Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  He had problems of his own. Michael King had just whispered in his ear that the men he needed to take the Central Telephone Exchange had not turned up. It was a disaster. British forces within the city would have no difficulty communicating.

  ‘Never mind, Mick,’ Connolly said. ‘We’ll take it later.’

  Pearse, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, placed himself at the head of the column. Behind him was Connolly, squat and bandylegged, with his highly polished leggings. Next to Connolly was Joe Plunkett, the Chief of Staff. His neck was swathed in bandages and it hurt him even to walk. But in the best romantic tradition he unsheathed his sword for the march on the GPO.

  Church bells rang out the midday Angelus, causing pious drunks in pubs to push their pints to arms’ length, drowning out the megaphonic cry of gulls above the Liffey.

  ‘Qui-ick, march,’ Connolly commanded, and the Battalion set off on its three-minute march down Middle Abbey Street and across O’Connell Street, the grandest boulevard in Dublin. A right wheel brought them to the Post Office.

  Waiting for them were Clarke and McDermott, who never wore uniform or took part in manoeuvres.

  O’Connell Street was dominated by a 135-foot pillar, erected in 1808. On top was a thirteen-foot Nelson, carved out of soft white Portland stone. A number of men, women and children had paid their threepence for the privilege of climbing the Pillar’s 168 narrow winding steps. On the balcony they looked down on the GPO, three-storeyed, with an Ionic portico of six fluted columns and a pediment topped by statues of Hibernia, Mercury and Fidelity.

  Three famous adulterers were honoured in the Street. Apart from Nelson in the centre, to the north was the monument to Charles Stewart Parnell. To the south was the black statue of Daniel O’Connell who said, ‘No amount of human liberty is worth the shedding of a single drop of human blood.’

  Immediately below the sightseers on the Pillar balcony were a hundred armed and fully laden men.

  For the sheer hell of it, Connolly yelled, ‘Charge’, and his troops, with pikes, rifles and bayonets held high, galloped through the columns into the Post Office.

  Children squealed with delight as a few over-excited rebels fired in the air. The more cautious flower-sellers at the base of the Pillar bundled up their wares and scuttled off.

  The GPO’s main concourse was crowded with customers. Brandishing his revolver, Connolly called, ‘Everybody out’. Many people, mistaking the uniforms, thought they were post office employees. A loud, very English voice was heard asking, ‘What is the world coming to when you cannot buy a stamp in the General Post Office?’

  As warning shots brought down some of the newly stuccoed ceiling, male clerks steeplechased the counters, while girl clerks struggled into coats and pulled on their hats.

  Constable Dunphy, an elderly member of the DMP, was on duty and Lieutenant A. D. Chalmers of the 14th Royal Fusiliers was sending a telegram to his wife in London. Michael Collins, Joe Plunkett’s aide-de-camp, took them prisoners.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ pleaded the policeman.

  ‘We don’t shoot prisoners,’ Collins returned.

  To put the insolent, loud-mouthed Lieutenant in his place, he trussed him up with telephone wire, hoisted him on his back and dumped him in a phone booth opposite the main door.

  The rebels took over houses on the corners of the approach roads to the GPO and at the southern end of O’Connell Street, on Bachelor’s Walk and Eden Quay.

  Norway, having finished drawing up the Post Office document, knocked and entered the Under-Secretary’s office.

  Just then a group of the Irish Citizen Army marched up Cork Hill to the main Castle Gate. There were many veterans in the Castle Hospital, recovering from war wounds. Hearing the tramp of feet, the able-bodied among them rushed to the windows where they saw a contingent in green uniforms.

  Sean Connolly had a key to the City Hall. From the roof, he would be able to cover the Castle Gate. But a big locked iron gate prevented him reaching the Hall door. It meant a swift change of plans. With a sixteen-strong squad, he directly approached the Upper Yard, known to the locals as ‘The Devil’s Half-Acre’. Over the gate sat the bronze figure of Justice, her back to the city. She was holding scales, both of them holed to stop the rain forcing one pan lower than the other, thus spoiling the illusion of equity.

