1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I’m afraid it is true. I have no reason to doubt my source; he took a fearful risk in telling me.”

  “Shite!” Connolly spat out the vulgarity as if it burned his mouth.

  “Furthermore,” Ned went on, “Mr. Pearse told Professor MacNeill the German arms were coming to persuade him to let the Rising go ahead.”

  “You’re certain of that too, I suppose?”

  Ned related the scene with Bulmer Hobson at Volunteer Headquarters.

  Connolly pounded his fist against the nearest wall. “What a blasted cockup! We’d better have a meeting of the Military Council right away. I’ll send a motor cab to collect them and bring them here, that’s the quickest. Do you think Pearse will be back at Saint Enda’s by now?”

  “I imagine he will.”

  “Well, you’ve done your duty for today, Halloran. I’ll take it from here. Why don’t you get some supper for yourself?”

  “I don’t think I could swallow a bite,” Ned said truthfully. While he was waiting for Connolly he had become aware of a pounding headache.

  “Go anyway. Nothing will be happening for a while.”

  As he left the building Ned paused to repeat Connolly’s words to Eliza Goggins. “Nothing will be happening for a while.”

  “When it does, I’m ready,” she assured him.

  GOOD Friday was almost over and he had not yet been to church.

  He wondered if Mr. Pearse had.

  By the time Ned returned to Gardiner Place and tumbled into bed his head hurt so badly he could hardly bear to blink his eyes. Henry was not home yet, for which Ned was thankful. His head hurt dreadfully and he did not want to talk. He just wanted to sleep for days and days.

  HE came swimming up through layers of fuzziness to find someone shaking his shoulder none too gently.

  “Ned. Ned! Wake up, will you? What the hell’s going on?”

  “How should I know? I’m asleep.”

  “You’re awake now. Talk to me.”

  “What time is it? What day is it?”

  “Saturday, middle of the afternoon. You seemed so exhausted I let you sleep this morning, but you can’t sleep any longer. Open your eyes, Ned!”

  The room swam into focus. Henry was bending over him. One look at the man’s face made Ned sit bolt upright. “What’s happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Late yesterday Seán MacDermott and some other men took over Volunteer Headquarters. Bulmer Hobson’s nowhere to be found.6 Rumors are running wild. I just spoke to Neville Grantham, who says Dublin Castle’s finally been told about the German trawler. They’re furious that the Admiralty informed the viceroy but didn’t tell them.”

  “What about the ship, Henry?”

  “When the Aud arrived twenty-nine English warships were waiting for her, I’m afraid.7 The German commander scuttled his vessel off Queenstown. She’s taken the weapons to the bottom, but her officers and crew were captured.”

  Ned stared at him aghast.

  “Apparently there was another ship,” Henry went on, “a German U-boat that put three men ashore on Banna Strand in Tralee Bay. A British intelligence officer has already called on the Independent to tell us we can’t publish anything about the Aud, and all we can say about the three men on Banna Strand is that one of them has been arrested. No names. But between you and me, he’s Sir Roger Casement.”

  “Sir Roger?” Ned was totally, terribly, awake. “Oh God, Henry, what’s happening?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything at this stage, except I’d best find Mr. Pearse.”

  Henry said, “It is Pearse, isn’t it? Pearse is leading a Rising.”

  “Not just him. It’s Seán MacDermott and Tom Clarke and—”

  The journalist abruptly put his hand over Ned’s mouth. “Don’t tell me any more. I was wrong to ask you.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Never mind what you thought. I have ethics, too. Go find Pearse and warn him.”

  THE bicycle looked worse than Ned remembered. It was actually dangerous to ride, but that could hardly matter now. He raced through the streets, taking fearful risks with the cobblestones.

  When he reached Volunteer Headquarters there was no sign of Pearse, but Seán MacDermott was there. For once the laughter had gone out of him. His handsome face was grim as he affirmed, “It was Casement, all right. God alone knows what he was doing there. Maybe he was just trying to get home for the Rising.

