The Squad E-Book

T. Ryle Dwyer

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2005

Seitenzahl: 435

Beschreibung

In 1919, Michael Collins conceived of a scheme to knock out the eyes and ears of the British Administration at Dublin Castle by undermining and terrorising the police so that the British would react blindly and drive the Irish people to support of the Irish Republican Army. The Bureau of Military History interviewed those involved in this scheme in the early 1950s with the assurance that the material would not be published in their lifetimes. A few of the contributions were made available by the families of those involved, but the bulk of them have only recently been released. This is the first book to make use of those interviews. It makes fascinating, almost unique reading, because they contain first-hand descriptions in which men speak candidly of their involvement in killing selected people at close range. As a result it throws a considerable amount of new light on the activities of The Squad and the intelligence operations of Michael Collins.

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© T. Ryle Dwyer, 2005

ISBN: 9781856357487

Cover photo of revolver courtesy of Cork Public Museum.

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifcally permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

PREFACE

Michael Collins is frequently cited as the originator of modern urban terrorism. The British characterised his Squad as ‘the murder gang’ and had they knowingly captured members of the Squad, they would almost certainly have executed them. Many were stopped and even captured, but they were usually let go as they were not actually recognised as members of the Squad. They were saved by the great secrecy under which they operated, as were the spies, or moles, within the police force who worked for Collins and his intelligence organisation.

The Squad made a vital contribution to the War of Independence but it did not win it. For one thing, it was effectively disbanded before the Truce and, anyway, the struggle was not a conventional war; it was rarely much more than a police action. The British army was only used sparingly. The Squad’s major role was both in helping the Irish side and provoking the forces of the crown. Collins set out with a plan to eliminate the most effective British detectives and thus knock out the eyes and ears of the Dublin Castle regime in order to provoke the British to retaliate blindly. His confident belief was that they would retaliate against innocent Irish people and thereby drive the Irish people as a whole into the arms of the republicans. The genius of Collins was as an organiser and an administrator. The Squad systematically eliminated many of the most effective detectives, with the help of information provided by police spies, or moles, working within the crown’s police forces and intelligence services.

In view of the nature of their operation the Squad members and the moles worked undercover and most remained secretive about their activities. Many only spoke out in the early 1950s when the Bureau of Military History began interviewing veterans of the War of Independence with the assurance that the material would not be released in their lifetimes. As a result they could speak more freely and their statements now provide invaluable insights. Of course, the interviews, which were more than thirty years after the events, sometimes show just how much old men forget. But in the case of the Squad, the operations usually had several participants and the files provide not only first-hand accounts of the triggermen but also of those who were backing up the operation. These were more effective witnesses because, un like innocent bystanders, they would not have been surprised or shocked by the events. They were therefore in a position to ob serve more keenly.

One does not normally read or hear accounts of the participants in an actual assassination, but the witness statements of the Squad contain many first-hand accounts by the men who pulled the triggers to kill those considered the enemy. They provide in valuable historical insights into what was happening behind the scenes. They help to explain not only what happened but also, in many cases, why it happened, though historians must be careful because Michael Collins was an extremely secretive individual. In most instances he did explain his reasons. When he gave orders for somebody to be killed the Squad carried out such orders without question. The accounts by his various moles also provide insights into the reasons but in some instances Collins probably carried the secrets with him to his grave.

Having studied aspects of the War of Independence in depth for a number of other books, being afforded the opportunity to appreciate the ‘new’ details and recognise the first-hand confirmation of other information that was already in the public domain has been invaluable. Since such confirmation is of particular historical significance, I have concentrated in this book on the witness statements and have related the accounts as much as possible in the actual words of the men – or in some instances, the women – involved.

I would like to thank the staff of the National Library for their unfailing courtesy and the staff of Kerry County Library for their assistance.

TRD, Tralee, 2005

CHAPTER 1

‘I KNEW HE WAS THE MAN’

In January 1919, at the age of twenty-nine, Michael Collins took over as director of intelligence of the Irish Volunteers. It was in this area that he made his greatest mark. After almost ten years in exile in London he returned to Ireland when conscription was introduced by the British in January 1916. He took part in the Easter Rebellion, fighting in the General Post Office, and was interned subsequently in Frongoch.

While interned Collins showed a flair for smuggling messages in and out of the camp. He was recognised in the camp as a ‘conscriptible’, having only left England after the introduction of conscription earlier in the year. He was released when the camp was shut down just before Christmas 1916. Back in Ireland he played a major role in the reorganisation of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB). He also played a leading part in the election of Joseph McGuinness in the Longford by-election of April 1917. McGuinness and other recognised leaders of the movement were still in jail in England as a result of the Easter Rebellion when Collins came up with the idea of putting him up for election on a platform calling for the release of the prisoner: ‘Put him in to get him out,’ became the campaign slogan.

Éamon de Valera and the other leaders objected to the idea but Collins ignored their instructions and put McGuinness forward where he narrowly won the seat. As a result, the prisoners were released in June 1917, little over a year after many of them had been sentenced to death or had their sentences commuted to life in prison. Following the release of the prisoners de Valera won election to Westminster in an East Clare by-election, winning the seat vacated through the death of Willie Redmond, brother of the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party.

