The Easter Rising 1916 - Molly's Diary (Hands-on History)

by Patricia Murphy

  “That’s Major Seán MacBride that was married to Maud Gonne, the Englishwoman who joined our cause. He’s an old Fenian and a hero of the Boer War in Africa against the English.”

  The commanders were talking in low voices and unaware of our presence.

  “City Hall has been retaken,” Major MacBride said quietly.

  My ears pricked up. Dr Kathleen Lynn, Matthew and that young boy Arthur would have been amongst the captured rebels. Seán, God rest his soul, had already gone to meet his Maker. I wondered if the rebellion was beginning to fall apart.

  “There is fierce fighting down at the Mendicity Institute under young Con Colbert,” MacBride continued. “And Boland’s Mill is still occupied. But there is some sort of retreat going on at Stephen’s Green into the College of Surgeons. I’ll post snipers to cover their positions.”

  “Our garrison is strong here,” said MacDonagh.

  “One of our lads shot that troublesome policeman who was taking notes of our position. He refused to move on,” said MacBride, drawing on his cigar.

  “The police need to know we mean business,” said MacDonagh.

  I was shocked. He did not seem like he would relish fighting.

  “We should take them prisoners,” said MacBride.

  “Connolly’s orders are that we should encourage Irishmen in the British Army to come over to our side. It is up to us to do what we want with the police,” MacDonagh said grimly.

  I remembered my mother saying that Mr Connolly did not like the Dublin Metropolitan Police. They were very brutal to unarmed workers during the 1913 Lockout. But then I thought of old Mr Killikelly who was a Royal Irish Constable and, Jane said, a very kind and popular person who always helped those who could not read or write in his area. They were not rich or grand people. Nor was Louisa Nolan’s father. And they were Catholics.

  I thought what an awful business this war was. Irish person against Irish person. It was even difficult to tell whose side anyone was on. Like father and Jack. Would Jack kill Father if he was ordered? Or how would he feel if one of his comrades shot him dead? There are really only two sides: life and death.

  “But we must avoid unnecessary bloodshed, even of policemen, particularly if unarmed,” continued MacDonagh.

  I was glad to hear it.

  “We need to let Mallin and the Countess know we are well defended,” said MacBride, “and Jacob’s is a secure back-up location for withdrawal from their positions around Stephen’s Green and the College of Surgeons. Send for a courier.”

  Martin immediately jumped forward.

  “That was quick!” MacDonagh laughed as he wrote out a message. “If all young people are as eager as you, me laddie, we’ll be the best country in the world.”

  I plucked up my courage and thrust the locket with Jack’s photograph in front of MacDonagh and MacBride, asking if he’d delivered any messages to them.

  “We cannot reveal details of military operations,” said MacBride.

  I looked up and, wedged in a gap a few feet up the brick tower, I spied a strange object. Another of Jack’s soldiers painted in green, its silver face glinting.

  “I know he was here,” I said. “He even went halfway up that chimneystack.”

  I saw a brief smile flash across MacDonagh’s face.

  “Jack the Cat,” he said, peering at the photograph and glancing up the tower.

  “I saw him scale the rooftops all down Grafton Street,” said MacBride in admiration. He knocked the tin soldier down with his rifle butt and passed it to me.

  I held it tight. “When was that?” I asked eagerly.

  MacBride scrunched up his eyes, scanning his memory. “Day and night is all the one here. That would have been yesterday.”

  “He was here at dawn today and sent onwards to the Countess,” MacDonagh said. Then he laughed kindly. “I hope you’re not a spy!”

  “Please, sir, I am Jack’s sister and trained in First Aid. I just want to make sure he is well,” I said. “We’ve had no news and are very worried.”

  “He is working for Ireland,” said MacBride.

  “Was there another boy here?” I asked. “With freckles and buck teeth – Anto Maguire?” But their blank looks told me they hadn’t seen him.

  “It is not safe for you to be wandering about. Return to your home and family,” said MacDonagh.

