Chapter IX: Part 9

It used to be no uncommon sight in Dublin to see a tram-car held up by Auxiliaries and searched with no result. Before the Auxiliaries had boarded the tram, the gunmen would openly pass their pistols to girls sitting beside them. Any one giving information would never have left that tram alive, nor would it have done any good, as the Auxiliaries were powerless (until near the end of the war) to search women.

As regards transport, they had only to take it where, when, and how they liked—motors, motor bicycles, lorries, and push-bicycles by the thousand in every part of the country. Think how different the result might have been if the Government had taken up all this transport and reduced the I.R.A. to their flat feet. And, of course, they used the trains freely, and without payment, both to carry arms and men.

Young girls, especially if pretty, make far the most dangerous spies in the world; and though they have always been used during a war on a small scale by every country, yet this is probably the first occasion on which a nation has conscripted girls of from twelve to twenty-five years wholesale for this vicious and contaminating work.

Even little children were taught the art of eavesdropping, and, of course, if they did not hear every word, readily filled in the blanks from their imagination. Many a man in Ireland during the last two years has lost his life through the medium of a little child. The Markievicz woman ought to appear on the Day of Judgment with the record millstone round her neck.

Despatches were carried in dozens of ways—boys on bicycles, men on motor bicycles, who also acted as scouts for ambushes, in the sample cases of bagmen (a common method also at one time of sending arms and ammunition about the country), by the post, and by railway guards—in fact, by every method which came to hand.

The I.R.A. obtained much valuable information through opening letters in the post, but their really important and often vital information came to them through a bad leakage in the Castle.

Any shortage of recruits was quickly made good by a drastic form of the old pressgang. An unwilling recruit would be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, placed against a wall, and given a minute to decide for King George or the Irish Republic. King George meant a bullet in the brain, probably a dum-dum of the worst description; the Irish Republic meant active service with a flying column at some near future date.

Money was obtained in just as simple a way. A levy of, say, a pound a cow or a pound a beast would be laid on a district. A farmer had six cows or one horse, two asses, and three head of cattle. In either case he would pay £6 to the funds of the I.R.A. Any arguing there was would be solely on the side of the collector, who would have the butt-end of a large pistol protruding from his pocket. Such a simple and effective method of collecting a tax! No troublesome forms of beastly red tape, and no large staff of fat and lazy clerks to pay! Just a truculent-looking blackguard with a very large pistol, not necessarily loaded, and the money pours in. Cases of non-payment of this form of taxation have never been heard of, nor is there any means of dodging it. Cattle are not easy to hide.

Rations were obtained by the simple process of requisition. In some cases they used to go through the farce of giving a receipt for the stolen goods in the name of the I.R.A.!

With the police unable to function, banks and post-offices offered an easy prey to these ruffians. The meanest form of robbery was the taking of money to pay old-age pensions from mail-cars on their way to outlying districts.

A special murder gang was formed, which went about the country to murder any man—policeman, R.M., or civilian—who was particularly active in trying or helping to restore law and order in the country—that is, any man who was too tough a nut for the locals to crack. And, of course, in many cases private feuds and spites came under this heading. As has been mentioned, the price for a policeman was £100. People would be heard discussing this openly, and wondering if the price would go up or down, in the same way as they might discuss Dunlop’s or Guinness’s shares.

But the most effective weapon of Sinn Fein has been their propaganda campaign in America and England, coupled with the treasonable and treacherous aid from certain politicians and the effective silence of the daily press, with one great and notable exception.

The following letter, which fell into the hands of the Crown forces in Ireland, speaks for itself:—

Dail Eireann (Department of Finance),
Mansion House, Dublin, 21st March 1921.

_To Director of Propaganda._

A CHARA,—The enclosed copy of notes from Ireland will probably be
of some interest to you. I have previously sent some copies of
these and other things from the Unionist Alliance people.

Many figures have been given in the papers recently with regard to
R.I.C. resignations, dismissals, recruitment. All these
_questions_ have been asked on instructions from me, and I think
you might be able to make very good use of some of them. For
instance, in the 10th March ‘Hansard’ (pages 688 and 689) are
given the figures which appeared in the ‘Independent’ some days
ago. In a few days’ time we shall get total strength and total
numbers recruited over certain periods.

