Part 5

Mr. Connolly had issued orders that no soldier was to be shot who did not have arms, and he did not consider the side-arms they always carried as "arms." My revolver had been given me for self-defense in case I fell into the hands of any soldiers. I confess that, though I never used it, I often felt tempted when I saw British soldiers going along in twos and threes, bent on shooting any of our men. I was not in uniform, however, and had had orders not to shoot except thus clothed and so a member of the Republican Army.

Some of the streets I had to ride through were as quiet and peaceful as if there was no thought of revolution in Dublin, but in others I could hear now and then scattered shots from around some corner. It was more than likely that snipers were trying to hold up a force of British on their way to attack one of our main positions. Sometimes I would hear the rattle of a machine-gun, and this warned me that I was approaching a house where the enemy was raking a position held by our men. Generally, however, it was the complete and death-like emptiness of a street that warned me I was close to a scene of hot fighting. This was not always so, for there were times when the curiosity of the crowd got the better of its caution, and it would push dangerously near the shooting.

Several days elapsed before the people of Dublin became fully aware of the meaning of what was going on. Riots are not rare, and this might well seem to many of them only rioting on a large scale, with some new and interesting features. The poor of Dublin have never been appeased with bread or circuses by the British authorities. They have had to be content with starvation and an occasional street disturbance. But little by little, as I rode along, I could detect a change in attitude. Some became craven and disappeared; in others, it seemed that at last their souls might come out of hiding and face the day.

The spirit at the post-office was always the same--quiet, cheerful, and energetic. I used to stand at the head of the great central staircase waiting for answers to my despatches and could see the leaders as they went to and fro through the corridor. Padraic Pearse impressed me by his natural air of command. He was serious, but not troubled, not even when he had to ask for men from the Citizen Army to eke out the scant numbers of his Volunteers for some expedition. No one had thought it would be that way, for the Volunteers were originally two to one compared with the Citizen Army. Recruits were coming in every day, but at the most there were not fifteen hundred men against twenty thousand British soldiers stationed in or near Dublin.

Whenever there came a lull in business or fighting, the men would begin to sing either rebel songs or those old lays dear to Irishmen the world over. And sometimes they knelt in prayer, Protestants and Catholics side by side. From the very beginning there was a sense of the religious character in what we were doing. This song and prayer at the post-office were all natural, devoid of self-consciousness. A gay song would follow a solemn prayer, and somehow was not out of harmony with it.

One source of inspiration at the post-office was "old Tom Clarke," who had served fifteen years for taking part in the rising of sixty-seven. His pale, worn face showed the havoc wrought by that long term in an English prison, but his spirit had not been broken.

There was Jo Plunkett, too, pale and weak, having come directly from the hospital where he had just undergone an operation. But he knew what prestige his name would lend to this movement--a name famous for seven hundred years in Irish history. He looked like death, and he met death a few days later at the hands of the English.

I talked about explosives one day with Sean McDermott and we went together to consult a wounded chemist in a rear room to find out what could be done with chemicals we had found at the College of Surgeons. Sean McDermott was like a creature from another planet who had brought his radiance with him to this one. Every one felt this and loved him for the courage and sweetness he put into all he did.

The O'Rahilly was another of the striking figures at the post-office. He was known as one of the handsomest men in Ireland, and, in addition to being head of a famous old clan, had large estates. He had given much property to the cause, and now was risking his life for it. He was killed on the last day of the fighting as he led a sortie into the street at one side of the post-office. His last words were, "Good-by and good luck to you!" He said those words to British prisoners he was setting free because the post-office had caught fire and the game was up. They afterward told of his kindness and care for them at a moment when he himself was in the greatest possible danger.

I can pass anywhere for a Scotch girl,--I have often had to since the rising,--and friends will tell you I am hard-headed and practical, without the least trace of mysticism. Yet, whenever I was in general headquarters in the post-office, I felt, despite commonplace surroundings and the din of fighting, an exalted calm that can be possible only where men are giving themselves unreservedly and with clear conscience to a great cause.

