The Real Chief - Liam Lynch Read online

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  © Meda Ryan, 1986, 2005

  Ebook edition, 2011

  ISBN: 978 1 85635 460 8

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 891 0

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 913 9

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  Dedication

  To the memory of Sheila Ryan

  Introduction

  While working on a biography of Tom Barry I realised that he did not always see eye to eye with Liam Lynch. Both men were strong-minded Republicans, and though initially Barry’s attitude was more radical than Lynch’s, he was, during the closing stages of the Civil War, much more flexible. At various periods during the Civil War both men belonged to separate divisions of the same ‘divide’ often voting in opposition to one another.

  Through working on a biography of Barry, I considered that I had come to understand the man, and, because of Barry’s close links with Lynch, I felt compelled to get an insight into Lynch – the man. It was the clash of personalities, which first attracted me towards investigating the life of Liam Lynch. When I dis­cus­sed the matter with Seán Feehan of Mercier Press, this com­pul­sion crystallised and led to this biography.

  Fortunately my research was aided by original material, especially the personal letters which Liam Lynch had written to his mother, his family and others. The personal correspondence (now held by Liam’s niece, Biddy O’Callaghan) was invaluable, as, in his letters, he often expressed his very private thoughts. It was only possible to use a fraction of the material in these letters, but I hope that in doing so his strength of character, together with the vision, which Lynch possessed, emerges. From his letters, as well as his responses to misrepresentation of him in news­papers, it is obvious that he wanted his ideas and his intentions to be honestly interpreted. ‘I do hope I shall live through this,’ he wrote in a letter to his brother Tom during the Civil War, ‘that future generations will have written for them the full details of all the traitorous acts.’ But such was not to be; he was killed at the age of twenty-nine.

  His dislike of hypocrisy is evident in both his words and actions. He always followed his beliefs and never acted through a desire for notoriety. ‘Through the war I have got to understand so much of the human being,’ he wrote to his mother during the truce, ‘that when peace comes, I would wish for nothing more than hide myself away from all the people that know me, or even follow my dead comrades.’

  During my early research I wrote to Jim Kearney, an IRA veteran, in connection with a point which I wanted clarified. In doing so I used the word ‘Irregulars’. I quote from his reply: ‘Irre­gulars! Where did you get that dirty word?’ Later, I discovered Liam Lynch also detested the term, saying it was coined by pro-treatyites as a derogatory label. I have not therefore used ‘Ir­regulars’ or ‘Staters’ except as part of a quotation. Liam Lynch was known as ‘The Chief’ among Republicans, particularly in the First Southern Division. Siobhán Creedon tells a story of how Margaret Mackin came with dispatches by boat from Dublin to Cork and on to the Creedon hotel near Mallow during the Civil War. ‘I have messages for the Chief,’ she said. Siobhán’s brother, Michael, drove the two women to headquarters where they knew an important meeting was being held. Upon arrival, Margaret had to first go into a side room to undo the dispatches, which she had stitched to her dress. Liam Deasy came out of the meeting saying that the Chief was very busy but would speak to them as soon as possible. Shortly afterwards Liam Lynch emerged, and according to Siobhán, ‘Margaret stared at him in complete surprise.’ Seeing that they did not appear to know each other she introduced them. ‘But,’ stammered Margaret, ‘it was Mr de Valera I wanted!’ Liam Lynch explained that De Valera was in West Cork but would be along in a few days, and that, mean­while, he would see that the dispatches were delivered. Later, when Margaret explained her dilemma upon seeing Lynch, Siobhán responded, ‘We call Liam Lynch “the Chief” – he is the real Chief! Chief of the IRA.’

  In most historical books, references to Liam Lynch’s death merely state that he was fatally wounded in the Knockmealdown mountains; while I accepted the straight-forward view that he died from a Free State force bullet, it was not until I began my research that I discovered a question mark hung over his death.

