MISSED BY INCHES.
Early in the morning—still October 12th, 1920—Mrs. Holmes at my request
took a note to Phil Shanahan’s, with a message for Dick McKee. I
wanted to be removed as soon as possible. I also wanted to report to
Headquarters that Sean Treacy had been killed in the same engagement.
While I was waiting the reply I learned from the people of the house
that in each of the houses on either side a Black and Tan was lodging,
both houses being the property of members of the Dublin Police. You can
imagine how lucky I was to select the particular back gate I did.
In a short time a motor car arrived at the door. In it were Joe Lawless,
Maurice Brennan and Tom Kelly. They had been sent by Dick McKee to take
me away to the Mater Hospital where he had already made arrangements that
I was to be received and treated.
I was provided with an outfit and placed in the car. My keenest regret
was not the suit I had been compelled to leave behind in Carolan’s, but
the six pound notes and the watch that were in the pockets. Probably some
enterprising officer had a good night out of the discovery, for I need
hardly say that my losses did not form the subject of compensation awards
when the Truce came.
I was driven up Botanic Road on through Phibsboro’ towards the Mater
Hospital. At Phibsboro’ corner a D.M.P. man motioned us to stop as we
approached. For a moment we feared there was something wrong. But relief
came in a few moments. We were simply being asked to slow down while
a convoy of Auxiliaries passed, probably to raid some houses in the
locality for me.
We continued our journey, and as we approached the entrance to the
hospital in Eccles Street I saw Dick McKee—himself a very much wanted
man at the time, walking slowly along the path. With a slight wave of
his hand he motioned to us to pass the hospital. A little further down
he crossed to us to tell us we could not go into the hospital for some
time as there were two D.M.P. Inspectors, with some military and police
actually raiding the hospital at that moment searching for wounded men.
“Dan,” he said, as he gripped my hand for a moment, “ye got the very men
we would have had to give the next two years looking for.”
Our car crossed Dorset Street into Mountjoy Square, and finally drove
into an old stable in Great Charles Street. It was one of the best known
dumping grounds used for concealing the arms of the Dublin Brigade,
though it was shortly afterwards discovered by the enemy.
It is easy to imagine how sick and tired of life I was as I drove into
this old stable, but picture my delight at seeing Sean Treacy waiting to
welcome me.
He had escaped without as much as a scratch. Briefly—for he had not long
to spare—he told me of his adventures. He got safely away through the
back, convinced that I was killed. For hours he had wandered almost naked
through the country, scarcely knowing where he was until as dawn broke he
knocked at a door in a last effort to gain shelter. He did not even know
in what district he was until the door was opened by his own cousin Phil
Ryan, of Finglas! Truly, the fates were on our side that morning.
In our joy at meeting once more we almost forgot our perils; for the
streets of Dublin were being searched that day by hundreds of troops as
never before. But our scouts reported that the way to the Mater was now
clear as the enemy had left the hospital. The boys were anxious that no
time should be lost until I was in skilled hands, and we moved on at once
towards the Mater. They took me on a stretcher into the hospital, and as
I lay on that stretcher I shook hands with Sean Treacy—for the last time.
Little did I think that evening that never again on this earth would I
lay eyes on my faithful comrade—one who was dearer to me than a brother.
Had I known then that it was to be our last meeting in this world I would
have little heart to battle with my wounds. Poor Sean! the comrade of my
adventures, the sharer of my hopes. His face is always before me, and
until my last hour his memory will make me struggle against blinding
tears.
When I arrived in the hospital Surgeon Barnaville took me into his
skilled hands, and I believe I owe my life and my rapid recovery to his
unceasing care and devotion.
Next day a friend who visited me gave me a full story of the Drumcondra
fight, or at least that portion of it which I did not know myself. Some
he had learned from the newspapers, more from our Intelligence Department.
It seems that in spite of our precautions we were shadowed to Fleming’s
that night, and later to Carolan’s by the very man we had seen outside
the theatre. Their Secret Service was able to report that “Breen and
‘Lacey’ had gone to ‘Fernside.’” I have never since discovered whether
Sean Treacy was actually mistaken for Dinny Lacey, or whether the
similarity of the surnames had confused the spy.
At once every “G” man in the Castle was mobilised for the raid, but
they refused point blank to go on the job. At this display of cowardice
and mutiny the enemy chiefs were incensed; but they could not afford
to betray their weakness by letting the news leak out that their whole
detective force had refused to go on a raid. So the detectives were not
punished for their indiscipline, and to cover up the mutiny the “G” men
were ordered out the same morning on a raid on the shop owned by Mr. J.
J. Walsh (now the Free State Postmaster-General).
Meanwhile the military chiefs had been communicated with and informed of
the position. They asked “what kind of a job” it would be, and were told
they might expect “plenty of gunplay.”
