Another account taken from the 1966 commemorative issue of the ESB Journal is The Refugees by Eustace Malcolm, whose family in 1916 lived on Eden Quay in the middle of what became a war zone.1
Six-foot letters fixed to the front of the building still proclaim the success of a business started by my grandfather and carried on for three generations.
The quays were quiet in those days. Few people strayed beyond O’Connell Bridge. Most of the business of the block was involved in the Shipping Companies and Forwarding Agents whose offices were close by.
We hadn’t seen any excitement since the strikes of 1913, when we watched fascinated from a top window as crowds surged down the quays, eddied and surged away again leaving a body in a pool of blood opposite the turn off to Marlborough Street. Next day we children stood near the Liffey wall speechless before a pool of blood. Afterwards a cross was painted on the wall and was repainted regularly for many years.
Easter Monday, April 24th 1916 was fine and sunny. After Father had drawn some funny faces on our Easter eggs (hen, not chocolate) as they came out of the pot, there was talk of a trip to Booterstown for the afternoon. This set us humming with excitement and extra milk was taken from the milkman who always rattled his pint measure on the spout of his milk-can as he came along the quays.
About lunch-time we heard the sound of some rifle fire but although there was an air of curiosity about it nothing was said. A visiting Aunt offered to take the three older boys (including myself) to the pictures at the Masterpiece Picture House in Talbot Street and the Booterstown project fell through.
After lunch we turned off Eden Quay into Marlborough Street and along to the Earl Street–Talbot Street crossing. As we turned right into Talbot Street for the ‘Masterpiece’ several shots rang out from the general direction of O’Connell Street and there was a lot of shouting. My Aunt decided to investigate and literally rushed us up Earl Street towards Nelson Pillar.
Usually crowded on a Bank Holiday, the ‘Pillar’ was almost deserted. A horse lay on the ground near the ‘Pillar’ and without further ado my Aunt, trailing us by the hand and apparently oblivious to the sound of firing strode over to the animal. She poked it with her umbrella and turning to us said ‘It’s dead, Children! We’d better go home’ and home we went.
My Mother, not realising the seriousness of the situation, was surprised to see us home so soon but my Aunt made it clear that things in O’Connell Street were very serious indeed.
On Tuesday the Milkman called as usual and told us he could not be sure of calling again as very limited supplies were getting into the city. Most of the supplies of essentials were being requisitioned by either side at the first strong point reached. He also told us that most of the shops in O’Connell Street had been broken into and looted. I anxiously enquired about Lewers & Co., a boy’s outfitters near the corner of Earl Street, where a suit of mine had been returned for alteration. According to the Milkman the premises of Messrs Lewers & Co. had provided most of the juvenile looters with outfits for a lifetime. Maybe my practically new suit contributed to the (temporary) comfort of someone less fortunate than myself. Although these were not my thoughts on the subject at the time.
Later in the day we heard a dull but persistent hammering on a level with our top floor. It seemed to get louder for a while and then ceased altogether. Long afterwards we were told that some members of the Citizens’ Army were endeavouring to make a freeway along the entire block by breaking down the intervening walls at this level to give themselves greater firing command. Afterwards they decided to evacuate the position instead.
My Father would not allow any of us to stand upright near a window as firing was coming from the Tivoli Theatre (now converted to house the Irish Press) across the river and coming in our general direction. At this stage we had British soldiers in possession of the Tivoli Theatre opposite our house and the Citizens’ Army in possession of Liberty Hall on our left which left us in a very unenviable position. To cross the rooms we had to go down on all fours and keep below the level of the window sills. We children thought this was a great game but an occasional bullet drilling neatly through a window pane and embedding itself in the walls took all the fun out of it for our parents.
That night mattresses from all beds were carried to the top floor and the beds were made up on the floor. Our parents talked long into the night and for the most part the beds were fairly comfortable.
