The Girls of Ennismore

by Patricia Falvey

  ‘I have to fight, Victoria, do you understand that? ’Tis not even so much for myself as for my family – my granda, my mother, and everybody like them. We need to have a free country where we can all be equal. We need to be able to make our own laws so that everybody, even the poorest of us, can have an equal chance at a decent life. ’Twas never fair that people like your family had all the wealth. All the land they have was stolen from the native Irish and then they made laws against us so that we could never be educated, or own land, or . . .’

  ‘But things are getting better, Brendan, you must see that.’

  He sighed. ‘Aye, I do. But do we have to wait another eight hundred years? ‘

  ‘Surely Home Rule will be implemented as soon as the war’s over.’

  ‘Ah, sure I wouldn’t trust the British government as far as I could throw them. They’ve lied to us before and will again.’

  Victoria stroked his arm, finally allowing her fingers to caress the tiny hairs that grew there. There was no anger in his voice now. Instead it was tinged with sorrow. Her heart hurt for him. She spoke gently.

  ‘But you have so few fighters and hardly enough arms and ammunition. Do you really expect you can overcome the British Army?’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, that’s the thing about rebels, Victoria, their actions are always based on hope rather than practicality. Deep down I believe none of the lads expect to win this, but they will fight with all their heart just the same. And sure eventually passion and the right cause can overcome any army.’ He paused and looked directly into her eyes. ‘We might not win this round. But we will have made a start. And there’s other boys will follow us. And eventually all the native Irish will be behind us. And one day we will have a free Ireland.’

  ‘And when this is over we shall be together. I shall never go back to live at Ennismore, nor to that way of life. I belong with you.’

  They lay down together then. Victoria sighed as his hands caressed her body. They were still as rough and calloused as when she had first touched them and yet they were gentle on her skin. He murmured words in Irish as he slowly removed her clothing and kissed the length of her body. Fiercely she tore at his clothes until he too was naked against her. All the fantasies that had haunted her back at Ennismore flooded back, unleashed, as she urged him on to make love to her. As her body rose and fell, matching his rhythms, she was aware of a bittersweet mixture of ecstasy and sadness. The cloud of danger that hovered over them heightened the urgency of their coupling, but when they finished a deep and profound sadness pervaded her spirit.

  That night they slept beside one another, lost in dreams of tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 33

  For the next two days Dublin burned. Smoke poured from tenement houses on side streets as the British Army tried to burn the rebels from the rooftops. Flames flickered and grew. City fire brigades remained at their stations rather than risk loss of life from bullets still arcing across streets from rifles and machine guns. The unrestrained flames rose and leaped from building to building and street to street. Soon, much of Sackville Street was engulfed, its stately buildings creaking and crackling against the fire’s wrath. Dubliners could only shudder and gaze in awe at the terrible spectacle before them.

  By Saturday the worst was over. Bricks and plaster from destroyed buildings littered the streets, while gnarled and twisted steel girders hung like skeletons above the debris. Among the latter was the Metropole Hotel where so many grand balls had once swelled with gaiety. Amazingly, the General Post Office, focal point of the uprising, still stood. Columns of smoke poured from it as the rebels hosed down the roof. But by evening, the persistence of the flames overcame their efforts and eventually the building was engulfed and the Irish Republican flag flickered in the flames and fell.

  Rosie had watched all of this from the roof-top of the Moore Street house. Cathal had gone out every day and returned weary every night. They hardly spoke – the physical evidence of the fires and smoke and noise made it clear what was happening. Geraldine and Nora Butler sometimes came and sat with her in the big kitchen. The mood was somber as the sisters brought information about the killed and wounded. The rebels were paying a terrible toll, they said, but many soldiers had been killed or wounded also. It was not all one sided, they said, in a weak attempt at optimism.

