EXECUTIONS AND REPRISALS.
While I was lying in the Mater my faithful comrade, Sean Treacy, was
never idle. His main concern during this time was to be ever on the watch
for my safety. And that Thursday evening, 14th October, 1920, he learned
that the hospital was surrounded.
Without a moment’s delay he went to Headquarters to seek a rescue party
of which he himself would be one. His request was granted, and within an
hour he and other trusty comrades were busy mobilising their men. In his
zeal to undertake a desperate task for my safety he forgot about himself.
He went openly through the principal streets—and was shadowed. I cannot
say for certain, but I have a firm conviction that the man who traced him
was the same man who, three days before, had traced us to Drumcondra.
Sean had almost completed the arrangements for the rescue when he went to
the “Republican Outfitters,” in Talbot Street, where he was to have a
few final details settled. That place was a drapery establishment owned
by Tom Hunter, T.D., and Peadar Clancy. It was perhaps the best known
centre in which I.R.A. men met from time to time, or delivered messages,
though it was so closely watched that it was never advisable to delay
there long.
When Sean arrived in the shop he found George and Jack Plunkett, sons of
Count Plunkett, T.D., and both members of the Headquarters Staff. With
them were Joe Vyse and Leo Henderson, officers of the Dublin Brigade, who
had been holding a hurried meeting.
Peadar Clancy, who left the shop, accompanied by a lady friend, had only
reached the Nelson Pillar, two hundred yards away, when he saw a military
raiding party dash from O’Connell Street into Talbot Street, and at once
suspected that the shop was going to be raided. But he had no chance of
giving word to the boys. It would take the military less than two minutes
to reach the shop. Sean, who was standing near the door, was the first
to see the enemy approach. Two or three others had to face the front and
take their chances of evading the British.
The lorries pulled up at the door. One of those in the shop immediately
ran from the door to the street. A soldier sprang from the lorry to
intercept him. Just at the same time an Auxiliary Intelligence officer,
whose name was given as “Christian,” and who was in civilian clothes,
jumped from the first lorry and shouted “That is not he. Here is the man
we want”—rushing towards Sean Treacy, who was in the act of throwing his
leg across the bicycle which he had left outside the door.
Sean saw he was cornered and pulled his gun. It was a hopeless fight from
the first, but like the man that he was Sean Treacy fought till he was
riddled.
The whole contingent of British troops and Auxiliaries, regardless even
of their own comrade who was in grips with Sean, turned their rifles and
machine gun on the man they feared. They killed Sean and three civilians
who came in the line of fire, but Sean had left “Christian” dangerously
wounded before he fell himself.
Thus died the greatest Irishman of our generation. He gave his life to
save his comrades. It was not the first time he had offered to do it.
I have no hesitation in declaring that Sean Treacy was not only the
noblest patriot of our time, but the greatest military genius of our
race. It is a big claim to make for a man who died before he was 28 years
of age, and who had had none of the training that we associate with
military leaders of fame and reputation. The world has since acknowledged
that the tactics adopted by the I.R.A. in its guerilla warfare with the
British were inspired by genius of the highest order. I assert now
for my dead comrade that the most brilliant of these tactics for which
others were given credit, were the product of Sean Treacy’s active brain.
He gave the hints; others elaborated them. He died with a smile on his
countenance—the noblest patriot, the bravest man, and the cleanest and
most honourable soldier I have ever known.
I knew nothing of the fight in Talbot Street for days afterwards. I
am not given either to superstition or to flights of imagination, but
so sure as I pen these lines so sure am I that I knew that Thursday
afternoon that Sean Treacy was dead. He stood at the foot of my bed, with
a calm smile on his countenance.
That evening Mick Collins came to see me. My first question was: “Where
is Sean?” I was yet too ill to be told the bitter truth. Mick turned his
eyes from mine and replied: “He is out in the country.”
Not for ten days did I hear the full story. From Ship Street Barracks,
whither his body had been taken by the British, the remains of Sean
Treacy were taken to his native Tipperary, where they were received with
honour and reverence that no king could claim. From Soloheadbeg Church,
where he had knelt in prayer as a child, the body of Tipperary’s pride
was taken through the town of Kilfeacle. Never before had such honours
been given to a dead Tipperaryman. The British seemed to fear him in
death, for their armed ghouls sought to interfere with the funeral. The
day was observed as a day of general mourning in South Tipperary, and the
funeral procession was several miles long. Scarce an eye was dry that day.
The country will not soon forget Sean Treacy. His grave at Kilfeacle has
become a place of pilgrimage, and his name will rank with those who stand
highest in the roll of our people’s soldiers and patriots.
The following Friday night I was removed from the Mater Hospital by
Gearoid O’Sullivan and Rory O’Connor. Gearoid O’Sullivan was later
Adjutant-General of the Free State Army. Rory O’Connor, with his comrades
Liam Mellows, Dick Barrett and Joe McKelvey, was executed in Mountjoy
Jail on the 8th December, 1922, by order of the Free State Government, as
a reprisal for the shooting of Sean Hales.
