Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade

by Dalton, Charles

  There was no furniture at the dispensary beyond two double beds and a few chairs. We had our supper of tea and hard-boiled eggs, which we ate out of our hands, having no eggcups or spoons. We sat around the fire talking well into the night. I was wrought up, thinking of what we had to do the next morning, and I could feel that the other men were the same.

  We were awake and dressed by seven o’clock. We breakfasted on the same fare of tea and eggs. I noticed that the men were examining their revolvers, seeing that they were in working order.

  Outwardly we were calm and collected, even jesting with each other. But inwardly I felt that the others were as I was – palpitating with anxiety.

  Shortly after eight o’clock we left the house, as we had a long way to walk to the respective scenes of our operations. Crossing the city we saw but few people astir, save an occasional milkman making his rounds. It was a beautiful, clear morning.

  Coming near Merrion Square we passed several groups of Volunteers with whom we exchanged glances of understanding.

  At Merrion Square I parted with my companions, and I walked on alone until I came to my destination. There I met the Volunteer officer with whom I had spoken on the previous night. He had several men with him who were waiting round the corner. He looked at his watch and said it wanted five minutes of the appointed hour – nine o’clock.

  We had both received our orders. I told him what mine were: ‘I am to get any papers in the house.’

  Those were the longest five minutes of my life. Or were they the shortest? I cannot tell, but they were tense and dreadful.

  Sharp at nine o’clock we walked up the steps of the house. Fortunately the door was open, while the caretaker was shaking the mats on the steps. One of our men held him up and warned him to keep quiet. (He was blamed for complicity, the poor fellow, and got ten years’ penal servitude.)

  We walked into a large hall which had two separate flights of stairs ascending from it. We divided into two parties, four in each, and as I went up one staircase with my companions I saw our other party swiftly mounting the other. The stairs were heavily carpeted and our footsteps made no sound.

  On the landing were two doors which I knew led to the rooms of two of the Secret Service men. Here we divided again, and knocked simultaneously at both doors.

  We identified the men we wanted. Each had a revolver at his hand, but our men were too quick for them.

  Shaking, I said to the officer of my party: ‘Wait for me. I have to search for the papers.’

  ‘Wait be damned! Get out of here as quickly as you can.’

  I was only too glad to take his advice. The noise of the shots must have been heard in the neighbourhood. We hurried down the stairs together.

  In the hall three or four men were lined up against the wall, some of our officers facing them. Knowing their fate I felt great pity for them. It was plain they knew it too. As I crossed the threshold the volley was fired.

  In the street I parted from my companions, they going south. I hurried along alone. The sights and sounds of that morning were to be with me for many days and nights, but for the moment my mind was absorbed with the matter of my personal safety. I could hear shots not far away and windows were thrown up and heads appeared. I was the only person in the wide, empty street.

  ‘What’s up?’ was called down to me. ‘Where is the firing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, and hurried on.

  I thought I would never get across the city. Every moment I expected to run into lorry loads of troops which I knew would soon come tearing through the streets.

  At Westland Row I came upon three policemen standing in a doorway. They did not challenge me, so I started to run. I could no longer control my overpowering need to run, to fly, to leave far behind me those threatening streets.

  I was making for the quays below O’Connell Bridge. We had arranged for a party of Volunteers to commandeer the ferry boats, knowing that it would be impossible to cross by any of the bridges, which would all be held by the military.

  I was out of breath when I reached the quay. There were a few other stragglers there, other Volunteers who, like myself, had had a long way to come. We saw the ferry boat landing with its party on the other side of the river.

  It had just made its last journey!

  We waved to them, frantically. They saw our signals, and to our infinite relief we saw a boat being rowed towards us. A few minutes more and we would have been lost.

  Hurriedly we got into the boat and were rowed out into the river. I expected every moment to see the Auxiliaries dashing up to the quayside and opening fire upon us. I was greatly troubled thinking that I could not swim.

