Or just the persistence of
those involved?
The
year was 1919. The
prisoner, a
revolutionary,
was a devout Catholic. He
attended Mass each
Sunday, and acted
as a server. He
lit the candles on the altar, helped the priest into his vestments,
assisted with the familiar rituals and joined in the Latin responses.
The
prisoner
also
noticed that, when
the priest arrived to prepare for Mass, he
left some
items, including the
key to rear gate, on
the same place on
a desk,
collecting
them up afterwards.
From
then on, drop by drop, scrap
by scrap, the man collected up melted candle-wax until he had enough
gathered
to form
into
a small block. When he got
the chance,
he secretly took
the prison key, pressed
it quickly
and firmly into
the soft wax block he had
kept warm against his body, and then returned
it to
its usual place.
As
the Mass
ended, the priest gathered up
the
items
and key,
put them back in his pocket and left. The devout server returned
to his cell, taking the image of the key to the rear gate with
him.
The
prisoner
studied the mould and
measured
the
key’s imprint carefully.
Then, even though the prison staff examined all outgoing and incoming
mail, he sent the information out to his contacts
in almost clear view. On one postcard, he drew a jokey, cartoon
showing a drunken man fumbling with an enormous key and,
as if in a speech bubble, the words
“I
can’t get in!”
That
comically large
key had
been
drawn to show
the
exact dimensions and pattern marked
in
the mould.
Before
long, a cake arrived at Lincoln Jail, addressed to the prisoner, with
a duplicate key hidden away inside. The
guards did not detect the key but the
attempt failed. The
prisoner soon discovered why. As the
block
cooled
and hardened,
the
candle-wax had
shrunk
and distorted. The measurements for the replica key were not quite
accurate enough. The prisoner studied his original drawings, allowed
for the warping, and sent out another
postcard.
This
one was
a
drawing
of a prisoner and
“The
Key To Freedom”,
a large,
ornate key of Celtic design which secretly replicated the key
to the prison back-gate.
Written across the card were the words “I
can’t get out”.
After
a while, a second
cake was
delivered,
concealing
another key. This,
too, was faulty.
After
a while, another
parcel arrived, containing
a
slab of fruit cake, together
with a layer of white
plaster, as was often used to replicate wedding-cake icing during the
sugar-rationing then in force.
The guards poked the
slab
with a skewer, but the essential
ingredients
were not detected.
This
time, when the prisoner opened up the cake, he found no key. The plan
had moved on. This time the cake held a suitably-sized iron bar - an
uncut key - and a small metal file: materials and tools to make an
exact key there within Lincoln Jail itself,
with
the help
of
a fellow-prisoner
trained as a master-locksmith.
Meanwhile,
guards and prisoners heard the
sounds
of
singing
from outside, where
men
worked
the
allotments on the open ground then
around
Lincoln
Jail.
They
might have noticed the
songs
were often in some
foreign tongue. Within, the prisoner and his
two
friends had
noticed and were
listening carefully. The songs
were in
Gaelic, and the words brought
them
details
of the
escape
plans.
Finally,
on
February 3rd
1919,
at an arranged hour, the prisoner unlocked the back gate of Lincoln
Jail with
the replica key and escaped with his two friends.
Once outside, the man shut
the gate, slid
the
key back into
the lock and
turned it.
Then he snapped the key off inside the lock, fixing
the gate shut.
The
three men walked across the rough
open
ground
and met up with three others. On the way, they
strolled past some soldiers stationed there on sentry duty. The
soldiers, drinking
and enjoying
the
company of
a group of friendly
Irish girls, ignored their
passing. They entered the city and mingled with the crowds as they made their way up Lindum Hill to the Adam and Eve pub, close by Lincoln's great cathedral.
From
there, the prisoner
escaped
in a series of cars, travelling from Lincoln to Worksop, on to
Sheffield and
north to Manchester, arriving
at
Liverpool. From there, dressed as a priest, the man sailed back to
Ireland and the cause he believed in.
The
prisoner’s
name was Eamon de Valera. Eventually
he
became The
Taoiseach - the
Irish Prime Minister - and then the
President
of the Republic of Ireland.
