The Irish rebellion of 1916

by Nora Connolly O'Brien

XIII

We had been walking only half an hour when we saw a cavalry regiment coming towards us and leaving Dublin. First came the advance guard, then a long line of soldiers and horses, and then their artillery and their supply wagons, and more soldiers brought up the rear. They made a brave show tearing along the country road raising a dust as high as the horses.

"Nora, Nora," wailed Agna. "They're leaving Dublin—they're leaving it—not going to it. Our men must be beaten."

"Hush," I said to her. "They may be going to some place else."

I stopped an old man and asked him, "Where are they going? I thought the fighting was in Dublin."

"They're going to Wexford," he replied. "The rebels have captured two or three towns and are holding them. These fellows," pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the soldiers, "are going down to try and drive them out. God curse them," he added, spitting towards the soldiers.

"There now," I said as I turned to Agna. "Isn't that good news? Wexford out and the West awake! East and West the men are fighting for Ireland. For Ireland, Agna! O, aren't you glad to be alive! We used to read about the men who fought for Ireland and dream about them, and now, in a couple of hours we'll be amongst the men and women who are fighting in Dublin. We'll be able to do something for Ireland."

That thought cheered us so and spurred us on that we arrived in Drumcondra, a suburb of Dublin, at seven o'clock on Sunday night.

MAP OF DUBLIN
(1) General Post Office.
(2) Hotel Metropole.
(3) Kelly's Fort—O'Connell St. and Bachelor's Walk.
(4) Liberty Hall.
(5) Four Courts.
(6) Fairview.
(7) Trinity College.
(8) Bank of Ireland.
(9) Dublin Castle.
(10) City Hall and "Daily Express" Office.
(11) Jacob's Biscuit Factory.
(12) St. Stephen's Green.
(13) Pembroke and Northumberland Roads.
(14) Haddington and Northumberland Roads.
(15) Clanwilliam House, Mount St.
(16) Portobello Bridge.
(17) South Dublin Union.
(18) College of Surgeons.
(19) Shelbourne Hotel.
(20) Westland Row Railway Station.
(21) Harcourt Street Railway Station.
(22) Broadstone Railway Terminus.
(23) Custom House.
(24) Magazine Fort, Phoenix Park.
(25) Boland's Mill.

We were going to the house of a friend in Clonliffe Road. On our way there we were astonished at the ordinary aspect of the streets. Save for the fact that we saw no soldiers, we could have thought that there had been no fighting at all. Dublin is the most heavily garrisoned city in Europe. Ordinarily one could not walk the streets without seeing scores upon scores of soldiers. Therefore, our not seeing them was a sure sign that things were not in Dublin as they had been. When we reached the house of our friend, the two daughters, Kathleen and Margaret, were at the door.

"My God!" said Margaret, when she spied us.

"Where have you come from?" asked Kathleen, looking at our travel-worn figures. Our faces were burnt red by the sun and the heat, and our boots were white with the dust of the road.

"We've come from Tyrone. We got a train to Dundalk and walked the rest. We spent last night in a field. What's the news? How are things down here?" I asked.

"How are things," she repeated in amazement. "Haven't you heard?"

"Nothing," I answered, as I shook my head,

"The boys are beaten," she cried. "They've all surrendered. They're all prisoners. The city has been burning since Thursday."

"All surrendered," I cried aghast. "Are you sure? It doesn't seem possible."

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. They're all prisoners, every one of them. The College of Surgeons was the last to surrender and it surrendered a little while ago. Madame was there," she said, meaning the Countess Markievicz.

I sat there too stunned to think or talk. I knew that there were women and men going past the window, yet I could not see them. After a while I managed to ask, "My father?"

"He's wounded and was taken a prisoner to Dublin Castle. They don't think he'll live. Though God knows maybe they'll all be killed."

I was roused from a dazed condition by the sharp crack-crack-crack of a rifle.

"What does that mean?" I asked, turning to Kathleen.

"My God!" she exclaimed. "Are they starting again?" But there was no further reports.

"Can I get across the city?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "We are not allowed out of our own district. And anyway we must not be out after seven; martial law has been declared."

"Must not be out after seven," I repeated. "But it's after seven now, and there are lots of people out there on the street."

"They're at their own doors," she said indignantly. "We can stay around our own doors, I hope. Though," she added, "if the soldiers order us to go inside we must obey."

"I wanted to get to Mamma," I said. "She'll be in a dreadful state."

"Where is she now?" asked Margaret.

"At Madame's cottage in Dundrum," I answered.

"There's no way of getting there," she said. "There's neither trains nor trams running now."

"We can walk," I said. "It's only six miles and we are well used to walking by now."

"Well," said Kathleen. "There's no use talking about it now. You can't go and that's all there is to it. The best thing you can do is to eat something and then go to bed. In the morning we can see what is to be done."

