What really happened on the day Michael Collins was shot? Daniel Murray looks at Florence O’Donoghue’s version.
In February 1964, an unofficial committee of seven men met in the Metropole Hotel in Cork to write down together the details of a defining event in modern Irish history: the death of Michael Collins on 22nd August 1922. The perspective of the seven men in the Hotel forty-two years after the event was exceptional in that all but one of them had participated in the fatal ambush. The odd man out, Florence O’Donoghue, had been elsewhere that day, but had been invited to the reunion to act as the scribe for what the group would collectively agree upon as the truth.
O’Donoghue had most likely been chosen for the role because not only had he been a comrade of theirs, but he had in the succeeding years established himself, much like his contemporary Ernie O’Malley, as a literary man and a historian of note. His role in the War of Independence had been as head of intelligence for the Cork No. 1 Brigade, though he had remained neutral in the Civil War. As a man who knew the value of information and the use of the pen, O’Donoghue was the ideal choice to record on behalf of the group their version of events.
This article does not attempt to cast the death of Collins in a new light. Instead, it aims to look at a piece of historiography about it, and in particular how O’Donoghue on behalf of his group attempted to portray their own roles in the most favourable way, or in a way that would be the least embarrassing. After all, Collins had been held in high esteem even by those who ended up opposing him. Tom Barry recalled the Anti-Treatyite prisoners in Kilmainham Jail dropping to their knees en masse to pray for Collins upon hearing of his death (Barry, pp. 168-9).
That Barry and the seven men in the Metropole had been in the Cork Brigade may have been a factor. Todd Andrews, while writing about his time as an Anti-Treatyite prisoner, thought that “the Cork IRA suffered from a sense of collective guilt from the death of Collins,” as opposed to the less reverential Kerry prisoners (Andrews, p. 292). For some, Collins’ death hung about as the ghost at the feast. When there was talk after the Civil War of re-establishing the Irish Republican Brotherhood, one former Anti-Treatyite and prospective member had to deny the accusation that he had cheered upon hearing of Collins’ death, insisting instead he, like the prisoners in Kilmainham Jail, had knelt down in prayer (Valiulis, p. 126).
The resulting record from the meeting in the Metropole is short and concise, coming to just four pages in Edward O’Mahony’s printing of it (O’Mahony, pp. 40-44). After setting the scene of the seven men meeting at the Metropole, and the listing of their names and IRA army ranks at the time of Collins’ death, O’Donoghue explains that the motive for the record was not merely for the sake of posterity but in response to an upcoming book by Eoin Neeson on the Civil War.
The seven men clearly had reasons to doubt that Neeson’s account would be to their liking; luckily for them, they had an ally, John Feehan, in the publishing house (Mercier Press, Cork) responsible who assured them that the book would not be published unless they “were satisfied that the part of it dealing with the death of Collins was in accordance with the facts” (p. 41). As O’Donoghue gives us Feehan’s rank as that of captain (a rank he attained in the Irish Army during The Emergency), it is probable that this was a case of one ex-solider helping another out. Neeson’s book was published two years later, in 1966, so evidently the finished product was to their satisfaction.
With the introduction done, we begin the narrative with the Anti-Treatyite officers in Cork learning of Collins’ presence in the area on the morning of 22nd August, followed by the decisions and actions that led up to it, and ending with them learning of Collins’ resulting death.
Excess details are absent, such as the fact that O’Donoghue was away from Bealnablath, where the other six men had met at the time to discuss the situation, as he had been previously detained by Free State solders, as part of which he met and conversed with Collins (Coogan, p. 404). O’Donoghue possibly thought that including his own experiences would have distracted from the main narrative. Neither do we learn of the reaction of the Anti-Treatyite leaders to Collins’ death, perhaps because, again, it was considered irrelevant.
O’Donoghue does not tell us more about these ‘statements’ or who they were by; unsurprising, considering how he was attempting to squash the rumours. Nor does he tell us whether these rumoured orders to kill Collins were supposed to have been issued from senior IRA leaders, such as the Chief of Staff Liam Lynch, or from the Anti-Treatyite officers on the ground at the time.
