Sergeant Wallace fought to the end. A braver man I have never seen in the ranks of the enemy. Several times we called on him to surrender, but he never answered, even when deserted by his men. The confusion and panic were indescribable. Cramped as we were for space, we were in danger not only from the bullets of the police, but also from those of our own men. And all the time we were struggling to push out our handcuffed comrade.
We handed out our comrade in safety. Meanwhile Sergeant Wallace had also struggled on to the platform. I looked around me. I knew I was wounded, but, in the excitement, I could not know where or how seriously, though I knew it was in the region of the lung.
Suddenly I realised that Treacy, Ned O’Brien and Scanlon were also wounded, and we were the only four with arms. Blood was streaming from all of us. The other three had lost their guns in the fight. I alone was in a position to fight, and I had more than the plucky sergeant to face, for Constable Reilly, who had shammed death a moment ago, was now out on the platform firing continuously from his rifle. A second bullet now found its mark in me. I was shot in the right arm. If Constable Reilly had been as cool as the old sergeant one of us would never have escaped alive. He saw my revolver drop from my wounded hand—and he saw me pick it up again. If he had been quick he would have dashed my brains out before I got the chance to do so. I had always prepared for such an emergency as this. I had practised so that I was as good a marksman with my left hand as with my right. I fired again, and at Reilly, and when he saw me level my gun he turned and fled down the platform. Meantime the Sergeant had collapsed on the platform, and victory was ours. Reilly escaped because I was blinded with blood and unable to take steady aim; but I made sure that he would not turn again, while the rest of my comrades carried Hogan off in safety.
We left the dead Constable and the dying Sergeant at Knocklong Station. The people had fled in terror from the platform, and many of the passengers had jumped wildly from the train. Even the engine driver, who did not apparently hear the first shots, was about to start the train after the usual delay while the battle was still in progress, when a girl told him there was a battle going on. The same girl also states that she later saw Reilly praying near the station.
Late that evening the dead body of Enright was taken in the train to Kilmallock, as was also Sergeant Wallace who lived until the following afternoon.
At the inquest afterwards there was of course nobody but Reilly to give his version of the fight. One of the jurors boldly remarked to the police: “You are simply trying to paint your own story in your own way.” The police witnesses were not allowed by their superiors to answer any important questions calculated to show that we would not have shot their men if they had surrendered.
The inquest was also noteworthy for the fact that the jury not only refused to bring in a verdict of murder, but spoke out. I quote the newspaper of 22nd May:—“Condemning the arrest of respectable persons, and exasperating the people, and called for Self-Determination for Ireland, and blamed the Government for exposing the police to danger.” Our efforts were having their effect. The plain people were realising that ours was a fight for Irish Freedom. They realised too that we had no enmity against the police as such, if they confined themselves to the work of ordinary police; but when they became spies and soldiers in the pay of England we had to treat them accordingly.
This is the true story of Knocklong, condemned as it was at the time by archbishop, priests and press—the same people who, two years later, would have treated us as heroes and loudly boasted of “the freedom we had won.” Time works wonders!
The heroes of the fight were Sean Treacy and the two O’Briens. In the next chapter I must tell of our equally exciting escape from the scene, and the story our rescued comrade had to tell when we clasped his hand again.