It’s the best tea I ever tasted.
After we finish eating, I unfold a sheet of paper from my coat pocket and spread it out on the bed. ‘Look at this, lads. These are posted on walls all around here, so I took one down for us.’
The boys gather around a creased copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic. The type is black and rather smudged. Roger begins to read aloud:
‘Irishmen and Irishwomen: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.
‘Having organised and trained her manhood through her secret revolutionary organisation, the Irish Republican Brotherhood,’ – I know about them! – ‘and through her open military organisations, the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army …’
In my mind’s eye I can see Padraic Pearse standing in front of the GPO. What courage it must have taken to read these words out loud in a land that has been occupied by a foreign power for over seven hundred years!
‘We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland.’
The ownership of Ireland! I have a lump in my throat. Our own land!
‘We hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State … We pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations … The Republic guarantees civil and religious liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and of all its parts, cherishing all the children of the nation equally …’
There are seven signatures at the bottom. Thomas J. Clarke, Seán MacDiarmada, P. H. Pearse, James Connolly, Thomas MacDonagh, Eamonn Ceannt, and Joseph Plunkett.
The words of the Proclamation are still ringing in my ears when we hear a terrible booming explosion. We all run to the windows. From the direction of the river an immense cloud of dust is billowing into the sky.
One of the Fianna guarding the bridge comes running up Sackville Street, waving his arms and shouting. ‘The British have a gunboat on the Liffey! They’ve fired on Liberty Hall!’
Within minutes a terrific bombardment is striking the area around Butt Bridge and the Customs House. The noise is deafening. We can see the occasional leap of flames above the rooftops. ‘They must be firing incendiary shells,’ Roger remarks. ‘I’ve read about those, they’re being used in Europe.’
Mr Connolly was wrong about British capitalists. They will destroy property – so long as it’s Irish.
Our troops are firing back with everything they have. We don’t have to go looking for the war, it’s all around us. Something smashes against the side of the Metropole and the entire hotel shudders. Plaster flakes fall from the ceiling and pepper my shoulders like dandruff. The little boy called Francis shouts, ‘It’s snowing indoors!’
Another tremendous explosion, very near, sounds even worse. ‘What was that?’ I shout down to the nearest man in the street.
‘The GPO. I think something hit the top storey.’ He starts to run in that direction.
Will the Commander-in-Chief order an evacuation? I do not think so. I know Mr Pearse. He will not run.
How I wish there was something we could do to be useful. But all around is total confusion. If we go out into the street we have no orders and no weapons, we would just be in the way.
Funnily enough, I’m not afraid of being hurt. I suppose I should be, but I’m not. Something deep inside me has become very calm and quiet, like Mr Pearse.
‘What shall we do, sir?’ Gerry, the smallest of the boys, asks me. Me. Sir!
‘We are going to stay here for now and keep a sharp lookout. I don’t know what will happen next but we must be ready for anything.’
‘We are sir,’ the little lad says cheerfully.
I reach out and tousle his hair.
The shelling goes on and on. At first every explosion makes us flinch violently, but after a while one almost gets used to the noise. Otherwise one would soon be exhausted. Much of the city, at least that part which we can see from here, is being laid to waste. I wonder when it will be our turn.
We hear a commotion in the passageway, then a thunderous knock at the door. ‘Who’s in there?’
We freeze.
‘In the name of the Republic!’ another voice cries. ‘Is anyone in there?’
I run to the door and throw it open.
Four men wearing civilian clothes and Volunteer badges stare back at me. It is hard to say who is more surprised, me or them. ‘What are you lot doing up here?’ one asks, indicating the other boys in the room.
‘We’re Fianna, sir. We came to see the fighting.’
He cannot help grinning. ‘Seen enough yet, have you?’
‘We’ve seen a bit but we don’t know what’s happening.’
‘The British are closing in on us, that’s what’s happening. We’ve had to evacuate some of our wounded, but we’re still holding Headquarters.’
‘Is the Ard … is the Commander-in-Chief all right?’ I want to know.
‘Pearse is amazing, as cool as well water. I don’t think he’s slept at all since Monday. He spends his time either going around and encouraging the troops, or writing a ‘newspaper’ as he calls it, trying to keep up our spirits by telling us how well everything’s going.’
Roger asks, ‘Is everything going well?’
‘Hardly. We’re done for, though no-one’s willing to admit it. We’ll hold out for as long as we can, though. Let’em know they’ve been in a scrap. Me and my men have been assigned to take over this floor of the hotel as a sniper post. We did not know anyone was still up here, not until we heard voices in this room. Mind if we join you?’
‘We would be honoured, sir,’ says Conor.
The Volunteers take up positions, two in each of our two windows. I am almost certain that the rifles they carry were part of the Howth cargo. The men watch the street below with frightening intensity, and we watch them. Every now and then one sights along his rifle and squeezes off a shot. I notice that they are careful with their ammunition.
‘Have your men had anything to eat today?’ I ask their leader. His name, I have learned, is Captain Fitzsimons. ‘We have some pickled eggs. And we can make tea for you.’
