1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Riding alone through the night, he imagined Seán Heuston and a company of Volunteers at the Mendicity Institute. He knew the place as he now knew most of Dublin. One of the oldest charitable institutions in the city, it was a former Ascendancy mansion transformed into a warren of shabby chambers where the city’s destitute elderly were given subsistence fare by an overworked, underfunded staff.

  The institute smelled the way the orphanage smelled, of poverty and pathos.

  As he neared Rathfarnham, Ned was trying to compose a picture with words that would capture—

  A bicycle tire blew and the machine wobbled violently sideways. A moment later he was lying in a ditch, suffering a banged head and a skinned knee. When he examined the bicycle by the light of the nearly full moon, he found the front wheel badly out of alignment.

  “Everything happens to me,” Ned informed the night.

  He recalled seeing a sign for bicycle repair on a shopfront in Rathfarnham, so he walked the damaged bike into the village. If he could possibly get someone to repair the machine tonight he must; he would need it tomorrow.

  A man who lived over the shop eventually responded to his knock and came down. He wanted an exorbitant price to fix the bicycle, but Ned was in no position to argue. He waited impatiently for an interminable time while the stars wheeled in the Irish sky.

  It was close to two in the morning when he finally reached Saint Enda’s. As he was propping his bicycle against the side wall he was astonished to see a motorcar pulling up to the front steps. Several men got out. Ned recognized Eoin MacNeill and Bulmer Hobson, both looking very grim, and a third man whom he did not know.

  MacNeill strode up the steps and pounded the door with an angry fist.10 For a few moments nothing happened, then lights went on upstairs. Soon Pádraic Pearse, in his dressing gown, opened the door.

  “We have to talk to you,” MacNeill said curtly, brushing past him.

  Before Ned could make his presence known, the men entered the building and the door closed behind them.

  A light went on in the headmaster’s study.

  Uncertain what to do, Ned drifted toward the nearest study window. Pearse liked to keep his windows slightly open at the top so there would always be fresh air in the room no matter how cold the season. Ned could hear the voices distinctly.

  Eoin MacNeill was doing the talking. He was in a towering rage. “Damn it, Pádraic! We have to have this out right now. In Dawson Street today Bulmer overheard a bit of conversation he obviously wasn’t meant to hear. Orders have been issued which can only have one interpretation. You’re planning an insurrection on Easter Sunday without my knowledge and in direct contravention of my policy!”

  “To which orders do you refer?” Pearse asked calmly.

  “Railway seizures, blowing up bridges, cutting off Dublin from the rest of the country—what in God’s name are you thinking of!”

  Crouching beneath the window, shivering from cold and exhaustion, Ned knew the answer before he heard Pearse speak.

  “I am thinking of Ireland.”

  “Ireland!”

  “The Ireland you love as well as I do. You are right, Eoin. A Rising is scheduled.”

  “And was the Castle Document just a ruse to get me on your side, to urge me toward this madness? If so, I bitterly resent the deception. I resent all the deceptions. I see now that your crowd has kept things from me for months. You knew I would never agree to this, yet you let me think we were in agreement while all the time—”

  “We are in agreement,” Pearse interrupted. “You want independence for Ireland as much as I do.”

  Bulmer Hobson interjected, “But not this way, not now! We aren’t ready. I thought we would wait and consolidate our position and then after the next war—”

  “What next war?” Pearse’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Haven’t the British told us this is the war to end all wars?”

  “Oh there’ll be another one, you know that. The European countries will always fight over territory. We can wait until we’re stronger and the situation is more to our advantage.”

  “So you want us to put Ireland’s freedom on the long finger yet again,” Pearse replied bitterly. “We have the perfect opportunity now but you haven’t the nerve.”

  “It isn’t a question of nerve,” Hobson began, but MacNeill’s voice overrode him. “You deceived me!”

  Pearse somehow remained calm. “You were deceived, but it was necessary. You are by nature too cautious when what is required is audacity. James Connolly understands this much better than you do.

