Mrs. Connolly. Mamma opened it and read: "If Mrs. Connolly will call
at Dublin Castle Hospital on Monday or Tuesday after eleven o'clock
she can see her husband." Mamma was in terror that Papa's time had
come. Every one had been telling her that the fact of Papa's being
wounded was a good thing for him; that as long as he was wounded he
would not be executed; and that by the time he was well public
feeling would have grown so strong the authorities would hesitate to
shoot him. "They'll never execute a wounded man" was the cry.
I quieted Mamma's terror somewhat by pointing out that the note said
Monday or Tuesday, so the day of his execution could not be either of
those days. Still she was in an agony of impatience for Monday
morning.
"I'll have to tell him that Rory is in Richmond Barracks," she said.
She had just said this when a knock came to the door. When we opened
it Rory and a chum of his stepped inside of the door. They were
filthy dirty and their eyes were red {177} rimmed. Sleep clogged
their eyes and made speech difficult to them.
"Rory," cried my mother. "And Eamonn--where were you?"
"We were both in Richmond Barracks," said Rory. "We're hungry," he
added.
While we got them something to eat they had a wash and came to the
table more like themselves.
"We haven't had a real sleep since Easter," said Rory as an excuse
for his prodigious yawns.
"Couldn't you sleep in Richmond Barracks?" asked my sister Moira.
"Sleep," he cried. "The room we were in had marked on the door
"Accommodation for eleven men" and they put eighty-three of us into
it. There was hardly room to stand. We couldn't sit down, we
couldn't lie down, we couldn't wash, we couldn't do anything there,"
he broke off.
We asked him if he knew many of the men in the room with him.
"Yes," he said. "Tom Clarke was in the room with me, and Sean
MacDermott, and Major MacBride. But they were removed later."
"How did they come to let you out?"
{178}
"O, they were releasing all boys under sixteen."
"Did they ask you anything about your father?" asked Mamma.
"O," said Rory, "I didn't give them my right name. I'm down as
Robert Carney, of Bangor, Co. Down."
On Monday morning Mamma went to see my father. Before she went I
said, "If you get the chance tell him that we are safe."
"O, I'd be afraid to mention your name," she said.
"Well," I said. "Tell him that Gwendolyn Violet has turned out to be
a great walker; that she walked to Dublin. That will satisfy him and
quiet his mind."
Gwendolyn Violet was a name bestowed on me by my father when once I
had tried to ride my high-horse. And he often used it when he did
not desire to refer to me by name.
Before Mamma was allowed to see Papa she was subjected to a most
rigorous search. She was also required to give her word that she
would not tell him of anything that had gone on outside since the
rebellion. Also to promise that she would not bring in anything for
him to take his life with. My youngest sister, who {179} was not
quite eight years old, and whom Mamma had brought with her was also
searched. Mamma came home in a more contented frame of mind. She
was sure that he would be spared to her for some time.
On Tuesday I went with Mamma to see my father. There were soldiers
on guard at the top of the stairs and in the small alcove leading to
Papa's room. They were fully armed and as they stood guard they had
their bayonets fixed. All that armed force for a wounded man who
could not raise his shoulders from the bed!
In Papa's room there was an officer of the R.A.M.C. all the time with
him. Papa had been wounded in the leg, both bones had been
fractured. When I saw him his wounded leg was resting in a cage. He
was very weak and pale and his voice was very low. I asked him was
he suffering much pain.
"No," he said. "But I have been courtmartialed to-day. They propped
me up in bed. The strain was very great."
I was very much depressed. I had been thinking that there would be
no attempt to shoot him till he was well. But then--I knew, that if
they courtmartialed him while he was {180} unable to sit up in his
bed, they would not hesitate to shoot while he was wounded. I asked
him how he got wounded.
"It was while I had gone out to place some men at a certain point.
On my way back I was shot above the ankle by a sniper. Both bones in
my leg are shattered. I was too far away from the men whom I had
just placed to see me, and I was too far from the Post Office to be
seen. So I had to crawl back till I was seen. The loss of blood was
great. They couldn't get it staunched."