In the first full-length biography of Collins, Piaras Béaslaí was in no doubt that “the ambushers were aware of the identity of Collins, despite assertions to the contrary by members of the anti-Treaty Party,” the implication being that Collins had been a target (Béaslaí, p. 440). Béaslaí’s book was published in 1926, and perhaps the seven men who would later meet in the Metropole had felt in no position to respond soon after being on the losing side. By 1964, when they learnt of Eoin Neeson’s upcoming book, they may have felt that enough time had passed for them to no longer take such talk lying down.
The issue of whether the ambushers had intended to kill Collins had been addressed before by Anti-Treatyite combatants: Tom Barry and Peadar O’Donnell. Neither had participated in the ambush – both being imprisoned at the time – and relied on information from those who had. Barry’s stated reason for bringing up the subject of Collins’ death, jumping ahead of his narrative that otherwise ended at the Truce, was to “kill the canard that the I.R.A plotted and planned Collins’ death in 1922 and in fact assassinated him” – an indignity at the very idea shared in the 1964 and Deasy’s accounts (Barry, p. 169).
According to Barry, the ambushers did not even know that Collins was in the convoy until hours after the event – a claim not even the 1964 and Deasy accounts make. O’Donnell described the ambush as “a chance happening” due to the main ambush party having already left, but does not comment on the issue of whether or not the ambushers knew who they were shooting at (O’Donnell, p. 17).
This is possibly because O’Donnell did not consider the issue important enough. A major difference between the two earlier Anti-Treatyite accounts is that Barry idolised Collins, describing him as “an outstanding figure” and “a great son of West Cork” (pp. 168-8). In contrast, O’Donnell took a more critical view, portraying Collins as conspiratorial and misguided, and consequently his account of Collins’ death is less emotive than Barry’s. Both Barry and O’Donnell agree in describing the ambushers as having lain in wait for several days prior, while the 1964 and Deasy’s accounts describes events as happening very quickly from when they first learnt of Collins’ convoy on the morning of the ambush.
Lynch later criticized Deasy for neglecting to use mines against an armoured convoy, unaware that the ambushers had tried to use just that (O’Malley, p. 193).
Regardless of whether there was any plan to kill Collins, the ambush planners could not have been naïve to the possibility of killing a senior enemy general, which Collins was. Targeting prominent enemies for assassination had been a feature of the IRA in the War of Independence, from the attempt on Lord French, and the planned ones on individuals as diverse as the Prince of Wales, Lloyd George, British cabinet ministers, Unionist MPs, and Sir Henry Wilson, whose assassination was carried out (Hart, pp. 198-9). The orders issued by Liam Lynch in November 1922 to kill on sight certain persons in response to the shootings of imprisoned Anti-Treatyites – resulting in the fatal shooting of Sean Hales TD and the wounding of Pádraic Ó Máille TD – can be seen as a continuation of this assassination policy.
While the death of Collins ultimately brought the Anti-Treatyites no tangible benefits, the possibility that it would must surely have been considered, something O’Donoghue pointedly omits. Lynch certainly thought it would.
As the Civil War dragged on and the Anti-Treatyite position became increasingly untenable, Lynch’s attitude was that things would have taken a different course if only Collins had lived, but in the immediate aftermath his attitude had been a very different one (Ryan, p. 218).
Having seen this, the men in the Cork No. 3 section opened fire on the convoy after hurriedly taking positions. In case we were in doubt over whether Collins was the target of the ambush, O’Donoghue assures that “conditions were such that it was not possible to get off an aimed shot” (O’Mahony, p. 44).
O’Donoghue lists some of the 20 to 25 members of the ambush party, men like Liam Deasy, Tom Kelleher and Jim Hurley, who were intimate with the techniques of ambush from their roles in the War of Independence. It was out of character for them to have been careless enough to allow the bulk of their force open to being overwhelmed by the same force they had planned to take by surprise. The story does, however, offer the committee in the Metropole a chance to distance themselves from the consequence of the ambush, i.e. Collins’ death, without denying that they had taken part. While in the process of withdrawing from a fight, they had found themselves unexpectedly cornered, and the Cork No. 3 had had no choice but to open hostilities after all to save their comrades.
