My own house was only half a mile away, and, needless to remark, I took the opportunity to see my mother. It was a great surprise for her, but a very welcome one. During my period on the run I dare not even send her a card, for it would bring her endless annoyance from the enemy, and probably give them useful information, for they never scrupled to open letters going through the post. Poor woman! She was very brave and in the best of spirits, in spite of the fact that her little home was often raided and ransacked three times in twenty-four hours, in the early dawn, and in the dead of night. It gave me great courage to see her and to talk to her again. But I should not delay long, and I bade her good-bye again, taking with me her warm blessing as I left.
The dear old soul has suffered much for the crime of having taught her sons their duty to their country. Even the house over her head was looted and burned, and her hens and chickens had to pay the price of English hate, for they were bayoneted by the Black and Tans. Through all her trials she never lost heart, and would always have her jibe at the enemy. Once when the British came and asked if her son was in, she sarcastically asked them if they would venture under the same roof with him. On another occasion in reply to the same question she told them I was upstairs, and invited them to enter. Their response to the invitation was a precipitate retreat to seek cover.
CHAPTER X.
SEAN HOGAN CAPTURED.
From Donohill we went to Rossmore, and then on to Rosegreen, and finally into Clonmel—the Headquarters of the R.I.C. for South Tipperary, and a large garrison town. We spent several days in that district, and were not idle. We met the local officers of the I.R.A.—they belonged to our brigade—and found out what plans they had. We did our best to induce them to get things moving more rapidly, and to get on with the real serious work.
One morning while in Clonmel district I had an unusual adventure, not very exciting in its own way, but one that I feared was going to prove more than exciting for me. As I was cycling up Mockler’s Hill at 2 o’clock in the morning, when it was still pitch dark, a cyclist coming in the opposite direction rode right into me. I got the full force of his handle-bars over the heart. I was thrown helplessly to the ground, and vomited a quantity of blood. I thought I was going to die. The prospect of such an inglorious end did not improve me, nor hasten my recovery. To be killed in action by an enemy bullet was a fate I did not at all dread; but I strongly objected to being killed by the handle-bars of an ordinary, inoffensive push-bicycle, and, to make things worse, I pictured myself being identified by the R.I.C. and kicked into an even worse condition than that in which the cyclist left me. However, my recovery was more rapid than I hoped for. I have always had a bad habit of pulling myself together very quickly. In a short time I was able to mount my bicycle again, and ride to my destination.
On the 10th of May, 1919, we retraced our steps to the village of Rossmore. It was now almost four months since the affair at Soloheadbeg. During that time we had been sleeping where and when we got the chance; sometimes in a barn, sometimes in a cattle-shed, and very seldom in bed. Our health was not any the worse of our hardships. I suppose with time one grows hardened. Even this night when we got to Rossmore we were feeling fit and game, although we had been four nights without any rest. Still, we could do with a few hours’ sleep. Somebody we met mentioned casually to us that there was a dance that night in Eamon O’Duibhir’s house in Ballagh, only a short distance away. We forgot about our weariness; we forgot about our danger. We were young, and had grown accustomed by now to taking risks, and it was long since we had had the pleasure of a dance or a ceilidhe.
Without a second thought we faced for Ballagh. Soon we were in the thick of the night’s fun. It felt glorious to be back again, even for one night, in the atmosphere of light-hearted gaiety. For nearly two years I had not mingled with a crowd, and here I was now in the midst of a typical Tipperary party. The music was great, and the supper and refreshments were even better. For once we forgot the dark clouds over us; we laughed and talked and danced in the reels and in the sets with the lads and the lassies—in the middle of the Martial Law area, and at a time when probably a dozen British raiding parties were breaking in doors in cottages and farmhouses looking for us.
Of course, the boys and girls all knew us. They, like so many others before and after, had only to slip out, any one of them, go to the nearest police barracks, not two miles away, and earn a thousand pounds by saying where we were. But they never dreamed of such a thing. Neither did we ever dream of suspecting any one in the party, or in any other party of Irish-Irelanders. Every one of them would cut off his hand before he would touch that Saxon gold. Irishmen have many faults, but very, very few informers are bred amongst them.