1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Con Colbert joined the debate. “But we’ll also be committing treason. What do you say about that?”

  Ned was ready for him. At some point he had stopped questioning. In the words of Pearse’s boyhood riding instructor, he had “thrown his heart over the fence” and was prepared to follow wherever it led. He told Colbert, “The definition of treason in the Oxford English Dictionary is ‘violation by subject of allegiance to sovereign or State.’5 Ireland can’t be considered disloyal to England because it has never been loyal to England. Edward Carson and his Unionists don’t speak for the majority in this country, not by a long chalk. We haven’t sworn allegiance to King George or his Great Britain. We’re Irish. Our allegiance is to Ireland.” He set his jaw at the stubborn angle his family knew so well. “If we fail at least we’ll have tried.”

  Des Ryan shouted, “Right you are!”

  Con Colbert put two fingers in his mouth and gave an earsplitting whistle.

  They rambled on until they came to the playing field where they had enjoyed so many hurling matches. They took imaginary swings with invisible hurling sticks, and Ned made a spectacular run down the field with the other two after him.

  Eventually a chill breeze sent them back to the house.

  Night was falling.

  NED was awake before dawn on Monday morning. He knelt on the bare floor of Saint Brendan’s dormitory checking off his kit against the Volunteer equipment leaflet: Uniform or clothes of neutral color, nothing white or shiny.6 Uniform; I have that. Strong comfortable boots or heavy shoes. Overcoat.

  Rifle with sling and cleaning outfit. One of the old Mausers from Howth, though not my original weapon. Ammunition with bandolier or ammunition pouches. Bayonet with scabbard. Bought from Lawlor’s, almost the last one they had left. Charged me too much for it. Strong knife.

  Haversack with water bottle, mess tin, knife, fork, spoon, cup, one dry stick for starting a fire. Knapsack containing spare shirt, pair of socks, towel, soap, comb, scissors, needle, thread, safety pins.

  In tunic pocket: clasp knife, notebook and pencil, matches in a tin box, bootlaces, strong cord, a candle, colored handkerchiefs.

  Maps. Lots of maps.

  His heart was thundering as he dressed. His fingers were so cold he had to warm them in his armpits before he could fasten the buttons.

  When he came down the stairs he could hear a murmur of voices from the dining room. Margaret Pearse sounded upset; Willie was trying to soothe her. Plates clattered. Someone dropped a cup.

  “Do you want some breakfast, Ned?” Mrs. Pearse asked as he entered the room. She was on her knees, cleaning up the broken cup and spilled tea while both Con Colbert and Des Ryan made ineffectual efforts to help her. “Perhaps a nice boiled egg? And there are creamed kidneys on the sideboard; I made them special. My Little Man is so fond of creamed kidneys.”

  WHEN Ned knocked at the study door the headmaster opened it at once. “Is it time to go?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I shall just be a moment.”

  They gathered in the entrance hall. Margaret was on the verge of tears; Mrs. Pearse was pale but composed. Two sets of military kit were piled by the front door. Ned, Con Colbert, and Des Ryan already had theirs strapped to their backs.

  Emerging from his study, Pearse handed some last-minute business letters to his mother. “You are not to worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Mrs. Pearse forced her lips into a lopsided smile that threatened to slide off her face. “Now Pat, don’t do anything rash.”7

  “No, Mother,” he replied submissively. He bent his head for her kiss.

  FIVE bicycles were waiting at the foot of the steps. Con Colbert was still unhappy about having returned the Ford. Ned consoled, “Don’t moan about it, we’re probably safer on our bikes anyway.”

  “I’m a good driver!”

  “I never said you weren’t.”

  Pádraic and Willie cycled side by side with their greatcoats bulging over their kit and provisions.8 The commander-in-chief was carrying a Browning automatic pistol and had completed his uniform with a sword, which was awkward to manage on a bicycle.

  The brothers did not speak much during the journey, though once Willie remarked, “There are some who will condemn us, I suppose. They’ll say we were arrogant. Or mad.”

