The ‘Other’ War of Independence – Land Appropriation during the Anglo-Irish War – Part 1

Captain Charles Boycott – well-known agrarian neologism

(This is the first of three pieces on the often ignored parallel conflict being waged at the same time as the War of Independence – an extension of the 1906-09 Range War, it involved the opportunistic appropriation of land by small farmers and landless labourers in rural Ireland)

Land Wars – the context                      

 ‘Changes in the use to which the land of a country is put affect its whole social organisation, and of no change can this be said with more truth than of the transfer of land from tillage to pasture.’[i]

Irish Agricultural Statistics Report, 1901.

It is a struggle known to posterity as a ‘war’. It is even assigned a specific start date, it concluded with a ‘treaty’, had its own generals, NCOs and ‘grunts’, and ample scope for ‘collateral damage’. But whether there were enough violent fatalities during the Land War (1879-82) to justify the hyperbolic assignation ‘war’ is highly debatable. However, the more pedantic alternative, ‘The Lengthy Late Victorian Interlude of Irish Agrarian Civil Strife’ probably lacks a certain pithiness.  

            The presumptive opening of the conflict was 20 April 1879, the date of an angry and well-attended rent protest meeting in Irishtown, Co. Mayo. The three year struggle was deemed to have concluded in early May 1882 with the covert and deniable ‘Kilmainham Treaty’, a climbdown on both sides brokered by a charlatan (the preening Captain William O’Shea, husband of Parnell’s ‘mistress’, Katharine). The armistice was, or so the received wisdom goes, all neatly tied up in green ribbon just in time for the Phoenix Park murders on 6 May 1882.   

            Except, of course, that it wasn’t. Agrarian civil strife did not peter out just in time for the slashing intervention of the Invincibles. It merely lay fallow until the onset of the Plan of Campaign in 1886, when, on a somewhat diminished scale, the whole mêlée kicked off again. When that more ‘managerial’ engagement finally died down there was a brief hiatus until the improvisational ‘Ranch War’ of the early twentieth century (1906-09). 

Punch magazine’s take on the Phoenix Park murders

            Whatever you might choose to call it, the pivotal Land War of 1879-82, offers some of the more beguiling myths of nineteenth century Irish history. The mythology—born of that noble imagined past dreamed up in the pages of An Claidheamh Soluis and the meeting rooms of the National Literary Society—took it as axiomatic that a dogged and unified tenantry opposed an oppressive and seigneurial landholding élite and, courtesy of inspired leadership and peasant cohesion, routed the forces of feudalism a mere century after the French had adopted the more convenient shortcut of the guillotine to achieve a similar purpose. 

            While there is a significant seam of truth in the motherlode of myth, the reality is rather less fuzzy and heartening than the holy writ. Leadership there certainly was. The likes of Charles Stewart Parnell—so conspicuous a political ‘chief’ that he is invariably allotted his middle name by historians—Michael Davitt, and William O’Brien, were prepared to take personal and political risks in the cause of agrarian reform. There was also undoubted co-operation and solidarity among the rank and file membership of the Land League. Without collaboration, voluntary or enforced, the political and economic strategy that became known as ‘boycotting’—so-called, apparently, because a Mayo priest realised that his congregation could not get their tongues around  the word ‘ostracisation’ and named the practice after its most celebrated victim—would have been nullified.

            But the proposition that a resolute, united Irish peasantry marched in lockstep to vanquish the cloistered and privileged occupants of the ‘big house’, is as erroneous as it is alluring. One eminent Irish historian has warned against ‘the warm glow of old assumptions about this being a highlight of the ever-onward march of human liberty and progress…’[ii] Supporters of the Land League were prone to just as much insubordination, backbiting, intimidation, disloyalty, insularity, victimisation and intra-organisational anarchy as the membership of any radical socio-political movement before or since. Furthermore, the Land League was not an organisation in which, in any real sense, an empowered peasantry took control of its own destiny. The leadership of the organisation came, predominantly, from a rural merchant caste with a vested interest in targeting the country’s landlords, and a bloc of relatively comfortable farmers with a vested interest in protecting their own comforts.[iii] As the historian R. V. Comerford has put it succinctly, ‘there were many hundreds on horseback at the Irishtown meeting’.[iv] The Land League campaign, according to Joseph Lee, simply ‘crowned the strong farmer as the cock of the country walk.’[v]

            While the Irish peasantry may have provided the shock troops, when it came to the leadership cadre the Land War pitted rancher and retailer against rentier. It was the ‘ ‘strong farmer’ tenants’[vi] who, along with their temporary allies—the millers and milliners—were the real winners of an agrarian conflict that began long before 1879 and, like the Hundred Years War, renewed itself from time to time when the protagonists recovered from their exhaustion or encountered terrain that looked strategically advantageous. However, by the early twentieth century it was the erstwhile partners of the 1880s who were at each other’s throats. The graziers and the small farmers, temporary allies in the tussle for proprietorship, found they had little to unite them any longer. 

            The unlikely coalition had originally been a function of mutually declining fortunes.   

            Resources were squeezed during the worldwide economic depression that followed on from one of those periodic ‘panics’ in the US economy. This one was the ‘Panic of ‘73’, scion of the ‘Panic of ’57, parent of the ‘Panic of ’93. The Irish tenant farmer, who, by the 1880s, had come to rely on credit advanced by the shopkeepers of the market towns of rural Ireland, was faced with a stark choice. He could use his dwindling resources to pay the rent owed on his landholding. Alternatively he could repay his debts to the shopkeepers who provided him with groceries, seeds, hardware, and the occasional luxury, ‘on tick’. 

            By taking control of an organisation which validated (and even elevated) the practice of declining to remit bi-annual rent payments, the shopkeepers who assumed leadership positions in the Land League were simply protecting their own interests. The message, though understated, left no room for ambiguity, The Merchant of Ennis whispered, ‘if you can’t pay your rent and your domestic debts, then refuse to pay rent to Lord [here insert name of local aristocrat] until you get an abatement.’ 

            This classic ‘revolution of rising expectations’—the phrase had originated with that most welcome of 19th century tourists, Alexis de Tocqueville—was no free-for-all blitz on property, merely a highly targetted mugging of the landholding aristocracy, in which ‘one class of Irish capitalists waged economic war against another class of Irish capitalists.’[vii] Debts owed to banks, merchants or the local ‘gombeen man’ (moneylender) were entirely exempt from this assault. The country’s landlords, previously secure behind their demesne walls—unless their own debts  became excessive—discovered the truth of the axiom, ‘there is no honour among thieves’.

            The relative flexibility of the system of mercantile debt (which implied the continued extension of credit even when only a percentage of the debt was repaid), in tandem with the need to make future purchases from shopkeepers in a growing ‘cash’ economy, ultimately triumphed over the absolute inflexibility of the tenurial system. In the latter instance a large wad of cash was paid over, in full, twice a year–or else![viii] The Land League held out the prospect of pulling the teeth of the ‘or else’. It offered the tenant farmer a place of sanctuary—though the roof often leaked—and the prospect of continuing to have his cake, albeit on account, while eating it. 

            But the abiding myth bequeathed by the agrarian ferment of the 1880s was the notion that a revolutionary spirit of equality and fraternity motivated and united the Irish peasantry throughout the Land War. This was a convenient ex post facto construct fashioned by the twentieth century propagandists of Irish separatism and exceptionalism. It lionised the efficacy and ‘nobility’ of the Irish tenant, and encouraged a profoundly overoptimistic belief in his capacity for sustained agrarian radicalism and esprit de corps.

            The truth was rather more prosaic and predictable. An alternative view of the ‘Land War’ (1879-82 not the1886-91, 1906-09, 1917-18, or 1920 variants) is of a period of pervasive anomie, of a civil conflict that often pitched the impoverished against the merely impecunious, bent the highly stratified social structures of rural Ireland beyond breaking point, facilitated the rise of petty tyrants, and unleashed a fratricidal violence the scars of which had not still healed a generation later when the struggle was no longer against the so-called ‘eyes and ears of Dublin Castle’, but against the Castle itself. 

            While the Land War did prove fatal for a small number of Irish landlords (Lord Mountmorres and Lord Leitrim being the most prominent murder victims), most of those who died in the defence of what Michael Davitt memorably described as ‘feudalism’[ix] were much lower down the food chain. They were agents, bailiffs, policemen and agricultural labourers. People like the Huddys (Joseph Huddy, a bailiff,  and his nephew, John)  murdered on the Mayo/Galway border in January 1882, whose bodies were concealed (until recovered by the RIC) in the depths of Lough Mask.[x] Or John Henry Blake, agent to the repulsive Lord Clanricarde, who, although he had unsuccessfully urged his voracious employer to reduce rents on his Galway estates, was nonetheless murdered, along with his driver, in June 1882.[xi]

               But it was neither landlords, agents, bailiffs nor indeed members of the Royal Irish Constabulary who were the main victims of the dark passions unleashed by the Land War. It was the Irish peasantry itself. It somehow seems fitting that a recent work on the history of the agricultural co-operative movement is entitled Civilising Rural Ireland.[xii] In the 1880s, and in the decades thereafter, the Irish countryside could be a savage environment. 

            Take just a few examples. Galwayman Peter Dempsey was shot dead in May 1881 in full view of his two young daughters. His ‘crime’ was to have taken over the farm of one Martin Bermingham who had been evicted for non-payment of rent. Local petty ‘warlords’, many of whom held positions of authority in the Land League, and who exercised moral and physical hegemony over the most ‘disturbed’ parts of rural Ireland, adjudged that Dempsey had forfeited his life by dint of his transgressive behaviour.[xiii]

            Or John Doloughty, a 60 year old agricultural labourer with seven children, murdered in Clare on 9 July 1881. Doloughty’s ‘crime’ did not even loosely measure up to iniquities of Dempsey. He had no land of his own. He was merely a herder working for a Clare farmer, James Lynch. It was Lynch who had taken a farm from which a family named Hynes had been evicted. Doloughty had remained loyal to Lynch despite threats of boycotting and a nocturnal visit the previous October by three armed and masked men. During this ‘moonlighting’ escapade his life had been threatened and shots fired at him. His loyalty to the ‘land grabber’ Lynch was to cost him his life.[xiv]

            Or another herder, John Lyden from Letterfrack, Co. Galway, taken from his home and murdered by his neighbours in April 1881 for the offence of continuing to work for a ‘land grabber’ named Graham. After the mob shot Leyden dead they came back for his son who was dragged to where his father’s body lay and was himself shot. He died a month later.[xv]  

            Or the tragic Joyce family of Maamtrasna, Co. Galway, five of whom were brutally murdered by their neighbours in August 1882 for who knows precisely what ‘crime’. The adult male members of the family were shot, the females, unworthy of a bullet, were merely bludgeoned to death. Even by the vicious standards of late nineteenth century agrarian ‘outrages’ the Maamtrasna murders merits the Blue Riband.  