The captain rewards my offer with a weary smile. ‘Just when I thought we were all out of miracles.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THURSDAY, EASTER WEEK 1916
None of us slept well last night.
At precisely ten o’clock in the morning the British begin bombarding Lower Sackville Street. One building after another goes on fire. Kelly’s Gun Shop, on the corner by the bridge, is abandoned, and the men who were holding that position retreat to the GPO. Captain Fitzsimons leans out a window to shout to them, ‘Good job lads, keep the heart up!’
I’m glad we have the snipers with us, because from time to time a messenger brings them news. It’s the job I should have had, being a messenger.
We learn that the British gunboat Helga is not doing all of the damage to Dublin. Field guns are being fired from Trinity College as well, adding to the bombardment and destruction. Students of the Officers’ Training Corps are manning the university as a temporary garrison until the British military take over.
Last night there was a huge battle at the Mount Street Bridge. For five hours a mere handful of Volunteers in Clanwilliam House held out against a whole British column.
Although most of the Citizen Army have been forced to evacuate their outposts, about a hundred are still in the Royal College of Surgeons across from St Stephen’s Green. Among them is Constance Markievicz.
I am confident that Madame, like Mr Pearse, will fight to the last.
From the sounds of battle we can tell that the British army is drawing closer and closer. They are tightening a noose around all our necks. Yet there is no talk of try
ing to escape. Even little Gerry seems quite unafraid.
Just a few minutes ago Captain Fitzsimons gave an exclamation of surprise. ‘Come over here John Joe,’ he says beckoning me to his window. ‘Look down there. What do you see?’
I can hardly believe my eyes. Seven more young boys are cautiously making their way up Sackville Street, dodging from building to building while gunfire echoes all around them. ‘Do you know any of that lot?’ the captain asks me.
‘All of them. They’re Fianna from St Enda’s.’
‘Stay here,’ he says sternly. We hear him running down the passage. Shortly afterward he appears in the street. He uses an ear-splitting whistle to get the boys’ attention. When they look in his direction he gives a commanding wave. After a moment’s hesitation, they trot over to him and he ushers them into the hotel.
Captain Fitzsimons herds his flock into our room and closes the door firmly behind them. He looks as if he does not know whether to laugh or cry. I can understand his feelings.
‘You lads could have been killed,’ the captain says.
‘We know that, sir. But we weren’t.’
‘Why have you done such a foolish, foolish thing?’
The newcomers look at one another, and then at me. I guess it is because I am the tallest member of the Fianna in the room. ‘We belong here,’ one boy says simply.
Mid-morning we have a visitor. James Connolly, a stocky, sturdy man in Citizen Army uniform and leather leggings, is making the rounds of the sniper positions. When he enters the room on the top floor – which is rather crowded by this time – he opens his eyes very wide indeed. ‘Captain,’ he asks Fitzsimons, ‘what is the meaning of this?’
‘You had best ask them, sir.’
‘I certainly shall,’ Connolly says gruffly. ‘Just what are you lads playing at?’
‘We’re auxiliaries, sir,’ I reply.
‘Nonsense.’
‘But we are. We’re members of the Fianna.’
‘Nonsense,’ Connolly says again. ‘You’re only children. Don’t you know there’s a war going on?’
I decide to brazen it out. ‘Boys our age have fought in wars since the beginning of history. Mr Pearse believes we are of strategic importance,’ I add recklessly.
James Connolly laughs, a great booming laugh. ‘Does he now? I’ll tell you what. You stay here while I go ask him what he wants done with you. Don’t go outside at all, do you understand? That’s an order!’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And keep your heads below the window sills!’ he adds as he strides away.
The gunfire is coming closer and closer. The crash of falling bricks and mortar from the areas around Sackville Street is almost constant. The centre of Dublin is being torn apart by British artillery. The captain and his men stand well back from the windows now, though they have their rifles at the ready.
After fifteen or twenty minutes Connolly returns. ‘I suppose you lads will have to stay,’ he tells us. ‘Pearse agreed with me that it would be too dangerous to try to send you home.’ Connolly smiles. ‘Actually, what he said was, ‘I suggest you provide them with weapons. They may have to defend not only their ideals but themselves.’ So I’ve brought you three old pistols, all we could spare. Do you boys know how to shoot them? If not, I’m sure Captain Fitzsimons can show you.’
The pistols are given to Roger, Conor, and myself, together with a very few rounds of ammunition. The Volunteers take time to make sure we know how to use the weapons, then return to their posts.
The British are almost upon us now. Machine-gun fire constantly rakes the nearby streets.
A messenger arrives from Headquarters with the news that General Sir John Maxwell is on his way from England to take command of the British forces. Maxwell has a fearsome reputation. He is reported to have said he has no intention of sparing Dublin. He will not hesitate to destroy any buildings that may harbour what he calls ‘rebels’.
Us. The insurgents. The Irish who want their country back.
In the afternoon we receive bad news indeed. James Connolly has been shot twice in the leg. He was taken to Headquarters, where the women are nursing the wounded. Although his injuries are very serious he refuses to stay quiet, but insists on being wheeled about on his bed so he can supervise the defence of the GPO.
