Part 3

At Castlebar rigorous care was taken that P. J. D. and I should not speak with one another. Care had been taken that we should exercise apart, and only by the accident of the shortage of staff on the Sunday had either of us been able to do more than guess at the other’s presence. At Richmond Barracks we were thrown together perforce, and were condemned to sleep under the one slender blanket.

In the room to which we were consigned there were already twenty-five others. The officers who took us up told me that it was known as the Leaders’ Room: a description that, at that time, was ... ominous.... From it, De Valera had gone to his life’s sentence; from it, I was told, Sean MacDiarmada had gone to his death...; and there Count Plunkett had been required to answer for the consciences of his sons. And a goodly company remained there yet, from whom we received a hospitality the joviality of which gave no heed to the courtsmartial that slowly worked their way along the lists provided by a diligent officialdom. Presents from friends were permitted, under supervision; and food so obtained was put into a common commissariat, presided over by mighty Sean O’Mahony, the ruler and president of our company. From this store we were regaled without further ado, while he stood between us and the others who rose to welcome us to our fate. He would suffer none to approach us with a more immediate welcome or inquiry until we had had what we would of the hospitality it was his to dispense; and then we mixed in the company into which we had been cast.

So, for the first time I came into touch with those who had had their part in the Rising. There were some of the company on whom the burning yet remained. Most had been through a historic week, and three had been severely wounded. In all cases these were leg wounds from bullets, and two of the number had been lying on the wooden floor, covered by blankets, when we entered. Coming as I did from a part of the country where only wild, whirling rumours had reached, sound and fury of things that had and things that had not occurred, there was something of a thrill in this first touch of the actual event. One faded into insignificance beside the simplest follower that had borne the heat of the day. He would be a man of little emotion, surely, who did not feel as I did at that moment, with a touch of awe and respect kindling in his veins. It seems then to me a little thing that a man should think and labour for his country beside those who had offered dear life for her sake.

Therefore, when one of the wounded men limped up to me, claiming an acquaintance I had forgotten, I was anxious to discover from him where he had fought, and to learn some details of the fighting. He had, with high personal courage and ability, filled one of the commands in the defence of the South Dublin Union, and was not loth to tell his tale. But our conversation was overheard, and an uproar rose.

“He’s going to tell about the South Dublin Union again. No, no; that can’t be allowed. We’re tired about the South Dublin Union.” I protested that I wished to hear. “I’m sorry, but we can’t permit it. We’ve heard that story so often that it’s not safe for us to hear it again. It’s really not safe. If you let him, he’ll tell it you for a week; but we can’t permit it; we’ve our nerves to consider.”

So it was. In no way could I extract my tale, and had to remain without it.

IX.

Richmond Barracks was for the military the clearing house for rebels; for the police it was their last chance of a stroke.

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Marching tunes are in military orders, and the men in khaki perceived no difference between one tune and another; but the little groups in dark green became twice as sullen, and twice as anxious to lay their victims by the heels, one way or another. Without a doubt Richmond Barracks was of great value from the dramatic point of view.

We were housed in the second and third storey rooms of the barracks. The troops occupied the ground floor, the guards were posted at the doors and on the landings, while outside the whole building was enclosed with barbed wire barricades, guarded again by soldiers. It was to Richmond Barracks that the men of the Republican Army were swept as they surrendered. Some were taken to Kilmainham and Arbour Hill, the Castle and other places.

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Not till Asquith’s visit were these things rectified; and even thereafter conditions were only slowly, and, as it were, grudgingly, amended. By the time I arrived at the clearing-house, a fortnight after the Rising had concluded, the amendment was in progress.

The cause for this was simple. Far more potent than a very questionable beneficence in Premiers, was the grim and bitter mood that had settled on the country. This had to be propitiated. Asquith’s visit was but a token of political sagacity; and while I was at Richmond, the dawning of the same sagacity on the military mind could be seen in the shape of extra blankets, extra and better food, benches to sit on, tables to eat from, knives, spoons and forks to eat with, and some care for greater cleanliness. Slowly these things came; not exactly with a remarkable good humour or good will; and were received by us, as they came one by one, with ribaldry and laughter.