            Some of these killings then led in turn to almost inevitable miscarriages of justice when cases came to trial. The Crown sought to bring killers to book as expeditiously as possible and Her Majesty’s representatives were often less than discriminating in the manner and conduct of their investigations. Francis Hynes was tried and convicted for the murder of John Doloughty by a packed jury most of whose members had ‘escaped’ the attentions of their minders the night before reaching their decision. Their bibulous evening had ended in a series of drunken skirmishes in the corridors of the Imperial Hotel on Sackville Street, witnessed by United Ireland editor William O’Brien.[xvi] The most blatantly tainted verdict was, of course, the death sentence handed down on Maolra Seoighe (Myles Joyce), wrongfully accused of the murder of his cousins in Maamtrasna, and fully exonerated in statements made by the two men who went with him to the gallows and who admitted their part in the Joyce family murders.[xvii]

            The two preferred weapons of the Land War, the ‘boycott’ and the handgun, were often used to intimidate, maim or murder at the behest of local petty tyrants. These parochial warlords had burrowed their way into leadership roles in the agrarian movement and pursued agendas that often had little or nothing to do with the aims and objectives of the Land League. Questionable and vindictive decisions arrived at by the League’s informal ‘courts’ or local executive meetings could be used as a fig leaf to conceal self-serving objectives. Long-standing vendettas were pursued and vacant land was channelled towards favoured candidates under cover of edicts promulgated by ‘muscular’ elements who had assumed de facto control of the organisation at local level.[xviii]


[i] Irish Agricultural Statistics Report (1901)

[ii] R.V.Comerford, The Fenians in Context: Irish Politics and Society, 1848-82, (Dublin, 1998), 223.

[iii] Paul Bew, Land and the National Question in Ireland, 1858-1882, Chapters 6-8. 

[iv] Comerford, The Fenians in Context, 231.

[v] Joseph Lee, ‘The Land War’, Liam de Paor (ed.) Milestones in Irish History (Cork, 1986)

[vi] Tony Varley, ‘Gaining Ground and Losing Ground’, in Fergus Campbell & Tony Varley (eds) Land Questions in Modern Ireland (Manchester, 2013), 26.

[vii] Comerford, The Fenians in Context, 234.

[viii] This phenomenon is discussed by historians Samuel Clark in The Social Origins of the Land War and James S. Donnelly in The Land and People of 19th Century Cork, from which the phrase ‘a revolution of rising expectations’ comes.

[ix] In The Fall of Feudalism in Ireland (1904).

[x] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 554.

[xi] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 645-649. According to the evidence of his wife ‘he gave a graphic description of the then state of the country, and laid it before his Lordship.’

[xii] Patrick Doyle, Civilising Rural Ireland: the cop-operative movement, development and the nation-state 1889-1939,  (Manchester., 2019)

[xiii] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 465. The farm had originally been taken by Murty Hynes, who gave it up under Land League pressure.

[xiv] Myles Dungan, The Captain and the King: William O’Shea, Parnell and late Victorian Ireland (Dublin, 2009)  147

[xv] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 597.

[xvi] Dungan, The Captain and the King, – Hansard, VOL 278 – 15 August, 1882.

[xvii] Myles Dungan, Conspiracy: Irish Political Trials (Dublin, 2009)  (Page ref for Maamtrasna chapter) 

[xviii] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Evidence of Michael Hoarty, Vol.2, 62-69. Evidence of John Cullotty, Vol.2, 173-182. Evidence of Mrs. Mary Hickey, Vol.2, 206-210.

The ‘Other’ War of Independence – Land Appropriation during the Anglo-Irish War

Part 1 – Land Wars – the context                            

 ‘Changes in the use to which the land of a country is put affect its whole social organisation, and of no change can this be said with more truth than of the transfer of land from tillage to pasture.’[i]

Irish Agricultural Statistics Report, 1901.

It is a struggle known to posterity as a ‘war’. It is even assigned a specific start date, it concluded with a ‘treaty’, had its own generals, NCOs and ‘grunts’, and ample scope for ‘collateral damage’. But whether there were enough violent fatalities during the Land War (1879-82) to justify the hyperbolic assignation ‘war’ is highly debatable. However, the more pedantic alternative, ‘The Lengthy Late Victorian Interlude of Irish Agrarian Civil Strife’ probably lacks a certain pithiness.  

            The presumptive opening of the conflict was 20 April 1879, the date of an angry and well-attended rent protest meeting in Irishtown, Co. Mayo. The three year struggle was deemed to have concluded in early May 1882 with the covert and deniable ‘Kilmainham Treaty’, a climbdown on both sides brokered by a charlatan (the preening Captain William O’Shea, husband of Parnell’s ‘mistress’, Katharine). The armistice was, or so the received wisdom goes, all neatly tied up in green ribbon just in time for the Phoenix Park murders on 6 May 1882.   

            Except, of course, that it wasn’t. Agrarian civil strife did not peter out just in time for the slashing intervention of the Invincibles. It merely lay fallow until the onset of the Plan of Campaign in 1886, when, on a somewhat diminished scale, the whole mêlée kicked off again. When that more ‘managerial’ engagement finally died down there was a brief hiatus until the improvisational ‘Ranch War’ of the early twentieth century (1906-09). 

            Whatever you might choose to call it, the pivotal Land War of 1879-82, offers some of the more beguiling myths of nineteenth century Irish history. The mythology—born of that noble imagined past dreamed up in the pages of An Claidheamh Soluis and the meeting rooms of the National Literary Society—took it as axiomatic that a dogged and unified tenantry opposed an oppressive and seigneurial landholding élite and, courtesy of inspired leadership and peasant cohesion, routed the forces of feudalism a mere century after the French had adopted the more convenient shortcut of the guillotine to achieve a similar purpose. 

            While there is a significant seam of truth in the motherlode of myth, the reality is rather less fuzzy and heartening than the holy writ. Leadership there certainly was. The likes of Charles Stewart Parnell—so conspicuous a political ‘chief’ that he is invariably allotted his middle name by historians—Michael Davitt, and William O’Brien, were prepared to take personal and political risks in the cause of agrarian reform. There was also undoubted co-operation and solidarity among the rank and file membership of the Land League. Without collaboration, voluntary or enforced, the political and economic strategy that became known as ‘boycotting’—so-called, apparently, because a Mayo priest realised that his congregation could not get their tongues around  the word ‘ostracisation’ and named the practice after its most celebrated victim—would have been nullified.

            But the proposition that a resolute, united Irish peasantry marched in lockstep to vanquish the cloistered and privileged occupants of the ‘big house’, is as erroneous as it is alluring. One eminent Irish historian has warned against ‘the warm glow of old assumptions about this being a highlight of the ever-onward march of human liberty and progress…’[ii] Supporters of the Land League were prone to just as much insubordination, backbiting, intimidation, disloyalty, insularity, victimisation and intra-organisational anarchy as the membership of any radical socio-political movement before or since. Furthermore, the Land League was not an organisation in which, in any real sense, an empowered peasantry took control of its own destiny. The leadership of the organisation came, predominantly, from a rural merchant caste with a vested interest in targeting the country’s landlords, and a bloc of relatively comfortable farmers with a vested interest in protecting their own comforts.[iii] As the historian R. V. Comerford has put it succinctly, ‘there were many hundreds on horseback at the Irishtown meeting’.[iv] The Land League campaign, according to Joseph Lee, simply ‘crowned the strong farmer as the cock of the country walk.’[v]

            While the Irish peasantry may have provided the shock troops, when it came to the leadership cadre the Land War pitted rancher and retailer against rentier. It was the ‘ ‘strong farmer’ tenants’[vi] who, along with their temporary allies—the millers and milliners—were the real winners of an agrarian conflict that began long before 1879 and, like the Hundred Years War, renewed itself from time to time when the protagonists recovered from their exhaustion or encountered terrain that looked strategically advantageous. However, by the early twentieth century it was the erstwhile partners of the 1880s who were at each other’s throats. The graziers and the small farmers, temporary allies in the tussle for proprietorship, found they had little to unite them any longer. 

            The unlikely coalition had originally been a function of mutually declining fortunes.   

            Resources were squeezed during the worldwide economic depression that followed on from one of those periodic ‘panics’ in the US economy. This one was the ‘Panic of ‘73’, scion of the ‘Panic of ’57, parent of the ‘Panic of ’93. The Irish tenant farmer, who, by the 1880s, had come to rely on credit advanced by the shopkeepers of the market towns of rural Ireland, was faced with a stark choice. He could use his dwindling resources to pay the rent owed on his landholding. Alternatively he could repay his debts to the shopkeepers who provided him with groceries, seeds, hardware, and the occasional luxury, ‘on tick’. 

            By taking control of an organisation which validated (and even elevated) the practice of declining to remit bi-annual rent payments, the shopkeepers who assumed leadership positions in the Land League were simply protecting their own interests. The message, though understated, left no room for ambiguity, The Merchant of Ennis whispered, ‘if you can’t pay your rent and your domestic debts, then refuse to pay rent to Lord [here insert name of local aristocrat] until you get an abatement.’ 

            This classic ‘revolution of rising expectations’—the phrase had originated with that most welcome of 19th century tourists, Alexis de Tocqueville—was no free-for-all blitz on property, merely a highly targetted mugging of the landholding aristocracy, in which ‘one class of Irish capitalists waged economic war against another class of Irish capitalists.’[vii] Debts owed to banks, merchants or the local ‘gombeen man’ (moneylender) were entirely exempt from this assault. The country’s landlords, previously secure behind their demesne walls—unless their own debts  became excessive—discovered the truth of the axiom, ‘there is no honour among thieves’.

            The relative flexibility of the system of mercantile debt (which implied the continued extension of credit even when only a percentage of the debt was repaid), in tandem with the need to make future purchases from shopkeepers in a growing ‘cash’ economy, ultimately triumphed over the absolute inflexibility of the tenurial system. In the latter instance a large wad of cash was paid over, in full, twice a year–or else![viii] The Land League held out the prospect of pulling the teeth of the ‘or else’. It offered the tenant farmer a place of sanctuary—though the roof often leaked—and the prospect of continuing to have his cake, albeit on account, while eating it. 

            But the abiding myth bequeathed by the agrarian ferment of the 1880s was the notion that a revolutionary spirit of equality and fraternity motivated and united the Irish peasantry throughout the Land War. This was a convenient ex post facto construct fashioned by the twentieth century propagandists of Irish separatism and exceptionalism. It lionised the efficacy and ‘nobility’ of the Irish tenant, and encouraged a profoundly overoptimistic belief in his capacity for sustained agrarian radicalism and esprit de corps.

            The truth was rather more prosaic and predictable. An alternative view of the ‘Land War’ (1879-82 not the1886-91, 1906-09, 1917-18, or 1920 variants) is of a period of pervasive anomie, of a civil conflict that often pitched the impoverished against the merely impecunious, bent the highly stratified social structures of rural Ireland beyond breaking point, facilitated the rise of petty tyrants, and unleashed a fratricidal violence the scars of which had not still healed a generation later when the struggle was no longer against the so-called ‘eyes and ears of Dublin Castle’, but against the Castle itself. 

            While the Land War did prove fatal for a small number of Irish landlords (Lord Mountmorres and Lord Leitrim being the most prominent murder victims), most of those who died in the defence of what Michael Davitt memorably described as ‘feudalism’[ix] were much lower down the food chain. They were agents, bailiffs, policemen and agricultural labourers. People like the Huddys (Joseph Huddy, a bailiff,  and his nephew, John)  murdered on the Mayo/Galway border in January 1882, whose bodies were concealed (until recovered by the RIC) in the depths of Lough Mask.[x] Or John Henry Blake, agent to the repulsive Lord Clanricarde, who, although he had unsuccessfully urged his voracious employer to reduce rents on his Galway estates, was nonetheless murdered, along with his driver, in June 1882.[xi]

               But it was neither landlords, agents, bailiffs nor indeed members of the Royal Irish Constabulary who were the main victims of the dark passions unleashed by the Land War. It was the Irish peasantry itself. It somehow seems fitting that a recent work on the history of the agricultural co-operative movement is entitled Civilising Rural Ireland.[xii] In the 1880s, and in the decades thereafter, the Irish countryside could be a savage environment. 

