It all happened back in 1920 when those heinous wretches known as the Black and Tans were hell-bent on maiming, murdering and all forms of diabolical destruction and showing themselves to be true credits to the calabooses from which they had been released in order to serve their country and shoot innocent Irish people.
No day passed without some skirmish or other between the dreaded invaders and the brave boys of the North Kerry Flying Column. The more notable of these encounters are suitably remembered in song and story but none more so than the great Christmas raid at Ballybooley. True, this singular event has its controversial side but in this respect it must be said that no two accounts of any battle are similar in every detail.
The year in question produced one of the driest summers ever recorded. The hills, in fact, turned brown. On the turf banks the sods dried of their own accord which was a blessing indeed to youthful turf-turners and stoolin-makers who were free to spend the long summer days by river and stream or lazing in carefree groups in woodland and meadow.
Nobody, however, can put forward the claim that Mother Nature spreads her output indiscriminately and as though to prove this point beyond doubt she presented the North Kerry countryside with a succeeding Christmas of unprecedented bitterness and savagery.
Hail, rain and snow were commonplace whilst, in between, Jack Frost worked overtime. The tinder-dry turf of the summer made no battle in the gusty hearths of cottage and farmhouse and people were wont to say, not for the first time, that if there was anything worse than turf that was too wet then surely it was turf that was too dry. Many of the roadside reeks were consumed before Christmas. Rusty saws and axes were resurrected for the felling of timber. Fuel theft grew rife as the winter wore on.
In all the bogland area perhaps the most practised lifter of the unguarded sod was a man by the name of Micky Dooley. He was well known to all and sundry as a professional turf thief. All through November and December when the moon shone fitfully, if at all, he would betake himself with ass and rail to a convenient bog, there to ply his shifty trade.
Under cover of darkness he would fill his rail from ill-made reeks whose appearances would not be affected by the disappearance of an ass-rail of turf. It was different with well-made reeks. A solitary sod out of place and the owner was immediately alerted.
A well-made reek was a match for anything be it thunder, gale or turf thief. Each sod was so close to the next and each corner so smoothed and well constructed that even the absence of a single cadhrawn would be easily detected. Consequently turf thieves shied away from well-made structures and concentrated on the badly-made, misshapen ones. It was to these latter on the dark and stormy nights around Christmas that Micky Dooley directed his ass and cart. His target, of course, would have been thoroughly reconnoitred beforehand. One might see him sauntering casually in the distance, his head averted from roadside reeks, his gaze fixed steadfastly in front of him as though reek-rape was the farthest thought from his mind. Yet without once inclining his head or slowing his gait he absorbed every detail of his night-time objective.
His attention might seem to be fixed on a flock of wheeling plover in the skies overhead or rapt in admiration at a particular rampart of cloud but all the while he stored detail after vital detail for future reference.
He would have to discover in the little time available to him if there was room for donkey and cart at the bogland side of the reek or if the reek had already been gutted by storm and above all to determine the quality of the turf. It was essential that it resemble in texture, size and shape the inadequate supply he had harvested for his own use in case a suspicious reek owner decided to investigate.
When his rail was filled he would skilfully rearrange the area which he had plundered so that it was always next to impossible to detect the loss. This was an art in itself. His efforts were always constricted by the absence of light. As a result he worked like a man demented whenever a ray of moonlight filtered through the flying clouds. Moonlight is the natural enemy of the night-raider but he needs a little now and then to be going on with.
Largely, however, Micky worked by the feel, waiting for a token of moonlight to add the finishing touches. He never took more than one rail from any reek and this was the real secret of his success. Suspect he might be but there was no proof and so long as he confined his looting to reasonable quantities his thieving excursions were taken for granted.
Those whose reeks escaped molestation were fond of saying it was a poor bog indeed that couldn’t support a solitary turf thief.
