AFTER locking the door of the house behind him, Henry searched the neighborhood for his cousin. If there was going to be trouble he did not like the idea of a lone widow woman in the thick of it. The proprietor of the corner shop told him, “Mrs. Kearney was in here earlier, God love her, looking for bread soda, but we’re out of it. I think she said she was going into town anyway.”
“Into town” meant she could be anyplace.
Henry hurried back to Sackville Street. While he was gone the rebels had strengthened their position. He saw barricades going up and more armed men patrolling. Two horses wearing military saddles lay motionless at the foot of Nelson’s Pillar.
“Took the dead ’uns away just now, so they did,” volunteered a bystander.
“Dead ’uns?”
“Lancers. Our boys inside shot ’em down. Mucky British; they shoulda stayed where they belonged.”
Henry stared at the fallen horses.
His mouth was dry. He edged his way through the crowd and headed for Meagher’s Public House, where there was an announcement on the door. He bent closer to read,
Irishmen and Irishwomen:
In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.
Henry tried to read the rest but his eyes had misted over.
There were copies of the Proclamation pasted everywhere, even on the base of Nelson’s Pillar. He carefully took down two, one from a postal pillar box and one from a shopfront, folded them neatly, and put them in his wallet. He would take one back to the Independent, but he just might keep the other for himself.
Then he took out his notebook and began working his way back toward the bridge, filling pages with his impressions as he walked. No one spoke to him, no one stopped him.
“Dublin today is alive with hope and dead with apathy,” he wrote, “but the scales will tilt soon. It is not an even contest.”
When he got back to the Carlisle Building he was eager to start writing, but there was no time for a leisurely feature article—news was coming in hot and fast. Everyone in the city room was desperately trying to keep up, to sort out verifiable fact from wildest rumor. According to who told the story, Dublin was ringed with insurgent strongholds; Professor MacDonagh had personally captured Dublin Castle; Cork, Kerry, and Limerick had risen in revolt; Jim Larkin was fighting his way across Ireland with fifty thousand men; the Irish regiments were deserting their garrisons to join with the Volunteers; the Turkish navy had landed at Waterford in support of the rebels…
At the same time there were stories of mutiny in the ranks of the Citizen Army; appalling defeats in the country; wholesale desertions by the Volunteers; crushing triumphs on the part of a massive British force said to be landing all up and down the coast.
There was no way of knowing what to believe.
Henry Mooney hurled his pencil across the room and shouted, “I wish to God I was in the G.P.O. so I’d know what was going on!”
INSIDE the G.P.O., the new Provisional Government was receiving equally confused reports. During the earlier part of the afternoon things appeared to be going according to plan. Nothing had been heard from North County Dublin, but dispatches reported the other battalions in place. Edward Daly had seized the Four Courts; Seán Heuston was at the Mendicity Institute. Thomas MacDonagh had successfully occupied the Jacob’s Biscuit factory and Eamon de Valera had Boland’s Mills. A squad of Fianna had set the powder magazine in the Phoenix Park ablaze; skirmishing was reported at Portobello Barracks.
There was shooting in many parts of the city.
“Shots fired for freedom,” exulted Tom Clarke as he made the rounds, personally congratulating the other members of the Military Council.
Later in the day the dispatches began to tell a different story.
When a messenger reported the retreat from Dublin Castle, Seán MacDermott lost his temper. “Damn it to hell! Damn it to friggin’ hell! Didn’t they realize? On a bank holiday there’d only be a skeleton staff at the Castle. A few civil servants maybe; a couple dozen soldiers. A handful of our lads could have captured the entire place!”
James Connolly looked appalled. Obviously he had not known that crucial detail; had not taken it into account in his plans.
MacDermott cried in frustration, “I should have been there! I should have been with them!”
Joe Plunkett remarked sorrowfully, “We all should have been with them.”
“We were,” said Pádraic Pearse. “We are.”
THE bad news continued.