            Take just a few examples. Galwayman Peter Dempsey was shot dead in May 1881 in full view of his two young daughters. His ‘crime’ was to have taken over the farm of one Martin Bermingham who had been evicted for non-payment of rent. Local petty ‘warlords’, many of whom held positions of authority in the Land League, and who exercised moral and physical hegemony over the most ‘disturbed’ parts of rural Ireland, adjudged that Dempsey had forfeited his life by dint of his transgressive behaviour.[xiii]

            Or John Doloughty, a 60 year old agricultural labourer with seven children, murdered in Clare on 9 July 1881. Doloughty’s ‘crime’ did not even loosely measure up to iniquities of Dempsey. He had no land of his own. He was merely a herder working for a Clare farmer, James Lynch. It was Lynch who had taken a farm from which a family named Hynes had been evicted. Doloughty had remained loyal to Lynch despite threats of boycotting and a nocturnal visit the previous October by three armed and masked men. During this ‘moonlighting’ escapade his life had been threatened and shots fired at him. His loyalty to the ‘land grabber’ Lynch was to cost him his life.[xiv]

            Or another herder, John Lyden from Letterfrack, Co. Galway, taken from his home and murdered by his neighbours in April 1881 for the offence of continuing to work for a ‘land grabber’ named Graham. After the mob shot Leyden dead they came back for his son who was dragged to where his father’s body lay and was himself shot. He died a month later.[xv]  

            Or the tragic Joyce family of Maamtrasna, Co. Galway, five of whom were brutally murdered by their neighbours in August 1882 for who knows precisely what ‘crime’. The adult male members of the family were shot, the females, unworthy of a bullet, were merely bludgeoned to death. Even by the vicious standards of late nineteenth century agrarian ‘outrages’ the Maamtrasna murders merits the Blue Riband.  

            Some of these killings then led in turn to almost inevitable miscarriages of justice when cases came to trial. The Crown sought to bring killers to book as expeditiously as possible and Her Majesty’s representatives were often less than discriminating in the manner and conduct of their investigations. Francis Hynes was tried and convicted for the murder of John Doloughty by a packed jury most of whose members had ‘escaped’ the attentions of their minders the night before reaching their decision. Their bibulous evening had ended in a series of drunken skirmishes in the corridors of the Imperial Hotel on Sackville Street, witnessed by United Ireland editor William O’Brien.[xvi] The most blatantly tainted verdict was, of course, the death sentence handed down on Maolra Seoighe (Myles Joyce), wrongfully accused of the murder of his cousins in Maamtrasna, and fully exonerated in statements made by the two men who went with him to the gallows and who admitted their part in the Joyce family murders.[xvii]

            The two preferred weapons of the Land War, the ‘boycott’ and the handgun, were often used to intimidate, maim or murder at the behest of local petty tyrants. These parochial warlords had burrowed their way into leadership roles in the agrarian movement and pursued agendas that often had little or nothing to do with the aims and objectives of the Land League. Questionable and vindictive decisions arrived at by the League’s informal ‘courts’ or local executive meetings could be used as a fig leaf to conceal self-serving objectives. Long-standing vendettas were pursued and vacant land was channelled towards favoured candidates under cover of edicts promulgated by ‘muscular’ elements who had assumed de facto control of the organisation at local level.[xviii]


[i] Irish Agricultural Statistics Report (1901)

[ii] R.V.Comerford, The Fenians in Context: Irish Politics and Society, 1848-82, (Dublin, 1998), 223.

[iii] Paul Bew, Land and the National Question in Ireland, 1858-1882, Chapters 6-8. 

[iv] Comerford, The Fenians in Context, 231.

[v] Joseph Lee, ‘The Land War’, Liam de Paor (ed.) Milestones in Irish History (Cork, 1986)

[vi] Tony Varley, ‘Gaining Ground and Losing Ground’, in Fergus Campbell & Tony Varley (eds) Land Questions in Modern Ireland (Manchester, 2013), 26.

[vii] Comerford, The Fenians in Context, 234.

[viii] This phenomenon is discussed by historians Samuel Clark in The Social Origins of the Land War and James S. Donnelly in The Land and People of 19th Century Cork, from which the phrase ‘a revolution of rising expectations’ comes.

[ix] In The Fall of Feudalism in Ireland (1904).

[x] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 554.

[xi] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 645-649. According to the evidence of his wife ‘he gave a graphic description of the then state of the country, and laid it before his Lordship.’

[xii] Patrick Doyle, Civilising Rural Ireland: the cop-operative movement, development and the nation-state 1889-1939,  (Manchester., 2019)

[xiii] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 465. The farm had originally been taken by Murty Hynes, who gave it up under Land League pressure.

[xiv] Myles Dungan, The Captain and the King: William O’Shea, Parnell and late Victorian Ireland (Dublin, 2009)  147

[xv] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Vol.1, 597.

[xvi] Dungan, The Captain and the King, – Hansard, VOL 278 – 15 August, 1882.

[xvii] Myles Dungan, Conspiracy: Irish Political Trials (Dublin, 2009)  (Page ref for Maamtrasna chapter) 

[xviii] Special Commission, Proceedings (1890), Evidence of Michael Hoarty, Vol.2, 62-69. Evidence of John Cullotty, Vol.2, 173-182. Evidence of Mrs. Mary Hickey, Vol.2, 206-210.

Who commanded the original Squad – the IRA’s professional killers of the War of Independence? WTF knows?

From L to R: Mick McDonnell, Tom Keogh, Vinnie Byrne, Paddy O’Daly and Jim Slattery – five of the Twelve Apostles.

It was an élite unit established with a single intention, to kill. 

Known colloquially as ‘The Twelve Apostles’, and by its own members, as ‘The Squad’ it was established with the sole purpose of carrying out the ‘executions’ of spies, informers, British agents, and Dublin policemen identified by the IRA’s own spies, informers and agents in GHQ Intelligence under the tutelage of Michael Collins and Liam Tobin.  

Among its major sanguinary coups were the murders of DMP District Inspector William Redmond (21 January 1920), Resident Magistrate Alan Bell (26 March 1920) , the British spy John Charles Byrne(s) aka ‘John Jameson’ (March, 1920). Along with elements of the Dublin Brigade of the IRA the Squad also participated in the devastating ‘Bloody Sunday’ killings (21 November 1920). In that notorious operation between six and twelve imported British agents (the number of actual agents v collateral damage is disputed – but that’s an argument for another day) were assassinated on the morning of the bloodiest single twenty-four hour period in the history of the Anglo-Irish conflict.  

One of the Squad’s principal antagonists, Dublin Castle spymaster Ormonde Winter (he wore a monocle that made him look more spymastery) imported fifty bloodhounds from England in an attempt to track down some of Collins’s professional (£4.10s a week) killers. That’s actual, not metaphorical bloodhounds. A convenient and well-advertised postal address in London, to which confidential information could be sent about the Squad’s membership–and anything else you might happen to know about the IRA—was ‘punked’ by Sinn Féin supporters who flooded it with letters pointing to leading Irish loyalists as republican terror suspects. Well what did they expect?

But who was the original leader of this carefully chosen elite unit? 

You would think that an examination of the testimony of members of the Squad given to the Bureau of Military History in the late 1940s and 1950s would provide a straight answer to that question. In fact any such examination simply muddies the waters and leaves the reader scratching his head. 

There are two candidates for the position, Mick McDonnell and Paddy O’Daly. Both have claimed the title, and in the case of O’Daly – who did lead the unit at one point—he even went so far as to deny that his rival claimant was ever a member of the Squad!  Received wisdom has it that the leadership sequence went as follows, Mick McDonnell (late-1919 until mid-1920 when he emigrated to California), Patrick O’Daly (aka Paddy Daly) from the time of the departure of McDonnell to the USA until his own arrest in late November 1920, Jim Slattery as third Captain until the Custom House operation in May 1921 (in which he was wounded) effectively brought the days of the Squad to an end. However, there is also a variant of this received wisdom which has Slattery taking over from McDonnell and being succeeded by O’Daly. But surely the Bureau of Military History Witness Statements can sort out all anomalies? You’d think!

It is clear that both McDonnell and Daly were leading figures in the creation of the original group which—in an egregious example of Irish black humour—became known as the ‘Twelve Apostles’ because, although membership was never static, the ‘settled’ unit numbered a dozen young acolytes (with Collins as Redeemer) who were prepared to work well outside the remit of the ‘rules of engagement’.  

It’s even difficult to establish a consensus when it comes to the precise origins—never mind the original hierarchical structure—of the Squad. As the ‘Apostles’ were not altar boys they weren’t exactly expected to be religious in their record-keeping. Successful ‘hits’ were not entered into a daily duty ledger. Most of the original members were sought out and interviewed, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, by the researchers of the Bureau of Military History, three decades and more after the life-changing events (life-ending for many of their targets) in which they had participated. Memories were on the wane, a lot of vinegar had passed under the bridge, egos had been inflated by years of official adulation, and reputations had to be protected for posterity.

So, when you read those statements there is very little agreement, more than thirty years after the event, about even the most basic questions, such as the ’where’, the ‘when’ and the ‘who’. Was the nascent Squad established in Parnell Square or Georges Street? Was it set up in May or September 1919? Were Michael Collins, Richard Mulcahy and Dick McGee present at the initiation? Was the killer with the choir boy looks, Vinnie Byrne, at the inaugural meeting (wherever and whenever it took place) or was he recruited shortly afterwards? 

If such basic facts cannot be ascertained, where does that leave us with the more fundamental question about who was the man originally put in charge by Collins?

Mick McDonnell was certainly in no doubt about who was the first O/C of the Squad. In his BMH-WS (#225, p2) he talks about being appointed Captain / Quartermaster of the 2nd Battalion of the Dublin Volunteers shortly after his release from Frongoch prison camp in North Wales. He then adds, ‘I remained with the 2nd Battalion until I took over the Squad early in 1919.’ He insists the unit was established on 1 May 1919, but did not become a full-time, wage-earning team until 1920, probably just prior to his departure from Ireland.

 He is also unambiguous about being in command of the operation which, had it been successful, would have constituted the biggest single Squad coup of the Anglo-Irish War. This was the 19 December 1919 attempt on the life of the Lord Lieutenant, Lord French, near Ashtown railway station, adjacent to Phoenix Park. McDonnell laid claim to the execution of that operation (a claim supported by others). ‘I was in charge of that ambush’ he insisted in his 1949 statement. He talks about issuing instructions to Paddy O’Daly – ‘I put Paddy Daly [sic] and four others inside the hedge with hand grenades … telling them to concentrate on the second car …’

Paddy O’Daly – not beloved in Kerry – in the uniform of the Civil War National Army

Equally emphatic, however, was Paddy O’Daly (who often appears in witness statements as plain ‘Daly’ but who signed his April 1949 statement as ‘O’Daly’). O’Daly had a distinguished career in the Anglo-Irish War and a controversial one in the fratricidal Civil War that followed. At the outset of the Civil War, Daly was the officer who refused to stop firing on the Four Courts in order to allow the Dublin Fire Brigade access to douse the flames that threatened the famous Gandon-designed landmark. He is supposed to have responded to the Chief Fire Officer, who made the request for a temporary ceasefire to help preserve the fabric of the building, that, ‘Ireland is more important than the fire at the Four Courts’.

As commander of the National Army forces in Kerry in 1923 he gained a reputation for ruthlessness. Soldiers under his command were responsible for some of the worst atrocities of that atrocious conflict. O’Daly is reputed to have said, ‘No one told me to bring any kid gloves, so I didn’t bring any.’ That he certainly didn’t. One of his ‘iron fist’ tactics was to force Republican prisoners to clear roads that were suspected of having been mined. National Army troops under his command were responsible for the horrific murders of eight Republican prisoners, blasted and machine-gunned to death at Ballyseedy in north Kerry. 

