THE SINN FEIN REBELLION AS I SAW IT, page 59.
It is said that when Jacob was told that the military might have to
blow up the factory he replied: "They may blow it to blazes for all I
care; I shall never make another biscuit in Ireland." I don't know
if this is true, but it very well may be, for he has been one of the
model employers in Dublin, and almost gave up the factory at the time
of the Larkin strike, and only continued it for the sake of his people;
and so it will be with the few great industries in the city. Dublin is
ruined.
Yesterday I made a joyful discovery. When we came back from Italy in
March, H. brought back from the office my large despatch-case in which
I keep all F.'s letters. I did not remember what else was in it, so
I investigated and found my necklet with jewelled cross and the pink
topaz set (both of these being in large cases would not go in the
jewel-case), also the large old paste buckle; so I am not absolutely
destitute of jewellery. But, best of all, there were the three little
handkerchiefs F. sent me from Armentières with my initial worked on
them; for these I was grieving more than for anything, and when I
found them the relief was so great I sat with them in my hand and cried.
This week has been a wonderful week for N. Never before has a boy of
just seventeen had such an experience. Yesterday morning he was at the
Automobile Club filling cans of petrol from casks for the Red Cross
ambulance. He came in to lunch reeking of petrol. In the afternoon he
went round with the Lord Mayor in an ambulance collecting food for
forty starving refugees from the burnt-out district housed in the
Mansion House, and after tea went out for wounded and brought in an old
man of seventy-eight shot through the body. He was quite cheery over
it, and asked N. if he thought he would recover. "Good Lord! yes; why
not?" said N., and bucked the old man up!
Some of the staff who came here this morning had seen a copy of the
_Daily Mail_ yesterday, which devoted about six lines to the condition
of things in Ireland and spoke of a Sinn Fein riot in which four
soldiers and about six rebels had been killed. If that is all the
English people are being told of a rebellion which 30,000 troops and
many batteries of artillery are engaged in putting down, my letter
will be rather a surprise to you; and as the news must come out, the
English people will hardly be pleased at being kept in the dark. Such a
rebellion cannot be suppressed like a Zeppelin raid. During the first
three days our casualties were nearly 1,000; now we hear they are close
on 2,000.[C]
[C] This was exaggerated, our total casualties being
about 1,380.
The College of Surgeons in St. Stephen's Green is still held by the
rebels, so the firing of machine-guns from the Shelbourne Hotel and
the United Service Club goes on as before, and there is intermittent
firing in all directions. I doubt if it will quite cease for some days,
as these strongholds will not surrender. Also the incendiary fires
will probably continue. The great fire in Sackville Street last night
was no doubt the work of incendiaries, as all the fires had died down.
There was no wind, no shells were being fired, and no reason for the
outbreak, but with all the relations and sympathisers of the rebels at
large the fires may very well continue.
The staff have just returned. They are quite unnerved by what they have
seen; they report nothing left of the G.P.O. but the four outside walls
and portico, so we have lost everything. They say it is like a burned
city in France.
_May 1st, 11 a.m._
I had no time to continue this yesterday, but during the afternoon
three of the rebel strongholds surrendered--Jacob's, Boland's, and the
College of Surgeons on St. Stephen's Green. From this last building 160
men surrendered and were marched down Grafton Street. It is said that
among them was Countess Markievicz, dressed in a man's uniform. It is
also said that the military made her take down the green republican
flag flying over the building herself and replace it by a white one:
when she surrendered she took off her bandolier and kissed it and her
revolver before handing them to the officer. She has been one of the
most dangerous of the leaders, and I hope will be treated with the same
severity as the men. People who saw them marched down Grafton Street
said they held themselves erect, and looked absolutely defiant!
_2 p.m._
To-day for the first time since Easter Monday the _Irish Times_ issued
a paper with news of the rebellion. Very pluckily they had brought
out a paper on Tuesday, but it contained only the proclamation and
no reference to the rebellion, but a long account of Gilbert and
Sullivan's operas which were to have been performed this week.