I have got an arrangement made in London whereby the ‘Independent’
correspondents will always quote the figures pretty fully for our
benefit.

Do Chara,

MICHAEL COLLINS.

Sinn Fein first learnt the art of propaganda from those pastmasters the Boches; but if ever the latter think of trying their luck with another “Der Tag,” they will find that Sinn Fein can teach them now more than ever they taught Sinn Fein. The Celtic mind seems to be peculiarly adapted and susceptible to propaganda consisting largely of half and three-quarter lies.

But nothing surprised and dismayed Irish Loyalists more than the suppression of reports of murders and outrages in Ireland in the great majority of English papers, though later on these same papers filled columns with any murder or atrocity alleged to have been committed by police or Auxiliaries. Moreover, from their tone, it soon became obvious that some papers were strongly pro-Sinn Fein.

To an Irishman the English Radical has always been one of the greatest wonders and mysteries of this world; and often he cannot help asking why God has sent him into this world. Of course, there is no doubt that all are here for some purpose, good or bad, but of what use is the Radical to England?

Is he the wee drop of poison in the whole which is to bring about the downfall of the Empire as a punishment for the sins of its leaders? At any rate, he has always been a puzzle and enigma to Irish and French alike, and they have no use for a man whose chief idea of patriotism appears to be to take any and every side against his own country.

There is no possible doubt that the Government were forced or frightened, by the howls of the Radicals, incited by Sinn Fein propaganda, to order that reprisals by the Crown forces in Ireland should cease, whereby the Crown forces’ most effective weapon was taken from them, though it was still left in the hands of the murder gang.

Fierce were the denouncements by the Radicals in the House of the unfortunate Irish police; but one waited in vain for a like denouncement of the murder gang (men who have committed as bad atrocities as the world has seen) by these same unctuous gentlemen. Ye hypocrites!

Much has been said and written (chiefly propaganda) about the wickedness of reprisals, but it is better first to examine the situation before condemning them.

It must be clearly understood that the whole power of the murder gang lay in reprisals: they took reprisals against every one who was against them by murder, arson, and intimidation. The Crown forces had only the law, which was paralysed. No one dared give evidence; it was death to do so.

Under these circumstances the Crown forces, principally the R.I.C., took counter-reprisals; this was the only possible method by which they could save their own lives and the lives and property of the Loyalists, who looked to them for protection.

For many weary months unhappy Ireland was rent and torn by this form of warfare, and it became obvious to most that if one side did not win pretty soon the country would be ruined. Twice the Crown forces wriggled their hands free, and on both occasions had the I.R.A. on the verge of collapse: one stout blow would have finished the show. And each time the I.R.A. were saved by the screams of their English allies. Each time the Government quickly took fright, quickly tied the Crown forces’ right hands, and even threatened to tie up their legs if they set the English Radicals on the howl again. And once more the I.R.A. plucked up courage, and the old weary game of ambush and murder started afresh.

At long last the Government took a sudden notion to make a desperate effort to finish off the gunmen before the gunmen finished them.

After the failure to round up the big force of gunmen in the Maryburgh Peninsula, Blake returned at once to Ballybor with all his men, arriving to find a cipher wire from the County Inspector to tell him that the gunmen had turned up in the Ballyrick Mountains, and that as soon as the Crown forces could be regrouped another effort would be made to come to grips with these slippery customers.

No sooner had Blake started to deal with a fearful accumulation of official correspondence than the head constable told him that Constable John M’Hugh, who came from the east centre of Ireland and had not been long in the force, wished to see him—adding that M’Hugh’s father had been murdered, and that the constable was most anxious to go home, but that the police at his home had wired that it was not safe for the man to go.

Blake saw M’Hugh at once, and found him in a pitiable state of grief, the first great sorrow of his young life—but had to refuse his request, though the boy pleaded hard, with the tears running down his cheeks. M’Hugh’s case is a good example of the murder gang’s reprisals on those who will not fall in with their views.

Old M’Hugh was a widower living with his two sons near a large town on the east coast. Unfortunately John was an unwilling witness of the first murders of British officers in Ireland during the present rebellion, and in order to save the lives of his sons old M’Hugh got them into the R.I.C. as soon as he could.

