by Anne Doughty
She picked up her pen and looked anxiously across the dim room. Helen was still fast asleep. Even the crack of machine gun fire hadn’t awoken her. Fatigue, or familiarity perhaps, she thought. In the feeble light of the single candle reflected from the white ceiling, she could just make out her long, dark lashes, so sharp a contrast with her pale, shadowed face.
Sarah looked down at her letter and smiled. At the point where she’d fallen asleep a word was half finished and a small trail of ink marked the pen’s departure.
One of the few comforts she’d found in these long, weary days was writing to Simon after Helen was asleep. It didn’t matter that he might not receive what she wrote for a long time, simply writing to him brought him close to her and gave her the steadiness she needed to face the night. It would be a long night and there might be little possibility of sleep before the end of it.
Suddenly, her mother’s words came back to her. She’d spoken of her long letters to Uncle Sam, when he was in Pennsylvania.
‘When I write to him, I have to shape my own thoughts, to make up my mind what I think and be prepared to argue with him if he doesn’t agree.’
They made such sense now. Focusing on someone a long way away, and doing your best to share what is happening to you is a very powerful tool for coming to terms with them yourself.
Not that Simon was likely to disagree with what she was writing. She was simply telling him what was happening. Could he read the half-written letter at her hand, the only thing that would matter to him was her safety. The rights and wrongs of what was going on outside the shuttered windows would not have been uppermost in his mind.
She picked up the letter and re-read the previous paragraphs, trying to reconnect with her train of thought before she had nodded off.
We have been shut up indoors now since Monday afternoon when the first troops began to engage the rebel positions nearby. Our only outing is a somewhat perilous but mercifully brief journey to the Royal Hibernian, further up Dawson Street where Lily and Sam are well known. The Manager has taken pity on us. They give us a very good lunch each day and fill a small basket with bread, a little cold meat and some milk to keep us going overnight. Today, there were two oranges for the children which were most appreciated.
Lily has a great friend staying at the hotel, a Mrs Norway, whom my dear Helen has twice called Mrs Sweden! The poor woman lost her elder son in France some months ago. He was only nineteen. She and her husband moved into the hotel because she couldn’t bear their house in Blackrock after the news came of his death, for he and his younger brother, Nevil, had so loved it. Her husband is the head of the post office in Ireland and has had a very dangerous time trying to get to and from Dublin Castle and Phoenix Park, to take council with his superiors. Fortunately, he was not in the GPO when it was taken by the rebels as he would most likely have been shot.
We were formally advised by proclamation to stay indoors yesterday and indeed it is good advice. Several people were shot dead in the Shelbourne Hotel, a short distance away, while simply looking out of the window. We sit with the front shutters closed and have heard the odd bullet ricochet from our brickwork. It is remarkable how one adapts to the situation, finding it for the most part boring rather than frightening. Though that may co …
Sarah straightened the wick of the candle with an unburnt end of matchstick, for the flame was in danger of drowning in a pool of wax. She tilted it carefully and allowed the wax to flow down into the candle holder. Immediately, the flame rose up again.
She picked up her pen, completed the word ‘come’ and prepared to continue. There’d been a whole box of candles in the pantry on Monday when she and Sam had surveyed their resources, but now, even with undressing in the dark or the meagre light from the unshuttered back windows, the box was more than half empty.
These three days have seemed incredibly long, though the children have been so good and complained very little about their imprisonment. Hugh, of course, wants to go out with Uncle Sam and see what is happening. Sam has persuaded me he himself is perfectly safe as he knows exactly where the rebel positions are and how to avoid them, but properly refuses to allow Hugh to go with him. He says the streets are full of sightseers, as well as the looters, who are having the time of their lives.
He brings back the most extraordinary rumours which, as he says, ‘proliferate in this loquacious city,’ and equally extraordinary stories, which help to amuse us. The story I liked best was about an old woman who had made up a great bundle of shoes of all kinds and then another of clothes. She couldn’t carry both, so while she was carrying away the clothes, she’d had to leave the shoes waiting on the pavement. When she came back and found they’d gone, she complained bitterly that there was no justice in the place and not a soul to look after a poor old woman’s belongings!
