Never since we left Soloheadbeg did we feel in such a tight corner. One flash of suspicion on the part of a single officer of the party would have ruined us. At that time we knew that more than one British soldier, even privates, had fond hopes of earning the reward for our capture, and many of them had been at great pains to study our descriptions. Besides, it was comparatively easy for them then, in the spring of 1919, for we were then the only “much wanted men,” as the newspapers described us.
An apparently endless line of lorries approached us—every soldier armed to the teeth, every lorry equipped with a machine gun. The smallest show of concern on our part meant our death warrant: the slightest sign of fear or anxiety would betray us. And there was no turning back. To attempt such a thing would be an open challenge by three men to several hundred soldiers. Coolness and bluff were our only hope.
We passed the first twenty lorries without turning a hair. We just looked at the troops with that gaze of curiosity mingled with admiration that one might expect from any loyal citizen watching his gallant protectors go by. We had passed the greater part of the convoy, and were beginning to feel more at our ease, when suddenly rounding a corner we were confronted by a sentry with rifle upraised and called on to “’alt.” Our driver at once put on the brakes and pulled up.
We now realised why the other braves had allowed us to pass unchallenged. We had been led into an ambush—permitted to get right into the middle of the convoy, so that we had not a dog’s chance of escaping. It was a cunning trap, but we would show them how Irishmen can die rather than surrender. It was all up with us, but we would sell our lives as dearly as we could.
I pulled my gun. For a fraction of a second I fingered it fondly under the rug rapidly deciding where I should send my bullets with best effect. I had my finger on the trigger ready to raise my arm to fire when an officer dashed up.
“Sorry for delaying you, gentlemen,” he shouted.
This did not look like an ambush. I gently lowered my gun from view, and waited for his next words.
He was the captain in charge of the party. “Two of the ‘beastly’ cars, you know, have broken down,” he explained, “and ’twas awfully unfortunate, don’t you know, but the traffic was almost completely blocked.” He apologised profusely for the delay, but he feared there was not enough room for our car to pass. “’twas jolly rotten,” but he thought we should have to get out and walk.
By this time I had quite recovered my composure. I told him politely but firmly that we had an important business appointment to keep, and that any further delay might mean serious loss to us. Besides, I said, we had travelled far, and a long motor journey was not good for rheumatics, and we were far too tired to walk.
I think he was really impressed by my protest. At that stage British officers regarded an Irishman who could travel in a motor car as a person of importance who might get a “question raised in the House,” if treated rudely. A year or two later I know what he would have said to any Irishman met on the road.