O’Donoghue’s account bears a certain resemblance in part to Tom Barry’s account of the Kilmichael ambush, where Barry claimed that he had chosen an ambush site that allowed for no line of retreat, something he made sure to inform his men about, in the Spartan spirit of with-your-shield-or-on-it (Barry, p. 42). As military historian W. H. Kautt puts it: “it was recklessly irresponsible for a guerrilla leader to jeopardize his force in such a manner” (p. 103), which is at odds with Barry’s track record as a tactician. But, as with O’Donoghue’s account of Bealnablath, such a mistake could allow for the Kilmichael ambush to have been justified on the grounds that to have retreated before the approaching British convoy without a secure line of retreat would have exposed his men to an unacceptable risk, and thus the ambush was as much self-defence as anything (Kautt, pp. 113-4).
Barry’s memoir had been published in 1949, and even if O’Donoghue had not read it by the time of the Metropole meeting, he would have had some familiarity with the material, having been an editor to an earlier draft (Morrison, p. 161). It is possible that O’Donoghue, seeking to portray the Bealnablath ambush party as not fully responsible for their role in an action that resulted in the death of a revered leader, borrowed a narrative tactic from another’s work. This cannot be said for certain, as without access to the draft O’Donoghue saw we cannot tell how much it resembled the printed version or how much of it was retained. It would be strange, however, for O’Donoghue to not have read a published work that he had had some role in.
All sources – Béaslaí, Barry, O’Donnell and the collective 1964 account – agree that the ambush was the work of a minority from the main party, with the rest having already moved on. Lynch’s memorandum to Ernie O’Malley, based on the report Liam Deasy sent to him, numbers the shooters as nine, though other sources are less specific (O’Malley, p. 135). The argument that the rearguard was prompted by the need to protect their comrades, however, is unique to the 1964 account.
As O’Donoghue’s account was written by committee, it is impossible to know how much input any one of the seven had in it, but nine years later, in 1973, one of them would publish his own version in Brother Against Brother. As with the 1964 account, Liam Deasy was sensitive to how the ambush had since been portrayed, bemoaning how “a lot has been written about this ambush at Bealnablath by Irishmen who dramatised the action out of all proportion. Strangers also did not help in what they wrote, many of whom caused much pain” (Deasy, p. 80). A particular rumour he wished to quash was of four Anti-Treatyite officers, including himself, staying at a pub the night before the ambush, presumably because it implied premeditation on the part of Deasy and the three others. Deasy is at pains to present himself as a curiously distant bystander to the whole affair, this despite his senior Anti-Treatyite position as O.C. First Southern Division.
Upon hearing of Collins’ presence in the area with his convoy, Deasy discussed the implication of this with Éamon de Valera. For those searching for any plot to assassinate Collins, this often means linking the ambush with de Valera’s presence in the area. Canon Cohalan of Bandon asked rhetorically in a sermon: “The day Michael Collins was killed where was de Valera” before asserting that de Valera was either directly involved in the ambush or knew those who were (Coogan, p. 427). Four years after the ambush, Piaras Béaslaí sarcastically noted that “it is a remarkable coincidence that Mr. De Valera, on the same day, is known to have been on the road taken by Collins’ party, and not far from the scene of the fatal ambush. I am told by supporters of his that it was only an accident” (Béaslaí, pp. 433-4). This suspicion has continued into recent times, where the 1996 film Michael Collins has Alan Rickman’s de Valera enticing Collins into an assassin’s trap under the pretext of peace talks. It is unclear as to whether any meeting between de Valera and Collins had actually been planned, though de Valera’s denial, and his point that Collins would not have bothered meeting the then-powerless de Valera anyway, is plausible (Coogan, p. 449). It chimes in with Deasy’s description of de Valera’s earnest suggestions to end the war being shot down point-blank by Lynch (Deasy, p. 76). De Valera’s presence is corroborated in the 1964 account but with no elaboration (O’Mahony, p. 42). Neither Deasy nor the 1964 account take the time to defend de Valera against the accusations of complicity but then, they were not writing on his behalf.
During his discussion with de Valera, Deasy correctly guessed that Collins’ arrival would be seen by nearby Anti-Treatyite divisions as an intolerable provocation, prompting an ambush on the convoy. In this the narrative agrees with the 1964 one, which had the divisions set up the ambush even while their senior officers were meeting to discuss it, suggesting that the IRA divisions were fully capable of acting on their own initiative without waiting for orders. This has the benefit of distancing the Anti-Treatyite officers from the ambush, which is presented as a spontaneous action that was natural to the local conditions, and avoiding the question of who gave the definite order to arrange an ambush.
