by Anne Doughty
‘More than willing, Sam,’ he said vigorously. ‘My problem is I’m not a Quaker, nor any religious persuasion, but I cannot bear the thought of killing a man. Maybe I’m a coward,’ he said uneasily.
‘How would that make you a coward, man?’ Sam retorted vigorously. ‘Sure what’s brave about killin’ a fellow creature?’
‘I see your point, Sam,’ he said, standing up, ‘but I’m not convinced that I’d be much good if I was faced with the muzzle of a gun, or found myself under fire.’
‘Sure how do any of us know what we’ve in us, till it’s put to the test?’ Sam said, as he walked back over the workbench. ‘I’d say m’self ye’d be right reliable in a tight corner, but for both our sakes I’m hopin’ we’ll not be put to the test.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The fourth Monday in April 1916 was a bank holiday throughout Ireland, but while bank officials might be looking forward to enjoying the blue skies and warm sunshine that had settled in over the preceding weekend, it was not a holiday for shops, offices or factories. If the spindles were silent at Millbrook, it was only because of major maintenance work begun on Saturday which would take until Monday evening to complete.
At Liskeyborough, Sam Hamilton woke at five, bright light already streaming through the skylight of his barn making bright patches on the narrow beds of his two eldest sons and the spare one now installed for Alex when he stayed overnight at a weekend.
He carried his clothes downstairs, washed and dressed in the room adjoining his workshop. It had once been a stable and he’d set it up with cupboards and washstands and a water tap supplied from a tank on the roof. Still wearing some comfortable old shoes, he tramped over to the house to make his breakfast.
All was silent, the sunlight pouring through the back windows as the sun rose higher. Moving round quietly, he blew up the fire, put the kettle on and cut slices of bread from a baker’s loaf which he buttered liberally. Only when he had eaten and drunk two mugs of tea did he take off his shoes, reach into the cupboard for his boots, and pull them on.
For a moment, he stood in the centre of the room, looking around him as if there was something in his mind he’d forgotten. He shook his head. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come back to him. He’d told Martha he’d be away early and back very late and reminded her to wake the boys. He had the key to the gate of the works in his pocket, his watch in his waistcoat, some money in his wallet and a handkerchief in his trouser pocket. All he had to do was lift his coat from the peg and put on his cap.
Running his eyes round the empty kitchen once more, his breakfast things neatly gathered up on the table, his eye caught the small shelf where he kept his books, not the manuals and specifications, they had their place in the barn, but his Bible and a few volumes of prayers and reflections. He had little enough time ever to read them, but they were there, a source of inspiration and a comfort, when the world seemed full of badness.
‘Lord, you are there at my going out and my coming in,’ he said to himself, wondering where the phrase came from. Was it something he’d read recently or something he’d memorised a long time ago?
Or perhaps, he decided, as he pulled the door quietly closed behind him, it was a gift of the spirit to hearten him for the day.
By a quarter to eight, he and Mickey Doyle had loaded the lorry, checked her out and were ready for the road. As they left the yard, the women workers hurrying up the hill pulled out their white head-covers from their pockets and waved at them. Mickey waved back, but Sam returned their greeting with a big smile as he manoeuvred carefully down the narrow access.
The lorry was running sweetly and Sam was well pleased with her. He relaxed at the wheel and settled himself for the long drive. Mickey was no trouble to anyone. A small, wiry man, much stronger than his height and breadth would suggest, he sometimes talked away about the passing scene, or his family, but he never minded if he got no reply.
‘Isn’t it a powerful day, Sam?’ Mickey began, as they headed south. ‘Won’t the wee ones have a great time trundlin’ their eggs? Where do your ones go?’
‘Up to the obelisk,’ Sam replied, his eye on an approaching vehicle.
‘Where’s that?’
‘On across the railway from our house and up the top of the next hill,’ Sam replied, glancing at him now the road was clear. ‘Sure ye can see it for miles around. Have ye never noticed it?’
