TEN

As the conductor had predicted, Rosie had a little wait for the Dublin tram and when she was settled into it, she realised she had no idea what to ask for when the conductor came abreast of her for her fare. ‘Well, where are you going?’ The conductor asked. ‘We won’t be going the whole hog to Nelson’s Pillar, that I do know, for Sackville Street is impossible to cross with rubble and fallen masonry.’

‘I need to get to Baggot Street,’ Rosie replied.

‘Oh, then you wouldn’t have gone up so far anyway, it would be taking you out of your way,’ the conductor told her. ‘You need to get off at the corner of St Stephen’s Green North and Dawson Road. Baggot Street is only a stone’s throw from there, so to speak. Don’t you worry about it now, I’ll tell you when we get there and point you in the right direction.’

Rosie sank back in her seat and didn’t worry about it, not about getting off a tram at the right stop anyway. She had far more pressing worries pounding her brain. She read the signs as they passed through Rathgar and then Rathmines, noting the area became more built up as they drew closer to Dublin.

There were more people on the streets here, more cars and carts and bicycles and the odd omnibus too. She saw whole streets of houses and a few shops here and there. The tram began to fill up and, with all the seats taken, people stood holding onto the straps fastened to the roof as the tram swayed and clanked its way forward.

As the tram suddenly turned sharply, Rosie couldn’t prevent herself sliding into a fellow passenger on the hard wooden seats. ‘Sorry,’ she said, but the woman she’d collided with just smiled.

‘It’s hard not to crash into one another the way they throw you about in these things,’ the woman said. ‘Still, not much further now. We’re nearly at St Stephen’s Green.’

Rosie looked back, but the conductor was talking to someone animatedly and Rosie hoped she didn’t go sailing past where she should got off. There was little she could see now through the throng of people. She wished she was on the other side of the tram as they passed the Green, for knowing it had been the scene of action in the rebellion, she would have liked to have studied it, but she could barely see.

Then, the tram suddenly swung right and Rosie saw the conductor making his way through the crush towards her. ‘Next stop’s yours,’ he said.

Rosie picked up her bags and wondered if she should find somewhere to have a hot drink and compose herself before landing on the convent doorstep. But the conductor shook his head regretfully when Rosie asked if there was a café nearby. ‘You’d struggle to find a café open,’ he said. ‘There’s been no food in the shops for days, and those restaurants and cafés not looted or burned to the ground will be boarded up.’

Rosie suddenly felt a little frightened and nervous. The tram drew to a halt and Rosie stepped down, as the conductor stood talking to a man passing, the Angelus Bell pealing out telling her it was twelve o’clock, and she knew she had no option but to make straight for the convent.

‘Baggot Street you were making for, wasn’t it?’ the conductor asked, giving a wave to the man as he carried on up the street. ‘Have you anyone belonging you? Anyone in this place you know at all?’

‘Aye,’ Rosie said. ‘I have a relative in the convent, at a place called the ‘House of Mercy’.

The conductor sighed in relief. ‘Angels of Mercy, no less,’ he said. ‘That’s what those nuns are. They help everyone and anyone in need. No-one is ever turned away from their door. You’ll get a welcome there all right.’ He looked Rosie up and down and then went on, ‘You new to Dublin?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, you chose a fine time to visit,’ the conductor commented. ‘If you want to go out and look at the city centre and particularly if you want to cross the Liffey, you’ll need a pass. Various barracks and police stations have them, so I hear, or sometimes the sentries guarding the Liffey will be able to issue one.’

‘A pass!’ Rosie repeated incredulously. ‘For going about Dublin?’

‘Aye,’ the conductor said. ‘But remember it’s a Dublin that’s been at war. People have been killed, houses and shops destroyed. I tell you, if they don’t like the look of you, you’ll get no pass at all, people say. Only the religious orders can move freely.’

‘I see.’

‘The nuns will put you right,’ the conductor said. ‘And you’ll have no trouble reaching Baggot Street.’ He pointed the way down the road and said, ‘Now you go along there now, just straight on and you’ll come to Baggot Street in no time at all. Don’t look left or right, nor turn down any other road – that man I was just talking to was telling me some of the rebels have occupied a house in Mount Street Crescent. The army have installed a field gun in Merrion Square and are blasting them to Kingdom Come.’

