The Hawthorns Bloom in May (23 page)

‘We’ve held out for three days,’ he said proudly. ‘We’ll try for a few more. Against a couple of battalions of well-trained troops, we stand no chance. Never did really, but it had to be done.’

‘Why, Brendan, why?’ she said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘All those lives, volunteers and soldiers and ordinary people who had no part, neither one side nor the other. Maybe
your
life as well if you go
back and fight on,’ she said, aware that tears were streaming silently down her face.

‘Don’t cry, Sarah,’ he said kindly. ‘I knew what I was doing when I joined Michael Mallin at Liberty Hall. Even if McNeill hadn’t cancelled the manoeuvres and messed up the whole thing, we’d still not have had much chance. But we can’t let the English walk over us, treating us like natives, like they did with the Boers. Even if we fail, we’ve reminded Ireland she’s a nation, not a colony.’

‘But wouldn’t that have come with Home Rule? Wasn’t it worth giving it a try?’ she said quickly, wiping her tears brusquely with her sleeve.

‘Live old horse an’ you’ll get grass,’ he said bitterly. ‘All Ireland has ever had from England is promises an’ poverty for the workers. Your family has gone up in the world, Sarah, an’ you’ve done your bit for those at the bottom o’ the pile, an’ so has Uncle Sam, here an’ in America. But it’s not enough. Individuals can only ameliorate. Change has to come where the power is an’ that means force of arms.’

Ameliorate. The word set up an echo in Sarah’s mind. A strange word in the mouth of a country boy from Creeslough, who’d left Massinass School at the first possible moment. But then, he’d progressed to a more powerful school in Liberty Hall, studying with Michael Mallin and Jim Larkin, just as Uncle Sam had studied with Michael Davitt and the Land Leaguers.

‘And the innocent victims?’ she prompted.

‘The cost of freedom is always high,’ he said calmly.

Sarah was about to retort when there was a sudden dip in the light level and a sound overhead.

Brendan was alert instantly. With a single gesture, he signalled to her that her face and pale wool cardigan might catch an eye. At the same time, he moved silently back into the deep shadow made by an old wardrobe. Sarah dropped to her knees beside the pile of curtains he’d just abandoned, pulled one of them up and over her head and lay looking at the bare floor, the smell of dust and rotting fabric all around her.

As she drew her legs up under the heavy curtain and eased herself further into shadow, she wondered if she could have retreated the necessary few steps to the narrow stairway and pulled the door behind her. But there had been so little warning. The echo of her feet on the stair or the creak of the attic door closing might be as audible out on the roof as the sounds from overhead were in the crowded attic.

Even as she questioned whether she’d done the right thing, she heard voices above them. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the speakers were certainly English. It sounded like a soldier from somewhere in the Midlands, which might well be, for Mrs Norway had told her the
Sherwood Foresters were among the recently arrived battalions.

The footsteps moved back and forth across the slates, the men calling to each other, sometimes closer, sometimes further away. Sarah got a crick in her neck holding her head up from the dirty floor. She lowered it gingerly without a sound. If one of the soldiers above were to drop down as Brendan had, he would land right on top of her. They could lift up the skylight from outside and get in as easily as Brendan had.

The floor was hard and the smell of the old curtains became more and more oppressive. All Sarah could see from under her heavy covering was the few inches of floor just beyond her nose. She watched the red glow from the burning buildings flicker on the bare boards, her ears straining for any sound. Mercifully, for the moment, the artillery fire had almost faded away.

Minutes passed slowly. The hard floor and the confined space became even harder to bear. Twice she painfully suppressed a sneeze. Still the feet tramped overhead. Once, she thought someone kicked the edge of the skylight, but the curse that followed suggested he’d merely tripped over it’s raised edge.

She had no idea how long she’d lain absolutely still. If a soldier did decided to investigate a possible hideout for a sniper, could she get to her feet in
time to insist she’d just come up to observe the fire? And what would Brendan do? Would he stay out of sight? How could she bear it if he shot a man in front of her? Or, if a soldier shot him?

