The officers agreed that it would be best to keep the knowledge of the non-arrival of Madame from the public and the police. Just then the proprietor of the hotel came to the door and said, "Madame, there are twopolicemen downstairs and they want your registration form at once." Under the Defense of the Realm Act every one entering an hotel, or boarding or lodging house is required to fill in a form declaring his name, address, occupation, and intended destination. This rule was most rigidly enforced by the police authorities.
"Can't they wait till I get a cup of tea?" asked Mairé.
"No. They said they would wait and take it back to the station with them."
"Very well," said Mairé. "Give it to me."
She filled out the form something like this, neglecting the minor details.
Name:—Mairé Perolz.Address:—No fixed address—vagrant.Age:—20?Occupation:—None.Nationality:—Irish.
She then gave it to the proprietor who took it away. From the window they watched the policemen carrying it to the police station, apparently very much absorbed in it. They returned shortly and asked to see the lady. When they came in to the room they still carried the registration form.
"You haven't filled in this form satisfactorily,Madame," said one. "You must have some fixed address and some occupation."
"No indeed," said Mairé. "I live on my wits."
"And you are a Russian subject."
"How do you make that out, in the name of God?" asked Mairé.
"You are married to a Russian Count."
"First news I've heard of it," said Mairé. "Now listen here, I've filled that form out correctly and you'll have to be satisfied with it. I'll not fill out another."
They accepted the form at last. That night Mairé delivered Madame's speech, told why Madame could not be present, then added a little anti-recruiting speech of her own which evoked great applause. The next day she returned home in great spirits at having once more helped to outwit the police.
About this time the Executive of the Cumann na mBan (women's organization) in Dublin were having trouble in procuring First Aid and Hospital supplies. I suggested that being a Northerner and having a Northern accent, I could probably get them in Belfast. I knew that a number of loyalist nursing corps were in existence in that city, and thought that by letting it be inferred that I belonged to one of them, the loyalist shopkeepers would have no hesitation in selling me the supplies, and in all probability would let me have them at cost price. And that is exactly what happened. I purchased as many of the different articles as I needed and at less than half the price paid in Dublin.
While in Dublin I had visited the Employment Bureau in the Volunteer Headquarters. Its business was to find employment for Irishmen and boys who were liable for military service. Under the Military Service Act everyman or boy over eighteen, residing in England or Scotland since the preceding August, was required to report himself for service in the British Army. The Bureau found employment in most cases for those who preferred to serve in the Irish Republican Army and had come to Ireland to await the call. Of course, it was impossible to find jobs for them all; but those who had not received jobs were busy on the work of making ammunition and hand grenades for the Irish Republican Army. The greater number of them had to camp out during the miserable months of February and March, in the Dublin Mountains, so that too great a drain would not be placed on their slender resources.
On my return to Belfast at a meeting of the Cumann na mBan I suggested that we send hampers of foodstuffs down to those boys and men in Dublin. The suggestion was taken up with great gusto, and the members were divided into different squads; a butter squad, a bacon squad, a tea, a sugar, oatmeal, cheese, and tinned goods squad; and they were to solicit all their friends for these articles. They were then to be sent on to the different camps in Dublin to help on the fight. Since we haddone so well on the foodstuffs I thought it would be as well to ask the men and boys in Belfast for cigarettes and tobacco. I set about collecting on the Saturday on which we intended sending away the first hamper of food. I was so successful that I was unable to return home for lunch before half-past three.
When I arrived home my sister met me at the door and said there was a man in the parlor who wanted to see me, and that he had been waiting since noon. I went into the room and saw one of my Dublin friends.
"Why, hello, Barney," I said. "What brings you here?"
He told me that there was some work before me and that he had the instructions. With this he handed me a letter. I recognized my father's handwriting on the envelope. The letter merely said:
"Dear Nora, The bearer will tell you what we want you to do. I have every confidence in your ability.
"Your father,"JAMES CONNOLLY."
"What are we to do?" I asked turning to Barney.
"Liam Mellowes is to be deported to-morrowmorning to England and we are to go there and bring him back."
"Sounds like a big job," I said. "What are the plans?"
"These are some of them," he answered showing me several pages closely written. "Some one will bring the final instructions from Dublin to-night."
The plan in the rough was that the messenger, being on the first glance uncommonly like Liam Mellowes, was to go to the place where he was interned and visit him. While he was visiting he was to change clothes with Liam Mellowes and stay behind, while Liam came out to me. We were then to make all speed to the station and lose no time in returning to Dublin.
Liam Mellowes had received, some time previously, an order from the military authorities to leave Ireland. This was because of his many activities as an organizer for the Irish Volunteers—as the order had it, because he was prejudicial to recruiting. He refused to obey and had been arrested. He was now to be forcibly deported. As Mellowes was absolutely essential to the plans for the Rising, being Officer in charge of the operations in theWest of Ireland, the attempt to bring him back from England was decided upon.
While waiting for the messenger to bring the final instructions from Dublin I sent out word to some of the Cumann na mBan girls that I should like to see them. When they came I told them that I had received an order that necessitated my going to Dublin; and that I should not be able to assist them in sending away the hampers. I gave them the money that I had collected for the cigarettes and tobacco, and they said they would see that everything went away all right. It was with great surprise and delight that the "refugees," as we called them, received the hampers a few days later.
After the girls left I fell to studying the instructions. The main idea was to go in as zig-zag a course as possible to our objective. My father had made out a list of the best possible places to break our journey. On one sheet of paper in Eamonn Ceannt's handwriting continued the plan; and on another, in Sean mac Diarmuida's, was a list of people with their addresses in England or Scotland, to whom we could go for safe hiding, if we found we were being followed by detectives.
Shortly after seven that evening Miss Moloney arrived at our house. She brought us a message from Dublin. It was to the effect that it was not yet known to what place Liam Mellowes was to be deported, but we were to go on our journey, and when we arrived at Birmingham, there would be a message waiting us there with the desired information. All that was known was that Liam Mellowes was to be deported to some town in the South of England.