  “Anyway, last night we had an emergency conference and decided Eoin MacNeill had to be informed, so Pat and Thomas MacDonagh went to tell him. We hoped MacNeill would agree that fast action is imperative now, but the news about the Aud had the opposite effect on him. He’s definitely decided to cancel the Easter Sunday maneuvers, and he won’t change his mind this time.8 He’s sent out orders countermanding Pearse’s orders, he’s putting notices in the newspapers, and he’s even sent The O’Rahilly down to Limerick to cancel arrangements there.”

  Over. It was over, then, Ned thought with sudden anguish. Snatched away at the last moment, all those months and years of work, the dreams of centuries…

  MacDermott was saying, “Of course, this has given the Castle the excuse they’ve been looking for. Everyone’s in jeopardy—Volunteers, Citizen Army, the lot. God knows what dossiers they’ve compiled to use against us. If we don’t act fast we’ll all be arrested and everything really will be lost.”

  Ned’s breath caught in his throat. “Do you mean—go ahead anyway?”

  “I don’t see that we have any choice. We can stack the cards in our favor, though. Easter Monday is the big race meet at Fairyhouse. Most of the Dublin garrison will be out there, miles from anywhere, especially since they think any danger is past. Postponing the Rising for a day would give us an almost unguarded city. Joe and Thomas are in agreement with me.”

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Pearse yet?”

  “Not yet; he went back to Saint Enda’s last night. Are you going out there?”

  “I’m on my bike!”

  “Good. We can hold a strategy meeting at Liberty Hall first thing in the morning. The only person I’m worried about notifying is Eamonn; he’s been scouting around the city trying to get his communications network set up, and I don’t know where he is. I’ve sent Cathal Brugha to look for him.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Mr. Pearse says I’m supposed to know where everyone is this week.”

  At last the tension went out of MacDermott’s face and he laughed. “This is a revolution, Ned! You’ll be lucky to know where you are yourself.”

  “I’ll just stay close to Mr. Pearse, then. But before I go, would you take a look at my bicycle? I had an accident the other day and it wasn’t mended properly. A bicycle will get me to Saint Enda’s faster than the Rathfarnham tram, but I don’t want to wind up in a ditch again.”

  MacDermott followed Ned out into the street and crouched down beside his machine, muttering good-naturedly, “The things I do for Ireland.”

  AS he rode through the city, Ned glanced wistfully at the public call boxes he passed. How much simpler it would be if he could telephone. But artificial forms of communication were suspect now. He recalled a line from one of Pádraic Pearse’s lectures: “The words of the bards come down the centuries to us, warm with living breath.”

  That was all one could trust: the message warm with living breath.

  As Ned pedaled up the drive of Saint Enda’s, Pádraic Pearse came out of the house to meet him. “I saw you from my window. Come into my study and we’ll talk privately. I don’t want to alarm the women.”

  He listened gravely while Ned explained what he knew of the situation, concluding with, “Seán MacDermott wants to have a meeting on Sunday morning in Liberty Hall.”

  “Willie and I will be there. In fact, I think we should leave Saint Enda’s tonight, just in case someone is sent to arrest us. You wait here, Ned; I’ll get Willie and we’ll go in to
Dublin together. He and I can spend the night at a safe house, and it will give me a chance to talk to Connolly and one or two others before the meeting.”9

  Ned sat on the edge of his chair in Pearse’s study for a while, then got up and paced the floor. As he looked out the big windows he could see the full glory of Irish Eastertide in bloom.

  It’s so beautiful, he thought, and it’s our country. Why can’t they simply let us have it? We’ve never invaded anyone else’s country. All we ask is to hold ours in peace. Is that too much?

  Chapter Forty-seven

  EASTER Sunday. Ned went to Mass and took Communion, then ate a hearty breakfast at his boardinghouse before going to Liberty Hall. He suspected he would need the energy.

  Once again Eliza Goggins was on sentry duty, together with several armed men who eyed each new arrival with suspicion. “There’s a big meeting in Mr. Connolly’s office,” she told Ned. “Have you seen the papers? The Sunday Independent is carrying an order signed by Eoin MacNeill and calling off the maneuvers today.”