O’Daly, in his second BMH-WS (#387 p 11) claims that the Squad was formed on 19 September, 1919 with Michael Collins and Richard Mulachy in attendance. A number of carefully selected Volunteers had been summoned to 46 Parnell Square (then known as Rutland Square) by 2nd battalion commandant Dick McKee. According to O’Daly’s account these were himself, Joe Leonard, Ben Barrett, Seán Doyle, Tom Keogh, Jim Slattery, Vinny Byrne and Mick McDonnell. However, according to Daly, ‘Michael Collins picked only four of us for the Squad that night, Joe Leonard, Seán Doyle, Ben Barrett and myself in charge.’  

There were twelve ‘Apostles’ for most of the Squad’s operational phase (probably eight at the outset and an indeterminate number before the unit was rolled into the Dublin Guard after the Custom House debacle) – but there could only be one St. Peter. So, was it O’Daly or McDonnell? They can’t both have been telling the truth, the whole truth, etc. 

Or can they? In the early days of the conflict, were there two squads? 

While recollections after thirty years can be faulty or suspect the two contradictory statements smack of special pleading. McDonnell makes almost no reference to Daly other than in entirely subaltern role in the attempt on French’s life. O’Daly, however, appears to set out to discredit McDonnell and devalue his contribution to the Squad narrative. He even claims (see below) that McDonnell was never even a member of the Squad!

So, what do the witness statements of others involved in the operations of the Squad tell us about the chain of command? Do they clarify the status of McDonnell or O’Daly? Not really – they often merely add to the confusion. 

Among the more prominent members of the Squad to have left witness statements, when approached to record their memories in the late 1940s and early 1950s, were Mick McDonnell, Paddy O’Daly, Jim Slattery, Joe Leonard, Vinnie Byrne, Charlie Dalton (mostly an ex officio member) and Bill Stapleton (who was only recruited after Bloody Sunday and who testified that ‘I believe a principal mover in the original Squad was Mick McDonald [sic]’- (BMH-WS #822, p.31).Of the others whose names often feature in the Squad’s foundation mythology, Seán Doyle was killed in the attack on the Custom House on 25 May 1921, Tom Keogh died in the Civil War, Ben Barrett, whose mental health broke down because of his involvement with the Squad (a personal tragedy he shared with Charlie Dalton) died in 1946, before the BMH could tap into his memory. However, Barrett applied for a Military Pension in  1924 citing O’Daly, not McDonnell, as the O/C of what he described as the ‘Special Squad (the original ASU)’ (W24SP138)   

In his statement, BMH-WS #547, Joe Leonard confirms O’Daly’s version of events. He persists in calling McDonnell, ‘McDonald’ (he would have been given an opportunity to correct any errors in transcription of his testimony), acknowledges that the 2nd Battalion quartermaster was one of those at the top table of the inaugural meeting of the Squad [which he puts in ‘September’ in ‘44 Parnell Square’] and insists that O‘Daly was given command of the unit. He claims that McDonnell, Tom Keogh, Jim Slattery, and Vincent Byrne ‘wanted to join us but would not be allowed on that occasion as they were required elsewhere on their own work.’ He further claims that on the occasion of the attempted assassination of French, that McDonnell, Keogh, Slattery and Byrne were mere additions to the Squad’s retinue and not core members, (as was also the case with the Tipperary ‘Big Four’, Treacy, Breen, Robinson and Hogan, ‘on the run’ in Dublin at the time, who also took part – Breen was wounded) and that O’Daly was in charge of the operation.  

It is the statement of Charlie Dalton, who was occasionally associated with the Squad before moving to the Intelligence Staff, that offers some clarification on the hierarchy within the unit. While Mick McDonnell did not live to make a promised second statement to the BMH, he had already made a prior statement to Dalton in 1948. On a visit from California that year he spent an evening with Dalton, who told the BMH in his own statement, that they passed some time ‘discussing matters about which he [McDonnell] said he would like me to have the correct facts.’ (BMH-WS #434, p40) That conversation completely revises the foundation myth of the Squad. McDonnell referred to a meeting of ‘selected Volunteers’ (as many as twenty) that took place at 42 North Great George’s Street. Those assembled were asked would they be willing to shoot members of ‘G’ division. ‘Most of those present refused to give an affirmative answer’ McDonnell told Dalton. However, he, Slattery, Keogh (McDonnell’s half-brother) and ‘probably, Vincent Byrne’ ‘stepped out of the ranks’ and expressed their willingness to become assassins. 

Dalton told the BMH that in the course of his own association with the Squad he took his orders from McDonnell, but added that ‘I learned that in the initial stages a few jobs were carried out independently by Paddy Daly [sic], Joe Leonard and Ben Barrett … this would suggest that two squads operated in the early stages.’

Vinnie Byrne—who also took his orders from McDonnell in 1919-20, and definitely saw him as the leader of the Squad— adds a few wrinkles of his own by suggesting that he was not at the Parnell Square September meeting O’Daly described, or McDonnell’s alternative gathering in North Great George’s Street, but that his induction came at the end of November 1919 (probably 28 November) in McDonnell’s own house. There, while sitting at the fire with Jim Slattery and Tom Keogh, Byrne attested that he was asked directly by McDonnell ‘Would you shoot a man, Byrne?’ When the name of G-man, Detective John Barton was mentioned Byrne, who had ‘previous’ with Barton, rapidly shed any scruples he might have had about close-up assassination. That was how Byrne found himself involved in the first of many IRA ‘hits’ the following day.

Byrne’s testimony, however, (backed up in some details by that of Joe Leonard – BMH-WS #547, p.4)) does confirm why both O’Daly and McDonnell might have seen themselves as the major domo of the Squad, and, indeed, why, for a short period at least, both would have been entitled to view themselves thus. This is because, on the day he was murdered, Detective Johnny Barton was being dogged by two IRA hit squads, one led by McDonnell, the other by O’Daly. Often the Squad would divide itself in two, half acting as ‘shooters’ and the other half as ‘scouts’. But this was different. Each unit was unaware of the presence of the other until both had spotted and were following Barton. Neither Byrne nor Leonard specifies who fired the fatal shot that killed Barton as he approached DMP ‘G’ Division Headquarters in Great Brunswick Street (now Pearse Street Garda Station). 

Byrne is far more specific when he discusses the chain of command in Ashtown on 19 December 1919. As far as Byrne was concerned McDonnell was in command of the attempt on the life of Lord French.

Jim Slattery’s statement (#445, p.2) probably reflects his personal attachment to McDonnell as much as Leonard’s indicates his own close relationship with O’Daly. Slattery was at McDonnell’s meeting in North Great George’s Street (No.35) where McDonnell and Dick McKee were calling the shots. There is no mention of Collins or Mulcahy being present. When the question was put by McKee and McDonnell about the potential assassination of DMP ‘political’ detectives, among those who did not demur, according to Slattery, were the witness himself, Tom Ennis (the first mention of Ennis as an original member of the Squad), Tom Keogh, O’Daly and Leonard. 

Slattery also made reference to the sub-division of the early Squad. He answered to McDonnell—‘I looked upon him as the officer in charge of the section to which I was attached’—but acknowledged the existence of a separate unit under Daly. He recalled how McDonnell’s unit was ordered to kill the bothersome Detective Sergeant Patrick ‘The Dog’ Smith (Smyth)—this was done, not very expeditiously, on 30 July 1919, near his Drumcondra home. Smith survived being hit by a number of .38 bullets and died some days later, causing the balle de fusil du jour to become the .45 from then on. A .45 bullet could stop a horse, the .38 barely despatched the ‘Dog’, whose son watched his father being mown down near their house. (I mention that detail lest we get too sentimental about what Collins et al were asking the Squad to do)  

Meanwhile, O’Daly’s platoon was sent after DMP Detective Daniel Hoey. Ironically it was Mick McDonnell who ended up murdering Hoey rather than O’Daly’s section. O’Daly acknowledged this in his witness statement (#387, p.11) before adding gratuitously that:

‘ Mick McDonnell was one of the best men in Dublin but he had one fault. He was always butting in, and on account of that he often did damage because he was too    eager. He was not a member of the Squad.’ 

Which is patent nonsense and detracts, perhaps fatally, from the credibility of this element of O’Daly’s statement at least. When O’Daly made his two statements to the Bureau of Military History (#220 and #387) he had begun to mythologise his own role in the War of Independence.  O’Daly’s claim is in stark contrast to the account left by Jim Slattery where Slattery avers that, ‘I took over control of the Squad after Mick McDonnell left’, which suggests that the actual sequence in which command of the Squad was assumed went – McDonnell, Slattery, O’Daly. 

Please try and keep up down the back.

None of which really helps us much with the basic question, who was the St. Peter, the capo, the primus inter pares, of the original Squad when it undertook complex operations like the assassinations of DI Redmond and RM Alan Bell. Was it Mick McDonnell or Paddy O’Daly? The BMH-WS evidence, such as it is, either ignores the question entirely or reflects the personal affiliation to the two men of their subordinates. While each of the two potential ‘captains’ may have been in charge of a distinct section in the early days of the Squad, which of the two platoon commanders assumed the overall leadership when Collins decided it was time for his hit men to abandon their jobs and go full-time? It appears that you have to pay your money and take your choice. There is nothing definitive in the BMH witness statements of Squad veterans and, given the nature of the beast, there is little contemporary documentation covering the activities of what was a highly secretive and covert assassination squad. The members of the Squad did not walk the streets of Dublin carrying battle orders or regimental diaries in their jacket pockets which were later painstakingly archived. Most of the ‘archive’ was located between the prominent ears of Michael Collins. Some of the participants did write memoirs. Good luck with those. They were intended to be read in their own lifetimes. At least the BMH witness statements were not going to see the light of day until well after they were all dead.

If it was McDonnell who assumed overall command—and that is my own gut feeling—his leadership role was short-lived. By the autumn of 1920, well before the defining coup of the Anglo-Irish War—the Dublin assassinations of 21 November 1920—McDonnell was living in California. 

Over the years there has been much speculation about the reason for McDonnell’s abrupt departure from Ireland in 1920. Was he sent on a secret mission to the USA by Collins? Was he exiled because of stress brought on by the death of Volunteer Martin Savage in the abortive attempt on the life of French, and because he was having an extra-marital affair, as alleged in his book on the Squad by Tim Pat Coogan. Coogan goes on to claim that Tom Keogh and Vinnie Byrne set out to kill McDonnell’s inamorata, or ‘that Jezebel’ as they referred to her.

McDonnell himself offers no explanation in his witness statement as to why he emigrated to the USA, where he ended up on the west coast. Coogan refers to his work for the McEnery family, and specifically for John P. McEnery, Superintendent of the United States Mint in San Francisco.

John McEnery’s son Tom, twice mayor of San Jose, is in no doubt whatever as to why McDonnell abandoned Ireland and travelled to California. It was to arrest the spread of a debilitating case of tuberculosis. Had McDonnell remained in Ireland in 1920 he might have been mown down, not by triumphant Auxiliaries or G-man, but by consumption. 

At some point during the (War of Independence/Civil War) McDonnell must have felt that he had sufficiently recovered to return to the fray and wrote accordingly to Collins. The McEnery family still retain the response of Collins in their archive. McDonnell was told to stay where he was and look after his health. ‘Stay there with the fruit and sunshine and get healthy,’ wrote Collins with obvious affection for his former lieutenant, ‘I’ll let you know if I need you.’ In his missive Collins also made reference to Keogh and Leonard and told their erstwhile captain that both men were doing well. 

Tom McEnery has also told me that a drink problem, developed to help cope with what we would now call post traumatic stress syndrome (PTSD), contributed to McDonnell’s death in Los Gatos in 1950. He has made a detailed study of McDonnell’s life, is currently writing a play on McDonnell’s participation in the 1919 IRA plot to murder members of the British cabinet, and is convinced that, as he put it, ‘O’Daly tried to improve himself at Mick’s expense.’   