Thus, soon after our arrival P. J. D. and I were apportioned a blanket apiece, and at nightfall, on the call of the bugle, we were instructed by the others in their use. We all slept with our heads to the wall and our feet toward the centre of the room. We slept in couples for the better use of our blankets. One blanket was stretched on the floor, the other served for coverlet, and our coats made our pillows. So we slept each night, fully dressed, for the nights were bitterly cold. It was extraordinary how soon one’s hip-bones hardened to the floor, and the simplicity of toilet was a great boon to anyone who had found dressing and undressing labyrinths of inconvenience.

In the morning the reveille sounded at six o’clock; and from then until about eight we were taken out in squads under armed guards, to wash at the pumps and washbowls in the yard.

For our meals, we sat where we could or would, on the ground, or, if one were tactful, on the window-sills. We were all allowed to retain up to a pound in cash, and some of the men had purchased jack-knives from the soldiers. Others had managed to retain their own pen-knives. Such men were fortunate, for they were able at once to proceed with their meals. The others either waited until an implement was available, or they did not wait.

Yet all these were but campaigning inconveniences. The great thing was that we were, by necessity, permitted one another’s company; and the utmost joviality prevailed. None would have thought that in one of the barrack buildings within sight of our windows, the courtsmartial were sitting, and that men were being picked out from the rooms and sent to long terms of penal servitude. No one knew whose turn would come next. The selections were, by any reckoning, an extraordinary hazard. Some who confidently expected a summons, were passed over in silence. Others were selected whose choice was inexplicable, except on the supposition (which indeed was no supposition) that some local spite was exerted against them. Any evening an officer might enter and hand a man a paper form. That form was a statement of the case against him, and meant that on the following day he was to be taken before the Court Martial. No time was given to prepare a defence or employ counsel. The next morning he was taken out. If his case were not heard, he returned that evening, and would go forth in the morning; if his case were heard, he would not return, and we would know nothing until, in the course of a week or ten days, his sentence was promulgated in the papers.

One such case stands out vividly in my memory because of an interesting personal relation that was suggested. Thrice a certain officer had entered, and we had all stood in a line before him while he, accompanied by a detective, inspected us each carefully in turn. Each time he had turned away dissatisfied; and on the third occasion, as he did so, one of our number made some jest, at which we all laughed. Instantly the officer turned about and fixed on one of our number.

“You’re Captain L——, aren’t you?” he said.

“I am.”

“You were at the Post Office, in charge of the prisoners?”

“I was.”

“Just so. I didn’t recognise you out of your uniform. You are the man. I fixed you just now when you laughed by your gold teeth.”

When he had gone we gathered round L—— to ask him who the man was; and we learned that he had been a prisoner in the Post Office. When the Post Office had been set on fire, and became untenable, the building had been evacuated in haste. Not until they were filing out into the street were the prisoners remembered, and then O’Rahilly had sent L—— back to bring them out to safety. As the prisoners were housed in a room next to that in which the ammunition and high explosives were stored, beside the lift-shaft, down through which the sparks were falling, this was a task of some considerable danger.

X.

Men so selected went off to a criminal’s fate. Yet the authorities in effect recognised that the selection turned on a hazard by treating us all as criminals. Forms were delivered on some men with charges that astonished none so much as the recipients; and as there was no evidence other than police reports offered in support of such allegations, the only thing in doubt was the length of the sentence. On the other hand, men were passed over who were not less astonished at the passing. But all our finger-prints were taken. We were afterwards considerably amused at the assurance given in the English House of Commons that finger-prints were only taken “at first” “owing to the difficulty of identification,” and that they were taken “under military supervision.” Finger-prints were taken all the time I was at Richmond Barracks by a peeler whose descent on newcomers was greeted with ironic mirth, for he was a familiar figure as he hung about the barracks like a hawk, carrying his implements with him. What mirth we had we made as we went, for all that it had a grim background; but we were certainly assisted by comparing the declarations in Parliament as to our estate with the conditions we actually endured. And the idea of any “difficulty of identification” was a joke more than ordinarily grim. It conveyed a wonderful conception of Ireland as a land untracked and uncharted; whereas, in the most elaborately policed country in the world the only thing lacking to make our _leabhrain_ artistically complete was the presence of a finger-print. And the artists in dark green were swift to complete their pictures.

Such things, I found, were only treated with mirth. It was curious to note the way in which the doings of the police—either of the R.I.C. or the D.M.P., “two minds with but a single aim, two hearts that beat as one”—were received. There was a bitterness in the ribaldry with which they were greeted, a bitterness and a certain frosty sting in the mirth; but there was also the laughter for relief.

