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THE TERROR BY NIGHT.

BY AN IRISHWOMAN.

WITH the fatality that dogs so many of the measures for suppressing crime in Ireland, the order for motor permits considerably augmented the dangers and inconveniences of life. Before its introduction we could use our cars when and where we wished. The Government having decreed that permits signed by the British Executive were obligatory, and Sinn Fein having declared that such permits were an insult to the "Republic," the motorist ventured on the road at his peril.1 Should he fall in with a Sinn Fein picket he might merely be turned back with a caution and his permit torn to shreds. But the chances were that his car would be wrecked under his eyes while a revolver was held against his head. The pastime of blocking the road and opening fire upon every motor that came along was extremely popular, for it could be indulged in by any one possessing firearms and a little spare time, and like most Sinn Fein practices, offered perfect safety to the aggressors.

It was past three o'clock on New Year's Eve, and forty-five miles of bad road lay between us and home, when the police sergeant at Kilfanaghan refolded the motor permit he had just

examined and handed it back to me.

"Let ye hurry, Miss, the way that ye'll be home before dark," he said, "though, indeed, 'tis dangerous to be travelling the roads day or night since them permits was invinted."

His glance strayed to the many-coloured line on the chauffeur's coat.

"'Tis a target for death ye are with them medal-ribbons," he observed cheerfully. "God knows, 'tis peace and safety the soldiers should be having now wherever they'd be, and in place of it 'tis a reign of terror for them in Ireland."

As the car moved slowly on we exchanged the compliments of the season, and an ominous form of greeting that has crept into use of late: "May you be alive this day twelvemonths."

I had been duly warned of the risks of motoring long distances, but it is always difficult to realise the possibility of danger when outward conditions appear normal. The morning's run to Kilfanaghan had been a complete success, and I had no misgivings for the return journey. the familiar country seemed peaceful enough for anything, while the roads were agreeably if significantly free of traffic.

Indeed,

When we emerged from the

1 The permits have been modified to suit Sinn Fein susceptibilities.

woods surrounding Kilfanaghan, the blue and violet outlines of the mountains were already growing grey grey and indistinct. An hour or so later the car broke down at a wild and lonely spot in the middle of a notoriously "republican" district. Darkness had set in, and it was an added annoyance to find that neither head-lights nor side-lights were in working order.

Twohig, the chauffeur, after a superficial examination, decided that the clutch-disc was torn. He was confident of repairing it in "no time." I was less hopeful. Removing the clutchdiso is a slow business, even by daylight. With a small electric torch propped beside him Twohig was obliged to work more by faith than by sight. He was, moreover, inexperienced as a mechanic, and the cold mountain air numbed his fingers.

Four hours later, though the clutch had been repaired, the car still refused to move. Twohig turned his attention to the gear-box.

Although the little village of Tubbernaphooka was scarcely a mile off, and there were, besides, several farms in the vicinity, yet in all those hours no living creature had come into sight. This was the more surprising because news travels fast in Ireland, and the Irish peasant has an unfailing

"flair" for accidents.

In the winter of 1914 I had

a breakdown on this very read, and in less than ten minutes the car had been thronged by interested spectators proffering advice, assistance, and hospitality. It had been as difficult to restrain them from "slapping a cupful of paraffin into the machine, to see would it hearten it," as to convince them that neither the chauffeur nor I needed a "taste of whisky" to keep off a "fit of cold, or maybe a wakness."

Remembering this, I determined to follow the shortcut, half-bohereen, half-watercourse, that led to Tubbernaphooka, and to ask for the loan of a lantern. At every cottage or farmhouse in Ireland the wayfarer, whether friend or stranger, is always sure of a welcome, and tea, I knew, would be pressed on us as a matter of course. As I approached the dilapidated cottages grouped round the ancient walled-in spring1 that gives its name to the village, I felt there was something unusual about the place. The wind, blowing over the chimneys, brought no whiff of turf-smoke; no window showed a light. I went from door to door. All was silent, There was no sign of life anywhere.

Beyond the farthest cottage the whitewashed front of the police barrack standing behind its rustic fence was discernible against a dark mass of heathercovered hill. On reaching the fence, I groped stupidly for the gate before I realised that

1 Tubbernaphooka, "the well of the Phooka," i.e., a fairy horse that lives in

water.

the fence was in ruins and the gate was gone. Inside, the narrow slope between fence and house formerly was ornamented with the badge and monogram of the R.I.C., skil. fully carried out in whitened stones. Now the moon, suddenly shining out, revealed an alteration in the design.

Instead of the harp and erown, the pebbles depicted a skull and cross-bones, and below, in uneven letters, ran an inscription

DEATH TO THE R.I.C.

There is always something sinister about deserted houses at night; and though we Irish have ample opportunity for growing accustomed to to the emblems of death, yet they acquire a fictitious significance when encountered gleaming by moonlight on a lonely hill. I was glad enough to hurry back to the road and to see again the familiar dark bulk of the car.

On the road a strange figure confronted me, rising from the shadows. The creature wore an unusual-looking coat, and a cap of light material, tilted rakishly to one side of his head, gave free play on the other side to a great bush of tousled hair. The lower part of his suspiciously dark face was swathed in a muffler. I noticed his coat bulged over a hard shape-was it a revolver?

Instinctively I placed myself with my back to the car, and then I laughed outright, for Twohig's voice came from behind the muffler.

