and looked through the branches. I saw that the land was {153}
plowed. It looked so cool and comforting that I decided to go in to
cool my feet. We walked along till we saw a gap in the hedge. We
went through it and found ourselves in a shady corner of the field.
I lost no time in pulling off my shoes and stockings, and then I
thrust my feet deep down in the cool, brown earth.
How long we sat there I do not know for we both dozed off. Then we
heard a distant dull booming which must have awakened us. Agna must
have wakened at the same time as myself for she was listening, her
head turned away from me, and her ear cocked in the direction from
which the booming came. The booming went on at regular intervals.
At last, Agna turned to me, her eyes widened and a thought written on
her face that she did not dare to express in words.
"What is it, Nora?" she asked.
I shook my head. "It's in Dublin," I answered.
"There might be fighting in the Irish Sea," she hazarded.
"No, it's in Dublin," I insisted. We were silent for a while, a
great dread growing in our hearts. Agna broke the silence.
{154}
"Dublin, Nora," she said. "And we are--"
"We are eighteen miles away from Dublin," I said.
When we had seen the last milestone that told us that we were
eighteen miles away from Dublin, we thought we were very near; but
now, our thought was how very far away we were from there.
The booming continued. We could picture our friends, our comrades,
boys and girls fighting with rifles against those big guns whose
booming could be heard eighteen miles away.
"We must not lose a minute. We must hurry, hurry, hurry till we get
to Dublin," I said, and saw that unconsciously I had been putting on
my shoes and stockings, and that I was ready for the march.
In the torment of our minds as to what those big guns might be doing
at the moment in Dublin, the pain, the weariness and the hunger of
our bodies went unnoticed. We swung along as best we could, trying
to keep to the beat of a march, and determined to be in Dublin before
dark. We entered a village. Usually when we came to a village we
walked at an ordinary pace so as not to attract notice {155} by an
appearance of haste. But this time, in our impatience to be in
Dublin, we threw all cautiousness to the winds and went as quickly as
we could. We passed through the village; but just as the main street
ended and the Dublin road began again, we saw a barricade. Like the
others it was made of country carts, but unlike them it was guarded
by both police and soldiers. They seemed to be more particular at
this one for we saw them stop a cyclist and give his bicycle a most
thorough examination. They looked under the saddle, and into the
tool-bag; and then they turned their attention to the rider. His
pockets were turned out one by one. I suppose they were looking to
see if he carried a dispatch.
After him came two boys who were stopped as they were walking past.
We were almost at the barricade by this time and we saw close beside
it a restaurant. As usual they had left a space for pedestrians to
pass through and unfortunately for us, the door of the restaurant was
on the other side of the barricade. It was, if I might use the
phrase, next door to it. But the boys, who had just been stopped by
the military, unintentionally did us a good turn, for they began to
resist being searched. {156} While they were talking indignantly,
and struggling with the soldiers, Agna and I slipped through into the
restaurant. When we had asked for something to eat we went to the
window to see what was the outcome of the struggle. To our surprise,
we saw the boys laughing and chatting with the soldiers who were
examining their pockets.
We did not realize how hungry we were till we began to eat our
dinner. We finished all before us for we had not eaten since lunch
the day before; and it was three o'clock then. The waitress kept
hovering around as if she would like to speak, but did not know how
to begin. At length she asked us if we were going far.
"To Clontarf," I answered.
"O," she said disappointedly. "I thought you might be coming from
Dublin, and would have some news."
"No," I said. "We haven't any; we left Drogheda this morning and
there was no news there."
"Did you hear how things were going in Dublin?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "Did you?"
"Well," she said. "I heard they were {157} surrendering in
Dublin--that they were beaten. But I don't believe it," she added
quickly.
"Nor do I," I said. "They couldn't be beaten so soon."
"That's what I've said all along," she said. Evidently she was a
rebel and was trying to find out if we were, too. But before we
could carry on any further conversation we heard the soldiers call
"Halt," and then we saw a motor car stopping outside the window.
The waitress put her head out the window and began to chaff the
occupants of the car.
"Are you bringing ammunition to the Sinn Feiners?" she asked them.
"How many Sinn Feiners have you hidden in the car?"--and so forth.
