‘Robert Barton is being tried today at the Police Courts for a speech he delivered in Wicklow. He is to be rescued by us,’ he said. ‘He will be brought from the Courts to Mountjoy Jail in a motor van. That van must be held up.’
He then outlined the plan of action and allotted us our different positions.
While waiting for the appointed hour, a lively discussion arose as to the merits of my Mauser pistol. It was quite a new gun to most of the men present. It was generally condemned because some of our men had been badly let down by the jamming of their automatic pistols, and they had found from experience that the revolver bullet had greater stopping power.
Peadar Clancy said to me: ‘The next time you are brought on a job, come with a decent weapon. If you have not got a revolver, get a loan of one somewhere.’
This made me feel extremely indignant, as I dearly loved my Mauser, so that when Dick McKee, who was listening, took my part, I was delighted.
‘There is nothing wrong with that gun. I like automatics,’ he said, producing a long Parabellum of his own.
Whether this was the beginning of our subsequent friendship I cannot say, but after that incident the brigadier was very friendly towards me. And as for me, I looked up to him and worshipped him.
Shortly after noon we went in groups of twos and threes to the scene of action – the corner of Mountjoy, Blessington and Nelson streets. We took up our positions without attracting the attention of the passers-by.
After waiting about fifteen minutes we saw a Ford covered-in military van approaching. As soon as it reached the corner, some of our men, who were waiting up a side street, pushed a builders’ handcart, on which were some very long ladders, across the roadway, blocking the van’s progress. This was the signal for us all to rush forward, pointing our guns at the occupants, and shouting ‘Hands up.’
Immediately, with their hands up, an officer, Major Carew, and two Tommies stepped out of the car.
There was no one else! There was no prisoner! The authorities, anticipating the possibility of a rescue, had had Barton conveyed back to Mountjoy by another route.
During the excitement, a Volunteer accidentally discharged his revolver, wounding himself in the leg.
Major Carew, greatly agitated, shouted: ‘For God’s sake, men, don’t shoot,’ when, seeing it was an accident, he quickly regained his composure.
Meanwhile the traffic had come to a standstill. Crowds began to collect. It was time to get away.
Chapter IX
It was now 1919, and I was sixteen years old.
One day I noticed a Volunteer cycling along in the neighbourhood in which I lived. I knew his business did not take him to my district, so I became suspicious that something was on foot.
Shortly afterwards I met a newsboy shouting ‘Stop Press’ and as I was curious I made no delay in getting a paper.
The news was startling. Lord French, the Lord Lieutenant, had been attacked at Ashtown. He and his escort were travelling in two touring cars and a van, when bombs had been thrown at them, and in the fight which followed one of the attackers was killed.
Lord French had escaped injury.
I guessed that the Volunteer I had seen had had something to do with the attack. Here was dangerous work being carried out by a select few and I was not one of them! I was disturbed by this discovery, and set myself to think how I could best avail myself of the knowledge I had gained to secure a place amongst those who were engaged on special work. To ask my captain would only make him suspicious, and he probably knew nothing of the identity of those special men.
I thought it best to await an opportunity to tackle the Volunteer I had seen. This occurred soon afterwards, and I told him what I had noticed of his movements and that I suspected him of having had a hand in the attack on Lord French.
He immediately became very reserved and tried to put me off, but I persisted. I convinced him that my only object in speaking to him was to offer my help. I wanted him to speak to his leader for me, so that I could be taken on for dangerous work. He made no promises, but he must have reported our conversation, because shortly afterwards I was picked to take part in some fairly important undertakings.
One evening I was notified that I was to call at the house of the quartermaster of the battalion on the following morning at 7 o’clock.
Mick MacDonald was a man of nearly forty years, much older than any of the other men who formed the Squad. He had very prominent temples and spoke with a shrill voice like a woman’s. He was a stickler for detail and he would pour forth his wrath on anyone who was a few minutes late. That was quite right of course in a soldier, but in our war our difficulties were immense. We had always to be dodging the enemy and could not go by direct routes to keep our engagements, and at the same time, a minute one way or the other might affect the success of an enterprise.
Mick Mac took his duties with intense seriousness, and this, with his irascible temper, made it a bad business to vex him. He was very brave. His whole heart was in the fight, and knowing the shortness of our ammunition, if he had had his way, I believe he would not have given out a single cartridge without a guarantee that it would be used with effect. He could not bear six shots to be fired, when five might have done as well.
‘How many did you use?’ he would ask anxiously. And when he was told: ‘God blast you, could you not have managed with less?’
Needless to say I was not a minute late for my appointment the following morning and I was very favourably received.
There were several men present, and now for the first time I met, to speak to, the famous Squad who worked under Dick McKee and Michael Collins, and whose achievements never failed to produce ‘Stop Press’ editions.
They were having breakfast, with home-made bread, and they asked me to join them, which I did with the greatest pleasure. I could hardly believe it possible that I was sitting at the same table with such fearless men, whom I had for so long admired, though till now I had never met them, or known them by name. Soon I began to feel quite at home with them, especially as they did not seem to notice that I was rather young, but treated me as one of themselves.