  On 7 April 1935, Maurice Twomey (who was with Liam on the morning he was shot in the Knockmealdowns) unveiled a watch-tower memorial to him close to the spot where he fell. Since 1935 a ceremony, organised by Sinn Féin, is held there each year. And in Kilcrumper graveyard where he is buried, since 1956 another ceremony takes place on an annual basis in which some Fianna Fáil members participate. On the Sunday nearest 7 September (to commemorate the Fermoy raid in 1919) at all venues ‘old IRA’ veterans, together with interested members of the public, attend the organised ceremonies each year. So it has been said, ‘There are two different Lynchs buried!’ – ostensibly two different interpretations of the Republican vision portrayed by the one man.

  It is ironic that the grand-daughter of Éamon de Valera, Síle de Valera TD in 1979, at a Liam Lynch commemorative cere­mony, hastened the early resignation of the then leader of the Fianna Fáil party, Jack Lynch, when she called on him ‘to de­mon­strate his Republicanism’: but as John Bowman pointed out in his book De Valera and the Ulster Question 1917–1973, that, while De Valera, during the last meeting with Liam tried ‘to persuade him to abandon military resistance to the Free State, Liam Lynch was concerned lest the decision reached fell short of fundamental Republicanism.’

  In a letter to his brother dated 26 October 1917, Liam had expressed his opinion that it was through armed resistance that Ireland ‘would achieve its Nationhood.’ It was his belief that the ‘army has to hew the way for politics to follow.’

  Many of his comrades have wondered why Liam Lynch did not get the recognition which they felt he deserved, even though he had been offered the position as commander-in-chief of the army in December 1921; the consensus amongst his compatriots was that, in the documentation of history, De Valera oversha­dowed him. There is no doubt that Liam’s insistence in holding out to the end, for nothing less than ‘an Irish Republic’ when victory for that cause was becoming increasingly remote, meant that he was alienating himself from other members of the Re­publican Executive. However, Liam reiterated his viewpoint in a letter to his brother, dated 12 December 1921, ‘As you stated, De Valera was the first to rebel.’ But rebelling as a mere protest was not sufficient: ‘Speeches and fine talk do not go far these days ... what we want is a definite line of action, and in going along that, to use the most effective means at our disposal.’ Because of the firm stand which he took in holding out for a Republic, his deeds of bravery, especially previous to the Civil War, appear to have been downgraded, so much so that he is often mentioned as if in passing.

  Yet, historically, Liam Lynch is an extremely important figure because of the part he played in gaining Irish indepen­dence – first as commander of Cork No. 2 brigade and later as com­man
der of the First Southern Division. The part he played with Michael Collins, Richard Mulcahy, Liam Deasy, Tom Barry and others, in endeavouring to avoid Civil War, and his efforts to achieve a thirty-two county Republic for Ireland rather than a partitioned state, should not be underestimated. During the Civil War period, as chief-of-staff of the Republican forces, he was the major dri­ving power and spokesman for that section. I believe therefore, that this is a necessary biography.

  Meda Ryan

  1. The fatal shot

  Liam Lynch, chief-of-staff of the Irish Republican Army, rested with two of his travelling companions, Frank Aiken and Seán Hyde, in a house on the banks of the Tar River at the foot of the Knockmealdown mountains. It was the eve of 10 April 1923.

  Before dawn they were awakened and told that Free State troops had been sighted. Liam and other members of the Exe­cutive had assembled by 5 a.m. at Houlihans, the house nearest the mountains. As they waited for further reports they sipped tea. These men were not unduly alarmed as all of them had, on more than one occasion, stood on the precipice of danger; raids of this nature were an almost daily occurrence, so believing that they had left no traces, they decided to wait.

