Chapter Seventeen: Dublin, Baldoyle April 1916

On the 8th of April, after the day's march had disbanded at Mount Street Bridge, Paddy walked with Tom MacDonagh along the route they would take Easter Sunday evening. He listened to Tom's instructions closely as they walked through the chill air of the spring afternoon. It must by all means appear to be a normal parade march. They had annoyed Dublin often enough, disrupting traffic and shoppers, for such a march to seem nothing out of the ordinary. In Camden Row they would move to positions around Jacobs' Biscuit Factory. Paddy's men would seize possession of the unoccupied house at number 4 New Bride Street directly across from Jacobs' and cover the entrance of MacDonagh's own men into the buildings. Once the factory was secured, they could reconnoitre supplies and move north along the houses, tunnelling, so that the battalion would have complete command of the area round Jacobs'. Most of the occupants should have been cleared by that point. If not they were to be escorted to St. Patrick's or the South Dublin auxiliary Union by the Cumann na mBan and the Fianna. Dublin Castle was not alert enough yet to take women and young boys seriously as insurgents. Harcourt Street station, Dolphin's Barn and other rail locations were to be taken and therefore were unsafe for civilians. Most of all, they wanted as few civilian casualties as possible. They would have to rely on the people of Dublin until reinforcements came in from the country, and that could take several days to a week, with the rail lines cut. And, if they had to retreat to the West as a last--ditch effort, they certainly would want to support of the people, for the city would be crawling with soldiers. They would need every resource in the event.

On Wednesday in Holy Week, university being out of session, he went out to St. Enda's in Rathfarnham to see Tom to get final orders. He had gone to Liberty Hall first, but one of the men in the corridor told him they had not yet arrived. Padraic’s sister Mary Brigid came to the door and told him,
‘They're in the back.’ Joe Plunkett, Tom and Padraic were in Pearse's study deep in talk, which ceased instantly he came in.
‘They're waiting for you at Liberty Hall,’ he said to them.
Padraic nodded. ‘Thanks.’ It was not a dismissal, but close to. By the tension in the room, Pearse doubtless knew that they were late. ‘Can I help you?’ He asked pointedly.
‘I came to speak with Tom actually,’ Paddy admitted. ‘The message was incidental.’
‘Right,’ Padraic said. ‘Well, give us a moment, and we'll be along.’ That was a dismissal. ‘Wait...You have a car?’
Paddy looked at Tom and Joe. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. We'd like to bring some things along.’

The ‘things’ were not spades as he assumed but medical supplies, wrapped in sacking. About seven boxes.
‘Where did you get them?’ Paddy asked Joe.
‘Switzerland,’ Joe muttered. ‘When I was there for my surgery.’ One of the purposes of his recent trip abroad was an experimental surgery for TB; his throat was still not healed and was in bandages. The word was he would not have gone if it would not have got him smuggled into Germany.
‘Ah.’ Likely it was explosives, rather than iodine and carbolic. This assumption was confirmed when Joe said to drive carefully so as not to crack the glass in the boxes. That would be it, to go hard over a pothole and blow them all to hell. Some rising it would be then; he had three members of the Military Council with him.

He was out again on Good Friday after the services, to visit his parents. Rory and Danny were both gone, so he had a pleasant, ordinary visit with his parents. Da watched him a little closely, but didn't say anything about this untypical visit. Not being one for the Easter devotions generally, he didn't expect his father to believe that he was fulfilling the old duties, but it pleased Mammy, and that was all he cared for. He wanted to see them again. He could not bring himself to discuss the rising with them; it would have to wait for a letter. On the walk home, it began to rain. He walked quickly, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, but he was conscious of everything around him. He crossed the river at Ormond Quay, and walked down along the river until he came to the Custom House. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, silent as the grave without the rattle and shudder of the trams and the cries of the children as they played in their noisy games of tag or hurley or football. He walked, his own footsteps loud in is ears as he came to Upper Gloucester Place. He should go to confession tomorrow. He had not done in a long time, but there was in him a country reluctance to die unshriven. He had no illusions about that; on Sunday he would be walking to his death. Better to die a young man for the freedom of his country. He was not afraid of death, nor of the Void or the Summer country that lay beyond. But the old beliefs still held their sway over him in times like this.

He came to his own house in the Square and let himself in. The chandelier in the foyer glittered a welcome to him. He would be destroying all this on Sunday. Whatever came, the old order would pass away. The thought of ruining it gave him no pleasure. He went under the doorway and into the hall proper and looked up at the magnificence of the plaster ceiling far above, at the turned mahogany of the stair pilasters. The grace of the place spoke to the core of his soul, where that love of beauty lodged. How it would all go to ruin with her grief, his darling girl, left alone with his fatherless children. He took off his coat and hung it on the back on the door in his study, sat down heavily in the chair before his desk, lit a cigarette. Rosie appeared at the door.
‘Is it you, sir?’ She said pleasantly. ‘Did you never get caught in the rain?’
‘I did. Is Mrs. Leary home?’
‘She's upstairs, sir, with the little ones,’ Rosie said. She came into the room. ‘Shall I take your coat sir, and dry it out for you?’
He smiled to humour her. ‘Yes, thanks. That would be grand.’

When she had gone, he climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Molly in the playroom on the sofa before the windows, reading with Sally and Joe. It made his throat ache to see her there, innocent and carefree, poring over Beatrix Potter. She looked up and smiled.
‘Oh, you're home! Kate, ring Mac will you and let her know she can serve dinner?’ The children leapt up and Molly put the book down, rising. Lovely she was with her great height, striding sinuously across the room. He picked up Sally and put his arm around Joe, with kisses and greetings. Arms full of children, he kissed Molly when she drew near.
‘Hello.’
‘You're damp,’ she said. ‘How are your parents?’
‘They're grand,’ he murmured.
She cocked her head, her eyes sharp. ‘...Paidín, are you all right?’
‘Let's have dinner,’ he eluded, mussing Joe's hair. ‘I'm sorry I'm late.’

He could not tell her, at dinner or after. They went to bed at the usual hour, but he lay awake a long time, sleepless, thinking of what to say to her. He could not say the words to her. He looked at her sleeping beside him. Long years' familiarity had not dimmed her fascination for him; she was still a deep endless desire. If he had never met her, Sunday's certain death would move him not at all. But it mattered now. She had made it matter. He sighed in the dark and fingered her bog--black hair as it lay on the pillow, aching.

On the Sunday morning early, they walked the short distance to Mass. At the corner of Mountjoy Square he saw a boy hawking the Independent. He squinted at the headline as they passed, and blanched. ‘NO PARADES. IRISH VOLUNTEER MARCHES CANCELLED. A SUDDEN ORDER.’
‘Just a moment,’ he said, plucking Molly's sleeve. He stopped, dug out tuppence. ‘Here, lad, let me see that paper,’ and he took the paper from the boy, scowling at the news piece while Molly waited impatiently. The text ran,
‘Owing to... critical position, all orders given to Irish Volunteers... are hereby rescinded...Each Volunteer will obey this order strictly and in every particular.’
It was signed by Eoin MacNeill.
‘Paddy are you coming or not?’ Molly demanded. ‘Bring the silly paper along, but please don't make us have to stand at the back.’
‘Yes, dear,’ he mumbled, hardly hearing, and gave the paper back to the boy.

He walked with her in a haze of shock, hoping against hope that there was some mistake. But there were placards propped against the church entrance bearing the same word. The lovely day of sunshine and fair skies was suddenly as bleak as the usual grey. He got through Mass, his mind turning all the while on what he was going to do. Goddamn MacNeill, why can he not have given them a batter warning? Why did he leave them distracted through Mass with the breakfast a cold lump in their stomachs? At last the blessing of peace was given and they were free to go. He would go down to Liberty Hall straight and find out what the matter was. Oh dear God, he thought as they went out into the sunshine again, what had gone wrong?

They crossed the street at the Square. He looked down the street to find one of the Fianna boys hurrying towards him. He slowed as they came upon each other.
‘Tomorrow, noon, as before,’ he panted, and continued on his errand through the city. Molly looked after the boy.
‘What was that?’
‘Just a bet, m'aille,’ he managed over his thudding heart, ‘for tomorrow, for the races. You are coming?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, frowning in bewilderment.
‘Good,’ he managed a smile, which confounded her further, and she remained in puzzled silence until they reached the house.

He went down to Liberty Hall, slipping out the back through the garden gate. It was a mass of people, all distracted in the confusion of the last four hours. He passed Con Colbert and asked him what had happened. Con nearly cried.
‘Last night at midnight, MacNeill came to General Pearse's and demanded to know who forged the Castle document --’ this stating that the government intended a crackdown on all paramilitary organisations -- ‘and why he had been duped about the Rising. Hobson was the one who touted.’ Bulmer Hobson was on the Supreme Council of the IRB. ‘He told General Pearse he would do everything to stop the Rising short of ringing Dublin Castle. And he did! He got Murphy out of bed at half--one this morning to put it in the papers --’
He never had taken to MacNeill, with justification, it would seem. ‘Con --’
Con laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Go talk to Tom, Paddy, he's downstairs. I'm in a terrible rush.’ And he was out the door.

