Ireland

by Vincent McDonnell

  It was not until Thursday that the British were in a position to attack. By then heavily armed reinforcements had arrived. Machine-gun posts were set up and artillery readied for shelling. A gunboat, the Helga, sailed up the River Liffey and took up a position from where it could shell the GPO.

  With a salvo of artillery shells, the fighting began. The shells smashed into the GPO and the building came under a hail of bullets. The defenders fired back, but they had no heavy guns to knock out the British artillery. Its shells soon set the roof ablaze. Before long the GPO and many of the adjoining buildings were raging infernos.

  James Connolly, in a desperate counter-attack, led a group of Volunteers out of the GPO. But they came under heavy machine-gun fire. Connolly was hit and his thighbone shattered. He was dragged back inside GPO, where he lay in terrible agony. By now, the GPO was burning fiercely and already many Volunteers lay dead or wounded. Shells still rained down relentlessly and bullets tore through the open windows. The situation was desperate. The Volunteers had no alternative but to withdraw. Taking their wounded, including Connolly, they retreated through the holes in the rear wall. They crossed Moore Street under heavy fire and took shelter in the houses. But they were hopelessly surrounded and could go no further.

  To continue fighting would mean certain death for many more Volunteers and reluctantly, the leaders decided to surrender. Some of the Volunteers wanted to fight on, but were persuaded not to. A truce with the British was arranged and on Saturday afternoon, 29 April, Pearse and the Volunteers surrendered. Around the city, other groups of Volunteers also surrendered. Those at Boland’s Mill, under the leadership of Éamon de Valera, were the last to surrender.

  All the Volunteers were tired and dispirited. Their uniforms, worn with such pride and hope and promise on Easter Monday morning, were tattered and stained with ash and dust and blood. On Sackville Street, a terrible sight greeted them. Dublin seemed to be ablaze. The buildings, which were already burned out, stood roofless and windowless against the backdrop of the smoke and flames. The street was littered with dead bodies and slick with blood. A famous Volunteer known as The O’Rahilly lay riddled with bullets beside his burnt-out beloved De Dion motorcar. Waiting for the Volunteers was the armed might of the British army.

  Hungry, tired and downhearted at the sight of so many dead and the failure of the Rising, the Volunteers were marched up Sackville Street to the Rotunda Hospital. Here, the bedraggled men were herded into a small area and surrounded by armed British soldiers, many of whom had lost colleagues in the fighting. A British officer, Captain Lee-Wilson, strode among the prisoners, striking them. He was a cruel man and not only beat the prisoners, but forced some of them to strip naked. One man who was humiliated in this way was Thomas Clarke. He had an injured arm and had difficulty using it. Enraged by Clarke’s inability to undress quickly, Lee-Wilson tore off his uniform. This caused the wound in Clarke’s arm to bleed, adding to his misery.

  Night was gathering and, though it was the end of April, it was bitterly cold. For an old man like Clarke, who had spent long years in English jails, this was not only a public humiliation, but also a physical ordeal. Many of the prisoners protested at the treatment of Clarke, but were beaten and kicked until they were silent.

  That night the prisoners remained tightly packed together outside the Rotunda Hospital. They were not allowed to sit or lie down. Anyone who did so was dragged to his feet and kicked and beaten. It rained, and they grew colder and more miserable as the night wore on.

  The next day the prisoners were marched to Richmond Barracks. Policemen, known as G-men, moved among them, picking out the leaders for court martial and certain execution. The remaining prisoners were then marched through the city to a cattle boat, which would take them to prisons in England. On the journey, the citizens of Dublin came out to watch. Some cheered and shouted encouragement, much to the anger of the British soldiers. But others hissed and spat at the prisoners, angered by their actions. Their city had been shelled and burned. Hundreds of citizens had been killed in the fighting. Most of the women still considered their ‘separation money’ to be more important than freedom for Ireland.

