‘Tell them, Father, that the rebellion will fail if it is counting on German aid. It is not coming. Someone must convey that to Dublin.’
Fr Ryan, his hand pressed against the side of his head, said, eventually, ‘I’m a priest. I cannot get involved in politics.’
‘I am not asking you to. A rising is planned. It is doomed. You can stop it and avoid a lot of bloodshed.’
‘The best man to contact,’ the priest decided, ‘is a parishioner of mine, Paddy Cahill.’
He lifted his right hand and said, ‘For your penance, say three Hail Marys.’
Hobson was working hard that afternoon in his office when Sean Tobin, a leading member of the Brotherhood, popped in.
‘Bulmer,’ he said, affably, ‘there’s a meeting at Martin Conlon’s house in Phibsborough.’
Hobson sensed there was something fishy about this.
‘I’ll be along directly.’
‘It can’t wait. A car’s outside.’
In spite of the friendly tone, Hobson knew he had no choice. On entering Conlon’s house he found himself looking down the barrel of Ned Daly’s gun.
‘You’ll be staying here,’ Daly said, ‘till the rising is under way. Then you can decide if you’re for us or against.’
Hobson felt only an enormous relief. He was very tired, and events were now, thankfully, outside his control.
Austin Stack was at home when Cahill arrived about 4.30 p.m.
Stack told him about Casement. ‘What I want you to do, Paddy, is find out where he is now.’
Cahill left and rounded up a few scouts to scour the district for news. While he was doing this, Billy Mullins met him, with, ‘Fr Ryan is wanting to see you in your office.’
‘What about?’
‘He wouldn’t say. Only that ’tis urgent.’
‘Can’t be as urgent as what I’m at,’ Cahill said. ‘Tell him I’ll be there about 6.15 p.m. after the meeting at the Rink.’
At 5 p.m., Con Collins left to visit friends while Stack went to the Rink to address the Kerry IRB centres and Volunteer officers. On Pearse’s instructions, he had played his cards close to his chest. Only three officers in the whole of Kerry knew that Sunday’s manoeuvres were the real thing.
He went through the Easter timetable. The men were to parade at 11 a.m. Sunday. At midday most Volunteers were to march the seven miles to Fenit Pier and the rest were to be disposed around police and army barracks in a mock attack.
‘Next,’ he said, as casually as he could, ‘on Easter Sunday night, we’ll be getting arms from a German boat.’
The men bubbled with delight as he took them through the details. Connolly had sent William Partridge to organize the railway men who would transport the arms along the west coast. Someone said the docks were some distance from the railway. ‘How will we get the arms to the trains?’
Paddy Cahill had just come in. ‘I have forty horse-and-carts for precisely that purpose.’
‘You know, men,’ Stack said, ‘that only a month ago there was an exchange of fire between the Volunteers and the RIC at Tullamore.’ They nodded. ‘Be ready at any time to go to your Maker. I suggest you all make your Easter duties.’
At 5.30 p.m., a colleague, Michael Flynn, entered the Rink and whispered to Stack. ‘Bad news. Collins has just been arrested. He’s asking for you.’
Stack groaned. Collins was supposed to set up the wireless station to communicate with the arms ship. He continued with his briefing, only to be interrupted minutes later by another urgent message.
Outside, a scout told him, ‘I’m just after being at Ardfert. They say an important prisoner’s being held there.’
Problems were multiplying. Collins was in Tralee Barracks, and Casement, it seemed, at Ardfert. He felt he ought now to tell the officers something he had planned to keep from them till Sunday afternoon. Returning to the Rink, he said that Casement had arrived from Germany and was under arrest.
‘Also, men, the Sunday manoeuvres are really the rising you have all been waiting for.’
When the pandemonium had subsided, he added:
‘Rule one: not a single shot is to be fired till the Republic is declared in Dublin, not even to rescue Casement.’
Nathan was working late in Dublin Castle.
A policeman came in from the Constabulary Office with a message from District Inspector Britten of Tralee. That morning, according to Britten, a patrol from Ardfert had captured a boat landed from possibly a Dutch ship. Three men had come ashore. They had found three Mauser pistols as well as maps and papers in German. One of the three men was in custody.