  “We cannot live our lives according to what others may think,” his brother reminded him. “We are answerable only to God. He knows that every motive is not suspect, nor every passion impure.”

  “Does Mother understand, really?”

  “I believe she does,” Pearse replied. “She asked me to write a little poem for her, something that would sound as if she said it herself. I have it with me in my wallet so I can finish it. I am trying to put into words what I know is in her heart.”

  The poem lay in the wallet he carried in his inside pocket; over his own heart.

  THE MOTHER

  by P. H. Pearse

  I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge

  My two strong sons that I have seen go out

  To break their strength and die, they and a few,

  In bloody protest for a glorious thing,

  They shall be spoken of among their people,

  The generations shall remember them,

  And call them blessed;

  But I will speak their names to my own heart

  In the long nights;

  The little names that were familiar once

  Around my dead hearth.

  Lord, thou art hard on mothers:

  We suffer in their coming and their going;

  And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary

  Of the long sorrow—And yet I have my joy:

  My sons were faithful, and they fought.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  BY Monday morning Neville Grantham was a troubled man. The previous night he had attended a conference in the Viceregal Lodge at which the decision had been taken to arrest the rebel leaders and disarm the Dublin Volunteers.1 Although Sir Matthew Nathan was reluctant at first, Baron Wimborne was adamant.

  “There must be no clemency; we have to make an example of traitors,” he insisted. “In the light of his past service to the Crown, Sir Roger’s treachery is particularly abhorrent. Consorting with the Germans, indeed! Further, I want to implicate as many Sinn Féiners as I can in this…this invasion of Great Britain by the king’s enemies. Arrest them all; we have an internment policy in place now. If we just stir up the hornet’s nest and leave the hornets we may have serious trouble.”

  The viceroy dictated a letter to this effect which he sent in haste to Secretary Birrell in London.2 If it proved necessary, he was confident pressure from Birrell would force Nathan to move against the rebels.

  As they left the Phoenix Park late that night, Grantham tried to voice his own concerns to the under-secretary. “I don’t think Baron Wimborne has a full grasp of the situation.”

  Nathan sat stony-faced beside him. He did not like being summoned to the Viceregal Lodge on Sunday night and accused of incompetence. He had been patient with the Irish in an effort to dispel what he felt was an unfortunate reputation for British obduracy. Wimborne, however, said he had vacillated when he should have been uncompromising. Wimborne said the job of a colonial administration was to weed out dissidents and undesirables. Wimborne said a lot of things, all of them highly critical of Sir Matthew Nathan.

  “The republicans are acting against the interest of the Crown, that’s what we have to remember,” Nathan told Grantham now.

  “Are you going to order arrests?”

  “We have a little time; tomorrow’s the Easter bank holiday. The viceroy will want a report on his desk immediately, however, so tonight I want you to go through our files and draw up that list of known troublemakers for him.3 He wants at least sixty and would prefer a hundred. If you can’t find enough evidence to justify arresting them, talk to the DMP. See what sort of police records they can come up with.”

&n
bsp; It was Monday morning by the time Neville Grantham finally left Dublin Castle. He felt exhausted…and dirty. But he did not go to his apartment off Merrion Square for a bath and a few hours’ sleep. Instead he wandered through the city, trying to square his conscience with his duty.

  He had come to know the Irish as Baron Wimborne never would, and try as he might, he could not condemn the rebels for wanting independence from a foreign power that had served them so badly for so long. He found himself wondering how he would feel if Germany won the war and reduced England from a prosperous country to an impoverished one; if the English language was forbidden and German substituted; if English people were driven out to make room for Germans. Would he not fight back? Of course he would—to the death if necessary. Nor would he hesitate to take any advantage he could.

  Grantham loved his country and was uncomfortable with the image of her as oppressor. If the Irish wanted to be free, let them! his conscience cried. The desire did not spring up overnight, it had been there for centuries, surfacing again and again, as indestructible as this island.

  But they are traitors, a different voice within him argued. Traitors to the very Great Britain of which this land is a part. They must be punished; it is our duty to punish them to protect the empire.

