1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “You’re very welcome,” said Brugha. “You and your merchandise both.”

  “I thought Darrell Figgis was supposed to come meet us in a motorboat if the landing was to go ahead.”

  “So did we, but he never showed up. You took a chance, coming in anyway.”

  Childers shrugged. “What should I have done, turn around and go back? I ran enough risk getting here in the first place. My wife and Mary Spring-Rice are with me, you know. Molly wouldn’t have it any other way, and Mary played a large part in this.”

  Ned was listening avidly. He knew of Erskine Childers as the author of a spy novel called The Riddle of the Sands, about two yachtsmen discovering a German plan to invade England. The book was a great favorite at Saint Enda’s. Sciatica had left Childers with a slight limp but had not prevented him from having a distinguished career in the British army.

  Cathal Brugha turned to his men. “Unload this boat as fast as you can—but don’t get in one another’s way; it’s a narrow pier. We need to be out of here as soon as possible.”

  When the first boxes were brought off the Asgard some of the Volunteers on the quay recognized them as rifle cases. With a wild shout they broke ranks and surged onto the pier, shoving Brugha’s squad aside. Men were in danger of being pushed into the water as they fought over possession of the prizes: “Sod off, you bugger!” “Fuck off yourself, you cute hoor, this gun’s mine!”

  Ned made no effort to take one of the rifles without permission, but stood waiting while the officers struggled to regain control of their companies. The most successful was the tall man with spectacles. In a cold, hard voice, Eamon de Valera shamed his men back onto the quay, many still clutching the rifles they had seized.

  With the help of the Fianna, who were more disciplined, Brugha’s squad unloaded the Asgard in less than twenty minutes. Eoin MacNeill was out of the car by this time and stood wordlessly watching as the officers handed out rifles to those Volunteers who did not yet have them.

  When Ned received his, he examined it closely. The single-shot rifle had a recessed bolt and manual safety catch. It looked old and neglected; there were flecks of rust on the metal. But at least it was real. He lifted it to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. “Bang,” he whispered.

  Bulmer Hobson was asking Erskine Childers, “What was your total cargo?”

  “Nine hundred secondhand Mausers. Gewehr 98’s: 31 caliber, five-shot magazine.”

  “And ammunition?”

  “Forty-nine thousand rounds. We were so overloaded I had to dump two boxes overboard.”

  “We don’t have enough Volunteers to carry nine hundred rifles,” Hobson said. “We were only expecting seven hundred and fifty. The Fianna will have to—”

  Thomas MacDonagh interrupted him. “I don’t want to be responsible for allowing the Fianna to handle untested rifles. Their mothers would never forgive us if there was an accident.”

  The O’Rahilly suggested, “Since we’ll be transporting the ammunition in the cars, put the extra guns in too. They’ll fit somehow; we brought rugs for covering everything anyway.”

  At the mention of ammunition Seán Heuston asked, “Are we not to be issued cartridges for our rifles, sir?”

  “I think not. We’re a defensive force only, and we’re not under attack,” replied Hobson, glancing toward MacNeill as he spoke. “Besides, we’ve never drilled with live ammunition.”

  Ned lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Loaded, it could kill another human being. That was its purpose. A cold lump formed in his stomach.

  When he looked up his eyes met Thomas MacDonagh’s. He was unable to read the expression there.

  The column reformed. The Fianna with the trek cart brought up the rear. In case of attack the Volunteers had rifles now.

  Rifles without ammunition, of course.

  But The O’Rahilly exulted to MacNeill, “Just think, Professor! This afternoon armed Irish men under Irish command are going to march through the streets of Dublin for the first time since 1782.”

  “It’s a good day’s work, Michael. Lead the cars on in and warn them not to attract attention. I shouldn’t think you and your sisters will have any trouble; you look innocuous enough. I’m going to stay behind and have a bit of lunch in Howth, then take a tram home.”

  Meanwhile Ned was discovering that his eleven-pound rifle was considerably heavier than a wooden dummy. He had to shift the Mauser several times before he was able to balance it comfortably on his shoulder. But having it made him feel different somehow. Bigger.