He went down to see Tom MacDonagh about any changes given the new circumstances, and whistled home with a jaunty step, a handbill of their proclamation of an Irish Republic in his pocket. It was on! They might go out to die tomorrow, but now they were a sovereign nation, free among the nations of the earth. Free.

He could not sleep that night. Soft in the warm still night, he spent a happy few hours making love to Molly. Not since their honeymoon had he been gripped by such a poignant tender feeling for her. Over and again, the emotion rolled over him, and he cried in her arms for joy, murmuring, ‘I love you, I love you,’ until she was crying as well. For all their play all these years, they were never so completely in harmony with one another as they were together then. He gave her everything he had and it was all returned full fold. She slept at length, blissful and exhausted in his arms, but he only dozed fitfully in a long and bottomless vigil to an unknown place in himself.

He rose at half--past four and flung on his dressing gown, restless. Going silently up the stairs, he looked in on the children, slumbering safe in the dim light of the lamp. He tucked them up and kissed them both, his throat aching, and prayed to God to keep them safe. He went downstairs again then, through the dressing room. He hung his uniform on the back of the wardrobe door and went into the bedroom. He sat on the bed, watching Molly sleeping, and he ached to leave her. Leaning, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her beautiful face. That face he would take to his grave. He sat then in one of the pair of chairs and wrote at the cramped small space beside the lamp:

24 April 1916
Mo chailín rún--
M'aille, I must write you now what I cannot bring myself to say.
You will find this at the races I suppose. Know that it was written when
you and the babies slept snug and safe and how I kissed each one of you
before I wrote. Mo bheanín stór, I go out today to fight in Ireland's
cause. I do not know if I will see you again. If I should fall, know that
my last thoughts were of you.
M'aille, you have been my greatest happiness, and I am sorry to
leave you, if this must be good--bye. Kiss the babies for me. Tell Joe that
I go to Fionn and Connor. Keep my memory bright for my sweet Sally.
She will forget her Dada. It hurts so much to write this to you, mo chroi.
I have always loved you, a rún, a stór.
Your own --
Padge

He folded the note and wrote on the front of it in Irish -- ‘Read alone -- P.’ In the morning, he would put it in her handbag after she had gone downstairs for breakfast. He wrote also to his parents, that there should in after years be some family memento:
24 April 1916
My dear mother and father --
This must be good--bye. We go out today under the flag of Ireland
and God alone knows whether I shall return.
Pray for me, dearest Mammy. Know that I am at peace with God
and man. Da, I love you. I am not afraid to die, for if we should fail, others
will come after us, until the day is won.
God bless you both. I am sorry to put this grief on you.
Your loving son --
Padraíg

In the morning, he played on his absentmindedness as they were starting out for the Fairyhouse races. As they were passing the study, he said,
‘Oh, Molly, there's a book I need for tomorrow's lecture in my office.’ He dug in his pocket for the car key. ‘If you don't mind, here --’ he gave it over, ‘you take Katie and the children and I'll catch the tram out and meet you in the box. I must get that book.’
She looked at him in innocent surprise. ‘Can't it wait until tomorrow? It's waited all week!’
‘I forgot it until just now. But I need it to add to some of my notes for lecture.’ He laid a hand on her arm. ‘I won't be long,’ he promised. Their eyes met, with all the fullness of the night alive between them.
She nodded. ‘All right. But what if we miss you?’
‘You won't!’ he insisted. ‘I'll be right along....’ He tossed his head. ‘If something should detain me, go along to your parents' and I'll meet you there,’ he said to allay her anxiety. ‘But there's no reason I should be late. They always put on extra trams.’
‘All right,’ she said again, and kissed him good--bye while Kate stared from the doorway.
‘We'll see you there,’ she let go of his hand. ‘Come on, Kate,’ she said, going to the door, ‘we'll have to brave the wide world alone.’ She went outside to the step. ‘Joe, Sally, come away from there, we're leaving now,’ she said to the children who were playing on the kitchen stair railings. ‘Good--bye Padge.’ He nodded, waving briefly from the door as they went round the corner to the lane for the car. Then he raced upstairs to change.

He dressed with a nervous thrill. Yesterday, he had rubbed down the Sam Browne belt of his uniform with Molly's saddle soap, so that now it shone with a buttery elegance. Down to the toes he was spruce, with puttees washed and ironed in the bag with his kit and boots shining with blacking. He was going out as a soldier of the Irish Republic, and bedad, they wouldn't call him a Kerry peasant. He combed and oiled his unruly hair into order, and brushed off the slouch hat. He went downstairs then and checked and oiled the Webley. He had 20 rounds of ammunition at the ready. His rifle was at Liberty Hall. It was too conspicuous to bring home or even to hide in the car. The children had sharp eyes these days. At last he was ready. It was half--ten.

Liberty Hall was aswarm with Volunteers and Citizen Army, everyone dashing about, talking excitedly. He retrieved his rifle and went back upstairs where he met Dick Mitchell at the landing. He too was polished.
‘There's Trinity swank,’ Dick grinned when he saw Paddy's white cockade
‘Not after today, boyo,’ Paddy replied cheerily. ‘I'm just an ordinary jackeen, proving all the doubters' scorn of me. But what about yourself? You look like one of Kitchener's poster boys.’ Someone had put up a recruitment poster at the GPO, We Want You, with Kitchener in full dress uniform; behind him were a company of impossibly tidy Munster Fusiliers.
‘Bugger you,’ Dick laughed.
‘How are we doing for men?’ Paddy asked.
‘About a third of the company, but it's early yet.’ Dick said.
‘Much later and they'll have to come through the barricades,’ Paddy complained. The confusion of MacNeill's countermand was evident at this hour. Their company were always prompt.
‘Some of them might be waiting at the bridge,’ Dick said.
‘True.’ He looked at his watch. ‘How long do we have?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Good.’ He went downstairs to smoke a cigarette in the basement and there had a chat with Frank Robbins of the Citizen Army. Robbins was a sergeant. There were similarly reduced numbers in their company, but the same hope of their men reaching them later. George Oman blew the call to arms on his bugle then and they went upstairs to muster.

They crossed the river at Butt Bridge and made their way down Tara Street and past Trinity to Mount Street Bridge. There indeed were a dozen of the their own men and three or four others lost in the confusion. They fell in, and the battalion set off along their march route. Most of the men were only half in uniform, some not at all but for a Sam Browne, but by the end of the day it would hardly matter.

At Fairyhouse races Molly reached into her handbag for money to send Kate for ices for the children and she encountered a slip of paper. Not being one to keep receipts in such a hodgepodge manner, she opened it to find it was a note from Paddy. She thought it a love--letter, until she read it more closely. Halfway through, her hands were shaking and Fa said,
‘Molly, are you all right?’
‘What?’ she asked sharply, jolted.
‘I say, is it too warm? You look faint.’ She heard his voice through the roaring in her ears. He has gone out to die. Why, in the name of God? A wild panic assailed her. Lulled by his unguarded devotion last night, she was completely deceived. She stared at the note. My darling little wife, my love, my joy, my heart. I have always loved you. I must now write what I cannot bear to say. She winced, swallowed, crumpling the note in her hand.
‘Nothing, it's nothing,’ she said, shaking her head quickly. She would not look up, but crammed the note quickly back into her bag and removed a pound note from her purse for Kate. ‘Here,’ she said blindly, handing it over, ‘go on.’

Sally looked up beside her. ‘What's the matter, Mummy?’
Molly put an arm around her and kissed her. ‘Nothing, darling. Tell Miss Katie what sort of ice you want.’
‘Can I go, Mummy?’ Joe asked from his place next to Fa. ‘Can I go with Miss Katie to the stands?’
‘We'd lose you in the crush,’ she murmured, managing a smile. She held out her hand, leaning across her mother. ‘Come here, Joejoe.’ He came to her as Kate went off to find an ice vendor. She took him onto her lap, big as he was, and buried her face in his hair, trying to stop shaking. How did Paddy expect her to tell the children their father was dead in the streets of Dublin? How could she look on them with their faces that bore every mark of him and say the words? If he died, they would haunt her forever. He would haunt her forever. She could not think of it. She would run raving mad. It hurts so much to write this to you, my heart -- To behave as though she knew nothing was the hardest thing she ever did.

