[Frontispiece: JAMES CONNOLLY]

  THE

  IRISH REBELLION _of_ 1916

  OR

  THE UNBROKEN TRADITION

  BY

  NORA CONNOLLY

  BONI AND LIVERIGHT
  NEW YORK

  Copyright, 1918,
  Copyright, 1919,

  By Boni & Liveright, Inc.

  _Printed in the United States of America_

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

James Connolly ...... Frontispiece

Countess Markievietz

Thomas J. Clarke

The Proclamation of the Provisional Government issued at the G.P.O.
on Monday, April 24, 1917

John McDermott

Nora Connolly

Liberty Hall

Joseph Plunkett

Thomas Macdonagh

Eoin MacNeill

Patrick H. Pearse

Eamonn Ceannt

MAPS

The Journey from Belfast to Leek

The Journey from Dundalk to Dublin

Map of Dublin

{vii}

INTRODUCTION

There have been many attempts to explain the revolution which took
place in Ireland during Easter Week, 1916.  And all of them give
different reasons.  Some have it that it was caused by the resentment
that grew out of the Dublin Strike of 1912-13; others, that it was
the threatened Ulster rebellion, and there are many other equally
wrong explanations.  All these writers ignore the main fact that the
Revolution was caused by the English occupation of Ireland.

So many people not conversant with Irish affairs ask: Why a
revolution?  Why was it necessary to appeal to arms?  Why was it
necessary to risk death and imprisonment for the self-government of
Ireland?  They say that there was already in existence an Act for the
Self-government of Ireland, that it had been passed through the
English House of Commons, and that if we had waited till the end of
the war we would have been given an opportunity to govern ourselves.
That they are not {viii} conversant with Irish affairs must be their
excuse for thinking in that manner of our struggle for freedom.

To be able to think and to speak thus one must first recognize the
right of the English to govern Ireland, for only by so doing can we
logically accept any measure of self-government from England.

And we cannot do so, for, as a nation Ireland has never recognized
England as her conqueror, but as her antagonist, as an enemy that
must be fought.  And this attitude has succeeded in keeping the soul
of Ireland alive and free.

For the conquest of a nation is never complete till its soul submits,
and the submission of the soul of a nation to the conqueror makes its
slavery and subjection more sure.  But the soul of Ireland has never
submitted.  And sometimes when the struggle seemed hopeless, and
sacrifice useless, and there was thought to make truce with the foe,
the voice of the soul of Ireland spoke and urged the nation once more
to resist.  And the voice of the soul of Ireland has the clangor of
battle.

There have been many attempts to drown the voice of the soul of
Ireland ever since the {ix} coming of the English into our country.
There have been some who have had the God-given gift of leadership,
but still sought to misinterpret the sound of the voice; who in
shutting their ears to the call for battle have helped to fasten the
shackles of slavery more securely on their country.

There was Daniel O'Connell who possessed the divine gift of
leadership and oratory, and in whose tones the people recognized the
voice of Ireland and flocked around him.  During the agitation for
the Repeal of the union between Ireland and England the people
followed O'Connell and waited for him to give the word.  Never for
one moment did they believe that the movement was merely a
constitutional one.  Sensibly enough they knew that speeches,
meetings and cheers would never win for them the freedom of their
country.  They knew that force alone would compel England to forego
her hold upon any of her possessions.

So that when in 1844 O'Connell sent out the call bidding all the
people of Ireland to muster at Clontarf, outside Dublin, they
believed that the day had come, and from North, South, East and West
they started on the journey.  Those {x} who lived in the West and
South traveled the distance in all sorts of conveyances, many of
them, especially the poorer ones, walked the distance; but the
trouble, the weariness, the hardship were all ignored by them in the
knowledge that they were once more mustering to do battle for the
freedom of their country.

But in the meantime, while the people were making all speed to obey
the summons of O'Connell, the meeting had been proclaimed by the
British Government; and the place of muster was lined with regiments
of soldiers with artillery with orders to mow down the people if they
attempted to approach the meeting place.  Then it was that O'Connell
failed the people of Ireland, and rung the knell for the belief of
the Irish people in constitutionalism.  He said, "All the freedom in
the world is not worth one drop of human blood," and commanded the
people to obey the order of the British Government and to return to
their homes.

There are many pitiful, heart-breaking stories told of the manner in
which this command of O'Connell reached the people.  Many who had
walked miles upon miles reached the outskirts of Dublin only to meet
the people {xi} pouring out of it.  When in return to their questions
they were told that it was the request of O'Connell that they return
to their homes, the heart within them broke for they knew that their
idol had failed them, and their hopes of freeing Ireland were
shattered.

Within the Repeal Association there was another organization called
the Young Irelanders, which published a paper called _The Nation_.
This paper was an immense factor in arousing and keeping alive a firm
nationalist opinion in Ireland.  The Young Irelanders were
revolutionists, and by their writings counseled the people to adopt
military uniforms, to study military tactics, to march to and from
the meetings in military order.  They made no secret of their belief
that the freedom of Ireland must be won by force of arms.

During the famine in 1847, when the people were dying by the
hundreds, although there was enough food to feed them, the Young
Irelanders worked untiringly to save the people.  At that time
potatoes were the staple food of the people, everything else they
raised, corn, pigs, cattle, etc., had to be sold to pay the terrible
rackrents.  The Young Irelanders called upon the people to keep the
food in the country {xii} and save themselves; but day by day more
food was shipped from the starving country to England; there to be
turned into money to pay the grasping landlords.  It was during this
time that John Mitchell was arrested and transported for life to Van
Diemen's land.

In 1848 there was an ill-fated attempt at insurrection.  Even in the
midst of famine and death, with the people dying daily by the
roadside, there was still the belief that only by an appeal to force
and arms could anything be wrung from England.  In Tipperary, under
Smith O'Brien, the attempt was made, more as a protest then, for
famine, death, and misery had thinned the ranks, than with any hopes
of winning anything.  Most of the leaders were soon arrested and four
of them were sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; but this
sentence was afterwards commuted to life imprisonment.