Lily encourages Helen with her water colours. I wish she’d been able to teach for she has a real gift and Helen has responded so enthusiastically. Hugh reads continuously but he did have a stroke of real good fortune. Mrs Norway’s son, Nevil, who is seventeen and on holiday from Shrewsbury School, is keen on aeronautics. He has lent Hugh his entire collection of books because he has offered his services to the Red Cross as a stretcher-bearer, for they have been overwhelmed by the number of casualties, military and civilian.
I have never taken much pride in my competence as a seamstress, though my mother taught me most carefully, but yesterday I found some real pleasure in deploying my skills. Lily and I spent the day making a flag for the Red Cross. Sadly, the white flag is no longer respected. Both military and rebels have been fired on when bringing out wounded. I think we may have to make another tomorrow, but while we have plenty of white sheets, I know Mrs Norway is anxious lest we are unable to find enough bright red material for the cross.
Dearest Simon, how extraordinary it seems to write to you about sewing at such a time. No, it is not an evasion. There is danger and I am aware of it. A large part of the city is on fire, which is why I am sitting up till two o’clock, when Uncle Sam will take over my duties. It depends on the wind whether we will have to leave the house and find shelter somewhere else.
We’ve been told the fire began with looters in a toy shop letting off fireworks, but the rebels prevented the Fire Brigade from dealing with it, so it has spread, gaining ground all day. From the attic we can see the whole sky alight with a red glow, flames rising hundreds of feet with great swathes of sparks almost like a firework display. It is a most dramatic and awesome sight. Beautiful almost. I go up to the attic every hour to see if there is any sign of the flames leaping towards us. And here I must pause, my dear, for an hour has passed since I sat down to share my thoughts with you. It is only ten o’clock, so I have plenty of time to continue, if all is well.
Sarah slipped out on to the landing, her hand carefully shielding the candle flame from the effects of her movement. She left the bedroom door ajar because the loud click it made when it closed might well waken Helen.
The house itself was silent and dark, but the roar of artillery hammered on her eardrums so furiously as she moved along the landing and up the narrow flight of stairs towards the roof, she felt she just wanted to turn and run away. She could hardly believe that this all-enveloping sound was what the soldiers at the front had to endure, day after day, as well as the actual danger of the shells that fell on them. Only the shelter of solid walls and the knowledge that it would stop soon had kept her going since the Army had first deployed its field guns and a patrol boat began firing from the Liffey.
Despite the noise outside, she still tried to move quietly. Lily had gone to her room early to save her eyes from candlelight. Sam had lain down, fully dressed, at the same time as Hugh, his clock set for two in the morning. Adjusted to the continuing noise outside, an unexpected sound from within the house might wake any of them.
The stairs to the attic were narrow and uncarpeted. The bare boards creaked underfoot, as she made her way up through the enveloping darkness. Pushing
open the small door into the attic room and bending under its low lintel, she gasped for breath. Beneath the low ceiling, the whole room was lit by the red glow of the fires and the air around her vibrated with the gunfire, the sound now filtered only by the roof slates and not by the stout walls of the old house. From near at hand, almost as if it were in the next room, came the sudden crack of rifle fire.
She paused, her heart racing, the shock of sound and light making her hand shake. The candle flickered and went out, but it made little difference. The light pouring through the one small window and the skylight in the roof was more than enough to reveal the passage to the window she’d cleared earlier in the day, through the trunks and boxes untouched since Lily came to the house.
She put the candlestick down on the edge of a large chest and was about to make her way towards it, when she heard footsteps and a scrabbling sound overhead. The red glow disappeared from the skylight above her. A few flakes of ceiling plaster floated down as it was thrown open and a dark figure prepared to lower itself into the attic.
