CHAPTER VI.SOLOHEADBEG.
At the beginning of January, 1919, we received information to the effect that a quantity of explosives was to be conveyed to Soloheadbeg Quarry for blasting purposes. The consignment, we knew, would be guarded by armed policemen, as was always the rule at that time.
I spoke to Sean about it. “Here is our chance,” I said, “let us start the war soon, or the army will lose heart.” I knew we had but a very small number of men with determination enough for such a job, but I knew too that the number would increase with time; and, in any case, it is quality, not quantity, that counts in guerilla warfare.
We discussed the proposal for a long time. Finally we decided to disarm the guard and seize the explosives, for, as Sean said, there was nothing we needed more at that time than guns and explosives. We made a careful survey of the locality. We selected the spot for our first ambush. We knew every inch of the ground, we had beenborn and reared in the vicinity, and Sean’s own farmhouse was not a stone’s throw from the quarry.
Soloheadbeg is a small townland about two and a half miles from Tipperary town, and less than a mile from the Limerick Junction. The quarry stands on an eminence on a little by-road. Farmhouses and cottages are dotted here and there in the neighbourhood, though there is no village nearer than Donohill, a mile and a half distant. It was in this plain, overshadowed by the gigantic figure of Galteemore away to the south, that Brian Boru and his brother Mahon fought their first great battle with the Danes in 968, when Brian with his gallant army of Tipperary men and Clare men routed the invaders, and never ceased from the pursuit till he reached Limerick twenty miles away and burned the town over their heads. The right wing of his army swept across the hills where the quarry now stands, as the defeated Danes fled to their stronghold.
The quarry itself stands on the right, down the little by-road. There is a high ditch on each side of the road by which it is approached from Tipperary, and here and there is the further cover afforded by thick whitethorn bushes. I should explain that what we call a “ditch” in Tipperary is really a bank, or dike.
Unfortunately our information regarding the date of the arrival of the explosives was not quite correct. We expected it on January 16th, but it did not come till five days later. During these five days we waited in readiness for the attempt. Our men had left their homes without giving any indication of their plans. After three days I had to send all home except eight. We had neither provisions to feed them nor money to purchase the provisions.
And so the nine of us who remained were watching and waiting. The men who were with me were—Sean Treacy, Seumas Robinson, Sean Hogan, Tim Crowe, Patrick O’Dwyer, of Hollyford; Michael Ryan, of Grange (Donohill); Patrick McCormick, and Jack O’Meara, Tipperary.
Our chief concern during these days of waiting was to avoid attracting attention. We did not want to be seen by any of the people in the locality. Those were nearly all employed at the quarry, and as the times were then disturbed enough any report that strangers were hanging around the neighbourhood might have completely upset our plans. Every morning before daybreak we went as noiselessly as possible to our hiding place, there to remain under cover, but ever on the alert, while one of our number acted as scout from the by-road to the main road from Tipperary, along which the peelers were bound to approach. There we waited insilence until 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and then we abandoned our position, knowing they would not come later, as they liked to be back in town before darkness set in. We spent the night at my own home, where my mother prepared breakfast each morning about 4 o’clock. On the fifth morning she declared, “If you don’t do something to-day you can get your own breakfast to-morrow.”
At last came the fateful morning of January 21st, 1919, the day that was to see our country rejoice at the first meeting of the Parliament of Ireland, the first Dail Eireann setting up the Government of the Republic, and sending its message to the free nations of the earth.
We had taken our place behind the ditch, and had spent many weary hours waiting and watching. We were quietly discussing the great event that was to take place in Dublin that day. Our scout was away with his eyes fixed on the Tipperary road. Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by our scout. Dashing towards us from his look-out, his eyes sparkling with the light of battle, and a grim smile on his countenance, he whispered the word of warning—“They’re coming, they’re coming!”
Every man knew his post. For days we had thought of nothing but the position we were now in. If any of our number felt nervous or excited he showed little outward sign of it. Like a flash every soldier manned his post. Our hour of trial was athand; we were to face the enemy, with life or death in the balance. And incidentally we were to open another phase in the long fight for the freedom of our country.
Our scout was again on the alert, and again he returned to report. This time he gave us the actual distance, and he told us their number.
Nearer and nearer they come. In the still clear air we hear the sound of the horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of a heavy cart over the rough hilly road.
That day I did not feel the same coolness that I afterwards strove to develop. My nerves were highly strung; I realised what we were doing, and I foresaw the consequences whether our plans succeeded or failed.
We were facing men trained to the use of firearms, especially disciplined for such emergencies as this. In all probability they had but just completed the special course in bomb-throwing, which had lately been added to the accomplishments of the R.I.C. My little squad had little experience in the practical use of firearms. We had never been in a position to fire one round of ball-cartridge for the sake of practice. We had often chaffed one another about this want of experience, and jokingly referred to the probable consequences if our nerves got jumpy when the real time came. But we always brushed aside these idle fears, and maintained acalm and cheerful exterior, consoling ourselves with the thought, “We’re Irish anyhow, and all Irishmen are fighters by nature.”
But now the hour had come. From my point of vantage I shot a hurried glance down the road as the party approached. The driver and the County Council employee who was to take over the explosives walked beside the horses. Two policemen in their black uniforms were also on foot carrying rifles in their hands. They were a little distance behind the cart.
Only a moment before the blood was rushing madly through my veins; now when I saw them actually at hand all my nervousness disappeared, and I felt cool and strong again. I believed I could fight a dozen of these enemy forces all by myself. For the men who were now approaching had deserted their country, and were the spies and hirelings of her enemy. Nearer still they come. They talk in low tones. They are almost under the shadow of our revolvers.
“Hands up!” The cry comes from our men as with one voice. “Hands up!” But no! They seize their rifles, and with the best military movement bring them to the ready. They were Irishmen, too, and would rather die than surrender.
Again and again we called upon them to put up their hands. We would have preferred that theyshould surrender without bloodshed, but they were dogged and stubborn, and now ’twas our lives or theirs.
Their fingers were on the triggers. Another appeal on our side would be useless—perhaps too late for ourselves.
Quick and sure our volleys rang out. The aim was true. The two policemen were dead.