Terror In Ireland: 1916-1923

1. Introduction

David Fitzpatrick

I

Revolutionary terror is a topic of never-failing public interest, periodically revived by horrific news of contemporary attacks on civilians by revolutionaries or by oppressive régimes. In Ireland, the desire to analyse and interpret terrorism in the revolutionary period has been heightened by later conflicts in Northern Ireland, still not fully resolved. Did the British government organize, or collude in, a campaign of counter-revolutionary terror conducted by ‘murder squads’ or an ‘Anti-Sinn Féin Society’? Did the

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, or maverick groups within it, select certain groups of civilians as ‘targets’ for terrorism, and, if so, why? How did the new government manage to apply coercion during the Civil War on an unprecedented scale, without following the example of its predecessor by losing legitimacy and popular support? To what extent did civilians endorse or subvert the various campaigns of terror that demanded their loyalty and claimed to act on their behalf?

Since its creation in 1986, the Trinity History Workshop has published four volumes of essays by undergraduate and graduate students (past and present) and staff associated with Trinity College, Dublin. These books continue to be widely read and cited, partly because they addressed topics in modern Irish history which had been neglected by academic historians. I myself edited Ireland and the First World War (1986, reissued with The Lilliput Press, 1988) and Revolution? Ireland, 1917–1923 (1990); David Dickson edited The Gorgeous Mask: Dublin, 1700–1850 (1987) and The Hidden Dublin: The Social and Sanitary Conditions of Dublin’s Working Classes in 1845 Described by Thomas Willis (2002). The purpose of this book is to present fresh findings by historians, associated with Trinity College, who have worked on aspects of terror and its victims. As befits a Workshop, most chapters have been substantially modified as a result of seminar and class discussions, not to mention editorial interference in matters of style and presentation. The outcome is a truly collaborative work of scholarship, in which students distinctly hold their own in the company of professional historians.

Versions of eight chapters were delivered to the Workshop’s inaugural seminar in November 2010; three chapters were distilled from undergraduate research essays; and two were specially commissioned from postgraduate students with relevant interests. Thomas Earls FitzGerald, Michael Murphy and Ross O’Mahony are Sophister students at Trinity College who took a course on ‘Revolution and Civil War in Ireland’ in 2010–11. Brian Hughes is a doctoral student at Trinity College; Eve Morrison, Gerard Noonan and Justin Dolan Stover have all been doctored since the inauguration of the Workshop. Jane Leonard, who contributed three chapters to earlier Workshop volumes, is the author of several studies of conflict and commemoration in twentieth-century Ireland. Brian Hanley and Fearghal McGarry, both holders of doctorates from Trinity College and authors of several books on modern Ireland, teach history in the University of Liverpool and the Queen’s University of Belfast. Anne Dolan, Eunan O’Halpin and the editor all teach at Trinity College and have published extensively in the field.

For financial assistance in organizing the seminar and publication, the Workshop is deeply grateful to the

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Association and Trust, the Arts and Social Sciences Benefactions Fund, and David Ditchburn on behalf of the Department of History. We are also indebted to Antony Farrell and Fiona Dunne of The Lilliput Press for exempting us from some of the chores, rewarding yet tedious, associated with publication. The Workshop has come a long way since 1986, when its exclusively undergraduate contributors developed auxiliary skills as designers, photographers, typesetters, printers, paper-folders, fund-raisers, marketeers and distributors.

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The current Workshop was inspired by the early and lamented death in July 2010 of Peter Hart, a contributor to Revolution? who went on to hold a Canada Council chair in Irish history at the Memorial University of Newfoundland, St John. Having studied at the Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario and then Yale, he spent four productive years at Trinity College before being doctored in 1992. As a research student, he was remarkably self-assured and self-sufficient, a supervisor’s dream, slow to deliver drafts until a deluge of polished, eloquent chapters surged forth in the final months. His thesis had the rare distinction of being accepted exactly as it stood, and was subsequently published as The I.R.A. and Its Enemies: Violence and Community in Cork, 1916–23 (1998). Despite serious illness during the decade before his death at the age of forty-six, he maintained a steady flow of publications, conference papers and spirited dialogue with those who challenged his findings. His provocative and well-documented thesis-book and essays on The I.R.A. at War, 1916–1923 (2003), followed by Mick: The Real Michael Collins (2005), touched many raw nerves in Ireland and continue to arouse controversy. I remember him still as a brilliant boy, audacious yet unruffled.

