Rebel Sisters (38 page)

She walked around slowly and soon found a smaller door. She rapped and tapped on it, then rapped again. There was no answer for ages, but eventually a boy of about fifteen or sixteen opened the door partially and stared suspiciously at her.

‘The Post Office is shut, missus, and there are no pensions for anyone,' he said, starting to close it again. ‘So there is no point you waiting for it.'

‘I'm looking for my husband,' she insisted, trying to prevent him closing the door. ‘Mr Thomas MacDonagh. He's a leader of the Volunteers and should be inside here with Mr Pearse and Mr Connolly. Please check and bring me to them. I'm Mrs MacDonagh.'

‘I know who Mr MacDonagh is,' the young lad said, now holding the door ajar. ‘He talked to our class in St Enda's last year.'

‘Then please let me in,' she begged, conscious of a group of young women approaching her carrying armfuls of leather boots and shoes purloined from a nearby shop.

Seconds later Muriel had gained admittance and was walking through the huge building, crossing the big sorting room where enormous baskets and boxes of letters lay piled up. The cubby holes with names of parts of the city and country written on them stood empty. There would be no letters or financial payments for people this week, no news from soldiers fighting in France and Belgium delivered to their worried parents, wives and sweethearts.

‘I don't know where Mr MacDonagh is,' admitted the boy, scratching his short hair, ‘but I'll bring you to see Mr Pearse.'

‘Thank you.'

Muriel passed groups of men stockpiling weapons and arms in some kind of storage area. They barely glanced at her. She was taken to a large central hall where Padraig was sitting at a table writing notes. Most of the fine glass windows were broken, men standing at them fully armed with rifles. Some doorways were blocked with huge reams of paper, furniture and heavy mail sacks to stop entry. There were men in army uniform with guns and other weapons all around them. Hardly any women – just one in a nurse's uniform rolling up bandages and another who seemed to be typing letters. She saw many of her husband's friends from St Enda's. Michael O'Rahilly and Sean Mac Diarmada, deep in conversation, paid her no attention as she searched for sight of her husband.

‘Muriel, MacDonagh is not here,' Padraig said, standing up. ‘He and his men have taken Jacob's Biscuit Factory in the name of the Republic.'

‘Then I must go to see him there.'

‘Muriel, it would be most unwise and MacDonagh would be very angry with me if I let you do such a thing. You must return to the safety of your home and to the children.'

‘But I need to see him. What if something should happen to him? I trained as a nurse and—'

‘Your place is with your children,' Padraig insisted. Sheets of paper covered his desk and it was clear she had interrupted him. ‘Please go home, Muriel.'

A young man in uniform hovered beside them, waiting to speak to him. Looking around, Muriel could see James Connolly, who seemed to be in charge. He was talking to a group of ten men, directing them to take up positions in another part of the building. Recognizing her, he nodded over. He might seem to have a brusque manner but Muriel knew him as a man full of kindness and courage who would always somehow or other be involved in the fight for justice. Tom Clarke was instructing two men to go up on the roof with their rifles. He might be older than the others, but she could tell he was very much in control of what was happening around them. She could see his surprise at her presence.

‘Is Joe here?' Muriel asked. ‘Grace said that she saw him with you yesterday.'

Padraig stopped what he was doing momentarily and directed her to the far side of the room, where Joe Plunkett lay on some kind of pallet bed. He looked bad. His face was pale and even from a distance she could see blood oozing from the bandage around his throat.

‘Muriel, what are you doing here?' he said, struggling politely to get up. ‘MacDonagh isn't here. He's leading the Jacob's garrison. His brother is with him.'

‘I know,' she replied, unable to hide her concern at Joe's poor physical condition.

‘You shouldn't be here, Muriel – it's far too dangerous.'

‘Neither should you, Joe. You have had an operation and are only just out of hospital. Grace is out of her mind worrying about you. I didn't dare tell her I was coming here.'

‘I'm grand,' he insisted, his dark eyes glowing. ‘I wasn't going to miss taking my part in this after all we've planned and worked for.'

‘Joe, that dressing on your neck needs to be changed,' she advised.

‘I'll get Julia to check it later. Muriel, promise me that you will go home!' He hesitated, his face serious as he lowered his voice. ‘But may I ask you to do something for me? Will you tell Grace that I love her and that somehow or other we will be wed, no matter what happens, I promise her that.'

‘I'll tell her,' she promised, leaning forward and giving him a brief hug. Joe seemed thinner and sicker than ever.

As she turned to leave the GPO, passing men stacking ammunition, she noticed a piece of paper stuck on to one of the granite columns. It was a printed Proclamation:

The Provisional Government of The Irish Republic to the People of Ireland

IRISHMEN AND IRISHWOMEN: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom …

We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland … we hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades in arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations.

Muriel read it line by line, some of it already familiar to her from pages she had seen her husband writing and scribbling …

The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens … cherishing all of the children of the nation equally …

As Muriel read the words of the Proclamation, her heart leapt when she saw MacDonagh's name printed on the bottom alongside those of his friends. She felt suddenly achingly proud of her husband and these men, his friends, who had stood up beside him for this new Irish Republic.

All the secrecy, the meetings and planning – this is what it was all about: her husband's long-cherished dream of an Irish Republic.

Taking a last glance around the inside of the General Post Office, Muriel wondered how Padraig, Joe and the men and women stationed here could possibly withstand a major onslaught from the mighty British army. She felt afraid for them and what the end of it all might be.

As she made her way through the corridors to the back of the building, ready to go home, Muriel felt heartsore, but she was determined that she too would play her part. Her two small children needed her and her duty was to stay with them, to protect them no matter what happened to MacDonagh and his friends.