* * * * *

Not having been in Richmond Barracks during the first days of terror, I raised a complaint the following morning with the medical officer. I asked his co-operation, as an Irishman who should resent a national insult. He did resent it; and as a result, the young officer was compelled to apologise as a matter of discipline. Thereafter, that officer appeared no more among us; but neither did the medical officer.

Yet, in spite of all these things, we had one another; and that was compensation. I had heard of most of my companions before, but had never had the opportunity of meeting many of them; and I was now glad of the chance of acquaintance and discussion. In Richmond the first beginnings appeared of that cementing of brotherhood among the “prisoners of war” that was afterwards to take so fine a form. About a fortnight after my arrival some of us in our room were offered special rooms, with two beds in each room; but we all refused these without any further enquiry rather than injure or forego that brotherhood. Our national convictions were the same in fundamentals, but they took different forms. Our roots were the same, and they were set in the same good earth; but the branches and blossoms were various. From afar, we could only see the branches and blossoms, and were chiefly aware of our differences from one another; but now that we came near one another we could see that our roots were in the same soil.

Indeed, some came who had few roots to boast of, but roots were soon generated, partly by the warmth of suitable companionship, partly by the heat engendered by their treatment. And with all, save a possible few exceptions, a unity and kinship was soon evolved, that mitigated the hardship of our estate and wiped away the sense of danger that hung over us all.

Our comradeship softened our hardship in other ways also. The English Army was camped round about us to stop all communication with the outer world except through the permitted channels. We were allowed two visits a week. Our visitors stood on one side of the barbed wire and we stood on the other, with an armed guard between us. All parcels and letters had to pass through the censor. If the parcels contained clothing, we received them; if they contained food, we did not receive them. That was a part of the rapacity of the army we did not appreciate; but there was another side to it. We were encompassed about with traders, and so, by uniting our resources, and by pooling our wits, we were able to reach the outer world by the very agency that was intended to obstruct us. The officers of course knew this, but they were powerless. And therefore, since accurate accounts of our treatment were getting out to correct the pleasing accounts published by the military, the authorities, in their desire to conciliate public opinion, were slowly compelled to make their treatment square with their accounts, just as they were being slowly compelled to terminate the courtsmartial that hung over the barracks, and seemed likely to last for another year.

Our day began with the Reveille at six, and concluded with Lights Out, at a quarter past ten. The intervening hours were spent in walking up and down the room and in talk. The only thing that broke the monotony of the day was the continuous business of the clearing-house. Large batches of prisoners continued to arrive from all parts of the country, where the police were making hay while the sun shone, to the no small embarrassment of the military, who seemed likely to have the greater part of the country delivered upon them. Large batches were being deported to England; and there is no doubt that many were deported whom the military had destined for their courts simply because it had become impossible to warehouse the cargoes of humanity that were being landed on their wharf. And, in slowly diminishing numbers, men were being selected....

... In the midst of this we lived suspended until our turn came on the schedules of the military wharfingers.

XI.

The day on which deportations were due was always tense and strained throughout. We were generally warned a day or so in advance by the soldiers, and sometimes had some of the names conveyed to us of those who were destined to go. However they obtained this information, it was always correct. This meant that from the time we awoke we were all restless. About two o’clock an officer would enter and read a list of names. Each of those so summoned would be given a knapsack, and informed that he was to be ready to fall in on parade outside at half-past two. No more was said; and no more was needed to be said.

Some were glad to go. It meant their removal from the danger zone, and implied that the military did not know all that might have been known. But these were few. For the most part men waited anxiously all day, and if their names were called they made a brief comment, jocular sometimes, and sometimes defiant, that intimated the dead weight that had fallen on them with the news. Whatever courts-martial might sit, so long as we were in Ireland we were at home. There was always the consciousness with us that our own people were about us and bitterly resented our fate. Whereas deportation was deportation. Moreover, one of the men who had been deported a short time before had been brought back again for trial, and his tale of what had been meted out to him in an English jail was not pleasant to hear. Altogether, this breaking up of bonds and transference to the conqueror’s own particular prisons was a thing of dread, however that dread might be covered by jocularity or grimness.