He explained that during my absence he had made up

"a bit of disguise" by turning his greatcoat inside out, ruffling his hair, and using a cap he had found in the tool-box. His face, as he observed truly, was already black enough from motor grease for either a "Wran boy" or a raider.

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"If any of them raiders comes along it will be best for you, Miss, to hide in a bunch of furze," he said. "I'll tell them I've secret orders from the competent military authority-Republican army -here he grinned-"and any one interfering with me will be reported! Sure, I'll go Sinn Fein for the duration of the night, and they'll not destroy the car on me then."

The scheme scarcely seemed practicable; still, stranded and helpless as we were, it was well to have any definite plan of action, and at least it offered a chance of escape should raiders come on the scene. Besides, that a respectable citizen should be obliged to disguise himself as a malefactor in order to ensure safety struck me struck me as thoroughly in keeping with the times.

Twohig cheerfully resumed his repairs, and for another hour or two tinkered away with no result. I sat on the step of the car, ready at a moment's notice to plunge into my "bunch of furze."

The moon was hidden by clouds, and a little ioy wind orept down from the mountains, stirring the bushes with a faint sound suggestive of rattling bones. Overhead plover called eerily; now and then the melancholy howl of a

dog rose from a distant farm, Gradually I became aware, sitting there in the dark, that the whole spirit of the country, that psychic atmosphere which is nowhere more perceptible than in Ireland, had altered from what it used to be. The former sense of cheerful friendliness and careless goodwill was superseded by an atmosphere of mingled menace and apprehension. Irish people, it is true, are notably sensitive to unseen influences; but I believe even the least impressionable "Sassenach" with any previous experience of the country would be conscious of this change.

The night had grown very dark and a fine rain was falling, when the drone of a motor became audible, rising gradually to a roar it climbed the long hill from the bog-road. Twohig, who had been reduced to carrying on his experiments by the light of innumerable matches, crawled from beneath the car and raised his head to listen.

the corner still more abrupt and dangerous.

Without stopping to think, I seized the electric torch and ran across the angle of grass, forcing my way through the furze, and reached the strange car a few yards from the corner. The torch which I waved was almost used up, but it flashed a couple of times before giving out completely. At the same instant Twohig, a disreputable-looking figure with his blackened face and wild hair, came dashing down the middle of the road in the full glare of the headlights.

He raised his arm warningly the car stopped dead, and the head-lights went out.

An awful moment followed for me, for I had had 8 glimpse of the occupants of the car, and they appeared to be wearing masks!

"They're up to no good me good racing that way in the middle of the night," he exclaimed. "'Faith, they're going as if the devil was behind them, and they'll be into us when they turn the corner."

Our car stood on a high ridge of hill where the road, bending sharply, followed the curving side of a glen. To

the right the edges fell sheer away, to the left a rocky field rose steeply, and a long slope of grass and furze-bushes enoroaching upon the road made

I was sorry then I had not ohanced the strange car orashing into ours. Twohig's sage advice that I should hide recurred to me too late. Hitherto it had not struck me that I actually was & source of danger to poor Twohig: only for me he might have carried out his plan of "going Sinn Fein" for the night, and thus at any rate have saved his own life. Now, thanks to my folly, the masked men were bound to know that he was a chauffeur in loyalist employment, with a permit signed by British authorities. They were equally certain to discover that he had been a soldier, and had fought against their "glorious ally" the Hun!

He was indeed a target for death,

I felt bitterly angry with myself, and decidedly frightened 88 well. Meanwhile there was neither sound nor movement in the strange car. However, I pulled myself together somehow, and addressing the denser darkness beneath the hood, asked, with as much arrogance as I could assume, who they were and where they were going. I had hardly spoken, when a man's voice said in tones of unmistakable relief, "Turn on the lights, Regan." And the head-lights flashed up again.

A small light in the body of the car was also switched on. It showed that the menthe men though their faces were darkly shadowed by caps and mufflers -were at all events not wearing masks. I felt immensely relieved-and it was amusing to find that the strangers shared my relief, for they also had been alarmed. The sudden flash of a toreh in the bushes, and the sight of Twohig confronting them in the middle of the road, had left no room for doubt that they had been ambushed by raiders!

The owner of the car said his way lay through the village of Clashagoppul, some fifteen miles farther on, and offered to drive me there. As it happened, I knew a family in Clashagoppul who would surely take me in for the night.

The chances were all against our ear being fit for the road again that night, and in any

case we had no lights. The stranger gave Twohig a lift as far as a cottage by the roadside, where I hoped he would easily obtain food and shelter, for the Irish peasant is the most hospitable creature on earth. To my surprise, as we approached the cottage, the light in the window suddenly disappeared. We knocked and called in vain; nobody would answer the door.

At the next house a man was leaning out over the halfdoor when the car stopped. He withdrew precipitately, and the light was extinguished. However, he presently emerged cautiously by the back-door, and though he announced he would admit no strangers into his house, I was able to persuade him to give Twohig some food, and allow him to warm himself at the fire.

Meanwhile my benefactor was showing signs of impatience. This was the worst district in the country, he said. Quite close by, a police barrack had been evacuated, and a small village deserted on account of the prevailing law-. lessness; the sooner we moved on the better.

We covered the distance to Clashagoppul at a record pace. Regan, the driver, dashed the car through muddy hollows, over stony ridges, and round perilous corners with equal impartiality. His master peered out from time to time, urging him to go faster. The rain battered our faces, and the car leaped and swayed on the bad road till one did not know one moment where one would

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