The Guns of Easter

by Gerard Whelan

  ‘Jimmy. Jimmy Conway.’

  ‘Good,’ Martin said. ‘I’m Jimmy too. Jimmy Martin.’

  The machine-guns began to fire again from behind them, and were joined by a rattle of rifle fire. From the redbrick tower of the fire station ahead Jimmy saw a flicker of flames. He realised that there was a machine-gun post up there. It seemed strange to spend so much effort when a simple check would show that Liberty Hall was undefended.

  ‘There’s loads of soldiers here,’ he said.

  ‘Thousands in the city,’ Martin told him. ‘And fresh troops landed from England last night too. You needn’t worry – it will all be over soon. You worried about your people back home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jimmy said. And my people in the Post Office and the Green, he thought, but he kept that to himself.

  ‘It shouldn’t be any problem for us,’ Martin said.

  Jimmy felt he should say something good about the rebels. The confidence of the army seemed almost insulting. He remembered what the young Volunteer in Abbey Street had said.

  ‘The Post Office is built like a fort,’ he told Martin.

  Behind them the boat’s gun boomed again. Martin jerked his head in the direction of the sound.

  ‘Them guns knock down forts,’ he said simply.

  They were close to the soldiers by the fire station now. The men were relaxing, sitting or standing around at the corner with Brunswick Street. Waiting for the order to attack, Jimmy thought. He hesitated. Martin noticed, and smiled down at him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’re a rough-looking lot, but it’s not you they’re after.’

  Then they were among the soldiers. Martin asked about getting some tea. After a while someone put a steaming mug in Jimmy’s hands. Jimmy felt terrified among these khaki figures. Soldiers were no longer people whose marches you followed: they were people whose job it was to shoot other people. He knew that he would never follow a parade again. Parades were just things that soldiers did in between shooting people. Jimmy tried not to think of his Da.

  The tea was hot and sweet and strong and tasted very good. The soldiers were friendly in a gruff way. In between sips from the mug Jimmy tried to answer their questions about how things were beyond the river.

  ‘You say all the people are still in their houses up there?’ one of them asked.

  ‘They had no chance to get out.’

  ‘You got out, though,’ said another man.

  Jimmy explained that he’d had to. He talked again about the lack of food, about his father fighting in France and his sick sister burning with fever. It was a good performance, and the soldiers were sympathetic.

  ‘He’s a brave wee fellow,’ said a corporal with hair so grey it was almost silver. ‘I hope my lad would do the same if this was Belfast.’

  ‘Brave!’ said Martin. ‘I should say he’s brave! Why, you should have seen him coming across that bridge, swinging his arms. Every gun in the place was aimed at him, and he crosses over as cool as you please.’

  The men were impressed. There were mutterings of praise all round.

  When he had gulped down his tea Jimmy said that he must be going. He invented a relative who lived, he said, in Fitzwilliam Square. But he was almost caught out by one soldier, who obviously knew Dublin fairly well.

  ‘That’s a very posh area for you to have a relative in isn’t it?’ he asked, eyeing Jimmy’s clothes. Even the new coat looked shabby after its night in the gutter.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jimmy, thinking quickly, ‘she’s a maid there.’

  The soldiers asked him to wait a minute. Jimmy thought he had given the game away.

  The corporal with the silver hair went around among the men. When he had finished he came back and gave Jimmy a heavy handful of coins.

  ‘There’s nearly five shillings there, lad,’ he said. ‘If you can’t find your relative then you can try to get some food in a shop. Someone will tell you where to find one open.’

  Jimmy took the money with a red face and stammered thanks. It was more money than he’d ever held in his hands before – almost a quarter of a guinea! He thrust the pile of coins into the pocket of his soiled new coat. As he did, he felt something else that was in the pocket already. It was something cold and metallic.

  The thought struck him that it might be a gun or weapon of some kind. He was too frightened to feel it further, but pulled his hand out of the pocket as though he’d touched something red hot. He must get away and check this.