Nathan thanked his informant. ‘Do let me know at once if there are any developments.’
He sat briefly in silence. He would have liked Friend’s view of this. He took out his pen to drop Birrell a line.
As 6 o’clock approached, Spindler sighted a smoke cloud in the south-west. It was from a large two-stacker, travelling at about 20 knots.
Two sloops, the Zinnia and the Bluebell, had been ordered by Admiral Bayly to intercept the Aud. Spindler had his glasses on the Bluebell, It was impossible to outrun her.
Once more the Aud prepared to scuttle. Engines were cut to half speed. On the bridge, Spindler walked with studied indifference up and down. With the craft only half a mile away, he could see several 4.5 guns and any number of machine-guns. Instead of coming within hailing distance, the auxiliary cruiser zigzagged for ten minutes.
‘What next?’ Spindler muttered.
To his surprise, the craft turned sharply east and sped off. The only thing he could think of was that the English skipper suspected the Aud had a U-boat escort.
He was right. The Lusitania had been sunk not far south of there.
Soon after 6 p.m., Casement was sitting over a smoky fire in the billiard room when a man in his mid-twenties, carrying a small bag, entered and introduced himself.
‘Dr Michael Shanahan. The Sergeant asked me to drop in on you, sir. Is it a commercial traveller you are?’
Casement could see that the Doctor recognized him at once. His voice, however, came out very even.
‘I believe, Mr Morten, you are feeling under the weather.’
He ordered the two policemen out and began his examination.
‘I hope you are in sympathy with the Irish cause, Doctor,’ Casement whispered.
‘Your heart is in good shape, anyhow,’ the Doctor said loudly, tapping his chest.
‘My name is Casement. I’ve spent twelve nights in a U-boat. Tell the local Volunteers I’ve been taken.’
‘Nothing wrong with you,’ the Doctor said, ‘as far as I can tell.’
After the examination, the Head Constable, Harry Kearney, showed Dr Shanahan a newspaper picture of Casement.
‘A remarkable resemblance, don’t you think?’
Shanahan put a hand over the bearded portion of the cutting. ‘I really can’t say. Who is he, by the way?’
He left the Barracks and went at once to tell the Volunteers that Sir Roger Casement was in custody.
Stack asked Cahill to send messengers to Dublin.
‘Tell them Casement is a prisoner and the arms ship is due any time.’
‘What are you going to do, Austin?’
‘I’m off to the barracks to see Con. If I’m nabbed, there’s only one man qualified to take over.’
‘Bob Monteith?’
Stack nodded. He handed Cahill his gun.
‘Hope to see you in an hour or so.’
When Cahill kept his appointment with Fr Ryan at 6.15 p.m., he learned that Casement was in jail.
‘We know, Father. He’s in Ardfert.’
‘Not Ardfert, Paddy, here in Tralee.’
As soon as Stack reached Tralee Barracks, he was arrested and searched, in spite of his vigorous protests. The police found on him several letters from, among others, James Connolly, Hobson and Pearse. They asked him if he knew an unidentified tramp they were holding.
‘In fact, Sir Roger
Casement was just this minute asking after you.’
‘He’s never heard of me,’ Stack said. ‘Why should he?’
Shaken to realize Casement was there, he began a prayer that was to go on through the night. He promised God he would never in his life take another drink if only the Volunteers did nothing to prejudice the rising by trying to break them out.
At Spicer’s, Monteith was handed the local evening paper. It ran a typical journalistic story of the arrest of an unknown man.
‘Unable to speak English,’ he read aloud. ‘A collapsible boat and arms have been found on the beach.’ He snorted. ‘Collapsible, be buggered!’
Garbled as the account was, it was clear enough that their equipment had been found. The only thing in their favour was that Casement had not yet been identified.
A courier finally arrived to take his message to Dublin. The lad would not accept a verbal message. Monteith wrote that if the rising depended on German help, it was unwise to proceed.
‘Make sure,’ he said, ‘you get this to MacNeill or Hobson or another of the leaders of the Volunteers.’
