Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade (10 page)

On the night before the shootings of the 21st November, our brigadier, Dick McKee, was arrested, and I was never to see my hero again.

He and Peadar Clancy had been seen leaving Vaughan's Hotel. They were followed by a ‘spotter' to the house in Gloucester Street in which they were sleeping, and after curfew the house was raided and the two men captured and taken to Dublin Castle together with another man, Conor Clune, who had been arrested in Vaughan's Hotel.

A day or two afterwards the three bodies, mutilated almost beyond recognition, were given to their relatives. They had been killed in the Castle in revenge for the Sunday morning shootings of the British Secret Service men.

On the following Tuesday or Wednesday, the 23rd or 24th November, I was sent by the assistant D/I to meet a detective named MacNamara. He was a friend of ours and had been working for Michael Collins for a long time.

I turned up at the appointed place – the Dolphin Hotel, which was quite convenient to the Castle. Standing outside the hotel I saw Mac, and it being dark at the time, and thinking he did not know me, I approached him and told him who I was. Immediately he recognized me, and it was evident that he had already been apprised of my name and description.

We walked together further down the badly lighted street till we came to a dark spot where any passer-by who knew the detective would not become suspicious.

Mac's first words to me were: ‘Why have you got on that hat? The sooner you get rid of it the better.'

It was a black velour hat which I had only bought that evening. I had been rather pleased with it, but as soon as Mac spoke I realized my indiscretion. I never wore it again. Among the Black and Tans there was an idea that it was traditional for Volunteers to wear black hats – a sort of distinguishing mark by which they were known to each other.

We immediately got to business. Mac told me that he had not many minutes to spare. He had only slipped out of the Castle to meet me, and if he were missed the authorities might become suspicious.

‘You know where to get Liam Tobin at once?' he asked.

‘I do. He will be waiting for my report at Vaughan's Hotel.'

‘Well, tell him we are raiding the Meath Hotel' (a few doors from Vaughan's) ‘in an hour's time, and let them all keep out of Parnell Square tonight.'

Before I parted from him I asked him to tell me about the butchery that had taken place in the Castle on the night of the 21st. In that gloomy spot, standing beside him, I could see only the outline of Mac's face.

‘You mean Dick McKee, Peadar Clancy, and Clune?' he said, his voice growing sad.

‘I do.'

‘Well, I heard that they had been brought in prisoners on Saturday night, and I had little hope for them then, and when I heard the alarm sounded in the Castle on the Sunday morning after the shootings, I knew it was all up with them. Such scenes! I shall never forget them. Cabs, taxis and hacks were rushing up all day filled with spies, touts and their wives, all in a panic, seeking safety.'

‘But what about Dick?'

‘The guardroom where they had put him and the others is just inside the gate, and the Auxiliaries' canteen adjoins the guardroom. I went into the canteen to see if I could hear any word of their moving the prisoners, so that I could send word to Michael Collins to arrange a rescue. In the bar the Auxiliaries were all drunk and thirsting for vengeance. Captain X— was there too. I had several drinks with them, but there was not a word about transferring the prisoners, and I had to listen to them cursing them with every foul name. I knew there was no hope, and I felt dreadful, just waiting for what was to come.'

‘Well, Mac,' I said, ‘they gave them a terrible death, I believe.'

‘They did. Poor Dick was beyond recognition. I saw the battered corpses being taken away to King George V Hospital. They flung them into a van. I was nearly mad, and I had to act my part somehow. I had to look on while Captain X— pulled back the canvas screen to satisfy his hate with a last look. He flashed his torch onto poor Dick's ghastly face, swearing at him as if the dead ears could still catch an echo of his words, and at the same time hitting the body with his revolver.'

Mac then took leave of me, bidding me hurry along with the message he had given me, and reminding me of my hat.

I went on my way, my mind filled with all that I had just heard and my heart breaking, so fond and so proud I had been of our brigadier. I swore to myself that if ever fate gave me a chance of dealing with Captain X— I would be well rewarded.

I found Liam Tobin in Vaughan's Hotel and delivered my message. While I was speaking to him in the hallway, a tall, well-built figure passed by. It was Michael Collins. I caught only a glimpse of him. Liam told me he would see me in our office in the morning and, dismissing me, he hurried after Michael to a room at the back of the hotel.

