Ryan’s, of the Monument Creamery, in Parnell street, and Seumas Kirwan’s were also open houses to us, besides many others that I will mention in the course of my narrative. Of course we frequently met kindred spirits like Dick McKee and Peadar Clancy and Tom Keogh, for at that time the number of active gunmen ready for any risk in the country’s cause was small. Many of those who later proved their mettle did not get the chance at that time, principally because those who were in favour of active measures were few and far between. The attitude of the Headquarters’ Staff of the I.R.A. I shall have occasion to refer to very soon.
In the autumn my comrades and I had long and serious discussions about the policy of shooting policemen and soldiers. We felt it was not enough in itself. They, we argued, were but the tools of higher men. Their loss did not trouble England very much, for she could always get more dupes. Why, we asked ourselves, should we not strike at the very heads of the British Government in Ireland? It would arouse the world more to take an interest in Ireland’s case; it would strike terror into the hearts of English statesmen, and it would prove more effective in helping to make British Rule in Ireland impossible. England could carry on all right with a few policemen less; it would be more difficult to carry on without a Lord Lieutenant. Besides, there were thousands of policemen; but there were only a few who might become Lord Lieutenant, and they would think twice of taking the job if they had to risk being shot.
As a result of these discussions we finally decided to make preparations for an attack on Lord French, the Lord Lieutenant himself. Brave and trusted men to whom we communicated our plans readily agreed.
For three long months we watched, planned and waited for him. We suffered many bitter disappointments waiting. He was very rarely seen about now and was always accompanied by a heavy escort. Great secrecy was observed about his movements, though our Secret Service kept us well posted. Even the public functions usually patronised by Viceroys were rarely attended by Lord French. There were many reasons for that, which do not concern my story.
He little knew what narrow escapes he had during these three months. Twice or three times we missed him by a street—the altering of his route by one corner. That, by the way, was a frequent plan of his—to change his journey from the original programme. It was a trick to upset any plans made against him on the strength of information supplied from inside. It showed what little trust he had in those around him. On one occasion we missed him by barely one minute.
During those three months, the last months of 1919, we had no less than twelve different ambushes planned to intercept him. But on each one of the twelve occasions he either failed to come or arrived too late or too early for our purpose. These plans were connected with affairs of the city—public functions, or visits to private houses. We were naturally hampered, because we could not afford to hang around a particular spot too long—our movements would lead to suspicion, and probably to a sudden swoop by the military.
The first occasion that we were lying in wait Mick Collins was with us. So was Tom MacCurtain, Commandant of the 1st Cork (City) Brigade, who, in March of the following year, when he was Lord Mayor of Cork, was murdered in his own home by the police. Poor Dick McKee was also there. He was then Commandant of the Dublin Brigade, and never believed in asking his men to take risks he was not prepared to take himself. Dick was murdered together with Peadar Clancy, while a prisoner in the hands of the British a year later.
On another occasion I remember vainly waiting with Peadar Clancy for two hours outside the door of a Merrion Square doctor whom French occasionally visited. On November 11th, the Anniversary of the Armistice, the Lord Lieutenant was to attend a banquet in Trinity College. We had every hope of intercepting him that night. Our plan was to bomb his car as he passed Grattan Bridge, for we knew the very hour he was due to travel along the quays from the Viceregal Lodge to the College.
So certain were we that everything would work out according to plan that some of our men in the vicinity of the Bridge, within a hundred yards of Dublin Castle, had actually drawn and thrown away the pins from their bombs. It was a bitterly cold night, and there they stood with their fingers pressed on the springs of the cold metal ready to release the bombs. But he never came. For almost two hours our men had to endure the agony of holding the springs of the bombs, and in the end they had to make their escape as best they could, still gripping the cold bombs.