1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Although the twenty-first was a Tuesday, classes at Saint Enda’s were canceled for the day. That same morning there was news of an affray at Tullamore. Members of the Royal Irish Constabulary had attempted to disarm the local Irish Volunteers and shots had been exchanged. A constable had been wounded, though not seriously.

  Pádraic Pearse expressed the concern everyone felt. “The unionists are going to demand suppression of all republican activities now,” he warned his brother.

  Willie replied with a nervous laugh, “Good job they don’t know about this one, then.”

  By two o’clock a crowd that included a number of Volunteers had filled the school gymnasium. Eamonn Ceannt played the pipes; Mary Brigid, who had returned for the occasion, performed on the piano. Students sang traditional airs and demonstrated Irish dancing. The music drifted out toward the dreaming Dublin mountains.

  Ned and Thomas MacDonagh were sitting together at one side of the gymnasium. Indicating the singers, Ned remarked, “How young they look! Their eyes are as clear as their voices.”

  MacDonagh replied, “Pat’s killing himself by inches to assure a better future for these boys.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate him as much as I did.”

  “Not necessarily. A small percentage of boys always resent any attempt to civilize them. There are lads in this hall tonight having a high old time who will write their parents tomorrow and tell them the headmaster is a monster of the first order.” MacDonagh shook his head. “I know from experience. No one is more lied about than a teacher of young boys.”

  “I think I’d rather be a newspaperman,” said Ned.

  At the end of the afternoon the headmaster made a speech. In the few past weeks his manner had become more solemn than ever, with a grave, underlying gentleness. “Scoil Eanna has been an accomplished fact for eight years,” he told his audience. “I hope it will continue for eighty more, but as far as I am concerned my work here is done. So in a sense, this is my farewell.

  “As I have often stressed, Man is not primarily a member of a State, but a human individuality. Just so, this school is not a thing of bricks and mortar made by the State, but the creation of dedicated human beings.

  “As I look around today I see fine young men who have reached their maturity here, young men who are prepared to become efficient soldiers in battles both spiritual and temporal for the sake of Ireland. No headmaster could ask for greater joy than the knowledge that he has had some small part in shaping such men. You are our gift to the future. The happiness we have endeavored to give you during your years at Scoil Eanna is our gift to you.”

  He nodded to Mary Brigid, who brought her fingers down on the piano keys in a rousing rendition of “Bold Robert Emmet.” Everyone joined in. As they swung into the refrain, Thomas MacDonagh’s bright baritone rang strongly in Ned’s ear: “My crime was my love of the land I was born in. A hero I’ve lived and a hero I’ll die.”

  When the formalities were concluded the guests wandered through the school, admiring the projects the boys had on display. Mrs. Pearse and her daughters began setting up tables for refreshments. Almost unnoticed, at the end of the afternoon Pádraic Pearse slipped away to the school chapel off the study hall.

  On impulse Ned followed him.

  When Ned opened the door he saw Pearse kneeling with his head bowed, halfway to the front of the chapel. The draft from the open door caught his attention and he turned around. At that moment a cold, greenish-purple twilight fell across his face from one of the stained-glass windows.

  He looked drowned.

  Catastrophe…the great ship upended in the cold sea, the lights blinking out, and the people in the dark water, screaming…

  Suddenly Ned was frightened for him. Frightened for all of them, for Pearse and Plunkett and McDonagh, for the poets who misread war for glory.

  Never mind the sun shining outside; the storm was rushing toward them. Instead of trumpets and banners there would be the thunder of guns and the lightning of sabers.

  Ned stood rooted by the door, unable to move. Pearse realized something was wrong. “Are you ill, Ned?”

  “I’m not ill. I was just worried about you, sir.”

  “How kind you are. But there is no need to worry; I know what I’m doing.”

  “Are you certain? It’s not too late to call everything off.”

