THE BATTLE OF ASHTOWN.
Lord French was due to arrive back in the Viceregal Lodge on Friday, 19th
December, 1919. That arrangement was kept a dead secret, and even the
higher officials in the Lodge and in Dublin Castle were unaware of his
plans. But we were well aware of the arrangement. The time has not yet
come when the source of our information may be disclosed.
We not only knew the day but the hour. Further, we knew that when Lord
French returned by the Midland Railway he would not travel into the
terminus of that line (Broadstone Station) in the city, but would alight
at the little wayside station of Ash town. So we laid our plans.
Ashtown is about four English miles from the centre of the city, but only
about two miles from the northern residential quarter. You travel to it
along the main road that leads from Dublin to the Northwest of Ireland,
one of the best trunk roads in the country, passing in a straight
line into the heart of Meath, through Navan, Kells, Cavan, and on to
Enniskillen. About two and a half miles after you leave the tramway line
you come to Ashtown. The station itself is not on the main road—it is
about two hundred yards down on a little by-road to the right. There is
no village of Ashtown; the district has fewer houses than probably any
other place so near the city. There seems to have been no reason for
making a station there except, perhaps, for loading and unloading horses
for racing and hunting.
To most people Ashtown simply means one house—Kelly’s publichouse,
commonly known as the “Half-way House.” It stands just at the cross-roads
where you turn to your right off the main road to go to the station. That
little by-road, which, as I have said, leads on the right hand side to
the railway, cuts across the main road almost at right angles and leads
on the left to the Phoenix Park and to Castleknock. Thus when one travels
out from the city and stands at the cross-roads beside the Half-way House
one is within two hundred yards of the station on the right, and within
one hundred yards of the Phoenix Park gate on the left. At this gate
there then stood a Police Barrack, where three or four D.M.P. men used to
be stationed, but the barrack was closed a few days before our adventure.
A quarter of a mile inside the gate was the Viceregal Lodge.
Of houses there were very few in the vicinity. The only one near the
Half-way House was the residence of Mr. Peard, the owner of the Park
Racecourse which adjoins the main road. On the city side of Ashtown there
were several institutions—such as orphanages and convents—the nearest
being the famous Deaf and Dumb Institute kept by the Christian Brothers.
Away to the right of the railway is the famous Dunsink Observatory.
I have thought it necessary to describe the spot in this detail, because
even to Dublin people the Ashtown district is comparatively unfamiliar.
The special train in which the Viceroy was to return was due to arrive at
Ashtown at 11.40 a.m. Half an hour before that our party had arrived on
the scene. We had started from Fleming’s, in Drumcondra, that morning,
and at Mrs. Martin Conlan’s, of Phibsboro’, I had stopped for a cup
of tea. There were eleven of us all told in the exploit—namely, Mick
McDonnell, Tom Keogh (later a Free State Officer killed in the Civil
War); Martin Savage (killed that day); Sean Treacy (killed in action in
Talbot Street, Dublin, ten months later); Seumas Robinson, Sean Hogan,
Paddy Daly (later a Major-General in the Free State Army); Vincent Byrne,
Tom Kilkoyne, Joe Leonard and myself.
[Illustration: MARTIN SAVAGE.]
We cycled out the main road—the Cabra Road—going in pairs at different
intervals so as not to arouse suspicion. We left our bicycles outside
Kelly’s, for at any hour of the day it was not unusual to see a dozen
bicycles outside that tavern while the owners are refreshing themselves
within. We knew every inch of the locality, every bush and turn, every
nook and corner. As a further advantage we knew the exact order in which
Lord French and his escort always travelled.
We knew we would arouse suspicion were we to wait on the roadside, so
according as our men arrived they entered the tavern. Inside were a few
of the local labourers and farmhands. Our appearance in pairs did not
seem to create any suspicion, especially as the local people were not at
all aware that Lord French was to pass the spot in a short time. In the
publichouse while drinking our bottles of minerals we indicated to any
who might be listening that our meeting was purely accidental. We talked
about cattle and paddocks and grazing and many things except politics.
But even in this fictitious conversation we had to be careful, for the
men who were in the shop knew farming from A to Z, while some of our men
knew very little about that industry.