So, to conclude. The original Captain of the Squad might have been Michael McDonnell, Mick McDonald, Patrick O’Daly or Paddy Daly. There might have been two Squads, neither of which, initially, was aware of the existence of the other. There might have been two Squads that regularly collaborated. There might only have been one Squad of eight, twelve, or more members. It was established in May, July and September 1919 in North Great George’s Street and Parnell Square. 

I’m glad to have cleared all that up satisfactorily.   

JEREMIAH MEE AND LT. COL GERALD BRYCE FERGUSON SMYTH – LISTOWEL RIC STATION 19 JUNE 1920

Royal Irish Constabulary Constable Jeremiah Mee

One hundred years ago today the unofficial but very real reprisal policy of the British government was articulated—in Listowel, Co. Kerry RIC Station—by one of its functionaries in what he presumed to be a sympathetic environment. Unfortunately for Smyth, and for an embarrassed British administration, many of the members of his audience were far from sympathetic and one in particular, the interventionist constable Jeremiah Mee, took action based on the highly disturbing message Smyth conveyed that day. 

World War 1 veteran, Lieutenant Colonel Gerald Bryce Ferguson Smyth, had recently been appointed to the divisional command of the Munster Royal Irish Constabulary, migrating from the military to the police. His nemesis, Jeremiah Mee, joined  the RIC at the age of  19 in 1911. He served nine years in different parts of Co.Sligo. While in Grange, where he spent some of his time pursuing poitín makers with offshore still, he became active in moves to form a union of RIC constables. This did not go down well with his superiors and he was  transferred, in 1919, to Listowel Co. Kerry. 

In May 1920, as the War of Independece began to ramp up in Kerry, a military force was stationed in nearby Ballinruddery under the command of a Captain Chadwick. In June the Listowel RIC men were informed they were to vacate their barracks and make way for the Army.

In his Bureau of Military History Witness Statement #379 – (http://www.militaryarchives.ie/collections/online-collections/bureau-of-military-history-1913-1921/reels/bmh/BMH.WS0379.pdf) –  Mee takes up the story.

‘We held a meeting in the dining room. The men were all excited. Some were disappointed over the transfers; some were disappointed over various things. After a lot of discussion I personally addressed the men in the day-room. I pointed out that a war had been declared on the Irish people and that, looking at the case from the most selfish point of view, we had to consider our position. We were asked evidently to take part with the military in beating our own people. I might find myself shooting the mother of one of my comrades, while he would be shooting my mother in Galway. I pointed out that in a war one of two things must happen. We had either to win or lose. I assumed that we would win the war with the assistance of the British military. When we had defeated our own people, the British military would return to their own country and we would remain with our own people whom we had, with the assistance of the British government, crushed and defeated. That would be the best side of our case. If we lost the war the position would be still worse. I suggested that, instead of going on transfer, we would hold the barracks and refuse to hand over to the British military. We had bombs, rifles and revolvers, and any amount of ammunition; and there was no reason why we could not hold the barracks at least for a few days. To this I got a rousing cheer from each and every man. They immediately agreed that they would refuse to hand over the barracks.  There was not one dissentient voice in it. The men were all there, including the Sergeant but not the District inspector or the Head Constable. It was then decided that I would represent the men who were about to be transferred from the barracks, and Constable Lillis would represent the four men who were to remain in the barracks … 

            At ten o’clock on the night of the 18th June a phone message came from the County Inspector to the District Inspector instructing him to have the men ready for parade with side arms (belt and sword) to meet Colonel Smyth* at ten o’clock next morning, 19th June. No details were given. 

            Colonel Smyth had been appointed Divisional Commissioner for Munster on 3rd June, just two weeks earlier. His appointment was direct from the British Cabinet and he was given complete charge of the military and police for the whole of Munster. Beyond the fact that he was appointed Commissioner, we knew nothing whatever about him, and neither did our District Inspector.’

RIC top brass began to arrive at 10.30 on the morning of 19 June. Accompanying Colonel Smyth was the RIC Inspector General, General Tudor, and a military and police escort of around fifty men.

‘This display of force was no doubt intended to terrorise and overawe our little garrison within, and I will admit that I never felt less cheerful in my life. Nevertheless, our men stood the test splendidly and, though there may have been nervous tension, there was no evidence whatever of fear.

            After sometime the officers, both military and police, numbering ten or twelve, came into the dayroom where we were assembled. They lined up in front of us with their backs to the fireplace and facing us. Up to this moment we had not the least idea as to what was going to happen. Colonel Smyth, who had only one arm, having lost his other arm in the 1914-18 war, went straight to the point and processed to address us without making any reference to our previous insubordination and refusal to co-operate with the military. Immediately he commenced to speak I stepped out, saluted him, and told him that we understood that this conference was to be between the police and their authorities and that we objected to the presence of the military officers. Strange though it may seem, Colonel Smyth made no comment whatever on my action, while the military officers smiled at each other and quietly walked out of the room. Colonel Smyth then commenced his speech again and continued:- 

“Well men, I have something of interest to tell you, something that I am sure you would not wish your wives to hear. I am going to lay all my cards on the table, but I must reserve one card for myself. Now men, Sinn Fein has had all the sport up to this; we are going to have the sport now. The police have done splendid work, considering the odds against them. They are not sufficiently strong to do anything but hold their barracks. This is not enough, for as long as we remain on the defensive so long will Sinn Fein have the whip hand. We must take the offensive and beat Sinn Fein with their own tactics. Martial Law, applying to all Ireland, is coming into operation shortly, and our scheme of amalgamation must be complete by 21st June. I am promised as many troops as I require from England; thousands are coming daily. I am getting 7,000 police from England. 

            Now men, what I wish to explain to you is that you are to strengthen your comrades in the outstations. The military are to take possession of the large centres where they will have control of the railways and lines of communication, and be able to move rapidly from place to place. Unlike police who can act as individuals on their own initiative, military must act in large numbers under a good officer; he must be a good officer or I shall have him removed. If a police barracks is burned, or if the barracks already occupied is not suitable, then the best house in the locality is to be commandeered, the occupants thrown out in the gutter. Let him die there, the more the merrier. You must go out six nights a week at least and get out of the barracks by the back door or skylight so that you will not be seen.  Police patrols in uniform will go out the front door as a decoy. Police and military will patrol the country roads at least five nights a week. They are not to confine themselves to the main roads but take across the country, lie in ambush, take cover behind fences, near the roads, and when civilians are seen approaching shout “hands up”. Should the order not be immediately obeyed, shoot, and shoot with effect. If the persons approaching carry their hands in their pockets or are in any way suspicious looking, shoot them down. You may make mistakes occasionally and innocent persons may be shot, but this cannot be helped and you are bound to get the right persons sometimes. The more you shoot the better I will like you, and I assure you that no policeman will get into trouble for shooting any man. In the past policemen have got into trouble for giving evidence at coroner’s inquests. As a matter of fact, inquests are to be made illegal so that in future no policeman will be asked to give evidence at inquests. Hunger strikers will be allowed to die in jail, the more the merrier. Some of them have died already and a damn bad job they were not all allowed to die. As a matter of fact, some of them have been dealt with in a manner that their friends will never hear about.  A ship will be leaving an Irish port in the near future with lots of Sinn Feiners on board; I assure you men, it will never land. 

            That now is nearly all I have to say to you. We want your assistance in carrying out this scheme and wiping out Sinn Fein. Any man who is not prepared to do so is a hindrance rather than a help and he had better leave the job at once.”

Colonel Smyth then, pointing to the first man in the ranks, said, “Are you prepared to co-operate?’ The man, who happened to be an Englishman named Chuter, replied, “Constable Mee speaks for us”. Smyth pointed to each man in turn, asking the same question and getting the same reply, until he reached myself. I was about the seventh man he addressed, and by the time he reached me I was so horrified by his speech that all our plans of the previous night had completely evaporated and, in any case, would have been useless for a contingency that now confronted us. In desperation, I stepped forward and said, “By your accent, I take it you are an Englishman. You forget you are addressing Irishmen.” He checked me there and said he was a north of Ireland man from Banbridge in the County Down. I said, “I am an Irishman and very proud of it.” Taking off my uniform cap, I laid it on the table in front of Colonel Smyth and said, “This too is English; you may have it as a present from me”. Having done this I completely lost my temper and, taking off my belt and sword, clapped them down on the table, saying, “These too are English and you may have them. To Hell with you, you are a murderer.” At this, Colonel Smyth quietly said to District Inspector Flanagan, “Place that man under arrest”. District Inspector Flanagan and Head Constable Plover came forward and linked me out of the room down to the kitchen which was at the far end of the corridor, and remained there with me for a few minutes. In less than four or five minutes after going into the kitchen with the Head Constable and the District Inspector, I heard a wild stampede down the corridor and in rushed the whole crowd of my comrades whom I had left in the day-room. They were highly excited and half dragged and half pushed me back into the dayroom. When we got to the dayroom, which I had left five minutes earlier, the room was empty. Divisional Inspector Smyth, General Tudor and the other police officers were in the District Inspector’s office with the door closed. Colonel Smyth’s uniform cap was still on the dayroom table. District Inspector Flanagan and Head Constable Plover went into the District Inspector’s office and joined the other officers. In the dayroom then men were in an angry mood and all was excitement, some going so far as suggesting that Smyth deserved to be shot.’

Mee transcribed Smyth’s speech from memory and sent it to what he calls ‘Republican headquarters’. 6 July Mee and four other Listowel policemen, as he puts it himself, ‘left the force without either resigning or being dismissed’. They took revolvers and ammunition with them. 

‘On 10th July the Smyth speech was published, fully, in the Freeman’s Journal, a daily newspaper published in Dublin. On the following day John Donovan and myself went to Dublin where we made contacts with members of the Dáil Cabinet, Michael Collins, Erskine Childers, Madame Markievicz, Alex McCabe T.D., as well as Thomas Johnson and William O’Brien of the Labour party and Martin Fitzgerald of the Freeman’s Journal in the offices of the Irish Labour Party. The object of the meeting was to get from us the full facts of the Listowel episode. It should be mentioned that the publication of the Smyth speech was one of the reasons for the breaking up of the Freeman’s Journal by the British forces and the subsequent arrest of the owner and editor, Messrs. Fitzgerald and Hooper. 

            During this interview it was plain to us that Michael Collins did not think that the British government was dastardly enough to conceive a scheme of the kind outlined by Colonel Smyth to the police at Listowel. Childers on the other hand, seemed to have no doubt whatever that the British government were capable of conceiving and carrying out the scheme; and for that reason justified his having published the case in the Irish Bulletin from which paper the Freeman’s Journal had published it.

            Thomas Johnson and William O’Brien of the Labour Party went to London to attend an international Labour conference. They raised the question of Smyth’s speech and handed copies of the Freeman’s Journalcontaining Smyth’s speech to each delegate attending the conference.  This caused uproar at the conference and the Irish delegates got the full backing of British Labour in demanding an investigation into Colonel Smyth’s speech. A Labour delegation later visited Ireland and reported fully on the Black and Tan atrocities. 

            On Wednesday 14th July, T. P. O’Connor raised the question in the British House of Commons. He asked and was refused leave to move the adjournment of the house to discuss the incident and the remarks attributed to Divisional Commissioner Smyth as calculated to produce serious bloodshed in Ireland. Sir Hamar Greenwood’s reply on that date is very interesting. He said that Divisional Commissioner Smyth had informed him that “the instructions given to the police in Listowel were those mentioned in a debate in this House on 22nd May last by the Attorney General for Ireland, and he did not exceed those instructions.” For once, Hamar Greenwood spoke the truth for, as I shall prove later, Smyth was the spokesman of the British Cabinet and the instructions given to us were the exact instructions sanctioned by the British Cabinet on 22nd May, 1920. 