On Wednesday morning no milkman arrived and with a baby under two years to care for, the enormity of the situation penetrated even to our irresponsible level. Then Father announced that there was no bread left and that the last of the home-baked had been finished the previous evening. Firing was now coming continuously from the Tivoli Theatre and sometimes carried the chatter of machine gun fire. It was replied to by bursts of rifle fire from Liberty Hall. Any attempt to leave the house to look for food would have been almost certain suicide.
My Father never believed in waiting for a miracle to happen. Using the back of a roll of wallpaper taken from stock he painted in large letters WE WANT BREAD. This was fixed in the top floor windows and an hour afterwards the miracle arrived in the person of a British Officer. He said ‘We (the British) are quartered in the Tivoli Theatre opposite and understood this entire block was empty but for Liberty Hall.’ After some conversation with my Father he said ‘We will be shelling Liberty Hall or/and the General Post Office in the near future from the river and these premises are directly in line for any misses.’ He then said, ‘I’ll send some of my men over to escort you and your family to the Customs House where at least you’ll be safe until this is over.’
We hurriedly packed our valuables in a pram, seating the smaller children on our ‘treasure,’ tying up some bundles of night clothes and changes for the baby. We took a last look round what had been our home and that of our parents for so many years. All toys and treasured possessions had to be left as they were and we felt that all that made life worthwhile was being taken from us forever. The sharp thumping of a rifle butt on the hall door brought us sharply to the present and we found about a dozen British Tommies with rifles slung over their shoulders waiting on the pavement.
Telling us to walk steadily and without undue signs of haste they formed a group around our very frightened cavalcade and escorted us up the deserted and explosive Eden Quay and into the Customs House. It was the longest short trip I have ever made and it can be put on record that notwithstanding our exposed position and the easy target provided by the soldiers not a shot was fired in our direction from either side.
Safely inside the Customs House we were escorted up an interminable spiral staircase to the top floor. Here we found ourselves in company with evacuees from the Metropole Hotel, the Hammam Hotel and other premises in the Danger Zone. All women and children were kept in one large room and another running along the side of the building was reserved for the men. The windows of this room were situated behind the ornamental balustrade that runs round the top of the Customs House building. A sniper was stationed in this room where he had a clear view up the quays to O’Connell Bridge and to the right as far as the corner of Abbey Street. This placed Liberty Hall and the whole of ‘our block’ of Eden Quay under his control. He drew a bead on anyone coming to Liberty Hall steps and attempting to signal to whoever was inside. He paid no attention to others who just passed that way concentrating on their own affairs.
In ‘our’ room where the women and children were together a woman from the Hammam Hotel began to scream and shout about valuables she had left behind in the hotel. She became so violent that she had to be strapped to a stretcher for several hours.
Tea was army-style, great mugs of tea with biscuits and bread and butter and a hot meal in the middle of the day. Considering the conditions the fare was excellent but sleeping on the hard, hard floor was a bit of a trial.
Exploring our limited quarters with a freedom only accorded to children used up the rest of the day. We soon found that the spiral staircase reached to the basements from our top floor and we heard that prisoners were being brought in ‘down below.’ Devoid of any political leanings we felt vaguely that the ‘prisoners’ were responsible for our present condition. We launched a punitive attack by spitting on them down the well of the staircase. Needless to add our childish contribution disintegrated before it passed the next floor! Early Thursday the sound of cannon fire uncomfortable [sic] close brought us scrambling on window sills to peer through our protective balustrade. Apparently shells were being lobbed onto Liberty Hall from some point behind us and to our left and out of our limited range of vision. They seemed to be reinforced by shelling from Tara Street direction and a kettledrum accompaniment came from the machine gun at the Tivoli. Smoke began to fill Liberty Hall and suddenly tongues of flame gushed out through the already smashed panes of glass. Every moment we expected to see the building collapse but it stood firm although the inside was gutted by fire.
