MURIEL AND MACDONAGH walked around the house in Oakley Road in Ranelagh. Muriel instinctively liked it. There was a narrow entrance hall with a tiled floor, a good-sized drawing room and a smaller dining room which were not in any way as grand as her parents’ home in Temple Villas, but this was a smaller house that was well suited to a young family. The kitchen had a large range and a narrow window overlooking the garden; there was also a pantry and a scullery with a large Belfast sink. Upstairs there were four bedrooms.
She inspected the small water closet and the tiled green and white bathroom with its big cast-iron bath. It felt like a family home and was situated close to the tram stop, as well as to her parents’ and friends’ homes.
‘What do you think, Muriel?’ asked MacDonagh, who had been unable to hide his delight on discovering that 29 Oakley Road was for rent.
‘I think it will suit us very well,’ she said, meeting his eyes.
They walked around with Don, happily exploring the large garden.
‘He could have a swing here,’ MacDonagh pointed out, standing under a tall chestnut tree.
‘Are you sure we can afford the rent?’ she asked. They always seemed to struggle financially and she did not want to take on something that they could not possibly afford.
‘It is well within our limit,’ he assured her.
They moved into Sunnyside a week later.
Muriel loved their new house and only wished that MacDonagh was at home more to enjoy it, but he was often away, talking at Irish Volunteer rallies across the country, from Derry and Kilkenny to Tipperary. More and more people were turning up to hear him speak as he encouraged existing members and new recruits on the importance of drilling, training and being prepared to use arms. He and Roger Casement, a former diplomat, were determined that the Volunteers would become a strong nationalist force ready to protect their territory if necessary.
The Volunteers had raised money both at home and in America to purchase, with Casement’s help, a large shipment of arms from Germany which was due to arrive in the seaside village of Howth on Dublin’s north side in the Asgard, a boat owned by the writer Erskine Childers and his wife, Molly. MacDonagh had organized for the Volunteers to meet the boat and unload the rifles.
‘What happens if the police or army discover you?’ Muriel fretted.
‘We’ll see,’ was all he answered her.
He left early the next morning and Muriel busied herself by bringing Don to play in the park, trying to distract herself from fears of her husband’s arrest.
‘We got all our guns safely off the Asgard without discovery,’ he laughed proudly. ‘A troop of Scottish Borderers and a few DMP boys stopped us at Fairview to ask about our guns. It was a bit of a stand-off but we told their major that the guns the men had were all their own and were not even loaded. You should have seen it, Muriel. They could prove nothing against us so they had to let us pass.’
‘Oh thank heaven I didn’t,’ she sighed, relieved.
Later a young lad came knocking at their door with a message for MacDonagh. He left immediately on hearing that the Scottish Borderers had attacked a crowd of people on Bachelor’s Walk, deliberately shooting and killing three people and injuring a score or more at least.
‘Why would the army do that?’ she asked, appalled.
‘Apparently the crowd jeered and taunted them about not catching us,’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘They threw fruit, maybe a few stones, at the soldiers. I don’t know exactly why and what happened yet, but the lad said the army just opened fire on the civilians.’
He was angry when he returned from town later that night. ‘As far as Britain is concerned there is one rule for the unionists and another for us nationalists,’ he raged. ‘The Ulster Volunteers can import guns and arm themselves in April, but when we try to do the same thing a few months later this is what happens. Innocent people are shot and injured. But their deaths will not go unmarked, for the Volunteers will provide a full guard of honour for their funerals.’
A few days later thousands of Volunteers carrying rifles formed a massive guard of honour that lined the streets of the city as the victims – an innocent teenage boy, a man and a woman – were taken for burial.
‘We are demonstrating our right to bear arms in public as much as the Orangemen in the north,’ MacDonagh and Eoin MacNeill insisted as they and their men fell into step, marching together with their rifles.
Muriel joined the large funeral procession with her sisters and friends from Cumann na mBan, Connolly’s Citizen Army and Na Fianna. As they slowly followed the three hearses drawn by black horses from Dublin’s Pro-Cathedral up towards Sackville Street, she felt a strange shiver of apprehension suddenly grip her. Catching her eye, Grace slipped her hand reassuringly inside hers as the three sisters walked together towards Glasnevin Cemetery.