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Title: The Irish rebellion of 1916
        or, the unbroken tradition

Author: Nora Connolly O'Brien

Release date: August 16, 2023 [eBook #71264]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Boni and Liveright, 1918

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916 ***






[Frontispiece: JAMES CONNOLLY]


  THE

  IRISH REBELLION _of_ 1916

  OR

  THE UNBROKEN TRADITION


  BY

  NORA CONNOLLY



  BONI AND LIVERIGHT
  NEW YORK




  Copyright, 1918,
  Copyright, 1919,

  By Boni & Liveright, Inc.



  _Printed in the United States of America_




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


James Connolly ...... Frontispiece

Countess Markievietz

Thomas J. Clarke

The Proclamation of the Provisional Government issued at the G.P.O.
on Monday, April 24, 1917

John McDermott

Nora Connolly

Liberty Hall

Joseph Plunkett

Thomas Macdonagh

Eoin MacNeill

Patrick H. Pearse

Eamonn Ceannt



MAPS

The Journey from Belfast to Leek

The Journey from Dundalk to Dublin

Map of Dublin




{vii}

INTRODUCTION


There have been many attempts to explain the revolution which took
place in Ireland during Easter Week, 1916.  And all of them give
different reasons.  Some have it that it was caused by the resentment
that grew out of the Dublin Strike of 1912-13; others, that it was
the threatened Ulster rebellion, and there are many other equally
wrong explanations.  All these writers ignore the main fact that the
Revolution was caused by the English occupation of Ireland.

So many people not conversant with Irish affairs ask: Why a
revolution?  Why was it necessary to appeal to arms?  Why was it
necessary to risk death and imprisonment for the self-government of
Ireland?  They say that there was already in existence an Act for the
Self-government of Ireland, that it had been passed through the
English House of Commons, and that if we had waited till the end of
the war we would have been given an opportunity to govern ourselves.
That they are not {viii} conversant with Irish affairs must be their
excuse for thinking in that manner of our struggle for freedom.

To be able to think and to speak thus one must first recognize the
right of the English to govern Ireland, for only by so doing can we
logically accept any measure of self-government from England.

And we cannot do so, for, as a nation Ireland has never recognized
England as her conqueror, but as her antagonist, as an enemy that
must be fought.  And this attitude has succeeded in keeping the soul
of Ireland alive and free.

For the conquest of a nation is never complete till its soul submits,
and the submission of the soul of a nation to the conqueror makes its
slavery and subjection more sure.  But the soul of Ireland has never
submitted.  And sometimes when the struggle seemed hopeless, and
sacrifice useless, and there was thought to make truce with the foe,
the voice of the soul of Ireland spoke and urged the nation once more
to resist.  And the voice of the soul of Ireland has the clangor of
battle.

There have been many attempts to drown the voice of the soul of
Ireland ever since the {ix} coming of the English into our country.
There have been some who have had the God-given gift of leadership,
but still sought to misinterpret the sound of the voice; who in
shutting their ears to the call for battle have helped to fasten the
shackles of slavery more securely on their country.

There was Daniel O'Connell who possessed the divine gift of
leadership and oratory, and in whose tones the people recognized the
voice of Ireland and flocked around him.  During the agitation for
the Repeal of the union between Ireland and England the people
followed O'Connell and waited for him to give the word.  Never for
one moment did they believe that the movement was merely a
constitutional one.  Sensibly enough they knew that speeches,
meetings and cheers would never win for them the freedom of their
country.  They knew that force alone would compel England to forego
her hold upon any of her possessions.

So that when in 1844 O'Connell sent out the call bidding all the
people of Ireland to muster at Clontarf, outside Dublin, they
believed that the day had come, and from North, South, East and West
they started on the journey.  Those {x} who lived in the West and
South traveled the distance in all sorts of conveyances, many of
them, especially the poorer ones, walked the distance; but the
trouble, the weariness, the hardship were all ignored by them in the
knowledge that they were once more mustering to do battle for the
freedom of their country.

But in the meantime, while the people were making all speed to obey
the summons of O'Connell, the meeting had been proclaimed by the
British Government; and the place of muster was lined with regiments
of soldiers with artillery with orders to mow down the people if they
attempted to approach the meeting place.  Then it was that O'Connell
failed the people of Ireland, and rung the knell for the belief of
the Irish people in constitutionalism.  He said, "All the freedom in
the world is not worth one drop of human blood," and commanded the
people to obey the order of the British Government and to return to
their homes.

There are many pitiful, heart-breaking stories told of the manner in
which this command of O'Connell reached the people.  Many who had
walked miles upon miles reached the outskirts of Dublin only to meet
the people {xi} pouring out of it.  When in return to their questions
they were told that it was the request of O'Connell that they return
to their homes, the heart within them broke for they knew that their
idol had failed them, and their hopes of freeing Ireland were
shattered.

Within the Repeal Association there was another organization called
the Young Irelanders, which published a paper called _The Nation_.
This paper was an immense factor in arousing and keeping alive a firm
nationalist opinion in Ireland.  The Young Irelanders were
revolutionists, and by their writings counseled the people to adopt
military uniforms, to study military tactics, to march to and from
the meetings in military order.  They made no secret of their belief
that the freedom of Ireland must be won by force of arms.

During the famine in 1847, when the people were dying by the
hundreds, although there was enough food to feed them, the Young
Irelanders worked untiringly to save the people.  At that time
potatoes were the staple food of the people, everything else they
raised, corn, pigs, cattle, etc., had to be sold to pay the terrible
rackrents.  The Young Irelanders called upon the people to keep the
food in the country {xii} and save themselves; but day by day more
food was shipped from the starving country to England; there to be
turned into money to pay the grasping landlords.  It was during this
time that John Mitchell was arrested and transported for life to Van
Diemen's land.

In 1848 there was an ill-fated attempt at insurrection.  Even in the
midst of famine and death, with the people dying daily by the
roadside, there was still the belief that only by an appeal to force
and arms could anything be wrung from England.  In Tipperary, under
Smith O'Brien, the attempt was made, more as a protest then, for
famine, death, and misery had thinned the ranks, than with any hopes
of winning anything.  Most of the leaders were soon arrested and four
of them were sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; but this
sentence was afterwards commuted to life imprisonment.

For many years after the famine the people were quiescent, and had
grown quite uncaring about Parliamentary representation.  And then
was formed a revolutionary secret society calling itself the Fenians.
The members of this organization were pledged to work for, and, when
the time came, to fight for and }xiii} establish, an Irish Republic.
James Stephens was the chief organizer.  The organization spread
through Ireland like wildfire.  Even the English Army and Navy were
honeycombed with it.  Every means possible were taken by the English
to cope with this new revolutionary movement--but they failed.  The
organization decided that a Rising would take place in February,
1867.  This was later postponed; but unfortunately the word did not
reach the South in time and Kerry rose.  The word spread over Ireland
that Kerry was up in arms.  Measures were taken by the English to
meet the insurrectionists, but before they reached the South the men
had learned that the date of the rising had been postponed and had
returned to their homes.  Luby, O'Leary, Kickham, and O'Donovan Rossa
were arrested.  Still the Rising took place on the appointed date,
although doomed to failure owing to the crippling of the organization
by the arrest of its leaders, and the lack of arms.  Even the
elements were against the revolutionists, for a snowstorm, heavier
than any of the oldest could remember having seen, fell and covered
the country in great drifts.

They failed.  But the teaching of the {xiv} Fenians and the
organization they founded are alive to-day.  It was the members of
this organization that first started the Irish Volunteers.  Ever on
the watch for a ripe moment to come out and work openly, ever longing
for the day when military instruction could be given to the
nationalist youth, they seized upon the fact that if the Ulster
Volunteers were permitted to drill and arm themselves to fight the
English Government so could they.  And in November, 1913, they called
a meeting in the Rotunda, Dublin, and invited the men and women of
Ireland to join the Irish Volunteers, and pledge themselves "to
maintain and secure the rights and liberties common to all the people
of Ireland."

So once more the people of Ireland heard the call to arms, and right
royally they answered it.  The Irish Volunteer Organization spread
throughout the land, and the youth of Ireland were being trained in
the art of soldiering.

Then it was that, like Daniel O'Connell and other constitutional
leaders, Redmond proved himself of the body and not the soul of
Ireland.  He did not follow the example of Parnell, whose follower he
was supposed to be, and use the threat of this large physical force
party to {xv} gain his ends from the English Government.  Parnell
used to say to the British House of Commons: "If you do not listen to
me, there is a large band of physical force men, with whom I have no
influence, and upon whom I have no control, and _they_ will compel
you to listen to them."  But Redmond, jealous of all parties outside
his own (knowing well that when an Irishman had a rifle in his hands
he no longer felt subservient to, or feared England; and that when
the people of Ireland had the means to demand the freedom of their
country they grew impatient of speech-making and petitioning), grew
fearful for the loss of power of the Irish Parliamentary Party.

He knew also, that, as in the days of O'Connell, Butt, and Parnell,
the people firmly believed that all the talk and show of
constitutionalism was a blind, merely a throwing of dust in the eyes
of the English Government, and to save himself and his Party he must
approve this physical Force party.  But not content with approval he
needs must try to capture the Irish Volunteers.  This attempt, I
firmly believe, was made upon the advice, or the command of the
British Government.  He sent a demand to the Executive Committee
{xvi} that a number of his appointees be received upon the Committee.
This would enable him to know and obstruct all measures made by the
Irish Volunteers and would prevent the loss of power of the
Parliamentary Party.

By the votes of a small majority of the Committee these appointees
were accepted.  But the Committee soon found out that it was
impossible to arm and prepare men for a revolution against a
government, while the paid servants of that government were amongst
them.  They decided to part company even at the risk of a division in
the ranks.  They knew that every man who remained with them could be
depended upon to do his part when the time for the Rising came.

Then England went to war.  Shortly before this a Home Rule Bill had
passed two readings in the House of Commons.  England saw the
stupidity of appealing to Irishmen to go to fight for the freedom of
small nationalities, while any measure of freedom was denied to their
own.  So the Home Rule Bill passed the final reading in the House of
Commons, and was put upon the Statute Book.  Then fearful of the
dissatisfaction of the Unionists an amendment was tacked on {xvii}
that prevented its going into effect until after the war.

John Redmond dealt the final blow to his influence upon Ireland when
he began to recruit for the English Army.  Many of his followers,
taking his word that Home Rule was now a fact entered the English
Army at his request.  They were, in the main, young, foolish, and
ignorant fellows unable to analyze the Bill for themselves, and
therefore could not know that the so-called Home Rule was a farce.
They did not know that the Bill gave them no power over the revenue,
over the Post Office, over the Royal Irish Constabulary, that they
could not raise an army, or impose a tax, and that no law passed by
the Irish Parliament could go into effect until the English House of
Commons had given its approval.  It was like telling a prisoner that
he was free and keeping him in durance.

And from the beginning of the war the Irish Volunteers spent all the
time they could in intensive drilling, not knowing at what time their
hand might be forced, or the opportune moment for the Rising might
arrive.

For in Ireland we have the unbroken tradition of struggle for our
freedom.  Every {xviii} generation has seen blood spilt, and
sacrifice cheerfully made that the tradition might live.

Our songs call us to battle, or mourn the lost struggle; our stories
are of glorious victory and glorious defeat.  And it is through them
the tradition has been handed down till an Irish man or woman has no
greater dream of glory than that of dying

  "A Soldier's death so Ireland's free."




{1}

THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916

OR

THE UNBROKEN TRADITION



I

My first mingling with an actively, openly drilling revolutionary
body took place during the Dublin strike of 1912-1913.  I was living
in Belfast then and had come to Dublin to see how things were
managed, how the food was being distributed and the kitchens run;
and, in fact, to feel the spirit of the people.

James Connolly, my father, was at that time in Dublin assisting James
Larkin to direct the strike.  He was my pilot.  Liberty Hall, the
headquarters of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, the
members of which were on strike, was first visited.  It is situated
on Beresford Place facing the Custom House and the River Liffey.  In
the early part of the nineteenth century it had been a Chop House.
Almost from the big front door a wide staircase starts.  It ends at
the second story.  From there it branches out into {2} innumerable
corridors thickly studded with doors.  It took me a long time to
master those corridors.  Always I seemed to be finding new ones.
Downstairs on the first floor were the theater and billiard rooms;
and below them were the kitchens.  During the strike these kitchens
were used to prepare food for the strikers.  It was to the kitchens
my father first piloted me.

Here the Countess de Markieviez reigned supreme--all meals were
prepared under her direction.  There were big tubs on the floor;
around each were about half a dozen girls peeling potatoes and other
vegetables.  There were more girls at tables cutting up meat.  The
Countess kept up a steady march around the boilers as she supervised
the cooking.  She took me to another kitchen where more delicate food
was being prepared for nursing and expectant mothers.

"We used to give the food out at first," she said.  "But in almost
every case we found that it had been divided amongst the family.  Now
we have the women come here to eat.  We are sure then that they are
getting something sufficiently nourishing to keep up their strength."
She showed me a hall with a long table in the {3} center and chairs
around it.  As it was near the "Mothers' dinner hour," as the girls
called it, some of the striking women and girls were there to act as
waitresses.

We came to the clothing shop next.  Some persons had caught the idea
of sending warm clothing for the wives and children of the strikers;
accordingly one of the rooms of Liberty Hall was turned into an
alteration room.  Several women and girls were working from morning
to night altering the clothes to fit the applicants.  One of the
girls said to me, "It was a wonder to us at first the number of
strikers who had extra large families, until we found out that in
many cases their wives had adopted a youngster or two for the day,
and brought them along to get clothed."  Not strictly honest,
perhaps, but how human to wish to share their little bit of good
fortune with those not so fortunate as themselves.  How many little
boys and girls knew for the first time in their lives the feel of
warm stockings and shoes, and how many little girls had the delicious
thrill of getting a new dress fitted on.

Thence to Croyden Park.  Some time before the strike this immensely
big place had {4} been taken over by the Union.  I do not know how
large it was but there were fields and fields, and long pathways
edged with trees.  It was used by the members as a football ground
and for hurley and all sorts of sports and games.  But this time the
fields were ringed round with men and women watching the rows and
rows of strikers who were in the fields, marching now to the right,
now to the left at the commands of Captain White, who stood in the
center, a tall soldierly figure blowing a whistle and gesticulating
with great fervor.

Back and forth, right and left they marched with never a moment's
rest; then round and round the fields they ran at the double; the
Captain now at the head, now at the rear, now in the center shouting
commands incessantly, sparing himself no more than the men.  I
remember once he stopped beside my father and myself; he was in a
terrible rage, his hands were clenched and he was fairly gnashing his
teeth.  He had given a signal to one of the columns and they had
misinterpreted it.

"Easy now, Captain," said my father, "remember they are only
volunteers."  Captain White turned like a flash.

"Yes," he said.  "And aren't they great?" {5} And he forgot his rage
in his admiration of the men of a few weeks' training.  He gave an
order, the men marched past and at a given place they received broom
handles with which they practiced rifle drill.

After rifle drill came the line up for the march home.  We waited
till the last row was filing past and then fell in and marched back
to the city with the Irish Citizen Army.  It was exhilarating.  At no
period could I see the first part of the Army.  The men and boys were
whistling tunes to serve them in lieu of bands.  On they swung to
Beresford Place, where they lined up in front of Liberty Hall.  Jim
Larkin and my father spoke to them from the windows.  When one man
called out, "We'll stick by you to the end," he was loudly and
heartily cheered.  Captain White gave the order of dismissal and the
men broke ranks but did not go away.  When they were not drilling, or
sleeping, or eating, they thronged round Liberty Hall, attesting that
"where the heart lieth there turneth the feet."