He was very cheerful as he lay in his bed making plans for our
future. I know now that he knew what his fate was to be. But he
never gave us word or sign that his sentence had been pronounced an
hour before we were admitted to him. He gave my mother a message to
Sheehy Skeffington asking him to get some of his (Papa's) songs
published and to give the proceeds to my mother. It nearly broke my
mother's heart to think that she could not tell him that his good
friend and comrade had already been murdered by the British. I tried
to tell him some things. I told him that the papers had it that
Captain Mellowes was still out with his men in the Galway hills. I
told {181} him that Laurence Ginnell was fighting for the men in the
House of Commons.
"Good man, Larry," he said. "He can always be depended upon."
He was very proud of his men.
"It was a good, clean fight," he said. "The cause cannot die now.
The fight will put an end to recruiting. Irishmen now realize the
absurdity of fighting for the freedom of another country while their
own is still enslaved."
He praised the brave women and girls who had helped in the fight.
"No one can ever say enough to honor or praise them," he said. I
mentioned the number of young boys who had been in the fight.
"Rory, you know, was only released on Sunday last along with the
other boys of sixteen or under."
"So Rory was in prison," said my father. "How long?"
"Eight days," I answered.
"He fought for his country, and has been imprisoned for his country,
and he's not sixteen. He has had a great start in life. Hasn't he,
Nora?" he said.
"Tell me," he said. "What happened when you arrived in the North?"
{182}
"The men were all dispersed and could not be brought together again,"
I answered. "When I saw that there would be no fighting there, I
tried to come back here. I came by road," I added.
"Did you walk the whole way?" he asked.
"Only from Dundalk," I said. "And when I arrived the fighting was
over. I had no chance--I did nothing."
"Nothing," said my father as he reached up his arms and drew me down
to his breast. "I think my little woman did as much as any of us."
"There was one young boy, Lillie," he said, turning to my mother,
"who was carrying the top of my stretcher when we were leaving the
burning Post Office. The street was being swept continually with
bullets from machine guns. This young lad was at the head of the
stretcher, and if a bullet came near me, he would move his body in
such a way that he might receive the bullet instead of me. He was so
young looking, although big, that I asked him his age. 'I'm just
fourteen, sir,' he answered."
[Illustration: EAMONN CEANNT]
My father's eyes lit up as he was telling the {183} story and at the
end he said, "We cannot fail now. Those young lads will never
forget."
When next I saw my father it was on Thursday, May 11, at midnight. A
motor ambulance came to the door. The officer who accompanied it
said my father was very weak and wished to see his wife and eldest
daughter. Mamma believed this story because she had seen my father
on Wednesday and he was in great pain and very weak then. He told
her also that he never slept without receiving morphine.
Nevertheless she was a trifle apprehensive for she asked the officer
to tell her if they were going to shoot my father. The officer said
he could tell her nothing.
It seemed to take hours to get to the Castle. We went through the
dark, deserted, burning streets encountering only the sentries. We
could hardly restrain ourselves while the sentries were questioning
the driver. The minutes seemed hours. At last, we arrived at the
Castle and were taken to Papa's room. As we went up the stairs we
were surprised to see that about a dozen soldiers were encamped on
the small landing outside his room. They had their mattresses and
their full equipment with them. Six soldiers were asleep, six more
on {184} guard at the top of the stair with rifles and fixed
bayonets. And in the alcove leading to the room were three more also
with fixed bayonets. There was an officer on guard in the room.
When we entered the room Papa had his head turned to the door
watching for our coming. When he saw Mamma he said:
"Well, Lillie, I suppose you know what this means?"
"O James! It's not that--it's not that?" my mother wailed.
"Yes, Lillie," he said. "I fell asleep for the first time to-night
and they wakened me at eleven and told me that I was to die at dawn."
My mother broke down, laid her head on his bed and sobbed
heartbreakingly.
My father patted her head and said, "Don't cry, Lillie, you'll unman
me."
"But your beautiful life, James," my mother sobbed. "Your beautiful
life."
"Well, Lillie," he said. "Hasn't it been a full life, and isn't this
a good end?" My mother still wept.
I was crying too. He turned to me at the other side of the bed and
said:
{185}
"Don't cry, Nora, there is nothing to cry about."