The disparate elements of the independence movement came together under the Sinn Féin banner in October 1917 and Collins was elected to the party executive. He was one of the dynamic young men in the movement but he had a tendency to rub many members the wrong way. His nickname, ‘the Big Fellow’, was a term of derision, born out of his apparent sense of self-importance, although it soon became a term of endearment. Sinn Féin lost the first three Irish by-elections that it contested in early 1918. In April 1918 the British government introduced legislation that would authorise it to introduce conscription in Ireland. The Irish Parliamentary Party walked out of Westminster in protest, which appeared to justify the refusal of Sinn Féin’s four MPs to take their seats. They were pledged to establish a national assembly in Ireland. Through de Valera’s influence the Irish Catholic hierarchy virtually sanctified the anti-conscription campaign.

Ned Broy, a confidential typist in his mid twenties at the detective division headquarters in Great Brunswick Street, Dublin, was from a farming family in Ballinure near Rathangan, County Kildare and had two great passions, a love of athletics and a hatred of the British empire. He was assigned to type up lists of Sinn Féin members who the crown police intended to round up for their republican activities. He gave a copy of the list to his cousin, Patrick Tracy, a clerk at Kingsbridge railway station. He did not know when the round up was to take place but he promised to warn Tracy in advance. Tracy passed on the complete list to Harry O’Hanrahan, a Sinn Féin sympathiser who ran a shop and whose brother, Michael, was one of the leaders executed following the Easter Rebellion.

On the day of the round up, Broy gave the further warning: ‘I met Tracy and told him,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s the night. Tell O’Han-rahan to tell the wanted men not to stay in their usual place of abode and to keep their heads.’ Detective Sergeant Joe Kavanagh of the DMP, passed on a similar warning to Thomas Gay, a librarian in the public library in Capel Street.

Broy was summoned to do telephone duty that night at Dublin Castle by Detective Superintendent Owen Brien, the deputy head of the detective division. ‘You will be much more comfortable here,’ Brien told him. Broy looked forward to what he thought was going to be one raiding party after another coming up empty-handed.

‘ To my astonishment, continual telephone messages arrived from the various police parties, saying that they had arrested the party they were sent for. A telephone message came from a detective sergeant at Harcourt Street railway station saying, “That man has just left”.’ That was de Valera who was returning to his home in Greystones.

‘That man will get the suck-in of his life!’ a smug Detective Superintendent Brien remarked. He immediately rang the RIC headquarters to say that de Valera was on his way home.

‘I did not know what to think of the whole raid and what had gone wrong, but I thought that de Valera would surely get out at some intermediate station and not go home all the way to Greystones to be arrested there,’ Broy noted. ‘ To my further astonishment, about an hour afterwards, a telephone message arrived from the RIC at Greystones to say: “That man has been arrested”.’

De Valera and the others had apparently allowed themselves to be taken in the belief that their arrest would help their cause. They were purportedly arrested for their part in a ‘German Plot’. Ever since being forewarned by American intelligence of plans for the Easter Rebellion, Admiral Sir William Reginald ‘Blinker’ Hall, the head of British naval intelligence, had been anxious for an excuse to suppress Irish nationalism. He had not tried to stop the rebellion because he believed it would afford an excuse to suppress this nationalism. He gained a great reputation for his handling of intelligence matters in the fight against Germany but exaggerated the significance of German efforts to enlist the support of Sinn Féin in 1918. ‘If he believed that the scrappy and inconclusive information which he held was definite proof of an actual plot then he was a fool,’ historian Eunan O’Halpin concluded. Hall clearly was no fool; he deliberately deceived his political masters into thinking that the Sinn Féin leaders were involved in some kind of plot with the Germans. While the war continued Hall had enormous influence, but this disappeared with the armistice and naval intelligence faded into the background. No credible evidence of any Sinn Féin involvement in the so-called ‘German Plot’ was ever produced, with the result that it had little credence in Ireland, where people concluded that Sinn Féin leaders were really arrested because of the success of their campaign against conscription. A few weeks later, Arthur Griffith, one of the founders of Sinn Fein, won a by-election from prison. This was a deadly blow to the Irish Parliamentary Party, which was now essentially moribund. After three successive defeats, Sinn Féin was on the move again.

Collins had managed to avoid arrest and this left him in an even stronger position to exert his influence over the movement in the following months. ‘The Sinn Féiners boasted that their most important man had escaped arrest,’ Detective Superintendent Brien remarked to Broy a few days later.

Opposition to conscription was so strong that the British did not dare to introduce it in Ireland and Sinn Féin got the credit.

With de Valera and the other recognised leaders in jail, Collins and colleagues like Harry Boland extended their influence. They selected many of the candidates to stand for Sinn Féin in the snap general election called following the end of the Great War. Sinn Féin stood on a platform promising to abstain from Westminster and to establish a national parliament in Ireland that would seek international recognition at the post-war peace conference. The democracies had supposedly fought for the rights of small nations and Sinn Féin was determined to call their bluff. The party won 73 of the 105 seats and that included all but one of the contested seats outside the six counties of the northeast, where the Unionist Party was strongest.

Collins had been functioning as adjutant general and director of organisation of the Irish Volunteers, who were soon to become known as the Irish Republican Army (IRA). In January 1919 he took over as director of intelligence from Eamonn Duggan, who had merely run intelligence as an adjunct of his legal practice and had only one man working for him.