  On guard was PC James O’Brien and a soldier with a rifle loaded with blanks. The nurses coming and going always received a smile or a salute from the tall Constable with greying hair and twinkling eyes. A nurse who had been off duty for a couple of hours said, ‘Sinn Feiners are parading in town. People say they’re going to attack the Castle.’ The Constable winked at the Tommy beside him. ‘We’ve heard that sort of silly talk before, miss.’

  The nurse passed through the gate as Sean Connolly’s squad came on the scene, brandishing their weapons. The soldier, not used to this sort of thing, levelled his rifle threateningly. The Constable, pushing it aside, held up his hand.

  ‘Let’s have no trouble, lads. Can’t you go somewhere else on a nice day like this?’

  Yesterday, they would have listened. Not today. This policeman was guarding a building that represented the imperial power that had ground the noses of Irish people in the dust for centuries.

  Sean Connolly, a small, lean man, was on edge like the rest. His thin chin quivered, he breathed heavily through the nostrils of a prominent nose, his narrow eyes got narrower. A professional actor, he knew little or nothing about warfare. He took it for granted that the Castle was swarming with troops who would soon come rushing at them.

  As PC O’Brien was pushing the gate closed, Connolly’s finger trembled on the trigger of his rifle. Knowing the Constable was not armed, he gave him one last chance.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, will you get out of the way?’

  Nathan’s pen was poised to sign the Post Office order, when the shot rang out. The gate was only twenty-five yards from his window. ‘What in the name of—?’

  Even Norway, hard of hearing, jumped. ‘What’s that?’

  Nathan grabbed a revolver out of a drawer. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is probably the long-promised attack on the Castle.’

  For James O’Brien, death was instantaneous. Half his head was blown away at short range.

  ‘Get on in.’

  Despite Sean Connolly’s order, his men held back, overwhelmed with horror at what they had done.

  Another policeman came round the corner to investigate.

  Helena Moloney saved his life by firing her revolver in the air and sending him rushing for cover.

  A priest who chanced to be passing knelt to give the Constable the last rites.

  Countess Markievicz had arrived in Dr Kathleen Lynn’s car just in time to see the Constable fall.

  Dr Lynn said, ‘Let’s get these medical supplies into the City Hall.’

  Sean Connolly had to open the Hall and organize other outposts. He left the Castle to Lieutenant Tom Kain. With only half a dozen men, all Kain could hope to do was try and prevent soldiers leaving the Castle precinct. Stepping round the Constable’s body, he made for the guard-room where the soldier had run for cover.

  ‘Stand aside,’ he called out to his men, as he threw a home-made grenade into the room. Though it failed to explode, they charged in to find six soldiers who surrendered without a fight. The rebels tied them up with their own puttees and grabbed the key to the Upper Yard Gate.

  Nathan was rapidly trying to assess the situation. General Friend was in London. Next in seniority in the Irish Command was Brigadier-General Lowe, and he was at the Curragh. Substituting was Colonel Cowan.

  The CO of the Castle garrison, Colonel Kennard, was also absent. Deputizing was his Adjutant, Major Lewis.

  Not only was the top brass missing. The Ship Street garrison nearby, because of the holiday, had barely two officers and twenty-five men. It hit Nathan like a blow that Dublin Castle was at the mercy of the Sinn Feiners.

  With Norway standing gaping, Nath
an left the room, while Price leaped to the window, emptied his revolver at the rebels and yelled a few orders before following Nathan at the double.

  Norway made his way downstairs to where the Castle messengers were huddled, trembling. They had seen Constable O’Brien lying by the Gate in a pool of blood.

  Price returned to Nathan’s office and telephoned the Ship Street Barracks for reinforcements. He was relieved to find that the telephone worked. It suggested that the rebels were not too well organized.

  He tried the telephone to Irish Command HQ at Parkgate. It was dead. Now he was not so sure.

  *

  The main force of the Citizen Army under Sean Connolly finally gained entry to the City Hall. Others took over the offices of two newspapers, the Daily Express and the Evening Mail. From these heights, their snipers had commanding views of the Castle area, including Nathan’s department.