  To Ned’s surprise, Pearse laughed. “Prudence is the only vice, Ned.6 When we were children Mother arranged for us to take proper horse-riding lessons. I rather enjoyed them until the day we started jumping hurdles. ‘Throw your heart over the fence and follow it,’ our instructor told us, ‘and you’ll be all right.’

  “I was expected to set the example, so while Willie and the girls applauded I cantered down toward the first jump. Then at the last moment I lost my nerve and tried to stop. The pony promptly pitched me off. I was hurt; I had to miss school for a week. But I learned my lesson.”

  They walked together to the refectory, where Mrs. Pearse was serving the guests what she called “a light collation”: platters of cold sliced chicken, Dublin Bay prawns, hot pork pies, chutney sandwiches with the crusts cut off, apple tarts, fruitcake, tea with cream. Thomas MacDonagh had piled his plate with chocolate biscuits. Ned opted for two pork pies and an apple tart; Pádraic Pearse nibbled part of a sandwich.

  Liquor was not served at Saint Enda’s. Those men who had brought flasks slipped outside for a discreet drink.

  The headmaster seemed calm, even relaxed. But whenever Ned glanced at Pearse he recalled the greenish light on his face; the drowned look.

  INSTEAD of going to see Precious before he went to work the next morning, Ned cycled to Ringsend and called on Father Paul. He met the priest just as he was coming out the door. “I’m expected at Kilmainham,” Paul explained.

  “Sorry?”

  “Kilmainham Jail. Don’t look so appalled, Ned, I’m not being arrested. I’ve applied to the bishop for something to do, and he’s sending me to work with the prison chaplain.”

  “Seems to me he could have found you something more pleasant.”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “You haven’t seen Kilmainham.”

  Walking his bicycle, Ned accompanied the priest to the tram stop. Along the way he brought up the reason for his visit. “What do you know about adoptions, Father?”

  “They’re not my line of expertise, but I’ll tell you what I can. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a little girl here in Dublin who’s had a rather terrible start in life. She’s in an orphanage now, but I’d like to see her go to a good home. A safe home,” he said, stressing the word safe. “Dublin may not be safe for a while.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Ned ignored the question. “Is it possible to send children to America for adoption?”

  “I’m sure it is, though I don’t know just how to go about it. Do you want me to find out for you?”

  “Please. And as quickly as you can.”

  Paul stopped walking and turned to face Ned. “I think you’d better tell me what’s wrong.”

  “There’s nothing you need to know except that the child’s name is Ursula Jervis and she’s at the Orphan House for Destitute Females in the North Circular Road. If anything should happen to me, I want you to do what you can for her. Take her back to America with you when you go.”

  “Is she your child?”

  Ned did not answer.

  Paul drew a deep breath. “I’m not certain I’m going back to America. It might be better if I stayed here.”

  Abruptly Ned recalled Síle’s words: “Sometimes you just have to claw at the world. You have to make things come right or die trying!”

  He told Paul, “If you really care for Kathleen, you’ll go back to her. Don’t leave her to Alexander Campbell. Go back and fight for her yourself.”

  “But I’m a priest.”

  Ned lost his temper. “You were a man before you were a priest, God damn
it!”

  Paul thrust his fists deep into his pockets. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m doing the best I can; I simply don’t have any choice.”

  ON April 3, Pádraic Pearse, as organizing director, issued orders for extensive maneuvers and a parade of the Irish Volunteers to be held in Dublin on Easter Sunday.

  Chapter Forty-three

  SEÁN MacDermott unrolled a calendar and spread it out on Eamonn Ceannt’s dining table. “Joe’s arranged with the Germans for the weapons to reach the Irish coast by Thursday the twentieth.1 But I see something we should have noticed before. There’s a full moon at Easter, which means no secret night landing. The arms will have to be landed openly and not one hour sooner than is absolutely necessary, or the British could learn what’s happening and seize them. That means landing them Saturday the twenty-second at dawn, which will just give us time to get them to the distribution points. The instructions to the Germans have to be changed immediately.”

