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

  Mr Stephens was at the corner talking to another gentleman, William Smith, a Saint John’s Ambulance organizer and acquaintance of my mother.

  An elderly man stepped on the footpath and walked directly up to the barricade where he gripped the shafts of a wooden cart with a canvas hood, which was lodged near the centre. At that instant, the park exploded into life and from nowhere armed men appeared at the railings, shouting.

  “Put down that cart at once!”

  The old man ignored them and continued to drag the cart out.

  The shouts became, menacing. “Leave it be, or die!”

  “It’s his cart!” a voice rang out.

  There was dead silence as the man slowly drew his cart out. Suddenly, like the crack of a whip, three shots rang out, fired over his head, to frighten him. But he walked straight over to the rebels.

  “He has a nerve,” someone said.

  Ten guns were aimed at him. But the man walked slowly, his finger raised.

  “Put that cart back, or you are a dead man! One – two – three – four!”

  A rifle spat out. The man sank in on himself and crumpled to the ground.

  We ran to him.

  It was a most dreadful sight. The man’s brains were blown out and his hair clotted with blood. I handed a cloth from my bag to Mr Smith, who draped it around the poor man’s head.

  “We cannot leave him here,” said Mr Smith urgently, directing a group of men to pick up the poor unfortunate. “Dr Ella Webb has turned the War Supply Depot at 40 Merrion Square into a field hospital – up past the Arts Club. Better take him there.”

  A woman fell to her knees in the street and keened at the top of her voice. It was a noise like you’d hear in hell.

  “He was one of our own!” she cried. “A loyal Sinn Féiner! He was part of the theatre and the set was in his cart!”

  The mood turned against the Volunteers among the onlookers. At that moment, they were hated.

  Young Dan was white with shock. It was getting towards dusk. There was no point in me going to Fairview now to find Jack and I wasn’t sure I knew the way. I needed to get my cousin to safety first and think what to do.

  “There are no more trams from Westland Row. They’ve torn up the track,” I heard a man say as we hurried down the street. It would be difficult to get to Kingstown.

  We got back to my bicycle which mercifully, being out of sight on Grafton Street, hadn’t been taken to put on a barricade. More and more people thronged in bewildered groups, wondering how they were going to get home, with no trams or taxis.

  “Is that man dead?” Dan asked me as I cycled, with him sitting on my crossbar.

  “I think so,” I said truthfully. “He couldn’t survive that.”

  “I would like a free Ireland,” said Dan, “but I am afraid. They shot a policeman too, you know. They took him away to the hospital.”

  I felt guilty for my cousin, little more than an infant, seeing such sights. I should have got him home sooner.

  We crossed Butt Bridge without incident and hurried to Oriel Street. My Aunt Elizabeth wept with relief when she saw us at the door and she smothered Dan in an embrace.

  “I’m very sorry, Mam. I didn’t get any milk.”

  Elizabeth wept through her smiles. “I have been listening to the sound of guns all day, but couldn’t leave the house what with poor Josephine.”

  “My father has telephoned your family, Aunt Elizabeth, and we are to go to Kingstown.” I showed her the twenty pounds. She shook her head.

  “You won’t find a cab for love nor money. And it’s too late for young girls to be wandering around. Stay here with us. You mind Josephine for a while and I’ll see if I can find some food.”

  Elizabeth looked anxiously out the window of their first floor flat. The sky was darkening with heavy rain clouds. Bad weather was on the way.

  As Elizabeth put on her coat, I looked out the window and a small miracle occurred. On a horse and cart below was the Ringsend fishmonger. She looked up at the exact same moment I looked out.

  “Mother O’Brien!” I cried out in delight.

  Her little three-year-old daughter Bridie waved to me – a raven-haired beauty with dark eyes who was always dressed in white.

  I ran down from the upstairs flat to see her on the street and explained how my father had instructed us all to go to Kingstown but Jack was out in the rebellion.