To-day's paper bears the dates "Friday, Saturday, and Monday, April
28th, 29th, and May 1st"--an incident unique, I should think, in the
history of the paper.
It contains the various proclamations in full, which I will cut out
and send to you. Please keep them, as they will be of interest in the
future.
The paper states that Sir R. Casement is a prisoner in the Tower. So he
was not shot without trial, as we were told. It also gives a list of
the large shops and business establishments that have been destroyed--a
total of 146.
It really seemed delightful to hear the little paper boys calling their
papers about the streets again, and they had a ready sale for their
papers at three times their value. This so encouraged them that in the
afternoon they were running about again calling "Stop press." Several
people went out and bought papers, only to find they were the same
papers they had paid 3_d._ for in the morning.
"But this is the same paper I bought this morning."
"Sure, and it is, ma'am, but there's been a power of these papers
printed, and they're not going to print any more till they're all sold."
Another lady thought she would drive a lesson home, so she said: "But
you said it was a 'Stop press,' and you knew it was not."
"It is, miss, but sure they hadn't time to print the 'stop press' on
it!!"
("Stop press" is the latest news, usually printed on the back of the
paper.)
Anyway, so great was the relief at seeing a paper again that no one
grudged the urchins their little harvest.
Yesterday H. visited the Telephone Exchange, and a point was cleared up
that has mystified everyone; and that is why, when the rebels on Easter
Monday took every building of importance and every strategic position,
did they overlook the Telephone Exchange? Had they taken it we should
have been absolutely powerless, unable to send messages or telegrams
for troops. The exchange is situated in Crown Alley, off Dame Street,
and the superintendent told H. an extraordinary story. It seems when
the rebels had taken the G.P.O. they marched a detachment to take the
exchange, when just as they were turning into Crown Alley an old woman
rushed towards them with arms held up calling out, "Go back, boys, go
back; the place is crammed with military"; and supposing it to be in
the hands of our troops they turned back. This was at noon. At 5 p.m.
our troops arrived and took it over.
This saved the whole situation. Whether the woman was on our side or
whether she thought she had seen soldiers will never be known.
When at the Castle yesterday H. got a copy of _The Times_ for Saturday,
the first paper we have seen since Monday, so you can imagine how
eagerly we scanned the news about Ireland. More has got out than we
expected, but still nothing like the true position. We rubbed our
eyes when we read that "two battalions" had been sent to Ireland, and
wondered if it could possibly have been a printer's error for two
divisions (40,000 men) which actually arrived on Wednesday. The people
were in the streets of Kingstown for twenty hours watching the troops
pass through. Since then many more troops and artillery have come in.
_2 p.m._
I have just returned from walking round the G.P.O. and Sackville
Street with H. and some of the officials. It passes all my powers of
description, only one word describes it, "Desolation." If you look at
pictures of Yprès or Louvain after the bombardment it will give you
some idea of the scene.
We looked up through the windows of the G.P.O. and saw the safe that
was in H.'s room still in the wall, and the door does not appear to
have been opened or the safe touched, but the whole place has been such
an inferno one would think the door must have been red-hot. Among all
the _débris_ the fire was still smouldering, and we could not penetrate
inside. I picked up a great lump of molten metal, a fantastic shape
with bits of glass embedded in it. It is bright like silver, but they
tell me it is lead. It is quite curious. Do you realise, G., that out
of all H.'s library he now does not possess a single book, except one
volume of his Dante, and I not even a silver teaspoon!!
Everything belonging to F. has gone; as he gave his life in the war, so
an act of war has robbed us of everything belonging to him--our most
precious possession.
It has almost broken H. up; but he has no time to think, which is
perhaps a good thing.
The old Morland and Smith mezzotints have also gone--things we can
never replace.
Behind the G.P.O. was the Coliseum Theatre, now only a shell; and on
the other side of the street was the office of the _Freeman's Journal_,
with all the printing machinery lying among the _débris_, all twisted
and distorted; but, worst of all, behind that was a great riding
school, where all the horses were burnt to death.
