OUR RETURN TO SOLOHEADBEG.
That evening we reached our destination—the house of the priest to whom I
have already referred. Here we got a right hearty welcome. No trouble was
spared to make us feel happy and cheerful. The housekeeper—Molly—was like
a mother to us. She was a bit of a dictator, too, where dictation was for
our good. When she had given us a good hearty meal she ordered both of us
to bed, where we remained for two whole days. Can you wonder that we felt
loth to leave the blankets, with memories of newspapers, dirty straw and
damp hay still fresh in our minds?
After two days’ rest I felt fit and active again, but Hogan was still
far from well. We can never forget Molly’s kindness during this time.
No trouble was too great for her to make us comfortable. I believe it
was her kindness and good cookery that really brought us to. And she
was always good-humoured and cheerful. It was a tonic to hear her merry
laugh, her banter and her bright homely talk. It was all so different
to what we had been accustomed to for months. Up to this the people who
spoke to us at all never raised their voices above a whisper. Sometimes
we had to laugh when we saw the caution they exercised before giving any
sign that they recognised us. Whenever we met an acquaintance on the road
he looked behind, to the right and to the left, before saluting us. Many
of them, I suppose, were afraid that if we were caught soon after meeting
them they might lie under suspicion, and there is nothing an Irishman
fears more than to be thought an informer.
It was amusing to observe the frightened look that came into people’s
eyes when they recognised us. Of course, there was often a good reason
for their fright, for we were often several weeks without making the
acquaintance of a razor. But one is not particular about personal beauty
when there is an army at one’s heels, and ten thousand pounds on one’s
head.
No wonder then that Molly’s good nature and good humour were such a tonic
to us. And she was brave as well as kind. She would inspire us with hope
when everything looked black. She was unshaken in her conviction that
no harm would come to us; that God, as she said, would save us from our
enemies. She always kept a lamp burning before the image of the Sacred
Heart, in intercession for our welfare, and I am sure that many a decade
of her beads she said for us too.
But if Molly was a brick the priest was a thousand bricks. Like Molly,
he never counted the cost of “harbouring outlaws.” We were welcome to
his roof and to his table as long as we cared to stay, and everything
that his house held, or that he could command, was at our service. We
certainly enjoyed our stay at ⸺, and would have liked to prolong it, but
it was not safe to stay over-long in the same district, and we felt it
was not fair to our host. Moreover, we wanted to be on the move to try
what we could be doing to put more life into the cause. After a stay of a
few weeks in this place we went on to Rathkeale.
Here for the first time I met Sean Finn—as fine a type of brave and
chivalrous Irishman as ever lived. He was then but a mere youth, but he
had been elected Commandant of his Battalion. Imbued with a passionate
desire to strike a blow for the old land he was brave almost to rashness.
But, alas! for Ireland, he fell in his first battle with the enemy about
a year and a half later. My highest tribute to the memory of this gallant
soldier of Ireland!
We did not stay long in Rathkeale. We were restless, and longing for
action. We were anxious, too, to know how Sean Treacy and Seumas Robinson
were faring in Dublin. At this time we saw the newspapers every day, and
we knew that they had so far escaped. At last, we got into communication
with them and arranged to meet them again. We felt that the fates would
have the four of us joined hands again, and stand or fall together. So
Sean Hogan and I worked our way from West Limerick back towards the
eastern end of the county, to the borders of South Tipperary. Once more
we found ourselves in a place where we had already received shelter and
hospitality—at Lackelly, near Emly. We were thus within six or seven
miles of Soloheadbeg again, and within a few miles of the spot where
a few weeks later we were to have our next most exciting and dramatic
adventure—Knocklong.
