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

by Patricia Murphy

  I also knew with blinding certainty where I had to go to find Jack. I knew the why and the where. The real problem now was how.

  Dusk, Saturday night 29th April.

  From Nelson’s Pillar overlooking the ruins of Sackville Street.

  The sun rose once again. Mercilessly. I was reminded of that quotation of Shakespeare that Miss Nugent tried to drum into our heads: “Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.”

  I helped Nurse Elizabeth O’Farrell prepare breakfast for the men who had spent the night tunnelling through the houses.

  “We’ve only got as far as the fishmonger’s,” one whispered to me.

  After breakfast, Connolly and the other wounded were moved to Number 16 Moore Street – Plunkett’s, a butcher’s and poulterer’s. Connolly was in frightful agony. The gangrene was creeping up his leg. The houses were very small and the stairs very narrow, and sometimes we had to lift the stretcher over the top. Connolly was roaring with the pain. Plunkett’s was owned by a man from County Meath. He was a rough, kindly butcher and no relation to the aristocratic Count’s family. Anto had worked for him before he got the job at Findlater’s. Thankfully the family wasn’t there. I was glad too that Nancy and her children had been led to safety.

  Connolly and the other wounded, three volunteers and a British soldier who was badly injured stayed in the back room tended by Julia Grennan and Nurse O’Farrell. I tried to help too. I was told the British soldier had been heroically rescued by George Plunkett, Joseph’s brother. He had braved a hail of bullets in Moore Street, knowing full well the soldier was an enemy.

  The leaders came in for a council of war. Pearse came to Connolly’s bedside and consulted in private.

  Just after noon, the medic Ryan and I changed the dressing on Connolly’s leg. Nurse O’Farrell borrowed some sheets from the household to tear up for bandages.

  “It’s all over,” Connolly whispered. “Pearse doesn’t want any more civilian dead and is preparing to surrender.”

  Jim Ryan and I looked out the window. Lying dead on the opposite footpath of Moore Street with white flags in their hands were three elderly men. They had been shot down by machine-gun fire when trying to reach safety, fleeing from a burning building on the opposite side of the street.

  I looked closer and with a start saw my father’s old jacket on one of the men, a crimson bloodstain on the lapel. It was Mr Hanrahan who had joked about Mother being a ‘cracker’ when we had visited him on Easter Sunday. I cried for his poor soul and hoped his end was quick.

  “It was the sight of those men that has convinced Pease to surrender,” Jim Ryan said to me. “And he hopes by giving up that, though the leaders will be shot, the rank and file, the ordinary soldiers, will be saved.”

  I gasped. They expected to be executed. Would there be no end to this bloodshed?

  “For God’s sake, has someone got a white cloth?” called out Mac Diarmada.

  James O’Reilly, one of the men who was shaving, produced a none-too-clean handkerchief out of his breast pocket.

  I gave them one of my Red Cross insignias to put on a nurse’s apron to make a flag. The first time the flag was stuck out the door it was met with a hail of bullets. But the next time the guns were silent.

  Nurse Elizabeth O’Farrell bravely went out into the street at 12.45 with a note from Mr Pearse.

  The silence after all the gunfire was unsettling. The leaders were each in their private space, preparing themselves to face their enemy after a week of battle. Tom Clarke was distraught. Tears ran down his face as he sat waiting. I did not want to disturb him so I spoke to his loyal friend, Seán Mac Diarmada.

  “The wives and children of the people in the rising,” I said to him softly, “how will they manage?”

  He looked at me kindly. “Kathleen, Tom’s wife, is in charge of a fund for the wives and dependents. She is a strong and able woman and measures have been taken. I can tell you no more than that.”

  I left him to his preparations. I had guessed correctly. Jack was gathering together all the funds to help the families of the fighters, to be administered by Kathleen Clarke. I felt a surge of pride in my brother. He was risking his life for a worthy mission for, after all, the children in particular were innocent and would surely suffer. He had done so without firing a shot.