When the strike was over and the men had won the right to organize,
the membership of the Irish Citizen Army dwindled rapidly.  When one
takes into consideration the arduous {6} work and the long hours that
comprised the daily round of these men, the wonder was that there
were so many of them willing to meet after working hours to be
drilled into perfect soldiers.  But they knew that by so doing they
were, in the words of my father, "signifying their adhesion to the
principle that the freedom of a people must in the last analysis rest
in the hands of that people--that there is no outside force capable
of enforcing slavery upon a people really resolved to be free, and
valuing freedom more than life."  Also that "The Irish Citizen Army
in its constitution pledges its members to fight for a Republican
Freedom in Ireland.  Its members are, therefore, of the number who
believe that at the call of duty they may have to lay down their
lives for Ireland, and have so trained themselves that at the worst
the laying down of their lives shall constitute the starting point of
another glorious tradition--a tradition that will keep alive the soul
of the nation."  And this was the knowledge that lightened all the
labor of drilling and soldiering.

I was present at a lecture given to them by their Commandant, James
Connolly.  It was on the art of street fighting.  I remember the {7}
close attention every man paid to the lecture and the interest they
displayed in the diagrams drawn on the board the better to explain
his meaning.  At the close of the lecture he asked, "Are there any
questions?" There were many questions, all of them to the effect,
whether it would not be better to do it this way, or could we not get
better results that way.  All in deadly earnestness, thinking only on
how the best results might be achieved and not one man commenting on
the danger to life the acts would surely entail.  That one would have
to risk death was taken for granted.  Their one thought was how to
get the most work done before death came.

A few months later there were maneuvers between one company of the
Irish Citizen Army and a company of the Irish Volunteers.  The Irish
Volunteers had been formed after the Irish Citizen Army and by this
time had spread over the length and breadth of Ireland.  While the
Irish Citizen Army admitted none but union men the Irish Volunteers
made no such distinction.  And as they both had the one ideal of a
Republican Ireland there was much friendly rivalry between the two
bodies.  This time the maneuvers took the form of a {8} sham battle,
which took place at Ticknock about six miles outside of Dublin.  The
Irish Citizen Army won the day.  I particularly remember that
afternoon.  My father came into the house, tired but pleasantly
excited--he had been an onlooker at the sham battle.  "I've
discovered a great military man," he said in high glee.  "The way he
handled his men positively amounted to genius.  Do you know him--his
name is Mallin?"

I did not know him then.  I met him later when he was my father's
Chief of Staff.  During the rising he was Commandant in charge of the
St. Stephen's Green Division of the Army of the Irish Republic, and
he was executed during that dreadful time following the surrender of
the Irish Republican Army.




{9}

II

During the month of July, 1914, I was camping out on the Dublin
mountains.  The annual convention of Na Fianna Eireann (Irish
National Boy Scouts) had just been held, and I was a delegate to it
from the Belfast Girls' Branch, of which I was the president.  On the
Sunday following the convention we were still camping out; but were
suffering all the discomforts of blowy, rainy, stormy weather.
Madame (the Countess de Markievicz) had a cottage beside the field
where we were encamped, and it was thronged with us all that Sunday.
Nothing would tempt us out in the field that night, and we kept
putting off the retiring time, hour by hour, till it was nearly
twelve o'clock.  At that time we had just taken our courage in both
hands, and were forcing ourselves to go out to our tents.  We were
standing near the door with our bedding in our arms when some of the
Fianna boys halloed from outside.  We {10} gladly opened the
door--another excuse for putting off the evil moment--and about half
a dozen boys came in to the cottage.  They were in great spirits,
although they had tramped some miles in the rain, and exhibited
strange looking clubs to our curious eyes.

"Guess what we've been doing to-day, Madame," they said, but with an
expression on their faces which said, "you'll never guess."

"It's too much trouble to guess," said Madame.  "Tell us what it was
and we will know all the quicker."

"We've been helping to run in three thousand rifles."

"Rifles--where--quick--tell me all about it.  Quick."

"At Howth.  But did you hear nothing about it?"

"Nothing.  Tell me quick."

"Did you not hear that we had a brush with the soldiers; and that
some were shot and some were killed?"

"No--no.  Begin at the beginning and tell us the whole story."

"Well, during the week we were told to report at a certain place
to-day--that there was important work to be done.  This morning we
{11} met as we were told, and we were shown these clubs.  They were
to be all the arms we were to have.  We started out to march with the
Volunteers to Howth.  We knew, somehow or other, that we were going
to get rifles but none of us knew for a fact how we were going to get
them.  As we marched we made all sorts of guesses as to how the
rifles were coming.  Of course, we did not carry the clubs in our
hands; we brought them with us in the trek cart.  But for a few
others we were the only ones who knew what was in the cart.  And do
you know, Madame," he said with a veteran's pride, "we marched better
than the Volunteers."

"When we came near Howth," said another boy as he took up the story,
"two chaps came running towards us and told us to come on at the
double.  The Volunteers were rather tired but when they heard the
word 'rifles' they simply raced.  When we arrived at the harbor we
saw the rifles being unloaded from a yacht.  You ought to have heard
the cheers when we saw them!  Then it was that the clubs were
distributed.  They were given to a picked body of men and they were
formed across the entrance to the pier.  They were to use the clubs
{12} if the police attempted to interfere with them.  The rifles were
handed out to the men, but there were more rifles than men so some
had to be sent into the city in automobiles.  Most of the ammunition
was sent into the city in automobiles but quite a lot was put into
the trek cart.  But none was served out to the men."

"That was a nice thing to do," said the first boy, "to give rifles
and no ammunition.  And when we were attacked we couldn't shoot back.
We had a fight with the soldiers and the police near the city.  And
when the soldiers and the police attacked us and might have taken the
trek cart from us, we had only the butts of our rifles to defend it
with.  But we beat them off.  Later on, though, they took their
revenge when they shot down defenseless women and children.  They
just knelt down in the middle of Bachelor's Walk and fired into the
crowd.  I don't know how many were killed--some say five, some say
more."

"But you brought the rifles safe," said Madame.

"The whole city is excited.  The people are walking up and down the
streets, they don't seem to think that they have any homes to go to."

[Illustration: COUNTESS MARKIEVIETZ]

{13}

When we heard that we wanted to dress and go down to Dublin.  We
wanted a share of the excitement, if we had not had any share in the
fight.  But Madame vetoed that suggestion almost as soon as it was
mooted.  We had to go to bed.  But we had so much to talk about that
we scarcely noticed the sogging wet tent when we were inside.

The next morning was gloriously fine.  We breakfasted and were making
plans to go into the city to hear some more about yesterday's
exploit.  Madame had already cycled in, and we were left to our own
devices.  We had not quite finished our work around the camp when we
saw a taxi-cab stopping near the gate that was used as an entrance to
the field.  As we ran towards it we wondered what had brought it
there.  Before we reached it, however, one of the Fianna captains had
jumped out of the taxi and was coming towards us.

"I have about twenty rifles in the car, and I want to get them to
Madame's cottage," he said.  "Will you help?"

We were glad of the opportunity.  We jumped over the hedge into the
next field where there were no houses, and had the rifles handed to
us.  We could only carry two at a time.  The {14} captain stood at
the car on the lookout, and also handed the rifles to us.  We carried
the rifles down to the window back of Madame's cottage, and when we
had them all there one of us went inside to open the window to take
the rifles from the other girls as they handed them through.  We were
delighted to handle the arms.

Later on one of the neighbors said that it was wrong to leave the
rifles there.  "There is a retired sergeant of the police who lives a
little way up the road and he wouldn't be above telling about them."

This rather frightened us.  If the police came and took them from us,
what could we do?  I decided to go in to Dublin and go to the
Volunteer office and tell them about the rifles.  When I had told
about the rifles two of the men present accompanied me back to the
camp to take the rifles from there.

We set off in another taxi and arrived at the camp before there was
any sign of the police becoming active.  All the rifles were carried
out again and put in the taxi.  When they were all in it, it was
suggested that we should get into the taxi and sit on top of the
rifles.  The police would be less suspicious of a taxi {15} with
girls in it.  It was not a very comfortable seat that we had on that
trip to Dublin.  But the rifles were saved.  When we got back to the
office I offered to sit in any taxi with the rifles if they thought
it would divert attention.  I sat on quite a number of rifles that
day.  And at the end of the day I had a rifle of my own.

In the meantime, the bodies of those who had been shot by the
soldiers were laid out and brought to the Cathedral.  Preparations
were made for a public funeral to honor the victims of English
soldiery in Ireland.  All the Volunteers were to march in honor of
the dead, and the local trades unions, the Irish Citizen Army, the
Cumami na mBan, the Fianna, and as many of the citizens of Dublin as
desired to do so.  The Fintan Lalor Pipe Band, connected with the
Irish Transport and General Workers Union, were to play the Dead
March.  And there was to be a firing party of the Irish Volunteers
who were to use the rifles that had so soon been the cause of
bloodshed.

I spent all the day of the funeral making wreaths.  The funeral was
not to take place till the evening so as to permit all who wished to
attend to do so.  The Fianna boys went round to the different
florists asking for {16} flowers to make wreaths to place on the
graves of the dead.  And they were richly rewarded.  Every florist
they went to gave bunches and bunches of their best flowers, and
these the boys brought to Madame's house.  Madame and I, and two or
three other girls, worked continually all during the afternoon
turning the flowers into wreaths.  When we had finished we had
seventeen glorious big wreaths.  Just before six we piled into an
automobile, some of the boys in Gaelic costume stood on the running
board.  The saffron and green of the kilts and the many wreaths made
quite an artistic dash of color when we arrived at Beresford Place to
have our place assigned to us.

The bodies of the five victims were removed from the Cathedral and
placed in the hearses.  Behind each one walked the chief mourners.
Much interest was aroused by the sight of a soldier in the English
uniform, who marched, weeping openly, after one of the hearses.  He
had joined the English Army and had promised to protect the English
King, and now the soldiers of that king had shot and killed his
innocent defenseless mother.

Dublin was profoundly moved as the funeral cortege passed through the
city.  Thousands {17} upon thousands marched to the cemetery after
the hearses, and thousands more lined the streets.  They were
attesting their sympathy with the families of the dead, and their
realization that England still intended to rule Ireland with the
rifle and the bullet.

The firing party, as they marched after the hearses with their rifles
reversed, excited much comment.  The people contrasted the difference
in the treatment accorded the Nationalists when they had a
gun-running, with that accorded the Ulster gun-runners.  And they
knew once more that England would kill and destroy them rather than
permit them to have the means to protect their lives and to fight for
their liberties.

The authorities were aware of the feeling aroused in the people by
the killing of the unarmed women and men, and to prevent any further
disturbance they confined the soldiers to their barracks that
evening.  Still the feeling against "The King's Own Scottish
Borderers" (the regiment that had done the shooting) ran so high that
the entire regiment was secretly sent away from Dublin.




{18}

III

About one week later, while the people were still incensed at the
shooting, England went to war.  Almost immediately she issued an
appeal to the Irish to join her army.  Later she appealed to them to
avenge the shooting of the citizens of Catholic Belgium.  Because her
memory was short, or perhaps because her need was so great she chose
to ignore the fact that English soldiers had but shortly shot down
and killed the unarmed citizens of Catholic Dublin.  But Dublin did
not forget.

The Irish Citizen Army distinguished itself when John Redmond and Mr.
Asquith, who was then Prime Minister, came over to Dublin shortly
after the outbreak of the war.  They came to hold a recruiting
meeting in the Mansion House.  It was supposed to be a public meeting
at which the Prime Minister and the Irish Parliamentary Leader would
appeal to the citizens of Dublin to enlist in the British Army; yet
no one was let in without a card of {19} admission.  A cordon of
soldiers were drawn across both ends of the street in which the
Mansion House was situated, at Nassau Street and at St. Stephen's
Green.  No one could pass these cordons without presenting the card
and being subjected to a close scrutiny by the local detectives.
This was to make sure that no objectionable person could get in to
the meeting and make a row.  But the Nationalists of Dublin had no
intention of going to the meeting; there was to be another one that
would give them more pleasure.

A monster demonstration had been decided upon by the Irish Citizen
Army to prove to Mr. Asquith, and through him to England, that the
mass of the Dublin people were against recruiting for the British
Army.  They mustered outside of Liberty Hall.  The speakers, amongst
whom was Sean Mac Dermott who was there to represent the Irish
Volunteers, were on a lorry guarded by members of the Irish Citizen
Army armed with rifles and fixed bayonets; a squad similarly armed
guarded the front and the rear.  They were determined that there
would be no arrest of anti-recruiters that night.

They marched around the city, the crowd {20} swelling as they went,
and they stopped at the "Traitors' Arch" (the popular name for the
Memorial to the Irish soldiers who fell in the Boer War), at St.
Stephen's Green, two blocks away from where the recruiting meeting
was being held.  As speaker after speaker denounced recruiting, and
denounced England, and Redmond, and Asquith, feeling surged higher
and higher until it reached a climax when James Connolly called on
those present to declare for an Irish Republic.  Cheers burst from
thousands of throats and a forest of hands appeared in the air as
they declared for a Republic.  We were told afterwards that the
recruiting meeting had to stop till the anti-recruiters stayed their
cheering.

The armed men of the Irish Citizen Army resumed the march first to
make sure that none would be molested.  Down Grafton Street they went
and halted again beside the old House of Parliament, where Jim Larkin
called on them to raise their right hands and pledge themselves never
to join the British Army.  Every one present did so.  Then, whistling
and singing Nationalist marching tunes and anti-recruiting songs,
they marched back to Liberty Hall and dispersed.  As a result of {21}
Asquith's meeting, or because of the Irish Citizen Army meeting, only
six men joined the British Army next day.

Midnight mobilizations were a feature of the Irish Citizen Army.
They served a twofold purpose.  They taught the men to be ready
whenever called upon, and were a great source of annoyance to the
police.  At every mobilization of the Irish Citizen Army a squad of
police and detectives were detailed by the authorities to follow and
report all the movements.  One midnight the men mobilized at Liberty
Hall; they were divided into two bodies, the attacking and the
defending.  They marched to the North side of the city, one body
going across the canal, and the other remaining behind to prevent the
entrance of the attackers.  The battle lasted two hours.  It was a
bitter winter's night and the police were on duty all the time as
they did not dare to leave, for there was no telling what the Irish
Citizen Army might be up to.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

{22}

[Illustration: Illustrating journey from Belfast to Leek.  _See
pages_ 54-71]

---------------------------------------------------------------------

{23}

[Illustration: Illustrating the journey from Dundalk to Dublin.  _See
pages_ 142-163]

---------------------------------------------------------------------

After the men had completed their evolutions around the bridge they
formed ranks and marched round the city, the police following them.
They stopped at Emmet Hall, Inchicore, for refreshments.  There they
had a song {24} and dance, one chap remarking that the thought of the
"peelers" (police) and the "G men" (detectives) outside in the cold
added to the enjoyment.  They broke up about six o'clock a.m. and
marched back to Liberty Hall followed by the disheartened, miserable,
frozen police.

There was another midnight mobilization later on.  Announcements were
made publicly that on this occasion the Irish Citizen Army would
attack Dublin Castle, the center of English Government in Ireland for
600 years.  The thought of such a deed never fails to fire the
imagination of an Irish Nationalist.  A favorite phrase of one of the
officers of the Irish Citizen Army, Commandant Sean Connolly, was,
"One more rush, boys, and the Castle is ours."  He was in command of
the body that attacked the Castle on Easter Monday.  It was while
calling on his men to rush the Castle that he received a bullet
through his brain, thus achieving his lifelong dream of dying for
Ireland while attacking the Castle.

One other mobilization which took place at midnight some time before
the Rising was a disappointment, perhaps because it was unofficial.
One of the Irish Citizen Army men {25} heard that a number of rifles
were stored in a place near Finglass.  He knew the whereabouts and
whispered the news amongst his comrades.  A number of them decided to
make a raid on the place and capture the rifles.  They started out at
midnight, marched twenty miles before morning, but, unfortunately,
the rifles had been removed before they arrived.  They were
disappointed but not downhearted; such things they considered part of
the day's work.