Then came a fearful night shortly before Christmas. The north-eastern gales bore down the sky furiously whipping and flailing the already tormented countryside. Sitting by his fire Micky decided that it was an excellent night for an enterprising fellow like himself. Reluctant though he was to forsake his warm hearth the night was heaven-sent for his purpose.
Nobody in his right mind, a turf-thief apart, would venture abroad under such conditions and who was to say but the weather might take a dramatic turn for the better and so curtail his outdoor activities when they might most be needed. He resolved to venture forth.
He tackled the unwilling donkey to the ancient cart, assembled the rail thereon and, to ensure silence, liberally plastered the axle screw-nuts with car grease. He bound himself thoroughly against the elements and set forth on his journey.
A worse night he had never experienced. Within minutes his gloved hands were freezing, the fingers stripped of circulation. He closed his eyes against the storm and blindly followed the donkey. He would have turned back after the first quarter mile but he reminded himself sensibly that after a storm comes a calm and since his turf stocks were almost exhausted he simply had to make the most of his opportunity.
Slowly, patiently, man and beast battled against the savage blasts until both were on the threshold of exhaustion. At length they arrived at the bog lane where the several remaining reeks stood awaiting the inevitable. As they reached the first of these, one which he had rifled a bare fortnight before, the donkey stopped dead and despite all Micky’s urgings refused to proceed against the gale-force wind. Micky knew that the poor animal had reached the end of its tether. There was nothing for it but to turn round and proceed homewards. At least they would have the wind behind them. He backed the donkey into the lee of the reek. There it would regain its wind for the return journey. As he waited, in the bitter cold, the combination of temptation and habit proved too much for Micky Dooley.
‘All I’ll take is a few sods,’ he told himself, ‘for since I have raided this reek before, to take any more would be folly.’
Alas his rapacious instincts prevailed and in no time at all he had the rail filled and clamped.
The days passed with no abatement in the weather. Soon the rightful owner of the turf put in an appearance with a horse and cart and proceeded to fill his rail. The first thing he noticed, upon his arrival, was a sizable declivity at the reek’s rear. A grim smile appeared on his weather-beaten face. This merely proved to be the prelude to the heartiest of laughs and, this in turn was followed by a gleeful shout and a rubbing together of the palms of the hands.
For several moments he cavorted delightedly around the roadway. For long he had suspected Micky Dooley. He estimated that over the years the turf thief had relieved him of twenty ass-rails at the very least. When, a few weeks before, he visited the reek his suspicions had been aroused upon beholding a small mound of fresh donkey dung close by the reek. A sure sign, this, that a donkey had dallied there.
Carefully he had inspected the reek but could find no sign of interference. This did not surprise him in the least as it was not Micky Dooley’s wont to leave evidence of his visits.
The proprietor of the reek was forced to concede that Micky was without peer in the art of restructuring turf reeks. He would have dearly loved to lay hands on him there and then if for no other purpose than to strangle him.
As he filled his rail he considered ways and means of snaring the thief. Suddenly an inspired albeit murderous notion struck him. Frequently he played host to men on the run and sometimes they concealed their guns and ammunition on his property. That night he revisited his reek, his pockets filled with live ammunition. With the utmost care he inserted a score of bullets in the softer of those sods which occupied the weakest corner of the reek. Now a fortnight later he congratulated himself on his foresight. He had gambled that the thief would pay a second visit because of the severity of the weather and he had won. That night in bed he conveyed the tidings to his wife.
‘I have prepared,’ he said, ‘a terrific Christmas gift for Micky Dooley. It’s a gift he’ll never forget till the day he dies and I have to say that no man deserves it more.’
He then told her about the live ammunition embedded in the sods.
‘Oh sweet Mary Immaculate,’ his wife cried out clutching her rosary beads, ‘suppose someone is struck by a bullet.’
‘I don’t care,’ said her husband, ‘if the hoor is blown to Kingdom Come. He’ll never steal another sod from me one way or the other.’