  “There are no trams now,” said Mother O’Brien. “We were in Fairyhouse all day and when I heard about the trouble I resolved to get a horse and cart. It’s taken me two hours to get back into the city. But I did get my consignment of salmon from the last train out of Killarney. Beautiful plump and silver they are. And some fine speckled brown trout from Killorglin. I’ve picked up some other provisions as well.”

  I didn’t doubt it. Mother O’Brien was a resourceful widow who knew everybody and had a network of contacts. She was known for supplying the best fish to all the fancy chefs in town.

  “Tell Elizabeth she’s welcome to spend the night with me and my sister Nanny who has the shop so we’re well provided,” said Mother O’Brien. “And in the morning I’ll take you all out to Kingstown myself.”

  I could have cried with relief. Just then Elizabeth came down to join us with Josephine in her arms and Dan trailing her, but she did not seem inclined to accept the offer as she is very polite.

  “You are very kind, but we would not like to inconvenience you. Have you seen any trouble?” she asked.

  “Merciful hour,” said Mother O’Brien, “I saw some injured going into the Mater Hospital on the north side. I heard they blew up the magazine fort in Phoenix Park and shot the poor youth that was tryin’ to raise the alarm. I saw a few of them about in Cabra but they let me pass. Asked me if Civil War won the Grand National. I told them he came in third. My horse Allsorts won! They’re in the South Dublin Union, I’ve heard, as well as the GPO.”

  “The South Dublin Union, a hospital and workhouse that has three thousand paupers!” said Elizabeth, amazed. “What use is that?”

  “It commands a street where troops would come by. They’ve taken Knightsbridge Station. There are all kinds of quare rumours flyin’ about. That the Germans are invading and the Pope has committed suicide in fright. Dublin people say more than their prayers, that’s for sure!”

  “What’s the world coming to!” said Elizabeth, cuddling little Josephine.

  “If they just ate more fish, we wouldn’t have these carry-ons,” said Mother O’Brien. “And if there were more women sortin’ tings out, there would be a great deal less trouble!”

  “But there are quite a few women alongside the men,” I said. “Like Dr Lynn and other nurses I know from First Aid training. Some are even bearing arms, like Helena Moloney the actress and the Countess.”

  “They ought to have more sense,” Mother O’Brien said. She held out her arms to take Josephine. “Come with me now and we’ll give you all a good feed and we’ll set off first thing for Kingstown. I saw a few bowsies lootin’ shops on me travels, and there’s no police, so you don’t want to stay round here.”

  Little Bridie patted the seat and smiled so sweetly that Dan jumped up beside her.

  “Would you like to see my picture book?” Bridie asked him, showing him a beautifully illustrated book of Mr Stephens’ fairytales!

  “Mr Stephens is one of my customers and he gave it to her,” Mother O’Brien said. “She’s already readin’ a few words.”

  Within seconds Dan and Bridie were chatting happily as children do, as if nothing was going on.

  “The little fella’s comin’ anyway,” Mother O’Brien joked as I shot my aunt pleading looks, but Elizabeth still hesitated.

  Mother O’Brien handed the baby back to Elizabeth and reorganized the seating by clearing away some sacking.

  “Ah, come on!” she coaxed. “I was goin’ to give the salmon to the chef at the Shelborne but we’ll hang on to it. With any luck all this disturbance will blow over b
y tonight and you’ll be home tomorrow.” She dug out from the tarpaulin a jug of fresh milk and poured us all a cup each in little tins. “Got it from a dairy farm off the Navan Road.”

  I drank, then smiled and licked the creamy milk moustache from my lips. My mother always joked to Mother O’Brien that she never had a wasted journey – she always came back with more than she left with. It was clear Elizabeth could have kissed her as she gave some to Josephine who is a poor feeder.

  “We could pay you something for the food and lodging when my husband comes back,” said Elizabeth.

  “I have twenty pounds,” I said, remembering the money my father had given me.

  “Ah, get away out a that!” said Mother O’Brien kindly. “We’ll enjoy the company.”