There was a boat leaving for Glasgow that night at eleven forty-five. We decided to go on it; it was called the theatrical boat, because it was on this boat many theatrical companies left Belfast; we thought we would not be noticed among the throng. I was to ask for all the tickets at the railway stations, as my accent is not easily placed.
On Sunday morning I went up on deck expecting to be almost the first one there; Barney, however, was there before me. He said we would be in Glasgow shortly. I went below for my suitcase. When I came up on deck again I saw that we were nearer shore and that we were slowing up. I asked a steward if we should be off soon.
"No," he said. "We are slowing up here to put some cattle off."
"Will it take long?" I asked.
"About an hour."
"How far are we from Glasgow?" I then asked.
"Two or three miles."
"Can we get off here instead of waiting?"
"Nothing to prevent you," he said.
So Barney and I picked up our traps and, as soon as the gangway was fixed up for thecattle to disembark, we went down it and on to the quay.
We walked along as if we had been born there, although as a matter of fact, neither Barney nor I had been in that place before. After a few minutes we came to a street with tramway lines on it and decided to wait for a car. We boarded the first car that came along. After riding in it for a long time we noticed that instead of approaching the city we seemed to be going farther away from it. We left the car at the next stop, and took another going in the opposite direction, and after riding for three-quarters of an hour arrived in Glasgow. We were more than pleased to think that if the police had noticed us when we went on the Glasgow boat at Belfast, and had sent on word for the Glasgow police to watch out for us, the boat would arrive without us.
Our next stop was to be Edinburgh. We went to the station and inquired when the Edinburgh train would be leaving. There was one leaving at eleven fifteen that would arrive in Edinburgh some time about one o'clock. We decided to go by it. Then we remembered that it was Sunday and that we had not been to Mass; also that if we went by that trainit would be too late when we arrived at Edinburgh to attend. It was not quite ten o'clock then; if we could find a church nearby, we could go to Mass and still be in time for the train. But where was there a church? "Look, Barney," I cried suddenly. "Here's an Irish-looking guard. We'll ask him to direct us." We asked him and he told us that there was a Catholic church five minutes' walk away from the station, and directed us to it. It took us more than five minutes to get there, but we arrived in time and were back at the station before the Edinburgh train left.
We arrived at Edinburgh about one o'clock. We were very tired as we had not slept on the boat; and we were hungry for we had not eaten in our excitement at leaving the boat before the time. Our first thought was to find a place to eat; but it was Sunday in Scotland and we found no place open. After wandering around for some time, looking all about us, we decided to ask a policeman. He directed us to the Waverley Hotel, where we were given a good dinner. And when we told the waiter that we were only waiting till our train came due, and that we wanted a place to rest, he told us that we could stay in the room we werein. After dinner I found myself nodding and lay down on the couch. I must have fallen asleep almost instantly for it was dark when I awoke. Barney came in shortly afterwards. He had been looking up the trains he said and our train left at ten o'clock. It was about eight o'clock. We had something more to eat and left the hotel to go to the railway station. To my great surprise when we came outside everything was dark. Not a light showed from any of the buildings, or from the street cars. Cabs and motors went by, and only for the shouting of the drivers and the blowing of the motor-horns we would have been run down when crossing the streets. We have no such war regulation of darkness in Ireland. We arrived at the station at last. We had to go down a number of steps to get to the gate, and if it was dark in the streets it was pitch blackness down there. I was not surprised at the number of people I met on the steps, as I thought it might be a usual rallying place, but I was surprised to hear them talking in whispers. We went down till we came to the gate—it was closed and there was a man on guard at it.
"Can we not get in?" I asked.
"Where are you going?"
"To Carlisle."
"It's not time for the Carlisle train yet."
"But can't we go in and take our seats?" I asked.
"No," he answered, and after that I could get no further response.
We waited awhile at the gate. I noticed that quite a few were given the same answers although they were not going to the same place. More time passed and I began to feel anxious; I was afraid that we would miss the train.
"What time is it now?" I asked, turning to Barney. As he could not see in the dark he lit a match. Instantly, as with one voice, every one around and on the steps shouted, "Put out that light." And the man at the gate howled, "What the H—— does that fool mean!" We were more than surprised; we did not know why we could not light a match.
Just after that a couple of soldiers came towards the gate. I could hear the rattle of their hob-nailed boots and see the rifles swung on their shoulders. They talked with the man at the gate for a few minutes, then saying, "All right," went up the steps again. This happened more than once. My eyes wereaccustomed to the darkness by now, and I could see a sergeant, with about twenty soldiers, coming down the steps. As they made for the gate I whispered to Barney, "Go close and listen to what the guard says to the sergeant." He went—and as the sergeant turned away, came back to me and picking up our bags said, "Come on." I followed without asking any questions. When we were out on the street Barney turned to me and said, "The guard told the sergeant to go to the other gate. We'll go too."
We followed the clacking sound of the soldiers' boots till we came to a big gate. It was evidently the gate used for vehicles. As we entered we were stopped by two guards who asked, "Where are you going?" "To Carlisle," I answered. They waved us inside. We walked down a long passageway. When we came to the train platforms, I asked a porter who was standing near:
"Where is the train for Carlisle?"
"There'll be no train to-night, Miss," he answered.
"But why?"
"Because, Miss," in a whisper, "the Zeppelins were seen only eight miles away, anda moving train would be a good mark for them."
"But they will not come here, will they?" I asked.
"They are headed this way, Miss, they may be here in half an hour."
"Then we can't get to Carlisle?"
"To tell you the truth, Miss," he said, "I don't think any train will run to-night, except the military train. Make up your mind you'll not get to Carlisle to-night."
"When is there a train in the morning?" I asked him then.
"There's one at eight-fifteen."
"Well, I suppose we'll go by that one," I said.
And so we left the station.