While we were talking about all these things for the benefit of our
audience we were beginning to get anxious now that the time was drawing
near. More than one of us glanced at his watch from time to time, and
our eyes were busy all the time watching the cross-road, for from the
shop we had a clear view of everyone who passed either on the main road
or on the road to the Park. The first sign of activity we saw was a large
D.M.P. man coming from the direction of the Park Gate. He evidently knew
who was to arrive, for he took up a position near the cross-road to
control any traffic that might come that way. His spear-pointed helmet,
his shining buttons and his spotless boots, not to speak of the care with
which he pulled down his tunic under his belt, all indicated that he felt
called upon to make an impressive display. We did not trouble very much
about the poor man, though he had a revolver holster by his side and no
doubt it was not empty.
A few minutes before the arrival of the train four military lorries,
with troops armed with rifles, drove down from the Park Gate, passed the
Half-way House and pulled up to take their positions near the station. In
addition we knew that several armed D.M.P. men would be lining the route
from the Park Gate to the Viceregal Lodge.
Now we had of course made all our arrangements days in advance. Nothing
was left to the last moment. Our plan was to concentrate our principal
attack on the second car in the convoy. That was the car in which Lord
French always travelled. Outside Kelly’s there was a heavy farm cart
lying. Tom Keogh, Martin Savage and I were to push this at the last
moment right across the road, thus blocking the passage of French’s car,
for the road is too narrow to allow two cars to travel abreast, and
the heavy farm cart would compel them to slow down. At the same moment
the other members of our party were to open their deadly attack on the
Lord Lieutenant’s car with bombs and grenades, and then rely on their
revolvers to deal with the military guard.
Sharp to time we heard the whistle of the railway engine as the train
steamed into Ashtown. But we never moved. We had two or three minutes
more, and a false step half a second too soon might upset our whole plan.
Then we heard the motor engines throbbing. The party was about to move
off from the station. We stepped out to the cross-road. Our men quietly
took up their positions. Tom Keogh, Martin Savage and I were beside the
farm cart that we were to use as an obstruction. It was time to get it in
motion.
I caught hold of the cart and began to push it round the corner. It was
a heavy cart, far heavier than we thought, for, needless to say, we had
not had a rehearsal of the act, nor had we judged the weight of the cart
otherwise than with our eyes.
I pushed it round the corner on to the narrow road leading from the
station. Suddenly I heard a voice addressing me. It was the voice of the
D.M.P. man whose presence we had ignored.
“You cannot go down there for a while,” he remarked. “His Excellency is
to pass along here in a few seconds.”
Now, I knew that His Excellency was due, much better than the Constable
did. However, I could not explain to him that I had an appointment with
His Excellency. Time was pressing. I tried to ignore the policeman. He
evidently thought I was too stupid for this world. He went on protesting
to me and explaining how necessary it was to have the road clear for His
Excellency’s cars.
The amazing thing, when I afterwards came to think of it, was that he was
apparently too dense to notice that I had two guns in my hands. If he did
I’m sure he would have taken out his notebook and asked me for my name
and address, for it was illegal to carry arms.
I did not want to use my gun so soon. In the first place I had no wish
to hurt the poor man, and secondly, I knew that to fire a shot now would
be fatal to our plans, as it would at once attract the attention and
suspicion of the escort, who were now in their cars a hundred paces from
us.
I did the only thing I could in the circumstances. I shouted at him—I
threatened him and finally told him if he didn’t clear out of our way I
would smash him up. But it was no use. Even then the policeman did not
realise the position. He still kept on talking.
And while we stood there, wasting moments that were precious, our
comrades were wondering what was wrong. One of our men who had been
allotted a position on the ditch that ran along the road apparently
realised the situation. Without considering how he was threatening our
whole scheme, not to speak of endangering the lives of three of us who
were standing by the cart, he drew the pin from his grenade and hurled
the missile straight at the policeman’s head. Now any one of the three of
us could easily have settled with the obstructionist with perfect safety
to ourselves, but we had no desire to kill the poor man, and in any case
we feared that a single shot would prevent Lord French from coming up to
us from the station. He could, for instance, if he suspected an ambush
have sent his escort ahead to clear the road, or he could have gone right
into Broadstone Station, in the city, and so upset everything.
The policeman was struck on the head with the bomb and the weapon
burst at my side without doing serious injury to any of us beyond the
fact that the force of the explosion threw us violently to the ground.