The military had the men willing to take the risk. Foremost amongst
those who volunteered for the raid was Major G. O. S. Smyth, a native of
Banbridge, and formerly a District Inspector in the R.I.C. This man had
been serving in Egypt until he got word that his brother—also a Major—a
Divisional Commissioner of the R.I.C. had been shot dead in Cork. This
Commissioner was a notorious official who addressed the police in Kerry,
and told them to shoot any person suspected of being a Sinn Feiner,
adding “the more the merrier.” This cold-blooded incitement to murder
even ordinary civilians led first to a mutiny of the R.I.C. in Listowel,
and secondly to the death of Smyth himself within a month. He was shot
dead in the County Club, in the heart of Cork city.
His brother, who had been serving in the British Army in Egypt, at once
volunteered for service in Ireland, with the avowed intention of avenging
his brother’s death. With him he brought a chosen band of men inspired
with similar motives.
He was the first to be killed that night. With him fell another officer,
Captain A. D. White. A corporal was also wounded. These casualties the
British officially admitted, but we knew their losses were heavier.
It was quite usual at that time for the British to conceal their real
casualties.
But what saddened me most of all was the news that our faithful friend,
Professor Carolan, had been fatally wounded too. The official report
issued at the time stated that the Professor was shot by the first
bullet that came through our door. This was the report of a secret
military inquiry condemning the shooting of the officers, for it must be
remembered that long before this the British had forbidden the holding of
coroner’s inquests. Ordinary jurors were honest men and would insist upon
having the truth, and would thus expose the whole Murder Campaign of the
English.
Poor Mr. Carolan survived for several weeks. He was actually in the Mater
Hospital at the same time as myself, though in a different part of the
institution. At one time there were high hopes of his recovery. During
that period he made a statement in the presence of witnesses which will
be found published in the Dublin newspapers of October 21st and 22nd of
1920. That was the death-bed statement of an honourable man and a pious
Catholic. If further proof of its accuracy be needed it is the fact that
the newspapers which published it were not suppressed, as they would have
been within half an hour were the report inaccurate.
In that statement Mr. Carolan made it quite clear and emphatic that the
time he was shot we had escaped. We had been a quarter of an hour out of
the house, he declared, before he was put standing with his face to the
wall, and deliberately shot by a British officer. When he first opened
the door for the raiders they asked him who was in the house, and the
faithful man said he thought Ryan was the name—giving a name common in
that part of the country from which our accents would tell we came. That
accounted for the shouts we heard, “Where is Ryan? Where is Ryan?”
A revolver was kept pressed to the poor man’s temple all the time,
and when the British saw their leaders killed they murdered him as a
reprisal. Generous, noble and patriotic he dared to shelter us when few
of our pretended friends would have done so. I shall always think of him
and his family’s kindness to us, and regret from the bottom of my heart
that he met such a sad death. May he rest in peace.
On the evening of the 13th October, while I was being taken into the
Mater, the village of Finglas, where Sean had found shelter, and only a
mile from the house where I had been befriended, was invested by hundreds
of British troops in full war kit. Evidently they had either traced Sean
to the district or had suspected that I got farther than I actually did.
Every house in the village and district was searched, but without avail.
One other sequel to the Drumcondra fight I must relate before I proceed
with my own story. Every male member of the Fleming family was arrested
next day. That is the best proof we got that our footsteps were dogged
all that night. Michael Fleming was sentenced to six months imprisonment
for refusing to give information about me.
Thursday, 14th October, 1920, is a date I shall never forget. That was my
third day in the hospital.
Early in the afternoon one of the Sisters came running into my room.
Before she spoke I could read that she had serious news. A few hours
before I had heard some firing in the neighbourhood, but that, I had been
told, had been an encounter at Phibsboro’ corner where an attempt to
capture an armoured car proved unsuccessful—one I.R.A. man giving his
life in the effort. That occurred only three hundred yards from where I
was lying.
But the Sister had more serious news than that for me. The hospital
was surrounded by troops and armoured cars, and the hospital was being
searched for me.
My bed was beside the window. I raised myself on my elbow and looked
out. Below I saw the burly figures and the Glengarry caps of a dozen
Auxiliaries on guard outside.
“It is all up this time, Dan,” I remarked to myself, “and you can’t even
pull a gun!”
Somehow I felt resigned to it. For the music of the shots I had heard
that morning told me that the fight was going to go on.
Still, I cannot say that I was not excited. Now and again I heard the
engines of the military cars throbbing. Perhaps they would go without
finding me. But they were only driving up and down to keep back the
crowds. When I looked out the Auxiliaries were still there. The minutes
grew into hours. Would the raid ever end? When would the door open to
admit the searchers to my room?
Luck favoured me once more. After a two hours’ stay the raiders departed
without even coming near my part of the house.
When they had gone I learned the reason of their swoop. Early that
morning a young I.R.A. man named Furlong had been wounded in an
explosion which occurred near Dunboyne, ten miles outside the city, where
he had been testing some bombs. His comrades at once rushed him in a
dying condition to the Mater. The British got to hear of this. He was
not unlike me in appearance. The poor fellow died while the raid was in
progress, and I believe some of the Black and Tans thought they had seen
the last of Dan Breen.
This raid had for me personally the saddest sequel that could come to
pass. In the next chapter I shall relate what I afterwards learned.