The evening following my interview with Mac I called to Amiens Street to meet Rosie.

This was the first time I had seen her since the Sunday morning of the shootings, and I was very anxious to know what had happened afterwards at the boarding house.

The minute she saw me she burst into tears. This greatly surprised and distressed me. Putting my arm around her, I asked her what was the matter. This only caused her to cry more convulsively, so that for a while she could not speak to me at all.

‘Oh, why did you shoot them?' she sobbed out at last. ‘I thought you only meant to kidnap them.'

‘But, Rosie,' said I, ‘surely you know we are at war, and that these men were shooting our fellows?'

‘I know,' she said, still crying, ‘but it was dreadful.'

After a while she managed to calm herself and told me her story.

‘After the gentlemen were shot, we were all terribly upset. Military and detectives arrived at the house, and they questioned us for hours. They took lorry loads of papers away with them. I was so upset I did not leave the house for days. You see, I felt I had had a hand in it, and I couldn't bear my thoughts, and at last I felt I must speak to someone. So I went to a friend of mine who was a priest and I told him everything.'

‘Well, Rosie, what did he say to you?'

‘He was very nice to me. He told me I needn't blame myself at all. He said that ye were fighting with your backs to the wall. “A defensive war”, that is what he called it. He said the English had no right to be here at all. “Our boys must defend themselves,” he said, and a lot more which I did not understand. He was grand and kind to me.

‘Only, when I saw you, it all came back to me again.'

Towards the end of November, our friend the relieving officer told us that we would have to move. He wanted the rooms we were using for himself. But he was kind enough to arrange for us to occupy the upper rooms of a neighbouring dispensary, whose only occupant was an old caretaker named John.

We moved in to our new quarters without delay. Like our last ones they were quite unfurnished. But we were glad enough to get shelter anywhere, and as, of course, we paid no rent, we had no cause for complaint.

Old John received us without question. His manner was perfect in its calm acceptance of our arrival, as if it were an everyday occurrence for a number of young men to take up residence in an empty house and to bring with them neither furniture nor personal luggage.

He showed us our rooms. Then he brought us all over the building and through the waiting rooms where the poor people waited each day to receive free medical treatment. He led us out into the yard at the back, showed us the back gate through which we could pass in and out, and handed over the key to us.

Old John was about seventy years of age, and his snow-white hair and beard increased the impression of dignity which his reticence gave him. He seldom spoke to us except to answer some question, or wish us good morning. He never commented or expressed any opinion on all that was happening at that time. He did not know us by name, and addressed us collectively as ‘Gentlemen'.

If I was the first to arrive at night he would inform me of the fact. ‘The other gentlemen have not returned yet, Sir. The kettle is on. I wish you a good night.' That was all. And with a book under his arm he would retire to his room.

He never once asked us our names, or showed any curiosity about our business, or why curfew alone brought us indoors. At that time curfew had been put back to eight o'clock. It had been first fixed at midnight, but every time we brought off a successful coup against the enemy it was made an hour earlier. Perhaps it was with the idea of punishing the public, or rather with the hope of making us unpopular with them. But also, it had the advantage of giving the Auxiliaries and Black and Tans a longer period each night in which to prowl round in search of their prey.

Old John had a pipe which was hardly ever out of his mouth. This, with his book (on what subject I never knew), seemed to be the only companionship he enjoyed.

In his kitchen was assembled the only furniture in the house, so far as we knew. (We never penetrated into his sleeping apartment.) There was a large kitchen range, a fitted-in bath with hot and cold water, a table, a kettle, a few pots, cups and plates, and an enamel mug. These fixtures were all at our service.

The other rooms were empty except for an old chest in the room in which we slept, and which we put to good use. We filled it with supplies – arms and ammunition. The windows were curtained, and from the street the house appeared to be tenanted.

For the first few weeks we slept on a mattress on the floor. Then one night Liam shared our retreat, and he was so disgusted with his accommodation that he reported our forlorn state to Michael Collins, who immediately had smuggled into the house a few soldiers' camp beds.