In Bride Street, Paddy and Dick Mitchell parted with their companies and took over the houses in Bride Street and Long Lane to keep the first two companies covered while they entered Jacobs. Unlocking the house at Number Four, Paddy told his men,
‘Use the back rooms for barracks, get your kit stowed there and be back here armed on the double quick, ready to spread out. Use every floor! Barricade the windows! Now, fall out --’ he snagged Jack Rafferty as he sped by on his way up the stairs behind his brother--in--law, who had been looking for Dev's company at Mount Street Bridge and came along with them instead.
‘Not you,’ he said, ‘Come with me.’ They went down the front steps as Tom's men began their assault on Jacobs' main gate. Next--door at Number 5 Paddy roused the occupants by rapping on the door with the butt of the Webley. ‘Cover me,’ he said to Jack, who obligingly did so with his Lee--Enfield, his back against the south wall of the doorway.

The door opened and an old age pensioner appeared, a shuffling man in shirtsleeves and braces. He eyed the Webley with a squeak of alarm.
‘For your own safety, I would advise you to leave this house as soon as possible, grandfather,’ Paddy said, ‘or get down into the basement. There's likely to be some hard fighting before too long.’ He moved aside a little, toward Jack, to give the old man a view of Tom's forces. Dick Mitchell already had his men staked out in the upper windows and on the roof of a house in Long Lane directly across from Jacobs, in full view from this doorway.
‘Mary, Mother of God!’ the old man croaked, looking up. ‘I don't know what you're about, sonny, but there's none but myself and the missus to home in our place. The rest is gone out.’ The house must have been broken up into flats or rooms as most old houses in this part of Dublin.
‘Well, get along to the basement then so you won't get hurt,’ Paddy said, not unkindly. ‘We'll be using this house.’
‘Who?’ the old man asked, standing aside as he shouldered his way through the door.
‘The army of the Irish Republic.’

He stalked down the hall, throwing open the doors, until he came to the empty space behind the back stairs. On the opposite side of the wall was a similar dead--space, separated only by a double layer of brick. It would take pick--axes and hammers to get through it, but that was what he had brought them for. Standing back, he kicked a hole in the plaster to mark the spot and tramped back down the hall again, his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. At the stairs, the old wan appeared, a crabbed little old woman in a shabby black dress.
‘Whatever are you doing?’ she demanded.
He glanced up at her. ‘I'll send some men along to take you to safety,’ he assured her shortly. ‘Get you gone, grandmother. This place will be shot through in half an hour.’ Jack Rafferty was already firing on some passer--by. Upstairs, the front windows shattered, crashing to the floor. It was enough to convince the pair that he wasn't joking. When two of his men came to fetch them a few minutes later, they went and gladly. Paddy detailed three men on either side of the wall to break through the brickwork with sledgehammers; the rest were busy next door settling in: he went upstairs to the second floor where they had smashed all the windows and barricaded them with curtains, pillows, whatever they could find. The third floor would have to wait. Downstairs, they had shoved furniture against the front door and were covering their garrison from the front windows. Already, there was a tricolour flag flying from the battlements of one of Jacobs' towers. Tom's men had made it in.

Paddy went into the hall and asked for volunteers for the first sentry duty at the kitchen door downstairs.
‘I will,’ Stephen Sears piped up above the noise of the men working behind him on the wall.
‘Good lad,’ Paddy said, nodding. ‘Get you to it.’ He made up a duty roster in pencil and posted it in the hall, detailed a dozen men to tunnelling through the north walls towards the river -- his ultimate goal was a route into Dublin Castle -- then took his place in the upstairs window. There was no time for chat, but he eyed Rafferty's brother--in--law keenly as he stood at the far window. He was the ugliest man Paddy had ever seen, with queer sharp pale greenish eyes like a ferret and a long scar running down the side of his face from temple to chin. After about two hours of this, with men coming and going asking this and that, yer man said, ‘You're mighty observant, Captain.’ ‘It helps to be,’ Paddy said tersely, shoving shells into the Webley. He looked up. ‘What's your name?’ ‘Kilgallen,’ the man spat, taking aim on a lone member of the DMP passing on the street. ‘Tom,’ he grunted, and fired once. He was a crack shot. The policeman went down. The DMP were for it; they were as conspicuous as a Tommy in an old red coat, with their great stature and tall spiked hats. They would do well to keep out of it ‘Nice to have you,’ Paddy murmured. Kilgallen shrugged and grinned.
Sears came up from his sentry duty at the back door. ‘There's a Cumann na mBan girl downstairs wanting to know do we need any help.’ ‘Does she have food?’’
‘I expect so, sir.’ Paddy nodded. ‘Good, bring her in, and anyone she can bring with her. There's a job of work ahead, and we'll need to have plenty of food at all hours for the men.’ He rose from his aching knees where he had crouched on top of a chest of drawers these two hours and climbed down. He needed to check on the men he'd set to tunnelling to the north and south. He went out with Stephen, leaving his rifle for the next man.
The girl, Bridie Hanlon, had not only food and friends but also a message from Tom MacDonagh that he was wanted at his HQ, and so he followed her across the street. The way was littered with shattered glass and a couple of bodies that had yet to be removed, including Kilgallen's peeler. They went in by the side gate and after much walking through the vast fortress of the biscuit factory, he found Tom in a room on the upper floor. A great bare room it was, cold as ice even in the warmth of the day, with a desk, two chairs and a rolling cart brought from the assembly line. In one of the chairs sat a man with a music--hall moustache in morning dress. He turned out to be the Boer hero Major John MacBride, Maud Gonne's estranged husband, on his way to a wedding.
‘Ah, Paddy,’ Tom said, rising. ‘I just got a message from Padraic at HQ that there's a cordon going up around the city, and a company of Sutherlands are on their way from Kingstown. They're to pass right through here if Heuston can't hold them at the South Union. How are you for supplies? Can you withstand a siege?’ ‘If we have enough supplies, we can hold out for maybe a fortnight. A week and a half would be more like. The main problem after that will be ammunition.’ ‘We'll work on that.’ Tom nodded. ‘Can you send a couple of men over to Stephen's Green or can you get into TCD?’ At Stephen's Green was the United Services Club, and Trinity had an Officers' Training Corps of mostly undergraduates. But both were heavily armed. ‘Not dressed like this,’ he admitted. ‘But I can give someone my keys.’ Their eyes met. University days were over, they both knew. Tom nodded, his eyes gleaming. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
Paddy made him a salute and went out. He told Bridie Hanlon to fetch her girlfriends and as much food as they could carry.
Night streaked its blood--red arms over the city. He was up on the roof with Sean Kelly the publican, just taking over his turn on watch. Over the serene stretch of Dublin Bay, the wispy clouds were tinted first gold, then pink, now violet red. He sprawled full length beside Kelly after crouching along the span of the roof from the back. ‘Ah, she's beautiful itself,’ Kelly said of the sky. ‘The first day of freedom,’ Paddy agreed. ‘You always were one for the poetry,’ Kelly murmured. They paused, as the first whiz then crash of a shell burst over the city centre. ‘It's the army have arrived,’ Kelly said nonchalantly. ‘Looks that way,’ Paddy struck a match on the roof and hid the glow with his hand as he lit a cigarette. It would be a long night. ‘Where's the activity?’ He asked. ‘Mostly from the Castle's direction. They were trying to mount a machine gun a while ago, but they went in for their tea. They'll likely be back. Well,’ Kelly said, groaning as he rose to hands and knees, ‘mind yourself so.’ ‘And you.’ Kelly made him a brief salute and crawled off.
Paddy lay in the deepening dark before the chimney stand, smoking and watching the city spread out below. It was pitch black without the gas lamps; there was only the feeble light of paraffin lamps and candles from the windows of private houses to light the night. Above his head a hundred million stars were beginning to come out, one by one. The only sounds were of sporadic rifle and machine gun fire, an occasional shell. The quiet was unnatural. Dublin was always noisy, day and night, always a bustle of a place. He wondered how they were doing over at the GPO, and elsewhere. He wondered how Molly and the children were, if she'd had the good sense to stay in Baldoyle. He'd not thought of her all day. She must have found his note by now. He mashed out the cigarette and sat up, now that it was dark enough. He wondered how all this would end, if he would see his little family again. As he thought this, there was the heavy roll of artillery from the battlements of Dublin Castle, and in a moment, the Castle was firing into the neighbourhood with a screech and thunder of shells. ‘Shite!’ he ducked down, heart thudding, until he realised that they were too far away to be hit. The shelling shook the buildings and rattled windowpanes even in Jacobs, which still had windows on the river side. But some of his men in the northerly houses were close enough. They had made a good show and got as far as the corner of Lower Kevin Street the last he'd heard. He'd have to send word down to them and see how they were. He had eight men on that end of the line. They'd begin tunnelling again in the morning. In Baldoyle, Molly put the children to bed in Liam's old room, tucked up in bed together in old nightshirts Mrs. Lymon had Bridgie fetch from the attic. The shelling could be heard from Dublin, and it made her shudder.
‘Is that thunder, Mummy?’ Sally asked. Molly smoothed her hair and kissed her. ‘Yes, darling,’ she lied. ‘Grandfa read it in the papers that it would rain.’ There had been only the Sunday paper, but Sally didn't know that.
‘When's Da coming, Mummy?’ Joe asked, the freckles standing out in relief on his pale face in the quiet lamplight.
‘I'm sure he'll be here soon, poppet,’ she said, coming to tuck him up. ‘The trams were all late to the racecourse,’ she reminded him. ‘I'm sure he'll be here in the morning when you wake up.’ But she wasn't sure, at all, and the sounds of artillery fire from the city only increased her anxiety. ‘I'll leave the door open,’ she told them, ‘and the light on in my room, so you've only to come to the door to find the way.’ They had never stayed overnight in this house, never slept anywhere but their in own safe beds. She wished they were back in them, and that she could slip quietly down the stairs to the back parlour where Paddy would be reading a book in the chair, safe. Where was he tonight? Was he safe? Or was he already gone from them in this foolhardy adventure? The words echoed in her mind: I have gone to fight for Ireland's cause. I do not know if I will see you again... They were an agony.