  There were more delays as the soldiers argued among themselves about the best route for him to take. Jimmy listened impatiently. His heart had been pounding since finding the metal thing in his pocket. It didn’t feel heavy enough to be a gun, but he hoped that it wasn’t a bullet or a knife. If it was then he must get rid of it. It would be fatal if he were searched by any soldiers and found to have a weapon. They would be sure he was a spy, in spite of his age.

  Even when he did get away from the soldiers, Jimmy wasn’t alone. Private Martin insisted on going with him for a small part of the way.

  ‘You’re my responsibility,’ he said. ‘If our men at Trinity College see you walking with me they’ll know you’re all right. A true, loyal Dubliner, aren’t you?’

  Loyal to what though, Jimmy wondered. He didn’t dare refuse the offer. Trembling, he thanked the other soldiers for the money. They bade him a cheerful goodbye, their good wishes blending with the boom and crack and rattle of the gunfire around them.

  15

  FINDING AN UNCLE

  AS SOON AS JIMMY MARTIN LEFT HIM, Jimmy felt nervously in his overcoat pocket, trying to identify the metal thing he’d found there. No, it wasn’t a knife. It was a narrow rectangle of …

  Jimmy almost laughed when he realised what it was. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it – a harmonica, shining in the morning sun. How it had got in the pocket in the first place he could only guess. Looted, like the coat itself, he supposed.

  The clock on Trinity College said half-past eight. Through the railings there Jimmy could see khaki figures on guard. From the roof other soldiers, snipers, were firing now and then towards Sackville Street. There was no doubt who was in charge of this part of Dublin, only a few hundred yards from the rebel headquarters.

  There were civilians walking in Grafton Street, and Jimmy was tempted to go down there as he had on Monday. If he went right along down Nassau Street now he might reach Ella’s house before nine. But he wanted to see the Green again. He wanted to know whether his uncle Mick … Jimmy made himself finish the thought … he wanted to know whether Mick was still alive.

  Jimmy made up his mind. The soldiers had advised him not to go down Grafton Street or nearby Dawson Street. It stood to reason that their advice would be sensible: soldiers had to be experts at not getting shot.

  So Jimmy made for Kildare Street, which would also take him to Stephen’s Green, and he turned down there. No-one interfered with him. At the bottom of the street he looked across the road through the railings into the deserted park.

  The shooting was right above him now. If he looked up he could see the flashes of the army guns firing from the Shelbourne Hotel. Now and again a spurt of dust was kicked from the hotel walls by rebel bullets answering their fire.

  The Green itself looked empty, though it was hard to see much through the screen of trees inside the railings. Then Jimmy noticed two men in Citizen Army uniform lying on the grass. They lay perfectly still, and he knew they were dead. He could not see their faces, but the fact that they wore uniforms meant that neither of them was Mick. That was little comfort: there might be any number of men lying dead in the park, hidden by the trees.

  There were quite a few civilians standing around on this corner of the Green. Boys of his own age ran among them, playing. The boys seemed to find it all very exciting. The adults stood looking, quietly discussing the situation.

  A machine-gun sounded a brisk rat-tat-tat, like a stick being dragged along railings. The British rifles cracked. The Irish
guns made a variety of sounds, the most common a dull, heavy boom that sounded almost like artillery.

  A quick movement by the railings of the Green caught Jimmy’s eye. One of the boys was squeezing through the railings. Jimmy recognised him – it was Billy Moran, Tommy Doyle’s friend. Jimmy remembered Tommy saying that Billy was staying with his sister in nearby Kevin Street.

  As Jimmy watched, Billy ran over to one of the dead rebels and picked up the man’s pistol. The other boys shouted encouragement.

  Jimmy stared, horrified. He thought of Mick’s warning about picking up guns. Billy was in full view of the Shelbourne Hotel. He was only playing, of course, but the army wouldn’t know that.

  Billy Moran stood with the gun in his hand, looking over at his friends in triumph. Jimmy wanted to shout a warning at him. Before he could, the body of the rebel at Billy’s feet jerked strangely. It was as if the dead man had come to life. Billy saw the movement and stared down, frightened.