Afterwards we learned that the admiralty boat Helga had shelled the building by trajectory fire. The shells were directed up and over the railway bridge connecting Tara Street and Amiens Street railway stations. The bridge prevented direct aim and probably saved the front of the building. A smaller cannon was operating from somewhere in Tara Street but did not seem to have much effect. The Citizen Army had ‘got wind’ of the proposed bombardment and had wisely decided to preserve their numbers by evacuating the premises.
On Thursday evening I reaped the full reward of belonging to the local Boys Brigade, familiarly known as the ‘BB’. One of its Members was a boy named Cecil Davis whose father was caretaker of the Customs House where the family had their living quarters. On one of our sorties we came face to face with Cecil and he brought us to his play room and offered us the use of his Meccano and other toys. When his Mother learned that the Malcolms were sleeping on the top floor (and I mean floor) some mattresses were produced and sent up to us. For the remainder of our stay we at least slept in comparative comfort and were doubtless envied by the rest.
All that night the uncurtained rooms glowed red from the City Centre fires and now the sound of firing was augmented by the crack of splitting timbers and the roar of crumbling walls. The rush of crimson light and the roar of roofs collapsing into burning buildings brought us creeping again and again on to the ledge inside the window. From our edge-on view of Eden Quay we saw sheets of flame gushing from the buildings and were convinced that our home was destroyed. That night and all the next day (Friday) the fires raged on destroying the entire east side of O’Connell Street and all but a small portion of the west side. The entire upper block of Eden Quay from the river front through to Abbey Street was reduced to a heap of rubble. It was this section of the fire that convinced us that our home was gone. In fact the fire never crossed to our block which contained the Abbey Theatre etc., and the only real damage was that sustained by Liberty Hall during the bombardment.
The sniper lost his job as Liberty Hall lost its interest for everyone after the shelling. He had been sniping on the French Front and there was an impressive number of notches on the stock of his rifle. I think they were only increased by one or two during his Customs House vigil. Some bodies watched on the steps of Liberty Hall with the abandonment of death.
Dense smoke hung over the ruins throughout Saturday. Heavy firing seemed reduced but the unnerving chatter of the nearby machine gun kept jabbing at our tired minds. There were rumours and counter-rumours; that the Citizen Army was victorious and the British had surrendered; that a truce had been signed; that the Irish had been defeated. Although we listened to and noted the talk we could not be expected to take it seriously with Meccano to play with and mattresses to sleep on.
Mr Davis the caretaker said we would be home soon but Saturday passed into Sunday with big mugs of tea and more biscuits. Sunday afternoon we were told by the Commanding Officer that it was safe to go home. Suddenly we remembered that we had heard nothing but an odd rifle shot during the whole day. We quickly returned our mattresses to Cecil Davis and his Mother and thanked them for their kindness and consideration. Collecting our pram from the ground floor we made a sad and bedraggled cortege as we left our sanctuary and entered a City as strange as the most distant country in the world.
Our house was there unharmed, but further along, the top part of a woman’s body hung over the sill of an upper window. A poem learned at school called ‘Barbara Frietchie’ came to my mind. There had been no command from a marching column to save her life.2
Well loved places in the upper part of Eden Quay had vanished. The Seamens Institute where I had played violin solos for Seamens’ Concerts and been rewarded with plenty of tea and cake afterwards; Smiths the Ironmongers where you could buy a good magnet for a penny; Hopkins the jewellers where unbelievably beautiful watches ticked in the windows and a chronometer in the centre window set the time for DUBLIN; and everywhere the smell of burning.
In our Home a few things had been stolen and every press and drawer had been burst open. The old office safe was hauled to the middle of the floor and hammered unmercifully but it had not yielded up its contents of about £200. We put our home to rights, got some provisions and a stone of flour. By Monday we were reasonably re-established.
But in the six days since we had left it our world of security and unchanging values had been burnt to ashes. For many a year we were to walk in fear.