VIII

Singing "Soldiers are we whose lives are pledged to Ireland," we had withdrawn from St. Stephen's Green into the College of Surgeons. Only one of our men had been killed, yet this was a retreat, and we knew it. If only we had had enough men to take possession of the Shelbourne Hotel, we need not have yielded the Green. As it was, we wasted no time in mourning, but went to work at once to make ourselves ready for a siege that might last no one knew how long.

Under orders from Commandant Mallin, some of the men began to cut through the walls into adjoining buildings. Others went up on the roof to use their rifles against the British soldiers on top of the Shelbourne. Madam went about everywhere, seeking to find anything that could be of use to us. She discovered sixty-seven rifles, with fifteen thousand rounds of cartridges; also bandoliers and haversacks. All this had belonged, no doubt, to the training corps of the College of Surgeons, and would have been used against us had we not reached the building first.

On the ground floor of the big building were lecture-rooms and a museum; up-stairs other class-rooms, laboratories, and the library. On the third floor were the caretaker's rooms and a kitchen where our first-aid and despatch-girls took possession and cooked for the others as long as anything remained to cook. Lastly came the garret up under the roof. To shoot from the roof itself quickly became impossible, since our men were easy targets for the gunners on the Shelbourne. As soon as one of our boys was wounded, we knew they had our range, and decided to cut holes through and directly under the sloping roof. Here we could shoot in perfect safety while remaining unseen.

On Wednesday there was little despatch-bearing to do, so I stood around watching the men up there at work. The countess realized my impatience to be doing my bit, also my hesitation at putting myself forward to ask for permission. Without saying anything to me, she went to Commandant Mallin and told him she thought I could be of use under the roof. He gave his permission at once, and she brought me the answer.

Madam had had a fine uniform of green moleskin made for me. With her usual generosity, she had mine made of better material than her own. It consisted of kneebreeches, belted coat, and puttees. I slipped into this uniform, climbed up astride the rafters, and was assigned a loophole through which to shoot. It was dark there, full of smoke and the din of firing, but it was good to be in action. I could look across the tops of trees and see the British soldiers on the roof of the Shelbourne. I could also hear their shot hailing against the roof and wall of our fortress, for in truth this building was just that. More than once I saw the man I aimed at fall.

To those who have been following the Great War, reading of thousands and hundreds of thousands attacking one another in open battle or in mile-long trench-warfare, this exchange of shots between two buildings across a Dublin green may seem petty. But to us there could be nothing greater. Every shot we fired was a declaration to the world that Ireland, a small country but large in our hearts, was demanding her independence. We knew that all over Dublin, perhaps by this time all over Ireland, other groups like ours were filled with the same intensity, the same determination, to make the Irish Republic, no matter how short-lived, a reality of which history would have to take account. Besides, the longer we could keep our tricolor flying over the College of Surgeons, the greater the chance that Irish courage would respond and we should gain recruits.

Whenever I was called down to carry a despatch, I took off my uniform, put on my gray dress and hat, and went out the side door of the college with my message. As soon as I returned, I slipped back into my uniform and joined the firing-squad.

There were a good many of the Fianna boys in the college with us. As usual, their allegiance to Madam would not let them leave her. One of them, Tommie Keenan of Camden Row, was only twelve years old, but was invaluable. He would go out for food and medicine and, because he was so little, never attracted attention, though he wore his green Fianna shirt under his jacket. On Tuesday he came to the conclusion, perhaps with Madam's aid, that he ought to go home and tell his parents what he was doing. Commandant Mallin advised him, just before he left, to take off his green shirt and not wear it again for a while. It was a day or more before he returned, because his father had locked him in his room. We sympathized with the father, for that was just what we had expected him to do. But when a friend came along who promised to keep guard over Tommy if he was allowed to go for a walk, the boy's chance came. Eluding this friend, he ran the most roundabout way until he arrived where he felt "duty" called him.

