At Castlebar rigorous care was taken that P. J. D. and I should not
speak with one another. Care had been taken that we should exercise
apart, and only by the accident of the shortage of staff on the Sunday
had either of us been able to do more than guess at the other’s
presence. At Richmond Barracks we were thrown together perforce, and
were condemned to sleep under the one slender blanket.
In the room to which we were consigned there were already twenty-five
others. The officers who took us up told me that it was known as the
Leaders’ Room: a description that, at that time, was ... ominous....
From it, De Valera had gone to his life’s sentence; from it, I was
told, Sean MacDiarmada had gone to his death...; and there Count
Plunkett had been required to answer for the consciences of his sons.
And a goodly company remained there yet, from whom we received a
hospitality the joviality of which gave no heed to the courtsmartial
that slowly worked their way along the lists provided by a diligent
officialdom. Presents from friends were permitted, under supervision;
and food so obtained was put into a common commissariat, presided over
by mighty Sean O’Mahony, the ruler and president of our company. From
this store we were regaled without further ado, while he stood between
us and the others who rose to welcome us to our fate. He would suffer
none to approach us with a more immediate welcome or inquiry until we
had had what we would of the hospitality it was his to dispense; and
then we mixed in the company into which we had been cast.
So, for the first time I came into touch with those who had had their
part in the Rising. There were some of the company on whom the burning
yet remained. Most had been through a historic week, and three had been
severely wounded. In all cases these were leg wounds from bullets,
and two of the number had been lying on the wooden floor, covered by
blankets, when we entered. Coming as I did from a part of the country
where only wild, whirling rumours had reached, sound and fury of
things that had and things that had not occurred, there was something
of a thrill in this first touch of the actual event. One faded into
insignificance beside the simplest follower that had borne the heat of
the day. He would be a man of little emotion, surely, who did not feel
as I did at that moment, with a touch of awe and respect kindling in
his veins. It seems then to me a little thing that a man should think
and labour for his country beside those who had offered dear life for
her sake.
Therefore, when one of the wounded men limped up to me, claiming an
acquaintance I had forgotten, I was anxious to discover from him where
he had fought, and to learn some details of the fighting. He had, with
high personal courage and ability, filled one of the commands in the
defence of the South Dublin Union, and was not loth to tell his tale.
But our conversation was overheard, and an uproar rose.
“He’s going to tell about the South Dublin Union again. No, no;
that can’t be allowed. We’re tired about the South Dublin Union.” I
protested that I wished to hear. “I’m sorry, but we can’t permit it.
We’ve heard that story so often that it’s not safe for us to hear it
again. It’s really not safe. If you let him, he’ll tell it you for a
week; but we can’t permit it; we’ve our nerves to consider.”
So it was. In no way could I extract my tale, and had to remain without
it.