Collins set up a far-reaching network, incorporating intelligence gathering, counter intelligence and matters relating to prison escapes and smuggling (both arms and people). He was the brain behind the whole network and his industry was phenomenal. He retained personal control over work similar to that done by three different intelligence agencies in Britain: MI5, MI6 and MI9.

An intelligence office was set up over the print shop of J. F. Fowler at 3 Crow Street which was just off Dame Street and right under the nose of Dublin Castle. Collins generally stayed away from that office. Joe O’Reilly acted as his main courier to the office and everyone in it. Members of the staff were supposedly ‘manufacturing agents’, but they spent much of their time in the office decoding intercepted messages.

Liam Tobin, another Cork man, was in charge of the intelligence headquarters in Crow Street. He was an inconspicuous individual, tall and gaunt, with a tragic expression. He walked without moving his arms, which made him seem quite listless, in marked contrast with Collins who bounded from place to place. Tobin’s deputy was Tom Cullen, an affable, quick-witted individual from Wicklow who had fought in the Easter Rebellion. He was not only intelligent but also a good athlete and a handsome young man with a fresh complexion and sparkling eyes. Frank Thornton was next in the chain of command at the headquarters, along with Frank Saurin, who stood out as one of the best-dressed men in the movement. He turned out in an impeccable suit and often wore lavender gloves. Some of the British made the mistake of assuming he looked too respectable to be a rebel, with the result that his sense of dress often amounted to a pass allowing him to saunter through enemy cordons.

The developing staff of intelligence officers included people like Joe Guilfoyle, a veteran of Frongoch, and Joe Dolan, who wore a British army badge in his lapel with a red, white and blue ribbon. The badge, which was inscribed ‘For King & Country’, frequently allowed him to get out of sticky situations as the British assumed that he was a loyalist. Charlie Byrne, another of the new men, was called ‘the Count’ by colleagues, because of his appearance and his sense of humour. They were joined by Paddy Kennedy from Tipperary, Ned Kelliher and Charlie Dalton, Dan McDonnell from Dublin and Peter McGee.

Each company of the Volunteers had its own intelligence officer (IO) and they reported to a brigade IO, who, in turn, reported to the intelligence headquarters under Tobin. Each IO was encouraged to enlist agents in all walks of life, but especially people in prominent positions who boasted of their British connections. ‘It is amazing the number of this type of people who, when it was put to them, eventually agreed to work for us and did tremendous work for us afterwards, whilst at the same time keeping their connection with the British forces,’ Thornton noted.

Intelligence was divided into two areas. First there was the gathering of information on the movement of British forces, and second, information on the activity of British agents, whether they were members of the special intelligence service, military intelligence, or members of the various police intelligence units.

‘I was given the daily papers to look through,’ Charlie Dalton wrote of his first day on the job. ‘I was told to cut out any paragraphs referring to the personnel of the Royal Irish Constabulary, or military, such as transfers, their movement socially, attendance at wedding receptions, garden parties, etc. These I pasted on cards, which were sent to the director of intelligence for his perusal and instructions. Photographs and other data, which were or might be of interest were cut out and put away. We often gathered useful information of the movements of important enemy personages in this manner. We also traced them by a study of Who’s Who, from which we learned the names of their connections and clubs. By intercepting their correspondence we were able to get a clue to their movements outside their strongholds.’

Each of the intelligence officers had an area. ‘Mine covered hotels, restaurants, sports meetings and such other places where the auxiliaries and British secret service agents foregathered – Jammets, The Wicklow, The Shelbourne, Fullers, The Moira, The Central, etc.,’ Frank Saurin noted. ‘We had contacts in these hotels and restaurants, who passed on any information concerning enemy agents that might be of use to us. Through our agents I was enabled to get to know by sign a number of enemy personnel – the object being their extermination if and when the opportunity offered.’ He also handled one of the most important Irish agents, Lily Mernin, a young woman typist working in the British army command headquarters under Colonel Hill Dillon, the chief intelligence officer in Ireland. Mernin suggested other typists who were willing to provide information from their perspectives working with different military staffs around Dublin. She was the ‘one to whom a large amount of the credit for the success of intelligence must go’, according to Thornton.

‘One of the earliest jobs given to GHQ intelligence at Dublin was to ascertain the possibilities of getting at least one individual in every government department who was prepared to work quietly and secretly for our Army,’ Thornton recalled. ‘We were fairly lucky in having one individual who was working with us from the very commencement in records, who secured for us photographs and the names and addresses and history of practically all the typists and all the clerical workers in the most important departments of the enemy. These photographs and descriptions were handed out to the various intelligence officers throughout the areas in which these people lived and in a very short space of time we had a complete and full history of the sympathies and activities of each and every one of these individuals, resulting in quite a number of them, when contacted, agreeing to work for us inside the enemy lines.’

Others worked in the sorting office of the General Post Office or the telephone exchange, and Collins had a number of men who were serving as warders in Mountjoy Jail. They facilitated some of the early escapes, which played a significant part in boosting republican morale. ‘There were four warders in Mountjoy who were most helpful and sympathetic to us at the time,’ Paddy O’Daly recalled. ‘Frawley was one, Daly was another and I am almost certain that Breslin and Berry were the names of the other two.’