The boy already referred to as nearly blind was with us, too. He pleaded so hard to be allowed to use a rifle that the men finally put him at a loophole, where he breathlessly fired shot after shot in the direction of the hotel. Maybe the prayers he murmured gave him success.

Our rations were short, but I do not remember that any one complained. I for one had no appetite for more than a slice of bread or two a day, with a cup of bouillon made from the cubes laid in as part of our necessary ration. The two captured British officers had their meals regularly whether any one else ate or not, and seemed grateful for it.

Every evening fighting would quiet down, and the boys and men--about a hundred, now, through recruits who had joined us--would gather in the largest lecture-hall to sing under the leadership of Jo Connolly, whose brother Sean had fallen the first day in front of Dublin Castle. I can hear them even now:

"Armed for the battle, Kneel we before Thee, Bless Thou our banners, God of the brave! 'Ireland is living'-- Shout we triumphant, 'Ireland is waking-- Hands grasp the sword!'"

They were singing this chant, written by the countess and set to some Polish revolutionary air, on Wednesday evening. I was up-stairs, studying a map of our surroundings and trying to find a way by which we could dislodge the soldiers from the roof of the Hotel Shelbourne. When Commandant Mallin came in, I asked him if he would let me go out with one man and try to throw a bomb attached to an eight-second fuse through the hotel window. I knew there was a bow-window on the side farthest from us, which was not likely to be guarded. We could use our bicycles and get away before the bomb exploded,--that is, if we were quick enough. At any rate, it was worth trying, whatever the risk.

Commandant Mallin agreed the plan was a good one, but much too dangerous. I pointed out to him that it had been my speed which had saved me so far from machine-gun fire on the hotel roof. It was not that the British were doing us any real harm in the college, but it was high time to take the aggressive, for success would hearten the men in other "forts" who were not having as safe a time of it. He finally agreed, though not at all willingly, for he did not want to let a woman run this sort of risk. My answer to that argument was that we had the same right to risk our lives as the men; that in the constitution of the Irish Republic, women were on an equality with men. For the first time in history, indeed, a constitution had been written that incorporated the principle of equal suffrage. But the Commandant told me there was another task to be accomplished before the hotel could be bombed. That was to cut off the retreat of a British force which had planted a machine-gun on the flat roof of University Church. It was against our rules to use any church, Protestant or Catholic, in our defense, no matter what advantage that might give us. But this church, close at hand, had been occupied by the British and was cutting us off from another command with whom it was necessary to keep in communication. In order to cut off the retreat of these soldiers, it would be necessary to burn two buildings. I asked the Commandant to let me help in this undertaking. He consented, and gave me four men to help fire one building, while another party went out to fire the other. It meant a great deal to me that he should trust me with this piece of work, and I felt elated. While I changed once more into my uniform, for the work of war can only be done by those who wear its dress, I could still hear them singing:

"Who fights for Ireland, God guide his blows home! Who dies for Ireland, God give him peace! Knowing our cause just, March we victorious, Giving our hearts' blood Ireland to free!"

IX

It took only a few moments to reach the building we were to set afire. Councilor Partridge smashed the glass door in the front of a shop that occupied the ground floor. He did it with the butt of his rifle and a flash followed. It had been discharged! I rushed past him into the doorway of the shop, calling to the others to come on. Behind me came the sound of a volley, and I fell. It was as I had on the instant divined. That flash had revealed us to the enemy.

"It's all over," I muttered, as I felt myself falling. But a moment later, when I knew I was not dead, I was sure I should pull through. Before another volley could be fired, Mr. Partridge lifted and carried me into the street. There on the sidewalk lay a dark figure in a pool of blood. It was Fred Ryan, a mere lad of seventeen, who had wanted to come with us as one of the party of four.

"We must take him along," I said.

But it was no use; he was dead.

With help, I managed to walk to the corner. Then the other man who had stopped behind to set the building afire caught up with us. Between them they succeeded in carrying me back to the College of Surgeons.

