Smugglers Of The Irish Borders

Hawera Star, Volume LIV, 27 October 1934, Page 14

Smugglers Of The Irish Borders

P, EOPLE who think life in England rather humdrum should come to the frontier of the United Kingdom—the Northern Ire-

land border. Here are thrills in plenty. The Border Patrol—tall, well-built police, armed with revolvers and stationed in barracks where rifles are always slung on the walls, in readness for any emergency—engage nightly in a battle of wits with the Free State cattle smugglers (writes a special representative of the “Morning Post”).

There are many tense incidents along this 200-mile frontier line that runs over or alongside hills, mountains, river, and lochs. But the incidents are rarely recorded.

"With the coming of darkness the smugglers sally forth, and, as they do so, the men of the border patrol creep out. One night I accompanied them.

The hills and mountains are already changing to black, forbidding outlines as we set out, not on horseback, as in Wild West films, but in a motor-car. The two patrolmen hope to get into position before some watchful scout of the smugglers gives the alarm.

Gradually the last of the twilight goes, and there is no sound hut the steady hum of the car. The vast area is deserted. Presently in a pass between the hills, the car comes to a halt. The lights are extinguished, and with the aid of a torch, held close to the ground, in order that its beam may not he revealed, the vehicle is pushed quietly into cover. The two members of the patrol pick their way carefully through the darkness. “Here we are,” one whispers, as he drops into a ditch. The pair settle down without another word. Keenly alert, they watch and listen. The grass is wet, and they may have to wait here for hours. One of them, however, has a feeling that something will happen. A smoke would relieve the monotony, hut that is impossible. They dare not risk a light. Cramped, they change their positions, hut Avithout noise. The slightest sound might betray them. Even whispers might he dangerous.

A couple of hours go by. The wind has increased to a gale and it is raining heavily. There is no sign of smugglers—hut there is another route to watch.

“We’ll take the bicycles,” says one. From the hack of the ear two machines are produced.

“The car is hidden. No fear of the tyres being slashed by our friends,” says the other. They set oft' on the two machines—without lamps. They cannot even see one another in this darkness, and one rider catches his pedal in the wheel of the second machine. Three spokes are broken, but the wheel holds and on they go.

Soon afterwards they dismount, put the machines down silently, and crawl behind a stone hedge at the roadside. Another long wait and then, at 2 a.m., there is a sound. An instant later four bullocks come racing along at top speed. A man behind is beating them furiously.

The cattle pass and then the patrol men jump forward. One seizes the man, while the other, one hand on the revolver in his pocket, flashes his torch full in the face of the drover. The man is searched—but he has no guns.

The cattle come to a halt, and the patrol takes them and the drover prisoners. Two or three hours later two very weary members of the border patrol, having lodged the driver in a cell and the cattle in a pound, lie down for a few hours’ sleep. The patrol has won again. The men who compose the border patrol achieve many successes, but their difficulties are extraordinary. They may see the smugglers, with their cattle, in the distance, but be quite unable, owing to the configuration of the ground, to reach them before they disappear across the border.

If the patrol wins there are more prisoners for the petty sessions courts, where business used to last an hour, but now goes on all day—almost entirely because of cattle smuggling. The real culprits, however, are rarely caught. It is their assistants who fall into the hands of the patient police—assistants who may even include daring women, earning £1 in respect of each of the cattle they manage to get across the border.

These assistants have their own helpers. When things go wrong the smugglers bolt for safety over bogs or fields or mountain paths, leaving their cattle to be seized and confiscated. The smugglers have their own scouts. Provided with bicycles, they watch for the patrol, and, at the slightest indication of danger, give signals, which are instantly picked up by their confederates.