The mention of Mrs Grant seemed to change Mrs Kearns’ mind. She was fiercely loyal to her employer and saw her as much more than just the source of her wages. There was a bond between the women that Mary could see was unspoken but strong. Maybe it was because Mrs Kearns saw what went on that house with Mr Grant, or maybe because Mrs Grant was so different from so many other ladies in Dublin at that time. Even Mary noticed how some of the other women in Cumann na mBan, even though they were all supposed to be fighting for equality, were uncomfortable talking to people like her and Eileen. Social mixing between the classes was mostly unheard of, and it surprised Mary when she saw women all supposed to be on the one side, still living out the age old divisions, even as the world was blasted to bits around their ears. Mrs Grant wasn’t one bit like that, and Mrs Kearns and Mary loved her for it.
‘Where is she?’ Mrs Kearns asked urgently.
‘At the other end of the building, but she can’t walk. Eileen is with her.’ Mary answered
‘Did ye bandage the wound?’ Mrs Kearns tone was business like, but Mary knew she was worried.
‘Yes, but she’s losing blood. We need to get her to a hospital.’
‘Let’s go girl, we’ve no time to lose.’ Mrs Kearns told the young boy who had been helping her to carry on as best he could, and together they battled through the scenes of chaos and destruction all around them. Eventually they came to the part of the wall where she had left Eileen and Mrs Grant. They were still there, but by now Mrs Grant seemed to be lapsing in and out of consciousness.
‘The others have gone, two groups of them, but I refused to go until ye got back. I think we will have to go soon, though. The building is going to fall down, and Pearse and the others are preparing to evacuate as well. Tom Clarke just passed a minute ago and made me promise to leave in the next five minutes.’ Mrs Grant let out a groan of pain. Eileen soothed her and turned once again to Mary. ‘I think we have to get her to hospital. We may be too late, but we’ll try.’
‘Right girls.’ Mrs Kearns was once again in charge. ‘We haven’t a stretcher and there’s no time to make one, so you’ll have to each take an arm and put it round your shoulders. I’ll go in front and carry her legs.’
‘But what about a flag? The others had white flags. If we go out without one, we’ll be shot immediately.’ Eileen’s voice was breaking, exhaustion and stress finally showing on her normally calm and capable demeanour.
‘One of the bags, we’ll use one of the flour bags. They’re white!’ Mary cried, running back to the first aid station upstairs. Most of the injured men had been removed and she tried not to look at the dead bodies. The bundle of flour bags from Boland’s Mills lay in the corner. She quickly grabbed one that had not yet been cut up for bandages. The long sharp scissors that had been abandoned by the young girls who were charged with that task was still on the floor. Mary picked them up and ran the sharp blade down the seams of the bag, making a rectangle of white cloth. She looked around for something like a stick on which to tie the flag and found to her relief a broom used earlier in the week to sweep away the shards of broken glass that were all over the floor. She wrenched the brush off the handle with a strength she didn’t know she had, but then was at a loss as to how to attach the bag. Men rushed all around her, shouting and firing through the windows, Others valiantly tried to put out fires. She took both the bag and the stick back downstairs, hoping Eileen or Mrs Kearns would have an idea.
‘What are you still doing here?’ Tom Clarke passed them and stopped, blood on his face as he tried unsuccessfully to douse flames with a bucket of sand.
‘We’re going now. I’m just trying to make a flag to wave when we go out. Mrs Grant is hurt and we have to try to carry...’ She tried her best to hold back the tears but she was failing.
Smiling affectionately at them, he took the cloth and stick from her shaking hands, saying, ‘Give it here to me.’ Expertly he made a hole in two of the corners with a penknife from his pocket, and taking out his boot laces he used them to fasten the flag to the makeshift pole.
‘But now you can’t walk...’ she began.
‘Where I’m going I’ll have no need of shoes. God Bless. Up the Republic!’ He shoved the flag into her hands and was gone.