The thought of bullets flying in the tiny space was terrifying. Were it to happen, she reckoned her chances of getting back to the children unharmed were fairly small.

From overhead came a shout, a third voice, calling to the others, louder than them. Before there was any reply, there began a violent drumming on the roof, a crescendo of sound like a roll of drums she couldn’t identify. She felt herself tighten with an unbearable tension until she realised a squall of rain had moved in quickly and was now pounding the roof. Even as she realised what it was, the fierce battering eased to a steady downpour.

The floorboards beneath her vibrated and she felt rather than heard Brendan move. Cautiously, she turned back her covering and scrambled painfully to her knees, her back sore and her legs stiff. One foot had gone to sleep. Brendan pointed to the door.

Together they made their way silently downstairs by the faint reflected glow of the fires spilling through the back windows. Only when they reached the sitting-room door did Sarah speak.

‘Stay here till I light the candle,’ she whispered. ‘It’s pitch black with the shutters closed.’

She did not point out that he was almost certain to knock over one the tables laden with Lily’s precious china if he attempted to follow her.

She crossed the room cautiously, felt for the cold marble edge of the mantelpiece and ran her hand back and along behind the clock. The matches were in their usual place. The moment the flame flared in her hand, he came silently after her, weaving his way deftly between the obstacles.

As she lit a candle, it suddenly occurred to her that Brendan’s flexibility of body and speed of response had probably saved his life more than once already.

‘I must get back, Sarah,’ he said quickly. ‘Would there be any chance of a bite to eat? And I need some water,’ he added, unhooking a water-bottle from his belt.

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she said, taking the empty water-bottle from his hand.

She lit a second candle and hurried out to the kitchen as quickly as its flickering light would permit, wondering what there was left to give him.

‘Not much choice,’ she said to herself, taking half a small loaf from the bin.

She cut off a slice for Lily and one for each of the children for breakfast, wrapped them in a cloth, put them back in the bin and used the last of her mother’s damson to make jam sandwiches from the rest.

There was half a pint of milk in the bottle
standing on the marble slab in the larder. She poured about an eggcup full into a jug for Lily’s morning tea and drained the rest of the bottle into a glass. She gazed around hopefully, as if there might be something she’d forgotten, but she knew the only thing in the larder was some soup she’d made the previous day. Sam had come home clutching three cauliflowers he’d bought from a man who’d braved the bullets and was doing a roaring trade from his horse and cart on the south side of St Stephen’s Green.

She put the candlestick on a tray with the milk, sandwiches and the refilled water bottle, made her way up the steps that led from the kitchen and moved along the corridor running towards the front of the house. Before she’d gone very far she was startled to hear low voices from the sitting room.

‘Sam,’ she said quietly, as she pushed the door shut with her shoulder. ‘Did we wake you?’

‘No, I didn’t hear a thing,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep when the firing stopped, so I came for my book. Maybe a good thing, maybe not,’ he said, looking at Brendan, who seemed not at all troubled by his uncle’s sudden appearance.

Brendan eyed the tray as Sarah set it down. She moved the candlestick to join its match on the table. A pair of beautiful Georgian silver candlesticks to
light the table and only jam sandwiches to eat, she thought ruefully.

‘Sorry this is all there is,’ she said, handing over the plate and the glass of milk. ‘Not even butter, but it’s Ma’s damson jam,’ she added wryly. ‘No gas either, so I couldn’t make you tea.’

‘This is great,’ he said, taking a huge bite from one of the generously cut triangles.

She watched as he munched vigorously. It was perfectly clear he hadn’t eaten for some time.

‘Brendan, there’s a bedroom in the attic where Maureen and Bridget sleep,’ Sam began quietly. ‘We can find you some clothes and hide the rifle safely.’

His mouth full, Brendan simply raised his eyebrows.