‘Ach, aye, I know where ye mean now,’ Mickey said, light dawning upon him. ‘The stone finger on Cannon Hill. I diden know ye called it an obelisk.’
Sam smiled to himself. Mickey was no great scholar. He’d left school at the first possible moment and he had some difficulty writing. Fortunately, he had a good memory. He’d learnt the bills of lading off by heart, so he could check those out himself without any difficulty, but anything new was a trouble. More than once he’d had to help him out on the quiet.
The journey went well, down through Dromore and on to Newry, the Mourne Mountains to their left a sharp outline against the clear sky. Sam thought of his mother standing by her door looking out at them, as she so often did. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a pleasant, windy day on Church Hill came back into his mind, a day he’d trundled his egg with James and Hannah and Sarah.
For many quiet miles thereafter, his mind moved so far away into that world of childhood he almost forgot about Mickey, so they were already halfway over the bridge at Drogheda when he realised that Mickey had made his usual joke.
‘Aye, an insignificant wee river to have caused such a lot of bad feelin’,’ he agreed, smiling, as they crossed the Boyne and turned off the road to an eating house where they knew they’d be well looked after.
It was not yet noon, but they were hungry and grateful for the generous meal of meat and vegetables, well covered in a rich gravy. Sam was always amazed at the quantity of food Mickey could put away. He was so thin, he looked as if a proper meal would be too much for him.
They’d made good time so far, but they didn’t linger over their meal, for Sam reckoned the next part of the journey would be slower. He always let Mickey drive the lorry from Drogheda to the outskirts of Dublin to give himself a break before the difficult manoeuvrings in the crowded streets, but being less experienced, Mickey found it hard to keep up speed.
The traffic built up quickly after Sam took over again on the outskirts of the city. There were family parties in side cars going out for the afternoon, the occasional motor with young men in blazers and women in motoring hats, the ends of their veils streaming out behind them as they spun merrily northwards. Twice, they had to slow down until the road was wide enough to overtake columns of marching men out on manoeuvres.
‘Boys, they’re doing a good speed,’ Mickey declared, when a party of cyclists wearing bandoleers and armbands whizzed past them as they turned into Dorset Street.
But Sam needed all his attention for the road ahead, for they were into the heart of the city with trams coming and going as well as all the carts and delivery vehicles. He thought the streets seemed busier than usual, but perhaps it was just the number of people strolling around in the sunshine.
As always, Mickey was memorising the route against the day when he hoped to be driving it himself with his own helper, but Sam paid little attention to his recital of street names as he came down Capel Street and turned right along the Liffey. Watched by the holiday makers and followed by small boys swinging their arms and not looking where they were going, were yet more parties of green-clad figures. Sam had to reduce speed and creep along behind them until he was able to make a detour to avoid them. The side streets round St Patrick’s Cathedral were quieter, if narrower. Shortly after crossing the river, he saw the familiar twin towers of the biscuit factory.
Weary now, but grateful the last half hour was behind him, he swung wide in the roadway so as to place his vehicle neatly between the entrance pillars. As he drove through he heard an ear-splitting burst of gunfire. A bullet whistled past his cheek leaving his shattered windscr
een to collapse in tinkling fragments as a crowd of shouting green figures swarmed round them.
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary,’ said Mickey in a whisper, as he crossed himself.
‘Out, at the double, hands up,’ a voice roared. ‘Higher, higher. Hands above your head. Round here to the front of the vehicle,’ the figure continued furiously, waving its rifle up and down as if to emphasise the point.
With his legs still stiff and vibrating from the effort of the last hour, Sam climbed awkwardly down from the cab, his hands above his head.
As the soldiers pushed him towards the front of his lorry, a bayonet poked him in the back. He could feel the heat of the engine on his shoulders as the soldiers closed in around them. Somewhere to his right, he heard another fusillade of shots.
‘What is going on here?’
The voice was quiet, educated and angry. The green-clad figures parted to allow an officer to come through their ranks and stand looking at them. The officer said something, but although Sam saw his lips move, another burst of gunfire close by made it impossible to hear what he was saying.