They had another disappointment which was more amusing, at least our
men could laugh at it when a few days were past.  There was in Dublin
a body of men called the Home Defense Corps.  They wore a greenish
gray uniform and on their sleeves an armlet with the letters "G.R."
in red--abbreviations for Georgius Rex.  They were called the
"Gorgeous Wrecks" by the Dubliners.  They were mainly men past the
military age who had registered their willingness to fight the
Germans when they invaded England, Scotland, or Ireland.  These men
paraded the streets of Dublin making a fine show with their uniforms
and rifles, especially the rifles.  Some of the Irish Citizen Army
thought those rifles too {26} good to be left in the hands of "those
old ones" and followed them on a march to find out where the rifles
were kept.  When our men came back they gathered a number of their
friends together; after a short talk away they went for the rifles.
It was done in quite a military manner; sentries and pickets were
placed, the building surrounded and entered.  Several made their way
to the room where the rifles were kept and opened the windows to hand
the rifles to the eager hands outside.  Their plan was to march home
with them quite openly as if returning from a route march.

The leader of the band was well known for his lurid and swift flow of
language.  Suddenly bursting out, he surpassed all his previous
efforts and completely staggered the men around him--they beheld him
examining one of the rifles.  It was complete in every detail, just
like an army rifle, but on lifting it it was easy to know that it was
a very clever imitation.  The men were heartbroken and disgusted, but
they brought several of the rifles away with them to show their
officers what the "Gorgeous Wrecks" were going to fight the Germans
with.  During a raid by the Dublin {27} police in a well-known house
one of these rifles was taken away by them.  How long it took them to
realize its uselessness we do not know as it was never returned.




{28}

IV

Towards the end of 1915 the hearts of the Irish Citizen Army beat
high, when they were summoned one night for special business.  One by
one they were called into a room where their Commandant, James
Connolly, and his Chief of Staff, Michael Mallin, were seated at a
table.  They were bound on their word not to reveal anything they
should hear until the time came.  Something like the following
conversation took place:

"Are you willing to fight for Ireland?"

"Yes."

"It might mean your death."

"No matter."

"Are you ready to fight to-morrow if asked?"

"Whenever I'm wanted."

"Do you think we ought to fight with the few arms we've got?"

"Why wait?  England can get millions to one."

{29}

"It might mean a massacre."

"In God's name let us fight, we've been waiting long enough."

"The Irish Volunteers might not come out with us.  Are you still
ready?"

"What matter?  We can put up a good fight."

"Then in God's name hold yourself ready.  The Day is very near."

To the eternal credit of the Irish Citizen Army be it recorded that
only one man shirked that night.

Then on top of this glorious happening came the attempted raid on
Liberty Hall by the police.  That morning I was in the office with my
father when a man came from the printer's shop and said, "Mr.
Connolly, you're wanted downstairs."  My father went downstairs.
About five minutes later he came into the office again, took down a
carbine, loaded it and filled his pockets with cartridges.

"What is it?" I asked.  "Can I do anything?"

"Stay here, I'll need you," said my father and he left the office
again.  He was gone about five minutes when the door was banged {30}
open and the Countess de Markievicz burst into the office.

"Where's Mr. Connolly?" she demanded excitedly.  "Where's Mr.
Connolly?  They're raiding the Gaelic press--the place is surrounded
with soldiers."

"He left here five minutes ago," I said.  "He took his carbine with
him and told me to remain here as he would need me."

She ran out again.  In a few minutes I heard her and my father coming
back along the corridor.  She was talking excitedly and my father was
laughing.

They came into the office--he took down a sheaf of papers and
commenced signing them.  They called for instant mobilization of the
Irish Citizen Army.  They were to report at Liberty Hall with full
equipment at once.

"Well, Nora," said my father.  "It looks as if we were in for it and
as if they were going to force our hands.  Fill up these orders as I
sign them.  I want two hundred and fifty."

I busied myself filling in these orders.  The Countess began to help
me--suddenly she stopped and cried out, "But, Mr. Connolly, I haven't
my pistol on me."

{31}

"Never mind, Madame," said my father.  "We'll give you one."

"Give it to me now," she said.  "So my mind will be easy."

She was given a large Mauser pistol.  Just then a picket came running
in.  He saluted and said, "They've left the barracks, sir."  He was
referring to the police.  A line of our pickets had been stationed
reaching from the barracks to Liberty Hall; their duty was to report
any move they might see made by the police.  In that way no sooner
had a body of police left the barracks than word was sent along the
line and in less than three minutes Liberty Hall was aware of it.

"Now, Madame," said my father when the picket had gone. "Come along,
we'll be ready for them.  Finish those, Nora, and come down to me
with them."

I finished them and went down to the Co-operative shop.  Behind the
counter stood my father with his carbine laid along it; beside him
Madame, and outside the counter was Miss Moloney taking the safety
catch from off her automatic.  I gave the batch of orders to my
father; he called one of the men who stood in the doorway, and said,
"Get these around at {32} once."  The man saluted and went away.
Just then another picket came in and said, "They will be here in a
minute, sir, they've just crossed the bridge."

"Very well," said my father, and the men went away.

Miss Moloney then told me that some policemen had come in and had
attempted to search the store, and that she had sent word to Mr.
Connolly through the men in the printing shop, which was back of the
Coöperative shop; and then busied herself resisting the search.  One
policeman had a batch of papers in his hands when my father came in.
He saw at once what was going forward, drew his automatic pistol,
pointed it at the policeman and said:

"Drop them or I'll drop you."

The policeman dropped them.  My father then asked what he wanted.  He
said they had come to confiscate any copies of _The Gael_, _The
Gaelic Athlete_, _Honesty_ or _The Spark_ that might be on the
premises.

"Have you a search warrant?" asked my father.  This was a bluff,
because under the Defense of the Realm Act any house may be searched
on suspicion; but it worked; the policeman said he had none.

{33}

"Go and get one," said my father, "or you'll not search here."

The police went away; and it was then that my father had come back to
the office to sign the mobilization papers.


Shortly afterwards there came into the shop an Inspector of the
police, four plain-clothes men and two policemen in uniform.  I was
behind the counter at this time.

"I am Inspector Banning," said the Inspector.

"What do you want?" asked my father.

"We have come to search for, and confiscate any, of the suppressed
papers we may find here."

"Where's your warrant?" asked my father.

"I have it here," said the Inspector.

"Read it," said my father.

The Inspector read the warrant--it was to the effect that all shops
and newsvendors were to be searched, and all copies of the suppressed
newspapers confiscated.

"Well," said my father when the Inspector had finished reading.
"This is the shop up to this door,"--pointing to one behind
him,--"beyond this door is Liberty Hall, and through {34} this door
you will not go.  Go ahead and search."

"We have no desire to enter Liberty Hall," said the Inspector.

"I don't doubt you," said my father, whereat we all grinned.

At an order from the Inspector one of the policemen began to search
around the place where the papers were kept.  He looked at my father
standing in the doorway with his carbine, and for a moment we thought
he was going to rush him.  Perhaps visions of stripes danced before
him; but, at an order from his superior he went on with his work.  It
was a good thing for him that he did so, as there were the best of
shots present, with less than ten paces between him and them.

"There is nothing here," he said at last to the Inspector.  (We had
made sure there would not be.)  And then they all left the shop.

In the meantime, a series of strange sights were to be seen all over
the city.  The mobilization orders had gone forth and the men were
answering them.  Women in the fashionable shopping districts were
startled by the sight of men, with their faces still grimed with the
dust of their work, tearing along at a breakneck {35} speed, a rifle
in one hand and a bandolier in the other.

Out from the ships where they were working; from the docks; out of
the factories; in from the streets,--racing, panting, with eager
faces and joyful eyes they trooped into Liberty Hall.  Joyful because
they believed the call had come at last.

No obstacle was great enough to prevent their answering the order.
One batch were working in a yard overlooking a canal.  A man appeared
at the door, whistled to one of the men and gave him a sign.

"Come on, boys, we're needed," cried one and made for the door.  The
foreman, thinking it was a strike, closed the door.  Nothing daunted
they swarmed the walls, jumped into the canal, swam across, ran to
their homes for their rifles and equipment and arrived at Liberty
Hall, wet and happy.  Another batch were busy with a concrete column
and had just got it to the critical period, where one must not stop
working or it hardens and cannot be used, when the mobilizer appeared
at the door and gave them the news.  Down went the tools and out they
went through the gate in the twinkling of an eye.

{36}

All day long the men were arriving at Liberty Hall.  Tense excitement
prevailed amongst the crowds that came thronging outside the Hall.  A
guard was placed at the great front door, another at the head of the
wide staircase and the rest were confined to the guard room.  This
guard room had a great fascination for me.  The men were sitting on
forms around an open fire; ranged along the walls were their rifles,
and hanging above them their bandoliers; at the butts of the rifles
were their haversacks containing the rest of their equipment; all was
so arranged that when they received an order each man would be armed
and equipped within a minute, and there would be no confusion or
delay.  When I first went in the men were singing, with great gusto,
this Citizen Army marching tune:

  We've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well,
  And when we meet the Saxon we'll drive them all to Hell.
  We've got to free our country, and avenge all those who fell,
    And our cause is marching on.
      Glory, glory to old Ireland,
      Glory, glory to our sireland,
  Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell,
    And we still keep marching; on.


[Illustration: THOMAS J. CLARKE]

{37}

I knew then what was meant by sniffing a battle.  I did not want to
leave that room.  The atmosphere thrilled me so that I regarded with
impatience the men and women who were going about the Hall attending
to the regular business of the Union, and not in the least perturbed
by all the military display.  "Business as usual," one chap remarked
to me as I stood watching them all.

I did not stand long, for a Citizen Army man came to me and said,
"You're wanted in No. 7 by Mr. Connolly."  No. 7 was my father's
office.  When I got there my father said, "Nora, I have a carbine up
at Surrey House and a bandolier.  It is in my room."  He then told me
where.  "I want you to get one of the scouts, who are always at
Madame's house, to put the bandolier on and over it my heavy
overcoat.  Tell him to swing the rifle over his shoulder and come
down here with it as if he were mobilizing.  Get him here as soon as
you can.  I'll be staying here all night," he added.

I started off immediately for Rathmines where Surrey House, Countess
de Markievicz's residence, is situated.  On my way I met one of the
scouts who was going there.  When I told him my errand he offered to
be the one {38} to bring the things back to Liberty Hall.  When we
reached the house, I went to the room, found the things which my
father wanted and brought them down to the scout.  He had just put
them on when Madame called from the kitchen and asked me to have some
tea.  Of course I said I would have some.  While I was waiting to be
served she said to me, "What do you think is going to happen?  I am
going down to Liberty Hall immediately to take my turn of standing
guard.  By-the-way, what do you think of my uniform?"

She stepped out into the light where I could get a good view of her.
She had on a dark green woolen blouse trimmed with brass buttons,
dark green tweed knee breeches, black stockings and high heavy boots.
As she stood she was a good advertisement for a small arms factory.
Around her waist was a cartridge belt, suspended from it on one side
was a small automatic pistol, and on the other a convertible Mauser
pistol-rifle.  Hanging from one shoulder was a bandolier containing
the cartridges for the Mauser, and from the other was a haversack of
brown canvas and leather which she had bought from a man, who had got
it from a soldier, who in turn had brought it {39} back from the
front; originally it had belonged to a German soldier.  I admired her
whole outfit immensely.  She was a fine military figure.

"You look like a real soldier, Madame," I said, and she was as
pleased as if she had received the greatest compliment.

"What is your uniform like?" she asked.

"Somewhat similar," I answered.  "Only I have puttees and my boots
have plenty of nails in the soles.  I intend wearing my scout blouse
and hat."

"This will be my hat," she said and showed me a black velour hat with
a heavy trimming of coque feathers.  When she put it on she looked
like a Field Marshal; it was her best hat.

"What arms have you?" she then asked.

"A .32 revolver and a Howth rifle."

"Have you ammunition for them?"

"Some.  Perhaps enough."

I then turned to the scout who was to carry my father's rifle and
bandolier to Liberty Hall, and said, "We'd better go now."  Saying
"Slán libh" ("Health with ye") we left the room.  On our way to the
door we heard a heavy rap at it.  I ran forward and opened {40} it.
Judge of my surprise to see two detectives standing outside.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"The Countess de Markievicz."

"Wait," I said and closed the door.

Running back to the room I said, "Madame, there are two detectives at
the door.  They say they want you."

All the boys looked to their revolvers, and the boy who had my
father's rifle said, "I hope I'll be able to get these down to Mr.
Connolly."

Madame went into the hall and lit a small glimmer of light.  The boys
remained in the darkened background, and I opened the door.

The detectives came just inside of the door.

"What do you want with me?" asked Madame.

"We have an order to serve on you, Madame," said one of them.

"What is it about?" asked Madame.

"It is an order under one of the regulations of the Defense of the
Realm Act, prohibiting you from entering that part of Ireland called
Kerry."

"Well," said Madame.  "Is that to prevent me from addressing the
meeting to-morrow night in Tralee?"  Madame was advertised to {41} at
a meeting to organize a company of boy scouts the following day in
the town of Tralee, County Kerry.

"I don't know, Madame," he answered.

"What will happen to me if I refuse to obey that order and go down to
Kerry to-morrow?" asked Madame.  "Will I be shot?"

"Ah, now, Madame, who'd want to shoot you?  You wouldn't want to
shoot one of us, would you, Madame?" said the detective who was doing
all the talking.

"But I would," cried Madame.  "I'm quite prepared to shoot and be
shot at."

"Ah, now, Madame, you don't mean that.  None of us want to die yet:
we all want to live a little longer."

"If you want to live a little longer," said a voice from out of the
darkness, "you'd better not be coming here.  We're none of us very
fond of you, and you make fine big targets."

"We'll be going now, Madame," said the detective.  As he stepped out
through the door he turned and said, "You'll not be thinking of going
to Kerry, Madame, will you?"

"Good-by," said Madame cordially.  "Remember, I'm quite prepared to
shoot and be shot at."

{42}

"Well," she said as the door closed.  "What am I going to do now?  I
want to go and defy them.  How can I do it?  I'm so well known--but
I'm under orders.  Perhaps Mr. Connolly wouldn't allow me to go
anyway.  I'll go down and talk it over with him.  Wait a minute,
Nora, and we'll all be down together."

On our way down a brilliant idea, as I thought, struck me.  "Write
your speech out, Madame, make it as seditious and treasonable as
possible.  Send some one down to Tralee to deliver it for you at the
meeting.  In that way, the meeting will be held, your speech
delivered, and the authorities will not be able to arrest you on that
charge."

"I was just thinking of that and who I could send down.  But I'll
decide nothing till I see Mr. Connolly," said Madame.

We met my father at the top of the staircase in Liberty Hall.

"What do you think, Mr. Connolly," cried Madame.  "I've received an
internment order or rather an order prohibiting me from going down to
Tralee.  What am I going to do about it?  Shall I go or shall I obey
the order."

"Did you bring the carbine and bandolier?" asked my father turning to
me.

{43}

"Yes," I answered.  "Harry has them."

"No, Madame," said my father.  "You cannot go down to Tralee.  If you
make the attempt you will probably be arrested at some small station
on the way, and sentenced to some months in jail.  You are too
valuable to be a prisoner at a time like this; I'll have need of you.
If the authorities follow up their action of to-day we may be in the
middle of things to-night or to-morrow; who knows?  No, you must stay
here.  You are more important than the meeting."

"Should I send some one in my place, then?" asked Madame.

"That is for you to decide, though I think it would be a good thing."

"Whom will I send?" asked Madame.

"Send some one who cannot be victimized in case our hands are not
forced; some one who is already victimized.  Why not ask Mairé
Perolz?"

"The very girl!" said Madame.  "You can always pick out the right
person."

"You had better get hold of Perolz, then," said my father.  "Tell her
what you want her to do and write out your speech.  We'll relieve you
of guard duty to-night, and promise you {44} that if things look
lively we'll get word to you in time."

