had served fifteen years for taking part in the rising of sixty-seven.
His pale, worn face showed the havoc wrought by that long term in an
English prison, but his spirit had not been broken.
There was Jo Plunkett, too, pale and weak, having come directly from the
hospital where he had just undergone an operation. But he knew what
prestige his name would lend to this movement--a name famous for seven
hundred years in Irish history. He looked like death, and he met death a
few days later at the hands of the English.
I talked about explosives one day with Sean McDermott and we went
together to consult a wounded chemist in a rear room to find out what
could be done with chemicals we had found at the College of Surgeons.
Sean McDermott was like a creature from another planet who had brought
his radiance with him to this one. Every one felt this and loved him for
the courage and sweetness he put into all he did.
The O'Rahilly was another of the striking figures at the post-office.
He was known as one of the handsomest men in Ireland, and, in addition
to being head of a famous old clan, had large estates. He had given much
property to the cause, and now was risking his life for it. He was
killed on the last day of the fighting as he led a sortie into the
street at one side of the post-office. His last words were, "Good-by and
good luck to you!" He said those words to British prisoners he was
setting free because the post-office had caught fire and the game was
up. They afterward told of his kindness and care for them at a moment
when he himself was in the greatest possible danger.
I can pass anywhere for a Scotch girl,--I have often had to since the
rising,--and friends will tell you I am hard-headed and practical,
without the least trace of mysticism. Yet, whenever I was in general
headquarters in the post-office, I felt, despite commonplace
surroundings and the din of fighting, an exalted calm that can be
possible only where men are giving themselves unreservedly and with
clear conscience to a great cause.
VIII
Singing "Soldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland," we had
withdrawn from St. Stephen's Green into the College of Surgeons. Only
one of our men had been killed, yet this was a retreat, and we knew it.
If only we had had enough men to take possession of the Shelbourne
Hotel, we need not have yielded the Green. As it was, we wasted no time
in mourning, but went to work at once to make ourselves ready for a
siege that might last no one knew how long.
Under orders from Commandant Mallin, some of the men began to cut
through the walls into adjoining buildings. Others went up on the roof
to use their rifles against the British soldiers on top of the
Shelbourne. Madam went about everywhere, seeking to find anything that
could be of use to us. She discovered sixty-seven rifles, with fifteen
thousand rounds of cartridges; also bandoliers and haversacks. All this
had belonged, no doubt, to the training corps of the College of
Surgeons, and would have been used against us had we not reached the
building first.
On the ground floor of the big building were lecture-rooms and a museum;
up-stairs other class-rooms, laboratories, and the library. On the third
floor were the caretaker's rooms and a kitchen where our first-aid and
despatch-girls took possession and cooked for the others as long as
anything remained to cook. Lastly came the garret up under the roof. To
shoot from the roof itself quickly became impossible, since our men
were easy targets for the gunners on the Shelbourne. As soon as one of
our boys was wounded, we knew they had our range, and decided to cut
holes through and directly under the sloping roof. Here we could shoot
in perfect safety while remaining unseen.
On Wednesday there was little despatch-bearing to do, so I stood around
watching the men up there at work. The countess realized my impatience
to be doing my bit, also my hesitation at putting myself forward to ask
for permission. Without saying anything to me, she went to Commandant
Mallin and told him she thought I could be of use under the roof. He
gave his permission at once, and she brought me the answer.
Madam had had a fine uniform of green moleskin made for me. With her
usual generosity, she had mine made of better material than her own. It
consisted of kneebreeches, belted coat, and puttees. I slipped into this
uniform, climbed up astride the rafters, and was assigned a loophole
through which to shoot. It was dark there, full of smoke and the din of
firing, but it was good to be in action. I could look across the tops of
trees and see the British soldiers on the roof of the Shelbourne. I
could also hear their shot hailing against the roof and wall of our
fortress, for in truth this building was just that. More than once I saw
the man I aimed at fall.
