‘Sorry, ma’am,’ the warder said.
Kattie flared up at that. ‘You not only condemn a man to death in a secret trial and without a defence lawyer, you won’t even let his wife have his corpse.’
Laura offered to send coffins in so their loved ones could be identified and laid with their own. They also signed a form requesting the return of Ned’s uniform.
No sooner were they out of earshot than one soldier said to his mate, ‘They’re burying ’em in quicklime, ain’t they? Even their guardian angels won’t know ’em after that.’
At the gate, the car taking the Dalys home was delayed. The officer of the watch invited them to wait in his office.
‘You have my deepest sympathy.’ He sounded sincere. ‘I just don’t understand how they – and you – could want to assist the enemy.’
Kattie flashed back, ‘That’s easy. We’re Irish. For us, you are the enemy.’
‘What would you do,’ Madge added, ‘if Germany won the war and invaded you?’
When the girls finally made it home to Fairview, they spent the night locked in each other’s arms, praying until the dawn had come and gone.
The car bringing the Pearses broke down at Terenure. Mrs Pearse was terrified that, having missed Pat the night before, she might miss Willie, too. Pat could manage on his own, she knew, but Willie needed her.
Fortunately, the car was fixed and she and Margaret arrived, trembly, at the jail, only to have to wait half an hour in the lobby till other relatives came down.
When their turn came, three soldiers held candles in the cell when she and Margaret entered.
The mother, simple in so many ways, was a person of heroic stature. She had already given a precious gift to Ireland. But it was not easy telling Willie that Pat whom he adored was dead.
Willie received the news like a blow to the heart. When he got his breath back, he explained in his slightly sibilant voice what had happened that day at dawn.
‘Never mind, my darling,’ Mrs Pearse said. ‘You missed him last night but you’ll be with him soon. Will you give him a message from his mother?’
Willie nodded.
‘Tell him I will be braver than ever and I will carry my cross.’
Margaret held Willie’s shaky hand. ‘I can’t tell you how proud we are of you and Pat.’
Mrs Pearse looked at Willie in the candlelight, at that strangely innocent face with its dark sensitive brown eyes. She remembered him as a baby; and, in a way, he seemed never to have lost his child-like innocence. Was it possible that her gentle, lovely son was to be shot as a traitor?
She found herself thinking, instinctively, If only Pat were here to help.
She remembered an incident long ago, when her boys were in their first school run by an old dragon named Miss Murphy. She was chastising Willie, and Pat was not having it. He stood up to stop her. ‘Sit down, Patrick,’ the dragon said. Pat replied, ‘I am not tired, Miss Murphy.’
As to Willie, he knew his death would double his mother’s heartache but he could not desert Pat now. Even at his trial, when the Court was inclining to mercy, he had insisted the he was in on the rising from the beginning. In life and death, he and Pat were inseparable.
Mrs Pearse spoke of Pat’s poem, called ‘The Mother’. He wrote it when he expected that he and Willie would die together.
Willie spoke the lines softly now, for his mother’s sake:
I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few
In bloody protest for a glorious thing.
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow – And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful and they fought.
Mrs Pearse stroked her faithful second son’s long soft hair, so like a girl’s. Soon, very soon, as Pat had predicted, they would be together in death.
Willie told her he had asked for a priest but none had come yet, so she enquired of the attending officer, ‘Is Father Aloysius on his way?’
‘Yes, ma’am. That clergyman is coming, I believe.’
In spite of his prompt answer, it sounded as if it had not crossed his mind till then. He could not grasp how important priests were to Irish Catholics. They seemed to want to die anaesthetized by religion.
Mrs Pearse suspected he was not telling the truth. She ended the visit in order to check. Willie needed a priest more than he needed her.
They said a last goodbye.
Willie looked at his mother; and his long sad face was etched in her memory for ever. Then she and Margaret hurried down to the lobby where she was handed Pat’s letters written to her the night before, though some others were held back.
Margaret called out to a group of officers, ‘Gentlemen, will you send for a priest? There’s only an hour left.’
They promised her they would send for one at once. Major Lennon said, ‘Dammit, I forgot. We might have to delay the executions now.’
It was 2 a.m. and Grace had been lying down for only half an hour when there was a rap on the door. A constable handed her a letter from the Governor. Grace Plunkett was now permitted to see her husband.
The word surprised and delighted her.
‘Husband.’
She whispered it over and over as the car sped through the quiet streets, and as she went through the small entrance gate, into the reception area, and up the steps to Cell No 88.
‘Ten minutes, ma’am.’
On entering the jail, she had noticed the sky lightening. No dawn would ever be the same again.
But only ten minutes? And in a small cell with an NCO and several soldiers with fixed bayonets crowded round the door?
The Sergeant examined his watch as if to time a race.
The only light was a candle. Grace picked out a plank for a bed with one blanket, a tin basin with gruel but no spoon.