Madame left the Hall, and when I returned to her house a few hours
later, she was busy writing out her speech.  I sat down in the room
and from time to time she read me out parts of it.  It certainly was
seditious and treasonable.  She wrote on for quite some time after
that and then with a sigh of satisfaction she said, "I have it
finished.  Perolz will come for it in the morning--she will take an
early train."

Perolz had come and gone before I came down in the morning, but when
she returned a few days later, I heard the whole story of her
adventure, told in her own inimitable way.

She had traveled down to Limerick Junction accompanied by a very
polite, attentive detective, whose company she dispensed with there
by leaving the carriage she was in at the very last minute, and
taking a seat in another.  Hers was not a case of impersonation, for
the Countess de Markievicz is very tall and rather fair while Mairé
Perolz is of medium height and has red hair.  She is very
quick-witted and nimble of her tongue, never at a loss for what to do
or for what to say.

[Illustration: THE PROCLAMATION OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT ISSUED
AT THE G.P.O. ON MONDAY, APRIL 24TH, 1917.]

{45}

She was met at Tralee station by a guard of honor from the local
Cumann na mBan (women's organization), Irish Volunteers, and
intending boy scouts.  They had never seen the Countess de Markievicz
and consequently did not know that it was not she who had arrived.
Although Mairé told me that she almost lost her composure when she
heard one of the girls say, "She isn't a bit like her photograph."

She was escorted to the hotel.  When she arrived there she said to
the officers of the organization, "I am not Madame Markievicz.  She
received an order last night prohibiting her from entering Kerry.
Things were looking lively in Dublin and Madame was needed.  She
wrote out her speech and I am to deliver it for her.  In that way the
meeting will be held and Madame's speech will be delivered, and
Madame will still be able to do useful work.  There is no need to let
the public know till to-night."

The officers agreed that it would be best to keep the knowledge of
the non-arrival of Madame from the public and the police.  Just then
the proprietor of the hotel came to the door and said, "Madame, there
are two {46} policemen downstairs and they want your registration
form at once."  Under the Defense of the Realm Act every one entering
an hotel, or boarding or lodging house is required to fill in a form
declaring his name, address, occupation, and intended destination.
This rule was most rigidly enforced by the police authorities.

"Can't they wait till I get a cup of tea?" asked Mairé.

"No.  They said they would wait and take it back to the station with
them."

"Very well," said Mairé.  "Give it to me."

She filled out the form something like this, neglecting the minor
details.

  _Name_:--Mairé Perolz.
  _Address_:--No fixed address--vagrant.
  _Age_:--20?
  _Occupation_:--None.
  _Nationality_:--Irish.


She then gave it to the proprietor who took it away.  From the window
they watched the policemen carrying it to the police station,
apparently very much absorbed in it.  They returned shortly and asked
to see the lady.  When they came in to the room they still carried
the registration form.

"You haven't filled in this form satisfactorily, {47} Madame," said
one.  "You must have some fixed address and some occupation."

"No indeed," said Mairé.  "I live on my wits."

"And you are a Russian subject."

"How do you make that out, in the name of God?" asked Mairé.

"You are married to a Russian Count."

"First news I've heard of it," said Mairé.  "Now listen here, I've
filled that form out correctly and you'll have to be satisfied with
it.  I'll not fill out another."

They accepted the form at last.  That night Mairé delivered Madame's
speech, told why Madame could not be present, then added a little
anti-recruiting speech of her own which evoked great applause.  The
next day she returned home in great spirits at having once more
helped to outwit the police.




{48}

V

About this time the Executive of the Cumann na mBan (women's
organization) in Dublin were having trouble in procuring First Aid
and Hospital supplies.  I suggested that being a Northerner and
having a Northern accent, I could probably get them in Belfast.  I
knew that a number of loyalist nursing corps were in existence in
that city, and thought that by letting it be inferred that I belonged
to one of them, the loyalist shopkeepers would have no hesitation in
selling me the supplies, and in all probability would let me have
them at cost price.  And that is exactly what happened.  I purchased
as many of the different articles as I needed and at less than half
the price paid in Dublin.

While in Dublin I had visited the Employment Bureau in the Volunteer
Headquarters.  Its business was to find employment for Irishmen and
boys who were liable for military service.  Under the Military
Service Act every {49} man or boy over eighteen, residing in England
or Scotland since the preceding August, was required to report
himself for service in the British Army.  The Bureau found employment
in most cases for those who preferred to serve in the Irish
Republican Army and had come to Ireland to await the call.  Of
course, it was impossible to find jobs for them all; but those who
had not received jobs were busy on the work of making ammunition and
hand grenades for the Irish Republican Army.  The greater number of
them had to camp out during the miserable months of February and
March, in the Dublin Mountains, so that too great a drain would not
be placed on their slender resources.

On my return to Belfast at a meeting of the Cumann na mBan I
suggested that we send hampers of foodstuffs down to those boys and
men in Dublin.  The suggestion was taken up with great gusto, and the
members were divided into different squads; a butter squad, a bacon
squad, a tea, a sugar, oatmeal, cheese, and tinned goods squad; and
they were to solicit all their friends for these articles.  They were
then to be sent on to the different camps in Dublin to help on the
fight.  Since we had {50} done so well on the foodstuffs I thought it
would be as well to ask the men and boys in Belfast for cigarettes
and tobacco.  I set about collecting on the Saturday on which we
intended sending away the first hamper of food.  I was so successful
that I was unable to return home for lunch before half-past three.

When I arrived home my sister met me at the door and said there was a
man in the parlor who wanted to see me, and that he had been waiting
since noon.  I went into the room and saw one of my Dublin friends.

"Why, hello, Barney," I said.  "What brings you here?"

He told me that there was some work before me and that he had the
instructions.  With this he handed me a letter.  I recognized my
father's handwriting on the envelope.  The letter merely said:


"_Dear Nora_, The bearer will tell you what we want you to do.  I
have every confidence in your ability.

  "Your father,
      "JAMES CONNOLLY."


"What are we to do?" I asked turning to Barney.

"Liam Mellowes is to be deported to-morrow {51} morning to England
and we are to go there and bring him back."

"Sounds like a big job," I said.  "What are the plans?"

"These are some of them," he answered showing me several pages
closely written.  "Some one will bring the final instructions from
Dublin to-night."

The plan in the rough was that the messenger, being on the first
glance uncommonly like Liam Mellowes, was to go to the place where he
was interned and visit him.  While he was visiting he was to change
clothes with Liam Mellowes and stay behind, while Liam came out to
me.  We were then to make all speed to the station and lose no time
in returning to Dublin.

Liam Mellowes had received, some time previously, an order from the
military authorities to leave Ireland.  This was because of his many
activities as an organizer for the Irish Volunteers--as the order had
it, because he was prejudicial to recruiting.  He refused to obey and
had been arrested.  He was now to be forcibly deported.  As Mellowes
was absolutely essential to the plans for the Rising, being Officer
in charge of the operations in the {52} West of Ireland, the attempt
to bring him back from England was decided upon.

While waiting for the messenger to bring the final instructions from
Dublin I sent out word to some of the Cumann na mBan girls that I
should like to see them.  When they came I told them that I had
received an order that necessitated my going to Dublin; and that I
should not be able to assist them in sending away the hampers.  I
gave them the money that I had collected for the cigarettes and
tobacco, and they said they would see that everything went away all
right.  It was with great surprise and delight that the "refugees,"
as we called them, received the hampers a few days later.




{53}

VI

After the girls left I fell to studying the instructions.  The main
idea was to go in as zig-zag a course as possible to our objective.
My father had made out a list of the best possible places to break
our journey.  On one sheet of paper in Eamonn Ceannt's handwriting
continued the plan; and on another, in Sean mac Diarmuida's, was a
list of people with their addresses in England or Scotland, to whom
we could go for safe hiding, if we found we were being followed by
detectives.

Shortly after seven that evening Miss Moloney arrived at our house.
She brought us a message from Dublin.  It was to the effect that it
was not yet known to what place Liam Mellowes was to be deported, but
we were to go on our journey, and when we arrived at Birmingham,
there would be a message waiting us there with the desired
information.  All that was known was that Liam Mellowes was to be
deported to some town in the South of England.

{54}

There was a boat leaving for Glasgow that night at eleven forty-five.
We decided to go on it; it was called the theatrical boat, because it
was on this boat many theatrical companies left Belfast; we thought
we would not be noticed among the throng.  I was to ask for all the
tickets at the railway stations, as my accent is not easily placed.

On Sunday morning I went up on deck expecting to be almost the first
one there; Barney, however, was there before me.  He said we would be
in Glasgow shortly.  I went below for my suitcase.  When I came up on
deck again I saw that we were nearer shore and that we were slowing
up.  I asked a steward if we should be off soon.

"No," he said.  "We are slowing up here to put some cattle off."

"Will it take long?" I asked.

"About an hour."

"How far are we from Glasgow?" I then asked.

"Two or three miles."

"Can we get off here instead of waiting?"

"Nothing to prevent you," he said.

So Barney and I picked up our traps and, as soon as the gangway was
fixed up for the {55} cattle to disembark, we went down it and on to
the quay.

We walked along as if we had been born there, although as a matter of
fact, neither Barney nor I had been in that place before.  After a
few minutes we came to a street with tramway lines on it and decided
to wait for a car.  We boarded the first car that came along.  After
riding in it for a long time we noticed that instead of approaching
the city we seemed to be going farther away from it.  We left the car
at the next stop, and took another going in the opposite direction,
and after riding for three-quarters of an hour arrived in Glasgow.
We were more than pleased to think that if the police had noticed us
when we went on the Glasgow boat at Belfast, and had sent on word for
the Glasgow police to watch out for us, the boat would arrive without
us.

Our next stop was to be Edinburgh.  We went to the station and
inquired when the Edinburgh train would be leaving.  There was one
leaving at eleven fifteen that would arrive in Edinburgh some time
about one o'clock.  We decided to go by it.  Then we remembered that
it was Sunday and that we had not been to Mass; also that if we went
by that train {56} it would be too late when we arrived at Edinburgh
to attend.  It was not quite ten o'clock then; if we could find a
church nearby, we could go to Mass and still be in time for the
train.  But where was there a church?  "Look, Barney," I cried
suddenly.  "Here's an Irish-looking guard.  We'll ask him to direct
us."  We asked him and he told us that there was a Catholic church
five minutes' walk away from the station, and directed us to it.  It
took us more than five minutes to get there, but we arrived in time
and were back at the station before the Edinburgh train left.

We arrived at Edinburgh about one o'clock.  We were very tired as we
had not slept on the boat; and we were hungry for we had not eaten in
our excitement at leaving the boat before the time.  Our first
thought was to find a place to eat; but it was Sunday in Scotland and
we found no place open.  After wandering around for some time,
looking all about us, we decided to ask a policeman.  He directed us
to the Waverley Hotel, where we were given a good dinner.  And when
we told the waiter that we were only waiting till our train came due,
and that we wanted a place to rest, he told us that we could stay in
the room we were {57} in.  After dinner I found myself nodding and
lay down on the couch.  I must have fallen asleep almost instantly
for it was dark when I awoke.  Barney came in shortly afterwards.  He
had been looking up the trains he said and our train left at ten
o'clock.  It was about eight o'clock.  We had something more to eat
and left the hotel to go to the railway station.  To my great
surprise when we came outside everything was dark.  Not a light
showed from any of the buildings, or from the street cars.  Cabs and
motors went by, and only for the shouting of the drivers and the
blowing of the motor-horns we would have been run down when crossing
the streets.  We have no such war regulation of darkness in Ireland.
We arrived at the station at last.  We had to go down a number of
steps to get to the gate, and if it was dark in the streets it was
pitch blackness down there.  I was not surprised at the number of
people I met on the steps, as I thought it might be a usual rallying
place, but I was surprised to hear them talking in whispers.  We went
down till we came to the gate--it was closed and there was a man on
guard at it.

"Can we not get in?" I asked.

{58}

"Where are you going?"

"To Carlisle."

"It's not time for the Carlisle train yet."

"But can't we go in and take our seats?" I asked.

"No," he answered, and after that I could get no further response.

We waited awhile at the gate.  I noticed that quite a few were given
the same answers although they were not going to the same place.
More time passed and I began to feel anxious; I was afraid that we
would miss the train.

"What time is it now?" I asked, turning to Barney.  As he could not
see in the dark he lit a match.  Instantly, as with one voice, every
one around and on the steps shouted, "Put out that light."  And the
man at the gate howled, "What the H---- does that fool mean!"  We
were more than surprised; we did not know why we could not light a
match.

Just after that a couple of soldiers came towards the gate.  I could
hear the rattle of their hob-nailed boots and see the rifles swung on
their shoulders.  They talked with the man at the gate for a few
minutes, then saying, "All right," went up the steps again.  This
happened more than once.  My eyes were {59} accustomed to the
darkness by now, and I could see a sergeant, with about twenty
soldiers, coming down the steps.  As they made for the gate I
whispered to Barney, "Go close and listen to what the guard says to
the sergeant."  He went--and as the sergeant turned away, came back
to me and picking up our bags said, "Come on."  I followed without
asking any questions.  When we were out on the street Barney turned
to me and said, "The guard told the sergeant to go to the other gate.
We'll go too."

We followed the clacking sound of the soldiers' boots till we came to
a big gate.  It was evidently the gate used for vehicles.  As we
entered we were stopped by two guards who asked, "Where are you
going?"  "To Carlisle," I answered.  They waved us inside.  We walked
down a long passageway.  When we came to the train platforms, I asked
a porter who was standing near:

"Where is the train for Carlisle?"

"There'll be no train to-night, Miss," he answered.

"But why?"

"Because, Miss," in a whisper, "the Zeppelins were seen only eight
miles away, and {60} a moving train would be a good mark for them."

"But they will not come here, will they?" I asked.

"They are headed this way, Miss, they may be here in half an hour."

"Then we can't get to Carlisle?"

"To tell you the truth, Miss," he said, "I don't think any train will
run to-night, except the military train.  Make up your mind you'll
not get to Carlisle to-night."

"When is there a train in the morning?" I asked him then.

"There's one at eight-fifteen."

"Well, I suppose we'll go by that one," I said.

And so we left the station.

We went back to the hotel.  We were startled for a second when the
registration forms were handed to us; we hadn't decided on a name or
address.  I took the forms and filled them with a Belfast address,
put the one for Barney in front of him, placing the pencil on the
name so that he would know what to sign.  After signing we were shown
to our rooms.  I went to bed immediately as I was completely tired
out.  I was roused from a heavy sleep {61} by a knocking on the door,
and a voice saying something I couldn't distinguish.  I thought it
was the "Boots" wakening me for breakfast, and turned over to finish
my sleep.  Some time later I was again wakened by a loud knocking on
the door.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"Barney," was the answer.

"What is wrong?" I asked when I had opened the door.

"The manageress came to me," said Barney, "and said, 'Mr. Williams,
go to your sister, I am afraid she is either dead or has fainted with
the shock.'"

"What shock?" I asked, peering into the black darkness but failing to
see anything.

"Nothing, only the Zeppelins have been dropping bombs all over the
town."

"What!" I cried.  "Zeppelins!  You don't mean it.  Have I slept
through all their bombing?"

"You have," he said dryly.  "The manageress wants all guests down in
the parlor, so that in case this building is damaged, they'll all be
near the street.  Put something on and come down."

I put some clothes on me and went outside {62} the room.  I could not
see my own hand in front of me.

"Hold on to me," said Barney, "and I'll bring you downstairs.  I know
where the stairs are."

"All right," I said, making a clutch at where the voice was coming
from.

"You'd better hold on to my back," said Barney.  "That's the front of
my shirt you've got."

I slid my hand around till I felt the suspenders at the back and held
onto them.  "Go ahead," I said, and we went.  I tried to remember if
the corridor was long or short, and if there were any turns from the
stairs to my room, but I could not.  Never have I walked along a
corridor as long as that one seemed.  After a bit I said, "Barney,
are you sure you're going right?  I don't remember it being as long
as this."  We were going very slowly, gingerly placing one foot after
the other.

