walk into the country along the Lisburn Road for about two miles, and
there meet the motor-car. When it was time we started out. We were
a party of four, Captain Mellowes and another young man, who was at
that time hiding from the police in our house, my sister Agna, and
myself. We walked along the country road and arrived at the
appointed place too soon. The {82} car was a little late; every car
that came along would lift our hearts up and when it whizzed by would
leave us little more nervously excited. It came in the end, however,
and stopped for a minute while Captain Mellowes was being bundled on
to the car, then sped away leaving us in the dark country road.
I arrived home about one-thirty and went to bed, tired out and fully
resolved to stay there for the next day. But, alas! the news had got
about and after school hours some of my friends called to hear my
version, and compelled me to get up. The day or so following I took
part in a Volunteer play called "Ireland First" in order to give the
impression that I had been in Belfast and rehearsing with the
company. On Saturday my mother received a letter from my father; the
only reference he made to the job he had given me was, "Tell Nora I
am proud of her."
{83}
VII
After that I was kept busy with the Ambulance class, and in preparing
field dressings and bandages. There were about fifty girls working
under my instructions and the work was beginning to be piled up. One
squad was cutting up the material, another wrapping it up in
waterproof material, others pasting on the directions, others sewing
the completed bundle up in cotton bags which permitted them to be
sewn into the men's coats. We were kept busy. When one of the
officers came to the room to order the field dressings for his men,
he voiced the opinion of all when he said, "Well, this looks like
business. As soon as I stepped inside the door I felt that something
important was going on. I suppose you all feel that way?" We did,
and worked all the harder for it.
Some time before this my father had asked me if I would be in Dublin
with him during the fight, but I had said, No, I would rather {84}
stay with the Northern division; that I thought I had better stay
with the girls with whom I had been working. A younger sister had
also decided to join the Northern detachment. My mother and the rest
of the family were going to Dublin so as to be near my father. We
were leaving the house just as it stood, to avoid suspicion, taking
nothing from it but the trunks containing clothes. These could
easily be taken without causing undue suspicion as it is quite a
usual thing for families to go away for the Easter holidays. Between
helping to pack up the trunks at home and the field dressings outside
I managed to secure six hours' sleep during the latter part of Holy
Week. My mother left Belfast on Good Friday, my sister and I the
following day.
The instructions given the First Aid corps were: To meet at the Great
Northern Station with full equipment and two days' rations. When we
met the station was crowded with holiday-goers. There were three
different queues circled around the station. We divided ourselves
amongst them so that our party would not be large enough to attract
attention. I found myself behind a party of soldiers going home on
furlough. I could not help wondering {85} if their furlough would be
cut short, and if I might meet them again under different
circumstances.
After I had taken the tickets I went to the trains to see if it were
possible to get a carriage to ourselves. As the party had been split
in two, one part to come on a later train, we could just fill a
carriage. There was so much traffic that the railroad company had
pulled out from many hiding places all the cars they could find. The
line of cars presented a very curious picture as it stood waiting for
the signal to start. There were the very latest corridor carriages,
carriages quite new-looking, carriages old, carriages very old, and
carriages so very old that they were an absolute temptation to us.
These last were of that old type that has no wall between the
carriages; the back of the seat is the only dividing wall. We picked
out one and entered, took our seats, stowed away our haversacks,
water-bottles, and hospital supplies under the seats and on the racks
over our heads. Then we sat in pleasant anticipation to see who
would enter the other carriage. One of the girls had put her head
out of the window, and suddenly she gave a whoop and waved her arms.
We hauled {86} her in angrily, demanding to know what she meant by
attracting attention in such a manner--didn't she know that the fewer
that saw us the better? "But," she said when she got a chance, "I
saw the Young Ireland Pipers coming up the platform looking for a
carriage, and I thought it would be great to have them in the next
carriage. They would pass the time for us by playing the pipes."
(The Young Ireland Pipers were attached to the Volunteers.)
By this time the Pipers had come to the door of the carriage next to
us and were getting in. They were both surprised and pleased when
they saw the girls. They knew then that they could play all the
rebel songs they desired, and say all the revolutionary things they
could think of. That was one good thing about the Republican forces
in our part of the country--every one knew every one else; and so it
was elsewhere I am told. I doubt if ever pipers were so dressed
going to battle. Slung from one shoulder was a haversack, crossing
it was a bandolier filled with cartridges, a belt held the haversack
in its place on one side, and from the other a bayonet was suspended.
Strapped to the backs were rolled tar sheets, and under {87} their
arms they held the bagpipes with their green, white, and orange
streamers flying over their shoulders. They were most warlike
musicians. But more significant than all were the eager eyes shining
out from under their caps. One young chap leaned over the wall and
said to me, "My God! Isn't it great? We worked and worked without
hope and now----" One of the boys had been tuning up the pipes and
as the train began to move we swung out of the station to the tune of:
"Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland,
Some have come from the land beyond the wave,
Sworn to be free, no more our ancient sireland
Shall shelter the despot or the slave.