She was at the door when Sally cried, ‘I want you to stay, Mummy!’ How could she refuse? She turned back and sat in a chair beside the bed, holding Sally's hand until she went to sleep. The last thing she wanted was to go down and face the parents, but she supposed it was obligatory. Reluctantly, she rose and went downstairs. Mummy and Fa were in the back parlour. Mummy was crocheting, and Fa was standing looking out the window towards Dublin. She went and stood beside him.
‘What's happening?’ she asked him. She meant rather, what insanity is happening in the world?
He put an arm around her. ‘Artillery fire. The Zeppelins must have overshot again.’ The Germans had bombed Wexford last year. She shuddered. ‘Here now,’ Charles said. ‘You're safe. I'm sure Pat will be here soon. Why don't you ring the house again?’

She nodded unenthusiastically and went back down the hall to the phone. Mrs Mac had answered when she rang in the afternoon, saying there was ‘a terrible ruction’ in the city and that she would be going to her sister's as soon as she rang off, if it was all the same to her. Rose had not come back yet. She told Mac they were in Baldoyle and would stay there until the morning. She said nothing about Paddy's being out in town. The less said the better on that score. She rang now, for appearance's sake, but of course there was no answer. She rang off and went back into the parlour.
‘There's no answer.’
‘Then I'm sure he's on his way,’ Fa said.
Grace looked up from her fancywork. ‘Sit down, Mary. Fretting won't bring him any sooner.’ It was perhaps the first kind thing Mummy had ever said about Paddy. Molly cleared her throat.
‘May I make a drink?’
Grace looked up in surprise, knowing well that she was not one to drink anything beyond champagne or the occasional sherry, but Fa said, ‘Of course my dear.’ She went to the drinks cabinet and made a gin and tonic. She drank it standing, at a gulp with a face, but afterward she felt more able to cope. She did not make another, but sat down in the overstuffed chair, flipping idly through Fa's racing forms. No one said anything. This torture went on until eleven--thirty, as she alternately paced the room, stared out the window, or moped in a chair. Finally, she got up and announced she was going to bed. It was as if the whole nightmarish night had not passed in its dreadful way, with everyone pretending normalcy. The parents kissed her goodnight as blandly as ever, and she went upstairs to her old room after looking in on the children. That was almost too much. She stumbled down the hall in the half--dark and went to bed, pulling the covers over her head. But it did not keep the nightmares away, for they were real.

Tuesday
They had an early wake--up call at Number 4; Dublin Castle recommenced machine--gun fire into the neighbourhood at 4.30 in the morning. Paddy had been asleep for two hours in one of the back rooms on the second floor, but was instantly up, shoving the bundle of curtains he had been rolled up in into the corner. It was a dreary morning with more than a promise of rain, bad for tunnelling; he wanted to get to the corner of Upper Kevin Street by the end of the day. If Mitchell’s men had been successful, they would then command the entire enclosure of Jacobs, as Tom had sent a company of men under John MacBride to ‘mind the back door’, as he said. Being nearest to Dublin Castle, they would sustain the heaviest fire.

He went downstairs without disturbing the men sleeping in the room with him, and found the four Cumann na mBan girls already busy with the fire in the kitchen. He ran a hand through his disordered hair.
‘Can any of you use a rifle?’
Three of the four girls piped up.
‘Good,’ he said, yawning. ‘That'll keep things going... Is there tea yet?’

He met Tom Kilgallen in the hall, coming down from the roof watch, looking as disreputable as if he'd been at it a week rather than a day.
‘When you've had some sleep, come and find me,’ he told him, ‘I'll be down the row. I need you to run an errand.’
‘Eh?’ Tom was yawning.
‘To the Castle. I need you to go down and see what's happening. Better you than one of the lads.’ Not being in uniform, Tom was most likely to pass as an ordinary citizen out sightseeing, provided he kept his mouth shut. No one would take him for a Dub if he didn't.
Tom grinned. ‘Oh, spying is it? Ha, me and the G--men! Yah Paddy, so and I will,’ he saluted and turned up the stairs.

Through their tunnels, Paddy went down the row of houses and shops to Lower Kevin Street to see how they were getting on. No one had sent him a communiqué since last night before he went on duty on the roof. He found John Mitchell, Sean Laverty, and Joe Duggan with hammers in the second house from the corner. The others were strung out in the buildings between, sniping from the windows. He sneezed from the brick dust and knocked the bits of lathe and plaster from his hair.
‘Not a bad piece of work,’ he said to John Mitchell.
‘Should be,’ John spat over his shoulder, ‘we've been at it all night, by rounds.’
Paddy whistled. ‘Holy god! Look, when you get through this, leave it and we'll use the basement stair there. Come back and take a break at HQ. You'll need it by then.... Did you have any trouble from the Castle's shelling?’
‘Knocked the windows out upstairs,’ Sean said, jerking his thumb, ‘but apart from that they kept us awake,’ he flashed a brief grin before setting to with the hammer again.
‘Wait now,’ John said, ‘and let me take a view.’ The two men stood aside while he crawled into the narrow space that was littered with debris. He was about three--quarters of the way through when there began a terrible noise from the top of the house. Dust and brick began to fall from the cavity between the houses. The roar became deafening, and Joe Duggan shouted into the maelstrom,
‘Look out, it's coming down! Jack!’
They dove for the floor as part of the wall on the floors above them gave way, falling into the tunnel. When the choking dust had subsided, Mitchell was buried as he had been lying.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paddy exclaimed. ‘Sean, get some men in here, now!’ Meanwhile, he and Joe scrambled to haul Mitchell out of the debris, shouting his name every now and again. There was no answer.

It took them an hour to get him out, first bracing the wall with pieces of lumber found in the back of the dry goods shop. They gave up the idea of trying to drag the body through their tunnels and a couple of the lads took him out the front door of Number 12 on a stretcher made from their coats and a ladder they had knocked apart. They made their way down the treacherous street, ankle deep in broken glass, and back to Number 4. He was their first casualty, and it went hard. Paddy sent a runner over to Dick, who was by this time at the opposite side of Jacobs, and asked for a priest to come over from the factory.

At a little past two in the afternoon, Tom Kilgallen came back from the Castle to report that they were sewn up there with the Rifles and the Dublins, but that a greater threat would be the Sherwood Foresters who had just arrived from Kingstown at the Four Courts and the gun--boat Helga, which was bombarding General Headquarters in O'Connell Street from the river.
‘They've cut us off,’ Tom spat, sinking down into the floor of the upper parlour of Number 2 where Paddy was on sniper duty. ‘They're all along the river. I managed to get over by going the long way round, up by a canal. They've set up artillery on the roof of a great bloody mausoleum of a place, next to the hospital -- and there's armoured cars scattered up and down before GHQ. I never made it in. I couldn't get near enough.’
‘Never mind,’ Paddy said, grimacing. Kilgallen had done much more than he was asked, even if a sense of curiosity and adventure had compelled it. It was bad news to know that the GPO was surrounded. It meant that they were on their own. He turned his attention back to the window. ‘We can hold out here forever.’

In Baldoyle, there was no news. Not a paper or a telegraph could be had. The phones worked, but all the circuits in and out of Dublin were jammed and there was no one to run the exchange. Before dinner, Charles went down to the village on horseback to see what news he could discover. The church and chapel bells were tolling the emergency, and the pubs were crammed with men, but there were only rumours to be had. The roads were full of soldiers coming down from the North. Dublin had fallen to the rebels, the Germans. The more hysterical called it the Apocalypse, which Charlie thought bloody rubbish; the European War was that, if anything was, and he wasn't at all convinced on that score.

At the house, Molly had spent the day in the stables with the children and old Joe, mucking out and giving the horses a bathe. Sally and Joe were astonished to see her come out in men's clothes, and laughed, but they were more amazed soon enough to see her pitching in with Joe and the stable lads looking after the horses. She hoped that a day's hard work would help her sleep, as she had not last night.
‘I used to do this all the time,’ she told them. ‘Isn't that right Joe?’
‘So it is, so it is,’ he agreed. ‘Back when Mr. Liam was alive.’