On several occasions old M’Hugh was threatened by the I.R.A. that if he did not make his sons resign they would do for him: every time he refused, and told his sons nothing about being threatened. Finally, the usual pack of masked fiends went to the old man’s cottage in the dead of night, and murdered him by the refined process of dragging him out of bed and kicking him on the head until they smashed his skull in—a deed hard to beat for pure brutal savagery.

The following day Blake received a long visit from the County Inspector, who gave him the outline of the new plan of campaign, and instructions for the part Blake and his men were to take.

The country of the Ballyrick Mountains is a square-shaped peninsula of, roughly, fourteen hundred square miles, consisting of vast flats of bogs on the north, west, and east, intercepted by hills, while the south part consists of nothing but mountains. One main road runs through the centre, east and west, and another skirts the coast for three-quarters of the north coast, then turns inland, crosses the other road at about the centre of the peninsula at the village of Ballyscadden, then continues due south until it reaches the coast. In the whole peninsula there are only half a dozen small villages, all not less than sixteen miles apart.

To drive this huge country would require at least twenty times as many troops as were available, and A.S.C. train to keep them supplied with rations; there remained the possibility of starving the gunmen into surrender.

All the villages were to be occupied by military, and every road picketed and blocked with barbed wire; at the same time the military were to endeavour to form a cordon across the neck of the peninsula, a distance of thirty-five miles.

The police, who were to do the actual hunting, were divided into flying columns, with all available transport. The Navy was to be responsible for the numerous islands on the west and south coasts, and were to open fire on any parties of gunmen who came within the range of their vision and guns.

Aeroplanes were to work continuously over the country during daylight, and on locating the enemy, were to drop their messages at the police headquarters at Ballyscadden.

It was expected that at the first sign of danger the gunmen would make for the mountains in the south, when the area of operations would be greatly restricted.

When all preparations were completed a start was to be made as soon as there seemed a reasonable prospect of fine weather. Finally, at Blake’s suggestion, they tried to collect every flock of mountain sheep and confine them to the flat country to the north, but after the first day many of the sheep returned to their own mountains in spite of the efforts of the shepherds.

Blake’s part was to keep all his available men at headquarters, ready to dash off at a moment’s notice on receipt of information of the location of any party of gunmen.

Owing to a bad westerly storm operations had to be postponed for a few days, during which time the gunmen were left undisturbed.

As had been expected, they drew a blank in the flat country, though it was reported by the first ‘plane up that a large party of cyclists had been spotted making their way south from Ballyscadden some time before the police occupied that village.

The weather then turned very fine, and as there was a full moon, it was decided to sit tight for a few days in order to see whether starvation would force the gunmen to attempt a break through.

For two days the aeroplanes had nothing to report except the movements of small parties of not more than six men, and always in the mountains to the south. On the third a ‘plane dropped the exciting news that a big column, estimated at several hundred men, was marching south-west with an advance of scouts to a depth of two miles.

Blake at once turned out his men, and made off south at full speed. At the same time a column left Castleport to make its way up the coast road and intercept the gunmen before they could debouch from the mountains—their orders being to advance up a valley from the coast to a shooting-lodge, which was situated at the junction of three valleys, two of which lead north-east and south-west round the foot of Falcon Mountain. Here they were to wait while Blake endeavoured to drive the gunmen down the north-east valley towards them.

For twenty-four hours Blake kept up a running fight with the gunmen in the mountains, always trying to head them towards the valley which leads to the foot of Falcon Mountain, and at last, when his men could hardly move, had the satisfaction of seeing the gunmen making for the valley.

The police followed slowly and painfully, to find not a sign of a human being at the shooting-lodge. The men flung themselves down in the heather, beat to the world, and some of them even burst into tears of rage.

The explanation came afterwards. The Castleport party received orders to proceed up the valley from the sea, and intercept the gunmen at a shooting-lodge. Unfortunately there were two lodges—one on the shore of a lake about half-way up the valley from the sea, and the second and right one at the junction of the three valleys. Naturally the Castleport party, none of whom had been in these mountains before, stopped at the first lodge they came to on the shore of the lake.

A thick mist came up off the sea that night, and the gunmen, who had taken refuge on the upper rocky slopes of Falcon Mountain, slipped through the cordon in the mist in twos and threes, commandeered bicycles, and so made good their escape.

