The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  He hoped so.

  * * *

  Occasionally, during the night, shots came from across the other side of the Liffey, just enough to keep them awake and at their posts. Around four there was a fresh volley of rifle fore, this time from the North, near the hospital.

  'The Brits are closing in,' he said to Fitz beside him.

  'We'll be ready when they come.' Fitz sighted down the barrel of his rifle. He seemed to come alive during their time in the GPO, becoming stronger, more focussed. Gone was the devil-may-care lad that Michael loved. In its place was a man he didn't know anymore.

  The world had changed around him and he didn't know when it would stop.

  Around seven o'clock in the morning, Willie Pearse leant down and tapped him on the shoulder. 'I've a job for you, Michael.'

  'I'm your man.'

  'Do you know Dublin well?'

  'Like the back of my hand.'

  He looked at his watch. 'It's seven, now. At nine, I want you to come down to the lobby. General Connolly has a message he wants you to take to the Mendicity.'

  'Can Fitz come with me?'

  'No, just you, we can't spare any more men from the GPO.' He stood up straight and addressed the men on the roof. 'Well, it's the third day lads, and we've heard the Brits are coming.'

  'About bloody time. That lot would be late for their own funeral.'

  'Get yourself ready, make sure your weapons are clean and you all have enough grenades.'

  'Will there be any food?' This was from Fitz. He may have changed but his stomach was just the same.

  'There may be, but if you feel hungry I'll send up some cans of sardines we found. But don't throw away the oil, we'll need it to cool the guns later.'

  'Aye, there you go. I'm to die stinking of fish.'

  'Less of the talk of dying, Fitzgerald. Get yourself ready, lads.'

  With that he nodded at Michael. 'Don't forget, Dowling.'

  Fitz watched him go down the stairs to the next floor. 'What was all that about?'

  'Nothing. He has a job for me.'

  * * *

  Michael went down to see General Connolly on the ground floor of the GPO without telling Fitz. There was no point. He would have wanted to come as well, but Willie Pearse had made it clear that he was to go out alone.

  The windows of the main hall were all smashed now, with sandbags protecting the gaps and men posted at each one. The door was barricaded too. Inside, the air was dark and thick.

  Connolly was in the middle just by the main counter, leaning over a map of Dublin, surrounded by Padraig and Willie Pearse, and Tom Clarke. He had just returned from a tour of inspection of the area around the GPO and was sporting a slight arm wound. As Michael approached, he looked up.

  Willie Pearse stepped forward. 'This is Michael Dowling. He's to take the message to Heuston at the Mendicity.'

  'You know Dublin well, Mr Dowling?'

  He saluted as smartly as he could, 'As well as anybody, General. And a student at UCD.'

  'Good man. Here's what I want you to do. Take this way to the Mendicity and give this message to Heuston.' He pointed to the map and followed a route that took in O'Connell's Bridge and Merchants Quay. 'Let me know what you see and how he is. Have the British attacked him yet? We thought he wouldn't last long, but maybe the Brits don't have as many men as we thought. Come back as quickly as you can.'

  He handed me a note written on paper headed with the words The Irish Republic.

  'And take him a copy of War News.' It was Clarke who spoke, handing a single sheet of the newspaper. 'We've got to get the news out to our people.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Connolly put his good arm around Michael's shoulder. 'Take care, soldier, look after yourself.'

  He just nodded his head like a man used to carrying out orders.

  'Good man, good man.' Then Connolly turned back to his map and his discussions, he was forgotten. Willie Pearse walked him to the Henry Street exit.

  'Tell us what you see, Michael. It would be better if you didn't wear these.' He pointed to the bandolier and belt. 'You should leave the rifle behind as well. I'll take good care of it.'

  He patted the pocket of his jacket. 'I'll put the Smith and Wesson in my pocket.'

  'But no stupidity now. You're to report back as soon as you can, not try to take on the British Army on your own. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good man, on your way then. And may God go with you.'

