THE RESCUE AT KNOCKLONG.
As I have said, we arrived at Emly at 3.30 a.m. The first train on which
the prisoner might come was not due till noon. When all was in readiness
a few hours before noon we waited eagerly for the arrival of the men
from Tipperary town in response to our request. As the hour approached
we grew anxious and restive. The minutes grew into hours. Eagerly our
eyes scanned the road from Tipperary, but no cyclist appeared. What had
happened? We could not let ourselves believe that the help we needed
so badly was not at hand. Eleven o’clock—still no reinforcements. The
minutes travelled all too fast now. Half-past eleven came, and still no
sign. And the train was due at 12!
But we were not going to let Sean Hogan be taken away without a fight.
We knew that the escort, armed with rifles, bayonets and revolvers,
would consist of four to eight policemen, but it was possible that other
policemen or soldiers would be on the same train. We could only fail. At
12 o’clock the three of us rushed up to the station just as the engine
steamed into the platform.
In my hurry I dashed right into an old woman at the entrance. To save her
I had to throw my arms around her. The two of us were swung round and
round by the force of the collision, and I finished what must have looked
like a dance by falling heavily to the ground. Unfortunately, there was
no time for explanations or apologies, and I don’t know whether the poor
woman ever heard yet the explanation of the collision. Before she could
even see my face, I was up again and racing along the platform with my
finger all the time on the trigger of the revolver.
But there was no prisoner! We were sadly disappointed. In a sense, too,
we felt a little relieved for there would be still time to seek help
before the next train was due. But waiting is always the hardest part of
any fight; suspense is more severe than action.
As we returned crestfallen to our resting-place, after scanning every
carriage, our pill was made more bitter by the thought that the Tipperary
men had failed us. Our minds searched for other help. We thought of the
old Galtee Battalion, the boys from the mountain districts, from Galbally
and Ballylanders. Their Battalion we knew had lately been suspended by
Headquarters. But we knew, too, that their hearts were right, and their
hands strong and daring. They would not turn a deaf ear to a call like
ours.
The next train was not due from Thurles till 7 o’clock in the evening. We
sent word to the boys of the Galtee Battalion, told them our errand and
the danger of the work that was to be tackled. Within an hour the reply
came. Five of their men would join us at 5 o’clock. Never before had we
got such a heartening message.
The men were as good as their word, and they came before their time.
At 4.45 p.m. they arrived, Eamon (Ned) O’Brien, James Scanlon, J. J.
O’Brien, Sean Lynch, and poor Martin Foley, who was hanged in Mountjoy
Jail exactly two years later for his part in the rescue. With him was
hanged poor Maher, who knew nothing in the world about the incident for
which he was hanged. But they gave their lives gladly for Ireland, and
the brave words of their last message from the foot of the gallows will
keep their memory for ever fresh in the hearts of Irish patriots. May
they rest in peace!
We were now eight strong, five of us armed with revolvers and three
unarmed. After a consultation we decided on a slight change of plan. Sean
Treacy, Seumas Robinson, Ned O’Brien and myself cycled on to Knocklong,
the next station, about three miles south of Emly. We selected Knocklong
because, except Emly, all the other stations were held by strong British
forces, but this being only a wayside one, and a couple of miles distant
from a police barrack, was comparatively safe for us. If this attempt
failed we had plans to motor to Blarney, where we could again intercept
the escort party. The other four men we sent to Emly station with
instructions to board the train without arousing suspicion, to find out
what carriage our comrade was in. In that way they could give us the hint
as soon as Knocklong was reached, and no time need be lost in getting to
the rescue.
We reached Knocklong just as the train’s departure from Emly was
signalled. We walked up the platform looking as cool and unconcerned as
we could, but with our guns gripped tightly in our hands. Little did
the people who awaited the train that evening think that they were soon
to be witnesses of a drama for which a film-producer would have given a
fortune. In the distance we saw the smoke of the engine rise into the
sky. Another minute and the train was pulling into the platform. At the
same moment another train on the opposite platform came in from Cork
direction. It was only the next day we learned that the second train
contained a company of armed British troops for Dublin. There they
remained within a few feet of the struggle for life or death that ensued.
I never learned why they took no part in the struggle. Perhaps it was
too late when they realised what was afoot.
Our train had not yet come to a standstill when the signal for which we
waited was given us by two different parties. In accordance with the
arrangements made in Thurles the previous day a member of the I.R.A.
Secret Service boarded the train after the prisoner, and was at the
window to give us the signal. Our men were at their window, too, not
knowing about the other man.
There was not a moment to be lost. The train would delay only a minute,
and we had not thought it necessary to hold up the driver. A slight
motion of the hand from our colleagues indicated the carriage where we
would find our man.
It was a long corridor carriage divided into about a dozen small
compartments, each shut off from the others, and a passage running
alongside the whole way. Our Galtee men were in the passage. In one of
the compartments we saw Sean Hogan. He sat in the middle of the seat
handcuffed, and facing the engine. Beside him sat a sergeant of the
police, on the other side a constable. On the opposite seat were two
other constables—all four fully armed.
