One Man’s Flag Is Another
Man’s Shroud
Awakened several times by marching feet and not-so-distant gunfire, Caitlin emerged in the morning to find Mary Street awash with English troops, effectively penning her in. They were part of a wider cordon, she reckoned, one that would be drawn ever tighter around the GPO until a final assault could be mounted.
The previous night she had lain awake wondering where she should be when the moment arrived, inside with the rebels or watching from the sidelines. And now the British had denied her the choice, which was probably all for the better. No matter how tempted she was—and what a scoop she might have!—common sense suggested caution. She could file no reports from beyond the grave.
But despite the growing volume of gunfire, she had no intention of spending the day indoors, and when the officer in charge of the soldiers outside refused to allow her out, she barely kept her temper in check. After finding that the passage at the rear only led back to the street in front, she made another pot of tea with her rapidly shrinking supply of water and settled down to wait. Surely the soldiers wouldn’t stay there all day.
They didn’t, but it was early afternoon before the western end of the street was clear. She hurried in that direction, conscious of the heavy bombardment taking place behind her. The sky above was clear and blue, but a huge cloud of smoke hung over the city center.
Now that she was out, she had to decide where to go. The Four Courts, which she hadn’t yet visited, or the garrisons south of the river, which as far as she knew were still in rebel hands. At the next crossroads, troops were visible to the west, so she turned south toward the Liffey. She heard voices in some of the houses she passed, but there was no one on the street, and the sound of gunfire, though some way off, seemed to be coming from all directions. Caitlin had experienced flashes of fear several times that week, but this was the first time she had felt truly frightened. Each step she took felt like it might be her last.
There were soldiers farther up the Liffey, but the Ha’penny Bridge seemed invitingly empty. Almost too much so—as she hurried across, holding her skirt up around her knees, she imagined a sniper’s finger tightening on the trigger. But no shot rang out, and soon she was darting across Dame Street, the Castle and City Hall to her right, both flying the Union flag. There were a few pedestrians on South Great George’s Street, and a small group was conducting a burial in the garden of one big house. A little farther on, she passed a corpse draped in a tarpaulin, two booted feet sticking out from under one end.
There were troops in the area of Jacob’s Factory, but no continuous cordon—either the sheer size of the building precluded one or the British were content to just keep an eye on the place while the war was decided on Sackville Street. The intermittent firing, from both inside and out, was mostly on the Bishop Street side. As Caitlin worked her way round to the entrance she’d used two days before, fifteen rebels on bicycles came pouring out of a delivery gate, rather like knights on horseback sallying forth from a castle. They furiously pedaled their way across Aungier Street, drawing some ineffective fire, and disappeared down the road that led toward St. Stephen’s Green.
Thinking that all eyes would be on the cyclists, she made for the closing gates and was only a few feet from them when a bullet gouged into the adjoining brick wall. After half stumbling her way past a surprised sentry, she stood there in the yard, shaking her head at her own foolishness.
“Are you all right, miss?” the sentry asked.
“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just not used to being shot at.”
“Well, this is a fine place to get accustomed,” the man told her. “But I assume you’ve some better reason for paying us a visit.”
She showed him Connolly’s letter and asked where the cyclists had been going.
“To visit the Third Battalion,” he told her. “After yesterday’s fighting they’re running a bit short of ammo.”
It was almost three when McColl reached the outskirts of Dublin; Irish miles, he had long since decided, were longer than anyone else’s. Finding his way had certainly proved no problem over the last twenty of them—the smoke smudging the sky to the south was a large and worrying signpost. How had things gotten this much out of hand?
After passing under a suburban railway bridge, he reckoned he wasn’t much more than a mile from the city center. A garage on the right seemed a good place to leave the Alldays, and the proprietor proved amenable to storing it out of sight, albeit at a very steep price. McColl didn’t argue, just paid for two days and a full tank of petrol and hoped the car would still be there when he returned. The man was polite, outwardly almost friendly, but after six months in India, McColl had grown very adept at recognizing latent hostility. Another occupied country, he thought, starting out on what the garage owner claimed was a fifteen-minute walk.
He could hear the gunfire now, and the cloud of smoke stretched right across the sky, fed by numerous columns. How was he going to find her? Where should he look? Where could he look? In the past she’d stayed at the Imperial Hotel, but that was right on Sackville Street, at the center of the storm. If she had been staying there, surely she couldn’t still be?
He would have to try all the hotels, or all the ones he could actually reach. With the city divided, some would be in rebel-held territory, some in areas held by the army, so visiting them all would involve some trips between the lines. Which was hardly an inviting prospect, but he didn’t seem to have much choice.
After walking about half a mile down a strangely normal Dorset Street—a deaf man looking north would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary—he caught sight of the Rotunda Hospital and turned left toward it down Frederick Street. He was fast approaching the battle zone now, with no idea of what to do next. He could hardly walk down Sackville Street.
There were soldiers ahead, and once he’d been spotted, two came rushing over, shouting that he should turn back.