That night when the children were in bed she climbed up on the roof with Fa and Joe and watched the fires from the city burning yellow and orange in the night. The ten miles, which ordinarily seemed so far, was as nothing now. The fire raged as vivid as if it were at Howth. Fa had given up the pretence of hoping for Paddy's imminent arrival, for which she was grateful. Now he said from time to time, ‘I'm sure he's all right. He's a sensible chap.’
‘Thanks, dear old thing,’ she told him when he said it again on the roof, and hugged him.
Mummy came out into the garden just then -- she would not venture into the stable yard where Joe had put the ladder -- saying,
‘Charlie, Frank is on the phone from Cavan.’ The servants had all retired for the night. So they went inside and Fa took the call from his brother, who asked anxiously after them; they had only just heard of the trouble in Dublin.

‘No, we're fine,’ Fa bellowed into the phone, holding his other hand over his ear. ‘No, she's with us, but the lad is still there. Went to the College and got caught in it. No, we hadn't heard. That's dreadful. You will take care? Yes, we'll let you know. I will. Good--bye, Frank. My love to Vi and the children. Yes. Good night.’ He rang off and looked at them.
‘He says the local Ulster Volunteers have mustered against any disturbance there.’
‘Dear God!’ Grace murmured.
‘It's all right,’ Fa said, shaking his hands in front of him in a gesture meant to defray panic. ‘Just a precaution. The rebels haven't risen there.’ He looked at Molly and she shuddered. So much, she thought, for pretending not to know.

Wednesday.
In the mid--morning, Paddy received word from Tom MacDonagh that Dev needed men at his command at Boland's. Three thousand troops were on their way from Blackrock, and he had thirteen men to hold them off at Mount Street Bridge. Paddy called his men together and asked for volunteers; five, including Kilgallen and Rafferty, stood to go. It would go hard to lose his two best sharpshooters, but he could hardly say no. He'd simply have to recruit some of the Cumann girls. The men started off on bicycles down Camden Row, and were replaced by three of the Cumann na mBan, who were, he discovered to his delight, only too happy to take up arms. He sent word to Tom that the lag was covered.

In the afternoon things were enlivened by the appearance of a company of Lancers along Long Lane. Long they did not last. Under withering fire from three directions, they beat a hasty retreat back in the direction of Kilmainham Barracks, whence they had come, leaving more than half their company dead or wounded in the street. Tom sent out some of his men a while later to remove the living into Jacobs, which took over an hour of continual shifting. The police from the barracks up at Bishop Street appeared to investigate, but were sent scurrying by continual fire. Paddy had discovered that his twenty--six men and women, if spread out along the street, appeared as a much larger force. Doubtless the reason they had not been much troubled was because the garrison thought they numbered far greater than they did.

He was on continual rounds, checking on the men at various posts, taking his own turn at the windows or roof watch. Since Monday, he had slept all of about five hours. He was exhausted, but nervous and unable to sleep. Every time he laid his head down there was a shell, or machine--gun fire and he was instantly alert. Mary Price, one of the Cumann girls, expressed concern about this, and he smiled. She was a pretty young woman with curling black hair.
‘Time enough to sleep when I'm dead,’ he told her. She crossed herself.
‘Oh bad, luck, sir! Say a prayer!’ From a girl with a rifle in her hand, this was rich.
‘I will,’ he promised, and went to check on supplies in the kitchen.

In the morning in Baldoyle, Molly had old Joe saddle up Furley, Ches, and the Painter, and she took the children hacking out towards Howth. They went by the lane and then overland, picking their way through fields and down by the Arne that ran down into Howth Harbour, avoiding the roads. The children were amazed when she took a fence with a flying jump, sailing over as neatly as the riders at Ballsbridge. They sat staring open--mouthed, then broke into cheers when she came back to open the gate to let them through.
‘I want to jump, Mammy!’ Joe cried, startling Furley by drumming his heels into him.
‘No,’ she said, ‘You have to learn how to sit well first. Besides, this fence is too high for you.’
‘But you jumped it!’ he persisted. She smiled.
‘I've been jumping since I was old enough to walk.’ She looked over at Sally, who had trotted through the gate obediently, and sat waiting on Ches. Thank god for the child. She never wanted to do anything dangerous. To soothe Joe’s pouting, she said,
‘Tell you what: when we get home, we’ll have old Joe make up a jumping course for you. Will that suit?’
The boy was instantly good--humoured and eager once more. ‘Will it be a wall like this one, Mammy?’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘Just rails like in the Horse Show. But it’s all the same, Joejoe. Come along now and let’s go look at the sea.’ She nudged the Painter forward with the reins. ‘Walk on,’ she murmured, nickering to the horse. Joe spent the rest of the day happily learning to jump over the practise rails, as proud as if he had jumped the double wall on the hunt.

At teatime Fa returned from Portmarnock and visiting Colonel Whitcombe, whose son John was home on leave from the Western Front, but that morning had been called to report for duty at Clontarf. Molly regarded Fa warily.
‘What does that mean?’
Charles leaned his hand on the table, and rubbed his eyes with the other. ‘It means, my dear, that we are in for a bad patch. The Government are declaring martial law.’
‘Dear God!’ Grace exclaimed.
‘What does that mean?’ Molly insisted, ‘for us?’
Charles took a chair. ‘Oh, curfews, rations, passes, that sort of thing. It'll be a damned sight worse in Dublin though, if you'll pardon me. You'd do best to stay here until it's over.’
What an appalling prospect. ‘...How long will that be?’
Charles shook his head, reaching for a sandwich. ‘There's no telling.’

That evening, the Dublin fires lit the sky so that it never really became full night, rather an orange glow illuminated all with an unholy cast. O'Connell Street from the river upwards was on fire, the garrison having begun incendiary shelling in the hopes of burning them out where mere mortar fire could not dislodge them. In Bride Street, they had sustained heavy artillery fire from Dublin Castle at the north end of their cordon. Paddy was there with Sears and Kelly when it began, on the third floor of the building. Sears was on the roof when a shell exploded overhead, rocking the house. He and Kelly were inside.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paddy exclaimed. They threw themselves to the floor. When they rose again, there was already the smell of smoke infiltrating. The building was on probably on fire, and it the clearest, warmest weather in human memory for this time in April. Kelly jerked his head towards the roof.
‘Shall we see if that one is still with us?’
‘Might as well.’

They made their way to the roof, over the fire ladder beside the third--floor back window. It was not their building that was hit, but one adjacent in Bishop Street. Smoke was pouring out the top floor windows, and half the roof was torn away in the blast. Little good it had done the garrison, the house was probably full of cowering civilians. On their own roof, as Paddy swung over, he saw Stephen sprawled facedown with all his limbs at a queer angle.
‘Holy God!’ he muttered. He and Kelly ran at a crouch for the boy, but their relief efforts were halted by another shell.
‘Look out!’ Kelly shouted, and they flattened themselves again. This one landed in Upper Kevin Street in front of the RIC barracks. It blew a corner off the front steps. ‘Jaysus,’ Kelly cursed when it was over. ‘It's a wonder they lost f--all at Suvla! With gunners like that!’
They turned Sears over, to find him bleeding from a fragment of slate roof tile in the temple, unconscious, but alive. Another shell whizzed overhead.

‘Shite, we'll never get him down from here in this!’ Paddy complained, casting a glance over the wild sky. The streets below were deserted as far as the river, where the roar of an armoured lorry could be heard. ‘Leave him. We'll have to leave him.’ He put the boy's head down.
‘We can't leave him Paddy!’ Kelly protested.
‘We've no choice. We'll be lucky to get down from here ourselves without being blown to hell,’ Paddy said. ‘Come on. We'll come up again after dark.’ But he knew that the boy would probably have died by then, further that there would be no way to get him down without the assistance of the fire brigade. They made their way to the back edge of the roof again, swung down the ladder and into the window. The heat from the fire next door was intense. The fire was worrisome for their safety. If the wind came up from the river, they would be done for. When he got back to post, he sent Mary Price over to Jacobs with a message for Tom about the fire and Sears on the roof. When she returned, she told him that Tom had sent more men over to Dev at Boland's, where the fighting was heavy from incoming troops.

When night had fallen, the neighbours came out into the streets. Number 2 Bishop Street was still smouldering though the fire brigade had come round; they came out too to stare goggle--eyed at the RIC barracks, which had sustained more damage from artillery fire. But ten of them went to the gates of Jacobs to beg for food, coal, and paraffin. The city might be on fire, but in their homes they were cold, starving, and in the dark after two full days of hostilities. Some of the Cumann girls, Red Cross armbands on their sleeves, doled out bread and biscuits in Long lane -- they had no coal or paraffin -- until the advent of a detachment of RIC sent them hurrying back inside. The RIC did not last long at the corner of Bride Street, but quickly disappeared under fire to Camden Row. It would be a long way back to their barrack.

