by Mick Moran
“I saw you talking to John. But, what have you done to Martin? He seemed in an awful mood. He nearly knocked me over on the stairs.”
“He’s very upset. He says he’s all right, but I know he isn’t.”
“It’s Eddy. That bastard will get what’s coming to him on of these days.”
“I, Eddy upset him badly all right. But, I think it’s more than that.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Maybe he’s got a health problem he’s not telling us about.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s something else. He talked about clearing out again.”
“He’s getting a bit old for all that roving round. Is it the work? It’s
a bit slack round here.”
“Well that’s what I came to see him about. John offered him a job in
his gang. But, he didn’t seem interested.” “Maybe if you had a word with him,” added Andy hopefully.
“I don’t think he’ll listen to me. He just ignored me on the stairs when
I spoke to him.”
“Well, try anyway.”
***
Upstairs in his room, Martin sat on his bed, and buried his head in his hands. The pints of Guinness, after a hard day, had left him feeling groggy and the wash had only slightly revived him.
It was a difficult day, but he wasn’t thinking about that. The problems of the day, he could still shake off. Many’s the time he had dealt similarly with what he was then finding so burdensome. Then, however, it was making him uncharacteristically depressed.
His past had caught up with him again. The past he had so often tried to forget. The past he once again thought he had moved on from. Then, he feared, he never could.
He had blamed Andy, but he knew it was not Andy’s fault. Andy couldn’t have known the consequences of what he wrote in his letters. However, Martin was convinced that it was Andy’s letters home that caused his location to be revealed to the person (or persons) who was his avowed enemy. Andy’s mother, no doubt, would have told many more than Martin’s brother. News got around quickly in those country areas. Forgotten grievances may well have been revived. Then, maybe innocently, the news might have been mentioned in correspondence to relatives in Birmingham.
Martin wasn’t normally one to dwell on the problem. Maybe it was his age, he thought, but this time he couldn’t shrug it off as he used to. Feeling morbid, in his mind, he once again went over the events that happened so long ago.
That spring, Martin ceased school again and worked on the farm with his father. His father rarely talked about politics and what was happening in the wider country. “You’re better keeping out of it,” was the advice he always gave Martin. But, Martin didn’t wish to keep out of it. Although he gave the impression that he was taking his father’s advice, with no more than a passing interest in what was happening in the country, he wasted no opportunity to keep himself informed. He read every newspaper he could lay his hands on and listened to every opinion on what was happening.
And it was all happening then.
The treaty was signed. The Black-and -Tans left the country. The Irish Free State was established. In many ways things looked good. Some said they had won a great victory. Most were just pleased that the fighting had stopped. However, when the details of what had been achieved emerged, many felt badly let down. Six of the thirty-two counties remained under British rule. And, although the other twenty-six counties would have a parliament in Dublin, those elected to that parliament would have to swear an oath of allegiance to the crown. It was a divided country: not the republic they had fought for.
It was the end of August. His father was again in England. Martin didn’t tell his mother that he planned to attend the republican rally in Ballaghaderreen. He thought she might get the wrong idea. He had no intentions of becoming involved again. Although his anti-treaty feelings were intense, and he was happy to be called a republican, he had no wish to fight fellow Irishmen. He simply wished to be counted with those who opposed the treaty.
The rally was planned weeks in advance. Speakers from all over the country were to be there, including a man who was involved in the siege of the Four Courts in Dublin. Thousands were expected to attend.
It was, however, a time when tensions were highest. It was less than a week after Michael Collins, commander-in-chief of the new government forces, was shot dead by republicans, in County Cork. His death had shocked the country. Even most republicans were horrified. As leader of the I R A, in the fight for Independence, Michael Collins bravery had won the admiration of the nation. Martin was bewildered. For years Michael Collins had been his hero. Martin attended the rally, but without much of his previous enthusiasm.
That week, the mood of the country hardened against the republicans. There was a renewed determination by the government to stamp them out. Therefore, the rally, which if left alone, would have been little threat to the authorities, was so ruthlessly broken up.
The unnecessary and unprovoked brutality angered Martin to the extent that he could no longer stand idly by. He rushed to the aid of a man being viciously kicked while on the ground. Before Martin could reach him, however, he felt a tug on his jacket. He was being held back. “Leave it Martin,” said a voice from behind. “Let me go,” screamed Martin, lashing out with his fists, “they’ll kill him.”
But, the man didn’t let go. Then another man also grabbed hold of him. It took both of them to hold him back. “You’ll only get yourself arrested,” he was told, “or maybe killed, the way they are today. What good will that do?”
“But, we can’t do nothing,” protested Martin, still struggling to get away. Turning round he recognised the men restraining him: Ted Foley and Michael Keane, I R A men he hadn’t seen for a year.