            Colonel Smyth’s address to the police at Listowel got the widest publicity, both in Great Britain and America, and caused quite a sensation as it was taken that Smyth was acting as spokesman of the British government; and there was a general outcry and demand for a full investigation. Lloyd George, the British Prime Minister, finding himself in a tight corner, gave a promise of a full investigation but said that, before doing so, he would call Smyth to London to get the full details from Colonel Smyth personally

            With things in this mess, Colonel Smyth was called to London to see the Prime Minister, Lloyd George. Smyth did not, or could not, deny having incited the police to commit open murder, since those were his instructions from the Prime Minister himself. The fact that Colonel Smyth had lost an arm in the war and had at least a dozen medals for bravery in the field counted for little now that the British Cabinet had to be saved. After two days in London, Lloyd George sent him back to Cork, ostensibly to regulate police duty for the assizes but with full knowledge of the fact that this brave officer was going to his doom.    Once Colonel Smyth’s instruction to “shoot at sight” was published, it must have been clear even to Lloyd George that Smyth was a marked man. Yet when he was shot dead in the Cork County Club a few days later, he had no bodyguard and not even a private soldier or policeman in the vicinity of the Club. This was a sad end to a great soldier betrayed by the treachery of the politician, Lloyd George. When Smyth’s wife heard the news of her husband’s death, she said, “My husband was a great soldier. It is a pity that he died in such a rotten cause.  No doubt her natural womanly instinct told her of the great betrayal. It might be mentioned in this connection that, after the death of Smyth, his  brother, Captain Smyth, who had an appointment in the War Office, volunteered for service in Ireland to avenge his brother’s death. He was shot dead while raiding Professor Carolan’s house in Drumcondra on the occasion when Dan Breen and Sean Treacy escaped. 

            When Colonel Smyth was dead, Lloyd George was then able to say, “I can’t now have an inquiry into the Listowel affair as our principal witness has been murdered.” In this way he shuffled shamelessly out of the inquiry which he never had the least intention of holding.

            General Tudor, with other high-ranking officers, was present when Colonel Smyth delivered his infamous ultimatum to the RIC at Listowel. Why was General Tudor not summoned to London to give evidence of Smyth’s speech? The reason is that the British Cabinet were already committed to a policy of outrage and murder in Ireland. Investigation or inquiry was the last thing that the British Cabinet then desired. Colonel Smyth had been indiscreet enough to put their secret policy for bloodshed to the RIC at Listowel and for this he had to pay the extreme penalty. His death gave Lloyd George the breathing time he so much needed while he was being forced for an explanation and enquiry by an outraged public opinion even in Britain. It was only a chance that Listowel had been the scene of this explosion. Similar instructions had been issued to the officers of all other counties about. The police co-operated with the military but Listowel was the only barracks which had refused to co-operate. Hence Smyth’s visit and the display of force that accompanied it.

            Immediately after Smyth was shot in Cork, I wrote to the daily press expressing regret at the death of Colonel Smyth and accusing the British government of connivance thereat. My letter was never published.’

Smyth’s speech had made him an obvious IRA target and on 17 July 1920 he was shot and killed in the smoking room of the Cork and County Club by a six-man IRA hit squad led by Dan O’Donovan. He was buried in Banbridge, Co. Down from where his mother’s family hailed. The funeral prompted a riot in which another man was killed. 

Smyth’s brother, Osbert, also a World War 1 veteran, subsequently enlisted in the British struggle against the IRA and was himself killed in a shoot-out in Drumcondra during a failed attempt to capture or kill Dan Breen and Sean Treacy. 

Jeremiah Mee himself became actively involved in organising resignations of RIC members under the aegis of the Labour department of Countess Markievicz. He later became an organiser of the boycott of goods coming from Belfast after the anti-nationalist pogroms in that city.   

Listen to a re-enactment of the BMH-WS testimony of Jeremiah Mee (including details of his career after 6 July 1920 on https://soundcloud.com/military-archives – this is part of a collaborative project between the Military Archives and the History Show on RTE Radio 1

IRELAND AND SLAVERY

£1m claimed by Irish slave-owners for 30,000 slaves on 300 West Indian plantations in 1837

In Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park it becomes clear in the early chapters that the Bertram family fortune, and the money that built the eponymous estate, has come from the proceeds of a West Indian plantation which employs slave labour. Shortly into the novel Sir Thomas Bertram is compelled to sail for Antigua to sort out problems on his plantation. Was it a rebellion? Was it a consequence of the abolition of the trading of slaves in the British Empire in 1807? We never find out – when the heroine Fanny Price inquires she is greeted with a long disapproving silence and knows better than to pursue the subject.

But the fictional Bertrams were not the only British family to have prospered from the ownership of slaves, the recent removal for cleaning of the statue of Bristol slave trader, Edward Colston, has highlighted that unsavoury fact. 

But not all ‘British’ slave owners were English. We can leave the Scots and the Welsh to assess their particular legacy, but Ireland has its own unhappy heritage when it comes to the acquisition, possession and sale of human beings for the purposes of unpaid labour – and I’m not talking about Google interns. 

Prompted by Patrick Corrigan’s fascinating thread on Twitter earlier in the week (@PatrickCorrigan), which highlighted Irish ownership of slaves on West Indian plantations, I decided to spend a few days going through the invaluable University College, London ‘Legacies of British Slave-ownership’ database—compiled since 2010 by Professor Catherine Hall and Dr. Nick Draper,[1] and cited by Patrick as his source—with a fine(ish) toothcomb. I wanted to try and tease out the extent of Irish slave-holding at the time of the final elimination of the practice in British colonies with the passage of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833. So, you could describe what follows below as a ‘database within a database’.

Altogether around 800,000 slaves were emancipated (or ‘manumitted’ to use the legal phrase) although this came with certain strings attached. Most were forced to serve four year ‘apprencticeships’ with their former masters. They were obliged to work in return for food. Which, you might think, sounds quite a lot like slavery. And you’d be right. 

A total of £20m was set aside by the British government for compensation. Most of this, £15m, was borrowed from the bankers Nathan Rothschild and his brother-in-law Moses Montefiore. This was all paid back in jig time – 2015!. That sum is worth £1.4b (€1.6b) today.  You might think £20m wouldn’t make much of a dent in the ill-usage of 800,000 freed slaves. In which case you would be incredibly naïve and know absolutely nothing about British colonialism. The £20m wasn’t intended for the slaves, it was meant for the 47,000 hard-done-by slave-owners, deprived of their rich heritage as well as their mobile (and negotiable) property. Half of the money was paid out in the West Indies and the rest went to absentee plantation owners living in the United Kingdom (like the fictional Bertrams). So, the final score in the British War on Slavery was …

Slave Owning Bastards (SOBs)  20,000,000    Slaves 0

One of the biggest beneficiaries was John Gladstone, who was paid £106,769 for 2,508 slaves across nine plantations. The name might ring a bell. His little boy, William, went on to become Prime Minister four times between 1868 and 1894. Though the Grand Old Man’s Old Man was well in arrears of the leading Irish beneficiary, Charles McGarel of Larne (a local benefactor on a Colstonian scale) who received £135,078 for 2,777 liberated slaves. McGarel was an ancestor of Tory grandee Lord Hailsham aka Quinton McGarel Hogg. And William Ewart Gladstone was not the only British Prime Minister who was a descendant of a recipient of slave owner compensation. Take a bow David Cameron.[2]

Back in the 1830s the United Kingdom included Ireland, so 4% of the moolah was handed over to Irish slave-holders. Given that the population of Ireland at the time was c. 7.5m—or around 45% of the total population of the UK—this figure probably reflects the microscopic size of the Irish landed gentry (c. 10,000 privileged families) and its upper middle class (bankers, merchants and middlemen).   

The headline figures are stark. Almost £1m (£982,009) was claimed by individuals born in, or resident in, Ireland under the terms of the 1837 Slave Compensation Act. Almost £800,000 (£798,639) was paid out to these solid citizens by the British government. The one-hundred and fifty-one Irish slave owners whose names appear in the UCL database in the 1830s, laid claim to more than 300 plantations (318) and to almost 30,000 male and female slaves (29,686). Claims totalling around £200,000 (£183,370) were dismissed by the Slave Compensation Commission appointed by the Whig administration of Lord Melbourne. These failed Irish claims, however, have been included anyway. This is on the basis that those who submitted them were either convinced of the merits of their cases, were happy to associate themselves with the evil of slavery and sought to profit from it, or were out and out chancers who deserve a bit of retrospective opprobrium. A number of unsuccessful claimants looked for compensation for slaves on plantations that had been mortgaged. Cheeky or what? They discovered to their chagrin that the compensation had already been paid to the mortgagee. In many cases ownership of plantations was disputed and the compensation was paid to counter claimants.  

Some of the beneficiaries are from well-known Irish aristocratic families, but not all Irish-owned West Indian plantations were the property of Ascendancy Protestant families. While there is a healthy sprinkling of grandees there are also many common or garden Dalys, Barrys and Murrays on the list. Many were upper middle class ‘merchant Princes’ and lawyers from Dublin, Belfast, Cork and Galway. There were also twenty-one female slave owners out of 151 names who sought financial awards. Most of those were the widows or the legatees of Irish male slave owners. There are a number of clergymen and MPs on the list as well. 

I have no doubt there are errors and gaps. I have searched the UCL site as thoroughly as I could over the last four days, trying to identify families and individuals who owned slaves and who were compensated when slavery was formally abolished throughout the British Empire between 1 August 1834 and 1 February 1835. The UCL database includes many more Irish names, of men and women who owned plantations in the West Indies as far back as the 1600s. According to Liam Hogan (@Limerick1914)—widely accepted as the foremost Irish authority on all matters relating to this country’s relationship with slavery (including the mythology of alleged Irish ‘white slaves’ which has been weaponised by American white supremacists)—Irish slave-owning families on Antigua alone included names like Buckley, Burke, Byrne, Collins, Corbett, Curtin, Doyle, Halloran, Keane, Kelly, Lynch, Malone. McCarthy, O’Brien, O’Connor, O’Loughlin, O’Shaughnessy, Ryan and Shiell.[3]Some of these families may even have brought their slaves to Ireland in the latter half of the eighteenth century, when the black population of the country was reckoned at somewhere between 2-3,000.[4] They may also have among the poor traumatised plantation owners who sought compensation from the Treasury in 1737 for the loss of a number of Antiguan slaves. The fact that the Antiguan plantation owners had themselves been directly responsible for their pecuniary losses did not appear to prevent them seeking awards from the British exchequer. A foiled slave revolt led to the public execution of eighty-five slaves. According to Liam Hogan: 

‘ Six were gibbeted alive. Five were broken on the wheel. Seventy-seven were burned  alive. Most of the victims’ remains were decapitated and their severed heads placed on pikes in public view as a warning to the rest of the slave population. The final  executions involved the burning alive of eleven enslaved people on 8 March 1737.’[5]

That rebellion was eclipsed by another almost a century later, when 540 ‘mobile assets’ were killed or executed in an 1831 uprising that hastened the end of the practice of slavery in the British Caribbean territories.

The 151 names recorded below are of those involved only in that final act, the drawn-out ending of slavery (except in certain territories belonging to the notorious East India Company, an institution apparently impervious to any form of remedial legislation). The connection with Ireland of some of those noted below may have been somewhat tenuous at the time of the passage of ‘An Act for the Abolition of Slavery throughout the British Colonies; for promoting the Industry of the manumitted Slaves; and for compensating the Persons hitherto entitled to the Services of such Slaves.’ – to give the legislation its full title. However, you will forgive me, I hope, if I don’t apologise to those (long-dead) slave owners who might have been included as Irish in error.  