‘Go and tell those fools to hold their fire,’ he said furiously to the man who had roared at them to put their hands up. ‘They are not to shoot anyone or anything, unless we are attacked from the castle or by the British Army. Is that clear? And see that gate is shut and guarded,’ he went on, whirling round to address another armed man. ‘And get back to work,’ he said more quietly to the remaining watchers.
‘I think I can possibly handle two unarmed prisoners without your help,’ he said sarcastically, as the rest of the Volunteers melted away.
‘Now who are you and what is your business here?’ he said sharply. ‘Don’t you know that Dublin is now in the hands of the Provisional Government and this factory is a military strong point. We are entitled to shoot at sight anyone threatening our security. What is this vehicle carrying?’
‘Jam, sir,’ said Sam, whose arms were beginning to ache.
‘Raspberry and strawberry and a small quantity of marmalade,’ added Mickey helpfully.
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ he said curtly. ‘Right, you two, over here, against the wall,’ he went on, taking a pistol from his belt and waving at them. ‘You, McDairmid, have that lorry searched. Take six men and open those containers. Send two more men to cover this pair while I question them.’
Sam was grateful for the patch of shadow that lay against the wall to which they were now directed, but one look at the two young men who had pointed their rifles at them told him they were in more danger from them than from the officer’s pistol. He had never in his life handled a rifle but he’d watched many a man handle equipment in the workshop. You could always tell when a man knew what he was doing. This pair didn’t have much idea.
‘Where are you from?’ he began curtly.
‘Richhill, County Armagh, sir,’ replied Sam coolly.
‘A good Orangeman I suppose, from that part of the world?’ he said, looking pleased with himself.
‘No, sir.’
‘What? What’s your name?’ he went on looking at him curiously.
‘Sam Hamilton, sir.’
‘That’s a good Protestant name,’ he said firmly. ‘And you’re not an Orangemen?’ he said disbelieving.
‘I’m a Quaker, sir.’
‘Are you now?’ he said, his tone softening slightly. ‘All right. Put your hands down.’
Sam lowered his arms gratefully. He’d done many an awkward job up over his head, but he’d no idea how painful it was to keep your arms in the one place for so long.
‘Name?’ he said, swinging round towards Mickey.
‘Mickey Doyle, sir.’
‘And are you an Orangemen then,’ the officer snapped.
‘No, I am not,’ he replied promptly. ‘I’m an Irish Volunteer, the same as you are yourself, sir,’ he said proudly.
‘In the name of goodness, if you’re a Volunteer, what are you doing here?’ he asked furiously. ‘Why aren’t you out with your company in Richhill?’
‘Because the manoeuvres was cancelled for yesterday,’ Mickey said crossly. ‘It was in all the newspapers. But a man came up from Dublin and told us forby. He said the whole thing was off.’
The officer looked back over his shoulder to where his men were unloading drums from the lorry. Sam thought he caught a curse and a comment about traitors, but the noise of rolling barrels and a further outbreak of rifle fire drowned out the rest of his comment.
‘Put your hands down, Doyle,’ he said looking at him impatiently. ‘I don’t propose to take prisoners, you’d only be a nuisance when we’re attacked,’ he announced, looking from Mickey to Sam and back again.
‘What is it, Kearney?’ he asked, more agreeably, as a dark-eyed young man approached him, his rifle held somewhat more confidently than the two who still eyed Mickey and Sam uneasily.
‘Jam, Commandant. As they said. Raspberry and strawberry. Rather good actually, sir.’
Somewhat to Sam’s surprise, the commandant smiled warmly at the young man, then swung round to address him again, a slight hint of amusement still touching his lips.
‘Sam Hamilton,’ he began wearily. ‘Can you explain to me why you should be bringing jam to a biscuit factory?’
‘Yes sir. If you open a tin of the fancy ones they’re mostly squares and rectangles,’ he explained, trying not to look at the young fellow with the rifle pointing at him, ‘but in between you’ll see two or three wee oval shapes. There’s a bit of a dint in the middle of them and that has the jam in. They’re very nice,’ he added, matter-of-factly.
