In the cold, gray, wet Irish dawn, two Irish Volunteers made their way across the fields toward an abandoned cottage near the shores of Lough Derg in County Tipperary. They walked in silence, single file and stayed close to the high hedgerows that created the patchwork quilt of small land holdings prevalent in that part of the country. What they wanted most of all was a cigarette but that was not allowed. “No presents to the British now, good volunteers are a precious commodity,” the words of their commander, Michael Kennedy, recalled to memory every time they were tempted to break cover and take a short cut or stop for a quick smoke. If they were going to defeat the armed forces of a mighty empire, then they would have to fight smart and fight with discipline. Discipline and a good pair of boots were a must they were told. “I don’t care if ye have to beg borrow or steal them, but make sure when ye show up for duty ye have a good pair of boots. Ye are no good to me, sick lads or hobbling lame, no good at all. Mobility is the key, strike and move, strike and move, boys. Everyone must keep up with the column or by God I will leave you behind with one round and a rosary, I swear to God, I will.” They believed him about the boots; it was good common sense as any man used to the outdoors in Ireland could tell you.
As to being left behind, the Volunteers, Dan and Billy Flanagan, had seen this very commander march for hours with a wounded comrade on his back. When asked about it afterwards by his men, he replied that he had neither the round nor the rosary to spare at the time. The two men were brothers, farm laborers from a neighboring parish. They did not have any land themselves, but family history had it that their grandfather had a farm until the family was evicted. An English landlord kept raising the rent until they could no longer pay, then constables came and turned them out of the place. The grandfather died of drinking and a broken heart, the grandmother went to live with relatives, and the children were split up to live with other relations in order not to place too great a burden on any one family. Their father was a farm laborer, as they had grown up to be. They were strong, strapping, fine looking men. The local girls considered the younger brother, Billy, to be the handsomer of the two. This had less to do with physical features, as the brothers were really quite alike in looks, but more to do with the fact that Billy was almost always smiling and up for a bit of fun. Dan, on the other hand, seemed to wear a permanent frown.
Year after year of hard physical labor in the damp cold Irish weather had taken its toll on their father. He was no longer able to earn enough to support the family of six (the boys had four younger sisters). Arthritis prevented the old man from being much use on a farm. However, he was a good judge of cattle and he did manage to earn a bit for expert advice during the local cattle marts. This, a few odd jobs and their mother’s genius at managing with very little, was still not enough. What the boys brought in made the difference between just getting by and not. Opportunity was what the brothers wanted, opportunity to own their own land, in their own country. They knew that opportunity was never likely to arise as long as the British landlords held their estates. Irish land is for Irishmen and let the British go home or go to hell. A sense of injustice, a desire for opportunity. The hope that a free Ireland would be grateful to the warriors who had helped to win that freedom. The hope that when the landlords were sent packing the land, would somehow be made available to those who had answered the call.
The Proclamation made during the 1916 Rising, described the type of Ireland, the type of Republic that offered hope and offered a future to men such as themselves. They were also concerned that the British might introduce conscription in Ireland and they would be sent off to fight in Flanders. They had decided that they would rather die in Ireland and for Ireland. Two of their cousins on their mother’s side, Johnny and Paddy O’Connor, had volunteered to fight to save poor Catholic Belgium from the Hun armies and win Home Rule for Ireland. Johnny died during his first week at the front, hit by an artillery shell. He was, as the family was told by a local lad also in the same regiment, “Blown to smithereens, God help him.” Paddy had been gassed and was in hospital in France; he wasn’t expected to make it home. The Flanagans had sympathy for the poor people of Belgium but they didn’t want to die for them. The boys were not great scholars but they could not recall the Belgians ever coming to Ireland’s aide. To the best of their knowledge, no Belgian armies had arrived to help the Irish defend their towns against Cromwell, they had not heard of any fleets of Belgian ships arriving during the Great Famine, when hundreds of thousands of Irish people were left to starve to death, while the British authorities calmly exported wheat from the country.