Howe Peter Browne, 2nd Marquis of Sligo, Lord Altamont

Among the prominent Irish individuals who benefitted from the generosity of the Melbourne administration, and the cash provided by Rothschild and Montefiore, was the Most Honourable Howe Peter Browne, 2nd Marquis of Sligo, Earl of Altamont and Baron Monteagle. He had fewer plantations to his name than titles, owning ‘Cocoa Walk’ and ‘Kellys’ near Kingston in Jamaica. The 286 slaves of which he was cruelly deprived were assessed by the Slave Compensation Commission as being worth £5526, or a modest £19 each. (Awards varied greatly, with many owners being paid £50+ per slave). The 2nd Marquis appears to have been one of more decent sorts of slave driver. He became Governor of Jamaica in 1834 and did not endear himself to fellow slaveowners on the island with some of the decisions he made during the transition. He didn’t, for example, require his own former slaves to become apprentices, as would have been his right under the 1833 legislation. Choleric Jamaican slaveowners were able to force his resignation in 1836.   

Also featuring prominently on the list is the name La Touche, one associated in Dublin with banking and, specifically, with the Bank of Ireland. The family was descended from Huguenot refugees and a participant in the Battle of the Boyne (on the Williamite side). Three members,  William Digges La Touche, Peter Digges La Touche and Mary Digges La Touche divided £7100 between them for 404 slaves on three Jamaican estates. 

Hercules Robert Pakenham

An equally famous name included on the list is that of Pakenham. Hercules Robert Pakenham, third son of the 2nd Baron Longford, and brother in law of that reluctant Irishman, the Duke of Wellington, had an Antiguan plantation of 217 slaves, whose freedom netted him £2919. He was a MP for Westmeath from 1808-1826. 

Another interesting inclusion is that of Edward Sheil, who had two small plantations in Honduras (he is the only Irish owner of Central American properties). The main point of interest here is that Edward Sheil, who was awarded £1243 by the Commission, was the brother of Richard Lalor Sheil MP, a parliamentary supporter of Catholic Emancipation and an associate of Daniel O’Connell, the most egregious and vociferous Irish opponent of slavery.  

The case of William Purcell is particularly interesting. He was born in Grenada around the turn of the 18thcentury and in 1833 was in possession of a small Grenada plantation inherited from his Irish father Patrick Joseph Purcell. He is described by the UCL researchers as: 

‘One of six “coloured” sons of Irish-born landowner Patrick Joseph Purcell and his ‘housekeeper’ whom he described as “free negro woman Franchine”. His grandfather, Joseph Purcell, was sent to the West Indies by his great-grandfather Redmund Purcell of Dunane, County Laois, Ireland. Redmund sent 5 of his 6 sons  away as it was not possible to find careers for them at home …’

One imagines that this was how many of the male planters from Ireland and Britain found their way to the Caribbean, through the tyranny of primogeniture, which meant they had little or no chance of inheriting family property in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Once in the West Indies they were free to exercise a tyranny of their own. Many of those, however, who benefitted from a big payday probably never even saw their Caribbean estates. Many of the beneficiaries died in Britain, some died in Ireland. Others, like Hamilton Brown (see below) who owned twenty-five plantations in Jamaica, continued to live in the West Indies, where he died in 1845.

So here is the best list I can come up with. Imperfect and error-strewn I’m sure, and open to correction if anyone else wants to have a go here (http://wwwdepts-live.ucl.ac.uk/lbs/search/) or here (https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/help-with-your-research/research-guides/slavery-or-slave-owners/) and God bless all who sail in you if you do decide to have a go. (Someone will now tell me that there are at least half a dozen PhD’s already extant on the subject and that I needn’t have wasted my time. If so, great. Such is life.)

Have a good look at the names. Some of them probably never bothered to hide the fact that they were goblins at heart. Others were likely to have bestowed considerable largesse among their local communities and white-washed (or lime-washed) their reputations—like the recently moistened Mr. Colston—and gained reputations as do-gooders. Who knows, there might even be statues to some of them. So, we could spend the next twenty years arguing about the addition of wording to their plinths that reflects the totality of their activities. Or not. 

BACKGROUND ARTICLES:

LIAM HOGAN:

https://www.thejournal.ie/readme/irish-slaveowners-compensation-1587899-Jul2014/

WATERFORD TREASURES

https://waterfordtreasures.wixsite.com/wattreasuresblog/post/tainted-by-the-stain-of-original-sin-irish-participation-in-the-atlantic-slave-trade

NINI ROGERS

NAMECITY/COUNTYAWARD
Italics = unsucc.Claim
SLAVES
John Adair
(Trinidad – 2)
Dublin£213141
William Jones Armstrong
(British Guiana – 1)
Armagh£2254
Mehetabel Austin (née Piercy)
(British Guiana – 1)
Ireland£19514369
George Bagot
(British Guiana – 1)
Carlow /
Kildare
£13,823261
William Barron
(Barbados – 3)(St. Lucia – 1)
Waterford£3954
£10,298
157
462
Thomas Barry
(British Guiana – 3
Ireland£172
£12375
4
229
Colthurst Bateman
(Jamaica – 2)
Kerry£5042270
Espine Batty (male)
Fitzherbert Batty
(Jamaica -2)
Dublin
Delvin,
Co. Westmeath
£4892258
James Bedlow
(Jamaica – 1)
Carlow, Co. Carlow£3135161
Lawrence Bellew
(Tobago -1)
Mount Bellew,
Co. Galway
£2742148
John de la Poer Beresford
(St. Vincent – 1)
Waterford£1486
George Robert Berney
(Barbados – 1)
Kingstown,
Co. Dublin
£1803126
James Blair
(British Guiana – 1)
Co. Down£835301598
Anthony Richard Blake
(Jamaica – 1)
Ireland£4184240
Cecilia Blake
(St. Vincent – 1)
Dublin£5052188
Captain Vaughan Brice
(Jamaica – 1)
Westport,
Co. Mayo
£135974
Henry Daniel Brooke
(Trinidad – 1)
Dublin£480899
Alexander Scott Broomfield
(Trinidad – 1)
Hollywood,
Co. Wicklow
£241045
Hamilton Brown
(Jamaica – 25)
Antrim£4675
£19,470
233
886
John Browne
(St. Kitts – 1)
Dublin£2067125
Howe Peter Browne  (Marquis of Sligo – Earl of Altamont)
(Jamaica – 2)
Westport,
Co. Mayo
£5526286
Eleanor Brumskile (née Brereton)
(British Guiana – 1)
Bray,
Co. Wicklow
£9256188
Hyacinth George Burke (male)
(Jamaica – 1)
Killimer,
Co. Galway
£70043
John Burke
(Jamaica – 1)
Tuam, Co. Galway£612
Robert Burke
(Jamaica – 1)
Dublin£2240104
Sarah Busby (née Welch)
(Jamaica – 1)
Dublin£163784
Robert Bushe
(St. Vincent – 1)
(Trinidad – 5)
Dublin£3004127
Jane Carr (née Owens)
(Antigua – 1)
Cobh,
Co. Cork
£1740127
Robert Chaloner
(Barbados – 2)
Wicklow£6363283
John Chambers
(St. Vincent – 1)
Letterkenny,
Co. Donegal
£6525257
Henry Barry Coddington
(Jamaica – 1)
Oldbridge,
Co. Meath
£4532235
William Cramsie
(Jamaica – 2)
Portrush,
Co. Antrim
£99746
Catherine Crokes
(Tobago – 1)
Clogher,
Co. Tyrone
£33015
John Cunningham
(Antigua – 2)
Belfast£3073198
Peter Daly
(Jamaica – 1)
Ahascragh,
Co. Galway
£2318113
Christopher Daly
(Jamaica – 1)
Ireland£132861
Andrew Bredin Delap
(Jamaica – 1)
Ramelton,
Co. Donegal
£80737
William Drummond Delap
(Jamaica – 2)
Collon,
Co. Louth
£193396
Peter Dumoulin
(Trinidad – 2)
Dublin£197846
Robert Ellice
(Grenada – 1) 
Dublin£168358
David Elliot
(St. Kitts – 1)
Dublin£124276
Lyndon Howard Evelyn
(Jamaica – 1)
Ireland£25911
William Fennell
(Jamaica – 1)
Cork£59127
Lawrence Fitzgerald
(British Guiana – 3)
Fane Valley,
Co. Louth
£14,535275
John Flowers
(Jamaica – 2)
Bandon,
Co. Cork
£33513
William Forsyth
(British Guiana – 1)
Belfast£14,689272
John Henry Foskey
(Jamaica – 2)
Ireland£24112
John Nugent Fraser
(Jamaica – 1)
Mitchelstown,
Co. Cork
£63028
George Alexander Fullerton
(Jamaica – 3)
Ballintoy,
Co. Antrim
£9324415
William Gavan
(Jamaica – 1)
Co. Sligo£2889152
Ann Gibbons
(Jamaica – 1)
Newport,
Co. Mayo
£2372125
Eliza Elvira Glenn
(Trinidad – 1)
Limavady,
Co. Derry
£641
Melchior Graham(Jamaica – 1)Cork£90039
James Gray
(Jamaica – 2)
Dublin£22411
Robert Gray
George Gray
(Jamaica – 2)
Dublin£3148166
David Hall
(Barbados – 5)(British Guiana – 7) 
Tully,
Co.Galway
£16,724
£69,979
321
1701
Robert Westley Hall-Dare II
(British Guiana – 1)
Newtonbarry,
Co. Wexford
£14452273
Rev. Archibald Robert Hamilton
(Jamaica – 2)
Cork£5344258
William Stewart Hamilton
(British Guiana – 1)
Brown Hall,
Co. Donegal
£10,555189
Simeon Hardy
(Barbados – 1)
Cork£26913
Robert Charles Harker
(Cape of Good Hope – 1)
Swinford,
Co. Mayo
£1243
Sir George Fitzgerald Hill 
(Trinidad – 1)
Brook Hall, Co.Derry£641
Sir Edward Hoare
(Jamaica -3)
Mallow,
Co. Cork
£19,400998
William Wilson Hornsby
(Jamaica – 1)
Maryborough,
Co. Laois
£17210
James Hozier
(Jamaica – 12)
Ballinasloe,
Co. Galway
£7410286
Maria Bellenden Hunt
(St. Kitts – 1)
Tandragee,
Co. Armagh
£2216131
Hugh Hyndman
(British Guiana – 2)
(Grenada, St. Vincent, Trinidad – 1 each)
Belfast£24,459617
Robert Augustus Hyndman
(Antigua – 1)
Dublin£904
Thomas Hynes
(Jamaica – 2)
Galway£2929150
John Jameson
(Antigua – 3)
Dublin£391
£3073
54
198
James Kelly
(Jamaica – 2)
Abbeyknockmoy, Co. Galway£6140316
Thomas Kelly
(Jamaica – 1)
Dublin£92846
Margaret Kennedy
(Dominica – 2)
Rathfriland,
Co. Down
£522
Margaret Kennedy
(Jamaica – 1)
Dublin£110851
John Kingston MP
(British Guiana – 1)
Cork£7632149
Nicholas Kirwan
(Antigua – 1)
Dublin£2854225
John Knox
(Jamaica – 2)
Ballymoney,
Co. Antrim
£58922
William Digges La Touche
Peter Digges La Touche
Mary Digges La Touche
(Jamaica – 3)
Dublin
Dublin
Dublin
£7100404
Sir Harcourt Lees (Rev.)
(St. Kitts – 1)
Blackrock,
Co. Dublin
£2067125
William Lindsay
Michael Lindsay (Grenada – 1)
Tuam,
Co. Galway
Hollymount,
Co. Mayo
£6212206
Fredrick Simon Logier
(Cape of Good Hope – 1) 
Co. Cavan£932
Anne Lowe Hannah Foley
(Jamaica – 1)
Lismore,
Co. Waterford
£90344
Sarah Lucas (née Beesley)
(British Guiana – 3)
(St. Vincent – 1)
Ireland£57,9701,121
Andrew Henry Lynch
(Tobago -1)
Galway£194085
C. Martyn
(Jamaica – 1)
Galway£167392
James Massy-Dawson
(Jamaica – 2)
Ballynacourty,
Co. Tipperary
£8526461
John Mathews(British Guiana – 1)Tuam,
Co. Galway
£100018
Hugh McCalmont
(British Guiana – 2)
Belfast£21,844426
William McDowall
(Grenada – 1)
Dublin£5139197
Charles McGarel
(Barbados – 1)
(British Guiana – 13)
Larne,
Co. Antrim
£16,725
£135,078
321
2,777
Peter McGarel
John McGarel
(Barbados – 1)
Larne,
Co. Antrim
£9904195
Dr. Joseph Magrath
(Jamaica – 1)
Ireland£855
James Hewitt Massy-Dawson
Rev. John Massy-Dawson
Louisa Massy-Dawson
Anna Maria Poore (née Massy-Dawson
(Jamaica – 2)
Co. Tipperary£8523462
John Mathews
(British Guiana – 1)
Tuam,
Co. Galway
£100018
Charles Moore, MP
(Barbados – 2
(Tobago – 1)
Mooresfort,
Co. Tipperary
£56520
Henry Moore
(Barbados – 6)
(Tobago – 1)
Ireland£199183
Henry Murray
(Trinidad – 2)
Ireland£5437105
Thomas Murray
(British Guiana – 5)
Ireland£33,788649
Thomas Ricketts Myers
(Jamaica – 2)
Clonmel£261
Admiral Sir Edmund Nagle
Garret Nagle
(Barbados – 1)
Cork£4002177
Major General William Nedham
(Jamaica – 1)
Bantry,
Co. Cork
£3669194
James Neil
(Barbados -3)
Ireland£7644385
Thomas Neilson
(Trinidad – 7)
Dublin£11,725223
Samuel Nelson
(Antigua – 2)
Belfast£4033224
John Lyons Nixon
(British Guiana – 2)
Ireland£17,532
£191
348
5
Robert Nolan/ Eleanor Nolan
(Jamaica – 1)
Dublin£60033
Hugh O’Connor/Edward Moore
(Antigua – 1)
Dublin£2399171
Robert Otway
(Grenada – 1)
Cork£46115
Robert Hercules Pakenham
(Antigua – 1) 
Crumlin,
Co. Antrim
£2919217
Eliza Jane Prentice (née Kidd)
(Barbados – 8)
Armagh,
Co. Armagh 
£14112
Georgiana Prentice
(Barbados – 2)
Armagh,
Co. Armagh
£324
Richard Patrick Purcell
(Grenada – 3)
(Trinidad – 1)
Dunane,
Co. Laois
£4065
£6212
82
206
William Purcell (Trinidad – 1)Grenada –
son of P.J. Purcell
£1523
Rev. James Peter Rhoades
(Jamaica – 1)
Clonmel,
Co. Tipperary
£3017182
Lt. Gen. Sir Phineas Riall
(Jamaica – 1)
Ireland£107453
Browne Roberts
(Jamaica – 1)
Queen’s County£4438269
George Bonynge Rochfort
(Jamaica – 3)
Dublin£53236
Thomas Sanderson
(Antigua – 1)
Ireland£1877116
Dudley Semper
Michael Joseph Semper
(Montserrat – 6)
Co. Galway£12,505662
Henry Osbourne Seward
(British Guiana – 3)
Cork£253953
Lucinda Shaw
(St. Vincent – 1)
Co. Tipperary£1396
Edward Sheil
(Honduras – 2)
Co. Waterford£124316
Wright Sherlock
(Trinidad – 4)
Cork£79515
Robert Simms 
(Antigua – 1)
Belfast£2571158
James Simpson
(Jamaica – 4)
Ireland£3319
£1173
190
55
James Sproull
(Jamaica – 9)
Strabane,
Co.Tyrone
£6693374
George Taaffe
(Tobago – 1)
Smarmore Castle,
Co. Louth
£2743148
Charlotte Tayler
(Jamaica – 3) 
Strabane,
Co. Tyrone
£95353
James Thompson
(Antigua – 2) 
Derry£1209112
Samuel Thompson
(Dominica – 1)
Muckamore
Abbey,
Co. Antrim
 £3488 181
Sir Edward Tierney
(St. Kitts – 2)
Dublin£6459357
Richard Trench
(Antigua – 1)
Co. Galway£926112
William Power Trench
(Jamaica – 4)
Co. Galway£3347175
Sophia Adelaide Walsh
(Trinidad – 1)
Naas,
Co. Kildare
£327760
John Watt
(Jamaica – 3) 
Ramelton,
Co. Donegal
£114755
Robert Welch
(Jamaica – 1)
Maryborough,
Co. Laois
£1638 84
Thomas Wilson
(Trinidad – 9)
Dublin£9444182
Richard Beavor Wynne
(Virgin Islands – 1)
The Hermitage,
Co. Sligo
£130791
 Total sought£982,00929,686
318 PlantationsRejected claims£183,370 
 Total granted£798,639 