At Lackelly we met Treacy and Robinson once more. We felt like a group of
schoolboys on a holiday. Somehow when the four of us were together all
the dark clouds seemed to scatter. We forgot we were hunted outlaws with
a heavy price on our heads, and when we met we talked and joked long into
the night, and exchanged our experiences and our adventures since we had
parted. Treacy and Robinson had gone about Dublin freely and openly, and
had quite a pleasant time. We, on our part, tried to make them jealous by
telling them of our great time at the priest’s house, and were able to
boast of being helped by the British soldiers on our way to that place.
Seumas was able to retort with an equally amusing experience. It seems
that on their way from Tipperary to Dublin the car broke down just
at Maryboro’ Jail, and immediately several soldiers rushed to their
assistance to get it started again. In Dublin, too, they had many
adventures, but these I cannot go into.
Meantime, the police and military were still busy searching the whole
county of Tipperary for us, and digging up gardens and bogs in search
of the missing explosives. They watched our haunts, and raided every
place we were ever known to frequent. In spite of the difficulties this
state of things created, the four of us determined that it was useless
to remain inactive. The encounter at Soloheadbeg stirred the country,
and showed the Volunteers what could be done, but our absence might
nullify these effects. The three months that had passed since then seemed
to us to have been wasted. The I.R.A. was still only a name. In theory
there was a fairly good organisation. Every county had its Brigade and
its Battalions, and arms were not altogether lacking, but of what use,
we asked ourselves, are men who are soldiers only in name, and of guns
that are oiled and cleaned but never fired? The men were not wanting in
courage, but they needed more initiative. At that time all they could do
was go to jail. All over the country men were allowing themselves to be
arrested and imprisoned for drilling or carrying arms, but they never
seemed to think of using the arms rather than go to jail.
We made up our minds when we met at Lackelly that this business of going
to jail and becoming cheap heroes must stop. We wanted a real army, not a
hollow mockery. Even if such an army numbered a few score only, it would
be far better than the present organisation. We thought Soloheadbeg would
have been followed by active operations all over the country, but now it
was becoming a mere memory.
In this frame of mind, and with these resolutions we procured four
bicycles and headed straight for Donohill—back to the very scene of our
first battle, back into the middle of the military net that martial law
had drawn round the whole county. Donohill is about two miles north of
the Soloheadbeg quarry, and our route took us by the very road where we
waited so long for the enemy, and where we at last met them. It was our
first journey past the scene since January 21st, and you can picture our
feelings as we saw the familiar hill once more and the turn of the road
where the peelers appeared. We dismounted and lingered for a while in the
neighbourhood. I am sure many of the people around never expected to lay
eyes on us again, for in the old days the usual thing for men in our
position to do was to clear away to America. But our work was in Ireland,
and we were going to see it through to the end.
At Donohill we appeared to the Horan family like men who had come back
from the grave. When they realised we were not ghosts, they gave us a
typical Irish welcome, and we joked and laughed long into the night. They
didn’t forget to keep somebody on the look-out by the road to make sure
we would not be surprised. With the Horans we stayed till the following
night.
My own house was only half a mile away, and, needless to remark, I took
the opportunity to see my mother. It was a great surprise for her, but a
very welcome one. During my period on the run I dare not even send her
a card, for it would bring her endless annoyance from the enemy, and
probably give them useful information, for they never scrupled to open
letters going through the post. Poor woman! She was very brave and in
the best of spirits, in spite of the fact that her little home was often
raided and ransacked three times in twenty-four hours, in the early dawn,
and in the dead of night. It gave me great courage to see her and to talk
to her again. But I should not delay long, and I bade her good-bye again,
taking with me her warm blessing as I left.
The dear old soul has suffered much for the crime of having taught her
sons their duty to their country. Even the house over her head was
looted and burned, and her hens and chickens had to pay the price of
English hate, for they were bayoneted by the Black and Tans. Through
all her trials she never lost heart, and would always have her jibe at
the enemy. Once when the British came and asked if her son was in, she
sarcastically asked them if they would venture under the same roof with
him. On another occasion in reply to the same question she told them I
was upstairs, and invited them to enter. Their response to the invitation
was a precipitate retreat to seek cover.