The telegraph office intercepted a message to the effect that General Sir John Grenfell Maxwell had been appointed Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s forces in Ireland. Maxwell was on his way to the rebellious island with a huge number of troops. In addition, he had been granted plenary powers to reward treason with firing squads.
MacDermott’s response was, “The British expect us to intercept their messages. They’re just trying to intimidate us.”
Meanwhile the crowd in Sackville Street surged this way, then that, broke up, re-formed, lost interest, swelled again. Women began crowding into shops in a wave of panic buying. For many Dubliners, however, the insurrection remained a holiday diversion, and as the afternoon wore on they took to the streets to share in the fun. Men who had firearms brought them out and fired off “a few potshots for the new Irish Republic.” When they tired of the game they went home.
Others found a different game to play.
Noblett’s Confectioners, near the Pillar, was broken into and the sweets thrown into the street to be trampled underfoot. Small boys scrabbled through shards of glass to seize a bit of toffee. Shawlies broke the window of the Cable Boot Company and helped themselves without bothering about the fit. As the frenzy spread, families of tenement dwellers began rushing from shop to shop, smashing and grabbing whatever they could. A filthy street urchin came prancing out the doorway of Brady’s in a pair of high-heeled satin slippers meant for a bride.
The looters fell to squabbling over their prizes; eyes were blacked and noses broken.
Pearse told Ned, “Go up to the snipers’ command post and ask Michael O’Rahilly to do something about this. We cannot have Irish people behaving like savages on the first day of the Republic.”
Willie Pearse went with Ned. When the message was delivered they paused to watch from the highest windows. The O’Rahilly had his men hurl water down on the looters, but it was ignored. The door of Lawrence’s Toy Shop was forced open and people came running out with dolls and toy rifles. A small girl dragged a wooden rocking horse into the street. The horse was almost bigger than the child; one of its rockers was already broken.
Ned pointed. “See that girl, Willie? I know a little girl just about her age. You met her; I brought her to Saint Enda’s for Christmas.”
Willie smiled. “Of course I remember. We were all very taken with your Precious.”
“She could have been one of those down there, not knowing right from wrong.”
“Those things have to be taught, Ned. When we were children we wouldn’t have stolen so much as a shoe button. We thought our parents were dreadfully strict, of course.”
“Precious doesn’t have any parents.”
“She has you.”
Looking down, they saw Seán MacDermott emerge, limping, from the G.P.O.3 He held his hands above his head and cried out in a passionate voice for the people not to disgrace the fight for Irish freedom by their behavior.
Someone jeered him; someone else threw a rock. To Ned’s relief, a man ran out of the post office with orders from Connolly for MacDermott to come back inside.
The O’Rahilly had a couple of his riflemen load their weapons with blank shot and fire over the heads of the looters. They ran for cover, leaving plunder strewn behind them. Some shouted curses at the republicans as they ran.
Within minutes fire broke out—first in one of the loo
ted shops, then another.
The fire brigade arrived with a great clanging of bells. They left their engine parked at the curb of Henry Street and ran into the burning buildings. The watching republicans speculated that the fires might be a ruse by the British to get their men into the area.
By nightfall the occupants of headquarters were exhausted. The tensions of the day had taken their toll. “We’ll be under siege by tomorrow,” James Connolly said as calmly as if he were predicting rain. “But don’t worry, we’ll do just fine.” When a man asked him about the British chances he replied, “Oh, they are beaten!”4 His dauntlessness was a welcome source of strength. Ned longed to tell him so, but it was not the sort of thing one man said to another.
Every possible precaution had been taken against the counterattack to come; there was nothing to do but wait. Waiting was more exhausting than anything else.
At eleven o’clock a fresh round of sentries was posted. The leaders were supplied with mattresses placed on the floor behind the main post office counter. No one expected to be able to sleep much. Joe Plunkett refused even to lie down. Coughing, sometimes gasping painfully, he went from blocked window to window, peering out through the small loopholes that had been left for the riflemen. At last one of the women took him by the arm and forcefully marched him to bed, then brought him a sleeping draught.