For many years after the famine the people were quiescent, and had
grown quite uncaring about Parliamentary representation.  And then
was formed a revolutionary secret society calling itself the Fenians.
The members of this organization were pledged to work for, and, when
the time came, to fight for and }xiii} establish, an Irish Republic.
James Stephens was the chief organizer.  The organization spread
through Ireland like wildfire.  Even the English Army and Navy were
honeycombed with it.  Every means possible were taken by the English
to cope with this new revolutionary movement--but they failed.  The
organization decided that a Rising would take place in February,
1867.  This was later postponed; but unfortunately the word did not
reach the South in time and Kerry rose.  The word spread over Ireland
that Kerry was up in arms.  Measures were taken by the English to
meet the insurrectionists, but before they reached the South the men
had learned that the date of the rising had been postponed and had
returned to their homes.  Luby, O'Leary, Kickham, and O'Donovan Rossa
were arrested.  Still the Rising took place on the appointed date,
although doomed to failure owing to the crippling of the organization
by the arrest of its leaders, and the lack of arms.  Even the
elements were against the revolutionists, for a snowstorm, heavier
than any of the oldest could remember having seen, fell and covered
the country in great drifts.

They failed.  But the teaching of the {xiv} Fenians and the
organization they founded are alive to-day.  It was the members of
this organization that first started the Irish Volunteers.  Ever on
the watch for a ripe moment to come out and work openly, ever longing
for the day when military instruction could be given to the
nationalist youth, they seized upon the fact that if the Ulster
Volunteers were permitted to drill and arm themselves to fight the
English Government so could they.  And in November, 1913, they called
a meeting in the Rotunda, Dublin, and invited the men and women of
Ireland to join the Irish Volunteers, and pledge themselves "to
maintain and secure the rights and liberties common to all the people
of Ireland."

So once more the people of Ireland heard the call to arms, and right
royally they answered it.  The Irish Volunteer Organization spread
throughout the land, and the youth of Ireland were being trained in
the art of soldiering.

Then it was that, like Daniel O'Connell and other constitutional
leaders, Redmond proved himself of the body and not the soul of
Ireland.  He did not follow the example of Parnell, whose follower he
was supposed to be, and use the threat of this large physical force
party to {xv} gain his ends from the English Government.  Parnell
used to say to the British House of Commons: "If you do not listen to
me, there is a large band of physical force men, with whom I have no
influence, and upon whom I have no control, and _they_ will compel
you to listen to them."  But Redmond, jealous of all parties outside
his own (knowing well that when an Irishman had a rifle in his hands
he no longer felt subservient to, or feared England; and that when
the people of Ireland had the means to demand the freedom of their
country they grew impatient of speech-making and petitioning), grew
fearful for the loss of power of the Irish Parliamentary Party.

He knew also, that, as in the days of O'Connell, Butt, and Parnell,
the people firmly believed that all the talk and show of
constitutionalism was a blind, merely a throwing of dust in the eyes
of the English Government, and to save himself and his Party he must
approve this physical Force party.  But not content with approval he
needs must try to capture the Irish Volunteers.  This attempt, I
firmly believe, was made upon the advice, or the command of the
British Government.  He sent a demand to the Executive Committee
{xvi} that a number of his appointees be received upon the Committee.
This would enable him to know and obstruct all measures made by the
Irish Volunteers and would prevent the loss of power of the
Parliamentary Party.

By the votes of a small majority of the Committee these appointees
were accepted.  But the Committee soon found out that it was
impossible to arm and prepare men for a revolution against a
government, while the paid servants of that government were amongst
them.  They decided to part company even at the risk of a division in
the ranks.  They knew that every man who remained with them could be
depended upon to do his part when the time for the Rising came.

Then England went to war.  Shortly before this a Home Rule Bill had
passed two readings in the House of Commons.  England saw the
stupidity of appealing to Irishmen to go to fight for the freedom of
small nationalities, while any measure of freedom was denied to their
own.  So the Home Rule Bill passed the final reading in the House of
Commons, and was put upon the Statute Book.  Then fearful of the
dissatisfaction of the Unionists an amendment was tacked on {xvii}
that prevented its going into effect until after the war.

John Redmond dealt the final blow to his influence upon Ireland when
he began to recruit for the English Army.  Many of his followers,
taking his word that Home Rule was now a fact entered the English
Army at his request.  They were, in the main, young, foolish, and
ignorant fellows unable to analyze the Bill for themselves, and
therefore could not know that the so-called Home Rule was a farce.
They did not know that the Bill gave them no power over the revenue,
over the Post Office, over the Royal Irish Constabulary, that they
could not raise an army, or impose a tax, and that no law passed by
the Irish Parliament could go into effect until the English House of
Commons had given its approval.  It was like telling a prisoner that
he was free and keeping him in durance.

And from the beginning of the war the Irish Volunteers spent all the
time they could in intensive drilling, not knowing at what time their
hand might be forced, or the opportune moment for the Rising might
arrive.

For in Ireland we have the unbroken tradition of struggle for our
freedom.  Every {xviii} generation has seen blood spilt, and
sacrifice cheerfully made that the tradition might live.

Our songs call us to battle, or mourn the lost struggle; our stories
are of glorious victory and glorious defeat.  And it is through them
the tradition has been handed down till an Irish man or woman has no
greater dream of glory than that of dying

  "A Soldier's death so Ireland's free."

{1}

THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916

OR

THE UNBROKEN TRADITION

My first mingling with an actively, openly drilling revolutionary
body took place during the Dublin strike of 1912-1913.  I was living
in Belfast then and had come to Dublin to see how things were
managed, how the food was being distributed and the kitchens run;
and, in fact, to feel the spirit of the people.

James Connolly, my father, was at that time in Dublin assisting James
Larkin to direct the strike.  He was my pilot.  Liberty Hall, the
headquarters of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, the
members of which were on strike, was first visited.  It is situated
on Beresford Place facing the Custom House and the River Liffey.  In
the early part of the nineteenth century it had been a Chop House.
Almost from the big front door a wide staircase starts.  It ends at
the second story.  From there it branches out into {2} innumerable
corridors thickly studded with doors.  It took me a long time to
master those corridors.  Always I seemed to be finding new ones.
Downstairs on the first floor were the theater and billiard rooms;
and below them were the kitchens.  During the strike these kitchens
were used to prepare food for the strikers.  It was to the kitchens
my father first piloted me.

