MURIEL HAD BARELY slept, for MacDonagh had not returned home on Monday and she had had no word of his whereabouts.
Grace had told her how she had seen Joe, Padraig and James Connolly with the Volunteers and the Citizen Army taking over the GPO and setting up barricades around Sackville Street. Surely MacDonagh must be there too, somewhere in the Post Office, fighting with his men. It was rumoured that they had also taken St Stephen’s Green and other parts of the city, but the British had them under heavy fire. Min Ryan had called to the house and told her that she’d been in the GPO to try to talk to her boyfriend Sean Mac Diarmada but hadn’t seen him and intended returning.
Martial law had been declared and there were no trams. A strange confusion about events hung across the city, with people avoiding going out.
Don wanted her to play with him but she had no mind or heart for it as she worried about her husband. She had to see him, try to talk to him. She must go into town herself to try to find out what was happening. Mary could mind the children. If she let Grace know where she was going, she suspected that her sister would insist on coming too. But Muriel needed to go alone and talk to him.
The baby had gone down for a nap and Mary was busy playing with her small son and his box of coloured wooden blocks as Muriel grabbed her light coat and a hat and slipped outside. It was a bright, warm spring day and the DMP man was still standing across from their house on Oakley Road, watching it as usual. She was tempted to wave at him defiantly, but today she wanted no trouble. She had her shopping basket on her arm as if she were just going to get some food for her family. Head down, she kept walking purposefully towards Ranelagh and the local shops, hoping that no one was trailing her.
Passing Mount Pleasant, she just kept walking, crossing the canal, going along Charlemont Street and up Camden Street. She would take the back streets, avoiding the crowds, as she hastened her pace. Around Dublin Castle and City Hall could be dangerous – perhaps the Volunteers held them too? She would take another shortcut which would bring her out across Dame Street and from there make her way through the winding cobbled streets which ran towards the Liffey, then across the river and up by Liffey Street towards the back of the General Post Office.
As Muriel got nearer, she could see that the streets were covered in broken glass from the shop windows that had been smashed or riddled with bullets. Shop doors were gaping open, their stock gone, taken by the looting crowds that roamed the streets. Men, women and children, all laden down with their booty of clothes, bed linen, shoes and luxuries. The children carried bats, kites and balls from Lawrence’s toy shop, which now lay empty. She passed women flaunting their finery in silk dresses, sporting expensive coloured shawls, wraps and furs, all purloined from the city centre’s shops.
‘What are you looking at, missus?’ growled a drunken old woman wearing a pretty pink hat with a feather in it and carrying a big white lace tablecloth and a silver teapot. ‘These are all mine.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just trying to find some food for my family,’ she said, praying that the woman wouldn’t turn on her and block her path.
The woman hesitated.
‘I’ve two small children and my husband is away,’ Muriel pleaded, lifting her basket. ‘I have to find something for them to eat.’
‘Good luck to ye. Take what you need from the shops is what we say.’ The woman stepped aside, her two friends nodding in agreement.
As she got nearer Muriel could hear gunfire, the noise loud and shocking. One person would shoot, then another. Then there came a barrage of shots. She could hear shouting. As she approached the magnificent General Post Office building she could see that many of its windows were broken. Then she saw the barricades across different streets to block British soldiers from approaching the GPO. One was made of bicycles and wire, another of heavy clocks stacked one on another. A dead horse lay on the ground further up, its legs stiff, its congealed blood spattered on the street. Poor animal, it was awful – would no one take it away? Muriel kept her head down, conscious that there must be snipers high up in most of the buildings on both sides of the wide expanse of Sackville Street, with no telling which building was held by the Volunteers and which by the British. The large, heavy front door of the Post Office was locked firmly, so she darted around the side of the building hoping to find some other entrance. Perhaps she could get admittance through the rear.
She walked around slowly and soon found a smaller door. She rapped and tapped on it, then rapped again. There was no answer for ages, but eventually a boy of about fifteen or sixteen opened the door partially and stared suspiciously at her.
‘The Post Office is shut, missus, and there are no pensions for anyone,’ he said, starting to close it again. ‘So there is no point you waiting for it.’
‘I’m looking for my husband,’ she insisted, trying to prevent him closing the door. ‘Mr Thomas MacDonagh. He’s a leader of the Volunteers and should be inside here with Mr Pearse and Mr Connolly. Please check and bring me to them. I’m Mrs MacDonagh.’
‘I know who Mr MacDonagh is,’ the young lad said, now holding the door ajar. ‘He talked to our class in St Enda’s last year.’
‘Then please let me in,’ she begged, conscious of a group of young women approaching her carrying armfuls of leather boots and shoes purloined from a nearby shop.
