OUR ESCAPE FROM KNOCKLONG.
Before describing our escape from Knocklong and the adventures which
ensued, I must pause to outline the experiences of our comrade, Sean
Hogan, since his arrest a few days before. They throw an interesting
sidelight on the methods of the Peelers, though at that period these
methods were not so cold-blooded and barbarous as they became within a
year.
When the dance concluded that morning at Ballagh, and when the rest of
us had gone on to O’Keeffe’s for a sleep, Sean Hogan went up the road
with Brigid O’Keeffe to Meagher’s, of Annfield. This was the same Meagher
family at whose house we had had such a narrow escape a few months
before, when the girl’s waving handkerchief warned us of danger. Miss
O’Keeffe was a cousin of the Meaghers, and she had decided to go up to
their house for breakfast.
So sleepy was Sean that he actually fell asleep at the table. When
breakfast was finished he took off his belt and revolver and lay down for
a rest on a sofa. Mr. Meagher and his two daughters were at this time
busy about the farmyard preparing to send the milk to the creamery.
Sean was suddenly roused from his sleep by the warning shout: “The police
are coming up the road!” He jumped to his feet, put on his belt, and went
to the door, revolver in hand.
The police had been seen a good distance off by the Meaghers, but Sean
could not see them from the house. Assuming that they were coming from
the north side he ran from the house in the opposite direction, along a
field which is much lower than the level of the road. When he had got to
the end of the field he thought he was now out of danger, put away his
revolver, and jumped on to the road—into the arms of six policemen. They
had, as a matter of fact, been coming from the south, and had got a full
view of him as he ran along the field from the house.
Sean was at once handcuffed and his revolver seized. His captors marched
him back the road to Meagher’s, just as another section of the police
raiders came out the door, having hurriedly searched the house. They did
not recognise Sean, and he refused to give his name. Just as he was being
removed Miss O’Keeffe came and shook hands with him, saying, “Goodbye,
Sean.” That was the only part of his name they knew. They apparently took
her to be one of the Meagher family, for had they recognised her as one
of the O’Keeffes they would probably have come down the road to search
her own house, where we were at the time.
Sergeant Wallace was in charge of the police party, and with him were
Reilly and Ring amongst the others. They marched their prisoner to
Roskeen Barracks, and at once sent word to Thurles that they had captured
an armed man whose Christian name was Sean. A police van from Thurles
soon arrived to escort their prisoner to that town, and one of the party
recognised him as one of the much-wanted Soloheadbeg men.
After his arrest one of the Meaghers ran down the road to Patrick
Kinnane’s house, between Meagher’s and O’Keeffe’s, and asked him to
convey word to the rest of us of Sean’s arrest.
When Sean Hogan fell into their hands the Peelers adopted every
subterfuge to get him to divulge information. First they tried to coax
the information from him, for they saw he was but a mere boy. They failed
in their efforts, and then their tactics changed. They struck him, and
beat him unmercifully, but again they failed in their purpose; for if
Sean Hogan was but a boy in years, he was a man in strength of character
and loyalty to his comrades. Not a word would he tell even though they
were to torture him to death.
Then they tried still another plan. One of the policemen, pretending to
be his friend and adviser, told him quietly that he had been betrayed
by Breen and Treacy, who, they said, were then on their way to London,
having been granted a free pardon and a huge sum of money for the
information they had given. This was followed by a straight hint that
if Hogan would supplement the information by whatever knowledge he had
of the organisation and its plans, he, too, would be well rewarded, and
would find himself helped to leave the country instead of finding himself
on the way to the gallows. But J. J. knew his old comrades too well
to think for a moment that they had betrayed or deserted him. All the
threats and cajolery of the Peelers were in vain. He refused to answer
their question, and in the end, did not pretend to hear them.
At last he was put on board the train for Cork Jail on the evening of
the 13th May. Thurles is only about 30 miles from Knocklong, and by the
time that station was reached history was once more to repeat itself.
The night before when I rode by Ballyneety my mind had gone back to the
days of Sarsfield; to the historic episode of the destruction of King
William’s troop train. There was no story I loved more as a boy. It was a
tale of daring and of dramatic triumph, and I pictured the dismay of the
English troops whose password was “Sarsfield,” when in response to their
challenge came the grim reply, “Sarsfield—and Sarsfield is the man!”
Often when I was a boy I dreamed of how proud I would have been, were
I with Sarsfield’s little band that night riding out from Limerick to
strike terror into the hearts of the invaders.
[Illustration: RAILWAY STATION, KNOCKLONG.]
On the train from Thurles to Knocklong Sergeant Wallace never ceased
taunting Hogan with his plight. Repeatedly on the way he asked with
savage mockery, “Where is Breen now?” and to add to the unhappiness of
his helpless prisoner he accompanied each question with a prick of his
bayonet. These are some of the things the world did not know, when it
looked upon us for a long time as cold-blooded murderers. Many of our men
can tell such tales, and produce their own bodies as the evidence, just
as poor Hogan’s condition testified to us when we rescued him.
