the Limerick workhouse. A "rescue party" was formed. In the mêlée that
followed, Robert Byrne and a constable were killed. Then according to a
military order, Limerick was proclaimed because of "the attack by armed men
on police constables and the brutal murder of one of them."

At Limerick Junction we were locked in our compartments. There were few on
the train. Two or three school boys with their initialed school caps. Two
or three women drinking tea from the wicker train baskets supplied at the
junction. In the yards of the Limerick station, the train came to a dead
stop. Then the conductor unlocked compartments, while a kilted Scotch
officer, with three bayonet-carrying soldiers behind him, asked for
permits. At last we were pulled into the station filled with empty freight
trucks and its guard of soldiers. Through the dusk beyond the rain was
slithering.

"Sorry. No cab, miss," said a constable. "The whole city's on strike."

That explained my inability to get Limerick on the wire. From Kildare I had
been trying all morning to reach Limerick on the telephone. All the
Limerick shops I passed were blinded or shuttered. In the gray light, black
lines of people moved desolately up and down, not allowed to congregate and
apparently not wanting to remain in homes they were weary of. A few candles
flickered in windows. After leaving my suitcase at a hotel, I left for the
strike headquarters. On my way I neared Sarsfield bridge. Between it and
me, there loomed a great black mass. Close to it, I found it was a tank,
stenciled with the name of Scotch-and-Soda, and surrounded by massed barbed
wire inside a wooden fence. On the bridge, the guards paraded up and down
and called to the people:

"Step to the road!"