APRIL 25, 1916
SACKVILLE STREET LOWER
DUBLIN, IRELAND
0700 HOURS
Dublin had fallen deeper into darkness, even as morning dawned.
By the time the clock ticked over to seven, rebels owned all corners of the O’Connell Bridge and up Sackville Street to the barricaded doors of the GPO, shoring up strategic points as heavy rain fell over the north side.
Word trickled in overnight that English troops had arrived east on trains from County Kildare—an endless stream of soldiers from the Curragh Camp at steady twenty-minute intervals—pouring into the south side areas of Kingsbridge and Dame Street, soon engaging rebels in intense battles around City Hall. And then . . . looting. It had begun on both sides of the River Liffey and scourged in furious waves, with fires popping up to light the night sky.
Issy and the other women had gathered in a spacious office on the first floor, their lone window barricaded against the corner of Prince’s Street. There they sorted intel and Winnie wrote dispatches for Connolly, alongside nurse Elizabeth O’Farrell and dispatch rider Julia Grenan—both members of Cumann na mBan. Having convinced Issy that her camera was of no use at night, Winnie solicited her to work through until morning, helping them pore over accounts that flooded in.
Like clockwork, the deep shatter of glass, the sounds of shouting, and the pronounced echo of bullets ricocheting off buildings would jar them. It did then, jumping Issy out of a sleepy oblivion, causing her to blink until the GPO office came into focus and she remembered where she was.
“More looting—or is it troops advancing?” Issy looked to the window, though they couldn’t see much past the reams of paper packed against the wall.
Winnie read over a sheet of paper sticking from the top of her typewriter, not looking up from the ink on the page.
“Ye’d think the first thing Dubliners would do is support the cause instead of pickin’ up a brick to smash a store window. Doubtless we’ll be the ones blamed—though most o’ the bloody business has been citizens takin’ advantage. But we can’ worry about that now. There’s an English boat trollin’ the Liffey, bombin’ points this way. ’Tis said the Dublin Bread Co. took a nasty hit. Had to send some o’ our boys out there to keep the fires at bay in buildings leadin’ up Sackville.”
Honor.
Issy edged forward in her chair, ready to spring if necessary. “Any fires close?”
“No. We’re safe thus far around the GPO an’ Clerys, all the way down to Abbey Street.” Winnie pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter roll. “Look at this.”
She slid the paper across the desk to Issy, then stepped to a back sideboard they were using as a makeshift kitchen counter and poured hot water through a strainer to a teacup.
Issy read, “If the Germans Conquered England,” and looked up. “What is it?”
“Front-page article to run in the Irish War News this morn. Pearse has given us a bit of leeway with editin’, an’ I’ve been wantin’ that one front an’ center since a clever bit of satire ran in a London paper weeks back. We’re sendin’ it across the street in minutes—the Irish Times building ought to be used for somethin’ good, so we’re printin’ news from the inside.”
“‘The writer draws a picture of England under German rule, almost every detail of which exactly fits the case of Ireland at the present day . . .’ You think people will read it?”
“They’d better. We don’ have overwhelmin’ public support an’ we’ll need it if this is to end well.”
She lowered the paper back to the desk as Winnie slid a cup of tea over. Issy took a sip, hot and bitter, but so completely lovely was the warmth that she couldn’t care what honey would have added.
It woke her in seconds. “Any word on City Hall?”
Winnie shook her head. “Fallen. Early this morn the men were cordoned off on the roof an’ all captured. Seán Connolly was leadin’ an’ he’s been shot dead—a great loss. We also know men stormed the gasworks at South Lotts Road. Tore apart the machinery an’ sent the poor souls on the south side into utter darkness through the night.”
“That means the streets along St. Stephen’s Green would be dark then too.”
“Perhaps, but the Green has its own misfortunes.”
“Which are?”
