Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

‘I am not complaining.’

  ‘Very magnanimous of you, Excellency,’ Nathan said, masking his irritation. ‘I’ll do my best to have everyone here, then, at, shall we say, 10 o’clock?’

  At 8 p.m., Tom Clarke went with Piaras Beasley, Daly’s second in command, to the meeting place in North Frederick Street. Beasley had always found Clarke a dry, unemotional man. Yet he was throbbing with anger.

  ‘Our plans were perfect,’ he said, ‘and now everything’s spoiled. I feel as if I wanna go away in a corner and cry.’

  On the way they passed the Gresham Hotel, where Sir Francis Fletcher Vane was dressing for dinner. Black trousers with a broad braid, white stiff shirt and white tie, gardenia in the buttonhole. He checked in the mirror. Passable if only his razor could reach that tuft of beard in his cleft chin.

  He had come to town from Longford to address a monster meeting of young people at the Mansion House on Tuesday evening on the theme of ‘Civic Responsibility’.

  Never one to miss an opportunity of enjoying himself, he had invited a beautiful young thing whom he ran into in the lobby to dine with him.

  Clarke was talking with McDermott at the meeting in North Frederick Street when Pearse arrived and handed out a terse note to each of the couriers.

  ‘We start operations at noon today, Monday. Carry out your instructions. P. H. Pearse.’

  Those who had furthest to travel set out at once. The rest were told to deliver the note first thing in the morning.

  Thomas MacDonagh went home from seeing MacNeill to be greeted by his wife, Muriel. They went hand in hand to the children’s bedrooms. MacDonagh feared this might be the last time he would ever kiss them good-night. Flesh of his flesh, living flesh of the flesh that perishes. In his heart, his wife was a widow already and his boy and girl fatherless. Yet in his children, something of himself, of themselves would endure.

  Afterwards, with a heavy heart, he wrote for the record an account of his interview with MacNeill. This, with his will already drawn up, was to be his testament.

  I have guarded secrets which I am bound to keep. I have,

  I think, acted honourably and fairly by all my associates.

  I have had only one motive in all my actions, namely,

  the good of my country.

  The high-level conference began in the drawing-room of the Viceregal Lodge on the stroke of 10 p.m. Apart from Cowan and Lewis, there were present Edgeworth-Johnstone, Chief Commissioner of the DMP, Major Price and Captain Robertson of the General Staff.

  An edgy Viceroy said, ‘No word yet from Birrell?’

  ‘I do not expect to hear until after the Easter break,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Right.’

  The Viceroy jabbed his index finger for emphasis.

  ‘In addition to raiding Liberty Hall, I propose we round up sixty to a hundred leading Sinn Feiners.’

  ‘You cannot mean tonight,’ Nathan commented, dryly.

  ‘When better? Leave it till tomorrow and their camp-followers might put up a fight. The dark’s the best time for this sort of thing.’

  Even the usually suave Nathan blinked at the absurdity of this proposal. ‘I think we should act according to the book.’

  ‘Do nothing, you mean.’

  ‘I mean, Excellency, we have to make sure that every charge made can be sustained in law.’

  ‘By which time the callous law-breakers may have taken over the city.’

  ‘Hardly likely,’ Nathan said, with a forced smile.

  ‘If you haven’t the stomach for it, Mr Under-Secretary, I will sign the arrest-warrants myself and get the Home Secretary’s authorization later.’

  Nathan thanked him for his generosity. ‘I seem to remember, Excellency, everyone involved was dismissed when three or four civilians were killed at Bachelor’s Walk. If you miscalculate and the Sinn Feiners riot, there could be a massacre.’

  ‘Massacre?’

  The Viceroy went quiet for a bit, then turned to Edgeworth-Johnstone. ‘Chief Commissioner?’

  He began diplomatically, ‘I think the Viceroy is right, absolutely. It is imperative to occupy the rebels’ strongholds and take their leaders into custody as soon as possible.’

  ‘Which is precisely when?’ Nathan demanded, archly.

  ‘First, let me say how we should go about it. A combined police and military operation. Arrest twenty or thirty leaders in their homes simultaneously so they do not scatter.’

