CHAPTER XX

.

ADVENTURES WITH THE MURDER GANG.

The plan I put before Headquarters was the establishment of Flying Columns in every county, starting of course with Tipperary. My experience of ambushes and barrack attacks had convinced me that such a scheme would prove an immense success.

Hitherto we had been relying very much on help from men who would take

## part in a barrack attack at night and be at their work in the shops next

morning. That was awkward for many reasons. It meant first of all, that they could only help at night. Secondly it often meant that business might often prevent them from coming and so we could not rely upon them very much. The disappointment we suffered from the Tipperary town men at Knocklong showed what serious risks there were in counting on men you had not actually at hand. Besides, these part-time volunteers could not possibly have the training that was wanted; they could not go far from home and they lived in an atmosphere of peace rather than of war.

We wanted full-time soldiers, to fight night or day, to be always at hand ready for any adventure and to devote proper time to training. They would be a mobile force striking at the enemy to-day in one district and next morning surprising him twenty or thirty miles away. Could we get this? We could. In addition to those few men who were permanently on the run—and that number was growing every day—there were scores ready to volunteer for whole-time active service in every county. Further, the tactics of the British in murdering men whom they suspected of being volunteers was making it impossible for any I.R.A. men to remain at home or at their ordinary work. We were being encumbered with hundreds of fellows who would only be in the way unless organised in proper military units acting under officers with discipline and daring.

By such arguments we convinced the Headquarters Staff. The Flying Columns were organised and on them fell the brunt of the war for the remaining twelve months. Perhaps the most successful aspect of this system was that it enabled active counties like Tipperary and Cork to send columns from time to time into places like Kilkenny and Waterford, where, owing to the apathy of the locals, the British were having too quiet a time.

During these autumn days of 1920 poor Dinny Lacy was constantly with me in Dublin, and many an exciting adventure we had together, dodging or defying “G” men, or spies who got on our trail.

Dinny, whose name figured prominently in the events of 1920 to 1922, was born in Goldengarden, in the heart of Tipperary. He was educated in Donaskeigh School in the parish of the patriotic Father Matt Ryan, the “General of the Land War.” Dinny was a great sprinter and footballer; in fact he was an all-round man. His home was only about a mile from mine, and we knew each other from boyhood. He went to Tipperary town as a boy, and soon became his employer’s most trusted man as manager of a big coal and provision premises. He never smoked or drank and he was always extremely religious, and could be seen at Mass every morning in Tipperary. He was always a keen student of the Irish language and he became an enthusiastic Volunteer from the very start of that force. In Easter Week of 1916 he was one of the small band who answered the call to mobilise for action at Galbally, six miles from Tipperary, but the countermand sent him home, and like the rest of the men of Tipperary, he was given no chance of striking a blow that week.

In the summer of 1916 he was one of the most enthusiastic in favouring the reorganisation of the Irish Volunteers as a fighting force. Modest and unassuming he was always on the look-out for a rifle or a revolver, and he spent all his own money in making such purchases. He gave everything, even his life, in the cause of freedom.

During 1917 and 1918 I came into frequent contact with him again. He took

## part in the big fight at Kilmallock in May, 1920, and shortly afterwards

he had to go on the run. Henceforth he became one of the most daring and successful fighters against the British. So much was he hated by the Black and Tans that they actually burned down the house in which he had lodged in Tipperary. Poor Dinny! He escaped the bullets of the English only to be killed by the Free Staters in an encounter in the Glen of Aherlow early in 1923.

However, I must resume my story. I knew my days were numbered if I remained in Dublin. The British had spies and “touts” and “spotters” everywhere. They had promised liberal rewards for information, and were at this time making desperate efforts to restore their Secret Service and to match it against ours. Everywhere one saw the khaki and the guns and the lorries. It was quite a common thing for an ordinary pedestrian to be held up and searched by troops on the streets six or seven times in the one day. They jumped off lorries and searched and questioned passers-by. They boarded tramcars and searched every passenger. They surrounded whole blocks of buildings and remained for days with a cordon drawn around while every house was being searched from cellar to attic. All these things were not rare, but daily occurrences.