Tom Kehoe was one of them. He was a tall, country boy, and had no regard at all for personal danger. At the age of about seventeen he had taken part in the Rising of 1916. He was a fitter by trade, and he had started making grenades in a small secret bomb factory we had in Parnell Street, which was seized by the Black and Tans. He was a splendid soldier and a true and loyal friend, so that we have never got over his tragic end. Having survived all the dangers of the Black and Tan period, he was killed in the Civil War.
The other two men present that morning were Jim Slattery and Vinny Byrne. Jim was from Bodyke, County Clare. Vinny was born and bred in Dublin. They were both cabinet-makers, and had served their apprenticeship together. As lads of seventeen they had fought in the Rising with Tom Kehoe, who was about the same age. Jim wore a loose-fitting dust-coat, and, in spite of his long residence in Dublin, he spoke with a pronounced, soft, Clare accent. He had very clear, penetrating, blue eyes.
Vinny was an optimist. He was pleased with all the world and everybody in it. On his round and slightly sleepy face was an expression of incurable good nature. He was a typical Dublin man.
When we had finished breakfast we came to business. The leader outlined the plan. We were to go to the corner of Dominick Street and be in position by 8.30. When he gave the signal, we were to seize a mail van which would then be approaching us, and stand by while the mails were transferred to a waiting motor-car in an adjoining lane.
While waiting at the street corner I felt very excited, so that I could hardly control myself. But I did my best to keep as calm as possible outwardly, for fear that any signs of my excitement would result in my being dropped from further work.
Several mail vans passed by from the Rink close by, which was now being used as the Chief Sorting Office.
At last a van came which I knew was the one we wanted. Our
leader gave the signal. The men, and I with them, rushed out and seized the horse’s head and reins. We covered the driver with our revolvers, Tom Kehoe jumped up, and, taking the reins out of the driver’s hands, he drove the van round the corner to where the motor-car was waiting.
Everything happened so quickly that the few pedestrians remained motionless, glued to the ground, as if they had suddenly become benumbed. We chased after the van and saw the safe transfer of the mails to our car. The driver was a Volunteer named Owen Cullen, who belonged to my company. He was the first driver attached to the Squad and the first whole-time Volunteer in Dublin, as he lost his job when his employers discovered that he had been engaged in Volunteer activities.
The whole affair was over in three minutes and we were on our way back to safety.
Later in the day, as soon as it appeared, I got the inevitable ‘Stop Press’.
‘Sensational Coup.
Robbery of Castle Mails.’
There followed detailed descriptions by ‘eye-witnesses’, which greatly surprised me as they were quite erroneous.
In the trams there was no other conversation. I could hear scraps of the news exchanged. ‘French’s mail seized!’ ‘A wonderful coup!’ ‘Such remarkable intelligence work!’ ‘So-and-so who knows so-and-so told me how it was done,’ and here would follow an imaginary story, so that I had trouble not to interrupt and tell them what lies they were talking.
But we had to keep our mouths sealed. Not a word could we drop even to our dearest friends. Silence and success went hand in hand.
Chapter X
Some weeks later, a messenger called to my house and handed me a note. It was an instruction from the brigadier to report to him the following morning at a house he used as an office in Parnell Square.
To receive a command from Dick McKee himself filled me with the proudest satisfaction. I was overjoyed. I began at once to make considerable preparations for so important an interview. Not possessing a man’s suit, I borrowed one of my elder brother’s, so that my appearance would be worthy of the occasion. Although a little large for me I was satisfied with the result.
When I arrived at headquarters, there was a meeting of officers in progress, so that I had to wait some time before I was called in to the room.
The brigadier took me on one side and questioned me as to whether I had ever been to London.
I told him I had not, but that I was quite prepared to go there or anywhere else. I did not tell him that I had never been farther than a few miles from Dublin.
He asked me if I would be prepared to travel for a week or so, and I replied that I was at his service.
He kept looking me over, and seemed doubtful as to whether he would send me away, and, at last, as if he were summing up the matter, he said, ‘I think you have horse sense, any way.’
I was greatly troubled by this description of myself, as I did not know what horse sense meant. But it must not have been detrimental, because he told me to hold myself in readiness to travel to London.
‘You will be accompanied by a few men from Dublin and Cork, and you will get full instructions later.’
With these words he closed the interview.
I was greatly pleased with these prospects, and I was looking forward to seeing London and carrying out whatever work was to be done there.
But I was doomed to disappointment. Day after day passed and I received no summons. Then I heard that the job was off.
Long afterwards I learned that what we were to do in London was to watch the movements of Cabinet Ministers. But the idea was not developed owing to unfavourable reports from our intelligence officer there.
Chapter XI
For some months we had been engaged on attempted seizures of arms, some of which had been successful. The difficulty of importing arms was very great, as the ports were all closely watched. In spite of this, Michael Collins was able to get them in through secret channels, but we never had sufficient for our defence. So we supplemented our limited supplies by depriving the enemy of his arms and ammunition as often as we could.