There is no mention of what Deasy’s opinion was on any of this, nor of any effort on his part to encourage or discourage a potential ambush on an important national figure. A feeling “that an ambush would be prepared” was apparently sufficient for a senior officer in the midst of a warzone to not do anything besides hold a meeting in the nearby town of Garranereagh (Deasy, pp. 77-8). This location is at odds with the 1964 account, in which Deasy had arrived at Bealnablath on the 22nd and remained there, the same place where four Anti-Treatyite officers would assemble later that day for a meeting. The 1964 account does not say that Deasy had been one of these four, but the implication in the text is that he was, unless the O.C. First Southern Division was not thought to be worth inviting along. Deasy, however, would prefer to have his readers believe that he was in a different town – keeping his literal distance – having his own meeting, where he “attended to many urgent matters and weighed up the new situation in which we found ourselves” (Deasy, p. 78). Besides a report to Lynch on de Valera’s visit, we get nothing specific on what this weighing up involved – Collins’ presence must surely have been a topic of discussion, but we learn nothing more from Deasy.
With the weighing up presumably weighed, only then did Deasy travel to the ambush site near Bealnablath. He arrived in time to find the ambush party in the process of withdrawing due to the likelihood of Collins taking a different route. In the 1964 account, the order to withdraw “was made, probably by Deasy” (O’Mahony, p. 43); furthermore, Deasy was listed as one of the ambush party. In Deasy’s version, the withdrawal order was Tom Hales’, before Deasy had even arrived, and Deasy was a latecomer to the ambush party at best.
While the 1964 account seeks to distance the ambushers from their own ambush by means of self-defence, Deasy goes one further and places himself as barely on the scene at all.
The point is explicitly made in the 1964 account that the ambush was triggered by the need of the rearguard party to cover the rest from being overtaken by the sudden arrival of the convoy. According to Deasy, most of the party were already in a pub for ten minutes when they heard the first shots from the ambush, and dashed back in time to let off a few shots of their own before the convoy retreated. While the 1964 account seeks to distance the ambushers from their own ambush by means of self-defence, Deasy goes one further and places himself as barely on the scene at all. Deasy also contradicts the 1964 account’s insistence that the main party were exposed in a ravine and in danger of being cornered; according to him, they had already spent some minutes inside before the firing began.
Whether Deasy was purposely going against the 1964 account for his own evasive benefit, was remembering events differently than he had nine years earlier, or had wanted to include his version from the start but been overruled by the others in the Metropole, is impossible to say. There are many overlaps in narrative between the two accounts, but also are significant differences in Deasy’s sole version and these were part of the same desire to distance the subject from the same embarrassing event that had motivated the earlier account.
The death of Collins was regarded by many on the Anti-Treaty side as a tragedy, despite their opposition to him, and the embarrassment felt in the death of such a prominent national figure can be felt in the attempts by many to minimize their roles in the fatal ambush. A document submitted by a group of members in the ambush party and transcribed by Florence O’Donoghue in 1964 is a prime example of this. As the reason for every source to have been written must be examined, the one here was to cast the role of a group of participants in a controversial event in the best light. This was done in two ways: the first was to deny that they had intended to kill Collins specifically, and that the ambush had been intended as another run-of-the-mill action against an enemy; the second was to construe the ambush as the inevitable consequences of the ambushers suddenly finding themselves in danger of being ambushed in turn. This bears a certain resemblance to a similar ambush recorded by another, one whom O’Donoghue has already familiar with as an editor, raising questions as to whether he borrowed a convenient explanation for his own inconvenient ambush. This pattern was repeated by one of the group, Liam Deasy, in his own version, published some years later, which distanced him from the ambush even at the expense of contradicting the account he had helped to write. This is not to say that O’Donoghue’s document is a ‘true’ or ‘false’ account, but that it was written with an agenda that must be taken into consideration when using it.
O’Donoghue, Florence. Florence O’Donoghue papers M.S. 31, 305. National Library of Ireland.
