Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  There was light relief when rebels who had been tunnelling nearby brought back two distinguished prisoners.

  Confessions were interrupted as the men threw everything they could lay hands on at King George V and General Lord Kitchener, found hiding, for some reason, in the Waxworks in Henry Street.

  In London, Sir John French was hosting a quiet dinner for a few brother-officers. They were discussing the little spot of bother in Dublin when, at 9.15 p.m., an aide entered with a note.

  The C-in-C read it aloud. ‘Six Zeppelins reported forty miles north-east of Cromer.’

  He looked around the table.

  ‘You don’t suppose the Huns are planning to invade Norfolk, what?’

  In the South Dublin Union, the rebels had withstood constant fierce attacks. They had their first meal of the day and knelt to say the rosary.

  Kent was pleased to have achieved his main objective: he had stopped Richmond Barracks from sending troops to challenge the GPO.

  Some of Colonel Holmes’s picket had managed to get through to the Castle. Eighty-six of the Royal Irish Regiment arrived by the Ship Street Barracks entrance at 9.35 p.m. They had taken nine hours to cover half a mile.

  Colonel Kennard, the Dublin garrison commander, had linked up with them. He found he had over 300 men. Barring accidents, the Castle was safe.

  In St Patrick’s Hall, the veterans had been persuaded to go to bed. The nurses moved among them, tucking them in. One had lost a leg and had shrapnel splinters all over him.

  ‘Well, nurse,’ he said, ‘if they break in, I won’t be running away.’

  Another had a shell splinter in his left eye, twice the size of a pin-head. He had to be restrained from going out to fight the rebels.

  A young soldier with a thin white face said, ‘I’d like to torture every bloody one of them Sinn Feiners, then turn the machine-guns on them.’

  Empty beds were now being filled with victims of the day’s fighting. One was a sergeant in King Edward’s Horse. His eyes were like coins in a pond and his body was marble white; he seemed to be dying. He had led the charge on City Hall, when a youngster behind him, carrying his bayonet too low, had thrust it into his hip. In a barely audible whisper, he told a young nurse, ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing.’

  She gave him a sip of water and saw it was the best gift he had received in his life.

  When the beds in the Hall were filled, they made up others in the corridors.

  Finally, word went round that the troops were to cease firing until next morning at first light.

  In the Yard, two large watch-fires, fifteen yards apart, were lit, with soldiers stretching out and warming their hands.

  Soon after 10 p.m., a midget of a man arrived at a house in Cabra Park. He had brought a note scribbled on a page of a diary: ‘Sean T. O’Kelly to release Bulmer Hobson. (Signed) Sean McDermott.’ After a bitter argument, The O’Rahilly had persuaded Clarke to order his release.

  Hobson had gathered from whispers among his captors that something had gone wrong on Friday, delaying the rising. Now Martin Conlan said, ‘It’s started, Bulmer. Are you joining us or not?’

  He did not answer. They untied his hands and opened the front door. He left without a backward glance.

  In O’Connell Street, he saw guards outside the GPO being cursed by the shawlies, dead horses, overturned trams and – he could not hide a sardonic smile – the locust-like looters. These were Pearse’s splendid people of Ireland who would rise up and fight for the Republic.

  He remembered Connolly saying, ‘Hobson, the situation in Ireland is a revolutionary one; it’ll only take a spark to ignite it,’ and he had replied, ‘Ireland is a wet bog that’d extinguish not just a flaming torch but even a barrel of gunpowder.’

  If ever he had thought of joining the rebellion, this put paid to it.

  He went through streets reminiscent of the French Revolution to his office in D’Olier Street, there to rest for the night. Time enough to look for MacNeill in the morning.

  To the east of the city, Eamon de Valera was tired, after spending the day rushing from one post to another. His two Vice-Commandants and his Adjutant had failed to turn up. He had promoted Captain Joseph O’Connor as Vice-Commandant in case anything happened to him but O’Connor had to stay with A Company since there was no one else.

  De Valera was inspecting his outposts when he heard a murmur of voices on the railroad. He listened. Fine, they were saying the rosary. A devout man, he stayed for a decade on the edge in the gloom, praying with them.

