weather and the weary, aimless
travelling around were very trying on us. We could not get a horse to
carry us even a journey of a few miles. We had to trudge from field to
field, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another. At last human
nature began to assert itself. Why should we be treated so? Was not the
sky as fair in one place as in another?
From Doon we went to Upperchurch, in the north of Tipperary. There
we spent a few days with Patrick Kinnane, one of a family of famous
Irish athletes; our next resting-place we decided would be Meagher’s
of Annfield. We sent on word that they might expect us to arrive at
half-past seven in the evening, when it would be quite dark. The four
of us, accompanied by Patrick Kinnane, walked along the road, chatting
and enjoying the cool spring air. We must have taken our time along the
way, for Treacy looked at his watch and reminded us that we were overdue,
as it was now nearly eight o’clock. Suddenly in the distance we saw
something white fluttering in the darkness. We halted. It was a signal by
a girl who was trying to attract our attention.
The four of us dropped into a place of concealment behind a thick hedge.
The girl saw us and approached along the road. As she passed the spot in
which she had seen us hide she whispered the words:—
“The peelers are inside, raiding!”
She was one of the Misses Meagher who had slipped out unnoticed by the
police to give warning, knowing the road by which we would come.
From our point of vantage we waited until we saw the forces of the
British law depart to their barracks. Then we proceeded on our way, and
entered the house they had been raiding, where we enjoyed a pleasant tea.
From Meagher’s we came south again to Leahy’s of Boherlahan, the famous
family of Tipperary hurlers. After that we went to Donnelly’s, of
Nodstown, in the same district, where we held a meeting of our Brigade
Council on a Sunday evening. With our colleagues we discussed plans for
more active operations, and produced the proclamation we had drawn up
ordering all British armed forces to leave South Tipperary under penalty
of death. Although Headquarters had refused their sanction we decided
to publish it. About the end of February it was posted up in several
parts of the county. The newspapers published it with mocking headlines.
It seemed a tall order no doubt at the time, but subsequent events
showed that we saw further ahead than either the newspapers or our own
Headquarters gave us credit for.
After that meeting we decided to return northwards towards Creany,
sending word ahead as we always did. We sent a message to Patrick Kinnane
to meet us with a car, and started our long tramp in the dismal night.
At Upperchurch we were met by Kinnane, Doherty and Patrick Dwyer, and we
headed for Murphy’s house at Creany. It was three o’clock in the morning
when we reached our destination. Seldom did we suffer more than that
night from cold and exposure. The weather was harsh, even for February,
and the district was wild and mountainous.
When we arrived at Murphy’s house we were ravenously hungry. Murphy was a
great character. He was locally known as “the Stationmaster”—why, I don’t
know, for the nearest railway station was fifteen miles from his house.
He was preparing a great meal of smoked ham and eggs for us. So hungry
was Hogan that instinctively, and half unconsciously, he began to eat the
raw ham as it was being put on the frying pan. In a few minutes he was
seriously ill, and we thought he was going to die. He soon revived, but
for weeks afterwards he was far from well. His illness at this time was
very unfortunate for us, because we had made up our minds, in spite of
Headquarters’ orders, that we would try to get to Dublin, as we could no
longer endure the misery of our existence.
With that purpose we went from Creany to the Falls of Donass, that most
glorious and picturesque spot on the Shannon just across the Limerick
border from North Tipperary. Then we parted with Robinson and Treacy, who
started on their perilous journey to Dublin, while I remained behind with
Hogan until he would be himself again. They arrived in Dublin safely,
and were welcomed by a few sympathetic friends. A full and accurate
description of each one of us, with the reward offered for information
that might lead to our capture, appeared every week in the _Hue and Cry_,
the official police gazette, and so it was no easy thing for them either
to travel to the city, or to get about when they had arrived there.
Meantime Hogan and I could not stay long in the district round the Keeper
Mountains. But Tommy McInerney came out from Limerick with a motor car,
accompanied by Tim Ryan. McInerney was the man who drove the ill-fated
motor car which went to meet Roger Casement on Good Friday of 1916, when
the car ran over a cliff in Kerry, and two of the occupants were drowned,
McInerney himself escaping.