We went back to the hotel. We were startled for a second when the registration forms were handed to us; we hadn't decided on a name or address. I took the forms and filled them with a Belfast address, put the one for Barney in front of him, placing the pencil on the name so that he would know what to sign. After signing we were shown to our rooms. I went to bed immediately as I was completely tired out. I was roused from a heavy sleepby a knocking on the door, and a voice saying something I couldn't distinguish. I thought it was the "Boots" wakening me for breakfast, and turned over to finish my sleep. Some time later I was again wakened by a loud knocking on the door.
"Who is it?" I called out.
"Barney," was the answer.
"What is wrong?" I asked when I had opened the door.
"The manageress came to me," said Barney, "and said, 'Mr. Williams, go to your sister, I am afraid she is either dead or has fainted with the shock.'"
"What shock?" I asked, peering into the black darkness but failing to see anything.
"Nothing, only the Zeppelins have been dropping bombs all over the town."
"What!" I cried. "Zeppelins! You don't mean it. Have I slept through all their bombing?"
"You have," he said dryly. "The manageress wants all guests down in the parlor, so that in case this building is damaged, they'll all be near the street. Put something on and come down."
I put some clothes on me and went outsidethe room. I could not see my own hand in front of me.
"Hold on to me," said Barney, "and I'll bring you downstairs. I know where the stairs are."
"All right," I said, making a clutch at where the voice was coming from.
"You'd better hold on to my back," said Barney. "That's the front of my shirt you've got."
I slid my hand around till I felt the suspenders at the back and held onto them. "Go ahead," I said, and we went. I tried to remember if the corridor was long or short, and if there were any turns from the stairs to my room, but I could not. Never have I walked along a corridor as long as that one seemed. After a bit I said, "Barney, are you sure you're going right? I don't remember it being as long as this." We were going very slowly, gingerly placing one foot after the other.
"We keep on," said Barney, "till we come to a turn and then between two windows are the stairs." And so we went on, but we came to no turning. We were feeling our way by placing our hands on the wall. At last, we felt an open space. "Ah," said Barney, "thismust be the stairs." And although we did not feel the windows we cautiously stepped towards it. It was not the stairs and I felt curiously familiar with it. I stumbled over something on the floor and stooped to pick up—my shoe. We were back at my room! We did not know whether to laugh or to be annoyed. We began to laugh and Barney said, "Come on, I know the way back to my room and from there we'll find the stairs."
"Couldn't you strike a match?" I asked.
"We were warned not to, when the 'Boots' knocked on the door," said Barney. We went along the corridor till Barney found his room. From there he knew the turns of the corridor, and at last we found the stairs. Going down I asked, "How is it that we are meeting none of the people?"
"Because," said Barney, "they've been down since the first knock and you had to be wakened twice."
"I thought they were wakening me for breakfast," I said.
The stairs seemed to twist and turn, and at one of the turns I saw a figure standing at a window, near a landing as I thought.
"Are we going the right way down to theparlor?" I asked the figure, but received no reply.
"He's probably scared stiff and thinks he's in a safe place," said Barney. We reached the foot of the stairs and one of the men took us and led us towards the parlor. All the guests of the hotel were there huddled closely around the remains of the fire. I found a seat and sat down. There was very little talk. I could hear the guns going off very near. One of the women leaned toward me, and said, "You were rather long getting down. Did you faint—were you frightened?"
"No," I answered. "I slept through it all, until my brother came and wakened me."
"You lucky girl!" she exclaimed in heart-felt tones.
We sat there for about an hour. It was a silent hour inside, but from outside came the sound of running feet and hoarse excited voices. A motor car tore through the streets; it must have had its lamps lit, for some one yelled after it, "Put out those lights."
There was no sound of the Zeppelins again, but the people in the parlor kept silent. I felt that one word spoken would set all their nerves on edge. Suddenly there was a long drawn"Oh!" followed by a thud. I could feel every one in the room quivering. All turned to the sound, but we could see nothing. Then we heard a man's voice say, "My boy has fainted." They ministered to him there in the darkness. A few minutes later a delicate looking lad, about twelve years old, was brought up to the circle round the fire. One of the women made room for him and he sat on the floor with his head resting on her knee. The manageress must have left the room during the excitement, for she returned then and said, "We will not be disturbed again, so we can go to bed and finish our sleep." The tension was lifted and we all began talking as we made our way to our rooms.
When I was going down the stairs next morning, I was amazed to see that the figure I had spoken to while trying to find my way, was a statue. The waiter told us, at breakfast, that some bombs had been dropped in the street back of the hotel. They had killed eight people, damaged one or two buildings, and made a hole large enough to hold the dining-room table. He also said that he had heard of a lot of other places, but that was the only one he had seen. We finished our breakfastin a hurry and left for the station. There we bought a paper to read the full account of the raid. But all the mention of it was:
"Zeppelins visited the East coast of Scotland last night. No damage done."
On the journey to Carlisle the carriage was so warm and the seats so soft that I became drowsy. I was about to yield when the other occupants of the carriage came over to my side and stared out of the windows. As the Zeppelins were still in my mind, I thought that this might be one of the places they had visited, and looked out of the window too. All I could see was a large field with brick buildings in the center, somewhat like factories, only they had sloping roofs made of glass. There were quite a crowd of men in the field. "That's a German Internment Camp," said one of the men. "There are over two thousand Germans there." The view of the camp started a conversation on the war which lasted till we reached Carlisle.
JOHN McDERMOTTJOHN McDERMOTT
From Carlisle we were to go to Newcastle. On looking up the timetable we found that we could get a train in three-quarters of an hour. We then left the station, so that if the porterswere questioned as to whether they had seen us or not they could say that we had left the station. In this way the trail would be broken and would give us all the more time till it was picked up again. The journey from Carlisle to Newcastle was not so long as the last one. On arriving there we again left the station and wandered about the town. We had so much more time there, and walked in and out of so many streets, crossed so many crossings, that my memory of Newcastle is very much blurred and confused. Before returning to the station we went into a restaurant and ate the first meal of our English trip.