Now that the Angelus bell had died away, Rosie was suddenly all too aware of the sound of rifle fire. There was a sudden loud boom and she shivered. ‘I thought there was a surrender?’

‘Aye, there is,’ the conductor said. ‘These are just pockets of resistance. But don’t you worry about that. You just get yourself to Baggot Street.’

Rosie nodded and the tram moved away and swung up Dawson Street. She began to walk down the north side of St Stephen’s Green, passing people with grim, serious faces. On the corner of the road she came upon the Shelbourne Hotel, now a barricaded and sandbagged structure with not a window in place, its stucco frontage pockmarked with bullet holes. It bore so little resemblance to any hotel she’d ever seen that if it hadn’t been for the sign still on the wall above the shuttered entrance, she would never have believed it.

She remembered in the newspaper reports she’d read about the insurrection that the army had installed field guns in the hotel and on the roof to clear the rebels out of the park. It seemed too awful for words to her to destroy buildings, not to mention lives, for an ideal that burned with a bright flame for only six short days.

Opposite the hotel was a barricade blocking the way into St Stephen’s Green and Rosie remembered reading that the rebels had commandeered every vehicle passing to add to it. She saw for herself what the papers had reported – carts, traps, cars and vans, together with the odd bicycle, piled haphazardly one on top of another, pockmarked as the hotel had been and with big holes blasted into the sides of them. Much of the barricade had been dismantled now and she knew it would be easy to climb over and into the park if anyone had the desire to do so.

Despite the conductor’s words she decided to have a look for herself. It wasn’t as if she was walking into danger: the firing was from the other side and there had been nothing since that volley and the field gun’s blast when she’d left the tram. Maybe the mini rebellion was already over and done.

But even though she thought this, she approached the barricade hesitantly, expecting someone to stop her any minute. No-one did, however. Any who passed seemed intent on their own business and there were no soldiers to be seen, so Rosie lifted up her skirts and began to climb, glad of her stout boots as the stack slithered and slid beneath her feet and she heard the sound of glass splintering.

Beyond the barricade, huge trenches had been dug, deep swathes cutting through the lush lawns. But worse by far were the limbs she saw sticking up from the trenches she’d thought to be empty, the bodies of rebels killed there: only half-hearted efforts had been made to cover them with earth.

There was a smell about the place, blood and cordite and something more, the putrefying stink of the decaying flesh of limbs exposed to the fine spring weather for days. Rosie felt nausea in her throat and she put her hand to her mouth as she turned away.

The sudden crash of a shell exploding made Rosie almost jump out of her skin, but she refused to allow herself to be frightened and continued to follow the path round until she came upon the fountain. No water gushed out of the metallic structure now nor trickled over the red bulrushes at its base. Rosie saw that once the stone wall around the fountain had been encircled by beautiful beds of flowers but every one had been ground into the earth.

She looked about her and saw that though the trenches might have ruined the lawns, the tops of them and any grass left were sprinkled with blossom of pink and white which had fluttered from the trees. The sight brought tears to her eyes.

She brushed them away impatiently. This was not the time for crying and she forced herself forward across that blackened grass to where she had seen the glint of water in the distance and then suddenly the lake was before her.

It lacked the grandeur of the lake in Blessington but for all that she could see it had once been a pretty place. A bridge spanned its narrowest point and the whole lake was overhung with bushes heavy with blossom and trees with young, bright green leaves and there were a fair few islands cut into the lake, obviously nesting places for the water birds. Not that there were ducks, swans or anything else on the lake that day and little wonder because despite the sun shimmering on the surface of the lake, it was a place of deep sorrow.

It was no place to linger at either, Rosie decided, so she climbed back over the barricade to continue her journey, aware that as she reached Baggot Street the rifle shots and occasional blast from the guns had become louder.

The houses on Baggot Street were large and had been built in the stately Georgian style with steps leading up to them and doors of different colours. Rosie knew they belonged to moneyed people, the professional classes.