To-night we man the Bearna Baoighail[*]
In Erin's cause come woe or weal,
'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal
We'll chant a soldier's song."
[*] Barna Bail "The Gap of Danger."
Tyrone was our destination and we arrived there before dark. We were
met by a local committee and taken to a hotel. After we had
something to eat, we went over to the drill hall. There I had the
first wound to attend to--one of the men had accidentally shot
himself while cleaning his revolver. There was quite a crowd around
me while I was dressing the wound. {88} When I had finished, the men
said that they hoped I would be detailed with their company, as they
would feel much safer. I said that I didn't want to dress wounds
till I had a chance to make some: at this they laughed and promised
me that I would get all the chance I wanted. I then asked them when
they would mobilize. "To-morrow morning," they replied. "We are
waiting for the Belfast Division to arrive. We start on our
maneuvers at 12 o'clock. We will all be together then."
We were still talking of our hopes when some one came into the hall
and said that he had a message for Miss Connolly. "Here I am," I
said. "What do you want?"
[Illustration: NORA CONNOLLY]
"Come outside, Miss Connolly," said he. "I have a message for you."
I followed the man outside. The message he gave me was to the effect
that the Commandant in the North had sent him to say that there would
be no fighting in the North; that he had received a demobilizing
order, but that he thought there would be fighting in Dublin. We
could decide whether we would go back to Belfast or on to Dublin. He
left the matter entirely in our own hands. I left the messenger and
went back to the hall to call the girls together. I asked them to
{89} come with me to the hotel. I then told them the text of the
message I had received and asked them to decide whether they would
return to Belfast or go to Dublin. I said that I was going to Dublin
and they decided to go with me. One of the girls suggested that we
say the Rosary for the men who were about to fight. We knelt down
and said it. We then began to get our things together again. I
inquired about the trains to Dublin and was told that there would be
no train till midnight. It was almost 10 o'clock then and we were
some miles away from a station. I asked one of the men where I could
get a car to take us to the station. They protested against our
leaving, but I said that we had our work to do, and must get to
Dublin as soon as possible. After some talk he sent one of the men
to get two cars for us. We waited most impatiently till they came,
then piling on to them as best we could we left the town and went
towards the station.
While we were waiting for the train we saw the second contingent
arriving from Belfast. The men had their equipment with them and
swung out of the station in a truly martial way. I knew from their
joyous faces and their {90} remarks that they had not received the
news we had, and I pictured to myself the change there would be when
they did.
Our train left Tyrone at twelve-thirty, and arrived in Dublin at
five-fifteen. We went directly to Liberty Hall for I knew my father
would be there. Ever since the attempted raid on Liberty Hall, he
had stayed there every night under an armed guard. He had determined
that he would not be arrested before the day arrived.
As we approached to the building we saw an armed sentry keeping watch
through a window; we went up the steps and knocked on the door. A
sentry came to the door and asked our business. I said I was Mr.
Connolly's daughter and that the girls were ambulance workers from
the North. He did not know me, so he called to some one else to
decide for him. The man he called to was the officer of the guard
who knew me. As we went inside the door and up the stairs I asked
him if he thought I could see my father. He told me that my father
had not been able to go to bed until three o'clock. I said I thought
it best to see my father at once. He then escorted me to the
corridor in which my father's room was {91} and told me the number.
I walked along the corridor till I found the room and knocked on the
door.
"Who is there?" called my father.
"Nora," I answered.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were with the North men."
"Let me in, father," I said. "I am afraid there is something wrong."
He opened the door and I entered the room. It was rather a small
room, square and slightly furnished. There were but two chairs, a
table, a cupboard and an army cot. My father was lying on the cot
and looking at me in surprise. I went over to him and knelt down
beside the cot to tell him why I was there.
"What does it mean, father? Are we not going to fight?" I asked him
when I had finished.
"Not fight!" he said in amazement. "Nora, if we don't fight now, we
are disgraced forever; and all we'll have left to hope and pray; for
will be, that an earthquake may come and swallow Ireland up."
"Then why were we told last night that there would be no fighting in
the North?"
{92}
"We received word last night that there could not be got fifty men to
leave Belfast."
"That is not true!" I cried. "Why, there were fifty men on the train
with us leaving Belfast; and before we left Tyrone there were two
hundred. I saw them myself. They are there now with all their
equipment, eager and happy and boisterous with delight."
"That is a different story from what we were told," said my father.
"Mine is the true one," I returned. "But don't accept my word for
it. Call in the other girls and question them."
"Ask them to come in."
I went out to the girls and said that my father would like to see
them. They came in; they all knew my father but he did not know them
all, so I told him all their names.
