‘It is so recorded,’ said the President.
After the trial, the three condemned were taken to Kilmainham.
Mallin’s house was only two hundred yards from the jail; the lorry had to pass it. He peered out the back, hoping to catch a last glimpse of his wife and children. He did not know that his wife had been advised to move around regularly to avoid being picked up by the military. All that Mallin saw was his pet dog, Prinie, prized because she had once saved his little daughter from a rearing horse. Prinie was sitting like a faithful guardian by the front door.
And the house, a tiny terraced house, how beautiful it seemed, so serene, so full of wonder.
‘My precious darling wife,’ he prayed fervently, ‘come out and show yourself with little Joseph.’ She never did.
Goodbye.
He felt he had lost his last chance of ever seeing his wife and baby son again.
*
It was the Countess’s turn to face court martial at Richmond. She was taken there from her isolation cell in Kilmainham.
As to assisting the enemy, she pleaded not guilty.
As to causing disaffection among the population towards British rule, she pleaded, ‘Guilt-ay 200 per cent and prahd of it.’
The first witness was a seventeen-year-old page boy at the University Club. He claimed to have seen the Countess fire a pistol at the Club from behind a monument in the Green.
The Countess got satisfaction out of showing his testimony was a tissue of lies. Not that it mattered since she was perfectly willing to agree with the next witness, Captain Wheeler, that she handed him her pistol when they surrendered. She also acknowledged that she was Mallin’s second in command.
When the Captain stood down, the President said, ‘Madam, have you anything to say?’
In a voice as English as his, she said, dismissively: ‘Yes, old feller. I went out to fight for Arland’s freedom and it doesn’t matter a tinker’s cuss what happens to me. I did what I thought was right and I stand by it.’
She was taken back to Kilmainham Jail where she expected the same fate as the rest.
Father Augustine again spent part of his afternoon at the Officers’ Quarters on the North Circular Road.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if I will be needed tomorrow morning?’
The CO winked. ‘Padre, I’ll send a car for you.’
At 9 that evening, Sir John French received another anxious note from the PM.
Warned by Redmond, he did not like the idea of four more leaders being shot that morning. He asked Sir John to convey to Maxwell that wholesale executions might easily cause a revulsion of feeling in England and lay up a store of future trouble in Ireland.
Sir John was irritated. Really, politicians were the limit. They asked the army to clean up their messes, then complained because a few heads got broken.
He called in his secretary. ‘A wire to General Maxwell.’
Having explained the Prime Minister’s worries, he made a fatal addition of his own.
‘There is no intention to interfere with the freedom of action or initiative which you as C-in-C now have.’
He snapped his fingers in the direction of his secretary. ‘That’s all. Send it off right away.’
In Kilmainham Jail, a stone’s throw away from where Maxwell was going through his list of executions, the Countess was still awake when someone quietly unlocked the padlock and eased back the bolt. It was the Tommy on duty.
He came in and offered her a cigarette. He knew she had been found guilty and felt sorry for her. She was middle-aged. A woman. An English woman. It just did not seem right to court-martial her.
As they smoked, he let her ask questions. He was not too careful; she was destined for the bullet soon.
‘Who’s been shot so far?’
He reeled off seven names. There were no surprises, except for Willie Pearse. He was merely his brother’s shadow.
‘Any tomorrow?’ She did not really expect an answer.
‘Chap name of MacBride.’
‘MacBride? But he had nothing to do with the planning.’
The Tommy shrugged; he was a soldier, not a politician.
When Father Augustine entered his cell, Major MacBride’s first words were, ‘A pity, Padre, we had to throw in the towel, don’t you think?’ Before the priest could answer, he said, cheerfully, ‘I asked a Tommy for water to wash in and know what he brought me? A cupful.’
Father Augustine’s cathedral laugh merged with MacBride’s and rolled around the tiny cell.