The first deportation after my arrival was on Saturday, May 20th. On that occasion none was taken from our room. We crowded to the windows to see the parade and to cheer our comrades by our presence there; but we were shouted back by the officers, who were conducting the parade,

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Our very friendship with one another had become an offence.

The following week there was another list of deportations. Three from our room were taken, their places being filled the following day by new arrivals from the country. On May 23rd my name was called, with three others from the room. The previous day I had had an interview with solicitor and counsel with a view to getting a statement of the charges against me and to demanding a trial. An officer had been present throughout the interview, although we had protested against his presence. He was under discipline to the very men against whom it was our intention to proceed, and it was a strange thing that he should be present to learn exactly what our case might be and how it was our intention to proceed. A further interview was arranged for two days later, in order that counsel might turn up certain points of law. But in the meantime I received notice that I was to be deported.

I had been, and then was, ill. I was really unfit to travel, especially under these particular conditions. But that was a matter easily mended. When I reported sick on parade I was taken over to the dispensary and ... ... Others who had been summoned to the parade were treated in the same way; and we stood out there till about half-past four, when our escort arrived. It was a beautiful afternoon; the sunlight poured down through a cloudless sky and lay like a sultry blanket on the ground. There were about a hundred and fifty of us, in two companies, for two destinations. We stood there in ranks with soldiers guarding us, while officers busied themselves with papers all about us. I thought of the sun shining on the sea, and clothing the mountains with a new soft beauty, and of the summer that began now to flow back over the earth in Achill. There was time to indulge in reflection to the full.

At five o’clock our guards handed us over to the escort. The barrack guard had been comprised of English troops. The escort was an Irish regiment. Ironic, that an Irish regiment should escort Irishmen for deportation to England. Stranger still when, as we were being marched through the city, the people crowded about us to let us know of their sympathy, and the soldiers were instructed to keep the people back with their rifle-stocks.

* * * * *

We are sometimes derided as a people rent by divisions, but the division in this case was due to the same cause as has created nearly all our other divisions. That cause was symbolised by the scene that was enacted that day. In no way more picturesquely could the fact of a perpetual military conquest have been staged. And when, as we marched down along the quays, most of us saw, for the first time, the havoc wrought in our capital by the guns of the conqueror, that only gave the appropriate scenery without which dramatists have agreed that the work of their artistry cannot be given to the world.

At the North Wall we were put on board a cattle boat. The cattle were herded at one end of the pens, we were being herded at the other end of the pens. When it came to my turn to be penned I was surprised to hear myself accosted by the Embarkation Officer:

“I’m B——, you know.”

“Certainly,” I replied; “we meet again.” But I had not the dimmest notion who he was.

“I hope to be in Castlebar soon,” he said. “I haven’t been back since I went out.”

“Is that so?” I said. “I was in Castlebar a fortnight ago. I was stopping at the jail.”

He laughed, and turned to P. J. D., who stood beside me as we awaited our turn to be penned. His manner was frank and pleasant and not at all constrained, although his penning of us was quite efficiently done. I informed him that I was not well, and asked if certain accommodation could not be found slightly more efficient than a cattle pen packed with my fellows. He promised to see what he could do, and went off. When he had gone, P. J. D. informed me that he had been a Volunteer when I was in command of the county, and had since gained some distinction in the European War. Presently he returned, and conveyed some of us to a room in the forecastle, where we had seats on which we could stretch ourselves.

When we arrived in England, however, we struck quite another atmosphere. Inquisitive crowds gathered about us who lost no opportunity of displaying their enmity and hostility. German prisoners of war might have aroused an equal curiosity, but they could not have an equal enmity. Clearly and sharply we stood out, whether we gathered on railway platforms or were marched through streets, as nation against nation, with an unbridgeable hatred between us. Any attempt on our part to meet taunt with taunt was at

* * * * *

; and so we were compelled to stand as the mark of contumely and the target of contempt. To be sure, that only stiffened us, and we held ourselves high and unflinchingly before the crowds. Nevertheless, there was a sickening in most of us, for Ireland was behind us and we were utterly in the stranger’s power.

I had lived some years in England, and had formed many good friendships. Unlike many of my companions, England and the English were no strange things to me. Yet I came then into something utterly strange, foreign, and hostile. I could not more strangely have been led captive among the mountains of the moon, so icy was this world and such leagues apart from that which I had known.