  Neville Grantham found himself standing outside the building that had once housed the Irish Parliament, staring at a citadel of lost dreams.

  “What is the answer?” he murmured to himself.

  An old woman with a black shawl over her head and a broken shopping basket on her arm pushed past him. Her chilblains were burning like fire, some soldier had got her youngest daughter pregnant, and she did not have enough money to feed her family. The well-dressed toff blocking the footpath infuriated her.

  “Yer blockin’ me way,” she snarled.

  APRIL 24, 1916; almost eleven o’clock. In luxurious townhouses around elegant Georgian squares, Ascendancy Dublin slumbered in the twilight of an Edwardian dream. The Great War was being fought on distant shores. The empire seemed invulnerable.

  In a radiantly blue sky seagulls swooped and soared over the Liffey, indifferent to the affairs of men. Like the occupants of the teeming tenements, survival was their preoccupation.

  As he cycled through the city, Ned thought it strange not to be going to work on a Monday morning. Although this was a bank holiday, the Independent would go to press just the same. He wondered what they would make of his absence. He might well lose his job, but that was unimportant now. He was on his way to fight for Ireland.

  The streets of Dublin were thronged with people enjoying the glorious weather. Many of them were country families who had come into the city for the day, taking the place of the soldiers and city dwellers who had gone into the country for the races. They did not even glance at the four Volunteers cycling past them. That too seemed strange to Ned. People should be cheering. They should be throwing their hats in the air as the commander-in-chief passed by.

  OVER Liberty Hall floated the green flag of Ireland, emblazoned with the harp without the crown.4 Bicycles were parked a dozen deep in some places around the building. Some two hundred and fifty members of the Citizen Army were formed into a double column in the open square in front of the hall. James Connolly was giving the company commanders their final orders. His uniform fitted badly, emphasizing his potbelly; his bandy legs were accentuated by polished leather leggings. He was no classic Gaelic chieftain, yet there was something indomitable about him.

  As Pearse and the others dismounted from their bicycles the first company of thirty-six was preparing to move out. An elderly man and a boy no older than twelve hurried up to them. “Here’s my lad,” the old man said. “Will you take him with you? I’m too old for the job myself.”

  When the company—including the twelve-year-old—moved off toward Eden Quay, James Connolly beckoned to Pádraic Pearse, then went into Liberty Hall.

  But Pearse was surrounded by Irish Volunteers asking questions. Less than a quarter of them had heather-green uniforms. The rest wore work clothes or their Sunday suits, with identifying yellow armlets around their left sleeves and Sam Browne belts tightly fastened over their jackets. Those who did not have Sam Brownes had attached their equipment with mazes of straps and string. Ned observed a few modern Lee-Enfields and Sniders and a couple of Martini rifles smuggled in from Italy, but the majority of firearms consisted of the obsolete Howth Mausers. Some men had a rifle on one shoulder and a shotgun on the other.

  Some had no firearms at all.

  As he waited for Pearse’s orders, Ned listened without comment to the conversations around him. Some of the Volunteers were still expecting routine maneuvers, a “route march” through the city. Most knew better by now, however. How could they not know? The air was sparking with excitement, unmistakable as the tang of salt from the sea.

  Thomas MacDonagh joined Pearse and they stood talking together for a minute or two. As Ned watched, Pearse caught his underlip with his teeth and shook his head slowly from side to side. MacDonagh put one hand on his shoulder and the two old friends gazed into one another’s eyes. Then Commandant MacDonagh snapped a crisp salute and went to join his men.

  Next Pearse had a few words with Seán T. O’Kelly, a captain in the Volunteers who had helped organize the gunrunning at Kilcoole. As a result of The O’Rahilly’s apparent defection, Pearse asked O’Kelly to be his aide-de-camp. “I would be honored,” O’Kelly replied.

  “Halloran here is my personal courier. He will help you in any way he can.” Pearse then hurried up the steps and into Liberty Hall. His new aide-de-camp and his brother, Willie, followed him.

