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

by Patricia Murphy

  None of them had seen Jack or Connolly.

  We called over to their field hospital where several wounded lay on pallets. PJ and I gave them some lint dressings and bandages. Jim the medic, a burly fellow with dark hair, was making up a syringe and gave me a friendly nod. PJ stopped for a chat with him but as there were plenty of Cumann na mBan women helping out, I decided to have a good search for Jack and see if I could speak to Connolly.

  It seemed nothing had changed much in here since yesterday, yet outside everything was changing.

  As I went up to the first floor, I passed the private quarters of the Post Office Secretary, Arthur Hamilton Norway. The rebels were breaking open his safe. A man took out a bloodstained second lieutenant’s British Army uniform and a .45 revolver. There was also a bunch of letters and in an envelope marked “Fred”, a lock of fair hair.

  “They belong to his son. He was killed in battle in France only a few months ago,” I blurted out.

  The men, to their credit, replaced the items respectfully, except for the revolver.

  I saw the leaders all in a huddle, Joseph Plunkett in riding breeches and green volunteer shirt looking deathly pale with a brightly coloured new bandage on his throat that made him look like a cowboy. Pearse, distracted and otherworldly. Ancient, grizzled old Tom Clarke, in civilian clothes with his bandolier around his shoulder, resolute and grim. I wondered if they realized the British army was forming a cordon around them, tightening its grip like an anaconda. Battalions a stone’s throw away in Trinity College were just waiting to strike.

  I searched high and low for Jack or Connolly but nobody had seen either. I went down to the kitchen to get something to eat. There seemed to be no shortage of food and down there the girls were still carving joints and the Tommies were still washing up. But large pails of water were now everywhere about, in case the water supply was cut off.

  “Pearse is punishing me because I said didn’t support the rebellion,” Louise Gavan Duffy joked, giving me a ham sandwich. “I’m stuck in the kitchen with four hundred mouths to feed!”

  “But they probably think there’s thousands of us here, so maybe they will smoke us out with a gas attack,” said Min.

  “They’ve bombed Liberty Hall,” said Louise, “but they’ll never bomb Sackville Street and the GPO.”

  She told me to ask Mary McLoughlin about Jack’s whereabouts as she was also a courier. She was the girl I’d last seen hauling flour with Hannah, Skeffy’s wife. Her brother Seán was also running messages up to the Mendicity Institute.

  So many things that were unthinkable had come to pass. Maybe our own home would go up in smoke! A sudden impulse gripped me to check out our house and get a change of clothes for Jack. He was wearing a Fianna uniform. If he were captured, maybe they would kill him. If they could arrest Sheehy Skeffington, anything was possible.

  There was a lull in the fighting. I looked out. The Citizen Army flag of the Plough and the Stars was flying from the Imperial. That had to be Mr Connolly’s idea. William Martin Murphy, who had been his enemy in the Lockout, owned the hotel. But the flag was already riddled with bullets from the Trinity sharpshooters.

  I dashed across the road, telling the sentry I had to speak to the officer at Reis’s under orders from Connolly. As I pelted full steam, I saw that they were fortifying the pagoda tower of the DBC with cases marked “raisins” and “currants”.

  I clambered over the barricade by the ruins of Noblett’s sweet shop and let myself into our house from the back by North Earl Street. Our house seemed just as I had left it but, when I checked the hallway, I spied large holes cut in both walls at an angle from each other. So you could now crawl through to Richard Allen Tailors and O’Farrell’s Tobacco Importers on the other side. I wondered if they’d done the holes zig-zag in case someone coming from the opposite direction could shoot them if they faced each other.

