We returned to the city safely. I was now feeling weak from the loss of blood, and went at once to Mrs. Toomey’s house on Phibsboro’ Road, on the north side of the city, and one of the first streets one meets in the city when returning straight from Ashtown. I believe the police and military later that day traced my blood-stains from Ashtown along the Cabra Road, but fortunately they lost the trail near the city. Mrs. Toomey was very kind to me. I was at once put to bed and a doctor was sent for. I was attended by Dr. J. M. Ryan, then famous as the Captain of an All-Ireland hurling team. A doctor from the Mater Hospital, which was only a few hundred yards from my resting-place also attended me.
That evening Dublin rang with the newsboys’ cry of “Attack on the Lord Lieutenant—Sensational fight at Ashtown—One of the Attackers shot dead!” And then I got a shock that almost drove me mad. Lord French had escaped unhurt!
It was true. We had failed. For the first time the Viceroy had travelled not in the second car but in the first. The car which we had scarcely bothered about and which we had only wanted to frighten off actually bore safely away the man we wanted. The news made my wound worse. I never liked half done jobs, and here we had not even half done our work. Sean Treacy took the disappointment philosophically. His motto was always to make the best of things. His consolation to me was, “You can’t always have Knocklongs, Dan.”
We never got another chance of shooting Lord French. He retired completely from public life. He scarcely ever appeared in public afterwards. Even when he went to England armoured cars patrolled the roads to the mail boat, and armed detectives surrounded him, even to London. His movements were kept a close secret and disclosed to the Press many days later.
Had we been in a position to use rifles that day we could easily have made sure of shooting him from Kelly’s house, but at that time our only means of travelling to the spot was by bicycle, for practically no motor cars were in use. This was due to the fact that a few months previously the British had made an order that every motor-driver should have a special permit from the military, bearing not only his name but his description and a photograph, like a passport. The order was to prevent the I.R.A. from using motor cars for getting about, especially for night attacks. Naturally, the only men likely to get permits from the British would be those who could prove their “loyalty” and were therefore not likely to assist us or to run the risk of giving us a car. The Motor Drivers’ Union resenting this degrading condition met the order by refusing to apply for permits and by declaring a general strike all over the country. Hence as we could not get motors to travel to Ashtown we had no means of concealing rifles as we naturally could not strap them on bicycles. However, I must say I am glad now that Lord French escaped. He was only doing his duty by his adopted country, the Nation or the Empire which had given him wealth, title and honours.
Let me pause to recount some sequels to the Ashtown attack. Church and Press denounced us in unmeasured terms, but the public were more guarded in their condemnation; slowly the country was beginning to realise that we meant war with England until, to quote the words of O’Donovan Rossa, “she was stricken to her knees or we were stricken to our graves.” For the most part then, while the press and the clergy uttered bitter denunciations the public remained silent. It was the turning point. They were judging the situation. In private discussions many defended our standpoint. In public there was, of course, no means of doing so. The great majority of our countrymen were taking their bearings; they were perhaps shocked at the daring force tactics, but they were beginning to realise that we meant business, and that it was their duty to stand by us.
The morning following the attack the Irish Independent published a leading article in which we were all referred to as “assassins.” The article was plentifully sprinkled with such terms as “criminal folly,” “outrage,” “murder,” and so on, and this was the very paper which depended for its whole income on the support of the people who had voted for the establishment of an Irish Republic. It had not even the sense of fair play, not to speak of decency, to wait until the inquest had been held and until Martin Savage had been laid to rest, to express its views. The other Dublin papers we did not mind. The Irish Times was openly and avowedly a British organ, and the Freeman’s Journal was beneath the contempt of any decent Irishman. But we could not allow a paper that pretended to be Irish and independent to stab our dead comrade in the back.
At the time I was, of course, confined to bed as the result of my wounds and had no direct part in what followed. I believe some of the boys favoured the shooting of the Editor. Finally, another course was adopted. It was decided to suppress the paper. At 9 o’clock on Sunday night twenty or thirty of our men in charge of Peadar Clancy entered the building and held up the staff with revolvers. They then informed the Editor that his machinery was to be dismantled, and proceeding to the works department they smashed the linotypes with sledges, leaving the place in such a condition that it was hoped no paper would appear for some time. With the assistance of the other Dublin printing offices, however, the Independent was able to get a paper out as usual next day. However, we had taught the paper a lesson, and in a way we were glad that nobody was thrown out of work as many of the staff were I.R.A. men. Never afterwards did the Independent, or any other Dublin newspaper, refer to any I.R.A. men as murderers or assassins, and I must say that soon afterwards the Independent was of much service in exposing British atrocities, even though it never supported our fighting policy. The proprietors got £16,000 compensation for the raid.
After the inquest on Martin Savage his body was handed over to his relatives. The clergy refused to have his body allowed into any church in Dublin, and the night before its removal to his native Ballisodare, County Sligo, it lay all night at the Broadstone Station attended only by a faithful few. But the funeral the next day was the greatest tribute ever paid to an Irishman in the West. The cortege was several miles long, and the Parish Priest attended and recited the last prayers, while the R.I.C., with the chivalry characteristic of them, surrounded the graveyard with their guns and bayonets. However, I suppose that was the best tribute they could pay to a gallant soldier, even though they did not intend it.
One other matter I must refer to here and then I proceed with my narrative: