The Easter Rising 1916 - Molly's Diary (Hands-on History) Read online

  Both Jack and I have learned Morse code from Daddy and for our amusement we have developed our own tapping system, using knocks like prisoners use instead of dashes and dots. We sometimes communicate with it through our bedroom walls. “God Bless You” for example is G-B-U – two knocks pause two knocks, two knocks pause one, then five pause four. It’s gas fun.

  I spent a watchful evening sewing muslin bags for the moss.

  I don’t know what to do about Jack, and it gives me a feeling like I’m teetering on the roof.

  In any event Father was so tired and dozed so peacefully in his armchair by the fire, I didn’t have the heart to add to his cares by saying anything about Jack. I tried to put it out of my mind. Perhaps it is best if I sleep on it and see what tomorrow brings.

  Then Jack came home briefly and said he was going out to the Dublin Mountains again, tomorrow. I bet he’s up to something.

  “You cannot go!” I cried. “You will have to stay with me when Father goes to work.”

  “Molly, dear, Miss Nugent will come.”

  “But her headache,” I said very loudly.

  “What headache?” my father laughed. “Unless you are planning to give her one with your shouting!”

  Jack smirked at me. I could say nothing, or I would be caught out in not owning up that Miss Nugent was sick today.

  All I have to do is say Jack is in the Fianna and there will be skin and hair flying! But if I do he will never forgive me and I don’t want to lose Jack.

  7.45 a.m. Monday 24th April 1916

  My bedroom.

  I awoke sweating from a troubling dream. I saw fires, all scarlet and leaping flames, and Jack lost in a burning forest. I ran in to see if he was in bed, but there was only the faint imprint of his head on the pillow. I looked under his mattress and his uniform was gone! So I think he does mean to go on some practice with the Countess and the Fianna Boy Scouts in their game of soldiers.

  I had my breakfast of porridge with honey, lining up all the husks around the rim of the bowl. My father had a boiled egg and toast. When I put on my shoes, I found a little white rosebud inside one. I smiled and admired it in the palm of my hand. Jack must have picked it up somewhere and left it as a peace offering. I put it in my locket behind his little portrait, opposite the one of my parents. But I am anxious to see him and settle the peace between us properly. For I cannot bear to be out of sorts with him!

  & & &

  11.30 a.m. Easter Monday 24th April

  Father and I went for a walk up to the Green to feed the ducks at 9 o’clock. It was a lovely warm spring day for the bank holiday with daffodils and crocuses out in the parks. I could see buds on the trees, including the cherry blossoms that are wearing white for Eastertide. But I felt uneasy about my dream and all the mystery surrounding Jack’s actions. My conscience was troubling me about the list of GPO machines and equipment I’d written out for Jack. So I resolved to say something to Father about my fears.

  But just as I opened my mouth, we bumped into the Killikellys on Sackville Street – the grandfather, the aunts, Addy and her younger sister Jane, and their glum nephews who live on Upper Gloucester Street. I thanked Addy most kindly for my wonderful diary.

  “It is her constant companion,” my father joked. “No doubt it is full of secrets.”

  I blushed, for he was nearer the mark than he guessed.

  “We are taking a special excursion to Athlone to visit my granddaughters Annie and Fanny who are at Our Lady’s Bower Boarding School,” Mr Killikelly informed us. “The nuns have kindly told us we can board with them for the week.” With his upright bearing, he looked every inch the retired Royal Irish Constabulary Officer. His two grandsons Christopher and Gerard are both in the Fianna and they didn’t look very happy to be carted off to Athlone to stay with a bunch of nuns!

  “I have to hurry,” said Jane. “I’m on duty at Crown Alley Telephone Exchange all over the holiday.”

  “Just like Father,” I said.

  Most of the shops were shut for the holiday. Even the Dublin Bread Company café, which is normally full of chess players, was closed.

