With the Irish in Frongoch

W. J. Brennan-Whitmore

• Publisher: Mercier Press
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781781172124
• Topic: Historia
• Subtopic: Historia irlandesa

For eight months following the Easter Rising over 1, 800 Irish rebels were imprisoned in Frongoch, a former whiskey distillery in North Wales. It soon became a University of Revolution and among its notable alumni were Michael Collins and Richard Mulcahy. By December 1916 all the Irish prisoners had been repatriated and the camp was closed.Frongoch had initially held German prisoners-of-war but became much more high profile when the Irish rebels were interned there. Most of them were interned without any trial or chance to defend themselves, and many who had not been initially supportive of the rebel cause were converted during their internment.This contemporary account of life in the camp was an important part of the propaganda to win support for the nationalist cause in the lead-up to the War of Independence.

Chapter I

My first place of internment in England was in HM Prison at Knutsford – a pretty little Cheshire village situated about fifteen miles from Manchester. English gaols are all of a pattern, and the treatment of the Irish prisoners in them was pretty much the same all round. As Darrell Figgis, in his admirable little monograph A Chronicle of Jails, has already dealt with this phase of our treatment very fully, I shall not pause to describe it at great length.

Three weeks after my arrival in Knutsford, about 23 May, we were lined up for inspection by a General MacGregor from the War Office. He told the prison commandant in our hearing, and very much to our surprise, that we were to be treated as prisoners of war. Naturally we felt highly elated at the news. It was more than we had dared to hope for, and was certainly a concession we would never have received had not England been in a pretty tight fix indeed.

A week having passed by without there being any change for the better in our condition, I demanded to be taken before the prison commandant. This request, simple as it was, seemed to startle the warder very much. He questioned me anxiously as to what I wanted to see him for. I told him that I desired to demand treatment as an enemy officer prisoner of war. The warder stepped back in astonishment.

‘Are you an officer?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I have that honour.’

‘Well,’ he retorted whimsically, ‘you are a pretty-looking officer now, aren’t you?’

I quite agreed with him. They had fumigated our clothes by steam, and the dye of my serge suit had failed to stand the test and was now a hideous thing of mottled brown. The right leg of my trousers had been slashed up on two sides to allow wounds in my knee to be dressed in action, and was still unstitched. We had neither mirrors nor toilette requisites in our cells; and my hair, which I then wore rather long, was tousled and matted. I must have looked pretty much of a guy.

The warder sought to dissuade me. But I was determined to test the value of the prisoner-of-war formula. He brought me before the sergeant major, who at first was inclined to enjoy the joke; but seeing that I was in earnest he, too, sought to dissuade me, saying that they were working as hard as they could for us and were expecting to obtain considerable concessions. I was not to be turned aside, so he took me before the commandant.

I was received very haughtily. I stated that I desired to put before the Secretary of State for War a claim for treatment as an enemy officer prisoner of war. The commandant retorted that if I had been arrested by Germans instead of by British troops I would have been shot out of hand. I declined to discuss this probability, and insisted on forwarding my claim. After some further wrangling I was supplied with pen, ink and paper, and escorted back to my cell, which was situated at the very top of the building.

When the warder came round with the tea in the evening I handed him my letter. It does not take a hungry man many minutes to devour a pint of weak tea and eight ounces of dry bread. I had scarcely finished when my cell door was flung open and the commandant, accompanied by the sergeant major, entered. He said he had come to discuss my letter, which he held in his hand. I had risen at his entrance; and telling me to sit down, he said he had read the letter very carefully and if I insisted on it he would send it off by the night post. But I was advised to the contrary.

The commandant denied rather emphatically that I was an enemy officer prisoner of war. The only commission, he added, which they could recognise was one signed by King George, the Kaiser, or the Emperors of Austria or Turkey. If I could produce a commission signed by one of these I would be recognised and treated as such.

I pointed out that my claim was not based on a commission from any of these sovereigns, but on the statement of General MacGregor, who had said in our hearing that we were to be treated as prisoners of war. If that were true, I contended, as a commissioned officer of the Irish Republican Army I was entitled to treatment as such. The commandant denied point-blank that he had ever been told of such treatment. The sergeant major bore him out on the point. At present, he concluded, I was merely a rebel; and whether I admitted it or not Ireland was still a part of the United Kingdom and King George my only sovereign. I declined to enter into a discussion on these matters with my gaoler, and insisted on my letter being forwarded to the Secretary for War. On this occasion the commandant was perfectly courteous, with not a trace of haughtiness in his manner. I asked for some books, and he replied that the only ones he could let me have were the official religious manuals; and on my expressing a wish to have them he directed the sergeant major to supply my needs in that respect. Then, with mutual expressions of goodwill, he took his departure.

Four days after the above incident certain concessions were granted to us. We were permitted to write letters twice per week on paper officially supplied to us. The envelopes, which were also supplied free, had ‘Prisoner of War’ printed on them – a fact which gave us considerable satisfaction. During the hours devoted to exercise we were generally permitted to dispose ourselves as we willed. A day or two after the novelty of this liberty had worn off we arranged to say the Rosary en masse in the prison yard. Denny McCullough gave out the Rosary in Irish on the first evening.¹ We had only just stood up from our prayers when word came in that Kitchener had perished at sea. The prison authorities were very perturbed at the news. We were brought back into our cells before our time was quite up; and one of the warders angrily told a prisoner that we had been praying with joy at the news! We were also allowed daily visits; to receive letters and newspapers, parcels of food, clothing, and books.

