Rebels

by Peter De Rosa

  The women waited in silent agony for half an hour until he came down, carrying a candle. He pointed to Mrs Hughes. ‘You can come up.’

  Sally followed him. In spite of her resolve, she shrieked when she saw her husband lying dead on the floor, riddled with bullets. His cap was over his face, his clothes were drenched with blood and water.

  Lowe sent Pearse to Arbour Hill Detention Barracks. The rest spent the night in the open at the Rotunda. It was cramped. There was no food or drink. Some had not had so much as a cup of water for over thirty hours. The weather was cold and damp but there were no blankets, nor any toilet facilities. The women were treated like the men.

  During the night, Captain Wilson came on duty from Mooney’s pub where he had been drinking steadily. Bad before, he now seemed a demon in human form.

  ‘What shall we do with these Sinn Feiners, boys?’ His drunken drawl echoed eerily in the deserted street. ‘Shoot the swine?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ his men replied, without enthusiasm.

  He went right up to one prisoner after another, holding a match to his face. ‘Anyone care to see the animals?’

  He was particularly hard on Tom Clarke. ‘This old bastard, boys, is the Commander-in-Chief, would you believe! Keeps a tobacco shop across the street. A fine fucking general for a fine fucking army.’

  He grabbed Sean McDermott’s walking-stick and snapped it in half. ‘Bloody cripple. Can’t even walk straight let alone shoot straight.’

  Seeing the red cross on Jim Ryan’s sleeve, he hacked it off with a bayonet and stamped on it. ‘I don’t recognize you as Red Cross.’

  Having victimized individuals, he now turned to them as a group. ‘No smoking, you bastards, and lie down. If you want to shit, do it in your pants like you’ve been doing all week.’

  Seeing he was looking for a pretext to shoot them, McDermott passed the word that they were to keep cool.

  For some, that was the most wretched night of their lives. They were forced to relieve themselves where they lay, even in the presence of the opposite sex.

  Some huddled up to keep warm. During the night, Jim Ryan woke up to find his head resting on Clarke’s shoulder.

  Clarke whispered, ‘You awake, young feller?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, I just wanna turn over.’

  Ryan was touched by his consideration.

  There was surprise in the College of Surgeons. O’Connell Street, deafening the day before, was silent.

  Mallin had checked that the Republican flag was still flying over Jacob’s. What, then, was going on? He discussed with the Countess the possibility of breaking out if they were cornered. His preference had always been for fighting a guerilla war in the Dublin mountains.

  The living prayed over the dead. The Countess, being a Protestant, was not able to join in. But that night she experienced a somersault quite as complete and unexpected as Birrell’s when he heard of the rising.

  Religion had so far meant little to her. In her world, it was the preserve of a rich and exclusive minority. At this, the most critical moment of her life, she felt confronted by the ancient faith of Ireland, the faith that people of her breed had tried for centuries by cruel means to eliminate.

  She resolved that if God spared her, just as she had shared her comrades’ political and social ambitions, she would one day share their faith.

  Her family would not approve, but when had they liked anything she did?

  The Connolly girls had walked to Coalisland, then thumbed a lift to Dundalk where they found all trains were reserved for the military. Nora, in particular, was footsore, having walked a long way to find Ina in the first place. Yet there was nothing for it but to walk the fifty miles to Dublin.

  Thirty miles along the main Belfast-Dublin road, they stopped for the night in a field at Balbriggan within sound of the sea. They took off their shoes and stockings and pushed their blistered feet into the soft smooth earth.

  Their pleasure did not last. Mists came in off the sea. It turned cold, then very cold. They gathered their clothes about them, trying to sleep, but they did not succeed.

  SUNDAY

  In the early hours, Frank Henderson, a young prisoner on the Rotunda lawn, knelt to relieve himself. Captain Lee Wilson noticed. He snatched a rifle from a Tommy and yelling, ‘Filthy bastard,’ struck him with the butt, knocking him unconscious.