“Heavy losses. Trams down. Streets barricaded an’ machine guns hummin’ through the alleys. The English can’t even tell who’s rebel an’ who’s not, so they’re shootin’ anyone who steps into their line of sight. An’ not much better here, bein’ dressed down with gunfire for the last hours. But Julia made it out on a dispatch ride to Boland’s Mill. Elizabeth tried to get to the wounded down Sackville, but ’tis too risky. They’ve had to bring men in to her, inside through the back doors. Pearse even wrote to the church on Marlborough Street, askin’ for a priest to come take confessions. A Father Flanagan arrived this morn an’ is takin’ letters out for the Volunteers’ families.”
“Because they think they’re not coming back . . . ?”
Had Rory left one of those letters?
Should she?
Issy was drawn to the window by the call of fight and fury outside, staring through a line of glass still visible through reams of paper.
“I was there at St. Enda’s School last month when Pearse said blood would need to be shed for Ireland to be free.” The depth in Winnie’s eyes darkened. “He’s known from the beginnin’. They all have. Connolly, Clarke, MacDiarmada, an’ Plunkett too. All leaders inside these walls knowin’ the same thing yet still goin’ through with it all.”
Issy turned to the window, watching rain paint the glass in too many tears. “Knowing what?”
“’Tis a battle we can’t win.”
Though dawn had awakened them to morning, the skies were cloudy, and rain fought to wash the streets of lingering black smoke. All appeared quiet on Prince’s Street, though Issy did see shadowy figures running back and forth in front of Clerys’ windows. The displays were ravaged: broken glass, strips of fabric torn and hanging from the ceiling, and colorful department store whatnots strewn about the sidewalks.
The corner of Jack Foley’s cut a distant silhouette through the haze of mist and fog—wooden pallets still secured shuttered windows, and no flames ate buildings at its sides or upper floors. Shut up and burrowed in was a good sign, if anything could be. She had to believe Honor and her aunt and uncle were holding steady.
“Bullets can still cut through paper, so I’d back up from the window, Byrne.” Winnie set her cup and saucer by the typewriter, then rolled her chair back up to the desk. “Unless yer thinkin’ of goin’ out there, of course.”
Issy was, and she wasn’t.
It was why she’d worn trousers—for the ease of mobility. Yet she’d been hunched in a chair, sorting missives all night. She had a camera and lens ready, but it meant nothing if she let fear hold her to scouring accounts on the off chance the names O’Connell or Byrne would come in. Didn’t she want to step out, to see and capture what was happening, instead of reading about it afterward? But how could she step out of the GPO . . . and leave Honor behind?
“Campbell’s Camera Shop’s been burned out, so no extra film there. But ye may wish to know that several units of our boys had to fill in ranks over the Liffey, to hold the bridge an’ support down to the Green.”
Rory would have gone with them. As his belief was coupled with rage . . . anything to take him closer to killing the English and he’d have been the first to volunteer. Somehow, Winnie had known to strike that chord.
“And my brother went with them.”
She nodded.
“Connolly released his unit before dawn. An’ if that’s the case, yer askin’ why yer still standin’ here when ye’d like to be out there too.”
Issy stared out the window, trying to convince herself the rapid cadence of gunfire and the errant booms of artillery fire were only bouts of spring thunder. Deciding. Wondering if she was so brave or would cower, like Rory had predicted.
“Writers are the caretakers o’ history, Byrne. We document the livin’ an’ dyin’ of the human cause. But our pen, however noble, however well-intended, will always bleed the color of our convictions. That’s where ye come in.” She eyed Issy’s camera case on the desk and tapped it with the end of her pencil. “This lens never lies. It tells truth as it is. An’ in a hundred years from now, as it will be. I’m the writer, but yer the real truth teller. Go. Tell our story.”
It felt right, every word Winnie had said draining in a fury, from Issy’s ears down to her heart.
“Here.” Winnie took a piece of paper from a stack, folded it, and held it up. “I’ll even make it official this time. We’re usin’ Cumann na mBan women as runners between the GPO an’ garrisons to the south. I was told this should wait for Julia to return, but I think ye have enough grit to get this dispatch through. Ye know the streets below the river?”
“I could walk them blindfolded.”