Patrick Joseph Berry, a Kilkenny native in his thirties, was a plumber and a warder on the staff in the jail from 1906. It was he who got out word to Liam Tobin’s family that Liam was about to be deported to England so that they would be able to come and see him off. Presumably as a result of this incident Tobin informed the Big Fellow about Berry, and Collins approached him. ‘I was more or less their intelligence officer in the prison,’ Berry explained. ‘I was with Collins day and night carrying dispatches from and to prisoners. These were written dispatches. In spite of the fact that the prison authorities must have been aware of my sympathies following the Ashe Inquiry,* no attempt was ever made to search me. Of course I was pretty diplomatic and made no profession of my sympathies.’

In much the same way contacts were made within the police, as Collins set about demoralising the police forces in Ireland. At the time there were two separate police forces – the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) and the Dublin Metropolitan Police (DMP). The latter, which functioned only in the Dublin area, was divided into seven divisions, lettered A through G. Divisions A, B, C and D were uniformed police dealing with different sections of the city, while E and F dealt with the remainder of County Dublin, and G was an overall division of plain clothes detectives.

G Division was modelled on the London Metropolitan Police. It was divided into three sections dealing with routine crime, political crime and carriage supervision. The total strength was between forty and fifty active detectives, under a commissioner, superintendent and a chief inspector. There were five detective inspectors, fifteen detective sergeants, fifteen detective officers and ten detective constables. Most of the men were based at the division’s headquarters at No. 1 Great Brunswick Street, but the commissioner, Colonel Walter Edgeworth-Johnson, and Detective Superintendent Owen Brien spent most of their time at Dublin Castle, where the headquarters of the RIC was located.

The members of the intelligence staff were essentially aides of Collins. Their initial task was to gather as much information as possible about the police, especially G Division. Information such as where they lived, and the names of members of their families would prove invaluable to Collins in the coming months. His agents were a whole range of people, with no one too humble to be of use.

‘We compiled a list of friendly persons in the public service, railways, mail boats, and hotels,’ Dalton explained. ‘I was sent constantly to interview stewards, reporters, waiters, and hotel porters to verify the movements of enemy agents.’

Maids in guesthouses and hotels, porters, bartenders, sailors, railwaymen, postmen, sorters, telephone and telegraph operators, warders and ordinary policemen all played an important part. Certain sorters and postmen intercepted mail for British agents undercover, and Collin and his men had mail sent to them under cover-names at convenient addresses. The Big Fellow had the splendid ability of making each of the people helping feel important, even though he rarely, if ever, thanked them for what they were doing.

‘Why should I thank people for doing their part?’ he would ask. ‘Isn’t Ireland their country as well as mine?’

Central to the success of intelligence gathering was the network of police spies. After Collins took over as director of intelligence in January 1919, one of his first moves was to make contact with Ned Broy, who had provided the information to allow him to avoid arrest in the round-up of May 1918. He had Broy invited to meet with him at 5 Cabra Road, Michael Foley’s home.

‘I was filled with curiosity,’ Broy recalled. ‘Would this Michael Collins be the ideal man I had been dreaming of for a couple of years? Looking up the police record book to see what was known about him, I discovered that he was a six-footer, a Cork man, very intelligent, young and powerful. There was no photograph of him at that time in the record book.’

‘Steeped in curiosity, I went to 5 Cabra Road and was received in the kitchen by Foley.’ This was ‘a place where every extreme nationalist visited at some time or another,’ Broy continued. ‘I was not there long when Greg Murphy and Michael Collins arrived. I had studied for so long the type of man that I would need to act efficiently, that the moment I saw Michael at the door, before he had time to walk across and shake hands, I knew he was the man.’

Collins was dressed in black leggings, green breeches and a trench coat. He struck Broy as being a handsome man, with a quick mind and bundles of energy. He thanked Broy for all the information he had been furnishing and said he felt that the time had come for them to meet, and said there would be no further failure to make proper use of his information. ‘We discussed what the Volunteers could do,’ Broy added. ‘If they did not resort to violence, the movement would collapse, and, if they resorted to violence, there were extreme risks also.’ Collins explained that he and his good friend Harry Boland had called on Tim Healy, who had been one of the most prominent politicians going back to the Parnell period of the previous century.

‘You are all stark mad,’ Healy had told them. He had said that they did not have a chance of succeeding by violence, but he agreed that they were unlikely to get anywhere by constitutional means either.

‘I agreed entirely with Michael Collins that force was the only chance, however difficult and dangerous,’ Broy recalled. ‘I explained to him the police organisation and suggested that as the DMP uniformed service took no part whatsoever in anti-Sinn Féin activities – as unlike the RIC they did not do political duty – they should not be alienated by attacks on them. The majority, at least of the younger men, were anti-British, and had many relatives in the Volunteers.’ He added that they had a more liberal outlook than the RIC and were not under as much close supervision as the unmarried men among them lived in barracks scattered throughout the city. ‘The result was,’ Broy said, ‘that they freely exchanged their opinions in the mess halls about home rule, the Ulster resistance, the Curragh mutiny, etc., and there was no authority to prevent them expressing their opinions. I tried to make the difference clear to Mick and he, as usual, was quick enough to grasp the point instantly.’