[Illustration: BELT BUCKLE]
[Illustration: STAMPS ISSUED BY THE IRISH REPUBLIC]
To those who have been following the Great War, reading of thousands and
hundreds of thousands attacking one another in open battle or in
mile-long trench-warfare, this exchange of shots between two buildings
across a Dublin green may seem petty. But to us there could be nothing
greater. Every shot we fired was a declaration to the world that
Ireland, a small country but large in our hearts, was demanding her
independence. We knew that all over Dublin, perhaps by this time all
over Ireland, other groups like ours were filled with the same
intensity, the same determination, to make the Irish Republic, no matter
how short-lived, a reality of which history would have to take account.
Besides, the longer we could keep our tricolor flying over the College
of Surgeons, the greater the chance that Irish courage would respond and
we should gain recruits.
Whenever I was called down to carry a despatch, I took off my uniform,
put on my gray dress and hat, and went out the side door of the college
with my message. As soon as I returned, I slipped back into my uniform
and joined the firing-squad.
There were a good many of the Fianna boys in the college with us. As
usual, their allegiance to Madam would not let them leave her. One of
them, Tommie Keenan of Camden Row, was only twelve years old, but was
invaluable. He would go out for food and medicine and, because he was so
little, never attracted attention, though he wore his green Fianna shirt
under his jacket. On Tuesday he came to the conclusion, perhaps with
Madam's aid, that he ought to go home and tell his parents what he was
doing. Commandant Mallin advised him, just before he left, to take off
his green shirt and not wear it again for a while. It was a day or more
before he returned, because his father had locked him in his room. We
sympathized with the father, for that was just what we had expected him
to do. But when a friend came along who promised to keep guard over
Tommy if he was allowed to go for a walk, the boy's chance came. Eluding
this friend, he ran the most roundabout way until he arrived where he
felt "duty" called him.
The boy already referred to as nearly blind was with us, too. He pleaded
so hard to be allowed to use a rifle that the men finally put him at a
loophole, where he breathlessly fired shot after shot in the direction
of the hotel. Maybe the prayers he murmured gave him success.
Our rations were short, but I do not remember that any one complained. I
for one had no appetite for more than a slice of bread or two a day,
with a cup of bouillon made from the cubes laid in as part of our
necessary ration. The two captured British officers had their meals
regularly whether any one else ate or not, and seemed grateful for it.
Every evening fighting would quiet down, and the boys and men--about a
hundred, now, through recruits who had joined us--would gather in the
largest lecture-hall to sing under the leadership of Jo Connolly, whose
brother Sean had fallen the first day in front of Dublin Castle. I can
hear them even now:
"Armed for the battle,
Kneel we before Thee,
Bless Thou our banners,
God of the brave!
'Ireland is living'--
Shout we triumphant,
'Ireland is waking--
Hands grasp the sword!'"
They were singing this chant, written by the countess and set to some
Polish revolutionary air, on Wednesday evening. I was up-stairs,
studying a map of our surroundings and trying to find a way by which we
could dislodge the soldiers from the roof of the Hotel Shelbourne. When
Commandant Mallin came in, I asked him if he would let me go out with
one man and try to throw a bomb attached to an eight-second fuse through
the hotel window. I knew there was a bow-window on the side farthest
from us, which was not likely to be guarded. We could use our bicycles
and get away before the bomb exploded,--that is, if we were quick
enough. At any rate, it was worth trying, whatever the risk.
Commandant Mallin agreed the plan was a good one, but much too
dangerous. I pointed out to him that it had been my speed which had
saved me so far from machine-gun fire on the hotel roof. It was not that
the British were doing us any real harm in the college, but it was high
time to take the aggressive, for success would hearten the men in other
"forts" who were not having as safe a time of it. He finally agreed,
though not at all willingly, for he did not want to let a woman run this
sort of risk. My answer to that argument was that we had the same right
to risk our lives as the men; that in the constitution of the Irish
Republic, women were on an equality with men. For the first time in
history, indeed, a constitution had been written that incorporated the
principle of equal suffrage. But the Commandant told me there was
another task to be accomplished before the hotel could be bombed. That
was to cut off the retreat of a British force which had planted a
machine-gun on the flat roof of University Church. It was against our
rules to use any church, Protestant or Catholic, in our defense, no
matter what advantage that might give us. But this church, close at
hand, had been occupied by the British and was cutting us off from
another command with whom it was necessary to keep in communication. In
order to cut off the retreat of these soldiers, it would be necessary to
burn two buildings. I asked the Commandant to let me help in this
undertaking. He consented, and gave me four men to help fire one
building, while another party went out to fire the other. It meant a
great deal to me that he should trust me with this piece of work, and I
felt elated. While I changed once more into my uniform, for the work of
war can only be done by those who wear its dress, I could still hear
them singing:
"Who fights for Ireland,
God guide his blows home!