  “We would be much obliged to you,” Elizabeth told her, “and then tomorrow we can set out for Kingstown.”

  It was decided. I put my bike up on the cart. Elizabeth packed a few things, locked up the house and we set off.

  Just as we came along the docks, as Elizabeth was explaining that her family lived in the manse in Kingstown, I took out my father’s spyglass and scanned the city. There was a sudden flare of gold down the lens. My stomach flipped as I focused.

  I saw a red-gold head over the parapet of a building near the Customs House along Eden Quay. As I tried to follow the figure with the spyglass, the rain clouds were pierced by a sunburst. The figure became a black outline against the setting sun. In a heartbeat, I knew it was Jack, the King of Dublin’s rooftops.

  “It’s Jack!” I exclaimed.

  I jumped down before they could protest and dragged my bike off the cart.

  “I’ll meet him at the end of the street and we’ll catch you up,” I said.

  There was nothing they could do. I was gone in pursuit.

  I tracked him as far as the corner opposite Amiens Street Station. Then the figure disappeared into thin air. Scores of British soldiers were pouring out of the railway station and I didn’t dare go any further.

  But as I passed the corner into Talbot Street moments later, I jumped out of my skin. Something landed in the basket of my bicycle. A little tin soldier painted green. I looked up but Jack was nowhere to be seen. I searched around but all I saw was my own lengthening shadow. Jack had eluded me, as usual. Leaving only his little green soldier as a calling card.

  & & &

  I’m too tired to write any more now . . .

  2 a.m. Tuesday morning 25th April.

  Our house.

  I cannot sleep now, even though I fell into a dead stupor last night. The shooting goes on for hours. Then there is a lull. The silence is almost more dreadful than the sound.

  Mother O’Brien was right about the looting on our doorstep. Coming back I saw a street urchin with five hats on his head from Dunn’s Hatters, in our block, including a panama, a straw boater and a bowler hat. Then someone else knocked them off him. People were swarming all over Clerys next door like in an ant heap – the windows smashed. I saw a woman pushing a children’s pram loaded with gowns and vases. I was very frightened.

  Up by the Pillar the dead horse was beginning to smell rank. I bumped into Laurence Eustace who lives on Eden Quay near Liberty Hall. He was with his aunt and they’d come out to gawp. They scurried on home after that.

  I got into my house through the back yard, not daring to open my front door.

  The rebels have a post in the Imperial Hotel a few doors down. I tried to peer over the wall of our yard into theirs, but all I could see were some of the staff taking food stores out under the command of a rebel. I wondered if May, Anto’s sister who works there, was trapped inside.

  I crept out onto the roof and scanned the scene on the streets with my spyglass. There were lots of people milling about, many of them drunk under the blaze of electric light. At one stage a crowd surged into Mansfield Shoes on the opposite corner. Someone turned on the light to reveal a scene of mayhem as people grabbed boxes of shoes and boots. The noise was disturbing, shouts and catcalling punctuated with gunfire, so I crept back in. The GPO was dark and I thought I saw the flicker of candles through my spyglass. But the streetlights bathed Sackvillle Street in strange shades of blue and green and scarlet, not like anything I’d ever noticed before.

  I couldn’t sleep so I have spent the hours preparing my First Aid kit. I made up a list and have collected needles, the red iodine that cleans wounds, lint and cotton wool from my mother’s supply.

  At first I found stitching the bog moss into linen bags calmed my nerves but I started to tremble when I remembered the poor sergeant and his stark red blood on Miss Nugent’s embroidered cloth.

  So I tried to concentrate on my “First Aid to the Injured Manual” by James Cantlie. I realize now I should have paid more attention at the classes.

  I read that you must make sure the patient can breathe, is in a restful position and warm. When the skin is broken you must check there is no sign of poison such as an odd smell, or burning, and cover it promptly. There are also instructions about removal of clothing – mostly by cutting the seams. So I fetched my mother’s scissors from her sewing basket.

