The Guns of Easter (8 page)

AS SOON AS JIMMY MARTIN LEFT HIM
, Jimmy felt nervously in his overcoat pocket, trying to identify the metal thing he’d found there. No, it wasn’t a knife. It was a narrow rectangle of …

Jimmy almost laughed when he realised what it was. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it – a harmonica, shining in the morning sun. How it had got in
the pocket in the first place he could only guess. Looted, like the coat itself, he supposed.

The clock on Trinity College said half-past eight. Through the railings there Jimmy could see khaki figures on guard. From the roof other soldiers, snipers, were firing now and then towards Sackville Street. There was no doubt who was in charge of this part of Dublin, only a few hundred yards from the rebel headquarters.

There were civilians walking in Grafton Street, and Jimmy was tempted to go down there as he had on Monday. If he went right along down Nassau Street now he might reach Ella’s house before nine. But he wanted to see the Green again. He wanted to know whether his uncle Mick … Jimmy made himself finish the thought … he wanted to know whether Mick was still alive.

Jimmy made up his mind. The soldiers had advised him not to go down Grafton Street or nearby Dawson Street. It stood to reason that their advice would be sensible: soldiers had to be experts at not getting shot.

So Jimmy made for Kildare Street, which would also take him to Stephen’s Green, and he turned down there. No-one interfered with him. At the bottom of the street he looked across the road through the railings into the deserted park.

The shooting was right above him now. If he looked up he could see the flashes of the army guns firing from the Shelbourne Hotel. Now and again a spurt of dust was
kicked from the hotel walls by rebel bullets answering their fire.

The Green itself looked empty, though it was hard to see much through the screen of trees inside the railings. Then Jimmy noticed two men in Citizen Army uniform lying on the grass. They lay perfectly still, and he knew they were dead. He could not see their faces, but the fact that they wore uniforms meant that neither of them was Mick. That was little comfort: there might be any number of men lying dead in the park, hidden by the trees.

There were quite a few civilians standing around on this corner of the Green. Boys of his own age ran among them, playing. The boys seemed to find it all very exciting. The adults stood looking, quietly discussing the situation.

A machine-gun sounded a brisk rat-tat-tat, like a stick being dragged along railings. The British rifles cracked. The Irish guns made a variety of sounds, the most common a dull, heavy boom that sounded almost like artillery.

A quick movement by the railings of the Green caught Jimmy’s eye. One of the boys was squeezing through the railings. Jimmy recognised him – it was Billy Moran, Tommy Doyle’s friend. Jimmy remembered Tommy saying that Billy was staying with his sister in nearby Kevin Street.

As Jimmy watched, Billy ran over to one of the dead rebels and picked up the man’s pistol. The other boys shouted encouragement.

Jimmy stared, horrified. He thought of Mick’s warning about picking up guns. Billy was in full view of the Shelbourne Hotel. He was only playing, of course, but the army wouldn’t know that.

Billy Moran stood with the gun in his hand, looking over at his friends in triumph. Jimmy wanted to shout a warning at him. Before he could, the body of the rebel at Billy’s feet jerked strangely. It was as if the dead man had come to life. Billy saw the movement and stared down, frightened.

Jimmy realised instantly what had happened: a soldier in the hotel had fired at Billy Moran and missed, hitting the dead rebel instead. Jimmy opened his own mouth to scream at Billy, to tell him to drop the pistol. Before he could say anything Billy Moran seemed to leap in the air, the pistol falling from his hand. He collapsed on the ground and lay still, his bare feet trailing over the dead rebel’s back. A woman standing close to Jimmy screamed.

The sight seemed to trigger something in Jimmy; he found himself suddenly running, as if his feet rather than his head had come to a decision.

He crossed the road at the side of the Green furthest from Grafton Street, running as though something was chasing him. It was as though the shot that had killed Billy Moran had acted as a starting pistol in some race that Jimmy was running alone; like a lone horse thundering around the track at his own private Fairyhouse, he was off.

The British army positions lay along the north side of the Green, the main rebel positions along the west. Jimmy now was on the east side: the only bullets that might come his way would be stray ones. Nevertheless he crouched as he ran, because a stray bullet would do just as much harm as an aimed one if it hit him. Private Martin, when he took care as he crossed Burgh Quay, Jimmy realised, was not being too cautious, only sensible: Jimmy understood that now.

He ran until he came to the Green’s south-eastern corner. Then he stopped.

What am I doing? he asked himself. What am I doing?

