Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  ‘I do assure you,’ Pearse said, ‘he is no danger.’

  The O’Rahilly, who found it hard to think ill of anyone, said, ‘I appreciate that. But I bitterly resent being kept in the dark.’

  ‘Remember Howth,’ Pearse said, soothingly. ‘You were not told till just before the arms arrived. I myself didn’t know until afterwards. In these matters, caution is surely best.’

  The O’Rahilly still insisted a rising was crazy. There was no preparation outside Dublin. Taking on the British Empire was like trying to lift a mountain with a crowbar.

  But, he realized, Pearse was reckless and beyond argument. The mystical element in him, his lyrical lunacy could not be reached. He probably dreamed in his dreams. He wanted to make necklaces out of dewdrops, carve statues out of clouds.

  When The O’Rahilly left, Pearse and his brother said goodnight to their mother and watched her go upstairs to bed.

  ‘God love you,’ they called after her.

  Though they longed for sleep, their own night was far from over. There had been scares enough in the last twenty-four hours but, thank God, they were on course once again.

  When the Hall in Tralee closed its doors, the caretaker gave Monteith a room for the night. O’Sullivan’s wife and sister took care of him. He soaked himself in a hot bath and after, in spite of his worries, sank into a deep sleep.

  In Tralee Barracks, neither Casement nor Stack slept.

  Aboard the Bluebell, Hood issued his orders. ‘Watch them closely. There may be 150 men aboard. If they open their gunports, fire. If they drop anything into the sea, shoot at it. It could be a mine.’

  After midnight, Spindler mustered his crew on the bridge.

  ‘Men, the U-boat we are banking on has not turned up. Frankly, our chances of escape are nil.’

  The men shuffled their feet uncomfortably.

  ‘Tomorrow, we shall have to blow the ship up.’ Hearing the beginnings of a protest, he hastened to add, ‘We have no choice. Listen. The moon is due to rise soon. Before then, we have to burn our codes and secret papers or drop them overboard, just in case the explosion is not wholly effective.’

  A throb came into his voice.

  ‘It is no fault of yours that we failed. In fact, I am prouder of you than I can say.’

  He dismissed his crew and checked that the explosives were in place. He told Düsselmann, ‘We shall try and ram that cruiser. I do not want the Aud to be lonely down there.’

  The night was a glassy calm with a sea-full of stars. All was silent save for the sounds of the escorting vessels as they circled the Aud like famished dogs, their bows sending streams of phosphorescence over the waves. Occasionally, the peace was rent by barked orders, the slamming of furnace doors, the rattle of shovels.

  Aboard the Aud each man retreated inside himself, praying for a U-boat. If it did not come, they knew what had to be done at Queenstown Harbour.

  On the bridge, Spindler took out his book of maps. There were charts of African and American harbours, not of Queenstown. He was obliged to study it on a general chart of Ireland. He reckoned the average depth at the outer entrance was between 20 and 25 fathoms. Fine. With luck, the Aud would block the harbour entrance.

  At 4.30 in the morning, Mullins and Partridge reached Kingsbridge Station in Dublin. Pretending not to know each other, they walked on opposite sides of the Liffey.

  At Liberty Hall, the guards told them they could not see anyone until 10 a.m. There was nothing for it but to settle down and wait.

  Around 7 a.m., O’Sullivan, who had been on night-shift on the railway, burst into Monteith’s bedroom to tell him a hundred soldiers had arrived by train from Queenstown.

  ‘They’re here to search for you and Beverley.’

  Monteith dressed in a flash and went down to a club room.

  An armed Volunteer had been posted at the door. Through the window, he saw troops and police scouring the town, all armed to the teeth. Extra police were arriving by the minute in motor cars, side-cars, traps, on cycles and on foot.

  He examined the back door and a possible escape route. None too soon. Outside the front door, a sixteen-man military patrol was given the order, ‘Halt! Stand at ease!’

  They were about to search the premises, surely.

  But after a minute’s breather. ‘Atten-tion! Qui-ick march!’

  Melinn and two other Volunteers came in to conduct Monteith to the Rink. They gave him a greasy cap and smeared soot from the chimney over his face and hands.

