When Sean Hogan fell into their hands the Peelers adopted every subterfuge to get him to divulge information. First they tried to coax the information from him, for they saw he was but a mere boy. They failed in their efforts, and then their tactics changed. They struck him, and beat him unmercifully, but again they failed in their purpose; for if Sean Hogan was but a boy in years, he was a man in strength of character and loyalty to his comrades. Not a word would he tell even though they were to torture him to death.
Then they tried still another plan. One of the policemen, pretending to be his friend and adviser, told him quietly that he had been betrayed by Breen and Treacy, who, they said, were then on their way to London, having been granted a free pardon and a huge sum of money for the information they had given. This was followed by a straight hint that if Hogan would supplement the information by whatever knowledge he had of the organisation and its plans, he, too, would be well rewarded, and would find himself helped to leave the country instead of finding himself on the way to the gallows. But J. J. knew his old comrades too well to think for a moment that they had betrayed or deserted him. All the threats and cajolery of the Peelers were in vain. He refused to answer their question, and in the end, did not pretend to hear them.
At last he was put on board the train for Cork Jail on the evening of the 13th May. Thurles is only about 30 miles from Knocklong, and by the time that station was reached history was once more to repeat itself. The night before when I rode by Ballyneety my mind had gone back to the days of Sarsfield; to the historic episode of the destruction of King William’s troop train. There was no story I loved more as a boy. It was a tale of daring and of dramatic triumph, and I pictured the dismay of the English troops whose password was “Sarsfield,” when in response to their challenge came the grim reply, “Sarsfield—and Sarsfield is the man!” Often when I was a boy I dreamed of how proud I would have been, were I with Sarsfield’s little band that night riding out from Limerick to strike terror into the hearts of the invaders.
RAILWAY STATION, KNOCKLONG.
On the train from Thurles to Knocklong Sergeant Wallace never ceased taunting Hogan with his plight. Repeatedly on the way he asked with savage mockery, “Where is Breen now?” and to add to the unhappiness of his helpless prisoner he accompanied each question with a prick of his bayonet. These are some of the things the world did not know, when it looked upon us for a long time as cold-blooded murderers. Many of our men can tell such tales, and produce their own bodies as the evidence, just as poor Hogan’s condition testified to us when we rescued him.
Even as the train steamed into Knocklong, Wallace once more repeated his derisive question—“Where are Breen and Treacy now? They sold you to get you hanged.” Ere he had finished his question Breen and Treacy supplied him with the answer—an answer which he did not expect, and one which debarred him from further promotion in this world.
And now to resume my narrative. When the last shot had been fired, and when Constable Reilly had fled from the scene, we moved from the platform. The people were terror-stricken. Many had fled in terror from the station. Others had taken shelter by the walls and the gatepiers. A few who were too dumfounded to take flight looked at us in amazement. None dared to approach us, and I am not surprised, for never before had old Galteemore looked down on such a strange party at a hitherto quiet and peaceful country station. There were nine of us all told, one a handcuffed prisoner and four of us wounded and bespattered with the blood of ourselves and our enemies.
I was no longer able to walk, and I realised now that my last shot had been fired from my revolver, and that it might at any moment be found highly desirable to have it reloaded, but my right arm was dead and I could not reload. I looked around me. Outside the station I saw a motor car evidently waiting for somebody who was to come from the train. With my empty revolver raised in my left hand I held up the car. I think my appearance was enough to inspire any Christian with terror, not to speak of levelling my gun. A fit of dizziness, probably the effects of my wounds and loss of blood, had come over me on the platform, as I made for the gate, and I had fallen heavily against the wall, and blood was gushing from my head. I could scarcely walk. I groped my way along. The people around me ran at the very sight of me, many of them shrieking. At last somebody came to my assistance. He was dressed in khaki—an Irishman in England’s army! The very irony of it makes me smile to-day. I think he was the same man who had shouted “Up the Republic” on the train, though I am not sure, for some people told me afterwards that there was an American soldier also in khaki at the station that evening—I believe, too, that the soldier who cheered for the Republic was afterwards courtmartialled by his officers—but whoever he was that helped me, if his eyes catch these words, let him accept my thanks; I forgot to show him my gratitude at the time.
Leaning on his arm I struggled from the station premises on to the road. He half linked and half carried me for I was now growing weaker every moment. Probably I was loosing my senses too, for I forgot all about using the motor car I had held up, and I left it behind.