They held their breath, all of them, as Elizabeth O’Farrell, holding Connolly’s surrender notice and a piece of white cloth to serve as a flag, cautiously opened the door of the shop on Moore Street. Immediately there was a volley of gunfire, but she stuck out an arm and waved the white flag, and the gunfire ceased amid shouts from the British military.
Gráinne stood beside Emmett and watched as Elizabeth took a deep breath, crossed herself, and walked out into the street, waving the flag in front of her. A brave woman. Would Gráinne have dared be the one to go out there? She wasn’t sure. She was too young. This was a job for a more mature woman whom the British army general would take seriously. She was just thankful Connolly hadn’t asked her to do it.
The wait, while Elizabeth was away from the building, was interminable. The seconds ticked by so slowly that Gráinne, glancing frequently at a clock on the wall, was convinced it had stopped. But, at last, she returned, tapping on the door and giving the agreed password.
‘The first fellow I spoke to told me to come back and fetch the women. But then he realised he needed to report back, and took me to General Lowe. There is a motorcar outside that brought me back here, and Commandant Pearse is to go in it to surrender to the General.’ At that, Elizabeth sat down heavily. She looked, Gráinne thought, completely defeated.
Pearse nodded. ‘I shall go.’ He turned to those assembled, the last rebels. ‘Gentlemen, ladies, it has been my pleasure fighting alongside you. This is the first step towards Irish independence, and we shall be remembered for it.’ With that he put on his hat, took the white flag from Elizabeth, and exited the house.
There was silence in the room as they all contemplated what would happen next. Gráinne caught a glimpse through the window of Pearse getting into the motorcar at gunpoint, and being driven away, God only knew where to.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked.
‘We put down our guns. We go out into the street with our hands held aloft,’ Connolly said. ‘Tell the first officer you see that I am in here, unarmed, and in need of medical assistance.’ His tone was grave, but somehow reassuring. He was accepting defeat, accepting his fate with a dignified grace, despite his injuries and despite his losses.
Emmett took hold of Gráinne’s hand and squeezed it. There was no need for any words.
The group were silent as they did what Connolly had ordered. Weapons were placed in an attic, away from Connolly. Joseph Plunkett opened the door and stepped out, arms held high, waving a white flag. Behind him, all those who could walk, followed. One or two had their heads down, as though shamed, but Gráinne held hers up with pride.
Outside there were a dozen soldiers, who herded them along the street and into Sackville Street. Gráinne gasped to see the state of it: the whole of the east side was reduced to smouldering rubble, and the west side was still burning. They had to move to the centre of the street to avoid the debris that fell from the ruined buildings.
All around, troops were going from building to building, calling for rebels to surrender. The few who were in other houses in the area came out, looking scared and worried, and joined Gráinne’s group in the centre of the street. Gráinne and Emmett found a patch of tarmac, clear of rubble, and sat down, back to back, using each other as support.
‘How long will they keep us here?’ Gráinne asked.
‘I don’t know. Until they’re sure they’ve cleared the area. And then who knows where we’ll be taken. I suppose we might be separated. They’ll keep the women separate from the men, and I hope they’ll let the women go.’
‘We’re as much a part of it as the men,’ Gráinne said. She was proud of the part her sex had played in it all. They’d proved their worth, she thought.
‘You are, I know, but they don’t know that. And if there’s a chance for you to be set free, take it, without any argument. Promise me that.’
She could not see his face as he said those words, but she could imagine the look of love and fear for her in his eyes. She nodded, and reached behind her to find his hand. ‘I promise. And you, promise me the same.’
‘I do.’
From where she was sitting, she could see down the side street where two soldiers were carrying out the stretcher that held James Connolly. They loaded him into the back of a vehicle and drove away. To a hospital, she hoped. Somewhere his shattered ankle could be properly treated.
‘At least the flag’s still flying,’ a voice said, and Gráinne turned to see Michael Collins who was sitting alongside Joseph Plunkett. He smiled at her and pointed up at the roof of the GPO where the Countess’s burnt and tattered emerald flag somehow still fluttered in the wind.
It had been shortly after midday when Elizabeth O’Farrell had left the house with the order to surrender. Now, Gráinne thought, it must be late afternoon. She was hungry and thirsty, but there was nothing on offer so no point complaining about it. Armed soldiers stood in a ring around the rebels, who like her and Emmett, were sitting on the ground, trying to make themselves comfortable. A few were lying down. Some were injured, but the most seriously hurt were being taken away to hospitals.
Later, an army officer called out a list of names. They were the signatories of the Proclamation of the Republic. Joseph Plunkett’s name was among those called out. Gráinne watched as he stood slowly, and raised a hand. He was led away into an army vehicle. She caught Emmett’s eye, and he shook his head sadly.
Gráinne wondered where Grace was now. Was she still hiding in that little house? Did she know of the surrender, the failure of the Rising? And the Countess, what of her? She prayed her friends were safe, wherever they were.
As afternoon wore on into evening, canteens of water were passed around by their guards. Gráinne drank gratefully and tried to ignore the pangs of hunger and the numbness of her bottom from sitting on the hard ground. There were a hundred or more rebels there now, in Sackville Street, guarded by around fifty soldiers. When would they be taken elsewhere? She supposed they would all have to be formally arrested and questioned and imprisoned. And what then? She could not imagine how the military would deal with them all.
As evening fell, at her side Emmett began to sing, quietly, so that only she could hear. He sang rebel songs and folk ballads, songs of love and longing and loss. Listening to his voice soothed her and for those moments she was able to forget where she was and why they were there.
Once the sun had sunk below the horizon it became cold, and Emmett took off his jacket to wrap around her shoulders. She tried to say no, he needed it more than her, but he insisted. He shifted so that she could curl up against him, her head in his lap, and she closed her eyes.
But there was no chance of sleep. Apart from the discomfort there was a constant murmuring from the rebels as they discussed what might happen to them, and the occasional shout from a soldier telling them to keep quiet.
‘They are worried we are plotting something,’ Emmett whispered to her. ‘But, of course, no one is thinking that. There is nothing we can do. If anyone made a move they’d be shot immediately.’
She did not want to imagine that scenario. ‘Sing to me again,’ she said, and he did, his voice sweet, soft and low. ‘I wonder if they’ll write songs about us,’ she said, when he had finished.
‘They will, to be sure.’ His voice cracked as he spoke, with exhaustion and pent-up emotion.
And all through that long, terrifying and uncomfortable night, he held her and sang to her and she knew that she would not have got through the night without him. She knew too that she loved him and she wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together. She made herself a resolution, that when it became possible, when this was over and they were free again – if that day ever came – she would ask him to marry her. It did not always have to be the man who asked, did it? The idea, the plan, made their suffering more bearable. She spent the night dreaming of possible futures, in which they married in a city church on a summer’s day, or a country church in the autumn; they lived in a Dublin flat, or an isolated cottage with a view of the sea … it didn’t matter what or how or when, as long as they were together.