SATURDAY.
This morning also there has been no bread, no milk, no meat, no
newspapers, but the sun is shining. It is astonishing that, thus early
in the Spring, the weather should be so beautiful.
It is stated freely that the Post Office has been taken, and just as
freely it is averred that it has not been taken. The approaches to
Merrion Square are held by the military, and I was not permitted to go
to my office. As I came to this point shots were fired at a motor car
which had not stopped on being challenged. Bystanders said it was Sir
Horace Plunkett's car, and that he had been shot. Later we found that
Sir Horace was not hurt, but that his nephew who drove the car had been
severely wounded.
At this hour the rumour of the fall of Verdun was persistent. Later on
it was denied, as was denied the companion rumour of the relief of Kut.
Saw R. who had spent three days and the whole of his money in getting
home from County Clare. He had heard that Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington's
house was raided, and that two dead bodies had been taken out of it. Saw
Miss P. who seemed sad. I do not know what her politics are, but I think
that the word "kindness" might be used to cover all her activities. She
has a heart of gold, and the courage of many lions. I then met Mr.
Commissioner Bailey who said the Volunteers had sent a deputation, and
that terms of surrender were being discussed. I hope this is true, and I
hope mercy will be shown to the men. Nobody believes there will be any
mercy shown, and it is freely reported that they are shot in the street,
or are taken to the nearest barracks and shot there. The belief grows
that no person who is now in the Insurrection will be alive when the
Insurrection is ended.
That is as it will be. But these days the thought of death does not
strike on the mind with any severity, and, should the European war
continue much longer, the fear of death will entirely depart from man,
as it has departed many times in history. With that great deterrent
gone our rulers will be gravely at a loss in dealing with strikers and
other such discontented people. Possibly they will have to resurrect the
long-buried idea of torture.
The people in the streets are laughing and chatting. Indeed, there is
gaiety in the air as well as sunshine, and no person seems to care that
men are being shot every other minute, or bayoneted, or blown into
scraps or burned into cinders. These things are happening, nevertheless,
but much of their importance has vanished.
I met a man at the Green who was drawing a plan on the back of an
envelope. The problem was how his questioner was to get from where he
was standing to a street lying at the other side of the river, and the
plan as drawn insisted that to cover this quarter of an hour's distance
he must set out on a pilgrimage of more than twenty miles. Another young
boy was standing near embracing a large ham. He had been trying for
three days to convey his ham to a house near the Gresham Hotel where his
sister lived. He had almost given up hope, and he hearkened
intelligently to the idea that he should himself eat the ham and so get
rid of it.
The rifle fire was persistent all day, but, saving in certain
localities, it was not heavy. Occasionally the machine guns rapped in.
There was no sound of heavy artillery.
The rumour grows that the Post Office has been evacuated, and that the
Volunteers are at large and spreading everywhere across the roofs. The
rumour grows also that terms of surrender are being discussed, and that
Sackville Street has been levelled to the ground.
At half-past seven in the evening calm is almost complete. The sound of
a rifle shot being only heard at long intervals.
I got to bed this night earlier than usual. At two o'clock I left the
window from which a red flare is yet visible in the direction of
Sackville Street. The morning will tell if the Insurrection is finished
or not, but at this hour all is not over. Shots are ringing all around
and down my street, and the vicious crackling of these rifles grow at
times into regular volleys.