At the same time people were brought to the Castle and tortured for information. Letters were opened in the post; hotel servants were bribed, and an elaborate and speedy system of telephonic code was arranged for the touts and spotters. Is it surprising that in such circumstances I was often hard-pressed to escape? I was being shadowed at every step and I knew it, but I always carried my gun strapped to my wrist, and concealed by the sleeve of my coat, ready to meet whoever challenged me.

At last came an adventure which I thought would prove my last. I was standing one Friday night alone at the Henry Street corner of Nelson’s Pillar. I had arranged to spend the night at Carolan’s, between Drumcondra and Whitehall. The Whitehall car came along and I jumped on board, going on top. At once five men sprang on to the same car and came up the stairs at my heels. Two of them I immediately recognised as members of the Castle murder gang which had recently been organised by General Tudor, Commander of the notorious Auxiliaries. This murder gang consisted of a number of Irishmen and Englishmen who were instructed to shoot any prominent I.R.A. officer whenever they got the chance, whether he was a prisoner in their hands or in whatever way they got the chance. This, of course, was known to Sir Hamar Greenwood and had his approval, the members of the gang being not only specially paid, but assured that no matter what evidence was brought against them they would never even be tried. They did, as a matter of fact, succeed in murdering a good number of our men here and there through the country. One of the leaders of the gang was a Head Constable, who had served as an ordinary constable a few years previously in my own part of the country round Tipperary.

The organisation of this murder gang was kept a close secret, even from military and police officials. We, of course, knew all about it from our own Secret Service. We knew most of the members’ names and the murders in which they had taken part. In addition, Headquarters had supplied photographs of some of them to our Brigades.

So when I recognised two of the gang on the tramcar that night I did not need to be a Sherlock Holmes to make up my mind that their three companions were also of the same ilk. But it was not the history of the murder gang I was recounting when I realised my predicament. I was in a tight corner. To attempt to retreat from the car would be a plain invitation to them to open fire. Besides there was the bare possibility that their presence on the car was a mere coincidence. Perhaps they did not recognise me at all. Perhaps they were really on some other job.

All these thoughts flashed through my mind in a mere fraction of the time they take to relate. I had to keep cool, to avoid betraying by the slightest sign that I was excited or panicky. There was nothing for it but the old game of coolness and bluff that had served me so well on the road to Foynes and at Whitehall a few months before.

I sat down on the three-seater bench at the rear of the car, just at the top of the steps. Then I pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Immediately two of the gang sat on the same bench, one on each side of me. A third remained standing right opposite me gripping the railings. The other two went along the centre passage right to the front of the car. I never felt less comfortable in my life. I realised my danger, but saw no way out of it.

Neither they nor I made any move. The car started on its journey, crowded with passengers who little realised the drama that was being played beside them. It was after 11 o’clock and everybody was hurrying home, for curfew was at 12, and no one dared to be out after that hour to become a target for a dozen bullets.

As the car passed up Parnell Square I began to feel a little reassured. Often before I had had a pleasant journey with detectives and policemen who never recognised me. Perhaps my luck was not out yet.

Suddenly both the man on my right and his companion on my left made a simultaneous move. Their right hands went back to their hip-pockets. They were pulling something out.

Another second and I had pulled my gun. I had drawn first. They realised my purpose. In another second my three would-be murderers were rushing headlong down the stairs. I was at their heels with my revolver levelled. They sprang from the car on to the street and I jumped at their heels. Now came another moment of hesitation. Would they open fire?

It was not a favourable spot to select for a duel. The streets were crowded with hurrying pedestrians. Soldiers or Auxiliaries might appear at any moment. If the three murder-men fired I had no alternative but to return. If they didn’t, I would not fire. But I could not afford to lose much time. There was only one more tram to pass to Whitehall and I had to get that or run the risk of being picked up by a curfew patrol.

We were in the middle of Dorset Street, almost facing Gardiner Street Church. I tried a little ruse. I stepped on to the footpath and suddenly ran towards St. Joseph’s Terrace. But I ran only three or four paces. Then I stamped my feet on the pavement, making a noise as if I was on the double At my first move the three men who were a few yards ahead of me ran too. They turned quickly into the little avenue which runs parallel to St. Joseph’s Terrace. They had been deceived by my ruse and evidently ran to intercept me at the other end.