  A scout rushed in at about 8 o’clock with news that another column of Free State troops was approaching over the mountains to their left. Their line of escape was endangered. After months of Civil War, fellow members of the Republican Executive had finally persuaded Liam Lynch that a meeting was imperative, and because of this, a number of members were now caught with their backs to the mountain; Liam Lynch had always feared this type of situation. Though the Free State government was bent on crushing the ‘armed revolt’ and forcing the opposition into an unconditional surrender, Liam Lynch had pledged that he would not surrender:

  We have declared for an Irish Republic and will not live under any other law. 1

  Since the execution of four Republican prisoners on 8 December 1922, as a reprisal for the shooting of Seán Hales, a member of the Dáil, much of the conflict had begun to lack human dignity; the rules of war were being flouted.2

  Already Liam Deasy, imprisoned Republican Executive mem­­ber and former brigade adjutant, was compelled to avail of the only option his captors left open to him; he signed a dictated document which called on his fellow members of the Executive to agree to an unconditional surrender.3By January 1923 over fifty Republican prisoners had been executed and more had been sentenced to death (eventually a total of seventy-seven prisoners were shot as reprisals, though Ernest Blythe gave 85 as the num­ber of prisoner executions).4Before his capture, Deasy and most of the Executive had come to the conclusion that further blood­shed would be in vain since it had become evident that for them a military victory was no longer a possibility.

  However, Liam Lynch was determined that, ‘the war will go on until the independence of our country is recognised by our enemies, foreign and domestic ...’5He was well aware that, if a meeting of the Executive was called, he would have to listen to the words ‘unconditional surrender’ and these were hateful to him. He had fought too hard, suffered too much, to concede all with the stroke of a pen. More than most men of the period, he had tried several avenues in order to secure a consensus in an ef­fort to avoid Civil War. But when the break came he chan­nelled his energies totally into the ideal of a thirty-two county Irish Republic.

  Though his comrades had finally persuaded him to at least call a meeting, he had secretly confided to Seán Hyde that he would not be coerced into a surrender position.6This proposed meeting for 10 April 1923 was ipso facto the continuation of the March Executive meeting which ran for three days without reaching a consensus. Lynch, Frank Aiken and Seán Hyde had left the ‘Katmandu’ bunker on 4 April and had travelled mainly on foot towards the Knockmealdowns. On 10 April as he and his comrades groped their way up the mountainside the sound of gunfire forced them to quicken their pace; then there was a lull in the firing. ‘For perhaps twenty seconds the still clear air of the morning was soundless, and then one single shot rang out.’

  Liam Lynch fell. ‘My God, I’m hit!’ he cried.7

  Over the years since that April morning in 1923 questions have been asked about his death. It is generally accepted that it was a bullet from a Free State gun which hit him, but there are those who say that Lynch had to be removed because he was re­garded as a stumbling block in any cease-fire negotiations. Was it because of the speed with which the cessation of hostilities was con­­ducted following Liam Lynch’s death that suspicion sur­rounded the manner in which he was killed?

  As the Civil War had dragged over the winter months and Lynch had continued to believe in the possibility of victory, De Valera, Frank Aiken and others looked ahead towards some form of political recognition. Many of the anti-treatyites had come to realise the futility of the continuance of a war which pointed to­wards the defeat as well as the annihilation of the principal leaders. The available members met ten days after his death and unanimously elected Frank Aiken to replace Liam Lynch as chief-of-staff. They also appointed an Army Council of three (Liam Pilkington who had replaced Liam Lynch on a temporary basis; Tom Barry and Frank Aiken).

  This meeting passed a resolution authorising the Republican Government and Army Council to make peace with the Free State authorities. At a meeting of the Executive and Army Coun­cil held on 26 and 27 April, over which De Valera presided, it was decided that armed resistance to the Free State forces should be terminated. A proclamation was drawn up announcing their readiness to negotiate an immediate cease-fire, and the order for the suspension of all operations from 30 April was also issued by Frank Aiken. This was just twenty days after Lynch’s death. It was the initial seed-setting which led to the foundation of the Fianna Fáil political party.

  So was Lynch assassinated?

  Was he hit by a long-range shot fired by a member of the Free State forces?

  In certain ‘pockets’ of the country it is said that there was an organised plot to get rid of Lynch, the belief being that ‘he was a stumbling block for those of the cease-fire, dump-arms element.’

  Following Liam Lynch’s death an inquest was held; he was in fact a prisoner – a wounded officer who died in enemy hands, therefore and inquest was believed necessary.