"We keep on," said Barney, "till we come to a turn and then between
two windows are the stairs."  And so we went on, but we came to no
turning.  We were feeling our way by placing our hands on the wall.
At last, we felt an open space.  "Ah," said Barney, "this {63} must
be the stairs."  And although we did not feel the windows we
cautiously stepped towards it.  It was not the stairs and I felt
curiously familiar with it.  I stumbled over something on the floor
and stooped to pick up--my shoe.  We were back at my room!  We did
not know whether to laugh or to be annoyed.  We began to laugh and
Barney said, "Come on, I know the way back to my room and from there
we'll find the stairs."

"Couldn't you strike a match?" I asked.

"We were warned not to, when the 'Boots' knocked on the door," said
Barney.  We went along the corridor till Barney found his room.  From
there he knew the turns of the corridor, and at last we found the
stairs.  Going down I asked, "How is it that we are meeting none of
the people?"

"Because," said Barney, "they've been down since the first knock and
you had to be wakened twice."

"I thought they were wakening me for breakfast," I said.

The stairs seemed to twist and turn, and at one of the turns I saw a
figure standing at a window, near a landing as I thought.

"Are we going the right way down to the {64} parlor?" I asked the
figure, but received no reply.

"He's probably scared stiff and thinks he's in a safe place," said
Barney.  We reached the foot of the stairs and one of the men took us
and led us towards the parlor.  All the guests of the hotel were
there huddled closely around the remains of the fire.  I found a seat
and sat down.  There was very little talk.  I could hear the guns
going off very near.  One of the women leaned toward me, and said,
"You were rather long getting down.  Did you faint--were you
frightened?"

"No," I answered.  "I slept through it all, until my brother came and
wakened me."

"You lucky girl!" she exclaimed in heart-felt tones.

We sat there for about an hour.  It was a silent hour inside, but
from outside came the sound of running feet and hoarse excited
voices.  A motor car tore through the streets; it must have had its
lamps lit, for some one yelled after it, "Put out those lights."

There was no sound of the Zeppelins again, but the people in the
parlor kept silent.  I felt that one word spoken would set all their
nerves on edge.  Suddenly there was a long drawn {65} "Oh!" followed
by a thud.  I could feel every one in the room quivering.  All turned
to the sound, but we could see nothing.  Then we heard a man's voice
say, "My boy has fainted."  They ministered to him there in the
darkness.  A few minutes later a delicate looking lad, about twelve
years old, was brought up to the circle round the fire.  One of the
women made room for him and he sat on the floor with his head resting
on her knee.  The manageress must have left the room during the
excitement, for she returned then and said, "We will not be disturbed
again, so we can go to bed and finish our sleep."  The tension was
lifted and we all began talking as we made our way to our rooms.

When I was going down the stairs next morning, I was amazed to see
that the figure I had spoken to while trying to find my way, was a
statue.  The waiter told us, at breakfast, that some bombs had been
dropped in the street back of the hotel.  They had killed eight
people, damaged one or two buildings, and made a hole large enough to
hold the dining-room table.  He also said that he had heard of a lot
of other places, but that was the only one he had seen.  We finished
our breakfast {66} in a hurry and left for the station.  There we
bought a paper to read the full account of the raid.  But all the
mention of it was:


"Zeppelins visited the East coast of Scotland last night.  No damage
done."


On the journey to Carlisle the carriage was so warm and the seats so
soft that I became drowsy.  I was about to yield when the other
occupants of the carriage came over to my side and stared out of the
windows.  As the Zeppelins were still in my mind, I thought that this
might be one of the places they had visited, and looked out of the
window too.  All I could see was a large field with brick buildings
in the center, somewhat like factories, only they had sloping roofs
made of glass.  There were quite a crowd of men in the field.
"That's a German Internment Camp," said one of the men.  "There are
over two thousand Germans there."  The view of the camp started a
conversation on the war which lasted till we reached Carlisle.

[Illustration: JOHN McDERMOTT]

From Carlisle we were to go to Newcastle.  On looking up the
timetable we found that we could get a train in three-quarters of an
hour.  We then left the station, so that if the porters {67} were
questioned as to whether they had seen us or not they could say that
we had left the station.  In this way the trail would be broken and
would give us all the more time till it was picked up again.  The
journey from Carlisle to Newcastle was not so long as the last one.
On arriving there we again left the station and wandered about the
town.  We had so much more time there, and walked in and out of so
many streets, crossed so many crossings, that my memory of Newcastle
is very much blurred and confused.  Before returning to the station
we went into a restaurant and ate the first meal of our English trip.

Next we took tickets for Manchester, but did not go there.  While we
were on the train we decided that we had better go to Crewe.  When
the conductor came round for the tickets, we asked him if this train
would take us to Crewe.  No, he said, but if it was to Crewe we
wanted to go he could change our tickets at the next stop, and there
we would get a train for Crewe.  The next station was Stalybridge,
and there we took the train to Crewe, where we arrived at one-thirty
a.m.

From Crewe we went to Birmingham.  It was there we were to receive
information as to {68} where Captain Mellowes had been deported.  We
called at the address given to us and told who we were.  Mr. Brown
said that he had just received word that we were coming, but that was
all.  There was no news for us about the deportation.  This was both
amazing and puzzling; it was Tuesday and Captain Mellowes was to have
been deported on the Sunday past.  Why had we received no word--and
what were we to do?  There was nothing for us to do but wait.  A
hotel was recommended to us; we went there and registered as brother
and sister.  Our pose of being on a holiday compelled us to stay out
all day as if sightseeing.  Tuesday we visited all the principal
buildings, Wednesday we walked all over the city.  Thursday was a
repetition of Wednesday.  Friday, tired of each other's company, we
went out separately, and each succeeded in losing the way, but
managed to arrive back at the hotel for supper.

Not knowing the city we had not ventured out at night time, for like
all other big cities in England, Birmingham was darkened at
night-fall.  But on Friday we went out.  The streets seemed to be all
alike to us, we could not tell one from the other.  The corners of
the {69} curbstone were painted white, so as to glimmer faintly and
warn pedestrians when they were approaching a crossing; policemen
stood in the center of the crossing flashing a lamp attached to their
belts, now a red light, now a green one.  Trees, telegraph,
telephone, and trolley poles were painted white to the level of the
eyes.  Not a light showed anywhere, not even at moving picture
palaces; and as is usual in darkness all voices were subdued.  I am
sure it is at night time that the people of England realize most that
they are at war.

Saturday came and still there was no news for us.  We were not
puzzled now.  We were very anxious.  Something must have gone wrong,
we thought, or we would have had some word before now.

We changed our hotel as we felt that the people were becoming too
interested in us.  At the new hotel we registered as teachers on our
way to Stratford-on-Avon, where the Shakespeare celebrations were in
full swing.  We left there in the morning, carried our suitcases to
the station, and left them in the Left Luggage Office.  Then we went
to Mr. Brown again to find out if any word had come for us.  There
was a note for us there telling us to go to the {70} Midland Hotel.
When we arrived there we met a young lady from Dublin.  She had come
over with the word.  She gave us the address of Captain Mellowes, and
told us to lose no time.  We looked up the timetable and found that
there were no trains going there on Sunday afternoon.  We were in
despair till our Birmingham friend told us he could hire a private
motor car for us.  He did so and we left Birmingham at one-thirty p.m.

We traveled all afternoon through what is known as the Black Country.
We did not bother much with the scenery as we spent most of our time
in giving each other instruction as to how to behave in different
eventualities.  We had hired the car to take us to Stoke-on-Trent.
It was to return empty.  We thought it would be a much safer plan if
we could get the car to take us back to some big station on the line;
thus instead of waiting at the local station for a train,
apprehending every moment the discovery of Captain Mellowes' flight,
we should be well on our way before it could be found out.  I did not
expect that there would be any trouble to get the chauffeur to bring
us back.  I figured that any money made on the return trip would be
his, and a working {71} man is always ready to make more money.  But
it must be done in such a way as not to arouse suspicion.

Secure in my figuring I spoke to the man.  I said, "I want you to
take us to the railway station at Stoke.  I expect a friend there to
pick us up."  He nodded.  It was dark when we drew up at the station.
I said to the man, "Wait a minute till I see if my friend is there
before we take out the things."  Then I went into the station and
walked in and out of the waiting rooms, up and down the platform, and
asked a porter if there would be a train soon to Leek (our real
objective).  I returned and said to Barney, "He is not there," and to
the man, "Have you any objections to going on to Leek?  It is eight
miles distant.  There won't be a train for an hour, and I can have
all my business in Leek done in that time."  He said he would take us
there.  I then asked him if he were going straight back to
Birmingham.  He said he was.  "If you can wait three-quarters of an
hour, you can take us back down the line to one of the big stations,
and be something in pocket.  The trains are so irregular at small
stations on Sundays."  He said he could wait three-quarters of an
hour.

{72}

When we arrived in Leek Barney and I jumped out of the car as if we
knew every inch of the ground, although neither of us had been in the
city before.

"Where are we going?" asked Barney.

"When in doubt go right," I said, and we turned to the right.  This
town was darkened too.  After a few minutes' walk I stopped an old
lady and asked her to direct us to the street I wanted.  "Two streets
up on the right," she replied.  We found the place; it was an
ordinary house and to our surprise there were no detectives watching
it.  We knocked at the door.  A man opened it about six inches and
peered at us.

"Well?" he questioned.

"We are friends of Captain Mellowes and heard he was staying here, so
we stopped to see him," I said.  "Is he in?"

"Come in till I take a look at you," he answered.  After looking at
us, "Come in here," he said, leading us to a room.  "I'll go find him
for you."

After a few minutes Captain Mellowes came into the room.  He seemed
surprised to see us, and was about to enter into a conversation {73}
with us when Barney said, "I've an important message to give you.
Where's your room?"

"Come upstairs," said Captain Mellowes, rising at once.

They went upstairs.  I could hear them moving about the room, and
once in a while I heard something fall on the floor as if they were
throwing different parts of their clothing to each other.  After a
few minutes' silence, I heard footsteps on the stairs and went out to
the hall to be ready.  Both came down the stairs, Captain Mellowes
went forward and opened the door while I was saying "good-by" to
Barney, who was remaining behind in the Captain's place.  Barney left
the house the following day; he took a train at the local station
which ran to Crewe, and from there he made connections that brought
him back to Ireland the day after the Captain's arrival.

Once outside the house, Captain Mellowes and myself wasted no time in
getting to the car.  I asked the man had we kept him long and he said
we had been only half an hour.  He started the car and away we went
again.  After three hours' ride we stopped at Stafford Station.

"Can you not go as far as Crewe?" I asked.

{74}

"No, Miss," he replied.  "Crewe is altogether out of my direction."

"Very well," I said.  "We'll leave here."  We then left the car, gave
the man his fee and entered the station.  I took tickets for Crewe
and found that we had only twenty minutes to wait.  We arrived at
Crewe about one a.m. and at one-thirty were in the train for Carlisle.

When we were near Carlisle the conductor came to collect the tickets;
I asked him if Carlisle was the last stop.

"No," he said.  "From there we go on to Glasgow without stopping."

"Oh," I said, "I didn't know that this train went to Glasgow.  That's
where we want to go.  You had better make us out Excess Fare checks
and we'll go on."  He made them out, I paid them and he went out
through the carriages.  During this time Captain Mellowes was lying
in the corner as if asleep.

In my list of "safe addresses" was one in Glasgow.  When we arrived
there next morning we made our way to that address, and there we
stayed all day.  During the day we managed to procure a clerical suit
for Captain Mellowes, complete even to the breviary and {75}
umbrella.  At eleven we took the train to Ardrossan; from there we
could get a boat to Belfast.  We had decided before leaving the house
that we would travel as if we did not know each other.  My accent was
no longer needed, as a strong Irish accent was quite the thing for
priests' clothing; but we were to keep each other in sight all the
time.

That Captain Mellowes really looked the part was proved in the train.
The porter lifted his cap to him, took his suitcase, and
deferentially placed him in the seat next to me.  There Captain
Mellowes sat, his chin resting on his hands, which were supported by
the umbrella, as if lost in holy meditations.  Almost at the last
moment, half-a-dozen North of Ireland cattle dealers tumbled into the
carriage, shouting, laughing, and swearing.  The porter had locked
the door and the train had started before they realized what company
they were in.  A sudden silence fell on them all, they straightened
themselves up, lifted their hats in salute to the priest, while
questioning each other with their eyes.  Then one lifted his cap
again and turned to the rest as if to say, "I'm used to the company
of priests," and addressed Captain Mellowes.

{76}

"Are you crossing to-night, Father?" he asked.

"I am," said Captain Mellowes.

"I hope we'll have a good night, Father."

"I hope so."

"I hear they caught a submarine up the Bangor Lough this morning; but
I don't think there's any danger.  Do you, Father?"

"I don't think so," said Captain Mellowes.

One dealer broke in then demanding to know that if there was no
danger, why could they not insure the cattle they wanted to send
across.  Then each dealer tried to give his opinion at the same time.
They became so excited, each one trying to get an audience at the
same time, that they forgot all about the priest, and gave back word
for word to each other.  With raised voices they cursed and swore,
stamped their feet, pounded the floor with their sticks, struck their
hands, till one jumped from his seat in a rage and his gaze fell on
the priest.  The priest was still resting his chin on his hands,
taking no more notice of them than if they were miles away.  His very
abstraction was a rebuke to them.  The one who had jumped up said
humbly, "I'm afraid we've {77} disturbed you, Father."  Captain
Mellowes came to himself with a start.

"No, no, not at all," he said hurriedly.  "I wasn't thinking of you
at all."  But the men looked as if they had offended beyond hope of
pardon and kept silent till we reached the boat.

Early next morning I went up on deck.  We were steaming up the river,
I could see the city in the distance.  Nearer to me were the famous
Belfast shipyards, all alive with the clangor of hammering.  As we
approached I could see the swarms of men, poised on derricks and
cranes, hard at work on the skeletons of ships.  Just before we
docked Captain Mellowes came on deck and walked over to the rail
where I was standing.  There was some byplay of surprised recognition
between us for the benefit of those standing around.  I asked him to
come to the house for breakfast, and told him that he could not get a
train to Dublin before ten o'clock.  It was then seven o'clock and
the gangplank was being put in place.  I told Captain Mellowes that I
was well known on the docks since the dock strike, and that it would
be wiser for him to follow me instead of coming with me; that he
would probably pass the Harbor Constables and policemen better {78}
alone, because, as they knew me, they would be likely to give my
companion a scrutinizing glance and he would be better without that.

There were two Harbor Constables and two policemen at the end of the
gangplank; they were on the watch for deserters from the Army and
Navy.  When I walked down the gangplank I saw that they recognized me
and was glad that I had told Captain Mellowes to follow.  I went in
to the shed and on towards the exit.  Midway I paused, dropped my
suitcase as if to ease my arm, and glanced back to see if Captain
Mellowes was following.  He was just at the end of the gangplank; the
four constables were saluting him and he was gravely saluting them.

I passed out into the street and walked slowly ahead to allow Captain
Mellowes to catch up on me.  In a short while we were walking
together.  It was too early to get a tram, and it would attract too
much attention if a car drove up to our door, so we walked the
distance.  Falls Road, in Belfast, is called the Nationalist
district, and my home was near the head of that road.  When we got to
that part of it where policemen were more plentiful and I was better
known, I told Captain Mellowes {79} to walk on ahead.  I was glad I
had done so, for I derived a great deal of amusement from the number
of salutes Captain Mellowes had to return.  Men and boys were on
their way to work and they all saluted him.  Every policeman on the
road saluted Captain Mellowes; not one of them dreaming that the
capture of the young priest they were so courteous to, would probably
realize for him the dreams of Sergeantship every young policeman
indulges in.