My first companions in this dug-out were arrested soon after we had taken possession of it, and I was left alone. This did not suit me at all, and I mentioned my loneliness to two of the Squad who were also in need of a hiding place, and they promptly accepted my invitation to join me.

One of them was Joe Leonard, my comrade in the attack on the troops on the canal bridge, and the other was Jimmy Conroy, who had bought the paraffin to burn the Income Tax office.

Joe, as a very young lad, had taken part in the Rising and was imprisoned after the surrender. On his return to his native city he took a prominent part in the early activities of the reorganized Volunteers. He became an electrical engineer, but in the hard black hat which he invariably wore, and a dark raincoat, he looked more like a clerical student. Of an even-tempered, cheerful disposition, his frequent, rippling laugh was not unlike the rattling sound of machine-gun fire.

Jimmy was a painter by trade, and as a patriot he had been equally precocious. Before he was yet grown-up he had fought in the Rising by the side of his aged father. They were stationed together at Jacob's Factory. He had a simple, affectionate heart and a pleasing manner. Anything mechanical was interesting to him, and he was very handy and useful in all practical affairs. Except for a few months learning his trade at the Liverpool Docks, he had lived all his life in Dublin. He was a deadly shot.

Every night we returned to old John a few minutes before curfew.

We met usually in a little dairy shop at the corner of an alley, lined with small cottages, which approached the laneway by which we gained admission to the dispensary. I had been appointed housekeeper, and I bought our rations in the dairy each night.

Our suppers and breakfasts were always the same. Either tea and boiled eggs, or cocoa and bread and cheese. I was the only one of us who cared for cheese, of which I am very fond, so that I offered it to my companions at our meals only as a polite formality. But on one occasion they took it, with the result that there was none left for me, upon which I lost my temper, saying: ‘You did that on purpose. You know very well I have a passion for cheese.' I was chaffed on this account for a long time afterwards.

These two meals were usually the only ones we had, as it was very difficult to get dinner. It was too dangerous to go into one of the restaurants in the city as they were continually raided. Occasionally we were fortunate enough to run into a friend who brought us to his home and gave us a meal.

But there was one month during which I got my dinner every day.

Kevin Barry had been hanged in Mountjoy Jail on the 1st November. Owing to the jamming of his automatic he had fallen into the hands of the enemy during an attack. He was a medical student, and as he was only nineteen years old and very brave, with an attractive personality, his sad end had moved all hearts.

The nuns in a convent nearby had sent a message to one of our officers through an intermediary. They asked if they might be allowed to give dinner each day for a month to a young Volunteer ‘in memory of Kevin Barry'.

The offer was passed on to me and I accepted it. The convent was very handy. I was not of course asked my name, or any questions. Everyone seemed to know instinctively the need for discretion.

The nuns called me ‘Kevin'. It seemed as if they could not make enough of me, and I was welcomed every day with the warmest reception.

The Reverend Mother was quite young, with a very lovely face, and gentle, grey eyes. I used to notice her delicate, white hands. She was one of the two nuns who had permission to visit the prisons, and she was allowed to spend some hours with the condemned men on the eve of their execution.

With her great piety she was also an ardent patriot, and her two-fold faith must have helped to sustain her through the ordeal of those prison vigils. She had been with Kevin Barry and was with all our men, nearly all of them very young, who were hanged afterwards. Her faith – that they were dying for Ireland and were going straight to Heaven – was without a shadow of doubt, and she was able to communicate this supreme confidence to them. So that through her courage (I have been told) at those farewell meetings, there was no fear or depression, but on the contrary an atmosphere of gaiety and hope.

Our stay in the dispensary was most happy.

I selected the enamel mug, and the other boys used the cups. We chatted for hours, sitting before the kitchen stove each night. The kitchen, looking out on the back, was the only room in which we dared to show a light. The whole front of the dispensary was always in darkness.

When we retired to bed at last our room was illumined only by the rays of light from the street lamps. From our beds we could see the curfew patrols passing along the thoroughfare outside.

We slept lightly, waking often with a start to hear a lorry pulling up outside. There was a building opposite – Lourdes' Hall – which was often raided.

Even in our slumbers, the sense of danger was always near us.