  The troops left the Ship Street Barracks at the double. Some paused to shut the solid iron Castle Gate behind them and manned the peep-holes. Outside, there were no armed rebels, only a few small ragged children, staring at them open-mouthed.

  The rest of the force ran into the Upper Yard where they were met by a withering hail of fire from the surrounding buildings. One group of soldiers went to the Lower Gate and shot dead a man in civvies. He happened to be one of their own, a Sergeant-Major on leave from Donegal.

  In the State Rooms overlooking the Upper Yard, nurses were tending the sixty-seven wounded veterans. They saw puffs of smoke as snipers on nearby roofs fired on soldiers who were trying to recover the body of the Constable. They eventually picked him up and carried him into the hallway where his helmet fell off. There were two holes in his head, the exit wound being particularly large as though he had been hit with a dum-dum bullet.

  Wandering around, Norway found Nathan with the store-keeper breaking into the armoury to get weapons for the DMP. There were a few revolvers but no cartridges.

  In his office near Nathan’s, the Chief Superintendent of the DMP sent out an alert. ‘I want every available man, also cars and ammunition, to get here at the double.’

  The defence of the Castle now rested on Major Lewis. He was rapidly doing his sums. In Dublin there were about 2,500 troops. Each of the Barracks kept a picket of 100 on permanent standby to assist the DMP in a crisis.

  One thing worried him. Most of the troops, indeed all the infantry, were Irish. Would they fire on their fellow-countrymen? Ulstermen wouldn’t. But even if they remained loyal, would 2,500 troops be enough? He had as yet no idea of the enemy’s strength. It was prudent to call out reserves from the four main Dublin Barracks.

  Nearest the Castle was Richmond Barracks at Kilmainham.

  ‘Send all your men to the Castle at once,’ he told the CO, ‘fully armed.’

  The CO had scarcely put the telephone down when he had a second call: ‘Sinn Feiners have seized the Post Office.’

  Though a picket left Richmond within half an hour, for reasons beyond its control it did not reach the Castle until 9.35 that night.

  It was early morning in New York when Mrs McGowan, Devoy’s secretary-cum-housekeeper, ran excitedly into his office. ‘It’s come, sir.’

  ‘It’ was a message sent the previous day by Tim Ring, the telegraphist on Valentia Island: ‘To Mrs McGowan: Mother operated on successfully today. Signed, Kathleen.’

  Devoy immediately reached for the telephone to tell others in the Clan that the rising had begun.

  By a quirk of fate, the Americans and the Germans heard of the rising just before the British with their extraordinary intelligence network.

  Sean Heuston and his men broke into the Mendicity Institute. Having chased out staff and beggars, they secured doors and windows. Heuston posted his best marksmen at the windows from where they had a splendid view of the quays and across the Liffey to the Royal Barracks. Next, he supervised the building of a barricade on the quayside.

  As yet, the Royal Barracks showed no signs of life. Heuston prayed that they had not been seen breaking in.

  Even so, he had no doubts that the next few hours would be the busiest in his short life.

  Not far away to the east, Eamonn Kent, with forty of his men stationed in outposts, set about taking the South Dublin Union and defending it against potentially massive opposition.

  At a bridge over the Liffey, he and his small party were heartened to run into the Volunteers from the Plunkett family home at Kimmage. With their pikes and blunderbusses, they commandeered a tram. George Plunkett ordered the driver at gun-point to take them non-stop into the city.

  He put aside his gun to get at his wallet. ‘Fifty-two tuppenny tickets, please.’

  Kent’s men entered the Union from two directions and met up at the front gate. The complex not only housed sick and elderly; it had six dormitories for the insane as well as several maternity wards. They chose as their HQ a three-storey stone building, the Nurses’ Home, on the west side of the Union.

  From Richmond Barracks came the strains of the military band.

  ‘They don’t know we’re here yet,’ Cathal Brugha said.

  The music died in the middle of a phrase.

  ‘They know now,’ Kent muttered.

  In the Four Courts area, Daly posted a few men around Church Street where the Capuchins had a Hall. The fathers agreed to let them use it as a hospital.

  He posted snipers everywhere, especially in North King Street which ran east-west across the top of Church Street. He had trams overturned to make barricades and broken glass spread in the roads to prevent a cavalry charge.