I said, "I won't cry." He patted my hand and said, "That's my brave
girl." He then whispered to me, "Put your hand here," making a
movement under the clothes. I put my hand where he indicated. "Put
it under the clothes," he said. I did so and he slipped something
stiff into my hand.
"Smuggle that out," he said. "It is my last statement."
Mother was sitting at the other side of the bed holding Papa's hand,
her face growing grayer and older every minute.
"Remember, Lillie," said my father. "I want you and the girls to go
to America. It will be the best place for the girls to get on.
Leave the boy at home in Ireland. He was a little brick and I am
proud of him."
My mother could only nod her head. Papa tried to cheer her up by
telling her about a man who came to the Post Office, during the
revolution, to buy a penny stamp; and how indignant he was when he
was told he could not get one. "Don't know what Dublin is coming to
when you can't buy a stamp at the Post Office," he said.
{186}
Papa then turned to me and said, "I heard that poor Skeffington was
killed." I said, "Yes." And then I told him that all his staff,
that all the best men in Ireland were gone. He was silent for a
while, then said, "I am glad I am going with them." I think he
thought he was the first to be executed. I told him that the papers
that day had said, that it was promised in the House of Commons that
there would be no more shootings. "England's promises," was all he
said to that.
The officer then told us that we had only five minutes more. My
mother was nearly overcome; we had to give her water. Papa tried to
clasp her in his arms but he could only lift his head and shoulders
from the bed. The officer said, "Time is up." Papa turned to say
"Good-by" to me. I could not speak. "Go to mother," he said.
I tried to bring her away. I could not move her. She stood as if
turned to stone. A nurse came forward and helped her away. I ran
back and kissed my father again. "Nora, I'm proud of you," said my
father. I kissed him again, then the door was shut and we saw him no
more.
We were brought back to the house. Mother
{187} went to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stood watching
for the dawn, moaning all the while. I thought her heart would break
and that she would die too.
When dawn was past and we knew that my father was dead, I opened the
stiff piece of paper he had given me, and read to my mother, my
brother and sisters the Last Statement of my father.
This is what I read:
To the Field General Court Martial, held at Dublin Castle, on May 9,
1916.
The evidence mainly went to establish the fact that the accused,
James Connolly, was in command at the General Post Office, and was
also the Commandant-General of the Dublin Division. Two of the
witnesses, however, strove to bring in alleged instances of wantonly
risking the lives of prisoners. The Court held that these charges
were irrelevant and could not be placed against the prisoner.
I do not wish to make any defense except against charges of wanton
cruelty to prisoners. These trifling allegations, that have been
made, if they record facts that really happened, deal only with the
almost unavoidable incidents of a hurried uprising against long
established authority, and nowhere show evidence of set purpose to
wantonly injure unarmed persons.
We went out to break the connection between this country and the
British Empire, and to establish an Irish Republic. We believed that
the call we then issued to the people of Ireland, was a nobler call,
in a holier cause, than any call issued to them during this war,
having any {188} connection with the war. We succeeded in proving
that Irishmen are ready to die endeavoring to win for Ireland those
national rights, which the British Government has been asking them to
die to win for Belgium. As long as that remains the case the cause
of Irish Freedom is safe.
Believing that the British Government has no right in Ireland, never
had any right in Ireland, and never can have any right in Ireland,
the presence, in any one generation of Irishmen, of even a
respectable minority, ready to die to affirm that truth, makes that
government forever a usurpation and a crime against human progress.
I personally thank God that I have lived to see the day when
thousands of Irishmen and boys, and hundreds of Irish women and girls
were ready to affirm that truth, and to attest it with their lives if
need be.
(Signed) JAMES CONNOLLY, Commandant-General,
Dublin Division, Army of the Irish Republic.
{189}
XV
We went to Dublin Castle that morning to ask for his body. It was
refused to us. The authorities were not permitting even a coffin, we
were told. But a kind nurse had cut off a lock of Papa's hair and
this she gave to Mamma.
That was all there was left of him for us.
We saw Father Aloyisus who had attended my father to Kilmainham jail
where he had been shot.