Who dies for Ireland,
God give him peace!
Knowing our cause just,
March we victorious,
Giving our hearts' blood
Ireland to free!"
IX
It took only a few moments to reach the building we were to set afire.
Councilor Partridge smashed the glass door in the front of a shop that
occupied the ground floor. He did it with the butt of his rifle and a
flash followed. It had been discharged! I rushed past him into the
doorway of the shop, calling to the others to come on. Behind me came
the sound of a volley, and I fell. It was as I had on the instant
divined. That flash had revealed us to the enemy.
"It's all over," I muttered, as I felt myself falling. But a moment
later, when I knew I was not dead, I was sure I should pull through.
Before another volley could be fired, Mr. Partridge lifted and carried
me into the street. There on the sidewalk lay a dark figure in a pool of
blood. It was Fred Ryan, a mere lad of seventeen, who had wanted to come
with us as one of the party of four.
"We must take him along," I said.
But it was no use; he was dead.
With help, I managed to walk to the corner. Then the other man who had
stopped behind to set the building afire caught up with us. Between them
they succeeded in carrying me back to the College of Surgeons.
As we came into the vestibule, Jo Connolly was waiting with his bicycle,
ready to go out with me to bomb the hotel. His surprise at seeing me
hurt was as if I had been out for a stroll upon peaceful streets and met
with an accident.
They laid me on a large table and cut away the coat of my fine, new
uniform. I cried over that. Then they found I had been shot in three
places, my right side under the arm, my right arm, and in the back on my
right side. Had I not turned as I went through that shop-door to call to
the others, I would have got all three bullets in my back and lungs and
surely been done for.
They had to probe several times to get the bullets, and all the while
Madam held my hand. But the probing did not hurt as much as she expected
it would. My disappointment at not being able to bomb the Hotel
Shelbourne was what made me unhappy. They wanted to send me to the
hospital across the Green, but I absolutely refused to go. So the men
brought in a cot, and the first-aid girls bandaged me, as there was no
getting a doctor that night. What really did distress me was my cough
and the pain in my chest. When I tried to keep from coughing, I made a
queer noise in my throat and noticed every one around me look
frightened.
"It's no death-rattle," I explained, and they all had to laugh,--that
is, all laughed except Commandant Mallin. He said he could not forgive
himself as long as he lived for having let me go out on that errand. But
he did not live long, poor fellow! I tried to cheer him by pointing out
that he had in reality saved my life, since the bombing plan was much
more dangerous.
Soon after I was brought in, the countess and Councilor Partridge
disappeared. When she returned to me, she said very quietly:
"You are avenged, my dear."
It seems they had gone out to where Fred Ryan lay, and Partridge, to
attract the fire of the soldiers across the street in the Sinn Fein
Bank, had stooped over the dead boy to lift him. There were only two
soldiers and they both fired. That gave Madam a chance to sight them.
She fired twice and killed both.
They tell me that all next day I was delirious and lay moaning and
talking incoherently. It was not the bullets that brought me to this
pass, but pneumonia. Even so I am glad I was there and not at a
hospital. Later a doctor who was summoned made the mistake of using too
much corrosive sublimate on my wounds, and for once I knew what torture
is. The mistake took all the skin off my side and back. But Madam is a
natural nurse. Among her friends she was noted for her desire to care
for them if they fell ill. Some one was almost always in bed at Surrey
House; some friend whose eyes might be troubling her to whom the
countess would read aloud or apply soothing applications; a Fianna boy,
or an actress from the Abbey Theater who needed to build up her nerves.
