Rebel Sisters

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  She had decided to wear her pretty new pink and white gingham-edged dress and a simple headpiece with a slight veil. She wanted to look well for Joe, but as night began to fall she could not help but feel the coldness wrap around her and she wished that she had chosen something more practical and warmer. She shivered and moved inside. It was getting late, the hour mocking her.

  Grace sat for a while again, hoping that perhaps fate would intervene and that Joe would not be shot but sent away to prison like his brothers. In time they could have a life together, living abroad. He would write and she would draw and they would have a small family of their own and be happy. The thought of it warmed her. Joe was always full of plans for the future and for their life together.

  The night sky darkened and the prison fell silent. It was about eleven thirty when a soldier from the Royal Irish Regiment finally came and led her to the prison chapel, where the priest waited.

  Grace could barely see, as there was no gaslight, just two soldiers holding flickering candles to provide light. She swallowed hard, saying a silent prayer as she walked towards the altar. She had sworn to herself that she would do her very best to remain composed: Joe did not need to see her distraught and hysterical.

  A few seconds later Joe was led in. He looked desperate, hardly able to walk or stand, a ragged, bloody bandage around his neck. His gaunt face was pale, already like a ghost in the flickering light. He tried to smile at her and she longed to hug him, touch him, kiss him, but the soldier kept them apart. Father MacCarthy gestured to the soldier and he undid Joe’s handcuffs. Joe, holding his scrawny, bruised wrists, rubbed at them as they gazed at each other.

  ‘We will celebrate the holy sacrament of marriage in this chapel,’ began the priest. ‘It is agreed that these two soldiers here will be your witnesses.’

  Grace was tempted to beg them to search the prison and bring her sister or any of the Plunkett family to the chapel, but it was made clear that this ceremony would be as brief as possible and that they were not permitted even to speak.

  She and Joe stood beside each other and she could hear each of their breaths as the priest began to lead them through the words of their marriage vows. She passed the ring to Joe and he took her shaking hand as he slid the bright gold band on to her ring finger and they repeated their vows ‘To love each other until death do us part’.

  Grace’s voice caught and she felt emotion would make her break down, but Joe squeezed her hand tight, his dark eyes locking on hers, giving her a strange strength and courage as the ceremony ended. With the priest’s guidance, they and the soldiers signed the marriage register and Joe was immediately re-cuffed.

  She prayed for a little kindness, compassion for them to be given a few minutes alone with each other as a newly married couple, husband and wife, but instead Joe was taken immediately from the chapel and led back to his cell, Grace left standing like a marble statue in front of the holy altar, unable to move or even to say a word.

  Chapter 87

  Grace

  HER HEART WAS heavy as she left the prison. It was dark, and instead of a bride’s happiness and joy, here she was alone, afraid, and overcome with an immense sadness that she could not dispel.

  Father MacCarthy joined her. ‘Mrs Plunkett, I fear that you will not be able to get back across the city with the curfew,’ he said, worried. ‘I will see if I can find you a safe place to stay for the night.’

  She nodded dumbly, trying not to give in to the tears that threatened.

  They walked along James Street to a nearby convent, but the nuns were all asleep in their beds and offered no assistance.

  ‘The bellringer, Mr Byrne, lives nearby,’ the priest sighed. ‘Perhaps he can help us.’

  The bellringer was surprised to be disturbed at such a late hour, but the priest explained Grace’s situation, that she was the wife of one of the rebels due to be executed. Mr Byrne, nodding in sympathy, kindly welcomed her inside his small, simple home. She had a cup of tea and a slice of soda bread that he insisted she eat before he led her up the narrow stairs to a small, dingy room overlooking the back yard.

  Exhausted, she lay on the brass bed with its musty horsehair mattress and pulled the rough blanket over her. She prayed silently for Joe, that God would somehow intervene and that miraculously he would be pardoned, his death sentence commuted, even if he were deported to some far-off prison in the British colonies. Rolling on her side, she longed for sleep as she cried and struggled to contain her grief.