  Moving on to inspect the sentries, he gave the password. No answer. He went back to the prayer-group, only to find the sentries on their knees with the rest.

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ he said, tight-lipped, ‘but sentries must not leave their posts, even for the rosary.’

  In the Four Courts, the rebels discovered the best-stpcked wine cellar in Dublin but, licking their lips, left it alone.

  They broke into the Judges’ Chambers. One put on a wig and condemned all his comrades to sleep, after which, wrapping themselves round with ermine and sable robes, they gladly served their sentence.

  In the Green, the rebels were convinced that, as the Countess said, ‘The whole of Arland is behind us, chaps.’ Kerry, Wexford, Galway, they were all in it.

  When the day-long insect-sizzle was silent at last and shadows had tiptoed across the grass, and the dark finally reached and blotted out the sky, Bob de Coeur, Liam O’Briain and the rest stretched out in grave-like trenches, smelling the sweetness of dew-fall and turned earth.

  ‘God’s going to water the gardens tonight,’ de Coeur said.

  The women slept in the summer house, except for the Countess who curled up in Dr Lynn’s car, intending to stay there for only an hour or two.

  In the GPO, now without electricity, Father O’Flanagan was busy with candle-lit confessions until 11.30 p.m.

  Pearse himself opened the door to let him out. As the priest went home, he buried his neck in the cape of his soutane. The weather was turning cold.

  On the top floor, The O’Rahilly finished off a letter to his wife. Then he confessed to Desmond Fitzgerald that he was surprised they had lasted so long.

  ‘Tomorrow, they’re bound to come for us. I only hope the rest of the country hasn’t risen, or they’ll be massacred.’

  Below, Pearse asked Tom Clarke how he felt. ‘Grand. Haven’t I lived to see the greatest day in Irish history?’ And Pearse said, ‘To think Emmet’s revolt only lasted a couple of hours.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Old Tom said, ‘how they’re getting on in Galway and Limerick and Tralee.’

  ‘Very well, I’m sure,’ Pearse replied, without conviction. He was simply pleased they had done something. How could he have lived another week, let alone the rest of his life, if they had done nothing?

  Stretched out on the floor near Joe Plunkett, Michael Collins was not happy. Proud of being now the only man in the GPO who had not made his Easter duties, he disliked the talismanic wearing of holy medals and rosaries round the neck and Pearse talking theology to justify something as plain and right as sunrise. He would have plenty of time to pray when he was dead. What concerned him was the thought that the rebellion was a shambles. He particularly hated the idea of being holed up like a dog in a kennel. Why give the enemy the initiative?

  The men, too excited to lie down, were in good voice. They sang a full repertoire of rebel songs, the favourite being ‘The Soldier’s Song’:

  Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland,

  Some have come from a land beyond the wave,

  Sworn to be free, no more an ancient sireland

  Shall shelter the despot or the slave.

  Tonight we man the ‘bearna baoghail’ (Gap of Death)

  In Erin’s cause come woe or weal,

  Mid cannon’s roar and rifle’s peal,

  We’ll chant a soldier’s song.

  Someone cried, ‘Why not make that the anthem of the Republic?�
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  Collins turned over, angered at their stupidity in not grabbing sleep while it was for the taking.

  Finally, they made an effort to settle. Except for Pearse. Pleased to have caught the British on the hop, he inspected the sentries at the windows and spoke an encouraging word.

  It looked like being a quiet night. The moon in the clouds was like a poacher in the thickets. From time to time, a rifle barked as a sniper on the roof saw or thought he saw a soldier in khaki.

  As silence descended on the Castle, Hamilton Norway persuaded the guard to open the rear gate to let him out.

  Feeling he had a bull’s-eye in between his shoulder blades, he ran all the way home to his hotel in Dawson Street.

  Nathan had accepted the offer of accommodation with Kelly, an employee who lived with his family within the Castle walls. Without undressing, he lay on the sofa. Sleep did not come easily on this the worst night of his life.

  Outside Tralee, Monteith had spent a marvellous day. He had slept in late, then breakfasted in front of a turf fire. His hosts assured him there was no police activity in the area. He had gone on a long afternoon walk, admired the scenery and the pipping of birds in the hedgerows.