Thus I was in good hands, and besides, following my instinct, I ate
nothing for the next three days, but drank quantities of water.
[Illustration: PEARSE'S LAST PROCLAMATION
Written under shell and shrapnel fire. (His marvelous handwriting is due
to his mastery of the Gaelic script.)
Headquarters, Army of the Irish Republic,
General Post Office
Dublin.
28th April, 1916. 9·30, a.m.
The Forces of the Irish Republic, which was proclaimed in Dublin on
Easter Monday, 24th April, have been in possession of the central part
of the Capital since 12 noon on that day. Up to yesterday afternoon,
Headquarters was in touch with all the main outlying positions, and
despite furious and almost continuous assaults by the British Forces all
those positions were then still being held, and the Commandants in
charge were confident of their ability to hold them for a long time.
During the course of yesterday afternoon, and evening, the enemy
succeeded in cutting our communications with our other positions in the
city, and Headquarters is to-day isolated.
The enemy has burnt down whole blocks of houses, apparently with the
object of giving themselves a clear field for the play of Artillery and
field guns against us. We have been bombarded during the evening and
night by shrapnel and machine gun fire, but without material damage to
our position, which is of great strength.
We are busy completing arrangements for the final defence of
Headquarters, and are determined to hold it while the buildings last.
I desire now, lest I may not have an opportunity later, to pay homage to
the gallantry of the Soldiers of Irish Freedom who have during the past
four days been writing with fire and steel, the most glorious chapter in
the later history of Ireland. Justice can never be done to their
heroism, to their discipline, to their gay and unconquerable spirit, in
the midst of peril and death.
Let me, who have led them into this, speak in my own, and in my
fellow-commanders' names, and in the name of Ireland present and to
come, their praise, and ask those who come after them to remember them.
For four days they have fought and toiled, almost without cessation,
almost without sleep, and in the intervals of fighting, they have sung
songs of the freedom of Ireland. No man has complained, no man has asked
"why?". Each individual has spent himself, happy to pour out his
strength for Ireland and for freedom. If they do not win this fight,
they will at least have deserved to win it. But win it they will,
although they may win it in death. Already they have won a great thing.
They have redeemed Dublin from many shames, and made her name splendid
among the names of Cities.
If I were to mention names of individuals, my list would be a long one.
I will name only that of Commandant General James Connolly, Commanding
the Dublin division. He lies wounded, but is still the guiding brain of
our resistance.
If we accomplish no more than we have accomplished, I am satisfied. I am
satisfied that we have saved Ireland's honour. I am satisfied that we
should have accomplished more, that we should have accomplished the task
of enthroning, as well as proclaiming, the Irish Republic as a Sovereign
State, had our arrangements for a simultaneous rising of the whole
country, with a combined plan as sound as the Dublin plan has been
proved to be, been allowed to go through on Easter Sunday. Of the fatal
countermanding order which prevented those plans from being carried out,
I shall not speak further. Both Eoin MacNeill and we have acted in the
best interests of Ireland.
For my part, as to anything I have done in this, I am not afraid to face
either the judgement of God, or the judgement of posterity.
(Signed) P. H. Pearse, Commandant General.
Commanding-in-chief the Army of the Irish Republic and
President of the Provisional Government.]
Once a day they allowed me visitors. Every one who came to my room was
confident that things were going well. That we were isolated from other
"forts" and even from headquarters did not necessarily mean they were
losing ground. We were holding out, and our spirits rose high. We
believed, too, that by this time the Volunteers outside Dublin had
risen. We could not know that, even where they had joined the rising on
Easter Monday, the loss of one day had given the British enough time to
be on guard, so that in no instance could our men enter the barracks
and seize arms as originally planned.
While I lay there, I could hear the booming of big guns. All of us
believed it was the Germans attacking the British on the water. There
had been a rumor that German submarines would come into the fight if
they learned there was a chance of our winning it. I had heard that
report the evening before the rising. Edmond Kent, one of the republican
leaders, had been most confident of our success, and when a friend asked
him, "What if the British bring up their big guns?" he replied:
"The moment they bring up their big guns, we win."
