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Reward poster for John Francis O’Reilly (Image Credit: RTÉ The History Show)

With Joe Joyce’s wonderful Echoland the current choice for ‘One City, One Book’, there is great focus on the period of the so-called ‘Emergency’ and Dublin during World War Two.

It’s sometimes joked that the Second World War passed us by totally. The poet Louis MacNeice would remember being in Dublin on the day Hitler invaded Poland, and that in the pubs “the Dublin literati…hardly mentioned the war but debated the correct versions of Dublin street songs. Dublin was hardly worried by the war…her old preoccupations were still preoccupations.” Yet despite this seeming indifference to the outbreak of the conflict from some, the war would make itself felt here in different ways. Nazi bombs fell on the city, Nazi spies parachuted into the countryside, thousands of Irishmen joined the British armed forces and rationing and censorship became parts of life here too, though to a much lesser extent than on the neighbouring island.

There are, of course, countless fascinating individual stories around Ireland and World War Two. Some, like IRA Chief of Staff Seán Russell or Hermann Gortz (the Nazi spy who parachuted into Ireland in full Luftwaffe uniform) are relatively well-known. Then there are the tales of those who sought political asylum here, including Breton collaborators and others who managed to assimilate themselves into Irish life, in some cases avoiding prosecution for their activities during the war.

One rather strange story of Ireland and the conflict concerns John Francis O’Reilly, a figure who parachuted from a Luftwaffe plane into West Clare in 1943. He and his associate, John Kenny, have been described as “the last of the motley band of fanatics, adventurers and misfits in the pay of Nazi Germany who landed in neutral Ireland as spies.” Having escaped from captivity in Arbour Hill detention centre after being captured within hours of his arrival in Ireland, a sizeable reward was offered for information leading to the detention of O’Reilly, which his father availed of by reporting him to local Gardaí when his son had arrived back in Clare. Later, his father presented him with this reward money following the end of the war, which O’Reilly used towards the purchase of a pub and hotel on Dublin’s Parkgate Street.

From Clare to Berlin and back again:

How did a Clareman come to be parachuted into Ireland by the Luftwaffe in the first place?

David Murphy’s entry on O’Reilly for the Dictionary of Irish Biography gives good insight into a life that was somewhat nomadic before World War Two. Born in Kilrush in 1916, O’Reilly was a son of the RIC sergeant who arrested Sir Roger Casement upon his arrival at Banna Strand immediately before the Easter Rising. Murphy writes:

He worked as a clerk in the Customs and Excise Department (May 1936–September 1938) but left this job after failing an Irish exam and went to the Benedictine abbey at Buckfast, England, to become a monk. This plan was soon abandoned and he went to London and worked as a reception clerk in an hotel. He was in London when war broke out but, in May 1940, went to Jersey and was still there when the Germans occupied the Channel Islands in July 1940. Managing to ingratiate himself with the German administration, he initially worked as an interpreter and helped the German commander, Prince Von Baldeck, to recruit a party of Irish workers in exchange for papers to go to Germany. He later stated that he had hoped to go to Germany, contact the Irish legation in Berlin, and then organise his return to Ireland.

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Hanlon’s Corner marker (Luke Fallon)

Dublin’s thriving cattle market is recalled well into the recent history of the city.  In his excellent memoir Another Country: Growing Up in 50’s Ireland, Gene Kerrigan wrote:

The cattle were tended by cowboys on bicycles, men with overcoats and hats, furiously pedaling this way and that, whacking the cattle with their sticks and shouting at them, the bewildered beasts leaving heaps of shit on the road as souvenirs of their passage.

There had been a cattle market in Smithfield since the late seventeenth century, and the sight of cattle being moved through the local streets was a common one, with one nineteenth century publication talking of how “droves of cattle are constantly pushed through the streets to a marketplace called by the somewhat grandiloquent name of Smithfield.”

Work on the development of a new Cattle Market in the Aughrim Street/Prussia Street area  commenced in February 1863 and it was officially opened in November of that same year. It became a hive of activity, and from here animals would be driven through the streets of the capital to boats moored along the North Wall. As Joseph V. O’Brien noted, there were moments of “mass excitement and general merriment” on occasions when animals should make a break for it, citing one bull who made it a fine distance, “”reaching Kingsbridge Station and following the railway tracks to Inchicore, stopping only when it charged head on into a train at Ballyfermot bridge, all the while being pursued by mounted constables and sundry citizens.”