  “Leaders in Ireland have nearly always failed their people at the crucial moment.11 We are determined that will not happen this time. We are determined that this shall be the last, the successful, Rising, and so we have kept it from you, knowing that you would try to interfere.

  “We are only a few days away from success, Eoin. To attempt to stop all the forces that have been brought into play would lead to disaster.”

  “Going through with it will lead to disaster!” MacNeill shouted at him. “I can’t be responsible for putting half-armed men into the field to be slaughtered. Before God, I’ll do everything in my power to stop you; everything except ring up Dublin Castle myself!”12

  Chapter Forty-five

  MACNEILL and his companions stormed out of the building. In their excitement they did not notice the young man half-hidden in the darkness. As they got into their car, Ned heard MacNeill say, “I’m going to cancel all orders for Volunteer activity over the weekend. We’ll put a stop to this here and now.”

  The car door slammed. Tires squealed on gravel. They were gone.

  Badly shaken, Ned made his way to the door and knocked. Pearse opened to him almost at once, looking surprised to see him. “Come in! You are very welcome. Forgive my informality, but I just had visitors who did not give me time to put on my clothes.”

  “I know, I heard them from outside your window,” Ned admitted as he followed Pearse into the study. “I think Professor MacNeill means to do what he says, sir.”

  “So do I. We cannot let that happen. We’ve gone too far and it is almost within our grasp now. What was it Seán MacDermott said to me last year? ‘If we can hold Dublin for one week, we’ll hold Ireland forever.’ We have to have that week.”

  “Professor MacNeill will stop you.”

  “Not if we are persuasive enough. He caught me unawares tonight; I had no time to prepare. I shall go to him later today with Seán and Thomas and explain that no matter what we do, there’s no holding James Connolly. That is certainly true. If we also tell Eoin about the shipment of German arms he will realize there can be no turning back.

  “In his heart he wants what we all want, I’m convinced of that. He knew we were headed toward this from the beginning, but he would not admit it to himself because it frightened him. No one admires Eoin MacNeill more than I do, but he simply does not have those particular qualities needed to be a leader of revolutionaries.” Pearse gave faint smile. “Perhaps that is to his credit.”

  He noticed Ned was shivering. “Here, you should be in bed. There is plenty of room upstairs. Mary Brigid’s not here and the students have gone home for Easter, but Des Ryan and Con Colbert are with us. I believe your old dormitory is unoccupied, however. Go up and get a night’s sleep; you will need it.”

  Ned left Pádraic Pearse sitting at his desk, writing.

  Tired as he was, Ned could not sleep. He tossed and turned on the familiar bed in Saint Brendan’s dormitory, then lay on his back with his arms folded beneath his head and stared unseeingly toward the crucifix on the wall. He felt as if he stood on the edge of a cliff—the Cliffs of Moher in Clare, perhaps, with the Atlantic thundering below. He was cut loose from reality, adrift in space and time. Scenes flickered through his head like scenes in a play as his imagination strove to create the days to come.

  IN the morning he rode into the city with Pádraic Pearse in an unfamiliar Ford motorcar. Con Colbert drove. As he was helping
Ned put his bicycle into the boot, Colbert explained, “I’m supposed to be Mr. Pearse’s bodyguard but he insists he won’t have one. I don’t think he wants a driver, either, but I have to justify my existence somehow, so I borrowed this from a friend of mine. I felt our commander-in-chief should travel in style like the British officers. We only have it until Sunday, though.”

  Ned was impressed. “Do you think you could teach me to drive?”

  “I can of course; we’ll do it after the Rising.”

  Pearse and Ned sat in the back. With a great clash of gears, the Ford lurched off down the lane.

  “How long have you been driving?” Ned wondered.

  Colbert glanced over his shoulder with a jaunty grin. “A week. A whole week tomorrow.”

  The car narrowly avoiding hitting one of the gates, swerved onto the main road, and headed for Dublin.

