MURIEL WAS FINDING motherhood a very different experience this time around as she relaxed in their new home, the baby sleeping in the sunshine in her pram while Don played on the wooden swing that MacDonagh and his brother Jack had made for him.
Hannah had called to tell her that she and two other nurses from Sir Patrick Dun’s were going overseas to work in one of the army field hospitals in France.
‘Aren’t you nervous about going?’ Muriel asked, filled with admiration for her nursing friends and their courage.
‘They need nurses urgently – the casualty rate is enormous,’ Hannah explained gravely. ‘And we have plenty of theatre and surgical experience, which is what they require.’
‘Promise me that you will take care of yourself.’ Muriel hugged her as they said goodbye.
MacDonagh had the summer off from the university, but word had come from America that Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa, the old Fenian leader, had died and that his body was being returned home for burial. The Volunteers were determined to pay a fitting tribute to the renowned Irish patriot who had spent years in a British prison, beaten and tied until he was eventually granted amnesty and sent to live in exile in America. MacDonagh had been chosen to organize the large funeral, which would be held in Dublin.
‘He was a good man and deserves to be remembered for the patriot he was,’ he told Muriel as he and Tom Clarke began to make arrangements for the funeral procession through the streets of Dublin to Glasnevin Cemetery. ‘We will go away to the seaside afterwards,’ he promised her.
Joe Plunkett returned to Dublin, calling immediately to see MacDonagh and congratulating them on the new addition to their family.
‘She’s a little beauty like her mother,’ he said, carefully lifting up their baby daughter.
He looked tired and said little about his travels all over Europe, which she gathered had been very hush-hush. Muriel discreetly disappeared, as she knew the two close friends wanted to be alone to discuss Volunteer business.
O’Donovan Rossa’s remains, on their return from America, were placed in a large glass coffin in City Hall for three days. Thousands flocked to see him and pay their respects, just as Tom Clarke had predicted.
The funeral was held on the first day of August. MacDonagh had worked so hard at all the organizing and arrangements, with Joe’s brother, Jack Plunkett, on his motorcycle acting as his messenger. Mary minded the children so that Muriel could join the huge funeral procession alongside Grace, Nellie and their friends. She felt sad for O’Donovan Rossa’s wife and daughter, Eileen, as they led the cortège.
Thousands of people took part and bands were playing – it was unlike anything she had seen. They passed a line of DMP policemen standing guard, watching the procession as it made its way towards Glasnevin Cemetery. There was a feeling in the air of unity and resolve to honour a man who all his life had fought for Ireland and its right to freedom. The procession was a massive demonstration of the strength of the Volunteers’ numbers and their growing nationalist support.
At the cemetery Padraig Pearse gave the graveside oration. Muriel was moved by the strength of his words as she listened to his voice, loud, clear and strong. He spoke of a new generation carrying on from Fenians like O’Donovan Rossa.
‘The defenders of this realm think that they have pacified us … but the fools, the fools, the fools! They have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.’
As she stood there, Muriel was conscious of an overwhelming feeling of national pride among all those listening as Padraig captivated and inspired them with his words. MacDonagh and Tom Clarke, Joe Plunkett and Sean Mac Diarmada, Eamonn Ceannt and Michael O’Rahilly looked serious; the women of Cumann na mBan, many from James Connolly’s Citizen Army and Liberty Hall were enraptured. Grace stood tall and perfectly still, her gaze unmoving, as if she were trying to remember it all exactly, like a painting.
Muriel knew that Padraig was a great teacher, but often in company he could appear somewhat shy and aloof, especially in front of girls and women – MacDonagh would tease him about it. But here he stood before an enormous crowd, able to give expression to what they all felt, what they wanted – change; change from British rule to Irish independence.
Coming away on holiday to Greystones a few days later, MacDonagh had made her a promise that for the next few weeks there would be no work, no mention of the Volunteers, just time for the two of them and the children to be together as a family.
They hired a rowing boat and went fishing, took a pony and trap on a picnic up to the big Sugar Loaf Mountain and to the woods near the Glen of the Downs. Among the other holidaymakers new families had replaced the old ones of her parents’ generation and she was delighted to see some friends with their small babies and children.
