OUR ESCAPE FROM ASHTOWN.
The ten of us now held a hurried Council of War at the cross-road of
Ashtown. Nine of our party had escaped without a scratch: Martin Savage
was dead and I was wounded and bleeding profusely. We had routed the
whole body of British soldiers with their rifles, their machine gun, and
their armour-plated car, and we had killed the Lord Lieutenant.
We carried poor Martin’s body into Kelly’s shop. It was all we could
do. We knew the enemy would soon return with reinforcements and take
possession of all that was left of that gallant soldier, but it would
be suicidal to attempt to remove it to the city. The terror-stricken
occupants of the Half-way House looked on in amazement and in silence.
With a prayer for the soul of our departed comrade we mounted our
bicycles and faced for the city. We had scarcely started when Seumas
Robinson found that his bicycle was broken and useless for the journey.
Jumping on the back of Sean Treacy’s machine he balanced himself with
one foot on the step and held on to Sean’s broad shoulders. But with two
men on a bicycle speed is slow, and never were we in greater need of a
speedy return to safety. In our dilemma we espied a cyclist approaching
us from the city. He was walking and wheeling his bicycle, evidently
having alighted when he heard the battle in progress. In war most things
are fair and the temporary seizure of his machine was not against our
rules. Robinson had his gun still in his hand. Jumping from the step he
presented his revolver at the stranger and ordered him to hand over his
bicycle. The order was complied with. We always liked to cause as little
trouble as possible to civilians and even in our haste that afternoon
Seumas did not forget his duty to the owner of the bicycle. He assured
him that if he called to the Gresham Hotel that evening his machine would
be forthcoming. I do not know whether the man ever got his bicycle; I
hope he did. Anyhow it was left near the door of the hotel that same
evening as Seumas had promised.
We returned to the city safely. I was now feeling weak from the loss
of blood, and went at once to Mrs. Toomey’s house on Phibsboro’ Road,
on the north side of the city, and one of the first streets one meets
in the city when returning straight from Ashtown. I believe the police
and military later that day traced my blood-stains from Ashtown along
the Cabra Road, but fortunately they lost the trail near the city. Mrs.
Toomey was very kind to me. I was at once put to bed and a doctor was
sent for. I was attended by Dr. J. M. Ryan, then famous as the Captain of
an All-Ireland hurling team. A doctor from the Mater Hospital, which was
only a few hundred yards from my resting-place also attended me.
That evening Dublin rang with the newsboys’ cry of “Attack on the Lord
Lieutenant—Sensational fight at Ashtown—One of the Attackers shot dead!”
And then I got a shock that almost drove me mad. Lord French had escaped
unhurt!
It was true. We had failed. For the first time the Viceroy had travelled
not in the second car but in the first. The car which we had scarcely
bothered about and which we had only wanted to frighten off actually bore
safely away the man we wanted. The news made my wound worse. I never
liked half done jobs, and here we had not even half done our work. Sean
Treacy took the disappointment philosophically. His motto was always to
make the best of things. His consolation to me was, “You can’t always
have Knocklongs, Dan.”
We never got another chance of shooting Lord French. He retired
completely from public life. He scarcely ever appeared in public
afterwards. Even when he went to England armoured cars patrolled the
roads to the mail boat, and armed detectives surrounded him, even to
London. His movements were kept a close secret and disclosed to the Press
many days later.
Had we been in a position to use rifles that day we could easily have
made sure of shooting him from Kelly’s house, but at that time our only
means of travelling to the spot was by bicycle, for practically no motor
cars were in use. This was due to the fact that a few months previously
the British had made an order that every motor-driver should have a
special permit from the military, bearing not only his name but his
description and a photograph, like a passport. The order was to prevent
the I.R.A. from using motor cars for getting about, especially for night
attacks. Naturally, the only men likely to get permits from the British
would be those who could prove their “loyalty” and were therefore not
likely to assist us or to run the risk of giving us a car. The Motor
Drivers’ Union resenting this degrading condition met the order by
refusing to apply for permits and by declaring a general strike all over
the country. Hence as we could not get motors to travel to Ashtown we had
no means of concealing rifles as we naturally could not strap them on
bicycles. However, I must say I am glad now that Lord French escaped. He
was only doing his duty by his adopted country, the Nation or the Empire
which had given him wealth, title and honours.