  He opened the door and Michael slid out into the street. For a moment, he stopped to gather his thoughts and his bearings. He adjusted his jacket and pulled up his trousers, taking one last look at one of the men standing guard at the window. The man nodded. Michael nodded back, pulling his cap down over his eyes and walking towards Sackville Street.

  The street itself was almost empty with most pedestrians keeping to the pavements and the shop doorways. Some were carrying the spoils of their forays into the shops and department stores of Dublin: a woman's dress over the arm of one man, a porcelain sink in another's. A child with a violin and a banjo slung casually over his shoulder. An old woman, ragged shawl over her shoulders, with four top hats perched precariously on her head and, in her hand, a silver mounted cane.

  Other people were just standing around and staring, watching the spectacle that was the Rising and waiting for something to happen. A dead horse, left by the Lancers, lay in the street, its eyes glassy and unseeing.

  Michael edged his way past a makeshift barricade and pushed his way through the crowd, unchallenged by anybody. As he did, he caught snatches of conversation.

  'It's not right, sure it's not. Them fellas in there when our men are in France.'

  'When will the trams start running again?'

  'They ought to be shot, the lot of them.'

  'I haven't had a bite of bread for two days since those buggers started their shenanigans.'

  Michael drifted past these conversations, down Sackville Street and across the bridge.

  Occasionally, he heard shots coming over from Trinity and St Stephen's Green but that was all. It was as if the whole city was on holiday not in the middle of a revolution. There was even an old man, with his gaily-painted organ grinding out a tune, his monkey, cap in hand, running through the crowd looking for pennies.

  Then, as he was about to walk through the crowds of people at the end of the bridge, he heard a loud cheer and the revving of an engine. A truck, filled with British soldiers, drove down the street, followed by another pulling a caisson of ammunition. Soldiers poured out from the back of the truck like khaki ants in search of sugar. The caisson was quickly unlimbered and the truck reversed back up the street.

  The crowds of people stood around, their hands in their pockets, like country farmers admiring the livestock at a fair. Instead, they were admiring the arrival of the British soldiers.

  Michael hurried down Merchants Quay towards the Mendicity before the soldiers could set up a cordon. The music of the organ grinder mixing with the sound of more revving engines and the sharp rap of military boots on cobbled pavement.

  As he rushed down the Quay, keeping close to the Wall, he began to see fewer and fewer people. The air became denser, more febrile. There was the scent of gunpowder all around, infesting the walls of the houses and the shops, hanging like a mist of the Liffey.

  Up ahead he could see the dark shape of the old poorhouse. A hastily built barricade was thrown across Usher's Quay in front of it. He walked up to two young men who were guarding the barricade. 'A message from General Connolly for Sean Heuston.'

  'What's the password?' asked one of them. The other lowered his rifle towards Michael, the bayonet inches away from his chest.

  'Password? Nobody told me about any bloody password.'

  The young man who had asked the question couldn't have been more than eighteen. He took off his cap and scratched his head. 'I'm not supposed to let anybody in without the password.'

  The bayonet wavered in
front of Michael's eyes, the man holding it said nothing.

  'Listen, my name is Michael Dowling, I'm from E company, 4th Battalion. My Captain is Willie Pearse and my Lieutenant is Eamon Bulfin. I've an urgent message for Heuston.'

  A light seemed to go off in the young man's eyes. 'Oh, you'll know Fitz then. Declan Fitzgerald? Mad for the horses is himself.'

  Thank God for Fitz, thought Michael. 'Aye, I know Fitz. He's in my company.'

  'You'd better pass then, friend.'

  Michael edged past the sharp point of the bayonet and the silent man on the other end of it. 'By the way, what's the password in case I need it again?'

  'The one for here is Saoirse. And for over there,' he pointed to the dome of the Four Courts across the river, 'it's Freedom. Not many of the fellas over there have the speaking of the Irish. Sean is up the steps on the right.'

