1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “We’ll return every penny of this to the British government,” The O’Rahilly stressed. “This is going to be the new Irish government, not a band of rabble.”

  Joe Plunkett produced a packet of stamps designed for the fledgling republic and passed them around for everyone to admire. Ned bought one and tucked it into his notebook. The tiny, beautifully designed bit of gummed paper made the future tangible. Someday I’ll put this on a letter to Kathleen, he promised himself.

  A tardy detachment of militia was challenged by the sentries outside. When they identified themselves as members of the Rathfarnham Volunteers a sniper in one of the windows shouted down, “Mr. Connolly says there are no Volunteers and Citizen Army anymore.4 We’re all the Irish Republican Army now!”

  CONNOLLY was proving an able military leader. He could hold half a dozen situations in his head at once and assess them with cold-eyed realism. His sturdy, tireless figure seemed to be everywhere, checking the defenses, giving encouragement to the men, examining weapons, issuing orders, asking questions.

  Ned saw Connolly stiffen with dismay at the answer to one of his questions. “Get someone down to Crown Alley to cut those wires at once!” he shouted at the man.

  He caught Ned watching him. “Did you hear that?”

  “I did, sir—just a bit. I can forget it if you like.”

  Connolly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “I wish I could. We have control of the telegraph here, but…”

  “But not the Central Telephone Exchange,” Ned finished. “I heard.”

  “We didn’t have enough men show up, damn it! The ones who knew what to do…” He shrugged his meaty shoulders as if it did not matter.

  It did matter, and vitally.

  Work within the post office continued. Connolly ordered an internal phone line rigged up so he could communicate with the snipers on the roof. An armory was organized to repair damaged rifles, fill empty shotgun cases with lead pellets, and prepare bombs.

  One of the bombs exploded prematurely, leaving a man streaming blood from face and hands. His best friend wanted to take him to the hospital in Jervis Street but he refused. “I’m here to see the fight to the end,” he insisted.

  PÁDRAIC Pearse had been shaken by the reaction of the crowd during the reading of the Proclamation. “I have always believed the poor of Dublin would realize what we are risking for them and rise up and follow us,” he told Ned, “but now I am not so certain.”

  “With respect, sir, you haven’t spent much time among the poor of Dublin. My friend Henry Mooney said the instinct for survival overrides every other consideration for them, and he’s right. Abstract ideas like republicanism don’t mean anything to them; they’re just worried about where the next meal’s coming from.”

  Pearse stared into space for a few moments, then said, “I have to do something useful. Find me pens and paper and a quiet place to write, will you?”

  THE atmosphere outside the G.P.O. changed. The rattle of gunfire sounded closer; coming from somewhere along the quays. The crowd in Sackville Street was growing. The Abbey Theatre had canceled its matinee performance, and disappointed theatergoers were adding to the crush. The mood turned ugly when soldiers’ wives began lining up outside the post office to collect their British army separation allowance, only to be told that the building was now official Government Headquarters of the new Irish Republic.

  “Ye friggin’ Fenians!” one shouted, shaking her fist. “Wait till the Tommies blow yer bloody heads off!”

  Thin strands of barbed wire were run out from the columns of the portico, and a space was cleared in front of the building to become a miniature no-man’s-land.5 In the lanes around Sackville Street barricades were being erected using whatever came to hand: cart wheels, rolls of linoleum, sacks of coal, beer kegs, packing cases, broken furniture.

  The slum dwellers began stealing anything useful the moment the barricade builders turned their backs.

  DISPATCHES were reaching headquarters only sporadically; there was a distressing shortage of information. What did come through was bad. Thanks to the failure to destroy telephone service, the police had informed Military Headquarters at Parkgate that Dublin Castle was under attack. Trinity College had been secured against the insurgents by members of the Dublin University Officers’ Training Corps. British reinforcements were being mobilized at the Phoenix Park, as well as at Portobello Barracks, to the south, and Richmond Barracks, to the west of the city. The sixteen-hundred-man Mobile Column at the Curragh was being sent from Kildare to Dublin with all haste, as were the soldiers garrisoned at Athlone.