Here the Countess de Markieviez reigned supreme--all meals were
prepared under her direction.  There were big tubs on the floor;
around each were about half a dozen girls peeling potatoes and other
vegetables.  There were more girls at tables cutting up meat.  The
Countess kept up a steady march around the boilers as she supervised
the cooking.  She took me to another kitchen where more delicate food
was being prepared for nursing and expectant mothers.

"We used to give the food out at first," she said.  "But in almost
every case we found that it had been divided amongst the family.  Now
we have the women come here to eat.  We are sure then that they are
getting something sufficiently nourishing to keep up their strength."
She showed me a hall with a long table in the {3} center and chairs
around it.  As it was near the "Mothers' dinner hour," as the girls
called it, some of the striking women and girls were there to act as
waitresses.

We came to the clothing shop next.  Some persons had caught the idea
of sending warm clothing for the wives and children of the strikers;
accordingly one of the rooms of Liberty Hall was turned into an
alteration room.  Several women and girls were working from morning
to night altering the clothes to fit the applicants.  One of the
girls said to me, "It was a wonder to us at first the number of
strikers who had extra large families, until we found out that in
many cases their wives had adopted a youngster or two for the day,
and brought them along to get clothed."  Not strictly honest,
perhaps, but how human to wish to share their little bit of good
fortune with those not so fortunate as themselves.  How many little
boys and girls knew for the first time in their lives the feel of
warm stockings and shoes, and how many little girls had the delicious
thrill of getting a new dress fitted on.

Thence to Croyden Park.  Some time before the strike this immensely
big place had {4} been taken over by the Union.  I do not know how
large it was but there were fields and fields, and long pathways
edged with trees.  It was used by the members as a football ground
and for hurley and all sorts of sports and games.  But this time the
fields were ringed round with men and women watching the rows and
rows of strikers who were in the fields, marching now to the right,
now to the left at the commands of Captain White, who stood in the
center, a tall soldierly figure blowing a whistle and gesticulating
with great fervor.

Back and forth, right and left they marched with never a moment's
rest; then round and round the fields they ran at the double; the
Captain now at the head, now at the rear, now in the center shouting
commands incessantly, sparing himself no more than the men.  I
remember once he stopped beside my father and myself; he was in a
terrible rage, his hands were clenched and he was fairly gnashing his
teeth.  He had given a signal to one of the columns and they had
misinterpreted it.

"Easy now, Captain," said my father, "remember they are only
volunteers."  Captain White turned like a flash.

"Yes," he said.  "And aren't they great?" {5} And he forgot his rage
in his admiration of the men of a few weeks' training.  He gave an
order, the men marched past and at a given place they received broom
handles with which they practiced rifle drill.

After rifle drill came the line up for the march home.  We waited
till the last row was filing past and then fell in and marched back
to the city with the Irish Citizen Army.  It was exhilarating.  At no
period could I see the first part of the Army.  The men and boys were
whistling tunes to serve them in lieu of bands.  On they swung to
Beresford Place, where they lined up in front of Liberty Hall.  Jim
Larkin and my father spoke to them from the windows.  When one man
called out, "We'll stick by you to the end," he was loudly and
heartily cheered.  Captain White gave the order of dismissal and the
men broke ranks but did not go away.  When they were not drilling, or
sleeping, or eating, they thronged round Liberty Hall, attesting that
"where the heart lieth there turneth the feet."

When the strike was over and the men had won the right to organize,
the membership of the Irish Citizen Army dwindled rapidly.  When one
takes into consideration the arduous {6} work and the long hours that
comprised the daily round of these men, the wonder was that there
were so many of them willing to meet after working hours to be
drilled into perfect soldiers.  But they knew that by so doing they
were, in the words of my father, "signifying their adhesion to the
principle that the freedom of a people must in the last analysis rest
in the hands of that people--that there is no outside force capable
of enforcing slavery upon a people really resolved to be free, and
valuing freedom more than life."  Also that "The Irish Citizen Army
in its constitution pledges its members to fight for a Republican
Freedom in Ireland.  Its members are, therefore, of the number who
believe that at the call of duty they may have to lay down their
lives for Ireland, and have so trained themselves that at the worst
the laying down of their lives shall constitute the starting point of
another glorious tradition--a tradition that will keep alive the soul
of the nation."  And this was the knowledge that lightened all the
labor of drilling and soldiering.

I was present at a lecture given to them by their Commandant, James
Connolly.  It was on the art of street fighting.  I remember the {7}
close attention every man paid to the lecture and the interest they
displayed in the diagrams drawn on the board the better to explain
his meaning.  At the close of the lecture he asked, "Are there any
questions?" There were many questions, all of them to the effect,
whether it would not be better to do it this way, or could we not get
better results that way.  All in deadly earnestness, thinking only on
how the best results might be achieved and not one man commenting on
the danger to life the acts would surely entail.  That one would have
to risk death was taken for granted.  Their one thought was how to
get the most work done before death came.

A few months later there were maneuvers between one company of the
Irish Citizen Army and a company of the Irish Volunteers.  The Irish
Volunteers had been formed after the Irish Citizen Army and by this
time had spread over the length and breadth of Ireland.  While the
Irish Citizen Army admitted none but union men the Irish Volunteers
made no such distinction.  And as they both had the one ideal of a
Republican Ireland there was much friendly rivalry between the two
bodies.  This time the maneuvers took the form of a {8} sham battle,
which took place at Ticknock about six miles outside of Dublin.  The
Irish Citizen Army won the day.  I particularly remember that
afternoon.  My father came into the house, tired but pleasantly
excited--he had been an onlooker at the sham battle.  "I've
discovered a great military man," he said in high glee.  "The way he
handled his men positively amounted to genius.  Do you know him--his
name is Mallin?"

I did not know him then.  I met him later when he was my father's
Chief of Staff.  During the rising he was Commandant in charge of the
St. Stephen's Green Division of the Army of the Irish Republic, and
he was executed during that dreadful time following the surrender of
the Irish Republican Army.