‘What’s to be gained going out there to be killed? Its only a matter of time,’ Sam went on, a growing urgency in his voice. ‘They’ve got a ring round the centre and they’re closing in. They’ve got as far as Abbey Street and taken one of the bridges,’ he continued, his agitation visible even in the softness of candle light. ‘It might be tomorrow, it might be Friday, but sooner or later they’ll tighten the noose, pound the GPO to bits and come and clear out what’s left of your lot. What’s the point, Brendan, throwing your life away?’

Sarah looked from one to the other, dropped down in one of the dining chairs from where she could see both faces, pale in the dim light, Sam full
of an edgy tension, Brendan drinking his milk as easily and enthusiastically as if he were lowering a Guinness in a pub with a friend.

‘I made a promise, Sam,’ he said quietly after he’d thrown his head back to drain the very last drop. ‘After the lock-out and all those people starving till the relief came, I saw things I never want to see again. The Citizen Army has to stick to its promise.’

‘But Brendan, this rising isn’t what you made your promise for,’ he said, his voice hissing slightly as he tried to make his point in a whisper. ‘That’s why McNeill called it off. He knows something we don’t know, but I can make a guess at what it is. Patrick Pearse is no Sinn Feiner. I think the Brotherhood is behind this, and they’ve made use of McNeill and the Volunteers for their own purposes. It’s the wrong thing at the wrong time, Brendan. Look at who’s suffering. The very people the Citizen Army was formed to defend, thrown out of their houses, burnt out of their jobs. Over 500 civilians have been killed or injured so far …’

His voice trailed off as Sarah watched Brendan shake his head.

‘Thanks, Sarah,’ he said very quietly. ‘Tell Auntie Rose she makes great jam. I’ll come an’ see her one of these days if my luck holds,’ he added, standing up.

Sam stood up too and looked at his nephew, a
lightly-built young man no taller than Sarah, his bright eyes flicking from one to the other as he hitched his gun more firmly on his shoulder.

‘If Pearse surrenders,’ Sam began again, a touch of desperation in his voice, ‘Don’t for any sakes be heroic. When the battle’s lost, live to fight another day.’

Sarah watched the two men shake hands. As Brendan was about to turn away, he changed his mind. He turned and embraced his uncle and the two of them clung together for a long moment.

‘I owe you a kiss, Sarah, when I’ve a clean face,’ Brendan said lightly, turning towards her.

‘Good luck, Brendan,’ she said quietly, as he walked to the door.

She was almost sure she could see tears glittering in his eyes.

‘Back, front or roof,’ she asked coolly, as she picked up a candlestick to light his way.

‘Back,’ he replied, as he followed her into the corridor without so much as a glance behind him.

A few moments later, he disappeared into the dark shadows of the strip of garden that ran towards Frederick Street and Sarah returned to the sitting room where Sam sat, his head in his hands.

She came and sat down near him. She was about to speak when a furious barrage of artillery opened up. The vibrations made the candles flicker.

‘They’re getting closer,’ he said, having to speak
loudly to make himself heard. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance.’

There was no comfort to be offered, nothing she could possibly say that would touch the look of desolation she saw spreading across Sam’s face. She wanted to tell him that at least he had tried, but the noise was now so great they couldn’t hear each other speak. Sam indicated that he was going to try to read, Sarah that she was going back up stairs to make sure the children were all right.

As she passed through the hall, a gleam of light from the fanlight over the front door fell on the face of the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. The night would indeed be long. It was still only midnight.

When Alex Hamilton was shown into the postmaster’s room in Banbridge post office on Saturday, 29th April, 1916, he knew there was good news, before a single word was spoken.

Two days earlier he’d gone into the town to make himself known and discover the present state of affairs in Dublin. Billy Auld had jumped to his feet and waved his visitor to a chair.

‘Any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine,’ he declared.

Alex had been ready to answer any number of questions to establish his identity, but Billy asked only one.

‘How’s Sam’s mother?’

‘As good as she can be. She’s worried about Sarah and the wee ones, but she tries not to let it show. You know how she always does her best to keep up spirits.’

‘Aye, I know that fine well,’ replied Billy smiling. ‘An’ I knew you for a Hamilton as you walked through the door.’