A
quick timeline:
In
1882, de Valera was born in New York to an Irish mother and Cuban
father, giving him American nationality.
In
1885, aged
two,
his mother brought him to Ireland after
his father’s death.
In
1916, he was
one
of the leaders
in the failed
anti-British
Easter Rising in Dublin. Arrested,
his
death sentence was
commuted
to life
imprisonment because of his nationality. He was later
released under a general
amnesty.
In
1917, he won an election, becoming MP for East Clare on a single
ticket “One Ireland”,
in
defiance of Asquith’s Home Rule amendment on behalf of the
Protestant counties in the north.
He was also elected president of the revolutionary Sinn Fein party.
In
1918, during the post-Armistice General Election, his party won a
large majority of the parliamentary seats in Ireland. The
country was still ruled from Westminster by the Westminster
parliamentarians, who
often acted as if Ireland was a colony of little importance.
In
1918, on a trip to England, he was accused
of a “German” plot, and imprisoned on
a Defence of the Realm charge within
Lincoln Jail.
In
1919, Eamon de Valera, escaped, along with McGilroy and McGarry, escaped.
Outside
to meet them was
Michael Collins, the revolutionary strategist, who had arranged much of the escape, and became a leading figure in Irish history and the fighting during the initial "Bloody Sunday" that followed. (This, as they say, is a whole other story too complicated for this post.)
Additionally, 1919, during de Valera's absence, Ireland had convened its first Parliament: the Dail Eireann. This revolutionary, one-chamber parliament was created by the 73 Sinn Fein MP’s who refused to recognise the British Parliament in Westminster and demanded independence for Ireland.
Additionally, 1919, during de Valera's absence, Ireland had convened its first Parliament: the Dail Eireann. This revolutionary, one-chamber parliament was created by the 73 Sinn Fein MP’s who refused to recognise the British Parliament in Westminster and demanded independence for Ireland.
The response,
between 1919 and 1921, was war -
the
War of Irish Independence - during which the British Army combined
with
the Royal Irish Constabulary and its paramilitary forces: the
Auxiliaries and Ulster Special Constabulary against the Irish
Republican Army. In 1921, the
first Parliament failed, and a
border was established between the North and South: the Irish
Partition.
There
are two Irish centenaries in the air, one now and one soon
to
come.
During
this year, 2019, Ireland is celebrating that
first Parliament. Then
in 1921, in two years time, will
come
the centenary of the Partition.
Right
now, independence
is still a very living issue, and it
is certainly
a time when
people in power should know – or be better informed - about the
long shadow of history.
To
end this post, I’ll add that,
in 1950 - thirty years after his escape - Eamon de Valera returned to
Lincoln Jail as a guest, to speak at
a campaign to re-unify Ireland by peaceful, democratic means.
The
abolition of the Irish Partition would, he said, “combine good
principles and good business.” A point of view rather relevant at
the moment, I fear.
Have
a good Saint Patrick’s Day!
Penny
Dolan
nb.
This
story came
from
various easy-to-discover sources, but I
would
like to mention
the author Jane Stanford for
her
article, which I discovered
in the
Irish Post of 20th
August 2013. Thank you!
During his time in prison, De Valera had studied "The Prince" by Machiavelli, a work he is reported as taking to heart.
During his time in prison, De Valera had studied "The Prince" by Machiavelli, a work he is reported as taking to heart.
Thanks for this, Penny - I especially loved the Gaelic singers outside the walls passing on information about the escape plan!
ReplyDeleteAmazing! Is this the origin of all the jokes about files hidden in cakes?
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure, Sue. As I was typing the story, I couldn't help thinking that it had more than a touch of traditional well-worn story about it.
ReplyDeleteEspecially those singers, Joan, as if they were a choir of Gaelic Blondels, armed with shovels rather than lutes.
And always, if in doubt, bring on the beguiling, alluring colleens.
Wonderful story, although parts are rather convenient....it does strike me as holdin' a bit o' the blarney. Would make for a hollywood script, though.
ReplyDeleteAbigail,I would not disagree with that. Thanks for the comment.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful story! It's so good, I actually don't care if not every detail is true!
ReplyDelete