Half dragging, half carrying Mrs Grant, the four women managed to get out into Sackville Street. Mrs Kearns lodged the white flag in her belt to free up her hands to carry her mistress. Bodies littered the streets, and the once imposing facades of the shops and businesses had been reduced to smouldering rubble. Across the street, a large barricade had been set up and was heavily manned by soldiers. The gunfire and shelling continued. They tried to keep low as they moved in the direction of a side street, out of the way of direct fire. The noise was deafening, and they were shocked at the scenes of chaos and destruction on the once magnificent street. Curtains blew out of glassless windows, and rooms were exposed as the walls collapsed on houses and shops. Smoke and dust filled the air, making it difficult to breathe.
Progress down the street seemed fraught with danger, even with the flag, as the firing continued without interruption. There was no sign of the other women, gone to the hospital probably, but the scene in front of them meant it was impossible to try to cross the road. Mrs Grant was unconscious and the bandage on her leg was now totally sodden with blood.
‘We can’t lift her anymore.’ gasped Eileen. ‘She’s a dead weight and all the pulling is causing her to lose even more blood.’ They looked at the mistress and she did appear to be in a very bad way. Mrs Kearns was carrying both her legs, but with each step the blood was seeping out of the bandage.
‘Let’s see if we can put her onto the flag and carry her that way.’ Mary suggested as a bullet shattered a cobblestone two feet in front of them.
‘Without the flag they’ll shoot us,’ Eileen protested.
‘Eileen, child of grace, they’re shooting at us anyway!’ Mrs Kearns shouted. She pulled the flag off its stick and laid it on the ground. As gently as they could, they laid Mrs Grant on the flag and lifted it by the four corners. The injured woman’s head hung down over one side and her legs from the knees down dangled on the other, but the flour bag held the weight of her middle and they were able to move her.
‘Jesus and his sainted mother, get in, let ye! Ye’ll be killed stone dead out there!’ a voice called from a shop door. They looked sideways in the direction of the voice. An elderly man crouched behind the door of what was once a jeweller’s shop. Mary remembered looking at the beautiful things in the window one night when she was waiting for Rory, and he came up behind her and whispered, ‘Which one will I get you?’
She remembered flushing with embarrassment that he would think her so presumptuous as to be looking at rings, and he laughed at her shame. ‘You’ll have a beautiful but tiny diamond.’ He chuckled. ‘I’d love to buy you the best one in the whole shop, but funds won’t stretch to that. Anyway a little one would look nicer on your little hands. That’s why I had to find a girlfriend with small hands, to save me having to buy a huge ring!’ She remembered how they giggled and laughed all the time. Where was he now? Alive? Injured? Or even dead like so many young men.
‘We’ve no choice. We can’t get her to the hospital now anyway,’ Mrs Kearns said grimly to the girls. ‘We can’t go on carrying her like this.’ They moved slowly with the weight of Mrs Grant between them to the door and the man let them in. He led them down a passage way into a living room behind the shop. Beside a fire an elderly woman sat knitting.
They laid Mrs Grant on the couch and she moaned with pain.
‘Have you any medicine, bandages, anything like that?’ Mrs Kearns asked.
The old woman looked at her and then back to her husband. ‘Did they come out of the GPO? What business had you bringing them in here on top of us?’ The woman spoke in a strong Dublin accent and exuded resentment.
‘Lily, they’re women. They were getting shot at out there.’ His voice was quiet
, pleading for her to understand.
‘They’re trouble-makers is what they are, them and those high minded fellas with all their talk. If they didn’t start all this nonsense, then those soldiers would be in France or Belgium and our Frank might survive and come home safe to us. Did you ever think of that?’
She took a framed photograph from the mantelpiece and thrust it into Mary’s face.
‘That’s my boy, my Frank. He’s in the Dublin Fusiliers fighting in Europe, and you and the likes of you are making things worse for him, and all the young lads like him. Did that ever enter your head and you all about your bloody republic? Did it? I suppose your lot would call him a traitor, wearing a British uniform. He’s no traitor. My boy is the finest lad you’d ever meet, better than that shower of criminals and murderers inside in the GPO anyway. Do you know a baby was shot in his pram in front of his mother a few days ago? Did you know that, and ye blasting away at the whole city?’ She spat when she spoke and Mary wiped her face.
‘Lily, please.’ The man was exhausted.
‘I didn’t know that.’ Mary tried to steady herself.
‘My husband’s shop is in smithereens. I don’t know how we’ll ever recover from this, I really don’t. My Frank had a fine business to come home to, after he does his time out there, and he’d look after us, but now what have we?’ Suddenly all the anger was gone and the woman faced the small group with her hands out in despair. ‘What are we to do now?’
