The Guns of Easter

by Gerard Whelan

  Jimmy looked fearfully around the floor, half expecting to see a body lying there; but the floor was bare except for bits of glass and plaster.

  He closed the door and tried the one across the hall. This led into a dining room and kitchen. Here too the window was broken, the walls pitted and pockmarked with bullets. But it wasn’t the damage that caught Jimmy’s eye; it was the big cupboard standing open by the far wall.

  The cupboard was obviously Ella’s larder. There were five shelves inside it, and all five of the shelves were simply stuffed with food. There were cans and packets and boxes and jars; there were parcels wrapped in brown paper. There was even a whole ham lying on a plate under a glass cover.

  Jimmy’s stomach rumbled as he stood looking into the cupboard. He was spellbound. He’d never seen so much food in one place outside of a shop. He had to stop himself from falling on the food there and then. The last thing he recalled eating was the piece of chocolate on Wednesday afternoon. If the tramp had succeeded in feeding him anything since, Jimmy had forgotten it.

  His mouth watered, but he controlled himself. First he must find out what was going on. He must, if he could, find Ella. He must at least find out where she was. Then he’d help himself to the food. In this new excitement, he’d almost forgotten his tiredness.

  At the back of this room there was another door which led to a bedroom. This too was deserted. There were clothes in the wardrobe: if Ella had left then she hadn’t taken much with her.

  Jimmy went back out to the hall. He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door there, but nobody answered. Next Jimmy went out the front door and down the steps to the basement. He knocked on the door there too. This time he was in luck: after the knock, he heard footsteps approaching from inside. The door opened, and an old woman looked out smiling.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ she said.

  ‘My name is Jimmy Conway,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m …’

  But the old woman interrupted him. ‘You’re Ella’s sister’s boy,’ she said. Her smile widened. Jimmy was surprised.

  ‘I … yes, I am,’ he said.

  The old woman opened the door wide. ‘Come in, child,’ she said. ‘Come in, and welcome. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made some. My name is Mrs Breen.’

  Jimmy didn’t really want to go in, but the mention of tea drew him like a magnet: where there was tea there might be more food. The old woman shut the door behind him. She led him into her kitchen and sat him at the table. Then she poured him a cup of tea and gave him a huge slice of cake on a plate. Jimmy’s mouth watered as he looked at the cake. He ate it as politely as he could, while the old woman smiled at him. When he had finished the cake she gave him a second slice that was even bigger.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see a boy with a good appetite,’ she said. ‘My husband and I don’t eat much. I’ve had no-one to cook for since my own boys left home, and that’s long ago now.’

  This part of the building had, it seemed, escaped damage. It was below the level of the garden, and had been protected from the bullets. Jimmy ate the second piece of cake as he looked around. It went as quickly as the first. It was a rich cake, with currants and raisins in it. The old woman’s face glowed with pleasure as she watched him eat.

  ‘Did Ella send you to tell me that she’d got to your house safely?’ she asked him.

  Jimmy could only stare at her. Ella had gone to his home? He could hardly believe it. Something about the old woman’s voice when she mentioned Ella made Jimmy think that she liked his aunt. The idea that anyone might like Ella hadn’t entered his head in years. Ma and Mick made excuses for her, of course, but that was different: she was their sister.

  The old woman didn’t notice his confusion. ‘It was very nice of Ella if she did send you down,’ she said. ‘And very nice of you to take the trouble, I’m sure. I was worried about her, as I’m sure she knew I would be – Ella is so thoughtful.’

  Again Jimmy was shocked. Ella thoughtful? Maybe the woman and he weren’t thinking of the same person at all? Maybe he’d got the wrong address, and someone else called Ella lived here.

  ‘How did you know she was my aunt?’ he asked.

  ‘Why,’ said the woman, ‘she’s always talking about the three fine children that her sister Lily has. She always wanted to bring you on a visit, or to spend more time with you, but that husband of hers is an animal. He’ll hardly let her out of the house, except when he’s too drunk to notice.’

