FROM THE ARCHIVES:It was a minor incident on a Sunday early afternoon in Civil War Dublin, not worthy of a headline in the context of the times, but captured in this report by Frank Coghlan. -
JOE JOYCE
THE GLASNEVIN tram ambled peacefully down the hill of North Frederick street towards the centre of the city.
Half-an-hour ago the countless bells of church, convent, and monastery had sent the message of the Angelus out silver-toned through the sun-lit air.
The streets were crowded with Mr. and Mrs. Dubliner, and all the little Dubliners and all their friends and relations, dressed in their best and determined to make the most of the summer-like day.
On the uncovered top-deck of the tram, the passengers – nine or ten men – smoked and chatted in the contentment created by the prospect of fine weather and temporary freedom from the grindstone. Sabbath calm and comfort, a pleasing picture of peace and happiness.
The two bombs exploded almost simultaneously fifty yards behind us, and the revolver fusillade seemed to open while the fragments were still flying through the air.
The tram had come to a stand-still, and beside it was an empty motor car, with the engine racing.
Running back up the street were the men who had been in the motor – two officers of the National Army in uniform and two other men in civilian clothes. All had their revolvers out and were firing towards a laneway near the top of the street. Two of them dived into another laneway, and the sounds of further firing came from behind the houses.
In the deserted roadway near the top of the street lay a man and a bicycle. As I looked the man disentangled himself from the machine and began to crawl towards the footpath. He did not go on his hands and knees, but wriggled like a snake on his stomach. As he neared the steps of a house the door opened and he made a dash into shelter.
The shots died away to an odd one now and again from the direction in which the members of the national forces had disappeared.
People began to re-appear at doorways and windows. A little girl, of about eight years, made a dash from the doorway where she had taken shelter to her own doorway near at hand, and was met on the step by her mother, who, in the relief of her feelings, cuffed the child heartily.
The two officers and their companions were seen coming back. The chase had been futile; there are many ways of escape from those lanes.
As they boarded the motor car I saw that one of the men in uniform was bleeding at the wrist. He paid no attention to the scratch, but, producing a packet of cigarettes, lit one with a steady hand.
Up the street I saw a man pick up the bicycle, mount it, and ride away. He was not the man that had crawled away from it.
You see, granted presence of mind, even an ambush may be turned to account.
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