If at all possible you ought to come over for Whitsuntide. You will
see such a sight as you will never see in your life unless you go to
Belgium.
When we came here H. was scandalised at the condition of the G.P.O. The
whole frontage was given up to sorting offices, and the public office
was in a side street, a miserable, dirty little place, that would have
been a disgrace to a small country town.
H. found that plans had been drawn up and passed for the complete
reconstruction of the interior, building in a portion of the courtyard
an office for sorting purposes, leaving the frontage for the public
office with entrance under the great portico.
So H. _hustled_, and the work was completed and opened to the public
six weeks ago.
It was really beautiful. The roof was a large glass dome, with
elaborate plaster work, beautiful white pillars, mosaic floor, counters
all of red teak wood, and bright brass fittings everywhere--a public
building of which any great city might be proud; and in six weeks all
that is left is a smoking heap of ashes!
N. had an extraordinary find inside one of the rooms. About six yards
from the main wall he found, covered with ashes and a beam lying across
it, a motor cycle. It was lying on its side. He got it out and found it
perfect, tyres uninjured and petrol in the tank, and he rode it to the
hotel, and has now taken it to the Castle to hand over to the police.
_May 2nd, 10 a.m._
Last evening after tea I walked all round the ruined district with N.
and two ladies from the hotel. The streets were thronged with people,
and threading their way among the crowd were all sorts of vehicles:
carts carrying the bodies of dead horses that had been shot the first
day and lain in the streets ever since; fire brigade ambulances,
followed by Irish cars bringing priests and driven by fire brigade men.
Then motors with Red Cross emblems carrying white-jacketed doctors
would dart along, followed by a trail of Red Cross nurses on bicycles,
in their print dresses and white overalls, their white cap-ends
floating behind them, all speeding on their errand of mercy to the
stricken city.
From time to time we came across on the unwashed pavement the large
dark stain telling its own grim story, and in one place the blood had
flowed along the pavement for some yards and down into the gutter; but
enough of horrors. We came sadly back, and on the steps we met Mr. O'B.
returning from a similar walk. He could hardly speak of it, and said
he stood in Sackville Street and cried, and many other men did the same.
Last night after dinner we were sitting in the room H. uses as a
temporary office overlooking the street, when firing began just
outside. They were evidently firing at the offices of the Sinn Fein
Volunteers at the bottom of the road. It was probably the last stand of
the rebels, and the firing was very sharp and quick. We thought bullets
must come into the hotel. I was reading aloud some bits out of the
_Daily Mail_, and the men were smoking. They moved my chair back to the
wall between the windows out of the line of fire; but the firing became
so violent we decided it was foolhardy to remain, so we deserted the
room, took our papers, and went and sat on the stairs till it was over.
Since then we have not heard a shot fired; and it would seem that as
we were present at the first shots fired in Sackville Street on Easter
Monday so we have been present at the last fired eight days later in
Dawson Street.
Out of all the novel experiences of the last eight days two things
strike me very forcibly. The first is that, under circumstances that
might well have tried the nerves of the strongest, there has been no
trace of fear or panic among the people in the hotel, either among the
guests or staff. Anxiety for absent friends of whom no tidings could be
heard, though living only in the next square, one both felt and heard;
but of fear for their own personal safety I have seen not one trace,
and the noise of battle after the first two days seemed to produce
nothing but boredom. The other is a total absence of thankfulness at
our own escape.
It may come; I don't know. Others may feel it; I don't. I don't
pretend to understand it; but so it is. Life as it has been lived for
the last two years in the midst of death seems to have blunted one's
desire for it, and completely changed one's feelings towards the
Hereafter.
Now, G., I will end this long letter, and my next will probably deal
with normal if less interesting matters, but intense interest must
remain in the reconstruction of this great city.
Surely it must be possible to find men who will rule with firmness and
understanding this fine people--so kindly, so emotional, so clever,
so easily guided, and so magnificent when wisely led. One prays they
may be found, and found quickly, and that we may live to see a Dublin
restored to its former stateliness with a Government worthy of the
nation.
Ever yours,
L. N.