She stood rooted to the spot as a pair of legs swung back and forth and watched in amazement as she saw one hand reach up to lower the skylight window till it rested gently on the hand that still clutched the wooden frame, bearing the entire weight of the young man’s body.
A moment later, the skylight fell back into place and the figure dropped the short distance to the floor, knocked over an old umbrella stand and fell headlong onto a pile of discarded curtains.
‘Shhhh … you’ll wake the children,’ she said, the noise of his landing temporarily blocking out the boom of artillery.
There was a long moment while he rolled over, unslung his rifle and sat up. Bright eyes peered at her from a blackened face.
‘What are ye doin’ up here?’ he asked.
His voice was calm, though puzzled, his accent certainly not a Dublin one. It seemed somehow familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
‘I’m checking on the fires to see if we’ve to get out,’ she replied, returning his gaze as he studied her closely in the strong, flickering light.
‘Ye’ll be all right,’ he said shortly, as he leant back wearily against a chest of drawers and made himself more comfortable. ‘The wind’s gone round and there’s spits of rain on it. There’s a real good view from behind your chimney stack.’
‘Have you been up there all day?’ she asked, remembering the lunch time talk at the hotel of a sniper who’d survived all attempts to remove him.
‘Yes. Two days in fact, but last night was fairly quiet. I got a good soaking, but I’m none the worse. Lad with me had to go to hospital this morning. I think he’s got pneumonia.’
‘How on earth did you get him to hospital?’ Sarah asked in amazement.
‘Half-carried him to the College of Surgeons by the back alleys. There’s two or three houses where we can come in the back and go out the front and a few has tunnels to the next one,’ he explained when he saw the look on her face. ‘I took him to one of Madam’s girls and she went for the Red Cross.’
‘Madam?’
‘Aye. The Countess Markewitz. Some calls her Madam, some Connie. She’s quite a character. Wants us all to fight for Ahland,’ he said, mimicking the lady’s aristocratic accent. ‘Quite willing to have a go herself.’
For a moment, Sarah couldn’t think why the Countess should want them to fight for Ahland. Then it dawned on her. Of course, it had to be Ireland. Lily said she was a mad rebel fighting for Ahland.
That had been on Monday afternoon, after they’d finished what passed for lunch. Helen gave Lily an account of the day’s adventures and described ‘a lady dressed like a man’ with guns in her belt they’d seen in the park.
‘Oh, that’ll be Connie,’ Lily interrupted, laughing. ‘The Countess Markewitz. Connie married a Polish count. Casimir. Lovely man. But he went back to Poland. They’re still friends, as far as I know, but I can’t imagine anyone being able to live with Connie. I knew her when I was at the Slade.’
Lily always enjoyed talking about the enormous number of people in Dublin she appeared to know.
‘Mad keen Republican. Her father was a Gore-Booth,’ she added helpfully, as if Sam and Sarah were sure to know who he was. ‘They have huge estates in Sligo. Poor dear man, both his daughters were rebels. Eva, the younger one, lives in Manchester and campaigns for Women’s Rights. I think she might even be a suffragette.’
A soft voice brought her sharply back to the present.
‘I don’t think you remember me, Sarah.’
Startled at the use of her name, she looked more closely at the reclining figure, who seemed almost at ease on his pile of curtains. She supposed he’d blackened his face to be a less visible target, but even thus disguised there was something familiar about him, particularly the bright eyes, the leisurely way of speaking and the soft accent.
‘It’s many a long day since we played football in the back field at Creeslough,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
‘Brendan!’
‘The very one. I hope I didn’t frighten you,’ he said, looking at her with a grin. ‘But you’re not easily frightened. Never were.’
‘I am if it’s the children,’ she said honestly.
‘Sure so you should be. Are they both all right?’
She nodded, touched by his concern.
‘We’re sleeping at the back, Helen’s with me and Hugh has moved in with Uncle Sam. Lily refuses to move anywhere, she won’t even close her shutters, but so far we’re all right. What about you?’ she said shortly.
