Chapter One Hundred And Forty Two
My Kingdom For A Grave
Cork, 7.00 pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
This evening, as he motored back down into the city of Cork, Tom was feeling well pleased with himself; on two counts. Firstly, a quick glance behind him revealed a dark, empty road and confirmed that he had finally shaken off the Crossley military motor which seemed to have dogged his footsteps on and off throughout the day; secondly, whether here in town, or out in the country, his series of meetings today had all gone very well indeed. As a result he now had enough material on a wide variety of subjects which would form the basis for a whole series of articles and which would, barring anything else of greater magnitude arising, keep him more than gainfully employed for the next couple of weeks.
Tom's route back into Cork took him past the sprawling granite mass of the Victoria Barracks situated on Old Youghal Road and which overlooked the city. The very first hint that everything was not quite as it had been when he had left the city late in the morning of that same day came as Tom puttered past the barracks on his motorcycle when, happening to glance through the main gateway, he saw that there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity taking place within. A long column of army lorries was drawn up; their headlights on and their engines idling with soldiers boarding the line of waiting vehicles. There was definitely trouble brewing; of that he was certain. Not that Tom was in the least bit surprised; far from it.
Ever since the deadly ambush out at Kilmichael at the end of November, a palpable sense of grim foreboding had hung over Cork; throughout the city, in the churches, in the bars, in the shops, in the stations, on the streets, down on the quays, there was the firmly held belief that something was about to happen. Maybe this also had something to do with the rumours Tom had encountered earlier today of another ambush being planned by the IRA on the forces of the Crown, this time here in the city. Of course, that in itself was nothing unusual; this past year there had been many such incidents and whether this latest tale proved to have any more substance to it than the proverbial straw in the wind, only time would tell.
The clock on the City Hall down on Albert Quay had just struck seven, as weaving his way through the traffic, Tom motored down through Dillon's Cross into the city for his final meeting of the day; in a bar on the Lower Glanmire Road, close to the station of the Great Southern and Western Railway.
Even at this comparatively early hour, it being December, it was bitterly cold, darkness had already fallen and the street lamps were lit, but with only a fortnight until Christmas, not surprisingly, many of the shops were still open, brightly illuminated and busy with customers; the pavements thronging with pedestrians and the double deck trams rattling up and down, their bells clanging self importantly, were full of passengers. Having deftly avoided running into the tram lines, always a danger when riding either a bicycle or a motorbike in Cork, Tom came to a gentle stop outside Ryan's bar, from which lamplight, laughter and loud voices spilled forth onto the pavement outside. Having dismounted from his motorcycle, Tom walked briskly up the steps and disappeared inside.
Cork, 8.00pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
An hour or so later, having telephoned through to Sybil up at the house, to say that he was running somewhat later than he intended, that he had a couple of loose ends still to tie up, that he would be back just as soon as he could and to kiss Danny goodnight for him, Tom remounted his motorcycle and set off back along Lower Glanmire Road. He had only gone a matter of a hundred yards or so when he heard the unmistakeable sound of explosions and heavy gunfire echoing down into the city. Stopping to ask a passer-by if he knew what was happening, the man, who was in a hurry and on his way to the railway station, told Tom that it was being said that an army patrol had come under attack. The man knew nothing else; said he must be off otherwise he would miss his train.
And yet as the shooting continued unabated, an aberrant thought now struck Tom. Appalled as he was by what was apparently taking place here on the streets of Cork, was any of what he was now hearing really that surprising? This year had seen the needless deaths of the city's last two lord mayors: one killed by members of the Royal Irish Constabulary and the other dying while on hunger strike in Brixton prison over in England. In what had become an increasingly bitter conflict, there had been all manner of acts of violence perpetrated by each of the opposing sides in and around the city; the result of which was that for many months since Cork had been a powder keg primed, ready and waiting to explode. In Tom's view, the only real surprise was that it had not done so long before tonight. All that had been wanting was for something to set light to the fuse. The incident earlier this evening, even if not intended to do so, seemed to have done just that and now that it had and the waiting was over, God help Cork.
