We knew better. He was, as a matter of fact, enjoying himself with a select house party of male and female intimates, at his country residence, French Park, Co. Roscommon. We knew a good deal more about Lord French’s life than the public ever suspected; but my purpose is not to give a history of the Viceroy’s private affairs, except in so far as they concern my narrative. Sufficient to say that on this occasion we knew every member of the select few at French Park, Boyle. Frenchpark is a remote country district. While the Lord Lieutenant was in occupation the house was garrisoned by a strong force. But that garrison we felt we could easily overpower did we so desire. The situation of the house too would favour our escape when we had accomplished our object. We would have no difficulty in covering the journey from Dublin to Roscommon, and we believed we would get back almost as easily. We could readily go by roads which would avoid the towns, for it is a much easier matter for wanted men to go from Dublin to the West than it would be, say, to go South or North. Why, then, it may be asked, with all the circumstances in our favour did we not attempt to shoot Lord French when he was in Roscommon? The answer is simple. We knew he would be returning to Dublin on a particular date, and we decided to attack him almost at his own door, and beside the city. Why? Because what we had in mind was the effect such an incident would create. Against the old soldier himself we had no personal spite, but he was the head of the alien Government that held our country in bondage, and we knew that his death would arouse the world to interest itself in our fight for freedom. His name was known throughout the world. The Phoenix Park was as well known to the world as Hyde Park. Think then of the sensation that would be created when this man, a Field Marshal of the British Army, and head of the Government in Ireland, was shot dead at the gate of the Phoenix Park, in the capital of the country he was supposed to rule, and within a stone’s throw of half a dozen of England’s military garrisons—at a spot where within five minutes could be mustered twenty thousand British troops, with every implement of modern warfare. The risk to ourselves was greater, but the moral effect would be worth the price. The world would sit up and say: “The men who have done this are no cowards; their country must have a grievance; what is it?” That is the result on which we reckoned, and our reasons for finally deciding to plan our coup for Ashtown. I shall describe (in the next chapter) our attack, and its many sequels. CHAPTER XV. THE BATTLE OF ASHTOWN.