  He cast a fawning glance in Wimborne’s direction. ‘I agree with His Excellency on a second score: this should be timed for about two in the morning.’

  Nathan pressed him again. ‘In, say, four hours’ time?’

  ‘If it were possible to do it in that time-span, I, naturally, would be all for it.’

  Very quietly, Nathan asked, ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘These leaders,’ Edgeworth-Johnstone went on, as if he had not heard, ‘should be put on a special boat and sent across the Channel for internment on the other side.’

  ‘Excellent,’ the Viceroy purred. ‘Excellent.’

  Encouraged, the Chief Commissioner went on: ‘Meanwhile, occupy their strongholds in the dead of night and put pickets on them so that when the rank-and-file wake up in the morning they will realize that resistance is impossible.’

  Nathan clapped noiselessly.

  ‘Then,’ Edgeworth-Johnstone said in an ailing voice, ‘we institute a house-to-house search for weapons and … and forbid them to arm and drill … any more.’

  ‘I cannot find a flaw in your strategy.’ Nathan looked around the table. ‘Can anyone?’ They all shook their heads.

  ‘And all this is really possible, Chief Commissioner, in’ – he checked his watch – ‘about three and a half hours’ time?’

  Wimborne, who had learned a bit of caution, said, ‘May I suggest, Mr Under-Secretary, that you authorize it tonight.’

  ‘Me?’ said Nathan breezily. ‘Well, if the Chief Commissioner can guarantee that all this can be done in three and a half hours.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  It was scarcely audible.

  ‘Speak up, Mr Edgeworth-Johnstone,’ urged Nathan, as the soldiers present tried to keep a straight face. ‘Are you saying this cannot be done tonight?’

  ‘It can … not, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ Nathan looked surprised. ‘Then I hardly think it worth His Excellency putting his head on the block.’

  The military confirmed that what the Chief Inspector had suggested would take a large force to implement. Reinforcements from the Curragh, artillery from Athlone. Even then there were problems. Troop movements would alert the Sinn Feiners. They would go into hiding or, worse, start the very rising the authorities were trying to prevent.

  Nathan thanked the three officers for sharing their expertise.

  ‘For myself, gentlemen, I cannot believe that Easter Monday, with thousands of visitors in Dublin, would be the ideal day to raid Liberty Hall. Especially with the rebels annoyed at having to abandon their fun and games at the last minute.’

  The meeting broke up at 11.30 p.m. with Nathan promising that while he was unable to act without London’s authorization, he would arrest the chief suspects very soon. Possibly within two or three days.

  Finally, he turned to Major Price.

  ‘Perhaps you will join me at the Castle to help me draw up a comprehensive list.’

  ‘With pleasure, sir. When?’

  Nathan eyed the Viceroy. ‘Why, first thing in the morning.’

  Monteith had switched to Private McEllistrim’s house on the edge of Tralee. He was treated with the utmost kindness and given a feather bed. He would have to hide out for some time, but he was beginning to feel that he might elude his pursuers after all. They might not be so vigilant, now that the rising had been called off.

  On the other side of Ireland, at St Enda’s, Mrs Pearse knocked and entered Patrick’s study. He was at his desk.

  ‘Don’t work too late, my son. You need to conserve your strengt
h.’

  ‘Won’t be long, Mother.’ He looked up at her. ‘This is to be the greatest insurrection in the history of Ireland.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, a catch in her throat.

  She blessed him and went upstairs.

  Pearse took up his pen and went on from where he had left off.

  ‘Dear Mrs Bloomer, I enclose a cheque for £5 as a further instalment. Wishing you a very happy Easter. P. H. Pearse.’

  In the basement of Liberty Hall, the three compositors were steadily turning out copies of the Proclamation. They worked the night through on an ancient Wharfdale Double-Crown with cracked rollers and leaky cylinders. The type was supplied by William Henry West from Capel Street, an Englishman and a rebel.

  Type was short. They had mixed founts, and many missing and battered letters. Some Es were made up of Fs and sealing wax. It meant they had to set up the type more than once. It was hard to ink it evenly and maintain a steady pressure on the rollers so that almost every copy was smudged or suffered, in parts, from barely decipherable print.

  Dawn was breaking when their work was done. They had produced about 2,500 copies.