He did not explain what he meant by this, but I took it that he expected
outside aid the minute the British, recognizing our revolt as serious,
gave us the dignity of combatants by using heavy artillery against us.
Whatever he meant, the fact remains that when they took this action,
they made us a "belligerent" in the world's eyes and gave us the excuse
we could so well use--an appeal to the world court as a "small nation,"
for a place at the coming peace conference.
Sunday morning one of the despatch-girls, white and scared because she
had been escorted to our "fort" by British soldiers, came from
headquarters to inform Commandant Mallin that a general surrender had
been decided on. The Commandant and Madam were in my room at the time,
and Madam instantly grew pale.
"Surrender?" she cried. "We'll never surrender!"
Then she begged the Commandant, who could make the decision for our
division, not to think of giving in. It would be better, she said, for
all of us to be killed at our posts. I felt as she did about it, but the
girl who had brought the despatch became more and more excited, saying
that the soldiers outside had threatened to "blow her little head off"
if she did not come out soon with the word they wanted. Possibly they
suspected any Irish girl would be more likely to urge resistance than
surrender.
Commandant Mallin, to quiet us, I suppose, said he would not surrender
unless forced to do so. But he must have decided to give in at once, for
in less than an hour an ambulance came to take me to St. Vincent's
Hospital, just across the Green.
As they carried me down-stairs, our boys came out to shake my hand. I
urged them again and again to hold out. As I said good-by to Commandant
Mallin, I had a feeling I should never see him again. Not that it
entered my head for a moment that he would be executed by the British.
Despite all our wrongs and their injustices, I did not dream of their
killing prisoners of war.
I felt no such dread concerning the countess, though our last words
together were about her will. I had witnessed it, and she had slipped it
in the lining of my coat. I was to get it to her family at the earliest
possible moment. It was fortunate that I did.
My departure was the first move in the surrender. That afternoon all the
revolutionists gave up their arms to the British in St. Patrick's
Square.
X
Those first two weeks in St. Vincent's Hospital were the blackest of my
life. In that small, white room I was, at first, as much cut off as
though in my grave. I had fever, and the doctors and nurses were more
worried over my pneumonia than over my wounds, though every time they
dressed them I suffered from the original treatment with corrosive
sublimate. My greatest anxiety, however, was because I could get no word
to my mother in Glasgow. I knew she would think I had been killed.
That was just what happened. The first word she had received since the
day I left home was that I was dead; that I had been shot in the spine,
and left lying on the Dublin pavement for two days. The next rumor that
reached her was that I was not dead, but paralyzed. The third report was
that the British had sentenced me to fifteen years' imprisonment. Had I
not been wounded, the last would probably have been true.
After two weeks I wrote a letter, and the doctor had it forwarded home
for me. It had not been easy work writing it, for my right arm was the
one that had been wounded. I knew, though, that unless she had word in
my own handwriting, my mother might not believe what she read.
Presently news began to drift in to me of trials and executions. I could
not get it through my head. Why were these men not treated as prisoners
of war? We had obeyed all rules of war and surrendered as formally as
any army ever capitulated. All my reports were of death; nothing but
death!
At dawn on May 3, the British shot Padraic Pearse, Thomas McDonagh, and
old Tom Clarke.
The following day they shot Joseph Plunkett, the brother of Padraic
Pearse, and two other leaders, Daly and O'Hanrahan.
The third day John McBride, a man known the world over for his stand in
the Boer War, was shot to death. He was the only one killed that day,
and we wondered why. What was this British reasoning that determined who
should go in company with his fellows and who should go alone?
At length came the turn of the Countess Markievicz. Because she was a
woman, they commuted her death-sentence to penal servitude for life. I
was very glad; but I knew that, since she had fought as one of them,
she would rather have died with them. Penal servitude! Those words rang
like a knell for one who was all energy, who needed people around her,
who wanted to serve.
[Illustration: THE ORDER THAT MADE THE SURRENDER OF THE COLLEGE OF
SURGEONS INEVITABLE