‘Are we welcome here or are we not?’ Mrs Kearns spoke sternly. ‘For if we’re not, then we’ll go, but if we are, you’ll have to help us with this lady here. She’s very badly hurt.’
The business like way she spoke seemed to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation.
Lily looked at the mistress, who was moaning on the couch. ‘Get Johnny Kearney. He’s gone upstairs. I saw him come in the back a minute ago,’ the woman said to her husband resignedly. He nodded and left. She went to the back pantry wordlessly, presumably to get some water. Eileen and Mary exchanged glances of panic. What if these people were informers?
‘’Tis done now anyway,’ Eileen whispered pragmatically. ‘Even if they are informers, what difference will it make at this stage? Either they’re going to arrest us or they won’t. Rory thought they’d let us go. It’s the men they’re after.’
‘Rory? Were you talking to him?’ Mary’s heart was pounding in her chest.
‘Sorry, I meant to tell you. When you went to get the flag he came past us. He was fine, a few cuts, but fine. He was asking about you. I told him you were alright and that we’d take care of each other.’
Mary was dying to ask Eileen more about Rory, but the man came back into the room, followed by a much younger man in shirtsleeves and flannels, carrying a medical bag. Relief flooded through Mary, a doctor, at last.
‘Mr Browne, I’m not even qualified yet. You do know that, don’t you...I’m only a student...’ the young man tried to explain.
Looking at Mrs Grant, now ashen with very shallow breathing, he went on, ‘I’ll have a look but I don’t know how much I can do.’ He spoke to Mrs Kearns, Eileen, and Mary. ‘I’m a final year medical student,’ he said, ‘but this woman needs medical attention.’ He went on to explain, ‘Their son Frank and I are friends.’
‘How long since this happened?’ he asked, as he began to remove the blood soaked bandages.
‘I’m not sure, earlier today I think. I wasn’t with her, you see,’ Eileen said. ‘She was a courier, on her bike around the city. She came in with her leg bleeding so I just bandaged it to stop the flow of blood. The bullet might well be still in there.’
Johnny’s hands worked deftly and soon he was examining the wound.
‘Yes, I see. I’ll try to remove it and stitch the wound. She should have some morphine for the pain but I don’t have any. We’ll clean it up and put some antiseptic on it, bandage it, but after that I can’t make any promises. Maybe if it settles down out there, then ye can get her to the hospital. The main thing is to watch her temperature. If it goes up then she’s fighting infection and that’s going to add to her problems.’
‘Thank you,’ Mary said. The other two women seemed in shock at the state of Mrs Grant’s leg.
‘The British won’t just forget what you’ve done, you know?’ the young man’s voice was disapproving.
‘Nor do we intend them to. We struck a blow for our country’s freedom this past week. We are turning the tide of imperialism.’ Even to Mary’s ears, Eileen’s words sounded hollow. It had all been for nothing. The Rising was over, the city in ruins. God only knew how many were dead and wounded, and the men who led them would pay a high price for their audacity. Maybe the women would too.
Johnny did the best he could, explaining that Mrs Grant needed blood and specialist care. All that night they sat in the living room. Kevin and Lily Browne had gone to bed, having shared a meagre supper of bread, butter and tea with them. Lily seemed to have thawed and while they would never see eye to eye on political matters, they were able to chat about Frank and how he was getting on in Europe. Lily’s favourite topic was the talents of her only child, so her monologue allowed the women time with their own thoughts.
Mary longed for another chance to ask Eileen about Rory, though she knew there wasn’t really anything else to learn. The reality of the future seemed stark and grim as the small hours of the morning dragged on. Rory was in the GPO, either he would be killed or wounded or arrested when the surrender came. The surrender was inevitable. She recalled Tom Clarke’s serious expression, and so it was only a matter of time. What the British would do with the rebels was what they all wondered and worried about, but felt unable to raise, even with each other. There was a kind of stoicism ingrained into the women of Cumann na mBan, that the men must go through this and that their women must stand strong beside them. Mary recalled once more Mrs Sheehy-Skeffington lecturing them on how displays of tears and worry only added to the men’s burden and showed the enemy that their behaviour was impacting them. She had tried not to make Rory feel bad about what they were doing, instead reaching into her soul for strength to smile and be supportive. But now, in this strange house, with the gunfire and shells going off outside and Mrs Grant maybe bleeding to death beside her on the couch, it all seemed so much to bear. Mrs Kearns and Eileen were dosing and Mary once again laid her hand on Mrs Grant’s brow, praying her temperature stayed normal.