Tim Ryan knew of a friendly priest in West Limerick who would give us
shelter, and we started on our journey to meet one of the truest friends
we ever made—a certain sagairt whose praises I should like to sound here,
but who does not wish his name to be made known. Sean Hogan sat in front
with McInerney, who was driving, Ryan and I being in the back.
For a time our journey was uneventful until we approached Limerick City.
We were suddenly confronted by lorry loads of soldiers dashing along in
the direction of Tipperary. We knew they were on some big round up. We
did not know then, though we found out later, that they had received
information that we were lying in a certain hiding place, and scores of
troops with armoured cars were being rushed to the scene.
Never since we left Soloheadbeg did we feel in such a tight corner. One
flash of suspicion on the part of a single officer of the party would
have ruined us. At that time we knew that more than one British soldier,
even privates, had fond hopes of earning the reward for our capture, and
many of them had been at great pains to study our descriptions. Besides,
it was comparatively easy for them then, in the spring of 1919, for we
were then the only “much wanted men,” as the newspapers described us.
An apparently endless line of lorries approached us—every soldier armed
to the teeth, every lorry equipped with a machine gun. The smallest
show of concern on our part meant our death warrant: the slightest sign
of fear or anxiety would betray us. And there was no turning back. To
attempt such a thing would be an open challenge by three men to several
hundred soldiers. Coolness and bluff were our only hope.
We passed the first twenty lorries without turning a hair. We just looked
at the troops with that gaze of curiosity mingled with admiration that
one might expect from any loyal citizen watching his gallant protectors
go by. We had passed the greater part of the convoy, and were beginning
to feel more at our ease, when suddenly rounding a corner we were
confronted by a sentry with rifle upraised and called on to “’alt.” Our
driver at once put on the brakes and pulled up.
We now realised why the other braves had allowed us to pass unchallenged.
We had been led into an ambush—permitted to get right into the middle
of the convoy, so that we had not a dog’s chance of escaping. It was a
cunning trap, but we would show them how Irishmen can die rather than
surrender. It was all up with us, but we would sell our lives as dearly
as we could.
I pulled my gun. For a fraction of a second I fingered it fondly under
the rug rapidly deciding where I should send my bullets with best effect.
I had my finger on the trigger ready to raise my arm to fire when an
officer dashed up.
“Sorry for delaying you, gentlemen,” he shouted.
This did not look like an ambush. I gently lowered my gun from view, and
waited for his next words.
He was the captain in charge of the party. “Two of the ‘beastly’
cars, you know, have broken down,” he explained, “and ’twas awfully
unfortunate, don’t you know, but the traffic was almost completely
blocked.” He apologised profusely for the delay, but he feared there
was not enough room for our car to pass. “’twas jolly rotten,” but he
thought we should have to get out and walk.
By this time I had quite recovered my composure. I told him politely but
firmly that we had an important business appointment to keep, and that
any further delay might mean serious loss to us. Besides, I said, we had
travelled far, and a long motor journey was not good for rheumatics, and
we were far too tired to walk.
I think he was really impressed by my protest. At that stage British
officers regarded an Irishman who could travel in a motor car as a
person of importance who might get a “question raised in the House,” if
treated rudely. A year or two later I know what he would have said to any
Irishman met on the road.
He suddenly turned to his men, ordered three or four of them to drop
their rifles and push us in our car for about two hundred yards till we
had passed the broken-down lorries, and could take the middle of the road
again.
Never did I feel more inclined to laugh. Here was a section of the
British Army actually going out of its way to save us the trouble of
walking, while the same army was day and night searching the countryside
for us. What a pretty heading it would have been for the _Morning
Post_—“Wanted Gunmen aided and abetted by the British Army!”
We were more profuse in our thanks to the soldiers, assured them they
need not push our car any further, and were very sorry to have them put
to so much trouble. A moment later we waved them good-bye, and were
dashing along the road to Foynes. I can assure you that the speed of our
car was tested for the next quarter of an hour in case by any chance
the obliging soldiers might get suspicious, and come after us to make
enquiries. But Sean and I laughed heartily when we had left them behind.
It was the first time since we had become outlaws that the British helped
us to escape; it was not the last, for more than once I had reason to
feel grateful to their stupidity in helping me out of difficulties when
they little knew who I was.