“I’m with Army Intelligence,” McColl told them, carefully removing the Service identification card from his inside pocket and silently blessing the last-minute inspiration that had caused him to collect it from his flat.
Both men studied it with interest. “You’d better see our CO,” one decided.
The command post was in the Rotunda, Major Leamington up on the roof. As the major examined the card, McColl took in the shocking view. Beneath him Sackville Street stretched away toward the river, and as he looked, another shell exploded among the burning buildings. Several machine guns were firing, presumably at the GPO, whose battered roof was just visible above the houses on the western side.
“What’s your business here?” the major was asking. He seemed young for his rank, but at the rate officers were dying in France, that wasn’t really surprising.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you any details,” McColl said. “But I’m looking for someone. Someone who’ll probably be staying in one of the better hotels.”
The major looked amused. “A tourist?”
“A possible German agent,” McColl half whispered, purely for effect.
That wiped the smile away. “I see. Well, I doubt there are any still open in this part of the city, but south of the river . . .”
“How do I get there?”
The major indicated the street running off to the left. “Our cordon extends up there, then down behind those houses to the Custom House by the river. We hold the railway bridge beyond it, and if you show your card to whoever’s in charge, I’m sure they’ll take you across.”
McColl thanked him, walked downstairs through the strangely silent hospital, and started working his way round the cordoned-off area, trying to keep at least a block between himself and the British soldiers. One of the young ones might get nervous.
He eventually found himself outside Amiens Street station and was able to get his bearings. A short walk around the back of the Custom House br
ought him to the iron railway bridge and another, shorter interrogation. The ascent to the tracks was by ladder, the view from the bridge one of fire and ruin. Staring down at the empty shell of Liberty Hall, he remembered the neither king nor kaiser banner. A red rag to a bull, and the bull had finally charged.
At Tara Street station, he came down off the viaduct, showed his card, and was briefed by another young major. South of the Liffey, he told McColl, the rebels still held a bakery, several buildings around St. Stephen’s Green, a biscuit factory, and parts of the South Dublin workhouse complex. All were more or less surrounded, but snipers on the roofs made it advisable to give these buildings as wide a berth as possible. Other than that, the streets were as safe as they could be, given the situation.
After thanking him McColl walked on down to Great Brunswick Street, where he visited several hotels. She was not staying at any of them, and neither, it seemed, was anyone else.
As he skirted the eastern edge of College Green, he was struck by the sudden thought that she might have chosen the Royal, where they’d spent their wonderful week. Approaching it from the west, he found himself passing the open rear gate and stopped to look inside. The drop from the fire escape looked longer than he remembered. It was a miracle the man hadn’t died.
The front entrance was shut up tight, and the man who finally answered his ring told him the hotel was closed, gave him a very strange look, and more or less slammed the door in his face. Memories of his last visit, McColl guessed. As he walked off down the street, he realized he’d never paid the bill.
Where else could he try? There were several hotels on Nassau Street, the Hibernian on Dawson, a couple more on the narrow road that ended just behind the Castle.
The Castle, he thought. Would Dunwood’s lot know where she was?
Once inside the candlelit factory—there’d been no power since the day of its capture—Caitlin made for the makeshift canteen, where Cumann na mBan was providing the cooks. There were several groups of young men around the tables, sipping black tea and nibbling biscuits from the factory stores. A couple in uniform—his ICA, hers Cumann na mBan—were sitting in one corner, and Caitlin suddenly realized that the man was Michael Killen. He recognized her at the same instant, looked surprised for a moment, then offered a slight nod in acknowledgment as the woman beside him carried on talking.
In the kitchen Caitlin found a Cumann na mBan woman she knew, a pretty young blonde friend of Maeve’s named Maire. There were two saucepans of potatoes cooking on the stove—“one spud per man,” the woman told her—and no other food in sight. Maire hadn’t seen Maeve for a couple of days and had little idea what was happening elsewhere. “Thomas MacDonagh’s in charge here, and he keeps dispatches to himself,” she added, with only a slight trace of bitterness.
The canteen was filling up, and once the potatoes were cooked, Caitlin helped Maire pass them out, one for each hungry man, solemnly placed on the table before him. There were surprisingly few complaints, Caitlin thought; considering the rebels’ situation, she had expected more anger by now.
Admittedly, some were still living in dreams. If the talk she overheard was any guide, MacDonagh’s clampdown on news from outside had merely encouraged the spread of wild rumors. One voice claimed that the Germans had landed at Wexford, another that the city of Cork was on fire. It was all so stupid and painfully sad.
Out in the street, a sudden spate of gunfire heralded the return of the cyclists. They had turned back after clashing with English troops in Merrion Square and still had the boxes of ammo. MacDonagh was among them, and so was Finian Mulryan, who came over to say hello. “Mr. Connolly told me you were back in Dublin,” he said. “And here to tell the world our story.”
“That’s right.”
“A story of sacrifice.”
“Yes.” She had no desire to discuss anything with Mulryan. Why did she like him so little when she admired his boss so much?
“Well, I hope I live to read it,” Mulryan said in parting.