  ‘You’ve been promoted,’ said John O’Sullivan, ‘to engine cleaner on the railroad.’

  They went to the Rink, inside which was a guard of about a dozen men, including Paddy Cahill. Monteith gripped his hand.

  ‘Now that Austin’s arrested,’ he said, ‘you will have to take command tomorrow.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Cahill, reddening. ‘I’m only secretary here, I know nothing about fighting.’

  ‘Then who will take charge?’

  ‘You,’ said Cahill.

  ‘But,’ Monteith spluttered, ‘I don’t know the men and they don’t know me. Besides, I have no idea of Stack’s strategy.’

  ‘Those are orders,’ Cahill said peremptorily.

  ‘Where are the plans then?’

  Cahill shrugged, ‘They were never written down.’

  ‘You mean they only exist inside Stack’s head?’

  Monteith was quickly getting the impression that the rebel leaders had avoided being betrayed by informers by the simple device of not communicating with anyone.

  Cahill said, ‘We were meant to take the military and police barracks, the telegraph office and the railway station.’

  Monteith sighed as if to say, Tell me something new.

  ‘But no details?’

  ‘None that I know of. But after that, we’re to march to Fenit, unload the German ship when it arrives and put the arms on trains for Killarney, Limerick and Galway.’

  ‘When were you last in touch with those places?’

  Cahill shrugged again.

  ‘All right, how many men will I have under me?’

  One of the Volunteers said, ‘Three hundred, maybe. Not all armed, mind. But two hundred would be. Probably.’

  ‘Right,’ Monteith said. ‘We have to send out a pilot at once and, if the arms ship’s around, bring it in.’

  ‘Not possible,’ Cahill said, in a hollow voice. ‘Y’see, all boatmen are being watched so Mort O’Leary’s da would never let him go out. Anyway, there’s two British boats out in the Bay. No arms ship would ever get by them.’

  Monteith conceded the point. ‘We’ll have to fight without German arms. Someone hand me a map of Tralee.’

  The men bowed their heads. Their looks suggested that Cahill was wrong to entrust their fate to this inquisitive and overbearing stranger.

  ‘Y’mean,’ snapped Monteith, ‘no one has a map of Tralee?’

  Someone pointed out, ‘We know it, y’see,’ and Cahill said airily, ‘There is one somewhere, if someone will oblige.’

  Minutes later, a lad returned with a map thirty years out of date. Monteith blew the dust off it, examined it briefly and returned it without a word. Had he left his beautiful family in America, worked his guts out for a year in Germany, for this?

  ‘What arrangements have been made to cut telephone and telegraph wires?’ Before anyone could reply, he added sarcastically, ‘Stack would know, of course. Has anyone thought of having warnings printed against looting?’

  Someone said, indignantly, ‘There are no thieves here,’ at the same time as Cahill said, with perfect vagueness, ‘They are around, I know that.’

  Monteith’s hand was so badly swollen he dictated slowly, for Paddy Cahill to write down his next day’s instructions.

  ‘You can get copies printed, I presume?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Cahill, as if nothing was beyond him.

  Monteith sighed with relief. ‘I want all the men to parade tomorrow, Sunday, at 8 a.m.’r />
  Cahill put down his pencil. ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because they already know they have to be there for 10 a.m. Confusing ’em would mess up our plans entirely.’

  Someone said the scouts would be on hand from 7 a.m.

  ‘Right,’ said Monteith, ‘tell them to be here in plain clothes.’

  Left alone, he thought the only hope of taking the police barracks would be if half the peelers went to church. Failing that, at the time of their midday meal. Men tended to drowse at that time, especially if they were allowed a whiskey or two for the feast-day.

  The task overwhelmed him. He was expected to lead half-trained men, boys in some cases, against a military machine, against well-trained and well-armed men shielded by thick, high walls and machine-guns. He lay down on a bench and pulled a blanket over him. The dawn was nigh.

  No sooner had he drifted off than there was a terrible bang. A Volunteer had approached the hall and not given the password. The bullet had missed him but he stood in the doorway petrified with three bayonets pressed against his chest.