  Suddenly she was woken by Mr Byrne standing at the end of the bed, telling her she must get up immediately as a motor vehicle had been sent from the prison to collect her and bring her to see Mr Plunkett. In a moment she was dressed and slipping her shoes back on, then quickly using the outside lavatory, brushing her hair and dabbing some cologne on her wrists and neck as she thanked Mr Byrne for his hospitality to her.

  The driver, a policeman, refused to be drawn about the reason for her visit as they passed through the empty streets and once again Grace found herself inside Kilmainham’s high walls.

  It was the middle of the night, two o’clock, and it was hushed and quiet, the prisoners sleeping in their cells. She wondered if her sister slept too, unaware of her presence and her marriage to Joe.

  She was brought again to the governor’s office, where one of the guards informed her that, as Mr Plunkett’s next-of-kin, his wife, she was permitted to visit him in his cell prior to his execution. Major Lennon had given permission for her to say goodbye to her husband.

  She stood there not trusting herself to speak, her eyes drawn to a letter left lying on the governor’s desk addressed to Mrs Pearse from Padraig. Grace was briefly tempted to steal it to give to his poor mother.

  ‘This way,’ said the soldier, leading her through the cold, damp prison corridors.

  Nervous, she shivered and touched her new wedding band as she followed him. The light was poor and she had to concentrate so that she did not trip or stumble.

  Eventually they stopped and the door to a small, narrow, dark cell was opened. In the gloom she could see Joe, sitting with a blanket around him on a plank of wood which served as a bed on the floor, with only a bench, a bowl and a cup. He looked up, surprised, and in that instant she could see the love for her in his eyes. She longed to fling herself into his arms and caress and hold him, but the cell was crowded as soldiers crammed in behind her. Some carried bayonets and one pointedly held a watch.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he said firmly.

  Grace’s heart pounded alarmingly and she could feel the trembling in her leg and foot. Her hands began to shake too as fear of what lay ahead for Joe almost engulfed her.

  He stood up. He looked pale and the bandage around his neck was filthy, but his eyes reassured her as he reached for her hands and stilled the tremors. He was so calm and even in these last minutes she knew that Joe cared deeply for her, never thinking about himself but worried for her, wanting still to protect and love her for as long as he lived. She knew if she spoke she would break down, perhaps even turn to attack the soldiers around her like a wildcat, so she sat down beside him, trying to gather her thoughts and emotions.

  ‘Darling Grace, you must be brave,’ coaxed Joe, unselfish as ever. ‘You are my wife now and I promise that you will be cared for always.’

  A heavy tear slid down her face.

  She listened as he spoke quietly of his friends and his belief in a new republic, a new Ireland. Their fight for freedom, the Rising, was only the beginning.

  Joe had his faith and told her that he wasn’t afraid to die.

  ‘I am happy, dying for the glory of God and the honour of Ireland.’

  She squeezed his hand, feeling the familiar pressure of his thumb caressing and circling her palm. There was so much she wanted to say, to tell him, but she knew if she even began to speak, a torrent of words and tears would pour from her, like a river bursting through a dam, and that she would not be able to control it or hold it back.

 
‘Your ten minutes are up,’ declared the sergeant.

  Grace could not believe that ten minutes had passed and they had barely said anything to each other. They needed more time, needed privacy. But there was none. Joe nodded at her quietly and they held each other’s gaze for those last few seconds as the sergeant ordered her to leave.

  A moment or two later Grace was being escorted from the cell and back out through the prison. The memory of Joe’s eyes, the touch of his hands, his words and his immense courage were seared in her heart.

  Somewhere a prisoner screamed, like a child having a nightmare. Voices shouted, telling him gruffly to go back to sleep.

  Grace stopped, feeling weak, barely able to breathe or move. A young soldier offered to get her some water. She leaned against the wall and sipped at it slowly, thinking of Joe alone in his cell.

  The soldier confided to her that, along with Joe, three other prisoners were to be executed before dawn. One of them, she discovered, was Willie Pearse, and she let out a gasp at the mention of his name. She thought of Willie, with his art and sculpture and devotion to his older brother. When she was only seventeen he’d twirled her around the dance floor at college socials.