Let me pause to recount some sequels to the Ashtown attack. Church and
Press denounced us in unmeasured terms, but the public were more guarded
in their condemnation; slowly the country was beginning to realise that
we meant war with England until, to quote the words of O’Donovan Rossa,
“she was stricken to her knees or we were stricken to our graves.”
For the most part then, while the press and the clergy uttered bitter
denunciations the public remained silent. It was the turning point. They
were judging the situation. In private discussions many defended our
standpoint. In public there was, of course, no means of doing so. The
great majority of our countrymen were taking their bearings; they were
perhaps shocked at the daring force tactics, but they were beginning to
realise that we meant business, and that it was their duty to stand by us.
The morning following the attack the _Irish Independent_ published a
leading article in which we were all referred to as “assassins.” The
article was plentifully sprinkled with such terms as “criminal folly,”
“outrage,” “murder,” and so on, and this was the very paper which
depended for its whole income on the support of the people who had voted
for the establishment of an Irish Republic. It had not even the sense of
fair play, not to speak of decency, to wait until the inquest had been
held and until Martin Savage had been laid to rest, to express its views.
The other Dublin papers we did not mind. The _Irish Times_ was openly
and avowedly a British organ, and the _Freeman’s Journal_ was beneath
the contempt of any decent Irishman. But we could not allow a paper that
pretended to be Irish and independent to stab our dead comrade in the
back.
At the time I was, of course, confined to bed as the result of my wounds
and had no direct part in what followed. I believe some of the boys
favoured the shooting of the Editor. Finally, another course was adopted.
It was decided to suppress the paper. At 9 o’clock on Sunday night twenty
or thirty of our men in charge of Peadar Clancy entered the building
and held up the staff with revolvers. They then informed the Editor
that his machinery was to be dismantled, and proceeding to the works
department they smashed the linotypes with sledges, leaving the place in
such a condition that it was hoped no paper would appear for some time.
With the assistance of the other Dublin printing offices, however, the
_Independent_ was able to get a paper out as usual next day. However, we
had taught the paper a lesson, and in a way we were glad that nobody was
thrown out of work as many of the staff were I.R.A. men. Never afterwards
did the _Independent_, or any other Dublin newspaper, refer to any
I.R.A. men as murderers or assassins, and I must say that soon afterwards
the _Independent_ was of much service in exposing British atrocities,
even though it never supported our fighting policy. The proprietors got
£16,000 compensation for the raid.
After the inquest on Martin Savage his body was handed over to his
relatives. The clergy refused to have his body allowed into any church
in Dublin, and the night before its removal to his native Ballisodare,
County Sligo, it lay all night at the Broadstone Station attended only
by a faithful few. But the funeral the next day was the greatest tribute
ever paid to an Irishman in the West. The cortege was several miles
long, and the Parish Priest attended and recited the last prayers, while
the R.I.C., with the chivalry characteristic of them, surrounded the
graveyard with their guns and bayonets. However, I suppose that was the
best tribute they could pay to a gallant soldier, even though they did
not intend it.
One other matter I must refer to here and then I proceed with my
narrative:
It may be asked why Martin Savage’s body was allowed to leave Dublin
without receiving from the capital the last mark of respect which
his sacrifice deserved. The answer is simple. The Government of the
Republic, Dail Eireann, did not wish to associate itself directly with
our actions. Without going into details which might involve the names
of many prominent men, some living, some dead, I wish to emphasise
here and now that neither then nor at any later stage did Dail Eireann
accept responsibility for the war against the British. Why, I do not
know, nor do I wish to enter into any controversy on the attitude of
the Dail. I can only say what was later publicly admitted both in the
second Republican Dail and in the Free State Dail (General Mulcahy,
December, 1923), that the I.R.A. was left to carry on the war on its own
initiative, on its own resources, without either approval or disapproval
from the Government of the Republic. It is well that this fact should be
known to future generations.
[Illustration: GENERAL LIAM LYNCH.]