I agreed with that as we sorely needed the rest; but it was a sorry ending to all our hopes and expectations. On our way down we had been buoyed up by the thought that at last we would be able to do something for Ireland. Something, anything that would help on the fight. That our men would still be fighting we never doubted. And now the fighting had stopped before we came. We could never sit on my father's knee and tell the tales of our adventures. He was a prisoner, and wounded, and like to die. Perhaps we would never see him again; perhaps Mamma would never see him again. Were the men really beaten? Sharp pain-swollen thoughts came thronging through my head as I lay on my bed listening to the sharp crack of a rifle where some lone sniper was still keeping up the fight.

Early in the morning Kathleen came into our room.

"What do you think?" she exclaimed excitedly. "They're building a barricade at the top of this street."

"They must expect the fighting to be resumed," I said.

We dressed hurriedly and went down to the drawing room. From the window I saw the soldiers entering the houses at the top of the street, and taking furniture from them with which to build a barricade. It stretched clear across the street, leaving a space open on the left side. At that space a guard of soldiers were stationed. Kathleen went down to the barricade to ask for permits which would allow us to pass it and through the city. She was refused the permits. But we were not discouraged at the failure of our first attempt. Kathleen, Agna and I went in another direction till we met the sentries at the bridge on Jones' Road. Here we were allowed to pass and after a circuitous route we arrived at the top of O'Connell Street, near the Parnell statue.

There were evidences of the fighting all around us. We saw the buildings falling, crumbling bit by bit, smoldering and smoking; a ruin looking like a gigantic cross swayed and swayed, yet never fell. I was reminded of pictures I had seen of the War Zone. Here were the same fantastic remains of houses. Crowds of silent people walked up and down the street in front of the Post Office. The horrible smell of burning filled the air. And on one side of the street were dead horses.

We saw the General Post Office, the headquarters of the rebels, still standing, although entirely gutted by fire. The British gunners in their attempt to destroy the Post Office had destroyed every building between it and the river. All around were buildings levelled, or falling—but the General Post Office stood erect. It was symbolical of the Spirit of Ireland. Though all around lies death and destruction, though wasted by fire and sword, that very thing which England had put forth her might to crush, stands erect and provides a rallying place for those who follow after. English guns will never destroy the Spirit of Ireland, or the demand for Irish freedom.

We were not stopped by any of the soldiers as we went through the city. It was not until we reached Portobello Bridge that we were told to go back. We had quite a discussion with the soldiers. They said they were under orders not to allow man or woman, boy or girl, to pass without permission from their officer.

"Where is your officer to be found?" I asked.

"He is over there at the public house," said the soldier.

We went over to the public house and found the officer. He was watching his men who were taking supplies from the storehouse. They were probably commandeering. As Kathleen spoke with a strong Dublin accent we made her our spokeswoman. She told the officer that our mother lived in Dundrum, and that we had not been able to get to her since Easter Monday, and that she was sure her mother would be crazy thinking that something had happened to us.

PATRICK H. PEARSE

The officer looked at us for a few seconds without saying anything, then said, "I'm sure she would; such a fine lot of girls. Well, you can go through."

"Where's the pass?" asked Kathleen.

"You won't need one," he said. "Just tell the sentry to look over my way."

We went back to the bridge again. This time when we were stopped Kathleen told the soldier to look over at his officer. The soldier looked over, the officer nodded to him, and we passed through.

While we were far out on the Rathmines Road I saw a poster of the Daily Sketch, an English illustrated daily. The poster had a photo of my father on it with the inscription, "James Connolly—The dead rebel leader."

"Thank God!" I cried. "That my mother is so far out of the city. She'll not see that."

We arrived at Dundrum late in the afternoon. We had stopped on our way at shops to buy some provisions for my mother in case she were in need of them. When I came to the cottage the half-door was open, and through it came a sound of weeping, and the frightened crying of my youngest sister. I pulled back the bolt of the half-door and stepped into the cottage. My mother was sitting on a chair weeping. I saw that somehow she had received a copy of the Daily Sketch bearing the false news of my father's death. But she did not know it was false and was mourning my father. When I entered she looked up in amaze, caught her breath, and then run towards me crying,

"My girl, my girl. I thought you were lost to me too."

"You haven't lost any one yet, Mamma," I said. "Papa is wounded and a prisoner, but that is all. They don't shoot or hang prisoners of war. Agna is coming up the path. She'll be here in a minute. Be our own brave little mother again."

Just then Agna came and mother's grief was somewhat alleviated. With her arms around the two of us she said:

"I'd given up all hope of ever seeing you again. Now, I have you and know that your father is not dead. But they'll not let him live long," she cried. "They fear him. They know they can neither bribe nor humble him. He'll always fight them. I've lost Rory too. I don't know what happened to him. He went with his father on Monday. That was the last I saw of him."

Rory is my fifteen-year-old brother, the only son.

"Rory's probably in Jail with the rest of the boys," I said. "They were all imprisoned when they surrendered. He'll be all right there. He's in good company."

We talked long into the morning. Hoping against hope, comforting each other, praying for courage, yet always despairing, we spent the night. The night was long though we tried to make ourselves as comfortable as the cramped quarters and our uneasy minds would allow.

I left the cottage early in the morning to go to Dublin to find a place where my mother and the family could stay. We wanted to be near at hand in case there would be a chance to see my father.