by Roddy Doyle
Henry Smart, the freedom fighter, had gone down to the basement with conquest on his mind. There were new territories to explore, uncharted rivers behind little ears. I was coming off the bottom step when she saw me. She looked around, saw a clear coast and pulled me by the bandolier into the store room.
And now she was shoving my shoulders down into the stamp sheets and lifting and dropping and there were wet slaps now banging out a beat and gumming my arse to the stamps. She’d break the rhythm now, again, dip herself to my face, to remind me that she was there, the inventor, and torturer if she wanted to be.
Her mouth was on my ear.
—What if they came in now, Henry?
—Who? I said.—The other women?
She grunted.
—Pearse and Plunkett?
She licked my ear.
—The British?
—Oh God.
—The Dublin Fusiliers?
—Oh God.
—The Royal Norfolks?
—Yes.
—The Royal Irish Rifles?
—Yesss.
I was running out of soldiers. She pulled my ear with her teeth. She growled.
—The Scottish - oh fuck - the Scottish Borderers?
—Maithú, Henry!
—The Sherwood Fah-fah-foresters?
—Maithúúúú - oh - maithú—
—The Bengal fuckin’ Lancers!
And we came together - although I didn’t know it - in a froth that cemented the pair of us to the stamps and nearly frightened the shite out of me because nothing like this had ever happened to a woman before and I didn’t know if she was dying or laughing on top of me. She hammered me into the gum. (My forehead still carries two nipple-made pockmarks.) She pounded my chest. She cut my neck. She gave me a hiding I never recovered from. She growled and hummed while I guffed and heaved, my teeth were chattering, I’d spurted everything and she dumped herself beside me. We were freezing, gasping and soaked in sweat, spunk and post office glue.
—God, she said.—The mess.
They’d never seen walls shake before, and the gunboat’s shells, and now the shells from two nine-pounders across the river at Trinity, reminded them that they weren’t just up against superior numbers; they had no shells of their own to send back. The Vickers guns and snipers were closing in and impossible to find. They were playing hide-and-seek with the men on the roof, using and vacating all the vantage points around. The spray of lead coming from the Anzacs on the roof of Trinity and other shifting points was constant now and nearing all the time.
The G.P.O. had no electricity, no radio or telephone link-up. The only outside contact was a line of twine running across the street, over the tram wires, to the Imperial, and messages carried in a can that had already been hit by a sniper. The ceilings were crumbling and falling, pipes had been pierced. The smell of escaping gas made the men feel trapped, and Connolly had them strengthening the barricades, locking themselves in.
—They’re busy upstairs, I said when I thought I could trust my voice again and my spine had stopped yelping.
—Are you surprised, Henry? she said.
—Surprised at what?
—Me. Are you surprised at me?
—No, I said.—Not really.
The biggest lie of my entire life. I was still so surprised, I was almost unconscious.
—I didn’t come here to make stew, Henry, she said. She sighed. She sounded angry.
—I never asked you for stew, I said.
She sighed again.
—I’m here for my freedom. Just like you and the men upstairs.
—Yeah, I said.
—I want my freedom too, she said.
—Yeah.
—To do what I want.
At Mount Street Bridge, the Sherwood Foresters, fresh off the boat from England, thinking at first that they’d landed in France or even Russia, were being sliced by the bullets of thirteen hidden Volunteers guarding the bridge. It was the only bridge in the city being held by the rebels, and their officers, armed with maps they’d ripped from hotel guidebooks, kept sending them forward. They marched through blood and entrails and the cries of dying teenagers calling for their mammies and the vapour coming from the guts of the ones already dead. The Helga and the eighteen-pounders were smashing Sackville Street and the streets off it, trying for a straight route to the G.P.O. Wynn’s Hotel was falling in on itself and, above the Freeman’s Journal building, the flames played with charred flakes from the burning bales of newsprint. Connolly had men tunnelling into the buildings beside and behind us and, across the river, de Valera released the strays and runts from the Cats’ and Dogs’ Home.