‘We’ve held out for three days,’ he said proudly. ‘We’ll try for a few more. Against a couple of battalions of well-trained troops, we stand no chance. Never did really, but it had to be done.’
‘Why, Brendan, why?’ she said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘All those lives, volunteers and soldiers and ordinary people who had no part, neither one side nor the other. Maybe your life as well if you go back and fight on,’ she said, aware that tears were streaming silently down her face.
‘Don’t cry, Sarah,’ he said kindly. ‘I knew what I was doing when I joined Michael Mallin at Liberty Hall. Even if McNeill hadn’t cancelled the manoeuvres and messed up the whole thing, we’d still not have had much chance. But we can’t let the English walk over us, treating us like natives, like they did with the Boers. Even if we fail, we’ve reminded Ireland she’s a nation, not a colony.’
‘But wouldn’t that have come with Home Rule? Wasn’t it worth giving it a try?’ she said quickly, wiping her tears brusquely with her sleeve.
‘Live old horse an’ you’ll get grass,’ he said bitterly. ‘All Ireland has ever had from England is promises an’ poverty for the workers. Your family has gone up in the world, Sarah, an’ you’ve done your bit for those at the bottom o’ the pile, an’ so has Uncle Sam, here an’ in America. But it’s not enough. Individuals can only ameliorate. Change has to come where the power is an’ that means force of arms.’
Ameliorate. The word set up an echo in Sarah’s mind. A strange word in the mouth of a country boy from Creeslough, who’d left Massinass School at the first possible moment. But then, he’d progressed to a more powerful school in Liberty Hall, studying with Michael Mallin and Jim Larkin, just as Uncle Sam had studied with Michael Davitt and the Land Leaguers.
‘And the innocent victims?’ she prompted.
‘The cost of freedom is always high,’ he said calmly.
Sarah was about to retort when there was a sudden dip in the light level and a sound overhead.
Brendan was alert instantly. With a single gesture, he signalled to her that her face and pale wool cardigan might catch an eye. At the same time, he moved silently back into the deep shadow made by an old wardrobe. Sarah dropped to her knees beside the pile of curtains he’d just abandoned, pulled one of them up and over her head and lay looking at the bare floor, the smell of dust and rotting fabric all around her.
As she drew her legs up under the heavy curtai
n and eased herself further into shadow, she wondered if she could have retreated the necessary few steps to the narrow stairway and pulled the door behind her. But there had been so little warning. The echo of her feet on the stair or the creak of the attic door closing might be as audible out on the roof as the sounds from overhead were in the crowded attic.
Even as she questioned whether she’d done the right thing, she heard voices above them. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the speakers were certainly English. It sounded like a soldier from somewhere in the Midlands, which might well be, for Mrs Norway had told her the Sherwood Foresters were among the recently arrived battalions.
The footsteps moved back and forth across the slates, the men calling to each other, sometimes closer, sometimes further away. Sarah got a crick in her neck holding her head up from the dirty floor. She lowered it gingerly without a sound. If one of the soldiers above were to drop down as Brendan had, he would land right on top of her. They could lift up the skylight from outside and get in as easily as Brendan had.
The floor was hard and the smell of the old curtains became more and more oppressive. All Sarah could see from under her heavy covering was the few inches of floor just beyond her nose. She watched the red glow from the burning buildings flicker on the bare boards, her ears straining for any sound. Mercifully, for the moment, the artillery fire had almost faded away.
Minutes passed slowly. The hard floor and the confined space became even harder to bear. Twice she painfully suppressed a sneeze. Still the feet tramped overhead. Once, she thought someone kicked the edge of the skylight, but the curse that followed suggested he’d merely tripped over it’s raised edge.
She had no idea how long she’d lain absolutely still. If a soldier did decided to investigate a possible hideout for a sniper, could she get to her feet in time to insist she’d just come up to observe the fire? And what would Brendan do? Would he stay out of sight? How could she bear it if he shot a man in front of her? Or, if a soldier shot him?