“Don’t worry,” said Ted. “Come with us if you want to do something.” Ted released his grip on Martin, as did Michael. Then free, Martin hesitated as they both walked away. The man who he had attempted to aid was struggling while being dragged away. Martin feared for the man’s fate, but realised then that intervention would be futile. Still angry, he decided to follow Ted and Michael.
“Where are we going,” asked Martin when he caught up.
“We’re going to visit the barracks,” replied Ted. “But, first, we must pick something up.”
“The barracks will be empty now,” added Michael, “they’re all here.”
No more was said as they walked briskly, soon leaving the town behind. They left the main road and continued along a little used gravel road, Martin breathlessly following behind. “Where are we going,” he again asked.
“You’ll see,” was the only answer he got. They continued up a steep hill, then down into a valley, stopping eventually at a bridge over a fairly large stream. “You wait here Martin,” ordered Ted “Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anyone coming give us a shout.” The road there was raised high above the land. Martin watched the two men descend down a grassy slope to the stream below. They quickly removed their shoes and socks and rolled up their trouser legs, before wading into the water. It was a high bridge for such a shallow stream. The water was barely knee deep, yet Ted, who must have been close on six feet tall, only slightly lowered his head as he went un
der the bridge. As they disappeared under the bridge, Martin sat on the wall above them wondering what he had let himself in for. He was a lookout. What for? He was not sure. But, nevertheless, a more important role than he had previously been allowed to play.
The men shortly emerged, carrying a sack between them. “It’s a great place that,” said Ted to Michael. “It’s as dry as a bone.” They both sat on the bank of the stream with the sack between them. Then, looking up, Ted said “Martin run to the top of the hill. You’ll see more of the road from there. But, if you see anyone coming, don’t shout. Just run down and tell us quietly.”
Martin wished to watch them, but obediently did as told. He had seen enough for him to guess that they were making a bomb. More questions, he then knew, must be asked at the first opportunity.
Eventually Ted appeared at the top of the bridge and beckoned Martin to come down. Not waiting for Martin, Ted descended the grassy slope. “Come on down here,” he called as Martin approached the bridge.
Martin joined them on the bank of the stream. He noticed each man was holding a small bag, like a school satchel. Their shoes and socks were back on and the large sack had been returned to its hiding place. “Follow us,” said Ted. “There’s no time to waste.” He set off at a brisk walk, on the narrow path by the stream followed by Michael and Martin.
Led by Ted, they continued in single file along the little used path, by the stream, which was mostly overgrown. Soon they were in a wood. Before entering the wood, Ted had a good look around, to ensure that they were not observed, then continued quickly, still keeping close to the stream.
Following behind, Martin was having some doubts. He wasn’t sure what he was involved in, or whether he even wished to be. He still felt that he was being treated like a kid; that he was being kept in the dark, not fully part of the operation, whatever that was. He caught up with the others and ventured a question. “What are we going to do?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” replied Ted dismissively. Noticing that Martin was not satisfied, Michael added, “We’ll give them something they won’t forget in a hurry.”
Still not satisfied Martin stopped walking.
“Come on Martin. Don’t waste time.” Ted sounded impatient. But, Martin didn’t move. Ted returned to where Martin was stood. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded angrily, “I thought you wanted to be involved.”
“I do,” said Martin resolutely. “I just want to know what I’m involved in.”
“The barracks will be empty if we hurry. We’re going to blow it up.”
Martin just nodded. As they set off again, he thought, I’m all for that, let’s blow up the barracks. He was still angry at how the army had behaved that afternoon. However, unlike previously, when the fight was against the black-and-tans, he had no wish to kill, or even injure anyone. Blowing up an empty barracks seemed an appropriate response.
They continued walking briskly in the wood, for what seemed like at least an hour. At a point where the stream bent to the right Ted stopped, then turned to his left and continued walking away from the stream. Martin could see daylight streaming through the trees ahead of them. They were nearing the edge of the wood. Ted stopped and placed his bag in a clump of undergrowth. “Let’s leave our bags here for now,” he said to Michael.
From the edge of the wood they could see the barracks, probably less than a hundred yards away, on the other side of the road. Clumps of bushes were growing all along the road. Cautiously, they moved to some bushes across the road from the gates of the barracks. The gates were closed. The barracks looked deserted. Ted turned to Michael. “Get the bags, while I have a look around. Martin, you stay here. Keep an eye on the road.”
Ted crossed the road and looked through the gates. Then he walked briskly by the wall (the barracks was surrounded by a high wall) and disappeared round the corner, apparently to check the back. Martin could feel his heart pounding. He was unsure what to do if anyone came. Luckily no one did.
Within minutes Ted returned. “Come on let’s go,” he urged. “It’s all clear.” He took one of the bags, which Michael had fetched. Ted and Michael walked briskly following the route that Ted had just taken, with Martin following behind. At the back, part of the wall had fallen down and at that point appeared to be easily scalable. Michael picked a stone off the damaged wall. “That should do nicely,” he said. Ted nodded approvingly, then turned to Martin. “Go to the front and look out for the wagons.” Ted seemed to have everything in control.