Thursday
In the afternoon, Paddy received a message from Dick Mitchell saying that Danny had volunteered to go off to the South Union with a contingent to bolster Heuston's men there. Bridie Hanlon gave him the message. He had just gone up to a second--floor room in Number 4 to try and sleep -- having been on duty for thirty--six straight hours and awake for forty--two, he had begun to hallucinate -- and the men were afraid to rouse him. From that instant, dead sleep she called him out, murmuring,
‘Sir, sir. Captain --’
‘What! What!’ He sat up with a start, thinking it a dream, but she knelt beside him, her heavy dark--green clothes filthy and rumpled, her face haggard, but she was clean and her hair combed tidily, and her expression was tender with regret.
‘I'm sorry to wake you, sir,’ she murmured, sitting back on her heels. ‘But we've just had word from Captain Mitchell that your brother has gone over to the Union. He thought you would want to know. There's heavy fighting there --’ he squinted at her blear--eyed and she faltered. ‘He didn't want you to worry, sir, for your brother.’
‘Mmm.’ He passed a hand over his face. She could have said the boy had been dismembered and would have received the same response. ‘What day is it?’ His head was reeling, and he had no idea how long he'd been asleep. He ached as if he had been beaten.
‘Still Thursday, sir,’ she said. ‘It's just gone half--two.’ He had only been asleep half an hour. He collapsed again onto the rolled--up bolster of his uniform tunic, the room tilting. ‘Mmm, thank you. Anything else?’
‘No sir.’
‘Good.’ He was falling into a void. ‘Wake me at four unless there's an emergency...’
‘I will sir.’

In Baldoyle, there were soldiers all over the main roads on their way to Dublin. General Sir John Grenfell Maxwell of the 42nd Highlanders had arrived to enforce the Special Powers Act against Ireland that Parliament had voted yesterday. The whole of Ireland was now under martial law. Fa had been in the village when they first began to arrive and it had taken him three hours to navigate the two and a quarter miles from the post office to their house.
‘I wish I hadn't brought the motor,’ he complained. ‘If I had taken Rajii I'd have been home in ten minutes.’ Rajii was his favourite hunter.
‘Well, you're home now, my dear,’ Grace murmured, handing him a cup of tea. ‘And we needn't worry any longer.’
‘Eh,’ Fa murmured. He would not say in front of the children that their worries were just beginning.

Friday
Word went round the neighbourhood from Portmarnock to Howth that any man out on the roads past eight o'clock in the evening without a military pass would be subject to immediate arrest, without exception. Despite the glorious weather, Molly kept the children within sight of the house all day, not daring to venture out even so far as the lane. Joe complained -- he had wanted to go swimming in the pond -- until he was put to work grooming Furley for a riding lesson in the stable yard. Bridgie proved a jewel with Sally, taking her along the rounds of the house, after which she happily sat down with Grace to learn berlinwork, for which Molly hadn't the least patience. Fa spent the day in his study and on the phone, trying to get any word from Dublin. At length, before tea, he walked into the village against Grace's wishes to see what he could learn, which wasn't much.

At the Jacobs garrison, MacBride had the mad--hare idea of finishing off the RIC barracks with the twenty pounds of gelignite in his possession. Accordingly, Paddy staked out four of his men in Number 2 to cover MacBride's while they set it, and sent out two along the street to harry the police once they emerged. He went out himself, not wishing to send his men where he would not go. When the signal came that the explosives were set, they went out the back of their row houses, taking positions from Bishop Street to Camden Row. Paddy was in Bishop Street beside the far end of the corner house when the blast came. It blew out the windows of the barracks and rocked the buildings for three blocks. When the dust and noise had settled, the Castle took up shelling again. The south wall of the barracks was blown out from top to bottom, and from the front poured the garrison who had been holed up there since the Monday. MacBride's men, whose building adjacent had suffered damage, began a barrage of fire. A few of them had automatics. Four of the peelers came by Bishop Street and Paddy had the advantage over their confusion and disorientation from the blast. Lying on the pavement beside the corner railings he fired until he was out of rounds, by which time his targets had fled, scrambling for doorways and kitchen basements. His rifle was burning as he shoved rounds into it, darting a look up every few seconds, not knowing whether the peelers were armed. By the time he had reloaded, nothing had moved. There was the sound of gunfire in the nearby streets, from Jacobs and from MacBride's headquarters, but in Bishop Street not a curtain stirred. His every nerve was alive, strained, waiting for the form or hail of fire that would come.

The barracks was a smouldering wreck, a hissing heat out from which no living thing stirred. He had no idea how many peelers had been inside. A dozen easy had come out. Four were in his street. But as hard as he scanned ever inch of the scene, he could discover none of them. He was not such an eejit as to saunter out before them. It would be no trouble at all to stay here until darkness fell; he hoped it was not the same for them.

He was pouring sweat from the heat and the strain. It ran in his eyes and he brushed his forearm awkwardly against his stinging eyes.
‘Come on, come on, you sons of bitches,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Come out and show yourselves.’ At last! From across the street two doors down the way, a blur of blue moved, large enough to be a policeman. He fired, wishing for a higher angle, but they had not been able to gain command of the houses in this street and there was no purpose in it anyway. One, two three. The figure, definitely a peeler, rose from his low crouched position, was borne upwards, and flung backward against the pavement and the railings. Hit. He was wounded only, for he was moving. But one was as good as another.

There was no return of fire. They must have gone about the barracks unarmed and completely caught out by the bombing, which was foolish, but lucky for MacBride. Presently, another of the peelers ventured out into the street, this time from directly across the street -- he had been down in the basement stairwell -- hands raised uncertainly as he moved toward the wounded man. Paddy was about to fire again when from the roof of Number 1 one of his men began firing. The peeler spun and fell in the middle of the street. This one was definitely dead. The other two were not so foolish. They stayed where they were until dark. By this time a detachment of Rifles from Dublin Castle had ventured by the barracks. They did not make it so far as the corner before they were scattered by fire from three directions. This was returned in fitful shelling from the Castle, but the firing had come from so many directions, it was clear that the gunners were uncertain as to how to proceed.

At nightfall the last two peelers ventured out. Paddy by this time had made his way over the railings and down into the basement of Number 2 Bishop Street, where he gained entrance by smashing out the windows. From there, he went through the cavernous dark of the waterlogged and rat--infested basement, out into the courtyard and over the fence until he came to the back of Number 2 New Bride Street. He was ravenous by now and aching from lying on the pavement all afternoon, but there was no time to waste eating or sleeping. Wearily, he hauled himself up the roof ladder at last and met Joe Duggan on the roof of Number 1.

‘Evening,’ Joe spat. He was lying behind the chimneystacks on the north end of the roof.
‘Are you the one got that second fellow?’ Paddy asked.
‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘Haven't seen anything of the other two.’
‘No more I,’ Paddy agreed. ‘Do you want a break?’
Joe eyed him. ‘You look as if you could use one yourself.’
‘I'm all right,’ Paddy shrugged, reloading. He had not finished when Joe muttered warily, ‘Look out, there's yer man Peel.’ In the dark, the sheen of the constable's white shirt attracted as much attention as a beacon. Joe fired. Once, twice, thrice, a pause, again. The peeler fell with the first, but in the dark it was impossible to tell if it was a feint. The last man came out a moment later, his hands and face white in the newly waning moonlight.
‘For the love of Christ --’ he cried to his unseen enemies. He got no farther. Joe had him in two shots. The terrible gurgling noise he made could be heard from even this far away.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Paddy muttered. ‘Let's put him out of his misery.’ He aimed for the distance form, fired, the report loud in the echoing canyon of the street. At last there was peace and silence. ‘Time to get the hell out of here,’ he said.

Back at Number 4 Anne Burke had tea and thick cut sandwiches of bread and butter down in the kitchen. The other girls were on sniper duty. Paddy took four of the sandwiches and a mug of stewed tea and sat on the end of the table, wolfing them down.
‘The Major will breathe easier tonight,’ Anne said by way of encouragement.
‘Aye,’ Paddy agreed tonelessly. They had accomplished their object with remarkable smoothness, given their only means of communication was the Cumann na mBan running relay. It was a victory, but as he was discovering even victory had a price. The men began filing in from their various posts, by the look of them as weary as he. He would give anything for a hot bath and a soft bed; however, such things belonged either to the past or a vague future, not to the days and hours before them. No point in dwelling on it. He finished the strong tea and got up to put the cup in the sink.

Saturday and Sunday
After MacBride's flushing out of the RIC barracks, there was little in the way of action on Saturday even from the Castle. They appeared to have given up trying to ferret them out of their well entrenched position round Jacobs'. Heuston was not so lucky at the South Union; word came in the afternoon that he had surrendered that morning after two days of heavy siege. Paddy received this news grimly. It would mean his brother would be in Kilmainham jail by now.

