MANY CLOSE SHAVES.
One day while we were still in West Limerick we had what was probably our
narrowest escape after the Knocklong affair. In was in June, 1919. Sheer
luck drove us half a mile outside a great encircling movement made to
capture us.
This was the sixth great attempt by the enemy to net us, and each time
they engaged thousands of troops—to catch four of us. They knew well by
now that each of the four of us would offer armed resistance, and that if
luck was at all favourable many of them would fall never to rise, before
they got us dead or alive. Liberal rewards were now offered publicly and
privately for any information concerning our movements. Our descriptions
were published broadcast, and even dropped from military aeroplanes, with
the promise of British gold for anyone that would inform on us. It was
a special duty for every policeman in Ireland, and every intelligence
officer in the British army of occupation to learn our description. About
this time, too, the British Government was perfecting its Secret Service
machinery in Ireland. There had always been a costly Secret Service
organisation maintained for generations; but it was not dangerous work,
relating mainly to the activities of harmless politicians. Now, however,
the work was getting more dangerous. Besides, our Secret Service was
now becoming a thing to be reckoned with; Dublin Castle had to bestir
itself. As we well knew, the officials there were time and again severely
reprimanded for their failure to catch us. They always replied that the
people would give no information, that informers were very few and very
cautious, and that Scotland Yard might be asked to give some help. They
hinted at the same time that a few Irishmen living in England might be
approached to undertake Secret Service work, as very few could now be got
in Ireland.
It was in the summer of this year that the British Government therefore
reorganised its Secret Service in Ireland, relying mainly on ex-soldiers
of Irish birth. The newspapers of the time can tell how many score of
them paid the price of their treachery during the ensuing two years. We
found them all out in one way or another. If one reason more than another
accounts for the success of the I.R.A., it is that we met and broke their
Secret Service at every move, until in the end there was no such thing in
practice as a British Intelligence Corps.
One word more on this subject. I know that many people at the time
were surprised at the number of men who were found with the label on
their dead bodies—“Spies beware—executed by the I.R.A.” Some people
wondered if any mistakes were made, if any of these men were executed
without sufficient evidence. I can say that of the cases that came under
my knowledge there was always evidence enough to convince the most
scrupulous. We made no mistakes, unless indeed we allowed many to escape
against whom there was ample evidence, though we gave them the benefit of
the slightest doubt.
But the “Knocklong Gang,” as I believe we were sometimes called, always
outwitted the spies and the battalions sent to round them up. Often, I
know, they got fairly good information about us. At this time to which
I have referred—June, 1919—for instance, it is probably true that they
knew we were sometimes in West Limerick or North Kerry, near the mouth
of the Shannon. After that big raid, which we so narrowly missed, we
deemed it wise to change our quarters once more—and we crossed into East
Clare, still hugging the banks of the Shannon. We kept ourselves fit
by plenty of exercise, mostly swimming, for we had an idea that a good
stroke in the water might at some time or other help us in getting out of
a tight corner. Nobody could say that we did not live the healthy life of
primitive men at this time. Many a day we enjoyed ten or twelve hours
of a glorious summer sunbath. One day while in Clare we were basking
beside the Shannon when a boat manned by police passed right beside us.
We took no particular notice of it at the time, thinking the whole thing
but a mere coincidence. When we got back to the house in which we were
staying that evening we learned to our surprise that the boat was part of
a search party that had got on our trail once more. They never suspected
who we were, so that once more our recklessness had saved us—or them?
Probably the police had their eyes searching round the corners of rocks,
or peering under bushes where they expected we should be hiding. It would
amaze them to know we were often within earshot of their own barracks.
It is a positive fact that often a single brick alone separated us from
a police garrison, and more than once we were interested spectators
watching from a window lorries laden with troops going out in search of
us.
There is another possible explanation of such incidents as that on the
Shannon. I am sure that more than one policeman whom we met on a country
road suspected who we were; but these Peelers often considered discretion
the better part of valour. We were never asked to produce visiting cards.
Many a policeman in such circumstances would feel convinced that he would
not be serving his wife and family by attempting to arrest us. I’m not
saying he was wrong either.
In a short time Clare became too hot for us. The Brennan Brothers were
not on the best of terms with the British garrisons in that county, and
finally relations became so strained that the British proclaimed Martial
Law there too. Martial Law and ourselves were never very good friends;
perhaps it was that we knew each other too well. Anyhow, we crossed the
Shannon once more, and this time found ourselves in North Tipperary.
It was at the house of a family called Whelehan that I first came in
contact with Ernie O’Malley. Whelehans were very kind to us. While I was
there “Widger” Meagher and Frank McGrath—both famous athletes, and the
latter Brigade Commandant of the I.R.A. in North Tipperary—visited us.
We spent a while in Mid. and South Tipperary too. At this time money was
one of our great needs. Many, we knew, would gladly give it to us, but
it was not easy to get in touch with the right people. The people we met
most were, like ourselves, on the run and on the rocks.