Today, two historic plaques in the area mark what was once an enormous local employer. One, affixed to the side of the City Arms public house, appears to be the original marker of the market:

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City Arms public house plaque,marking the opening of a market in November 1863 (Luke Fallon)

The rise and demise of the market is well documented in Bernard Neary’s recent local history study, Dublin 7, where he notes that “during the 1920s it was the busiest of its kind in Europe; throughput in one year numbered nearly three-quarters of a million animals”. In spite of this, the following decades were difficult:

During the late 1960s business at the markets started to decline as railway cattle-wagons were replaced by road-transport vehicles and provincial markets grew. The prominence enjoyed by the Dublin Cattle Market in the meat industry began to decline and finally in the early 1970s it ceased operations. However, the death-blow that the closure was forecast to bring to the area, known locally as Cowtown, never materialised.

Much of the site of the market is now occupied by the Drumalee housing estate. In addition to the two historic markers, another reminder of the history of the district is the naming of a nearby cafe, the Cowtown Cafe on the corner of Manor Street and Manor Place:

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Cowtown (Luke Fallon)

The Bolsheveki Bookies

Now more than ever is it possible for those with an interest and an internet connection to study family history. From the online availability of 1901/1911 Census’ and the Bureau of Military History’s Pensions and Witness Statements collections, to the Newspaper archives it takes time and unfortunately at times a little money to delve into the past. In investigating my own history, I came across two interesting associates of my Great-Uncle William Murray; James and Thomas Redican.

James and Thomas were born to Sligo parents, Thomas and Annie Redican. Thomas Snr. was a gardener by trade and an Irish musician by passion, and the boys along with their siblings Dorothy, Patrick and Lawrence attended school in Donnybrook. On finishing school, James became a bookmaker and was a Volunteer in E Company, 3rd Battalion, Dublin Brigade. He was active in Boland’s Mills during the Easter Rising and would suffer injuries to a hand, an ankle and took a bullet to a thigh which would plague him for the rest of his life; he was imprisoned in Frongoch after the surrender. His younger brother Thomas also made an appearance during the Rising, showing up at his brother’s garrison but was turned away by DeValera for being too young.

Sometime after the general release of prisoners from Frongoch, James Redican makes an appearance in Mullingar, as can be read in the witness statements of Michael Murray, Capt. Ballinacarrigy Company IRA and Michael McCoy, Capt. Mullingar Company. Murray mentions raids for arms ‘under the command of James Redican,’ and a successful raid on the Hibernian Bank in Mullingar. His statement also speaks of Redican and a party of Volunteers, including William Murray holding up a mail train just outside of Mullingar, destroying communications and removing moneys from letters. Interestingly, the statement continues

It now transpired that Redican was not a member of the Volunteers at all. He was an ex-prisoner from Mountjoy Jail. Apparently while in Mountjoy he got acquainted with some Volunteer prisoners from the Mullingar area and convinced them he was up for political reasons while in reality he was doing time for some criminal offence. On his release, he came to the Mullingar area nosing as staff officer from G.H.Q. and soon was OK with the Battalion O/C and other officers. G.H.Q. now sent down instructions that he was to be put out of the area, much to our surprise… It was really a pity he was of that type because he had plenty of guts and courage and would be an asset to the Volunteers anywhere

The Hibernian wasn’t Redican’s only experience of bank raids. By late 1920, he was leading a gang of men (including his brother Thomas and several of those involved in the Hibernian raid) on a series of sorties against banks in Dublin, ostensibly under the orders of Brigadier T.J. Burke of Mullingar (Noel Redican’s ‘Shadows of Doubt.’)

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On the left, The National Bank at Baggot Street Bridge. Circa. 1905. Raided twice by Redican’s gang.

In November 1920 and February 1921, the National Bank of Upper Baggot Street was raided, with sums of £2, 789 and £1, 237 being appropriated. The day after the February raid, the brothers, along with Thomas Weymes (another of the Mullingar men,) were picked up and brought to the local police barracks where they were paraded in front of witnesses, arrested and charged. According to ‘Shadows of Doubt,’

They (the IRA) had come to the conclusion that Redican (James) had pocketed the proceeds from the robberies, which were therefore of a criminal nature, and disowned the raiders.