In my view, he was a model for historians invading contentious territory: more interested in the dynamics of violence than its morality; lacking any clear political convictions beyond a preference for peace; lucid, sceptical, mild-mannered and unpretentious in his prose and debating style; adept at deploying sensational material to provoke discussion rather than to bully his readers; skilful in sifting and interpreting primary sources, if occasionally careless in citing them; influential in arousing academic and popular interest in the topics that he tackled. Hart’s fair-minded and compassionate scholarship was recognized in 1999 when his first book was awarded the Ewart-Biggs Memorial Prize. This remarkable work set the agenda for several recent studies by concentrating on Cork, the county most affected by revolutionary violence. In a contentious analysis of Tom Barry’s assertion that the execution of soldiers at Kilmichael in November 1920 was justified by their ‘false surrender’, Hart argued that Barry had invented the episode in order to disguise his own dishonorable conduct as a commandant. The reliability of Barry’s account and Hart’s critique are assessed by Eve Morrison, in a chapter based on witness statements for the Bureau of Military History and other oral testimony not previously made public.

The I.R.A. and Its Enemies also revealed that over 200 civilians in the county were killed by the

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, of whom 36% were Protestants, five times the Protestant proportion in Cork’s population. Though these victims were usually identified as ‘spies’ or ‘informers’, Hart argued that many were selected as ‘soft targets’ on the basis of flimsy intelligence. Republican terrorism intensified in late 1920 and early 1921, in a ‘tit-for-tat’ cycle of reprisals and punishments for which uncontrolled Crown forces were at least equally culpable. But the fact that such killings peaked in early 1922, during the Truce period, suggested vengeance against various detested groups, now that the country was virtually unpoliced. Republican suspicions, all too often, were based on categorical assumptions about the unpatriotic disposition and corruptibility of groups such as declared ‘loyalists’, Freemasons, Orangemen, ex-servicemen, military deserters, ex-policemen, those associated in any way with the Crown forces or administration, and, most contentiously, Protestants. The execution of alleged ‘spies’ and ‘informers’, and the extent to which they were victims of sectarianism, are issues further explored in Thomas Earls FitzGerald’s chapter on West Cork in early 1921.

In essays such as ‘The Protestant Experience of Revolution’, first published in 1996 and reissued in The I.R.A. at War, Hart went further. He suggested that killings, raids, and arson were the tip of an iceberg of social exclusion and personal harassment amounting to ‘what might be termed ethnic cleansing’ (p. 237). This analysis called into question the morality and sincerity of the republican movement, which strenuously disavowed sectarianism and defined the enemy as Britain and her Irish garrison. Hart’s findings outraged readers for whom the integrity of the revolutionaries of 1916–21 was an article of faith. Even many who deplored and despised the actions of the

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’s purported successors in Northern Ireland believed, or wished to believe, that the revolutionaries retained and acted on the high principles and motives attributed to the men and women of 1916. More sceptical analysts also judged the revolutionaries leniently by comparison with modern terrorists. Their revolution was much briefer than the Northern ‘Troubles’, they were less well armed and less ruthlessly efficient, the illegitimacy of their ‘British’ adversary was more demonstrable, and they enjoyed much broader public support (or at least acquiescence).

Whether for political, sentimental or historical reasons, Hart’s hypotheses of ‘ethnic cleansing’ and republican duplicity have provoked a steady stream of academic criticism and also counter-‘revisionist’ polemic, often ugly and personally offensive. Any slip in Hart’s footnotes is construed by some bloggers and letter-writers as deliberate falsification in pursuit of a preconceived revisionist agenda. Such enthusiasts may be reassured that there is no need for an intellectual guerrilla campaign against counter-insurgents masquerading as academic historians. This book is not an apologia for revisionism or for Peter Hart, but an attempt to restore balance and decorum to a debate of crucial importance to modern Irish history. Terror, more than most topics, is best discussed calmly and dispassionately.