Cork, 9.00pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
Here on Summer Hill, close to its junction with King Street, having stopped and dismounted from his motorcycle, which he had then wheeled down a narrow alley and left well out of sight, hidden under a tarpaulin, Tom was now crouching behind a pile of paving slabs which during the day were being used in the repair of the nearby pavement. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was but a little after nine o'clock. From the comparative safety of his hastily contrived vantage point he could not believe what he was now witnessing and with his pencil he continued scribbling down in an abbreviated form in his reporter's notebook hurried observations of what he saw happening and which he could use later for an article on this evening's events here in Cork; though whether anyone would believe the horrifying sights to which he was now witness, was anybody's guess.
Just opposite Tom's temporary hiding place he saw a tramcar heading north along the road and then brought to a sudden stand by a group of motley dressed, armed men, Black and Tans and Auxiliaries he thought, who pointed their rifles at the driver forcing him to stop. Thereafter, the armed men some in uniform, some in civilian clothing boarded the tram, swarmed through the vehicle, dragging and pushing all of the passengers off it into the street where they were then forced to line up against a wall, verbally abused, threatened and roughly searched.
Any resistance, let alone failure to do as they were ordered, saw the hapless passengers, including women, viciously beaten to the ground with rifle butts while a luckless priest who had the singular misfortune to be on board the tram at the time was singled out for special treatment; his overcoat, jacket, waistcoat and collar were torn off and while being loudly cursed was told to say 'to hell with the Pope'. When the priest steadfastly refused to do so, Tom saw him being kicked and pushed away up the street at the end of a rifle. Then the assailants turned their unsavoury attentions to those other citizens who had the misfortune to be making their way along the street, opening fire with their rifles, shooting over the heads of the luckless pedestrians, forcing them to scatter in all directions, to cower in darkened doorways or else take refuge in the railway station.
For much of the last hour, the shooting had been more or less continuous but to Tom, unless his ears deceived him, it now seemed to be intensifying. From what he had heard tell, from what was being said, an ambush had indeed been mounted on an army convoy between the Victoria Barracks and the centre of the city, at Dillon's Cross, which he himself had passed through a couple of hours ago and where buildings were apparently now on fire. There were unconfirmed reports too that several Auxiliaries had been killed. Tom doubted very much that the two incidents were unconnected; an ambush failed or otherwise mounted by the IRA, followed quickly thereafter by a vicious series of reprisals carried out by the Black and Tans or the Auxiliaries. It was just all too depressing and wearisomely predictable.
Then, from just south of the bridge, somewhere in the vicinity of St. Patrick Street itself, there came the sound of glass shattering, followed by the unmistakeable crump and thud of several tremendous explosions and the very ground beneath his feet shook, causing Tom to throw himself flat on the pavement. None of this, he thought, could be accidental; what was now happening seemed to have all the hallmarks of a carefully planned, premeditated, military operation designed with one aim in mind: to frighten and terrify the civilian population of Cork into subjection. He had to get closer to satisfy himself of the truth of what he suspected. Stuffing his notebook back into his leather satchel, Tom set off at a run.
Crouching low, staying as far as he could in the shadows, his heart pounding, running like the wind, dodging in and out of the doorways of houses and shops, in and out of gateways too, between lamposts, behind abandoned motors, overturned carts, Tom made it as far as the bridge over the north channel of the River Lee. Now, keeping close to the stone balustrade, with bullets buzzing like angry bees, just as they had done when their train had been ambushed at Skerries Road, ricocheting off the stonework - one even grazed the brim of his cap - Tom crept cautiously across the wide bridge and down onto St. Patrick Street, not far from the offices of Fizmaurice, Fitzmaurice and Simmons, where he took refuge at the top of the flight of steps which led up to the front door of his very own solicitors.
Cork, 9.30pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
South of the river, another of the city's green and white tramcars now rattled past Tom, this time coming from the direction of the statue commemorating Father Mathew. The vehicle had gone less than a hundred yards further on, when Tom saw this tram too come to an unexpected stand and as before on Summer Hill across the river, watched a party of Auxiliaries jump on board. There again followed a great deal of shouting and screaming and a matter of moments later those passengers on board this tram were scrambling off it, evidently ordered to do so by the Auxiliaries who then doused the vehicle with petrol and set it on fire. The burning tram was soon blazing furiously, throwing the four and five storey buildings on either side of the street into prominence, lighting them up as if it had been midday and not just before ten o'clock on a cold winter's night.