"How did they shoot him--how could they shoot him? He couldn't sit
up in his bed. He couldn't stand up to be shot," I cried. "How was
he shot?"
"It was a terrible shock to me," said Father Aloyisus. "I had been
with him that evening and I promised to come to him this afternoon.
I felt sure there would be no more executions--at least that is how I
read the words of Mr. Asquith. And your father was so much easier
than he had been. I was sure that he would get his first night's
real rest."
{190}
"But, how did they shoot him, Father?"
"The ambulance that brought you home from him came for me. I was
astonished. I had felt so sure that I would not be needed that for
the first time since the rising I locked the doors. And some time
after two, I was knocked up. The ambulance brought me to your
father. He was a wonderful man. I am sorry to say that of all men
who have been executed, he was the only one I did not know
personally. Though I knew of him and admired his work. I will
always thank God as long as I live that He permitted me to be with
your father till he was dead. Such a wonderful man he was. Such
concentration of mind."
"Yes, Father, but they shot him--how?"
"They carried him from his bed in an ambulance stretcher down to a
waiting ambulance and drove him to Kilmainham Jail. They carried him
from the ambulance to the Jail yard and put him on a chair.... He
was very brave and cool.... I said to him, 'Will you pray for the
men who are about to shoot you,' and he said, 'I will say a prayer
for all brave men who do their duty.' ... His prayer was, 'Forgive
them for they know not what they do.' ... And then they shot him...."
{191}
"What did they do with him, then?" whispered my mother.
"They took the body to Arbor Hill Barracks. All the men who were
executed are there."
Papa had told mother to ask for his personal effects. And mother had
asked for them. We only received some of his underclothes and the
night clothes he wore in bed while he was wounded. Papa had said
that the authorities had his watch, his pocketbook, and his uniform.
But the officer in charge knew nothing about them.
Mother made many inquiries. But it was not until she went in person
to General Maxwell that she succeeded in having the pocket book
returned to her. Major Price, Chief Intelligence Officer in Ireland,
had told her that they were keeping it for evidence.
Evidence--what more evidence did they require against a man they had
executed?
Some time afterwards we recovered his watch; but we never found his
uniform. And since I came to America I have been shown that a copy
of the paper my father edited with his last corrections upon it, was
put upon the {192} market by a careful British officer who had
figured out its value as a souvenir.
And then the whispered warnings came again to awaken my mother's
fear. Some messages reached her that the police were again looking
for me. Nor could I convince her otherwise. She begged and pleaded
with me to go away from Dublin so that I would not be arrested. So
that she might feel more at ease in her mind, I went to Belfast.
Even then she did not feel that I was safe. She came to Belfast and
asked me to try to get to America alone. In accordance with my
father's last wish she had applied for passports to take us all to
America, or to take the girls. But the British authorities felt that
the arrival of Mrs. Connolly and her five daughters in America would
be prejudicial to the interests of the Realm; and refused her the
passports. She had gone again and again to the authorities, only to
be sent hither and thither on a fool's errand. And as she despaired
of ever getting them she asked me to make any attempt I could and to
use whatever means I could to get to America.
"Let them see that your comings and goings are not dependent on their
goodwill."
{193}
And I to please her left Ireland and crossed to England. There I
applied for a passport; and was given one. Not as the daughter of
James Connolly, however.
It was the last week of June that we received the final refusal of
our request for passports, and on the third week of July I sailed
from Liverpool. I arrived in New York the first day of August,
nineteen hundred and sixteen.
{194}
XVI
For the benefit of the reader in whose mind there might rise some
confusion with regard to the demobilization of the Irish Volunteers,
and how this demobilization order could spoil the plans for the
Rising, and why Eoin MacNeill had the power to send out such an
order, I am adding the following statement:
When the Irish Volunteers were first organized, it was necessary to
have a man known throughout Ireland, a man of some reputation and
authority, as the head of the organization. Eoin MacNeill was such a
man. He was an authority on Irish History and Ancient Ireland.