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First, some working definitions. Terror, apart from being a state of mind, may be defined as a conscious attempt to create an acute fear of violence against the person or property, which may affect individuals, groups or the population at large. Terrorists are those who perpetrate any form of terror, for any purpose. Terrorism implies a sustained and systematic attempt to generate terror. To make sense of terror, it is necessary to break down the concept according to its origins, rationale, practitioners, targets, forms and consequences.

Terror as practised in revolutionary Ireland had multiple and cosmopolitan origins. Within Ireland itself, characteristic techniques and rituals had evolved over centuries of agrarian, sectarian and republican agitation. Strong echoes of past Ribbon, Orange, and Fenian campaigns were audible in the Irish troubles from 1916 to 1923. But Irish revolutionaries also drew on the growing terrorist repertoire of communism, anti-colonialism and feminism, forming productive international alliances of convenience in the United States and Europe. The unusual severity of state terror after the 1916 rebellion, though exploiting ‘coercion acts’ introduced to quash nineteenth-century challenges, was largely a product of the subordination of political to military imperatives during the Great War. The governments of the new Irish states reapplied many of the coercive measures and methods devised by Lloyd George’s administration, sometimes with even greater ruthlessness. The forms of revolutionary and counter-insurgent terror were therefore the outcome of a long and complex process of experiment and imitation.

Terror may constitute a deliberate strategy to isolate adversaries from their own communities, to provoke counter-terror from adversaries in order to reinforce popular support for the terrorists, or to threaten and marginalize ‘deviants’ within the community that the terrorists claim to represent. In other cases, its rationale is simply revenge, giving rise to the cycles of ‘tit-for-tat terror’ that so interested Hart. Terror may also signify indiscriminate violence occasioned by fear of unknown adversaries, frustration at one’s inability to identify the enemy, or anarchic delight in destruction when normal inhibitions are lifted. A central issue for those confronting terror is to determine how far it is strategically planned and centrally directed, and how far it is irrational, uncontrolled and localized. Strategic terror invites a strategic response from adversaries, which may be more or less effective; irrational terror can only be counteracted, if at all, by the exercise of internal discipline within the responsible groups. For historians trying to assess the effectiveness of guerrilla warfare and counter-insurgency, the distinction between strategic and irrational terror is crucial.

As Brian Hanley’s chapter points out, responsibility for terror in twentieth-century Ireland has been shared by many groups, including republicans, social radicals, loyalists and agents of the state. Within each group, terror has been propagated not merely by armed activists but by the politicians, propagandists and unarmed supporters who contribute to the desired climate of fear. In moral or legal terms, it might be argued that those practising violence are more culpable than those abetting violence, or that state-directed terror is more legitimate than that undertaken against the state or between unofficial groups. Others might maintain that any action tending to further Irish independence, however distasteful, is justified by the intended outcome. Historians, however, should take care to banish such moral judgments from academic analysis, whose primary function is to explain what occurred by assessing events from the perspectives of victim, perpetrator and onlooker alike.

The range of targets or victims of terror is even broader than that of its perpetrators. In its simplest and least effective variant, terrorism is an informal version of a traditional war, being primarily directed against identified adversaries, who may not, however, be armed or uniformed. As demonstrated in Jane Leonard’s forensic biographical study of those attacked by the

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on Bloody Sunday morning, terror directed against unarmed or off-duty targets, often misidentified as intelligence agents, was a recurrent and bloody ingredient of terror in revolutionary Ireland. Terror restricted to enemy combatants seldom prevails in civil conflicts, since opposing forces quickly raise a defensive shield that renders the targeted groups less accessible and, in some cases, virtually invulnerable. Hence the range of targets is often extended to embrace relatives and associates of identified adversaries, as Brian Hughes and Justin Dolan Stover show in their chapters on violence affecting policemen and prison officers. An even softer target is the ‘collaborator’ accused of sheltering, sustaining or supplying information to adversaries. As obvious ‘enemies’ move out of range, the terrorist is tempted to punish not only authenticated collaborators, ‘spies’ and ‘informers’, but also members of suspect sub-groups who might be disposed to act as collaborators. This form of terrorism, though ostensibly directed against the state or rival groups, typically concentrates on ‘deviants’ and ‘traitors’ within one’s own camp.

