CHAPTER XXII.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 hadbeen 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 MountjoySquare, 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 layon 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 theR.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 theinstitution. 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’skindness 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 anarmoured 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. mannamed 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.