‘We’ve unloaded the lorry, Commandant. Was that correct?’ asked the young man.
‘Quite correct, Kearney. Might come in useful,’ he said with a pleasant smile. ‘See it’s stowed in the kitchens and tell the Cumman na Bhan women.’
‘Right, you two. We’re likely to be attacked at any moment. You, Doyle, will you vouch for your Quaker friend here if I let the pair of you go? Straight out and back up to Ulster. I’ll give you a pass to get through our men. They’ll have closed the roads by now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mickey Doyle with enthusiasm.
The Commandant searched all his pockets before he found a piece of paper. He scrawled something on it and handed it to Sam, who thanked him and tucked it carefully away in his waistcoat.
‘Your people did good work in Cloughjordan, so I’ve heard, Sam Hamilton. It wouldn’t be my way, but then we can’t all be the same, I suppose. Now, on your way. Get out of here as quick as you can.’
Pausing only to remove the shattered glass from the metal bodywork covering the engine, they turned the lorry in the yard of Jacobs, waited for the gate to be opened for them and drove straight out, up the road past Dublin Castle and back across the Liffey.
The first time Sam and Mickey had to stop on their way out of the city was when they encountered a half-constructed barricade surrounded by small boys, who appeared to be enjoying themselves thoroughly. The moment they stopped, they climbed up the wheels and into the empty back.
‘Will you lot go home now,’ the irate officer shouted to them as he reached up to Sam’s window for the piece of paper he held out to him.
The boys paid no attention to him whatever, but Sam was pleased to see the cheering effect of Commandant McDonagh’s piece of paper on the harassed officer. He smiled at them, asked if they’d been delivering supplies, if the position at Jacob’s had been secured and what other activity they’d seen on their way out of the city.
Sam let Mickey describe the arrangements at the biscuit factory. Despite his close encounter with two rifles and a pistol, he’d managed to observe both the deployment of snipers in the two towers which dominated the route north from Portobello Barracks to Dublin Castle and the setting up of a first aid post and a kitchen by one of the women’s groups.
When the officer handed Sam back his authorisation and waved him on, the small boys, refused to get down from the lorry. Mick
ey waved his arms furiously at them, shouted abuse and got nowhere.
Sam turned off the engine, walked slowly round to the back of the lorry, stood looking at them and said nothing. He went on standing there till first one, then another, climbed down. A small group of older boys remained firm, unwilling to lose face in front of the younger boys already on the ground.
‘Have you boys ever been to Drogheda?’ Sam asked in a conversational tone.
Heads were shaken, No’s were spoken.
‘Well, ye’re in the right place for goin’,’ he said, smiling agreeably. ‘Drogheda’s my next stop. Mind you, it’s a fair step back. You’d hardly foot it before dark.’
The boys took the hint and a few minutes later, they were on their way.
There were no more barricades, but the road was blocked by a lorry unloading a group of men carrying rifles and pickaxes as they ran close by the railway line going north. Waiting patiently for the lorry to move out of the way, they saw the first of the men make their way across to the railway line. Some began digging up the lines, others began excavating shallow trenches.
‘Heavy work that,’ said Sam, as they set off again, managing to pick up speed as the traffic became lighter and the delays fewer.
Despite the brilliant sunshine and the warmth of the afternoon the draught through the missing windscreen rapidly froze them both. Halfway to Drogheda, Sam drew into the side of the road to let them warm through and put on their jackets.
‘Boy there’s some heat in that sun,’ said Mickey, shivering with cold.
‘Aye, it’s great. Ye can feel it doin’ ye good,’ Sam agreed, as he turned his back to get his shoulders warm. ‘Maybe we should warm our coats before we put them on. The heat might last longer,’ he said suddenly. ‘My Ma use to do that when we were wee. She’d warm ours in front of the fire before we went to school,’ he went on, as he spread theirs on the rough grass by the roadside.