McLoughlin, the policeman, was not seriously injured. The rest of us
quickly recovered from our shock, and we had no time now to bother
about the policeman, for at that moment the motor cycle despatch rider
(or scout, as he really was) who always rode forty or fifty yards ahead
of the Viceroy’s party dashed by us from the station. A second later
comes the first motor and we dash right in front of it opening fire on
the occupants. Our fire is at once returned, and so close are we to the
enemy that a new hat I had just bought is shot right off my head. It was
a close shave, but my usual luck was with me that day. So fast was the
car travelling that we had no time even to glance at the occupants, nor
indeed were we greatly concerned with them, for our real object was to
frighten that car into such speed that it would quickly seek safety in
flight while we would hurl all our force against the second car, the one
in which we knew Lord French always travelled.
Our cart had not completely blocked the road when the first motor sped
by—we did not intend it to. Another dash to pull the cart right across
the road and the second car is upon us. From every position held by our
little party our concentrated attack opens and the air is rent with rapid
revolver fire and bursting bombs and hand grenades. But it is by no means
a one-sided battle. The enemy has his machine-gun and rifles in action,
and there we stand a target for him on the roadside while we still pour
volley after volley into car No. 2. The three of us near the cart are
now in a double peril. The enemy’s bullets whistle round us and his
grenades burst at our feet, but so close are we to our objective that we
must also run the gauntlet from the bombs which our own men are hurling
from the ditch.
With our smoking guns still spitting fire at the occupants of the car
we back behind the cart, seeking what little cover it affords from the
enemy’s hail of bullets. Another second and the cart is being riddled
and the splinters from its shafts are flying round us. But our work must
be accomplished and the fight must be kept up. Suddenly to our dismay
another enemy car is rushing towards us from the opposite direction. We
are now in greater danger than ever for we are trapped between two fires.
I felt a bullet pierce my left leg, but I had no time to examine the
wound though I reckoned the bullet had passed through. The British had
by this time about a dozen rifles and a machine gun in action; but the
marksmen’s nerves must have failed them, otherwise we could never have
stood up so long against them. One man, however, gets his mark and poor
Martin Savage falls into my arms, shot through the body. Poor chap! How
light-heartedly he had been singing and reciting poems about Ireland and
the glory of dying for one’s country, as we rode out to Ashtown only an
hour ago. And he is breathing his last in my arms, dying as he would have
wished to die—by an English bullet.
All the time the bullets were whizzing by and the enemy’s fire seemed to
be growing more intense. I laid my dying comrade down on the roadside.
His lips were moving as if he had a last message to give me. I stooped
and put my ear to his face and catch the words spoken slowly and
painfully but distinctly: “I’m done, Dan, but carry on!” Never can I
forget that picture of my bleeding pallid comrade as he lay on the road
at Ashtown that December day while bullets hopped around like hailstones
striking everything but me at whom they were aimed.
But it was no time for weeping over the dead. Martin Savage had given
his life in the cause for which he had lived—the cause for which he had
shouldered his gun three years before when as a lad of eighteen he had
done his bit in Easter Week, 1916. But for the rest of us the duty was to
live for Ireland—to carry on.
Tom Keogh had now got back to cover. I looked around to see where were
my chances of escape. There seemed none. The blood is streaming from my
wounded leg and the enemy’s fire is fierce and rapid whilst ours has
eased off, because our grenades are gone, many of our revolvers are
empty and one of our men is dead. Amidst a hail of bullets I dashed for
shelter of Kelly’s house round the corner and got there in safety.
My gun speaks again. The enemy is silent. The khaki warriors have
suddenly fled for the safety of the Park, followed by the whole Viceregal
party.
We were now left in possession of the field of battle and with us were
the wreck of the second car, its driver McEvoy whom we had wounded and
captured in the fray, the wounded D.M.P. man, Constable O’Loughlin, and
the dead body of our gallant comrade Martin Savage. We released our
prisoner McEvoy. By a strange irony of fate his path crossed mine three
years later, in April, 1923. I was then a prisoner in the hands of the
Free State troops in Limerick Jail. McEvoy was there, an officer in the
prison.
That December day in 1919, as we hurriedly surveyed the ground at Ashtown
we were convinced we had achieved our purpose and had shot Lord French.
Now our next and most urgent concern was to return to the city, for we
knew that within half an hour Ashtown and the country for miles around it
would be swarming with British troops.