It was with a sigh of relief that I ushered Captain Mellowes into our
house.  The door was open and we entered without rapping.  My mother
thought we were the painters--she was expecting them that
morning--and came out to remonstrate with us for not knocking.  She
was astounded for a moment, to see us in the hall, then she threw her
arms around us both and literally dragged us both into the room where
breakfast was on the table.  She then called up the stairs to my
sisters and told them we were home.  On the instant there was a
clatter and scamper, and pell-mell down the stairs charged my young
sisters, some partially dressed and some in their nightgowns;
bursting into the room they flung themselves on {80} Captain
Mellowes, hugging and kissing him as if he were a long lost brother
returned.  They hung about him asking him questions, interrupting
each other.  They poured forth so many questions that he could not
answer them much less eat his breakfast.  Mother noticed that his
breakfast was growing cold and turning to the youngsters said in a
voice that tried to be severe, "Children.  I'm surprised at you--look
at your clothes."  Then there was another rush to the door and a
scamper on the stairs as they raced up to dress.  Never were they
dressed so quickly before, for in less time than it takes to tell
they were down again; crowding around the table each giving the other
in excitable voice the story of how Captain Mellowes managed to
return; but none of them bothering to ask Captain Mellowes or myself
how it really happened.

Now that Captain Mellowes was in Belfast the next thing to be done
was to get him to Dublin.  He could not go by train for there were
detectives at all the stations.  There have always been detectives at
railway stations in Ireland, whose sole business is to watch and to
report the arrival and departure of the {81} important members of the
Separatist Party (the revolutionary body).  This method keeps the
local authorities informed as to the whereabouts of "such and such a
person."  On this account I sought a friend who owned an automobile.
It so happened that he was going to Dublin that very evening and he
agreed to take Captain Mellowes with him.

When I arrived home again I saw a woman in the parlor, who looked up
at me through her veil, in the most mournful way; certainly the most
forlorn person I had seen in a long while.  But as I went nearer I
recognized the clothes.  My young sisters had decked Captain Mellowes
out in our clothes to see if they were skillful at disguising.  They
were--but the clerical clothes were better.

I told Captain Mellowes of the arrangements I had made--we were to
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}

It was a night of pitch darkness, a heavy rain was pouring steadily.
After a ten minutes' walk we were out on a country road where the
darkness seemed to grow thicker with every step.  We could see
nothing but trusting to our guides soughed up and down in the mud.
For twenty minutes we walked on, then we were told to turn to the
right.  We could see nothing that showed a turning, still we turned
and found that we were in a narrower road than before.  It was even
muddier than the road we had left but it was shorter.  At the end we
were stopped by a door of what appeared to be a barn.  One of the men
rapped on it and it was opened to us.  We stepped inside and when our
eyes were used to the light again, saw a number of men with their
rifles.  The hall was filled with standing men, a place was cleared
around the hearth upon which was blazing the biggest turf fire I had
ever seen.  On a bench near the fire were a half dozen women; they
had brought food to the men and were now waiting to take the girls
home with them.  After a short wait we started out again, still
following blindly where we were led.  At length we came to a
crossroads and there the party divided.  I, along with some other
girls, {105} was taken to a large farmhouse where the folk were
waiting up for us.  We went into a large kitchen and sat around a big
turf fire.  There was porridge, in a pot hanging over the fire from a
long hook, for those who liked it; and the kettle was boiling for
those who preferred tea.  We had a long talk around the fire.  The
old man told us of his experiences when he was a Fenian and drew
comparisons between that time and this.  Our time was nothing like
his--so he told us.

In the morning we rose early; we expected to have word from Belfast
every minute telling us to get on the march.  But no word came that
day.  As the hours passed my anxiety became unbearable.  I had had no
word from anybody since I had come there.  The men and the boys could
not work for fear the word would come when they were in the fields
and might be delayed if they were not on hand.  And all the day long
they were riding up and down the roads on the watch for the messenger
who would give them the orders to rise.  The second day passed, still
the word never came.  The men and boys came to us every hour to
report all they knew.  And on Wednesday at noon a man burst into the
farmhouse crying, {106} "Pack up in the name of God, the word has
come!"  With what joy we packed up.  How quickly the water bottles
were filled and the haversacks stuffed with food.  Butter, eggs,
bread, and milk were thrust upon us.  We could not take enough to
satisfy the good people.  The place was full of bustle and
excitement, and then--the order was rescinded; it was a false alarm.

That disappointment ended my patience.  I determined to go after my
sister, who had not returned since she had left me to deliver the
dispatch written by Pearse; and when we were together again we would
both start for Dublin.  I told the girls that I did not think that
there would be any need of us in the North, that the men in command
were waiting too long.  That being the case it would be better for
them to go home to Belfast and Agna and I would go to Dublin.  They
did not want to go from me, but I said I was speaking to them as
their officer and they should obey.  After a good deal of explaining
they agreed to go home the next day.

I found that if I wanted to go to the town where my sister had gone,
I would need to go {107} by car.  So a car was hired for me the next
day.  Just before the hour set for them to leave, a brother of one of
the girls came to see what had happened to them.  They all went home
together.  The car for myself came a little later and in it I piled
as many of the Ambulance supplies as I could.  There was only room
for myself in the back, most of the room being taken up with the
bundles.  We started on our journey about six o'clock.

The town to which my sister had taken the dispatch was called Gortin;
but later I had heard that she was at Carrickmore, since when I had
not had any news of her.  Before my mother had left Belfast she had
entrusted Agna to my care, therefore I felt that I could not return
without her.  While on my way to Carrickmore to see if she was still
there I had to pass through a village whose streets were thronged
with soldiers.  As we went out of the village and on into the country
we met at least half a dozen motor trucks filled with soldiers.
There were more marching behind, so many in fact that I asked the
driver if there was a training camp near here.

"No," he said.  "There is not.  I'm afraid {108} those fellows spell
trouble."  Conscious that the soldiers were looking sharply at myself
and the bundles, I felt more than relieved when the car spun on out
of their sight.




{109}

X

It was about eight o'clock when we reached the farm at Carrickmore.
Fortunately the man to whom my sister had carried the dispatch was
there.  As I was telling him who I was and why I had come, his sister
broke on me and exclaimed sharply:

"My God!  Why did you come here?"

"Why," I asked in surprise.

"Did you not meet the soldiers on your way here?" she asked.

"Indeed, I did.  I saw lots of them.  What are they doing here?" I
asked, turning to her brother.

"They raided this place this afternoon," he said, "and have only left
here three-quarters of an hour ago."

"Raided the place!" I cried.  "But, of course, they found nothing."

"They did, though," he said.  "They found three thousand rounds of
ammunition."

"Three thousand rounds!" I cried amazed {110} and angry.  "Where did
you have it hidden?"

"In the turf stack," he replied.

"In the turf stack!  Good God!  What made you put it there?  Doesn't
every one who isn't a fool know that that would be one of the first
places they would look for it.  Three thousand rounds of ammunition
in a turf stack!  Couldn't you have hidden it some place else?
Couldn't you have divided it?  Couldn't you have----" and I broke off
almost crying with anger and dismay.

"I know, Miss Connolly, you can't say or think anything more of the
loss than I do.  But I haven't been able to look after things this
past week.  I'm in hiding, chasing from pillar to post trying to find
out what is to be done."

"And what are you going to do?" I asked.  "This is Thursday and the
men have been fighting in Dublin since Monday noon.  What are you
going to do?  Think of the numbers of men and boys, women and girls
who are at this minute in Dublin offering up their lives while the
men of the North are doing nothing.  It's a shame!  It's a disgrace!"

"What could we have done?  The men were all dispersed when I received
the last dispatch.  It's a different thing to mobilize men in the
{111} country from what it is in the city.  There are a dozen or so
here; six miles off there is a score; ten miles off there are some
more, and so it goes all over the country.  What were we to do?"

"Weren't you in a terrible hurry to obey MacNeill's order?  Why were
the men chased home on Sunday night and Monday morning?  They were
all gone when we arrived at Coalisland on Monday at one o'clock.  Why
were you in such a hurry to demobilize the men when their Easter
holidays lasted till Tuesday?  Did you not want them to fight?  Were
you afraid that another order would come rescinding MacNeill's?" The
questions poured from me breathlessly; I was emptying my mind of all
the riddles and puzzles that had been tormenting it.

"Say what you like, Miss Connolly, what can I say?"  And he spread
his hands in a helpless gesture.

"It's a shame," I commenced again.  "Why did you not tell the men and
give them the option of going on to Dublin?  Why were the girls so
honored?  Why, the North can never lift up its head again.  The men
in Dublin preparing to lay down their lives while the North {112} men
were being chased home by their commanders.  It's awful!"

"Miss Connolly, can't you believe that I feel it as much as you do?
Think what it means to me that the men in Dublin are being killed
while we are here doing nothing."

"The men in Dublin are fighting for Ireland.  In a short while you
may be fighting up here--and why?  Because the Ulster Division is
already quartered in Dungannon and Coalisland, and are trying to
provoke a party riot by parading the streets in numbers, crying 'To
Hell with the Pope.'  There are bunches of them sitting on the
doorsteps of Catholic houses singing 'Dolly's Brae' (the worst of all
their songs).  And if they go beyond bounds and those Catholics lose
their temper, it will be in the power of England to say that while
one part of the country was in rebellion, another part was occupied
in religious fights.  If you had issued another mobilization order
when you received the dispatch from Pearse, that could never happen.
Why didn't you issue that order?"

"We were waiting, Miss Connolly----"

"You were waiting.  What for?" I broke in.  "And now you have waited
too long.  {113} There has been a flying column sent from Belfast,
some two hundred strong, and it has taken up such positions that you
are prevented from coming together.  Dungannon, Coalisland, and all
around there is completely cut off from this part.  There is nothing
now for the North men to do but sit tight and pray to God that the
Dublin men will free their country for them.  My God!  A manly part!
Where is my sister?  I want to get her and go on to Dublin.  I would
be ashamed to stay here while the people in Dublin are fighting."

"She took a dispatch to Clogher and is still there."

"Is Clogher far from here?  Can I get there, to-night?" I asked him.

"No, you cannot get there to-night; it is too far away.  It is over
the mountains.  Stay here the night and you can set out in the
morning.  Stay here as long as you like, make this place your home,
and don't be too hard on the North.  We acted as we thought best, and
perhaps we are sorry for it now.  It is MacNeill's order that must be
blamed.  Good night, Miss Connolly."

"Are you going out?  Do you not stop here?" I asked as I saw him
gathering up his {114} raincoat and cap.  He straightened up his tall
figure.

"No," he replied.  "I have not slept here since Monday.  I am
determined that I shall not be arrested without doing something worth
while.  Good night again, and remember that this is your home for as
long as you wish to stay."

"Good night," I answered as he left the room.  Then it seemed that
all the hopelessness of the world descended on me as I thought that
here was another day gone, and I had not been able to accomplish
anything.

I left the room in a few minutes and entered the kitchen.  One side
of the large farm kitchen was taken up by a fireplace.  A large pot
that was suspended over a huge turf fire the light of which reached
across the room and danced and glistened upon the dishes that were
standing on the top rack of the dresser.  It was a sparsely furnished
kitchen, for besides the dresser I could see only a table placed
under the window, some farm implements on the other side of the room,
and some benches.  Except for the blazing of the fire there was no
light, and while the ceiling was a roof of ruddy light, the rest of
the kitchen was kept in {115} semi-darkness by the farm laborers, who
were sitting round the fire.  The first thing I did was to arrange
and make tidy my bundles of bandages which had been carried into the
kitchen by the driver of the car.  As I straightened up, my glance
fell upon one of the men sitting by the fire, whom to my surprise I
recognized as Lieutenant Hoskins of the Belfast Volunteers.

"Why, Rory," I exclaimed.  "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked.  "I thought you were in Dublin.
Didn't you go there Saturday night?"

"I did," I answered.  "But I came North with a dispatch on Monday.  I
intend to go to Dublin to-morrow.  But you didn't say what you are
doing here."

"There was more chance of something happening here--we could do
nothing in Belfast."

"There will be nothing happening here," I said.  "That's why I am
going to Dublin."

"Perhaps I'll try and make my way there to-morrow."

"I'd advise you to," I said as I left the kitchen.  I was shown to my
room and lost no time in getting to bed.

{116}

When my sister was leaving with the dispatch, I took her haversack
from her so that she would not attract any unnecessary attention.
That I might look like an ordinary traveler I put her haversack along
with mine in a suitcase, and that suitcase had been carried to my
room.  The events of the night proved that it was a lucky thing for
me that it had been brought to the bedroom.  As I looked at it I
wondered if a suitcase had ever before been packed in a like manner.

I could not have been asleep fifteen minutes when I was awakened by a
tremendous rapping.  In a few seconds the girl came to my room.

"Miss Connolly," she said.  "What will we do?  They are here again."
I instantly thought of my revolver and cartridges which I had carried
with me.

"Listen," I said.  "Put on my coat and go down and open the door
before they get angry."

"Why should I put on your coat?" she asked.

"Because I have something in it that I do not wish them to see.  Put
it on," I said, "and hurry down to the door."

{117}

When she had the coat on she went to one of the windows and opened
it.  She put her head out and asked who was there.  While she was
parleying with the soldiers I remembered that I had one hundred
rounds of ammunition in one of the haversacks wrapped up in some
clothing.  I jumped out of bed and opened the suitcase.  I had to
rummage because I dare not make a light.  I pulled article after
article out of one of the haversacks in hot haste, but it was not
there.

I turned to the other one and began searching it.  I had just felt it
when I heard a step on the stairs.  Grasping it in my hand I sprung
back into the bed.  I had only arranged myself and was lying down
when a light was flashed in my face.

The light was so strong that I could only lie there and blink my
eyes.  In a few minutes the light was removed from my face and
flashed about the room, enabling me to see that it was held by a
District Inspector of Police, and that he was accompanied by a
military officer and some of the Royal Irish Constabulary.  The D.I.
switched the light back on my face suddenly and asked:

"Are you only waking up?"

{118}

"Just now," I answered.

"Don't be afraid," he said.  "We heard that some more stuff came to
this house to-day and we have come for it."

"It's not the most reassuring thing in the world to have soldiers and
police come into your room at this time of night," I returned.

"What is your name?" he asked.  I told him.  I did not give a false
one, as I did not know whether he had asked the girl downstairs my
name or not.

"Where are you from?" was his next question.

"Belfast," I replied.

"Is that your suitcase?" he asked, pointing to it.

"Yes," I said.

"Look in it," he said to the officer.

"There is nothing there but my personal property," I said.

"All the same we must look," the D.I. said to me, as he went down to
his knees beside the officer.

[Illustration: JOSEPH PLUNKETT]

They gave it a rather cursory examination.  Then they opened the
wardrobe and looked into it, glanced into the drawers of the bureau.
My heart almost stopped beating when they {119} came near the bed.
What should I do if they told me to rise?  But they only looked under
it, and passed out into the sitting room adjoining my bedroom.  After
they had examined the room they went downstairs again.  I could
hardly believe my luck.  I was silently congratulating myself when I
heard their heavy steps on the stairs again.

They came into the room again.  The D.I. said, as he poured the rays
of his lamp on my face, "We have found something downstairs which
made us come up here to look again."  I did not say anything in
reply, only lay there and wondered to myself if they had found the
revolver on the girl and if she had told them to whom it belonged.
The military man was down on his knees at my suitcase once more.

"Did you say that there was nothing here but your personal property?"
asked the D.I. as he knelt down beside him.

And then began the second search of my suitcase.  Very carefully he
lifted out each article and examined it.  The stockings were turned
inside out as a woman turns them when looking for holes.  The reason
for such an act I do not know, save that they might have thought that
I had a dispatch concealed in {120} them.  The very fact that I knew
that there was nothing incriminating in the suitcase made me lie back
in the bed unconcernedly.  Suddenly the officer said, "Ah!" and
passed something to the District Inspector.  As they were between me
and the suitcase I could not see what it was.  The District Inspector
turned his head over his shoulder and asked again, "Did you say that
there was nothing here but your own personal property?"

