CHAPTER IV.
OUR FACTORY BLOWN UP.
My most exciting experience was to see our munition factory blown into the sky. I had a narrow escape, for I was within fifty yards of the door; but my partner, Paddy Keogh, had an even more wonderful escape, for he was actually on the premises when the explosion occurred.
We never knew what brought about the havoc. I had gone out to a well to fetch a can of water, for necessity compelled us to do all our own cooking and cleaning. As I was returning to the cottage, I saw the roof leaving it, and simultaneously came the roar of the bursting grenades. In a moment the house was in flames. It was a desperate situation. My one thought was to save my comrade, if indeed he was not already beyond human aid.
I dropped the can of water and rushed to the house. I dashed up the stairs and found Paddy lying in the room either dead or unconscious. I raised him in my arms and carried him with a heavy heart through the rain of shrapnel down the stairs and out of the house, and away to the banks of the Multeen, a little stream not far away from the house. My heart was wrung with anguish as I laid him by the stream and rushed for my can to throw some of the fresh clean water over his pale countenance. Before I had time to try the effects of a second supply, Paddy was on his feet and rushing for me—very much alive!
“You damn fool, do you want to drown me?” he shouted. And then he added a lot more that I prefer not to repeat.
The destruction of our house was a heavy blow, and for a while we mourned the loss of our little factory and its contents.
My little capital was gone now, and the O’Dwyers had to be compensated for the loss of their home. I thought out my plans, and gathered together all the tradesmen in our little army, and put them to work. In a few days the cottage was repaired, and looked none the worse.
By the way, the Black and Tans, at a later stage wreaked vengeance on it more effectively than the explosion of the grenades.
O’Dwyer’s house was now out of bounds for my work, but in a very short time I got another house from a good typical Tipperary man, Jer. O’Connell. Here I was more successful, because I took greater precautions with my work. I guarded against another explosion; but other circumstances compelled us to evacuate it within a few months.
During our stay in this house our condition was far from happy. Of bodily comforts we had none. We had neither bed nor bed coverings, and worse still, we had no money wherewith to buy them. We got a loan of a couple of blankets from neighbours, and we commandeered some straw from the nearest farmer. First we spread out the straw on the ground and covered it over with one blanket. We then spread over us a lot of old newspapers (which we carefully collected every day), and over these we placed our second blanket. The paper was excellent for keeping us warm, and by not turning out of one position we usually got about three hours’ sleep. As soon as we moved, the paper tore and the cold quickly worked its way through. Still greater discomfort than our bed was caused by the presence of mice! The little beggars were very numerous and very daring. Many a night we were wakened by their nibbling at our hair. Whenever I protested, in action as well as in words, Sean Treacy would plead—“Ah, the poor little creatures! They might as well be happy when we can’t. Don’t be vexed with them, Dan, even if they take a little of your black hair.” I argued that it was enough to have the peelers after us, and that if the mice had any decency they ought to leave us alone.