Eamon O Duibhir, of Ballagh, in whose house, you will remember, the
dance was the night Sean Hogan was captured, was a good friend to us,
and supplied us with money. Once we had to sleep in an old castle—Castle
Blake, near Rockwell College. This old ruined castle was later a good
friend to many of the boys on the run, as it had a kind of a secret
apartment. At an early stage in the Civil War it was the scene of a
sad tragedy when two Republicans—Theo English, of Tipperary, and Mick
Summers—were surprised by Free State troops, and killed in the encounter
which followed.
At last we got restive again. The country showed signs of following our
example, but at this time the signs were few—an odd attack on a police
barrack and the capture of a rifle or two from a soldier here and there.
We felt the time had come for more energetic and general action. We knew
we could not remain any way safe within Tipperary or over the border of
Offaly. We discussed our position time and again, and always agreed we
could not continue the life we were now living. To escape being shipped
or exiled to America by those who should have stood by us, we had to
avoid Dublin, and to remain in some remote part of the country. We were
no longer content to accept this condition. We wanted to know how exactly
the country stood, how we stood, and how the whole Volunteer Army stood.
At last Sean Treacy and I, leaving Robinson and Hogan in North Tipperary,
cycled straight into Dublin. We had no adventure on the way. At Maynooth
we called on Donal Buckley, a member of Dail Eireann, and a man who had
walked to Dublin to take part in the Rising of 1916. He proved as good
as his record. His house was put at our disposal, and we stayed three or
four days there, though he tried to keep us longer.
In Dublin we headed for Phil Shanahan’s again. Every Tipperary man who
was on the run, or who wanted a good dinner, faced for Phil’s. Later
we met Mick Collins, then Adjutant-General of the Irish Volunteers. We
had a long discussion and we spoke plainly. Finally Mick undertook to
arrange that we should stay in Dublin. With this assurance we mounted our
bicycles again, and rode back to the country for Seumas Robinson and Sean
Hogan.
At this time I was dressed as a priest. That was not an uncommon disguise
at the time. The Peelers and soldiers probably suspected that a good many
of the priests they saw travelling knew more about guns than Theology,
but seldom held any of them up. They were not then at open war with men
and women, priests and children. There would be too much of a National
uproar if a priest was arrested, and as the old Peelers were still
overwhelmingly Catholic they gave suspicious-looking priests the benefit
of the doubt. Next year they not only arrested priests, but imprisoned
several, and murdered three of them.
[Illustration: SEAMUS ROBINSON.]
On this occasion when I reached Maynooth I discovered my back tyre was
badly punctured. I did not think it becoming my clerical dignity to
mend the puncture myself, and besides I had no patience with that kind
of work; so I wheeled my machine to a local cycle mechanic’s shop and
asked him to repair it at once. Apparently he was a man who believed in
making every customer take his turn, for he told me he could not do the
job for a few hours. I pointed out to him that I was going on urgent
business, but it was all no use. Finally he advised me to go to the
College—Maynooth College, the world’s greatest college for the training
of Catholic priests—where they would easily get someone to repair it. In
my rage at this refusal I forgot for a moment that I was in the garb of a
minister of peace and goodwill. I told that cycle mechanic what I thought
of him in language more forcible than priestly, and I am sure the poor
man was amazed and shocked at the liberties which present-day clerics
take with the English language. He was still staring at me in amazement
when I wheeled my wounded bicycle from the door.
I had no desire to visit the College. Amongst the students I would find
many friends willing to help me, but I was afraid the President and the
Professors might not be too well pleased to find a gunman masquerading
as a clergyman, and I doubted if I would be able to play the part and
pretend I was a priest. I need hardly say I was no master of Latin, and I
always associated priests with that language.
Still, I had to get the puncture mended. In a fit of bravado I turned
towards the police barracks. At the door I met a policeman who raised his
hat to me, and with a show of dignity that would have done credit to an
archbishop I acknowledged his sign of respect.
I told him my difficulties. Could he help me with the puncture? “To be
sure, Father,” he replied, “I can get you all that you want in no time;
and if your Reverence won’t mind I’ll give you a hand at the job.”
In two minutes the whole garrison were out tripping over one another in
their eagerness to get solution and patches and the other necessaries.
Inside the door I could see dozens of printed notices and official
documents pasted on the walls. Amongst them, I have no doubt, was an
elaborate description of Dan Breen, and a promise of a huge reward for
his capture.
When the job was finished I thanked the Peelers most profusely for their
kindness and rode away. I suppose it was discourteous of me not to have
left my card with the sergeant.
That night I reached the borders of Tipperary and Offaly and met the
others. A few days later all four of us were safely settled in Dublin,
which was to be our new headquarters for months to come. Within a few
weeks we were planning to arouse the world by shooting the very head of
the British Government in Ireland.