The most far-reaching form of terrorism, however, is that directed against entire communities accused of sustaining adversaries. This may embody a self-conscious strategy for isolating enemy terrorists from their own communities (as with ‘official reprisals’); or panic attacks motivated by revenge or frustration (as with many ‘unofficial reprisals’); or sectarian conflict, intended to promote the common interest of one community at the expense of another (as with the so-called ‘pogroms’ and counter-terror that tore Belfast apart between 1920 and 1922). According to Gerard Noonan’s chapter, revenge for state-directed violence in Ireland lay behind most republican terrorism in Britain, such as incendiary attacks on warehouses and farm buildings. The logic and consequences of unofficial reprisals are analysed in two chapters on the ‘Sack of Balbriggan’ in September 1920. Ross O’Mahony shows how one night of reprisals transformed a relatively peaceful district into the scene of ‘tit-for-tat terror’ spanning several months; while the editor identifies those compensated for malicious injuries and constructs a collective profile of victims utterly unlike that of revolutionary activists. Like the increasing focus of republican terror on deviants and traitors within the ‘nation’, reprisals against local communities were a sure sign of failure (military, political and moral). The more elusive the enemy, the less discriminate terrorist attacks became, so tending to discredit the perpetrators and to weaken popular support for their cause.

Terror in revolutionary Ireland was instilled by a variety of means, many of which are illustrated in Anne Dolan’s chapter. These included violent attacks on individuals or their property; indiscriminate attacks on crowds, ‘suspicious’ strangers, public buildings or transport; ‘boycotts’, exemplary punishments, abuse or humiliation; threats of violence calculated to inspire fear; and displays of power designed to awe and intimidate both enemies and recalcitrants. The task of cataloguing and counting the cost of revolutionary terror has scarcely begun, but Eunan O’Halpin’s report on The Dead of the Irish Revolution summarizes the most ambitious attempt so far to categorize all fatalities resultant from political violence between 1916 and 1921. Though fatalities are better documented than any other manifestations of terror, untapped sources such as compensation records also invite systematic studies of the broader impact of terrorism on Irish life.

Over the revolutionary period, the practice of terrorism was radically altered, as all protagonists discarded their initial inhibitions, devised new tactics to cope with increasingly effective opposition, and expressed their growing frustration in ever more ruthless brutality. The code of honour and fair play observed by the rebels of 1916, as portrayed in Fearghal McGarry’s chapter, rapidly disintegrated as the ‘War of Independence’ degenerated into a morass of ambushes and assassinations in the year preceding the Truce. Likewise, the admittedly crass and coercive attempts to restore ‘law and order’ between 1916 and 1919 soon seemed benign, by comparison with the campaign of reprisals against civilians conducted by paramilitary police in 1920. The Civil War caused further mutation, as anti-Treaty ‘Irregulars’ attempted to maintain guerrilla resistance in the absence of widespread popular support, while the new government applied state terror through systematic executions on a scale never attempted by the old régime. These issues are raised in Michael Murphy’s chapter on the unexpectedly vicious Civil War in Kildare, a county where the economic importance of the British military presence had discouraged vigorous prosecution of the War of Independence. Otherwise, most contributors concentrate on the Anglo–Irish struggle rather than the civil conflicts that ravaged both Southern and Northern Ireland in its aftermath.