No, they wouldn’t die for the Belgians, but they wished them the best of luck. As for the promise of Home Rule for Ireland, they were amazed at the number of Irishmen who were willing to trust the British on that one. British politicians had suggested that if Ireland did her part for the war, Home Rule for Ireland would inevitably follow. They had hundreds of years of deceit and betrayal to look back on, and yet there were many Irishmen who still believed in a promise from the British government and were willing to bet their lives on it. Wanting land of their own, wanting to be free men in their own country and not trusting a British promise, all these were concepts or ideas. Having ideas is one thing, but to be willing to kill someone, to take a life is something else. For the brothers, their mind was made up about the course they would follow, one very sunny Wednesday afternoon.
They were up at the creamery, delivering milk from the farm where they worked. The creamery manager, Jimmy Hayes, was a popular man. Small and round, Jimmy seemed always to be in good form. He loved to laugh and joke, and his laughter was infectious. When he laughed, his whole body shook. In fact, when people of the neighborhood wanted to emphasize just how much they had appreciated a funny story they would say, “I laughed like Jimmy Hayes.” There was a good crowd at the creamery, as was usually the case, a dozen men dropping off, plus the four men who worked for Jimmy. They were in dairy country, and visitors (jealous, of course) would often remark that the parish had more cows than people. The brothers had secured the empty churns on the horse and trap and were about to head off when a lorry-load of soldiers pulled up at the gate and blocked the exit.
A squad of British soldiers came off the lorry and spread out across the yard. A sergeant appeared to be about to address them. Dan noticed that there was no officer in sight. This didn’t feel right, a lorry with this many men and no officer. The squad of soldiers were pointing their weapons at the locals and yet no orders had been issued. Dan looked at Billy and they both looked around to see what cover might be available if the worst happened. The sergeant was that rare soldier who was actually disappointed at the end of the Great War. It was not that he particularly enjoyed life in the trenches, but the army, and especially the army at war gave him a license to indulge his great passion in life. That great passion was to inflict pain on others.
At first, the sergeant was concerned that the Irish conflict would be a bit tame but after a few months, things had turned ugly and he began to enjoy himself. After this operation had been laid out for him by his officer, such was his excitement that he hardly slept at all. His great wish was that a good number of the Paddies would be provoked beyond endurance and rush toward his men. His instructions to the men had been to use the bayonet and where possible, to wound and not kill outright. With any luck at all, it would be up to him to make sure that the wounded received the proper attention, which he would provide, personally.
“All right you lot, gather ’round over near that cart. I want you to gather ’round so that you can hear me loud and clear.”
Jimmy Hayes had come out from his office and was approaching the sergeant.
“Ah yes, I want you up here with me. Help me to gather this lot.” The sergeant grabbed Jimmy by the back of his neck and dragged him up onto the back of a large cart. A smiling corporal joined them.
“Here, take a hold of this bastard, Corporal,” said the sergeant.
“Yes sir,” replied the corporal and Jimmy was transferred from one to the other.
The crowd, seeing Jimmy roughly handled, was beginning to murmur. The younger lads were looking at the soldiers and beginning to wonder if a quick rush would be worth the risk; they were looking at the soldiers and at each other. Before they could decide, the sergeant pulled a pistol, fired into the air and then held the pistol to Jimmy’s head.
“I said, gather ’round, Paddies. I won’t repeat the order.”
Everyone obeyed and gathered ’round. Dan figured that if they had come to shoot them, they would have opened fire by now. This was going to be a speech; a message was going to be sent.
“That’s right, close enough. Now, I’m sure you lot have heard about some of the disturbances that have occurred in neighboring districts.”
They all had heard that a man had gone berserk and killed two British soldiers with a hatchet in a pub on the Limerick road, but that was miles from here. There had been talk of shots fired on a patrol near the lake, but that had not been confirmed. Some of the locals claimed that it had actually been a backfire from one of their own lorries that had spooked the patrol. The sergeant continued,
“Well, I just want you all to be clear about how things are going to work right here.”