Michael Collins, 1996, The Geffen Film Company, USA. Distributed by Warner Bros. Directed by Neil Jordan.
Written by: Daniel Murray on 10 June, 2013.
Last revised by: John_Dorney22 August, 2018.
7 Responses to "Evasive Manoeuvres: An Examination of Florence O’Donoghue’s Account of the Death of Michael Collins"
There might be more Danile that was the only one I spotted! Good article.
This is a well-researched and interesting piece. It lacks important context, though. The writer displays a level of incredulity towards the claims that “the ambush had been intended as another run-of-the-mill action against an enemy” and compares the account with Tom Barry’s account of the ambush at Kilmichael. There are more apt comparisons to be made, which are the ambushes of two of Collins’s officers and close associates and their convoys around this time. Eoin O’Duffy was ambushed in Bruff and Frank Thornton in Clonmel, the latter incident being a few days before Béalnabláth.
The connection is also made between the murder of Seán Hales, T.D., and the targeting of British officials during the War of Independence. Again, important context is missing: it was a reprisal for executions, including that of Erskine Childers. CID had already committed several murders at this point. This is not a justification, but merely putting it in context.
Anyone deserves to be commended, who approaches this daunting case, with sincere, intrepid curiosity to discover the truth. Any writer who succeeds at adding to our understanding of it, has performed a service indeed, which may very well outlive his own lifetime.
Extraordinary failures by the State, to fulfill its obligations in his case, has bequeathed a deplorable lack of the most basic information about the ambush. For over ninety years, rumour, anecdote, and folklore, have been allowed to stand in place of any official examination of Collins’ death. Such misleading statements continue to be foisted on the public, even by prominent authorities, to this day.
Yet both these Irish Story writers (D Murray and D Lenihan) seem sometimes to forget that, with the extremely flawed state of the record on Michael Collins’ death, all of what little first-hand testimony we have is indeed precious.
No examination of any controversy can call itself thorough or even-handed, without fulfilling the basic universal principle of audi alterum partem: hear both sides. That the participants themselves should want their own side of the story told, that they have a right to be heard, and that their evidence is of critical importance to this history… all this is self-evident. Even those who may have lied, are valuable: because even their lies can tell us something.
Questions and conjectures as to “why” the record was compiled seems therefore rather moot.
A more fundamental question, which might better reward discussion, is why are we, today, still debating the events around Collins’ death. Dare we question even, Mr Murray and Mr Lenihan’s motives for making their respective contributions?
It’s a question which every writer about Collins must ask themselves: because the reasons which compel us to go on debating his fate, are at the crux of crucial issues concerning our society, our world; and so, in a sense, profoundly impacting our own lives. For anyone who cares enough about this difficult subject to approach it at all, the volatile emotional landscape around Béal na mBláth abounds with treacherous pitfalls.
Those who would make a serious contribution to our understanding of Collins’ death must question their own motives continually, with vigilant scrutiny: do I have an axe to grind here? Why am I so convinced? Is there something here that I want to believe? Am I ignoring any evidence, due to partisanship, or to admiration which some of these remarkable characters inspire?
D Murray and D Lenihan each announce their own “agenda” clearly enough from the start: that they are writing to discredit the 1964 affidavit; by casting aspersions on the anti-Treaty men who made it, on the neutral historian who took down their account, and on one of the most important publishers in the field of Irish history, whom we have to thank that the effort was ever made.
In 1964, the anti-Treaty survivors made a laudable, organized effort to provide an authoritative account of the ambush, from their perspective. It is the only record of its kind, that we know of, at this writing.
These insurgents, outlawed as they were in the Civil War, were bound by their word, concerning military matters of the IRA. Through decades, they staunchly adhered to such obligations, while vital national events, of which they had direct knowledge, were forgotten; or, in their view, misrepresented.
In undertaking this thankless task, they stepped in where government institutions had failed. None of them had ever been formally questioned. Both civil athorities, and academic historians, had omitted to make any record, which included the testimony of all those present. Had they not volunteered this effort, their valuable, first-hand testimony would have been lost to history forever.
Perhaps most importantly, O’Donoghue did not take sides during the Civil War. He never lifted a gun against former comrades, on either side. He not only remained neutral himself, he was one of the organizers of the Neutral IRA, who worked actively, throughout the war, to bring both sides to a negotiated settlement. Work which could be more dangerous than that of the average foot soldier.