The prisoner handed over a pound note, silver and copper coins. ‘For the poor.’ He tugged his rosary out of his pocket like an earth worm. ‘Give that to my mother, will you?’ He removed his watch, not a tremble of the hands, from his waistcoat. ‘And that.’
He had been thinking of his wife, Maud Gonne, and how, though they had fallen out, she would, at least, approve of the manner of his death.
Then there was their son, Sean, at school in Paris, how would he take the news and what would become of him?
He knelt and confessed with the simplicity of a child.
Father Augustine gave him Communion, after which they prayed together.
‘I’ll stay with you to the end,’ the priest promised, ‘and anoint you when you fall.’
‘Kind of you, Padre.’
Soldiers came along the cat-walk with metallic tread, there was a knock on the door.
The Countess had spent the night waiting to hear the shots that put an end to brave MacBride. With the coming of dawn and the dread, her ears were supersensitive. She heard the tramp of soldiers below and knew that the firing squad had arrived.
Though he was in the next block, she wanted to beat on the door and call out, ‘MacBride, Major MacBride, God-speed.’ But that would have betrayed the kind Tommy who had confided in her. She stuffed her hands in her mouth.
MacBride was escorted downstairs to the back door.
‘Would you mind,’ he said, ‘if I don’t have my hands bound? I promise to keep perfectly still.’
But they were fastened behind him.
‘Surely, soldier, I don’t have to be blindfolded?’
‘Sorry, sir, them’s my orders.’
Hooded like a falcon, MacBride turned to the priest, and, remembering the Boer War, said, ‘Padre, it’s not as if I never looked down the barrels of their guns before.’
As a piece of paper was being pinned over his heart, the friar whispered in his ear: ‘We are all sinners, my son. Offer up your life for any faults or sins of the past.’
‘I’m glad you told me that, Father. I will.’
With Father Augustine guiding him and flanked by two armed men, he stepped out into the Yard with an almost jaunty air.
He had had a full life; married a beautiful woman, fathered a son, fought in many a battle, so that death, a soldier’s death, seemed a fitting end.
He lifted his head and smelled the air. ‘A fine morning, Padre.’
The big priest beside him shuddered. ‘A bit chilly.’
Beneath the blindfold, walking, as the priest thought, by the light of the Angel’s Lamp, the prisoner smiled as if to say the cold did not matter all that much.
Big, gentle Father Augustine was praying, ‘De profundis,’ but never had he called to God out of such great depths before.
The prisoner was positioned at the wall, fifty feet from the firing squad. The escort moved to the left, near the Governor and the prison doctor.
Father Augustine was transfixed on the spot near MacBride. The officer led him gently to the right. ‘This way, please.’
MacBride said, lingeringly, ‘Goodbye, Padre.’
As the officer spoke a word of command, MacBride straightened his broad shoulders, drew in his stomach, and his mouth assumed the shape of a big O.
Death, however long-awaited, always came suddenly like the cork out of a champagne bottle, like a stranger from behind a tree.
The officer lowered his hand. With th
e volley echoing around the Yard, the prisoner collapsed like a sack of grain.
The officer held the priest back just long enough for him to put a bullet in the dead man’s brain.
Father Augustine knelt to anoint the warm quivering flesh. ‘Per istam sanctam unctionem.…’
MacBride’s brave spirit, he felt, was already winging its way to God.
‘One more execu-tion. One more execu-tion.’
The Connollys heard the newsboy’s cry and Lillie, nearly out of her mind, clutched the children to her as Nora ran out to buy a paper.
Trying to stop herself shuddering, Nora returned, a false smile on her face. ‘It’s not Daddy.’
‘Who?’ said several voices.
Nora’s face clouded over as she told them.
To Kattie Clarke, the Major’s death was another blow. First Tom, then Ned, now MacBride, the witness at her wedding in New York.
She remembered how the trunk containing her wedding dress had been missing from the boat, and MacBride had patted her arm. She had never forgotten his comforting words, ‘Never mind your trousseau, girl, you’re marrying a hero, aren’t you?’