The sergeant had lowered his pistol and was no longer aiming at Jimmy. The corporal had let go of the back of Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy looked as if he were about to cry with fear. He slouched down and he looked like he was having trouble keeping his feet under him. The corporal spun him around and slapped him back handed across the mouth.
“Stand up straight, Paddy, when the sergeant is addressing you.”
The corporal had to help Jimmy stand up straight again, grabbing hold of the back of his neck. The sergeant resumed his speech.
“How things will work are as follows. If a shot is fired on any soldier in this district, we are going to come back here and burn this place down around your fucking ears. If any of my men are injured here in this district by a bullet or a bomb or hatchet say, or any other fucking thing you treacherous bastards think of, for every one of my men injured, two of you bastards are going to be arrested. Being treacherous bastards, you are going to try and escape, and you are going to be shot while trying to escape. Are we absolutely clear as to how things will work here?”
Hearing no response, the sergeant grabbed Jimmy by the throat and slapped him again backhanded across the mouth. Jimmy began to gush blood from a split lip. The sergeant leaned close to Jimmy and yelled in his ear,
“I understand that you are a thick ignorant Irish bastard so I will explain just once that when I ask you if I have made myself clear, the correct response is ‘Yes, sir.’ I want to hear you say it nice and loud and then I will ask you lot again and I want to hear you all say it. If you don’t say it nice and loud I am going to lose my fucking patience.”
The sergeant leaned forward and yelled in Jimmy’s ear,
“Right then, are we clear?” Jimmy did his best to shout out a yes sir between bloody and broken teeth. The sergeant turned to the crowd of men.
“… and you lot, are we clear?”
Now, now is the time, the sergeant thought to himself. Now is the time to rush us, you spineless bastards.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply just loud enough to be heard.
“I don’t think I heard that!” The sergeant raised his hand to Jimmy, who had closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. In order to spare him further pain and humiliation, the crowd shouted louder this time.
“Yes, sir!”
This seemed to satisfy the sergeant, but yet he still seemed somehow disappointed with the response. Pleased to be obeyed, but disappointed that he wasn’t watching bayonet practice, the sergeant realized that he would have to make the best of what he had been given. He was comforted by the fact that the pain and humiliation were not quite over for Jimmy. The sergeant noticed that some of Jimmy’s blood was now on the sleeve of the corporal’s uniform.
“Corporal, you have pig’s blood on your uniform.”
The corporal called Jimmy a filthy Paddy bastard and threw him over the cart and into a pile of muck. Jimmy made an effort to raise himself and several of the crowd closest to him went to help.
“No, everyone stay still, right where you are.” The sergeant raised his revolver and pointed at the crowd. “Hold on, your friend here seems to be in some discomfort. I can help with that.” The sergeant caught Jimmy by the hair of his head and then hit him full force across the side of the face with his pistol. Jimmy’s jaw was broken and he passed out from the blinding pain. “See now, that is better. We are going to be leaving now and you can all stand still and your friend can stay in the muck until we have left. Then you can all crawl back to your fucking pig sties. Remember today and remember what I have said. God help you fuckers if I ever have to come back here.”
The sergeant and the corporal withdrew to the lorry, the engine started and the squad withdrew. Before the soldiers had left the gate, the crowd had gathered around Jimmy and begun lifting him back to his office. It was a small act of defiance and a greater one came within the week, when eight of the twelve men present that day joined the Volunteers. Jimmy left the area and went to live with relatives in Mayo. The local doctor said that Jimmy’s nerves were gone completely and that he was as bad as some of those who had come home from the war. Jimmy left the parish; he was gone but not forgotten. Whenever Dan or Billy or any of the men present that day went into action and knew that they might have to take a life, they remembered Jimmy. They remembered the sergeant and the corporal, they remembered that if they had had a gun that day they would have used it. They remembered their anger, fear and frustration. They remembered Jimmy’s laugh and the blood pouring out of his mouth.