  We stopped at the bridge over the swift-flowing Liffey to gaze out to sea. I noticed a good many people in uniform cycling up to Liberty Hall, so perhaps they are starting a cycling club instead of marching everywhere! I hope the Countess will be happy and get to wave her flags.

  As we walked by Trinity College, we met a jolly group of British soldiers in uniform.

  “G’day, mate,” a man said in jaunty tones. “Is this here Trinity College?”

  “It is indeed, sir,” my father said. “And where do you hail from?”

  “Australia, mate. The name’s Private Michael John McHugh.” He shook my father’s hand. “We’re off-duty Anzacs – ya know, Australian and New Zealand soldiers – and just taking in the sights. Have been with the 9th Battalion in Gallipoli in Turkey.”

  “You are brave men,” my father said.

  “I’m on sick leave, had influenza – but I’m fine now. My mate here is another wild colonial – from South Africa.” He pointed to one of his companions who was wearing a kilt.

  “Always glad to take the Irish Air,” the South African said, swirling his skirts and pretending to dance a jig.

  “Have you ever seen a kangaroo?” I asked eagerly of Private McHugh.

  The man mussed up my hair. “Not only have I seen one, I’ve eaten one!” he laughed. “Tough old critters. Not for young ladies.” He jumped up and down to show me how they bounce around.

  “You can be sure that kanga didn’t get away from McHugh,” laughed one of the other Anzacs. “He’s the best damn shot in the whole army. Whole world I’d wager.”

  “Not today, I’m off duty. G’day to you. We’ll make our way up Sackville Street?”

  All McHugh’s sentences sounded like questions so I answered him just in case.

  “It’s up there across the bridge,” I replied. “The widest street in Europe.” With much laughter they continued on their way.

  We sauntered up to Stephen’s Green. I fed the ducks with a great many other children, some with their nannies gossiping on park benches. My father got talking with the park keeper, Mr Carney, and they remarked that there weren’t many men about – they must have all gone to Fairyhouse for the day.

  There was such a holiday air abroad that I felt quite relaxed again and was glad I had not spoiled the mood by opening my big mouth about Jack. It’s probably best if I wait until Mother is home before disturbing the hornet’s nest.

  Back home, I was wearing my mother’s Red Cross apron and pretending to be a doctor when Miss Nugent came to sit with me again. In between scolding my poor arithmetic and calling me a booby, she embroidered her big tapestry of Dublin city, with Nelson’s Pillar at the centre. She is such a poor needlewoman and always in such a temper, I expected her to stab herself. She said she’d much rather be going to Fairyhouse with her beau, Colonel Foster, who has also hired a motor car. Her “beau” is about a hundred and has a red face like a baboon’s bottom and a yellow mustache like an old sweeping brush. I am not being rude but “stating the facts” as she instructs me to do.

  “Still playing doctors and nurses at your age,” she said nastily, glancing at my aprons and my teddies and dolls. “At least you have little chance of killing them.”

  She made me so cross again, I confess now, Dear Diary, to doing something unkind. Not on purpose exactly.

  I went to the privy at the bottom of our backyard, and when I came back she noticed something clinging to the top of my head.

  “Child, you are a disgrace. There is a big black piece of dust in your hair.” She cruelly grabbed at the hair on the crown of my head and swept something off that landed in her workbox. But she didn’t notice it.

  Straight away, I saw it was a spider as big as the palm of your hand and all twitchy and black. I tried to say something, but she told me to stay quiet and attend to my English lesson, which explained the difference b
etween “paradox” and “irony”. So, for once, I did as I was told.

  Well, it was very funny and just like a re-enactment of “Miss Muffet”! She went back to her needlework and when she reached for her scissors, her hand brushed the massive creepy spider and it scurried onto her embroidery cloth. As she leapt onto her chair, her shrieks would have woken the very devil!

  I said, “Why, what can be the matter?” Knowing full well.

  She pointed with a terrible face like thunder.