  As the motorcars sped past carrying their load of arms to prearranged safe houses, someone in the ranks shouted, “Cheers, lads!”

  Ned put two fingers to his mouth to salute them with a whistle, but in the process dislodged his rifle. He made a wild lunge to catch it before it hit the ground.

  Someone behind him laughed.

  The wind was gradually subsiding. At a signal from Bulmer Hobson the column got under way. As they marched from quayside a wildly enthusiastic cheer went up from the onlookers on the slope above. Ned had never been cheered before. It was a heady sensation.

  They had not gone very far when a small squad of the Royal Irish Constabulary in their distinctive spiked helmets caught up with them. The column halted while Hobson and MacDonagh spoke briefly with the constables, offering assurances of their peaceable intent. When the Volunteers resumed their march the RIC men accompanied them but made no effort to stop them.

  A whisper ran through the ranks. “Dublin doesn’t know we’re coming. Two of Brugha’s lads cut the telegraph wires.” Men nudged one another and winked.

  When they were halfway to the city Hobson gave the order to halt. Those who had cigarettes took them out and passed them around, sharing with the RIC men. Several Volunteers produced flasks, but MacDonagh ordered them to be put away unopened.

  Ned and Seán Heuston unslung their rifles and sat down together at the side of the road. “Imagine us being able to pull off something like this,” Heuston said as he massaged his aching calf muscles. “And right under the noses of the authorities, too. How ever did we manage?”

  “We have some powerful friends, Seán. It’s interesting, when you think about it. People like Constance Markievicz and Erskine Childers are members of the Ascendancy the same as Edward Carson in Ulster, yet I’m sure they no more think of themselves as traitors than Carson does.”

  “Did you know anything about this in advance, Ned?”

  “Not a whisper. I’m just a foot soldier, no one tells me anything. Ask me again when I get to be an officer.”

  The column remained halted for half an hour. During that time an inbound tram from Howth went by and Eoin MacNeill got off. “I could see you from the tram,” he told Hobson. “Why have you stopped at Raheny? This is no time to lose your nerve.”

  Bulmer Hobson nodded toward the little band of RIC men standing apart from the Volunteers. “My nerve is fine. They’re the ones who suggested we take a rest for the sake of the Fianna, and I thought no purpose would be served in arguing with them.”

  A muscle tightened in MacNeill’s jaw. “All right, but let’s go on now. I’ll join you for a while and we’ll give Tom a turn at command.”

  The march resumed, this time with Thomas MacDonagh at the head of the column and MacNeill walking with Hobson.

  Eoin MacNeill was no soldier. Before they had gone a mile his recent lunch turned to rocks in his stomach. His step faltered and he moved to the side of the road. “Flag down the next motorcar and get a ride into town,” MacDonagh advised.

  “That’s probably a good idea, but are you certain you’ll be all right? There’ll be no trouble?”

  MacDonagh laughed. “Sure, don’t we have the Royal Irish Constabulary themselves with us?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PROFESSOR MacNeill was given a ride by a Howth couple on their way into the city to visit Glasnevin Cemetery. The column marched on. By now some were complaining of blistered feet.

/>   Beyond the marshes of Raheny, houses began to line the road on either side. Soon the surrounding fields were thickly dotted with cottages and out-buildings. Women and small children peeped from windows. Dogs ran out to bark. A signpost announced Clontarf.

  Ned felt a shudder run up his spine; a presentiment. “Clontarf,” he said aloud.

  The man to his left glanced toward him. “What?”

  “The Battle of Clontarf. Good Friday, 1014. Brian Bóru was killed then.”

  “A bad Easter for him, but ancient history now,” the other said dismissively.

  In the lead, Thomas MacDonagh rounded a bend to discover a number of men in the distance. They were deliberately blocking the junction of the Howth and Clontarf roads. He signaled a halt and held a hurried conference with Bulmer Hobson. “Word must have got through to Dublin Castle after all,” MacDonagh said. “I thought we’d taken care of that.”