  He sent twenty men under Joe McGuinness to take the Four Courts next to the Liffey. Under its giant dome were the law courts. Four men broke into the Lord Chancellor’s Chambers, smashed the tall picture windows overlooking the Liffey and barricaded them with big legal tomes.

  British law had some use, after all.

  MacDonagh marched his Second Battalion from the Green to Jacob’s biscuit factory. On the way, they passed a group of Mallin’s men under Jim MacCormack who were about to take over Harcourt Street Station. MacDonagh called out, ‘Make sure, Captain, that you avoid unnecessary bloodshed.’

  Outside Jacob’s, they took over a couple of pubs in a warren of streets and backstreets, then demolished the factory’s main gate in Bishop’s Street with axes and hammers. A ladder was chained to a lamppost and swung in an arc to break the windows for easy entrance. A couple of policemen came running to investigate but ran away even faster when half a dozen rifles were pointed at them.

  Inside the huge triangular building, some employees thought it was a joke until a few shots convinced them otherwise. Still in their white overalls, they rushed headlong for home.

  Burly John MacBride, who chanced to be passing, recognized the sacred sounds of battle. He went in to find Volunteers barricading windows with flour-bags. Men in grey-green uniforms were in the tall towers surveying the area through field-glasses.

  MacDonagh said, ‘You heard about the rising, then, Major?’

  MacBride shook his head. ‘Can’t you see I’m dressed up for a wedding?’

  ‘Shame,’ said MacDonagh.

  ‘Shame be buggered,’ yelled MacBride, tugging off his jacket.

  Thirty-five-year-old James Joyce, a private in the Citizen Army, with ten others approached the public house near the Portobello Bridge. The pub commanded the approaches to the military barracks. Joyce was in a good mood. He worked an eighty-four hour week for Davy, the landlord. He kicked in the front door to find the boss himself behind the bar pouring a pint for a customer.

  Davy looked sourly at his watch. ‘You’re late. I’m giving you a week’s notice.’

  Joyce levelled his rifle at his head. ‘And I’m giving you, you ould buzzard, just a few seconds.’

  Davy dropped the glass with a crash and headed for the door as the rebels fired at all the bottles on the shelves.

  At Boland’s, a mill complex on the side of a stagnant canal, Eamon de Valer
a set up his HQ in a small dispensary next to the Bakery and posted his men around.

  ‘Be sure,’ he said, ‘and feed the horses.’

  A dozen of his B Company were in Westland Row Station. Deaf to the protests of the top-hatted Station-Master, they cut wires, erected barricades and put a guard on the entrance. When a number of priests tried to get on the train to Kingstown, they were stopped by Volunteers who levelled shaky rifles at them. The youngsters were more used to being threatened by gentlemen of the cloth. One priest argued that to risk the lives of innocent people was a grave sin. Soon Volunteers were kneeling in a line on the platform, gripping their rifles and confessing to all their sins save that of fighting the British Empire.

  One of de Valera’s squads removed parts from Ringsend electricity supply station, bringing city trams to a halt.

  He posted fourteen men around Mount Street Bridge over the Grand Canal.

  ‘In the next couple of days, hundreds of British troops will land in Kingstown and come along this road,’ he said. ‘Keep them out at all costs.’

  In Trinity College, just south of O’Connell Street, eight members of the University Officers Training Corps were on duty. Hearing of the rising, they slammed shut the main oak doors and sent for reinforcements.

  They even asked passers-by in their polished garrison accents to come in and fight for King and country.

  ‘Rifles, my dear fellows, will be provided.’

  A group of thirty men and lads had arrived by tram and bicycle in the Phoenix Park, by the Islandbridge Gate. Nearby, on the brow of a hill, was the Magazine Fort. A squat stone building, it was surrounded by barbed wire and surmounted by a castellated terrace.

  They played soccer in view of the sentry on guard at the Fort’s open gate but were careful how they ran. In their pockets or under their armpits were loaded revolvers.

  In London, just after midday, Birrell finally received Nathan’s message of the night before. He sent it over at once to Downing Street to be deciphered.