  I regarded her embroidery of wavy streets and said, all calm, “I see you have stitched a strange large straggly spider. It is most lifelike. Your best work yet.” I was being pert but then I did something naughty. I picked up the cloth and made to bring it to her.

  “Why, it’s real!” I said.

  “Go away, horrible unnatural child! Tell your parents I am not coming back! To think I nearly missed Fairyhouse because of you!” She ran from the house.

  I felt a tiny bit guilty but then laughed and laughed.

  I was free, hurrah! I decided to crawl out on the roof. I took Father’s spyglass with me. It is brass and leather and extends out in four sections to just over a foot and a half. It helps you see stuff miles away as if it’s under your nose.

  As I looked down Abbey Street, I saw the marchers from Liberty Hall and strained to see if Jack might be among them.

  I saw Matthew Connolly, the bugler, at the front, sounding the fall-in as a group including his brother Seán the actor headed over Butt Bridge by the Customs House. They were quite a raggle-taggle army of about sixty. I spotted the leader, James Connolly, in his dark green uniform with a gun with a bayonet. On his right, Patrick Pearse the teacher with his large pale face, in the darker green of the Volunteers. Beside him, the man who looks half dead, Joseph Plunkett the Count’s son, with a bandage around his throat. He was beautifully dressed in high tan leather boots with spurs and wore a pince-nez eyepiece. They were marching together, just like in Anto’s poem.

  Some of the small army were in green uniforms. But many had made up their uniform as if for a play, with leggings and tunics and those bandoliers that make them look like bandits. Some had no uniforms, just armbands. At the back I thought I spied the old bomber tobacconist in normal clothing, Tom Clarke himself.

  Two dray horses rumbled along in the rear and pulled an assortment of equipment, including guns. I also saw a pile of cauliflowers on the back of the cart.

  As I gazed at the marchers and thought how sad it was that so many people want to fight each other, I felt very guilty for frightening poor old Nosy Nugent. I vowed to make an apology. So I raced downstairs to take her embroidery to the Metropole Hotel across the street where she boards, forgetting for the moment that she had probably gone to Fairyhouse.

  I noticed that my father had left behind his sandwiches, as he was in such a rush for a meeting with the Post Office Head, Mr Hamilton Norway. I decided to take them to Father as the GPO is just beside the Metropole. After that, I knew I would have a boring day doing Latin as penance.

  9 p.m. Monday evening 24th April.

  My bedroom.

  Mercy! The events I now have to describe are most extraordinary and terrible and I am out of my mind with worry!

  As I ran out the door today I saw the tin-pot army turn into Sackville Street. Another small group split off and crossed the bridge towards Westmoreland Street. I made haste, as I didn’t want to get caught up with them, though I nearly tripped up scanning their ranks for a sight of Jack.

  A group of British Officers were gathered on the pavement outside the Metropole Hotel and laughed to see their junk-shop weapons.

  “Will these bloody fools never tire of marching up and down the street?” sneered one.

  “Here comes the Citizen Army with their pop-guns!” jeered another.

  I bolted into the main entrance of the GPO and enquired after my father. One of the counter staff said he might have left with Mr Hamilton Norway who had an urgent meeting at the Castle. But another said he might still be in the Instrument Room, as there were a few problems with the wires. I joked with the clerk that some people have nothing better to do than buy stamps on a holiday.

  I was one of them! I quickly purchased a postcard and stamp for my mother and wrote a brief message saying how much I missed her.

  The clerk was ushering me towards the lift when the marchers from outside suddenly surged in.

  “Everybody out!” shouted a tall good-looking man. It was “The Big Fella”, Michael Collins.

  Several people looked with amusement, as if it was a joke or some kind of game.

  The woman in front of me, a large lady in a colourful hat, sighed in annoyance. “I’m sorry but my daughter is getting married in six weeks and these are the wedding invitations,” she insisted. “I am not leaving here without my stamps!”