Also, what was more necessary, he was an unknown quantity to the
English Government. Had there been elected as President a man well
known as a revolutionary and as an Extremist, there would have been
short work made of the Irish Volunteers. The English Government
would then have known immediately that the Irish Volunteers were
being {195} organized, drilled, and supplied with arms for the sole
purpose of a rebellion against it, and would have given it no
opportunity to spread and grow, and become disciplined. As it was,
with MacNeill as the President, whom they knew as a rather
conservative, academic person, whose politics at that time were more
of the Home Rule order than anything else, they felt quite at ease
and contented about the growth of the Irish Volunteers.
MacNeill, although friendly with, and because of the Irish Volunteers
in continual contact with, the revolutionary members, was not a
member of the Revolutionary Organization. He was not of the type to
which revolutionists belong. His mind was of the academic order
which must weigh all things, consider well all actions, and count the
cost. A true revolutionist must never count the cost, for he knows
that a revolution always repays itself, though it cost blood, and
through it life be lost and sacrifice made. He knows that the flame
of the ideal which caused the revolution burns all the more brightly,
and steadily, and thus attracts more men and minds, and because of
the life-blood and sacrifice becomes more enduring.
That a man of MacNeill's type of mind {196} should have gone so far
along the road to revolution is the extraordinary thing. Due credit
should be given to him for that, although he did fail his comrades at
the critical moment.
MacNeill was made President, and all orders affecting the
organization as a whole, that is all important orders, came from him
under his signature. Therefore, when an order came with his
signature, the Irish Volunteers obeyed it unquestioningly.
Padraic Pearse as Commandant-General of the Irish Volunteers was
Chief in military affairs. And that is where the Irish Volunteers
made the first mistake. The office of President should have been of
a purely civil character. So that when a military order was issued
from Headquarters, it would bear, not the signature of the President
but the signature of the Military chief. That this would have been
difficult, I am aware,--it is so easy to see mistakes after they are
made.
MacNeill, through the columns of the _Irish Volunteer_ (the official
organ of the Irish Volunteers), always preached prudence, and a
waiting policy. He advised the Volunteers not to be the first to
attack, but to wait to be attacked. He counseled them to recruit
their {197} ranks, so that when the war was ended their number would
reach three hundred thousand; and that an armed force of three
hundred thousand men would then be in a position to demand the
freedom of Ireland from England. Still, as before, this counsel was
regarded by the rank and file of the Irish Volunteers as a necessary
evil, knowing that it is not wise policy to show your hand to the
enemy before the appointed time.
The revolutionary members, all this time, were completing their
plans, strengthening the organization, and waiting eagerly and
hopefully for the days to pass, and the Day of all days to come.
Every time they thought of the approaching day they were quietly
exultant. They knew that their chance of success was greater than it
had ever been since the days of Shane and Hugh O'Neill. And they
joyfully, and prayerfully thanked God that the opportunity had come
in their day. All things went well, their plans matured, and at last
they were ready for the fight.
The order for mobilizing was sent through the length and breadth of
Ireland, and it was signed by Eoin MacNeill. The order was received
and obeyed by the Irish Volunteers. {198} Then, on Good Friday, came
the news that Roger Casement was arrested.
Roger Casement had gone to Germany, shortly after the outbreak of the
war, to seek an expression of goodwill toward Ireland from Germany.
Germany knew that Ireland was held in subjection to England, contrary
to the wishes of the vast majority of the Irish people, and that
Ireland had always considered the enemy of her oppressor as her
friend. Germany knew that when Spain was England's enemy, Ireland
had sought the assistance of the Spanish King, and when France was
the enemy of England, Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet had both sought the
aid of France; she knew that when England was at war with the Boers,
Irishmen had organized a brigade, and gone to South Africa, in the
hope of helping to defeat the English enemy. She knew, that then, as
now, Ireland was anti-British, and would remain so. Therefore,
Germany declared her goodwill towards Ireland, and to the present day
Ireland has been free from the terrors of Zeppelin raids, and there
has been no German bombardment of our coast.
Soon after arriving in Germany, Roger Casement lost touch with Irish
affairs. He {199} still believed that the Irish Volunteers were as
badly armed as when he left Ireland. He did not know of the plans
for the rising, nor did he know who were to be the leaders, or
whether they had military ability or not.