—Do you know what I’m talking about, Henry?
—Yeah, I said.—You want to behave like a man.
—Yes, she said.—I think you understand.
—But they’ll never let you, I said.
—Who?
—The shower upstairs.
—I know, she said.—I knew it the minute they started shouting for their tea.
—I hate the stuff, I told her.
She didn’t seem to hear me.
—But at least, she said,—I’m not wasting my time completely.
Our heads clashed as we rushed at each other and it was dark on the other side of the door by the time we fell apart and I pulled up my britches. The bombardment had stopped but the burning street was a roar that allowed no sleep or rest. Collapsing walls nearer the river were huge, furious footsteps, and barricades were mended against the coming end. There were men crying now; the vicious smell of burning varnish bit into eyes and the smell of cordite made fingers slip on triggers. The rosaries were difficult to resist as the gas from the mangled pipes dragged coughs from clogged lungs and the ceiling plaster fell in nasty, quick slices. Even the rebel songs were being sung like hymns - whether on the scaffold high or on the battlefield I die - a whisper from a dark corner.
—It’s just as well it’s dark out there, she said.—We must look a state.
—Lesson One on your road to freedom, I said.—Always care about how you look but never, ever care what other people think about it. Unless it suits you to. Is my hat on straight?
—You care.
—It suits me.
—So does your hat.
—I know.
—Where did you learn to think like that?
—I stopped caring. You can ride whoever you want as often as you want. If you don’t care what people think about it. Including whoever you’re riding. Now, I’m going upstairs to die.
She’d made a man of me. We kissed till we bled.
Pearse tried to hoist himself. He was fat and his arms had no more muscle than his poetry. He managed to get his head over the barricade, and looked out. He stared at the flames outside.
—Would you ever mind ducking, sir? said Felix.
—Of course, he said.
He dropped back to the ground and walked away.
—Well, Henry, said Paddy.—Back from the war. You survived the bombardment.
—I had help, I said.
—Good man, said Paddy.—D’you know how to use a pick?
We bit chunks out of the wall with seven-pound hammers and picks. We were at the back of the building, upstairs, burrowing into Henry Street. Solid masonry, the best of Wicklow granite flew back at us. The bombardment had stopped with the night but that made our work even more urgent. There was no one sleeping out there. Snipers at every height. Men with grenades crawling under our window. And armoured lorries now too, free to go where they wanted, carrying men and sandbags for barricades, towing field guns to kill us, right under our noses. They’d been made in Inchicore, in the railway works; locomotive boilers with sniper holes in the sides and phoney painted holes to trick us. The boilers were lowered onto Guinness lorries. We dug and sweated and baked in skins of dust and mortar; we broke through the party wall into an abandoned flat behind the G.P.O.
—Keep away from the windows!
Th
ere were troops out there, behind their own barricade across Moore Street. I was dodging the fizz of their bullets but I hadn’t seen a soldier yet. The sky behind the roofs, over towards Bolton Street, was red, like the sun going down three streets away; the Linenhall Barracks was on fire.
—We could win this one yet, boys. The British have no experience of this class of warfare. They’re used to fields. And castles.
We dug on, to the next flat. My arms ached, my back; my eyes were clogged and desperately sore. But the agony kept me awake; there’d be no more sleep. We took over Henry Street from the inside.
We hammered and burrowed, through plaster into solid rock. We forgot why; there was just the wall in front of us, and the pain. And the heat on our backs. And the endless squeal of the city’s roof timbers bursting into flame.
—The Germans are on the way, boys. There are submarines in Belfast Lough.
—And the Yanks.
—And the Eskee-fuckin’-moes.