Even as the train steamed into Knocklong, Wallace once more repeated his
derisive question—“Where are Breen and Treacy now? They sold you to get
you hanged.” Ere he had finished his question Breen and Treacy supplied
him with the answer—an answer which he did not expect, and one which
debarred him from further promotion in this world.
And now to resume my narrative. When the last shot had been fired,
and when Constable Reilly had fled from the scene, we moved from the
platform. The people were terror-stricken. Many had fled in terror from
the station. Others had taken shelter by the walls and the gatepiers. A
few who were too dumfounded to take flight looked at us in amazement.
None dared to approach us, and I am not surprised, for never before had
old Galteemore looked down on such a strange party at a hitherto quiet
and peaceful country station. There were nine of us all told, one a
handcuffed prisoner and four of us wounded and bespattered with the blood
of ourselves and our enemies.
I was no longer able to walk, and I realised now that my last shot had
been fired from my revolver, and that it might at any moment be found
highly desirable to have it reloaded, but my right arm was dead and I
could not reload. I looked around me. Outside the station I saw a motor
car evidently waiting for somebody who was to come from the train. With
my empty revolver raised in my left hand I held up the car. I think my
appearance was enough to inspire any Christian with terror, not to speak
of levelling my gun. A fit of dizziness, probably the effects of my
wounds and loss of blood, had come over me on the platform, as I made
for the gate, and I had fallen heavily against the wall, and blood was
gushing from my head. I could scarcely walk. I groped my way along. The
people around me ran at the very sight of me, many of them shrieking. At
last somebody came to my assistance. He was dressed in khaki—an Irishman
in England’s army! The very irony of it makes me smile to-day. I think
he was the same man who had shouted “Up the Republic” on the train,
though I am not sure, for some people told me afterwards that there was
an American soldier also in khaki at the station that evening—I believe,
too, that the soldier who cheered for the Republic was afterwards
courtmartialled by his officers—but whoever he was that helped me, if his
eyes catch these words, let him accept my thanks; I forgot to show him my
gratitude at the time.
Leaning on his arm I struggled from the station premises on to the road.
He half linked and half carried me for I was now growing weaker every
moment. Probably I was loosing my senses too, for I forgot all about
using the motor car I had held up, and I left it behind.
The rest of the party were outside on the road. With a butcher’s knife,
procured from a man named Walsh, they broke the handcuffs that bound Sean
Hogan, and he was once more a free man. The unwounded men took charge of
him and brought him to a place of safety.
The other four of us—Ned O’Brien, Treacy, Scanlon and I—faced for
Shanahan’s. I scarcely remember that journey; it was growing dark, and we
did not know the road well. I was losing blood all the time. It must have
taken us hours to get to the house. We were all weak. In a field on the
way we met some lads from the neighbourhood. They came to our assistance
and helped us to reach our destination.
I was at once put to bed, and the priest and doctor were sent for.
Both soon arrived. Dr. Hennessy, of Galbally, was very kind to me, but
both priest and doctor regarded my case as hopeless. I was told that I
had only about twenty-four hours to live, as the bullet had gone right
through my body piercing the lung, and I had lost an enormous quantity
of blood. That news was cheerless enough, but I was not even to get the
twenty-four hours to die in peace.
When I arrived at Shanahan’s my comrades had at once mobilised an armed
guard under a chap named Clancy, of Cush, Knocklong. I was not to be
permitted to fall into the hands of the British alive. Scouts were sent
out to watch all the approaches to the house. We knew that the country
would be swept with columns of troops and police. All through the
night—as I learned later—reinforcements were rushed to the neighbourhood,
and the police garrisons were strengthened at Doon, Oola, Galbally, and
all the local villages and towns. For days afterwards a house to house
search was made in that part of East Limerick and South Tipperary, and
even the graveyards were inspected for fresh graves, as the newspapers
reported that “two of the attackers were believed to have been mortally
wounded.”
Nor can I help recalling at this stage an incident that happened on that
memorable evening. I was told afterwards on the best authority. Four
policemen from Elton, a few miles from Knocklong, heard the firing at
the station, and took to their heels back to their barracks. There they
remained, and with the door locked, until County Inspector Egan arrived
in a motor car and broke it in, shouting, “You cowards! Here you are
hiding, while four of our men are shot, and the murderers at large!”
But a few hours after my arrival at Shanahan’s, when the priest and
doctor had attended me, our scouts rushed in with word that the enemy
raiding parties were hot on our heels. A hurried council of war was held.
My comrades procured a motor car and carried me off once more, without
even taking time to say a prayer for the man who was to die next day.
