The Battle in the Hayfield

The Hornidges had lived in Tulfarris since the late 17th Century when the cromwellian settlement ousted the old Irish and many of the descendants of the Anglo-Normans who had arrived in the 12th Century. But like many another Anglo-Irish land-owning family their position and way of life was coming to an end. The Wyndham Act and others had enabled the tenants to buy out their holdings with government assistance, leaving the owners with merely a home farm, which was most definitely unable to maintain the family in the style they had been accustomed to. Valiant efforts were made to put the remainder of the estate of Tulfarris on a sound financial footing. The Hornidges economised as best they could. They established a poultry farm, and later a flower-growing enterprise. But they were swimming against the current, and would eventually emigrate to America. The gaining of independence for our part of Ireland in the early 1920’s had been more than a culture shock for those people who had for centuries regarded England as their mother country. Worse still, this was followed by another scourge, the Civil War between the Free Staters, who had accepted part independence as a step towards a republic, and the IRA who fought a rear guard action against the government forces. The Hornidges, and indeed many others were caught in the middle, so to speak, and were often in danger of being robbed or having their houses burned.
Dick Hornridge’s father Edward had served in France as a British army officer during the Great War of 1914 – 1918. He was a tall and imposing man, being over six feet five inches in height. Known on the estate, which he managed, as “The Captain”, he was well liked by both the tenants and labourers.

Growing up in this predicament was Richard (Dick) Hornidge of Tulfarris, who years later wrote of his experiences in West Wicklow as an eight or nine year old boy.
He entitled his writings thus: Tales of the Irish Civil War-1922.

I am indebted to a descendent of the author, Mrs Kathleen Dente of San Diego for approval to use the account for our Blessington website.
“It was a dreary, lazy sort of day. The sun shone weakly through the low grey clouds and the line of oak trees, on the far side of the cow pasture, shimmering in the uncertain light. Even the cows, most of them, were lying down in the damp green grass instead of lining up at the gate to be led in for milking. I was standing by the gate and my sight could penetrate the haze just enough to see across the pasture into the hayfield that lay beyond. The farm workers had finished stacking the hay into the conical shaped haystacks and were trudging slowly across the pasture, lunch boxes swinging at their sides and the pitch forks over their shoulders. I heard the rumble of the tractor, with the large hayrake hitched on behind, that my father was driving but could not see it through the haze.

A band of some eight IRA troops were lazily passing the time between trips to the kitchen for cups of tea and sitting around the watering trough in the yard smoking cigarettes. They were waiting for the return of the lorry, which was out on a provisioning expedition. Because of the Garda Barracks and the chance of bumping into an army patrol, the IRA could not safely enter the village. They depended on a sympathetic farmer who went in with his donkey and cart to get supplies while they waited at his cottage with the lorry.

I was on my way back to the house when Freddie Lawlor, a well-known character in the county, came pedalling furiously into the yard. He aimed straight for the IRA men, still lounging around the watering trough, leapt off his bike before it had stopped and stumbled alongside it for several steps. Freddie spent much of his time, during opening hours, at Halloran’s Pub from where you can look down over the far corner of our hay field.

“There’s a lorry load of Staters just drove into the pub. They know you fellows are here,” he gasped breathlessly.
“Why do you think they know we’re here?” demanded one of the IRA getting up from his seat by the watering trough.
“I’d just finished me porter and was outside preparin’ to mount me bike when I heard the sergeant givin’ his orders. They’re planning an attack and that surely is what I heard. So I jumped on me bike, pedalled like hell and here I am.”
I drew closer to the men and was standing right amongst them as they stubbed out their cigarettes and surrounded Freddie. They glanced nervously at each other.
“What’s their plan? What else did the sergeant say? Tell us more Freddie, quick now.”
“Sure an’ I wasn’t going to hang around the pub to hear every bloody word he said. Wasn’t I strainin’ to get away,” said Freddie plaintively. Being urged to be more specific had made him feel unappreciated. But after a moment’s hesitation he continued. “There’s a bunch of them going to cross the hayfield. The sergeant said to hide behind the stacks and get to the cow pasture without bein’ seen. An’ that’s all I remember, so help me.”

After a few glasses of porter Freddie was never very lucid. But the IRA had heard enough. They drew closer together for mutual support and were now a frightened group of men.
” They may be half way across the hayfield right now. We could spot ’em if it wasn’t for this bloody mist.”
” We’re trapped without the lorry. They can head us off which ever way we try to get out.”
” How about the back way over the bog and across the Liffey?”
” Sure an’ you’d drown in a bog hole if you missed the path. If you did get through the bog, you’d be drowned in the river.”
” And anyway they’d see us from the high ground back of the house. There’s only one thing we can do. We’ve got to fight our way out.”

This idea, at first, shocked the men. They glanced furtively at one another and waited for someone else to state their mind. With the leader away with the lorry they had to make the decision themselves and there was no time for discussion. First one and then another nodded their heads in agreement. In a few seconds all had agreed. They rushed to the kitchen, collected their rifles and the bandoleers full of ammunition and then ran back across the yard to the cow pasture gate.
Father had stored the tractor in the shed for the night and now joined me. He was mystified by all the rushing around so I explained what was happening while we followed the IRA out to the gate.