While their running footsteps were still resounding on the pavement the last tram from the city appeared. I jumped on the platform as it passed, and left the murder gang behind, probably searching the side streets for me. What I can never understand is why their two companions who had come on the tram with them did not come in pursuit of me when I chased the other three from the car. Possibly loyalty to comrades was not part of their creed, if it involved danger.

It was one of these five men, I found out, who later tracked us to “Fernside,” the night of the terrible fight there. I slept that night at Fleming’s, of Drumcondra. Next morning I told Sean Treacy of my adventure and he laughed heartily, consoling me with the remark that I could hardly escape much longer. However he regarded the incident in a more serious light later on when we discussed it. Finally we made up our minds that never again would either of us go out alone; that we would both go out together or both remain indoors. It seemed the natural compact to make now that the trail was getting hot, and since we had passed through so many dangers together.

That Saturday morning we went out to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s in Hollybank Road, almost beside Fleming’s. Mrs. Fitzgerald was herself a Tipperary woman, and we had often before enjoyed the hospitality of her home. We were tired and sleepy that day so we spent most of the time in bed.

The following day we went to Croke Park, the headquarters of the Gaelic Athletic Association, and only seven minutes’ walk from Hollybank Road. It had been our custom for many Sundays before that to visit Croke Park when we had nothing else to do. We generally had a game of cards—our favourite was “Forty-five”—with officials of the G.A.A. who might happen to be present, particularly Luke O’Toole (the Secretary of the Association), Andy Harty, and D. P. Walsh (both countymen of our own) and Alderman Nowlan, the President. They were all good friends of ours, and gave us many pleasant evenings in Luke’s house when the matches of the day had finished.

I remember this Sunday well, because it indirectly led up to the fight at Drumcondra, strange though that may seem.

The stakes were never high, but to men in the position of Sean and myself at the time a few shillings seemed like riches. The evening I speak of the game proved unusually exciting; the “kitty” or pool gradually grew to a nice sum, and I don’t mind admitting that I eyed it jealously as it grew. Luck favoured me—even in gambling! I won the pool, and seldom was money more welcome to my pocket.

Now at this time our plans were not very definite. They were not altogether in our own making. Dinny Lacey had returned to Tipperary about a fortnight before, and we had promised to join him within a week. Contrary to our usual habit we had failed to keep our appointment, but the fault was not ours. It was due to the action of Headquarters.

I have already referred plainly to the attitude Headquarters had adopted towards us and our campaign from the beginning, but at this time—the early Autumn of 1920—a change was noticeable. The war was going on even better than we expected. Our men were meeting and beating the British all through the south. The world was looking on in admiration at our struggle, and in spite of torture, burnings and lootings the people were standing by us. It was death for the man who dared to “harbour a rebel,” but hundreds of men and women were every night sheltering our Flying Columns. In spite of an Anglicised Press the people had realised that we were right, that their cause was ours, that Ireland could never have peace or prosperity until we had driven the British out of Ireland. In our delight at the change, Sean and I were becoming almost reckless. The hotter the fighting the better and more perfect the I.R.A. became as an organisation. Headquarters apparently realised that the rank and file were getting too far ahead of them, and they gradually began to take a kind of semi-official responsibility for our actions.

In pursuance of this new policy, Headquarters had now actually planned a certain operation for us in Dublin, and it was for that reason we were unable to return to Tipperary as soon as we had arranged.

But the plans never matured and we were still kept dallying round Dublin. Still we had something to cheer us up. I got a tip for a race—a “dead cert” that was to come off at a meeting in the Phoenix Park. Luckier still, I had now got the money I won at Croke Park, to make use of the information.

All our worldly wealth went on the horse. And he won!