One way of doing this was to attack the police barracks and force the occupants to surrender. As the police in Ireland were armed, the barracks were all well stocked.
During Easter 1920 I was sent for by the adjutant-general, Gearóid O’Sullivan, and was given verbal instructions which I was to take down to the OC of the Carlow Brigade. I was given a covering address, by means of which I would be able to get into touch with him.
I arrived very early at Kingsbridge Station, to make sure that I would be in time. Having questioned a porter, I made out which was the train for Carlow and I took my seat in a third-class compartment.
I had bought a newspaper, but I did not get a chance to read it, because I was quite preoccupied with the scenery, which was new to me, and with the conversation of my fellow passengers. There were five or six of these, apparently businessmen. I decided they were commercial travellers, and they spoke in loud tones, expressing very decided political opinions. They had looked me over at the beginning of the journey and had evidently decided that I was of no importance.
The journey to Carlow, though only about fifty miles, seemed very long to me as it was the longest journey I had ever made. When we arrived at Carlow station there were two RIC men on the platform. They closely scrutinized everyone who alighted from the train, but my youthful appearance did not rouse their suspicions.
I went to the covering address and was kept waiting for some hours before I met the OC, who, I was told, was ‘on the run’, the police having raided his home several times looking to arrest him. I was taken to him at last to the Community House of the Christian Brothers’ School.
He was a young man of about twenty-two years, tall and thin – a scholarly-looking fellow, I thought. But, maybe that was only because he was wearing glasses. He was the son of a hardware merchant in the town.
I knew him as Seán. I made myself known to him and conveyed my instructions, which I had committed to memory.
‘You will burn all vacated RIC barracks on Easter Saturday night.
‘You will simultaneously raid the houses of Income Tax collectors and seize all papers, which you will destroy.
‘You will cause these orders to be transmitted verbally.
‘Similar operations will be carried out in all areas on Saturday night.’
The English had already begun to vacate all the RIC barracks in isolated places which they could not hold. We destroyed these to prevent their subsequent re-occupation. The destruction of all Income Tax papers was ordered to prevent the British authorities from continuing the collection of Income Tax, which now properly belonged to the treasury of Dáil Éireann.
My interview with Seán over, I found I had some time to wait before the return train left for Dublin. I spent it in taking a look at the town, paying particular attention to the local barracks and the jail.
The next day I reported to the adjutant-general. He was lunching with some other staff officers in a restaurant in Henry Street. These men were all wanted by the authorities and had to move about cautiously, but the restaurant was owned by a supporter of ours and it was a fairly safe meeting-place.
He thanked me when I had made my report, and asked me to give him an account of my expenses and any change I had over from the money he had given me for my journey. This it was easy for me to do, as I had had no expenses other than my railway fare, the people I had met in Carlow having entertained me to both dinner and tea.
That evening I received a note from my company captain telling me to call to see him.
He instructed me to pick six or seven men and gave me the address of an Income Tax collector’s office in Abbey Street. This we were to raid and burn on Easter Saturday night at 7 p.m.
The office was situated opposite the Abbey Theatre, and when we arrived queues of people were lined up, waiting for the doors to be opened.
We knocked at the door of the office, but got no answer. There was
no caretaker in the place, a difficulty for which we had made allowance. Not to attract attention, we separated a little and stood away from the place. One man then went to the door and quietly and unostentatiously forced it open with a short lever he had brought for the purpose.
The door offered little resistance and we all quietly entered the house. We soon located the office we wanted and proceeded to set the papers on fire. But the progress of the fire was so slow (and it was not safe for us to stay very long), that one of us, Jimmy Conroy, went round to a nearby shop and bought a bottle of paraffin oil.
After that we had no difficulty, and the office was well on fire before we left. The papers were all burned before the Fire Brigade arrived and extinguished it. The Central Fire Office was round the corner, so they had only a few yards to come to put out the flames.
All the way home Conroy kept lamenting that the only money he had for cigarettes he had spent on paraffin.
Chapter XII
By this time, 1920, the fight had got very hot in Dublin. The lives of our leading men were in danger, day and night. They were being continually hunted, to be shot out of hand, if not reserved for hanging, and several G men (detectives of the political branch) had been shot to anticipate their activities in this respect. At the same time, Terence MacSwiney, the Lord Mayor of Cork, was dying on hunger strike in prison in London.
The Squad, which was now reinforced by some auxiliary workers, of which I was one, received instructions to meet one Sunday morning at 7.30.
When I arrived, I found that there were about fifteen Volunteers gathered in the vicinity of Grattan Bridge, which is the nearest bridge crossing the Liffey from Dublin Castle. There were very few people about at this hour, save those passing to and from the early Masses at a nearby church – the Church of SS Michael and John.
We stood about in groups of twos and threes, not to attract the attention of any policeman who might come along. Mick Mac came up to me and the man who was with me, and allotted us a position which we were to occupy in a maze of alleyways which approached the church. We moved into position.
Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade Page 5