  The boat seemed to go terribly slowly. I thought we would never reach the other shore, where I could get into the lanes and alleyways I knew so well.

  At last we landed.

  I reached the dispensary. My companions were already there. They told me that there had been a fierce fight between our men and the Auxiliaries in Mount Street, with losses on both sides. I longed to hear more news, and whether we had sustained many casualties, but I knew it would be too dangerous to be about in the streets.

  Then I heard a bell ringing in a nearby church. It was the Angelus. I remembered I had not been to Mass. I slipped out and, in the silence before the altar, I thought over our morning’s work and offered up a prayer for the fallen.

  Chapter XIX

  The English took immediate reprisals for the shootings of the 21st November. On the same afternoon, while a football match was in progress in Croke Park between the Tipperary and Dublin teams, Auxiliaries and Black and Tans drove up and, surrounding the football field, they fired on the crowd. Fourteen people were killed, including a Tipperary forward, and over sixty wounded.

  On the next day, Monday, I got instructions to call at the house of a friend in North Richmond Street. I was to collect some papers which had been seized on the previous morning, and to bring them to our intelligence office for examination.

  When I presented myself, the woman of the house brought me down to the basement and showed me a large black deed-box which, she told me, contained the papers I wanted. I had hoped that the papers would not be so bulkily packed, as there was intensified activity of the crown forces in the streets; and parcels of any size were always bound to arouse suspicion.

  Having wrapped the deed-box in brown paper I set out, and got on to a tram going through Parnell Street. I put the box on the conductor’s platform, and was relieved to be separated from it even for a little while, though I took care to keep it in view from where I sat.

  I was just beginning to feel safe when I saw a patrol of soldiers holding up pedestrians a few paces in front of the tramcar, which now came to a standstill. I was seized with panic, my nerves not being at their best after my experiences of the morning before.

  What will I do, I thought. Will I leave the box on the tram, disowning it, and try to get away, or will I stay and hope to bluff my way through? Either decision would bring serious trouble upon me. If I were held up with the papers in my possession, a horrible end was in store for me after a ‘star chamber’ interrogation, with torture, in Dublin Castle. On the other hand, if I lost the papers I would be court-martialled by my own officers.

  While such thoughts were passing through my mind in the space of a few seconds, I found myself stepping off the tram with the box under my arm and gripping the pistol in my pocket.

  Turning my back on the soldiers, I walked away in the opposite direction, stepping mechanically, without any hope at all that I could escape. I was like an automaton. I was, as it were, wound up to make those walking movements and would do so until I was stopped, but at the same time I knew that they were senseless and useless.

  Then I found myself in a side street, and life and hope came back to me. Of my own will now, as if I were getting out of a nightmare in which I had been making movements over which I had had no control, I started to run. I was wearing a heavy overcoat, and I w
as soon covered with sweat, when, in a few moments, owing to the speed with which I travelled, I had reached my destination.

  Curious to know the extent of my escape I speedily opened the box, to find my worst fears justified. It was filled with papers and documents belonging to some of the enemy agents who had been shot on the previous morning.

  Chapter XX

  On the night before the shootings of the 21st November, our brigadier, Dick McKee, was arrested, and I was never to see my hero again.

  He and Peadar Clancy had been seen leaving Vaughan’s Hotel. They were followed by a ‘spotter’ to the house in Gloucester Street in which they were sleeping, and after curfew the house was raided and the two men captured and taken to Dublin Castle together with another man, Conor Clune, who had been arrested in Vaughan’s Hotel.

  A day or two afterwards the three bodies, mutilated almost beyond recognition, were given to their relatives. They had been killed in the Castle in revenge for the Sunday morning shootings of the British Secret Service men.

  On the following Tuesday or Wednesday, the 23rd or 24th November, I was sent by the assistant D/I to meet a detective named MacNamara. He was a friend of ours and had been working for Michael Collins for a long time.