Since joining up, Dan and Billy had been out a number of times with the Volunteers. It was always the same pattern. Assemble, arm, receive orders, execute those orders, stash weapons and disband. The farmer that the brothers worked for knew well what they were up to when they told him they had to go away for a bit. He knew that he would have to provide an alibi if any enquiries were made. The farmer was a Catholic and a Nationalist, he was sympathetic to the cause, but wasn’t a fighting man himself. His eldest son was able-bodied but was needed to inherit the farm so he couldn’t be off risking his life and the family’s future. He had two others boys, one studying to be a veterinarian, while his youngest was in the seminary. His eldest daughter had married into another strong farming family in the parish. His other girl was at home but was doing a line (going steady) with a young lawyer from a nearby town. He would have preferred if she would marry into land, but the girl had notions and had the cheek to announce that she didn’t care for life on the farm. She said that she looked forward to moving into town. He believed that her notions were the direct result of modern education. He had paid good money to the nuns in Limerick and someone had filled her head full of nonsense.
No, he had worked hard at building his farm and making his family successful and he was not going to take too many risks for the Republic. Sure, back in the day, didn’t the old lords send their retainers off to do the fighting and sure, wasn’t he sending Dan and Billy off the same way? And sure, when they were away, didn’t his own son and even he himself sometimes had to get stuck into the heavy work? Much to the disgust of his youngest girl, who seemed to enjoy pointing out that if he and her brother were true gentlemen farmers, they would not come back to the house perspiring like common laborers.
Billy Flanagan was carrying a Webley revolver that morning, which strictly speaking, he was not supposed to have. Strictly speaking, the quartermaster controlled the distribution of all weapons. Strictly speaking, only the officers got to carry revolvers unless the action required the carrying of a concealed weapon. This morning’s action, a raid for weapons on the house of a local retired British army officer, did not require a concealed weapon. On the contrary, the idea was that the lads would march with weapons in full view and Major Wilson would hand over the five shotguns and the .22 caliber rifle he had locked up in his gun room. Billy, however, had acquired the weapon under unusually heroic circumstances and had been allowed to hang on to it. A month ago, the column had ambushed a small British patrol, once again with the idea of taking arms which were in extremely short supply. They had felled a tree on the road and taken up positions on either hillside. When the lorry carrying the soldiers stopped to remove the obstacle, they opened fire.
A squad of soldiers and their officer took cover in the ditches on either side of the lorry and returned fire. At that point, the IRA commanding officer, Michael O’Kennedy, demanded that the soldiers hand over their weapons and he assured them that if they did so, they would be allowed to march back to barracks, no harm done. If they chose to keep up the fight, they would be taking no prisoners and he couldn’t be plainer than that. After a brief pause in the firing, the British officer gave his men the order to stack arms. Several of the column came down from the hillsides and approached the lorry, Billy among them. The soldiers had stacked arms and gathered near the lorry. Billy noticed that the officer still stood by a gate near the ditch. Billy kept him covered with his Lee-Enfield and motioned him to join his men. The officer took one step toward the lorry and then being a contrary bastard took off toward the gate, jumped over it and was away into the field. Billy dropped his rifle, vaulted the gate and took off in hot pursuit. After a hundred yards and sensing that Billy was closing on him, the officer turned and fired his pistol. He missed, Billy dove at him, knocked the pistol from his hand and proceeded to beat the living shit out of him. A short while later, Billy and the officer arrived back at the lorry and the IRA commander allowed the British officer to march (with the support of two of his men) back to barracks. Billy, having shown extraordinary fighting spirit, was allowed to keep the revolver.
The two brothers halted as they neared the cottage and waited for the sentries’ challenge. “All right then, lads?” came the call from behind the hedgerow.
“Up the Republic,” came the reply.
“Is that you, Dennis?”
“It is, get away in, himself is waiting for you.” As they passed the sentries’ post, he called softly to them. “It appears we have a VIP with us from across the lake. A few of his own lads rowed him over yesterday.”
As they approached the cottage door, their local commander, Michael Kennedy, came out to meet them. Kennedy was a large powerfully built man; his size alone was enough to command respect. Added to his physical stature were a sharp wit and a fierce loyalty to his men.
