Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  Stack and Collins were taken before a Resident Magistrate. They were charged under the Defence of the Realm Act with conspiracy to import arms into the country.

  When they were returned to the Barracks, Fr Joe Breen got permission to visit Stack to hear his confession.

  ‘They’ve put Casement on a train,’ Breen said.

  ‘Thanks, Father. Have Cahill move Beverley to the safest possible place.’

  At 10 a.m., the Military Council opened its meeting at Liberty Hall. They read the messages brought by Mullins and Partridge.

  The situation in the west looked very grim without Stack to lead the Volunteers or Collins to contact the arms boat on Easter Sunday night.

  At the Castle, Nathan was receiving a string of telegrams from Inspector Britten in Tralee.

  He was now able to correct the imperfect reports of the previous day. No Dutch vessel was involved. Stack and Collins had been taken into custody on a charge of conspiracy to land arms.

  By 10 o’clock he had heard from Stafford of the scuttling of a German arms ship, disguised as Norwegian. The twenty-two-man crew was safe aboard the flagship in Queenstown Harbour. Divers were being sent down to inspect the hold.

  Richard Morten would arrive in Kingsbridge at 5.30 p.m. and be sent on with the German papers in his possession to England. An obvious case for Scotland Yard.

  There was also a strange incident involving Sinn Feiners in which a car had driven into the sea at Killorglin.

  The suspicion was growing that Morten was Casement. The military agreed that, in any case, he was ring-leader of the entire operation which had been nipped in the bud.

  Nathan was cock-a-hoop. He would have liked to swoop on the Plunkett home at Kimmage and Father Matthew Park where the Sinn Feiners stored arms, but he needed more information if he was to get a conviction. Besides, why hurry? They were now in a position to pick up the rebels whenever they chose.

  His musings were interrupted by a call from the Viceregal Lodge. Wimborne had been fed the same information as himself.

  ‘What do you think?’ Wimborne asked, rhetorically. ‘We should charge the Sinn Feiners with hostile association with the enemy. At once. A clear breach of Defence Regulations.’

  He was put out by Nathan recommending caution.

  ‘It’s not a matter of caution,’ said Wimborne, the veins in his neck showing. ‘We’ll never have a better chance of putting the rebels behind bars.’

  ‘I feel,’ said Nathan, irritated with the Viceroy for trespassing on his patch, ‘there is no need for –’ he just avoided the word ‘panic’ – ‘precipitate action.’

  ‘My advice is to get Birrell over here right away.’

  Nathan explained that Birrell was obliged to stay in London because of a Cabinet crisis. Unless it were resolved, the Government might fall. That was one thing Wimborne understood. It was to his advantage that the Government remained in office.

  Afterwards, Nathan wrote to Birrell, bringing him up to date with events so far. They would soon know if Morten was Casement. As to rumours of the Volunteers taking action on Easter Sunday, ‘I see no signs of a “rising”.’

  He called in Major Price.

  ‘Tell the evening papers to draw a blanket over the sinking of the arms boat, will you? At least till the Admiralty issue an official communique.’

  Some time after 10 a.m., General Friend paid a courtesy call to the HQ of the Home Forces in Horse Guards, London. He was no sooner there than the news came in about the Aud.

  ‘Well, bless me,’ he chuckled. ‘I heard last night as I was stepping on the boat that she was taken in tow. If the Sinn Feiners were planning a little prank on the basis of a German arms delivery they have come a cropper.’

  A fellow officer asked, ‘Not thinking of rushing back, then?’

  ‘Gracious,’ Friend said, ‘what on earth for?’

  After hearing from Mullins and Partridge, Pearse went with McDermott to brief MacNeill about the three arrests in Tralee. They then returned to the Hall for an all-day session.

  MacNeill smarted more than ever at the shabby way he had been treated. This latest development merely increased the probability of the British swooping on the Volunteers. It was, sadly, a case of rise or be crushed.

  Was there no way to stop this senseless slaughter?

  Mid-morning, the Dublin-bound train was approaching Killarney.

  Casement had not uttered a word until he said, to his guard, Sergeant Butler, ‘I don’t suppose I could buy a newspaper.’