"I did," I replied.

"Well, what do you call this?" he asked, holding up two bundles
wrapped in blue paper.  "Do you call these personal property?"

"Yes, they are," I said, seeking hurriedly in my mind for an
explanation.  The parcel he was holding up for me to see held two
dozen roller bandages.  "They're mine," I said with sudden
inspiration, "I got them cheap at a sale."

The answer evidently tickled the two men, for they laughed and one
said to the other, "Just like a woman."  They next came upon a box of
tea, sugar, and milk tablets.  The District Inspector asked as he
held it up, "Are you going to start a commissariat department with
these?"

"No," I answered.  "They are no good."

{121}

Having completely overhauled my suitcase they next directed their
attention to the bureau drawers.  Every piece of paper in the
drawers, letters, bills, etc., were read, and even the pages of books
were turned over to make sure that nothing escaped them.  They looked
under the bed again and then passed out to the sitting room, where
they remained but a few minutes.  Shortly afterwards they went
downstairs and then I heard them going out through the door.

Hardly were they out of the house when the girl came running to my
room.  "Get up, Miss Connolly," she said.  "Get up and go.  They'll
come back and arrest you.  Get up."

"Nonsense," I said.  "If they intended to arrest me they would have
done it now and not wait till they came back.  You're excited, but
there is no danger."

"You've just got to go, Miss Connolly," she said.  "You can't stay
here."

{123}

XI

I was down in the kitchen before six o'clock.  The girl had put some
bread and butter on the table, a cup of tea and an egg.  My heart was
so full I could not eat but I managed to drink the tea.  I then
turned to the place where I had stacked my bundles of bandages the
night before.  They were gone, even the knapsack that held my few
days' rations.

"Where are all my things gone to?" I asked.

"The soldiers took them away last night."

"When?" I asked.  "How did they come to see them?"

"After they came down from your room the first time," she replied.
"They asked me who owned those bundles.  I said the girl upstairs.
Then they examined them, called in the soldiers and told them to take
those bundles."

"Did they take the haversack with my rations?"

"They took everything.  And they asked me the name of the girl
upstairs.  And I said I didn't know; that you came last night and
{124} asked for a night's lodging, and that I never turned any one
away from the door."

"You told them that!" I cried.  "Did you want to make them suspect
me?  Do you usually give your guest room to women tramps?  In the
name of Heaven, how could you be so foolish?"

"Well," she said.  "I wasn't going to let on that I knew you."

"What will I do?" I said.  "Now they will be on the watch for me.  I
can't go to Clogher by train.  I'll have to walk.  How far is it?"

"It's not five miles," she answered.  "You can walk it easily.  About
two miles from it you will come to a place called Ballygawley, and
there you can get a tram that will take you to Clogher."

"Five miles," I said.  "I'll get there easily before noon.  Which way
do I go?"

Before she answered a woman came in with a message from the girl's
brother.  She looked at me suspiciously till she was told who I was.
I told her that I was going to walk to Clogher to get my sister who
was there, and that after that we would make our way to Dublin.

"To Clogher!" she said and looked at me in astonishment.

{125}

"Yes," I said.  "Does your road go near Ballygawley?  If so, I'll go
with you and you can point it out to me."

"Yes," she answered.  "But----"

But I was already on my way to get the suitcase and did not wait to
listen to her objections.  As I came down again I heard the girl say:

"--that's what I'd like to know."

"Well," I said.  "What I'd like to know is who the girls were who
brought the message to Dublin from Tyrone.  There were two, I know;
one was redhaired but it was the other delivered the message by word
of mouth.  I'd like to know who she is."

"I brought the message," said the girl who belonged to the house.

"You brought the message," I said and stared at her.  "YOU--did you
know that it was a wrong one?  Don't you know that you reported a
false state of affairs?  How could you?"

"Well enough," she answered.  "You've ruined this farm with your
capers.  The men are unsettled, my two brothers are in hiding, and
not a thing being done on the farm."

"Farm," I repeated and turned to the {126} visitor.  I saw her blush
for her acquaintance with the woman who had no soul but for a farm.

"Come," said the visitor to me.  "I'll show you the road."  And
without another word we left.  We went silently on our way.  We
crossed fields which brought us out on to a road, along which we
walked for about ten minutes till we came to a branching of it.
"We'll go up here," said my guide.  I saw that it was a kind of
boreen leading up to a very small farm cottage.  As soon as we
entered the woman turned to me and said, "We're not all like
that"--not saying who or what she meant.  Then again she said, "It's
our shame and disgrace that our men are not helping the men in
Dublin."  A young man had risen from his seat when we entered.  She
next spoke to him and gave him a message.  "It's for him," she said,
nodding her head in the direction we had come from.

As she pointed to me she said to the young man, "She's going to walk
to Clogher."

"To Clogher," he repeated.  "It's a long walk."

"I've the day before me," I answered.

"Well, I've got my message to deliver or {127} I'd go part of the way
with you.  It wouldn't be so long or lonely if you had company."

"Thank you," I said.  "But I'll get along all right."

"Can I do anything for you before you start?" asked the woman when he
was gone.

"Yes," I said.  "You can give me a drink of water."

"Water!" she exclaimed.  "Water!  Indeed you'll get no water from me!
You'll just take a long drink of milk.  You'll need some nourishment
to bring you over the long walk that's before you."  With that she
handed me a huge bowl of milk.  She stood by me till I finished it,
then she asked me if I had anything with me to eat in case I got
hungry on the way.

"No," I replied.  "The D.I. and his men took away the bag containing
my rations."

"Well," she said, "you've got to have something."  She commenced to
butter some biscuits.

"Don't bother," I said to her.  "I'll get along all right without
that.  I'll be in Clogher about twelve."

"O, you will," she said.  "Well, just take these in case you don't.
And I don't think you will."

{128}

I took the biscuits, then lifted up my suitcase and started to leave
the house.  "Wait a minute," she cried.  She went into a room and
returned with a Holy Water bottle.  She sprinkled me with it and
said, "May God bless and look after you, and bring you safely to your
journey's end."

She then pointed out the road to me and I began my walk to Clogher.
The road lay between low, flat-lying lands for the better part of two
miles.  There was neither hedge nor ditch dividing the fields from
the road; nor were there any trees for shade.  It was a most lonely
road; I walked on for hours and never met a soul.  The sun was
roasting hot that day, and I was heavily laden.  Besides the suitcase
containing the two kits which I was carrying, I was wearing a tweed
skirt and a raincoat over my uniform.  As I walked, the fields on one
side of the road changed and in their place were bogs.  An
intolerable thirst grew upon me and there was nothing with which to
slake it.

Gradually the road became a mountain road.  Had I not been so tired,
what with the weight of the suitcases and the clothes I was wearing
and the broiling sun, I could have admired {129} the quiet, shadeless
road that stretched along for miles trimming the skirt of the
mountains.  The mountains sloped away so gently from the road as to
seem no more than hills.  Patches of olive green and brown edged with
a brighter green rose one above the other, each one more pleasing.
Here and there the trimming was the golden furze or whin bushes; and
on towards the top patches of purple and blue told of the presence of
wild hyacinths.  And above all was the pure blue and white of the
sky.  Below, the mountains, on the left of the road stretched the bog
as far as I could see, brown, brown, browner, and finally black.
Here and there, standing cut sharply against the dark background,
danced the ceanawan--the bogrose--disputing for place with the
ever-present furze.  Yet all I could think of was that I must walk
for miles on that lonely country road, with never a tree for shade
and never a house to get a drink in.

I knew by the height of the sun that it was nearly twelve o'clock,
yet I had not come to Ballygawley.  In terror I thought for an
instant that I had taken the wrong road, and then I remembered that
the woman had told {130} me that there was only the one road until I
came to Sixmilecross.

At a distance from me and walking towards me I saw an old man.  I
tried to hurry towards him but could not.  With every step the
suitcase was growing heavier and my hands were becoming so sore that
to hold the handle was absolute pain.  And my thirst was growing.  I
could not understand how it was that I had not met with running
water, it is usually so plentiful in Ireland.  Finally my thirst grew
so clamorous that I knelt down by the bog, lifted some of the
brackish, stagnant bog-water in my hands and drank it.  Immediately I
began to think, "What if I contract some illness from drinking that
water--what if I get fever----"  And I had visions of being taken ill
by the roadside with no one to look after me.  Rut the old man was
very near me now, and as we came abreast I asked him, "Am I near
Ballygawley?"

"Ballygawley," he replied.  "Daughter dear, you are six weary long
miles from Ballygawley."

"Six miles!" I thought in despair.  "How had the girl made such a
mistake?"

I stumbled on till I was completely worn {131} out and not able to go
more than a few yards at a time.  And then, while I sat by the
roadside feeling that I could not rise again, I saw two girls coming
towards me on bicycles.  When they were nearer I thought that I
recognized a voice.  And I was right, for one of the cyclists was my
sister.  I struggled up from the ditch and staggered out on to the
road in dread that they might pass me.  Agna jumped from her bicycle
and let it fall to the ground as she saw me swaying.  She helped me
back to the ditch.  All I could say to her at first was, "I'm
thirsty, so thirsty."  She peeled an orange and gave it to me.  I
knew that I was babbling all the time, but neither of us could
remember what I had been saying when we tried to think of it
afterwards.  I did not know that I had been crying till Agna said,
"Don't cry, Nora.  Here, let me wipe your eyes."  Then I saw where
the tears had splashed down on my raincoat and felt that my cheeks
were wet.  I suppose I was weeping from sheer physical exhaustion.

"Weren't we lucky to come this road, Teasie?  This is my sister
Nora," said my sister to the girl who accompanied her.  "We were
going to take the lower road," she said, {132} turning to me, "but we
were told that although this was the longer it was the easier for
cycling.  And now, I'm glad we took the longer one, for if we hadn't
we would never have met you."

"Where were you going?" I asked.

She told me.

"Why," I cried, "that is the place I have left."

"Is that so?" said Agna.  "Then we needn't go.  You can tell us the
news.  We wanted to find out what happened during the raid yesterday."

As I sat there on the ditch I told them all that had happened from
the capture of the three thousand rounds of ammunition to my own
expediences.  When I finished Agna took the suitcase and balanced it
on her bicycle and said:

"We may as well go back now."

"I'll cycle on in to Ballygawley," said Teasie, "and find out when
there will be a train this afternoon.  You can come on after me."

"How far are we from Ballygawley?" I asked.

"About two miles," she answered.

"Never mind," said Agna, when she saw my {133} expression at that
news.  "We will go so slowly that you'll never notice it."

The three of us went slowly along the road, Agna and Teasie taking
turns at carrying the suitcase.  At a turn in the road Teasie mounted
her bicycle and rode off.  After we had walked a long distance I said:

"Agna, I can't walk any further.  I'll have to sit down."

I sat for quite a while till Agna said, "Try again, Nora.  Keep at it
as long as you can.  When we get to Ballygawley you'll not have any
more walking to do."

"Wait a while," I answered.

While we were sitting Teasie returned.

"You'll be in plenty of time," she said.

I stood up and we started off again.  When we arrived at the
outskirts of Ballygawley Teasie said, "I called in at a house I knew,
and they are making tea for us.  You'll be refreshed after it."

It was into a shop we went and in a room back of it a table was laid,
and tea was ready for us.  I drank the tea thirstily but was too
tired to eat, although various things were pressed on me.  When tea
was over Teasie said to Agna:

{134}

"We'll go on our bicycles and meet Nora at the station of Augher.
That," she said, turning to me, "is the station before Clogher.  I
think it would be better to get off there than in the station at
Clogher.  Every one would see you and they would be making all the
guesses in the world as to who you are.  The police would see you,
too, as you would have to go past the police station.  If you get off
at Augher you can cross the fields to our place without any one
seeing you.  That's all right, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said.

[Illustration: THOMAS MACDONAGH]

They rode away.  A young lad took my suitcase to the station for me
and waited till the train came.  The train was only the size of a
trolley but had the dignified title of the Clogher Valley Railway.  I
sat in the corner and closed my eyes.  I opened them at every stop to
see if there was any sight of the girls.  But it was not till the
conductor called out, "Next stop Augher," that I had any glimpse of
them.  Over the hedge that divided the rails from the road I saw
Agna's black curly head bobbing up and down and caught a smile from
under Teasie's big-brimmed hat.  They were peddling for all they were
worth in an attempt {135} not to be too far behind the train in
arriving at Augher.

I waited at the station for about ten minutes before they came.  They
jumped off their bicycles; and we commenced to walk along the side of
the rails.  About fifteen minutes after we crossed over into a field.
It was a stiff piece of work for the girls to push their bicycles
through the fields and lift them over hedges.  When we had gone
through four fields we commenced to climb a hill.  Near the top of
the hill we clambered over another hedge and crossed one more field
before we arrived at the farm which was Teasie's home.  Teasie's
father and mother had made it a home for Agna since she arrived at
the town; and to me they also extended a very kindly welcome.

"She has walked all the way from Carrickmore," said Teasie to her
mother.  "We met her two miles outside of Ballygawley."

"Did you walk all that distance?" asked Mrs. Walsh.

"Yes," I answered.  "I don't see how it took me so long to walk it,
I'm usually a good walker."

"When did you start?" she asked me.

"Before eight," I answered.

{136}

"I think you did very well to walk it in one day," she returned.
"Agna and Teasie were going to cycle there and stay over night
because it was such a long ride."

"I was told that it wasn't five miles," I said.

"Five miles!" cried the mother.  "It's fifteen if it's one, and a bad
road at that.  You'll want to rest after it.  Take her into a
bedroom, girls, and let her lie down."

The girls brought me to a bedroom and gave me cool water to bathe my
face and hands and feet.  Then they ordered me to go to bed.  But
although I went to bed I did not sleep.

I had been lying there for about two hours when Agna peeped in to see
if I was awake.

"Come in," I said.

"Nora, what are we going to do?" was her first question.

"I am going to Dublin as soon as we can and you, of course, are going
with me."

"I had my mind made up to try and get there to-morrow when we came
back, but I am glad you are here, for now we can be together and
won't have to worry about one another."  She was speaking in her
usual breathless fashion.  "I'm afraid we can't go {137} to-night,"
she said.  "Did you hear that there is fighting in Ardee?"

"No," I answered.  "I did not hear that; but if there is, we'll go
there.  It's on our way to Dublin.  The men who are fighting will
probably make their way to Dublin.  If we can catch up with them we
will be safer and more sure of getting there.  Find out if there is a
train to-night."

She went out and returned in a few minutes.

"No," she said.  "There is no train to-night, but there is one
leaving at five minutes to six in the morning."

"Well," I said.  "I suppose we'll have to wait for that."

We caught the five minutes to six train in the morning.  It brought
us to a junction where we took tickets for Dundalk.

"You're going to a dangerous place," said the ticket agent.

"We won't mind that," we replied.

When we arrived at Dundalk the station was full of soldiers and
constabulary.  We hurried along out of the station so as not to
attract attention.  Agna went back and asked a porter if she could
get a train to Dublin.  The porter told her that the only train going
{138} there was a military one, and that the line was in the hands of
the military.  "There's no telling when there will be a train," he
said.

It was then about one o'clock.  "Come along," I said to Agna.  "We
will look for a restaurant and decide what we will do while we are
eating." We walked down the street looking for a restaurant.  At the
foot of the street we saw one, a very small place.  Just at the
restaurant the street curved, and around the curve we saw that a
barricade had been erected by the police authorities.  Luckily we did
not have to pass it to get to the restaurant.  When we had entered
and had given our order to the proprietress, she said that it would
take some time--would we mind waiting?  We assured her that we would
not mind waiting and went into the parlor to talk over our situation.