Some time afterwards, being again very hard pressed, large parties of gunmen took up their quarters in the Ballyrick Mountains, and lay low. Gradually their numbers increased, until it was reported that the mountains carried as many gunmen as sheep.

At this time the Government appeared to have at last realised that the only way to restore order in Ireland was to oppose force by superior force. Many people could have given them this information months previously.

A report went through Ireland that the Government was massing artillery at Holyhead to mow down the I.R.A. with their brutal high explosives and shrapnel. In reality what happened was that all batteries in England were turned into mounted infantry, only about twenty-five men being left with a battery, and concentrated at Holyhead, preparatory to crossing to Ireland.

To Blake’s joy, the Ballyrick country was chosen as the first scene of what was fondly supposed would be the end of the rebellion.

Quickly 20,000 troops were massed across the neck of the Ballyrick Peninsula with every available Auxiliary and a large force of R.I.C., while a naval force was standing by off the coast ready to land sailors and marines. All that was wanted was a good weather forecast to start in, and put an end to this great mob of gunmen—the curse of modern Ireland.

The good weather forecast came along all right, and on the morrow they were to get a move on and put an end to this miserable breed of cowardly warfare.

But on the morrow, instead of the Advance, they heard the Stand Fast sounded, and to their dismay learnt that a truce had been proclaimed—a truce with murderers, forsooth!

XXI.
THE TRUCE.

Blake had been educated at a big English public school, where he had learnt that the keynote to an Englishman’s life is straightness. Further, in the British Army he had found that all good Britishers try their level best to run straight.

Early in 1921 there had been a strong rumour in the R.I.C. that the British Government had come to secret terms with Sinn Fein, and that after a period of window-dressing a truce would be declared; then would follow a lot of talk, and the terms of settlement would emerge. It was even reported that a conference had been held in Norway of representatives of the British Government and Sinn Fein, and also a representative from each of the Dominions, and a settlement arrived at.

At the time the Prime Minister fired off one of his loudest and most daring defiances at Sinn Fein: that he would never give in nor would he ever treat with the murder gang in Ireland, that the Crown forces in that country would be supported by all the resources of the Empire, and so on _ad nauseam_. And this, as Blake heard a cynic remark, was a sign that the sinister rumour was most likely true.

Blake had dismissed the idea with a laugh, but when the truce bomb burst his mind at once flew back to the secret settlement rumour, now months old, and he began to suspect with a horrible fear that they had been sold, and badly sold.

Naturally the first effects on the police were bad. The older men who had been let down before laughed and cried to each other, “Sold again!” but the younger ones, who had yet to learn the ways of politicians, took the matter to heart, and started to brood over it.

There were several questions to which they badly wanted an answer; the chief being, if there was to be this complete surrender, why had it not been made long ago, when the lives of many of their relations and pals in the Army and R.I.C. might have been saved, not to mention the lives of many Loyalists? These valuable lives had been freely given in order that Ireland should be freed from the murderous plague of gunmen, in the same way as during the late war the lives of the Empire’s best were sacrificed in order that we should be freed from the murderous plague of the Boches.

Further, they wanted to know what terms had been made with regard to their comrades who had fallen into the hands of the I.R.A.

The Loyalists were staggered, knowing that their worst fears would now be realised; to be handed over to the murder gang, which was the reward the cynics in the Dublin clubs had always prophesied, would be England’s return for the efforts of the Loyalists during the war. However, they could say nothing and do nothing, but simply make the best of their fate.

The neutrals, most of whom had changed their flag as often as the British Government had changed its mind, now, of course, openly threw in their lot with Sinn Fein.

The townspeople and farmers openly rejoiced at the prospect of even a temporary peace, though in their hearts many of them knew that there could be no real peace in Ireland until the gunmen had been wiped out or reduced to a state of impotence by disarming them. However, the future could take care of itself as far as they were concerned.

For the first few days of the Truce the Sinn Feiners appeared to be doubtful whether their wonderful good luck could be really true, and consequently lay low. Then men and boys who had been on the run for many moons returned to Ballybor, and gave an exhibition of “See the Conquering Hero Comes” in the streets daily; among them men wanted badly for atrocious murders, who now snapped their fingers openly in the faces of the police. A policeman could not walk the streets of Ballybor without meeting these swaggering fellows, who openly laughed and jeered at them when they passed.