But he knew, really, what he was doing, though he hadn’t consciously decided to do it. If he turned right here he would reach the corner where he had met Mick on Monday. What he’d do when he got there he didn’t know, but the rebel positions would be only a few yards away.

Jimmy thought about Mick and about his guess that Mick didn’t expect to come out of this rebellion alive. He decided he had to try to find him. He started to run again, towards the College of Surgeons. A haze of dark gunsmoke hung in the air in front of the college, and through this haze Jimmy saw the flashes of the rebel guns.

It was strange and deserted at this side of the Green. A line of tram cars stood abandoned in a nearby street. Jimmy saw nobody moving. This was a dangerous place. There was real death in the air around the Green, death in the form of stray or aimed bullets flying invisibly through
the air. The bullets didn’t care what they hit. It wasn’t their job to think.

‘Conway! You! Conway!’ The shout came during a lull in the firing. It came from somewhere nearby.

Jimmy looked around him, terrified. Had he imagined it?

‘Blast you, boy! Conway!’

Still Jimmy couldn’t see where the shouting was coming from. He looked around him again. The voice uttered a string of curses.

‘Lord help us!’ the voice said. ‘The whole family is stupid!’

And then Jimmy saw the source of the voice. At the other end of the barricade by which he stood, and from its other side, a head was looking at him from behind a cart. It was a big head, wearing a battered bowler hat. The hair on the head, and the big moustache on the face, were fiery red, as was the face itself. The head belonged to Jimmy’s uncle – though he preferred to think of him just as Ella’s husband – Charlie Fox.

Beside the red face now Jimmy saw the strained white knuckles of Charlie’s hands. He was holding himself up by gripping the edges of the cart, and the features of the red face were twisted as if in pain. Charlie must be wounded!

‘Blast you, boy!’ he gasped. ‘Get over here and help me!’

It was obvious that pain had done nothing to change
Charlie’s usual temper. Jimmy didn’t know him well, but he didn’t like him. He was an unpleasant man, who hated his wife’s relatives and made no secret of it. Still, he was a relative – sort of – and he needed help. Jimmy hardly hesitated before stepping towards him.

Before he even reached Charlie Jimmy knew something was odd. He could literally smell it. What he smelled was an overpowering stink of whiskey, and it seemed to be coming from Charlie Fox.

‘You took your damned time,’ Charlie snarled. His voice was thick.

There was no sign on Charlie of any wound at all. It was obvious now what was wrong with him: Charlie was drunk! Completely drunk, at nine o’clock in the morning!

‘Well?’ he gasped. ‘Are you going to help me?’

Jimmy tried to control his anger. He thought of Mick, fighting now for what he believed in, just a few yards away from this very barricade. He thought of Ma, who by now would be awake and worrying. Then, Jimmy thought of Ella. Maybe if he helped Charlie home …

Charlie’s rough hand grabbed his coat.

‘Damned woman threw me out when the money was gone,’ Charlie slurred. ‘When I’d spent it all …’

He was talking about some bar owner, Jimmy guessed, or someone in a shebeen, one of the city’s illegal drinking places. Charlie’s hat had fallen off, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was on Jimmy’s side of the barricade now,
holding onto Jimmy, hauling himself up.

Jimmy swayed under Charlie’s weight. The coins in his pocket jingled. Charlie dragged him savagely forward.

‘What’s that?’ he demanded. Suddenly he was not so helpless. From close up, the smell of drink made Jimmy nearly sick. ‘Where did you get money, you little thief?’

Jimmy tried to stammer an answer; he thought it best to say nothing about soldiers. ‘M-M-Mick …’ he began.

Charlie hit him hard in the face. ‘Don’t lie to me, you whelp,’ Charlie growled. ‘Your fine rebel uncle has no money left. I’ve spent it – he won’t need it on the gallows, where he’s going. Now where did you get money? Stole it, I suppose, like he did.’

Jimmy felt tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t see properly. One part of his mind, though, felt very clear and very angry. Charlie had taken Mick’s money, not Ella! He’d taken Mick’s money, and over the past two days he’d spent it all on drink. Four pounds! No wonder he smelled so foul.

‘You spent four whole pounds?’ Jimmy gasped.

‘I wish I had,’ groaned Charlie. ‘But your stupid aunt wasted half of it on food – for your lot, if you don’t mind. The whole kitchen full of food to give away, and me dying with the thirst! I taught her a lesson she won’t forget, I tell you!’

Food! The word struck Jimmy like a bolt of lightning.