Ned spread his blanket and lay down on his side with his head cushioned on his bent arm. All around him men were trying to make themselves comfortable in unfamiliar and unyielding surroundings. He heard the constant shuffle of feet carrying nervous bladders to one of the toilets. There was the rattle of cigarette packets, the strike of matches.
Someone farted explosively. Someone else laughed.
Ned’s overstimulated mind raced off on a tangent, arranging words and phrases to describe the scene.
When he finally fell asleep he dreamed of the child in the street.
ALONG the quays the night crackled with gunfire.
April 25, 1916
IRISH REBELS STAGE DUBLIN UPRISING
Chapter Fifty-two
KATHLEEN Campbell stared at the third page of the New York Times. Amid news devoted to the war in Europe, the brief article about rebellion in Ireland was almost lost. Yet to her it seemed the only story on the page.
She wanted to scream with joy. She wanted to seize someone and caper about in a circle, but she was alone except for the housemaid. Alexander had long since gone out, leaving the newspaper flung carelessly across the breakfast table.
Even if he were there, Kathleen could not have shared her excitement with him. He would give her that censorious stare and say, “Kate, you are an American now. Control yourself. I expect decorum of my wife.”
My wife. My property. Never again physically attacked, but punished for her transgressions in a hundred subtle, cruel ways. Criticized and belittled. Day after day after day.
She put down the newspaper and went to stare out the window into the street. New York was outside; energetic, prosperous, fashionable. Everything she had once dreamed about.
I want to go home, Kathleen thought. Ned was right to return when he did.
Oh dear sweet Jesus, I want to go home too, and…
And what? Fight for Ireland?
She had never shot a gun in her life. She could not possibly kill a man.
She stared down at her soft white hands. Once they had been strong and useful, helping with the washing, doing the mending, even digging in the vegetable patch. Now they were…ornamental.
Jumping to her feet, Kathleen began to pace the room like a caged animal. Her mind was racing.
How can I get back to Ireland? I have no money for the passage and Alexander would never give it to me. There is no one I could ask. Besides, we don’t borrow, we Hallorans.
We Hallorans.
She considered the life she had rushed into so willingly. America. Wonderful America. To be honest, she knew she could still be happy here…if she was happy.
But she would never be happy with Alexander and there was no way out, no way, no way…!
With a sob of despair, Kathleen Halloran Campbell admitted defeat.
She thought her heart would break.
DAWN revealed lowering clouds and sullen skies. When Síle first awoke she did not know where she was. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and the world swam into focus. She had spent Monday night sleeping in the Stephen’s Green bandstand with the rest of the women, while two male republicans stood guard.
One of them noticed Síle was awake and gave her a rueful shake of his head.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Just about everything. Before dawn a hundred soldiers and a machine gun unit came up Kildare Street and took over the Shelbourne and the Service Club.1 It looks like we don’t have much chance of getting out of here alive now, but some of our men are trying to organize an escape route.”
I’m getting out of here alive, Síle Duffy thought with grim determination. I have Ned waiting for me.
Oh Ned! Where are you? How are you?
Beyond the sheltering roof of the bandstand the rain began to fall.
Gunfire, which had been sporadic throughout the night, intensified dramatically with daylight. To the report of rifles was added the vicious stutter of the machine gun. Casualties were mounting. Across from the Shelbourne a badly wounded republican lay stretched out against the fence railings in the falling rain.2 From time to time he moved a little, or raised his hand as if calling for help. No one could get to him. Remorseless gunfire from the hotel and the Service Club thwarted every rescue attempt.
