When Sean arrived in the shop he found George and Jack Plunkett, sons of Count Plunkett, T.D., and both members of the Headquarters Staff. With them were Joe Vyse and Leo Henderson, officers of the Dublin Brigade, who had been holding a hurried meeting.
Peadar Clancy, who left the shop, accompanied by a lady friend, had only reached the Nelson Pillar, two hundred yards away, when he saw a military raiding party dash from O’Connell Street into Talbot Street, and at once suspected that the shop was going to be raided. But he had no chance of giving word to the boys. It would take the military less than two minutes to reach the shop. Sean, who was standing near the door, was the first to see the enemy approach. Two or three others had to face the front and take their chances of evading the British.
The lorries pulled up at the door. One of those in the shop immediately ran from the door to the street. A soldier sprang from the lorry to intercept him. Just at the same time an Auxiliary Intelligence officer, whose name was given as “Christian,” and who was in civilian clothes, jumped from the first lorry and shouted “That is not he. Here is the man we want”—rushing towards Sean Treacy, who was in the act of throwing his leg across the bicycle which he had left outside the door.
Sean saw he was cornered and pulled his gun. It was a hopeless fight from the first, but like the man that he was Sean Treacy fought till he was riddled.
The whole contingent of British troops and Auxiliaries, regardless even of their own comrade who was in grips with Sean, turned their rifles and machine gun on the man they feared. They killed Sean and three civilians who came in the line of fire, but Sean had left “Christian” dangerously wounded before he fell himself.
Thus died the greatest Irishman of our generation. He gave his life to save his comrades. It was not the first time he had offered to do it.
I have no hesitation in declaring that Sean Treacy was not only the noblest patriot of our time, but the greatest military genius of our race. It is a big claim to make for a man who died before he was 28 years of age, and who had had none of the training that we associate with military leaders of fame and reputation. The world has since acknowledged that the tactics adopted by the I.R.A. in its guerilla warfare with the British were inspired by genius of the highest order. I assert now for my dead comrade that the most brilliant of these tactics for which others were given credit, were the product of Sean Treacy’s active brain. He gave the hints; others elaborated them. He died with a smile on his countenance—the noblest patriot, the bravest man, and the cleanest and most honourable soldier I have ever known.
I knew nothing of the fight in Talbot Street for days afterwards. I am not given either to superstition or to flights of imagination, but so sure as I pen these lines so sure am I that I knew that Thursday afternoon that Sean Treacy was dead. He stood at the foot of my bed, with a calm smile on his countenance.
That evening Mick Collins came to see me. My first question was: “Where is Sean?” I was yet too ill to be told the bitter truth. Mick turned his eyes from mine and replied: “He is out in the country.”
Not for ten days did I hear the full story. From Ship Street Barracks, whither his body had been taken by the British, the remains of Sean Treacy were taken to his native Tipperary, where they were received with honour and reverence that no king could claim. From Soloheadbeg Church, where he had knelt in prayer as a child, the body of Tipperary’s pride was taken through the town of Kilfeacle. Never before had such honours been given to a dead Tipperaryman. The British seemed to fear him in death, for their armed ghouls sought to interfere with the funeral. The day was observed as a day of general mourning in South Tipperary, and the funeral procession was several miles long. Scarce an eye was dry that day.