The first decision arrived at was, that as we did not know the name
of the villages and towns on the road to Dublin and could not hire a
car to take us to any of them, it would be necessary for us to walk.
Our next decision was that we would have to abandon our suitcase as
it would be likely to attract attention.  In order to carry out the
second I told Agna that she must go out to buy some brown paper {139}
and string.  Also, that while she was doing so she must find out if
we would have to pass the barricade to get to the Dublin road.  The
reason why I sent Agna on this business, and did not go myself, was
that Agna was so childish looking that no one would suspect her of
trying to get to Dublin.  Then again I knew that I could trust her to
find any information necessary to us; she had been a girl scout and
had learned the habit of observation.  Also, her accent was more
strongly Northern than mine.

With a parting adjuration from me not to be too long lest I become
anxious, Agna went out on her errand.  As she reached the door the
proprietress came out of a room and said, "Are you going out, little
girl?"

"Yes," said Agna, "I am going out to get a paper."

"Will you do a message for me while you are out?"

"Certainly," said Agna, "What is it?"

"Do you know the town?" asked the woman.

"No," said Agna, "I haven't been in it this long time."  (She had
never been in it before.)

"Well," said the woman.  "I had better {140} come to the door and
show you the place I want you to go to."  She did so and gave Agna a
message to the butcher's.  Agna was glad to do the message because if
she were stopped now and asked where she was going to, she could give
a definite answer.  She left the door and walked towards the
barricade.  The policeman on duty there did not stop her as she
walked through.  The barricade was formed simply of country carts
drawn across the roadway, leaving room for only one vehicle to pass
through, and it was at this space that the policeman stood.  As I sat
by the window, I saw the policeman stop and examine cyclists,
automobilists, and all other vehicles that were passing through.  The
barricade was on the road running from Dublin to Belfast.

Within twenty minutes Agna returned.  She came into the parlor and
gave me a bundle of brown paper and string, and then went out to
deliver up her other message.  She came back quickly and began to
tell me the result of her observations.  The best thing was that we
were on the right side of the barricade and we should not have to
pass it when we started out.  But her next bit of information was not
so pleasant; it was that according to the {141} automobile signs
there were fifty-six miles to Dublin.  Still, nothing daunted, we
began to transfer our kits from the suitcase to the brown paper.
When we had finished we had two tidy-looking bundles much more
convenient to carry than the suitcase.

While we were eating our dinner the question arose as to what we
should do with the suitcase.  We settled it by asking the
proprietress to take care of it till we came back from Carlingford.
She was quite willing to oblige us, she said, as Agna had been so
obliging to her.  I then paid the bill and we left the restaurant.  I
felt rather badly at leaving the suitcase behind me, as it had
accompanied me for some ten thousand miles of my travels; it was like
abandoning an old friend.




{142}

XII

It was about two-thirty on Saturday when we started to walk from
Dundalk to Dublin, and when it began to grow dark we were still
walking.  While we were discussing the problem of where to spend the
night, we came upon a barricade.  We were in a quandary.  What were
we to do?  We slowed up in our walking but that was no use; we were
bound to pass it eventually--or be detained.  We had not the
slightest idea as to what we should do.  We did not know the name of
the next village, so we could not say that we were going there.  We
did not even know the name of the village we were in!  What should we
do?  If we were stopped and searched--I had my revolver and
ammunition and Agna wore her uniform under her coat and skirt--enough
evidence to have us arrested.  However, we put on a brave face and
stepped forward bravely towards the barricade.  About six yards from
it we encountered two strong wires {143} which were stretched across
the entire width of the road, one reaching to the chin and the other
to the knees.  To give the impression that we had passed that way
before and that we knew all about the wires, we ducked our heads
under the high wire and put our legs over the lower one, then
continued our walk to the barricade.

It was in charge of a corporal's guard.  As we came abreast the
soldiers, evidently thinking that we were country girls doing our
Saturday's marketing, made some remark, in a broad Belfast accent,
about carrying our bundles for us.  In an accent broader than theirs,
Agna gave them some flippant answer at which they roared with
laughter; and while they were laughing we passed on.  Further on we
came to the village proper.  Not until we saw the sign over the Post
Office--"Dunleer P.O."--did we know the name of the village through
which we were passing.

As we walked it grew darker.  "What will we do--where will we spend
the night?" I said to Agna.  "There are no hotels about here, and if
there were we could not go to them as we would have to register.  If
we ask at the cottages for a night's lodging they may {144} become
suspicious.  If we walk all night we may meet military or police
patrols, and that would mean that we would be sent to Armagh Jail
instead of going to Dublin.  What will we do?"

"O, pick out a nice field and spend the night there," said Agna
airily.

"It looks as if that is just what we'll have to do," I said ruefully.
"Come on and pick one before it gets too dark."

We heard a dog barking further down the road--that was the only sign
of life.  We judged that it was about nine o'clock and that every one
was in bed.  There was a path that turned to the right off the road
which we took and walked along for about one hundred yards.  Then we
clambered over the hedge and into the field.  It looked as if we had
chosen a good place for we found ourselves in a sort of dell covered
with grass and heather.  We searched and found, as we thought, the
softest place.  Everything around us was so still that we felt
compelled to talk in whispers.  We could feel the darkness descending
on us as Ave sat there, forgetting our weariness in the novelty of
the situation.

{145}

We had been silent for a long time when Agna said, "To-morrow will be
Sunday."

"Yes," I said.  "We'll look queer carrying bundles through the
villages on a Sunday."

"So we will," said Agna.  "Look," she said suddenly.  "Why couldn't
we put on everything we can.  It will make us fatter but it will make
the bundles a respectable size.  And we'll be warmer to-night," she
added.

Her last remark decided me.  I had been growing colder every minute I
sat there and any suggestion to relieve me was welcome.

"All right," I said.  "Let's start and put them on."

We opened the bundles and were very busy for some time.  When we had
finished there was twice the amount of clothing on than we had when
we begun.  We looked at each other, feeling bulky.

"I hope my coat will go on me," said Agna as she began to put it on.
"There now, I've got everything on me except my towels, and brush and
comb.  Oh, and my putties."

"You can put them in your coat pocket," I said.

"I've got safety pins, roller bandages, my {146} handkerchiefs and my
purse in them so there's no room there."

"Put them in your raincoat pocket."  She did so and stood up to
inspect herself.

"O Lordy," she exclaimed.  "I'm an imitation umbrella."  Then she
turned her attention to me.

"How did you get on?" she asked.

"Like you," I replied.  "Only I've a pair of stockings left."

"Put them on you?" she said.  "What's the use of getting boots two
sizes too big for you, if you can't wear two pairs of stockings when
you want to?"

I had forgotten that I could not get my size when I was buying my
marching boots, and was compelled to take a pair two sizes too large.
I put the stockings on.

"I never felt so big and heavy in my life before," I remarked.

"You'll be used to it by morning," she said consolingly.  "Lie down
and go to sleep."

"Sleep--"  I commenced when she interrupted me to ask, "Nora, do you
think there are any earwigs here?  They might get into our ears when
we are asleep."

"Earwigs," I repeated.  "I don't know.  {147} But there's bound to be
other insects and they would just as easily get into our ears as
earwigs."

"What will we do?" she asked anxiously, for she was tired and wanted
to sleep.  I looked about and saw the towels.

"Put them around our heads," I said, pointing to them.  So we each
took a towel and pinned it around our heads to keep out wandering
insects while we slept.  But we need not have worried about what
might happen to us while we slept, for we did not sleep that night.

As we lay there we could see the stars come out one by one, yet we
could not sleep.  The quietness of the place kept us listening
expectantly for we knew not what.  A heavy mist began to cover the
field and wrapped itself about us till our clothes were dampened
through and through.  For the first time, I think, we were physically
aware of the number of bones in our bodies, for each one seemed to be
dancing to a tune of its own.  Our teeth were chattering so that we
could not speak.  In an effort to keep ourselves warm we lay close
together with our arms round each other.  But our efforts were of no
use; we could not {148} sleep nor could we keep ourselves warm.  We
gave the struggle up and huddling close to the ditch we sat and
waited for the dawn.

After an infinity of time the dawn came.  Far off at the furthermost
edge of the field we saw a streak of gray.  As we watched it
gradually widening we heard a cock crow in the distance.  Under the
descending light the fields seemed a glistening sea and our tweed
skirts as if sprinkled with diamonds.  The birds began to awaken and
to chirrup in the hedges.  For all we could see or hear, the birds
and ourselves were the only stirring, living beings.

We sat on waiting for time to pass.  As we did not have a watch with
us we gauged the time by the sky.  The distance between us and
Drogheda we knew to be less than eight miles; and there was a
possibility that we might get a train from Drogheda to some of the
local stations.  But as we were not sure we decided to recommence our
walk, so that we would be all the earlier on our way to Dublin.  With
this thought in our minds we rose stiffly and plodded down the path
to the main road.  We really did not feel tired.  As a matter of
fact, we were anxious to have as many {149} adventures and
experiences as possible to tell our father when we reached Dublin.
We pictured ourselves sitting on his knees, as we had often done
before, telling him everything, watching for the ever-ready twinkle
in his eye, and saw him give the quick throwback of his head, when we
came to the more laughable parts of our story.  It was this picture
that helped us over the hard parts of our journey.  As we went along
the road to Drogheda our conversation consisted mainly of--"Wait till
we tell Papa this--" or, "What will Papa say to that--" and, "Won't
he laugh when we tell him--," so we whiled away the time, fixing
firmly in our minds the most amusing parts of our journey.

It was not until we were within two miles of Drogheda that we met
with any one on the road.  The first person we saw was a cyclist,
next we saw a man and woman going to milk the cows.  And then as we
went further along the road we saw many more people wending their way
to town.  At last, we came to Drogheda.  It was practically
deserted--a few milk-carts and a couple of policemen were all that we
met as we proceeded into town.  Then a church bell began to ring.  We
followed the sound and soon had joined a crowd {150} that was
hurrying to church.  We were in time for seven o'clock Mass.

After Mass we wandered about a little hoping to find a place where we
could get something to eat, also to find the road to Dublin.  On
account of it being Sunday and so early in the morning there was no
place open.  Although hungry we were not as much annoyed at the
result of our search for food as contented when we came upon the road
to Dublin.  As we walked on I saw the railway station.  A thought
struck me, perhaps we can get a train now.  I turned to Agna and
said, "Go up to the station and ask if there will be a train to
Skerries to-day."

In about fifteen minutes she returned and said there would be no
trains running but the military trains.  Then once again we started
on our tramp.

Agna complained of hunger, and I was none the less hungry.  We had
not eaten since one-thirty the day before.  "Would it be any use, do
you think," I asked, turning to Agna, "to call at some of the
cottages and ask them to make some tea for us?"

"It might be worth trying, anyway," she replied.

{151}

"Well," I said.  "I'll wait till it gets a little later then I'll go
to some of the cottages and ask."

It was after nine o'clock when I first ventured to a cottage.  A
woman opened the door to my knock, she had a bonnet on and was
draping a shawl about her shoulders.

"We have been walking since early morning," I said, "and want to know
if you will make us a cup of tea."

"I would," she replied, "only I've barely time to get to Mass.  I'm
sorry, but I can't miss Mass.  I've to walk to Drogheda."

"No," I said.  "It wouldn't do to miss Mass."

She came to the gate and bade me a cordial good-by.  I tried two or
three cottages after that, but from them all I had the same
story--they were all going to Mass, so we had to go without our
breakfast.

Just outside Drogheda we saw a milestone bearing the legend "Dublin
25 miles."  And from then on the only excitement of our journey was
to see who would be the first to spy a milestone.  When we saw a
milestone marked "Dublin 18 miles" we were exhilarated--Dublin seemed
only a few steps away.

{152}

Sunday was, if any thing, warmer than the preceding day, and our
double outfit made us dreadfully uncomfortable.  I knew that it was
not the heat or the long walk, or the two pairs of stockings that was
responsible for the burning pain in my feet.  My feet were burning me
as never before.  Agna had great faith in liniment.  She likes to
take it with her when she goes for a long walk; she says it takes the
pain and stiffness from her muscles.  When we were making our
preparations the night before she had "linimented" herself as she
calls the operation.  I had had no pain or tiredness, but the soles
of my feet were sore, and Agna, in her unfailing faith in the bottle,
had "linimented" them, overruling whatever objections I had.  And
now, I was suffering torments--the liniment was burning its way into
my flesh, made tender by the two pairs of stockings, heavy boots, and
long march.  At last, I could stand it no longer, so I said to Agna,
"I must get my boots and stockings off--I'll have to get some relief
or I'll go mad."

[Illustration: EOIN MACNEILL Professor of Early Irish History, Head
of the Irish Volunteers, whose demobilization order "broke the back
of the rebellion," according to the report of the British Royal
Commission. Yet in spite of this he was sentenced to prison for life.]

I walked towards the hedge that was dividing the road from the fields
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?"

On Sunday afternoon we found a note in the letter box addressed to
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.

He did not know that the leaders, acting on the expression of
goodwill, had asked Germany to send them some arms.  I wish to make
it plain that Germany never made an offer to the men in Ireland, that
she gave nothing to them, not even the expression of goodwill, till
she was asked, and that when a request for aid came from Ireland, it
was not for money (England has kept us so poor that we have almost
learned to do without money), nor was it for men, but for arms, guns,
and ammunition.  All that Germany promised in return to the request,
was that she would make the attempt to send us a certain amount of
arms, but as the ship would have to run the gauntlet of the British
fleet, she would promise nothing.

This answer was satisfactory to the revolutionary leaders.  A date
was set for the ship to arrive, and a place designated.

After setting the date and sending it on to Germany, the leaders
found that it was necessary to change the date.  Word was sent to
{200} Germany, but only arrived there after the shipload of arms had
set out.

About this time Roger Casement heard that a revolution was about to
take place.  He asked that he be sent over to Ireland.  There was
some demur at this, but finally they consented and gave him a
submarine.  With him on the submarine went two followers of Casement.

The shipload of arms arrived on the first appointed date but the men
in Ireland, not knowing that their final message had been too late,
had no one there to meet it.  Consequently, the ship had to hang
about for a number of hours, and finally attracted the suspicion of
the fleet which was in Queenstown Harbor.  When challenged by the
fleet, knowing that subterfuge was hopeless, the Captain ran up the
German flag, and sunk the vessel with all the arms and ammunition.

Shortly after this, the submarine with Casement and the two other men
arrived off the Irish coast.  They were landed with the aid of a
collapsible boat belonging to the submarine.  Casement, after sending
a message to MacNeill advising against the Rising, and saying in the
message that Germany had failed {201} us, sought shelter in an old
ruin.  One of the men managed to make his way into the country and so
escaped.  Casement was arrested.

Before he was hanged he said that his whole object in coming to
Ireland was to prevent the Revolution.  He did not do so, but was,
perhaps, the primary cause of its failure.

Acting on Casement's message and believing it, MacNeill sent out the
demobilizing orders.  He had sent out many of them before the other
leaders became aware of it.  He also gave instructions to the
Secretary of the Irish Volunteers to send out more.  Then Pearse and
MacDonagh had a conference with him.  After the conference he said to
the Secretary that although the thing was hopeless, he was afraid it
must go on.

He knew that the revolutionary leaders had decided that the
revolution must take place, even though the loss of the arms had
seriously crippled their plans.  He knew that a disarmament of the
Irish Volunteers had been threatened, also the imprisonment of the
leaders.  He knew that the Volunteers would resist the disarming, and
that the leaders still thought that they would have a good fighting
chance.

When he knew that the fight would go on in {202} Dublin, in spite of
his order, he began to weigh up the consequences, and saw nothing
before the Irish Volunteers save death and imprisonment.  The
responsibility of allowing these men to go out to meet these, weighed
too heavily on him, and he thought that he might save the Irish
Volunteers in the country from them.  He then had a message inserted
in the Sunday _Independent_, a paper that went to all the nooks and
corners of the country, to the effect that:


"All Volunteer maneuvers for Sunday are canceled.  Volunteers
everywhere will obey this order.

(Signed) EOIN MACNEILL.


It was not until Sunday morning that the other leaders knew of this
demobilization order in the paper.

The consequences of this order in the paper, and the orders that were
sent out before it, I have already told.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916 ***


    

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