  On Saturday afternoon, she ventured out onto the streets, despite Cathal’s insistence that she stay put. When she arrived at the ruins of the Metropole Hotel she stood rooted to the pavement. She had expected to feel triumph – this place had represented one of the worst humiliations of her life. But as she looked up at the scarred remains she felt as if she was beholding the corpse of an old enemy. There was no triumph in it after all, just a hollow void where feeling should have been. She moved on up Sackville Street, stepping around piles of rotting rubbish, aghast at the sight of half-burned houses, shattered glass and filthy water running in the gutters. There was blood, too, staining the pavements and walls, a mute testimony to the violence that had gripped the city. She prayed that Bridie and Kate were all right. Foley Court was far enough away from the city centre that hopefully they had escaped the worst of it.

  As she returned back down Sackville Street that evening she saw a column of rebels, disarmed and dejected, their leader carrying a white flag. They had surrendered. She stood and watched them go by, escorted by the soldiers to Dublin Castle where they would be arrested. A woman next to her sighed. ‘Ah, sure you have to feel sorry for them. I wasn’t for them in the beginning, but the poor divils fought their hearts out.’ Rosie nodded. She recognized some of the young lads who had fought on the roof. Behind her, the General Post Office continued to burn while tatters of the Irish Republican Tricolour sailed past her on the breeze.

  She was within sight of Cathal’s house when she saw a commotion outside. Without knowing why, she began to run. Something was terribly wrong. She knew it in her bones. As she arrived at the house a clutch of people parted and let her through. There stood Valentine, his red jacket darkened with the stain of fresh blood. His face was distorted with emotion. She looked down. There on the ground lay Cathal, blood seeping from a wound in his chest. She knelt down beside him. He was barely breathing. A voice not her own began to shout.

  ‘Help me get him inside. For God’s sake. Would you have the man die on his own doorstep?’ There was a shuffle of feet and outstretched hands as Cathal was raised up and carried inside and up the stairs to the parlour. They laid him out on a sofa and stood uneasily waiting for Rosie to tell them what to do next. She screamed at them all to get out, and they left quickly. Only Valentine remained, silent and distraught. She had not seen him follow the men inside. She began to tell him to bring water and bandages but she knew it would be useless. He looked as if he were in shock. Instead she ran to Cathal’s medicine cabinet and took out what she needed. As she attended to his wound, she had a vague image of the night he had dressed her own wounds after Micko had attacked her. How gentle and caring he had been. The touch of his fingers had lingered on her skin for a long time afterwards. She turned to Valentine.

  ‘Why did you shoot him?’ she screamed. ‘For God’s sake, Valentine, why did you do this?’

  Valentine shook his head as if waking up from a dream. ‘It wasn’t me, Rosie,’ he cried, ‘I tried to save him.’

  He paused, swallowing hard. ‘I was patrolling with my captain when Cathal came running out of the General Post Office. We both called to him to halt, and he stopped and raised his hands. But . . . but as he turned to face us the captain raised his rifle. I knew what he was going to do so I grabbed his arm to stop him, but it was too late. He had already got off his shot.’ Tears flowed down Valentine’s face. ‘I grabbed the rifle before he could fire again and knocked the bastard down. Then I dragged Cathal away.’

  He looked at Rosie, his eyes pleading with her. ‘Please, Rosie, please believe me. There was nothing more I could have done.’

  Rosie took in only part of what Valentine was saying.
Cathal began to moan. ‘He should be in a hospital, ‘she cried. ‘Why didn’t you take him?’

  ‘I tried but he wouldn’t go. He insisted I bring him home, to you.’

  ‘He needs a doctor. I know nothing about medicine. He needs a doctor.’

  Valentine looked at her, wild-eyed. ‘I’ll try to find one,’ he said, ‘but I’ll go for Victoria first. She will know what to do.’

  With that he disappeared. Rosie brought brandy and tried to insert a drop between Cathal’s lips. He was ghostly white, and when he did open his eyes they were glassy and unresponsive. He groaned again in pain. She thought of the morphine that she had hidden in her room during his addiction. She raced up the stairs and, returning with the vial, administered a tiny drop.

  She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her arms. ‘Cathal, please don’t leave me,’ she whispered.