Sean Treacy was, by arrangement, to take charge of the attack. He gave
the word. Within five seconds of the arrival of the train we were
rushing along the corridor and bursting into the prisoner’s compartment
with our guns drawn, and with the order, “Hands up!” “Hands up!” Only a
moment before, as we heard later, Sergeant Wallace had viciously struck
his prisoner with the sarcastic query, “Where are Breen and Treacy now?”
His query was answered; Breen and Treacy were at his service.
As we burst in the door of the compartment, the police quickly realised
our purpose. Constable Enright had his revolver drawn and pointed at the
prisoner’s ear. Orders had been given the escort to shoot the prisoner
dead if any attempt were made to rescue him. A fraction of a second
saved Sean Hogan. It was his life or the Constable’s. The policeman was
in the act of pulling his trigger when he was himself shot through the
heart—death being instantaneous.
And now ensued an episode in comparison with which a Wild West show
would grow pale. The passengers realised our object. In a moment panic
reigned. My most vivid recollection of that scene is the figure of a
soldier-passenger, dressed in England’s khaki uniform; but under that
uniform there beat an Irish heart. I shall never forget the triumphant
smile on his face as he waved his hat and shouted, “Up the Republic!”
I had little time for studying the passengers. That first shot prevented
the escort from murdering their prisoner, and it was the first shot in
a grim battle that was to end in the death of two and the wounding of
four. With the first shot one of the policemen literally dashed himself
through the window of the train, roaring like a wild bull. We never saw
him again, but I heard that he ran through the country like a maniac and
reported the fight in a very incoherent manner at Emly police barrack
next morning.
Constable Enright was dead, so that there remained Sergeant Wallace
and Constable Reilly. A fierce and rapid exchange of shots followed.
Constable Reilly lay stiff on the floor. We thought he was dead, but we
soon found he was only shamming.
Sergeant Wallace fought to the end. A braver man I have never seen in the
ranks of the enemy. Several times we called on him to surrender, but he
never answered, even when deserted by his men. The confusion and panic
were indescribable. Cramped as we were for space, we were in danger not
only from the bullets of the police, but also from those of our own men.
And all the time we were struggling to push out our handcuffed comrade.
We handed out our comrade in safety. Meanwhile Sergeant Wallace had also
struggled on to the platform. I looked around me. I knew I was wounded,
but, in the excitement, I could not know where or how seriously, though I
knew it was in the region of the lung.
Suddenly I realised that Treacy, Ned O’Brien and Scanlon were also
wounded, and we were the only four with arms. Blood was streaming from
all of us. The other three had lost their guns in the fight. I alone was
in a position to fight, and I had more than the plucky sergeant to face,
for Constable Reilly, who had shammed death a moment ago, was now out
on the platform firing continuously from his rifle. A second bullet now
found its mark in me. I was shot in the right arm. If Constable Reilly
had been as cool as the old sergeant one of us would never have escaped
alive. He saw my revolver drop from my wounded hand—and he saw me pick it
up again. If he had been quick he would have dashed my brains out before
I got the chance to do so. I had always prepared for such an emergency as
this. I had practised so that I was as good a marksman with my left hand
as with my right. I fired again, and at Reilly, and when he saw me level
my gun he turned and fled down the platform. Meantime the Sergeant had
collapsed on the platform, and victory was ours. Reilly escaped because
I was blinded with blood and unable to take steady aim; but I made sure
that he would not turn again, while the rest of my comrades carried Hogan
off in safety.
We left the dead Constable and the dying Sergeant at Knocklong Station.
The people had fled in terror from the platform, and many of the
passengers had jumped wildly from the train. Even the engine driver, who
did not apparently hear the first shots, was about to start the train
after the usual delay while the battle was still in progress, when a girl
told him there was a battle going on. The same girl also states that she
later saw Reilly praying near the station.
Late that evening the dead body of Enright was taken in the train to
Kilmallock, as was also Sergeant Wallace who lived until the following
afternoon.
At the inquest afterwards there was of course nobody but Reilly to give
his version of the fight. One of the jurors boldly remarked to the
police: “You are simply trying to paint your own story in your own way.”
The police witnesses were not allowed by their superiors to answer any
important questions calculated to show that we would not have shot their
men if they had surrendered.
The inquest was also noteworthy for the fact that the jury not only
refused to bring in a verdict of murder, but spoke out. I quote the
newspaper of 22nd May:—“Condemning the arrest of respectable persons,
and exasperating the people, and called for Self-Determination for
Ireland, and blamed the Government for exposing the police to danger.”
Our efforts were having their effect. The plain people were realising
that ours was a fight for Irish Freedom. They realised too that we had
no enmity against the police as such, if they confined themselves to the
work of ordinary police; but when they became spies and soldiers in the
pay of England we had to treat them accordingly.
This is the true story of Knocklong, condemned as it was at the time by
archbishop, priests and press—the same people who, two years later, would
have treated us as heroes and loudly boasted of “the freedom we had won.”
Time works wonders!
The heroes of the fight were Sean Treacy and the two O’Briens. In the
next chapter I must tell of our equally exciting escape from the scene,
and the story our rescued comrade had to tell when we clasped his hand
again.