Then, as she crossed Fitzwilliam Street, she saw the army field gun and the soldiers around it released a shell just as she passed. There was an earth-shattering boom. Surely no mere house could withstand such a pounding?

She had the urge to run. Her hands felt clammy and her heart thumped in her chest but she told herself to keep calm. She’d come here on a mission to find news of Danny and she couldn’t take flight now so she concentrated on putting one foot before the other and looked neither right nor left.

When Rosie eventually came to the ‘House of Mercy’ she just stood in the road and stared.

The huge building, on the corner of Baggot Street and Herbert Road, was of honey-coloured brick and stood three storeys high. The main entrance had a white stone portico in front of it and a garden before that, which was entered by a small wrought-iron gate. There were two single-storey buildings on either side of the main one, each with doors that opened on to the street, so that the whole structure on the ground floor looked like the letter E. Rosie saw that above the building to her left there was a stained-glass window and she supposed that was the chapel.

She was so awed by the size and splendour, the whole magnificence of it, that it took all her reserves of courage to open that small gate, walk up the path between the welltended garden, where tulips and daffodils waved in the spring sunshine, go up the wide steps between the pillars and ring the bell set in the wall beside the bright, red door.

She remembered Connie telling her about how the founder of the order, Catherine McAuley, had built the house with money that had been left to her before she’d actually become a nun herself. When it had first opened it had housed a school for the daughters of the gentry. However, it was soon apparent that the needs of the area meant that a school for poorer children should be set up instead. Catherine McAuley’s aims, so Connie had said, had been to identify the needs of the people and try to address them in a positive way. Rosie thought they must be considered successful, or they wouldn’t be known as the Angels of Mercy.

So, despite the size and grandeur of the convent, she had no doubt that the sisters would welcome her and this was apparent as soon as a nun opened the door. Her face was lined and wrinkled, but her eyes were bright and kindly looking, and she drew Rosie inside before enquiring of her business, saying as she did so, ‘Come in, my dear, the streets are not safe just now.’

Rosie found herself in a large, bright hall, the sun shining through the windows, patterning the black and white tiled floor. The walls were half-panelled timber, the top half painted and lined with holy pictures. A blue lamp burned before the statue of the Blessed Virgin at the bottom of the sweeping staircase and the smell of the candles mixed with the smell of food from somewhere. Rosie felt saliva in her mouth at the thought of it.

‘My name is Sister Amelia,’ the nun said. ‘Are you in trouble, my dear?’

Never had Rosie been spoken to so gently by a nun and she began her story of Danny and what had brought her to Dublin. ‘My mother-in-law told me to come to you,’ she finished. ‘Her name is Connie Walsh and she says she has an aunt in the order, a Sister Cuthbert.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sister Amelia said. ‘Not long back from our sister convent in Handsworth. I’ll fetch her. She’d want to see you, welcome you.’

As the nun scurried away, Rosie studied the pictures. There was one of Catherine McAuley and, beside that, a picture of ‘The Mercy Tree’ and a little further along the wall a list of the order’s aims behind glass and decorated with holy scrolls. There were fourteen altogether and the first few were as anyone would expect: ‘To Feed the Hungry’ and ‘To Give Drink to the Thirsty’, but further down Rosie read, ‘To Visit Those in Prison’, To Comfort the Afflicted’, and ‘To Forgive Offences’. Rosie was suddenly immeasurably glad she was here with these very special women who she knew would help her find news of Danny and sustain her whatever that news was.

Sister Amelia was soon back accompanied by another nun about the same age, as far as Rosie could ascertain, but her face was not as lined. She had the same warm brown eyes as Connie and Rosie felt herself relaxing as she related her story once again.

‘Well,’ Sister Cuthbert said as Rosie fell silent. ‘First things first. I think a meal is in order. We were about to dish up for lunch when you rang the bell.’

But Rosie knew of the severe food situation in Dublin and protested. ‘Oh no. I mean, I know there’s little to be had in the shops. I have food with me, my mother-in-law insisted and she packed a similar basket for Danny, if he should be…if he’s…’ She couldn’t continue, not without breaking down and making a holy show of herself. But Sister Cuthbert saw her distress and interjected. ‘Keep your food, Rosie. You may have need of it yet and your husband will be grateful for decent food if you should find him alive and well, please God you will.