"Tell me, girls," said my father, "how many men you saw in Tyrone
before you left, Belfast men particularly."
Their story was practically the same as mine. When he had heard them
all, my father asked one of them to call in the guard who was on duty
in the corridor. When the guard had entered the room, or rather
stood at the door, {93} my father said to him, "Call the officer of
the guard."
Shortly afterwards the officer of the guard knocked on the door. I
opened the door and he came inside, saluted and said, "Yes, sir?"
"Send in five men who know the city thoroughly," said my father.
"Yes, sir," said the officer as he saluted again.
"Now," said my father turning to us again. "I am going to send you
to each of the other Commandants. You tell them just what you have
told me. And after you tell them all, ask them to come here as
quickly as they can."
The five Citizen Army men came to the room shortly after that, and
each of the girls was given different addresses to go to. It fell to
my lot to go to Sean MacDermott. I had as my guide a man who looked
as little an Irishman as he well might be. He was short and stout
yet very light on his feet; he wore bright blue overalls, short black
leggings, and his face was burnt a dark brown. He wore a wide black
felt hat and from under it I saw hanging from his ears, big, round
gold ear-rings. He looked as I fancied a Neapolitan fisherman would
look like.
{94}
The leaders slept no two nights in the same place. Only themselves
knew where each other was sleeping. This was for safety. I was
taken to a place beyond Parnell Square, about twenty minutes walk
from the Hall. When we arrived there we had to knock the people up;
and it was some time before we received any answer. They were very
suspicious of us when I said who it was I wanted. The woman, who
opened the door, consulted with some one inside the house, before she
decided to let me in. The guide having done his duty in bringing me
there and seeing that I was about to enter the house, went back to
Liberty Hall to report.
The woman then asked me who I was, what did I want, wouldn't any one
else do, and a score of other questions. She went away after she had
received my answers. In a few minutes a young man came down to
interview me also. I told him that I was Mr. Connolly's daughter and
that Sean MacDermott knew me, and that I had a message for him from
my father. He was still reluctant to let me see Sean and said that
Sean had hardly had time to go to sleep. I said that I knew that but
that I had been traveling all night from the {95} North, and had
wakened my father over an hour ago who had had even less sleep than
Sean.
After that he went away and came back to say that I could see Sean
MacDermott. I went upstairs and found him in bed. He was looking
very pale and tired. He listened to me, while I told him all I had
to tell, without saying a word till I had finished. He then asked me
if the others knew this. I told him that there were other girls
seeing the other leaders at the same time. He remained silent for a
while and then said, "I am very glad you came. Tell your father that
I'll be at the Hall as soon as I can." I then returned to Liberty
Hall. It was then about seven o'clock and we decided to go to Mass
at Marlborough Cathedral around the corner.
{96}
VIII
When we returned from Mass my father had risen, and dressed in his
uniform was going about the room singing to himself:
"We've got another savior now,
That savior is the sword."
I began to prepare breakfast for my father and the rest of us. But
it was some time before we sat down to our breakfast, as one by one
the leaders dropped into the room, and as none of them had waited to
have breakfast before coming they had to be served. I remember
giving breakfast to a young officer who had come up on the night mail
from Limerick, for final instructions. I gave Tom Clarke his last
Easter breakfast. It seemed fitting he should have as table
companion Sean MacDermott--they were always such close friends.
Before they had finished Joseph Plunkett, his throat heavily swathed
in bandages, for he had shortly gone under an operation, arrived; and
{97} following him closely came Thomas MacDonagh. Michael Mallin and
my father had their breakfast together. They were all in uniform,
except Tom Clarke and Sean MacDermott. Pearse did not have his
breakfast at Liberty Hall; he arrived somewhat later than the others
and had already eaten. While they were all standing around and
talking, one of the girls came in and said, "Mr. Connolly, look, the
_Independent_ says, 'No maneuvers to-day.' What does that mean? Is
it a trick?"
"What is that?" said my father, taking the paper from her.
"Maneuvers" was the name under which our men were being mobilized.
If the _Independent_, which had the largest circulation of any Sunday
paper throughout the country, printed such a bit of news it would
disorganize our forces to a great extent. Yet, there it was:
Owing to the critical situation all Volunteer parades and maneuvers
are canceled.
By order
Eoin MacNeill.
"What does this mean?" asked my father, turning to Pearse.
"Let me see it," said Pearse. "I know nothing whatsoever about
this," he said when he {98} had read it. After that there was some
low-voiced conversation among the leaders; and then the Council room.
They remained there till after one o'clock.
We then ate our long delayed breakfasts and then went to another part
of the Hall to see more stirring sights. On our way out of the
corridor we had to pass the Council room. It was guarded by an armed
sentry who stood at the door forbidding all to pass. He stopped us
and would not allow us to pass until one of the officers coming out
of the room saw our plight and told him who we were. When we came to
the corner of the corridor we were again stopped by a sentry, but he
knew me and we went on out to the front of the building.