Charlie was standing erect now, holding Jimmy up by
the collar of his coat with one hand so that the boy’s feet no longer touched the ground. As Jimmy opened swollen lips to say something more, Charlie hit him in the face again with his free hand. The man was mad with drink.

‘You little rebel thief!’ he said. ‘Give me that money!’

Jimmy’s head was spinning. Charlie had robbed Mick’s money, and now he wanted Jimmy’s! Jimmy drew back one foot as far as it would go. Charlie didn’t notice. Then, with all of his strength, Jimmy lashed out and kicked him in the stomach.

Charlie noticed that, all right. He roared like a bull, dropped Jimmy immediately and clawed at his stomach. Coins from Jimmy’s pocket scattered on the roadway, but Jimmy didn’t stop to pick them up. It was time to run.

Behind him he heard Charlie roaring curses, and then his heavy steps in pursuit. Jimmy had kicked him with his full strength, but it was only the strength of a weak and undernourished boy.

Jimmy didn’t get far. He was jerked from his feet as Charlie’s heavy hand clamped down on his collar. Behind him Charlie’s wordless roar of hate and pain sounded louder than the nearby gunfire.

There was another blow, to the back of Jimmy’s head this time. Behind him Charlie gave a great screaming yell. It sounded less like anger than agony. Jimmy was flung to the ground. He hit his head on the road.

Am I shot? he wondered.

A great crushing weight landed on his back. All of his breath left his body as he screamed. All consciousness went, as if someone had switched it off.

AN OLD WOMAN CHASED HIM
down an endless corridor. She wore a black shawl. Her hair was green and there was blood at the sides of her mouth. At length she cornered him and advanced, smiling. There was more blood on her teeth and gums, as though she’d been eating raw meat.

‘Give us a kiss, love,’ she said.

Her smile grew wider and wider. Then her face fell off, and shattered into pieces when it hit the floor.

Jimmy woke from the awful dream. He opened his eyes and looked at a blank ceiling. Was he dead? If so, was this heaven? If not, was it …

A woman leaned over him. Young. Her hair wasn’t green. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

Jimmy blinked. He was lying on his back, on what felt like a table or a very hard bed. ‘I’m alive!’ he said.

The woman smiled at the surprise in his voice. ‘Can you sit up?’ she asked.

She helped him. The room seemed to swim in front of
his eyes. It was not a room he knew.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘This is Hume Street Hospital,’ the woman said. She was, he saw now, dressed in a nurse’s uniform.

‘What happened to me?’ he asked her.

‘Someone … fell on you,’ she answered.

Jimmy looked at her sharply – she was leaving something out. ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘My uncle Charlie.’

He remembered now what had happened, and tried to make sense of it. ‘Was he shot?’ he asked the nurse. The calmness in his voice surprised him. He might have been asking her about the weather. The woman hesitated.

‘He was,’ said Jimmy with certainty.

She nodded.

Jimmy looked down at his body. He was sitting, dressed in his own clothes, on a bed-like trolley. He could see no sign of a wound.

‘I’m not shot, though, am I?’ he asked.

‘No,’ the nurse said. She sounded happier talking about this. ‘I’m told that the man … that your uncle … was hitting you and shouting. He was holding you up off the ground. Then he was shot, and he dropped you. You landed on your head. Then he fell on top of you.’

‘He was drunk,’ Jimmy said. ‘He spent my Ma’s money on drink then he wanted my money too.’

‘Oh!’ said the nurse. ‘I see.’

She seemed embarrassed, and Jimmy wondered
whether it was his own matter-of-fact tone that made her feel awkward. The tone reflected his feelings. He could find no grief in himself at the news of Charlie’s death.

‘I’m not hurt, then?’ he asked.

‘You have a high temperature. Your face is swollen too – where your uncle hit you, I suppose.’

His face did feel puffy, and his whole body ached. Worse again, his head felt hot and confused. He hoped that was an effect of the beating, but it did feel like he was getting sick, and he couldn’t afford that.

How long had he been unconscious? He had no way of knowing. The blinds in the room were drawn. From nearby came the sound of gunfire. Jimmy was suddenly afraid.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Three o’clock,’ the nurse said. ‘We thought it best to let you wake up naturally. It’s always the safest way.’

Jimmy wasn’t listening. Three o’clock? He had been unconscious for six hours! Anything could have happened!

‘So if I’m not hurt,’ he said, ‘I can go.’

‘Well, there’s your temperature,’ she said. ‘And you did get a very nasty bang on your head when you hit the road. You might have concussion, or shock. You do seem to be all right now, only … your coat is ruined.’