As the canteen slowly emptied, the noise of the guns outside grew louder. Soon it would be dark, and things might quiet down enough for her to leave. Not that the prospect of heading back over the river held much appeal. A thought occurred to her. “The factory towers,” she asked Maire, “can you climb up inside them?”
The answer was yes, but only safely in darkness—on the very first day, two lookouts had been shot by army snipers.
An hour or so later, Caitlin was climbing the staircase inside a tower, behind the serious young man whom Maire had found to escort her. Billy was about eighteen and firmly of the opinion that once the news of the Rising spread, the whole country would explode and the English would have to withdraw. She listened but didn’t reply. Why, she wondered, did a biscuit factory have towers?
The view from the upper chamber was breathtaking, almost literally so, given the amount of smoke in the air. And though darkness had fallen, the city was lit by flames. To east and west, myriad fires were raging; to the north what seemed like one huge conflagration was consuming the blocks between Sackville Street and the ruins of Liberty Hall. Dublin was burning.
She was appalled, Billy entranced. “We have done this,” he said softly. “We have summoned the devil.”
Dunwood was in his office at the Castle. He looked tired but must have had a busy week. “She fooled you,” was the first thing he said on seeing McColl, albeit with a generous lack of rancor.
“Didn’t she just,” McColl conceded. “And she’s why I’m here.”
“To get an explanation?”
“To arrest her,” McColl said. It had seemed the most feasible explanation.
Dunwood grunted. “You can safely leave that to us. Assuming she doesn’t get herself killed in the next few days.”
McColl took care to keep his voice steady. “What’s she done here?”
Dunwood rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a sheaf of photographs. He sifted through them, then passed one across. And there was Caitlin, entering a building. She looked happy, McColl thought. Had she really joined the rebels?
He looked up inquiringly.
“She’s entering the College of Surgeons, where the Citizen Army had their headquarters after occupying St. Stephen’s Green. And one of our undercover people saw her hand their commander a message from the big cheeses in the GPO.”
McColl’s heart sank. He could hear himself telling the Indian in Balasore that a man who carried messages for a terrorist was as guilty as they were.
“And the politicians are not feeling very forgiving,” Dunwood went on. “I don’t suppose she’ll be shot like her brother, but she’s looking at a long time in prison. Like I said, you can leave her to us.”
McColl improvised. “It’s not as simple as that,” he told the Irishman. “We’re interested in the German angle, and we know that she met with Casement in Berlin. We badly need to question her, and we can’t do that if she’s hit by a stray shell or bullet over the next few days. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“Yes, with Maeve McCarron.”
“In Mary Street,” McColl remembered. “The house with the green door, but I can’t remember the number.”
Dunwood worked his way through a box of filing cards on the shelf behind his desk and eventually plucked one out. “Forty-three,” he said, walking across to the city map that covered most of wall. “About here,” he said, pushing out a nicotine-stained finger. “And there’s the GPO,” he added with another forceful prod. “The house is well inside the army cordon.”
“Can you get me through it?”
“I suppose so. But you’d be on your own after that.”
“Understood.”
Dunwood was still not convinced. “You already look dead on your feet.”
“I haven’t eaten for a while,” McColl admitted. Not since the boat, he thought, and only a sandwich then.
“Well, at least we can feed you,” Dunwood said.
The Castle canteen was in the basement, and for the first time in hours McColl couldn’t hear gunfire. He devoured a plate of beef stew, marveling at how good it tasted, while Dunwood sipped at a large mug of tea. The other patrons were all in uniform, most of them army, a few police.
“Are you sure I can’t dissuade you?” Dunwood asked when McColl had finished eating. “It’ll all be over in a couple of days, and unless she’s inside one of the strongholds, the chances of her being hit by a stray bullet are pretty remote.”
“What if she is in one of the strongholds?”
“That would be dangerous. The rebels made the mistake of thinking the army would storm their castles and give them a chance to go down fighting, but after Mount Street someone had a better idea. Why try and take a building when you can simply knock it down?”
The cynicism was obvious, but there was also a hint of bitterness in Dunwood’s tone. And if an Irishman who worked for British intelligence felt that way, then how would most of his compatriots feel? “We need her alive,” McColl said simply.
Outside, the gunfire seemed more intense, the evening air suffused with an acrid odor. The roofs of the buildings lining the river were silhouetted against an orange glow, with occasional tongues of yellow flame rearing toward the smoke-shrouded heavens.
The captain commanding the unit just south of the Ha’penny Bridge reluctantly agreed to let McColl through his cordon and promised he would caution his men against simply opening fire on a couple coming toward them. He also advised McColl to “run like hell” across the bridge.
This was probably unnecessary—a sniper would have been lucky to hit a stationary target in the prevailing gloom—but after wishing Dunwood farewell, McColl did as the captain suggested, catching glimpses of fire in either direction as his feet pounded over the bridge. On the far side of the river, Liffey Street stretched dark and empty into the distance. He started up it, walking slowly, scanning rooftops and windows and the road ahead for any sign of movement, wondering what he would say to Caitlin.
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