He spent the day on rounds of their buildings and sniper duty. He still could not sleep but fitfully. In the afternoon he lay on the floor upstairs in Number 4, half--awake in a drifting, bone--weary haze peopled by a carnival of hallucinated images, and his mind turned on his family and the scenes of domesticity seemed as if from another life. How could he go back to it now and be the same? He had not thought of them since the Monday. What on earth would he say to Molly, if he ever saw her again? What would she be telling the children? And how were they getting on, wondering where Dada was? No, he could not think it. His mind began to fill with nightmares when he did. Instead, he pictured them safe and laughing, together and happy…. A noise in the house started him alert, taut as a live wire, heart thudding. He began to wonder if he would ever sleep normally again, could ever be normal again in any way. Deprivation of the merest creature comforts brought out the ruthless and primal in him and he felt a queer dispassion about the dead soldiers and constabulary. Now they were merely bodies, as negligible as carcasses in the cattle marts in St. Mary's. He wondered if he had become insane, to care so little. He drifted to sleep again, dreaming of madhouses.

On Sunday afternoon, Bridie Hanlon came back from Jacobs' with the word that Pearse had surrendered at the GPO. The word was that the GPO was a complete wreck, along with the rest of O'Connell Street thanks to the shelling from the Helga. The GPO, the Metropole, the Imperial, Cleary's, the DBC cafe, the Royal Hibernian Academy Gallery, Eason’s, anything one could name so far as Tyrone Place and the Pro--Cathedral was an entire ruin. Miss Hanlon reported that Tom didn't believe that Pearse would have called for a general surrender, and that when he read the dispatch -- a hastily scrawled note in this case -- he said, ‘Like hell! Why should we, when we have them on the run? I don't believe it!’ So they waited, going about their usual business, until just before five o'clock when the word came to assemble at Jacobs. They went by twos and threes, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Paddy went over last, with Anne Burke, though God knows the girl needed no help but marched boldly over the bricks and broken glass that littered the street.

On the main floor of the factory they found Tom standing before his contingent, haggard, pale, with great dark rings under his eyes. His attitude alone told them that the rumours were all true. MacBride, that hardy old warrior, stood beside him stiff and grim with a soldier's resolve.
‘Men,’ He began, leaning his fist on the table, ‘this afternoon I met with General Lowe in Patrick's Park. He there informed me that he had yesterday afternoon at 3.45 accepted the unconditional and general surrender --’ he faltered and drew a breath, went on, his voice shaking, ‘of Commandant General Pearse's forces on behalf of the Irish Republic.’ There was a longer pause now, and murmurs among the men. Tom held up a hand. ‘At first, yesterday, I didn't believe it when the word came to me. I thought it was a hoax. I sent to Commandant DeValera the same opinion when he enquired of me. So we continued as we have. However, General Lowe this afternoon assured me that it is indeed genuine and that General Pearse and his men are now in custody at Richmond barracks.’ He drew another long breath. ‘We have fought well and bravely, it is true, and we could here hold out indefinitely were it not for the want of ammunition.’ He shook his head. ‘Contrary to what we had hoped, and long thought this week, the rising was not general over the country. That help is gone. Moreover the people of Dublin have suffered much in the way of deprivation and casualties. With a view to this, I must hereby concur with General Pearse's surrender...’ He winced and hardly got out the next words, for he knew, they all knew, that he would be going to his death. The British would not suffer a rebel to live. They had not, from the time of Strongbow. ‘I ask you to assemble in Bride Street near Peter Street hospital in twenty minutes, prepared to lay down arms.’ He drew another shaking breath and looked them all over with a piercing eye. ‘But before we fall out, before we walk out into whatever fate waits us... I want to say that I am proud of every single one of you. You fought with courage, and honour, and whatever befalls, I am certain that our efforts have not been in vain. You have fought like Irishmen. God bless you all.’ He made them a salute, tears running down his face, and stepped back.

It was over. For a long shocked moment the room hung in silence like a pall. Then, slowly a murmur arose. Men cried. Some swore. Many fell down on their knees in prayer. A queue began to form around Miss O'Farrell, the nurse in Pearse's company who had brought word of the surrender. They gave her money, addresses, rosaries, letters. Across the room another group formed similarly around the priest Tom had come in with. Paddy stood stock still in the midst of this confusion, unable to move or to think but one thought: This must not be. He would not suffer the hell of an English prison, not after knowing Tom Clarke and hearing what they had done. He would rather be shot, or go on the run. Nor could he send his men out to death or worse. This week was different; there they knew the risks. Here was another proposition entirely. But he had to speak with Tom. Tom -- His eyes smarted and vision blurred as he fought back tears. He had known Tom MacDonagh for twelve years. He had to speak with Tom. His men were around him, clamouring, and he only just now heard them.
‘I'll be right back --’ he murmured, moving aside from John Raney. ‘Stay here, I must speak to the Commandant.’

He made his laborious way through the crowd. When he finally made his way to MacDonagh's side, he stood to sharp attention and saluted.
‘Commandant.’
Tom's glance was wistful as he returned the salute. ‘Oh Padge,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What a long road it has been.’ They looked at one another, everything speaking into the silence.
Paddy sniffed. ‘Sir,’ he began, unable otherwise to carry on, ‘I request permission to give my men leave to melt away if they think they can.’
Tom looked up at him, startled. ‘If you like,’ he said in a tone of surprise.
‘They were but following orders and do not deserve the brunt of England's brutality.’ He managed a sickly smile. ‘Anyway, we shall need men of experience, when this is over.’
‘Paddy,’ Tom begged tautly, shaking his head. He reached out and clasped Paddy's hand, and this, without shame, became an embrace. The world stood still in that aching moment, when they bid farewell to their larking university days, to the fine and splendid times, to a friendship the depth of which they had never spoken.
‘God bless you Tom,’ Paddy murmured hoarsely when they parted. Tom clasped his lingering hand and made him a salute, which he returned and turned away. The rivening crowd of broken--hearted and anxious men were but an echo of his own heart. When he got back to his men, he told them Tom's word on his idea.

‘And what about you, Paddy?’ Joe Duggan asked. ‘Will you go over?’
It was the question.... He opened his mouth and spoke, without thinking, from the heart, with no recollection later of what he said, ‘If anything could be served by my rotting in an English prison, I would go. But I ask myself yet what the purpose of this week has been. Have we achieved that aim? How best might I go on from here to achieve that aim? I have lived my life for this. I will not surrender now. I realise that to some this may seem dishonourable, not taking the lumps for what you've done. But if I regretted a single moment I would feel differently. I do not. Therefore, no, I will not go over. I will not lie down passively. I will keep on. It may be that the end is the same. I'll take that risk. You must follow your own consciences. You must answer to God yourself. I cannot command you to do one or the other.’ He stopped speaking and eighteen faces stared back at him, grim, chagrined, and thoughtful.

Sean Kelly, on his left, click--stepped and saluted, and the others followed. Paddy winced and returned their salute.
‘God bless you,’ he managed in Irish, and retreated to his kit in the heap by the wall. He changed quickly, into the country clothes. Then methodically, he stripped the bandoliers of bullets for the Webley and left the rest -- rifles, ammunition, kit, uniform and all. He shoved the Webley into his belt and buttoned his loose sack coat over it. With a cap and the old clothes, he could pass for a resident of the neighbourhood. At the window, he took a last look at the room. My God, dear brave people. How much had they been through! God be with you. Then he climbed out the window into Jacobs yard, and was away.

He remembered Tom Kilgallen's reconnaissance and crossed the river at Usher's Quay. Dressed as he was he was not troubled. He went by Mary's Lane and Henry Street adjacent to the Post Office -- Dear God, it was a wreck with bricks and bodies scattered everywhere. The GPO was still burning. Bricks were heaped in mounds in some places eight feet high. As he came into O'Connell Street, he saw the ruin of the street, the ruin of the GPO, and it was the hardest thing he ever did to behave as he were a civilian to whom the last week had meant only a bloody annoyance. A flickering in the smoke--shrouded orange haze caught his eye and he glanced up. It was a green flag, emblazoned with the words in gold ‘Irish Republic’, ragged, torn, but still flying at the top of the mast over the Post Office.

‘Move along now,’ one of the DMP nudged him. ‘It's still dangerous to be loitering about here.’
He mocked his best North side accent, and said, ‘Yes, sir, I was just going home, sir. Is der any milk or gas t' be had yet sir? Or do ya know where I might find some bread? We've been widout sin' Tuesday, sir.’
‘Afraid not,’ the man said. Paddy was afraid he had overdone it, but he dashed across O'Connell Street and was not followed.