From a chair she picked up the overcoat he’d found in Old Abbey Street. The coins still left in the pocket jingled.
The coat was covered with dried mud and blood, Charlie’s blood.

‘Maybe you should stay here for a while,’ the nurse said. ‘Till we find out if that temperature goes down. When you get a knock on the head, the effects can take a while to show.’

‘No,’ said Jimmy firmly. ‘I must go. My Ma will be worried sick about me.’

It wasn’t a lie – she would certainly be worried about him. The nurse looked undecided, but they were busy here, looking after lots of wounded people. Finally she nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she will be worried. What about your coat?’

Jimmy shrugged. ‘I’ll never wear it again,’ he said, looking at the stains.

The nurse blushed, feeling that she’d been insensitive. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But there’s money in the pocket.’

‘Yes. My money and my mouth organ. Could you take them out for me?’

‘Of course.’

She pulled out the coins and handed them to him. Jimmy stuffed them in the pocket of his own old jacket. Only some of the money had fallen on the ground when Charlie tried to take it; most of it seemed to be still here. The nurse handed him the harmonica, and he put that in his other pocket. As Jimmy put it away, he felt something
in the bottom of his pocket already. It was the chocolate that the young Volunteer had given him that morning. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Have there been many civilians shot?’ he asked the nurse.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Too many.’

Any at all, Jimmy thought, was too many. Soldiers went out to fight – it was their job. But ordinary people just went about their business, and the bullets hit them anyway. It wasn’t fair.

Although he tried to hide it from the nurse as he left, Jimmy still felt dizzy and confused. He hoped that it was just the result of Charlie’s clouts, but he’d been sick often enough to know what sickness felt like, and at the back of his mind now a single word had formed itself: fever. He tried to put the thought out of his mind. If he was coming down with Sarah’s fever then he was in very big trouble indeed.

Hume Street hospital was just off the eastern side of the Green. Jimmy had been listening to the gunfire since waking. He’d heard, too, the occasional distant sound of the artillery. By now the shooting seemed almost a natural part of the city’s sounds. But when he got out into the open air he noticed that the sounds were different now after all.

At first, hearing the artillery, he’d thought it was the gunboat still shelling Liberty Hall. That did seem odd: six hours of shelling would have reduced the building to
rubble, even if no-one had noticed that it was empty. Now he realised that there was more than one big gun firing. He could only think that they’d started bombarding the Post Office. He shivered at the thought.

He stood outside the hospital undecided, trying to make some sense from the sounds he was hearing. As he stood, he ate the chocolate he’d been given so many hours before. It had softened in his pocket, and lost its shape, but it tasted wonderful.

No mere taste could cheer Jimmy up now though. Inside he was devastated. He’d been unconscious for six solid hours. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he hadn’t even got close to Ella’s. And he hadn’t found out about Mick either.

Of course he knew now that there was no money in Ella’s, but there was food. That was even better. The whole kitchen full, Charlie had said, and all meant for the Conways. He was still more than half way to her house. It would be foolish to go back when he was so close. The fighting was getting worse: he might not get another chance.

A man was walking up Hume Street towards him. Jimmy ran over to him. ‘Mister!’ he said. ‘Mister! I have to go to Northumberland Road. Do you know if there’s fighting there?’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ the man said. ‘
Northumberland
Road is like a slaughterhouse. I saw it from Mount
Street. The British came marching up it, and the other fellows laid into them. There’s no way you’ll get there.’

Those six lost hours had ruined everything, Jimmy realised. The fighting had started in exactly the place that he wanted to go: he’d missed his chance. He shivered, and a hot flush spread over his body. He felt sick.

‘Go home, lad,’ advised the man. ‘Get in off the streets.’

‘If I can get home,’ Jimmy said bitterly.

‘You’ll have to get in somewhere before nightfall anyway,’ the man said. ‘The British have declared a curfew: everyone is to be off the streets before dark. Otherwise they’ll be shot at.’

At the back of his mind Jimmy had been wondering whether he might somehow hang around till the fighting in Northumberland Road died down. Now even that seemed impossible.

‘I must be away,’ the man said. ‘Off home with you now, sonny, if you’ve any sense.’

Jimmy nodded dumbly. He felt too bad to speak. Maybe there really was nothing else he could do now except get home safely. He
had
managed to get a little money, but it would be useless with no shops open.

He thought of the journey back across the river. That too would be dangerous. Then he thought of all that food at Ella’s. He was so close now. Why not risk going on? He had little to lose and everything to gain.