  So they were talking about the same person after all. ‘Charlie is dead,’ Jimmy said. ‘He was shot.’

  The old woman looked hard at him. She sighed. ‘God forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I can’t feel very sorry. I know I should, but he was a terrible man. He was a devil. Your poor aunt had no real life with him at all.’

  In a way it cheered Jimmy to meet such an honest woman. If this old lady thought Ella had sent him back with a message, he thought, it might be wise to let her go on thinking that; then, looking at her open, smiling face, he found it hard to lie to her.

  In the end he found himself telling her the truth about his adventures. After she’d told him how brave he was, Mrs Breen had her own story to tell, a story that was as big a surprise to Jimmy as any he’d had all week. It was a story whose main character was Ella, but it was an Ella Jimmy hardly recognised.

  It turned out that Mrs Breen knew all about Mick’s missing money. ‘Ella meant to take it to your mother first thing,’ she explained. ‘But then it struck her that the shops would be shut if there was fighting. The money would be useless. So she spent two pounds on food. She knew that food would be more useful.

  ‘But then Charlie came home. Ella hadn’t said anything to him about the money, because she knew he’d take it. He spent most of their money on drink. Poor Ella was always left penniless, and then he’d come in expecting food on the table. She used to borrow from your mother – that woman is a saint, from what Ella says.’

  Ella had managed to hide from Charlie the fact that she had four pounds, but now she couldn’t conceal all the food she’d bought.

  ‘When Charlie saw the food,’ Mrs Breen went on, ‘he made her tell him everything. When he heard about the money he cursed her for wasting half of it and demanded that she give the rest to him.

  ‘Ella refused. She said the money wasn’t hers. She lived in terror of that brute, but this time she resisted. It did her no good. Charlie gave her a terrible beating and took the money anyway. Then he left.

  ‘Myself and my husband heard the sounds of fighting from upstairs. When Charlie left we went up and found Ella unconscious on the floor. We brought her downstairs and she stayed here on Monday night. Tuesday morning early she went back upstairs, expecting to find Charlie there in a stupor like she often did. She meant to take whatever was left of the money then and go straight to your house. But Charlie wasn’t there.’

  Ella hadn’t known what to do. By then all sorts of rumours were going around about the fighting in the city. Ella hesitated for a whole day, waiting for Charlie. Then on Wednesday she was trapped, and spent hours lying on her floor while the whole house was showered with bullets.

  Mrs Carr, who lived on the top floor, was shot in the fighting. She’d gone to her window to look out when the shooting started, and the troops mistook her for a rebel sniper. Her husband cared for her as best he could till the firing ended at about ten on Wednesday night. Then ambulances came to ferry the wounded to the hospital.

  ‘Ella was helping to put Mrs Carr into an ambulance,’ Mrs Breen said, ‘when the driver told her that he’d be taking Mrs Carr to Hume Street or even some hospital nearer to the city centre.

  ‘Ella decided to take the chance. She went with the ambulance, meaning to stay in the hospital until the curfew was over next morning and then make her way to your mother’s if she could. There was no way that she could take anything with her, because the ambulance was so full there was hardly room for her. But she told me that if all went well she’d come back or else send someone for
the food.

  ‘And when I heard who you were,’ the old woman concluded, ‘then I was sure she’d sent you.’

  So now Jimmy had food! All he had to do was get it home. ‘Do you know how things are in the city?’ he asked.

  Mrs Breen shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I know things are terrible, but that’s all. There are so many rumours it’s hard to know what to believe. I know the army shelled Sackville Street, and half of it must be burning by now. A lot of people were shot who had neither hand, act nor part in the Rising. Even animals – they say there’s not a cat or a dog left alive in Camden Street.’

  Jimmy tried to imagine Sackville Street burning, but even after these past five days he couldn’t picture it. It was hard to think of a city’s biggest street being simply destroyed.

  ‘The fires light up the sky at night,’ Mrs Breen said. ‘You can see it from here. I’m seventy-four years of age, and I never imagined I’d see anything so terrible. I cried to think of all the poor people who might be trapped in there.’