‘Don’t worry about us, for we are well looked after. We had a big bag of vegetables and another of potatoes dropped in only yesterday, enough for a few pans of stew. There is no meat; any to be found is commandeered by the military and yet Sister Miriam, who does most of the cooking, found a couple of dead rabbits outside the kitchen door today.’

She took Rosie’s coat, basket and bag and put them in an alcove off the hall and then, with her arm through Rosie’s, took her down a corridor into a room where nuns sat on benches either side of a large, dark wood, refectory table. They had steaming bowls of stew before them and a nun stood at a side table with a cauldron before her and a ladle in her hand, doling out generous portions.

Rosie felt light-headed with hunger as the savoury smell rose in the air. All the nuns’ eyes were upon her as Sister Cuthbert led Rosie to the head of the table, where the Reverend Mother sat in an upholstered chair. Rosie dropped a curtsey before the older nun as she was introduced and knew instantly that, despite the smile on her face, little would get past this woman.

Her manner, though, was sympathetic towards Rosie as she bade her rise and said, ‘Now, Mrs Walsh, my name is Mother Therese and Sister Amelia has told us a little of why you are here in Dublin. Everything else can wait until we’ve eaten. We are happy to share what we have with you.’

Seldom, Rosie thought afterwards, had food tasted as good as that rabbit stew: the meat succulent and juicy, the vegetables cooked to perfection, the dumplings helped soak up the gravy. They were an unusual colour and had an equally unusual taste, but were more than just edible and Rosie did the meal justice. A few of the nuns asked her questions, but Rosie answered anything she was asked politely although she could barely eat fast enough, such was her hunger.

Her main thoughts, though, even as she ate, was where she would have to go and who she’d have to ask to get news of Danny. After the meal was finished, Mother Therese asked, ‘So my dear, I’m sure you are anxious for news of your husband?’ and she nodded eagerly.

‘The Franciscan Fathers would be the ones to contact,’ the nun went on. ‘They’ve been dealing a great deal with the prisoners in Kilmainham Jail. One of them would surely know if your husband is there or not and once that is established, we can go on from there.’

‘Oh, thank you Reverend Mother,’ Rosie said fervently. ‘How do I find them?’

‘You don’t find them, my dear,’ Mother Therese said. ‘You can’t walk around the streets without a pass: I’m surprised you weren’t challenged on the way here. Sister Amelia and Sister Cuthbert will go.’

It was as Rosie was saying goodbye to the two nuns at the door that she heard a shell burst louder than any other had been. It was followed by another and another, whistling through the air and exploding with a thunderous crash. Rosie knew that if the riflemen in the house weren’t dead before, they surely would be now. She closed the door sadly.

Only a short while after the nuns had left, they were back and had with them a Franciscan friar who introduced himself as Father Joe. ‘I was on an errand of my own,’ he said in explanation to Mother Therese and Rosie, who’d come into the hall to see the cause of the commotion. ‘And then I was asked to see to the two young fellows who’d barricaded themselves in the house on Mount Street.’

‘Are they dead?’

‘The one is, the other won’t be long following him,’ the monk said softly. ‘I said a wee prayer, but I had nothing with me to do anything else. I told someone to go for the parish priest and when he came just a few minutes ago I was about to be on my way again, when I came upon your nuns.’

He came across to Rosie and said, ‘You must be Mrs Walsh, I’ve been told your story. You’re looking for your husband, I believe?’

‘Aye, Father. His name is Daniel Walsh,’ Rosie said. Her voice was little more than a whisper. Already she was afraid of the answer the priest might give her. She was suddenly aware of the silence in the room and of Sister Cuthbert edging nearer to her, catching up one of Rosie’s tensed fists in her hand.

It seemed an age before the priest said, ‘I believe your man is being held in the jail. He was with de Valera’s lot in Boland’s Mill, after being routed from the house in Mount Street. De Valera was the last to surrender. I was with Father Augustine at the jail when they were brought in and I remember the names being read out – Daniel Walsh was on the list.’

