Tales that the golden age of robbery had come. Criminals in all countries hear of the anarchy abroad and take tickets to the distressed country. Armed men emerge from the lanes and the alley ways and rob by night and by day. It is whispered some of the robberies of the Ulster banks are carried out by Irish Volunteers acting under orders, it is shouted that some of the highway robberies are conducted by out-at-elbow Black-and-Tans, acting without orders and trying to turn an honest penny in an unfriendly land.
Then, in the midst of war, rumours of peace. The dove flutters a moment into sight, and takes wing again. Father O’Flanagan, Acting President of the Irish Republic, telegraphs to the British Prime Minister:—
“You state that you are willing to make peace at once without waiting for Christmas. Ireland also is willing. What first steps do you propose?”
The telegram was sent when Sinn Fein was hard pressed. Many of the leaders were in prison, the rest were hunted day and night. It was imperative to keep a tight hold on supporters if the movement were to hold together. A sudden gesture of this kind might be taken as a sign of panic and begin a general rout. There was a day or two of heart-searching in the Republican camp, and ‘Watchman,’ in one of the Nationalist journals, came forward with the warning that if the nation was not to be stampeded it must remain as cold as ice, calm as a summer lake, and wary as a fox going on all its toes. The mysterious Michael Collins emerged from his obscurity with a second letter in which he thanked nobody for refraining from murdering him, and told the nation to “stop talking, and get on with the work.”
The dove clapped its wings and fled away, and ere the sound of its flight was lost news came that as reprisal for an ambush in the public thoroughfare, the City of Cork was in flames. The machinery of war was in motion again.
Deed of terror following deed of terror, the days wore out, Christmas came and went, and the year came to an end.
Hampered but still free, fettered but not completely bound, finding the draught of difficulty as a sick man finds a strengthening medicine, through all that came and went, Sinn Fein continued with the building up of the Republic. Republican Courts, which had been suppressed, continued in existence, sitting when and where they could, judges, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, and all the following of law, flitting from place to place like birds bereft of a nesting ground, against all legal tradition taught to be sparing of argument, as at the very moment of judgment, they might have to snatch up bag and baggage, and judge, lawyer, plaintiff, and defendant make tracks to the hills. Yet in the face of opposition, because of it, these courts met with considerable success. Clients arrived in the hope that the judgments given would be more lenient than in the established British Courts, clients came from patriotic motives, from motives of adventure, and not least because they dared not stay away. Intimidation was present here as elsewhere.
For both parties in the struggle had great belief in the weapon of intimidation, and there was taking place one long competition in intimidation between the Crown Forces and the Republican Volunteers. The strange situation had arisen of two Governments claiming to rule the country, and neither one able to protect its adherents from the other, nor able to control its own extremists.
The inner circle of Sinn Fein held council when it could, framed its policy and issued its edicts. Cabinet Ministers might sleep each night in a new bed, those of them who were not sleeping night after night in one of his Britannic Majesty’s prisons; but their words were not without weight. In their offices in attics and in cellars, they built up the infant Republic.
It was told that the Minister of Finance found time to acknowledge all funds, although the very rumour of his name sent the gates of Dublin Castle back upon their hinges and a host of armed men abroad. Again and again his offices were captured, and his very signature found damp upon some cheque, yet with the choicest of his correspondence he was gone to some new attic, to some new cellar, there to begin again.