It was amusing to read the newspaper versions of the Ashtown attack for
days afterwards. At the inquest on Martin Savage it was stated that the
“assailants fled and were pursued.” I almost roared laughing when I read
this and pictured the British soldiers’ precipitate flight for the cover
of the Phoenix Park wall. It was very strange indeed that we managed to
reach Dublin on our bicycles if we were pursued by men provided not only
with rifles and machine guns but with motor cars. Another imaginative
writer described a tree by the roadside which had been specially clipped
to form a look-out point for one of our men. Just imagine the military
genius of anyone who would send a man up on a tree to see a train that he
could see from the road, or to become a sure target for enemy rifles!
At the inquest too the Crown Counsel refused to disclose the name of the
lady who was in the car with Lord French.
Lord French, by the way, travelled in mufti that day—so it was stated at
the inquest. Perhaps that is why we did not recognise him in the first
car. I also learned from the inquest story that Detective Sergeant Hally,
who was wounded by our fire, was a countryman of my own, hailing from
Carrick-on-Suir.
After a few days in the house of Mrs. Toomey at Phibsboro’, I was taken
across to the south side of the city to No. 13 Grantham Street—the house
of Mrs. Malone. Three months previously I had paid my first visit to this
house. It happened in this way:
On 8th September, 1919, Seumas Robinson and I were in difficulties to
find a place to sleep; we went to Phil Shanahan’s, where we had met Sam
Fahy, brother of Frank Fahy, T.D. We had known Sam well in Tipperary,
where he spent some years, though at this time he was on the run like
ourselves. We told him our trouble, and he at once gave us the latchkey
of a friend’s house in Grantham Street and told us the number, assuring
us that men on the run need never want for shelter while that house was
there. Mrs. Malone, he said, was the woman’s name, and she could be
trusted with any secret. She had lost a son, Michael, in the Insurrection
of Easter Week.
Seumas and myself then went from Phibsboro on our way to Grantham
Street. To make matters worse we had forgotten the number of the house.
Fortunately it is not a large street, and at the first house we knocked
we were directed to Mrs. Malone’s. We were made feel quite at home
immediately. They were all very kind to us—Mr. and Mrs. Malone and the
Misses Malone. We stayed for the night, and next morning we learned that
the family had only four days previously suffered the loss of one of
their daughters.
From that day we became close friends with the Malone family. We brought
Treacy and Hogan there soon afterwards and introduced them to the family.
Both of the girls—Brighid and Aine—were active members of the Cumann na
mBan, and were always anxious to help us. They carried all our despatches
and messages and even helped in removing munitions to Kingsbridge
Station. You must understand that we were always in search of revolvers
or rifles or ammunition to buy or to capture. Any that fell into our
hands we always sent to our Brigade in South Tipperary. The stuff was
needed very badly there, and there were far less chances of getting it
than there were in Dublin. Very often we sent on munitions by train, in
boxes labelled “Tea” or “Wines,” or some other commodity that the person
to whom they were addressed was accustomed to receive. Of course, we
always had our arrangements made at the other end so that the goods would
be received by a merchant who was himself an I.R.A. man or by one of his
assistants.
Only a few days before the Ashtown fight I had been joking with Aine
Malone and telling her they would have to nurse me if I was wounded. I
little thought that my joke of December, 1919, would come true, and that
I would be installed in Grantham Street in the care of the Malones. The
wound in my leg proved more serious than I expected, and my head too was
painful. For three whole months I was laid up, scarcely able to move
about at all. I am not so sure that I felt any way anxious to get away
from my surroundings. Everyone was kind to me. Peadar Clancy came to see
me and gave me the news nearly every day. I have fond, if sad, memories
of pleasant hours spent with Peadar as he chatted or read for me. Dick
McKee and Sean Treacy and Hogan were all kind too, and came to see me
regularly. Peadar and Dick and Sean Treacy alas were not to see another
Christmas. But I know they died smiling and happy.
Apart from my good and thoughtful comrades there was an even stronger
reason which made me think little of the pain and the indoor confinement.
That was my kindest and ever attentive nurse—then Brighid Malone—now my
wife. Few people have the good fortune to be nursed through sickness by
their future wives whose presence counts for more than all that medical
skill can give. But the story of our marriage a year and a half later, in
circumstances that a fiction writer would discredit as too far-fetched
for any Wild West novel, I must reserve for its proper place in a later
chapter.