These two accompanied me in a motor to the house of a lady doctor on the
south side of the city. It was felt that the Mater was no longer a safe
place for me, though I shall always think with gratitude of the devoted
care I received from every member of the staff, particularly Surgeon
Barnaville and the nuns. It must not be forgotten that at this time
the British had issued orders that any doctor or nurse who attended a
patient for gunshot wounds was at once to report the case to the Castle.
The object was to trace men who were in a position similar to mine. To
their credit be it said that the members of the medical profession,
irrespective of their personal political views, absolutely declined to
carry out these orders.
At my new resting-place I was again carefully tended, and my wounds began
to heal rapidly. After a few days I was able to get out of bed for a
short time every day.
A week after my arrival at this house another exciting incident took
place. The whole block in which my hostess lived was surrounded. Once
more, I thought, they were on my trail. From my window I saw the troops
taking up their positions. I rushed to the skylight—for skylights had
often before proved useful to me. Just as I got to the skylight I saw an
Auxiliary outside on the roof with a rifle in his hand.
This time, I concluded, there was no chance for me. I was to be caught
like a rat in a trap. I went to the front window again. Outside was a
line of khaki and steel. Beyond that was a throng of curious sightseers.
Some, I suppose, were full of anxiety and fear lest any soldier of
Ireland should be caught in the trap. Others no doubt were proud of the
Empire’s Army, and hoping it would gain another little laurel.
As my eyes travelled along the line of spectators I saw the figure of
Mick Collins. Later I learned why he was there. He had seen the troops
moving in the direction of the district in which I was being nursed, and
had actually collected a few of the boys to be ready to attempt a rescue.
Their services were not needed. The soldiers raided almost every house
in the locality, including the house next door, but never came into
the place where I was. All the same I felt grateful to Mick. As I have
already explained, he was the only member of G.H.Q. who stood by us
consistently.
It was considered advisable to remove me again. I was taken to Dun
Laoghaire to the house of Mrs. Barry early in November, 1920. Miss
O’Connor and Miss Mason were both constant nurses of mine while I was
there and my recovery became rapid. I had been there only three or four
days when almost every house in the avenue was raided, except that of
Mrs. Barry. Evidently the British spies were hitting the trail but losing
the scent.
I was in Dun Laoghaire on “Bloody Sunday,” November 21st. On that morning
fourteen British Intelligence officers were shot dead in their lodgings
in Dublin by our men. These officers, living the lives of ordinary
civilians in private houses, were really spies, and the brains of the
British Intelligence Department at that time. In every land spies pay
the death penalty during war, and even the British Ministers of the time
justified all their actions by saying they were “at war with Ireland.”
But there could not be one set of war rules for their men and another for
ours.
The operation was one of the most successful carried out in Dublin. The
I.R.A., however, suffered some losses. Frank Teeling was captured and
sentenced to death, but escaped from Kilmainham Jail before the sentence
was carried out. Paddy Moran was later captured and tried for taking part
in one of these executions although he was four miles from the scene. He
was hanged in Mountjoy early in 1921. I knew poor Paddy well. I first met
him at the home of my friend Mrs. O’Doherty in Connaught Street, Dublin.
He was a lovable character, and a faithful soldier of Ireland.
There were two terrible reprisals that day for the execution of the
fourteen spies.
In broad daylight the same afternoon hundreds of soldiers and Black and
Tans drove to Croke Park where 10,000 people, who had not even heard of
the shootings that morning, were witnessing a football match between
Tipperary and Dublin.
Surrounding the grounds the British without warning poured volley after
volley into the crowd, killing seventeen people and wounding about fifty.
That crime was, perhaps, the most diabolical of which England had been
guilty.
Another incident of “Bloody Sunday” had, however, a sadder personal
touch for me. That was the murder of Peadar Clancy and Dick McKee. They
had been captured by the enemy shortly before, and were murdered in
Dublin Castle as a reprisal for the shooting of the officers. Of course,
Sir Hamar Greenwood, or his chief manufacturer of lies at the Castle,
invented one of their usual explanations that they attacked the guard and
attempted to escape. Fancy two highly intelligent officers attempting to
attack an armed guard in the heart of a fortress from which a mouse could
not escape! An independent medical examination showed that the two I.R.A.
men were subjected to the most incredible tortures before they were done
to death.
Mick Collins and Tom Cullen (later A.D.C. to the new Free State
Governor-General) arranged for this medical examination, and also for the
lying-in-state of the two bodies at the Pro-Cathedral. I mention this to
their credit, for few members of G.H.Q. staff would have ventured so much
in public at that time of danger and uncertainty.
Poor Dick and Peadar! They were two of our bravest officers and two of
our staunchest supporters of the intensive war policy. They lived only
five weeks after Sean, and did not even get a chance of dying fighting
like him. A County Clare Volunteer named Conor Clune was murdered on the
same occasion in the Castle.