As a result, their arrests may not have been wholly down to sleuth like  police work. Michael McCoy’s witness statement would seem to corroborate and goes further to say

… a series of bank robberies occurred around Dublin. David Burke had a suspicion that Redigan (sic) and his party might be the culprits, and so informed Michael Collins. Collins passed on the information to some friends in the D.M.P., and Redigan and a man named Weymes were arrested and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. It was suspected that Redigan then gave information to the British authorities as to the location of the arms in Mullingar. In February, 1921, after David Burke was arrested, an R.I.C. man told him that they had information that arms were stored in a disused oven in McDonnell’s bakery in Dominick St. Their information was perfectly correct. Burke got a message out to me and we had them removed shortly before the place was raided.

The three men still regarded the offences with which they were being charged as political, insisting the raids were ordered by superior officers and that the proceeds from same had been removed by another two of the Hibernian men, Tormey and Murray for return to their Brigadier for dispersal. Their trials were held separately and weren’t without controversy- witnesses seemed confused as to who they were meant to be pointing out, and Thomas Redican, though in prison in Arbour Hill for another offence at the time of the February raid, was charged with same. The three men were sentenced to penal servitude.

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The Freeman’s Journal, May 23rd 1922

Their time in prison was to be cut short, with the signing of the treaty and the subsequent amnesty for republican prisoners in February 1922 only for them to be re-arrested within weeks for questioning regarding the monies raised through their bank raids and the whereabouts of same- upwards of £5, 000 was unaccounted for. They were tried by a Republican Court at the Court of Conscience on South William Street in what was widely regarded at the time by the papers ‘an amazing story.’ Several newspaper reports make the point that the money used from the raids was used to finance a bookmaking business.

In November, Tormey, James Redican and witness raided the Baggot Street branch of the National Bank. They got about £3, 000 there. They went to Tara Street after, taking the money from the bank. Tormey went away that evening. Witness handed over the stolen money to him and he took some of it with him. Witness was acting under Tormey at this time. Witness followed Tormey to Westmeath and there was a division of the money but Witness got none. Witness carried on the book in the meantime. In October, the book was making money. They called themselves the ‘Bolsheveki Bookmakers.’

(Cork County Eagle and Munster Advertiser, June 3rd 1922.)

Under the newly formed Free State, the men’s stay in prison was far from comfortable, with neither side willing to give concession to the other. Throughout the Civil War they remained guests of the State, who though petitioned, refused to sanction the release of Thomas even though it was proved could not have been present for the raid which he was serving time for. The men in turn didn’t make it easy for the prison services, and until their release in July 1924, frequently engaged in acts of disobedience, refusing to wear uniforms, attacking warders and undergoing several hunger strikes, one of which in particular almost cost James his life.

Their story does not end there. In 1928 Seán Harling, a brother-in-law to the Redican brothers (having married their sister Dorothy) shot and killed Timothy Coughlan, a 22-year-old IRA Volunteer outside the house he was sharing with the Redican family. Harling, a Republican interned during the Civil War had joined the Secret Services of the Free State in part due to economic reasons, and in part due to enormous pressure exerted by Free State agents. He alleged he was ambushed while returning home from work and retaliated in self-defence. However, medical evidence would suggest otherwise, Coughlan’s wound looking more like an execution rather than a shot fired in haste whilst fleeing. The Redican brothers would take the stand once more, this time for questioning in relation to Coughlan’s death having been present in the house during the shooting; a case that is almost as inconclusive today as it was at the time.

In a post-Sackville Lounge world, I have little reason to wander down Sackville Place, the street to the side of Clery’s department store. Indeed, Clery’s itself is now no more, and last winter some its historic signage disappeared without trace.

Thankfully still affixed to the building is a plaque in honour of Paweł Edmund Strzelecki (1798 -1873). An explorer and geologist of considerable fame abroad, Strzelecki’s contribution to the distribution of Famine Relief in the west of Ireland during the Great Hunger is remembered on the plaque in English, Polish and As Gaeilge. It is a beautiful tribute, unveiled in March 2015 at a ceremony that was attended by members of the Polish community in Ireland and representatives from the city of Poznan.

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Sackville Lane, March 2017.