From all directions there now came bursts of heavy gunfire which echoed down the all but deserted street; bullets crazed windows, ricocheted off brickwork, smashed the glass of street lamps, buzzed and pinged against the side of the motor lorry behind which Tom was now crouching. The air reeked heavily of petrol and from somewhere very close at hand came the sound of yet further huge explosions. There were more terrified screams and shouts, this time from further down the street, followed by repeated fusillades of shots, as Tom witnessed British soldiers and Auxiliaries forcibly driving pedestrians off the street and herding them into the nearby buildings by firing volleys over the heads of the terrified populace, men, women and children. Thronging the centre of the street was another group of soldiers, some in khaki coats and trousers, others sporting Glengarry caps, some carrying petrol cans and others what appeared to be large brass pistols which from his brother-in-law Matthew, Tom had learned were used for firing flares and Verey lights. From their jeers and shouts of the soldiers it was all too obvious that many of them were drunk; decidedly so.
A moment later and Tom saw orange and red flames flare and shoot forth from a building which he knew to be Grant's drapery warehouse and then also begin issuing from both the Munster Arcade and Cash's department store. During the Great War Tom recalled that the British newspapers had carried tales of atrocities carried out by the Germans on the hapless citizenry of Belgium: the burning of Leuven came readily to mind. But this was not the Western Front, this was not Belgium; this was not the city of Leuven. This was the city of Cork, this was the province of Munster; this was part of the dominions of His Majesty George V, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, now being destroyed and laid waste by soldiers who had sworn allegiance to that very self-same ruler.
Cork, 10.30pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
From behind him, Tom heard the sound of a fast approaching motor; turning round he saw to his horror that it was a Crossley belonging to the army, similar to the one which had dogged his footsteps earlier in the day, this one with several officers seated inside it. The motor screeched to a sudden stop right in front of the lorry behind which Tom was hiding and two officers clambered out. Casting about for somewhere else to seek refuge, Tom saw an arch and a moment later had dodged quickly down the darkened entry. In the smoky dimness he saw the outline of a doorway in the wall to his left; breathed a silent prayer of heartfelt thanks when he saw that the door within stood open. A minute later and Tom had slipped though it and into the building beyond.
The door led him into passage and from there an archway gave entrance into a shop; from the smell of it a tobacconist's. Or rather, what had once been a tobacconist's; along with a pair of brass scales, a scattering of loose cigars and crumpled, discarded packets of cigarettes all of which had been heavily and thoroughly trampled underfoot, broken pipes, shards from smashed tobacco jars and shattered glass littered the floor, the front door had been stove in and the shop thoroughly ransacked.
Just as Tom came through the archway, wearing military caps and long trench coats, the two officers from the Crossley now entered the darkened shop. Instantly, Tom froze, praying that he had not been seen, although in the blackness of the interior he thought it unlikely. As the officers moved forward across the floor of the shop, their booted feet crunching noisily on the smashed glass and china, Tom ducked down behind the heavy mahogany counter; a poor substitute for a hiding place but there was no other. A moment later and the two men came to a stand at the counter; Tom was so close to the officers that he had he but stretched out his hand, he would have been able to touch both of them.
"So, just what report are we going to make about tonight's little shindy?"
There was a momentary pause; one of the men struck a match and Tom smelt cigarette smoke. The discarded, spent match was flicked over the counter and landed on the floor next to where Tom was hiding.
"That… our forces… found buildings burning… that the fire brigade was telephoned for… that our curfew troops stood by ready, willing and able to render what assistance they could. Only none was sought. I think that about covers every eventuality, don't you? Or have I overlooked something?" asked the other. Tom thought the voice sounded familiar, but no surely not?
His companion laughed harshly.
"No, not at all! I couldn't have put it better myself. A mastery of understatement, Miles! Indeed, that sums it up perfectly. What on earth was that?" Drawing his revolver from out of its holster, the other whirled about.
A brown rat scurried across the floor at the front of the shop. The officer pointed his pistol and fired; the rat disintegrating in a welter of blood and tufts of fur.