  Ned Murphy, a member of the Free State intelligence staff, was out on the round up with the forces on that morning. Hav­ing searched Houlihan’s house for any tell-tale papers or docu­ments, Murphy and his section climbed the mountain. He dis­covered Lynch, who had already been found by another Free State party and placed on a makeshift stretcher. ‘My job was to collect any documents and also to file a report,’ he recalled.

  Ned Murphy outlined for me the final events of Lynch’s life as he saw them; these are detailed, analysed and integrated with the inquest findings, newspaper reports and other interviews to­wards the final part of this book, consequently clarifying the source of the bullet which ended Liam Lynch’s life.

  1 Letter to his brother, Tom, 1/11/1917 (Lynch private family papers)

  2 One prisoner, representing each province: Rory O’Connor, Liam Mellows, Dick Barrett, Joe McKelvey.

  3 Brigade Adjutant, First Southern Division. Liam Deasy, private papers.

  4 John A. Murphy, Ireland in the Twentieth Century, p. 57. See also Eoin Neeson, The Civil War in Ireland, p. 190. Following the exe­cu­tion of four Republican prisoners (8 December 1922) as a re­prisal for the shooting of Seán Hales (7 December 1922), Cos­grave an­nounced in the Dáil that government policy ‘was one of terror meet­­ing terror’. The last official pro-treaty execution took place on 2 May 1923; see also MacEoin, Survivors, p. 88.

  5 Letter to ‘Comrades’, 9 February 1923.

  6 Seán Hyde, author interview, 13/7/1974.

  7 Maurice Twomey.

  2. Early life and vision of Ireland

  In the townland of Barnagurraha, under the western slopes of the Galtee mountains, a fifth child was born to Jeremiah Lynch and Mary Kelly Lynch on 9 November 1893, and chr
istened William Fanag­han, soon to become known as Liam.1

  At the age of four and a half he was sent to Anglesboro school which he attended for the next twelve years. A diligent and hard-working pupil, Liam is remembered by his teacher, Pat­rick Kelly, as a ‘mild, gentle boy above the average in intelli­gence’.

  From early childhood, young Liam was aware of the hard­ships undertaken to make a living off the land; he was also aware of the difficulties under which ownership of the land had been secured. From his home north of Mitchelstown, in the Cork/ Limerick border, he could view the Aherlow River, Paradise Hill, and the towering Galtees. Here in this rich fertile land he learned how his ancestors secured their holdings through sweat and blood. His home, like most of those in the rural Ireland of his day, was a centre of history and storytelling. Families and neigh­bours would gather round the fireside and tell of the background to their existence, and the long history of the struggle for free­dom.

  The Lynchs lived in the fertile plain known as Feara Muighe Feine with the royal seat and capital at Glanworth. This was later Desmond land, parcelled out after the confiscation, when thousands of acres were given to Elizabethan adventurers, on con­dition that it should be planted with English settlers. After Irish natives had been driven from their holdings by the sword, six thousand acres of this rich land was granted to an Arthur Hyde, for which he paid one penny per acre upon under­taking to plant it with English subjects. (One branch of the Hyde family gave us Douglas Hyde, the founder of the Gaelic League and first presi­dent of Ireland.)

  One of the dispossessed families was a Lynch. Though there is no record how this family survived for five generations, they, like some families who were not among those banished in Crom­well’s ‘to Hell or to Connaught’ dictum, were forced to tole­rate being in servitude to the planters. Gradually they achieved tenancy of a small holding from the new landlords. They were in servitude, without rights, property and for a time without legal existence. But they inherited a Gaelic culture and Gaelic tra­dition. It was into this Liam Lynch was born. His uncle, John Lynch with William Condon rode on horseback to Kilmallock for the Easter Rising. The MacNeill cancellation and the sur­round­ing of the town meant they had to return home. His mother, Mary Kelly had been joint secretary of the Ballylanders Branch of the Ladies’ Land League. Hannah Cleary, his god­mother was a Fenian and great storyteller with a wide knowledge of history.