  I turned up at the appointed place – the Dolphin Hotel, which was quite convenient to the Castle. Standing outside the hotel I saw Mac, and it being dark at the time, and thinking he did not know me, I approached him and told him who I was. Immediately he recognized me, and it was evident that he had already been apprised of my name and description.

  We walked together further down the badly lighted street till we came to a dark spot where any passer-by who knew the detective would not become suspicious.

  Mac’s first words to me were: ‘Why have you got on that hat? The sooner you get rid of it the better.’

  It was a black velour hat which I had only bought that evening. I had been rather pleased with it, but as soon as Mac spoke I realized my indiscretion. I never wore it again. Among the Black and Tans there was an idea that it was traditional for Volunteers to wear black hats – a sort of distinguishing mark by which they were known to each other.

  We immediately got to business. Mac told me that he had not many minutes to spare. He had only slipped out of the Castle to meet me, and if he were missed the authorities might become suspicious.

  ‘You know where to get Liam Tobin at once?’ he asked.

  ‘I do. He will be waiting for my report at Vaughan’s Hotel.’

  ‘Well, tell him we are raiding the Meath Hotel’ (a few doors from Vaughan’s) ‘in an hour’s time, and let them all keep out of Parnell Square tonight.’

  Before I parted from him I asked him to tell me about the butchery that had taken place in the Castle on the night of the 21st. In that gloomy spot, standing beside him, I could see only the outline of Mac’s face.

  ‘You mean Dick McKee, Peadar Clancy, and Clune?’ he said, his voice growing sad.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, I heard that they had been brought in prisoners on Saturday night, and I had little hope for them then, and when I heard the alarm sounded in the Castle on the Sunday morning after the shootings, I knew it was all up with them. Such scenes! I shall never forget them. Cabs, taxis and hacks were rushing up all day filled with spies, touts and their wives, all in a panic, seeking safety.’

  ‘But what about Dick?’

  ‘The guardroom where they had put him and the others is just inside the gate, and the Auxiliaries’ canteen adjoins the guardroom. I went into the canteen to see if I could hear any word of their moving the prisoners, so that I could send word to Michael Collins to arrange a rescue. In the bar the Auxiliaries were all drunk and thirsting for vengeance. Captain X— was there too. I had several drinks with them, but there was not a word about transferring the prisoners, and I had to listen to them cursing them with every foul name. I knew there was no hope, and I felt dreadful, just waiting for what was to come.’

  ‘Well, Mac,’ I said, ‘they gave them a terrible death, I believe.’

  ‘They did. Poor Dick was beyond recognition. I saw the battered corpses being taken away to King George V Hospital. They flung them into a van. I was nearly mad, and I had to act my part somehow. I had to look on while Captain X— pulled back the canvas screen to satisfy his hate with a last look. He flashed his torch onto poor Dick’s ghastly face, swearing at him as if the dead ears could still catch an echo of his words, and at the same time hitting the body with his revolver.’

  Mac then took leave of me, bidding me hurry along with the message he had given me, and reminding me of my hat.

  I went on my way, my mind filled with all that I had just heard and my heart breaking, so fond and so proud I had been of our brigadier. I swore to myself that if ever fate gave me a chance of dealing with Captain X— I would be well rewarded.

  I found Liam Tobin in Vaughan’s Hotel and delivered my message. While I was speaking to him in the hallway, a tall, well-built figure passed by. It was Michael Collins. I caught only a glimpse of him. Liam told me he would see me in our office in the morning and, dismissing me, he hurried after Michael to a room at the back of the hotel.

  Chapter XXI

  The evening following my interview with Mac I called to Amiens Street to meet Rosie.

  This was the first time I had seen her since the Sunday morning of the shootings, and I was very anxious to know what had happened afterwards at the boarding house.