They drove me right through the town of Kilmallock, and I did not know
till the next afternoon that we had actually passed the R.I.C. barracks
where the dead Constable Enright and the dying sergeant had been removed
from Knocklong. But there was no other means of escape—we had to get out
of the net that was closing round Knocklong. We took our chance, and
luck favoured us. My comrades fully realised the seriousness of the
situation and the risks they were taking in motoring through the town of
Kilmallock, but I was blissfully unconscious of everything save the fact
that I was soon to “cross the Jordan.” Our boys always believed that he
who puts his hand to the plough must not turn back. They never knew what
“going back” meant. Their guiding spirit was “On, always on.” That was
the spirit that carried them through the most glorious fight in Irish
history. It is the spirit that will carry them to the end.
When I woke up next day I was once more in West Limerick, under the care
of Sean Finn.
Let me pause again to tell you the sequel to the Knocklong rescue. All
of us who took part were either already on the run, or had to get on
the run henceforth, except Sean Lynch and J. J. O’Brien, who returned
to their business. Both of them afterwards joined Dinny Lacy’s famous
South Tipperary column and fought all through the Black and Tan war. Ned
O’Brien and Scanlon had shortly afterwards to escape to America, as their
health was affected. They are now back in Ireland.
A year later a brother of Scanlon’s was shot dead by the British in
Limerick City while a prisoner in their hands. After the rescue several
arrests were made by the British on suspicion. All, except three, were
eventually released; but poor Martin Foley and Maher, after being held in
prison for nearly two years, were hanged in Dublin, on June 6th, 1921—a
month before the truce. The third prisoner, an ex-soldier (British), was
tried but acquitted.
In West Limerick my comrades and I received refuge and hospitality. Sean
Finn was kindness personified, and indeed all around him were equally
good to us. Especially kind and good-natured were the Sheehans, Keanes,
Longs, Duffys and Kennedys; but our good times were not to last long. The
enemy was once more on our track. We learned of all his movements from
our Secret Service, for you must understand that no matter where we went
it was necessary for us to keep in touch with our Intelligence Department.
We moved farther west, on towards the Kerry border. Even here we found
the trail was too hot, and we had to cross the border into Kerry itself.
By this time I was well on the road to recovery. Then, as at a later
stage, I acquired the habit of breaking all medical precedents, and
insisting on living when, according to all the rules of the game, I
should have died. By the time I got to Kerry I was even able to walk a
little, though I needed some support. But I could not walk far. This
was a greater drawback to us, because the English troops were so busy
scouring the countryside for us, day and night, that we dare not think of
using motor cars or vehicles of any kind, the roads being out of bounds
to us.
One bright feature always lightened our load. It was Sean Treacy’s sense
of humour. No matter how dark the outlook Sean would have his little
joke, and we had to laugh with him. At Knocklong he had been shot through
the teeth and mouth, and for a long time afterwards his mouth was very
painful. At the time I was still suffering severely from my wound through
the lung and body. Hence the difficulties for both of us for satisfying
our appetites. “Dan,” said Sean to me, “I wish I had your big head for
half an hour. I am frightfully hungry, but I can’t eat. You can eat all
right, but you won’t.” Another night on a different occasion we were
cycling through Cullen to Tipperary. This was a very dangerous district
for us, because it was in the Martial Law area, and was only a few miles
either from Soloheadbeg or Knocklong. Besides, being near our native
district, we always ran the risk of being seen and known by too many
people. Suddenly while we were riding with all speed Sean asked us to
pull up. We were somewhat surprised, because we knew how much any delay
might mean for all of us, but we dismounted. It was raining like the very
deluge at the same time. Sean turned to each one of us in turn and asked
us solemnly for a pin. Each of us said we had no such commodity, the
truth being that nobody wished to open his coat on such a night.
“What do you want a pin for?” I asked him.
“Well,” he replied, “I’m afraid my tie isn’t hanging straight!”
I never felt so much inclined to give my old comrade a punch. I am sure
it was the same with the others; but we had to laugh as we mounted and
rode ahead making remarks which were none too complimentary about some
people’s conceit. Such little incidents helped us on our road, and often
helped to scatter the gloom that surrounded us.
But to resume our story. In Kerry we remained for some days, occasionally
amusing ourselves by reading the many grotesque accounts that were
printed of the Knocklong rescue. Day after day too we read of the
denunciation of our terrible crime (of saving our young comrade), by
priests, bishops and politicians. We read the King’s message of sympathy
to the relatives of his poor hirelings, and also Lord French’s. Most of
the Kerry people with whom we came in contact were very kind to us; above
all, we can never forget the O’Connors, the Hickeys and the Ahearns.
After our stay in Kerry we returned to County Limerick, keeping along the
banks of the Shannon all the time. Our wounds were by this time healing
rapidly, and we were feeling strong again. We used to go in for a dip
nearly every day, and we fished quite a good deal. We had to be doing
something. None of us could ever stand a day of inactivity.