Around midday, in Westport, County Mayo, MacBride’s hometown, a twelve-year-old boy, Tom Heavey, was standing outside Joyce’s, the newsagent’s, when a railwayman passed and said, ‘MacBride was shot this morning.’
Mrs Joyce, biting back her tears, said, ‘Get on your bike, lad, and go tell the poor one at once.’
Tom, not sure what the message meant, pedalled as fast as he could to the Quay and burst into the ship chandler’s shop and up the winding steps. Without knocking or removing his cap, he went into a quiet, dark room where a silver-haired old lady was seated, hands on her lap, by the window.
Honoria MacBride had been a widow for forty-eight years, since her Sean was six months old. She raised her wrinkled eyes, questioningly.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Tom got out, breathlessly, ‘but it seems, well, the Major—’
There was anguish now in Honoria’s face.
‘Shot this morning, ma’am.’
Without a word, the old lady just bowed her head.
At Richmond Barracks, it was Kent’s turn to be tried. He stood tall and straight before the court, betraying no emotion.
At 4 in the afternoon, he wrote a note to his wife.
I expect the death sentence which better men have already suffered. I only regret that I have now no longer the opportunity of showing you how I think of you now that the chance of seeing you again is so remote. I shall die like a man for Ireland’s sake.
Later, he changed the heading of the note from Richmond to Kilmainham, where he awaited execution in Joe Plunkett’s cell.
His wife came unexpectedly to visit him and it had a profound effect on him. It seemed to humanize him, to make him feel things he had suppressed for years.
Afterwards, he wrote to her.
Aine, my wife,
In memory of me, Aine, my thousand loves, tell Ronan that I am dying for Ireland. When understanding comes to him with the years, he will understand that much. Dulce est pro Patria mori. This is 7th day of May 1916, E. K.
He added a note for his boy.
To my dear poor little son, Ronan, from his father who is on the point of dying tomorrow for Ireland. Goodbye, E. K.
PS Take good care of your dear mother. May God help the two of you and may He give you both long life and happiness. God free Ireland.
After several attempts, de Valera’s wife, Sinead, finally managed to see the American Consul, Edward L. Adams. He had been out of town during the rising and had only just returned.
She asked him to intervene on Eamon’s behalf.
‘Why come to me, ma’am?’
Sinead took out of her purse a copy of her husband’s birth certificate. Twice, British soldiers had raided her house in search of it. Fortunately, it was kept in de Valera’s family home in Munster Street.
‘As you see, sir, my husband was born in New York. He is, therefore, an American citizen, surely?’
Even if this were so, the Consul had heard that de Valera had spent almost his entire life in Ireland. He had openly boasted that he was Irish not English. Nor had he at the age of twenty-one taken an oath of American citizenship.
Adams was not in a position to check all the facts, nor was he yet sure of his Government’s attitude to the rebellion.
When he made representations to Major Price and Sir Matthew Nathan, he found them both sympathetic. They had no wish to embarrass the American administration.
Nathan glanced at his watch. It was 6.15 p.m. on his last day. He had packed and, the Perfect Civil Servant, was at his desk till the end.
He took a last look around his office with its tall windows and grand ceiling. He printed on his mind the spot where the policeman fell when the rising began – was it really only eleven days ago?
Accompanied by his assistant, he drove to Kingstown.
O’Farrell looked out over the cold grey bay. ‘Looks like a stormy crossing, sir.’
Nathan smiled. He had feared storms on the Irish Sea. He had realized, too late, that the storms over the land were worse.
He did not know that travelling in the opposite direction was a new Post Master General, Albert Pease. Asquith had said to him, ‘Do try and get Wimborne to resign without a fuss.’
In London, next morning, Nathan worked from 9.15 a.m. to 11.45 a.m. in the Irish Office. At midday, he was in No 10. Present, apart from the PM, were Birrell and Birrell’s temporary successor, Sir Robert Chalmers.