Morale was low within the force. Even though the majority of the police were Irish Catholics, their prospects of advancement seemed limited as religious and racial discrimination were rife within the police forces. Preferment was given to Protestants and just about anyone other than a Catholic. As a result the rank and file tended to regard the district and county inspectors of the RIC as social climbers and status seekers, rather than committed policemen. It was the same in the DMP, where the men considered their senior officers more ornamental than operational. A double-barrelled name seemed to be an advantage, along with membership of the Masons and Kildare Street Club. To make matters worse the top echelons were reserved for retired army officers.

‘We discussed the psychology of the RIC and how it came about that when an ordinary decent young Irishman joined the RIC depot, that within about two months there was an unaccountably complete change in his outlook, and he was never the same afterwards to friends,’ Broy continued. Collins said that his friend, Batt O’Connor, from Kerry, had observed the same phenomenon among some young Kerry men who had joined the RIC.

Broy recalled mentioning to Collins the danger posed by the policemen stationed in villages who could easily gather intelligence to arrest local volunteers. ‘They were a menace to Volunteers going to such an isolated area. We agreed that ruthless war should be made on the small stations, attack the barracks if the police were in them, and burning them down where they had been evacuated. The RIC would then be compelled to concentrate on the large towns and attempt to patrol the vacated areas from these distant centres. Such concentration would cause the police to lose their grip, psychologically and otherwise, and the inhabitants of the vacated areas, because the police, who returned from a distance to patrol the area, would be in no better position than the British military.’

Broy advocated the Volunteers adopt a twin psychological approach of trying to convince members of the RIC and DMP that, even if they were not prepared to assist the Volunteers in the coming struggle to secure Irish independence, they should not hinder those efforts, at least. At the same time Broy advocated that efforts should be made to persuade the families of the police to convince their police relatives that they would be a disgrace if they hindered the Volunteers. In addition, he said they should try to make contact with policemen in clerical positions, like Broy, who could furnish information to the Volunteers.

After all those efforts he said that ‘a ruthless war’ should be waged on those police who persisted in resisting the independence struggle. ‘A s regards the DMP,’ Broy argued, ‘no attack should be made on the uniformed service, and no attack should be made on the members of the G Division who were not on political duty and active on that duty. In this way, the DMP would come to realise that, as long as they did not display zeal against the Volunteers, they were perfectly safe from attack. In the case of any G man who remained hostile, a warning was to be given to him, such as tying him to a railing, before any attack was made on him.’

Notes

* This referred to the inquiry into the death of Thomas Ashe on hungerstrike following a forced feeding in September 1917.

CHAPTER 2

‘ONLY THE BEGINNING’

On 7 January 1919 twenty-four of the Sinn Féin candidates elected to the British parliament met to consider their next move, Collins among them. They took an oath ‘to work for the establishment of an independent Irish Republic’ and discussed arrangements for setting up their own national assembly in Ireland, Dáil Éireann, a fortnight later. Collins was opposed to setting up the dáil while so many of those elected to the British parliament were in jail.

On 21 January, the day the dáil was founded, two members of the Royal Irish Constabulary were shot dead at Soloheadbeg, County Tipperary. Although this event is usually seen as the start of the War of Independence, the killings did not in fact have the sanction of the leadership of the independence movement at the time. The leaders in Dublin were furious because Seán Treacy, Dan Breen and their colleagues had acted without authority and had upstaged the establishment of the dáil. The big news story the next day was not the establishment of the dáil but the murders of Constables James McDonnell, a native of Belmullet, County Mayo, and Patrick O’Connell from Clonmoyle near Coachford, County Cork. Dan Breen later wrote that his ‘only regret’ was that there were only two policemen to kill that day. ‘Six would have created a bigger impression than a mere two,’ he explained.

McDonnell was a widower with four or five children. ‘We must show our abhorrence of this inhuman act,’ parish priest Monsignor Ryan told the congregation in St Michael’s church in Tipperary. ‘We must denounce it and the cowardly miscreants who are guilty of it – aye, and all who try to excuse or justify it.’

‘It used to be said “Where Tipperary leads, Ireland follows”,’he continued. ‘God help poor Ireland if she follows this lead of blood! But let us give her the lead in our indignant denunciation of this crime against our Catholic civilisation, against Ireland, against Tipperary.’

Dick Mulcahy looked on the wild, undisciplined approach to matters of Breen and the Soloheadbeg gang, especially their unauthorised killing of the two policemen, as a kind of nuisance. The volunteers in Dublin did not welcome them and ‘the only place in which they could find association and some kind of scope for their activities was on the fringe of Collins’ intelligence activity work,’ according to Mulcahy.

‘It would be incorrect to say in the years before 1916 the RIC were unpopular,’ wrote Seán Moylan, one of the heroes of the War of Independence. ‘They were of the people, were inter-married among the people; they were generally men of exemplary lives, and of a high level of intelligence.’ Many of the younger RIC men resigned in the following years, but the older men felt unable to do so because of their pensions. ‘It was a providential thing for the country that these older men remained at their posts,’ Moylan added. ‘They were a moderating influence that kept within some bounds the irresponsibilities and criminalities of the Black and Tans [the police reinforcements hastily recruited in Britain].’

