GRACE ENQUIRED AT the Imperial Hotel’s reception desk and did not know whether to be relieved or upset that a room was still booked there in the name of Plunkett.
‘It is one of the bigger ones that overlooks Sackville Street,’ explained the young porter as he showed her into the very room where she and Joe should have spent their wedding night. She had left a message for Joe at the desk to say where she was and that she was waiting for him.
Hoping that she would not encounter Joe’s sister and her new husband, who were also booked to stay there, she fled through the heavy mahogany door of the luxurious bedroom with its grand view of the street and the crowds milling around below. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out on top of the bed for a few minutes, but did not dare nap in case Joe arrived. She prayed that he would get her message and come soon. Once everything was in order they would immediately go ahead with their marriage plans. Father Sherwin would surely agree to officiate, or perhaps the priest at the Pro-Cathedral, where they both liked to worship.
Getting up, Grace gazed out over Sackville Street. Many of the shops and businesses were closed for Easter Monday, but the large General Post Office across the street from the hotel was still open to sell stamps and for people to post letters and parcels or collect their army pensions or the Supplementary Welfare payments they received while their husbands and sons were away fighting. She watched the constant flow of these ‘supplementary women’ entering and leaving the building. Some were widows, their pension earned by the death of their husband in some muddy trench on an unknown battlefield.
Young ladies in their spring finery, with fashionable new dresses and Easter bonnets, paraded along Sackville Street with their beaus and husbands.
Suddenly, coming from the corner with Abbey Street, Grace espied a large group of men marching into Dublin’s broad main thoroughfare.
It looked like the Volunteers and Connolly’s Citizen Army! What were they doing?
She pressed her face to the glass as they drew nearer, immediately recognizing Padraig Pearse and James Connolly at their head, with Joe and another man. Joe looked pale and gaunt, but despite that he was wearing his uniform, breeches, boots and a hat, a silk scarf around his neck to hide his recent surgery, marching steadily with them and brandishing the shining sabre he kept at Larkfield. Mick Collins, ramrod straight and tall, was marching behind him. Women from Cumann na mBan, heads held high, and boys from the Fianna marched with them. A number held rifles with bayonets and shotguns, others had only pikes and an assortment of other weapons.
Grace searched for sight of her sister or MacDonagh, but couldn’t see them. She recognized Michael O’Rahilly’s car and could see George Plunkett leading a group of the Larkfield Volunteers, marching along in good spirits while his younger brother, Jack, was on the motorcycle up near the front. Two horse-drawn carts filled with weapons and supplies followed as part of the strange parade. Passers-by glanced at them briefly, but continued with their own business.
Grace was tempted to run outside on to the street to call Joe, beg him to come and join her, forget whatever they had all planned. She held her breath as the group came to a stop outside the large classical building that dominated the street – the General Post Office. James Connolly seemed to say something, give an order, and suddenly they all charged at the building, swarming in through the main entrance, gaining entry and overrunning it in only a few minutes.
Shocked, Grace stood watching as terrified customers fled the Post Office and the doors were locked to prevent others entering. A group of supplementary women gathered at the door of the GPO, shouting and howling abuse at Padraig, James, Joe and the rebels for locking them out and preventing them from collecting their weekly money, which was all they had.
Grace held her breath as snipers in Volunteer uniform appeared up on the high roof of the GPO. Suddenly two flags were hoisted up into the air, unfurling as the breeze caught them: the green Sinn Fein flag and the green, white and gold Irish flag, blowing high across the city for all to see.
The windows of the building were smashed and knocked out, glass covering the street. Quickly they were sandbagged and protected with papers and books.
What were they doing, Grace asked herself – did they intend holding the mighty GPO for a few hours or even overnight to teach the British a lesson?
There seemed little movement, from what she could see, except for shadows behind the remaining windows and more glass being broken. A few pieces of furniture were moved outside to make barricades. There was no sign of the Dublin Metropolitan Police or the army appearing to eject the rebels.
Grace stood transfixed at the window, worried for Joe. A small crowd had gathered around the building. Suddenly Padraig Pearse came out on to the street, flanked by Tom Clarke, James Connolly and Sean MacDermott, and began to read loudly from a large sheet of paper. Unfortunately she could not hear what he said, but while some people listened to the words of a great orator, others simply ignored him, turned their heads and left. A few minutes later Padraig and the group went back inside the GPO, but a young Volunteer headed towards Nelson’s Pillar with printed pages and left them there for people to read.
The street was unusually quiet for what seemed an age. The trams had stopped. Suddenly Grace became aware of a commotion coming from the top end of the street, up near the Rotunda. It was a brigade of the Royal Irish Lancers on horseback, riding along slowly at first down the centre of the street, then suddenly building up speed, urging their horses on faster.
She could barely see, but the Volunteers seemed ready for them and were putting up a fight near the Parnell Statue. She could hear shooting as the Lancers tried to charge down Sackville Street to attack the rebels. Most were held back, but a few broke through and she could see about twenty horses and their riders nearing the front of the GPO.
There was a huge burst of rifle fire and two or three horses were shot, falling down on the ground with their riders, the others wheeling around, trying to turn back up the street to escape from the rebels’ attack. A few of the Lancers were clearly badly injured. Grace was shocked by the gunfire and blood. She watched the huge horses whinnying pitifully and one lay dying on the street. It was terrible to watch the terrified animal, yet she felt immense relief that Joe and the rebels were safe for the moment.
There would be a new onslaught, a new attack, of that there could be no doubt. The military were now aware of the rebels’ position and possible numbers, and they would regroup and return.
She was afraid for Joe, afraid for all of them. Was Nellie with them? How could they possibly expect to defeat the large numbers of the British army garrisoned in barracks all across the city? They would be wiped out. She stayed watching from the window, frozen with dread at what might happen once the army launched a proper attack on them.
Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door of her room. She ran to it, hoping that it was Joe. Instead a young Larkfield Volunteer nervously handed her a message.
It was from Joe, telling her that she must leave immediately as it was too unsafe for her to stay in Sackville Street. He had signed it with all my love forever, Joe.
Suddenly afraid, Grace went downstairs as quickly as she could and left the hotel.