  While the Volunteers were shipped off to prison, the leaders were court-martialled. They were found guilty of rebellion and sentenced to death. Over a period of weeks they were executed at Kilmainham Jail by firing squad, and were buried within the prison walls. As each execution was announced, public outrage grew. Now those people who had condemned the rising, and many of those who had earlier spat on the Volunteers, condemned the executions. The public outrage was fanned by stories like that of William Pearse, who was executed because he was the brother of Patrick Pearse; and of Joseph Plunkett, who was shot minutes after marrying his girlfriend, Grace Gifford. Public outrage reached its peak with James Connolly’s execution. Though seriously wounded during the Rising, he was condemned to death. Suffering terrible pain from his wound and unable to stand, he was tied to a chair and shot.

  Outrage at the executions was not confined to Ireland. Worldwide attention was now focused on the country. In America, and even in Britain, the executions were condemned. Such was the outpouring of opposition, especially in Britain, that the government ordered a halt to further executions. The remaining condemned men, like the rest of the Volunteers, were sentenced to imprisonment instead. One of the leaders who escaped execution was Éamon de Valera. Later, he would play an important part in the history of Ireland. Roger Casement, however, was not so lucky. Tried and convicted of treason, he was hanged in Pentonville Prison in London in August.

  With the leaders dead and the Volunteers in prison, the Rising seemed to have been an utter failure. No one could have foreseen then that it would ignite a fire of such patriotism in Ireland that it would eventually lead to the country gaining her freedom six years later. Before that could happen, a great many other fires would burn and a great many more men would die. Most of those fires, and most of those deaths, would come from the actions of one man: Michael Collins.

  27

  Collins Plans War

  Regarded as the greatest Irishman of the twentieth century, Michael Collins was born at Woodfield, near Clonakilty, County Cork, on 16 October 1890. As a boy, he heard his father recount stories of ancient Ireland, and of its heroes of old like Fionn and the Fianna. This gave the young boy a fierce pride in Ireland and its history.

  At the national school at Lisavaird, he was influenced by the headmaster, Denis Lyons. Lyons, a fervent nationalist, told Michael stories about Ireland and its history. The Great Famine and the terrible suffering endured by the Irish people was still fresh in the minds of men like Lyons. Hearing these accounts of the Famine made Michael realise that Ireland would never prosper while under British rule.

  The local blacksmith, James Santry, also influenced Michael. He regularly visited Santry’s forge where he heard more stories of Ireland’s past and the injustices suffered by the people. During the Fenian rising, pikes had been made at the forge. O’Donovan Rossa, who had suffered hardship in English prisons and was regarded as a great Irish patriot, was born nearby. In him, Michael had a living hero to admire and he began to dream of one day fighting for Ireland’s freedom, just like his hero.

  At fifteen, Michael went to work in London where he met Sam Maguire, after whom the Sam Maguire Cup is named. Maguire, a Protestant from Dunmanway, County Cork, was a member of the IRB, and swore Collins into that organisation. Collins was also sworn into the Irish Volunteers by his boyhood friend, Sean Hurley. During the Easter Rising, Hurley, who raised the Irish flag at the GPO, was killed. His death had a profound effect on Collins, who was to lose many friends and colleagues in the coming years.

  In 1916, Collins, now a captain in the Volunteers, returned to Ireland to fight in the Easter Rising. He was appointed as assistant (aide de camp) to Joseph Plunkett, and was on the steps of the GPO when Pearse read the Proclamation. Following the surrender, Collins was sent to prison in England and later transferred to Fro
ngoch internment camp in Wales. It was here that the man who would direct Ireland’s War of Independence first began to show evidence of his extraordinary power, authority and leadership qualities. He organised protests against the conditions in the camp and also met men from all parts of the country who were in the IRB. These were the men who would stand by his side during the coming years of bloody struggle.

  Collins had witnessed the Easter Rising and saw why it had failed. Many of its leaders were romantics who wanted to be martyrs for Ireland. Collins knew that they had wished to make a blood sacrifice for their country, but wondered if it had been necessary. Later, he realised that their deaths achieved what the leaders had wanted. They had woken the Irish people from their apathy and shown them the injustice of British rule. Their sacrifice had paved the way for a new war. But Collins knew that Ireland would never win her freedom in open rebellion. When the time came to wage war against the might of the British Empire, it would have to be waged in a totally different way.