  I didn’t say that my home was no safer, being opposite their headquarters. Nor that my father was, at that very minute, risking his life to repair what they had undone.

  Their news was worrying. Jack had not been seen since dawn and riders had been shot.

  I slipped back down the stairs and decided to look for another exit in case the wild women of the slums were still raising hell.

  At the back gate, there was a young fellow looking for a horse but they were giving him short shrift. I overheard him say the password, which was “Limerick”.

  “I answered the call-out yesterday and borrowed Gypsy, the brother’s horse, to come as fast as I could. I was in so quick, I was here with the fellas that blew off the locks of the main door to get in,” he pleaded. “We put Gypsy in the stable. Give him back – me brother’s going to scalp me! He doesn’t know I took him. I have to take him back home to Fairview for me brother’s cab.”

  “The lookouts have been searching everywhere for you,” said the sentry. “We thought you were dead. They’ll tan your hide, you big amadán! Giving them all that worry!”

  At that, the young fellow just ran off, not wanting to face any more trouble.

  In the confusion, I slipped down towards York Street, which leads to the College of Surgeons but took a zigzag route down laneways.

  I soon realized Martin Walton was on my tail again and I waited for him in a shop doorway. It would be an advantage to be with him, to get access to the Countess.

  “You don’t know where the college is either, you big galoot,” I said. “Come on – I’ll show you.”

  He pulled my hair playfully and pointed upwards towards the corner of a building. A sniper was crouched by a chimney breast, pointing his gun the other way.

  Even though I’d intended to question him more about why he was fighting, we soon began to play like children do – hopscotching and playing tag up the streets as we dashed from doorway to doorway.

  We made it down York Street and saw small parties of rebels in twos and threes retreating from the Green to the College of Surgeons. Commander Mallin emerged from the park and out of nowhere a big rough-looking shawlie hurled herself at him. She was ready to tear him limb from limb. A young Irish Citizen Army soldier raised his rifle butt to hit her, but Mallin to his credit knocked it away – thus saving her life. Then Mallin and the young soldier ran like maniacs past us to the side door of the College of Surgeons, the furious woman still screaming, “The Tommies will get ye, ye divils and rats!”

  We waited for the sentry to let us into the College and saw a curious sight, a white flag raised over the Shelbourne Hotel.

  “It’s the twice daily ceasefire to allow the keeper to feed the ducks,” the sentry explained.

  I was happy for park-keeper Carney for he does love those ducks so!

  It was but a brief reprieve. Soon the rat-atat-tat of sniper fire resumed. British Troops had occupied the Shelbourne Hotel overnight under cover of darkness. And now the rebels were the sitting ducks.

  Martin went inside to deliver his note to the Countess but they wouldn’t let me in. So he took my locket. As the seconds, then minutes ticked by, my fear increased and I prayed to God that Jack was safe.

  It was ten minutes before Martin returned. I almost embraced him when he came back.

  “Jack was sent to the GPO this morning. There were three riders in all and none have come back.’

  “But where can he be!” I cried.

  “Many of the injured are going to the Merrion Square Field Hospital.”

  I grabbed the locket and made to dash off but Martin grabbed me by the arm.

&nbs
p; “I have to go back to Jacob’s. When all this is over, I’ll buy you and your brother an ice cream at Matassa’s Ice Cream Parlour on Moore Street near Coogan’s Grocers. It’s the only place I know in town.”

  I laughed and shook hands, somewhat shyly. “I’ll have the raspberry ripple with chocolate sauce.”

  I felt a pang at our parting. We had become good friends despite the strange nature of the encounter. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  I cut down through Molesworth Street and via Kildare Street across Leinster Street to get to the Field Hospital. Dr Ella, my mother’s friend, might know more.

  As I cut across Merrion Square, I was surprised that there were still many people going about. But, taking a leaf out of the rebels’ tactics, there were British soldiers’ barricades now.

  The War Hospital Supply Depot, at 40 Merrion Square, was in an imposing Georgian house and I knew it well because it’s where we send the sphagnum moss.