  “I know.”

  “What does it mean? I don’t understand.”

  Ned gave Eliza a wry smile. “Here’s your brother. I don’t understand, either.”

  Eventually the meeting broke up and people began leaving the building. As Eamonn Ceannt headed for the door Ned heard him say, “If we last a month the British will come to terms.” James Connolly called after him, “If we win we’ll all be great fellows. If we lose we’ll be the greatest scoundrels in history.1

  Pádraic Pearse and Con Markievicz stopped to hold an earnest conversation with Seán MacDermott, but Thomas MacDonagh noticed Ned and came over to him.

  Ned greeted him with, “Where’s Joe Plunkett?”

  “He’s ill, I’m afraid. Michael Collins brought him to the Hotel Metropole to be closer to the G.P.O.,2 but we’re letting him sleep for now. We’ll tell him about this later on today.”

  “Was there a decision in the meeting?”

  “Not at first. We’re all determined the Rising go forward, but there was a difference of opinion as to timing. Seán suggested we postpone it until Monday, while Pat and I both felt we needed more time to reorganize.3

  “But Tom Clarke said it would be too confusing to make changes at this late date. He argued that if the Rising went ahead as planned the Volunteers would assume MacNeill’s countermand was a Castle hoax and ignore it. Of course Connolly simply wants the revolution to begin, the sooner the better. Last month would have suited him just fine.

  “I think we reached the best possible compromise under the circumstances. Pat will issue orders supporting MacNeill’s countermand. That should lull the Castle into thinking the danger’s over and staying their hand, at least for a few days. So Easter Sunday maneuvers are officially canceled.”

  Ned was puzzled. “You call that a compromise?”

  MacDonagh’s eyes danced. “There’ll be a second set of orders. The Rising begins noon Monday instead.”

  “Yes!” Ned punched the air with his fist. He could feel a bubble rising in him, filling him with radiance.

  PÁDRAIC Pearse was going to prepare the new orders and wait long enough to see them printed and sent out. James Connolly anticipated little difficulty in notifying the Citizen Army, as they were Dubliners anyway. But the wide-flung Volunteers were a different story.

  Members of Cumann na mBan were to carry the orders to the Volunteers in the rest of the country.4 Con Markievicz had argued that women were best for the job because they were less likely to be suspected, and the men—with the exception of Pádraic Pearse—agreed. James Connolly volunteered his daughter, Nora, to inform the Irish Volunteers in Belfast.

  Once the dispatch carriers were on their way Pearse intended to go home. “Willie and I want to have Easter dinner at Saint Enda’s,” he told Ned. “I believe it’s safe enough now for one more night, and we need to say a proper farewell to Mother. Would you like to come with us?”

  “I would surely!”

  But first he had to see Síle.

  He sped to the Fairview house. Hearing his familiar whistle, she came out to meet him. In spite of Ned’s tension he noticed how the sunlight burnished her hair. “Do you know what’s happened?” she asked as he parked his bicycle. “I’ve been reading the papers. I can’t believe it’s canceled.”

  Ned fought back his desire to tell her everything. “There won’t be any maneuvers today, Síle. Mr. Pearse is preparing new orders to that effect right now. Then he’s going back to Saint Enda’s and I’m going with him.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes told her disappointment.

  He understood what she was feeling and opened his arms. She folded herself into his embrace like a bird settling into its nest. They stood holding each other, letting their bodies do the talking.

  At last Síle spoke. “There’s no one in the house; they’ve all gone home to be with their families. Except for me.”

  Her hair smelled of white lilac. “You are with your family,” Ned told her.

  THEY lay together on her bed, floating in opalescent light. April glowed through the lace curtains on the window. A quiet Easter in Dublin.

  Sunday with Síle.

  She kept her room spotlessly clean. The sheets were soft from countless boilings and smelled of sun and wind from hanging on the clothesline. Síle’s counterpane was blue. Her pillowcase was embroidered. Everything was fresh and wholesome—even the vase of daffodils on the windowsill.