  Upstairs, I ran around like a demon, seizing up Father’s and Mother’s papers at random to put in our large strongbox kept in my parents’ room. I grabbed mother’s jewelry box and my music box. Then I carefully wrapped Mother’s little porcelain baby dolls in the beautiful silk shawl, with its intricate Celtic knot design, that she had bought from Mr Mallin, and stowed them all inside. I even scooped up Jack’s violin, as many tin soldiers as I could cram in and my father’s toolkit for tinkering with electrics. Then I raced to Jack’s room and grabbed his second-best suit, shirt and tie. Rolling them up tight, I stowed them in the pillowcase that was “Ireland” just days ago in Jack’s explanation of all the armies, with my cambric lace dress. For I had run out in such a rush, I hadn’t thought to bring my knapsack, which was still in the GPO. If I’d been thinking, I suppose I could have stored away the four tin soldiers from Jack in the strongbox. But in truth I didn’t want to part with them – my link with my dear brother

  As I made my way back, running with the Red Cross flag and holding the pillowcase, I saw Connolly in company with another rebel standing at the corner of Abbey Street, near Eason’s Stationery. I was about to turn towards them when there was an unearthly explosion that threw me forward.

  A shell had struck the Catholic Blind Boys’ Home and a gaping hole appeared in the house.

  I heard Connolly joking, “It’s the heavy artillery now!”

  An unearthly roar exploded. Then a whistle, a pause and another shell pounded the building. Shrapnel cascaded like sparks from a burning log.

  I looked over and saw molten lead stream along the ground. Another shell erupted and the chimneystack was hit and fell in on the house. Panic rose like bile in my throat, but I remembered that the blind boys had been evacuated to the Customs House. More shrapnel spewed out from the house.

  Connolly was now just a few feet from me and was almost beaming with pride.

  “You know you’ve shaken the British Empire when they start to bomb you in the streets. Even if we lose now, we have won.”

  An old man was gathering up the molten metal as it hardened. “Souvenirs,” he said winking at me. “I’ll make a packet.”

  Frankly at that moment I didn’t know who was madder, him or the rebels.

  I followed Connolly. But as I got inside the GPO, the very building shook to its foundations.

  “There must be a bomb in the lower room!” exclaimed a rebel soldier.

  There was a second and third explosion. The noise was truly awful.

  “No, it’s definitely artillery. A scream, then a bang,” Mick Collins, the Big Fella, said. “Now back at your posts.”

  It was striking how quickly the rebels became accustomed to the bombardment, while I felt a sickening sensation, as if I was on a small vessel tossed on a high sea. I struggled to control my nausea as some of the rebels discussed the different noises guns make. I too had become good at distinguishing the different sounds of gunfire. With so much shooting there was plenty of opportunity for practice and it helped me calm my nerves. The stormy roar of the artillery was another noise to add to my collection – the shotgun with a bark all of its own – the German Mauser with a loud explosion and a distinct echo – and the sharp crack with a ring to it of the British Lee Enfield.

  Amidst all the noise I heard The O’Rahilly tell Min Ryan and her sister from Cumann na mBan, in his soft Kerry accent, to deliver a message to three wives of British Officers on the Drumcondra Road that their husbands had been taken prisoner and were being treated properly. The O’Rahilly is such a gentleman – he is like a courtly knight from days of yore. It’s hard to believe he would ever shoot anybody.

  “It’s madness,” I heard him say. “But a glorious madness.”

  In the Comptroller’s Office Connolly was closeted with the Big Fella. I listened intently at the door, summoning up my courage to challenge them about Jack.

  “Our outposts are coming in for increasing attack from the big guns at Trinity,” said Collins, “and we have nothing to answer them with.”

  “Call in all outposts, south of the GPO,” said Connolly. “Tell th
e men at Reis’s doing the radio to go to the Hibernian Bank to Captain Weafer.”

  At that point a young Volunteer ran in, breathless.

  “Diarmuid Lynch, sir. We’ve captured three English generals.” He paused.

  Connolly and Collins looked at him, incredulous.

  “At the waxworks!” he finished with a grin.

  The rebels all exploded with laughter.

  But I thought, oh no! They must have tunnelled through to my friend Mr James’s Waxworks Emporium in Henry Steeet and he would be most upset.

  “They’ve put Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone in the windows downstairs, sir,” said young Diarmuid.

  Mr Connolly thought this exceedingly funny and I could see he was really a very jolly man. Then they ran down to see the sport. I followed them down the stairs, just as a hail of bullets pelted the waxworks. How Mr James would have cried to see his figures treated so! But even I had a giggle.