"Well he won't be informing on us either!"
The two officers laughed and swaggered out of the wrecked shop at which precise moment, close by, a Verey light flared, brightly illuminating that part of the street and for one brief instant the faces of both the two British officers became visible to Tom. There was now no denying the identity of one of them: Captain Miles Stathum.
Rats, thought Stathum, with a grim smile as he seated himself back in the Crossley and not only of the four-legged variety. He beckoned to a couple of Black and Tans standing on the pavement close by the motor; indicated the entry at the side of the wrecked tobacconists's shop. The men nodded their understanding of what needed to be done and moments later the motor had driven off in the direction of the bridge.
Cork, 10.45pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief that he had not been seen, Tom crept cautiously from his hiding place as far as the door giving onto the pavement. Kneeling there in the shadows, to his utter amazement, he now saw, across the street, several men dressed in a motley collection of uniforms, watched impassively by another British officer this one dressed in khaki, wearing long boots, also smoking a cigarette and with a revolver in his hand, heedless of the noise they made, with their bare hands forcibly wrench down the protective shutters of the shop directly opposite. This was swiftly accomplished; they then proceeded to smash in the plate glass window with the butts of their rifles and afterwards clambered inside the premises by means of the broken window. From where he was, it seemed to Tom that the men then spent a matter of minutes lighting something on the floor within the front of the shop. Through the broken window he distinctly heard the sound of the money register and realised some of the men must be rifling the till.
Moments later, laughing and joking, the same group of men climbed back out through the smashed window and into the street, this time bearing armfuls of goods clearly taken from within. From their Cockney voices it was only all too obvious the men were English. Once outside in the street, they paused briefly to stuff some of what they were carrying into large kitbags and with this swiftly accomplished, now set off quickly along the pavement towards the bridge. Not a moment too soon, for, behind them, but a matter of minutes later, there came an enormous explosion and the looted shop burst into flames.
There was now no doubt in Tom's mind; none whatsoever. The fires engulfing St. Patrick Street were being started intentionally. He knew he had to get closer; to see exactly just what was going on. However, with police constables, British soldiers, Black and Tans and Auxiliaries swarming everywhere, just how on earth could that even be contemplated, let alone be accomplished without getting himself arrested if not something very much worse? As he pondered as to what he should do next, in his mind, Tom heard again the words Sybil and he had exchanged on the telephone earlier that same evening while he had been in Ryan's bar:
"Promise me now; you will take very great care of yourself, won't you?"
"Of course I will, love".
"I mean it. Promise me, Tom".
"I promise".
Going back out onto the street was obviously not an option. Then, through the arch at the rear of the wrecked shop, in the darkness Tom saw the foot of a narrow staircase. That this shop had been wrecked was true enough but it had not been set on fire. Quickly he made his way across the debris strewn floor, through the archway and began slowly to climb the stairs.
Some time later, having in near total darkness negotiated several flights of stairs, with on every floor finding signs of very hurried departures from the building having been made by those who lived in the flats above the shop; front doors wide open, bedclothes thrown back, furniture in disarray, a suitcase left forlornly in a hallway, Tom found himself on the uppermost landing, standing beneath a small skylight. The situation reminded him instantly of what had occurred back at Downton on the night of the fire; only this time, rather than getting further away from the scene of the conflagration, he was intent on getting closer to it. A small table dragged out from the adjoining flat solved for Tom the problem of how he was going to gain access to the skylight.
Clambering up on to the table, having pushed open the casement, Tom heaved himself through the skylight and out onto the roof. A short slide down the slates brought him to the base of a brick chimney stack and an ornate carved stone balustrade at the front of the building overlooking the street some fifty feet below. Here, up among the chimneys, out on the roof of the tobacconist's shop, crouched behind the stone balustrade, high above St. Patrick's Street, Tom had an unrivalled vantage point which gave him a bird's eye view of the mayhem that was now unfolding down below. So long as he kept down behind the balustrade he found he could move about on the roof of this building and that next door, more or less at will.