Meanwhile, Cahill was telling Billy Mullins that Collins, Casement and Stack were all arrested and what Fr Ryan had said. ‘There’s a seven o’clock train to Dublin via Limerick, Billy. Tell them at Liberty Hall that the Germans are sending only arms and not men.’
To make doubly sure, he asked William Partridge to return to Dublin on the 7.30 train via Mallow with the same message.
Spindler’s relief at the departure of the big British cruiser was shortlived. On the starboard bow, almost invisible against the painful light of the setting sun, was another cruiser. Then astern he saw another. Then another. They were surrounded. And all the ships’ guns were aimed at the Aud.
At about 7 p.m., Bluebell raised the signal, ‘Stop At Once’.
Everything German had long since disappeared into the Conjuror’s Box and Hector was barking dutifully on the fo’c’s’le deck. Now the questions began.
‘Where are you from? Where are you headed?’
A signalman, Fred Schmitz, deliberately broke the signal halyards. Spindler had to flag by hand from the bridge. There seemed no hope. Yet darkness was near and a U-boat might just come in the nick of time.
The Bluebell was now using her searchlights to communicate with the other ships. The crackling sound from her aerials indicated she was also in wireless contact with shore.
To Spindler’s astonishment, Bluebell signalled, ‘Proceed’.
Minutes later, Zinnia, the command ship, received explicit orders from Admiral Bayly. ‘If the Aud is sighted bring her to port for examination. If she resists, sink her.’
Lieutenant-Commander G. F. Wilson, RN ordered Bluebell to escort the Aud to Queenstown.
Everything was repeated. ‘We are heading for Genoa. We have nothing but pit-props aboard.’
The Bluebell approached to within 150 yards and lowered a cutter. Two officers and a dozen seamen, all armed, prepared to board. Spindler passed round the order, ‘Guns and knives ready. When they come on deck, grab them.’ If they managed to take the prize crew hostage, they might still make it under cover of dark to the open sea.
The Aud’s chief engineer was testing a steam winch he had just fixed. The clang of it in the bowels of the ship reached the Bluebell just as their diminutive commander, Lieutenant Martin Hood, saw what looked like a periscope. It was probably nothing more than an old meat tin but he was taking no chances. He megaphoned his crew back aboard.
Spindler cursed his luck. Whereas no real U-boat had come to their assistance, an imaginary one had sealed their fate.
Hood signalled, ‘Follow me to Queenstown. Course, south, 63 east.’
The Aud’s crew climbed on to hatches and rails, yelling, ‘What do you want with a neutral ship?’ though one said crudely, ‘Sich verpissen.’
Spindler tried, ‘Don’t understand.’
There was a flash as the for’ard gun fired across their bows, making Bluebell’s meaning abundantly plain.
Spindler, dazed by the concussion, muttered, ‘Gott strafe England.’
When he recovered, he yelled loud enough for Hood to hear, ‘Full speed ahead, south, 63 east.’ Then a whispered threat to the Chief: ‘Go faster than 5 knots and I’ll hang you from the yardarm.’
He calculated that even at that speed they would reach Queenstown well before ten next morning.
Bluebell signalled, ‘Full speed ahead’, and Spindler replied with a small paraffin lamp, making the dots and dashes by shielding and withdrawing his hand. ‘Engine broken down.’
The Bluebell took no chances, zigzagging.
Spindler saw she was prepared to keep this up all night.
Two cars were approaching Killarney from Limerick.
Tom McInerney, a garage owner, was driving a borrowed 20-horse-power Briscoe American open-tourist car. The second driver, Sam Windrum, was a taxi-driver friend. They had dawdled, stopping off in a pub for a drink. And there had been several road-blocks on the journey, which was unusual. A couple of times Sam Windrum had shown his driving licence to the RIC and twice he was told it was out of date and would he not think of getting it renewed soon.
As McInerney stopped to pull a handful of grass from a verge, Sam Windrum joked, ‘ ’Twas my driving licence saw us through. Who would be daft enough to carry a gun with an out-of-date licence?’
The five armed men sent by McDermott and Mick Collins had been kicking their heels for some time outside Killarney Railway Station. The cars finally arrived at 7.15 p.m.