Now for a little of the pleasures of lite that we could still enjoy. The money we now had, meant wealth to us. Of course I did not regard it as my personal property—it belonged to our little “Soviet.” Whatever we had we shared, and never were there more real communists than we. Before we could return to Tipperary we had now to spend this money. Any day might be our last in this world. A couple of bullets might make us depart at any moment without having made our wills, and the thought that annoyed us was the possibility that our few pounds might provide the Black and Tans with the wherewithal to drink our health when we were dead.

[Illustration: DINNY LACEY.]

But we knew we had to be careful and more cautious than usual. The net was drawing round us. An incident that occurred at this time on the night of the 10th October, 1920, shows the dangers which surrounded us. Sean Treacy and I had decided to stay that night at the house of Seumas Kirwan, 49 Parnell Street. We had often stayed there before and had held several meetings there. Seumas was a Tipperary man himself and gave us the full run of his house. All his assistants and employees were I.R.A. men, and whenever we stayed there for the night they were fully armed.

On this particular night we had just entered when a man rushed in at our heels and told Seumas that “the two men who had just come into the shop were shadowed by a spy.”

Sean and I at once rushed into the street and the tout, who was standing near the door, ran for his life when he saw us. He was a good judge.

We changed our plans and went elsewhere that night. Henceforth we knew that Kirwan’s would be a marked house, and I never stayed there again until the Truce period.

The manner in which we were warned that night illustrates how loyal the people were to us. It was quite common to get friendly warnings from newsboys and orange-sellers who saw touts hanging about.

Only a few days previously I had met a group of the Dublin Castle murder gang face to face in Talbot Street. We recognised each other simultaneously and drew our guns. They did not fire. I don’t know why. As I had no desire to engage a whole group unless forced into it I didn’t fire, but walked quietly away unmolested.

But to return to the spending of our winnings on the horse. Our first little dissipation was to go to the pictures at La Scala Theatre, which had just been opened in O’Connell Street. That was on the afternoon of the 11th October, 1920. In the theatre we met the two Misses Fleming, of Drumcondra, with them was Mrs. O’Brien, wife of Eamon O’Brien, of Galbally, one of the men who had taken part in the rescue at Knocklong with us, and who was now in America. Mrs. O’Brien was not only delighted but astonished to meet us. I suppose it was somewhat of a surprise to her to meet in a picture house two men whom all the troops and police in Ireland had instructions to shoot at sight. We had grown used to taking these risks now, even though it was quite probable that not one in that audience that evening would get home without being held up and searched at the door, or in the street or in the tram.

We left the theatre together. Just as we stepped into the street the first man I saw was one of the murder gang who had boarded the tram with me only a few nights before. I could make no mistake about him, for he was one of the two who sat on either side of me on the tram. I saw him first. Standing on the path and scrutinising the picture-goers as they emerged he was evidently pretending to be looking for a friend, but I guessed he was looking for me. It is quite possible, though I do not think it probable, that either he or some tout had seen Sean and myself.

For a moment I felt tempted to draw my gun and shoot him on the spot. But I was between two of the girls and I did not want to alarm them. Besides if he had a confederate about, the return of fire might place the girls in danger. The five of us were facing for the Nelson Pillar to get a tram to Fleming’s house in Drumcondra, and as the Pillar is less than a hundred yards from the theatre I felt it safe enough to walk on. I said nothing to the others, nor did I look a second time at the Castle man. I knew he must have seen me, too, and I felt pretty certain that he was following us up in the crowd.

Just as we approached the tram I stepped back to let the others get a few yards in advance of me. As I did so Kitty Fleming whispered, “there is a friend following.” Evidently she had seen him too. The girls were well trained to use their eyes in those days.

Sean and the three girls stepped into the tram. I was at their heels. As I mounted the footboard I wheeled round sharply and faced my enemy. He read the message in my eye. Had he attempted to board the tram I would have riddled him on the spot. But he was quick to see my move, and he quietly slunk back from the tram and lost himself in the crowd as our car started for Drumcondra.

At Fleming’s we discussed the incident over a cup of coffee. At times I was half sorry I had allowed him to escape with his life. Had I known as much when I stood on the footboard as I do now the Crown Forces would be one man the less that evening; for, as the sequel will show, that man or one of his touts must have boarded the next tram to Drumcondra, and got on our trail again that night.

##