  Mr Collins and Mr Connolly immediately returned to business.

  “There’s a field hospital in Hoyt’s Druggists. Shall we bring the wounded back to the GPO?” said Collins.

  “Yes, get the Red Cross and Saint John’s Ambulance crowd to escort them so they’re not shot at,” commanded Connolly.

  “What about in the event of a gas attack? We need to obtain chemicals to make up an antidote. Shall I send Jack the Cat out on that errand?”

  Jack! I held my breath.

  “That young fella with the nine lives!” laughed Connolly. “He’s already on his way to the Long Fella over in Boland’s Bakery on a special. Dev needs all the help he can get.” He whispered something in Collins’s ear.

  I thought I heard the name “Roddy” and the word “messenger”. They must have been talking about some other courier.

  But I had heard what I needed. Jack had been sent to Boland’s Bakery near Ringsend. I wondered what “on a special” meant.

  There was a tap on my shoulder. It was PJ, the ambulance driver.

  “Let’s help with the evacuation of wounded from the field hospital at Hoyt’s.”

  I ran out with my Red Cross flag. Then picked up one end of a stretcher being dragged by a young lad across the street to Hoyt’s Druggists and Oil Supplies. There was a temporary cessation of fire and some of the rebel volunteers ran out from the Imperial, covering themselves with mattresses. But they weren’t just temporary shields: they picked up some wounded in Hoyt’s and the mattresses served as makeshift stretchers, It saved us a trip or two.

  Halfway over from the Hibernian Bank, shots rang out again. I heard someone shout “Mercy, Lord Jesus!” I looked back and saw a rebel officer slumped in the window who I later learned was Captain Weafer, shot dead. I had heard his last words and it gave me a sorrowful pang in my heart to think of those who would be left grieving for him.

  One poor fellow in hobnail boots fell over in the middle of O’Connell Street as he dashed from the DBC. I saw with a start it was Liam Tannam, the roguish joker who had complained about hauling ledgers. I said a silent prayer for him as I thought he was a gonner, but miraculously he got back up again, and zigzagged his way to the GPO. He talked to George Plunkett, the brother of Joseph.

  “We took out that McBirney’s sniper, thanks to that young fellow who suggested the pagoda of DBC as a lookout,” he said.

  I moved closer. I was sure he was talking about Jack.

  “He borrowed a pair of binoculars from Hopkins and Hopkins and brought them back to me. I was able to see the sniper was operating from deeper in the second floor and using the tailor’s dummy as a decoy,” Liam Tannam continued. “I think we nailed him.”

  Before I had a chance to talk to him, he noticed he’d left behind his knapsack.

  “Oh no, I’ve left my shaving gear behind,” he groaned.

  To my astonishment, he ran back out again and crossed the road to get it! Jack wasn’t the only rebel with nine lives.

  I ferried a young Volunteer across with his hand in a sling. He looked at me closely and when he got inside the GPO I redressed his wound and gave him a drink of water. My bandaging had improved. He gave me heartfelt thanks.

  “You’re Jack the Cat’s sister, aren’t you?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Have you seen him?”

  “He’s a legend!” the young soldier said. “I was on the first floor of Kelly’s ammunition shop on Bachelors Walk overlooking O’Connell Bridge in the early hours this morning. And do you know what he did? He went under the bridge to avoid a patrol car going over. He went down from Eden Quay. Then I saw the hook come up on the stone wall on the other side of the river on Burgh Quay. He hauled himself up and disappeared up by D’Olier Street. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like he could walk on water.”

  But I know how he did it. He must have swung across the three stone arches with his grappling hook, landing at the foot of each semi-circular span. I’ve seen him do it once before. I remembered now that he had gone out in a small boat with Gerald Keogh a few months ago and they had girdled the spans of the arches with ropes. The ropes would probably still be in place. I wondered why he did it at the time.

  “Was he going to Boland’s Mill?” I asked.