  Not everyone in Frongoch liked Collins. He was usually at the centre of any physical activity, and in wrestling, or sporting contests, used any means to win, even resorting to biting the ears of his opponents. Many of the men thought him arrogant, and this earned him the nickname ‘The Big Fellow’. It was to Collins’ credit that this nickname later became a term of respect.

  At Christmas 1916, the internees were released. Collins returned to Dublin and renewed his contacts with members of the IRB and joined its ruling council. With his fellow IRB member and friend Harry Boland and others, Collins began to plot a guerrilla war against the British. The aim was to achieve a 32-county Irish Republic.

  The IRB supported Griffith’s Sinn Féin party, which also sought an Irish Republic. Griffith, however, wished to achieve this by peaceful means. Sinn Féin put up candidates in elections and began to win seats held by members of the IPP. One of those candidates was Éamon de Valera, who was born in New York on 14 October 1882. His father was Spanish, while his mother was from Bruree, County Limerick. His father died when de Valera was two years old and his mother sent him to live with his Irish grandmother. He grew up with a love of Ireland, became a fervent nationalist and joined the Volunteers. He commanded the garrison at Boland’s Mill during the Easer Rising, the last group of Volunteers to surrender.

  After his surrender, he was court-martialled and sentenced to death. Because he was an American citizen, and America was Britain’s ally in the First World War, this sentence was commuted to life in prison. Under an amnesty for prisoners, he was released in 1917. In the same year he was elected as a Sinn Féin candidate in County Clare, and became president of the party.

  De Valera also became the leader of the Volunteers while Michael Collins became Director of Operations. Other IRB men were given prominent positions and soon IRB men held most of the important positions in the Volunteers. With the support of these men, Collins planned his war against the British army in Ireland. Volunteers around the country formed into small groups known as ‘flying columns’. These groups would not engage the British army in open battle. Instead they would strike suddenly and without warning, and then slip away until another opportunity to strike presented itself. This type of war, known as guerrilla war, if fought with the support of the local population, could be extremely effective, even against well-armed and highly trained soldiers. However, the ‘flying columns’ were poorly armed, but Collins obtained arms for them by every means possible. He suggested that once the conflict began, arms could be forcibly taken from police stations.

  Collins also realised that guerrillas alone could not win a war. He needed what the British already had and that was information obtained by spies. He recruited his own spies, some of whom worked in Dublin Castle and elsewhere within the British administration in Ireland. Railway workers, hotel staff, barmen, tradesmen, shop workers and workers in general were also recruited to pass on information, carry messages and smuggle arms. Collins also recruited G-men who were sympathetic to the cause of Irish freedom. The plan to fight a guerrilla war against the British was now in place. No shots had yet been fired, but that would soon change.

  28

  First Shots are Fired

  While Michael Collins had been planning his guerrilla war, the British authorities began to arrest members of the IRB and its supporters. Among those arrested was Thomas Ashe, a young, handsome Volunteer. He and his fellow prisoners were treated like common criminals, and went on hunger strike. The prisoners were force fed, and Ashe died as a result. His needless death angered the Irish people and gained support for Sinn Féin. Thousands attended Ashe’s funeral and Michael Collins gave a powerful and moving oration at the graveside.

  Further anger was aroused when the British tried to introduce conscription in Ireland in 1918. People marched against it and held rallies, creating an atmosphere of heightened tension. The Irish Parliamentary Party (IPP), which had nearly always supported British government policy, withdrew their MPs from parliament in protest. As a result, conscription was not enforced in Ireland.