The man who said they must fight their way out had assumed leadership. He turned to the others at the gate.
” Now listen. When you’re in the cow pasture crouch down low and make for the nearest tree. If a Stater fires at you fall down flat and fire back. And don’t be shootin’ one of the bloody cows,” he added as an afterthought.
” What do we do when we reach the hay-field?” asked one of the men as they filed through the gate.
” Dodge behind the hay-stacks. Run from one to the next. If a Stater shows himself, shoot. We’ll try to break through them and make for the road at the other side of the field.”
Father and I and some of the farm labourers watched the IRA run across the pasture using the trees for cover. They reached the row of oaks bordering the hay-field before the first shots were fired by the army troops. The bright flashes of the rifle fire stabbed through the mist, and the sharp crack of the explosions didn’t reach us until seconds later. The IRA ran several yards from the protection of the oak trees, fell to the ground from where they returned the army’s fire and then dashed for the shelter of the nearest haystack.

We gradually lost sight of them in the mist as they worked their way across the hayfield. The army fire was coming closer so very soon the two sides would meet. Gradually, the firing tapered off and after a lingering shot or two ceased altogether. The silence was broken only by the loud squawking of the crows preparing to roost for the night.
” What could have cut off the firing so sudden?” asked one of the farm workers.
” Maybe the IRA couldn’t break through the army lines and they’ve all been captured,” suggested my father.
” No! No! Sure an’ that’s not what’s happened at all,” broke in another man, known for his IRA sympathies. “I bet you they made it to the top of the hayfield and now they’re racing along Featherbed Lane hoping to meet up with the lorry..”
” Pat Flanagan lives up beyond the pub. Maybe he could drop in there on his way home and find out what happened,” said my father.
” That he could surely. He’s still with the cows but I’ll tell him to do just that.”
” Pat’s a great one for a story. I bet he’ll have a good one for us when he comes in tomorrow.”
Next morning Pat arrived a half-hour early and went straight to the kitchen. Father was already up and met him there. One of the maids came to my bedroom and called through the door.
” Hurry up and get dressed Master Dick. Pat Flanagan’s here and him rarin’ to tell us what happened yesterday.” Within minutes I joined Pat and father in the kitchen. Pat needed no encouragement to get started on his story.
” I pedalled me heart out to get to the pub as quick as I could. I opened the door a crack and heard a powerful lot of noise, shouting and singing and laughter. Then I went all the way in and what do you think I saw?”
Pat had a keen sense for the dramatic.
” Of course we don’t know what you saw. Get on with the story, Pat,” exclaimed my father.
” I will. I will. Don’t be rushing me. Well now, there were the Staters and the IRA all lined up at the bar buying each other drinks. Who’d of thought they’d been shooting at each other a half-hour before.”
” What happened to stop the fighting?” asked my father. “They surely didn’t stop for no reason.”
” Ah sure an’ there was reason enough, surely,” Pat continued, “and it had to do with the Delaney cousins. Now Pete Delaney is one of the Staters. I got him off in a corner with a couple of glasses of stout set down before him, and he told me what happened.
He said the sergeant ordered a couple of men to go on down Featherbed Lane to where the front avenue from Tulfarris joins in. They were to fire their rifles in the air if the rebels tried to escape that way. Two more were sent the country road to the back avenue for the same purpose. Then Peter told me how they all leapt over the hedge and started down the hayfield. The Staters didn’t know the IRA had already been warned by Freddie Lawlor so many of them were careless about seeking cover. Half way down the field didn’t the rebels start firing on them. Some of the army chaps dashed for the nearest haystack and others flung themselves down flat on the ground.
Peter said he was edging around his haystack ready to let off a shot at the IRA man he knew was hiding behind another stack a few yards ahead. He saw the fellow run out, fall to the ground , let off a shot, then spring to his feet and dive behind the next haystack. Peter got only a glimpse of the fellow, but enough to recognise his own cousin. He knew his cousin was in the IRA, but was mighty surprised to see him here in the hayfield. Maybe there was a civil war going on, he thought to himself, but to shoot his own cousin………that was unthinkable.
” Hey Mike! This is Pete. Your cousin. What the bloody hell are you shooting at me for,” Peter said he yelled. Then he went on to describe what happened next.
” Holy Mary! Sure I’d no idea it was you Pete,” Mike shouted back. “Wouldn’t me father and me uncle give me holy hell if I ever hurt you.”
” Sure an’ it’s the same with me, Mike. What do we do now?”
” Here’s what we’ll do. Call out to your sergeant and have him stop the firing. I’ll do the same with the lads over here.”
The sergeant was only a few haystacks over from Pete and he answered immediately.
” I heard you Delaney. Sure an’ the troubles are winding down and who would want to be the last man to find his grave. Stop firing all of you,” he shouted. Mike had no trouble with the rebels. They were only too willing to put an end to it.
” We’re comin’ out with our guns unloaded,” shouted Mike.
They came out cautiously into the open, the muzzles of their rifles pointing down towards the earth. Some of them feared it might be a trap, and came out reluctantly. The army looked over at the IRA and the IRA looked back at the army with nobody willing to make the first move. They eyed each other suspiciously, like the Kerry and Cork hurley teams before a championship match. Then, and this is the way Peter explained it, “We sought their eyes and saw the fear change to relief, and not a trace of hostility at all.” There was a gradual mingling with people shaking hands and then slapping each other on the back.
” Now why in the bloody hell were we fighting at all,” someone called out.
Mike and Peter linked arms and marched up to the pub with the rest of them following.
” And that’s what Pete Delaney told me ,” said Pat. “It took three glasses of stout to see him through to the end, and didn’t I get hell from me wife because I was so late getting home from the pub.”

I hope you enjoyed this eye- witness account, with such a happy ending. If you have any comments or questions, please feel free to contact me.