{9}

II

During the month of July, 1914, I was camping out on the Dublin
mountains.  The annual convention of Na Fianna Eireann (Irish
National Boy Scouts) had just been held, and I was a delegate to it
from the Belfast Girls' Branch, of which I was the president.  On the
Sunday following the convention we were still camping out; but were
suffering all the discomforts of blowy, rainy, stormy weather.
Madame (the Countess de Markievicz) had a cottage beside the field
where we were encamped, and it was thronged with us all that Sunday.
Nothing would tempt us out in the field that night, and we kept
putting off the retiring time, hour by hour, till it was nearly
twelve o'clock.  At that time we had just taken our courage in both
hands, and were forcing ourselves to go out to our tents.  We were
standing near the door with our bedding in our arms when some of the
Fianna boys halloed from outside.  We {10} gladly opened the
door--another excuse for putting off the evil moment--and about half
a dozen boys came in to the cottage.  They were in great spirits,
although they had tramped some miles in the rain, and exhibited
strange looking clubs to our curious eyes.

"Guess what we've been doing to-day, Madame," they said, but with an
expression on their faces which said, "you'll never guess."

"It's too much trouble to guess," said Madame.  "Tell us what it was
and we will know all the quicker."

"We've been helping to run in three thousand rifles."

"Rifles--where--quick--tell me all about it.  Quick."

"At Howth.  But did you hear nothing about it?"

"Nothing.  Tell me quick."

"Did you not hear that we had a brush with the soldiers; and that
some were shot and some were killed?"

"No--no.  Begin at the beginning and tell us the whole story."

"Well, during the week we were told to report at a certain place
to-day--that there was important work to be done.  This morning we
{11} met as we were told, and we were shown these clubs.  They were
to be all the arms we were to have.  We started out to march with the
Volunteers to Howth.  We knew, somehow or other, that we were going
to get rifles but none of us knew for a fact how we were going to get
them.  As we marched we made all sorts of guesses as to how the
rifles were coming.  Of course, we did not carry the clubs in our
hands; we brought them with us in the trek cart.  But for a few
others we were the only ones who knew what was in the cart.  And do
you know, Madame," he said with a veteran's pride, "we marched better
than the Volunteers."

"When we came near Howth," said another boy as he took up the story,
"two chaps came running towards us and told us to come on at the
double.  The Volunteers were rather tired but when they heard the
word 'rifles' they simply raced.  When we arrived at the harbor we
saw the rifles being unloaded from a yacht.  You ought to have heard
the cheers when we saw them!  Then it was that the clubs were
distributed.  They were given to a picked body of men and they were
formed across the entrance to the pier.  They were to use the clubs
{12} if the police attempted to interfere with them.  The rifles were
handed out to the men, but there were more rifles than men so some
had to be sent into the city in automobiles.  Most of the ammunition
was sent into the city in automobiles but quite a lot was put into
the trek cart.  But none was served out to the men."

"That was a nice thing to do," said the first boy, "to give rifles
and no ammunition.  And when we were attacked we couldn't shoot back.
We had a fight with the soldiers and the police near the city.  And
when the soldiers and the police attacked us and might have taken the
trek cart from us, we had only the butts of our rifles to defend it
with.  But we beat them off.  Later on, though, they took their
revenge when they shot down defenseless women and children.  They
just knelt down in the middle of Bachelor's Walk and fired into the
crowd.  I don't know how many were killed--some say five, some say
more."

"But you brought the rifles safe," said Madame.

"The whole city is excited.  The people are walking up and down the
streets, they don't seem to think that they have any homes to go to."

[Illustration: COUNTESS MARKIEVIETZ]

{13}

When we heard that we wanted to dress and go down to Dublin.  We
wanted a share of the excitement, if we had not had any share in the
fight.  But Madame vetoed that suggestion almost as soon as it was
mooted.  We had to go to bed.  But we had so much to talk about that
we scarcely noticed the sogging wet tent when we were inside.

The next morning was gloriously fine.  We breakfasted and were making
plans to go into the city to hear some more about yesterday's
exploit.  Madame had already cycled in, and we were left to our own
devices.  We had not quite finished our work around the camp when we
saw a taxi-cab stopping near the gate that was used as an entrance to
the field.  As we ran towards it we wondered what had brought it
there.  Before we reached it, however, one of the Fianna captains had
jumped out of the taxi and was coming towards us.

"I have about twenty rifles in the car, and I want to get them to
Madame's cottage," he said.  "Will you help?"

We were glad of the opportunity.  We jumped over the hedge into the
next field where there were no houses, and had the rifles handed to
us.  We could only carry two at a time.  The {14} captain stood at
the car on the lookout, and also handed the rifles to us.  We carried
the rifles down to the window back of Madame's cottage, and when we
had them all there one of us went inside to open the window to take
the rifles from the other girls as they handed them through.  We were
delighted to handle the arms.

Later on one of the neighbors said that it was wrong to leave the
rifles there.  "There is a retired sergeant of the police who lives a
little way up the road and he wouldn't be above telling about them."

This rather frightened us.  If the police came and took them from us,
what could we do?  I decided to go in to Dublin and go to the
Volunteer office and tell them about the rifles.  When I had told
about the rifles two of the men present accompanied me back to the
camp to take the rifles from there.

We set off in another taxi and arrived at the camp before there was
any sign of the police becoming active.  All the rifles were carried
out again and put in the taxi.  When they were all in it, it was
suggested that we should get into the taxi and sit on top of the
rifles.  The police would be less suspicious of a taxi {15} with
girls in it.  It was not a very comfortable seat that we had on that
trip to Dublin.  But the rifles were saved.  When we got back to the
office I offered to sit in any taxi with the rifles if they thought
it would divert attention.  I sat on quite a number of rifles that
day.  And at the end of the day I had a rifle of my own.

In the meantime, the bodies of those who had been shot by the
soldiers were laid out and brought to the Cathedral.  Preparations
were made for a public funeral to honor the victims of English
soldiery in Ireland.  All the Volunteers were to march in honor of
the dead, and the local trades unions, the Irish Citizen Army, the
Cumami na mBan, the Fianna, and as many of the citizens of Dublin as
desired to do so.  The Fintan Lalor Pipe Band, connected with the
Irish Transport and General Workers Union, were to play the Dead
March.  And there was to be a firing party of the Irish Volunteers
who were to use the rifles that had so soon been the cause of
bloodshed.