  Collins himself was arrested in 1918, and imprisoned in Sligo Jail. When he was given bail he went on the run. From then on he was a hunted man. But instead of hiding away like a fugitive, he continued to go about openly in Dublin. He dressed in a suit and tie, and looked like a respectable businessman, not a fugitive on the run. At this time, the British did not have a good photograph of him and so the police and soldiers in Dublin didn’t know what he looked like. Whenever he was stopped at police checkpoints, he would jokingly inquire if they’d caught that Collins fellow yet.

  The British, worried about the support for Sinn Féin, sought to discredit the party. They put out a false rumour that its members were collaborating with Germany, Britain’s sworn enemy. The British used this false rumour as an excuse to arrest most of the prominent members, including Éamon de Valera. Collins had been tipped off by his spies about the British plot and was able to avoid arrest, as was Harry Boland.

  Collins and Boland were the most important leaders still at large. With no one to oppose them, they set about ensuring that their supporters took prominent positions within the IRB and Sinn Féin. In an election in December 1918, Sinn Féin took 73 of the 105 seats. Michael Collins was elected in Cork. The IPP took only eight seats, and played no further part in Irish politics. In the north, the Unionists were victorious, and became more determined than ever to remain part of Britain. More worrying still was that they had 100,000 armed men willing to fight for their beliefs. Alarmed by this, the British government promised them that when Home Rule was granted they could have their own state in Ulster separate from the rest of Ireland.

  Yet the majority of the people of Ireland had voted for Sinn Féin, whose aim was not Home Rule, but complete independence from Britain, and the creation of a 32-county Irish Republic. This was also the desire of most members of the IRB and the Volunteers. But it is unlikely if Collins believed that it was possible to achieve this right then, even if he defeated the British in his planned guerrilla war.

  Sinn Féin’s policy was that its elected members, now calling themselves Teachtaí Dála (TDs), should still not sit in the British parliament in London. As a result, Sinn Féin members refused to take their seats in Westminster. Instead, those who were still free met for the first time in the Mansion House in Dublin on 21 January 1919 and set up their own parliament, Dáil Éireann. Éamon de Valera, still in prison, was elected President of the Dáil, while Michael Collins became its Minister for Home Affairs.

  On the same day, Dan Breen, Seán Tracey and other Volunteers ambushed policemen who were guarding a wagon of gelignite at Soloheadbeg Quarry, County Tipperary. Two policemen were killed as the first shots were exchanged in a bloody conflict that was to become known as Ireland’s War of Independence.

  Many of the recently elected TDs were still in prison and Collins began to plan helping some of them escape. In this he was successful, none more so than in the escape of de Valera from Lincoln Jail in
England. Collins himself assisted in the escape, and de Valera made his getaway disguised as a woman. It was a great coup for Collins and the IRB, but they were soon disappointed when de Valera decided to go to America to seek support there and raise much needed funds.

  This was a double blow for Collins because de Valera insisted on taking Harry Boland with him. Collins, who had been elected Minister for Finance at a second Dáil meeting in April 1919, was now left alone to raise money for the new government. He had also to direct the guerrilla war while still being on the run and in constant danger of being captured by the British. If he were captured, he knew what his fate was likely to be: he would be beaten and tortured, and almost certainly shot. The British would make the excuse that he was shot ‘while trying to escape’.

  The greatest danger to himself and to his planned war came from spies and informers. Collins knew that these would have to be eliminated if he was to remain free and the war was to succeed. He needed men who would be willing to kill others in cold blood, and he handpicked a number of IRB men who were to become known as ‘the Squad’. They were ruthless killers, and were to strike fear into every spy, G-man and informer in Dublin.

  Collins faced strong opposition to this policy from some of his colleagues. One man who intensely disliked Collins and vehemently opposed him was Cathal Brugha. He had fought in the GPO in 1916 and was a fearless soldier. He was elected Minister for Defence in the Dáil, and so had responsibility for military action and the Volunteers. He was opposed to guerrilla warfare, believing, like de Valera, that you should fight your enemy in open battle. Brugha decided that the Volunteers should swear an oath of allegiance to the Dáil, and from then on they became known as the Irish Republican Army (IRA).