While she was doing this I said to Agna, "Come, we'll look out, too,
then the soldiers may think we belong here." We did so and also
joined in the chaffing while the soldiers were searching the car.
When they had allowed the car to go on the waitress said to them in a
very sarcastic tone:
"All day at it and you haven't caught a single Sinn Feiner yet?" The
soldiers looked up at us and grinned sheepishly; but they did {158}
not seem the least disturbed at their failure to catch one.
We turned in from the window, paid our score, and went out of the
restaurant just as the sergeant in command of the barricade was
stepping in. My heart gave a great leap. "Was he coming in to
question us?" I asked myself. But he made way for us and we went out
into the street. This time we were on the right side of the
barricade; still there was a chance of our being stopped. However,
we looked at the soldiers, nodded and smiled to them, received nods
and smiles in return and walked down the Dublin Road.
Balbriggan was the name of the town we had just left, some fifteen
miles from Dublin. Now that we were refreshed by the meal, Dublin
seemed no distance away from us, and we felt sure that we could reach
it before dark. We met more people on this road than we had met
within all the rest of our journey, some going towards Dublin, some
towards Drogheda. Many a bit of news we heard as it was called
across the road by friends as they passed. But there was none that
we could rely upon as each bit contradicted the other. {159} Still
we began to feel that there was bad news in store for us.
We had gone along the road for about four miles when I suddenly
became lame; the big muscle in my right leg was powerless. I kept on
as best I could dragging my right leg after me. When I had gone
about a mile this way I grew desperate. The pain was almost more
than I could bear, and the milestones were dreadfully far apart.
Then I said to Agna, "The first car that comes along I'll ask for a
lift."
The first car that came along was a big gray touring car occupied by
a lady and gentleman. I did not ask them for a lift; but the
gentleman looked back at us after he had passed.
"Perhaps he knows us," said Agna. "It might be some of our friends
dispatching."
"No, he's not," I answered.
"Well, he's stopping," returned Agna. "Hurry up. Perhaps he will
give us a lift."
"I can't hurry," I said. "I'm going as best I can."
"Look," said Agna. "He's backing up towards us."
{160}
She was right. The big car was backing up to us. When it was near
the man asked,
"Are you going far?"
"To Clontarf," answered Agna.
"I'm going within six miles of it. If you care to get in I'll take
you that length."
"Thank you very much," said Agna. "My sister is almost done up."
"You're from the North, aren't you?" asked the man when we had taken
our seats in the car.
"Yes," I answered. "We left Drogheda this morning."
"Who are you going to in Clontarf?" he asked after he had driven for
some distance.
"My mother," I said. "She came down for the Easter holidays and has
not been able to get away. She's probably terrified out of her
senses as she has the two youngest children with her."
"She's probably hungry, too," he said. "Did you bring her food?"
"No," I said. "But we brought her money."
"Food would have been better," he said. "People who live on the
outskirts of Dublin are in a bad way. They've always depended {161}
on Dublin for their supplies. They can get none now. I've just been
to Drogheda for bread."
"To Drogheda for bread," I repeated in amazement.
"Yes," he said. "It's no joke to have to go twenty-five miles for
bread. Weren't you two girls afraid to come down here?"
"We had to come," I said simply. "Papa couldn't come so he sent us."
All this time we had been spinning along at a splendid rate. We were
cooled off and feeling rested. Suddenly the man slowed up the
machine. "Hello, what's this?" he said. We followed his gaze and
saw that the telegraph wires had been completely cut through; not one
wire was left together. "Hm," he said. "We must make a note of that
and keep our eyes open for more." There was no more conversation
after that for some time. On our way we saw the wires cut in two
places.
After some time we came to a village. There was a guard of soldiers
patrolling the street in front of a building. When we came nearer we
saw that it was the police barracks; and that the windows were broken
and the street strewn with telegraph wires.
{162}
"O?" I said, wondering what it could mean.
"Yes," said the man. "The rebels came here, captured the police
barracks, took every rifle and all the ammunition, and marched away
to Dublin or Wexford. But before they did that they cut down all the
telegraph wires and stopped all communication between this town and
any other. They made a good job of it--every man of them got away."
He then left the car to go over to speak to the soldier in charge.
When he returned he said, "I told him about the wires being cut
further up the road." And then we started off again. He stopped the
car outside of the village near a bridge and told us that he was not
going any further. We stepped out of the car and thanked him for his
kindness in bringing us so far.