“Well, lads, how’s the form?”
“Good, Michael, and yourself?”
“Ah, sure not too bad, all things considered. Listen, lads, before you go in, we have a few visitors that came across from Clare to give us a hand today.”
Dan Flanagan was a cautious and suspicious person at the best of times. Unexpected visitors, on what was supposed to be a routine operation, set him on edge.
“And will we be needing help then, Michael? Are we expecting fierce resistance from the Major and his nephew or is it the granddaughter we are worried about?”
Major Wilson’s nephew was staying with him at present. He was on leave from the trenches and widely believed to be suffering from shell shock. The servants reported that he spent most of his time in his room staring out the window. They said that he didn’t mix, meddle or make with anyone at all. The granddaughter looked after the Major’s horses. He had a few very respectable show jumpers. The granddaughter attended boarding school in England, and spent her summers with her grandfather. The locals reckoned her to be quite a beauty, a pleasant girl and a good horsewoman.
“Well,” said Michael. “You’ve heard of Michael O’Sullivan from across the lake there in Clare?”
“We have indeed,” said Dan. “A fine politician and a government minister in the making they say.”
“That’s the man alright. The thing is, and this is between us lads, well, Michael is a great one for the speeches and the organizing and all that but he has never fired a shot in anger. Being, as they say, of a nervous disposition, he is never likely to see action. The family honor requires a fighting man. His brother Dermot has been sent to us so that he at least can say that he was out on active service.”
Dan listened without saying a word. Billy blurted out “Isn’t Dermot O’Sullivan a well-known alcoholic? Sure, we’re not going to let him loose around loaded weapons, are we?”
“Keep your voice down, Billy, for Jesus’ sake. Look it, it’s all been arranged, Dermot will carry a pistol with just one round in it. He knows ammunition is scarce and he knows that we are not expecting a fight. The Clare lads have sent two reliable men to keep an eye on him and to keep him out of trouble. Look lads, it was not my idea, but those are the orders and we need everyone to do their part.”
Billy looked at Dan. Dan sighed and nodded to Michael and the three of them made their way to the cottage. The cottage itself was cold and dark inside, the only light and heat coming was from a small fire burning in the grate which the lads had got going in order to make tea. After the introductions, there was just enough time for a decade of the rosary for those so inclined, and then the column moved out and made its way to the Wilson estate. Two sentries would be posted on the road, one at the gate. Billy Flanagan to the left of the house, one of the Clare men to the right, another to the stables at the back. Michael Kennedy, the commanding officer, accompanied by Dan Flanagan and Dermot O’Sullivan, would break into the servant’s entrance below the stairs in the front of the house. The Clare men were not pleased to be separated from their charge and had to be reminded that they were under orders and on active service. Dermot O’Sullivan assured them that he would be fine as he drained what was left of his hip flask. O’Sullivan was a stout jovial enough looking man with large bleary eyes. If he had grown a grey beard, he would have resembled a drunken Father Christmas.
The column took up positions. Michael had no trouble breaking a glass pane on the servants’ door and pulling back the bolt. Once inside, the Volunteers roused the servants and told them to go outside and wait in the stables. The servants, although fond of their employer, were not going to make a fuss. They assumed and rightly so, that it was guns the lads were after and that no real harm was intended. After the servants had left, the trio made their way to the main floor. At the top of the stairs they heard the Major’s voice demanding to know what the bloody hell the racket was about. Michael answered him calmly,
“Now, Major, we’ll be having the keys to the gun room if you please and then we’ll be off, no harm done,”
“The hell you will, you bastards, get out of my house at once!” the Major responded.
“The keys now, Major, or we’ll burn this place down around your ears.”
The Major was not a stupid man. He had shown a suitable amount of defiance and he knew that it was time to surrender the keys. Before he could do so, his nephew appeared at the top of the landing, revolver in hand, and commenced firing wildly down the stairs.