  By the time Ned was left in Gardiner Street the morning sun was high in the sky. Good Friday. Before he did anything else he wanted to change clothes and go to church for the Stations of the Cross. He was already so late for work another hour would hardly make a difference. After the Rising it could all be sorted out.

  He slipped upstairs as quietly as he could. When he reached the room he shared with Henry he opened the door without knocking—just in time to hear Neville Grantham say “…for the rebellion.”

  Ned’s heart leaped like a salmon. “What rebellion?”

  Startled, both men turned toward him. Grantham said, “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “Then why were you telling a journalist?”

  “Because I gave my word as an Etonian that I would inform Henry if we heard anything definite about a rebellion.”

  In spite of the gravity of the moment, Ned was amused. “Not a vow before God, but your word as an Etonian.”

  Grantham looked hurt.

  “And I gave my word,” said Henry, “that whatever he told me would be held in strictest confidence. I’m asking you to honor that, Ned.”

  “Why? I didn’t give any such pledge.”

  “I’m asking you for it now in the name of our friendship. Being a newspaperman means protecting one’s sources. What Neville’s been telling me could get him in very serious trouble.”

  Ned was exhausted after his troubled night. His eyes were grainy, his head an echoing cavern. At Saint Enda’s the precept of honor had been rigorously drilled into the students, and his honor was being called upon now. “All right, I give you my word I won’t say anything. But don’t you think you owe me an explanation? You can’t leave me with just the wee bit I heard; that’s worse than not knowing anything.”

  “Very well,” said Grantham, “but you never heard this from me. Since February, His Majesty’s government has been intercepting and decoding all essential messages passing between the United States, Germany, and Ireland.1 For reasons I can only speculate about, the Castle hasn’t been told. But the viceroy’s been taking a keen interest.

  “I just learned that on Tuesday the viceroy was informed that a German trawler called the Aud is known to be on its way to Ireland, loaded with weapons for the Irish rebels.2 She’s expected to make landfall today, and she’ll meet with a rough reception.”

  “But today’s Good Friday!” Ned cried in horror. “I have to warn—”

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Grantham interrupted. “You gave your word.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  NED saw Henry staring at him, then watched the light of understanding dawn in the journalist’s eyes. “Neville, you can’t hold Ned to that promise. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I don’t know anything!” the Englishman snapped. “We none of us know more than bits and pieces, unfortunately. Something’s going on, though, something very serious. I don’t even know why I came here to tell you, except I should like to think we’ve become friends, and I have a terrible feeling the situation’s about to explode.”

  Both men looked at Ned.

  “Is it?” Henry asked him quietly.

  Ned was teetering on the brink of that cliff now. One tiny loss of balance could send him tumbling over, dragging so many friends with him.

  If the British knew about the German arms and forestalled them, the provincial Volunteers would have insufficient weapons. MacNeill would be proved right; the corps would be half-armed at best. The Rising might be doomed. Weighed against that possibility even his own honor was expendable.

  Ned faced Grantham squarely. “You said it yourself, we none of us know more than bits and pieces. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s Good Friday and I’m going to do my devotions. So, if you gentlemen will excuse me…”

  THE horror of it was, he could not find anyone.

  His bicycle wheel had been badly mended, but he rode as fast as he dared to the North Circular Road, only to learn that Seán MacDermott had driven off with Pádraic Pearse and Thomas MacDonagh. To make matters worse, Tom Clarke was not in either of his shops and Mrs. Clarke could not, or would not, say where he might be found. Secrecy was clamping down hard.

  As for Eamonn Ceannt, his wife reported he had left home early that morning and she did not know where he had gone. She did not know when he would return. She did not know anything, period.

  In desperation, Ned went to MacNeill’s house on Hatch Street. There was no motorcar parked in front. The curtains were closed. He shouted and banged on the front door and finally kicked it in desperation, but all he could rouse were echoes. No one was home.