However, a considerable number did not return, and on their relations inquiring about their whereabouts from the I.R.A. liaison officer, they were told they never would come back.

Gradually, being sure they were indeed safe, and that in truth they had the British Government on the run instead of being on the run themselves, they grew bolder and more insolent.

One brute went up to the sentry outside the police barracks and deliberately spat on him, hoping no doubt that the constable would lose his temper and break the truce. The constable stepped into the barracks and returned at once with the Sinn Fein flag, with which he carefully wiped the offending stains off his face and tunic under the nose of the astonished gunman. He then proceeded to stand on the flag in the mud, and asked the gunman, “What about it?” For some seconds the gunman stood irresolute, then turned and walked off, looking a complete ass, followed by the loud laughter of the police.

From now the Republicans proceeded to take over the government of the district, the police standing by helpless, bound hand and foot by the strict order that on no account were they to disturb the peace atmosphere. How the Boches must be laughing at us!

In every parish Republican Courts were advertised to be held in the local papers, and were held without let or hindrance, the advertisements stating that “Summons, &c., can be had on application to ——, Clerk of the Court.” And why not? Had not the I.R.A. beaten Lloyd George to his knees, and was not the British Government on the run?

To give the comical touch necessary in Ireland, the R.M. continued to receive instructions from the Castle to attend the various Petty Sessions Courts in every district and deal out the British version of the law. Probably the first time (and please God the last) that any part of Great Britain and Ireland has been governed by two sets of laws at the same time.

With regard to this disgraceful state of affairs one particular case will give a good illustration of how low British law has fallen in the west of Ireland.

A very decent man called O’Brien, who had been a herd to the Congested Districts Board, bought a farm from the Board with three other men, the farm being divided into four.

This did not suit the landless members of the Transport Union in the district, whose idea was that they should have the land without paying for it. They told O’Brien to get out, but he refused; they then proceeded to smash the fences and drive and injure his cattle. O’Brien built up the fences and put his cattle back.

They next proceeded to beat O’Brien, who afterwards went into Ballybor but returned without taking any action, as they told him there that there was now no law in the country. That night they beat him again; the process consisted of first holding him while a powerful man closed his eyes with repeated blows of his fists, and then they hammered him to their heart’s content and left him in the road for dead.

Hours afterwards O’Brien crawled home on his hands and knees—he was practically blinded, and appears to have found his way home by instinct,—and some days afterwards, when he had recovered a little, he went to the police in Ballybor.

A magistrate happened to be at the barracks at the time, and insisted that steps should be taken to protect O’Brien and punish the savages who had beaten him, though the police told him that they were afraid that it was quite useless to try.

However, the magistrate took O’Brien’s information, the case came on week after week at the Ballybor Petty Sessions, always to be adjourned at the request of the police, waiting instruction from the Castle. At last O’Brien, in despair, took his case to the local Sinn Fein Court; and here the chief offender was fined £27 and the others large sums, and they were warned that if they interfered with O’Brien again they would be dealt with very severely.

And this is a good example of how British law protects a decent citizen in Ireland at the present time; but one forgets that the peace atmosphere must not be disturbed at all costs! But is there any wonder that the people are fast leaving the King’s Courts for those of Sinn Fein, and of their own free will now?

Republican Local Government inspectors appeared in every district, and quickly ousted the King’s inspectors; held courts of inquiry on unfortunate road surveyors who had refused to take the oath of allegiance to Dail Eireann, and tried to sack loyal dispensary doctors.

The chief amusement of the local gunmen on leave, and of their friends, male and female, was now to spend their time joy-riding through the countryside, flying Sinn Fein flags on their commandeered lorries and singing the “Soldier’s Song” whenever they passed any police or a barracks.

One expedition of this kind went out to Ballyrick on a Sunday and returned to Ballybor about midnight. Blake happened to be passing down the main street at the time, and encountered a party of drunken bank clerks trying to see how much row they could make.

Blake remonstrated with them, and told them that if they did not go home quietly he would have them arrested. One clerk at once started to sing the “Soldier’s Song” at the top of his voice, and another shouted at Blake in an insolent voice, “What about the truce, Mr B——, D.I.?” Blake saw red—he had borne and suffered much for many days,—and he gave the bank clerk a full drive on the chin which sent him flying. The whole party then swiftly retreated in silence.