  Jimmy realised instantly what had happened: a soldier in the hotel had fired at Billy Moran and missed, hitting the dead rebel instead. Jimmy opened his own mouth to scream at Billy, to tell him to drop the pistol. Before he could say anything Billy Moran seemed to leap in the air, the pistol falling from his hand. He collapsed on the ground and lay still, his bare feet trailing over the dead rebel’s back. A woman standing close to Jimmy screamed.

  The sight seemed to trigger something in Jimmy; he found himself suddenly running, as if his feet rather than his head had come to a decision.

  He crossed the road at the side of the Green furthest from Grafton Street, running as though something was chasing him. It was as though the shot that had killed Billy Moran had acted as a starting pistol in some race that Jimmy was running alone; like a lone horse thundering around the track at his own private Fairyhouse, he was off.

  The British army positions lay along the north side of the Green, the main rebel positions along the west. Jimmy now was on the east side: the only bullets that might come his way would be stray ones. Nevertheless he crouched as he ran, because a stray bullet would do just as much harm as an aimed one if it hit him. Private Martin, when he took care as he crossed Burgh Quay, Jimmy realised, was not being too cautious, only sensible: Jimmy understood that now.

  He ran until he came to the Green’s south-eastern corner. Then he stopped.

  What am I doing? he asked himself. What am I doing?

  But he knew, really, what he was doing, though he hadn’t consciously decided to do it. If he turned right here he would reach the corner where he had met Mick on Monday. What he’d do when he got there he didn’t know, but the rebel positions would be only a few yards away.

  Jimmy thought about Mick and about his guess that Mick didn’t expect to come out of this rebellion alive. He decided he had to try to find him. He started to run again, towards the College of Surgeons. A haze of dark gunsmoke hung in the air in front of the college, and through this haze Jimmy saw the flashes of the rebel guns.

  It was strange and deserted at this side of the Green. A line of tram cars stood abandoned in a nearby street. Jimmy saw nobody moving. This was a dangerous place. There was real death in the air around the Green, death in the form of stray or aimed bullets flying invisibly through the air. The bullets didn’t care what they hit. It wasn’t their job to think.

  ‘Conway! You! Conway!’ The shout came during a lull in the firing. It came from somewhere nearby.

  Jimmy looked around him, terrified. Had he imagined it?

  ‘Blast you, boy! Conway!’

  Still Jimmy couldn’t see where the shouting was coming from. He looked around him again. The voice uttered a string of curses.

  ‘Lord help us!’ the voice said. ‘The whole family is stupid!’

  And then Jimmy saw the source of the voice. At the other end of the barricade by which he stood, and from its other side, a head was looking at him from behind a cart. It was a big head, wearing a battered bowler hat. The hair on the head, and the big moustache on the face, were fiery red, as was the face itself. The head belonged to Jimmy’s uncle – though he preferred to think of him just as Ella’s husband – Charlie Fox.

  Beside the red face now Jimmy saw the strained white knuckles of Charlie’s hands. He was holding himself up by gripping the edges of the cart, and the features of the red face were twisted as if in pain. Charlie must be wounded!

  ‘Blast you, boy!’ he gasped. ‘Get over here and help me!’

  It was obvious that pain had done nothing to change Charlie’s usual temper. Jimmy didn’t know him well, but he didn’t like him. He was an unpleasant man, who hated his wife’s relatives and made no secret of it. Still, he was a relative – sort of – and he needed help. Jimmy hardly hesitated before stepping towards him.

  Before he even reached Charlie Jimmy knew something was odd. He could literally smell it. What he smelled was an overpowering stink of whiskey, and it seemed to be coming from Charlie Fox.

  ‘You took your damned time,’ Charlie snarled. His voice was thick.

  There was no sign on Charlie of any wound at all. It was obvious now what was wrong with him: Charlie was drunk! Completely drunk, at nine o’clock in the morning!

  ‘Well?’ he gasped. ‘Are you going to help me?’

  Jimmy tried to control his anger. He thought of Mick, fighting now for what he believed in, just a few yards away from this very barricade. He thought of Ma, who by now would be awake and worrying. Then, Jimmy thought of Ella. Maybe if he helped Charlie home …

  Charlie’s rough hand grabbed his coat.