THE COLLEGE OF
Surgeons was bombarded so constantly over the next few days that Nellie was amazed the building could withstand such an unrelenting attack. Their men remained up on the roof, guns in hand, skin burned raw and red, defending their position while the British forces seemed to amass and gather strength around them.

Michael Mallin was a disciplined leader, as were Captain Poole and Captain McCormick, all of them properly trained army men used to combat and battle. The commandant insisted that proper army-fashion beds were neatly made and order was strictly kept by their garrison. One of the men had deliberately damaged a portrait of Queen Victoria hanging in the council room and the commandant had threatened to shoot the culprit if he found him.

Mallin despatched a search party to look around the building, for he knew that there was an Officer Training Corps in the college and he suspected that they would hold a stock of rifles for shooting practice. They hunted up and down and all over the warren of corridors and rooms but to no avail, for the weapons could not be found.

He sent parties of their men to cross, unseen, on a high, narrow plank from the roof of the college over to the roof of another building. Still hidden, they were digging and boring through the neighbouring buildings, with orders to try and get nearer to the enemy's gun position.

Margaret volunteered to cycle by the Shelbourne Hotel and throw bombs into it.

‘Their snipers and gunners have us pinned down. It's the only way we could ever hope to take them out. No one is going to suspect a lady on a bicycle,' she insisted stoutly. ‘I'm sure I can get close enough to throw the bombs.'

But the commandant and the countess had both declared it a mad act of folly which would surely cost her her life, so her plan was overruled.

The only lull in the constant din and pressure of fighting was an agreed truce, morning and evening, to let the park keeper feed and check on the ducks and swans on the lake in St Stephen's Green. There were strict orders that at these times no one was to dare fire a single shot, and both sides obeyed the order. Nellie was relieved that the birds would be protected from the mayhem around them.

‘I tell you, they care more for those ducks than they care for us,' joked Bill Partridge, who had a way of cheering everybody up.

The porter and his family were moved down to the basement, as he had been caught sending a message for help and for food and water, lowering it down on a rope from his bedroom window. Nellie felt guilty, as poor Mr Duncan had been forgotten about in all the action, and now he and his wife and child would have to try to survive on the same meagre rations as the rest of them.

The porridge they served was now reduced to a thinner gruel-like consistency and they had to ration it.

‘What are we going to do?' Kathleen fretted, staring at their almost vanished supplies. ‘Without food the men will not be able to last out.'

The men never complained, but it was clear that they were hungry.

Then Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington surprised them by arriving with some food for the garrison, knocking quietly at the side door with packets of tea, crackers and bread, and swiftly passing it inside before disappearing again.

Good old Skeffy! thought Nellie. She was very fond of Hanna, the women's right-to-vote campaigner, who had such a kind heart and was such a practical woman.

In the early hours of the morning they were woken by the arrival of two female messengers from the GPO carrying urgent despatches for Michael Mallin. Much to their delight, Elizabeth O'Farrell and Julia Grennan also carried sacks of much-needed bread.

‘We didn't think we'd get through,' admitted Julia. ‘The supplementary women are still watching the streets, but with our sacks on our back they presumed that we were looters like them.'

‘Looters?' Nellie was puzzled.

‘You should see Sackville Street and some of the other streets. The locals have picked the shops clean. They are looting and stealing everything they can lay their hands on!'

‘There isn't a cup or plate or teapot, or even a seat, left in the DBC café,' added Elizabeth. ‘They've carried them off to use in their homes.'

‘We were lucky we met Mr Sheehy-Skeffington on the way here.'

Nellie was surprised to hear that Hanna's husband, the well-known pacifist, was about so late.

‘He was trying to stop the looting. He got some lads to assist us carry the sacks part of the way.'

‘James Connolly told us that your garrison needed food supplies urgently as you were under heavy fire, so we brought as much bread for you as we could manage,' Julia explained with a smile.

‘We've been under fire and attack in the GPO too, but so far we are well defended,' Elizabeth told them. ‘Captain Brennan-Whitmore has taken the corner of Earl Street and we have a garrison in the Metropole Hotel too. We get our food supplies from the hotels on the street – and thankfully they were very well stocked for Easter.'

Nellie could not help but be envious and cursed the fact that their garrison had not had the foresight to take a hotel instead of where they were.

‘We'll tell Connolly you need more supplies urgently and try to get them to you,' the two women promised as they set off back to the GPO.

Nellie began to count the loaves. At least the men would have bread in the morning with their mug of tea. They all knew the odds were stacked against them and that every day they managed to hold their position here against the enemy was a victory.

NELLIE WAS REGULARLY
despatched to the abandoned houses and buildings they now controlled, running between Grafton Street towards Cuffe Street, hunkering down as she clambered through holes and dust and rubble with her messages, and also with rations for some of the men, who had nothing to eat.

Across Dublin city there were food shortages, with no bread, milk, meat or grocery deliveries. Business was at a standstill. Martial law had been declared by Lord Wimborne, the lord lieutenant. A British gunship had sailed up the River Liffey and, according to the despatches they received, was inflicting massive damage on Sackville Street, bombarding the area all around the GPO and Liberty Hall.

They cheered when reports came in that on Mount Street the Volunteers had attacked the Sherwood Foresters, a large contingent of British soldiers recently landed in Kingstown, as they marched along the route into the city, killing and wounding many. Despite this, more and more British troops were flooding into the city.

Low in food and ammunition, near midnight Michael Mallin and the countess sent Nellie and Chris Caffrey to Jacob's Biscuit Factory garrison where MacDonagh was the leader.

‘The British are servicing their machine guns, so you may be able to get to Jacob's,' Mallin said.