Joe beckoned her to sit down on the stool and he knelt over her like a penitent confessing. This was to be their only honeymoon. The newly-weds who had so much to say to each other and so little time to say it were tongue-tied.
Perplexed by this meaningless cruelty, the best Grace could do was try and fix every detail in her mind: what he looked like, said, wanted to say but left unsaid, the candlelight reflected in his eyes. She caught a whiff of wood-smoke on his clothes, in his hair.
She had to be brave for his sake. But who understands the human heart? Would it help him if she cried or make it harder? For tears are words to those in love.
Those few precious minutes seemed first like hours and then like only seconds.
The soldiers were sleepy-eyed. Most of the faces were Irish faces. Some were downy, had never shaved; they were younger even than she and Joe. Would they really break up a marriage so recent? Would they kill a dying man, not any dying man but her Joseph who was only twenty-nine years old?
Their uniform provided them with absolution, turned murder into mere killing. They were doing a job, like a corporation employee clearing a drain or chopping up a tree that blocked the road.
Yes, without hate they would do this hateful thing.
It was fast approaching 3 o’clock when there was a bang on the friary door in Bow Street. The soldier said, ‘Hurry, sirs, there’s not much time left.’
The four priests had long been ready, wondering why the summons was so late. Clutching the bags with their gear for the last rites, they were driven off into the night.
In Joe’s cell, the Sergeant tensed as the secon
d hand neared the end of its last cycle.
Sensing this, Grace took out a pencil and wrote on the wall: ‘This is Joseph Plunkett’s cell whence he left me for his execution. (Signed) Grace Plunkett.’
He had left her his name. She wrote it with pride. Yes, she thought, that is a fine name to have and this ghastly place is sacred now.
Joe slipped her something as the Sergeant called, ‘Time’s up.’ The Tommies bolted to attention.
Grace kissed Joe, clung fiercely to him before hands, not rough but firm, drew them apart.
‘My darling, my husband, goodbye.’
As she was led away, she turned and saw, as through a mist, his frail figure framed in the doorway. Her heart went out to him in his terrible ordeal.
Now she was free to weep. She would never bear his child, nor feel any more his hand upon her. For ever she would be alone. Except he would be with her always, day and night, in all that might have been.
She suddenly remembered the things Joe had pressed in her hands. His keys, a lock of his hair, and a piece of paper with writing on it. His final memento. Downstairs in the lobby, by candlelight, she began to read this poem of his.
I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice – and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.
The Commandant was busy issuing orders.
To Captain Kenneth O’Morchoc, he said, ‘I want you to take charge of the firing party.’
The Captain hesitated. ‘Something wrong?’
O’Morchoc said, ‘Request permission to stand down, sir.’
‘What the hell’s the matter, man? Lost your nerve?’
‘No, sir. Plunkett and I played together as children.’
The Commandant sighed. ‘Permission granted.’
A car halted outside the prison and four friars jumped out and rushed into the lobby.
The Major called out to them, ‘You do understand, gentlemen, that we are running behind schedule.’
Father Columbus went to Daly since he had attended his brother-in-law; but he had learned his lesson.
Father Albert went to O’Hanrahan, Father Sebastian to Plunkett and Father Augustine to Willie Pearse.
The cell doors were open. The prisoners’ hands were already bound when the priests heard their confessions and gave them Holy Communion.
Willie had his cap on. A soldier, realizing he was unable to remove it for confession, unbound his hands. After giving him the sacraments, Father Augustine popped in to see O’Hanrahan.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘would you go and see my mother and sisters for me?’
The burly friar, pressing his hands down on Michael’s thick black hair, said, ‘I promise you, my son.’
He could not understand this insane haste to have men killed.
Daly was already being marched to the Yard with Father Columbus. Each friar went with his assigned prisoner. After Daly, Willie Pearse was called, then O’Hanrahan, and finally Joseph Mary Plunkett.
With each deadly volley, the kindly Capuchins marvelled at the men’s composure.
Joe asked Father Sebastian to give his ring to his wife and his glasses to his mother.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘I am very happy. I’m dying for the glory of God and the honour of Ireland.’
Grace was asking herself if Joe would feel the bullets. Would he hear the roar of the rifles or did bullets travel that split-second faster than the sound of the guns?
Please God, she prayed, there would be no dying, only being dead.
At the time when she guessed her Joseph was facing the firing squad, Grace, fingering her wedding-ring, was saying to herself, ‘Till death do us part.’
But she knew, even as she heard in her head the fatal volley that turned her from a young bride into a widow, that nothing in her life or death would ever part them. Even though his feet would never walk her way again and his strong heart had ceased to beat.
She read the last verse of Joe’s poem.
All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn
His cross is every tree.
When the O’Hanrahan sisters got home their mother asked anxiously, ‘How was Michael? You gave him my love?’
‘In the pink,’ they said.
They had decided not to tell her that night; she would not believe them, anyway. It would come better from a priest.
