CHAPTER XVI.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 anduseless 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 laterthat 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. Evenwhen 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 LordFrench 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 theIrish Independentpublished 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 IrishRepublic. 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. TheIrish Timeswas openly and avowedly a British organ, and theFreeman’s Journalwas 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, theIndependentwas 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 theIndependent, or any other Dublin newspaper, refer to any I.R.A. men as murderers or assassins, and I must say that soon afterwards theIndependentwas 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 toassociate 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.
GENERAL LIAM LYNCH.
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 imaginethe 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, assuringus 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 werefar 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 comradesthere 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.