I spent all the day of the funeral making wreaths.  The funeral was
not to take place till the evening so as to permit all who wished to
attend to do so.  The Fianna boys went round to the different
florists asking for {16} flowers to make wreaths to place on the
graves of the dead.  And they were richly rewarded.  Every florist
they went to gave bunches and bunches of their best flowers, and
these the boys brought to Madame's house.  Madame and I, and two or
three other girls, worked continually all during the afternoon
turning the flowers into wreaths.  When we had finished we had
seventeen glorious big wreaths.  Just before six we piled into an
automobile, some of the boys in Gaelic costume stood on the running
board.  The saffron and green of the kilts and the many wreaths made
quite an artistic dash of color when we arrived at Beresford Place to
have our place assigned to us.

The bodies of the five victims were removed from the Cathedral and
placed in the hearses.  Behind each one walked the chief mourners.
Much interest was aroused by the sight of a soldier in the English
uniform, who marched, weeping openly, after one of the hearses.  He
had joined the English Army and had promised to protect the English
King, and now the soldiers of that king had shot and killed his
innocent defenseless mother.

Dublin was profoundly moved as the funeral cortege passed through the
city.  Thousands {17} upon thousands marched to the cemetery after
the hearses, and thousands more lined the streets.  They were
attesting their sympathy with the families of the dead, and their
realization that England still intended to rule Ireland with the
rifle and the bullet.

The firing party, as they marched after the hearses with their rifles
reversed, excited much comment.  The people contrasted the difference
in the treatment accorded the Nationalists when they had a
gun-running, with that accorded the Ulster gun-runners.  And they
knew once more that England would kill and destroy them rather than
permit them to have the means to protect their lives and to fight for
their liberties.

The authorities were aware of the feeling aroused in the people by
the killing of the unarmed women and men, and to prevent any further
disturbance they confined the soldiers to their barracks that
evening.  Still the feeling against "The King's Own Scottish
Borderers" (the regiment that had done the shooting) ran so high that
the entire regiment was secretly sent away from Dublin.

{18}

About one week later, while the people were still incensed at the
shooting, England went to war.  Almost immediately she issued an
appeal to the Irish to join her army.  Later she appealed to them to
avenge the shooting of the citizens of Catholic Belgium.  Because her
memory was short, or perhaps because her need was so great she chose
to ignore the fact that English soldiers had but shortly shot down
and killed the unarmed citizens of Catholic Dublin.  But Dublin did
not forget.

The Irish Citizen Army distinguished itself when John Redmond and Mr.
Asquith, who was then Prime Minister, came over to Dublin shortly
after the outbreak of the war.  They came to hold a recruiting
meeting in the Mansion House.  It was supposed to be a public meeting
at which the Prime Minister and the Irish Parliamentary Leader would
appeal to the citizens of Dublin to enlist in the British Army; yet
no one was let in without a card of {19} admission.  A cordon of
soldiers were drawn across both ends of the street in which the
Mansion House was situated, at Nassau Street and at St. Stephen's
Green.  No one could pass these cordons without presenting the card
and being subjected to a close scrutiny by the local detectives.
This was to make sure that no objectionable person could get in to
the meeting and make a row.  But the Nationalists of Dublin had no
intention of going to the meeting; there was to be another one that
would give them more pleasure.

A monster demonstration had been decided upon by the Irish Citizen
Army to prove to Mr. Asquith, and through him to England, that the
mass of the Dublin people were against recruiting for the British
Army.  They mustered outside of Liberty Hall.  The speakers, amongst
whom was Sean Mac Dermott who was there to represent the Irish
Volunteers, were on a lorry guarded by members of the Irish Citizen
Army armed with rifles and fixed bayonets; a squad similarly armed
guarded the front and the rear.  They were determined that there
would be no arrest of anti-recruiters that night.

They marched around the city, the crowd {20} swelling as they went,
and they stopped at the "Traitors' Arch" (the popular name for the
Memorial to the Irish soldiers who fell in the Boer War), at St.
Stephen's Green, two blocks away from where the recruiting meeting
was being held.  As speaker after speaker denounced recruiting, and
denounced England, and Redmond, and Asquith, feeling surged higher
and higher until it reached a climax when James Connolly called on
those present to declare for an Irish Republic.  Cheers burst from
thousands of throats and a forest of hands appeared in the air as
they declared for a Republic.  We were told afterwards that the
recruiting meeting had to stop till the anti-recruiters stayed their
cheering.

The armed men of the Irish Citizen Army resumed the march first to
make sure that none would be molested.  Down Grafton Street they went
and halted again beside the old House of Parliament, where Jim Larkin
called on them to raise their right hands and pledge themselves never
to join the British Army.  Every one present did so.  Then, whistling
and singing Nationalist marching tunes and anti-recruiting songs,
they marched back to Liberty Hall and dispersed.  As a result of {21}
Asquith's meeting, or because of the Irish Citizen Army meeting, only
six men joined the British Army next day.

Midnight mobilizations were a feature of the Irish Citizen Army.
They served a twofold purpose.  They taught the men to be ready
whenever called upon, and were a great source of annoyance to the
police.  At every mobilization of the Irish Citizen Army a squad of
police and detectives were detailed by the authorities to follow and
report all the movements.  One midnight the men mobilized at Liberty
Hall; they were divided into two bodies, the attacking and the
defending.  They marched to the North side of the city, one body
going across the canal, and the other remaining behind to prevent the
entrance of the attackers.  The battle lasted two hours.  It was a
bitter winter's night and the police were on duty all the time as
they did not dare to leave, for there was no telling what the Irish
Citizen Army might be up to.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

{22}

[Illustration: Illustrating journey from Belfast to Leek.  _See
pages_ 54-71]

---------------------------------------------------------------------

{23}

[Illustration: Illustrating the journey from Dundalk to Dublin.  _See
pages_ 142-163]

---------------------------------------------------------------------

After the men had completed their evolutions around the bridge they
formed ranks and marched round the city, the police following them.
They stopped at Emmet Hall, Inchicore, for refreshments.  There they
had a song {24} and dance, one chap remarking that the thought of the
"peelers" (police) and the "G men" (detectives) outside in the cold
added to the enjoyment.  They broke up about six o'clock a.m. and
marched back to Liberty Hall followed by the disheartened, miserable,
frozen police.

