“Oh, I don’t know any more,” came the response. “The engine-driver of
the Mail brought whatever news there is. He said that the Volunteers
held most of the railway stations, and that the bridges were blown up
and the tracks destroyed. Fighting was going on throughout the city
when he left. That’s what he says anyway, but nobody knows what to
believe. It’s terrible to think of. The whole country was coming round
to our way of thinking, business men and responsible men everywhere
were waking up with your financial agitation and other things; and now
it’s all spoilt. Everything will be worse than ever now.”
Already the news was spreading about the place, and knots of men were
standing on the road in discussion. It was impossible to rest in the
house, and so we set off through the villages to see if any further
news could be learned. In one of the villages a Sunday’s paper was
discovered, in which appeared the General Order by Eoin MacNeill,
as President and Chief of Staff of the Volunteers, countermanding
manœuvres that had been ordered for Sunday—Easter Sunday. That only
complicated the matter. “Owing to the very critical position”—what
critical position? What was the cause of the order? And if “each
individual Volunteer” had been ordered to refrain from “parades,
marches, or other movements,” how then came it about that there should
be this news of fighting? The original manœuvres, apparently, had been
ordered for Sunday, whereas this news told of trouble that had broken
out on Monday.
It was perplexing. The only thesis into which all the available parts
seemed to fit was that it was discovered that Dublin Castle proposed
to take advantage of the manœuvres on Easter Sunday to disarm the
Volunteers, and, finding itself baulked by this countermanding order,
had attacked headquarters and the local centres on the following day.
That tallied with Sheehy Skeffington’s letter, and was also all of a
piece with the document which Alderman Kelly had read at a meeting of
the Dublin Corporation some days previous. And that was accepted by us
all as the most likely theory to account for the facts.
It was a strange day. It was a strange week. If one’s countrymen
were being attacked, pretty plain and clear one’s duty seemed; but
how to put it into operation? Over eighteen months before—after the
gun-running at Howth—I had been in command of the Volunteers for the
county, and at the time of the split I had sought to hold both sides
together in the county.
* * * * *
Since then I had held to my desk.
* * * * *
Whereas once there had been five thousand Volunteers in the county, now
two hundred exceeded their number.
* * * * *
The days were full of anxiety. A few of the older people, in secure
possession of their pensions, cursed the “Sinn Feiners” roundly. But
most were perplexed, and told one another tales of those who in elder
days had died for Ireland. There was little else to tell. The air was
thick with rumours: rumours that were contradicted as soon as they
came. It was said that Cork and Limerick were “up,” and that Kerry
had seized the cable and wireless stations. This was contradicted; and
affirmed again. Wexford, it was said, was “up,” and the whole county
in a blaze. Hard on this followed news that Drogheda and Dundalk had
risen and tried to destroy the railroads leading to the north. This
last was the only exact piece of news that came from the east coast.
More precise news came from Co. Galway, nearer home. The east coast
news did not reach us till Wednesday and Thursday; but on Tuesday came
news that Co. Galway was “up,” and that the Volunteers there were under
the command of Liam Mellowes, who had returned from exile in England,
disguised as a priest, and Kenny, a famous footballer. It was stated
that they had marched on the city of Galway, but had retired from there
under the fire of gunboats, and had turned on Athenry, where they
had encamped on one of the Department’s farms. Thursday and Friday
reported that this force had marched on Athlone and had destroyed the
bridge there; but that they were under retreat before a strong force of
military with artillery.
This was the only piece of news that attempted to give details. Of
Dublin no details could be learned, except that on the Monday Lancers
had charged down O’Connell Street, but had broken in disorder under a
heavy fire and had fled, leaving many slain. It was not till Thursday
that the news of the taking of the Bank of Ireland was contradicted;
and at the same time it was reported that Dublin Castle was not taken.
Buildings such as Boland’s Mill, Jacob’s Factory, and the Four Courts,
were said to be in possession of the Volunteers, who were resisting
desperately; but these names were not mentioned with any touch of
authenticity, but rather like the names and symbols of a fantastic
legend.
It was difficult to know what to believe or know. Each succeeding day,
instead of clearing the air with more precise news, thickened the
rumours that flew, until even what finally transpired to be true seemed
to possess the least likelihood of truth. The police posted reassuring
bulletins on the telegraph poles, but nobody gave any heed to these.
They were read, and turned from in silent, deep distrust. From them
first came the news that Sir Roger Casement had attempted to land on
the coast of Kerry with rifles from a German transport, but that he
had been arrested on landing in a small boat, and that the transport
with rifles had been sunk. “German help is now at the bottom of the
sea,” declared the notice. Nobody believed any particle of the notice.
The fact that a few of the old-age pensioners clutched the news to
themselves so avidly only deepened the distrust.
From the coastguards on Wednesday news was circulated that the German
Navy had attacked in force on the East Coast of England, in the attempt
to effect a landing for troops; but that all the German fleet was sunk
and the English fleet had lost two battleships. One of the coastguards’
wives, however, the following day was heard to state that not two, but
eight battleships had been sunk on the English side; and this spread
swiftly through the villages. Little comment was made on the change in
the story; and that fact was more significant than many words.