Seconds later Muriel had gained admittance and was walking through the huge building, crossing the big sorting room where enormous baskets and boxes of letters lay piled up. The cubby holes with names of parts of the city and country written on them stood empty. There would be no letters or financial payments for people this week, no news from soldiers fighting in France and Belgium delivered to their worried parents, wives and sweethearts.
‘I don’t know where Mr MacDonagh is,’ admitted the boy, scratching his short hair, ‘but I’ll bring you to see Mr Pearse.’
‘Thank you.’
Muriel passed groups of men stockpiling weapons and arms in some kind of storage area. They barely glanced at her. She was taken to a large central hall where Padraig was sitting at a table writing notes. Most of the fine glass windows were broken, men standing at them fully armed with rifles. Some doorways were blocked with huge reams of paper, furniture and heavy mail sacks to stop entry. There were men in army uniform with guns and other weapons all around them. Hardly any women – just one in a nurse’s uniform rolling up bandages and another who seemed to be typing letters. She saw many of her husband’s friends from St Enda’s. Michael O’Rahilly and Sean Mac Diarmada, deep in conversation, paid her no attention as she searched for sight of her husband.
‘Muriel, MacDonagh is not here,’ Padraig said, standing up. ‘He and his men have taken Jacob’s Biscuit Factory in the name of the Republic.’
‘Then I must go to see him there.’
‘Muriel, it would be most unwise and MacDonagh would be very angry with me if I let you do such a thing. You must return to the safety of your home and to the children.’
‘But I need to see him. What if something should happen to him? I trained as a nurse and—’
‘Your place is with your children,’ Padraig insisted. Sheets of paper covered his desk and it was clear she had interrupted him. ‘Please go home, Muriel.’
A young man in uniform hovered beside them, waiting to speak to him. Looking around, Muriel could see James Connolly, who seemed to be in charge. He was talking to a group of ten men, directing them to take up positions in another part of the building. Recognizing her, he nodded over. He might seem to have a brusque manner but Muriel knew him as a man full of kindness and courage who would always somehow or other be involved in the fight for justice. Tom Clarke was instructing two men to go up on the roof with their rifles. He might be older than the others, but she could tell he was very much in control of what was happening around them. She could see his surprise at her presence.
‘Is Joe here?’ Muriel asked. ‘Grace said that she saw him with you yesterday.’
Padraig stopped what he was doing momentarily and directed her to the far side of the room, where Joe Plunkett lay on some kind of pallet bed. He looked bad. His face was pale and even from a distance she could see blood oozing from the bandage around his throat.
‘Muriel, what are you doing here?’ he said, struggling politely to get up. ‘MacDonagh isn’t here. He’s leading the Jacob’s garrison. His brother is with him.’
‘I know,’ she replied, unable to hide her concern at Joe’s poor physical condition.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Muriel – it’s far too dangerous.’
‘Neither should you, Joe. You have had an operation and are only just out of hospital. Grace is out of her mind worrying about you. I didn’t dare tell her I was coming here.’
‘I’m grand,’ he insisted, his dark eyes glowing. ‘I wasn’t going to miss taking my part in this after all we’ve planned and worked for.’
‘Joe, that dressing on your neck needs to be changed,’ she advised.
‘I’ll get Julia to check it later. Muriel, promise me that you will go home!’ He hesitated, his face serious as he lowered his voice. ‘But may I ask you to do something for me? Will you tell Grace that I love her and that somehow or other we will be wed, no matter what happens, I promise her that.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ she promised, leaning forward and giving him a brief hug. Joe seemed thinner and sicker than ever.
As she turned to leave the GPO, passing men stacking ammunition, she noticed a piece of paper stuck on to one of the granite columns. It was a printed Proclamation:
The Provisional Government of The Irish Republic to the People of Ireland
IRISHMEN AND IRISHWOMEN: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom …
We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland … we hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades in arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations.
Muriel read it line by line, some of it already familiar to her from pages she had seen her husband writing and scribbling …
The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens … cherishing all of the children of the nation equally …
As Muriel read the words of the Proclamation, her heart leapt when she saw MacDonagh’s name printed on the bottom alongside those of his friends. She felt suddenly achingly proud of her husband and these men, his friends, who had stood up beside him for this new Irish Republic.
All the secrecy, the meetings and planning – this is what it was all about: her husband’s long-cherished dream of an Irish Republic.
Taking a last glance around the inside of the General Post Office, Muriel wondered how Padraig, Joe and the men and women stationed here could possibly withstand a major onslaught from the mighty British army. She felt afraid for them and what the end of it all might be.
As she made her way through the corridors to the back of the building, ready to go home, Muriel felt heartsore, but she was determined that she too would play her part. Her two small children needed her and her duty was to stay with them, to protect them no matter what happened to MacDonagh and his friends.