The following day Blake paid a visit to the bank, and said to the clerk he had ousted the previous night, “Look here, Mr Bank Clerk, don’t think I hit you last night because you were drunk. There’s a fine open yard at the back of the barracks, and if you will come round now, we can fight it out.” Abject apologies from Mr Bank Clerk, and Blake left the bank.

One morning a woman arrived at the barracks in a state of great distress and asked to see the D.I. She told Blake that she lived in a small house in Cloonalla, which she rented from another woman in the village. Twice her landlady had tried in a British court to evict her, and had failed. The landlady then applied to the local I.R.A., who promptly turned the unfortunate woman with all her furniture and belongings into the street, and there she remained. When she remonstrated with them they showed her a warrant signed by the village Sinn Fein magistrate and left her.

Blake at once applied to the County Inspector for instructions, who applied to the higher authorities. Back came the answer, “See circular so-and-so,” which on being turned up stated that all breaches of the Truce should be at once reported. Meanwhile the woman remained homeless: neighbours in an Irish village nowadays fight shy of an I.R.A. victim, and circulars are not substitutes for roofs.

Again Blake tried to get leave to take action, and this time the answer was to forward four copies of the case to the police adviser in Scotland. In despair he put his pride in his pocket and applied to the I.R.A. liaison officer of the district for help.

And the next day the liaison officer arrived in Ballybor—an ex-soldier and a well-known murderer. Blake felt that he could hardly stand this final insult to an honourable uniform; but duty is duty, and a truce must be kept.

The liaison officer went out in a car to Cloonalla, and ordered the local braves to put the woman and her furniture back in her house, which they flatly refused to do. And that was the end of the matter.

After some weeks’ rest the chiefs of the I.R.A. issued an order calling all men to the colours, whether they liked it or not.

It has been mentioned that the country round Ballybor was famous for its excellent shooting, grouse, snipe, woodcock, duck, and geese chiefly; and in the days before the rebellion many Englishmen must have spent happy times shooting and fishing in the many shooting-lodges dotted about on the mountains and moors to the east and west of Ballybor.

Now all these lodges are occupied by instructors of the I.R.A., who take so many of the young men and boys of the district in relays for an eight days’ intensive training course—drilling, musketry, instruction in the use of Lewis and Thompson machine-guns, bombing, and twenty-five-mile route-marches in full fighting order, the latter most unpopular.

Not only have all old members of the I.R.A. to attend these courses, but every young man and boy, who had previously refused to join up, have to go; and there is no refusing to go now.

You may miss your garden-boy or shop-assistant, to meet him in the course of the week taking part in a route-march; or if you are foolishly inquisitive, you may see him at dawn advancing across your demesne in company with other boys, or firing his musketry course.

Blake watched two lorry-loads of these recruits setting off on a Monday morning from the main street of Ballybor under his very nose, Sinn Fein flags flying; and they sang the “Soldier’s Song” for his special benefit.

About two miles from Ballybor there lives a retired officer in a nice house with a good demesne, a man who served the Empire well and truly for many years. When the war was over he retired, fondly hoping to spend the remainder of his days in peace and comfort in his old family home.

But not so: he happened to be the owner of a demesne which the Transport Union had promised to its members. So they tried repeatedly to stampede him out of the country, but that failed. Now his place is occupied by what the I.R.A. call a week-end camp for the drilling and instruction of the Ballybor shop-boys. They use his cooking utensils, burn his turf, and make the night hideous with their yells and oaths, so that the officer and his family find it impossible to get any rest. Moreover, they, the I.R.A., do not appear to be strong in sanitary sections. And they told him that if he took any action they would burn his place to the ground.

What action could he take? There is no law in the country except the law of the pistol. The police are now bound hand and foot. They report these outrages to the Castle, and what happens? Nothing. The Government are far too busy hunting for that elusive formula which is to turn this Irish hell into a paradise, to worry about a stupid old retired officer. He has no vote in England, nor can he ever affect their political careers.

And why all these feverish military preparations? Either to invade Ulster when the time of a settlement and peace comes, or, if the Truce is broken, to massacre the R.I.C. and the Loyalists.