There was another midnight mobilization later on.  Announcements were
made publicly that on this occasion the Irish Citizen Army would
attack Dublin Castle, the center of English Government in Ireland for
600 years.  The thought of such a deed never fails to fire the
imagination of an Irish Nationalist.  A favorite phrase of one of the
officers of the Irish Citizen Army, Commandant Sean Connolly, was,
"One more rush, boys, and the Castle is ours."  He was in command of
the body that attacked the Castle on Easter Monday.  It was while
calling on his men to rush the Castle that he received a bullet
through his brain, thus achieving his lifelong dream of dying for
Ireland while attacking the Castle.

One other mobilization which took place at midnight some time before
the Rising was a disappointment, perhaps because it was unofficial.
One of the Irish Citizen Army men {25} heard that a number of rifles
were stored in a place near Finglass.  He knew the whereabouts and
whispered the news amongst his comrades.  A number of them decided to
make a raid on the place and capture the rifles.  They started out at
midnight, marched twenty miles before morning, but, unfortunately,
the rifles had been removed before they arrived.  They were
disappointed but not downhearted; such things they considered part of
the day's work.

They had another disappointment which was more amusing, at least our
men could laugh at it when a few days were past.  There was in Dublin
a body of men called the Home Defense Corps.  They wore a greenish
gray uniform and on their sleeves an armlet with the letters "G.R."
in red--abbreviations for Georgius Rex.  They were called the
"Gorgeous Wrecks" by the Dubliners.  They were mainly men past the
military age who had registered their willingness to fight the
Germans when they invaded England, Scotland, or Ireland.  These men
paraded the streets of Dublin making a fine show with their uniforms
and rifles, especially the rifles.  Some of the Irish Citizen Army
thought those rifles too {26} good to be left in the hands of "those
old ones" and followed them on a march to find out where the rifles
were kept.  When our men came back they gathered a number of their
friends together; after a short talk away they went for the rifles.
It was done in quite a military manner; sentries and pickets were
placed, the building surrounded and entered.  Several made their way
to the room where the rifles were kept and opened the windows to hand
the rifles to the eager hands outside.  Their plan was to march home
with them quite openly as if returning from a route march.

The leader of the band was well known for his lurid and swift flow of
language.  Suddenly bursting out, he surpassed all his previous
efforts and completely staggered the men around him--they beheld him
examining one of the rifles.  It was complete in every detail, just
like an army rifle, but on lifting it it was easy to know that it was
a very clever imitation.  The men were heartbroken and disgusted, but
they brought several of the rifles away with them to show their
officers what the "Gorgeous Wrecks" were going to fight the Germans
with.  During a raid by the Dublin {27} police in a well-known house
one of these rifles was taken away by them.  How long it took them to
realize its uselessness we do not know as it was never returned.

{28}

IV

Towards the end of 1915 the hearts of the Irish Citizen Army beat
high, when they were summoned one night for special business.  One by
one they were called into a room where their Commandant, James
Connolly, and his Chief of Staff, Michael Mallin, were seated at a
table.  They were bound on their word not to reveal anything they
should hear until the time came.  Something like the following
conversation took place:

"Are you willing to fight for Ireland?"

"Yes."

"It might mean your death."

"No matter."

"Are you ready to fight to-morrow if asked?"

"Whenever I'm wanted."

"Do you think we ought to fight with the few arms we've got?"

"Why wait?  England can get millions to one."

{29}

"It might mean a massacre."

"In God's name let us fight, we've been waiting long enough."

"The Irish Volunteers might not come out with us.  Are you still
ready?"

"What matter?  We can put up a good fight."

"Then in God's name hold yourself ready.  The Day is very near."

To the eternal credit of the Irish Citizen Army be it recorded that
only one man shirked that night.

Then on top of this glorious happening came the attempted raid on
Liberty Hall by the police.  That morning I was in the office with my
father when a man came from the printer's shop and said, "Mr.
Connolly, you're wanted downstairs."  My father went downstairs.
About five minutes later he came into the office again, took down a
carbine, loaded it and filled his pockets with cartridges.

"What is it?" I asked.  "Can I do anything?"

"Stay here, I'll need you," said my father and he left the office
again.  He was gone about five minutes when the door was banged {30}
open and the Countess de Markievicz burst into the office.

"Where's Mr. Connolly?" she demanded excitedly.  "Where's Mr.
Connolly?  They're raiding the Gaelic press--the place is surrounded
with soldiers."

"He left here five minutes ago," I said.  "He took his carbine with
him and told me to remain here as he would need me."

She ran out again.  In a few minutes I heard her and my father coming
back along the corridor.  She was talking excitedly and my father was
laughing.

They came into the office--he took down a sheaf of papers and
commenced signing them.  They called for instant mobilization of the
Irish Citizen Army.  They were to report at Liberty Hall with full
equipment at once.

"Well, Nora," said my father.  "It looks as if we were in for it and
as if they were going to force our hands.  Fill up these orders as I
sign them.  I want two hundred and fifty."

I busied myself filling in these orders.  The Countess began to help
me--suddenly she stopped and cried out, "But, Mr. Connolly, I haven't
my pistol on me."

{31}

"Never mind, Madame," said my father.  "We'll give you one."

"Give it to me now," she said.  "So my mind will be easy."

She was given a large Mauser pistol.  Just then a picket came running
in.  He saluted and said, "They've left the barracks, sir."  He was
referring to the police.  A line of our pickets had been stationed
reaching from the barracks to Liberty Hall; their duty was to report
any move they might see made by the police.  In that way no sooner
had a body of police left the barracks than word was sent along the
line and in less than three minutes Liberty Hall was aware of it.

"Now, Madame," said my father when the picket had gone. "Come along,
we'll be ready for them.  Finish those, Nora, and come down to me
with them."