‘Well,’ said Alex, looking enormously pleased.

He’d called in the previous day as well, but there’d been no change, but today Billy’s broad smile and bright eyes suggested something more hopeful.

‘There’s been a surrender,’ Billy began, ‘but don’t get too excited. Pearse was burnt out of the Post Office and moved to Moore Street. He had no way out from there without bad losses, so he decided to ask for terms. The military said unconditional surrender or nothing. Pearse agreed and wrote out the order, but some of the other commandants don’t believe it, so they’re fighting on. I know that Jacob’s is holding out for one and some chap called Dolores, or something like that, a foreign name, at Boland’s Mills. I’m sure there’s others too. Apparently, there’s a wee nurse being used as a go-between and some of the commandants are being taken to see Pearse for themselves, so it’ll take a while.’

‘But we
could
go tomorrow?’ Alex said levelly, doing his best not too sound too excited.

‘Well …,’ he began cautiously.

Alex grinned at him. ‘If it was your sister or your good friend?’ he said, still smiling.

‘Aye,’ Billy admitted, nodding his head. ‘I’d
do it m’self, but I hafta tell ye, there’s still a lot of fighting going on. There’s roads blocked and snipers who maybe won’t hear word of the surrender for a while. There’s a mobile unit north of Dublin near a place called Ashbourne that has killed a dozen or more policemen. I don’t know exactly where these places are, but ye might find Volunteers trying to ambush Army patrols if ye go by the main road.’

Alex nodded.

‘I’ll tell my boss,’ he said smiling. ‘Sam was down on Monday. That’ll maybe help him think out the best way into the city. Is there anything else I should tell him?’

‘Aye, maybe ye should warn him of the destruction. I spoke to one of our wee girls at the Telephone Exchange. She says they’ve been trapped there since Monday, sleeping in a cellar in turns. She got a look out this morning and she says she couldn’t believe it, you’d think you were on the Western Front. Half of Sackville Street is destroyed, all the big shops and hotels, and there’s only the walls of the GPO left. It’s still smoking, though a lot of the other fires is burnt out. And there’s no food shops open so people can get nothin’ to eat.’

‘We’ll go well prepared,’ Alex said, nodding. ‘And we’ll certainly take petrol, like you said to Sam on Wednesday.’

Alex stood up, held out his hand and said his thank you.

‘If I hear anythin’ to the bad, I’ll walk up to Ballydown this evenin,’ Billy promised as he got to his feet. ‘Are you for Liskeyborough?’

‘I am. As soon as I’ve told Rose and John the news, I’ll take Sarah’s motor and go over for Sam. We’ll need a few hours before dark to make sure both vehicles are in top form. Say one for us in the mornin’.’

‘Indeed, it’ll be more than one if I see the inside of the church at all,’ said Billy warmly. ‘Give Sarah my best wishes when you see her, and her Ma too,’ he added, as he walked with him out of the room and across the floor to the main door.

Sam was to stay overnight at Ballydown, sleeping in the room he had once shared with his brother. His mother was glad to have both Sam and Alex for supper and even more grateful they’d keep John company through the long afternoon. She guessed the two well-cared for vehicles would need little in the way of maintenance, but seeing they were as good as they could be was a way of passing the time.

Parked outside the large, empty barn John rented from the Jackson’s at the foot of the hill, the three men worked together. Points were greased, cables tested, oil applied.

No hand with vehicles himself, Michael Jackson came to keep them company, offering bits of news gleaned from the
Banbridge Chronicle
or
The Belfast Evening Telegraph
.

‘Sure the rumours is somethin’ chronic,’ he said, leaning against the barn wall as they worked. ‘Apparently there was supposed to be a German invasion of England while the rebels were creatin’ a diversion in Ireland, but all it came to was a few shells on some wee place in Norfolk, a couple o’ people killed and the British Navy after them in no time. An’ there was to be 50,000 coming from Galway and yer man Larkin back from America to command the Citizen Army.’