  With first light, the DMP and the G-men, the political division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, woke the prisoners and armed soldiers circled them. It was time to identify the chief troubler-makers. Among the first to be hauled out were Clarke, McDermott and Ned Daly. They took a while to straighten up after that long cold night in the open.

  They were marched round the corner to the Rotunda Rink and strip-searched. Clarke had damaged his elbow in the escape from the GPO. When he did not remove his jacket quickly enough, Wilson cruelly straightened his arm and tugged the jacket off.

  The prisoners were still refused permission to go to the toilet.

  Elizabeth O’Farrell had spent the night at the National Bank. Lieutenant Royall had stayed outside her room, dozing in a chair. When she awoke at 6 a.m., she saw through the window piles of arms next to the Parnell Monument and, among the prisoners, Winifred Carney and Julia Grenan.

  No sooner was she dressed than Captain Wheeler said he would like her to take orders to other commandants.

  This was to prove the most dangerous day of her life.

  That Sunday morning, a calm had descended on North King Street.

  Mrs Hickey looked out of the Corcorans’ where she had spent the last day and a half. Everything seemed so normal. Church bells were ringing across the city; parishioners were coming back from first Mass. Of everyone passing the door she asked, with rising dread, ‘Has anyone seen my man?’ and they shook their heads.

  She left the house and started scouring the city for her husband and son.

  ‘The soldiers,’ she told friends and neighbours, ‘must have taken them somewhere.’

  Wheeler told Elizabeth he would like her to deliver the surrender order first to the College of Surgeons. He drove her to Grafton Street. Some shops had been looted, a few gutted.

  The car was waved through military check-points until it halted halfway. Wheeler gave her a copy of the surrender and Connolly’s addition. ‘Good luck, miss.’

  Holding a white flag, she turned right into a silent Green. She was let into the College by a side entrance and taken to see the Countess.

  ‘Commandant Mallin is asleep,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘It’s surrender,’ Elizabeth said.

  The Countess, feeling a strange compulsion to sign herself like a Catholic, immediately aroused Mallin. Elizabeth, having handed him the orders, returned to the car.

  ‘Well,’ Wheeler said, ‘what did they say?’

  ‘I saw Commandant Mallin and he didn’t say anything.’

  Wheeler said irritably, ‘You should have brought a yes or a no.’

  The car took them back to Trinity where Wheeler phoned Lowe. He returned to say he would like her to take the order of surrender next to Boland’s Mill.

  They had to make a detour, ending up at Butt Bridge. Wheeler was apologetic. ‘Sorry I can’t get you any nearer. When you’re back, perhaps you’d join me in Merrion Square.’

  In place after place, Elizabeth asked the military if they knew where the Volunteers were. They shook their heads and warned her there was a lot of sniping in the area. She risked her life several times as she tried this street or barricade, then the next. Finally, someone told her where de Valera was.

  Her heart was already thumping as she crossed the Grand Canal Street Bridge when a man within feet of her was shot. She called pleadingly to people in nearby houses and they carried him to Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital.

  At the Dispensary, a guard sent her round the back where she was lifted in through a window into a small room. The Commandant, long, lean, smooth-shaven for the first time t
hat week, was ready to drop. She handed him Pearse’s message.

  De Valera stretched his long neck like an angry goose. This was a trick, surely. He had just made his troops clean their weapons and have target practice. He said, in his usual dry way, ‘I’m sorry, miss. I can only lay down my arms on the orders of my immediate superior, Brigadier MacDonagh.’

  When Elizabeth left, de Valera talked it over with his second in command, Joseph O’Connor. It did not take him long to grasp they really had no choice. He took Cadet Mackay with him and crossed the road to Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital to negotiate with the British. On the way, he handed Mackay his Browning automatic.

  ‘I’d be grateful to you if you would give this to my eldest boy, Vivion, to remind him of his father.’

  Two Capuchins from Church Street, Fathers Augustine and Aloysius, turned up at the Castle asking for General Lowe. Sensing they might be useful, he saw them at once.