"Not at all," he said. "Don't mention it. Glad to help any one."
We watched him as he turned the car up a driveway of an estate near
the bridge; wondering if he would be glad to think that he had helped
the daughters of the Commandant-General of the Rebels to reach Dublin.
{163}
XIII
We had been walking only half an hour when we saw a cavalry regiment
coming towards us and leaving Dublin. First came the advance guard,
then a long line of soldiers and horses, and then their artillery and
their supply wagons, and more soldiers brought up the rear. They
made a brave show tearing along the country road raising a dust as
high as the horses.
"Nora, Nora," wailed Agna. "They're leaving Dublin--they're leaving
it--not going to it. Our men must be beaten."
"Hush," I said to her. "They may be going to some place else."
I stopped an old man and asked him, "Where are they going? I thought
the fighting was in Dublin."
"They're going to Wexford," he replied. "The rebels have captured
two or three towns and are holding them. These fellows," pointing
with his thumb over his shoulder at the {164} soldiers, "are going
down to try and drive them out. God curse them," he added, spitting
towards the soldiers.
"There now," I said as I turned to Agna. "Isn't that good news?
Wexford out and the West awake! East and West the men are fighting
for Ireland. For Ireland, Agna! O, aren't you glad to be alive! We
used to read about the men who fought for Ireland and dream about
them, and now, in a couple of hours we'll be amongst the men and
women who are fighting in Dublin. We'll be able to do something for
Ireland."
That thought cheered us so and spurred us on that we arrived in
Drumcondra, a suburb of Dublin, at seven o'clock on Sunday night.
[Illustration: MAP OF DUBLIN
(1) General Post Office.
(2) Hotel Metropole.
(3) Kelly's Fort--O'Connell St. and Bachelor's Walk.
(4) Liberty Hall.
(5) Four Courts.
(6) Fairview.
(7) Trinity College.
(8) Bank of Ireland.
(9) Dublin Castle.
(10) City Hall and "Daily Express" Office.
(11) Jacob's Biscuit Factory.
(12) St. Stephen's Green.
(13) Pembroke and Northumberland Roads.
(14) Haddington and Northumberland Roads.
(15) Clanwilliam House, Mount St.
(16) Portobello Bridge.
(17) South Dublin Union.
(18) College of Surgeons.
(19) Shelbourne Hotel.
(20) Westland Row Railway Station.
(21) Harcourt Street Railway Station.
(22) Broadstone Railway Terminus.
(23) Custom House.
(24) Magazine Fort, Phoenix Park.
(25) Boland's Mill.]
We were going to the house of a friend in Clonliffe Road. On our way
there we were astonished at the ordinary aspect of the streets. Save
for the fact that we saw no soldiers, we could have thought that
there had been no fighting at all. Dublin is the most heavily
garrisoned city in Europe. Ordinarily one could not walk the streets
without seeing scores upon scores of soldiers. Therefore, our not
seeing them was a sure sign that things were not in Dublin as they
had been. When we {165} reached the house of our friend, the two
daughters, Kathleen and Margaret, were at the door.
"My God!" said Margaret, when she spied us.
"Where have you come from?" asked Kathleen, looking at our
travel-worn figures. Our faces were burnt red by the sun and the
heat, and our boots were white with the dust of the road.
"We've come from Tyrone. We got a train to Dundalk and walked the
rest. We spent last night in a field. What's the news? How are
things down here?" I asked.
"How are things," she repeated in amazement. "Haven't you heard?"
"Nothing," I answered, as I shook my head,
"The boys are beaten," she cried. "They've all surrendered. They're
all prisoners. The city has been burning since Thursday."
"All surrendered," I cried aghast. "Are you sure? It doesn't seem
possible."
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. They're all prisoners, every one of
them. The College of Surgeons was the last to surrender and it
surrendered a little while ago. Madame was there," she said, meaning
the Countess Markievicz.
{166}
I sat there too stunned to think or talk. I knew that there were
women and men going past the window, yet I could not see them. After
a while I managed to ask, "My father?"
"He's wounded and was taken a prisoner to Dublin Castle. They don't
think he'll live. Though God knows maybe they'll all be killed."