As we came into the vestibule, Jo Connolly was waiting with his bicycle, ready to go out with me to bomb the hotel. His surprise at seeing me hurt was as if I had been out for a stroll upon peaceful streets and met with an accident.

They laid me on a large table and cut away the coat of my fine, new uniform. I cried over that. Then they found I had been shot in three places, my right side under the arm, my right arm, and in the back on my right side. Had I not turned as I went through that shop-door to call to the others, I would have got all three bullets in my back and lungs and surely been done for.

They had to probe several times to get the bullets, and all the while Madam held my hand. But the probing did not hurt as much as she expected it would. My disappointment at not being able to bomb the Hotel Shelbourne was what made me unhappy. They wanted to send me to the hospital across the Green, but I absolutely refused to go. So the men brought in a cot, and the first-aid girls bandaged me, as there was no getting a doctor that night. What really did distress me was my cough and the pain in my chest. When I tried to keep from coughing, I made a queer noise in my throat and noticed every one around me look frightened.

"It's no death-rattle," I explained, and they all had to laugh,--that is, all laughed except Commandant Mallin. He said he could not forgive himself as long as he lived for having let me go out on that errand. But he did not live long, poor fellow! I tried to cheer him by pointing out that he had in reality saved my life, since the bombing plan was much more dangerous.

Soon after I was brought in, the countess and Councilor Partridge disappeared. When she returned to me, she said very quietly:

"You are avenged, my dear."

It seems they had gone out to where Fred Ryan lay, and Partridge, to attract the fire of the soldiers across the street in the Sinn Fein Bank, had stooped over the dead boy to lift him. There were only two soldiers and they both fired. That gave Madam a chance to sight them. She fired twice and killed both.

They tell me that all next day I was delirious and lay moaning and talking incoherently. It was not the bullets that brought me to this pass, but pneumonia. Even so I am glad I was there and not at a hospital. Later a doctor who was summoned made the mistake of using too much corrosive sublimate on my wounds, and for once I knew what torture is. The mistake took all the skin off my side and back. But Madam is a natural nurse. Among her friends she was noted for her desire to care for them if they fell ill. Some one was almost always in bed at Surrey House; some friend whose eyes might be troubling her to whom the countess would read aloud or apply soothing applications; a Fianna boy, or an actress from the Abbey Theater who needed to build up her nerves. Thus I was in good hands, and besides, following my instinct, I ate nothing for the next three days, but drank quantities of water.

Once a day they allowed me visitors. Every one who came to my room was confident that things were going well. That we were isolated from other "forts" and even from headquarters did not necessarily mean they were losing ground. We were holding out, and our spirits rose high. We believed, too, that by this time the Volunteers outside Dublin had risen. We could not know that, even where they had joined the rising on Easter Monday, the loss of one day had given the British enough time to be on guard, so that in no instance could our men enter the barracks and seize arms as originally planned.

While I lay there, I could hear the booming of big guns. All of us believed it was the Germans attacking the British on the water. There had been a rumor that German submarines would come into the fight if they learned there was a chance of our winning it. I had heard that report the evening before the rising. Edmond Kent, one of the republican leaders, had been most confident of our success, and when a friend asked him, "What if the British bring up their big guns?" he replied:

"The moment they bring up their big guns, we win."

He did not explain what he meant by this, but I took it that he expected outside aid the minute the British, recognizing our revolt as serious, gave us the dignity of combatants by using heavy artillery against us. Whatever he meant, the fact remains that when they took this action, they made us a "belligerent" in the world's eyes and gave us the excuse we could so well use--an appeal to the world court as a "small nation," for a place at the coming peace conference.

Sunday morning one of the despatch-girls, white and scared because she had been escorted to our "fort" by British soldiers, came from headquarters to inform Commandant Mallin that a general surrender had been decided on. The Commandant and Madam were in my room at the time, and Madam instantly grew pale.

"Surrender?" she cried. "We'll never surrender!"