Next we took tickets for Manchester, but did not go there. While we were on the train we decided that we had better go to Crewe. When the conductor came round for the tickets, we asked him if this train would take us to Crewe. No, he said, but if it was to Crewe we wanted to go he could change our tickets at the next stop, and there we would get a train for Crewe. The next station was Stalybridge, and there we took the train to Crewe, where we arrived at one-thirty a.m.
From Crewe we went to Birmingham. It was there we were to receive information as towhere Captain Mellowes had been deported. We called at the address given to us and told who we were. Mr. Brown said that he had just received word that we were coming, but that was all. There was no news for us about the deportation. This was both amazing and puzzling; it was Tuesday and Captain Mellowes was to have been deported on the Sunday past. Why had we received no word—and what were we to do? There was nothing for us to do but wait. A hotel was recommended to us; we went there and registered as brother and sister. Our pose of being on a holiday compelled us to stay out all day as if sightseeing. Tuesday we visited all the principal buildings, Wednesday we walked all over the city. Thursday was a repetition of Wednesday. Friday, tired of each other's company, we went out separately, and each succeeded in losing the way, but managed to arrive back at the hotel for supper.
Not knowing the city we had not ventured out at night time, for like all other big cities in England, Birmingham was darkened at night-fall. But on Friday we went out. The streets seemed to be all alike to us, we could not tell one from the other. The corners of thecurbstone were painted white, so as to glimmer faintly and warn pedestrians when they were approaching a crossing; policemen stood in the center of the crossing flashing a lamp attached to their belts, now a red light, now a green one. Trees, telegraph, telephone, and trolley poles were painted white to the level of the eyes. Not a light showed anywhere, not even at moving picture palaces; and as is usual in darkness all voices were subdued. I am sure it is at night time that the people of England realize most that they are at war.
Saturday came and still there was no news for us. We were not puzzled now. We were very anxious. Something must have gone wrong, we thought, or we would have had some word before now.
We changed our hotel as we felt that the people were becoming too interested in us. At the new hotel we registered as teachers on our way to Stratford-on-Avon, where the Shakespeare celebrations were in full swing. We left there in the morning, carried our suitcases to the station, and left them in the Left Luggage Office. Then we went to Mr. Brown again to find out if any word had come for us. There was a note for us there telling us to go to theMidland Hotel. When we arrived there we met a young lady from Dublin. She had come over with the word. She gave us the address of Captain Mellowes, and told us to lose no time. We looked up the timetable and found that there were no trains going there on Sunday afternoon. We were in despair till our Birmingham friend told us he could hire a private motor car for us. He did so and we left Birmingham at one-thirty p.m.
We traveled all afternoon through what is known as the Black Country. We did not bother much with the scenery as we spent most of our time in giving each other instruction as to how to behave in different eventualities. We had hired the car to take us to Stoke-on-Trent. It was to return empty. We thought it would be a much safer plan if we could get the car to take us back to some big station on the line; thus instead of waiting at the local station for a train, apprehending every moment the discovery of Captain Mellowes' flight, we should be well on our way before it could be found out. I did not expect that there would be any trouble to get the chauffeur to bring us back. I figured that any money made on the return trip would be his, and a workingman is always ready to make more money. But it must be done in such a way as not to arouse suspicion.
Secure in my figuring I spoke to the man. I said, "I want you to take us to the railway station at Stoke. I expect a friend there to pick us up." He nodded. It was dark when we drew up at the station. I said to the man, "Wait a minute till I see if my friend is there before we take out the things." Then I went into the station and walked in and out of the waiting rooms, up and down the platform, and asked a porter if there would be a train soon to Leek (our real objective). I returned and said to Barney, "He is not there," and to the man, "Have you any objections to going on to Leek? It is eight miles distant. There won't be a train for an hour, and I can have all my business in Leek done in that time." He said he would take us there. I then asked him if he were going straight back to Birmingham. He said he was. "If you can wait three-quarters of an hour, you can take us back down the line to one of the big stations, and be something in pocket. The trains are so irregular at small stations on Sundays." He said he could wait three-quarters of an hour.
When we arrived in Leek Barney and I jumped out of the car as if we knew every inch of the ground, although neither of us had been in the city before.
"Where are we going?" asked Barney.
"When in doubt go right," I said, and we turned to the right. This town was darkened too. After a few minutes' walk I stopped an old lady and asked her to direct us to the street I wanted. "Two streets up on the right," she replied. We found the place; it was an ordinary house and to our surprise there were no detectives watching it. We knocked at the door. A man opened it about six inches and peered at us.
"Well?" he questioned.
"We are friends of Captain Mellowes and heard he was staying here, so we stopped to see him," I said. "Is he in?"
"Come in till I take a look at you," he answered. After looking at us, "Come in here," he said, leading us to a room. "I'll go find him for you."
After a few minutes Captain Mellowes came into the room. He seemed surprised to see us, and was about to enter into a conversationwith us when Barney said, "I've an important message to give you. Where's your room?"
"Come upstairs," said Captain Mellowes, rising at once.
They went upstairs. I could hear them moving about the room, and once in a while I heard something fall on the floor as if they were throwing different parts of their clothing to each other. After a few minutes' silence, I heard footsteps on the stairs and went out to the hall to be ready. Both came down the stairs, Captain Mellowes went forward and opened the door while I was saying "good-by" to Barney, who was remaining behind in the Captain's place. Barney left the house the following day; he took a train at the local station which ran to Crewe, and from there he made connections that brought him back to Ireland the day after the Captain's arrival.
Once outside the house, Captain Mellowes and myself wasted no time in getting to the car. I asked the man had we kept him long and he said we had been only half an hour. He started the car and away we went again. After three hours' ride we stopped at Stafford Station.