  About midnight, he turned in on his featherbed. Already, the past few days and months seemed like a nightmare finally over, for him if not for Casement.

  As he drifted off, he was puzzled as to why MacNeill had cancelled the rising so soon after Connolly had said all was well.

  The British Prime Minister had decided to leave the house party at his picturesque Thameside home at Abingdon and travel back to Downing Street. There was a crowd at The Wharf, not the best people, either. To Margot’s dismay, he kept slipping away to read Quiller-Couch’s lectures on ‘The Art of Writing’.

  At 10.30 p.m., in a cheery mood, he began his two-hour journey back to London with Hankey, the Cabinet Secretary. He was no sooner through the door of No 10 than a secretary met him.

  ‘Message from Sir John French, sir. There has been a rebellion in Dublin at midday.’

  The Prime Minister paused, stroking his wavy hair. A clock chimed 12.30 a.m. More than half a day had passed since the rising began.

  Ireland, where, he liked to say, even the scenery looks in need of repair, was being troublesome again. If only it could be submerged in the Atlantic for, say, ten years.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ he murmured, and without another word, went upstairs to bed.

  In Dublin, the British forces did not sleep.

  Their request for help from England was being answered. Four battalions of Sherwood Foresters were on their way to Liverpool whence they would cross to Kingstown.

  Closer to home, troops from Athlone had joined those from the Curragh. 150 men had arrived from Belfast, proving that the rail link from the north was still intact. Incoming troops were feted as liberators by housewives at street corners.

  The military had performed a classical holding operation in the face of an as yet unknown enemy. They had secured the Castle and the docks at the North Wall. They had encircled Kingstown Harbour to ensure that reinforcements from England could land there in thirty-six hours’ time. They had strengthened the Telephone Exchange in Crown Alley. By holding on to Amiens Street Station, they had even re-established telegraphic contact with London because the cables went under the Station. Inexplicably, the rebels had done little damage to railway lines into the city, nor had they blown up any bridges. They seemed not to grasp the overriding importance of communications in war.

  When Kennard in the Castle contacted Cowan at General Command, they both found it hard to know why the rebels had put their HQ north of the city where it was mercilessly exposed. Why, for instance, had they not taken over Trinity College which, like the Castle, was originally at their mercy and was crammed with rifles and ammunition? They had lost their chance since it was now manned by a sizeable force.

  There had been virtually no rebel activity outside Dublin, and further German help was surely a figment of the rebels’ imagination. The Royal Navy had absolute mastery of the seas.

  The feeling was dawning on the military that they were dealing with a bunch of amateurs.

  ‘They can’t win,’ Kennard said, ‘but they might be the very devil to dislodge.’

  Cowan agreed. Defenders always had the advantage, especially when they were on home ground.

  During the night, the military took control of the Custom House next door to Liberty Hall. And, of course, they could not allow the rebels to stay in emplacements so close to the Castle. Kennard said they simply had to flush them out. And soon.

  TUESDAY

  Soon after 2 a.m. on a drizzling morning, a party of 100 men and a machine-gun unit left the Lower Yard of the Castle for Stephen’s Green.

  One machine-gun nest was stationed on top of the Shelbourne Hotel, another on the roof of the United Services Club. At many windows overlooking the Green, men in khaki had their rifles at the ready.

  At 3.45 a.m., the tall, slim, handsome Brigadier-General Lowe arrived at Kingsbridge Station with the advance of the extra thousand men called up from the Curragh. Since General Friend was an administrator, Lowe took over operations.

  Kennard soon brought him up to date.

  ‘The Sinn Feiners have taken up purely defensive positions, sir, with their HQ in the GPO.’

  ‘Are they on both sides of the river?’ Kennard nodded. ‘Fortunate for us,’ Lowe chuckled. ‘It should be easy to break their lines of communications. Now this is what we’ll do.’

  His plan was to secure a west-east line. From Richmond Barracks, this line would extend to the Castle and thence east along Dame Street to Trinity College and still further east to the North Wall of the Liffey.