The juxtaposition of Knutsford to Manchester was for us a most fortunate circumstance. Large numbers of the Irish in Manchester came daily to see us. They anticipated our every want and desire; and generously supplied them. No words could adequately describe the great kindness of these people to the prisoners. For my part I formed new friendships which I shall hold in affectionate remembrance all the rest of my life. Our visitors were very anxious to receive souvenirs or keepsakes – a button off our tunics, or a verse in an autograph album. Every Irish girl in Manchester worth her salt must now possess an album of rebels’ autographs.

One of those albums was made the means of punishing me for that letter to the Secretary for War. On the plea that I had written sedition in it I was placed in solitary confinement pending further orders from the War Office. Denny McCullogh, Dr E. Dundon, Seán Milroy, Pierce McCan, Joe Connolly and Frank Healy were already undergoing this punishment.² Rory MacDermott (‘Rory of the Hills’) within half an hour followed me into this segregation.

About this time, rumours were current in the prison that we were all going to be sent to an internment camp and treated in every respect as prisoners of war. The warders told us that inside the barbed-wire enclosure of such a camp the prisoners could do pretty much as they liked. The possibility of such liberty was very dear to our hearts and we were all most anxious for the rumours to materialise. And so they did the morning before I was moved into my new quarters, when a batch of twenty or thirty prisoners was sent off to the camp. In prison every event is surrounded by a burlesque sort of secrecy. Hence nobody knew definitely where the internment camp was located and, of course, everybody had a different idea. The most popular locations were the Isle of Man, Colwyn Bay and a place called Frogmore.

On 17 June 100 prisoners were warned, immediately after breakfast, to get ready to proceed to this internment camp. Of the ‘solitaires’, Denny McCullough and I were included in the batch. Although the prison authorities knew the preceding day what prisoners were being moved, it was a settled practice not to tell them until ten minutes before the hour for parading. It was impossible to have one’s effects ready in time, and as the warders kept running in telling the prisoners to ‘’urry up there’, many warm exchanges took place. Moreover, as the other prisoners were kept locked up in their cells until we were out in the yard in front of the commandant’s office, we were unable to say ‘goodbye’ to our comrades; and that made us feel very sore and say rather unkind things of our gaolers.

Whilst we were awaiting the commandant’s convenience, those of us who were badly off were supplied with boots, clothing and overcoats. We were also given some ‘bully’ beef and bread for the journey.

We were then called in alphabetical order into the commandant’s office and an Internment Order was served upon each of us. Mine read as follows:

(B)

Notice to persons with respect to whom an Order is made under Regulation 14B.

NAME OF PRISONER: W. J. Brennan-Whitmore.

ADDRESS: Clonee, Camolin, Co. Wexford.

W.O. NUMBER: 1385 c.

H.O. NUMBER: 314232.

Notice is hereby given to the above-named that an Order has been made by the Secretary of State under Regulation 14B of the Defence of the Realm Regulations directing that he shall be interned at the Place of Internment, Frongoch.

The Order is made on the ground that he is of hostile association, and is reasonably suspected of having favoured, promoted, or assisted an armed insurrection against His Majesty.

If within seven days from the date of his receiving this Notice the above-named person submits to the Secretary of State any representations against the provisions of the said Order, such representations will be referred to the Advisory Committee appointed for the purpose of advising the Secretary of State with respect to the internment and deportation of aliens; and presided over by a judge of the High Court, and will be duly considered by the Committee. If the Secretary of State is satisfied by the report of the said Committee that the Order may, so far as it affects the above-named prisoner, be revoked or varied without injury to the public safety, or the defence of the realm, he will revoke or vary the Order in writing under his hand. Failing such revocation, or variation, the Order will remain in force.

A signed receipt for the order was required. This was the first accurate idea we had of the proper name of the place for which we were bound. When this process was completed we were moved round to the yard in which the ‘solitaires’ were wont to exercise, to await the arrival of our escort. As they did not arrive for a full hour afterwards, we had time to amuse ourselves criticising the British ‘system’. It did seem absurd to give the prisoners only ten minutes to get ready, and to chivy them whilst trying to do so, only to keep them waiting an hour and a half afterwards. However, it was not long until the first batch of visitors arrived and were sent round to see us. It was the last time that the majority of us would ever see each other in this life, and the parting from them was one of the saddest I ever experienced.

Outside the gate a fresh party of visitors was waiting to gain admission. They gave a rousing cheer when they saw us emerge. The ‘Soldier’s Song’ was struck up, and the visitors, ranging alongside, joined in the chorus. When I had entered Knutsford Jail early on the morning of Wednesday 3 May, my sole possession was a half-eaten tin of ‘bully’ beef. I now emerged literally staggering under the weight of five big parcels of books, edibles and clothing. Our pockets were stuffed to over-flowing with fruit, biscuits, cigarettes and tobacco; and as our lady friends tripped alongside they endeavoured to cram more into them.

McCullough was kept under a special guard; but I, to punish me, I suppose, for presuming to claim treatment as an officer, was stuck in with the rest.

Chapter II

It was a perfect June day. After six weeks’ incarceration behind bare cells and dull brick walls this sudden emerging into the summer riot of an open count...

Table of contents

• Foreword
• Preface
• Introduction
• Chapter I
• Chapter II
• Chapter III
• Chapter IV
• Chapter V
• Chapter VI
• Chapter VII
• Chapter VIII
• Chapter IX
• Chapter X
• Chapter XI
• Chapter XII
• Chapter XIII
• Chapter XIV
• Chapter XV
• Chapter XVI
• Chapter XVII
• Chapter XVIII
• Chapter XIX
• Chapter XX
• Chapter XXI
• Chapter XXII
• Chapter XXIII
• Chapter XXIV
• Chapter XXV
• Chapter XXVI
• Chapter XXVII
• Chapter XXVIII
• Chapter XXIX
• Chapter XXX
• Chapter XXXI
• Chapter XXXII
• Endnotes
• About the Author
• About the Publisher