  They had heard rumours of surrender and of a truce in their area. There were still rebels around who would not give in unless they actually saw Pearse’s order. The General assured them it was genuine, all right, though, for the moment, he was out of copies.

  ‘But,’ he said, ‘James Connolly is a prisoner here. Care to have a word with him?’

  Neither priest had met Connolly before. They felt at once that they were in the presence of tremendous goodness. He confirmed he had added his signature to Pearse’s.

  He was in such pain, they did not stay long.

  ‘Satisfied, Fathers?’ Lowe said. ‘Or perhaps you’d also like to see Pearse in Arbour Hill.’

  Once they had Pearse’s word as well, Father Augustine told Lowe, ‘We’ll do all we can to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.’

  He thanked them, gave them a freshly typed copy of Pearse’s surrender and put a chauffeur-driven car at their disposal.

  Elizabeth told Captain Wheeler of de Valera’s reaction.

  ‘I understand, miss. Would you mind, then, going to see MacDonagh at Jacob’s?’

  He stopped the car in Bride Street and wished her luck as once again she walked alone through the firing line. At Jacob’s, she hammered on the gate. A guard blindfolded her and led her for what seemed like ages until she heard MacDonagh say: ‘Take it off.’

  Like de Valera, MacDonagh and MacBride greeted the news with scepticism.

  ‘Why should we surrender?’ MacDonagh asked. ‘We haven’t once been attacked.’

  Within minutes, Fathers Augustine and Aloysius arrived. MacDonagh took them aside for a quiet word. How, he asked, could he be sure the surrender was not made under duress? With Pearse and Connolly arrested, he was in charge and, in his view, Jacob’s could hold out for a considerable time. He had heard there was soon to be an international peace conference and the British were keen for them to fold so they would have no case.

  ‘If anyone is going to negotiate with the British, Fathers,’ he concluded, ‘it has to be me. And I will only deal with General Lowe himself.’

  The priests drove back to the Castle where Lowe consulted Maxwell by phone before telling them, ‘I’m prepared to meet him at the north-east corner of St Patrick’s Park at midday.’

  He wrote out a safe conduct pass for MacDonagh so that if nothing came of their discussions, he would be free to return to his Headquarters.

  At 11 a.m., after fifteen hours at the Rotunda, the prisoners were marched to Richmond Barracks.

  Joe Plunkett was close to collapse. McDermott, without his stick, could not keep up, and a soldier was detailed to go with him at his pace. He took forty-five minutes longer than the rest to cover the two miles.

  On the way, crowds came out of the slums around Christchurch Cathedral. The rebels had not expected a brass band, but had hoped for a certain respect. But these rude gestures, this hatred as though they had turned bread into stones, this blizzard of abuse! Dublin was well and truly Mitchel’s city of bellowing slaves. They came out to pelt them with filth and rotten vegetables. From upper rooms, some contributed the contents of their chamber pots.

  The crowds were most hostile in Thomas Street where Robert Emmet had been executed. ‘Death,’ they yelled, ‘to the bloody Shinners.’

  The rebels, marching now like old men into a wind, began to suspect that Captain Wilson had echoed the general feeling.

  The people disowned them. The rising had failed utterly.

  At precisely midday, Fathers Augustine and Aloysius walked with Lowe from the car to meet MacDonagh at St Patrick’s Park. The General and the Commandant shook hands, then returned to the car to negotiate.

  It took only ten minutes for Lowe to convince MacDonagh that the surrender was unforced. Too many had died already and the city had suffered enough.

  They agreed on an armistice until 3 p.m. when MacDonagh said he hoped that his men and Kent’s would give themselves up together.

  Lowe offered him the use of his car. MacDonagh beckoned to the priests and they went back with him to Jacob’s. There, Father Aloysius stayed in the car. The driver was so nervous at being in an area controlled by rebels, the friar made him a white flag out of a broom handle and a baker’s apron.

  Father Augustine was by MacDonagh’s side as he addressed his men. He spoke calmly until he came to the word, ‘Surrender’, then he broke down.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ he said, when he recovered, ‘that Father Augustine here advises me there is no other way.’