The code was: The men from Dublin asked, ‘Are you from Michael?’ Tom McInerney opened his hand to reveal a clump of grass, saying, ‘I am from William.’
The Dublin men piled into the cars and they drove off at speed along the Ring of Kerry towards Cahersiveen. In daylight, this was one of the most picturesque roads in the world. At night, it was spooky and dangerous. McInerney brought up the rear. In the passenger seat was Con Keating, the only man in the car who knew the way. In the back were two Dublin men, Charlie Monaghan, and Donal Sheehan.
Pointing to the car ahead, Keating told McInerney, ‘Orders are to keep those lights in view.’
After only a few miles, the second car developed engine trouble. The men cursed roundly. They had already lost a couple of hours’ daylight and now another delay.
‘Don’t worry,’ McInerney said. ‘I’ll fix it in a jiffy.’
At 9 o’clock, Joe Melinn and a crowd of fellers came to Spicer’s to fetch Monteith. Whooping it up, they took him to the Ancient Order of Hibernians’ Hall where they sat him down in the middle of a group playing cards.
Melinn whispered, ‘You’re to stay here, Bob, till closing time.’
Minutes later, John O’Sullivan, the Hall caretaker who worked on the railroad, came in. He handed round a wire from the Station-master at Fenit. When it reached Monteith, he was stunned. It read: ‘Germans landing arms at Banna Strand, reward offered for capture.’
McInerney fixed the engine but by now the lead car was way ahead on the unlit road. They passed through Killorglin, a town fifteen miles from Tralee, famous for its annual Puck or Goat Fair. On the outskirts, they were flagged down by a policeman with a torch.
‘I want all you lads to step out for a minute.’
Keating had had enough of delays. He drew his revolver. ‘Back off, man,’ he growled, ‘before I plug you.’
McInerney put his foot down and they raced on. From the back, Charlie Monaghan said, ‘Did you have to do that, Con? He’s bound to wireless ahead.’
Rattled, McInerney asked Keating, ‘Is this the right road?’
Preoccupied with the job he had to do, Keating replied irritably, ‘Indeed, it is.’
‘Right,’ McInerney said, putting his foot down.
Just then, the car, having left the main road, soared into space off the end of the tiny pier at Ballykissane. The huge Briscoe American, with the hood wrenched open, finished upside-down in the River Laun
e.
McInerney came up gasping for breath in the pitch dark. He heard Keating threshing around beside him and spluttering, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’
McInerney, treading water, went on listening but heard nothing more. The rising had claimed its first victims.
He had no idea where the shore was. Overwhelmed by shock and terror, he might have swum into deeper water had not someone living nearby heard the engine roar and the splash and come with a lamp to investigate. McInerney, having crossed himself in relief, swam towards him.
Ashore, he was taken to a friendly house. He was no sooner rid of his revolver and incriminating papers than the police burst in. He bluffed them with a story about Keating visiting his relatives nearby.
Without Keating, there was no chance of getting the equipment they needed to contact the arms ship. He glanced at a clock on the dresser. It was already 10.15 p.m.
He wondered if he should try and warn Stack not to expect them that night.
Stack was in jail, still praying.
He prayed that the party from Dublin would be able to set up the wireless even without Collins. At least, Keating had the expertise to contact the arms ship.
He prayed for his own release. He doubted he would be answered. His chance to do great things for Ireland was most likely over. He did not mind that, provided his men did not try and spring him.
In St James’s Street, London, Birrell received Nathan’s telegrams and letters. They spoke of an unidentified prisoner being taken.
This was encouraging, especially if he turned out to be Roger Casement.
The O’Rahilly arrived at the Volunteer HQ for an appointment with Hobson. A secretary told him he had left a long while ago with a group of IRB men. Realizing at once what had happened, he drove to St Enda’s and broke into Pearse’s study, brandishing a revolver.
‘Whoever kidnaps me,’ he snapped, ‘will have to be a quicker shot.’
Pearse needed all his persuasive powers to calm him down. He explained just how critical things were. German arms were on the way. MacNeill himself had agreed there was nothing for it but to go ahead. But Hobson had an independent mind and might try and go against his orders.
Rebels Page 24