“Ye have to go at a run. But if ye can do it, we need this to get to Major Mallin at the Green quick as ye can. An’ that’ll take ye past the camera shops, mind, if they’re still standin’. So ye can get yer film—just don’ get a bullet too.”
Decision made, Issy swept her jacket from the back of the chair, buttoned the missive in the chest pocket, and pulled it on. Rain and long hair made for a bad combination unless she could keep it tucked out of the way. She grabbed her hat stacked with her things on a cabinet in the corner.
“Keep talking.” She tucked her hair as Winnie talked. “Anything else I need to know?”
“There’s a Captain John Bowen-Colthurst sending English soldiers north from Richmond Barracks, stirrin’ heavy fire in that whole area. Wit’ a hospital in Portobello scheduled for openin’ next month, doctors an’ nurses were already transported there. Some may have joined the fight, as many came into Dublin from the Duke of Connaught’s Auxiliary on Sunday. Even the clergy from the limbless unit came over to support. Word is there’s losses en masse, but Mallin an’ Countess Markievicz need reinforcements at the Green, an’ this dispatch could bring help for the scores of wounded.”
Issy froze. She turned, hair half tucked, hands falling at her sides, as her heart jammed in her chest.
“You said clergy—from the Duke of Connaught’s Auxiliary hospital in Bray? They’ve gone to the area of the south side that’s under assault?”
“That’s right. To Portobello Church, across the canal from Richmond Barracks. One of the worst areas to be in as it’s overrun by English troops. But ’tis the doctors an’ nurses we need over at the Green—if they can even get there.”
Issy’s heart whispered one agonizing word: Sean.
All this time, she’d thought he was well out of it. Ministering in the safety of a military hospital in County Wicklow—as far from English guns as could be. But it seemed fate wished to tempt her, and she was forced to consider Sean might have fallen trap into a more savage war zone than they had even at the GPO.
“You’re certain the clergy went too—to Portobello Church?”
“Yes, I’m certain.” Winnie planted her hands on her hips. “So what’s what about that?”
“Nothing,” Issy said, though the missive in her pocket was burning like hellfire to get her legs moving. She swept up her camera, tugged it over her shoulder, and headed for the door. “I need to go. Now.”
Winnie pulled her back, issuing a squeeze to Issy’s elbow.
She whirled around, breathless, scared out of her sawed-heel boots that Winnie would see her fear. That she’d demand an explanation as to why Issy had fallen rattled, and so quickly. She needed every ounce of courage to step from the front doors or lose her nerve completely.
“Love, is it?” Winnie asked.
Issy couldn’t linger over why; time was bleeding. “Which way is best?”
“That dispatch is signed by Connolly himself—show it if ye need to so the rebels will let ye through. Ye may have cover over O’Connell Bridge, but ’tis not assured. Don’t dare go in the direction of Dublin Castle once yer over. It may have been thin with English during the Irish Grand National yesterday, but ’tis a different story today. We didn’t even try to take Trinity College either—it’s a stronghold. So yer best bet is side streets between the two, comin’ around the Green at Fusilier’s Arch, if ye can make it. But not as far as the south side by The Shelbourne. We had a dispatch that the English are rainin’ machine gun fire down from the hotel’s upper floors.”
Machine gun fire . . .
Issy’s heart nearly bottomed out of her chest.
“Now, Byrne—repeat it back to me.”
“I’ll have cover to O’Connell Bridge. Take the side streets between Dublin Castle and Trinity. Through the Arch. Find Mallin.” She took a steadying breath. “And don’t take a bullet.”
Winnie pulled the revolver from her belt—the Webley that was always fused to her side, and offered it. “Need this?”
Issy shook her head. “No. If I’m running to save my life, I’ll be lucky to shoot a photo along the way.”
Winnie nodded, tucking it back in its home before whistling with pinkies in her teeth. She drew attention from a gaggle of Volunteers guarding the lobby doors at the end of the hall. “Chaps! Let this one pass. She’s Cumann na mBan an’ has a dispatch bound for Major Mallin. Give her cover to the bridge.”