  Michael hurried into the old institution, for so long the only place where the poor of the streets of Dublin could get a bowl of soup or a hunk of bread. He climbed up some old stone stairs, past three bundles of dishevelled rags clutching Lee Enfields, to the first floor and found an exhausted Sean Heuston sitting in the middle of a room staring into space.

  Michael coughed.

  'Who are you?' barked Heuston suddenly alive and bristling with anger.

  'Begging your pardon, sir. I have a message from General Connolly.' He reached into his pocket and passed the folded paper over to the man.

  He stared at it for a few moments before opening it quickly and scanning the contents.

  'What's your name?'

  'Michael Dowling, sir.'

  'Do you have your wits about you, Mr Dowling?'

  Michael didn't know how to answer.

  'Do you have your wits about you, Mr Dowling?' Heuston repeated.

  'I do, sir.'

  'Well, remember this and tell it to General Connolly. I already sent one of my own men with the message but a reminder will do no harm. The Brits are massing in the Royal Hospital, I'm sure they will attack soon. I don't know how long we will last. We managed to push them back yesterday but it was a close run thing. If we are to hold, we need reinforcements. Have you got that?' The man's voice was old, far older than his years. It was as if his throat had aged since the Rising, becoming older, courser, hoarser.

  Michael nodded.

  'Now tell it back to me.'

  Michael did as he was told, remembering Heuston's dispatch word for word.

  'Good man, what did you see on your way here?'

  'I think the Brits are bringing up artillery. I saw a caisson being unlimbered at the bottom of Westmoreland Street and troops forming a cordon.'

  'They mean to bomb us out.' Once again, he stared into mid-air. Michael could see how tired the man was. A tiredness that seemed to seep out from his eyes.

  'Have you had anything to eat?'

  Michael shook his head.

  'Well, we have a few scraps of stale bread and a couple of tins of bully beef left. You're welcome to feast on that.'

  A bullet struck the wall outside. Immediately, Heuston was on his feet. 'Here they are, lads. At your posts...'

  There were muffled shouts from the floor above and the three bundles of rags rushed into the room, taking positions behind sandbags at the windows.

  More shots thudded into the walls on the outside of the Mendicity, sending shards of granite shooting into the air.

  One bullet struck the far wall above Michael's head. He threw himself down on to the ground.

  'There's himself on the roof of the Royal,' said one of the bundles of rags, before firing in the direction of the hospital. 'One day I'll get the wee shite.'

  Another bullet thudded into the wall, showering Michael with lumps of plaster.

  'I suggest you stay here a while, Dowling,' said Heuston. 'The Brits will keep firing now, but if it's like yesterday, they'll knock off at lunchtime.'

  'If it's all the same to you, sir. I'll be getting back to the GPO.'

  Michael stood up. As he did, a bullet whistled past his head and embedded itself in the wooden cabinet behind him.

  'You will stay here until one. That's an order, Dowling.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  On the floor above, Michael heard a volley of shots ring out and a voice shouting, 'Got the bastard.'

  The men at the windows began firing too, working their Howth rifles and Mausers with a concentrated ferocity.

  From his position behind one of the window casements, Heuston shouted, 'Make yourself useful, Dowling, bring up more ammunition from the basement.'

  Michael did as he was told and, for the next two hours, ferried boxes of ammo up to the men at the windows of the Mendicity.

  As Heuston had predicted, the rifle fire slackened off to nothing at the dot of one pm.

  'I'd take the time to make my way back to the GPO if I were you, Mr Dowling.'

  'You don't want me to stay, sir?'

  'My messenger hasn't returned so you need to go back and let them know what's going on. The Brits are working their way around us. We'll hang on for as long as we can.' The voice, so animated just a few moments ago during the fighting, was now like that of an old man tired of waking up each morning.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. I wouldn't go down the Quay if I were you. Too many Brits coming out of the woodwork. I'd go across Church St bridge and past the Four Courts. Our men still control the area, according to my reports.'

  Michael saluted and it was returned by Heuston with a touch of his finger to the side of his head.

  'Good luck, sir.'