Apart from the mass of burning buildings, the first thing that attracted Tom's attention was a small group of people, men, women and children, some, despite the winter chill pitifully dressed in little more than their nightclothes; local residents, Tom thought and probably from homes somewhere in the vicinity of the Munster Arcade which from this vantage point, he could see was already well ablaze. Several were carrying battered suitcases, others rather more curious items, curious that was in the sense of being somewhat unusual to be seen being hawked along a city street at night; among them a grandfather clock carried by two men who in turn were trudging along behind a handcart piled high with several other pieces of household furniture, along with pots and pans, a large mattress and a tin bath in which a small boy was seated and who, doubtless unaware of the seriousness of the situation, even from this distance, had every appearance of enjoying himself enormously.
Then, from somewhere there came another series of shots, then two further loud explosions and an enormous sheet of flame soared upwards into the air. Abandoning the grandfather clock and the piled handcart, someone thankfully having remembered to whisk the little boy out of the tin bath, everyone in the small group now scattered; began to run towards the bridge over the river at the end of the long, curving street leading from Daunt Square as far as the bridge over the river.
However, although they were unaware of it, from up on the roof, Tom could see that some kind of confrontation was already taking place there between other frightened citizens trying to cross the bridge and a group of men dressed in long, dark overcoats and Glengarry caps, who were brandishing revolvers and intent on preventing them from doing so. Another series of shots rang out, this time from the vicinity of the bridge, while further back along the street the enormous fire, which since it began had been inexorably destroying the extensive premises of Alexander Grant and Company's clothing and furniture store, now, with a terrific roar, finally burst through the roof of the building, sending huge tongues of red and orange flames shooting upwards into the blackness of the night sky.
Cork, 11.30pm, Saturday 11th December 1920.
Down below him on the street, Tom now saw there were other uniformed figures; members of the city's fire brigade, found himself wondering why they had not been in evidence long before now, saw that they were trying valiantly to combat the blaze at Grant's, although from this height, Tom could see that their efforts however heroic, must be doomed to fail; the fire there had taken too great a hold while others were now manfully trying to save the Victoria Hotel on the corner of Cook Street, plying water onto the building's façade and the exterior woodwork of both its windows and doors.
And then, Tom found himself witness to an altercation of an entirely different kind from that which he had seen earlier; not as before between a group of terrified citizens and the military, but between some of the city's firemen and a group of Auxiliaries. It appeared that the Auxiliaries were intent on stopping the firemen from fighting the raging fires and preventing them from spreading. To his utter amazement, Tom saw an Auxiliary hitting a fire hydrant with what looked like a heavy iron crowbar, while two others stabbed repeatedly with their bayonets at one of the several rubber fire hoses which snaked their way across the street, continuing to do so until water was spurting from it in numerous places and rendering it completely useless.
By now, the whole south side of the street appeared to be ablaze. Along with the roar of flames, the crash of falling masonry, the sounds of explosions and shooting, the breaking of glass, more terrified screams and shouts continued to rend the air. Finding that his watch had stopped, despite the chimes from the clock beneath the cupola of the City Hall down on Albert Quay continuing to mark the passage of the quarter hours, unsurprisingly Tom soon lost all sense of time. In an attempt to remedy this, he craned his neck to see if he could make out the time on the face of the imposing, ornate clock standing high on its column outside Mangan's jewellery shop, but found he could not do so on account of all the smoke.
In so doing, something else now attracted Tom's attention. The jeweller's itself was in total darkness, but from within the shop he could see reflected the powerful beams of several torches. A few minutes later, led by an officer, a group of soldiers, the men all Auxiliaries wearing Glengarry caps, stepped outside onto the pavement. The men moved quickly away from the building but as they did so, one turned and threw something at one of the windows. Whatever it was that had been thrown shattered the glass and seconds later there was a huge explosion which blew out every single window and a cloud of black smoke mushroomed outwards across the street.
A short while later, to a cacophony of ragged cheers and ear-piercing whistles coming from a disorderly rabble of rowdy soldiers congregated on the corner of the street, preceded by an armoured car, two army lorries now swept past below Tom's eerie, each loaded with a crowd of equally cheering, yelling Auxiliaries, brandishing aloft all manner of items amongst them bottles of wine and brandy, silverware, jewellery and drapery; one of them even sported several pairs of boots tied by their laces around his neck, all clearly looted from one or more of the shops here on St. Patrick Street before they had been deliberately set on fire.