  I too had preparations to make to carry out my plan. I found a spot in the attic and put my new cambric frock on under my clothes. I put all the money from the soldiers together and, disconnecting my spyglass, hid the roll and codes in the barrel. It could still be creakily extended but the lens was now cloudy. If anyone tried to use it, they would just think it an old dud.

  As I tucked the soldiers back in my knapsack, something fell out. A rolled-up piece of paper, battered and creased. I opened it and was astonished to see it was the ‘proclamation’ I’d picked up at the pillar only a few days ago. I don’t even remember how it got from the big front pocket of my mother’s Red Cross apron to my knapsack. Somehow, through the gunfire and the conflagration, the chaos and the killing, I had kept it with me and it had stayed intact. A little piece of history. I would have to read it with more care at a future date. So I hid it in my shoe for safekeeping.

  After about an hour, Nurse O’Farrell returned, her face pale.

  “I have met with General Lowe but I have only half an hour to return with Commandant Pearse,” she said. “They want an unconditional surrender. Hurry! They thought I was a spy at first and held me prisoner at, of all places, Tom Clarke’s shop! Of all the places in Dublin, they have made that their headquarters.”

  I gasped. I had to find a way of going with them. For I was convinced that was where Jack would be. I had conceived a very dangerous plan.

  The leaders conferred and Pearse shook everyone’s hands and prepared to go. I took my courage in my hands and approached Nurse O’Farrell.

  “Take me with you,” I begged her. “I am with Saint John’s Ambulance. I am not part of this.”

  She looked stricken. “The officer at the barricade asked me how many other girls there were down there and I said two. I forgot about you, poor Molly, you are so quiet and discreet, writing away in your book. But they are very jumpy and if you come with us now, they will think it a trick.”

  “Please,” I begged. “Look! I have my own flag.”

  She smiled. “I will go with Pearse and tell the British officer they must let you go, as you are but a child.”

  I waited with the others. Despite the circumstances, I smiled to myself at her calling me quiet and discreet, for no one had ever called me that!

  All was quiet and ominous and the men got ready by cleaning up, trying to shave, summoning their dignity. Each was locked in his own world, calling up the courage to face whatever lay ahead.

  But I was tense and keyed up. My battle wasn’t finished. And I wasn’t going to give in before I’d done everything to achieve my goal.

  I went to the doorway. I saw Nurse O’Farrell reach the barricade and speak to the officer in charge. His small nod was enough for me.

  I was relieved and rushed out, not thinking to say goodbye to anyone. I was so used to behaving like a shadow, hugging doorways, that I passed up the street unnoticed.

  So intent was the focus on Pearse, nobody paid me much attention. Even Nurse O’Farrell was all but forgotten. I slipped through the barricade as the soldiers watched history unfold.

  The British general, all sharp features and spruce uniform, was there with a dashing younger officer who looked like his son. The young man was very devil-may-care, as if he was at the races, and lit a match and smoked a cigarette as Pearse in his slouch hat and dark overcoat approached with Nurse O’Farrell.

  The general was cross. “You are a minute late.”

  Nurse O’ Farrell calmly showed him her watch. She was on time and an officer set his watch by hers. The General apologized. But he had established his authority.

  Pearse handed his sword to General Lowe and they were passed t
o another captain called de Courcy Wheeler, who I later learned was a relative of Countess Markievicz. Pearse also handed over his automatic pistol and holster and his canteen, which contained two large onions. They were believed to be high in nutritional value by the rebels. But the sight of them made me sad. They were so ordinary and domestic, so out of place among the carnage.

  “I will allow the other commandants to surrender,” said Lowe. “I understand you have Countess Markievicz down there.”

  “She is not with me, sir,” insisted Pearse with great dignity.

  It was agreed that Pearse would supply a list of the addresses of the other rebel positions and Nurse O’Farrell would be given safe convoy to travel around to carry the surrender notice. I saw a photographer capture the moment from an angle that seemed to obscure Nurse O’Farrell. Pearse turned to the nurse and asked would she travel around to the other posts with the notice of unconditional surrender. How harsh those words sounded, even to me who had prayed for the madness to stop.