When those involved in the Soloheadbeg ambush moved to Dublin ‘in search of bigger game’, in the words of Breen, Collins welcomed them, but other leading members of the movement, such as Dick Mulcahy, the IRA chief-of-staff, virtually shunned them over their upstaging of the establishment of the dáil. Some did wonder whether Collins had been behind the Soloheadbeg ambush, but he had not even been in the country at the time. He was listed as present at the meeting of the first dáil but in fact he was in England personally supervising the final arrangements for springing de Valera, along with Seán McGarry, who was a leading member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB), and Seán Milroy, from Lincoln Jail.

The prisoners had managed to send out a drawing of a master key on a postcard. This found its way to Paddy O’Donoghue, a Kil-larney man based in Manchester. ‘I crossed to Dublin that evening and contacted Martin Conlan, who, in turn, made an appointment with Michael Collins. I saw Collins that night in Mrs McGarry’s house and I showed him the postcard,’ O’Donoghue recall ed. ‘A key was then made from the dimensions given on the postcard by Gerry Boland. Mrs McGarry baked this key in a cake. I took this key with me to England enclosed in the cake and had it sent in to the prison as a gift to the prisoners, but it did not work.’

A suitable blank key together with a file was also sent into the prison to allow the prisoners to fashion a key themselves. When this was ready Collins went to England to supervise the final arrangements personally. ‘I accompanied him to the vicinity of the prison,’ O’Donoghue recalled. ‘We walked round the precincts and had a good look at the escape gate selected, and Collins was quite satisfied with everything he saw. Before Collins [went] back to Dublin, I was working out plans for the escape, such as the hiring of taxis and the position they would take up, and where the prisoners would be taken to following the escape. Collins was satisfied and returned to Dublin to await the selection of the night of 3 February for the escape attempt.’

‘A few days before the date fixed for the escape Harry Boland and Michael Collins and Fintan Murphy came over from Dublin,’ O’Donoghue continued. ‘I was not married then and I had a house to myself. As the Manager of Beecham’s Opera Company was a friend of mine we went to an opera on the night before the proposed escape. After the opera we were invited to supper by Sir Thomas Beecham in the Midland hotel. We were all naturally in very good form. I introduced Collins and Boland to Sir Thomas Beecham under their proper names and he expressed his delight at meeting prominent people interested in the Irish Independence movement.

‘On Saturday afternoon the four of us – Collins, Boland, Murphy and myself went to Lincoln. We left Fintan Murphy at Worksop with instructions to have a car at his disposal about the time we would arrive there. Petrol restrictions were very severe at the time and we could not extend beyond Worksop on the first stage. Leaving Murphy behind, the three of us went to Lincoln and I engaged a car there. I had used the driver of this car on several occasions before and had become very friendly with him. I instructed the driver to remain with his car at a certain hotel on the verge of the town. I stayed with the driver and Collins and Boland left me and went to the gates of the gaol which was about a quarter of a mile distant.’

The two men approached the jail from a nearby field and gave a prearranged signal with a flashlight indicating everything was ready. Milroy responded from the jail by setting light to a whole box of matches at his cell window.

Collins tried to open a side gate with a key he had made, but it jammed. With characteristic impetuosity, he tried to force it, only to have the head of the key snap off in the lock. By this time he could hear de Valera and the others approach the other side of the gate.

‘Dev,’ he exclaimed, ‘the key’s broken in the lock!’

De Valera managed to knock the broken piece out with his own key and the three prisoners then emerged to the immense relief of those outside. Collins gave de Valera a jubilant thump of the shoulder, and they all made for the taxis. By the time they arrived at the hotel with the three prisoners the whole thing had taken less than half an hour. Collins and Boland left at that point to take a train to London.

‘The three prisoners and myself got into the car and went along to Worksop,’ O’Donoghue took up the story. ‘I dismissed my driver and we walked a couple of hundred yards to the point where Fintan Murphy had his car. We got into the car and drove to Sheffield. When passing near the railway station at Worksop the driver started gibbering about going further because he would be disobeying petrol regulations and suggested we should take the Sheffield train which was in at the station at the time. I tactfully explained to him that the train would not suit us as we had a call to make en route. So the driver accepted the position and continued his journey with us.’

In Sheffield, Liam McMahon was waiting with a friend’s car at a nearby hotel. O’Donoghue escorted de Valera to the Manchester home of a Fr O’Mahony from Tralee. He was chaplain at the workhouse in Crumpsall and de Valera stayed with him for several days until word was received from Detective Sergeant Thomas Walsh of the Manchester police that ‘it was dangerous to leave de Valera any longer at the priest’s residence, as the police suspected he was staying there,’ according to McMahon.

Disguised in a colonial uniform, de Valera was taken from Crumpsall to Victoria Park to the home of an Irish woman, Mary Healy. By then, McGarry and Milroy had made it to Liverpool by mixing with the Irish crowds going home after the Waterloo Cup. McGarry dressed as a bookmaker and was provided with a bookie bag for the occasion, while Milroy dressed as a strolling musician and dyed his grey hair brown. He carried a violin in a case to boost his disguise.

De Valera had planned to go to the United States but Collins sent for Liam McMahon and asked him to return to Manchester to get de Valera to come to Dublin first. He said that differences had developed within the party in Dublin. ‘The only one who could reconcile the difference would be de Valera. He gave me a letter which I was to deliver to him,’ McMahon noted.