  Darkness had fallen when someone tapped her on the shoulder. Rosie started. She must have fallen asleep. At length the woman bending over her came into focus.

  ‘Victoria?’ she whispered. ‘Help me.’

  Victoria nodded, pushed Rosie gently aside and went to work on Cathal’s wound. Rosie watched her as she examined and cleaned it, packed it with gauze and replaced the bandages.

  ‘We must keep pressure on the wound,’ she said to Rosie. ‘He needs to be in hospital. Valentine was searching for a doctor, but I told him to bring an ambulance. Cathal needs surgery as soon as possible.’

  When she had done what she could she went and sat in a chair by the fireplace. She lit two lamps, but the fire was out, and the room was dim. She sat in silence while Rosie cradled Cathal again, keeping her hand on the wound as Victoria had advised. At length, the ambulance siren screeched outside and feet pounded up the stairs. This time there was no fight left in Cathal. He did not resist as they lifted him onto a stretcher.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, as they began to move him. He looked up at Rosie. She bent her ear close to his lips.

  ‘We put up a good fight, didn’t we, Roisin Dubh?’ he whispered.

  She nodded, tears flowing freely. ‘Aye, so we did, Cathal.’

  His breath grew ragged as he filled his lungs to say more. ‘Move on from this, darlin’. Don’t let anger and stubbornness harden your heart. Open it up to love again – ’tis all that matters in this life.’

  Rosie bit her lip and nodded through tears.

  ‘I love you, Roisin Dubh.’

  Victoria stayed the night with Rosie. They dozed off occasionally, but sleep eluded them. No words were exchanged between them. Instead they sat in silence in the way old friends provide comfort to one another, each acutely aware of the other’s presence. As dawn broke, the house began to fill up. Nora and Geraldine Butler made tea while others brought news of the prisoners. The leaders were taken to Kilmainham Gaol – fifteen of them, including Padraig Pearse and James Connolly, leaders of the Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army. The rest were still at Dublin Castle, but would be sent to jails in England and Wales. One man chuckled as he told of Constance Markievicz, the activist countess from Sligo, who had kissed her revolver before handing it over to a British Army officer. She was one of about two hundred women who had joined in the armed conflict.

  Casualty reports were pouring in and, while the numbers were not yet certain, it was clear that they had been heaviest among civilians – two hundred and fifty dead, and over two thousand wounded – most as a result of indiscriminate army machine-gun fire and shelling. Other reports counted rebel dead at sixty-four and army dead at one hundred and sixteen, with an unknown number of wounded on both sides. Rosie paid scant attention to the reports. The only casualty that mattered to her at that moment was Cathal.

  At dawn, Victoria left to go to the Union where Cathal had been brought. She arrived back swiftly. Her expression told Rosie all she needed to know. Cathal was gone. Rosie began to shiver, and Victoria wrapped her in a shawl and gave her tea. The other visitors crept around her, rendering her chair a small, isolated island in the middle of the room.

  ‘Sure if the poor cratur’ hadn’t died by a bullet,’ whispered one man, ‘he’d be awaiting execution beyond in Kilmainham with the rest of them.’

  ‘Ah, he was a fine man, so he was,’ said another.

  By noon, Victoria left to go home to Fitzwilliam Square and change. She was due back at the Union at one o’clock. She had pressed the crowd at Rosie’s house for information on the casualties. Had Brendan survived? If he had, where was he? At the last minute she decided to go to Dublin barracks instead of the Union and find Valentine.

  His first question was about Cathal. Victoria shook her head.

  ‘Poor Rosie,’ he whispered.

  ‘I did what I could for him,’ she said, ‘but even when the ambulance came I knew it was too late. Only a miracle would have saved him.’

  They stood in silence for a moment, heads bowed in sorrow.

  At length, Victoria spoke. ‘Valentine, can you get a list of the prisoners at Dublin Castle?’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Why?’

  ‘I need to find out if Brendan is on it.’

  ‘Ah, of course. I’m so sorry, I should have realized you’d be worried about him, but with all that’s been happening . . .’