  The minute she saw me she burst into tears. This greatly surprised and distressed me. Putting my arm around her, I asked her what was the matter. This only caused her to cry more convulsively, so that for a while she could not speak to me at all.

  ‘Oh, why did you shoot them?’ she sobbed out at last. ‘I thought you only meant to kidnap them.’

  ‘But, Rosie,’ said I, ‘surely you know we are at war, and that these men were shooting our fellows?’

  ‘I know,’ she said, still crying, ‘but it was dreadful.’

  After a while she managed to calm herself and told me her story.

  ‘After the gentlemen were shot, we were all terribly upset. Military and detectives arrived at the house, and they questioned us for hours. They took lorry loads of papers away with them. I was so upset I did not leave the house for days. You see, I felt I had had a hand in it, and I couldn’t bear my thoughts, and at last I felt I must speak to someone. So I went to a friend of mine who was a priest and I told him everything.’

  ‘Well, Rosie, what did he say to you?’

  ‘He was very nice to me. He told me I needn’t blame myself at all. He said that ye were fighting with your backs to the wall. “A defensive war”, that is what he called it. He said the English had no right to be here at all. “Our boys must defend themselves,” he said, and a lot more which I did not understand. He was grand and kind to me.

  ‘Only, when I saw you, it all came back to me again.’

  Chapter XXII

  Towards the end of November, our friend the relieving officer told us that we would have to move. He wanted the rooms we were using for himself. But he was kind enough to arrange for us to occupy the upper rooms of a neighbouring dispensary, whose only occupant was an old caretaker named John.

  We moved in to our new quarters without delay. Like our last ones they were quite unfurnished. But we were glad enough to get shelter anywhere, and as, of course, we paid no rent, we had no cause for complaint.

  Old John received us without question. His manner was perfect in its calm acceptance of our arrival, as if it were an everyday occurrence for a number of young men to take up residence in an empty house and to bring with them neither furniture nor personal luggage.

  He showed us our rooms. Then he brought us all over the building and through the waiting rooms where the poor people waited each day to receive free medical treatment. He led us out into the yard at the back, showed us the back gate through which we could pass in and out, and handed over the key to us.

&n
bsp; Old John was about seventy years of age, and his snow-white hair and beard increased the impression of dignity which his reticence gave him. He seldom spoke to us except to answer some question, or wish us good morning. He never commented or expressed any opinion on all that was happening at that time. He did not know us by name, and addressed us collectively as ‘Gentlemen’.

  If I was the first to arrive at night he would inform me of the fact. ‘The other gentlemen have not returned yet, Sir. The kettle is on. I wish you a good night.’ That was all. And with a book under his arm he would retire to his room.

  He never once asked us our names, or showed any curiosity about our business, or why curfew alone brought us indoors. At that time curfew had been put back to eight o’clock. It had been first fixed at midnight, but every time we brought off a successful coup against the enemy it was made an hour earlier. Perhaps it was with the idea of punishing the public, or rather with the hope of making us unpopular with them. But also, it had the advantage of giving the Auxiliaries and Black and Tans a longer period each night in which to prowl round in search of their prey.

  Old John had a pipe which was hardly ever out of his mouth. This, with his book (on what subject I never knew), seemed to be the only companionship he enjoyed.

  In his kitchen was assembled the only furniture in the house, so far as we knew. (We never penetrated into his sleeping apartment.) There was a large kitchen range, a fitted-in bath with hot and cold water, a table, a kettle, a few pots, cups and plates, and an enamel mug. These fixtures were all at our service.

  The other rooms were empty except for an old chest in the room in which we slept, and which we put to good use. We filled it with supplies – arms and ammunition. The windows were curtained, and from the street the house appeared to be tenanted.

  For the first few weeks we slept on a mattress on the floor. Then one night Liam shared our retreat, and he was so disgusted with his accommodation that he reported our forlorn state to Michael Collins, who immediately had smuggled into the house a few soldiers’ camp beds.