McMahon crossed to Manchester that night and met de Valera the following morning. ‘I told him the object of my visit, and handed him the letter,’ McMahon continued.

‘My own idea is that I should be allowed to go to America, where I could come out in the open,’ de Valera replied, ‘but if they want me at home, my own ideas do not matter … When am I to go?’

‘ Today ,’ McMahon replied.

Neal Kerr and Steve Lanigan made arrangements for de Valera to cross that night from Liverpool to Dublin.

Collins had been hoping that de Valera would lead a military confrontation with the British. ‘As for us on the outside,’ Collins wrote to Austin Stack on 6 February, ‘all ordinary peaceful means are ended and we shall be taking the only alternative actions in a short while now.’ But de Valera believed Ireland’s best chance of success still lay in enlisting American help in view of President Woodrow Wilson’s eloquent pronouncements. Collins tried un successfully to dissuade him. ‘You know what it is to argue with Dev,’ he complained to a friend. ‘He says he thought it out while in prison, and he feels that the one place where he can be useful to Ireland is in America.’ Although some people were already saying the American president would not look for justice for Ireland, de Valera called for patience. ‘Pronounce no opinion on President Wilson,’ he advised. ‘It is premature, for he and his friends will bear our country in mind at the crucial hour.’

De Valera was spirited back to Britain to await a ship to the United States.

Meanwhile Collins was active in assisting the escape of others, especially Robert Barton, from Mountjoy. The two had developed a close relationship. In December 1918 they had been part of an Irish delegation, along with Seán T. O’Kelly and George Gavan Duffy, which had tried to meet the American president, Woodrow Wilson, to make the Irish case for independence. ‘We went over to London and tried to get in touch with Wilson,’ Barton recalled. ‘We never got any nearer to him than a second secretary in the American embassy. We had no success at all.’

Collins was so annoyed he suggested kidnapping the American president to make him listen. ‘If necessary,’ he said, ‘we can buccaneer him.’ Fortunately nobody took the suggestion too seriously, but the proposal provided an insight into why some colleagues thought Collins was sometimes inclined to allow his enthusiasm to get the better of his judgment.

‘I was on very friendly terms with Michael Collins and we used to see one another almost every evening,’ Barton recalled. ‘Collins had an office under Cullenswood House, which was known to us as the “Republican Hut”. Here he was relatively safe and Tom Cullen and Joe O’Reilly could always find him at 9 p.m. and bring persons he wanted to see. Cullenswood House was in the street where I was living and, if I did not turn up, he often sent down for me. I used to hear from him all that was going on. We discussed things in general and he used to urge me to join cabinet meetings to support his point of view.’

Soon after his incarceration in Mountjoy Barton managed to re-establish contact with the Big Fellow. ‘Through friendly warders I got in touch with Michael Collins,’ he explained. ‘Joe Berry, a plumber warder, was one of them. I devised the means of escape. If I had a saw with which to cut one of the bars, I could get out of my cell, they could throw over a rope ladder, and I could climb up the ladder over the wall and get away.’

Collins arranged for Dick Mulcahy, the IRA chief-of-staff, to visit Barton in the jail. He went in posing as a clerk to Barton’s solicitor. ‘These two came to interview me about my pending court martial and they brought me the tools I was asking for. While the warder was not looking, Dick Mulcahy pushed the tools towards me and I hid them in my riding breeches. I was not in prison garb. With the saw, I cut out the bar.’

On the night of 16 March Barton rigged up a dummy in his bed so that when the warder checked during the night he would think Barton was still in bed. He threw a bar of soap over the wall at a certain spot, which was a prearranged signal for volunteers, led by Rory O’Connor, to throw a rope over the wall with a weight attached. By pulling on the rope Barton was able to pull over a rope ladder attached and use it to scale the twenty foot wall and then jump into a blanket being held by the volunteers. ‘Mick Collins was in a street nearby waiting to congratulate me,’ Barton added.

‘This is only the beginning,’ a jubilant Collins declared at Batt O’Connor’s home at 1 Brendan Road, Donnybrook, that night. ‘We’re going to get Beaslaí and Fleming out next.’

‘At this time,’ Beaslaí noted in his biography of Collins, ‘he was sending letters to me continually in which he discussed plans of escape.’ He had big escape plans, but then de Valera, who had re turned to Britain en route to the United States, decided to return to Ireland again. Pierce McCan, one of the prisoners arrested in the ‘German Plot’ round-up the previous May, had died of the deadly Spanish Influenza and the British had decided to free all of those being held in connection with the ‘German Plot’. De Valera was therefore free to return to Ireland without being apprehended. His impending return was announced with the following statement to the press:

President de Valera will arrive in Ireland on Wednesday evening next, the 26th inst., and the Executive of Dáil Éireann will offer him a national welcome. It is expected that the homecoming of de Valera will be an occasion of national rejoicing, and full arrangement will be made for marshalling the procession. The Lord Major of Dublin will receive him at the gates of the city, and will escort him to the Mansion House, where he will deliver a message to the Irish people. All organisations and bands wishing to participate in the demonstration should apply to 6 Harcourt Street, on Monday the 24th inst., up to 6 p.m.