Any subsequent writer, expressing less than the fullest appreciation for both the deponents, and for such distinguished predecessors in this topic, risks undermining confidence in their own analysis.
He employs much academic language associated with objective analysis. However, his title itself is not only inaccurate, (the testimony concerned not being O’Donoghue’s at all.) It is also intentionally pejorative. Each and every subtitle of his various sub-sections is also derisive. In this, he loses little time in informing readers that this is not merely “an examination”, intended not only to “look at” the 1964 Affidavit. He clearly announces from the start his intent to deride and discredit that document.
The first section heading, “An Irregular Meeting”, in itself, instantly identifies a partisan outlook in that writer, which is fundamentally hostile to the anti-Treaty side. It demonstrates ignorance of their viewpoint.
He then introduces F O’Donoghue as “the odd man out”. This misleadingly dismissive epithet leaves readers entirely in the dark as to O’Donoghue’s actual stature as an Irish nationalist, and among historians of the period.
These excessive aspersions against O’Donoghue throughout that article do nothing to inspire our confidence in it. Readers who are keen on this period may be all too familiar with such rhetoric: any effort to include both sides of this story, may encounter complaints against inclusiveness. This is characteristic of those with an agenda to air only one side.
Murray’s article is announced as a noble effort in the interests of greater historical accuracy. Yet the writer’s opening statement that “O’Donoghue on behalf of his group attempted to portray their own roles in the most favourable way” is completely inaccurate [this wording sounds redundant: do repetition check]. No one claims that the anti-Treaty ambusher party was ever in any way “his group”. No one claims that O’Donoghue ever belonged to the anti-Treaty side. Not even Mr Murray. Nonetheless his careless and often crude language continually misleads and suggests otherwise.
Among his more extreme comments, the contention that O’Donoghue fabricated a “convenient explanation for his inconvenient ambush” is particularly far-fetched. Murray presents no real evidence to support irresponsible accusations of deliberate fraud; because there is none to present.
Throughout his treatment, Murray pursues this agenda to heap villification on O’Donoghue, with slight justification.
Murray’s treatment of Liam Deasy, O.C. of the First Southern Division, is similarly problematic. The section title “Deasy Gets His Word In” insinuates that the O.C.’s was an insignificant voice in these events. It suggests that his testimony was unrelated to the record, and illegitimately foisted on an unsuspecting public.
Certainly, as the senior anti-Treaty commander of that region, who was present during at least part of that day at Béal na mBláth, Deasy’s observations are unquestionably more valuable than Murray’s. (Although that writer’s real talent for loading a few words with a shedload of implicit meanings must be acknowledged.) Unlike Murray, Deasy would hardly have had to “guess” at attitudes of comrades under his command.
Murray makes a great deal of Deasy’s contradiction of the 1964 Affidavit, with regard to the exact location of some of the men who’d left the ambush site, to walk back toward Béal na mBláth Cross. In this he ignores Tom Crofts’ corroboration of Deasy’s movements; and also the fact that Deasy and Crofts were present to see who was where at that end of the road. The ambushers, from their positions on the laneway, could only guess where they were.
“Deasy…for his own evasive benefit” betrays open hostility, which is out of place in such an examination. Likewise “desire to distance himself from the earlier account” presents baseless conjectures about Deasy’s feelings and motivations.
Of course one can hardly disagree that, for Deasy to be absent during an action, which he took part in preparing, may reflect on his leadership. It’s also an aspect of the story which cannot be competently analyzed without some acquaintance with what is known about the unique structure and discipline which sustained that unconventional military.
Parallels may be seen in Michael Collins’ own leadership. When his virulent opposition to a conventional, frontal assault on the Customs House was outvoted, Collins fell in with his colleagues in the underground nationalist government. He did not carry on open opposition, once the decision was made. He turned up on the day, to say a word of cheer to his troops as they prepared the attack, and to wish them success. But he pointedly declined to lead it. He took no part in the that action himself.
This writer would caution the public to beware of Deasy-bashing. His evidence is of central importance; but most inconvenient for writers who favour a particular interpretation of Collins’ death. As such, discrediting Deasy at all cost, has necessarily become a popular pastime for such commentators.