About this time a constable, transferred from the south-west to Ballybor, brought with him a story—he swore it was true—which will take a queer lot of formulæ to explain away. Not long ago the I.R.A. ran a cargo of arms on the coast where he was stationed, openly, with the police looking on. The police at once reported the affair, and were told that it did not matter as the arms would never be used.

Presumably the authorities meant that these arms would not be used against the Crown forces; but what about loyal Ulster, and those most unfortunate of people to-day in Europe, outside of Russia, the southern Irish Loyalists?

Apparently the I.R.A. chiefs are believers in games for their men, as witness the following advertisement which appeared in the Ballybor shop windows:—

GREAT FOOTBALL MATCH.

NORTH BALLYRICK FLYING
COLUMN, I.R.A.

_v._

BALLYBOR PATRICKITES.

PAY YOUR SHILLING AND SEE
HOW WE ENJOY THE TRUCE.

The Transport Union unwittingly supplied the comical element of the situation when they started a great row with the I.R.A. people in Ballybor. It appeared that the I.R.A. had been in the habit of not paying the Union rate of wages to the stalwarts of the Transport Union for digging trenches across roads and breaking down bridges during the war, and now they were furious because the I.R.A. refused to pay up the difference, and threatened them with all sorts of horrible things. And the I.R.A. laughed at them.

People in England have not the remotest conception of the terrible Frankenstein monster which De Valera & Co. have reared up and armed in Ireland, a hideous monster of murderous and armed gunmen, fearing neither God nor man, which in the summer of 1921 was on the point of being exterminated by British bayonets to make this beautiful island of Ireland once more a clean and wholesome land, where men might dwell in peace.

That chance has gone. Will it ever occur again? And if it does will the British Government seize their opportunity like men and rid Ireland of this terrible menace? Or will they again be found wanting, groping after some wretched formula?

Do people realise why De Valera acts the part of the coy fly in hesitating to enter Mr Lloyd George’s talking parlour? The sinister reason is that if he once gives up his claim to an Irish Republic he seals his own doom. The day he enters into a conference with the British Government on these conditions, the Irish Republican Brotherhood signs his death warrant, and well he knows it.

But if, for argument’s sake, a so-called settlement is arrived at, what becomes of De Valera’s Frankenstein monster?

Will it beat its automatics into reaping-hooks and convert its machine-guns into potato-sprayers? Possibly in the minds of English Radicals, but nowhere else.

And when the Welshman and the Mexican have fooled the English and the southern Irish with a formula, do they think that any formula ever phrased would fool Ulster?

On the day that an Irish Republic is set up (Dominion Home Rule is only another name for it), Sinn Fein, its _raison d’être_ accomplished, dies; but out of its corpse will arise two parties, or rather armies (for all men in Ireland are armed to-day except the Loyalists), one consisting of the farmer shopkeeper class, while the other will be the Citizen Army of the Bolshevist Labour Party.

The rank and file of the I.R.A. consists of farmers’ sons, young townsmen, shop assistants, and the like; they expect either a fat pension for life or twenty acres of land. Both have been freely promised to them, and both are equally impossible.

And these disgruntled gunmen, all armed, will take sides according to their sympathies, and before many months are past these forces will be at each other’s throats. And the national air of Ireland will be the “Red Flag.”

Like Kerensky in Russia, De Valera will disappear in the welter of revolution.

The R.I.C. will have vanished—they have already been told that when the “Cease fire” sounds, they will be given a month to clear out of Ireland, lock, stock, and barrel.

The surrender to Sinn Fein by the British Government is a good example of the evil which can be brought about by that modern plague, skilful and unscrupulous propaganda.

The sooner the good elements in England wake up and combine to insist that the necessary action is taken in Ireland to enforce law and order, the better it will be for both countries and the Empire.

The English people have been fooled by a press which carefully suppressed all news of the true state of affairs in Ireland, and then gave lying and distorted accounts.

It is futile to say that the remedy for false reports lies with the law. All honest men know that a clever lawyer in a court of law can make a half or three-quarter black lie appear a whole truth white as driven snow, as easily as a smart and up-to-date accountant can juggle with a balance-sheet to show + or - half a million as the necessity arises.

The day will come in Ireland when men will pray to God for a sight of the good old green uniform of the R.I.C. And it will be too late.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Changed fight to light on p. 198. 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of the R.I.C, by Unknown and The Royal Irish Constabulary