XXXIII
That night he slept a little in his chair in a bedroom of the Shelbourne Hotel. At four o’clock in the morning he awakened, cramped and chilled. It was the morning of execution. Something called to him to go out to Mountjoy Prison, though overnight he had no such intention. “The scenes that go on round the prison are hair-raising,” said the Colonel. What kind of scenes? He would go and see for himself. It would help him to understand the spirit of the Irish people, the spirit of half his own blood.
He found a jaunting car, and bargained with the jarvey to take him to the prison.
“They’re hanging Dennis O’Brien,” said the man. “God’s curse on them!”
All round the prison were strong forces of troops. Several armoured cars were drawn up, and a search-light was turned on a dense black crowd of people waiting there through the night, for the coming of dawn. They were mostly women and young girls, with shawls over their heads. Some bareheaded, some well-dressed with hats of the latest style. They were of all classes and ages, and with them were some priests who moved about among them, leading the recitation of the Rosary.
Again and again, with endless repetition, the crowd, kneeling on the cobble-stones, murmured their prayer:
Hail, Mary, full of grace,
The Lord is with thee,
. . . . .
. . . . .
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners
Now and at the hour of our death,
Amen
Between each prayer there rose another sound, the strangest, most terrible sound of a human kind that Bertram had ever heard beyond a battlefield. It was the wailing of women. It was like the cry of the Banshee, as he had imagined it with horror in childhood. It rose and fell in rhythmic anguish, from all those shawl-covered women, kneeling with bowed heads, or raising their heads and hands like a Greek chorus, to the heavens above. The search-light moved above them, touched their white hands, searched along the line of upturned faces, seemed to search their souls and reveal their passion. Between the “decades” of the Rosary, and the wail of the women, other voices rose, crying out ejaculatory prayers and sacred names.
“Holy Mother o’ God! . . . Sweet Jesus, have mercy on him! . . . Christ be with him to the end! . . . Saint Joseph, comfort him! . . . God help him!”
The soldiers in their shrapnel helmets and field kit stood motionless. Their helmets—the old “tin hats” of France and Flanders,—were touched at times by the white finger of light, and their faces were sharply illumined in those moments. Young, square-jawed, English faces. Now and again one of them pushed back some one in the crowd with the butt-end of his rifle, sharply, but without brutality. An officer passed down their lines, occasionally spoke a word of command. Bertram was edged amidst a group of women. When they knelt, he felt himself isolated and too prominent, as the only man among them, and standing. He decided to kneel, and he too bowed his head when the prayers rose again for a soul shortly to be hurled into eternity at the end of a hangman’s rope. Frightful thought! That man had been a comrade of his in the war. They had touched hands. Only a few weeks ago he had sat in Bertram’s study in Holland Street with Susan, his young wife, Bertram’s sister. Now this!
Holy Mary, Mother o’ God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death,
Amen.
For the hundredth or thousandth time the words of the Rosary came from the kneeling crowd. A woman close to Bertram fell all huddled in a faint on the cold stones. Other women bent over her, loosened her shawl. A girl was sobbing loudly, with her face in her hands. A boy—a mere child—ended his prayer with a curse. “To Hell with England!”
Somewhere, perhaps, in the crowd was Susan, weeping and praying for her man. When the search-light passed Bertram stared closely at some of the women’s faces, but did not see his sister, though more than once his heart gave a thump because he thought some girl was like her. The light of dawn crept into the sky, above the prison walls. Presently a silver streak broke through the black clouds. The crowd perceived it, and because the hour of execution was coming near, the wail of the women rose louder, with greater anguish.
“Christ have mercy on him!”
“Lord have mercy on him!”
A bell began to toll. Bertram could see it wagging to and fro in the turret of a chapel above the prison wall.
A priest stood up on a box, or some small platform, and spoke some words to the crowd, which Bertram failed to hear. Somewhere in the crowd a woman shrieked, and then was hushed down. All heads were bowed, and a dreadful hush came upon them for what seemed like a long time to Bertram, before the patter of prayers rose again. The dawn was creeping up, and the sky was grey, and rain began to fall.
Bertram was conscious of stones cutting into his knees. He was faint with hunger, and felt a little sick. He found himself trembling, and a cold sweat broke upon his forehead.