  It was still dark when she walked out through the heavy prison door. Flecks of light peeped through the darkness and she could hear birdsong in the early hours of that still May morning.

  She could not return home and it was unfair to go back to Mr Byrne’s home and waken him once more. Father MacCarthy hoped to organize somewhere else for her to stay, or a motor vehicle to drive her to her sister Kate’s home.

  Grace stood waiting near the prison wall, a shiver running through her, for she felt such a strange coldness surrounding her. She wanted to stay: she still harboured a forlorn hope that perhaps there would be some last-minute reprieve, a change of mind about Joe’s sentence. Grace still had hope.

  Suddenly in the creeping morning light she heard rapid gunshots. Was it a firing squad? Fear gripped her. Once again there came the sound of gunfire. Shot after shot in the silence. Then more yet again.

  Was it Joe?

  She breathed slowly, then the stillness was broken by another booming volley, so loud and clear, breaking the calm of that early morn. A few seconds later, a single shot.

  Grace’s mind was filled with the image of Joe and the firing squad, and she knew instantly in her heart that this time it was him. She doubled over in pain at the realization that she would never see or speak or touch Joe again in this lifetime.

  She stood there transfixed. It was over. Finally over. Joe was dead – shot like his friends MacDonagh, and Padraig and Willie and brave Tom Clarke. The rebellion crushed. His life taken from him because he had dared to dream, dared to fight for a new republic, an independent, free Ireland.

  Mother had said they were fools, traitors, disloyal to the crown. A strange weariness came over Grace. How could she ever return to her childhood home again? She had nowhere to go now that Joe was dead. He had told her to be brave, but she was not like him …

  The sky was getting lighter, brighter, the dawn with its first faint streaks of sunlight breaking the darkness. She looked upwards, thinking of Joe on the other side of the high wall only a few seconds ago.

  Then she saw it – a bird, flapping its wings, its long neck and head and beak stretched forwards, rising upwards and upwards across the new morning sky. She watched it, looking up at the sky, dizzy, the bird flying free above her, soaring high over the city.

  It wasn’t over. Joe was right. It wasn’t over at all.

  This was just the beginning …

  Afterword

  FOLLOWING THE SURRENDER and arrest of all those involved in the rising, General Sir John Greenfell Maxwell, the newly appointed military governor of Ireland, was determined to quell any further chance of rebellion. He immediately ordered that hundreds of prisoners be transported by ship to prison camps in England, Scotland and Wales. He ordered the trial by court martial and then the execution of all those suspected of organizing the Rising.

  Fourteen leaders of the rebellion were shot by firing squad in Kilmainham Jail: Padraig Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, Thomas Clarke, Joseph Plunkett, Willie Pearse, Michael Mallin, Edward Daly, Sean Mac Diarmada, Eamonn Ceannt, Con Colbert, John MacBride, James Connolly, Michael O’Hanrahan and Sean Heuston. In addition, Thomas Kent was executed in Cork and Roger Casement was tried for treason and executed by hanging in Pentonville Prison in London.

  Dubliners, who had developed a grudging respect for the amateur army, were shocked by the executions, especially that of the badly injured James Connolly who, unable to stand, was shot sitting in a chair. Public opinion began to change.

  Memorial cards of the dead leaders of the Rising were circulated throughout the city. General Maxwell and the British soon realized they had somehow made martyrs of the men and halted the executions, but it was too late. The Rising and its leaders’ belief in a new Republic of Ireland had caught hold. The insurgents once considered traitors or fools for their actions were now becoming heroes.

  The fight for Irish freedom continued, led by Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera on their release from prison. Sinn Fein won seventy-three seats in the 1918 elections and set up an Irish parliament, Dail Eireann, on 21 January 1919. The War of Independence followed, with the IRA carrying out new, guerrilla-type attacks against the British forces in Ireland.