  To the priest’s astonishment, he added, ‘And now Father will say a few words to you.’

  The big, bearded Capuchin prayed for divine assistance. His first words proved whose side he was on. ‘Everywhere, our men fought a brave fight.’ His powerful voice filled the building. ‘According to Commandant Pearse, our first duty is to save civilian lives. As good soldiers, you will obey your Commander-in-Chief and lay down your arms.’

  ‘But they’ll shoot us, Father,’ cried one of the lads.

  ‘You’re wrong, my son. Nothing of the kind.’

  After answering their fears for several minutes, he promised to return before they gave themselves up.

  ‘Meanwhile, my sons, go on with your prayers.’

  When the main party reached Richmond Barracks, they were halted on the parade ground, searched and robbed. Still without toilet facilities, a few fainted. Some handed over their watches for a cup of water. Only after they were processed in fours were their basic needs attended to.

  In the gymnasium, the chief suspects were scrutinized by the G-men. They picked out the ring-leaders with, ‘Ah, delighted to see you. Won’t you come out here and sit with your friends along this wall?’

  After that, forty were packed in one big room and given a dustbin for a lavatory. This raised a hollow cheer. When they had used it, it was removed, emptied and returned full of water. They gladly drank it.

  Plunkett lay on the floor in a corner, attended by his brothers, George and John. On Tom Clarke’s face, like frozen lightning, was that same suspicion of a smile; he was well satisfied with himself and the world.

  When McDermott finally arrived and saw the appalling conditions, he banged furiously on the door until it was opened. ‘Get rid of this cess bucket,’ he roared, ‘and bring these men clean water.’

  The surprising thing was, the soldiers did as they were told.

  Mallin’s men trickled into the College of Surgeons, making their way down from the roof and from outposts through many a tunnel. Not a few had cut hands and brick dust in their hair.

  They had caught rumours in flight, wild talk about the surrender of some commands. They themselves had not yielded an inch. Yesterday had been so quiet they had been able to get vast stores of food from Jacob’s. The only noise in the night was the occasional rifle barking like a dog on a hill farm. Ammunition was plentiful. Mallin had been talking of breaking out into the mountains.

  He appeared in the Long Room with the Countess, William Partridge and the other officers. He looked particularly sombre as he sat at the head of a long table. His
handsome face was lined, his thick dark hair had lost its lustre, his triangular moustache was whitened by brick dust.

  His voice faltered for the first time that week. ‘I have sad news, comrades. Our leaders have decided to … give up.’

  Everyone gasped and not a few, leaning on their rifles, murmured, ‘Impossible.’

  ‘We are … giving up for only one reason. Because of the number of civilians being killed.’

  ‘It’s a trick,’ someone bellowed. ‘We’re in no danger.’

  Mallin read them Pearse’s order with Connolly’s confirmation for the Irish Citizen Army.

  The Countess said, ‘It’s Connolly’s signature, all right, and I trust him absolutely,’ and Partridge added, ‘The messenger is one of our own.’

  Most of the women began to cry. One of the men said, ‘We should fight to the death,’ and another, ‘When could we trust the British, anyway? They’ll shoot the lot of us.’

  Mallin raised his hand for silence.

  ‘We came here as loyal soldiers, comrades, and that is how we shall leave.’ He looked around him slowly. ‘I want to thank you all. I did not think any group of men and women could be so loyal as you have been this week. It has been such a great honour to lead you that … that—’

  He bowed his head over the table.

  After a moment: ‘Some of you with family commitments can slip away. We won’t think the worse of you for that.’

  A few took the hint and left.

  The rest yelled back, ‘We’ve worked and fought together, if it comes to it we’ll die together.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, I’m sure,’ Mallin said. ‘As for me, the worst that can happen is to be shot by the British. I expected that all along. I only hope I go to meet it as an Irishman should.’

  He went up to the roof and lowered the tricolour. From a British outpost, there was a single rifle shot, the signal that the College had surrendered. It was 2 p.m.