  Minutes later fifty-six uniformed Volunteers came marching up, led by Joe Plunkett’s brother George. The company, which proudly called itself Pearse’s Own, had taken the tram in from Kimmage.5 Not far behind them was a motor cab accompanied by Joe’s youngest brother, Jack, on his motorcycle. The cab nosed its way to the steps of Liberty Hall, and Joe Plunkett himself, looking very ill but determined, got out.

  Pearse’s Own gave him a crisp salute.

  Plunkett’s throat was still wrapped in bandages, but he had dressed for the occasion in a custom-made officer’s uniform complete with saber, highly polished riding boots, and spurs. He also wore a filigreed silver bracelet on one wrist, and his fingers glittered with rings.

  Two other Volunteers had been in the cab with him.6 One helped him up the steps to Liberty Hall; the other followed. Joe smiled at Ned with his eyes but did not speak; he was hoarding his strength. The man supporting his arm was big and handsome, with a good-humored face. His nose was long and fine, his jowls full, his gray eyes set wide apart. He gave Ned a friendly nod as they passed.

  “Who’s that?” asked Con Colbert.

  “Mick Collins. I met him last time I was at Larkfield. He’s Joe Plunkett’s aide-de-camp; he’ll be in headquarters with us.”

  “Is Madame Markievicz going to be there, too?”

  A uniformed Citizen Army officer overheard. “Not likely! Madame thinks headquarters will be too tame. See her over there, just driving off with Dr. Lynn?7 They have that car packed with medical supplies. They’re taking some to City Hall first for Seán Connolly’s company, then the rest to Michael Mallin in Stephen’s Green. The best of the action will be on that side of the river, you know. Our crowd is going to march on Dublin Castle.”

  Des Ryan gave a low whistle. “Mr. Pearse calls Dublin Castle Ireland’s Bastille.8 Do you have enough men to take it?”

  “There are always too many soldiers inside, I’m afraid.9 But Mr. Connolly’s plan is to seal up the Castle by seizing the guardroom and gates in the Upper Yard. We’ll have snipers in City Hall and the other buildings facing the gates, and hold the government penned inside the Castle like rats in a trap.”

  Ned and Ryan looked at one another. “It might work,” Ryan said hopefully.

  The Volunteers were also beginning to leave for their posts. As Thomas MacDonagh marched away at the head of the
Second Battalion he turned his head slightly and looked in Ned’s direction. For a moment their eyes met across the distance between them. The little professor raised two fingers to the brim of his hat.

  Then he was gone.

  WHILE he waited for Pádraic Pearse to come out of Liberty Hall, Ned studied the scene around him. He had the vague idea that he might write about it some day.

  After the Rising.

  Off to one side he observed two horse-drawn drays piled high with pitchforks, shovels, pickaxes, crowbars, and the favorite weapon of rebels of a bygone era: pikestaffs. Pearse’s Own had helped themselves to some of the pikes to augment their other weapons. In addition to the drays there were a couple of large wickerwork hampers holding oak batons, and a closed cab that Ned assumed contained Connolly’s grenades and homemade bombs.

  Everything was ready—and nothing was ready, Ned thought to himself. For once he was sorry he knew as much as he did.

  James Connolly emerged from Liberty Hall alone and stood gazing thoughtfully at the remaining men, assessing numbers. When someone spoke to him, Ned was just close enough to hear him reply, “Bill, we’re going out to be slaughtered.”

  “Is there no hope?”

  “None whatever,” Connolly said cheerfully. He clapped his friend on the back and strode down the steps.

  Ned turned to Con Colbert. “Have you plenty of ammunition?”

  “A hundred rounds, why?”

  “Stay close to Mr. Pearse. I don’t think headquarters is going to be so tame.”

  Colbert nodded. When Pádraic Pearse and Joseph Plunkett came out of the hall together he quietly moved into place behind the commander.

  As Connolly had done before him, Pearse surveyed the troops. From his vantage point Ned had the same view. Including those who had already left, the insurgents totaled only around twelve hundred. Either the officers had not been able to get word to enough of their men, or the rank and file had been confused by the contradictory orders. Perhaps some suspected what was about to happen and had simply lost their nerve.