Though this book cannot claim to encompass the entire terrain of its title, it deploys documentary evidence, often recently released, to confront major unsettled questions about the legacy of terror. What effects did the practice of terror have on the morale and mentality of its targets, and also of its perpetrators? What was its broader impact on the families, friends and descendants of the protagonists? How important were terrorist acts and threats in further alienating the Irish from the English, and Irish Protestants from Irish Catholics? To what extent, and in what sense, was terrorism effective? Did any protagonist gain from the use of terror between 1916 and 1923? On the whole, the contributors offer a bleak assessment of the origins, practice and consequences of revolutionary terror. Hovering in the background is another question, requiring a broader political analysis outside the scope of this book. Could a mutually acceptable Irish settlement have been achieved without the widespread use of terror? If so, how much was lost as the result of an unpredictable chain of events, instigated by the perverse determination of a few hundred rebels to challenge the British government of Ireland in 1916? What, then, was the ultimate cost of terror?

2. Terror in Twentieth-Century Ireland

Brian Hanley

The use of the term ‘terror’ in relation to political violence, in Ireland and elsewhere, is problematic. Its derivative ‘terrorist’ is generally seen as pejorative and is rarely, if ever, accepted by those to whom it is applied. Many would reject D. J. Whittaker’s contention that what he calls ‘social facilitation’ leads to tolerance for ‘terrorism’:

This concept refers to social habits and historical traditions that sanction the use of violence against the government, making it morally and politically justifiable … Social myths, traditions, and habits permit the development of terrorism as an established political custom. An excellent example of such a tradition is the case of Ireland, where the tradition of physical force dates from the eighteenth century, and the legend of Michael Collins in 1919–21 still inspires and partially excuses the much less discriminate and less effective terrorism of the contemporary Provisional

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.¹

By contrast, Sinn Féin’s Gerry Kelly has suggested that ‘a Palestinian, a us Congressman, a British soldier or an Irishman will have different views on what a just war is. There is no one definition of a just war, or of terrorism.’ Gerry Adams has stated that, for him, terrorism involves the ‘deliberate targeting of civilians. In my view the

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has never deliberately targeted civilians.’² Many who honour the memory of Michael Collins or Edward Carson would likewise deny that ‘terror’ was part of the strategy behind the campaigns that brought the two Irish states into being. It is worth noting that historians are not immune to viewing this subject from their own political standpoints.

The Oxford English Dictionary offers a number of definitions of terror: ‘the state of being terrified or greatly frightened; intense fear, fright, or dread; … a state of things in which the general community live in dread of death or outrage; … a policy intended to strike with terror those against whom it is adopted; the employment of methods of intimidation; the fact of terrorizing or condition of being terrorized.’³ Any act of violence, even if directed at specific targets, can lead to feelings of terror, so defined. There are many examples of this in the Irish context. A recurrent aspect of twentieth-century violence in Ireland was forcing people from their homes or workplaces, threatening them with future violence or otherwise making their lives intolerable. Such violence often had an inter-communal or sectarian aspect, as with the expulsion of Belfast Catholics and dissident Protestants from their workplaces in 1912 and 1920, or the wider attacks on northern nationalists between 1920 and 1922. Further riots and disorder forcing major population movements occurred in Belfast in July 1935, August 1969 and August 1971.

As Richard English observes, a number of other definitions of terrorism have suggested that it is primarily violence directed against non-combatants. Thus Kydd and Walter, in The Strategies of Terrorism, define it as ‘the use of violence against civilians by non-state actors to attain political goals’. The us State Department describes terrorism as ‘premeditated, politically motivated violence perpetrated against noncombatant targets by subnational groups or clandestine agents, usually intended to influence an audience’. Conor Gearty maintains that ‘violence is unequivocally terrorist when it is politically motivated and carried out by sub-state groups; when its victims are chosen at random; and when the purpose behind the violence is to communicate the message to a wider audience’. ⁴ Under these definitions, neither the Kilmichael ambush of November 1920 nor the preceding assassinations of military and intelligence personnel on Bloody Sunday were terrorist acts. In both cases the targets of the

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were military or state actors, not civilians or non-combatants.

