Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  He would need great guile to get the information he needed.

  A stenographer, Sergeant Gill, was writing everything down. Thomson guessed that part of Casement’s stiffness and reticence was due to that, so he soon gave Gill a break for coffee.

  As the young stenographer left, he brushed past Casement and whispered, for only him to hear, ‘Greater love than this no man hath.’

  ‘At last,’ Thomson said, with a sigh, as the door closed, ‘now we can talk more freely, old man. What would you say to a brandy?’

  Clarke, who presided over the meeting of the Military Council, was not his usual cool self.

  ‘Time’s running out,’ he said in a rush. ‘Put off the rising and the men’ll get confused. Go ahead and the rest of the country’ll take it that MacNeill’s notice is a hoax or a Castle trick.’

  As so often in the past, Old Tom looked in McDermott’s direction. For the very first time, Sean shook his head.

  The rest also said No. For most Volunteers, even for many IRB men, they argued, MacNeill was the voice of the movement and they would obey the cancellation.

  ‘Only till they see Dublin rise,’ Clarke urged.

  Once more, McDermott shook his head.

  ‘All right,’ said Clarke, gritting his teeth, ‘what’ll we do?’

  The consensus was they needed a delay. Not so long that the authorities would have a chance to round them up. A botched rising was preferable to giving in without a shot being fired. That would end any chance of a rebellion for generations.

  ‘But,’ Sean said, ‘we need time to sort out the mess.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Clarke.

  Pearse suggested, ‘Tomorrow at noon.’

  Six hands were raised around the table.

  Slowly, Clarke raised his, making the critical decision unanimous.

  They would send MacNeill a note to say they had cancelled manoeuvres. That would keep him quiet and convince him he had quashed the rising. It would also stop the provinces rising before the main Dublin operation was under way.

  ‘Sounds fine so far,’ said Clarke. ‘Go on.’

  McDermott said, ‘We simply add that manoeuvres have been put back by twenty-four hours.’

  ‘That way,’ Plunkett put in, ‘we will still seem to have MacNeill’s authority.’

  MacNeill’s intervention was bound to mean a lower turn-out. But once the rising began, those with stomach for a fight would join in.

  McDonagh pointed out that Monday had certain advantages over Sunday, at least as far as Dublin was concerned.

  ‘Most British soldiers will be at the Races. We should have the city to ourselves.’

  As Brigade Commander he drafted a letter, dated 24 April, for mobilizing the Dublin Brigade at 10 a.m. the next day. After that the Military Council returned to the next day’s tactics. They were angry that, after months of planning, they were having to improvise.

  The German Admiral Staff received two telegrams in quick succession around 10 o’clock.

  The first, sent via Rotterdam, read:

  ‘London stop Nordisk steamer Aud sunk today off Daunts Rock stop Crew will arrive here stop.’

  The second was from Christiania:

  ‘According Lloyds Norwegian steamer Aud sunk off Daunts Rock twenty-second of fourth stop Hails Bergen 1100 tons built 1907 stop.’

  Only now did Berlin grasp that no U-boat had picked up the message transmitted from Nauen. The Irish expedition had failed.

  The Kaiser was informed.

  The Press was told to play down what was an insignificant episode of the war. But both the Admiralty and the General Staff knew that if the plan had succeeded, giving them U-boat facilities on Irish coasts, the war might have been that much nearer a satisfactory conclusion.

  Nathan took a stroll from the Castle to the Viceregal Lodge, arriving at 10.30 a.m. He was in the cheeriest of moods.

  ‘You saw the notice in the Sunday Independent, I take it?’

  ‘I did,’ Wimborne replied.

  ‘So there is no need for any precipitate action now.’

  ‘I do not agree,’ Wimborne rasped. ‘Did you not hear those rabid socialists have stolen 250 pounds of gelignite? Not to make fireworks, I presume.’

  ‘I don’t deny they were planning something.’

  ‘Were,’ retorted Wimborne, his face flushed. ‘It would not surprise me if the ring-leaders are even now sitting in conclave conspiring against us.’