Dennis O’Brien! Susan’s husband!
What year was this? 1921! Nineteen hundred and twenty one years in the Christian era! After the Great War. . . . Civilisation! . . . Peace! . . . The Self-Determination of Peoples! . . . Liberty! . . . What was Joyce doing? . . . What was all this tragedy called Life? . . . Where was God? . . . Where was Susan in the crowd? . . . Oh, Christ!
The silver streak broadened, and the top of the prison wall was clear cut against the sky.
The bell tolled. A strange deep sigh came from the crowd. The bell stopped tolling. Above the prison wall a little black square fluttered.
A priest stood on the box again, and raised his hands, and spoke some more words. Bertram heard the end of them.
“May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace, Amen.”
Another priest took his place.
“He died as a Christian martyr. His last words were, ‘God save Ireland’!”
A frightful confusion of sound burst forth. No one was kneeling now. The women had risen to their feet, some wailing, some crying in shrill, fierce tones, some weeping noisily, some laughing, even, as one girl near Bertram, with hysteria. Men’s voices sounded among the women’s.
“God save Ireland! To hell with England! May God curse them for this day! The bloody tyrants!”
As in a kind of liturgy, prayers answered the curses.
“May his soul rest in peace!”
“Mother of God, pray for him!”
The soldiers were turning back the crowd with their rifles lengthwise. An officer shouted words of command. An armoured car moved, driving a line among the women. Bertram was pressed amidst a living mass, mostly women, forced along with them. The tress of a woman’s hair, uncoiled in the night, flicked across his face. Hands grabbed at his shoulders for support. A girl swooned and fell against him, and he put his arm about her and helped to carry her. Presently, after a long while, as it seemed, he found himself with elbow-room, able to walk freely, following separate groups of men and women. . . .
In Sackville Street he came face to face with Susan. She was walking with a girl on each side of her, one of whom was Betty O’Brien, the sister of Dennis, who was hanged. Their clothes were wet and bedraggled, their hair wild, like all the women who had waited outside the prison.
“Susan!” said Bertram.
She stared at him without recognition for a moment, and then faltered forward, and clutched him, and wept with her head against him. But not for long. Some other passion shook her, not of grief but rage. She drew back from her brother, and took Betty’s arm.
“Bertram,” she said, in a hoarse voice, “for what has happened to-day I’ll never forgive England. I’m Sinn Fein to the death. Body and soul of me for Ireland and liberty!”
In her tear-stained eyes was a wild light. She looked like a drunken woman of the streets.
A crowd gathered about them, and an English officer came up and said very politely, “Please pass away. Please don’t make trouble.”
“Get away yourself,” said Betty O’Brien. “Out of Ireland with all your tyranny!”
“I must ask you to move on,” said the officer.
Bertram tried to induce Susan to give him her address, but she refused.
“I want to be alone,” she said. “And you’re too English.”
“I’m your brother, and the same old pal,” said Bertram. “I want to help you, little sister.”
She put her hand on his arm.
“Help me by leaving me. Don’t you understand? I’ve been through Hell’s torture.”
She turned away from him, down a side street, with Betty and the other girl, and he did not follow her, because he understood.
That morning in the Shelbourne Hotel, he was called up on the telephone by Colonel Lavington.
“Is that Major Pollard? Oh, good morning.”
There was a moment’s silence, some hesitation on the telephone. Then the Colonel spoke again.
“I’m sorry to report bad news. Your brother Digby was killed last night. A sniper’s bullet on the outskirts of Dublin. A splendid young man. Most regrettable.”
Most regrettable! It was the old phrase used in the Great War when youth was killed. “I regret to report the loss of your gallant son—”
How was Bertram to face his mother with the news? How was he going to balance the tragedy of Dennis O’Brien with the tragedy of Digby Pollard? How was he going to get any sane judgment about this frightful orgy of death and outrage, hangings and shootings, prayers and curses and bleeding hearts?
Digby! That kid! A baby only a few years ago, to whom he told fairy-tales as he lay in bed! Now dead by a sniper’s bullet. What year of the Christian era? Yes, 1921! Bertram in his room at the Shelbourne laughed aloud, harshly, and then wept.