  ‘We should be able,’ Lowe said, ‘to bypass all the rebel positions and isolate the HQ. See any flaws?’

  Kennard shook his head.

  Lowe ordered Colonel Owen to withdraw from the South Dublin Union. Owen had spent the previous day and much of the night fortifying his position. He could have the whole thing sewn up by nightfall. Under protest, he withdrew. He could not see his only use was as part of the cordon round the GPO. There was no need to risk casualties in the Union.

  In London, the phone rang by Sir John French’s bed. It was 4 a.m. That phone was never used except in emergencies.

  He took a while to get his bearings. Discussion on Ireland the night before had lasted through several bottles of port.

  ‘Sir,’ an aide said, ‘the German fleet is five miles off Lowestoft and bombarding the town. Quite a few casualties.’

  Sir John replaced the receiver with a frown. Were the Germans contemplating an invasion and using the trouble in Ireland as a diversion? His military brain told him that an invasion was out of the question, but that same brain had told him the same about a rising in Ireland.

  He got dressed and summoned his staff to see about reinforcing defences in East Anglia.

  At 4.30 a.m., troops with fixed bayonets moved out of Upper Castle Yard, followed by stretcher-bearers.

  Nurses in St Patrick’s Hall were making final preparations to receive casualties. Beds were made, screens positioned, bandages and dressings checked, kettles put on to boil.

  The Sergeant who had almost died from loss of blood sat up and took a few puffs on a cigarette, before he choked with the effort. A passing doctor said cheerily, ‘He’ll live.’

  The veterans, their sleep disturbed, went to the canteen where troops were being fed and demanded breakfast three hours before the usual time. The half dozen nurses and auxiliaries had a hard job satisfying 700 with supplies meant for 70. It was made no easier by the fact that, with the gas switched off, there was only the stove for cooking.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ the veterans wanted to know. ‘Just one cup o’ tea each and ‘alf a slice of bleedin’ bread?’

  Their complaints ceased on the sound of deafening fire from the City Hall. The chatter of machine-guns, the barking of rifles, the thud of gren
ades put everything into perspective.

  Amid smoke and dust, the British troops burst into the City Hall through underground corridors, windows and from the roofs of neighbouring buildings. It was soon over.

  What shook the assailants was finding that the whole place was defended by nine people.

  Dr Kathleen Lynn, knowing John O’Reilly was dead, stepped forward. ‘I’m the MO. I surrender on behalf of this group.’

  ‘A bloody woman.’ The troops wondered if this had ever happened before in the annals of the British army. Some even doubted its legitimacy.

  Helena Moloney and Dr Lynn were taken to Ship Street Barracks and the men to Richmond Barracks.

  The battle around the Castle was far from over. The rebels were still well dug-in in neighbouring houses and in the block that served the Daily Express and the Evening Mail.

  Dubliners woke to a sultry day; low scudding clouds were grey and fat with rain.

  Smoke rising from ranks of chimneys coalesced into a thick pall over crowded tenements. The tenants rubbed and peered through dusty windows, not daring to go out.

  On the roofs, like weathercocks, men crouched drenched and shivering in silhouette, clutching rifles or blowing warmth into their fingers. One stood up to stretch, a rifle barked and he fell over like a slice of bread.

  The streets were strangely silent. No shops opened, no cars or lorries moved. There were no deliveries of post, milk, bread. No policemen were on the beat, though some were in civvies finding out the disposition of rebel forces. Women at street corners made very willing informers.

  The world outside the capital seemed to have ceased. The British controlled the Telephone Exchange. There were no English papers. The only local paper, the Irish Times, carried a mere three-line official statement to the effect that evilly-disposed persons had caused a minor disturbance. The rest of the country was quiet.

  Dublin became a whispering gallery. Some started a rumour just to find out how soon it would catch up with them again and in what form. U-boats had landed vast quantities of arms, especially machine-guns. German troops in their thousands had joined forces with brigades of Irish-Americans armed to the teeth and led by Jim Larkin, come to free the old land from tyranny. People from Cork to Donegal had risen, and most towns and cities were in rebel hands. The Pope had committed suicide.