  Including his family, Jimmy thought. He put that idea out of his head straight away: there was no point in worrying about that. Not yet, anyway.

  They heard the front door open, and an old man came in who was obviously Mrs Breen’s husband. When Jimmy had told his story the three of them went up to Ella’s, Mr Breen bringing with him two big canvas sacks. They filled both sacks from the food cupboard.

  The old man tied the sacks together using a thick leather belt that he took from the bedroom. He held the big belt out and showed it to Jimmy.

  ‘Do you see this?’ he asked. ‘When Charlie was drunk he used to hit your aunt with that – with the buckle of it. She often came downstairs to us bleeding from it.’

  Jimmy looked at the big metal buckle. He’d seen dockers fighting with belts like this. They’d wrap the ends of the belts around their hands and swing the heavy buckles at each other. The fights were terrible to see. It was even more terrible to think of a big man like Charlie swinging that terrible weapon at a small woman like Ella. If that was what her life at home was like then it was no wonder she’d cried so much. Almost reluctantly, Jimmy began to feel some sympathy for his aunt. It would take him a while to get used to the idea.

  Mr Breen tied the ends of the belt around the necks of the filled sacks, turning the belt into a halter. He put it around Jimmy’s neck so that the two sacks hung down in front of him.

  ‘Can you carry that weight?’ he asked.

  Jimmy felt the great weight of the food. He was still weak, and the weight made his legs tremble. But he knew he could manage – he’d have to. After the last few days of sickness and fear he’d manage to carry them somehow, even if they weighed ten times as much.

  Mrs Breen wrote a note in her neat, ladylike handwriting for Jimmy to take with him. It said that this boy was carrying food from her to her sister on the north side of the river. If Jimmy was stopped by soldiers, the note would help prove he hadn’t been looting.

  ‘I’ll go as far as the bridge with you,’ Mr Breen said. ‘Just to make sure you get past the soldiers there.’

  At Mount Street Bridge, Mr Breen spoke briefly to the sergeant in charge. The sergeant seemed friendly enough and Mr Breen asked him for advice on the best route into the city. The sergeant wasn’t sure of how things stood, but he told them what he knew.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have any trouble before the river anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘We have them on the run now. But I’m not sure if it’s all over in Sackville Street yet. You’ll have to ask again once you’re in the city centre.’

  Mr Breen made Jimmy promise that he’d be careful and that he’d visit them when all this was over, a promise Jimmy gladly gave. Watching the old man go, Jimmy felt a twinge of regret. Now he was on his own again.

  His whole body still felt weak and frail, as if a sudden gust of wind would blow him away. The sacks of food were very heavy. Still, he was elated. He was going home, and he was loaded with food.

  He tried to keep his mind empty of everything except the act of walking. He must ignore everything else – the soldiers and the rebels and the great, empty tiredness of his body. This was the last lap in his own personal race; he must not fall now when the finishing line was so close.

  22

  AT TRINITY COLLEGE

  HALF AN HOUR LATER JIMMY STOOD on Nassau Street. So far no-one had challenged him. He went up Nassau Street along by the railings of Trinity College, afraid that at any moment he might be stopped and sent back. For all the soldiers knew, the sacks around his neck might hold guns or grenades: they might even shoot him first and ask questions later. But at this stage he’d rather be shot than sent back.

  Still, he was neither stopped nor questioned. The soldiers paid no attention to him at all.

  The sound of big guns had grown louder as he came towards the river. He knew he’d have to pass them. The gunfire seemed to come from all around him here. It was as if he stood at the eye of a storm, with thunder all around.

  The heaviest firing was coming from right ahead near O’Connell Bridge. Jimmy heard the rifles and the machine-guns, and the ‘crump’ of the artillery. Most of the rifle fire came from the army: the heavy booming sound of a rebel rifle came only occasionally. Jimmy had heard enough shooting now to recognise the difference between the two.