Cork, Midnight, Saturday 11th December 1920.
High above Tom, the velvet blackness of the star-hung winter sky was all but invisible; blotted out by an acrid, choking, thick pall of dirty black, billowing smoke. About him everything was burning and wherever he looked, he saw nothing but a lurid red, pulsating sea of fire. Here on St. Patrick Street, both to the right and to the left of him, all manner of buildings were ablaze and burning furiously. Along with Grant's, Roches Stores, Cash & Company, The Munster Arcade, Egan Jewellers and Silversmiths, The American Shoe Company, Forrests, Sunners the chemist and Saxone Shoes were now on fire. Even at this height, the crackle and roar of the flames was deafening, the heat was incredible and a continuous blizzard of fiery red sparks cascaded down upon him from the upper storeys of the burning buildings. The pavements below were filthy, littered with all kinds of debris; broken glass, charred beams and fallen masonry lay strewn across the street along which poured streams of water from the severed fire hoses.
Another huge explosion caused Tom to stagger to his knees and to crouch for cover against a nearby brick chimney stack. Instinctively, he put out his hand to steady himself and withdrew it almost immediately; the bricks were too hot, even to touch. Raising his left hand to his face, he saw the skin on the tips of his fingers and on the palm had blistered. Cautiously, he eased a finger round the inside of his collar where it had chafed his skin; even up here out on the roof on the north side of the street, the heat from all the fires raging below was becoming unbearable and Tom was now sweating profusely but whether from the heat or from fear too, he knew not. In any event, he would have to find another safer, vantage point. Carefully he clambered back up the slate roof and dropped down through the skylight onto the table beneath.
A short while later, back down in the entry, Tom made his way cautiously and quietly towards the inferno of the burning street. In the swirling, smoke-filled darkness of the passage, he never even saw the Black and Tan waiting in the shadows, who now swung his rifle with force, hitting Tom savagely across the back of his head. Lapsing straightway into unconsciousness, Tom pitched forward, lifeless, onto the pavement.
Author's Note:
The two Lord Mayors referred to were: Tomas Mac Curtain (1884-1920) shot dead in his own home by men later to be found to be members of the Royal Irish Constabulary; Terence Joseph MacSwiney (1879-1920) who having been arrested by the British authorities on charges of sedition, died while on hunger strike in Brixton prison, London.
The statue of Father Mathew (1790-1856) still stands on St. Patrick Street. A Capuchin priest, Father Theobald Mathew, a major figure in the temperance movement of the early nineteenth century, was much beloved by the people of Cork owing to his devotion to them during an outbreak of cholera and also in the Great Famine.
At the outbreak of the Great War, the needless destruction of the historic Belgian town of Leuven (Louvain) and the horrific treatment meted out to its inhabitants by soldiers of the Imperial German Army in August 1914 had caused widespread condemnation.
The ornate clock which is mentioned as standing outside Mangans the jewellers can still be seen today, albeit sited in a new location.
The main part of this chapter concerns the burning of Cork.
There are many eye witness accounts telling what happened here on that terrible night back in December 1920. I have drawn on a goodly number of these to describe what Tom, from his vantage point overlooking St. Patrick Street, might well have seen - the timings given are approximate, more to emphasise the passage of the hours. That the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries, along with officers of the Royal Irish Constabulary, interfered with fire equipment, sabotaging hoses and hydrants and prevented the fires they themselves had started from being put out by the city's own fire brigade, is attested by a variety of independent sources and eye witness' accounts.
The whole incident was truly appalling; the damage done to the centre of the city was widespread, the cost of repairing and rebuilding enormous, amounting to well over £3 million at the time.
While the gutted houses and shops would eventually be rebuilt, the books from the Carnegie Library and those priceless historical records, destroyed when the City Hall were both set alight early the following morning could not be replaced. Whether or not what happened was in response to the incident at Dillon's Cross is irrelevant. That the subsequent wanton destruction of the centre of the city, along with widespread looting, was all pre-meditated and that thereafter the British authorities sought to deny any responsibility for what had occurred, is indisputable.