A fortnight later French was expected at the Castle, and of course his journey would take him across the same bridge. We knew of the arrangements, and again took up our positions. The weather was bitterly cold. It was in the early forenoon, and suddenly snow began to fall. But we did not mind the snow. The job we were bent upon was too serious to be interfered with by such trifles. Some of us paced the bridge in the blinding snow, and wondered were we to be disappointed again, for the hour fixed for his arrival had passed. While we were on the bridge a friend who recognised us passed, and, evidently realising that we were on some job remarked with pointed sarcasm, “That’s a most convenient spot you are taking shelter from the snow!” His words brought us to a sense of our position. Anybody in the shops round the bridge would have suspected us at once. As there seemed no use in waiting any longer we went off. Five minutes later lorry loads of military swooped down on the bridge, and held up and searched everyone in the neighbourhood. Detectives who had been posted near the entrance to Dublin Castle had seen us on the bridge, and at once telephoned to the Viceregal Lodge, with the result that French cancelled his appointment, and the troops came instead. We had just got away in time. Another instance of our luck!
On all these occasions our information about Lord French’s arrangements was absolutely reliable. No doubt he often changed his plans at the last moment, fearing that our sources of knowledge were as sound as indeed they always proved.
Personal reasons, which do not concern me, also often caused his plans to be altered, while of course the advice of touts and spies had its effect. It certainly was an eloquent commentary on British rule in Ireland that the head of the Government carried his life in his hands whenever he ventured through the streets of the capital. As everybody knew, he was wise enough to venture out only as seldom as he could, even when accompanied by a huge escort; though I have no reason to think that personally he was not a brave man.
At last when our patience was almost exhausted, we got information that gave us hope of achieving our purpose. It was in December, 1919. The newspapers of these days seldom gave any information at all regarding the Viceroy’s movements. Even when he crossed to England occasionally the newspapers were not informed until he was safely back in Phoenix Park. They were not encouraged to trace his movements. Sometimes, however, the newspapers were supplied with information intended deliberately to mislead the public in general, and the I.R.A. in particular. At the time of which I speak the Irish newspapers had informed their readers that Lord French was away out of the country. I think they actually stated that he was cruising somewhere in the North Sea.
We knew better. He was, as a matter of fact, enjoying himself with a select house party of male and female intimates, at his country residence, French Park, Co. Roscommon. We knew a good deal more about Lord French’s life than the public ever suspected; but my purpose is not to give a history of the Viceroy’s private affairs, except in so far as they concern my narrative. Sufficient to say that on this occasion we knew every member of the select few at French Park, Boyle.
Frenchpark is a remote country district. While the Lord Lieutenant was in occupation the house was garrisoned by a strong force. But that garrison we felt we could easily overpower did we so desire. The situation of the house too would favour our escape when we had accomplished our object. We would have no difficulty in covering the journey from Dublin to Roscommon, and we believed we would get back almost as easily. We could readily go by roads which would avoid the towns, for it is a much easier matter for wanted men to go from Dublin to the West than it would be, say, to go South or North.
Why, then, it may be asked, with all the circumstances in our favour did we not attempt to shoot Lord French when he was in Roscommon?
The answer is simple. We knew he would be returning to Dublin on a particular date, and we decided to attack him almost at his own door, and beside the city. Why? Because what we had in mind was the effect such an incident would create. Against the old soldier himself we had no personal spite, but he was the head of the alien Government that held our country in bondage, and we knew that his death would arouse the world to interest itself in our fight for freedom. His name was known throughout the world. The Phoenix Park was as well known to the world as Hyde Park. Think then of the sensation that would be created when this man, a Field Marshal of the British Army, and head of the Government in Ireland, was shot dead at the gate of the Phoenix Park, in the capital of the country he was supposed to rule, and within a stone’s throw of half a dozen of England’s military garrisons—at a spot where within five minutes could be mustered twenty thousand British troops, with every implement of modern warfare. The risk to ourselves was greater, but the moral effect would be worth the price. The world would sit up and say: “The men who have done this are no cowards; their country must have a grievance; what is it?” That is the result on which we reckoned, and our reasons for finally deciding to plan our coup for Ashtown. I shall describe (in the next chapter) our attack, and its many sequels.