  More than ever convinced he was dealing with professional amateurs, Monteith gave up any idea of sleep. He examined their weapons and found they were of three types. One: the Howth rifle, a Mauser single-loader. Two: the Lee-Enfield, with a magazine. Three: the Martini Enfield, a single-loader carbine. The ammunition was all Mark VII .303, only suitable for the Lee. It tended to overheat the Martini and cause a bulge in the barrel.

  He cursed even harder. His men were not only untrained, they had not heeded a warning he had given previously about the unsuitability of their ammunition.

  He sent scouts to Fenit Point where the arms ship was due to berth, others to Ardfert and the rest to patrol Tralee.

  He also sent a car to Killarney to try and establish contact with the Volunteers there and find out what they planned to do. Having wished the driver God-speed, he never saw him again.

  The sun was up as the Aud approached Queenstown Harbour. It was a glorious spring morning. At other times, Spindler would have appreciated the hills, the meadows of shining green.

  A signalman, Batterman, said, ‘We can celebrate Easter Sunday here, Herr Kapitän.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lately, he had been so busy he had lost track of time.

  With the dawn, the destroyers exchanged signals with Bluebell and left. There were far too many warships in the vicinity for the Aud to try any tricks, yet still the Bluebell tracked her, never too close, now port side, now starboard.

  Spindler saw the Galley Lighthouse below the Harbour entrance and soon the Daunt Rock Lightship in mid-channel. There was no traffic in the west half of the channel. He guessed, correctly, that it was mined.

  ‘Fifteen minutes to docking time,’ he mumbled to his first mate.

  To himself, he added: And to destruction.

  On shore, Admiral Bayly was breakfasting at Admiralty House with his niece when he was informed of the Aud’s imminent arrival. He invited her on to the verandah.

  ‘It will be something to remember, my dear.’

  The quays were buzzing with warships of every shape and size. On deck, crews were stretching in the early sun, watching the foreign tramp steamer with curiosity.

  Spindler summoned his Chief Engineer.

  ‘I want the condenser smashed before we blow the ship up.’

  He grinned. ‘You don’t think I’d forget, Herr Kapitän.’

  Soon, the pressure dropped so low that the Aud was crawling. The escort was not bothered. For the last hour, the crews had been busy getting into harbour-trim so as to have longer shore-leave. Guns were polished and covered with tarpaulin, ropes were coiled, decks scrubbed. Men appeared from below, blinking, brushing down their civilian clothes ready to go ashore.

  Spindler’s anxiety was growing. The cargo was deadly. The explosion that ripped the Aud open might blow his crew to bits.

  To save as many as possible, he asked for four volunteers to stay behind, to help him scuttle the ship and hoist the flag while the rest took to boats.

  The cry went up, ‘No, sir, we’re all staying.’

  He signalled Bluebell, ‘Where are we to anchor?’

  ‘Await further orders.’

  Three quarters of a mile from the lightship, a British cargo-steamer was closing at top speed on the Aud’s port side.

  ‘About 8,000 tons?’ Spindler muttered to his mate.

  ‘Ja, Herr Kapitän. In ballast. See her height out of the water.’

  ‘I’m going to ram her and take her down with us.’

  His eyes betrayed his concentration.

  ‘Port … 10 … 15. Ease her a little. Steady. Keep her at that.’

  The Aud, with the condenser battered, was scarcely able to answer the helm.

  He spat out the orders: ‘All hands to quarters! Ready with fuses and incendiary bombs! Stand by to run up the ensign!’

  Every man was tense and waiting.

  It was touch-and-go because the signalman on the bridge of the Bluebell was semaphoring the cargo-steamer to keep clear.

  When only 800 yards off, she put her helm hard a-starboard, passing the Aud and the Bluebell in a majestic sweep. Spindler again tasted failure on his tongue.

  On shore, Bayly patted his niece’s arm. ‘I think we can relax, my dear.’

  Spindler called out, ‘Only 200 yards to the lightship … 150 … 100.’

  One final scan of the surface for a friendly periscope. Disappointment.

  ‘All ready?’

  ‘Ready!’ came from the engine-room.