‘It all helps to sell newspapers,’ said John tartly, as Emily came out of the house with four mugs of tea on a tray and a slice each of well-buttered currant bread.

‘Half-day, today, Emily?’ asked John, as he put down his spanner and helped himself.

She smiled at him, her dark eyes sparkling.

‘Yes, thank goodness. I get so fed up being polite to people,’ she said, so promptly, that they all laughed.

‘She makes up for it when she gets home,’ Alex said quietly, as she offered the tray to him.

Sam straightened up just in time to catch the look that passed between them. So that was the way the wind was blowing. He smiled warmly at
Emily as he took his tea, heartened by what he saw.

‘What is it they say about home, Emily?’ Sam asked, as he picked up his slice of current bread. ‘Ma has it embroidered on one of those sampler things she made when she was a wee girl.
Home, the place where we grumble the most and are treated the best
.’

‘That’s right, Sam. There’s a whole lot of those sayings that wee girls had to embroider,’ his father replied. ‘They came out of a copy book. Yer Ma and I think we had the same one, tho’ we were at the far ends of Ireland from each other.’

‘The coneys are a feeble folk, but they build their houses in the rocks,’ said Alex unexpectedly.

‘Where did ye hear that one, Alex?’ Emily demanded, her tone light and teasing. ‘Is that a Canadian one?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly.

‘Now
my
mother had that one up on the bedroom wall,’ said John quickly, a sudden image coming back to him from long ago. ‘Mind I asked her once what a coney was and she said ‘a rabbit’, but then I told her rabbits don’t build in rock.’

Alex looked towards him, grateful that no one had noticed his own confusion and puzzlement at the sharpness of a memory which had just come to him.

‘What did she say to that, Mr Hamilton?’ Emily asked politely.

‘I think she told me I was a wee question mark,’ he said laughing, as he finished his tea, so grateful for this easy talk with friends when he found it hard to think about anything else but Sarah.

Rose spent the long afternoon baking bread and cake to send to Lily along with the tins and packets she’d already packed in cardboard boxes. There was room for Lily and Sam to come back with Sarah and the children if they wanted to, but she had a feeling Lily wouldn’t want to leave Dublin and abandon a house where so many people felt welcome, just when they might need its comfort most.

She hoped Sam might come up for a day or two, just to give her all the news and then go back when the trains were running again, but she wouldn’t rely on it given how concerned he’d be about Lily.

She sighed as she took a fruit cake from the oven. It had been a truly dreadful week. Since the moment Sam had warned them of what was happening in Dublin, there’d been nothing but bad news. Bad news from Dublin itself as the casualties rose, then a letter from Ashleigh Court and finally, only yesterday, one from France.

Anne, had written telling her that her beloved Harrington was now so weak he had to be fed. For weeks, he’d been struggling to walk, now he was confined to bed. His speech had deteriorated so
much they had to play guessing games like children when he wanted anything. The doctors who’d come down from London had just shaken their heads and said it was only a matter of time.

Two days after she’d replied to Anne, the postman brought one of the familiar envelopes that everyone dreaded. For a moment, she’d been puzzled. No one in her immediate family had joined up except her sister’s two sons and they’d been killed in action already. She’d ripped open the envelope and saw the name of her former postman, who’d asked if he could write to her because he had no one else to write to.

Dan Willis, had left her everything he possessed. Her name and address was on his will, found in his pocketbook by the comrades who’d buried him. She was informed that she would shortly receive by post, two medals, a New Testament, a wallet containing a ten shilling note and a text which said ‘Be strong and of good courage.’

If she let herself think of Dan, she wept. If she let herself think of Anne, watching over Harrington through the long days, tears poured down her cheeks. And all the time, Sarah and Helen and Hugh were shut up in a house in Dublin with a bitter conflict going on all around them.

When Sarah opened her eyes on Saturday morning she couldn’t quite believe her ears. Last night, Helen
and Hugh had returned to their own rooms, the danger from the fires now passed. She had donned one of Lily’s night dresses and slept the whole night through. Now, there was a bird singing in the narrow strip of garden at the back of the house. Although she could still hear artillery, the sound was muted and distant, and there was no rifle fire.