Rosie felt the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding leave her body in such a rush that she felt light-headed and would have faltered had it not been for Sister Cuthbert. Her Danny had not been blown into a million pieces, or riddled with bullets and thrown into a makeshift grave in St Stephen’s Green. He was alive!

But despite the monk’s words, his face was grave, and Rosie asked, panicking. ‘What is it, Father? Is Danny injured, or sick?’

‘To my knowledge, he isn’t,’ the priest said. ‘He isn’t, at any rate, in the prison infirmary.’

‘Can I see him? Are they allowed visitors?’

‘They are indeed allowed visitors,’ the priest said. ‘In fact, I was on the way to Kilmainham Jail myself today. I have a wedding to arrange.’

‘A wedding?’

‘Aye,’ Father Joe replied. ‘One of the leaders of it all, Joseph Plunkett, is still determined to marry his sweetheart, Grace Gifford. It will have to be done speedily I’m thinking. Joseph is one of the ones to be put before a court martial tomorrow.’

‘What will happen to them, Father?’

The monk lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘Mrs Walsh, I am a simple friar. I have no crystal ball.’

‘Have you no idea?’

‘My idea might be totally wrong,’ Father Joe said.

‘Even so. Please, Father?’

The friar regarded Rosie and her anxious face and knew it would be no kindness to buoy her up with false hopes.

‘Mrs Walsh, I think they will be executed – shot.’

‘The leaders, you mean? Just the leaders?’ Rosie cried desperately as Sister Cuthbert, hearing the distress in Rosie’s voice, put her arms around her.

‘Mrs Walsh, if you’d seen how many British soldiers have been killed, you’d know the government will not be prone to leniency.’

So, Danny might be alive now, might have survived the carnage, but for how long? She felt hatred for Phelan rise up inside her and fill her with white-hot anger, so she felt as if she was on fire, even while her body shook with fear for Danny.

Suddenly, Rosie was overcome with a blackness descending around and about her like a cloak, and she slithered from the nun’s enfolding arms to the floor.

The pungent stench of smelling salts brought her around some time later and she lay on the floor where she’d been placed, a pillow under her head. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, embarrassed.

‘No need to be sorry, my dear,’ Sister Cuthbert said. ‘It was of no matter at all. If I help you, can you sit up in the chair that Father Joe has brought in?’

Rosie gave a brief nod of her head. Sister Cuthbert helped her up and she waited for a moment for her head to stop spinning, swaying slightly on her feet so that Father Joe came to her other side and both helped her into the chair. But, once settled, she lifted her eyes and said, ‘Can you take me to the jail, Father? Can I get to see Danny?’

‘Do you think you’ll be able for it?’ Father Joe asked. ‘I will take you with me and gladly, but it’s a tidy step.’

Rosie looked up at the monk, his kindly face full of understanding and sympathy and she said, ‘That was a momentary weakness only. I must see Danny, Father. I won’t rest till I do.’

‘Well then, we’ll go along together as soon as you feel fully recovered,’ the monk assured her. ‘You will be all right in the streets when you are with me. We’ll need no passes.’

Sister Cuthbert went away and came back through with a glass of water. When Rosie had drunk it she felt much better, stronger altogether, and more able to face whatever lay ahead of her. ‘I’m ready, Father Joe,’ she said.

‘Are you sure now?’

‘Aye. The fresh air will probably do me good,’ Rosie said with conviction. She put on her coat, glad of it because though the day was fine, it always gave her confidence to wear a proper coat and she thought she might have need of confidence before the day was out.

It was when she lifted the basket that Father Joe asked, ‘What’s in there?’

‘Food for Danny. My mother-in-law packed it for him, just in case, you know…We didn’t know whether he was alive or dead, but we hoped and prayed. I washed and ironed a good white shirt, I’m sure he’ll have need of one now and a jumper in case it’s cold. I shouldn’t think prisons are renowned for their good turf fires, not, of course, that I’ve had any personal experience.’

