That was all I got out of him. We went to bed soon after, but not to sleep, at least I did not. Desultory shooting and bombing went on all night.
After “Bloody Sunday” as it came to be called, the world drew a horrified breath over the men who were shot in bed. “Poor So-and-so shot asleep. Frightful!” What of his wife who was not shot, but who lost her reason three days after, and three weeks after lost her life and her baby’s life; his wife, who for the rest of her brief life saw men filing into the room, heard the sound of shooting, heard the raiders laugh, saw them wash their hands after the killing?
What of the other wife who cried out to her husband and tried to help him escape through the window, and saw his broken body on the windowsill?
What of the wife, coming from her bath, who was confronted with five men with revolvers? Pausing outside the bedroom door where her husband was sleeping, she faced them, appearing not to notice their revolvers. “Do you want my husband?” she asked, smiling. “He has just gone out, but do come in and wait.” Her face was untroubled. “Or perhaps you can leave a message,” she said. “I always take my husband’s messages, you can trust me.”
The man mumbled something, and the party filed away.
What of the wife who was held by two men while her husband was shot in front of her? When the raiders had left she found her husband still alive. She rushed into the street, looking wildly for a doctor, praying no doubt as she ran. She found a man and ran up to him.
“My husband has just been shot,” she gasped, “but he is alive. Will you get a doctor, quick!”
“Alive! My God, I’ll finish him!” He went up the steps pulling out his gun.
The Sinn Fein women fought and suffered for their men equally well, lied for them, fetched and carried for them. The men had the limelight; but with few exceptions the women were unknown, and were content to be unknown. There was no reward for their services. I wonder how far a national movement would go if there was no public recognition for any one. A man unable to read about himself and his hunted companions would cut a sorry figure. A man hanged for his cause would go far less steadily to the scaffold without the support of the newspapers and the crowd. But I fancy a woman would acquit herself in all circumstances because her greatest instinct is service.