THll PENALTY OF LOYALTY.
ACAREFUL reader of Irish news might have seen a small notice in one corner of an Irish paper some time ago to the effect that " Mr. — was attacked by armed and masked men, who entered his house. . . . He sustained serious wounds in both legs. The rest of the family escaped injury, although the raiders fired many shots into the room where they sat." To an Irish reader it conveys the thought of another loyalist having suffered, while the average Englishman merely offers up thanks that he lives in a civilized country. I am going to give personal experiences of two attacks, hoping that perhaps they may stir the minds and imaginations of some of my readers, and thus arouse Public Opinion to do something to help the Irish loyalists who are waiting in the hope of some day getting the compensation which the Courts have awarded them.
Let me first say that having sold all outlying land under the " Land Purchase Act," there remained only a small demesne. It cannot therefore be said that we were of the " Cruel Landlord " type. Our crime was this—That our family had helped to uphold the tradition of the Irish county families during the Great War, and for this we first suffered just over a year ago. As we sat over the fire one winter's night there came a ring at the door and a man's voice said, " The Boys want to see the master." The answer given was that they could see him in the morning, but not at that hour of the night. The door was immediately forced and masked men entered the hall. My father, who was in the act of poking the fire, hearing the noise, jumped up and, still holding the poker in his hand, went to the door. Ho was confronted by an armed man who backed out into the hall, where four of his companions were posted. Shots rang out and the room filled with smoke, and bullets and splinters flew in all directions. It did not last more than three minutes in all, and then with a " Come along, boys "—the only words spoken from the time they entered the house—they made off, leaving my father shot through both legs and surrounded by a pool of blood. There was no time to be lost; ten miles of lonely country separated us from a doctor and the military. My sister volunteered to go for them as we knew not whom to trust. Two horses were saddled, the groom, a local man, offering to accompany my sister. In less than ten minutes from the time the last raider had left the house they had started, determined, if an attempt was made to stop them, to go across country, which was made possible by the brilliance • of the moon. Luckily, all went well, and they rode those ten miles in just forty minutes. Suffice it to say that after some time my father completely recovered. Some arrests were made, but as there was, not sufficient evidence to prove them guilty, these men—if one can honour them with the name—were released.
For just a year after this we lived very quietly, keeping as much as possible within our gates, until one night—this time a lovely spring night—about eleven o'clock, a knock came at the door, loud and menacing. Careful not to open doors this time, we held parley from an upper window. We asked who was there, and the dreaded reply came, " The I.R.A." A conversation on the following lines ensued : " What do you want ? " " We want the boss."
" What do you want him for ? " " We want his life." Almost immediately the sounds of smashing glass and explosions were heard. We seized just what we could lay hands on, a trinket-box, a photograph, but the house was in darkness, all lights having been extinguished when the first knock came so that the occupants might be less easily seen from outside. In silence we groped our way through back passages to the yard, being joined by the servants. Flames were leaping from the house, and we could see the men running from room to room, deluging the place with petrol and throwing bombs to start the fire. One could but pray that worse was not to follow. Anxiously we counted the numbers of our little party to make sure that all were safe from that blazing furnace. Yes, all were safe. We started to cross the yard, hoping to reach a place of safety, but the raiders who were outside saw us, and shouted that they would fire unless we went up to the gate, which then divided them from us. Escape was impossible, rifles and revolvers at five yards range being an irrefutable argument. My father urged them to swear on oath that they would take no lives if we came out, and this they grudgingly did after some delay. Even then we were not much reassured, as one of the raiders put his revolver between the bars of the gate and was on the point of firing when another knocked his arm up, with the words, " Not yet, we are not ready for that yet." On opening the gate we were sur- rounded. We asked whether we might get some clothes. Some said yes, others no, but in the end we were formed up and taken to the house, but the upper story was blazing fiercely. We were taken through the hall to the place where our overcoats were hanging, the raiders in front threatening to shoot us if we moved forward, those behind to shoot if we did not advance. My mother put out her hand to take down her fur coat, but was roughly told she might not have it. My father was allowed to take a few small things ; and then, practically empty-handed, we were marched out for the last time, and once outside we kept close together trying to prevent any attempt to separate us. We asked if they were going to show us any consideration, and their answer was that we had not shown them much consideration in the last raid, thus proving that it was the same gang who twelve months previously had shot my father. When all hope of saving the house was gone the raiders retired, leaving us homeless and without any of our irreplaceable treasures, but thankful that our lives, for some unknown reason, had been spared. An attempt was made to save the valuable plate, but again and again we were driven back by the fumes, and all efforts to reach it proved fruitless. The raiders had seen to the smallest details ; all the water had been run out of the reservoir, and although the pump was started immediately, little could be done as the pipes had been tampered with. The only help that came to us was from the country-folk, many of whom came to help us. When everything possible had been done they showed us the kindlier side of the Irish character, which has of late years been so completely subdued by terrorism. They brought to the cottage where we had taken refuge, food, wine, and candles, and did everything possible for us.
I ask those who have read thus far to pause for a minute and consider what has been done for the loyalists—and there are many—who have suffered in this way. England, for whom they have suffered, has " pigeon-holed " them to be dealt with later. And in the meanwhile—the
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