  As they pulled into the station, the local Head Constable, recognizing his colleague, poked his head through the carriage window.

  ‘Did you hear,’ he said, ‘what happened to the two lads in Puck?’

  Butler shook his head.

  ‘Their car ran into the sea and they drowned.’

  Casement presumed that the drowned men were Monteith and Beverley. And Monteith had a young family. He broke down.

  ‘Where is Puck, please?’

  ‘That,’ the Sergeant explained, ‘is the local name for Killorglin.’

  In between sobs, Casement said, ‘Forgive me. I’m so sorry for them. They only came because of me. Two very gallant Irishmen.’

  At 1 p.m., Father Breen gave Cahill Stack’s order to move Beverley somewhere safe. It came too late.

  Beverley had slept overnight at Hanlon’s but in the morning had had a terrible row with him and been thrown out. He was on his way back to O’Connell’s place when he was picked up by Constable Carter of the RIC.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ the Constable said. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘David Mulcahy.’

  ‘Well, Mulcahy, I’d be much obliged if you’d accompany me to police barracks.’

  Before long, the Constable was able to tell his District Inspector that he had picked up the second of the men who came ashore on Banna Strand.

  *

  That afternoon, Mort O’Leary and O’Shea left the Maharees for Tralee.

  At the Rink, O’Leary said to the caretaker, ‘Stack has a couple of green lights for us.’

  When he heard where Stack was, he scratched his ear.

  ‘But am I or amn’t I to go out?’

  ‘There’s been some confusion, all right,’ the caretaker said. ‘The arms boat must have come and gone.’

  Only then did it dawn on O’Leary that it was the two-master he had seen in the bay on Thursday night.

  The train from Tralee drew into Kingsbridge Station at 5.30 p.m. Casement, feeling dirty in his salt-encrusted suit, was driven to Arbour Hill Detention Centre.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could have a bed, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘I haven’t slept for twelve nights.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Butler said, kindly. ‘I just heard you are to be put on the 8 o’clock boat for England.’

  Casement drew the lapels of his jacket up to his ears. That huge, cold place reminded him of death.

  He was shown into a cell.

  Minutes later, two soldiers entered. One said, ‘You can get undressed now, sir.’

  A delighted Casement said, ‘I’m sleeping here, after all?’

  ‘I mean, you can strip.’

  Casement’s heart sank. It was not simply that he hated the idea of strangers inspecting every inch of his body. He feared they might find the curare sewn into his jacket. That would be the final horror. For he had already made up his mind to kill himself.

  At 6 p.m., Eamonn Kent finally broke the news to his wife. There was to be an insurrection. There were rumours of the British suing for peace.

  ‘We couldn’t let this opportunity pass without striking a blow while England is still at war, could we?’

  Aine shook her head.

  ‘We would be a disgrace to our generation.’

  After writing to Birrell, Nathan motored to the Viceregal Lodge. In the grand drawing-room Wimborne tried again to persuade him to arrest the Sinn Fein leaders at once.

  ‘They are such a dispirited lot, no on
e will try and rescue them.’

  ‘Dispirited, yes,’ said Nathan. ‘They have lost the arms they were relying on. They can’t be in any mood for a rising.’

  Wimborne conceded the point.

  ‘We are witnessing,’ he said, ‘the end of the Sinn Fein movement.’

  On that upbeat note, Nathan left for his own lodge before His Excellency changed his volatile mind.

  In the late afternoon, young Colm O’Lochlainn returned to Dublin from Killarney, upset by the death of his friends and the failure of his mission. To add to his depression, in Mallow, north of Cork, he had got wind of the sinking of the Aud and Casement’s capture.

  He called on Sean Fitzgibbon and they went to Hobson’s place. Getting no reply, they went to see The O’Rahilly. He had not been able to sleep after seeing Pearse the night before. There was, he believed, a suicidal strain in the man that was little short of self-indulgence. He wanted to be important. How many innocent men could die as a result?

  He told his two visitors that Hobson had been kidnapped.