  She got the message when a rebel poked her gently in the backside with his pike. Then the clerk vaulted over the counter and ran for the door. That was like a signal. A sudden understanding swept through the room and it was bedlam! People rushed towards the main doors in a frenzy, coats flying, bodies bumping into each other.

  A British Lieutenant was held on the end of a pike as Michael Collins searched him. It was the officer who had earlier sneered at them.

  “Stop this nonsense at once! I am Lieutenant Chalmers!” he shouted.

  Collins looked at him coldly.

  “Am I to be killed?” said the officer.

  “You are being held as a prisoner of war,” said Collins.

  They tied him up with telephone cord and put him in the tall wooden telephone cabinet with the clock on top, the centerpiece of the new public area. I thought the soldier would die of fright!

  There was so much turmoil that some of the rebels were nearly pushed out the doors themselves. I got the impression that some of them didn’t realize themselves what was going on. At first it was comical but then, as guns were brandished, fear gripped me like ice in my veins. I felt my legs glued to the floor by the counter.

  “Smash the windows!”

  The yell broke through my stupor. There was a hellish racket as axes, rifle-butts and hammers smashed into the beautiful big glass panes all around the building. Shards of glass flew up into the air like icicles.

  A woman outside shouted, “Glory be to God! Would you look at them divils smashin’ all the lovely windows!”

  A young boy rebel gashed his hand and his comrade wearing a Red Cross on his chest shouted, “Damn those windows – they’re more dangerous than the British army!”

  The sight of scarlet blood on the boy’s tunic shook me to the core. Nothing in the First Aid manuals prepared me for the shock of real injury and, to my shame, I shrank back, relived to see the rebel with the Red Cross armband come to his aid. In the confusion, nobody saw me scuttle around and press open the lift on the Henry Street side of the building.

  How long those few seconds felt, reaching the first floor! My stomach clenched into a knot. “Please let us all be safe!” I prayed. But it gave me time to regain my composure and think of a plan.

  I would warn my father and then immediately try to find Jack. If he was caught up in this it was my fault. If I had betrayed information about the GPO, I was just as guilty. I should have spoken sooner.

  The doors of the lift opened, and all seemed weirdly normal on the first floor. I realized the rebels had yet to come here. But it wasn’t calm for long. A telegraphist flew by the glass panels between the offices that lined both sides of the corridors, into the Comptroller’s office.

  “All the telegraph connections are down!” she cried.

  There was such a hubbub in the Instrument Room, with people checking connections, that nobody noticed me.

  “All the cross-channel wires are disconnected!” a man called out.

  A man ran in breathless. “There’s nothing wrong with the heat coil frame. O’Donovan is checking it now. But he thinks all telegraph wires have been cut.”

  My f
ather was in the basement! I had to try to get to him.

  Someone else called out, “It’s armed insurrection! The Shinners have occupied downstairs.”

  The Shinners is what everyone calls the rebels, even though I’ve heard my father say that the Republican Sinn Féin party (‘sinn féin’ means ‘ourselves’ in Irish) doesn’t have its own army. So I’m not the only one who gets them all mixed up.

  An older man, Samuel Guthrie the Superintendent, called out,

  “Kelly, phone to Army Command HQ, the Police at the Castle and to Marlboro Barracks!”

  He ran to the windows to look out at the glass being smashed.

  “Glory be, they’re piling up all the Post Office ledgers to barricade the windows!” a man called out in the street.

  Now I understood why they had smashed the windows. To house the barricades and in case they got shot at in an attack.

  Nobody noticed me. So I tucked in behind a stationery cupboard, as I tried to figure out a way to get to the basement.

  It felt like hours in that cramped space, but I could only have been there for little more than ten minutes.

  Around twelve thirty, a Sergeant of the Guard rushed in with four men.

  “They are forcing the stairs entrance leading from Henry Street to the Instrument Room!”