And we were back downstairs, at the barricades. There was nothing like fresh air any more; the fires outside had eaten it. The cordite, breweries and dead horses fought the battle of the smells. In pockets of calm behind us, men swapped cigarettes and rosaries and the cake kept coming up from downstairs. Somewhere in there, in the digging and eating, Wednesday rolled into Thursday: there was no night. The fires lit the sky and the air right up to our windows was red. Flames were licking the clouds; more walls growled and fell. The Lewis, Vickers and Maxim guns kept going at us, from the Gresham, from the Rotunda, over the river, above, everywhere. And we fired where we saw the flame of their guns and expected to die every time we lifted ourselves to the window. There were streams of melted glass creeping onto the street, the sparks fucked above us and the heat whipped slices off my face. The fires were running across the streets, along our barricades. There were no fire engines out there; the British were firing at everything. And so was I - my hands were raw and scorched but I kept shooting, shooting. Only a few hours before I’d been lassoing Miss O’Shea with my tongue; it was dead in my mouth now, choking me as it broke to ash. I leaned into the barricade.
—Jesus!
It was burning, smouldering, the bags of coal, the ledgers, and everything else, ready to burst on me. I jumped away and roared at Paddy and Felix.
—Back off! A hose over here! Quick!
They came on their knees, for fear of bullets, hauling a hose that was rotten, and leaking where the bullets and broken glass had dug in. More hoses arrived, and buckets. Everything was hosed and drenched. And old man Clarke was suddenly everywhere, shouting on the work. The ceiling groaned, black water ran down the walls.
New orders, from The O’Rahilly: we were to get the bombs and ammo down to the cellar; the sparks were becoming too friendly. More work, more aching muscles, humping cases and boxes - the lift was dangerous, a cone of sparks and whirlwinds - while we ducked the bullets and tried not to slide in the water. Plunkett climbed off his bed as we were passing him.
—This is the first time a capital city has been burned since Moscow, he said.
—Fascinating, said Paddy, as Plunkett dropped back onto the bed.
I looked for Miss O’Shea as I went up and down but I didn’t see her. The injuries were mounting, men lying everywhere and dead men in a corner. And we were upstairs again, breaking through the walls. Through two shops, over a short roof, up a ladder. Through another wall. Burrowing. All the way to the country. And there were men in the basement, trying to dig under Henry Street and other men had been sent into the sewers. The word came up: Connolly had been shot. It stunned us.
—No.
Stopped our work.
—Out on Prince’s Street. A ricochet.
—He’s not dead, is he?
—No, he’s not, but he’ll lose the leg.
—Is his tongue still working?
—Yeah.
—He’ll be grand, so.
It scared us, though. We had to force ourselves to work and get back our rhythm; it seemed like a waste of time. The idea of Connolly even bleeding rattled us badly. He wasn’t just a man; he was all of us. We all needed him. He’d made us all believe in ourselves.
—Is there anyone better than you, Henry?
—No, Mister Connolly.
—That’s right. No one at all. Do you ever look into your eyes, Henry?
—No, Mister Connolly.
—You should, son. There’s intelligence in there, I can see it sparkling. And creativity and anything else you want. They’re all in there. And my daughter tells me you’re a good-looking lad. Look into your eyes every morning, son. It’ll do you good.
And I did. Every morning. And I saw what he’d seen, smouldering away, knocking to get out. He’d fed me, given me clothes, he let me sleep in the Hall. He made me read. He let me know that he liked me. He explained why we were poor and why we didn’t have to be. He told me that I was right to be angry. He was always busy and distant but there was always a wink or a quick grin as he looked up from his work or passed me. He wanted me there.
Paddy and Felix were the same, and the rest of the Citizen Army men. They’d all been made by Connolly and Larkin. They’d been told that they mattered, that things could be different. And should and would be different. That it was in our hands. We could change the world. That all we had to do was do it. We had time on our side, and the numbers, and God if we wanted Him and, most of all, ourselves. It was up to us.
And now we were scared.
—I always said two legs were wasted on Jimmy, said Paddy.
He drove the hammer with force made of terror and fury. It went into the wall with a killing thud and, outside, as if ignited by Paddy’s rage, an explosion shook the city and changed the colour of the air. It was suddenly white, I felt my eyes blister. A scorching heat ran over us; my skin shrank and cracked. We heard more glass break and beams crashing through boards and plaster. Then we heard a metal whop, and another. We braved the windows and saw flaming oil drums, dozens of them, falling from the night onto the street. And escaped oil fell with them. And splashed sparks and ropes of fire everywhere.