  “Will you agree to this?”

  “If you wish it,” she replied.

  “I do wish it,” he said with great sorrow and shook her hand.

  Instantly he was whisked away to a motor car with the general’s son. Then General Lowe and Captain Wheeler got in another car with an armed guard on the footboard motor.

  As they pulled off a British Officer remarked, “I wonder how many German marks that fellow has in his pocket. It’s all a German plot.”

  It made me think how little they understood Ireland.

  Nurse O’Farrell was put into the care of a Lieutenant Royall and the group proceeded up Great Britain Street.

  Once again, remarkably, nobody paid me much attention as I tagged along. As we got to the familiar shop, now stuffed with British officers, Nurse O’Farrell turned to the Lieutenant and whispered, “She is my special charge.”

  The officers barely glanced at me, so busy were they staring at Nurse O’Farrell, the bold and pretty Irish rebel. They didn’t even ask to search my knapsack.

  We were taken to a back room and the lieutenant sent a private to get us some tea. We sat silently. I had to make my move.

  “Lieutenant, I need to be taken to my aunt in Drumcondra,” I said. “I am Saint John’s Ambulance, an innocent girl caught up in the troubles.”

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  I played my trump card. “I stayed to help the wounded. My father is Chief Technical Officer Daniel O’Donovan at the GPO. He is an assistant to Mr Norway, the Head of the Post Office. I hope to tell them you treated me well.”

  “We will arrange for your transport,” said the officer. He looked closely at me. “I can see you are but a child. A shrewd one.”

  “I am twelve, sir.”

  He looked astonished that I was so young. I knew this would put him off the scent.

  I drank my boiling tea, and once again it scalded my mouth and made me gag.

  “I feel sick,” I said.

  “Molly hasn’t been eating proper food,” said Nurse O’Farrell.

  I began to retch.

  “I need the privy,” I moaned.

  Luckily for me, there was a flurry as General Lowe arrived back outside. Nurse O’Farrell was taken out to deliver the surrender orders and I was a forgotten footnote.

  The private assigned to look after me kept his distance as I retched into my hankie and walked out the back door. He was so disgusted by me that he hung at the back door, smoking a cigarette.

  There was just enough light to see the false panel at the back of the privy that concealed the hidey-hole. My nausea had abated but I kept up the pretense. Making loud groaning noises as if I was throwing up, I sprang the catch.

  After all this time, Jack was curled up fast asleep like a cat. His face was innocent and childlike in the shaft of light, but there were deep shadows under his eyes. I put my hand over his mouth and shook him awake. His eyes opened in terror, but creased into a smile when he saw me.

  I tapped out in our private tapping code my plan and the part he had to play. He smiled at me, as if it was just another one of our many games. I passed him our father’s spyglass, which I had hidden under my clothes, now stuffed with the money and code numbers. He understood without me having to spell it out.

  I took off my outer clothes and handed them to Jack, and showed him the piece of paper with the safe address in Drumcondra that was meant for The O’Rahilly. Then I ate it. I already had my new cambric frock on underneath.

  “Hurry up in there,” shouted the private in an English accent.

  I pretended to throw up with great theatricality as Jack changed into my clothes like a true Houdini. I took his place and crawled into the tiny space lined with blankets. He pulled my green felt hat down on his head, kissed me lightly on the forehead, then took my proffered hankie. Jack took my hand and tapped out in my palm our Code – G-B-U – God Bless You. The message was carved into my heart. Then he sprang the cover back over the hidey-hole.

  I heard him go back out towards the shop, bent double and groaning. I had to bite my hand not to cry in the darkness.

  “General Lowe’s car will take you to your aunty,” the private said. “But stay away from me – I don’t want to catch anything.”

  The private didn’t seem to notice that the retching girl had grown a good six inches and acquired the trace of a moustache while visiting the privy.

  I needed to figure out how to get out of there. But I could bide my time. For now, I was bone weary. I tucked up in the hidey-hole, oblivious to the stench and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  & & &

  A month later – 26th May.

  Buswell’s Hotel, Dublin

  It is a month since the events of which I wrote took place and all has changed so much.