  As ordered by Connolly, they handed them over to Helena Moloney for distribution in the city and, hopefully, in major towns and villages throughout Ireland, on the next and greatest day in the history of Ireland.

  PART THREE

  THE BATTLE

  24–30 April 1916

  ‘But where can we draw water,’

  Said Pearse to Connolly,

  ‘When all the wells are parched away?

  O plain as plain can be

  There’s nothing but our own red blood

  Can make a right Rose Tree.’

  W. B. Yeats

  MONDAY

  Morning presented itself as crisp and pure as the first bite of an apple. The many cyclists and pedestrians moving purposefully through Dublin were in vivid contrast to the rest of a sleeping city on this national holiday.

  Two couriers, Marie Peroltz and a male companion, rang on the door of a house in Mount Street shared by two petite young women, Elizabeth O’Farrell and Julia Grenan. They were ready and opened at once. Marie Peroltz handed over two notes.

  ‘You, Elizabeth, are to go to Athenry. Julia, your despatch is for Dundalk and Carrickmacross. When you get back, join the HQ Staff in the Post Office. Mr Connolly says you’ll be needed to carry messages. Goodbye and good luck.’

  In other streets, couriers were shoving out of bed men suffering from hangovers. ‘Get dressed. Full uniforms.’

  ‘What’s that you say? Surely manoeuvres were cancelled.’

  A piece of paper was waved in front of many a sleep-lined face. ‘Can’t you read? The four city battalions will parade for inspection and route march at 10 a.m. today. It’s signed by MacDonagh and Pearse.’

  Many did not answer the rap on the door. In the confusion of orders and counter-orders, they had gone from Dublin or were too drunk to hear.

  When Nora went to say goodbye to her father at the Hall, he gave her a message from Pearse to Dr McCartan in the north.

  Holding up a copy of the Proclamation, he said, ‘Read it, lass. It’s too risky for you to take a copy with you but try to remember it and repeat it to everyone you meet.’

  It contained some of her father’s most cherished beliefs. ‘We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland … The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equality and equal opportunities to all its citizens … cherishing all the children of the nation equally.’

  It spoke of a National government to be ‘elected by the suffrage of all her men and women’. If that came about, Ireland would be the first completely democratic nation in the world.

  MacDonagh said, jokingly, ‘Here we are starting a rebellion and all you can think of is how soon you can get out of town.’

  ‘Take this, Nora.’ Her father handed her a small nickel-plated revolver with a box of cartridges. ‘Look after the girls for me.’ He delved into his pocket and came up with money for her journey. ‘Nono,’ he said, resorting to his pet-name for her, ‘God protect you.’

  She clung to him, too choked to speak.

  ‘Be proud, Nono,’ he said. ‘You helped save the day.’

  ‘Goodbye, Daddy.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  He stepped back and saluted her.

  Pearse had spent most of the night trying to get his accounts and tax demands in order.

  He put on his smart green Volunteer uniform, with Boer-type slouch hat. He carried a repeating pistol, ammunition pouch, canteen and provisions. Also a sword. Finally, he donned his greatcoat.

  Mrs Pearse, proud and misty-eyed, was there to see Pat and Willie off.

  ‘I pinned a miraculous medal on your uniforms last night,’ she said. ‘So be careful and do nothing rash.’

  Pearse solemnly promised.

  With his faithful brother beside him, his sword trailing behind, the Commandant-General, Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Irish Republic, President-Elect of the Irish government, rode off on his bicycle.

  Mrs Pearse watched from the top step of St Enda’s till they were out of sight. She had a mother’s intuition that she would never see them again.

  The five-mile journey to Liberty Hall in heavy uniform and on a hot and humid day took its toll, especially as Pearse was a trifle overweight.

  It was approaching 8.30 a.m. when Father Aloysius, a thin, ascetic, kind-faced Capuchin, was in the heart of Dublin walking to the Convent in Gloucester Street to say Mass. Two cyclists, with coats over their military uniform, passed him, puffing and blowing. He recognized the Pearse brothers.