‘No indeed,’ Father Joe said, peeling back the clothes at the top and looking at the produce in the basket.

The monk knew there was little chance of Danny having any of that food, or the shirt and jumper. He wondered whether he should tell Rosie that, but decided not to. Let her keep her illusions for a little longer. He did, however, relieve her of the basket, for it was a weight and they had a distance to go. Just minutes later they were scurrying down Baggot Street towards the bridge over the Grand Canal.

‘I have great respect for these men in the jail,’ the monk said as they walked. ‘They’ve even impressed some of the soldiers, for every man jack of them is brave, and all I’ve spoken to were, and are, prepared to sacrifice their lives for Ireland’s freedom.’

‘Foolhardy though surely, Father?’ Rosie said. ‘Many people think that.’

‘Aye, it may have been foolhardy,’ the monk went on. ‘But a noble act for all that. It brought the eyes of the world upon us. If these men are shot, they will at least have died with honour and will be buried respectfully. Masses will be said for them and their relatives will have a grave to visit.’

The priest’s words were of little comfort to Rosie for she’d heard the same sentiment expressed often and it didn’t help.

They left the city centre as they passed the bridge that Rosie had travelled over in a tram just a wee while before. One of the soldiers at Portobello Barracks raised his hand in salute as the priest passed and there was a chorused greeting when they passed Richmond Barracks on the other side of the road a short time later. No-one challenged the two, or asked where they were bound for, or demanded to see passes. Rosie was grateful and knew it would have been a different story had she been on her own.

In fact, the soldiers seemed quite relaxed. ‘I suppose the threat’s over now,’ Rosie said. ‘All involved in it are either dead or behind bars. They have no reason to be alarmed.’

‘No, indeed,’ the friar said. ‘Nor the ordinary Dublin people either, thank God, and for all my admiration for the rebels there was much hardship and poverty during the uprising and it led to lawlessness. I’ve seen children searching the mounds of burned and bombed rubbish for anything useful, and the sweet shops and toy shops have been cleared of stock.

‘There was also great loss and tragedy amongst the ordinary people not involved at all. Men and women were taken prisoner by the army at Ballbridge and thirty-six people, men, women and children, were killed in a house in Haddington Road. A wee twelve-year-old boy was killed stone dead himself as he was giving a drink to a dying soldier.

‘I wonder if it will ever be the same,’ Father Joe continued pensively. ‘Some buildings are surely lost forever. The Hibernian Academy was burned and it had all the spring collection of paintings and other works of art, many of them just loaned. Only the good Lord knows what can be done about that. I imagine they’ll be insured. The worst of it is, they believe the curator, Mr Kavanagh, was burned to death in the building too. Then there were twenty horses belonging to Clery’s, the department store, burned to death. Only one escaped alive.’

Rosie could imagine the terror of those horses. All animals were afraid of fire. She imagined their screams would rent the air and felt her stomach turn over with the horror of it all. Afterwards, the stink of burning horse flesh would have hung in the air. She wondered why the loss of those horses had affected her more than the deaths of human beings.

There was silence as they walked along, each busy with their own thoughts. Father Joe branched away from the canal not long after they passed Richmond Barracks in to Cork Street, which led to Marrowbone Lane where he was able to point out the docks of the Grand Canal to Rosie before turning right into James Street. ‘It’s not far now,’ he said. ‘It’s in Inchicore Road just a little way along here.’

Rosie nodded her head for she was too nervous to talk much and was having enough trouble putting one foot before the other when really she wanted to run the other way and pretend all this was a bad dream. But then they turned the corner and there it was, the massive structure, built of blue-grey brick. There were high walls surrounding it with coils of barbed wire on top of them.

Rosie turned anguished eyes to the friar and her knees began to tremble. She felt weak with longing to see with her own eyes that Danny was alive, yet she was filled with fear at the thought of entering that forbidding place.

Father Joe understood much of the thoughts stumbling through Rosie’s troubled mind and said gently, ‘Take heart, my dear. I am sure that Danny will be gladdened at the sight of you.’

It was that thought which spurred her on, and so she took a deep breath yet she doubted she’d ever have plucked up the courage to go into that building alone.