Chuckling to himself he turned over on his side and slept the sleep of the just. His wife prayed into the small hours faithfully accompanied by the sonorous snores of her husband. She beseeched every saint with every prayer in her repertoire that no harm would befall the household of Micky Dooley.
Less than a week later, on Christmas Eve to be exact, Micky was seated in front of a roaring fire with his wife and children and a neighbour who had called to exchange titbits of gossip in return for basking cold shins before the glowing sods. Outside the wind howled and hissed whilst hordes of unruly hailstones hopped and danced on road and roof.
‘God bless us,’ said the female neighbour, by name Maggie Mulloy, ‘isn’t a good fire the finest thing of all.’
‘True for you Maggie,’ her host responded. ‘I wouldn’t swap a good fire for a bottle of whiskey.’
There they sat, happily contemplating the leaping flames, savouring the warmth and comfort of the hearthside. A happier scene could not be imagined. A black buck cat, fat and sleek, sat at his master’s feet while the children intoned their rhymes in a drowsy hum that added to the somnolent atmosphere of the fireside scene.
‘Thanks be to God for a turf fire,’ Maggie Mulloy said under her breath and then in a louder tone, ‘and thanks to them that has the heart and the nature to share that same.’
Micky accepted the compliment as befitted such a magnanimous benefactor.
‘Tut-tut,’ he said dismissively, ‘tut-tut.’
The cat purred, the women nodded and Micky reached forward a foot to restore a wayward sod which had fallen too far from the fire. The sparks shot upwards in a bright display which boasted every conceivable shade of red. Then suddenly all hell broke loose. The first bullet smashed into the paraffin lamp which hung by a chain from a central rafter between two flitches of yellowing bacon. There followed immediately a minor explosion after which the light went out.
The second bullet smashed into the dresser and shook it to its foundations as well as sending saucers, cups and ware of all sorts flying about the kitchen. The third bullet went straight between the two eyes of the cat. Without as much as a mew he stiffened and expired where he lay, a taunting parody of the nine lives supposed to be his right.
For several seconds after the first shot Micky Dooley remained rooted to his chair, unable to move. His mouth opened and closed but no sound emanated therefrom. He was shocked to his very core. A bullet whistling past his ear brought a sudden end to his inactivity. Ignoring the cries of the women and children he bolted for the bedroom where he barricaded the door behind him and dived straightaway under the bed.
He shut out the appalling din in the kitchen by the simple expedient of thrusting a finger into either ear. His heart raced so violently that he feared for its continued beating. No heart, he felt, could continue at such a pace without coming to a sudden and untimely halt. Trembling, he invoked the aid of his dead mother after which he loudly beseeched the Sacred Heart to succour him in his final agony.
In the kitchen there was absolute bedlam. The screams were deafening. Neighbours, near and far, were brought to their doors by the mixture of shots and cries of human torment.
‘’Tis the Black and Tans,’ one terrified listener called out. ‘There’s a battle on in Ballybooley.’
His cry was quickly taken up and in jig time every door and window in the district was barricaded. Lights were doused and Rosaries recited. Holy water was sprinkled here, there and everywhere.
Meanwhile back at the Dooley kitchen three more bullets went off. The first of these passed through the window. The other two ricocheted up the chimney and spent themselves harmlessly on the night air. Mercifully none of the kitchen’s occupants was injured. A sustained silence ensued but a longer period was to pass before Micky Dooley opened the bedroom door. At that precise moment the last bullet exploded from the fire and pierced the upper of his left boot. It lodged in his instep. He fell to the floor, a cry of anguish on his lips.
‘They got me,’ he screamed.
His wife and children knelt by his side while Maggie Mulloy breathed an Act of Contrition into his ear. After a while, when it was clear that the shooting had ended, they lifted him onto a chair where he sat with the injured leg resting on another chair. Maggie, who lived less than a stone’s throw away, had gone and returned in a thrice with a noggin of whiskey. Micky disposed of it without assistance. The eldest of the children was dispatched to a neighbour’s house with the curt instructions that a doctor and priest were to be contacted at once.