Stepping up beside the Volunteers, we boys aim our pistols down into the street. The rebels in the Metropole Hotel want to shoot the man who shot Connolly.
We can hardly tell day from night anymore, the air is so filled with smoke and dust. I have lost all sense of time. We are just here. The noise and the destruction are everywhere. I cannot remember when things were any different.
This must be what hell is like.
And it goes on and on.
There is no light in the room except for the lurid glow from the fires burning in the ruins of buildings.
Finally Captain Fitzsimons orders his men to lie down for a while and try to get some sleep. We boys do the same. The room is very cold and we do not have enough blankets and coats to keep us warm, but it hardly matters. We would shiver anyway. From excitement or fear or tension. They all feel the same now.
You would not think anyone could sleep under such circumstances, but I am deep in a blurry dream about Emmet’s Fort and Roger’s dog when voices over my head wake me up again.
The messenger who has visited us before is saying, ‘There are twelve thousand British troops in Dublin now, and the centre of the city is cordoned off.’
Captain Fitzsimons asks, ‘What of the other garrisons?’
‘Since early this afternoon there has been no word from Daly at the Four Courts. MacDonagh and de Valera are holding firm so far, but Ceannt is taking heavy fire at the South Dublin Union. Cathal Brugha, his second-in-command, has been severely wounded.’
‘And James Connolly? How is he now?’
‘It does not look good for him, sir. His wounds are dreadfully inflamed and causing him a lot of pain.’
The captain says, ‘Thank you for coming to tell us. Please continue to keep us informed about the situation.’
‘I don’t know how much longer that will be possible, sir. A lot of our messengers have been trapped elsewhere, and we’re very short-handed at Headquarters. We don’t even have enough stretcher-bearers left.’
I am totally and completely awake.
Scrambling to my feet, I tell Captain Fitzsimons, ‘I’m big enough to be a stretcher-bearer. May I go to Headquarters?’
‘What about me?’ wails Roger. ‘Don’t leave me, John Joe!’
‘Can you get these two boys safely back there with you?’ the captain asks the messenger.
‘I can try, sir.’
‘Very well, you may take them.’
And then, so swiftly we don’t have time to think, Roger and I are running down the hotel passageway behind the messenger from Headquarters. Running down the carpeted stairs which are gritty underfoot now, running across the lobby which is half-filled with debris, running out into the terrible street.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FRIDAY, EASTER WEEK 1916
I do not know what I expected, but the General Post Office is very changed. An Irish tricolour, blackened with smoke, droops from the flagpole that always held the Union Jack before. The flames of the burning city provide enough light to reveal the dreadful damage done by British artillery. I am almost surprised that anyone could still be alive inside.
But they are.
Roger and I follow the messenger under the portico and into the lobby on the ground floor. It is filled with men and rubble and sandbags and broken glass and splintered timber. The smell is appalling. A mixture of smoke and sweat and blood and …
‘Over here,’ calls the messenger. He leads us to Joe Plunkett, the Chief-of-Staff, who is half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of debris draped with one of his great capes.
‘I’ve found two more stretcher-bearers, sir,’
Plunkett looks ghastly. His face is deathly pale an
d there is a bandage around his throat with blood seeping through. Roger asks, ‘Are you wounded yourself, sir?’
Plunkett gestures toward his throat with an elegant, long-fingered hand laden with heavy rings. ‘Don’t concern yourself, this is not a wound. I had an operation recently, that’s all.’
‘He has tuberculosis of the throat,’ I whisper to Roger. ‘Willie told me he was in Switzerland taking treatment, but he came back for this.’
I cannot tell if Joe Plunkett hears me. I cannot even tell if Roger hears me, for at that moment there is a dreadful crash overhead and ceiling debris cascades down upon us.
Why don’t they stop! It’s night-time, so why don’t they stop?!
But it is not night-time. It is Friday morning. A pale, sickly light is beginning to filter into the ruin that is the Headquarters of the Provisional Irish Republic.
The devoted women and girls who have kept the defenders fed and bandaged look as exhausted as the men, but they provide us with some tea and soup. It is the first hot food we have had in a long time. While Roger is still devouring his I wander around the lobby.
When curiosity prompts me to peer behind a hospital screen, I find James Connolly lying on old iron bedstead and reading a book. The loss of blood has left him almost as pale as Joe Plunkett. When he sees me he raises himself onto one elbow. ‘There’s one of our snipers now!’ he says cheerfully. ‘How are you, boy?’
‘I’m well, sir. How are you?’
‘I would be a lot better if they were not keeping me out of the action! When you see Pearse tell him, will you?’
‘Where is Mr Pearse, sir? I have not yet seen him.’
‘He’s in that little makeshift office of his, writing something or other.’ Connolly sounds dismissive, as if every man should be busy shooting every moment.
When I return to Joe Plunkett for my assignment, he tells me, ‘You have not come a minute too soon. There is more work to be done than able-bodied men to do it.’
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