SUNDAY.
The Insurrection has not ceased.
There is much rifle fire, but no sound from the machine guns or the
eighteen pounders and trench mortars.
From the window of my kitchen the flag of the Republic can be seen
flying afar. This is the flag that flies over Jacob's Biscuit Factory,
and I will know that the Insurrection has ended as soon as I see this
flag pulled down.
When I went out there were few people in the streets. I met D.H., and,
together, we passed up the Green. The Republican flag was still flying
over the College of Surgeons. We tried to get down Grafton Street (where
broken windows and two gaping interiors told of the recent visit of
looters), but a little down this street we were waved back by armed
sentries. We then cut away by the Gaiety Theatre into Mercer's Street,
where immense lines of poor people were drawn up waiting for the
opening of the local bakery. We got into George's Street, thinking to
turn down Dame Street and get from thence near enough to Sackville
Street to see if the rumours about its destruction were true, but here
also we were halted by the military, and had to retrace our steps.
There was no news of any kind to be gathered from the people we talked
to, nor had they even any rumours.
This was the first day I had been able to get even a short distance
outside of my own quarter, and it seemed that the people of my quarter
were more able in the manufacture of news or more imaginative than were
the people who live in other parts of the city. We had no sooner struck
into home parts than we found news. We were told that two of the
Volunteer leaders had been shot. These were Pearse and Connolly. The
latter was reported as lying in the Castle Hospital with a fractured
thigh. Pearse was cited as dead with two hundred of his men, following
their sally from the Post Office. The machine guns had caught them as
they left, and none of them remained alive. The news seemed afterwards
to be true except that instead of Pearse it was The O'Rahilly who had
been killed. Pearse died later and with less excitement.
A man who had seen an English newspaper said that the Kut force had
surrendered to the Turk, but that Verdun had not fallen to the Germans.
The rumour was current also that a great naval battle had been fought
whereat the German fleet had been totally destroyed with loss to the
English of eighteen warships. It was said that among the captured
Volunteers there had been a large body of Germans, but nobody believed
it; and this rumour was inevitably followed by the tale that there were
one hundred German submarines lying in the Stephen's Green pond.
At half-past two I met Mr. Commissioner Bailey, who told me that it was
all over, and that the Volunteers were surrendering everywhere in the
city. A motor car with two military officers, and two Volunteer leaders
had driven to the College of Surgeons and been admitted. After a short
interval Madame Marckievicz marched out of the College at the head of
about 100 men, and they had given up their arms; the motor car with the
Volunteer leaders was driving to other strongholds, and it was expected
that before nightfall the capitulations would be complete.
I started home, and on the way I met a man whom I had encountered some
days previously, and from whom rumours had sprung as though he wove them
from his entrails, as a spider weaves his web. He was no less provided
on this occasion, and it was curious to listen to his tale of English
defeats on every front. He announced the invasion of England in six
different quarters, the total destruction of the English fleet, and the
landing of immense German armies on the West coast of Ireland. He made
these things up in his head. Then he repeated them to himself in a loud
voice, and became somehow persuaded that they had been told to him by a
well-informed stranger, and then he believed them and told them to
everybody he met. Amongst other things Spain had declared war on our
behalf, the Chilian Navy was hastening to our relief. For a pin he
would have sent France flying westward all forgetful of her own war. A
singular man truly, and as I do think the only thoroughly happy person
in our city.
It is half-past three o'clock, and from my window the Republican flag
can still be seen flying over Jacob's factory. There is occasional
shooting, but the city as a whole is quiet. At a quarter to five o'clock
a heavy gun boomed once. Ten minutes later there was heavy machine gun
firing and much rifle shooting. In another ten minutes the flag at
Jacob's was hauled down.
During the remainder of the night sniping and military replies were
incessant, particularly in my street.
The raids have begun in private houses. Count Plunkett's house was
entered by the military who remained there for a very long time. Passing
home about two minutes after Proclamation hour I was pursued for the
whole of Fitzwilliam Square by bullets. They buzzed into the roadway
beside me, and the sound as they whistled near was curious. The sound is
something like that made by a very swift saw, and one gets the
impression that as well as being very swift they are very heavy.
Snipers are undoubtedly on the roofs opposite my house, and they are not
asleep on these roofs. Possibly it is difficult to communicate with
these isolated bands the news of their companions' surrender, but it is
likely they will learn, by the diminution of fire in other quarters that
their work is over.
In the morning on looking from my window I saw four policemen marching
into the street. They were the first I had seen for a week. Soon now the
military tale will finish, the police story will commence, the political
story will recommence, and, perhaps, the weeks that follow this one will
sow the seed of more hatred than so many centuries will be able to
uproot again, for although Irish people do not greatly fear the military
they fear the police, and they have very good reason to do so.