  Ned sat on the curb for a few minutes with his head in his hands. Then he got back on his bicycle.

  At Volunteer Headquarters he found Bulmer Hobson removing papers from boxes and file drawers.1 He glanced up as Ned entered. “Halloran! You’re just in time to help me destroy these records. Fetch a metal wastepaper basket and we’ll start burning them. I’d hate to have them fall into the wrong hands.” Before Hobson could put action to word, however, a messenger arrived and handed him a folded sheet of letter paper.2 He scanned its contents at a glance, shook his head, read it again.

  “Wait a minute,” he told Ned. He read the note a third time, then crumpled it up and threw it on the floor. “Why the hell can’t that man make up his mind!” Hobson strode from the room.

  Ned retrieved the note and spread it smooth. “Take no further action at present. MacNeill.” Dated the same day, it was written on the letterhead of Woodtown Park, a country house belonging to MacNeill’s brother.3

  Obviously, thought Ned, MacNeill had gone to spend the holiday there and Pearse and the others had found him after all and convinced him to hold off. But what would that mean to the overall plan? How did things stand? What should he do?

  His eye fell on a paper that had blown off the desk, and he stooped to pick it up.

  It was a notice intended for officers, reading, “You will report at Temporary Headquarters, Beresford Place, on Sunday next at 4 p.m. You will provide yourself with a bicycle, a street map of Dublin City, a road map of the Dublin District, and a field message book. You will carry full arms and ammunition, field equipment including overcoat, and rations for eight hours.”4

  Ned took it as a sign. Beresford Place: Liberty Hall. He ran out into Dawson Street and remounted his bicycle.

  The armed sentry at the door of Liberty Hall was Eliza Goggins. This time she called his name. “Ned Halloran! It is you, is it not?”

  As with the Irish Volunteers, many of Connolly’s militia lacked official uniforms. Eliza Goggins was one of the lucky ones. She was still thin, but the dark green tunic gave her a new dignity. She stood proudly erect; she did not fidget.

  At her hip she wore a Luger Parabellum pistol.5

  With an effort Ned tore his eyes away from the weapon. “Miss Goggins, how kind of you to remember me.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t forget you.”

  “I need to see Mr. Connolly, is he here?”

  “He’s gone out for a while, but he’ll be back. Do you want to wait?”

 
; “I’ll wait, I have to talk to him.” Ned was still disturbed by Eliza’s pistol. He felt there was something vaguely obscene about a woman, aside from Constance Markievicz, carrying a weapon. “That’s a fine pistol,” he commented.

  “Mr. Connolly gave it to me because I couldn’t afford to buy one. I know how to use it, too. Madame taught me.”

  “Madame! Is she here?”

  “She’s off somewhere with the Fianna. There’s a lot of activity today,” Eliza added unnecessarily. “I think something’s about to happen.” Her eyes were sparkling with excitement, bringing a flush of beauty to her plain little face.

  “I take it you don’t know the plans?”

  “I’ll be told what I need to know when the time comes,” she replied like a good soldier.

  All of them waiting. All of them poised on the brink of that cliff.

  Ned sat down on a bench near the door and fought to keep awake. The afternoon was passing; time was the enemy now. He did not know what to do except wait for Connolly. He could not think past that point.

  Once he went over and tried to start a conversation with Eliza Goggins but she discouraged him. Casual chat was not properly military.

  Activity swirled around him, but no one else had time for conversation, either. Men and women were constantly entering and leaving the hall, many of them carrying weapons.

  At last James Connolly came striding through the doorway. Ned hurried to intercept him. “I have to speak to you right away, sir, on a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  “The last time you spoke to me here on a matter of urgency—”

  “I know, and I apologize. But please?”

  Connolly read the desperation in his eyes. “All right, what is it?”

  He listened with growing alarm. When Ned told him there was only one German trawler instead of the expected three, he struck his forehead with the heel of his hand in frustration. “If what you say is true, Halloran, the British know all about those weapons by now! They may even have captured them.”