  The sky to the north was full of dark smoke. It hung in the air like a shroud over what could only be Sackville Street.

  There was no point in waiting. Only a long sleep would ease the tiredness he felt, and if he stayed here too long it would just get harder to start off again. Even his determination couldn’t keep him going forever: sleep or fear would get the better of him.

  His body shook with tiredness, and the street seemed to shimmer in front of his eyes. He left the doorway, crossed the road, and set off again around the corner at Trinity College. One foot first, then the other; then the first foot again, with each step feeling as though his feet were made of lead.

  Overhead, from the roof of the college, the firing was heavy and constant. Jimmy staggered on, wishing he was invisible. Looking up Westmoreland Street he saw the bridge at last.

  Beyond it, Sackville Street was hidden by a blanket of smoke. Above the smoke he made out a corner of the Post Office roof. The two flags still flew there, and when he saw them still flying Jimmy felt a strange thrill of pride.

  The soaring finger of Nelson’s Pillar rose over the dark cloud too. Below, the smoke eddied like fog. For a moment the statue of Daniel O’Connell at the near end of Sackville Street was revealed, glaring down towards the guns as though demanding to know who was daring to attack the city. Then the smoke covered the statue again.

  Around Jimmy groups of soldiers came and went, ignoring him. The sound of the guns didn’t seem to disturb them: indeed, they kept looking over almost fondly at the roaring weapons. The sound of your own big guns must be comforting, Jimmy supposed, especially when you knew that your enemy didn’t have any.

  The buildings around echoed and magnified the roar each time one of the guns fired. Still nobody seemed to notice Jimmy. He felt like a mouse creeping through a field of giants, hoping they wouldn’t look down. Each yard of progress seemed precious, but each yard also seemed to demand more steps than the last.

  ‘Boy!’ He heard the call clearly over the storm of gunfire, but he tried to pretend, even to himself, that he hadn’t. There could only be one boy here. Surely they couldn’t stop him now – not after all this.

  He might have tried to run, but he knew he couldn’t: he could hardly walk anymore. Maybe if he ignored the call, the caller would be distracted.

  ‘Hey! You with the sacks. Stop there! Stop!’

  Jimmy stopped. When he stopped walking, he almost fell over. The weight of the sacks seemed to double when he stood still. The call had come from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He hadn’t the strength.

  Marching feet approached Jimmy from behind, the sound of a squad of soldier
s in army boots. Tears blurred Jimmy’s vision still more. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

  ‘Well,’ said a Northern Irish accent. ‘What have we here? I do believe it’s our heroic wee Dubliner.’

  It was the accent as much as the voice that Jimmy recognised. He turned in disbelief. He looked up into the big, scarred, friendly face of the sergeant who’d ordered him off Butt Bridge on Wednesday. Behind the sergeant a party of soldiers had come to a halt. Among them, grinning at him, Jimmy saw the faces of Jimmy Martin and the silver-haired corporal who’d collected the five shillings for him.

  23

  ACROSS THE LIFFEY

  THE SERGEANT LOOKED DOWN at the pale boy in front of him. ‘Still around, eh?’ he asked.

  Jimmy wondered at the change in the sergeant. In spite of his smile, he seemed subdued. Jimmy was so surprised even to see him that he forgot to answer his question. The sergeant gave a little laugh.

  ‘Hard to get a word out of the wain,’ he said to his men. ‘I had the same trouble with him the first time I met him.’

  ‘Please, sergeant,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you see your relative, little man?’ asked the silver-haired corporal.

  Jimmy nodded, thinking quickly. Over the past few days he’d told so many versions of the truth that he wasn’t sure any more which one he’d told the soldiers.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘I did.’ He indicated the bulging sacks that weighed him down. ‘I got all the food we need,’ he said. ‘But now I can’t get it home.’

  The soldiers smiled at him. They seemed able to ignore the storm of gunfire that was going on around them. But then, he supposed, soldiers must get used to gunfire. It was just part of their job. Da must be used to it now.