  Men lay on deck on their stomachs, surreptitiously raising the boats out of their chocks and lowering them to the height of the rail. From the engine-room came sounds of heavy hammers finishing off the condenser.

  ‘Hard a-starboard.’

  The telegraph in the engine-room rang three times.

  ‘Stop!’

  The Aud swung across the channel. A rating ran up the German ensign. Jackets and greatcoats were peeled off and flung overboard, revealing uniforms underneath.

  The First Mate called out, ‘Three cheers for the Kaiser,’ and was answered by the crew’s Hurrahs.

  The Chief Engineer found a moment to call, ‘Here, Hector.’ The dog bounded to him trustingly. With his arm round its neck, he put a revolver to its temple. ‘Sorry, old fellow. If only we could take you with us.’

  He pulled the trigger just as there was an explosion that shook the boat from stem to stern. Beams and splinters shot aloft with clouds of dirty-grey smoke. Flames leaped from the saloon, the charthouse, ventilators and fo’c’s’le.

  From the Admiralty verandah, Bayly gave a grim little smile of appreciation. The Aud was German, all right; and her skipper was doing what he would have done.

  A cry went up aboard, ‘All hands to the boats.’

  In seconds the cargo would explode. The port boat had left as the starboard boat was being lowered. In the second were the Chief, Second Mate, helmsman, and, last of all, Spindler.

  ‘All away,’ he called.

  With an axe, he sliced through the painter and the boat splashed into the sea, menacingly just below where the explosives were stored in the Aud.

  The stern was already low in the water when, to his horror, he saw a stoker was still on board. He came running along the rail with a gramophone under his arm.

  ‘Wait,’ the lad called.

  As he jumped into the boat, he lost his grip on the gramophone and it fell into the sea.

  ‘Blöder Kerl!’ yelled Spindler.

  They rowed desperately to get clear of the suction area of the Aud. There were several minor bangs, followed by clouds of thick sulphurous smoke. The munitions in the hold were catching fire.

  ‘Pull,’ urged Spindler, ‘before she blows up round our ears.’

  The Bluebell fired a shot, far too late. Ships were steaming futilely towards them from the docks.

  Spindler had ordered a white flag to
be shown as soon as the boats were launched. When he was clear round his sinking ship he was relieved to find the other boat was safe. At last he was free to look back upon his gallant little English ship that, after braving tempests and sandbanks, had met death at his hands. He stood to salute her. Her bow was rising higher and higher, wreckage was strewn everywhere, including the body of Hector.

  For a while, there was silence on the Aud; the sea must have rushed in and soaked most of the fuses.

  Five minutes after the first explosion there was a dull rumbling noise aboard. The cargo and bunkers were shifting.

  There was a second violent explosion amidships. A column of steam and smoke rose in the air. Masts tottered. The blazing bows rose sheer up from the water then, next moment, she plunged like a horse with a loud hiss into the sea.

  Clarke had spent the night at home in Fairview. This morning, he walked with Kattie into town. He tried to think of it as a dawn ramble, like when they were courting in the hills of the west. At the corner of Britain Street they said goodbye. He was not sleeping at home the night before the rising in case of a last-minute arrest.

  ‘We shall be victorious, Kattie,’ he said. ‘But I myself expect to go down in the first rush.’

  She squeezed his hand, unable to speak.

  ‘Love to the boys. And don’t forget to open the shop tomorrow morning and close it at 2.30 in the afternoon as usual.’

  She promised, feeling that, without him, things would have no meaning any more.

  With small firm steps, he walked down O’Connell Street and then turned left along the Liffey to Liberty Hall.

  *

  It was just before 10 a.m. when the Police Inspector at Tralee decided to send the prisoner under escort to London.

  Casement was given breakfast and told he was being put on the next train.

  ‘May I ask where, Inspector?’

  ‘Dublin, first, then London.’

  Security was so lax that the police did not put him in a black Maria. He was handcuffed and three men walked him down a street crowded with people doing their Easter shopping. Several Volunteers with pistols in their pockets watched him go by to the station, sad they had been forbidden to spring him. Nothing could have been easier.