Issy eyed her before stepping out. “Since when am I Cumann na mBan?”
“Since now.”
The last thought that swept through Issy’s mind as she hurried from lobby through front doors was what a real member of Cumann na mBan would do: run straight to the Green as she was told, or follow her heart to Portobello.
APRIL 25, 1916
20 SACKVILLE STREET LOWER
DUBLIN, IRELAND
0720 HOURS
Taking a dispatch via horse may have been faster, but it would be heard for miles and that would make it far easier to get picked off by a sniper’s bullet—especially in daylight.
If Issy could weave in between buildings, blazing sprints and then tucking back in alleys, she could make connection with rebel outposts from garrison to garrison until she reached the Green. Ideally, at least, that was how it was supposed to work. But in reality? The sight of black smoke curling into the sky and the terrifying zing and clink as bullets claimed the sides of buildings forced her feet to keep moving.
The first sprint was over the corner of Prince’s Street and a daring dart across the wide-open space of Sackville Street.
“Better to cross here under cover than down near the bridge—may well be impassable now. Run over to Clerys. Inside, down the block, an’ then run like the devil himself’s at yer heels,” one of the Volunteers had advised, and raised his rifle, waiting for her to flee over road and tram tracks.
Issy nodded to him.
Inhale . . . Exhale . . .
Go!
With the camera flopping under her coat, boots clipping the rain-dampened street, and eyes fixed on the corner of Clery & Co. department store, Issy raced the wide expanse from sidewalk to sidewalk. Jumping bricks strewn in the road. Hearing the shattering sound of rapid-cadenced gunfire echoing somewhere not far off.
Don’t look . . . Issy darted past a man crumpled facedown in the street, at the base of the immense granite Nelson Pillar monument that split Sackville in two.
Just run . . .
On the corner she fled past shops of demolished walls and scattered brick, stopping only to kick out a shard of plate glass that cut up like a human-size knife in a Clerys’ window display and jump inside.
Careful not to fall in the pile of Easter chapeaus that greeted her, knowing it could be teeming with razor-sharp splinters of glass, she righted herself. It would take an entire block of running through shattered glass and past demolished counters, soiled dresses, and splintered wood creating a minefield across the flooring, spanning the street front of the iconic store.
A countertop display of gentlemen’s shaving goods had been upended, littering razors and brushes, manicure scissors and combs across the floor. She stooped and grabbed an ivory-embossed straight blade—any weapon now might be an advantage later. Issy slipped it in her trouser pocket and kept going.
She ran through the elegant wares strewn in her path, careful to go with the least sound, not knowing if rebels or looters—or worse, soldiers—owned the inside.
Though the storefront ended with barred, arched windows, Issy would have cover from the Volunteers at least another block or two down. She’d have to sprint out across the rest of the shopfronts to the corner of Abbey Street and blow a kiss to Jack Foley’s as she sped by in the direction of the river.
Rousing her nerve, Issy reached for her camera.
She unsnapped the case, pulled the lens out, and adjusted with mere seconds on the clock.
Breathe . . .
Issy turned the lens, focusing on a scene of soiled curtains and gas chandeliers hanging off-kilter, out to the mountains of barrels and mismatched furniture barricading the center of Sackville Street. Men were hiding out behind, rifles raised on the top of a wood-carved sofa back, trained in the direction of the city’s south side.
And easing her thumb over the shutter . . .
Click.
Photo three.
It was then that movement caught her eye—just a shade through the shadows.
Issy ducked, keeping low under the open window. She slid the mechanism of her Kodak back to its flattened posture without the slightest sound, then eased it back in the case under her jacket.
Nothing to do but tuck and run.
She drew in a deep breath and flew—her boots hitting the sidewalk. It was but a split second before she halted and backed up, slamming her back against Clerys’ outer wall. A half block away on the corner, where she’d once watched a whiskey wagon fade in between the buildings, lay upturned barrels and a stack of crates with broken whiskey bottles crying a pool in the center of Abbey Street.
Behind them sat a girl, with cornflower-blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair, cradling a dead man in her arms.