  “What’s happened at the Castle?” Connolly demanded of each new messenger. “For God’s sake, tell me what’s happened at the Castle!”

  SÍLE Duffy had been flattered when Dr. Lynn asked her to join the women who would be serving as support staff for the Rising, but she was also nervous. The good ladies of Cumann na mBan were respectable wives and mothers. How would they react if they knew Síle had been a whore?

  “You’re not one anymore,” Katty Clarke had said firmly. “Scrub your face raw and wear something plain and they’ll never know the difference.”

  Síle had decided not to tell Ned about her assignment. If being a revolutionary meant being secretive…well, she could be secretive, too.

  On Monday morning she arrived outside City Hall well before eleven o’clock. None of the other women were there yet, and the medical supplies had not been delivered, so she went over to have a look at the Upper Yard of Dublin Castle. There was not much to see. The castle gates were open and a member of the DMP was on duty beside them. He eyed her appreciatively, but when she did not respond he began picking at his fingernails.

  Síle went back to wait in front of City Hall, where she was soon joined by several of Cumann na mBan. They accepted her without question and offered to share their flasks of tea. Madame Markievicz and Kathleen Lynn arrived and unloaded boxes of medical supplies, then Dr. Lynn remained with the group while the countess drove the doctor’s car toward Stephen’s Green.

  AT around noon fifty members of the Citizen Army approached the Upper Castle Yard.6 A gray-haired policeman walked toward them with his hand raised to warn them back. They tried to push past him, he slammed the gates in their faces, and the leader of the company shot him.

  The attackers forced open the gates and rushed in. Racing to the guardroom, they overpowered the six soldiers they found there and tied them up with their own puttees.

  Someone began firing on the yard from an upper window.

  Seán Connolly decided it would be prudent to withdraw to City Hall. Otherwise they would surely be overrun and captured by the numerically superior soldiers inside the Castle. He led his company from the Upper Yard and locked the gates behind them, pocketing the key. There was no resistance at City Hall, which was closed for the bank holiday. They established a command post with ten members of the Citizen Army while the rest of the company was sent to occupy nearby buildings and set up snipers’ nests aimed at the Castle.

  The women entered City Hall with the insurgents. Seán Connolly’s sister had been part of the company that attacked the Castle; she seemed almost despondent. “I would have given anything if we could actually have captured the Castle,” she said. “This feels more like a defeat than a victory.”

  Her brother tried to console her by promising to raise the Irish flag over City Hall, “for the whole world to see.”

  Dr. Lynn busied herself setting up a first aid station, but for the other women there was nothing to do. “Could I not be of more use somewhere else?” Síle asked the doctor. “I’ll go mad simply sitting here.”

  Kathleen Lynn, a big, powerful woman with short-cropped hair, gave her a measuring look. “You’re young and fit, why don’t you go up to Stephen’s Green? Tell Countess Markievicz I sent you and ask if she needs more nurses.”

  Carrying a first aid box tucked under her arm, Síle set out. She felt like one of the “angels
of mercy” at the front lines of the war in Europe. It was her first experience of a sense of personal worth. In the republic being born this day she was no longer a whore; she would be fresh and new as the nation would be fresh and new.

  As she turned into Grafton Street she noticed people standing in the doors of shops, gazing in the direction of the Green with expressions of bewilderment. Then there came the unmistakable crack of rifle fire. Síle broke into a run.

  When she reached Stephen’s Green the iron gates were closed.7 Some of the insurgents were barricading them with park benches and wheelbarrows, while others with rifles on their shoulders were peering out through the bars. Civilians in the street were staring back at them.

  A bystander warned her, “The Sinn Féiners are overrunning the town. That’s them inside. You better get away from here, miss.”

  She whirled on him. “I’m a Sinn Féiner myself!”

