The rest of the party were outside on the road. With a butcher’s knife, procured from a man named Walsh, they broke the handcuffs that bound Sean Hogan, and he was once more a free man. The unwounded men took charge of him and brought him to a place of safety.
The other four of us—Ned O’Brien, Treacy, Scanlon and I—faced for Shanahan’s. I scarcely remember that journey; it was growing dark, and we did not know the road well. I was losing blood all the time. It must have taken us hours to get to the house. We were all weak. In a field on the way we met some lads from the neighbourhood. They came to our assistance and helped us to reach our destination.
I was at once put to bed, and the priest and doctor were sent for. Both soon arrived. Dr. Hennessy, of Galbally, was very kind to me, but both priest and doctor regarded my case as hopeless. I was told that I had only about twenty-four hours to live, as the bullet had gone right through my body piercing the lung, and I had lost an enormous quantity of blood. That news was cheerless enough, but I was not even to get the twenty-four hours to die in peace.
When I arrived at Shanahan’s my comrades had at once mobilised an armed guard under a chap named Clancy, of Cush, Knocklong. I was not to be permitted to fall into the hands of the British alive. Scouts were sent out to watch all the approaches to the house. We knew that the country would be swept with columns of troops and police. All through the night—as I learned later—reinforcements were rushed to the neighbourhood, and the police garrisons were strengthened at Doon, Oola, Galbally, and all the local villages and towns. For days afterwards a house to house search was made in that part of East Limerick and South Tipperary, and even the graveyards were inspected for fresh graves, as the newspapers reported that “two of the attackers were believed to have been mortally wounded.”
Nor can I help recalling at this stage an incident that happened on that memorable evening. I was told afterwards on the best authority. Four policemen from Elton, a few miles from Knocklong, heard the firing at the station, and took to their heels back to their barracks. There they remained, and with the door locked, until County Inspector Egan arrived in a motor car and broke it in, shouting, “You cowards! Here you are hiding, while four of our men are shot, and the murderers at large!”
But a few hours after my arrival at Shanahan’s, when the priest and doctor had attended me, our scouts rushed in with word that the enemy raiding parties were hot on our heels. A hurried council of war was held. My comrades procured a motor car and carried me off once more, without even taking time to say a prayer for the man who was to die next day. They drove me right through the town of Kilmallock, and I did not know till the next afternoon that we had actually passed the R.I.C. barracks where the dead Constable Enright and the dying sergeant had been removed from Knocklong. But there was no other means of escape—we had to get out of the net that was closing round Knocklong. We took our chance, and luck favoured us. My comrades fully realised the seriousness of the situation and the risks they were taking in motoring through the town of Kilmallock, but I was blissfully unconscious of everything save the fact that I was soon to “cross the Jordan.” Our boys always believed that he who puts his hand to the plough must not turn back. They never knew what “going back” meant. Their guiding spirit was “On, always on.” That was the spirit that carried them through the most glorious fight in Irish history. It is the spirit that will carry them to the end.
When I woke up next day I was once more in West Limerick, under the care of Sean Finn.
Let me pause again to tell you the sequel to the Knocklong rescue. All of us who took part were either already on the run, or had to get on the run henceforth, except Sean Lynch and J. J. O’Brien, who returned to their business. Both of them afterwards joined Dinny Lacy’s famous South Tipperary column and fought all through the Black and Tan war. Ned O’Brien and Scanlon had shortly afterwards to escape to America, as their health was affected. They are now back in Ireland.
A year later a brother of Scanlon’s was shot dead by the British in Limerick City while a prisoner in their hands. After the rescue several arrests were made by the British on suspicion. All, except three, were eventually released; but poor Martin Foley and Maher, after being held in prison for nearly two years, were hanged in Dublin, on June 6th, 1921—a month before the truce. The third prisoner, an ex-soldier (British), was tried but acquitted.
In West Limerick my comrades and I received refuge and hospitality. Sean Finn was kindness personified, and indeed all around him were equally good to us. Especially kind and good-natured were the Sheehans, Keanes, Longs, Duffys and Kennedys; but our good times were not to last long. The enemy was once more on our track. We learned of all his movements from our Secret Service, for you must understand that no matter where we went it was necessary for us to keep in touch with our Intelligence Department.