Mrs Pearse and Margaret returned to St Enda’s, which had been Pat’s dream and which Willie had helped him build. It seemed so empty now, as if everything – desks, easels, beds in the dormitories – had all been removed.
In Pat’s study, they went on their knees and prayed until Mrs Pearse stopped biting her fingers and, sensing the falcon had flown to the falconer, said, ‘They’re together again.’
The priests returned to the friary and immediately began making preparations to celebrate Requiem Mass.
When, that morning, the newspapers appeared on the streets, they approved the firm action taken by the authorities.
An editorial in the Irish Independent said, ‘No terms of denunciation that pen could indite would be too strong to apply to those responsible for the insane and criminal rising of last week.’
‘Insane’ was the most popular word to describe both the rising and its leaders.
In the Letters page of the London Times, one writer expressed a feeling of ‘detestation and horror’ at the very thought of rebellion against English rule. The rebels should be treated firmly. ‘This is no time for amnesties and pardon; it is time for punishment, swift and stern.’
This appeared over the name not of a retired General but of ‘John Dublin’, the Protestant Archbishop. Many Irish people reading it concluded that anything which a Protestant Archbishop looked on with detestation and horror could not be all bad.
By 10.30 a.m., the O’Hanrahan girls were in Church Street looking for Father Augustine when they ran into him as he was leaving a house.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’d be delighted to come and see your mother. Wasn’t I just on my way there, anyhow? But first come into our parlour.’
After he had calmed them a little, they walked together to the North Circular Road.
The girls stayed outside praying while the priest went in to break to Mrs O’Hanrahan the news that her brave son, Michael, had died for Ireland.
In Richmond Barracks, one of the prisoners, old Count Plunkett, had been unable to sleep on the floor. For a long time he had stood up until his comrades managed to persuade a guard to find him an orange box. There he sat hunched up for hours on end, his homburg hat on his head, his white beard poking out of the two army greatcoats with which they tried to keep him warm.
The Count was so ill, they sent for a military doctor who tactlessly asked, ‘Are you the father of Joseph Plunkett who was shot this morning?’
That was how Count Plunkett learned of the death of his son.
Each afternoon, in Richmond Barracks, two to three hundred men were paraded and sent to the boat for internment in England.
On this particular afternoon, some were chosen from Cell A. Liam O’Briain was one of them and, to his utter delight, so was Sean McDermott. Though Sean was next to him, Liam did not speak for fear of drawing attention to him. The English soldiers did not know them. With luck, Sean would make the boat and escape what, otherwise, was inevitable death. ‘Prisoners,’ an English NCO called, ‘atten-tion. Quick—’
‘Hold it, Corporal.’
It was a Castle detective, Inspector Burton.
‘I’ll just run my eye over this little lot.’ In seconds, he had lighted on Sean McDermott. A nod from a colleague, Dan Hoey, confi
rmed his suspicion. ‘Well, what have we here?’ He beckoned him out of the ranks. ‘You didn’t really think you’d get away from me, did you?’
McDermott’s face darkened. ‘You seem to change your mind a lot,’ he said.
Michael Collins, another on parade, swore that one day he would take revenge on that Inspector.
Later that afternoon, MacBride, Mallin and Sean Heuston were to be tried.
Sean T. Kelly, who had worked in communications during the rising, was at an upstairs window when they were marched across the square. MacBride, he knew, had little chance of getting off. The authorities had not forgiven him for raising an Irish Brigade to fight the British in the Boer War.
MacBride went in first. He marched in and stood to attention, every inch a soldier.
General Blackadder seemed to read in his eyes: ‘You are soldiers. So am I. You have won. I have lost. Do your worst.’
He was allowed to call a witness, Mrs Allan. No chair was provided, so MacBride jumped up and offered her his. She testified that he had not been involved in planning the rebellion, he simply chanced on it.
MacBride was found guilty, all the same.
When he emerged on to the square, Kelly raised the window. ‘Been sentenced, Major?’
‘Later tonight. But it’s a foregone conclusion, Sean T.’ MacBride pointed a finger at his heart. ‘I’ll get it in the morning.’
‘Something might turn up.’
‘Nothing will save me, Sean T. This is the second time I’ve sinned against them. Their chance of revenge, eh?’
MacBride clasped one hand with the other and raised them in the air as if shaking with all his friends.
‘Goodbye and God be good to you, Sean T.’
It was Mallin’s turn. Before going before the Court, he warmly embraced William Partridge, who had been with him in the College of Surgeons. In the cold nights since, they had huddled up together. Whenever Mallin felt especially homesick, Partridge, an older man, had comforted him.
The chief witness was de Courcy Wheeler, to whom he had surrendered.
The President said, ‘Perhaps you would care to question the Captain.’
‘No, sir,’ Mallin replied, fingering his rosary. ‘I merely wish to place on record how grateful my comrades and I are for the consideration he showed us.’
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