—They’re after hitting Hoyte’s.
The oil-works up the street had been hit by an incendiary shell and we watched as the drums continued to drop. One of them fell and spilt its oil onto one of the armoured lorries. It swerved and turned, like a cat with its back on fire. And it looked to us like the raining oil was on our side. But the light was scalding and the window frame ignited around us. The oil was landing on everything, trying to climb in; its stink was catching us. My hat was on fire. I grabbed it off my head and threw it at the window. I beat at my head, to kill thoughts of flame. The flames had driven Paddy’s hair back. His eyebrows were gone.
—Look at that old prick out there.
We followed his eyes and saw Nelson, at the end of the street, on his perch high above the smoke and untouched by the war.
—Where’s me weapon till I fix him.
He went back to the window and, while bullets zipped past him, buried themselves in the window and hopped off the granite sill, he shot Nelson.
—Got him in the other eye, the hoor. Now, lads. Back to work.
We crawled to our hole in the wall, away from windows and snipers.
—A bit of peace and quiet.
And we burrowed again. Became a machine again. Through the wall, we had a hole we could climb through. We looked in first, carefully, expecting to find hard, killing faces staring back at us.
We saw mirrors, velvet, bottles.
—It’s the Coliseum, said Felix.—The theatre. I know it. It’s the bar.
—Last orders, gentlemen, said Paddy.
I had my arse through the hole when I heard a voice behind me.
—Commandant Connolly wants Private Smart.
It was O’Toole, the honest Boy Scout.
—Buy yourselves a drink, lads, I shouted into the bar, and I threw some of the change from my pocket in after them.
&nbs
p; —Thanks a million, big fella, said Paddy.
I pushed past O’Toole, jangling what was left of my change.
Four men had gone out next door to the Metropole. As the first shell hit the roof of the hotel, they brought back a brass bed on good, true castors, so Connolly could continue to run the show. I took one bed knob, his bodyguard, Harry Walpole, grabbed the other and, together, we shoved the bed all over the post office. Beside Connolly as he moved, his adjutant, Winnie Carney, took down his thoughts and orders and shouted at people to get out of the way. She ran back to her typewriter, in a corner behind one of the counters; the rat-tat of her typing sent men diving for the ground. Courage, boys, we are winning, and in the hour of our victory let us not forget the splendid women who have everywhere stood by us and cheered us on. He was mad, I think, in the last hours. The burning building was dripping all around us. His face was yellow and drenched. He must have been in agony. I could see where bone had come through the skin above the ankle; the bandages and brace couldn’t hide the bloody points. And he’d been shot in the left arm.
I pushed him away from the huddled officers.
—Over to Clarke now, son, he said.
I could just hear him above the gunfire and other explosions. We heard, then felt stone toppling above us. A shell had hit the balustrade, the first direct hit. I kept pushing as more shells shaved us and hit the Metropole and Eason’s beyond it. There was an eighteen-pounder at the Parnell Monument, pointed straight at us and, behind it, a pair of howitzers, testing the range, playing with us.
—They have us in their sights, he said.
—They took their time.
—True.
Another shell hit the roof. I waited for the toppling to continue down on top of us, horrible seconds, and still the bullets bit at the walls around our heads. Men, on ladders being nibbled by the bullets, knocked holes through the plaster and floorboards, to get the hoses up to the roof.
—We’ll never be forgotten, Henry, said Connolly as I rolled the bed up onto Clarke’s foot.
Outside, the people inside the military cordon were beginning to starve. There was no one to bake bread or milk a cow. Even the pubs were shut. The bullets were constant. Anything moving was shot; anyone at a window was a sniper. Our last outposts were alone and falling. There were now twelve thousand soldiers in the city, and another four thousand on the way, and a huge pit had been dug in Arbour Hill for the rebel dead, with a hill of quicklime beside it: there’d be no republican funerals.