  Ned ran his palm over the curves of her naked body, memorizing the texture of her skin. He wanted to know all of Síle, not just her sex but the wings of her shoulder blades and the taut column of her throat. He loved the soft little roll of fat below her waist. He could take hold of it with his two hands and pull her tight against him. He loved the seashell shape of her ears and her fox-colored hair. Her eyelids with their tiny blue veins, closing in pleasure when he kissed them. The dimples in her buttocks.

  The glisten of his semen drying on her thighs.

  “You flooded me,” she said with a lazy laugh. “I’m overflowing.”

  “Is there room for more?”

  “There’s always room for more.” She reached for him.

  Suddenly Ned was suffocating with desire. He wanted to take her again, slow and tender, then urgent and intense, loving her for hours, making it last forever. In Síle’s arms he could forget the world beyond. Let the revolution start without him.

  Time. There is never enough time!

  Leaving her was the hardest thing he had ever done. But Pádraic Pearse was waiting.

  Síle walked out with him to his bicycle. “When will I see you again?”

  He could not tell her the whole truth, but he would not lie to her. “I don’t know; it may be several days. In the meantime, take care of yourself and…do something for me?”

  “I will of course.”

  “Keep an eye on Precious, will you?”

  Síle caught him by the arm and made him face her. “What’s wrong, Ned?”

  “Just look after Precious. There is a man, a priest, called Father Paul O’Shaughnessy; he’s assisting the chaplain at Kilmainham. If anything should happen to me, get to him and tell him. He’s to take Precious to my sister in America.”

  Her eyes were wide with alarm. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Just promise me, Síle.”

  “I won’t promise you any such thing. Precious is ours, don’t you know that? If anything happened to you I would take her and keep her myself, I would…Oh Ned, tell me!”

  WITH the students gone home for the holidays, Saint Enda’s was strangely quiet. Mary Brigid came back for Easter Sunday, but her mother warned everyone to say nothing about the Rising in her hearing. “There is no point in upsetting the child,” Mrs. Pearse said. “We don’t know how she may take it.”

  Family and guests gathered around the mahogany table in the dining room, pretending to eat the Sunday dinner Mrs. Pearse had lovingly prepared. So much food, so little appet
ite. Only Mary Brigid ate with enthusiasm, taking second helpings. Ned mashed his peas into his potatoes and hid the debris with bread.

  They spoke of the fine weather and the summer to come. They spoke of the autumn and the next school term.

  When dinner was over Mary Brigid gave an impromptu concert on her harp. Con Colbert took her home before returning the borrowed Ford to its owners. Afterward he went for a stroll through the grounds of Saint Enda’s with Des Ryan and Ned. “I really hated returning that motorcar,” Colbert confessed to them. “But I had given my word.”

  The echo of the harp seemed to linger on the twilight air. In the fireplace of his cottage on the grounds, Michael MacRory was burning turf, and the fragrance gave Ned an aching nostalgia. “Will it ever be like this again?”

  Des Ryan shook his head. “Not for us, I suspect.”

  “Just think,” mused Con Colbert. “This morning the Volunteers woke up expecting a big march today. What a surprise they had when they read the papers.”

  Ned said, “Some of them may already have gone away for the holidays because they think everything’s canceled. We’ve dispatched the new orders, but I don’t know if they’ll reach the men in time.”

  “Do we stand a chance of winning if they don’t?”

  Ned was watching the last glow of light fade in the western sky. He turned slowly to face his friends. “I think not.”

  “Do they know?” Ryan inclined his head toward the house.

  “I’m sure they do. Patrick Henry Pearse—the headmaster has the same name as a hero of the American Revolution, did you know that? The American Patrick Henry said ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’ That’s how our Mr. Pearse feels, too.”

  They were Saint Enda’s boys, encouraged to debate. For the sake of the old custom Ryan argued, “Mr. Pearse has that right, but does he also have the right to sacrifice other men?”

  “We are none of us being forced. We’re Volunteers, remember? That’s how it should be; that’s what makes conscription so awful. If we decide to put our lives at risk in the name of freedom, that is our choice.”