"Can you not go as far as Crewe?" I asked.
"No, Miss," he replied. "Crewe is altogether out of my direction."
"Very well," I said. "We'll leave here." We then left the car, gave the man his fee and entered the station. I took tickets for Crewe and found that we had only twenty minutes to wait. We arrived at Crewe about one a.m. and at one-thirty were in the train for Carlisle.
When we were near Carlisle the conductor came to collect the tickets; I asked him if Carlisle was the last stop.
"No," he said. "From there we go on to Glasgow without stopping."
"Oh," I said, "I didn't know that this train went to Glasgow. That's where we want to go. You had better make us out Excess Fare checks and we'll go on." He made them out, I paid them and he went out through the carriages. During this time Captain Mellowes was lying in the corner as if asleep.
In my list of "safe addresses" was one in Glasgow. When we arrived there next morning we made our way to that address, and there we stayed all day. During the day we managed to procure a clerical suit for Captain Mellowes, complete even to the breviary andumbrella. At eleven we took the train to Ardrossan; from there we could get a boat to Belfast. We had decided before leaving the house that we would travel as if we did not know each other. My accent was no longer needed, as a strong Irish accent was quite the thing for priests' clothing; but we were to keep each other in sight all the time.
That Captain Mellowes really looked the part was proved in the train. The porter lifted his cap to him, took his suitcase, and deferentially placed him in the seat next to me. There Captain Mellowes sat, his chin resting on his hands, which were supported by the umbrella, as if lost in holy meditations. Almost at the last moment, half-a-dozen North of Ireland cattle dealers tumbled into the carriage, shouting, laughing, and swearing. The porter had locked the door and the train had started before they realized what company they were in. A sudden silence fell on them all, they straightened themselves up, lifted their hats in salute to the priest, while questioning each other with their eyes. Then one lifted his cap again and turned to the rest as if to say, "I'm used to the company of priests," and addressed Captain Mellowes.
"Are you crossing to-night, Father?" he asked.
"I am," said Captain Mellowes.
"I hope we'll have a good night, Father."
"I hope so."
"I hear they caught a submarine up the Bangor Lough this morning; but I don't think there's any danger. Do you, Father?"
"I don't think so," said Captain Mellowes.
One dealer broke in then demanding to know that if there was no danger, why could they not insure the cattle they wanted to send across. Then each dealer tried to give his opinion at the same time. They became so excited, each one trying to get an audience at the same time, that they forgot all about the priest, and gave back word for word to each other. With raised voices they cursed and swore, stamped their feet, pounded the floor with their sticks, struck their hands, till one jumped from his seat in a rage and his gaze fell on the priest. The priest was still resting his chin on his hands, taking no more notice of them than if they were miles away. His very abstraction was a rebuke to them. The one who had jumped up said humbly, "I'm afraid we'vedisturbed you, Father." Captain Mellowes came to himself with a start.
"No, no, not at all," he said hurriedly. "I wasn't thinking of you at all." But the men looked as if they had offended beyond hope of pardon and kept silent till we reached the boat.
Early next morning I went up on deck. We were steaming up the river, I could see the city in the distance. Nearer to me were the famous Belfast shipyards, all alive with the clangor of hammering. As we approached I could see the swarms of men, poised on derricks and cranes, hard at work on the skeletons of ships. Just before we docked Captain Mellowes came on deck and walked over to the rail where I was standing. There was some byplay of surprised recognition between us for the benefit of those standing around. I asked him to come to the house for breakfast, and told him that he could not get a train to Dublin before ten o'clock. It was then seven o'clock and the gangplank was being put in place. I told Captain Mellowes that I was well known on the docks since the dock strike, and that it would be wiser for him to follow me instead of coming with me; that he would probably pass the Harbor Constables and policemen betteralone, because, as they knew me, they would be likely to give my companion a scrutinizing glance and he would be better without that.
There were two Harbor Constables and two policemen at the end of the gangplank; they were on the watch for deserters from the Army and Navy. When I walked down the gangplank I saw that they recognized me and was glad that I had told Captain Mellowes to follow. I went in to the shed and on towards the exit. Midway I paused, dropped my suitcase as if to ease my arm, and glanced back to see if Captain Mellowes was following. He was just at the end of the gangplank; the four constables were saluting him and he was gravely saluting them.
I passed out into the street and walked slowly ahead to allow Captain Mellowes to catch up on me. In a short while we were walking together. It was too early to get a tram, and it would attract too much attention if a car drove up to our door, so we walked the distance. Falls Road, in Belfast, is called the Nationalist district, and my home was near the head of that road. When we got to that part of it where policemen were more plentiful and I was better known, I told Captain Mellowesto walk on ahead. I was glad I had done so, for I derived a great deal of amusement from the number of salutes Captain Mellowes had to return. Men and boys were on their way to work and they all saluted him. Every policeman on the road saluted Captain Mellowes; not one of them dreaming that the capture of the young priest they were so courteous to, would probably realize for him the dreams of Sergeantship every young policeman indulges in.
It was with a sigh of relief that I ushered Captain Mellowes into our house. The door was open and we entered without rapping. My mother thought we were the painters—she was expecting them that morning—and came out to remonstrate with us for not knocking. She was astounded for a moment, to see us in the hall, then she threw her arms around us both and literally dragged us both into the room where breakfast was on the table. She then called up the stairs to my sisters and told them we were home. On the instant there was a clatter and scamper, and pell-mell down the stairs charged my young sisters, some partially dressed and some in their nightgowns; bursting into the room they flung themselves onCaptain Mellowes, hugging and kissing him as if he were a long lost brother returned. They hung about him asking him questions, interrupting each other. They poured forth so many questions that he could not answer them much less eat his breakfast. Mother noticed that his breakfast was growing cold and turning to the youngsters said in a voice that tried to be severe, "Children. I'm surprised at you—look at your clothes." Then there was another rush to the door and a scamper on the stairs as they raced up to dress. Never were they dressed so quickly before, for in less time than it takes to tell they were down again; crowding around the table each giving the other in excitable voice the story of how Captain Mellowes managed to return; but none of them bothering to ask Captain Mellowes or myself how it really happened.