I was roused from a dazed condition by the sharp crack-crack-crack of
a rifle.
"What does that mean?" I asked, turning to Kathleen.
"My God!" she exclaimed. "Are they starting again?" But there was
no further reports.
"Can I get across the city?" I asked.
"No," she answered. "We are not allowed out of our own district.
And anyway we must not be out after seven; martial law has been
declared."
"Must not be out after seven," I repeated. "But it's after seven
now, and there are lots of people out there on the street."
"They're at their own doors," she said indignantly. "We can stay
around our own doors, I hope. Though," she added, "if the soldiers
order us to go inside we must obey."
{167}
"I wanted to get to Mamma," I said. "She'll be in a dreadful state."
"Where is she now?" asked Margaret.
"At Madame's cottage in Dundrum," I answered.
"There's no way of getting there," she said. "There's neither trains
nor trams running now."
"We can walk," I said. "It's only six miles and we are well used to
walking by now."
"Well," said Kathleen. "There's no use talking about it now. You
can't go and that's all there is to it. The best thing you can do is
to eat something and then go to bed. In the morning we can see what
is to be done."
I agreed with that as we sorely needed the rest; but it was a sorry
ending to all our hopes and expectations. On our way down we had
been buoyed up by the thought that at last we would be able to do
something for Ireland. Something, anything that would help on the
fight. That our men would still be fighting we never doubted. And
now the fighting had stopped before we came. We could never sit on
my father's knee and tell the tales of our adventures. He was a
prisoner, and wounded, and like to die. Perhaps we would never see
{168} him again; perhaps Mamma would never see him again. Were the
men really beaten? Sharp pain-swollen thoughts came thronging
through my head as I lay on my bed listening to the sharp crack of a
rifle where some lone sniper was still keeping up the fight.
Early in the morning Kathleen came into our room.
"What do you think?" she exclaimed excitedly. "They're building a
barricade at the top of this street."
"They must expect the fighting to be resumed," I said.
We dressed hurriedly and went down to the drawing room. From the
window I saw the soldiers entering the houses at the top of the
street, and taking furniture from them with which to build a
barricade. It stretched clear across the street, leaving a space
open on the left side. At that space a guard of soldiers were
stationed. Kathleen went down to the barricade to ask for permits
which would allow us to pass it and through the city. She was
refused the permits. But we were not discouraged at the failure of
our first attempt. Kathleen, Agna and I went in another direction
till we met the sentries at the bridge on {169} Jones' Road. Here we
were allowed to pass and after a circuitous route we arrived at the
top of O'Connell Street, near the Parnell statue.
There were evidences of the fighting all around us. We saw the
buildings falling, crumbling bit by bit, smoldering and smoking; a
ruin looking like a gigantic cross swayed and swayed, yet never fell.
I was reminded of pictures I had seen of the War Zone. Here were the
same fantastic remains of houses. Crowds of silent people walked up
and down the street in front of the Post Office. The horrible smell
of burning filled the air. And on one side of the street were dead
horses.
We saw the General Post Office, the headquarters of the rebels, still
standing, although entirely gutted by fire. The British gunners in
their attempt to destroy the Post Office had destroyed every building
between it and the river. All around were buildings levelled, or
falling--but the General Post Office stood erect. It was symbolical
of the Spirit of Ireland. Though all around lies death and
destruction, though wasted by fire and sword, that very thing which
England had put forth her might to crush, stands erect and provides
{170} a rallying place for those who follow after. English guns will
never destroy the Spirit of Ireland, or the demand for Irish freedom.
We were not stopped by any of the soldiers as we went through the
city. It was not until we reached Portobello Bridge that we were
told to go back. We had quite a discussion with the soldiers. They
said they were under orders not to allow man or woman, boy or girl,
to pass without permission from their officer.
"Where is your officer to be found?" I asked.
"He is over there at the public house," said the soldier.
We went over to the public house and found the officer. He was
watching his men who were taking supplies from the storehouse. They
were probably commandeering. As Kathleen spoke with a strong Dublin
accent we made her our spokeswoman. She told the officer that our
mother lived in Dundrum, and that we had not been able to get to her
since Easter Monday, and that she was sure her mother would be crazy
thinking that something had happened to us.
