THURSDAY.
Again, the rumours greeted one. This place had fallen and had not
fallen. Such a position had been captured by the soldiers; recaptured by
the Volunteers, and had not been attacked at all. But certainly fighting
was proceeding. Up Mount Street, the rifle volleys were continuous, and
the coming and going of ambulance cars from that direction were
continuous also. Some spoke of pitched battles on the bridge, and said
that as yet the advantage lay with the Volunteers.
At 11.30 there came the sound of heavy guns firing in the direction of
Sackville Street. I went on the roof, and remained there for some time.
From this height the sounds could be heard plainly. There was sustained
firing along the whole central line of the City, from the Green down to
Trinity College, and from thence to Sackville Street, and the report of
the various types of arm could be easily distinguished. There were
rifles, machine guns and very heavy cannon. There was another sound
which I could not put a name to, something that coughed out over all the
other sounds, a short, sharp bark, or rather a short noise something
like the popping of a tremendous cork.
I met D.H. His chief emotion is one of astonishment at the organizing
powers displayed by the Volunteers. We have exchanged rumours, and found
that our equipment in this direction is almost identical. He says Sheehy
Skeffington has been killed. That he was arrested in a house wherein
arms were found, and was shot out of hand.
I hope this is another rumour, for, so far as my knowledge of him goes,
he was not with the Volunteers, and it is said that he was antagonistic
to the forcible methods for which the Volunteers stood. But the tale of
his death is so persistent that one is inclined to believe it.
He was the most absurdly courageous man I have ever met with or heard
of. He has been in every trouble that has touched Ireland these ten
years back, and he has always been in on the generous side, therefore,
and naturally, on the side that was unpopular and weak. It would seem
indeed that a cause had only to be weak to gain his sympathy, and his
sympathy never stayed at home. There are so many good people who
"sympathise" with this or that cause, and, having given that measure of
their emotion, they give no more of it or of anything else. But he
rushed instantly to the street. A large stone, the lift of a footpath,
the base of a statue, any place and every place was for him a pulpit;
and, in the teeth of whatever oppression or disaster or power, he said
his say.
There are multitudes of men in Dublin of all classes and creeds who can
boast that they kicked Sheehy Skeffington, or that they struck him on
the head with walking sticks and umbrellas, or that they smashed their
fists into his face, and jumped on him when he fell. It is by no means
an exaggeration to say that these things were done to him, and it is
true that he bore ill-will to no man, and that he accepted blows, and
indignities and ridicule with the pathetic candour of a child who is
disguised as a man, and whose disguise cannot come off. His tongue, his
pen, his body, all that he had and hoped for were at the immediate
service of whoever was bewildered or oppressed. He has been shot. Other
men have been shot, but they faced the guns knowing that they faced
justice, however stern and oppressive; and that what they had engaged to
confront was before them. He had no such thought to soothe from his mind
anger or unforgiveness. He who was a pacifist was compelled to revolt to
his last breath, and on the instruments of his end he must have looked
as on murderers. I am sure that to the end he railed against oppression,
and that he fell marvelling that the world can truly be as it is. With
his death there passed away a brave man and a clean soul.
Later on this day I met Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington in the street. She
confirmed the rumour that her husband had been arrested on the previous
day, but further than that she had no news. So far as I know the sole
crime of which her husband had been guilty was that he called for a
meeting of the citizens to enrol special constables and prevent looting.
Among the rumours it was stated with every accent of certitude that
Madame Markievicz had been captured in George's Street, and taken to the
Castle. It was also current that Sir Roger Casement had been captured at
sea and had already been shot in the Tower of London. The names of
several Volunteer Leaders are mentioned as being dead. But the surmise
that steals timidly from one mouth flies boldly as a certitude from
every mouth that repeats it, and truth itself would now be listened to
with only a gossip's ear, but no person would believe a word of it.
This night also was calm and beautiful, but this night was the most
sinister and woeful of those that have passed. The sound of artillery,
of rifles, machine guns, grenades, did not cease even for a moment. From
my window I saw a red flare that crept to the sky, and stole over it and
remained there glaring; the smoke reached from the ground to the clouds,
and I could see great red sparks go soaring to enormous heights; while
always, in the calm air, hour after hour there was the buzzing and
rattling and thudding of guns, and, but for the guns, silence.
It is in a dead silence this Insurrection is being fought, and one
imagines what must be the feeling of these men, young for the most part,
and unused to violence, who are submitting silently to the crash and
flame and explosion by which they are surrounded.