  “He comes and goes like the Scarlet Pimpernel!” he laughed. Then he whispered more seriously, “He’s always with the leaders. If he comes again, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

  I was now desperate to get to Boland’s Bakery and the scene of action over on the south side of the city. Meeting de Valera was my next move.

  There were British Howitzers posted on the roof of the Rotunda now, so PJ drove the ambulance around to the Maternity Hospital by Henry Street and Moore Street. The snipers on the roofs held fire as we passed. The Rotunda was desperately short of food, so we dropped off our supplies and said we’d tell the next British Officers or rebels we saw to let food supplies get into the hospital. Judging by the groups of khaki, it looked like there were British army barricades all the way down Little Britain Street to Church Street.

  But no sooner had we passed on the message at Trinity College front gate, than we were told to get to Patrick Dun’s hospital as soon as possible. There were reports of a big skirmish.

  As I left Trinity, something made me turn back. I noticed a little tin soldier standing just at the foot of the entrance arch of Front Gate. I almost passed out. Only one person would have the audacity to place it there. Another one of his lives risked. I bent down as inconspicuously as I could and put it in my pocket.

  As we sped through the streets, I scanned for any sign of Jack the Cat. But I didn’t see any rebels at all.

  There were some other strange sights. A portly man who PJ told me later was a well-known pompous High Court Judge, scuttled around the corner of Dawson Street clutching a fish in either hand. Another respectable gentleman pushed a pram full of groceries. There were children waiting in line at a bread van, Kennedy’s Bread, that my father joked “stuck to your tummy like lead” – and not just street urchins and shoeless slum dwellers but respectable children in wool suits. The chaos and disruption had caused widespread hunger. There was nothing in the shops. There were no shops!

  We proceeded to Merrion Hospital and were hailed at the National Gallery by Dr Ella and Dr Lumsden with their medical bags. Their faces were so grave it made my stomach lurch.

  “As quick as you can,” Dr Ella told PJ. “A regiment of two hundred Sherwood Foresters has run into a unit of rebels at Mount Street Bridge and there are heavy casualties.”

  They jumped in the back where I was sitting.

  “Molly!” Dr Ella cried, embracing me. “Thank God you’re safe. The nurse accidentally put your name down on the wrong charge street. There’s no time to drop you back at the hospital. Be a good girl and stay with the vehicle.”

  Dr Lumsden was a tall man in his forties, and I was immediately struck by his composure and kindness. “We hope to broker a ceasefire to rescue the injured,” he said.

  Less than two streets
away from Mount Street Bridge, the ratatat of gunfire assaulted our ears. From the lookout slits at the sides of the armoured ambulance, the doctors tried to piece together what was going on as we drew nearer. I was surprised to see that there was quite a crowd gathered near the bridge.

  “I’d say most of the rebel gunshot seemed to be coming from Clanwilliam House,” said Dr Lumsden, peering out through a small window that looked out over the driver’s cab. He pointed to an imposing house on Mount Street, overlooking the bridge.

  “But there’s also firing from a house on the other side of the bridge on the corner with Haddington Road,” said Dr Ella.

  Haddington Road is a beautiful tree-lined suburb full of big houses that we have often cycled up on our way to Ballsbridge.

  PJ stopped the ambulance at a diagonal from Clanwilliam House. The doctors got out and crouched behind the vehicle. From my vantage point in the ambulance I took in a scene of carnage through the small window.

  No words can do justice to the awfulness of the sights I witnessed. It was hard to believe that this bloodshed was unfolding in a leafy suburb of Dublin by the banks of the Grand Canal. It looked like the wholesale slaughter of one of Jack’s games of soldiers. A whole battalion felled like at the Western Front. The dead and injured were piled up on the road. Those who had managed to get past the house in Northumberland Street took cover anywhere they could find it, on house steps, behind trees. They even lay end to end in the gulleys of the roadway like a giant human khaki-coloured caterpillar.

  There were also rebels in the nearby schoolhouse and the parochial hall. Any soldiers who managed to make it that far were fired on like ducks in a pond, at close range. Smoke filled the air as the British soldiers had tried to blow up the rebels by throwing hand grenades into the buildings.