  ‘In the circumstances,’ said Nathan, smiling palely, ‘that would be a most unreasonable thing to do.’

  ‘You talk,’ Wimborne said, ‘as if they are Englishmen. If they had one grain of common sense they would be grateful to stay British for ever.’

  ‘Even they know they cannot succeed.’

  Once again Wimborne bridled. ‘What if they know that and decide to act because of that?’

  Nathan’s tidy mind was baffled. ‘Explain, please.’

  ‘Has it not occurred to you that this scum, this riff-raff might act unexpectedly not because they hope to succeed but simply because it is unexpected? Suppose their only wish is to surprise us, even if only by their own romantic stupidity?’

  ‘They have only to think about—’

  ‘They don’t think. Irishmen, as far as England is concerned, are incapable of thinking.’

  ‘I’ll ponder,’ said a bemused Nathan.

  ‘I insist you round the ring-leaders up at once,’ Wimborne stormed. ‘Strengthen the Castle guard, stop all leave for the police and the Army.

  Nathan bristled. ‘That is not necessary at present and, in any case, ultra vires. I will cable Birrell. for permission, Excellency.’

  The use of the title was a reminder that this was an administrative act.

  Wimborne glanced at the clock. ‘Heavens,’ he said, with a sudden switch of mood, ‘it’s nearly eleven. Far too late for a rising now.’

  Tongue-in-cheek, a relieved Nathan agreed that the best rebellions always occurred before breakfast.

  No sooner had Nathan left for the Castle than Wimborne dictated a letter to Birrell. He wanted all the rebels arrested for treachery and interned.

  ‘I am afraid if you stir up the hornets’ nest and leave the hornets we may have serious trouble.’

  He concluded: ‘This is in great haste for the post. I hear there is still a possibility of conscription. All the more reason for getting our suspects packed away. We shall never get a better opportunity. If you agree, do write and ginger Nathan.’

  He rubbed his hands.

  ‘Get that off at once, Basil. God only knows what those rebels are up to now.’

  At Liberty Hall the seven rebels on the Military Council voted themselves as the new Provisional government.

  Pearse was elected President and Commandant-General of the Irish Republic, James Connolly Vice-President and Commandant-General of the Dublin Division.

  They read through the Proclamation of the Republic. Though written by Pearse, it was influenced by Connolly’s passion for equality and social justice. None of them seemed to notice that it bore no date.

  Clarke said, ‘Mr President, if you would sign first.’

  Pearse shook his head. ‘You have the longest record of us all.’

  With the rest agreeing, he handed Clarke the pen.

  Misty-eyed, Old Tom put his name to it, feeling that all the years of imprisonment had been worthwhile. They passed the pen from one to the other like knights handling the Holy Grail.

  In the chaos of events, only one thing was certain: they were all signing their death warrant.

  Afterwards, Connolly took McDonagh to the machine-room and introduced him to the three compositors, Christopher Brady, Michael Molloy and Bill O’Brien. McDonagh shook the hand of each and gave Brady the text of the Proclamation.

  ‘If you don’t want to do it, we won’t be worse friends for that.’

  The three said it was an honour to set up such an historic document.

  The men from Dingle arriv
ed in Tralee exhausted, some having marched forty miles. They were not a little upset that they had just been jeered at and told to go home. Monteith found it odd that they had marched for hours without rations and with precious little equipment. Their guns would frighten a few crows. After the women provided them with breakfast they braved the concrete floor and went to sleep.

  Within the hour, about 320 men had gathered from outlying districts, 200 of them armed. Of them 20 per cent were old men or boys of from fourteen to seventeen without so much as a walking-stick.

  Monteith kept pinching himself to make sure he was not dreaming. He was risking life and limb for this?

  He asked the Dingle Commandant to make sure his men bought themselves a couple of days’ supply of food.

  ‘Otherwise, I take it your men are ready.’

  ‘Indeed, they have all made their Easter duties.’

  Monteith, a Protestant, blinked.

  ‘Now, Captain,’ said the Commandant, whistling for his men to rise, ‘we’re off.’

  ‘Off? Off where?’