  At 6.15 p.m., The O’Rahilly drove them to see MacNeill. For over two hours he had been checking proofs of a new book and taking tea with a friend. He was horrified when he heard of the loss of life. He was also staggered to learn that there would be no German arms, after all.

  ‘Hobson won’t be coming,’ The O’Rahilly said. ‘Pearse has had him kidnapped.’

  ‘The wonder is,’ MacNeill snorted, ‘they didn’t kidnap me. That would have put me out of all this misery.’

  ‘They didn’t need to,’ said The O’Rahilly bluntly, ‘since they now think they have you eating out of their hand.’

  Fitzgibbon told him of Pearse sending him to the west.

  ‘He made it sound as if he had your backing.’

  ‘Another absolute lie,’ said MacNeill.

  O’Lochlainn explained how the Castle document seemed to originate with Plunkett. MacNeill saw very clearly that if it was bogus, that put an entirely different complexion on the attitude of the Administration. Even so, he felt trapped.

  Probing, he asked, ‘An insurrection cannot be averted, not at this stage, can it?’

  They told him that it could and should be.

  The O’Rahilly stressed the one rock-like fact. ‘The country’s not ready. The west, in particular, is in no state to take on the British army.’

  ‘But,’ MacNeill objected, ‘now the British know about the German arms, they are bound to classify us all as traitors and disarm us anyway.’

  They assured him this was not necessarily so. If the Castle document was a forgery and, therefore, the British were not preparing to swoop, an official denial that the Volunteers wanted any part in a rising would prove their good faith.

  ‘Do you really think,’ MacNeill asked, ‘that the British would believe me?’

  ‘Yes,’ The O’Rahilly said confidently, ‘especially if you send messengers all over Ireland cancelling the manoeuvres. No Chief of Staff would do that if he intended a rebellion.’

  MacNeill was excited. ‘It’s really worth discussing.’

  They drove to St Enda’s where Pearse became very agitated at what they told him.

  ‘We have used your name and influence for what they are worth,’ he admitted to MacNeill, ‘but we have done with you now. It is no use trying to stop us. Our plans are made and will be carried out.’

  ‘Your plans,’ MacNeill returned, ‘are so well laid that the police in Tralee have upset them already. In any case, I am Chief of Staff and I will forbid tomorrow’s manoeuvres.’

  ‘Our men will not obey you,’ Pearse said, his eyes blazing.

  ‘If they do not, the responsibility for it and all that ensues lies entirely with you. If you want to see me again, I will be in Dr O’Kelly’s house in Rathgar at 9 o’clock tonight.’

  Once more, Pearse’s heart sank. When they left, he put through a call to tell MacDonagh the state of the game.

  In the Metropole Hotel, next to the General Post Office in O’Connell Street, Joseph Plunkett was in his suite with Grace Gifford. He had gone there directly from the nursing home. As he held her in his weak arms, he said, ‘This time tomorrow, my precious darling, you will be my wife.’

  They talked about the double wedding and the joint reception afterwards. There was to be no honeymoon. At 6.30 p.m., Joe would be in the Post Office.

  Even if he survived the battle, he was finished. The surgery had not been successful. He preferred to die like Nelson, who stood on his Pillar a few yards from the Hotel, rather than like Keats.

  He poured a glass of wine and gave a toast. ‘To us, my darling.’

  Before they put the loving-cup to their lips, the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, my future brother-in-law,’ he said cheerily.

  He gagged the phone.

  ‘It’s MacDonagh.’

  Down the mouthpiece, he said, ‘As usual, you’ve interrupted something very important.’

  What he heard dampened his spirits considerably.

  Afterwards he said, ‘Grace, my pet, I’m so sorry to have to leave you. MacNeill is making a nuisance of himself and I have to attend a meeting in the Rathgar Road.’

  That night, throughout Ireland, churches were packed, prayers said extra carefully and confessionals kept busy. Many penitents were in Volunteer uniform. Not a few, thinking they might soon be dead, played safe by wiping their chins for the last time and pledging life-long abstinence from drink.

  They knew of the Castle document and its implications. They had emptied the shops of food and equipment. Those manoeuvres on Sunday could turn out to be something big. They had to be prepared both for this world and the next.