Now that Captain Mellowes was in Belfast the next thing to be done was to get him to Dublin. He could not go by train for there were detectives at all the stations. There have always been detectives at railway stations in Ireland, whose sole business is to watch and to report the arrival and departure of theimportant members of the Separatist Party (the revolutionary body). This method keeps the local authorities informed as to the whereabouts of "such and such a person." On this account I sought a friend who owned an automobile. It so happened that he was going to Dublin that very evening and he agreed to take Captain Mellowes with him.
When I arrived home again I saw a woman in the parlor, who looked up at me through her veil, in the most mournful way; certainly the most forlorn person I had seen in a long while. But as I went nearer I recognized the clothes. My young sisters had decked Captain Mellowes out in our clothes to see if they were skillful at disguising. They were—but the clerical clothes were better.
I told Captain Mellowes of the arrangements I had made—we were to walk into the country along the Lisburn Road for about two miles, and there meet the motor-car. When it was time we started out. We were a party of four, Captain Mellowes and another young man, who was at that time hiding from the police in our house, my sister Agna, and myself. We walked along the country road and arrived at the appointed place too soon. Thecar was a little late; every car that came along would lift our hearts up and when it whizzed by would leave us little more nervously excited. It came in the end, however, and stopped for a minute while Captain Mellowes was being bundled on to the car, then sped away leaving us in the dark country road.
I arrived home about one-thirty and went to bed, tired out and fully resolved to stay there for the next day. But, alas! the news had got about and after school hours some of my friends called to hear my version, and compelled me to get up. The day or so following I took part in a Volunteer play called "Ireland First" in order to give the impression that I had been in Belfast and rehearsing with the company. On Saturday my mother received a letter from my father; the only reference he made to the job he had given me was, "Tell Nora I am proud of her."
After that I was kept busy with the Ambulance class, and in preparing field dressings and bandages. There were about fifty girls working under my instructions and the work was beginning to be piled up. One squad was cutting up the material, another wrapping it up in waterproof material, others pasting on the directions, others sewing the completed bundle up in cotton bags which permitted them to be sewn into the men's coats. We were kept busy. When one of the officers came to the room to order the field dressings for his men, he voiced the opinion of all when he said, "Well, this looks like business. As soon as I stepped inside the door I felt that something important was going on. I suppose you all feel that way?" We did, and worked all the harder for it.
Some time before this my father had asked me if I would be in Dublin with him during the fight, but I had said, No, I would ratherstay with the Northern division; that I thought I had better stay with the girls with whom I had been working. A younger sister had also decided to join the Northern detachment. My mother and the rest of the family were going to Dublin so as to be near my father. We were leaving the house just as it stood, to avoid suspicion, taking nothing from it but the trunks containing clothes. These could easily be taken without causing undue suspicion as it is quite a usual thing for families to go away for the Easter holidays. Between helping to pack up the trunks at home and the field dressings outside I managed to secure six hours' sleep during the latter part of Holy Week. My mother left Belfast on Good Friday, my sister and I the following day.
The instructions given the First Aid corps were: To meet at the Great Northern Station with full equipment and two days' rations. When we met the station was crowded with holiday-goers. There were three different queues circled around the station. We divided ourselves amongst them so that our party would not be large enough to attract attention. I found myself behind a party of soldiers going home on furlough. I could not help wonderingif their furlough would be cut short, and if I might meet them again under different circumstances.
After I had taken the tickets I went to the trains to see if it were possible to get a carriage to ourselves. As the party had been split in two, one part to come on a later train, we could just fill a carriage. There was so much traffic that the railroad company had pulled out from many hiding places all the cars they could find. The line of cars presented a very curious picture as it stood waiting for the signal to start. There were the very latest corridor carriages, carriages quite new-looking, carriages old, carriages very old, and carriages so very old that they were an absolute temptation to us. These last were of that old type that has no wall between the carriages; the back of the seat is the only dividing wall. We picked out one and entered, took our seats, stowed away our haversacks, water-bottles, and hospital supplies under the seats and on the racks over our heads. Then we sat in pleasant anticipation to see who would enter the other carriage. One of the girls had put her head out of the window, and suddenly she gave a whoop and waved her arms. We hauledher in angrily, demanding to know what she meant by attracting attention in such a manner—didn't she know that the fewer that saw us the better? "But," she said when she got a chance, "I saw the Young Ireland Pipers coming up the platform looking for a carriage, and I thought it would be great to have them in the next carriage. They would pass the time for us by playing the pipes." (The Young Ireland Pipers were attached to the Volunteers.)
By this time the Pipers had come to the door of the carriage next to us and were getting in. They were both surprised and pleased when they saw the girls. They knew then that they could play all the rebel songs they desired, and say all the revolutionary things they could think of. That was one good thing about the Republican forces in our part of the country—every one knew every one else; and so it was elsewhere I am told. I doubt if ever pipers were so dressed going to battle. Slung from one shoulder was a haversack, crossing it was a bandolier filled with cartridges, a belt held the haversack in its place on one side, and from the other a bayonet was suspended. Strapped to the backs were rolled tar sheets, and undertheir arms they held the bagpipes with their green, white, and orange streamers flying over their shoulders. They were most warlike musicians. But more significant than all were the eager eyes shining out from under their caps. One young chap leaned over the wall and said to me, "My God! Isn't it great? We worked and worked without hope and now——" One of the boys had been tuning up the pipes and as the train began to move we swung out of the station to the tune of:
"Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland,Some have come from the land beyond the wave,Sworn to be free, no more our ancient sirelandShall shelter the despot or the slave.To-night we man the Bearna Baoighail[*]In Erin's cause come woe or weal,'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's pealWe'll chant a soldier's song."
