The train drew into Cork station an hour late, only twenty minutes before the hour of curfew. The jarvey who drove me to the hotel was determined that I should have a swift view of the ruins; or was it a laudable desire to earn more money made him take me by a circuitous route? It did not matter. I was glad of the view. And the ruins were softened by the moonlight into a poetry of aspect which the charred walls of daylight could never display. The whole of the town’s business centre appeared to have been destroyed. It stood out in my mind as comparable with some of the newspaper pictures of Ypres after the great battle. Of course, there was nothing like the same amount of devastation; but the ruin of the particular section which met the eye on entering the city’s centre was complete and very appalling.
The first thing I did at the hotel was to ask for the headquarters of the Society of Friends. My friend, Miss Edith Ellis, was doing relief work in the city, and I had mislaid her address. The Friends would know it. I also inquired for Mrs. Despard, for I had seen a picture of her in that day’s newspaper standing in the ruins with Madame McBride, the beautiful widow of Major McBride, who was executed in the 1916 rebellion. I was told Mrs. Despard had left for Mallow two days before. This was disappointing. A tall evil-looking man leaning up against the hotel bureau scrutinized everybody who came into the hotel, and gave the impression of being there for that purpose. I have seen so many “Intelligence” men that I know them as well as I know a Lancashire weaver, a Yorkshire miner, or a school teacher from anywhere.
I asked if it were possible to have something to eat at that hour, for there was an ominous emptiness in the dining-room. This was 8.45 p.m.
“I hope, ma’am, that ye’ll be comfortable here,” said a kindly waiter. “I heard ye asking after Mrs. Despard. I hope ye’ll have a better time than the pore lady herself had.”
“Why, whatever was the matter with her?” I asked, with interest and alarm.
“Nothing was the matter wid Mrs. Despard, lady; but the pore lady was niver foive minutes widout somebody followin’ her about, though she doesn’t know ut.”
“Mrs. Despard wouldn’t be troubled about that. She is a gallant soul, and her only concern is the care of the poor and the oppressed. She is an Irishwoman, you know, and a true friend of your country.”
“Indade an’ she is, ma’am, an’ if it’s her friend ye are, ye’ll be wishin’ nothin’ but good to the counthry too. But be vurry careful or wan side or the other’ll be shootin’ ye. The blood is up in Corrk.”
There was much laughing and screaming in the streets outside, and my side-car had wormed its way through vast crowds of saunterers in the splendid moonlit evening. The hour for curfew struck, and in an instant an uncanny silence fell upon the city. Indoors, affected by the quiet outside, men crept about softly, or sought their beds early, afraid almost of the sudden and general noiselessness. The only sounds that were heard till the dawn of day were those of the racing lorries full of armed men and the armoured cars patrolling the city. Round the bend of Patrick Street they came, noisy and aggressive, to arrest or shoot at sight the unfortunate individual caught walking the streets after the hour of nine. On the second night a new sound struck upon the ear, cutting the perfect silence with its shrillness, the loud laughing and screaming of coarse women’s voices, which suggested unspeakable things.
Apart from seeing the official reprisal to which reference has already been made and the awful ruins of the city, which included the Carnegie Library and the City Hall on the opposite side of the river, the short visit to Cork was fruitful of the conviction that the unhappy citizens of Cork are placed on the horns of a very terrible dilemma. General Strickland has made them responsible for the outrages on soldiers and police which are committed. He inflicts severe penalties on them for failing to stop them. This they would endeavour to do, but they do not know how and they are genuinely afraid to attempt. They believe that the shooting of police is done by people who do not live in Cork. As in all cities the citizens of Cork are for the most part not actively interested in politics. They vote when occasion comes, but this is the limit of their activity. And voting and not shooting is their chosen method of expressing their views. They do not know who shoots. If they did and informed they would be shot by the Republicans. As they don’t know and cannot inform they are made to suffer reprisals by the British authorities. Their position calls for the utmost sympathy and understanding.