There are many stories of international assistance and interventions in the story of Ireland’s Great Hunger. Some, like the assistance of the Choctaw Nation of displaced Native Americans, have been well remembered and commemorated. There were also numerous interesting individuals who were moved to action by the calamity in Ireland; French chef Alexis Soyer would establish a soup kitchen at the site of what is now the Croppies Acre memorial, feeding thousands. Strzelecki’s story is much less widely known than Soyer or the Native Americans however, but was brought to prominence by the Polish community in Ireland in recent times.

Born in Głuszyna (near Poznan) in 1797, Strzelecki lived a remarkable life on a number of fronts. Firstly, he served within the Prussian army for a period, though his service was brief, and he was instead destined for exploration. Denis Gregory, author of Australia’s Great Explorers, has noted that traveling around Europe he developed “an interest in science, agriculture and meteorology. History notes that he had a look around the mines in Saxony and Mount Vesuvius in Italy.” Such travel and intellectual curiosity was the preserve of only a small wealthy elite of course,and his travels were not confined to the European continent. He traveled widely in North and south America, and made it to New Zealand in the early months of 1839.

As an explorer, he is best remembered for his time in Australia. On the invitation of the Governor of New South Wales, Strzelecki conducted a mineralogical and geological survey of the the Gippsland region, where he discovered gold in 1839, yet his finding was suppressed by the Governor, who “feared the social disruption that a gold rush would inevitably cause in what was still demographically a convict colony.” Strzelecki would chronicle some of the remotest parts of Australia, and an impressive monument in his honour stands today in Jindabyne, New South Wales.

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Sackville Lane, March 2017.

The failures of the British State in relation to the suffering of the Irish peasantry throughout the years of the Great Hunger is well documented. Sir Charles Trevelyan, a senior British civil servant and colonial administrator, believed that:

The judgement of God sent the calamity the teach the Irish a lesson,that calamity must not be too much mitigated…The real evil with which we have to contend is not the physical evil of the Famine, but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the people.

Such beliefs were not those of some hack, but rather a political administrator who could directly impact on the lives of the suffering masses. As Melissa Fegan has noted, Trevelyan and many of those around him were “convinced that the Famine was providential in nature, and even if political economy had not forbidden a radical intervention in the markets, who could challenge the hand of God?”

Despite such abhorrent views from some in authority,  huge sums of money were raised for the purpose of Famine relief in Britain. This came from migrant Irish workers, Quakers, sympathetic businessmen and a wide cross section of society. The most significant body to operate in Ireland during this period was the British Relief Association, described by historian Christine Kinealy as the body which provided “the greatest amount of relief” in Ireland. It was for this body that Paweł Edmund Strzelecki laboured over a period of eighteen months, overseeing the distributing of relief in the west of Ireland, which was worst affected by the failure of the potato crop. At first, Strzelecki had responsibilities for the Mayo, Donegal and Sligo regions, and he was one of only twelve agents working on behalf of the British Relief Association in Ireland. As Enda Delaney has noted, “his confidential reports to the committee in London chronicled the descent of this region into complete starvation”. He wrote that:

The population seems as if paralysed, and helpless, more ragged and squalid; here fearfully dejected…stoically resigned to death; then, again, as if conscious of some greater forthcoming evil, they are deserting their hearths and families. The examination of some individual cases of distress showed most heart-breaking instances of human misery, and of the degree to which that misery can be bought.

In Dublin,things were miserable too. The Freeman’s Journal reported in May 1847 of a woman named Eliza Holmes, arrested by the police while begging on Sackville Street with her dead infant child in her arms. Refugees from the country side flooded into the urban centres. Many were, of course, destined to leave the island via the port of the capital. As David Dickson has written,this was in many ways to the benefit of the city, as “if access to either Britain or North American ports had been denied to Famine refugees during the late 1840s, Dublin would have been catastrophically overwhelmed by those seeking institutional protection”.

Strzelecki both lived and worked in the Sackville Street area during some of his time in Ireland, basing himself in the Reynold’s Hotel in Upper Sackville Street. For a time he himself was incapacitated by ‘Famine Fever’, but he continued to carry out important administrative work from Dublin.

For his troubles, the Polish explorer was made a Knight Commander of the Honour of Bath in 1848. Remarkably, so too was Trevelyan. Unlike Trevelyan, Strzelecki received and sought no payment for his work in Ireland during the Great Hunger. One early historian of the period would later note that “the name of this benevolent stranger was then, and for long afterwards, a familiar one if not a household word in the homes of the suffering poor.”