Muriel swam most days, along the shore of the South Beach, feeling the strength and rhythm of each stroke as she pushed through the chilly water. She was a good, strong swimmer and the sea filled her with energy and a joy that had never changed since her childhood days. MacDonagh sat patiently on the stony beach watching her and minding the children, often with camera in hand, taking photographs, as she introduced Barbara to the sea and Don would yell as he splashed and paddled in the water or took a donkey ride.
Don loved the donkeys and every day begged them for a ride, MacDonagh walking along beside him so that he wouldn’t be afraid as the little grey donkey plodded slowly along the beach, while Muriel stretched out in the sunshine and the baby played beside her on the rug.
Walking along the seafront one afternoon she spotted one of her mother’s friends, sitting on a garden bench in the large front garden of their white gabled home, staring across at the Irish Sea.
‘Muriel dear, how lovely to see you again!’ Mrs Heuston looked tired, grey shadows under her eyes, as she admired the baby. ‘Motherhood agrees with you.’
‘Thank you. My husband and I are down for two weeks. I think the sea air must be doing me good, like when I was a child.’
‘Those were such wonderful times when you were children.’ Mrs Heuston’s eyes suddenly welled with tears. ‘You and your brothers and sisters, playing with Elizabeth and our twins Frank and Fred. You were all rather wild – a bit of a handful.’
‘Is everything all right, Mrs Heuston?’ Muriel could not hide her concern.
‘Oh my dear, we’ve had bad news from the War Office two days ago to say that Fred was badly wounded last week. My husband is beside himself with worry. He’s sent a telegram back to them asking about the extent of his injuries and if he’s been taken to a hospital in Malta or Alexandria, but we are not getting any information,’ she explained, upset and agitated. ‘He’s with the Sixth Battalion of the Fusiliers. He and a few medical-student friends from Trinity joined the big group of “Pals” from the rugby club who signed up. There were hundreds of them. He and a few friends had only just landed in Gallipoli when they were heavily attacked and many mortally wounded.’
‘I’m sure the army hospital will look after Fred, and when he is well enough to transport they will send him back home,’ Muriel comforted her.
‘That’s what we are praying for. I always took comfort from the fact that at least Frank junior was safe away from it all in Nova Scotia, but he wrote to tell us last month that he has joined the Canadian Expeditionary Force and is being sent to Salisbury for training.’
‘My brother Claude is fighting with them in France,’ Muriel said softly. ‘Mother thinks that Cecil and Ernest will likely join up too.’
‘I don’t know if your family heard, but the Duggans got a letter from Lord Kitchener to say that poor George died in Suvla Bay and it seems that his brother Jack may also be missing.’
Muriel gripped the handles of the pram. George was a friend of her brothers’, with a wife and small children … who would now never see him again.
‘It’s strange to think that perhaps our boys all landed in that awful foreign place together,’ Mrs Heuston said sadly as Muriel gently urged her to go back inside to have a rest.
Walking home past Ferney East, the Duggans’ large, imposing corner home across from the cove, Muriel could see the curtains were drawn. The house was in mourning for George.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ soothed MacDonagh as she burst into tears the minute she reached their house.
‘I will never let our son fight in such a war,’ she said firmly. ‘Never …’
As she enjoyed those precious days of summer, Muriel felt they were golden, she and her husband and their children together, paddling on the beach and having fun, capturing special moments on their trusty camera.
Desmond FitzGerald called to see MacDonagh. She knew it was on Volunteer business.
‘Don’t be cross,’ he teased her. ‘Poor Desmond has been marooned in Wicklow for months. He ran a Volunteer unit near Dingle, but he and his wife, Mabel, were forced to move by the authorities and are prohibited from living in Dublin. So he’s set up a new Volunteer unit close to here, near Bray.’
‘But surely he’s putting himself in danger?’
‘Perhaps, but he wants to stay involved,’ MacDonagh said, as if risk were of no matter.
She felt sad as the holiday came to an end and she packed up their suitcases ready to return to Dublin.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ Don said, gazing out the train window, wishing he could stay playing on the beach and having rides on Billy the donkey.
‘Dadda and I will bring you and Barbara back here to Greystones again next year,’ Muriel promised him as the guard blew his whistle and the train began slowly to move out of the station.