  In December 1921 Michael Collins, Arthur Griffith and Britain’s prime minister, Lloyd George, signed the Anglo-Irish Treaty, ending the war and recognizing the formation of an Irish Free State. However, ‘the Treaty’ kept Ireland within the British empire and excluded the six counties in the north. This caused a huge split among republicans, which led to a violent civil war. Michael Collins was shot dead before his country finally gained its freedom from Britain and became an independent nation. Ireland became a republic in 1949.

  Nellie Gifford Donnelly

  Nellie was imprisoned in Kilmainham Jail until June 1916. On her return to Temple Villas her mother refused to let her cross the threshold. Nellie begged to see her father, but sadly she was only allowed to see him briefly before she moved to America where her sisters Ada and Sidney were both living. She toured around parts of the US recounting her experiences of the Rising, fundraising for the widows of the Volunteers and organizing talks promoting the republican movement. She married publisher Joseph Donnelly in New York and had one daughter, Maeve. In 1920 she returned to Ireland and, following the break-up of her marriage, became a successful writer and broadcaster, writing stories and plays for the new Irish radio station 2RN and for newspapers.

  Fearing that people would forget the Easter Rising of 1916, Nellie was determined to gather together a collection of items related to the rebellion. In 1932 she persuaded the National Museum to exhibit her collection at the time of the Eucharistic Congress and Tailteann Games in Dublin. Among the 250 exhibits were Countess Markievicz’s green jacket, pamphlets, guns and valuable personal items belonging to family members and friends. At the end of the popular exhibition it was clear to Nellie that a permanent home for the collection was needed. Much of it now forms the basis of Ireland’s important historic 1916 Collection housed in the National Museum in Dublin. In the 1960s Nellie became a founder member of the Kilmainham Jail Restoration Society. The prison is now one of Ireland’s most popular visitor sites.

  After a long life filled with many interests, Nellie Gifford Donnelly died in 1971.

  Muriel Gifford MacDonagh

  Muriel was devastated by the execution of her husband, Thomas MacDonagh. With his death she could no longer afford to continue renting their home in Oakley Road. Her mother, Isabella, called to see her, but instead of giving support, spoke out against Muriel’s husband and his role in the rebellion. Countess Plunkett, who had always had a huge regard for Thomas MacDonagh and was fond of Muriel, offered her one of the Plunkett houses in Ranelagh in which to live.

  Dressed in her widow’s clothes Muriel was striking and
beautiful, and the British authorities feared that her appearance at rallies and events would incite even more resentment of their actions.

  In July 1917 a seaside holiday was organized for ‘the Widows of 1916’ and their children in Skerries, and Grace and Muriel decided to join all the other women. One day Muriel went out swimming as her two-year-old daughter Barbara sat playing with shells on the beach. Tragically, Muriel, although a good swimmer, got into difficulty and drowned. It was suspected she had suffered heart failure. In Dublin huge crowds gathered for her funeral, watching silently as black-plumed horses drew her coffin towards Glasnevin Cemetery.

  Grace Gifford Plunkett

  The tragic story of Grace Gifford’s wedding to Joe Plunkett appeared not only in Irish newspapers but also across the globe, with Grace finding herself thrown into the spotlight. Unable to return to her parents’ house, she went to stay in Larkfield, the Plunkett family home.

  Grace’s appearance at republican rallies drew huge support. She designed anti-British posters and leaflets for election campaigns and she herself was elected to the Sinn Fein executive. Like most of the wives of the leaders of the Rising, Grace was firmly opposed to the Treaty. She wrote to the press and created a series of anti-Treaty cartoons. In 1923 she and her sister Kate, who had also become a republican, were arrested and imprisoned in Kilmainham Jail for seven months. There Grace drew a mural of ‘The Madonna and Child’ on her cell wall.

  Following the end of the Civil War in 1923, Grace continued to work as an artist and she also published a number of books of cartoons of the Abbey Theatre’s actors. She often struggled financially. She had little contact with the Plunkett family and in 1934 took legal action against them as they had failed to follow the terms of Joe’s will, which asked for her to be given everything he possessed. Countess Plunkett refused to honour it and eventually the matter was settled out of court, with Grace receiving a one-off payment from the family.