On reaching the road Martin stopped abruptly, startled by the sound of a creaking gate. The gate was being opened. Panic-stricken, Martin carefully stepped back out of sight behind the wall, and peered round the corner. It was a soldier who was opening the gates. The soldier had his back to Martin and was unaware that he was being observed. The sound of the gates had drowned out Martin’s footsteps.
Martin didn’t know what to do. His mind was racing. The soldier, he thought, must have come out of the barracks; the barracks they thought was empty. What if others were there? Ted and Michael were about to blow up the building. Was it too late to stop them? Could he stop them? Did they care if soldiers were inside? Suddenly it was all much more than he bargained for. He was almost overcome by an overwhelming urge to run away, when the soldier walked on to the road. Martin then recognised him. It was Seamus Cox, one of Martin’s old IRA friends. Seamus looked in the direction of the town, then turned and walked quickly towards the barracks.
Throwing caution to the wind, Martin rushed to the gates and shouted, “Seamus don’t go in.” Simultaneously the sound of breaking glass, coming from the rear of the building, partially obscured the warning. However, at the door, Seamus stopped and turned round to face Martin, who was then within a yard of him. Breathlessly, Martin repeated the warning, “Don’t go in.” Then, leaving a bewildered Seamus, Martin turned and ran back out through the gates. He ran as fast as he could round the wall to the rear of the building, thinking, in his confused state of mind, that there might still be time to stop the explosion. He would be quicker staying inside the wall, but he wasn’t thinking straight.
“Oh my God.”
The cry from inside the building confirmed Martin’s worst fears as he scrambled over the broken down wall.
There was at least one more inside. Almost immediately there was a loud explosion, then a groan of a man in agony. Smoke was coming through the broken window.
“Jesus,” exclaimed Michael, “there’s someone in there. What’ll we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do.” Ted glared at him. “Leave that bag.” Then seeing Martin asked, “is it clear at the front?”
“No. There’s a soldier, Seamus Cox.”
“The traitor! Let’s have a look.” Ted seemed unruffled. “Lets go. Follow me,” he urged. He climbed over the wall followed by Michael.
Taken aback by Ted’s apparent callousness, Martin, feeling somewhat resentful nevertheless followed. Ted carefully led the way along the wall, stopping briefly to pick up a stout stick that was lying on the ground: a weapon, no doubt, thought Martin. Martin feared for Seamus Cox, who he still regarded as his friend, if on the opposite side. However when they reached the front, to Martin’s relief, there was no sign of Seamus. He must have gone inside to help his friend, thought Martin. Martin couldn’t tell how dangerous it was inside. From the front here was no sign of damage. Mar
tin considered rushing in also, when Ted, seemingly reading his mind, grabbed his arm. “Come on. Let’s get across the road. There’s a wagon coming.”
Martin hesitated. He was still feeling resentful. Any loyalty that remained was overridden by the desire to help Seamus.
It was the sight of the wagon in the distance that decided him. Help was on the way. Relieved, he dashed across the road with the others
Back in the wood, led by Ted, they continued running. Following behind, Martin’s anger and resentment was increasing by the minute. He was annoyed with Ted and Michael for what hey had done. But, mainly, he was annoyed with himself for getting involved.
When they reached the stream Ted turned to his left, going in the opposite direction to the way they had come. Martin didn’t know where they were going. Again he was not informed. This time, however, he didn’t care. He had no wish to follow them any more. Without a word he turned the other way and set off at a brisk walk along the path they had originally used. That way, he knew, he could find his way home. Also, he intended to quickly put as much distance as possible between himself and the other two.
It wasn’t to be. Almost immediately Ted glanced and noticed Martin hurrying away from him. Ted turned and chased after Martin, waiting until he got within a few yard of him before calling firmly, but not too loudly, “Martin stop.”
Without looking back, Martin started to run, but Ted caught up with him and grabbed his arm. Martin struggled to get away. “Let me go,” he demanded angrily.
But, Ted wouldn’t let go. “Where are you going,” he asked.
“Home.”
“O K I’m not stopping you. But, let’s have a little talk first.”
“I don’t want to talk.” Martin angrily freed his arm.
“Just a few things to clear up.”
“What things?”
“You said you saw Seamus Cox?”
Martin nodded
“Did he see you?
“Yes.”
“Did he recognise you?”
“Yes. He must have.”
“Jesus! You ejit.” Ted flew into a rage. With his face like thunder, just inches from Martin’s, he hissed, “Do you know what you have done?”
Martin made no reply. Then Ted turned away in disgust. He picked up a large stone. For a brief moment Martin feared Ted was going to throw the stone at him. Instead he flung it violently to the ground as Michael looking worried joined them.