  ‘Why, sir, to Holy Mass, of course. ’Tis Easter Day.’

  And he marched them in fours to church.

  Scouts from Fenit and Ardfert reported that there were a few more police on the roads than usual, that was all. Two British warships were still in the Bay.

  Monteith kitted himself out with a makeshift uniform and a ten-shot Mauser pistol similar to the one he had buried in Banna Strand. He wondered where Casement and Beverley were now.

  Nathan sent a coded message to Birrell, telling him that Bailey had admitted that Casement and Monteith had led the expedition from Berlin.

  ‘In view of definite association of Irish Volunteers with enemy now established, I agreed with Lord Lieutenant that leaders should be arrested and interned in England. Can this be proceeded with subject to concurrence of the Law Officers, Military Authorities and Home Office?’

  In a hurry, he returned to his lodge to pick up Estelle for lunch at Sir Horace Plunkett’s place, Kilteragh, in the leafy suburb of Foxrock.

  Though Nathan’s message would not arrive for twenty-four hours, Birrell was already very pleased with himself, especially after Basil Thomson had told him who the prisoner was.

  His patience and guile had paid off. The Sinn Fein pig had cut its own throat. He had not needed to do anything; they, with ‘the lunatic traitor’ Casement, had brought disaster on themselves. He was reminded of the Irishman who, in attempting to catch a salmon with a scythe, sliced off his own head.

  He wrote to Nathan, ‘You may rely upon my being in Dublin by the end of the week, whatever happens I must come.’

  In Tralee, the rain that started at eleven was pelting down at midday when a man in a raincoat with his collar up slipped into the Hall. Cahill immediately buttonholed him.

  Monteith was fed up with all these whisperings. Either he was in charge or he wasn’t. He grabbed the newcomer by the shoulder and spun him round. It was Lieutenant Whelan of the Limerick City Regiment.

  ‘Paddy,’ he gasped, ‘when are you going out?’

  ‘We’re not, Bob. I’ve been sent to tell Stack that all operations for today are cancelled.’

  Monteith, remembering Connolly’s message the day before, found it hard to take in.

  ‘Who said so?’

  Whelan told him that The O’Rahilly had motored to Cork and stopped off at Limerick. He had brought a countermand by MacNeill. To spare him a journey, Whelan had come to Tralee.

  ‘Thank God.’

  Monteith, who knew The O’Rahilly well, assumed that his note to MacNeill was behind this.

  Casement was right, then, the rising had depended on German support. In view of his own experiences in Tralee, no other decision was possible.

  As the men came back from Mass, shaking the rain off their clothes, Monteith realized his own predicament. He was wanted by the police on more than one score; now hundreds of locals had seen him. Could he rely on them not to give him away, even through a slip of the tongue in a pub?

  He took Cahill aside. ‘Listen, Paddy, this alters everything. I hate to inflict my personal problems on anyone but I’m the only one around here who’s in any danger. Can you find me a place to hide till this blows over?’

  While Cahill tried to organize something, the Volunteers drilled and practised pitching tents in a neighbouring field.

  All the time the rain bucketed down.

  Sir Horace Plunkett, a rather deaf old gentleman, had been for a quarter of a century the leading light in the Co-operative movement. Small and wiry, he managed by talking very rapidly to finish his sentences inside two minutes. Lunch at his Foxrock mansion was a glittering occasion. Among the guests this Easter Day were Lord and Lady Fingal.

  Nathan in a loud luncheon voice regaled them with stories of recent events, ending with, ‘So I give you a categorical assurance there will be no rising.’

  They all clapped and banged silver spoons on the table.

  Even during luncheon Nathan’s mind could not rest. He planned to spend the rest of the day conferring with Army and police chiefs. How would they get the explosives back from Liberty Hall? When Birrell gave the word, what was the best way to round up the Sinn Fein leaders?

  All day, the Military Council kept in close touch with Ned Daly and de Valera, the only two battalion commanders not on the Council. They were told to hold their men in readiness for further orders.

  When the meeting finally broke up, Connolly found Nora.

  ‘We’re going ahead tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Take the girls to the Countess’s place and come back here early in the morning.’