The barrage pouring into the park increased. Despite the screen of trees and shrubbery, bullets were finding targets. Hampered by their narrow skirts, Síle and the other women crouched close to the earth and walked on their knees, trying to get to the fallen men. They were relieved when a sentry just outside the Grafton Street gate shouted that a Red Cross ambulance had reached the barricade. The uniformed nurses were eagerly welcomed into the park to help care for the wounded.
Moments later the same sentry was shot. When Michael Mallin ran out to carry him inside the park he took a bullet through his hat, missing death by inches. Mallin took off the hat and showed it to Con Markievicz.
She turned it over in her hands and poked a finger through the bullet hole. “We’re going to have to retreat now or we’ll all be cut down,” she said grimly, “and I’m not willing to see my Fianna slaughtered.”
“We’ve got some men installed in the College of Surgeons,” Mallin replied, referring to a solidly built three-storey building on the far side of the park from the Shelbourne.3 “If we can get the rest of our people over there we’ll at least be in a defensible position. If necessary we can break through the walls into the adjacent buildings.”
Madame’s face was bleak. “I hate giving in to them. God, I hate having them see us run!”
Partially shielded by a barricade of carts, wicker baskets, and an open motorcar, the beleaguered company began scurrying across the street in small groups.4 Their flight was not unobserved. Riflemen targeted them; bullets sent chips flying from the cobblestones they ran across.
When he reached the middle of the street a young lad panicked. He threw down his rifle and looked wildly around, his eyes those of a terrified animal with the hunters closing in. “I want to go home!” he wailed.
Síle Duffy felt a great and tender pity. Picking up his rifle, she handed it back to him. “We’re all far from home now,” she said gently.
IN the G.P.O. the long night passed somehow. People began stirring, moving about. Several new prisoners were brought in. Ned heard The O’Rahilly say, “One of them, Lieutenant Mahony, is a surgeon and a damned good one, he claims.”
Connolly replied, “Bully for him. The other side will need him more than we will.”
Ned got to his feet and adjusted his rumpled clothing. He desperately wanted a cup of hot tea but first he had to know what was happening.
> He found James Connolly peering out through one of the loopholes.
“What’s out there, sir?”
“It’s beginning to rain. I’m afraid we’ve seen the last of the good weather for a while. The only people in the street right now are looking for abandoned loot from last night, the poor sods. It’s hard to blame them. Pearse thinks they could do better, be more like his vision of the noble Irish, but he’s asking too much of human nature.”
“Have you seen Mr. Pearse this morning?”
“Got away from you, has he? Oh, don’t look so worried, Halloran, he’s all right. He’s on the first floor in one of the staff offices, writing something or other.”
When Ned knocked on the door he heard the familiar “Failte isteach.” Pearse rose to shake Ned’s hand in the old formal way. His eyes were hollow from lack of sleep, but his uniform looked as crisp as if he had just put it on. “I was about to come looking for you,” he said. “I’ve spent much of the night composing our first official newsletter.”
He showed Ned a handwritten communiqué entitled “Irish War News.” It was full of optimism in spite of the fact that there was no word of a Rising in the south and west. Pearse wrote as if victory were a foregone conclusion, and repeatedly urged the rest of the country to stand with the rebels at this critical moment in Irish history.
“Ned, run over to Liberty Hall and ask them to make the printing press ready. I should have this finished by lunchtime, and I shall want at least five hundred copies printed.”
“Yes sir!”
Pearse unholstered his Browning automatic pistol.5 “Here, take this with you. I have never fired a shot in anger and do not intend to, but on assignments for me it will be handier for you to carry a pistol than a rifle. Just bring it back to me safely.” He added with a smile, “I cannot replace either one of you.”
WHEN Ned ventured into Sackville Street he was aware of an eerie stillness, as if he moved inside a bubble. Beyond the skin of the bubble was a battlefield. Even the rain could not wash away the smell of smoke and gunpowder. The republicans had worked through the night, tightening their defenses. They were using burnt-out trams for barricades now, and the entire contents of a motorcycle shop blocked one approach to the boulevard.
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