Statements which have been made to the efffect that the Division and Cork No.1 Brigade were aware of Collins’ intention to visit posts in Cork and that a general order was issued to kill him are without foundation and completely untrue. The officers in the Division and of the 1st and 3rd Brigades knew of his presence in the South only on the morning of the 22nd and no order had been issued by either of the commands. The ambush was decided on as part of the general policy of attacking Free State convoys.
This telling excerpt from the 1964 Affidavit speaks to considerable controversy which existed concerning how planned or unplanned was the ambushers’ attack; also as to how much they knew about Collins’ itinerary and when they knew.
He comments on the ambushers’ “amateurish” preparations. Certainly there was much in Ireland’s army of farmers, shopkeepers, and clerks which was amateurish, throughout the revolutionary period.
The word “amateur”, which we take to signify ‘unprofessional’, comes from the French, where it means literally “lover”. One who does something for the love of it. Many Irish insurgents may have been amateurs, both as non-professional soldiers and as devotees in a labour of love. Yet they managed nonetheless to see off the British Army.
The elephant in the parlour is, of course, DeValera’s most interesting presence so near the time & place of his chief opponent’s killing. Murray seems remarkably easy on that chameleon-like statesman; considering his unfriendliness to the anti-Treaty side generally. This, also, imbues his essay with a distinct odiferous quality.
The section “An Accidental Ambush?” makes some good points, but misses one of the most important in the Affidavit: that the decision to break up the ambush party was taken when they got word that Collins’ convoy was at Bandon. This means that, knowing he was heading back to Cork City, they presumed he would take the Cork-Bandon road.
This scotches arguments that anyone knew for certain which route Collins would take; as well as claims that no other road to Cork City was passable.
It is pertinent to remember that assassination of key enemy figures was a central tactic of the IRA during the War of Independence; as well as those insurgents’ usual practice of publicly claiming responsibility for any actions they carried out. The IRA never claimed responsibility either for Collins’ or Sean Hales’ deaths. The circumstances of both remain controversial, to this day. Murray’s careless attribution of Genl Sean Hales’ assassination shows little acquaintance with the record, or concern for accuracy. The IRA may be accused of many things, but disavowing responsibility for its actions has not ususally been one of them.
Murray concludes that the death of Collins was abhorred by many on the anti-Treaty side. He notes that anti-Treaty sources agree that there was no plan to assassinate Collins. Yet he fails to consider what that means: that there may have been more to Collins’ demise than the public has been led to believe.
He makes the intelligent observation that anti-Treaty witnesses who were silent in 1926, may have been more willing to speak in 1964. (Mentioning anti-Treaty “indignity” perhaps Murray means “indignance”.) He also acknowleges that some who signed the 1964 Affidavit might have had opinions which were not included in the version approved by committee.
The loss of Collins ultimately proved the unqualified disaster for his former comrades, which they reportedly felt it to be. The question as to whether Liam Lynch may have formed an exception to that general sentiment, whether the anti-Treaty military chief may have indeed expected to gain anything from that terrible elimination, might reward further study.
Murray’s assertion that “many” sought to “minimize their roles in the..ambush” is a generalization, not justified by testimony. He presents no evidence to support his extraordinary allegations of intentional falsification and perjury by these anti-Treaty witnesses. He also errs in claiming that the 1964 Affidavit is alone in maintaining that the ambush was a “rearguard” action intended “to protect comrades” who were in the area. On the contrary, this is corroborated by practically every record of testimony from anti-Treaty men present.
Perhaps Murray would have prefered that no one hear what the anti-Treaty participants had to say. Is there an unwillingness here to face the glaring evidence that their accounts cast serious doubt on Free State versions; which, while contradicting each other, also corroborate the ambushers’ versions in many points?
His own careless treatment of the evidence hardly qualifies him to judge those who, he so easily forgets, knew a great deal more about these events than he ever will.
Proving the axiom that only those who were not there are sure what happened!
They ambush was set up to kill. Fact. They knew Collins was traveling in a yellow touring car because he was seen in it outside Long’s bar. Fact. Sonny O Neill was a British army marksman. Fact. Collins was within his sight and firing range. Fact. Sonny O Neill opened fire. Fact.