  Mother returned to Dublin within a week and how great was our joy!

  Father too has been spared and braved many a bullet to keep the lines of communication open. But we no longer have a house and are currently residing in apartments in Buswell’s Hotel off Kildare Street. Our strongbox that I had stuffed with random things survived, however. For this we are all glad.

  For attacking the forces of the crown and openly declaring an alliance with an enemy, so many of the people I have come to know and in some cases greatly admire for their courage, if not their actions, have been shot.

  Pearse, MacDonagh from Jacob’s Garrison, old Tom Clarke – all shot as traitors. General Blackadder was moved to say to a friend, “I have just performed one of the hardest tasks I ever had to do. Condemned to death one of the finest characters I ever came across. A man named Pearse. Must be something very wrong in the state of things, must there not, that makes a man like that a rebel?”

  Poor James Connolly was strapped to a chair, already mortally wounded and in agony from his gangrenous leg, to face the firing squad.

  Joseph Plunkett, already very ill, was allowed to marry his fiancée Grace Gifford just before the execution.

  Mac Diarmada, Pearse’s brother Willie, MacBride the soldier, Michael Mallin – all shot.

  But their executions have had a curious effect. If yesterday they were dangerous poets and dreamers, now they are martyrs. As the wits of Dublin have always joked about the statue of Justice at Dublin Castle who has her back to the city:

  “Here stands Justice,

  Regard her station,

  Her face to the Castle

  And her backside to the nation.”

  Some have been spared. The Countess because she is a woman. And Eamon de Valera because he is an American. But they all must go to jail. And so must those who showed me kindness including Liam Tannam and the Big Fella Michel Collins. Thousands are going to jail, many who weren’t even in the Rising but who are members of the Volunteers or the Citizen Army. Even some who are just supporters of independence like members of the Sinn Féin Party. Even Addy and Jane Killikelly’s nephews who weren’t even in Dublin have been rounded up and sent to Frongoch in Wales becaus
e they were members of the Fianna. Addy and Jane are beside themselves for they are delicate boys not used to rough living.

  Anto is still recuperating in hospital, too ill to be moved. We are worried that someone will denounce him but Mother and Nancy are cooking up some plan to get him offside. Mother and I also plan to pay a visit to Mr George Duggan who showed me such kindness.

  I will be waiting a long time for my ice cream with Martin Walton because Matassa’s Ice Cream Parlour is burnt down and Martin is in Frongoch prison camp. But he is alive to play another tune for Ireland. I hope some day he gets to set up his music school.

  Matthew Connolly the bugler has also gone to prison. Poor Gerald Keogh’s family mourns their son.

  There is an outcry over the death of our brave friend, Mr Sheehy-Skeffington. Hanna his wife wants an enquiry into the circumstances of his death at the hands of a deranged British Officer.

  Mrs Kathleen Clarke has set up a Fund for the Women and Dependents. I learned later that “The Yellow Bittern” is a famous poem translated from the Irish by Thomas MacDonagh about a little bird that died of thirst. It could also be the code name for a plan, could it not, that the little birds left behind by the rebels will not suffer?

  I am one of the few people who know the role that Jack played in this. I still don’t know what the code numbers related to. My guess is bank account numbers, perhaps some in the United States. I mean to ask Mr Duggan what bank account numbers look like when we pay him a visit. Jack must have smuggled a lot of money around, between biscuit tins and soldiers and who knows what else. I still marvel at the audacity of Jack’s plan. And I wonder, once he knew I was on his trail, did he enlist me as his unwitting accomplice? Knowing I would keep them in safekeeping for him. Either way, I do not mind. He didn’t expose me to any risk I wasn’t already taking. Tin soldiers were after all an ingenious hiding place that no one would think to look in. If I hadn’t collected all the soldiers, he would have hidden them for someone else to find and get the money to the right people. Though I was safer and quicker! The truth is, he knew I would have done it for him any way. For in truth, I may not have been prepared to die for a cause or a country but I was willing to risk my neck for my beloved brother.