We met in a little wood after our work twice every week. So we struggled on until May, 1917, when our company had grown to be thirteen strong. Not a man of us possessed any military knowledge, and those in the neighbourhood who could instruct us had either joined the British Army, or could not be trusted to take the risks. Still we got on very well at physical drill, scouting, signalling, revolver practice, close-order drill, and such work. We had to rely mainly on book-work; and by a strange irony the books we found most handy were the official texts supplied to the British troops, the men we were preparing to meet.
Of course, we made mistakes now and again, but our earnestness surmounted many difficulties. Besides, we were often innocent spectators of British drill manœuvres in the locality, and I can assure you we kept our eyes and ears open for tips. If the chance of picking up an odd revolver came our way, we managed to find the money somehow, and added to our little supply of munitions.
The best tribute to our success in the art of military education was paid by the officials of the British Government, who, at a later stage, described our little band as the “crack shots of the I.R.A.” In passing it is well to observe that we ourselves learned that anything in the nature of official statements issued from the British military headquarters at Parkgate Street, Dublin, or from the civil authorities at Dublin Castle, should always be digested with a considerable quantity of salt.
It was in August, 1917, that our little handful of men made its first public parade. By that time the men who had been deported after the Easter Week Insurrection had been released, and all over the country were beginning to do what we had been doing on our own account for nearly a year. In the political arena two bye-elections which had occurred in Roscommon and Longford, resulted in a triumph for candidates standing for the Republican cause. A few months later still Eamon de Valera, on his release from Lewes Jail, had been invited to contest a Parliamentary vacancy in East Clare. Standing for a Republic, and for declining to attend England’s Parliament, he was elected by a huge majority. Shortly after his election he addressed an enormous meeting in Tipperary town, and we, in the dark green uniforms of the Irish Volunteers, acted as a bodyguard of the man who was shortly afterwards elected President of the Irish Republic. Tipperary was then occupied by a garrison of over one thousand British soldiers, and as our meeting was held almost under the shadow of their barracks we did not carry rifles. Instead we carried hurleys. Now, we were thus, to the amazement of all peaceful people, committing a treble act of defiance against England. In the first place, it was a crime to march in military formation; secondly, it was an even more serious offence to wear uniform; and thirdly, it was violating a special proclamation just issued against the carrying of hurleys.
That proclamation came about in this way. A meeting was being held in Beresford Place, Dublin, one Sunday afternoon to protest against the treatment of Irish prisoners detained by England. The meeting was being addressed by Count Plunkett and Cathal Brugha, when Inspector Mills, of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, with some of his men attempted to prevent the holding of this peaceful meeting of citizens. The meeting included many young men going to or returning from a game of hurling—Ireland’s national pastime. In the melee, which followed the attempt to break up the meeting and to arrest the speakers, the Inspector was struck with a hurley, and received injuries from which he died. Thereupon, Sir Bryan Mahon, then Commander-in-Chief of the British troops in Ireland, issued a proclamation making it illegal to carry hurleys in public. To realise the absurdity of this proclamation one has only to imagine a civilised Government declaring it illegal to carry a walking-stick. The result was what anybody knowing Ireland might expect—hurleys for a time were carried in places where their use was scarcely known, and the British Government became a laughing-stock.
This first military display of ours in Tipperary was not a bigger shock to the enemy than it was to the local Sinn Feiners; for you must understand that by this time public opinion had swung round almost completely in favour of Sinn Fein, and we were burdened with thousands of recruits, who were not in their hearts in favour of any stronger weapons than resolutions. On this occasion many of the local Sinn Feiners were shocked by our audacity in taking the step we did without a solemn discussion, a formal proposition to the meeting, and a long-winded resolution. Such poor souls often hampered us later on, but we didn’t mind. The purely political wing of Sinn Fein criticised us severely, I believe, but we kept silent, just listened to all, and judged our men.
CHAPTER II.
PREPARING FOR THE FRAY.
The local police duly informed their headquarters of this open defiance of British law in Tipperary. They were ordered to arrest the culprits. But, as we had no desire to enjoy the hospitality of His Britannic Majesty’s jails, Sean Treacy and I went “on the run,” that is to say, in order to evade our pursuers we had to leave our homes, and keep moving from the house of one trusty friend to another. But on the Friday following our public parade, Sean was arrested by the “Peelers.” Members of the R.I.C. were better known in Ireland for generations as “Peelers,” a term of contempt coined from the name of Sir Robert Peel, who, in the early part of the nineteenth century first organised the force.
Sean was taken to Cork Jail where he first met the brothers Brennan, of Meelick, County Clare, who were also unwilling guests of the British jailers. The three brothers Brennan—Austin, Paddy and Michael—afterwards became famous officers in the Southern Command of the Irish Republican Army, and at present hold high ranks in the Free State Army. In passing I should say that in throwing men into prison at that time England was really giving them an excellent opportunity of exchanging views, discussing plans for the future and generally turning the prison into a “University for Rebels.” Many indeed learned more about drill, and the methods of making explosives, while they were in prison than they had ever before known.