The morning wore on and an eerie silence descended on the city. The gunfire and shelling, while not stopped completely, seemed to have been reduced. Sackville Street was in flames and the air was filled with acrid smoke and dust.
‘What’s happening, do you think?’ Eileen asked. ‘Will we try to get Mrs Grant to the hospital now?’
Mrs Kearns went into the now decimated and looted shop and the girls followed her. They looked out of what remained of the window. The trays of rings had vanished, removed to safe keeping Mary hoped by Kevin rather than by looters, and glass crunched beneath their feet.
A young boy ran past the window. Mary recognised him as one of the lads she had sent on errands while they were in the GPO.
‘Donal!’ she called.
‘Yeah?’ he was wary, but recognised Mary.
‘What’s happening, Donal?’ she asked. The boy’s face seemed to crumble, as he fought back tears of bitter disappointment.
‘We got sent out with the ladies, anyone under sixteen, and the rest of the Volunteers had to evacuate the GPO last night. They moved into a house in Moore Street behind ye there. The British had us beat by then and they wouldn’t take nothing else, only an unconditional surrender. Commandants Pearse and Connolly signed it and that’s it.’
Mary grasped Mrs Kearns’ and Eileen’s hands. ‘And the Volunteers that were left? Where are they now?’
‘Being marched out in front of General Lowe. The commandants sent a woman, a Nurse O’Farrell, I think, out to meet him, and he said to her that if they didn’t
both sign an unconditional surrender, the shelling would start up again. They knew too that Commandant Connolly had been shot, and yer man Lowe said he’d have to be brought out on a stretcher, but he wasn’t stopping nothin’ till he seen the two of them.’
Mrs Kearns turned to the girls. ‘Right, we need to get Mrs Grant to hospital, then we go out in front of the GPO and be with the men. It’s what she would tell us to do. Mrs Kearns went back into the house and asked Kevin if they could make a stretcher to carry her on. But at that moment, an ambulance passed.
‘Stop!’ shouted Eileen standing in the path of the vehicle. ‘Please stop! There’s a woman here needs to be treated’ she cried urgently in the window. The ambulance was already full of people nursing various wounds, but the driver sighed wearily and went inside after Eileen. Kevin and the driver managed to get Mrs Grant into the ambulance and laid her down on the only space available on the floor. Mary tried to get in but the driver stopped her, saying, ‘I’ll see she gets to hospital but there’s no room for able bodied. I need to pick up as many as I can that need it.’ Mary nodded and stepped off the running board.
The ambulance made slow progress because the road was destroyed, and as it moved off Mary felt Mrs Kearns put her arm around her shoulders. ‘We can do no more for her now, Mary dear. Please God she’ll pull through. If anyone is made of tough stuff ’tis herself, so we’ll say a prayer and hope for the best.’
Through the chaos they heard the sound of rhythmic marching coming from Moore Street. Battalions of Volunteers marching, some wounded, grim faced, towards the GPO. They must have done it, the unconditional surrender! Mary and Eileen scanned the groups of men for Rory. Young Donal was right. Lowe wanted them all lined up together. One of the strengths of the movement was that the British could never figure out how many Volunteers, Citizen Army, and Cumann na mBan there were. The commandants were there with their men. Connolly was being carried on a stretcher and looked very pale. Joe Plunkett walked passed them, straight and determined, though Mary thought he must be very weak by now as he had looked ill even at the start of the week. God alone knew how the events of recent days would have affected him. The people of Dublin, now venturing onto the streets again, vented their anger and frustration at the state of their city on the lines of battle weary men. Mary tried to will the Volunteers to have strength, to ignore the jibes of their fellow countrymen who didn’t support the Rising.
Jean Grainger Box Set: So Much Owed, Shadow of a Century, Under Heaven's Shining Stars Page 58