CHAPTER XIII.
MANY CLOSE SHAVES.
One day while we were still in West Limerick we had what was probably our narrowest escape after the Knocklong affair. In was in June, 1919. Sheer luck drove us half a mile outside a great encircling movement made to capture us.
This was the sixth great attempt by the enemy to net us, and each time they engaged thousands of troops—to catch four of us. They knew well by now that each of the four of us would offer armed resistance, and that if luck was at all favourable many of them would fall never to rise, before they got us dead or alive. Liberal rewards were now offered publicly and privately for any information concerning our movements. Our descriptions were published broadcast, and even dropped from military aeroplanes, with the promise of British gold for anyone that would inform on us. It was a special duty for every policeman in Ireland, and every intelligence officer in the British army of occupation to learn our description. About this time, too, the British Government was perfecting its Secret Service machinery in Ireland. There had always been a costly Secret Service organisation maintained for generations; but it was not dangerous work, relating mainly to the activities of harmless politicians. Now, however, the work was getting more dangerous. Besides, our Secret Service was now becoming a thing to be reckoned with; Dublin Castle had to bestir itself. As we well knew, the officials there were time and again severely reprimanded for their failure to catch us. They always replied that the people would give no information, that informers were very few and very cautious, and that Scotland Yard might be asked to give some help. They hinted at the same time that a few Irishmen living in England might be approached to undertake Secret Service work, as very few could now be got in Ireland.
It was in the summer of this year that the British Government therefore reorganised its Secret Service in Ireland, relying mainly on ex-soldiers of Irish birth. The newspapers of the time can tell how many score of them paid the price of their treachery during the ensuing two years. We found them all out in one way or another. If one reason more than another accounts for the success of the I.R.A., it is that we met and broke their Secret Service at every move, until in the end there was no such thing in practice as a British Intelligence Corps.
One word more on this subject. I know that many people at the time were surprised at the number of men who were found with the label on their dead bodies—“Spies beware—executed by the I.R.A.” Some people wondered if any mistakes were made, if any of these men were executed without sufficient evidence. I can say that of the cases that came under my knowledge there was always evidence enough to convince the most scrupulous. We made no mistakes, unless indeed we allowed many to escape against whom there was ample evidence, though we gave them the benefit of the slightest doubt.
But the “Knocklong Gang,” as I believe we were sometimes called, always outwitted the spies and the battalions sent to round them up. Often, I know, they got fairly good information about us. At this time to which I have referred—June, 1919—for instance, it is probably true that they knew we were sometimes in West Limerick or North Kerry, near the mouth of the Shannon. After that big raid, which we so narrowly missed, we deemed it wise to change our quarters once more—and we crossed into East Clare, still hugging the banks of the Shannon. We kept ourselves fit by plenty of exercise, mostly swimming, for we had an idea that a good stroke in the water might at some time or other help us in getting out of a tight corner. Nobody could say that we did not live the healthy life of primitive men at this time. Many a day we enjoyed ten or twelve hours of a glorious summer sunbath. One day while in Clare we were basking beside the Shannon when a boat manned by police passed right beside us. We took no particular notice of it at the time, thinking the whole thing but a mere coincidence. When we got back to the house in which we were staying that evening we learned to our surprise that the boat was part of a search party that had got on our trail once more. They never suspected who we were, so that once more our recklessness had saved us—or them?
Probably the police had their eyes searching round the corners of rocks, or peering under bushes where they expected we should be hiding. It would amaze them to know we were often within earshot of their own barracks. It is a positive fact that often a single brick alone separated us from a police garrison, and more than once we were interested spectators watching from a window lorries laden with troops going out in search of us.
There is another possible explanation of such incidents as that on the Shannon. I am sure that more than one policeman whom we met on a country road suspected who we were; but these Peelers often considered discretion the better part of valour. We were never asked to produce visiting cards. Many a policeman in such circumstances would feel convinced that he would not be serving his wife and family by attempting to arrest us. I’m not saying he was wrong either.
In a short time Clare became too hot for us. The Brennan Brothers were not on the best of terms with the British garrisons in that county, and finally relations became so strained that the British proclaimed Martial Law there too. Martial Law and ourselves were never very good friends; perhaps it was that we knew each other too well. Anyhow, we crossed the Shannon once more, and this time found ourselves in North Tipperary.
It was at the house of a family called Whelehan that I first came in contact with Ernie O’Malley. Whelehans were very kind to us. While I was there “Widger” Meagher and Frank McGrath—both famous athletes, and the latter Brigade Commandant of the I.R.A. in North Tipperary—visited us.