  The holiday began with almost summer sunshine and skies of lilac-hue. ‘A grand day,’ said one. ‘Grand, indeed, thank God,’ echoed another. It was a welcome change after a couple of weeks of typically Irish mongrel days, part sun, part rain but chiefly rain. Spring flowers bloomed in abundance, with papal yellow predominating.

  Dublin, after London, was the greatest city in the British Empire. In eighteenth-century grandeur it excelled Edinburgh and Bath. Its railway stations, which would have passed as palaces in less-favoured cities, were crammed with holiday-makers streaming in and out of the capital.

  Stephen’s Green, the quarter-mile-square of rural peace in the city centre, was filling with smart bewhiskered men in bowlers or boaters. Most were up for the Royal Dublin Society Spring Show and staying in the Shelbourne Hotel. Their womenfolk walked dutifully beside them. In long sombre dresses whose ends they bunched up as they walked and topped by sturdy broad-brimmed hats, they looked like solid furniture in motion. Daughters had pony tails; small boys wheeled their hoops, their caps held on by elastic that left a red weal under their chins from ear to ear. The gaily dressed children fed crusts to ducks on the ponds or played on grass so green it seemed lit from within.

  Phoenix Park on the western edge of the city also had many visitors. Most entered through Parkgate which, in best Irish tradition, was the only Park entrance without a gate. At 1,750 acres, it was bigger than several London parks put together. It had free-ranging deer and, in season, strange English pursuits such as cricket and polo, no doubt one reason why under its broad shady trees many an Irishman had plotted revolution. Maybe the heady smells of Dublin’s ‘black wine’ from Guinness’s Brewery across the River Liffey contributed to the madness.

  Near the Brewery was the Royal Hospital of Kilmainham. A retirement home for Irish soldiers, it stood in 250 glorious acres snipped off the Phoenix Park.

  Another British monument was the Viceregal Lodge, a low-lying two-storeyed white building in 160 acres. Walking towards it on this luminous morning were Sir Matthew Nathan and his sister-in-law. Estelle noted how grave he was as he hinted of trouble in the air. Leaving her at the main entrance, he went in to see the Viceroy. He did not stay long.

  Their brief constitutional over, Nathan saw Estelle back to his own lodge before leaving for the Castle.

&nb
sp; With Lent over, Dubliners felt free to smoke, drink – and gamble. Many were on their way north for the Grand National. Senior officials in the Administration and Army officers were driving there, too.

  Many Dubliners went with their families to the east coast beaches of Killiney, Dalkey, Bray and Malahide. The open-decked trams were crowded, and terminuses, like the one at Nelson’s Pillar in O’Connell Street were thronged with people in their holiday best.

  Most remained in a city well stocked with spoiled priests and spoiled poets and those haggard, sad-faced men who ‘drank quietly and deeply and always’.

  Too few had responded to orders and were dressing militarily, preparing, as some thought, for manoeuvres, but, really, as their officers knew, for battle. Amateurs with mostly old-fashioned single-shot German rifles were preparing to take on the mightiest and best armed force in the world. A thousand men and women against an Empire.

  It was 10 o’clock when Casement was brought by Inspector Sandercock to Scotland Yard from Brixton Prison, where he had spent another sleepless night.

  In an ante-room, Thomson and Hall were trying to work out something that puzzled them. In the prisoner’s possession when he was picked up in Tralee were a few pictures. They bore the name of a 3rd Avenue photographer. The woman in them, in a broad-brimmed hat, was very beautiful, as were her two little girls.

  ‘Do you reckon he’s gone straight, BT?’

  Thomson said, ‘Maybe like that Oscar Wilde chap he can manage both.’

  ‘Odd lot, the Irish,’ murmured Hall.

  When the stenographer was sent out for a coffee, Casement surprised them by saying, ‘May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course, old boy,’ Thomson said, genially.

  ‘Was there, um, a disturbance in Dublin yesterday?’

  Thomson jerked his head back. ‘Drunken brawl?’

  ‘No, something more … more.…’

  ‘Oh, you mean an armed rising?’ Casement nodded. ‘Nothing like that.’

  Casement’s eyes pleaded with him. ‘You give me your word?’

  ‘I thought we were all gentlemen here,’ said an offended Thomson. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, Sir Roger, I give you my solemn word, hope to die, that sort of thing.’