  About 3 p.m., Kathleen Clarke was at home. She was upset about the notice in the paper and wondering how this would affect the rising when in walked Tom with Sean McGarry.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘MacNeill,’ he said, over-simplifying, ‘betrayed us. He countermanded his own orders of the previous day. He could at least have told us.’

  He gave her a gun. ‘Don’t you surrender to the police or the Army, Kattie. Better be dead than surrender.’

  In mid-afternoon, Connolly and Mallin, to prove their independence, led out the Citizen Army on manoeuvres.

  They marched through all the principal thoroughfares, singing with gusto their usual repertoire: ‘Wrap the Green Flag Round Me’, ‘Ireland Over All’, and the song for which the Countess had written the lyrics: ‘The Germans are Winning the War, Me Boys.’

  Passing the City Hall, they veered left and headed for the Upper Castle Yard. The gates were closed. The sentry on duty shouted, ‘Guard, turn out!’ and they came running, rifles pointed. Captain Sean Connolly smiled grimly to himself. Tomorrow, the march on the Castle would be for real.

  James Connolly ordered the Citizen Army to march on. The soldiers in the Yard returned with relief to the guard-room.

  Back at the Hall, James Connolly told his men they were confined to barracks for the night. They cheered when he said, ‘From now on, you are under arms and you won’t lay them down till you’ve struck a blow for Ireland.’

  Pearse wrote a note for MacNeill.

  ‘Commandant McDonagh is to call on you this afternoon. He countermanded the Dublin parades today with my authority. I confirmed your countermand as the leading men would not have obeyed it without my confirmation.’

  At 5 p.m., McDonagh took it to MacNeill’s home where he spoke for a long time with him and Sean Fitzgibbon. He made clear his loyalty to Ireland but he was necessarily vague about the details. He left, saying mysteriously, ‘In future, I intend to keep my own counsel.’

  Only at 5 p.m. did word reach de Valera that the rising would be at noon next day. A dour young man who liked to play things by the book, he was glad to be able to obey the letter of MacNeill’s notice while disobeying its obvious spirit.

  To McDonagh’s call for mobilization next day, he added his own signature.

  By the time it was dark the Tralee Volunteers had been drilling in t
he rain for what seemed an eternity. They returned to the Rink where the women fed them.

  Cahill had made arrangements for Monteith to go home with the Ballymacelligott corps, since they lived nearby. He was given an overcoat, a Volunteer cap, a bandolier and an old double-barrelled shot-gun.

  The police were posted at the gas-lit exit to check on them as they left. But the corps waited for a downpour and then marched briskly out in fours, with a band playing noisily. It was wet as only a west of Ireland town can be. People huddled steamily on street corners and looked out of pub windows booing the Volunteers as they passed. Monteith marched painfully in boots that brought on blisters, thinking of home and wife and children far away.

  Four miles out of town, the squad dismissed. Monteith went to Lieutenant Byrne’s place for supper.

  Back at the Castle after lunch, Nathan collected Colonel Cowan, in military command while Friend was in England, and Major Lewis, temporarily in charge of the Castle forces.

  It was approaching 6 o’clock as they drove to the Viceregal Lodge. On the way, Nathan brought up the question of the stolen gelignite and the Viceroy’s proposal to raid Liberty Hall, presently crammed with the Citizen Army.

  ‘I would like you,’ Nathan said, ‘to work out a strategy to keep fighting to the minimum.’

  Wimborne’s hope of winning the military over to his point of view was soon dashed. They explained the difficulty of taking the Hall, especially when it was well-guarded.

  Cowan said they would have to bring in artillery from Athlone, eighty miles away. Major Lewis added that storming a building in the city centre was not easy. They would need to consult the police, the General Staff and Major Price, the Intelligence Officer.

  While Wimborne fumed at what he took to be a conspiracy against him, Nathan said, ‘We shall certainly call on those experts some time.’

  ‘What’s wrong with tonight?’ the Viceroy demanded in a whistlelike voice.

  ‘It is Easter Sunday,’ Nathan pointed out.