[Illustration: PATRICK H. PEARSE]
The officer looked at us for a few seconds without saying anything,
then said, "I'm sure {171} she would; such a fine lot of girls.
Well, you can go through."
"Where's the pass?" asked Kathleen.
"You won't need one," he said. "Just tell the sentry to look over my
way."
We went back to the bridge again. This time when we were stopped
Kathleen told the soldier to look over at his officer. The soldier
looked over, the officer nodded to him, and we passed through.
While we were far out on the Rathmines Road I saw a poster of the
Daily Sketch, an English illustrated daily. The poster had a photo
of my father on it with the inscription, "James Connolly--The dead
rebel leader."
"Thank God!" I cried. "That my mother is so far out of the city.
She'll not see that."
We arrived at Dundrum late in the afternoon. We had stopped on our
way at shops to buy some provisions for my mother in case she were in
need of them. When I came to the cottage the half-door was open, and
through it came a sound of weeping, and the frightened crying of my
youngest sister. I pulled back the bolt of the half-door and stepped
into the cottage. My mother was sitting on a chair weeping. I saw
that somehow she had {172} received a copy of the Daily Sketch
bearing the false news of my father's death. But she did not know it
was false and was mourning my father. When I entered she looked up
in amaze, caught her breath, and then run towards me crying,
"My girl, my girl. I thought you were lost to me too."
"You haven't lost any one yet, Mamma," I said. "Papa is wounded and
a prisoner, but that is all. They don't shoot or hang prisoners of
war. Agna is coming up the path. She'll be here in a minute. Be
our own brave little mother again."
Just then Agna came and mother's grief was somewhat alleviated. With
her arms around the two of us she said:
"I'd given up all hope of ever seeing you again. Now, I have you and
know that your father is not dead. But they'll not let him live
long," she cried. "They fear him. They know they can neither bribe
nor humble him. He'll always fight them. I've lost Rory too. I
don't know what happened to him. He went with his father on Monday.
That was the last I saw of him."
{173}
Rory is my fifteen-year-old brother, the only son.
"Rory's probably in Jail with the rest of the boys," I said. "They
were all imprisoned when they surrendered. He'll be all right there.
He's in good company."
We talked long into the morning. Hoping against hope, comforting
each other, praying for courage, yet always despairing, we spent the
night. The night was long though we tried to make ourselves as
comfortable as the cramped quarters and our uneasy minds would allow.
I left the cottage early in the morning to go to Dublin to find a
place where my mother and the family could stay. We wanted to be
near at hand in case there would be a chance to see my father.
{174}
XIV
On Wednesday my mother and sisters came in to Dublin. Agna went up
to Dublin Castle to try to see my father. She made a number of
attempts to see him, received all sorts of advice, was sent chasing
from pillar to post; and finally was told that no visitors would be
allowed. The only news she was able to get was from a nurse who told
her that Papa was very weak from loss of blood; and that he was not
improving.
After that all the news we had of my father was through the
newspapers. They told us that he was steadily growing weaker and
that his recovery was doubtful. Then we had heard of the murder of
Sheehy Skeffington. Agna had met Mrs. Skeffington when she was at
Dublin Castle, and had been told the awful news of Skeffington's
death. It was a dreadful shock. We had known and admired Sheehy
Skeffington, and he had been a great friend of Papa's.
{175}
Then day by day the news of executions nearly drove us out of our
minds. We heard of the executions of Tom Clarke, and of Padraic
Pearse, and of Thomas MacDonagh. Every time we heard the newsboys
call out, "Two more executions," or "One more execution" we dreaded
to look in the paper for fear we might read my father's name. And
yet we must buy the papers.
Every day we heard of further arrests. Every day we saw men being
marched off between rows of soldiers. And Mamma had had the added
fear of my being arrested given to her. Some one had come to the
house and told her that the police were searching for me. I felt
that it was not so but could not convince Mamma. At times the awful
terror that we were all going to be taken from her took possession of
her, and she could not be comforted. We had found out that Rory was
imprisoned in Richmond Barracks. Mamma feared and dreaded that he
might be shot because of his relationship to his father.
"Willie Pearse was executed because he was Padraic Pearse's brother,"
she would say when we remonstrated with her. "He was not a leader;
he was only a soldier. Rory was a {176} soldier too. How can I be
sure that he won't be shot?"