Strzelecki died in October 1873, and he was buried in London’s Kensal Green Cemetery. In 1997, his remains were returned to Poland. It is fitting that he is remembered on the streets of Dublin today.

Cervi

Historic postcard of Great Brunswick Street, today Pearse Street (Image Credit)

I was delighted to see this historic postcard posted on Facebook recently. While the focus of the photographer was probably the Army Recruitment Office on Great Brunswick Street (or Pearse Street to me and you), they accidentally captured what would become an interesting bit of Dublin social history. At 22 Great Brunswick Street, we get a great view of Dublin’s first chipper, opened by Giuseppe Cervi, who arrived here in the 1880s.

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22 Great Brunswick Street.

Today, the takeaway section of popular restaurant Super Miss Sue is named ‘Cervi’s’ in his honour. His humble takeaway booth on Great Brunswick Street stood on what is now the site of the Dublin Fire Brigade headquarters, though the Cervi family later established a proper premises at no. 22, which we can see advertised “Fried Fish & Chips” to all. Italians had been arriving here long before Cervi; as Vinnie Caprani has noted, “many of the Italian immigrants who arrived in Ireland in the middle and latter half of the nineteenth century were stonemasons, church decorators and terrazzo tile workers.”

Tony Cervi, a son of Giuseppe, remembered his father in a 1976 Evening Herald feature on Dublin’s Italian chipper community, recalling that “there were very few Italians living in Dublin when my father first arrived here. My father was illiterate to the end of his life, yet he could do the most difficult accounts in his head, and never come out wrong. He loved horses and horse racing, and could out odds and prices to the very last penny.”

The Italian community would become synonymous with Dublin’s takeaways and ice cream parlours, and by 1910 the city could boast of twenty chippers. While most  of Dublin’s big chipper names came from the Frosinone region of central Italy, the Cervi’s came from Picinisco. Cervi’s wife is credited with coining the Dublin phrase ‘One and One’, still used to describe a fish and chips meal. She would ask customers ‘Uno di questo, uno de quello?’, meaning one of each. By the early twentieth century, the Italian community was significant enough to see the area around Little Ship Street, where Giuseppe and his family lived, become known as ‘Little Italy’. Tony Cervi remembered that:

The area around us – off St. Werbrugh Street, Chancery Lane and Whitefriar Street was known as ‘Little Italy’. If someone came to Dublin and wanted to locate a particular Italian, he would more often than not be directed to ‘Little Italy’. The place was filled with barrel-organ men, ice cream men who traveled the city with their barrows and  marblemen. My mother usually ‘put up’ traveling Italian or Greek terrazzo workers of craftsmen, and Italians who came here to erect altars and suchlike. They’d be given our address and know my mother would give them good Italian food.

Dublin Inquirer x CHTM.

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Dublin Inquirer, April 2017.

Dublin Inquirer first burst onto the scene in June 2015, as an online news website covering all aspects of life in the capital. With a particularly keen eye for civic politics and culture, it caught our attention right from the start. Evidently many others liked it too, allowing it to grow into a monthly print publication while retaining a strong online presence.

Independent media of all shades has an important part to play in the life of any city. With this in mind we continue we have actively contributed to Rabble magazine since its inception, and have been lucky enough to have the wonderful Dublin Digital Radio air our last ‘Dublin Songs & Stories’ event.  All of these outlets are doing great work in providing spaces to alternative voices.

When asked to contribute a monthly historical feature to DI I jumped at the chance. From the April issue onwards (which should be appearing on the streets in the days ahead) there will be a regular contribution, which will be exclusive to the print edition of DI and which will be new material, i.e not published previously on this site or the DI website.

The first feature is a look at the sometimes strange intersections of the Russian and Irish revolutionary periods, and the widespread enthusiasm in Dublin for the Bolshevik revolution in its immediate aftermath. It was largely inspired by the recent condemnation from some quarters of Dublin City Council’s decision to invest on a programme linked to the Russian Revolution centenary as part of the on-going Decade of Centenaries. As this piece argues, events in Russia did impact directly and indirectly on revolutionary Ireland.

You can pick the physical newspaper up (€3) from the following places, which includes a few friends of ourselves (Bang Bang, Connolly Books and more besides).