  “Then if you’re any bloody good, come in and fight for Ireland!” cried one of the men at the gates.8 He forced them open enough to allow her to squeeze through.

  For a moment she feared he recognized her, even without makeup and plainly dressed. She knew his face, had seen it grunting and wheezing above her in Mrs. Drumgold’s. He blinked; the moment was gone. Seen out of context she was just another pretty girl, and he had no time for pretty girls at the moment.

  The original plan had been for Michael Mallin’s company to occupy Stephen’s Green. The dense planting of trees and shrubbery in the park would make it all but impossible for the enemy to assess their exact location and troop strength. Using the park as a command center, a mixed company of Volunteers and Citizen Army would then seize the Shelbourne Hotel; take up strategic positions in nearby buildings; control Grafton Street, Harcourt Street Station, and Leeson Street; and guard the approach from Portobello Barracks.

  Given the large turnout expected, the plan had been sound.

  With only a fraction of that number it was suicidal.

  There were women in the Citizen Army contingent that marched toward Stephen’s Green that sunny morning, plus a squad of the Fianna to carry dispatches. Altogether they comprised scarcely a hundred troops. When they encountered Thomas MacDonagh on his way to Jacob’s Factory he cast a worried glance at their small numbers and advised, “Above all, avoid unnecessary bloodshed!”9

  When they reached the Green a policeman was lounging against the iron railings of the fence, smoking a cigarette. He mistook them for just another militia parade until they marched past him into the park. The policeman was armed with only a baton, but he thought his authority was sufficient. He shouted at them to move on and not cause a disturbance.

  Tense, untried, and expecting the worst, they shot him.

  AS soon as she left the first load of medical supplies at City Hall, Con Markievicz had driven Dr. Lynn’s car to Stephen’s Green with the remainder.10 There she stayed on as Michael Mallin’s second-in-command.

  Mallin still hoped that more men would show up to secure the buildings around the Green. In the meantime, he ordered the company to make camp and set up a command post, which, in the style of European armies, meant pitching tents and digging defensive trenches. The trenches would become death traps if someone was firing down on them from a height such as the upper storeys of the Shelbourne Hotel across the street, but no one seemed to realize this. This was their first war.

  Covered by the rifles of their companions inside the fence, men began setting up barricades in the streets surrounding the Green. Everything portable was seconded to the cause, including delivery carts and fittings from nearby shops. One very young lad strutted out into the street with a large revolver in his fist and commandeered the first motorcar that passed by on its way to the Shelbourne.11 Within moments the three astonished occupants were retreating to the hotel while their car was added to the nearest barricade.

  Bystanders began hurling insults at the company in the park.

  Off-duty army officers in the nearby United Service Club started taking potshots at the insurgents from the windows of the club.

  The men in the park shot back. “Got one!” a voice crowed gleefully. Rifle fire spattered off the front of the gracious Shelbourne Hotel.

  Members of the Ascendancy inside the hotel were accustomed to taking their tea at this hour and in this place, and had no intention of interrupting tradition because of the illogical behavior of a band of rabble. Two or three men and a woman in a flowered hat came to the windows to look. Others simply moved to tables at the rear of the room.

  IN Stephen’s Green, Síle was looking for Countess Markievicz when a gunshot ricocheted off a tree trunk and spattered her with bark. Startled, she dropped her first aid box. Someone’s trying to kill me. Damn them anyway!

  She snatched up the box and ran farther into the park. A thin, fierce-eyed young woman in a Citizen Army uniform stepped into her path. “Here, come help us.” Eliza Goggins held out a battered shovel. “We took these from the gardeners. We’re digging trenches like the soldiers do in Belgium.”

  A score of people were already at work. When Síle tentatively poked her shovel into the ground, a freckled boy gave her a wink. “It’s easy, miss. These are flower beds anyway.” He hefted a shovelful of dark loam. “See? Not even heavy.”

  Síle told him, “I’m not afraid of hard work.” The earth smelled rich and sweet.