  As I came up the steps, an ambulance car drew up and Mr Smith and a woman carried a man out on a stretcher. His hand was bleeding and he was groaning. I immediately ran to help. The woman greeted me warmly.

  “That’s the spirit, girl. Show the men we can do the same work!”

  “The St John’s crowd have been great,” Mr Smith said. “Dr Lumsden is running a field hospital out of Baggot Street Hospital. And your mother’s friend, Dr Webb, is cycling in from Hatch Street, going straight through the line of fire. She put the call out yesterday at midday and within three hours there were twenty women setting up a thirty-bed hospital.”

  “It’s brutal out there,” I commented. “Nobody knows who the enemy is so snipers are firing at random.”

  We carried the injured man in to the ground floor, and helped him onto a bed.

  “Doctor will be with you presently,” said the nurse as she washed the man’s wounds.

  “I think his wrist bone is very bad,” I said.

  “Go and fetch Dr Webb. She’s on the first floor,” said the nurse.

  I ran up the stairs two at a time and entered the makeshift ward. Here, in what had been an office, mattresses were laid on piles of books to elevate them from the floor. There were also some mattresses on a couple on desks, which looked like makeshift operating tables with instruments alongside them.

  At one of these, Dr Ella Webb was examining a smartly dressed older man with a leg wound who was wincing with the pain but trying to be brave.

  “We’ll have you dancing the polka in no time,” she assured her patient. The man relaxed and the way in which she steadied his nerves was magnificent to see.

  “My dear Molly!” she exclaimed. “You’re a bit early for our tea.”

  She is a small pretty woman with energetic movements, a beautiful voice and kind eyes. As we walked down the stairs I told her of my quest for Jack. She took my hand and looked into my eyes.

  “Molly, child, you must stay here with me. But I will be on the look-out for Jack. I am moving between all the positions. We are going to set up an ambulance patrol out of Harcourt Street Railway Station and I will tell them all to keep an eye out for Jack and pass on your message as to where to go. I am the Lady Superintendent of the Ambulance Brigade, so they will oblige me.”

  “But are the ambulances getting fired on?” I asked.

  “The rebels do not fire when they see our red or white crosses,” she said. “But both sides make mistakes because so many of the fighters and soldiers are nervous, God help them and us all.”

  “You are so brave!” I exclaimed, struck by how forgiving and kind she was.

  “It’s fine for me. I get to do the interesting work,” she laughed. “And it’s admired.”

  We passed a well-dressed woman scrubbing the floor and another in a man’s overcoat hauling up packages of bandages.

  “They’re the ones I admire,” Dr Webb said. “They’re doing the dull, boring work. Do you know, they transformed this house in three hours!”

  Women were still carrying in mattresses, blankets, bedding and utensils from neighboring houses.

  Dr Ella examined the man’s wrist. She carefully scrutinized the bloody mass for any shrapnel. I noticed she kept her features clear and pleasant, not betraying any information to the patient.

  The patient mumbled something and I bent down so he could talk into my ear.

  “I want a real doctor,” he groaned. “I am a clerk. I don’t want to risk losing me hand!”

  “She is a real doctor!” I said. “And one of the best in Ireland.” But the man just groaned some more.

  Dr Webb smiled at him. “You are lucky. There is extensive tissue damage but we can save your hand. Molly, go and ask the nurse for some Dakin’s solution.”

  I returned with the solution. She administered it through perforated rubber tubing. I forced myself to look closely at the wound, even though the smell was awful and it made my stomach heave.

  “This is an antiseptic solution to clean the wound,” she explained. She took out a small instrument like an eyebrow-plucker and removed pieces of dead flesh from the wound. “The most important thing is to clean the wound site and prevent infection. We will reset the bone and then let nature do its work.”

  I mopped the man’s brow.

  “You are interested in this, Molly, I can see,” Dr Ella said.

  “I have a lot to learn,” I said.