H. Boland

T. Kelly,

Honorary Secretaries.

Such arrangements were usually reserved for royalty, so Dublin Castle banned the reception. The Sinn Féin executive held an emergency meeting. Arthur Griffith presided at what was for him and Darrell Figgis the first meeting since their arrest the previous M a y . Cathal Brugha had complained privately to Figgis some days earlier that Collins and his IRB colleagues had essentially taken over the movement from within while the others were in jail. ‘He told me that he had seen what had been passing, but that he had been powerless to change events,’ Figgis wrote. ‘It was at this meeting I saw for the first time the personal hostility between him and Michael Collins.’

When the executive met to discuss what to do about Dublin Castle’s ban on the planned reception, Figgis asked to see the record of the executive meeting authorising the honorary secretaries to announce the plans to welcome de Valera. He was told that the issue had never come up. ‘I therefore asked Alderman T o m Kelly on what authority he, as one of the signatories, had attached his name as secretary, and he answered with characteristic bluntness that, in point of fact, he had never seen the an nouncement, and had not known of it, till he read it in the press.’

There followed a ‘tangled discussion’ before Collins rose. ‘Characteristically, he swept aside all pretences, and said that the announcement had been written by him, and that the decision to make it had been made, not by Sinn Féin, though declared in its name, but by “the proper body, the Irish Volunteers”,’ Figgis wrote. ‘He spoke with much vehemence and emphasis, saying that the sooner fighting was forced and a general state of disorder created through the country (his words in this connection are too well printed on my memory ever to be forgotten), the better it would be for the country. Ireland was likely to get more out of a state of general disorder than from a continuance of the situation as it then stood. The proper people to take decisions of that kind were ready to face the British military, and were resolved to force the issue. And they were not to be deterred by weaklings and cowards. For himself he accepted full responsibility for the announcement, and he told the meeting with forceful candour that he held them in no opinion at all, that, in fact, they were only summoned to confirm what the proper people had decided.

‘He had always a truculent manner, but in such situations he was certainly candour itself,’ Figgis continued. ‘A s I looked on him while he spoke, for all the hostility between us, I found something refreshing and admirable in his contempt of us all. His brow was gathered in a thunderous frown, and his chin trust forward, while he emphasised his points on the back of a chair with heavy strokes of his hand.’

Although Figgis may have been impressed at the way that Collins had ‘manipulated’ the organisation, Arthur Griffith was certainly not. He had no intention of meekly succumbing to such an arrogant display. Tapping the table in front of him with a pencil, Griffith emphasised that the decision was one to be taken by the meeting, and by no other body.

‘For two hours the debate raged fiercely,’ according to Figgis. Going ahead with the announced plans would undoubtedly lead to trouble, while abandoning them could have disastrous implications for the morale of the whole movement. Parallels were drawn with the disastrous consequences of Daniel O’Connell’s decision to accede to the British decision to ban the monster meeting at Clontarf some seventy years earlier.

De Valera was consulted and he duly requested that the welcoming demonstrations be cancelled rather than risk a confrontation in which lives might be lost. ‘I write to request that you will not now persist in your idea,’ he explained. ‘I think you must all agree with me that the present occasion is scarcely one on which we would be justified in risking the lives of the citizens. I am certain it would not.

‘We who have waited, know how to wait,’ he advised the executive. ‘Many a heavy fish is caught even with a fine line if the angler is patient.’

Thus Big Fellow’s plans to provoke an early confrontation with the British were frustrated and he was obviously disappointed. ‘It is very bad,’ he wrote to Stack. ‘The chief actor was very firm on the withdrawal, as indeed was Cathal. I used my influence the other way, and was in a practical minority of one. It may be that all arguments were sound, but it seems to me that they have put up a challenge which strikes at the fundamentals of our policy and our attitude.’

Whatever harm Collins had done to his own standing by his arrogant display at the party’s executive meeting it was more than offset by the mass escape from Mountjoy Jail on Saturday afternoon, 29 March. The plan was to spring Piaras Beaslaí, J. J. Walsh, Paddy Fleming, and Thomas Malone. Paddy O’Daly was involved in the escape plans from the inside, though he had no intention of trying to escape himself. His wife was dying in a Dublin hospice and he had only been sentenced to six months in jail. If he escaped and went on the run, he would not be able to visit his wife. In the circumstances the prison authorities accorded him parole to visit his wife, and he used this to contact republican leaders on the outside, including the chief-of-staff of the Volunteers, Richard Mulcahy, and Peadar Clancy who was in charge of those designated to help the escape from the outside.

They selected a Saturday afternoon because they had more freedom then than on any other afternoon, as there were fewer warders on duty than on other days. ‘I had a feeling that there was something in the air,’ Joe Berry noted. ‘I had been carrying dispatches between them and Michael Collins and one heard bits of conversation.

‘I used to meet Liam Tobin, Tom Cullen, Frank Thornton, Mulcahy and others who spoke openly to me,’ he added. ‘But there was no actual statement to me by either Collins or the prisoners of the proposed escape.’

‘All the criminal sections of the prison were locked up from dinner-time, and we had the grounds to ourselves, with only one or two warders,’ O’Daly explained. ‘We were supposed to be good boys then and were not causing any trouble.’