[1] https://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jul/12/british-history-slavery-buried-scale-revealed

[2] https://www.theguardian.com/news/2018/mar/29/slavery-abolition-compensation-when-will-britain-face-up-to-its-crimes-against-humanity

[3] https://medium.com/@Limerick1914/an-irish-slave-in-antigua-7acfb106a8e9

[4] W.A. Hart. ‘Africans in Eighteenth-Century Ireland’. Irish Historical Studies, Vol. 33, No. 129 (May, 2002), pp. 19-32

[5] https://medium.com/@Limerick1914/an-irish-slave-in-antigua-7acfb106a8e9

Who is Edward Colston and what does he have in common with John Mitchel?

BEFORE

AFTER

When someone is ripped down from a pedestal they have occupied for 125 years and dumped in the murky waters of the port that contributed to their fortune, it does make you curious?

So who was Edward Colston (1636-1720) the man who was consigned to the vasty deep over the weekend by a group of his sternest critics? 

To put it mildly, he was well connected. He made his fortune with a company headed up by the brother of King Charles II who would, himself, go on to become the much unloved King James II. But not for long (the King bit, that is—the lack of love was more permanent). James was better known among his regularly disappointed Irish supporters as ‘Séamus an chaca’ (translated: ‘Jimmy the shit – or more accurately ‘Seámus who shits himself’). However, just to demonstrate that ‘business is business’ and outweighed any putative political loyalties, Colston sold his shares in the company to Séamus’s usurper, William of Orange, better known to his enthusiastic latter-day Irish supporters as King Billy. 

The company in question was the cuddly RAC – not to be confused with the Royal Automobile Club. ‘RAC’ stood for Royal African Company, and for the practice of abducting men, women and children from Africa, transporting them to North America, and selling on the ones who survived the journey. (Let’s not characterise it as ‘those fortunate enough to survive the journey’ in this instance). The Royal African Company was in the same fine old English tradition as that much-beloved corporate entity the East India Company, fondly remembered in India, Pakistan and Bangladesh as a ruthless and covetous mob of professional plunderers and murderers. Interestingly the word ‘loot’, also in the news last week, is derived from Hindi. It was used by those who spoke the language to describe the experience of being governed by the East India company, and was brought from the ‘sub-continent’ to England along with all the gold, silver, jewels and spices that underwrote so many aristocratic fortunes across the Irish Sea (and quite a few in our own sainted land as well).   

The RAC guarded its ‘property’ jealously, so much so that it took to branding that property prior to its luxury cruise across the Atlantic. This exercise in copyrighting did not involve merely painting a ‘swoosh’ on the bottom right hand corner of a torso. Instead a red hot branding iron was used on the skin of these newly acquired items of property. Even though Mr. Colston obviously can’t swim, when you discover how he accrued his fortune it seems a shame that the protesters contrived to dump his statue somewhere from which it can potentially be recovered and restored to its original pedestal. 

After selling out to King Billy, Edward Colston took some time out to smell the roses – hopefully the fragrance was sufficient to mask the stench of burning flesh. He also began a glorious exercise in whitewashing by changing the wording on his business cards from ‘slave trader’ to ‘do-gooder’. Colston endowed everything in sight, becoming an early eighteenth century equivalent of arch-capitalist Andrew Carnegie, who forced libraries on towns and cities whether they wanted them or not. No school or hospital in his native Bristol was safe from Colston’s generosity, as long as it was named after him. 

One other thing – the statue now the source of some very interesting selfies, mostly by people whom Colston would have been happy to enslave, was (the base still is) located on ‘Colston Avenue’. The Bristol city fathers and mothers might want to think about changing the name. Maybe take a leaf from the book of the Mayor of Washington DC, Muriel Bowser, who, last week, renamed a street near the Trumpist White House as ‘Black Lives Matter Plaza’. Not sure what you do with Colston Hall, Colston Tower or Colston Street though.  

However, if we in Ireland applaud the actions of the Bristol anti-Colstonites, do we need to be consistent? What about the most prominent journalistic apologist for the Confederacy during the US Civil War, our very own John Mitchel—firmly ensconced in the Deep South after his Young Ireland escapades, his transportation to Australia, and his daring escape. Mitchel, subject of much hagiographical coverage—some of it auto-hagiographical—once claimed that the Irish peasantry were worse off than black slaves in the southern states. While mid-19th century Irish tenant farmers, cottiers and farm labourers were hardly comfortable (a million of them died of starvation and disease between 1845-50 and another million were forced to emigrate) at least their landlords couldn’t whip them and sell their children down the river. Despite his steadfast defence of the institution of slavery—which helped earn him a sojourn in a post-war Union jail (he opted not to describe the experience in Jail Journal II) there’s a fine statue of Mitchel in his native Newry in County Down. 

Lest I be accused of an exercise in ‘backwards history’ and it be suggested that Mitchel was merely expressing commonly held beliefs amongst the Irish of his generation, one of the many men with whom he fell out, Daniel O’Connell, steadfastly refused to even visit the USA while the practice of slavery continued, and was revered by American abolitionists (men like Frederick Douglass) for the stance he took on the issue. 

Granted John Mitchel does not occupy a position of prominence on the Newry skyline for his advocacy of slavery—it was Jail Journal, his polemical The Last Conquest of Ireland (Perhaps) and his many services to Irish nationalism that earned him a shot at the pedestal. But then that didn’t save Colston, who wasn’t exactly beautifying the city of Bristol because of his service to the slave trade. 

I’m not advocating that the statue of John Mitchel be torn down and tossed in the Clanrye River. But we’re good at health warnings in Ireland, so maybe one or two of Mitchel’s less salubrious quotes might be added to a blue plaque to be placed prominently nearby – statements like … ‘We deny that it is a crime, or a wrong, or even a peccadillo to hold slaves, to buy slaves, to keep slaves to their work by flogging or other needful correction.’ Or this … ‘[I am] proud and fond of [slavery] as a national institution, and advocate its extension by re-opening the trade in Negroes.’

Getting back to Colston though, it has to be said it’s appropriate for someone who made a lot of money from transporting human beings against their will in seagoing (but not necessarily seaworthy) vessels that he should himself have recently been reburied at sea.