  On Síle’s other side, Eliza Goggins was smiling as she dug. She felt no fear, only a manic exhilaration. “We’re as good as any of them now,” she muttered to herself. “As good as any of them!”

  A flurry of shots from the Shelbourne tore holes in the shrubbery. Eliza threw down her shovel and ran to the fence. Drawing a pistol, she began returning fire through the railings. Suddenly she whirled around like someone doing an intricate dance step, threw out her arms, and fell backward. Her legs twitched violently.

  By the time Síle got to her, Eliza Goggins was dead.

  She was still smiling.

  Síle picked up the fallen Luger.

  The pistol was heavier than she expected; she had to use both hands to hold it steady. “Can someone show me how to shoot this?” she asked.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  SHORTLY after midday a junior officer on a bicycle managed to slip past Eamon de Valera’s men and reach Kingstown, seven miles south of Dublin. The telegraph at the G.P.O. was under the control of the insurgents, but a naval vessel in the harbor at Kingstown had a wireless.1

  Within minutes news of the Rising was flashed to London.

  The staff of the Irish Independent was informed of the Rising by the sound of gunfire. Henry Mooney ran out to stand on the quay, eyewitness to history.

  There was not much history to be seen; not at first. Some boys were scrambling onto the parapets of O’Connell Bridge for a better view, but otherwise the Sackville Street area seemed almost normal.

  Almost. Henry watched as a squad of armed men fanned out along the quays, running low. Others stationed themselves along the bridge.

  A portly man in a brown suit and a bowler hat was standing nearby, smoking a cigar. Henry asked him, “What’s this all about?”

  The man barked a laugh. “Those boyos, those Volunteers, have seized the G.P.O. and proclaimed a republic. A republic! Didja ever hear anything so daft? They’ll be flushed out as soon as the soldiers come.”

  Henry stood very still. All the way to his core was stillness, a great pool waiting to be filled.

  It’s now. Today. The Rising.

  Without conscious thought he began to walk across the bridge in the direction of the post office. The men on the bridge had shotguns, but they did not challenge him. They just watched him. He felt as if the whole world were watching.

  When he reached the north end of the bridge he noticed the snipers watching, too, from windows and doorways. One called to him, “I wouldn’t come any farther if I was you.”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Och, that’s all right then.” The man waved hi
m on.

  As he proceeded up Sackville Street Henry could hear a low hum like the sound of swarming bees. A crowd was milling in front of the G.P.O. Men with rifles looked down at them from windows and rooftops. A boy near the Pillar blew a paper bag full of air and clapped it to create a sudden bang. There was a shout, a curse, derisory laughter.

  Standing in front of a drapery shop was a member of the DMP, armed only with the regulation baton. Henry went over to him and took out his notebook. “I’m a reporter for the Independent. May I ask how you’re going to handle this situation?”

  “Handle it? Not me; I have my instructions. I’m not to interfere, I’m to go back to my barracks at once—and that’s where I’m headed.”2 The policeman turned and walked away.

  So there are orders in the event of an insurrection, Henry said to himself. Perhaps the Castle Document was genuine after all.

  Someone threw a brick. A shop window smashed. Two ragged boys began seizing merchandise and passing it out to others in the street. One of the riflemen on the post office roof yelled at them and they scampered away, but the broken window remained an open invitation.

  Henry knew the poor people of Dublin. Once looting began it could swell far beyond Sackville Street. Ducking into the nearest laneway, he took a shortcut to Louise Kearney’s boardinghouse.

  He found the house unlocked; there was no sign of his cousin. From the direction of Sackville Street came a sudden burst of rifle fire. Henry pounded up the stairs to his room and rummaged under his mattress for his valuables. He dispersed these through the pockets of his trousers and jacket, threw a change of linen and a clean shirt into a paper bag, put his good topcoat over his suit and his other pair of shoes in the topcoat pockets, then took a long look around the room to see if he had overlooked anything.

  On Ned’s locker was the book of Thomas MacDonagh’s poems. He took it with him as well. For safekeeping.