Here, all was excitement, guards at the top and the bottom of the
stairs, men and boys, women and girls running up and down; Citizen
Army men arriving by the dozen armed with all their equipment, poured
steadily into the great front hall.
We remained about the Hall as we had been told to stay within call in
case we were needed as messengers to the North. We remained in the
vicinity until well on in the afternoon. It {99} was not until the
Citizen Army started out on a march that we were freed. I have never
been able to understand how it was that the authorities did not
become aware that something untoward was afoot. There were two dozen
policemen detailed to attend the Citizen Army march and they hung
around Beresford Place waiting for the march to begin. Surely they
should have been able to sense the difference in the feeling of the
crowds that were thronged around Liberty Hall all the day. There was
no disguising by the people that they expected a different ending to
this march than to all the other marches. Else why the haversacks
filled with food, the bandoliers filled with ammunition, and the
supply wagons piled high with supplies? The men and women were under
military orders. They were no longer a volunteer organization, they
were a nation's army. Their fathers and, mothers, their wives and
children, their sisters and brothers, and their sweethearts knew that
from that day forth their lives were no longer their own, but
belonged to Ireland. And while they openly exulted in this thought
and brought parting gifts to their loved ones, the police saw nothing.
{100}
Before they went on their march my father called me to him and told
me to bring the girls to Surrey House, the home of the Countess de
Markievicz, so that they would have a rest before reporting at
Liberty Hall the following morning. They badly needed rest as they
had had no sleep the night before. Our orders were to report at
Liberty Hall the next morning at eight o'clock.
The next morning when we reached Liberty Hall we were told that we
were to be given a message to take back North with us. The message
was to be written and signed by Padraic Pearse; therefore we had to
wait until he came. While we were waiting Thomas MacDonagh came into
the room. He was in uniform. He greeted us in his gay, kindly way
and pretended to jeer at us for leaving the city.
"Here we are," he said, "on the brink of a revolution and all you are
thinking of is to get out of the city before we begin."
[Illustration: LIBERTY HALL After the outbreak of the European War]
While he was talking my father came into the room carrying a large
poster. He unrolled it and spread it out on the table saying, "Come
here, girls, and read this carefully. It would be too dangerous to
allow you to carry it with {101} you, but read it carefully and tell
the men in the North of what you have read." We all gathered around
the table and read The Proclamation of the Irish Republic. I think
that we had the honor of being amongst the first to see the
proclamation.
Pearse came in while we were discussing our intended journey. He was
in uniform; his military overcoat making him look taller and broader
than ever. My father told him that we were waiting for the message.
He went to the Council room to write it and we followed him. While
we were waiting my father gave me some advice as to what we should do
when we arrived in the North. Then Pearse called to us and we went
to him. He handed me an envelope and said, "May God bless you all
and the brave men of the North." He said it so solemnly and so
earnestly that I felt as if I had been at Benediction. I then said
"Good-by" to my father and left the Hall to take the nine o'clock
train to the North.
{102}
IX
We knew that the men were to rise at twelve o'clock and as that hour
drew nigh we watched and listened anxiously to hear or see if the
news had reached the North before us. At twelve o'clock we left the
train at Portadown. There was a large body of men belonging to an
Orange Band parading up and down the platform beating their drums.
They were going to some meeting in Derry. The noise was terrific but
we bore it gladly for it told more than words that our men in Dublin
had been able to carry out their plans without any untoward accident.
We changed into the other train and finished our journey in a less
anxious frame of mind. But there was disappointment awaiting us at
Tyrone; when we arrived there the men had already received the
demobilizing order of MacNeill and had obeyed it. The Belfast
contingent was already in Belfast and the country divisions had not
had time to mobilize before the order from MacNeill had {103}
arrived. When I found this out I sent messengers to the various
bodies advising them of what was going on in Dublin. The principal
dispatch was the one given us by Pearse and that one was sent off in
care of my sister, other girls going to other places. There was
nothing for the rest of us to do but to await the return of the
messengers.
At eight o'clock that night a boy came from Belfast who said that he
had been sent to advise us to return to Belfast and asked us to go
back with him. I asked the officer of the local Volunteer Corps if
they intended to go on with the fight now that the men in Dublin were
out, or if they intended to obey MacNeill's order. He replied that
they were in honor bound to assist the Dublin men. I said that being
the case I would remain with them and that we would attach ourselves
to their body as they had no First Aid Corps.
About an hour later the local organizer came to the hotel and asked
for me. I went out to him; he said that it would be better if we
were in a less conspicuous place--would we go to some place out in
the country? It was nearer to the meeting place. We agreed to go
and started out about ten o'clock.
{104}