  Hobson was scowling. “So did I.” Raising his binoculars, he studied the roadblock. “It’s a squad of the DMP but they’re not alone. There’s a detachment of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers; there must be a hundred soldiers in addition to the police. Dear God, how did they find out? Well, what’s done is done. Fortunately there’s another road into the city just over there.”

  MacDonagh gave the order, and the column prepared to swing right. But immediately men were deployed to block that route also. MacDonagh called for a halt and stood waiting to see what would happen next. He had not long to wait.

  A brawny official came striding toward the head of the column. The years had thickened the man’s waist without mellowing his disposition. “I am Commissioner W. V. Harrel of the Dublin Metropolitan Police,” he announced in a strident voice, “and you will not be allowed to march into Dublin. Furthermore, you are to surrender your weapons at once.”

  Thomas MacDonagh was a small man, but no one could intimidate him. He faced the police commissioner toe-to-toe. “Let me remind you,” he said evenly, “that there is no law to compel us to surrender our personal property. Armed Ulster Volunteers regularly parade through Belfast and no one tries to disarm them.”

  “I don’t care what they do in Belfast,” said Harrel. “Dublin is my city, and this sort of thing won’t be allowed here. Command your men to stack their rifles.”

  MacDonagh clamped his jaws shut.

  “Disarm them!” the commissioner bawled at his men.

  To the surprise of everyone, the policemen refused to obey him. Whether they acted out of sympathy with their fellow Irishmen or because they remembered the condemnation heaped on the DMP after Bloody Sunday, no one knew.

  Sputtering with anger, Commissioner Harrel dismissed them on the spot. They fell back a few paces and milled around in disarray. By this time a number of onlookers had appeared, drifting out of nearby houses to stand gawking.

  Harrel could not afford to be seen backing down, but since the police had proved unreliable it was left to the soldiers to uphold authority. He held a hurried consultation with the officer in charge. A command was given; the King’s Own marched forward. The DMP were armed only with batons, but the British soldiers had modern rifles. When a second command was given they fixed bayonets.

  The Volunteers at the front of the column watched them apprehensively.

  MacDonagh faced about and cried to his men, “Any of you who have loaded weapons—do not fire, no matter what the provocation!”

  As if this was a signal, the soldiers lunged forward and tried to wrest the rifles from the foremost Volunteers. They held on grimly. There was considerable shoving and cursing and a few blows were struck.

  In the midst of all this a motor cab came up the road from Dublin. The policemen let it pass unchallenged; the cab continued along the length of the column. Suddenly Seán MacDermott and Tom Clarke leaned out the windows and shouted, “Hide your weapons! Hurry!”

  The Volunteers responded with alacrity. Those not involved in the scuffle ran to conceal their rifles under hedges and behind walls. When Harrel realized what was happening he shouted at them to stop, but they paid no attention. By the time the fracas at the front was under control the rest of the column had melted away into the surrounding countryside.

  Only nineteen rifles were captured, and they were damaged in the struggle.

  Several men had black eyes and multiple bruises. The most badly injured was a Volunteer who had taken a bayonet thrust in the shoulder; painful but far from fatal. He was on his feet, cursing under his breath while one of the policemen stanched the flow of blood with a borrowed handkerchief.

  Harrel decided to make the best of a bad situation by proclaiming his defense of the city successful and calling off the engagement. The policemen departed the scene by tram. But the officers of the King’s Own chose to march their men back into the city, returning as a victorious army to their barracks in Phoenix Park.

  NED and Seán Heuston hid their rifles in a shed behind a dilapidated two-room cottage far back from the road. The cottage appeared unoccupied, though for an instant Ned thought he saw a ragged curtain move at a window. No one came out to challenge them, however.

  “I think it’s safe enough,” he told Heuston.

  The shed contained a heap of mildewed harness and several sacks of spoiled grain. As soon as they had concealed their guns the two young men hurried out into the fresh air. They trotted across a couple of fields, scrambled over a wall, and found themselves slogging through a manure-mired dairy yard.

  “Observe the brave Irish Volunteers on maneuvers,” Heuston announced to a dozen curious cows.