‘Good mornin’ ma’am, it’s a fine mornin’.’

She sat up abruptly and stared in amazement at the neatly dressed young woman who was putting a tray of morning tea on her bedside table.

‘Bridget!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you ma’am,’ the girl replied with a polite smile.

Sarah took a deep breath and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

‘You won’t give us away, ma’am, will you?’ Bridget asked calmly. ‘If the military find we were out, we’ll be put in jail or sent to England.’

‘But how did you get here? Sarah asked, now fully awake. ‘I thought you were in the GPO. Where’s Maureen? Is she all right too.’

‘Maureen has a few burns, ma’am, but not bad. We had a doctor was captured early on. An Englishman, but very nice,’ she admitted, her tone giving away her surprise. ‘He dressed them for her and he says she’ll heal well. It was a bomb she was carrying went off, but it was one of the dud ones an’ it didn’t get her face, just her stomach,’ she
explained, drawing a hand across her own waist.

‘Drink your tea, ma’am, it’s gettin’ cold,’ she said briskly, as Sarah pulled a dressing gown round her shoulders.

‘So where’s Maureen now? In hospital?’

‘Not at all,’ replied Bridget smiling. ‘She’s taking Lady Lily her tea and then she’s going to cook the breakfast while I do the fires.’

‘Cook? But there’s no gas. And we’ve only half a loaf,’ Sarah protested.

‘The gas is on now,’ Bridget said easily. ‘I made the tea on it and we brought bacon and eggs back with us,’ she continued. ‘Mr Pearse told us yesterday he would like us to go for our own safety. He said we’d done our bit an’ he was proud of us. So we went home and got cleaned up. There was a few women stayed, two of the nurses and Miss Carney,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Of course, she wouldn’t leave James Connolly when he’s in such a bad way.’

‘What happened him?’

‘Shot in the foot, but the doctor thinks its gangrene,’ Bridget said coolly. ‘He needed to be taken to hospital. Poor man, he’s in agony all the time,’ she went on, as she again motioned to Sarah to drink up.

‘Ye won’t tell on us, will ye, ma’am?’ Bridget repeated, as Sarah put down her empty cup and she took up the tray again.

‘No, I won’t tell on you,’ she said, nodding, as
she got out of bed to wash in cold water and put on the same clothes she’d been wearing since Monday.

Now that there was no need for her to struggle with brewing tea on an open fire or make sure the children didn’t burn their only piece of toast, she didn’t hurry. She tried to collect her thoughts and fit together what Bridget had told her and the rumours of a surrender that had reached the Royal Hibernian Hotel before they left after lunch.

Bridget was quite transformed. The quiet girl her sister was so ready to boss had emerged from the week much stronger in herself. She wondered if she should be glad that the rebels had allowed women to take their part as equals in the struggle, facing the same dangers as the men, or sorry that the women had not stood up and suggested that there was some other way. But then, the men wouldn’t have listened anyway.

The deaths of so many weighed upon her. Bad enough the Volunteers, or the Citizen’s Army, who’d known what they were choosing, or the soldiers who’d been trained for the job. Much worse were the civilians, the men, women and children caught in cross-fire, shot in their own homes or fleeing from the fires, left without food or shelter, their livelihood destroyed. What of them? What choice had they been given?

Sarah made the bed and tidied the room, quite forgetting that Maureen and Bridget would expect
to do it after they’d served breakfast and cleared up afterwards. She paused by the window, the curtains now drawn back, the sunlight beaming down on the narrow strip of garden.

An elderly magnolia had come into bloom in the course of the week. The waxy, white spires had begun to open on the south-facing side of the tree as if nothing whatever had disturbed their yearly routine. The pink tinted cups held up their petals to the morning sun.

‘Come in.’

Sarah turned quickly when she heard a knock at the door. Maureen came across the room towards her and dropped down into a chair in front of her.