We were now eight strong, five of us armed with revolvers and three unarmed. After a consultation we decided on a slight change of plan. Sean Treacy, Seumas Robinson, Ned O’Brien and myself cycled on to Knocklong, the next station, about three miles south of Emly. We selected Knocklong because, except Emly, all the other stations were held by strong British forces, but this being only a wayside one, and a couple of miles distant from a police barrack, was comparatively safe for us. If this attempt failed we had plans to motor to Blarney, where we could again intercept the escort party. The other four men we sent to Emly station with instructions to board the train without arousing suspicion, to find out what carriage our comrade was in. In that way they could give us the hint as soon as Knocklong was reached, and no time need be lost in getting to the rescue.
We reached Knocklong just as the train’s departure from Emly was signalled. We walked up the platform looking as cool and unconcerned as we could, but with our guns gripped tightly in our hands. Little did the people who awaited the train that evening think that they were soon to be witnesses of a drama for which a film-producer would have given a fortune. In the distance we saw the smoke of the engine rise into the sky. Another minute and the train was pulling into the platform. At the same moment another train on the opposite platform came in from Cork direction. It was only the next day we learned that the second train contained a company of armed British troops for Dublin. There they remained within a few feet of the struggle for life or death that ensued. I never learned why they took no part in the struggle. Perhaps it was too late when they realised what was afoot.
Our train had not yet come to a standstill when the signal for which we waited was given us by two different parties. In accordance with the arrangements made in Thurles the previous day a member of the I.R.A. Secret Service boarded the train after the prisoner, and was at the window to give us the signal. Our men were at their window, too, not knowing about the other man.
There was not a moment to be lost. The train would delay only a minute, and we had not thought it necessary to hold up the driver. A slight motion of the hand from our colleagues indicated the carriage where we would find our man.
It was a long corridor carriage divided into about a dozen small compartments, each shut off from the others, and a passage running alongside the whole way. Our Galtee men were in the passage. In one of the compartments we saw Sean Hogan. He sat in the middle of the seat handcuffed, and facing the engine. Beside him sat a sergeant of the police, on the other side a constable. On the opposite seat were two other constables—all four fully armed.
Sean Treacy was, by arrangement, to take charge of the attack. He gave the word. Within five seconds of the arrival of the train we were rushing along the corridor and bursting into the prisoner’s compartment with our guns drawn, and with the order, “Hands up!” “Hands up!” Only a moment before, as we heard later, Sergeant Wallace had viciously struck his prisoner with the sarcastic query, “Where are Breen and Treacy now?” His query was answered; Breen and Treacy were at his service.
As we burst in the door of the compartment, the police quickly realised our purpose. Constable Enright had his revolver drawn and pointed at the prisoner’s ear. Orders had been given the escort to shoot the prisoner dead if any attempt were made to rescue him. A fraction of a second saved Sean Hogan. It was his life or the Constable’s. The policeman was in the act of pulling his trigger when he was himself shot through the heart—death being instantaneous.
And now ensued an episode in comparison with which a Wild West show would grow pale. The passengers realised our object. In a moment panic reigned. My most vivid recollection of that scene is the figure of a soldier-passenger, dressed in England’s khaki uniform; but under that uniform there beat an Irish heart. I shall never forget the triumphant smile on his face as he waved his hat and shouted, “Up the Republic!”
I had little time for studying the passengers. That first shot prevented the escort from murdering their prisoner, and it was the first shot in a grim battle that was to end in the death of two and the wounding of four. With the first shot one of the policemen literally dashed himself through the window of the train, roaring like a wild bull. We never saw him again, but I heard that he ran through the country like a maniac and reported the fight in a very incoherent manner at Emly police barrack next morning.
Constable Enright was dead, so that there remained Sergeant Wallace and Constable Reilly. A fierce and rapid exchange of shots followed. Constable Reilly lay stiff on the floor. We thought he was dead, but we soon found he was only shamming.