Outside the wind had abated and soon neighbours from every house within a two-mile radius converged upon the house. The same question formed on the lips of every last one of them. What had happened?
‘We were ambushed,’ Micky Dooley explained.
‘But why?’ the communal question came.
The wounded man shook his head knowingly and brought a silencing finger to his lips indicating that there was more involved here than met the eye.
‘We were ambushed,’ he exclaimed to every newcomer.
‘By whom?’ the question came automatically on the heels of the others.
‘Tans,’ was Micky’s immediate response. He kept repeating the word embellishing it every so often with choice adjectives. Eventually and inevitably the man who had planted the bullets arrived upon the scene. Tentatively he thrust his head inside the door.
‘Black and Tans,’ Micky disembarrassed him before he had a chance to apologise and spoil the entire proceedings. The bullet-planter nodded vigorously, relieved beyond measure that no one had been killed. As it was, if the truth were to become known, the least for which he would be held accountable would be attempted murder.
‘Tans it was,’ he confirmed. ‘Didn’t I see them with my own two eyes and they making off down the road.’
Micky Dooley bent his head in gratitude and relief. It was only then that he noticed the dead cat. He lifted the stiffening form to his lips and kissed it on top of the head which was a change indeed for the only other part of the creature’s anatomy with which he had any previous contact was its posterior whenever he applied one of his hobnailed boots to that sensitive area for no reason whatsoever.
‘My poor cat,’ he called out while his eyes calefacted huge tears to suit the occasion. One by one the neighbours departed, arguing heatedly as to why such a savage attack had been made on a household which had no apparent connection with the Freedom Fighters.
They came to the only conclusions possible. The Tans had been seen by a reliable witness. They were, therefore, responsible for the attack. They would not have carried out the attack unless Micky Dooley was a dispatch carrier or was in the habit of secretly harbouring the men on the run.
Apart from Micky only one man knew the truth and that man’s lips were sealed. It was that or subject himself to the possibility of a stiff prison sentence. There was no point in taking such a gamble. One thing was certain. Micky Dooley would never interfere with one of his reeks again. Others yes but not his. That had been the primary point of the exercise.
Time passed and word of the raid spread. The account was handsomely embroidered with the passage of the years so that, in the end, it transpired that Micky had single-handed, armed only with a double-barrelled shotgun, routed a score of Black and Tans killing none but wounding several while he himself would be a martyr to a pronounced limp for the remainder of his life. His neighbour Maggie Mulloy came to be revered throughout the countryside. Had she not fought by her neighbour’s side? None begrudged her the paltry state pension and service medals which a grateful government had conferred on all those who had participated in the Fight for Freedom.
Micky Dooley fared better. Because of his limp he was awarded, in addition to his service pension, a handsome disability allowance which left him secure for the remainder of his days.
Maggie Mulloy eventually came to believe her own story. Without doubt, on a gusty winter’s night under a fitful moon, shadows may be easily transformed into human shapes. No great effort is afterwards required to deck them in uniforms. Far from abandoning his old ways Micky Dooley redoubled his raids upon vulnerable turf ricks. Now he stole with impunity. Wasn’t it his right he told himself. Didn’t he single-handed defeat a company of Black and Tans! By God if he wasn’t entitled to a few sods of somebody else’s turf who was! Wasn’t he one of the two surviving heroes of the Battle of Ballybooley. The bullet-planter would never mention the Christmas gift again, not even to this wife.
From time to time strangers visited Mickey Dooley’s house to inspect the holes left by the bullets and to view the almost fatal wound upon his instep. Veneration was also paid to the memory of the cat whose life was ended so tragically in the service of its master. As Micky Dooley used to say when reminded of the creature’s demise: ‘Greater love no cat hath than the cat who lays down his life for his friends.’