  “But Joe is in hospital now,” Pearse protested, “or on his way home. We cannot ask him to do any more so soon after his surgery. And we cannot contact Berlin from Dublin while Britain’s at war with Germany.”

  MacDermott said, “John Devoy could contact the Germans from America and authorize changing the arrangements. He’s supplying the money, after all. But we can’t cable Devoy from Ireland because the British are probably monitoring outgoing messages. We need to send someone to him in person; someone we can trust absolutely.”

  “How about one of Joe Plunkett’s sisters?” suggested Tom Clarke.

  Within the hour Ned Halloran was on his way to Larkfield with an urgent message and a steamship ticket for Philomena Plunkett. She was to board the next liner for America, enabling her to reach Devoy by the fourteenth of April.2 “Tell him that the arms must be landed no earlier than Holy Saturday,” Ned stressed. “Make him understand how crucial that is.”

  JOE Plunkett returned from Switzerland more ill than ever. The operation on his throat for tuberculosis did not seem to have done any good in spite of his high hopes. He insisted on meeting with the Military Council, then allowed his family to send him to Miss Quinn’s Private Nursing Home in Mountjoy Square.3

  Ned went to visit him.

  “We’ve just co-opted Thomas MacDonagh onto the Military Council,”4 Plunkett announced, “which is why I can be spared for a little while. We’ll let him do some of the work until I’m up again.” His eyes were glittering with fever.

  THE tranquillity of Lent was interrupted by the discovery of a coded document purporting to be from Dublin Castle and setting forth detailed plans for the military occupation of Dublin.5

  People were shocked.

  When the document first appeared, Dublin Castle tried to enforce censorship. That soon failed; the story broke in the papers and the authorities rushed into print themselves to proclaim the document a blatant forgery, an “absolute fabrication from beginning to end.”

  They had good reason to be alarmed. Almost every phrase was inflammatory. Perched on the corner of his desk, Henry Mooney read aloud to his colleagues at the Independent: “We have learned from a reliable source that the military authorities plan to take severe punitive action against the Irish Volunteers, the Citizen Army, Sinn Féin, the Gaelic League, and the National Volunteers, among others. Nationalist centers are to be occupied by British troops and wholesale arrests and deportations are anticipated. Premises to be occupied include 2 Dawson Street, Liberty Hall, 6 Harcourt Street, 25 Rutland Square…”

  Men were looking at one another and shaking their heads.

  Henry went on reading: “We understand that even private homes are not to be exempt. According to the document which has come into our possession, the Archbishop’s Palace in Drumcondra is to be searched and put under armed guard. Similar treatment is planned for the homes of Count George Plunkett, Professor Eoin MacNeill, Countess Constance Markievicz, Michael George O’Rahilly, Saint Enda’s School in Rathfarnham…” Henry paused, looked up, grinned. “See additional listings on page three, with maps.”

  “How dare they drag the Archbishop of Dublin into this!” a reporter exclaimed. “Walsh is sympathetic to the nationalist cause, but that’s no reason to treat him like a pariah. This will turn people against the government if anything will.”

  Someone else said, “Don’t be too sure. The well-off want things to stay as they are, while all the poor feel is apathy. Still, I have no doubt a lot of questions are being asked this morning. Maybe it will do some good, stir things up.”

  Henry caught Ned’s eye. “The power of the press,” he said smugly.

  The document’s authenticity was hotly debated. It proved to have a curious pedigree. The document had first come to light when it was brought to the attention of the Provisional Committee of the Irish Volunteers, including Eoin MacNeill, by Joe Plunkett.6 Thomas MacDonagh asserted that the document had been given to the Volunteers by friends in the Castle and decoded by Plunkett himself. Alderman Tom Kelly had read it aloud to an alarmed Dublin Corporation. Patrick J. Little, editor of New Ireland, had attempted to print it but been censored by the Castle, only to see the major dailies subsequently carry the story in bold type.