  • Wigwam – 54 Abbey Street Middle, Dublin 1
  • Connolly Books – 43 East Essex Street, Dublin 2
  • The Library Project – 4 Temple Bar Street, Dublin 2
  • George’s Street Arcade – 2 South Great George’s Street, Dublin 2
  • Little Museum of Dublin – 15 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2
  • Books Upstairs – 17 D’Olier Street, Dublin 2
  • Bark Coffee at Alan Hannah’s Bookshop – 270 Rathmines Road Lower, Dublin 6
  • Village Bookshop – 101 Terenure Road North, Dublin 6W
  • Back Page – 199 Phibsborough Rd, Dublin 7
  • Urbanity Coffee – The Glass House, 11 Coke Lane, Dublin 7
  • Bang Bang – 59A Leinster St North, Dublin 7
  • The Pupp Cafe – 37 Clanbrassil Street Lower, Dublin 8
  • The Green Door Market – 18 Newmarket, Dublin 8
  • Smallchanges Wholefoods Store – 40 Drumcondra Road Lower, Dublin 9

An Unusual Prisoner

Ernie O’Malley has always appeared as somewhat of an enigma to me. A veteran of the War of Independence and the following Civil War, he remained puritanical in his vision for an Irish Republic and held an uncompromising belief that any violence used in attaining same was soundly and morally justified. His politics never deviated from the creation of the Republic, his head never turned and he was happy to play the part of the consummate soldier.

His works on the War of Independence (“On Another Man’s Wound”) and the Civil War (“The Singing Flame”) are easily two of the best books on the Revolutionary period, his style a descriptive pose capable of painting a vivid scene. Covering the period July 1921 to July 1924, The Singing Flame commences around the 1921 Truce and runs right through to the death of Liam Lynch and as such the cataclysmic aftermath of the split and all it entailed feature heavily and heartrendingly.

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Jack B. Yeats and Ernie O’Malley, from the 1948 Capuchin Annual.

 

For the purpose of this article though, the book goes into great detail about the occupation, defence of and surrender of the Four Courts during the Battle of Dublin (in which O’Malley’s younger brother also fought, under Oscar Traynor in ‘The Block’ on O’Connell Street.) There are articles to be written about that event in detail and no doubt there will be given the upcoming centenaries but an interesting character jumped out on my last reading of the book that I can find no record of anywhere else- a well coiffured American Dandy gun-runner who had somehow been taken prisoner in the Four Courts.

Already we had one prisoner near the guardroom. He was a professional gun-runner. He entertained us with stories of Mexico and of the South American Republics. He passed comments on the hotels in Dublin; there was only one where a person could eat in comfort. I expect the food from the Officer’s Mess was not much to his liking. He was rather tall, well dressed, with light fair hair and a slight mustache varying between fair and white, well pointed at the ends, he must have used some kind of grease. He was accused of trying to double cross some of our agents in Belgium and Germany who were attempting to purchase arms. He protested vigorously. This was an outrage, it was the first time he had ever been arrested. He was told it might be the last time, and his smile, showing a few gold teeth, dwindled away. His nasal voice was not raised so often now.

After O’Malley’s escape from Dublin, he describes making his way to Bray where he encountered the prisoner again.

What South Dublin had been doing since the attack on the Courts I could not imagine. A man walked over from the hotel door. He was the American gun-runner whom we had released a few hours before the attack on the Four Courts began. He inquired for Liam Mellows and Paddy O’Brien. ‘I liked them well,’ he said. ‘I sure am sorry about O’Brien. They were good boys in there.’ He flashed his gold- toothed smile. ‘I’m waiting for the next boat, glad to go; this country of yours is too sharp for me.’ ‘If you send us a consignment of trench mortars,’ I said, ‘no one will quarrel with you about your excess profits.’

The Easter Rising and the War of Independence have their fair share of tales of foreign influence, accounts of which can be drawn down from the Bureau of Military History’s Witness Statements and the Military Service Pensions Collection. The Civil War, given the Republican side’s principled refusal for the most part to deal with the Free State relies on O’Malley’s own collection “The Men Will Talk to Me” for any anecdotal evidence relating to the period. I’ve searched several other sources relating to the Four Courts occupation but can’t find any other references to the prisoner- any help would be appreciated!

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