The emphasis in these definitions on ‘sub-state groups’ is clearly problematic, as states can, and do, engage in similar forms of terrorism. ‘The Terror’ was a term originally applied to ‘Government by intimidation’ in Robespierre’s France (1793–4). Likewise, the British state in Ireland, and both Irish states after 1921, were prepared to utilize terror tactics. In 1920–2, Crown forces were involved in forcing people from their homes, destroying property and intimidating and killing citizens. Well-known examples include the reprisals in Banbridge, Dromore and Lisburn and the burning of Cork City centre in 1920.⁵

Describing such actions of the British state in the revolutionary era as ‘terrorist’ is not problematic for Irish nationalists. More controversial has been the suggestion that the

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in that era carried out actions that might be defined as sectarian terror, an argument that inspired much of the debate on Peter Hart’s The I.R.A. and Its Enemies. Hart examined the impact on West Cork’s Protestant population of a number of shootings in April 1922, documenting the fear that these killings produced and the flight that they helped provoke. Along with his allegations about the conduct of the

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during the Kilmichael ambush, Hart’s interpretation touched a raw nerve. His work was enthusiastically endorsed by polemicists and self-publicists, eager to utilize his research for their own purposes. This further muddied the waters, as battle lines were drawn not just on the basis of what was said, but what was presumed to have been said.⁶ Though an early republican reviewer had stated that Hart’s work (along with that of Joost Augusteijn and David Fitzpatrick) ‘would add to anybody’s understanding of the reasons behind many of the military strategies implemented during the revolutionary period’, the debate degenerated into a tussle between those who felt duty-bound to defend the honour of the

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, and those who wished to denounce them.⁷ Hart’s use of the term ‘ethnic cleansing’ to describe the events in West Cork certainly did not clarify the issue.⁸ As he himself later admitted, there was ‘no ethnic cleansing in the Irish revolution (though the attacks on Catholics in Belfast came close) but there was ethnically targeted violence’. Hart also conceded that ‘Unionist organizations embraced or acquiesced in sectarianism in a way nationalist ones – to their credit – did not’.⁹

The killings in West Cork had already been documented by republican activist Jim Lane, almost forty years ago:

In April 1922, at the time of the Truce, a pogrom every bit as vicious as any one in Belfast, took place in West Cork. Following the shooting dead of an

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officer by a Protestant, armed men visited Protestant homes in the districts surrounding Bandon, and on one day alone nine Protestants were shot dead. A young boy of 18 years was shot in his home in Clonakilty, a married man with a young family was shot in Dunmanway, as well as two old men in their 70s and 80s. Elsewhere, in Ballineen, Enniskeane, and Castletown–Kenneigh the story was similar, a knock at the door at dead of night and the men of the house were taken out and shot before their families. By the weekend Protestants poured out of West Cork, taking the Rosslare boat to Britain. The week was finished off with the shooting of an old Protestant, aged over 70 years and crippled with arthritis.

Lane made clear that what differentiated that Cork case from killings of Catholics in Belfast was that, unlike the unionist government, Sinn Féin immediately condemned the killings and republicans moved to prevent any more.¹⁰ In the south, at least, these killings were exceptional, though the

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’s retaliation at Altnaveigh, for B-Special violence in the South Armagh area during 1922, was also designed to instil terror.¹¹

Many were genuinely shocked and upset by the idea that the ‘old’

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might have engaged in a sectarian slaughter that played a part in forcing people from their homes and indeed from Ireland. In some cases this reflected a long-standing desire among supporters of constitutional nationalism to draw a sharp distinction between the ‘old’

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and the modern version. As a nephew of the ‘Big Fella’ argued passionately in 1996, Michael Collins had ‘kept the fight to the fighting areas, whereas the

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has committed countless acts on violence on civilians in the past 25 years. That sort of violence did not happen in Collins’s time.’ This was a view endorsed by many enthused by Neil Jordan’s movie of the same year, with one young cinema-goer claiming that ‘everybody knows the modern

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are some of the most highly-trained