Michael and Dan returned fire and Dermot O’Sullivan took off down a hallway to the left. In times of stress, well, most the time really, Dermot’s first reaction to any situation was to go look for a drink. He decided to try the door at the end of the hallway first, furthest from the gun fire and maybe a study where the Major might keep a bottle. He turned the handle of the door and was surprised to see an attractive young lady sitting up in bed with blankets pulled around her. On the table beside her bed was a beautiful vase of flowers. The young lady reached for the vase and flung it at him, narrowly missing his head. “Get out of here, you filthy Paddy bastard, get out at once!” she screamed.
It was something in her tone of voice that made him snap. He had intended to leave and close the door, even after she had thrown the vase at him. It was her voice, the way she spoke to him, the way these fuckers all spoke, like masters to slaves. Fuck that. Now, he would teach this bitch who the masters were. The sentry from the main gate had moved up to the front door and had opened fire. The Major was yelling at his nephew to cease fire, that he would get them all killed. At that moment, Dan Flanagan heard a women’s scream coming from down the hall where Dermot O’Sullivan had disappeared. Fearing the worst, he took off toward the sound of the scream. When he got to the bedroom door, his suspicions were confirmed. Dermot was astride the Major’s granddaughter. He had thrown aside her bed covers and ripped her nightgown to shreds.
“O’Sullivan, for God’s sake, give over,” Dan called out, then set down his rifle with the intention of dragging his drunken comrade off the girl before any more harm was done.
Before he reached the bed, O’Sullivan drew his pistol turned and pointed it at Dan. Dan paused in disbelief and then heard a shot ring out from the window. The shot hit O’Sullivan square in the chest and knocked him off the bed. Dan saw Billy standing outside, pistol still raised. Dan raced over to O’Sullivan, but it was hopeless, the shot had taken him straight in the heart and he was dead before he had fallen to the floor. Before he had time to think, he heard the hammer of a revolver being cocked very close to his head. He looked up to see the Major’s granddaughter standing above him with O’Sullivan’s pistol pointed at his head. Dan raised his hands and a second shot rang out. The Major’s granddaughter fell to the floor, the back of her head a bloody mess. Billy broke through the window and into the room, at the same time Commandant O’Kennedy arrived at the doorway.
The Major and his nephew had surrendered and were being held near the main gate. O’Kennedy had heard the shots and had come to investigate.
“Jesus, lads, what a bloody mess. Listen, we can’t have this. O’Sullivan was shot by the girl. Dan, you saw it, then the girl turned on you and Billy, you got her from the window. Take O’Sullivan’s body out and get a cart out of the stables.”
“What about the Major and his nephew?” said Dan.
“We’ll tell them the girl made it out with the servants. They will be shot in reprisal for the next Volunteers executed anywhere in Ireland or shot trying to escape.”
After the column had returned to the cottage, and the Clare lads were rowing O’Sullivan’s body back for a hero’s funeral, Dan, Billy and Michael were alone by the fire. “Listen, lads,” said Michael. “I’ve been thinking about this and I think it is best if ye took a trip. I think the States is the best place for ye. It would suit certain people, if certain Volunteers on that raid conveniently died for Ireland and were not around to challenge the official version of events. Yes, I think the States for the two of you. I’ll hint around that you were sent off on a special mission.”
“What about the folks at home? They rely on us.” Dan’s first thoughts had been of a practical nature. Billy had pictured himself strolling down Broadway with a beautiful glamor girl on each arm. Hearing Dan’s concern he snapped out of his reverie and nodded his head in support of his brother. Michael promised the boys that suitable work would be found for their father and that he would keep a good eye on the family. And so it was that Dan and Billy were smuggled to New York and arrived with no papers and very little money. Billy did however, get to keep his revolver and it became the subject of family folklore.
Upon arriving in New York, Billy found himself down by the docks after dark. He was approached by a group of young tough looking men, the largest of whom stood in his path and asked him for a light. “I’m afraid I am out of matches.” replied Billy, “But you can take a light on this…” he said, producing the revolver.