  ‘Damned woman threw me out when the money was gone,’ Charlie slurred. ‘When I’d spent it all …’

  He was talking about some bar owner, Jimmy guessed, or someone in a shebeen, one of the city’s illegal drinking places. Charlie’s hat had fallen off, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was on Jimmy’s side of the barricade now, holding onto Jimmy, hauling himself up.

  Jimmy swayed under Charlie’s weight. The coins in his pocket jingled. Charlie dragged him savagely forward.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demanded. Suddenly he was not so helpless. From close up, the smell of drink made Jimmy nearly sick. ‘Where did you get money, you little thief?’

  Jimmy tried to stammer an answer; he thought it best to say nothing about soldiers. ‘M-M-Mick …’ he began.

  Charlie hit him hard in the face. ‘Don’t lie to me, you whelp,’ Charlie growled. ‘Your fine rebel uncle has no money left. I’ve spent it – he won’t need it on the gallows, where he’s going. Now where did you get money? Stole it, I suppose, like he did.’

  Jimmy felt tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t see properly. One part of his mind, though, felt very clear and very angry. Charlie had taken Mick’s money, not Ella! He’d taken Mick’s money, and over the past two days he’d spent it all on drink. Four pounds! No wonder he smelled so foul.

  ‘You spent four whole pounds?’ Jimmy gasped.

  ‘I wish I had,’ groaned Charlie. ‘But your stupid aunt wasted half of it on food – for your lot, if you don’t mind. The whole kitchen full of food to give away, and me dying with the thirst! I taught her a lesson she won’t forget, I tell you!’

  Food! The word struck Jimmy like a bolt of lightning.

  Charlie was standing erect now, holding Jimmy up by the collar of his coat with one hand so that the boy’s feet no longer touched the ground. As Jimmy opened swollen lips to say something more, Charlie hit him in the face again with his free hand. The man was mad with drink.

  ‘You little rebel thief!’ he said. ‘Give me that money!’

  Jimmy’s head was spinning. Charlie had robbed Mick’s money, and now he wanted Jimmy’s! Jimmy drew back one foot as far as it would go. Charlie didn’t notice. Then, with all of his strength, Jimmy lashed out and kicked him in the stomach.

  Charlie noticed that, all right. He roared like a bull, dropped Jimmy immediately and clawed at his stomach. Coins from Jimmy’s pocket scattered on the roadway,
but Jimmy didn’t stop to pick them up. It was time to run.

  Behind him he heard Charlie roaring curses, and then his heavy steps in pursuit. Jimmy had kicked him with his full strength, but it was only the strength of a weak and undernourished boy.

  Jimmy didn’t get far. He was jerked from his feet as Charlie’s heavy hand clamped down on his collar. Behind him Charlie’s wordless roar of hate and pain sounded louder than the nearby gunfire.

  There was another blow, to the back of Jimmy’s head this time. Behind him Charlie gave a great screaming yell. It sounded less like anger than agony. Jimmy was flung to the ground. He hit his head on the road.

  Am I shot? he wondered.

  A great crushing weight landed on his back. All of his breath left his body as he screamed. All consciousness went, as if someone had switched it off.

  16

  RESURRECTION AND FAILURE

  AN OLD WOMAN CHASED HIM down an endless corridor. She wore a black shawl. Her hair was green and there was blood at the sides of her mouth. At length she cornered him and advanced, smiling. There was more blood on her teeth and gums, as though she’d been eating raw meat.

  ‘Give us a kiss, love,’ she said.

  Her smile grew wider and wider. Then her face fell off, and shattered into pieces when it hit the floor.

  Jimmy woke from the awful dream. He opened his eyes and looked at a blank ceiling. Was he dead? If so, was this heaven? If not, was it …

  A woman leaned over him. Young. Her hair wasn’t green. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

  Jimmy blinked. He was lying on his back, on what felt like a table or a very hard bed. ‘I’m alive!’ he said.

  The woman smiled at the surprise in his voice. ‘Can you sit up?’ she asked.

  She helped him. The room seemed to swim in front of his eyes. It was not a room he knew.

  ‘Where am I?’ he asked.