  She let me apply the moss dressing and I handed her the bandage. The sling had been beautifully folded by a nurse, unlike my clumsy attempts. As gently as she could, Dr Ella placed it around the man’s neck, all the while talking to him and reassuring him. He winced slightly but relaxed when his arm was in place, all worries about being tended by a woman doctor forgotten.

  “Good girl, Molly, thanks for your help,” she said. “A bit more practice and you’ll be the makings of a medic.”

  I felt a swell of pride and thought she was very kind to encourage me.

  I told her that I could find very little on bullet wounds in my First Aid Manual.

  She smiled. “The best book is by a Frenchman – ‘War Surgery’ by Edmond Delorme. It has just been translated.”

  I asked her what to look out for.

  “The German Mauser ricochets do a lot of damage,” she explained. “It can be better to be shot at point-blank range because the wound is cleaner. Or better still, from a distance. Ricochet bullets at short distance are bent out of shape and do more damage to tissue, punching and tearing it.”

  She told me shrapnel from exploding artillery was like lots of tiny knives stabbing a person and because bits of clothing got attached it, could do a lot of damage by causing infection.

  “So what should a First Aid person do?” I asked.

  “Keep your hands clean, Molly. Remember infection is the enemy,” she advised me. “Don’t poke the wound or touch the holes. Check if there is an exit wound as well as an entry. And clean the wound surface with a clean swab wrung out in alcohol or in tincture of iodine. Then apply your dressing and get your patient to a doctor as soon as possible!”

  “What if the patient is bleeding a lot?”

  “Good question, girl. Stop the bleeding, that’s the first thing you must do. Remember what you learned about tourniquets! Now, crash course in medicine over. I must go over to see Dr Lumsden and help with the wounded at Baggot Street Hospital.”

  A nurse came in to help refill Dr Ella’s bag with supplies and dressings and said she’d heard rumours of rebel dispatch riders shot outside Trinity College on the way to the GPO in the early hours of the morning.

  I nearly dropped the bottle of iodine I was refilling.

  “I know some of the dispatch riders,” I said, trying to quell my agitation. “I’m worried it might be Jack. I need to look for him at the GPO and could check in Trinity College. It’s on the way.”

  “It’s best if you stay here with me until we get the lie of the land,” Dr Ella said.

  Tear, unbidden, spilled from my eyes. “But I must find out! What
if it’s Jack, or Anto or one of his friends?”

  She gave me a hug and wiped my tears away.

  “Why don’t you help me load the supplies to Trinity College into the ambulance. They are taking in a lot of wounded there and running short. We’ll tell the ambulance and stretcher-bearer to check about the dispatch rider in Trinity and other places.”

  I helped her carry the boxes of lint dressings, boric powders, peroxide and iodine down to the front door where the ambulance was parked.

  We scanned the square and, checking that the coast was clear, carried the supplies to the back door of the ambulance. It was a motor vehicle with a big red cross painted at the side. Dr Ella frowned at the sound of gunfire from the Green.

  “It’s only the second day of conflict and already there are scores dead and hundreds wounded. If this goes on for much longer, the casualties will be in the thousands.”

  “I hope we have enough bandages and iodine,” I said.

  She set me to arranging the supplies carefully into the pockets and chests in the vehicle, so there would be room for any injured picked up en route. I found it calming to stack the bottles and dressings neatly in their places.

  At that moment, an ambulance car drew up and more casualties were ferried in by stretcher.

  “Dr Ella!” someone shouted from the doorway.

  Quick as a flash Dr Ella ran out. “You’d better finish on your own, Molly – the new shift to take over ambulance duty will be down in a few moments.”

  I was glad she trusted me and became so absorbed in the task that it took me a moment to register that the engine was cranking up and the vehicle moving off. I hesitated, not sure what to do as I was flung across the vehicle but we had already roared out of the square. I banged on the window between the driver and the interior of the ambulance, but he misunderstood my intention and just gave me a friendly wave, without turning round. I decided it might be dangerous to halt the driver. I was on my way to Trinity and it was too late to do anything about it. I didn’t want Dr Ella to think I had stowed on board. So I would explain the situation to the driver when we arrived