Our scout was again on the alert, and again he returned to report. This time he gave us the actual distance, and he told us their number.
Nearer and nearer they come. In the still clear air we hear the sound of the horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of a heavy cart over the rough hilly road.
That day I did not feel the same coolness that I afterwards strove to develop. My nerves were highly strung; I realised what we were doing, and I foresaw the consequences whether our plans succeeded or failed.
We were facing men trained to the use of firearms, especially disciplined for such emergencies as this. In all probability they had but just completed the special course in bomb-throwing, which had lately been added to the accomplishments of the R.I.C. My little squad had little experience in the practical use of firearms. We had never been in a position to fire one round of ball-cartridge for the sake of practice. We had often chaffed one another about this want of experience, and jokingly referred to the probable consequences if our nerves got jumpy when the real time came. But we always brushed aside these idle fears, and maintained a calm and cheerful exterior, consoling ourselves with the thought, “We’re Irish anyhow, and all Irishmen are fighters by nature.”
But now the hour had come. From my point of vantage I shot a hurried glance down the road as the party approached. The driver and the County Council employee who was to take over the explosives walked beside the horses. Two policemen in their black uniforms were also on foot carrying rifles in their hands. They were a little distance behind the cart.
Only a moment before the blood was rushing madly through my veins; now when I saw them actually at hand all my nervousness disappeared, and I felt cool and strong again. I believed I could fight a dozen of these enemy forces all by myself. For the men who were now approaching had deserted their country, and were the spies and hirelings of her enemy. Nearer still they come. They talk in low tones. They are almost under the shadow of our revolvers.
“Hands up!” The cry comes from our men as with one voice. “Hands up!” But no! They seize their rifles, and with the best military movement bring them to the ready. They were Irishmen, too, and would rather die than surrender.
Again and again we called upon them to put up their hands. We would have preferred that they should surrender without bloodshed, but they were dogged and stubborn, and now ’twas our lives or theirs.
Their fingers were on the triggers. Another appeal on our side would be useless—perhaps too late for ourselves.
Quick and sure our volleys rang out. The aim was true. The two policemen were dead.