He took back streets until he reached the lane behind their back garden and let himself into the dark and empty kitchen. Dumping the Webley and rounds in the bottom drawer of a dresser, he covered it with an old tablecloth and bits of broken crockery. He stood for a moment in the cool grave like dimness, then pushed up his glasses, considering. He should go out to Baldoyle, but he had no means of transportation as Molly had the car and the train, if it was running at all would likely be crawling with Brits. He would have to walk. It was a daunting idea, after the exhaustion of the week, to say nothing of the danger of the roads, but there was nothing else for it. He washed his face at the sink and winced at a sore place on his forehead. His only wound from the week and it from a wall collapsing! He would have to think of something to say before the Clennaghans…. Well, it was a long walk, and he wasn't getting there by standing about. He'd think of something on the way. He took a long drink from the faucet and went out again.

He walked north, and was astonished that even at Drumcondra station he was not bothered. A company of soldiers passed him by without notice as he leaned against the station wall smoking a cigarette, sweating until they passed. He reeked of gunpowder and worse, even having changed clothes, but their noses were not keen. He threw the cigarette down and noticed then the bicycle beside him, whose back tyre he had kicked. He had not ridden a bicycle since his undergraduate days and then not very well, but it would be faster than walking. He would return it when he was finished with it. Taking the handlebars of the machine away from the wall, he swung his leg over and struck out for the Howth road and Baldoyle with an uneasy truce with the bicycle.

It was growing dark when he went through Raheny. It would be about half--six or seven then. He had left his wristwatch on the sink in the kitchen at home. Well, it was time enough, for his luck had run out. He had just begun the stretch of the road north of Raheny when an armoured lorry full of reserves came roaring along the narrow road. They had rifles and machine gun at the ready and were singing loudly, and probably drunkenly. He didn't care to find out personally. Anything could happen in the twilight on a lonely stretch of road, and he was unarmed, which in this case was a very mixed blessing. There was a gorse bush up ahead about twenty yards. If he could make it that far, he might be safe. Aching, he pushed the recalcitrant bicycle up the hill and flung himself on the ground behind the clump of prickly gorse as the lorry drew up, slowing.
Jesus God, he prayed, lying absolutely dead still, don't let it end here, not this way.
The lorry slowed, but did not stop. There was a raucous barrage of abuse from the troops, who were definitely drunk.
‘All these feckin Fenian bastards!’
‘The country's full of em.’
‘Pissing cowards to a man!!’

A shot was fired, pinging off the bicycle. Another whizzed by his ear. He flinched. Two came at once, one going over his head, the other sinking into his left shoulder with a burning sting. He was lucky he had flinched, or he would be a dead man, but Christ did it hurt! And it was his shooting arm besides. The lorry moved on. When the silence had stretched into yawning minutes, he pushed himself up, grimacing. He felt as if he'd been branded and pummelled all at once. The bullet was lodged somewhere in his shoulder joint. His arm was turning numb and his sleeve was dripping blood slowly. All through the last week, he might have been killed dozens of times, and now to be wounded, unarmed, on the bloody Howth road! It was an agony to mount the bicycle again. The bullet that had struck it bent the frame. But he was lucky it wasn't the tyre. He was lucky he wasn't dead. He kept telling himself that the two hours it took him to get to Baldoyle, the words becoming a mantra.

The horses were long since brought in from the paddock in the evening cool. He walked the bike up the driveway towards the gleaming front door, and the lights in the hall. He could go that far, and no farther. Dropping the bicycle at the door, he let the knocker drop too, heavily, as he leaned on the doorjamb. In the hall the clock chimed. It was nine--thirty. It had taken him three and a half hours to go ten miles.

Bridgie opened the door. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mr. Leary!’
Molly came running down the passage from the back, and flung herself on him as he stood unprepared, crying,
‘My god, Paidín, you're alive!’
He winced, gratefully, at her fierce embrace. It passed for a smile. He was dizzy and his ears were roaring. ‘Hello, darling girl. I made it.’ He buried his face in her hair and clasped her feebly with his good arm.
‘Bridgie, wake the children!’ Molly said. She pulled away, and her hand was red with bright blood. ‘Dear heaven, what's happened to you?’
‘I met up with our fine forces of occupation on the way here,’ he murmured, closing his eyes. He wanted just to lean against her warm, soft, familiar form. She smelled of toilet water and face powder. Lovely things he thought never to smell again. He was drowning in the scent of her. ‘Molly darlin, can we go inside? I --’ He slumped against the door jamb and fainted.

He awoke the next afternoon with no recollection of what had happened after his knocking on the door. His shoulder was bandaged, and murderingly painful, his head ached, and he felt dry as dust. If he hadn't known better, he'd have believed it had they told him he'd been in a pub brawl. Molly was sitting in the chair before the window with a book in a pale yellow dress that abounded in frills. Borrowed, for it was not her style at all.
‘Mallaidh,’ he croaked. She was beside him in an instant; the book tossed aside.
‘Don't move,’ she murmured. ‘The doctor says you must lie still. He wasn't able to dislodge the bullet.’ Oh yes. That would be why he felt as if he had been beaten. He smiled and raised his other hand to touch her hair. ‘I'll live, sweetheart.’ His eyes roved over her face. ‘God, it's good to see you. I thought I never would again. Come here and let me kiss you.’ She did, and he kissed her, but it tired him out. ‘Would you get me some water? My throat is a desert.’
She got it and helped him drink and he was better after that and sighed.
‘Where are the children?’ he asked, looking round the room. It was her room, her childhood's room, pristine as she was, without frills even on the dressing table. No swags of muslin or pink froufrou. It brought an ache to his throat for the circles under her eyes as she watched him looking. She had fretted here in this proper room, showing no one. He lifted his right hand and she took it.
‘They're downstairs, helping Bridgie and Lymon with the tea. I'll ring,’ she said, and rose to the bell.

The children were all over him, squealing and hugging and kissing, though Molly tried to
keep them down, and it hurt like hell, but he wouldn't have traded it. It had only been a week, but he felt as if he had been away from them forever, his babies.
‘Where have you been, Da?’ Joe asked when the excitement had subsided a little. Paddy looked at Molly, standing by the bed.
‘I was in Dublin, Joejoe,’ he said, ruffling the boy's hair, ‘with the men.’
‘Did the soldiers shoot you, Da?’
‘I told you that,’ Molly reminded him. ‘You saw the bicycle Dada came on all the way from Dublin, didn't you.’

Sally made a face and began to cry, slapping Joe away from her treasured place against his chest. ‘You go away from that!’ she told Joe, and flung herself on him. ‘We waited and waited Dada, and you didn't come!’ She said, burying her face in the coverlet.
‘But I'm here now, mo rua,’ he told her reaching painfully across Joe to smooth her hair. ‘I'm here now and we'll all go home together.’
‘You said you would come!’ Sally went on. ‘At the races you said you would come, and you didn't come!’
‘I'm sorry, sweetheart,’ he said earnestly. The child's anger was remarkably hard to bear. ‘It couldn't be helped. There was no way out of Dublin until yesterday. But I'm here now, mo rua. Dada's here now.’

He asked Molly when Kate had come to take them for a wash before tea,
‘Has she been this way all week?’
‘No,’ she said, puzzled. ‘She had a bit of trouble sleeping -- they both did – but nothing else. She's been an angel. I expect that seeing you has reminded her that she was disappointed.’ She sat at the end of the bed, her face paling, and she stroked the still--numb fingers of his left hand.

‘I read your letter,’ she began. ‘At Fairyhouse.’ She looked up at him, anguished. ‘I don't know if I'm glad or sorry that you didn't tell me before.’ Her glance became wry. ‘What could I have done to dissuade you, after all? But it was very hard going.’ She looked at him again a long moment, troubled and serious. ‘I don't know what sort of orders you've been under, nor even how much I wish to know now. But I thought I'd lost you, Padge, and I felt like I'd never known you at all.’ She looked down. ‘I suppose that is mostly my own fault. It's easier not to ask questions. But this last week has been so full of regrets. All the things one never said, or did say and should not have done.’ She raised her eyes to his again. ‘I can never be one of your Sinn Feiners, I'm not a suffragist, not smart like your co--eds.’ Her face crumpled and she fought back tears. ‘But I do love you, Padge. If that counts for anything.’ She drew a shuddering breath. ‘Please don't leave me alone. I couldn't bear it.’

Beautiful girl, those were the loveliest words he had ever heard. That she could think that he found her inadequate! That he could love anyone better because of shared politics! That she could be so brave and naked with him..
‘M'aille,’ he murmured, reaching out his right hand. It was an effort, after the exhaustion of the children's bouncing on him and his hand shook. ‘M'aille, a rún. If I died, I would still be with you,’ he murmured in Irish. She gasped, but he went on, ‘You're in my soul, mo bheanín, engraved on my heart.’ The future was now uncertain, but that truth could steer them. It was a sturdy barque; of that much he was sure.