[*] Barna Bail "The Gap of Danger."
Tyrone was our destination and we arrived there before dark. We were met by a local committee and taken to a hotel. After we had something to eat, we went over to the drill hall. There I had the first wound to attend to—one of the men had accidentally shot himself while cleaning his revolver. There was quite a crowd around me while I was dressing the wound.When I had finished, the men said that they hoped I would be detailed with their company, as they would feel much safer. I said that I didn't want to dress wounds till I had a chance to make some: at this they laughed and promised me that I would get all the chance I wanted. I then asked them when they would mobilize. "To-morrow morning," they replied. "We are waiting for the Belfast Division to arrive. We start on our maneuvers at 12 o'clock. We will all be together then."
We were still talking of our hopes when some one came into the hall and said that he had a message for Miss Connolly. "Here I am," I said. "What do you want?"
NORA CONNOLLYNORA CONNOLLY
"Come outside, Miss Connolly," said he. "I have a message for you." I followed the man outside. The message he gave me was to the effect that the Commandant in the North had sent him to say that there would be no fighting in the North; that he had received a demobilizing order, but that he thought there would be fighting in Dublin. We could decide whether we would go back to Belfast or on to Dublin. He left the matter entirely in our own hands. I left the messenger and went back to the hall to call the girls together. I asked them tocome with me to the hotel. I then told them the text of the message I had received and asked them to decide whether they would return to Belfast or go to Dublin. I said that I was going to Dublin and they decided to go with me. One of the girls suggested that we say the Rosary for the men who were about to fight. We knelt down and said it. We then began to get our things together again. I inquired about the trains to Dublin and was told that there would be no train till midnight. It was almost 10 o'clock then and we were some miles away from a station. I asked one of the men where I could get a car to take us to the station. They protested against our leaving, but I said that we had our work to do, and must get to Dublin as soon as possible. After some talk he sent one of the men to get two cars for us. We waited most impatiently till they came, then piling on to them as best we could we left the town and went towards the station.
While we were waiting for the train we saw the second contingent arriving from Belfast. The men had their equipment with them and swung out of the station in a truly martial way. I knew from their joyous faces and theirremarks that they had not received the news we had, and I pictured to myself the change there would be when they did.
Our train left Tyrone at twelve-thirty, and arrived in Dublin at five-fifteen. We went directly to Liberty Hall for I knew my father would be there. Ever since the attempted raid on Liberty Hall, he had stayed there every night under an armed guard. He had determined that he would not be arrested before the day arrived.
As we approached to the building we saw an armed sentry keeping watch through a window; we went up the steps and knocked on the door. A sentry came to the door and asked our business. I said I was Mr. Connolly's daughter and that the girls were ambulance workers from the North. He did not know me, so he called to some one else to decide for him. The man he called to was the officer of the guard who knew me. As we went inside the door and up the stairs I asked him if he thought I could see my father. He told me that my father had not been able to go to bed until three o'clock. I said I thought it best to see my father at once. He then escorted me to the corridor in which my father's room wasand told me the number. I walked along the corridor till I found the room and knocked on the door.
"Who is there?" called my father.
"Nora," I answered.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were with the North men."
"Let me in, father," I said. "I am afraid there is something wrong."
He opened the door and I entered the room. It was rather a small room, square and slightly furnished. There were but two chairs, a table, a cupboard and an army cot. My father was lying on the cot and looking at me in surprise. I went over to him and knelt down beside the cot to tell him why I was there.
"What does it mean, father? Are we not going to fight?" I asked him when I had finished.
"Not fight!" he said in amazement. "Nora, if we don't fight now, we are disgraced forever; and all we'll have left to hope and pray; for will be, that an earthquake may come and swallow Ireland up."
"Then why were we told last night that there would be no fighting in the North?"
"We received word last night that there could not be got fifty men to leave Belfast."
"That is not true!" I cried. "Why, there were fifty men on the train with us leaving Belfast; and before we left Tyrone there were two hundred. I saw them myself. They are there now with all their equipment, eager and happy and boisterous with delight."
"That is a different story from what we were told," said my father.
"Mine is the true one," I returned. "But don't accept my word for it. Call in the other girls and question them."
"Ask them to come in."
I went out to the girls and said that my father would like to see them. They came in; they all knew my father but he did not know them all, so I told him all their names.
"Tell me, girls," said my father, "how many men you saw in Tyrone before you left, Belfast men particularly."
Their story was practically the same as mine. When he had heard them all, my father asked one of them to call in the guard who was on duty in the corridor. When the guard had entered the room, or rather stood at the door,my father said to him, "Call the officer of the guard."
Shortly afterwards the officer of the guard knocked on the door. I opened the door and he came inside, saluted and said, "Yes, sir?"
"Send in five men who know the city thoroughly," said my father.
"Yes, sir," said the officer as he saluted again.
"Now," said my father turning to us again. "I am going to send you to each of the other Commandants. You tell them just what you have told me. And after you tell them all, ask them to come here as quickly as they can."
The five Citizen Army men came to the room shortly after that, and each of the girls was given different addresses to go to. It fell to my lot to go to Sean MacDermott. I had as my guide a man who looked as little an Irishman as he well might be. He was short and stout yet very light on his feet; he wore bright blue overalls, short black leggings, and his face was burnt a dark brown. He wore a wide black felt hat and from under it I saw hanging from his ears, big, round gold ear-rings. He looked as I fancied a Neapolitan fisherman would look like.
The leaders slept no two nights in the same place. Only themselves knew where each other was sleeping. This was for safety. I was taken to a place beyond Parnell Square, about twenty minutes walk from the Hall. When we arrived there we had to knock the people up; and it was some time before we received any answer. They were very suspicious of us when I said who it was I wanted. The woman, who opened the door, consulted with some one inside the house, before she decided to let me in. The guide having done his duty in bringing me there and seeing that I was about to enter the house, went back to Liberty Hall to report.
