Finally we reached Mitchelstown where we met Christie Ryan, who welcomed us and gave us the shelter of his house. While we were there we saw eight armed policemen pass the door. They were guarding a little packet of blasting powder. Evidently the Soloheadbeg affair had taught them to take no chances, and now they had quadrupled the escort.
Later we came across into East Limerick, where Ned O’Brien, of Galbally, put us up, and then we travelled farther to the Maloneys, of Lackelly, the scene of a great battle with the British two years later. At Lackelly we stayed about a week.
But you must understand our position all this time since the affair at Soloheadbeg. We were still within a radius of ten miles of the scene. Police and military were scouring the countryside for us, searching houses, ditches and woods. The clergy, the public and the press had all condemned our action. Our only consoling thought was that so were the men of ’98, and the Fenians of ’67, and then the men of 1916 condemned in their day, and we knew that as the cause of these men had been vindicated, so too would our cause when the scales fell from the people’s eyes. At this time, however, scarce a word would be heard in our defence. Our point of view was not even to be listened to. The people had voted for a Republic, but now they seemed to have abandoned us who tried to bring that Republic nearer, and who had taken them at their word.
Our former friends shunned us. They preferred the drawing-room as their battle ground, and the political resolution rather than the gun as their weapon. We had heard the gospel of freedom preached to us; we believed in it, we wanted to be free, and we were prepared to give our lives as proof of the faith that was in us. But those who preached the gospel were not prepared to practise it.
Even from the Irish Volunteers or the Irish Republican Army, as it has now come to be called, we got no support. Ned O’Brien and James Scanlan of Galbally, Paddy Ryan of Doon, and Davy Burke of Emly, certainly stood by us; but they were the exceptions.
When the news of the Soloheadbeg affair became public, a meeting was actually summoned in Tipperary town by a man who should have been our friend. His purpose was to dissociate Sinn Fein from the incident, and to denounce us for our action. The meeting was, however, called off by another prominent man. A local clergyman in a sermon, in which he denounced us as murderers, said that it used to be the custom to say, “Where Tipperary leads Ireland follows,” but he hoped this would not be so in the case of Soloheadbeg, the men responsible for which would, he said, go to their graves with the brand of Cain on their foreheads. Such were the things said about us, but we kept on our course.
In many places we were refused shelter on a night that one would not put out a dog. I remember on one occasion we were sitting in a farmhouse by the fireside when a loud knock was made at the door. It was dark, and the farmer did not care to open without knowing who was outside.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“Police!” came the prompt reply.
Simultaneously we drew our revolvers. The door was opened, and a young neighbouring farmer entered, laughing heartily at his attempted joke. Before we could put away our guns the owner of the house observed them. At once his attitude towards us changed. He informed us point blank that he would not permit men with guns to stay under his roof. It was bitterly cold, but we had to go out into one of the outhouses for the night. So chilled were we there that we had to drive in some of the cows to keep us warm.