PART 1
BY JOHN FITZGERALD
Last week I completed the story of the botched ambush attempt in Friary Street, Kilkenny, back in 1921…but there’s a postscript: Though none of the ambush team members were arrested or captured- having escaped on their bikes from the scene- others who had no involvement in the affair were picked up by the Black and Tans.
Some of these were released within hours, but others- the unlucky ones- were taken to the dreaded Auxiliary HQ at Woodstock. Among them were Sean Cullen and John Bryan of Patrick Street, and Michael Ruth of James Green. Jim Bolger and John McGrath, caught wearing bicycle clips while travelling in Nolan’s bus to Callan, were also earmarked for interrogation and “special treatment.”
Woodstock House served as a heavily fortified military nerve centre of the occupation forces in County Kilkenny. The house was designed by the architect Francis Bindon and erected in 1745 for Sir William Fownes. It was built of stone with brick lining inside. The vaulting of the basement was also made of brick. Flanking wings were added in 1804 and service yards created on either side of the house.
The highly decorative front façade drew the admiration of many a visiting dignitary and aristocrat. As did a five-bay garden frontage on which magazine and newspaper correspondents lavished praise.
But Woodstock and its big house took on a more sinister aura in 1920. The Auxiliaries and Tans turned the magnificent building, then part of the Tighe estate, into a feared military HQ that doubled up as a grim and terrifying destination for any man suspected of pro-rebel activities.
In the Lion’s Den
After his arrest for wearing bicycle clips, Jim Bolger was bundled into a Crossley Tender on the Callan road. Jim was tall and strong, but he never used his strength to hurt anyone. An inoffensive, obliging, and hard-working man, he had little or no interest in politics.
He was driven to Kilkenny Military Barracks and from there to Woodstock. On the way, Tans taunted him on his supposed rebel involvement that he denied. “You’ll be a fauking stiff Paddy if you don’t confess to the Major”, one officer told him.
He repeated his denial, as he had no connection whatever with the insurgency. “The Major’ll have this fauker for breakfast” another soldier wisecracked. There were several other references to “the Major” and what he could do to people who failed to confess, or offer information on the rebels. Tired of hearing about him, Jim asked: “Who’s this Major anyway?”
A Tan made a throat-cutting gesture and shook his head. Gravely, he intoned: “He’s your ticket to Heaven or to Hell, Paddy. If you don’t confess like a good lad, you’re a gonner my son…a Fenian fauking stiff…Will your chums sing a nice ballad about you when you’ve snuffed it?” Jim remained silent for the remainder of the journey.
When the lorry reached Inistioge, it stopped at the bottom of a hill leading up High Street. Jim was blindfolded. Thinking he was about to be shot, he muttered a quick prayer. Seeing his reaction, one of the Tans cocked his revolver and fired three shots.
Jim trembled at the sound of each one. But it was a dog that the soldier had executed. It had been lying on the pavement outside a village pub. The Tan hollered: “got the blighter”. His friends clapped and joked, one of them jesting that “a Fenian dog” had died for Ireland.
Jim heard the dying yelps of the collie. The dog had been a familiar feature of the village scene for more than a decade. Jim felt Tans digging him in the ribs as they sang Rule Britannia, and noticed that they didn’t appear to know the words of the song. This greatly amused him.
He heard townspeople shouting and roaring defiance at “blackguards” and “bloody foreigners”. The Tans were hated anew in the village. They’d killed poor old Betsy the sheepdog. And Jim heard the shots that were fired over the heads of angry locals who stormed towards the lorry.
When the crowd had dispersed, the lorry rumbled on, grinding to a halt every few seconds along what Jim guessed must be a very steep hill.
Eventually, the bumpy ride came to an end. The engine fell silent. Jim heard commands being yelled in accents that he found difficult to understand…and the crunch of hobnailed boots in a courtyard.
The blindfold was removed and he found himself being pushed, dragged and prodded up steps by half a dozen Tan soldiers. The human express train propelled its way along a corridor…
(My novel, Invaders, tells the story of how a small band of men and women in 17th century Ireland took on one of the most powerful armies in the world. It’s available from Amazon and Kilkenny bookshops.)
To be continued…