  After my poor performance at the GPO, I read up the chapter on hemorrhages. The book says they must receive the most attention, taking care to find the pressure points for arteries and veins.

  To make a tourniquet, you have to remember so many things at the same time you’d have to be a magician! This is what I should have done with the sergeant at the GPO. First you apply a pad on the pressure point. Then you put a bandage around it and tie a knot, like the beginning of a shoelace, on the other side of the wound.

  Then you place a stick on that knot and secure it with another knot, twisting the stick to stop the blood flow. If that works you secure it in position with yet another knot. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it in the heat of battle. I will most certainly tie myself up in knots!

  As for splints, I will just have to improvise with an umbrella, a billiard cue, or anything that can remain firm – even a rifle.

  I can also improvise bandages from straps, ties, braces or string – as well as embroidery cloths!

  It is so curious. There is advice on frostbite, electric shock and drowning but I cannot find any information on gunshot wounds. I suppose the VAD’s or ‘Very Adorable Darlings’ know all about that. I remembered my mother’s conversation with Miss Huxley and I have put in a bag of sugar and a jar of honey, as they are supposed to be helpful in treating wounds. You just never know!

  I wish I could find some courage to put in my kit. I need to show that I deserved that First Aid Certificate and it wasn’t given to me because of my mother. Maybe I’ll just pop that in instead!

  4. a. m. Tuesday 25th April.

  My parents’ bedroom.

  I am curled up on my parents’ bed as I miss them so! I awoke from a nightmare of bleeding people in tattered rags and I have decided on a good use for my horrible old unmentionables. I am going to make bandages out of all the undergarments I can find! Mother cannot then say that I am not prepared.

  I am making such a mess of the triangular bandage for an arm sling, I could cry. It has a special name – an Esmarch bandage – and it looks so easy when Mother does it. You cut a piece of fabric along the diagonal into two triangles. And with different folds, you are supposed to be able to make broad, narrow or medium bandages. I just have to hope I meet nobody with a broken arm!

  & & &

  8.30 a.m. Tuesday 24th April.

  My house, after coming down from the roof.

  This morning, I have been holding vigil on the roof. Hoping to see Jack if he returns to the GPO with any messages. There is no sign of him. Instead, I have witnessed the most remarkable scenes though my spyglass.

  Sackville Street at first was eerily quiet in the grey dawn with little groups of the Citizen Army patrolling. The rebels have erected a barrier of barbed wire circling around the GPO and across the street to Clerys. The dead horse still lay among broken glass ar
ound Nelson’s Pillar, and beyond it an abandoned tram at the corner of Earl Street.

  But within minutes of the pale spring sun rising in the sky, it turned into a carnival with all of the slums turning out to loot.

  As I ate the last of my sticky buns, Anto Maguire’s little brother and sister passed by, dressed like jesters in a motley collection of clothing. Little Liam was wearing two odd boots on his feet and was pushing three-year-old Alice on a hobby horse on wheels that I’d admired in the window of Lawrence’s.

  “You better hurry yourself!” shouted Liam up to me, a too-big silk hat sliding over his eyes. “It’s all going fast! Now that we are a ’public, we can take what we want!”

  “Liam says we are all kings and queens now,” lisped little Alice.

  I was relieved to see that May ran out of the Imperial, and tore off the hats and silk scarves that trailed behind them like bunting. She forced them to lay aside their spoils and marched them home to their loud complaints. Others soon quickly grabbed the discarded clothes and toys.

  I saw a hard-faced woman clutching an apronful of shoes. “Dem bowsies have only left me with the left feet!” she cried. She must have raided them from the Saxone window display

  Two other women fought over garters and corsets, ripping them to shreds. A woman climbed into the abandoned tram near Nelson’s Pillar and took off her clothes to try on a new silk dress. Another one, laden with stolen goods, roared out at her. “Would you look at the state of her, naked as a broomstick, wearing nothing but her mortal sins!”