  'I'm going to need it, Dowling. By God, I'm going to need it.'

  Michael turned to go, taking one last look at Sean Heuston. The man was staring into mid-air again, unaware of Michael's presence. The late April light shone lazily through the window, throwing the man's face into sharp relief. Like a statue, thought Michael, just like a statue.

  He hurried down the stairs and out onto the Quay. The same two men were still guarding the barricade, their feet surrounded by spent bullet cases. He hurried past them and shouted 'Saoirse.'

  'Say hello to Fitz for me,' the young one shouted back. 'Tell him Loch Allen won at Fairyhouse. The bookmaker has his money for him.'

  'I will. Take care.'

  'Aye, take care yourself, watch out for the English. You can't miss them, they're the ones with the guns and the tin hats.'

  Michael smiled and hurried over the Quay towards the Bridge. The sun was high over Dublin, a few clouds lazily chasing each other over the sky. A blackbird sat on his perch next to the river, claiming the world and the patch of grass as his and his alone.

  He turned onto Church Street bridge going towards the Four Courts. The end of the bridge was barricaded and he could see armed men standing behind it.

  When he was halfway across, there was a soft whoosh like somebody expelling air from his cheeks, and then seconds later, an explosion in a building facing the river.

  Michael ducked down behind the parapet of the bridge, covering his head with his arms. He looked around him. Others were doing exactly the same, surprised by the noise of the explosion.

  Another thump from over towards Trinity, a whine in the air and another explosion, closer now. He peered over the parapet. One whole side of a building on the Quay towards Sackville Street had collapsed revealing a mass of wood, slates and red bricks. Michael could see into one of the rooms. Purple wallpaper. Who would choose purple wallpaper for a house?

  Another soft pop on the far side of the river and a cloud of off-white smoke rising to heaven. He stuck his head back down beneath the balustrade of the bridge. But no explosion this time. Or at least, none that he could see.

  The men at the barricade were standing up, shouting and waving at the people on the bridge. He got up and ran doubled up towards them, moving as fast as he could. Others were doing the same. A woman pushing two children in front of her, shouting in a high-pitched voice, 'Run and don't stop', over and over again as if the mo
re she shouted it, the faster her children would run. The children were confused, not knowing what to do. The youngest was crying, upset by the shouting of his mother.

  He ran to the tallest of the children and picked him up, tucking him under his arm. Then shouted at the woman to follow. The woman seeing what he had done picked up the crying child and ran after him.

  Behind them, another soft crump as the shell left the barrel of the gun.

  Michael ran past the outside edge of the barricade and ducked down beneath it, putting the child back on his feet. The mother pushed through after him and grabbed hold of her child without saying a word to him.

  'The Brits have started the shelling. It won't be long now.' The voice came from a man with a ginger beard and field glasses pinned to his eyes. 'They've got eighteen pounders over at Trinity and a gunship on the river.' He pointed his glasses down the Liffey. 'I hope to God nobody is left inside Liberty Hall.'

  Michael wasn't sure to whom the man was talking but it wasn't him. He stood up and dusted down his trousers. The woman and her children were rushing away down Church Street.

  He sat back down again behind the barricade. From across the river, in the direction of the Mendacity, he could hear the sound of firing. The rat-a-tat of machine guns now had joined the sharp crack of the Lee Enfields. He thought about going back to rejoin Heuston and his men in the old poorhouse. To make one last stand in that old institution, surrounded by the memories of all the Dublin poor that infested the walls.

  As he sat behind the barricade, the shelling ceased and the noise of firing at the Mendacity increased. More volleys, more machine guns, the explosions of grenades, and more smoke over the dark, satanic buildings.

  And then it too suddenly went quiet.

  The man with the field glasses took them away from his eyes. 'The Mendacity's gone.'

  That was all, nothing more. A statement of fact.

  The shelling began again down the river. The dull boom of cannon from a riverboat directed at the Liberty Hall.

  Michael made up his mind. 'What's the safest way to the GPO?'