  ‘Please. I just need to know.’

  Valentine left her and disappeared through a door. Victoria fidgeted as she waited. Part of her wanted to hear that Brendan was in prison rather than among the casualties. She wanted to know he was alive. But alive, and in prison? What consolation was that?

  Valentine returned quickly, a smile lighting up his pale face. ‘Good news. He’s being held at the Castle.’ His smile faded. ‘He’ll be found guilty of treason, of course, but I doubt that they’ll execute him. He’ll be sent to a prison on the mainland, most likely in Wales. ‘

  ‘Is there any chance I can see him?’

  Valentine shook his head. ‘No, alas I have no power to arrange that. But I promise you I will find out where he has been sent and you can write to him.’

  Victoria bowed her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Valentine moved closer and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do more. I know how much he means to you.’

  ‘I love him, Valentine.’

  ‘I’m sure he knows that.’

  As she turned to leave, Valentine put his hand on her arm, his expression serious. ‘Victoria, there are some things happening here at the barracks that I should warn you about. I cannot predict the outcome at the moment, but I want to be able to count on your support when the time comes. You are the only one of our family who was actually here during the uprising – who saw how things were . . .’

  He bowed his head.

  ‘What is it, Valentine?’

  She waited while he appeared to wrestle with a decision. When he looked back up at her, he was smiling. ‘It’s nothing. I should not have brought it up. You have had enough turmoil of your own this week. My news will keep.’

  She left the barracks and walked slowly towards the Union. Her thoughts tumbled over one another. She was curious about Valentine’s news, but soon thoughts of Brendan intruded. She should be grateful that he had been spared. But prison? He could be sent away for years – possibly for a lifetime. What was she to do without him?

  CHAPTER 34

  In early May the fifteen leaders of the Uprising were lined up in Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin and executed. Hundreds more who had surrendered were sent to prisons across England and Wales. As the coffins of the leaders were paraded through the streets of Dublin, public opinion began to shift almost imperceptibly, their earlier ridicule turning slowly to outrage. The swift and stern punishment meted out by the English government had transformed the poets and dreamers of Easter Monday into martyrs.

  Victoria went about her work in a daze. Lady Marianne had observed her niece’s pallid face and hunched shoulders and insisted she stay in bed and rest. But Victoria ignored her advice. The only con
cession she allowed was to let Celine escort her to and from the Union each day. On those walks they spoke not one word but Victoria welcomed the support of Celine’s steadying hand under her elbow. Numbly, she went through the motions each day – bandaging a wound here, checking for fever there – her hands moving automatically from one patient to another. Her mind, however, was locked in a faraway place, a dim jail cell in Wales where Brendan Lynch stood looking out from behind the bars.

  A new virus was making its way through the Dublin slums. More and more patients were presenting with fever and vomiting. Victoria and the other nurses comforted them as best they could. Doctors worried about how quickly the virus was spreading and warned the nurses to maintain the highest standards of hygiene. Even though deaths began to occur, the danger hardly registered with Victoria. And she was numb to the sadness she would otherwise have felt when she covered the face of a mother or infant with a white sheet.

  Likewise, she registered no surprise when Bridie, holding her young daughter, staggered into the waiting room and collapsed on a chair. At first she did not recognize her. Nothing distinguished Bridie from the other gaunt-faced mothers cradling infants who had become a common sight each morning. But as she checked her for fever, something about the woman’s eyes looked familiar.

  ‘Bridie? Is that you?’

  The woman nodded wearily. She betrayed no recognition of Victoria.

  ‘Look after the child first, miss,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  Victoria frowned. She could see that both the mother and child were equally ill. They both needed to be admitted. The problem was that the wards were already full. But this was Rosie’s sister. The thought pierced through the fog of Victoria’s mind. I have to get them help. I can’t let Rosie’s sister die.

  But even the best efforts of the doctors could not save Bridie. In the end they had to prise the child from her grip before covering her with a sheet. Word was sent to her husband on Foley Court but he was nowhere to be found. The child remained in the hospital.