The meeting lasted for two and a half hours, with Nathan giving an update. The PM quizzed him particularly on local reaction to the executions. He reported that the tide of opinion in Ireland was turning. Sympathy for the rebels was growing and changing them into patriots.
Asquith had gathered something of the sort. Not only Redmond, many others were suggesting to him that Maxwell was indulging in slow and secret vengeance, that the General’s deafness to howls of protest was alienating even those who had opposed the rising.
Nathan was not in a strong position but he urged that executions should cease and martial law be withdrawn at once.
The PM thanked him for his devoted service, and no sooner had Nathan left than he got on to the War Office.
‘I realize,’ he told French, ‘that you are going slowly, but not slowly enough, I fear.’
French told him that Maxwell, as the PM had directed, was on his way to London.
‘Fine. Ask him to attend our next Cabinet Meeting.’
The Cabinet listened to what Maxwell had to say. He had been given a free hand and put down the rebellion in a couple of days. He was now busy making sure it would not happen again.
The PM could see that what required the skill of a diplomat had been left to a plain blunt soldier.
The meeting ended with Asquith formally commending the General for his success. He expressly forbade the execution of women. Maxwell had already heard from Bonham Carter on that score. The PM, however, still left to Maxwell’s discretion those who would be executed.
‘I am referring, naturally,’ Asquith emphasized, ‘only to ring-leaders and proven murderers. Even there, General, may I suggest that these executions be brought to a close as soon as possible so Ireland can return to normality.’
The Foreign Office in London received cable No 371/2851 from Sir Cecil Spring-Rice in Washington.
Cardinal Gibbons of Baltimore was urging the British to be lenient to their Irish prisoners. His Eminence felt all respectable Irishmen condemned the revolt but ‘there was a danger of manufacturing martyrs with senseless executions.’
A member of the Foreign Office staff guffawed, ‘It would take a vast amount of “manufacturing” to turn Casement into a martyr, eh?’
There were knowing sniggers all round.
In Kilmainham, a young officer visited the Countess Markievicz in her cell. ‘I have come, ma’am, to report to you the sentence of the court.’
&
nbsp; ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you are a darling.’ She gestured to the wooden plank that served as a bed. ‘Do take a seat.’
Going a bright red, he remained standing to attention. He read out the official notice: she was condemned to death. ‘General Maxwell has confirmed it.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘But on account of the prisoner’s sex—’
‘Which is hardly my fault.’
‘He has commuted it.’
In his embarrassment, the young man had dropped his voice.
‘Would you mind repeating that, old bean.’
He coughed. ‘Commuted it.’
‘Gracious me,’ she said. ‘I took the same risks as the men, surely I’m entitled to be executed for Arland, too.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ the officer said, hesitantly, ‘that you have any rights in the matter.’
‘What will happen to me, then?’ she asked. ‘I don’t suppose the King’ll ask me to Buckingham Palace to pin a medal on my treacherous bosom.’
‘Life imprisonment, ma’am.’
‘Life imprisonment? Oh, Lor’. I know it’s not your bally fault, old darling,’ the Countess sighed, ‘but I do wish your lot had the decency to shoot me.’
In the chapel of Kilmainham Jail, Father McCarthy celebrated Sunday Mass. The women were in the gallery at the rear, the men at floor level, among them Commandants Kent and Mallin, as well as Sean Heuston and Con Colbert.
When Mass was over, the men were ordered to form up and leave first. The women stood to attention and saluted.
A Tommy yelled, ‘Put those arms down.’
They did not budge.
‘Put them down, y’hear!’
The women went on saluting until all their officers and men had left.
Later that morning, Pease, the new Post Master General, went to see Wimborne at the Lodge.
His Excellency told him that Maxwell was frightening everyone with his endless executions. ‘In my view, a terrible mistake.’
As tactfully as possible, Pease suggested that the PM might like to see a clean sweep of the Administration.
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