  Ned raised one filthy boot. “In the uniform of the day!”

  They broke into manic laughter and had to stop to catch their breath.

  Heuston had a stitch in his side. “What happens now? It’s a bit of a damp squib, not marching through the city with our rifles.”

  “Best leave them where they are for now. But is there any reason we can’t go into Dublin anyway?”

  “Just ourselves, Ned? Without the column?”

  “The column is scattered from here to Bull Island by now. I’m certainly not ready to go back to Rathfarnham; let’s get our tea in the city. We can at least show the flag, so to speak.”

  Heuston grinned. “Right you are.”

  To avoid meeting any soldiers or policemen the two made their way toward the city across fields and down back roads. But though they struck a brisk pace rumor ran ahead of them. News of the fracas at Clontarf spread like a fire in dry heather, with each retelling enlarging the drama.

  “My brother says British soldiers have launched an unprovoked attack on innocent Volunteers.”

  “Accordin’ to me wife’s cousin, who saw the whole thing, daycent Irish men wuz battered to the ground.”

  “It was murder, I tell you! Outright willful murder by them bloody maggots!”

  Even people who had been indifferent to the Volunteers were incensed. As the King’s Own neared the city, an angry crowd gathered to shout obscenities at them.

  In Dublin, Ned and Heuston found themselves caught up in an angry mob. Men, women, and even small children poured into the street as the King’s Own passed on their way to their barracks. By now the crowd was hurling rubbish along with insults. The soldiers marched on with impassive faces, but the abuse mounted. A stone was thrown; then another. One of the soldiers was struck on the shoulder with enough force to make him grunt.

  When they reached O’Connell Bridge at the bottom of Sackville Street, the King’s Own turned right into Bachelor’s Walk. By now the mood of the crowd was ugly. Some of the soldiers at the rear faced about and feinted at the civilians with their bayonets. The soldiers chased several of the most obnoxious into shops. A door was slammed; a rifleman drove his bayonet through the wooden panel. “How dare you rabble insult British soldiers!” he cried in outrage.

  The DMP had retired to their own depot, so there were no police on hand to quell the crowd. It grew angrier by the minute.

  At the corner of Liff
ey Street opposite the Ha’penny Bridge, a harassed officer finally ordered thirty of the King’s Own to form a line with fixed bayonets. Those in front knelt; the others stood behind them with rifles leveled. A barrage of stones and curses fell upon the soldiers.

  Ned told his friend, “I think we should—”

  His words were interrupted by gunfire.

  He heard no order to fire. Afterward he could recall only the sudden, shocking report of a rifle.

  Someone screamed and fell.

  Glancing toward the soldiers, Ned saw that one of the King’s Own was holding a smoking rifle. The man was young and ashen-faced, and looked as frightened as Ned suddenly felt.

  The first shot was followed almost instantly by a volley. The soldiers were firing indiscriminately into the crowd. People turned around, tried to run. Rifle fire cut them down like corn in a field. A woman’s voice called on God; a man roared in pain for his mother.

  Some of the soldiers were shouting too, as if to whip up their courage. A group of them charged the civilians with fixed bayonets. Army boots clattered on cobbles. Screaming rose to an unbearable pitch. To his horror Ned saw a woman not three paces from him skewered on a steel blade. The child who had been clinging to her skirts let out an earsplitting shriek.

  Ned lunged forward, grabbed up the toddler as the woman fell, and ran.

  July 26, 1914

  MASSACRE IN BACHELOR’S WALK

  July 28, 1914

  AUSTRIA DECLARES WAR ON SERBIA

  Chapter Twenty-four

  KATHLEEN Campbell was appalled. She read the newspaper article through, then read it again from the beginning. By the time she finished her hands were shaking. “Ned. Sweet Jesus, Ned!”

  Alexander was in Boston on business, but she had to share her anxiety with someone, and at once. She hurried the four blocks to Saint Xavier’s, where she found Father Paul on his knees in front of the altar. She waited with barely controlled impatience until he crossed himself, rose, and turned around.