I finished them and went down to the Co-operative shop.  Behind the
counter stood my father with his carbine laid along it; beside him
Madame, and outside the counter was Miss Moloney taking the safety
catch from off her automatic.  I gave the batch of orders to my
father; he called one of the men who stood in the doorway, and said,
"Get these around at {32} once."  The man saluted and went away.
Just then another picket came in and said, "They will be here in a
minute, sir, they've just crossed the bridge."

"Very well," said my father, and the men went away.

Miss Moloney then told me that some policemen had come in and had
attempted to search the store, and that she had sent word to Mr.
Connolly through the men in the printing shop, which was back of the
Coöperative shop; and then busied herself resisting the search.  One
policeman had a batch of papers in his hands when my father came in.
He saw at once what was going forward, drew his automatic pistol,
pointed it at the policeman and said:

"Drop them or I'll drop you."

The policeman dropped them.  My father then asked what he wanted.  He
said they had come to confiscate any copies of _The Gael_, _The
Gaelic Athlete_, _Honesty_ or _The Spark_ that might be on the
premises.

"Have you a search warrant?" asked my father.  This was a bluff,
because under the Defense of the Realm Act any house may be searched
on suspicion; but it worked; the policeman said he had none.

{33}

"Go and get one," said my father, "or you'll not search here."

The police went away; and it was then that my father had come back to
the office to sign the mobilization papers.

Shortly afterwards there came into the shop an Inspector of the
police, four plain-clothes men and two policemen in uniform.  I was
behind the counter at this time.

"I am Inspector Banning," said the Inspector.

"What do you want?" asked my father.

"We have come to search for, and confiscate any, of the suppressed
papers we may find here."

"Where's your warrant?" asked my father.

"I have it here," said the Inspector.

"Read it," said my father.

The Inspector read the warrant--it was to the effect that all shops
and newsvendors were to be searched, and all copies of the suppressed
newspapers confiscated.

"Well," said my father when the Inspector had finished reading.
"This is the shop up to this door,"--pointing to one behind
him,--"beyond this door is Liberty Hall, and through {34} this door
you will not go.  Go ahead and search."

"We have no desire to enter Liberty Hall," said the Inspector.

"I don't doubt you," said my father, whereat we all grinned.

At an order from the Inspector one of the policemen began to search
around the place where the papers were kept.  He looked at my father
standing in the doorway with his carbine, and for a moment we thought
he was going to rush him.  Perhaps visions of stripes danced before
him; but, at an order from his superior he went on with his work.  It
was a good thing for him that he did so, as there were the best of
shots present, with less than ten paces between him and them.

"There is nothing here," he said at last to the Inspector.  (We had
made sure there would not be.)  And then they all left the shop.

In the meantime, a series of strange sights were to be seen all over
the city.  The mobilization orders had gone forth and the men were
answering them.  Women in the fashionable shopping districts were
startled by the sight of men, with their faces still grimed with the
dust of their work, tearing along at a breakneck {35} speed, a rifle
in one hand and a bandolier in the other.

Out from the ships where they were working; from the docks; out of
the factories; in from the streets,--racing, panting, with eager
faces and joyful eyes they trooped into Liberty Hall.  Joyful because
they believed the call had come at last.

No obstacle was great enough to prevent their answering the order.
One batch were working in a yard overlooking a canal.  A man appeared
at the door, whistled to one of the men and gave him a sign.

"Come on, boys, we're needed," cried one and made for the door.  The
foreman, thinking it was a strike, closed the door.  Nothing daunted
they swarmed the walls, jumped into the canal, swam across, ran to
their homes for their rifles and equipment and arrived at Liberty
Hall, wet and happy.  Another batch were busy with a concrete column
and had just got it to the critical period, where one must not stop
working or it hardens and cannot be used, when the mobilizer appeared
at the door and gave them the news.  Down went the tools and out they
went through the gate in the twinkling of an eye.

{36}

All day long the men were arriving at Liberty Hall.  Tense excitement
prevailed amongst the crowds that came thronging outside the Hall.  A
guard was placed at the great front door, another at the head of the
wide staircase and the rest were confined to the guard room.  This
guard room had a great fascination for me.  The men were sitting on
forms around an open fire; ranged along the walls were their rifles,
and hanging above them their bandoliers; at the butts of the rifles
were their haversacks containing the rest of their equipment; all was
so arranged that when they received an order each man would be armed
and equipped within a minute, and there would be no confusion or
delay.  When I first went in the men were singing, with great gusto,
this Citizen Army marching tune:

  We've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well,
  And when we meet the Saxon we'll drive them all to Hell.
  We've got to free our country, and avenge all those who fell,
    And our cause is marching on.
      Glory, glory to old Ireland,
      Glory, glory to our sireland,
  Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell,
    And we still keep marching; on.

[Illustration: THOMAS J. CLARKE]

{37}

I knew then what was meant by sniffing a battle.  I did not want to
leave that room.  The atmosphere thrilled me so that I regarded with
impatience the men and women who were going about the Hall attending
to the regular business of the Union, and not in the least perturbed
by all the military display.  "Business as usual," one chap remarked
to me as I stood watching them all.

I did not stand long, for a Citizen Army man came to me and said,
"You're wanted in No. 7 by Mr. Connolly."  No. 7 was my father's
office.  When I got there my father said, "Nora, I have a carbine up
at Surrey House and a bandolier.  It is in my room."  He then told me
where.  "I want you to get one of the scouts, who are always at
Madame's house, to put the bandolier on and over it my heavy
overcoat.  Tell him to swing the rifle over his shoulder and come
down here with it as if he were mobilizing.  Get him here as soon as
you can.  I'll be staying here all night," he added.

I started off immediately for Rathmines where Surrey House, Countess
de Markievicz's residence, is situated.  On my way I met one of the
scouts who was going there.  When I told him my errand he offered to
be the one {38} to bring the things back to Liberty Hall.  When we
reached the house, I went to the room, found the things which my
father wanted and brought them down to the scout.  He had just put
them on when Madame called from the kitchen and asked me to have some
tea.  Of course I said I would have some.  While I was waiting to be
served she said to me, "What do you think is going to happen?  I am
going down to Liberty Hall immediately to take my turn of standing
guard.  By-the-way, what do you think of my uniform?"