  In such a climate, nothing was more consoling than the words of a priest, ‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis …’

  In Rathgar, MacNeill had gathered an odd group together to discuss the crisis which had deepened with the latest news that the German arms boat had ended in the sea. Several were distinguished men with no connection whatsoever with the Volunteer movement.

  Arthur Griffith was there, as were Sean Fitzgibbon, Liam O’Briain, Joe Plunkett and MacDonagh. No one doubted either Arthur Griffith’s integrity or his grasp of Irish affairs. Cold, humourless, lonely, his well-argued opposition to violence had a strong impact on MacNeill. The general feeing was that they had no hope of winning in the west.

  ‘In my book,’ MacNeill said, ‘any war that is destined in advance to fail is immoral.’

  Griffith, standing behind MacNeill’s chair with his back to the fire, agreed. ‘Humbug wrapped in green is as despicable as humbug wrapped in ermine and labelled law by the British.’

  Joe Plunkett and MacDonagh were on their own.

  After a long, one-sided debate, MacNeill announced: ‘Gentlemen, to stop this useless slaughter, I am cancelling tomorrow’s manoeuvres.’

  MacDonagh gasped in incredulity.

  ‘Messengers will take this order to all key commandants throughout the country.’

  ‘Our men would never trust us again,’ said MacDonagh.

  ‘In any case,’ Plunkett added, in a thin, sickly voice, ‘the rising is going to take place, regardless. If you confuse our men by cancelling the manoeuvres, you will not stop the slaughter, you will only add to it.’

  ‘My mind is made up,’ affirmed MacNeill.

  His two critics got to their feet. MacDonagh, his big, grey eyes uncharacteristically sombre, gestured around him. ‘These gentlemen are not my colleagues.’

  MacNeill asked him what he was going to do.

  ‘I will consult with colleagues and either return or send a message.’

  The O’Rahilly said, ‘Pearse is a zealot. In his vanity, he wants to be remembered.’

  ‘Zealot, maybe,’ Griffith said shrewdly, ‘but he is too proud to be vain.’

  MacNeill drafted a note and read it out: ‘Volunteers completely deceived. All orders for Sunday cancelled.’

  The group approved of it.

  ‘I will
add,’ MacNeill said, ‘a personal letter to the commandants in major areas like Cork, Limerick, Belfast.’

  He drafted it at once. It read:

  ‘Every influence should be used immediately and throughout the day to secure the faithful execution of this order, as any failure to obey may result in a very grave catastrophe.’

  It was late when The O’Rahilly drove west to Limerick.

  O’Lochlainn went north to Dundalk and Coalisland.

  Jim Ryan, who had just returned from Cork, telling them the rising was on, was sent back to say it was cancelled, after all.

  In Tralee, Monteith received an answer to the message he had sent to MacNeill but which had been handed to Connolly.

  ‘Go ahead,’ was his reply, ‘everything is all right.’

  ‘Go ahead with what?’ gasped Monteith.

  He had no information and attempts to get co-operation from the locals aroused only animosity. His one consolation was that Dublin knew the score and still wanted the west to fight.

  Very well, he would make sure they fought all right.

  Beverley was exhausted. He had only joined the Brigade to get out of Germany. He had no stomach for this or any other fight. He had not even liked Casement.

  He admitted everything to the constable who had arrested him. His real name was Daniel Julian Bailey. He had come on a submarine with two others, Robert Monteith and Sir Roger Casement. They were in league with a German arms vessel disguised as a Norwegian tramp.

  With a trembling hand, the Constable picked up the phone to tell the District Inspector of Tralee that the prisoner had turned King’s Evidence.

  Britten commended him.

  So the third man was the notorious Sir Roger Casement.

  Lord Wimborne had changed his mind. The Sinn Feiners might not be deterred after all. He called Nathan again and a tired Under-Secretary walked over to see him.

  ‘It seems to me, on reflection,’ the Viceroy said, ‘that revolutionaries do not act according to reason. Desperate men resort to desperate measures. I put it to you once again that we should arrest the Sinn Fein leaders straight away.’