The country will not soon forget Sean Treacy. His grave at Kilfeacle has become a place of pilgrimage, and his name will rank with those who stand highest in the roll of our people’s soldiers and patriots.
The following Friday night I was removed from the Mater Hospital by Gearoid O’Sullivan and Rory O’Connor. Gearoid O’Sullivan was later Adjutant-General of the Free State Army. Rory O’Connor, with his comrades Liam Mellows, Dick Barrett and Joe McKelvey, was executed in Mountjoy Jail on the 8th December, 1922, by order of the Free State Government, as a reprisal for the shooting of Sean Hales.
These two accompanied me in a motor to the house of a lady doctor on the south side of the city. It was felt that the Mater was no longer a safe place for me, though I shall always think with gratitude of the devoted care I received from every member of the staff, particularly Surgeon Barnaville and the nuns. It must not be forgotten that at this time the British had issued orders that any doctor or nurse who attended a patient for gunshot wounds was at once to report the case to the Castle. The object was to trace men who were in a position similar to mine. To their credit be it said that the members of the medical profession, irrespective of their personal political views, absolutely declined to carry out these orders.
At my new resting-place I was again carefully tended, and my wounds began to heal rapidly. After a few days I was able to get out of bed for a short time every day.
A week after my arrival at this house another exciting incident took place. The whole block in which my hostess lived was surrounded. Once more, I thought, they were on my trail. From my window I saw the troops taking up their positions. I rushed to the skylight—for skylights had often before proved useful to me. Just as I got to the skylight I saw an Auxiliary outside on the roof with a rifle in his hand.
This time, I concluded, there was no chance for me. I was to be caught like a rat in a trap. I went to the front window again. Outside was a line of khaki and steel. Beyond that was a throng of curious sightseers. Some, I suppose, were full of anxiety and fear lest any soldier of Ireland should be caught in the trap. Others no doubt were proud of the Empire’s Army, and hoping it would gain another little laurel.
As my eyes travelled along the line of spectators I saw the figure of Mick Collins. Later I learned why he was there. He had seen the troops moving in the direction of the district in which I was being nursed, and had actually collected a few of the boys to be ready to attempt a rescue.
Their services were not needed. The soldiers raided almost every house in the locality, including the house next door, but never came into the place where I was. All the same I felt grateful to Mick. As I have already explained, he was the only member of G.H.Q. who stood by us consistently.
It was considered advisable to remove me again. I was taken to Dun Laoghaire to the house of Mrs. Barry early in November, 1920. Miss O’Connor and Miss Mason were both constant nurses of mine while I was there and my recovery became rapid. I had been there only three or four days when almost every house in the avenue was raided, except that of Mrs. Barry. Evidently the British spies were hitting the trail but losing the scent.
I was in Dun Laoghaire on “Bloody Sunday,” November 21st. On that morning fourteen British Intelligence officers were shot dead in their lodgings in Dublin by our men. These officers, living the lives of ordinary civilians in private houses, were really spies, and the brains of the British Intelligence Department at that time. In every land spies pay the death penalty during war, and even the British Ministers of the time justified all their actions by saying they were “at war with Ireland.” But there could not be one set of war rules for their men and another for ours.