  Major-General Lovick Friend, currently commanding the British forces in Ireland, was known to be taking precautionary measures against anticipated “Sinn Féin trouble.” Yet Dublin Castle officially denied that any document describing plans for military occupation of the city had ever existed.

  Because of the document, however, Eoin MacNeill issued an executive order to the Volunteers to be ready to defend themselves and their weapons.7 It was tantamount to a call to arms.

  Volunteers and the Citizen Army alike thronged shops such as Lawlor’s in Foynes Street to buy bandoliers, Sam Browne belts, haversacks, canteens, swords, bayonets. Mysterious parcels were delivered to hotels in the sidecars of motorcycles. A steady stream of dispatch carriers set out for Volunteer posts throughout the country.

  Yet in spite of the uproar caused by the so-called Castle Document, official Dublin continued to function as normal.

  “The Castle’s adopting a very Irish attitude,” Henry commented wryly. “When there’s a problem, look the other way.”

  Ned went to Larkfield to collect some maps for Seán MacDermott and discovered that Joe Plunkett had returned from the nursing home. Plunkett’s throat was heavily bandaged and his voice no more than a whisper, but he greeted Ned with shining eyes. “The Castle Document has really set them on their ears!” he crowed.

  Ned suddenly remembered that there was a small, hand-operated printing press at Larkfield,8 one the count sometimes used in connection with his business. “Are you sure that document’s genuine?”

  Plunkett laughed; a thin, nervy laugh, almost on the edge of hysteria. In that moment Ned realized how ill he really was. “Grace was with me when I decoded it. Plus we have a signed statement from a telegraphist at Dublin Castle to the effect that it’s genuine, abstracted from their own files. Sometimes you have to fight them with their own weapons,” he added with a dramatic flourish of his hand, like a fencer going for touch.

  CHIEF Secretary Birrell and Major-General Friend were spending the Easter holidays in London. Under-Secretary Nathan reported things were peaceful enough in Dublin. He wrote, “Though the Irish Volunteer element has been active of late, I do not believe that its leaders mean insurrection or that the Volunteers have sufficient arms if the leaders do mean it.”

  ON Palm Saturday, the Dublin branch of Cumann na mBan held a céili in Grocers’ Hall.9 It was organized at the request of Seán MacDermott to serve as cover so that Volunteer officers from distant counties could meet with the Military Council. Republican strongholds such as Cork and Clare were anxious to know just what the latest plans were.

  Síle Duffy went to the céili—but not to dance. Instead she flirted outrageously with the policemen on the street outside to distract them.

  When Ned arrived he saw Síle standing on the corne
r laughing with a member of the DMP. He understood at once what she was doing, but that did not make it any less painful. All my life, he thought, I shall feel this whenever I see her with another man.

  Everything had a price.

  She pretended not to notice him as he brushed past her, but the sound of her laughter followed him into the hall.

  Just inside, Kathleen Clarke and another woman were standing on either side of Seán MacDermott to discourage people from stopping to chat with him. Every girl who attended the dance seemed to want to speak to him, but he was watching for other faces; men to be sent upstairs.

  MacDermott nodded to Ned. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “What about you?”

  “I shall leave soon,” said MacDermott, glancing toward the stairs at the back of the hall.

  Music played and the respectable middle-class ladies of Cumann na mBan danced with their husbands and sweethearts, while in a sparsely furnished room overhead tense men spoke in low tones of the Rising. Ned helped himself to a glass of punch and wandered around for a few minutes, trying to get up nerve to ask one of the women to dance. Then he noticed a commotion at the door and went over.

  Con Colbert had just arrived, obviously unhappy. “It isn’t right to hold a céili during Lent,” he was protesting to Tom Clarke’s wife.

  “Oh go on, Con, don’t be so squeamish,” she teased. “A boy your age should dance when he can; for all you know you might be dancing at the end of a rope one of these days.”10

  No sooner had she spoken the words than she went white and clapped her hand to her mouth, but it was too late.

  Ned patted her shoulder. “That’s all right, I know you didn’t mean it and so does Con. We’re all under a strain.”