The woman then asked me who I was, what did I want, wouldn't any one else do, and a score of other questions. She went away after she had received my answers. In a few minutes a young man came down to interview me also. I told him that I was Mr. Connolly's daughter and that Sean MacDermott knew me, and that I had a message for him from my father. He was still reluctant to let me see Sean and said that Sean had hardly had time to go to sleep. I said that I knew that but that I had been traveling all night from theNorth, and had wakened my father over an hour ago who had had even less sleep than Sean.
After that he went away and came back to say that I could see Sean MacDermott. I went upstairs and found him in bed. He was looking very pale and tired. He listened to me, while I told him all I had to tell, without saying a word till I had finished. He then asked me if the others knew this. I told him that there were other girls seeing the other leaders at the same time. He remained silent for a while and then said, "I am very glad you came. Tell your father that I'll be at the Hall as soon as I can." I then returned to Liberty Hall. It was then about seven o'clock and we decided to go to Mass at Marlborough Cathedral around the corner.
When we returned from Mass my father had risen, and dressed in his uniform was going about the room singing to himself:
"We've got another savior now,That savior is the sword."
I began to prepare breakfast for my father and the rest of us. But it was some time before we sat down to our breakfast, as one by one the leaders dropped into the room, and as none of them had waited to have breakfast before coming they had to be served. I remember giving breakfast to a young officer who had come up on the night mail from Limerick, for final instructions. I gave Tom Clarke his last Easter breakfast. It seemed fitting he should have as table companion Sean MacDermott—they were always such close friends. Before they had finished Joseph Plunkett, his throat heavily swathed in bandages, for he had shortly gone under an operation, arrived; andfollowing him closely came Thomas MacDonagh. Michael Mallin and my father had their breakfast together. They were all in uniform, except Tom Clarke and Sean MacDermott. Pearse did not have his breakfast at Liberty Hall; he arrived somewhat later than the others and had already eaten. While they were all standing around and talking, one of the girls came in and said, "Mr. Connolly, look, theIndependentsays, 'No maneuvers to-day.' What does that mean? Is it a trick?"
"What is that?" said my father, taking the paper from her. "Maneuvers" was the name under which our men were being mobilized. If theIndependent, which had the largest circulation of any Sunday paper throughout the country, printed such a bit of news it would disorganize our forces to a great extent. Yet, there it was:
Owing to the critical situation all Volunteer parades and maneuvers are canceled.
By orderEoin MacNeill.
"What does this mean?" asked my father, turning to Pearse.
"Let me see it," said Pearse. "I know nothing whatsoever about this," he said when hehad read it. After that there was some low-voiced conversation among the leaders; and then the Council room. They remained there till after one o'clock.
We then ate our long delayed breakfasts and then went to another part of the Hall to see more stirring sights. On our way out of the corridor we had to pass the Council room. It was guarded by an armed sentry who stood at the door forbidding all to pass. He stopped us and would not allow us to pass until one of the officers coming out of the room saw our plight and told him who we were. When we came to the corner of the corridor we were again stopped by a sentry, but he knew me and we went on out to the front of the building.
Here, all was excitement, guards at the top and the bottom of the stairs, men and boys, women and girls running up and down; Citizen Army men arriving by the dozen armed with all their equipment, poured steadily into the great front hall.
We remained about the Hall as we had been told to stay within call in case we were needed as messengers to the North. We remained in the vicinity until well on in the afternoon. Itwas not until the Citizen Army started out on a march that we were freed. I have never been able to understand how it was that the authorities did not become aware that something untoward was afoot. There were two dozen policemen detailed to attend the Citizen Army march and they hung around Beresford Place waiting for the march to begin. Surely they should have been able to sense the difference in the feeling of the crowds that were thronged around Liberty Hall all the day. There was no disguising by the people that they expected a different ending to this march than to all the other marches. Else why the haversacks filled with food, the bandoliers filled with ammunition, and the supply wagons piled high with supplies? The men and women were under military orders. They were no longer a volunteer organization, they were a nation's army. Their fathers and, mothers, their wives and children, their sisters and brothers, and their sweethearts knew that from that day forth their lives were no longer their own, but belonged to Ireland. And while they openly exulted in this thought and brought parting gifts to their loved ones, the police saw nothing.
Before they went on their march my father called me to him and told me to bring the girls to Surrey House, the home of the Countess de Markievicz, so that they would have a rest before reporting at Liberty Hall the following morning. They badly needed rest as they had had no sleep the night before. Our orders were to report at Liberty Hall the next morning at eight o'clock.
The next morning when we reached Liberty Hall we were told that we were to be given a message to take back North with us. The message was to be written and signed by Padraic Pearse; therefore we had to wait until he came. While we were waiting Thomas MacDonagh came into the room. He was in uniform. He greeted us in his gay, kindly way and pretended to jeer at us for leaving the city.
"Here we are," he said, "on the brink of a revolution and all you are thinking of is to get out of the city before we begin."
LIBERTY HALL After the outbreak of the European WarLIBERTY HALLAfter the outbreak of the European War
While he was talking my father came into the room carrying a large poster. He unrolled it and spread it out on the table saying, "Come here, girls, and read this carefully. It would be too dangerous to allow you to carry it withyou, but read it carefully and tell the men in the North of what you have read." We all gathered around the table and read The Proclamation of the Irish Republic. I think that we had the honor of being amongst the first to see the proclamation.
Pearse came in while we were discussing our intended journey. He was in uniform; his military overcoat making him look taller and broader than ever. My father told him that we were waiting for the message. He went to the Council room to write it and we followed him. While we were waiting my father gave me some advice as to what we should do when we arrived in the North. Then Pearse called to us and we went to him. He handed me an envelope and said, "May God bless you all and the brave men of the North." He said it so solemnly and so earnestly that I felt as if I had been at Benediction. I then said "Good-by" to my father and left the Hall to take the nine o'clock train to the North.