She stepped out into the light where I could get a good view of her.
She had on a dark green woolen blouse trimmed with brass buttons,
dark green tweed knee breeches, black stockings and high heavy boots.
As she stood she was a good advertisement for a small arms factory.
Around her waist was a cartridge belt, suspended from it on one side
was a small automatic pistol, and on the other a convertible Mauser
pistol-rifle.  Hanging from one shoulder was a bandolier containing
the cartridges for the Mauser, and from the other was a haversack of
brown canvas and leather which she had bought from a man, who had got
it from a soldier, who in turn had brought it {39} back from the
front; originally it had belonged to a German soldier.  I admired her
whole outfit immensely.  She was a fine military figure.

"You look like a real soldier, Madame," I said, and she was as
pleased as if she had received the greatest compliment.

"What is your uniform like?" she asked.

"Somewhat similar," I answered.  "Only I have puttees and my boots
have plenty of nails in the soles.  I intend wearing my scout blouse
and hat."

"This will be my hat," she said and showed me a black velour hat with
a heavy trimming of coque feathers.  When she put it on she looked
like a Field Marshal; it was her best hat.

"What arms have you?" she then asked.

"A .32 revolver and a Howth rifle."

"Have you ammunition for them?"

"Some.  Perhaps enough."

I then turned to the scout who was to carry my father's rifle and
bandolier to Liberty Hall, and said, "We'd better go now."  Saying
"Slán libh" ("Health with ye") we left the room.  On our way to the
door we heard a heavy rap at it.  I ran forward and opened {40} it.
Judge of my surprise to see two detectives standing outside.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"The Countess de Markievicz."

"Wait," I said and closed the door.

Running back to the room I said, "Madame, there are two detectives at
the door.  They say they want you."

All the boys looked to their revolvers, and the boy who had my
father's rifle said, "I hope I'll be able to get these down to Mr.
Connolly."

Madame went into the hall and lit a small glimmer of light.  The boys
remained in the darkened background, and I opened the door.

The detectives came just inside of the door.

"What do you want with me?" asked Madame.

"We have an order to serve on you, Madame," said one of them.

"What is it about?" asked Madame.

"It is an order under one of the regulations of the Defense of the
Realm Act, prohibiting you from entering that part of Ireland called
Kerry."

"Well," said Madame.  "Is that to prevent me from addressing the
meeting to-morrow night in Tralee?"  Madame was advertised to {41} at
a meeting to organize a company of boy scouts the following day in
the town of Tralee, County Kerry.

"I don't know, Madame," he answered.

"What will happen to me if I refuse to obey that order and go down to
Kerry to-morrow?" asked Madame.  "Will I be shot?"

"Ah, now, Madame, who'd want to shoot you?  You wouldn't want to
shoot one of us, would you, Madame?" said the detective who was doing
all the talking.

"But I would," cried Madame.  "I'm quite prepared to shoot and be
shot at."

"Ah, now, Madame, you don't mean that.  None of us want to die yet:
we all want to live a little longer."

"If you want to live a little longer," said a voice from out of the
darkness, "you'd better not be coming here.  We're none of us very
fond of you, and you make fine big targets."

"We'll be going now, Madame," said the detective.  As he stepped out
through the door he turned and said, "You'll not be thinking of going
to Kerry, Madame, will you?"

"Good-by," said Madame cordially.  "Remember, I'm quite prepared to
shoot and be shot at."

{42}

"Well," she said as the door closed.  "What am I going to do now?  I
want to go and defy them.  How can I do it?  I'm so well known--but
I'm under orders.  Perhaps Mr. Connolly wouldn't allow me to go
anyway.  I'll go down and talk it over with him.  Wait a minute,
Nora, and we'll all be down together."

On our way down a brilliant idea, as I thought, struck me.  "Write
your speech out, Madame, make it as seditious and treasonable as
possible.  Send some one down to Tralee to deliver it for you at the
meeting.  In that way, the meeting will be held, your speech
delivered, and the authorities will not be able to arrest you on that
charge."

"I was just thinking of that and who I could send down.  But I'll
decide nothing till I see Mr. Connolly," said Madame.

We met my father at the top of the staircase in Liberty Hall.

"What do you think, Mr. Connolly," cried Madame.  "I've received an
internment order or rather an order prohibiting me from going down to
Tralee.  What am I going to do about it?  Shall I go or shall I obey
the order."

"Did you bring the carbine and bandolier?" asked my father turning to
me.

{43}

"Yes," I answered.  "Harry has them."

"No, Madame," said my father.  "You cannot go down to Tralee.  If you
make the attempt you will probably be arrested at some small station
on the way, and sentenced to some months in jail.  You are too
valuable to be a prisoner at a time like this; I'll have need of you.
If the authorities follow up their action of to-day we may be in the
middle of things to-night or to-morrow; who knows?  No, you must stay
here.  You are more important than the meeting."

"Should I send some one in my place, then?" asked Madame.

"That is for you to decide, though I think it would be a good thing."

"Whom will I send?" asked Madame.

"Send some one who cannot be victimized in case our hands are not
forced; some one who is already victimized.  Why not ask Mairé
Perolz?"

"The very girl!" said Madame.  "You can always pick out the right
person."

"You had better get hold of Perolz, then," said my father.  "Tell her
what you want her to do and write out your speech.  We'll relieve you
of guard duty to-night, and promise you {44} that if things look
lively we'll get word to you in time."

Madame left the Hall, and when I returned to her house a few hours
later, she was busy writing out her speech.  I sat down in the room
and from time to time she read me out parts of it.  It certainly was
seditious and treasonable.  She wrote on for quite some time after
that and then with a sigh of satisfaction she said, "I have it
finished.  Perolz will come for it in the morning--she will take an
early train."

Perolz had come and gone before I came down in the morning, but when
she returned a few days later, I heard the whole story of her
adventure, told in her own inimitable way.

She had traveled down to Limerick Junction accompanied by a very
polite, attentive detective, whose company she dispensed with there
by leaving the carriage she was in at the very last minute, and
taking a seat in another.  Hers was not a case of impersonation, for
the Countess de Markievicz is very tall and rather fair while Mairé
Perolz is of medium height and has red hair.  She is very
quick-witted and nimble of her tongue, never at a loss for what to do
or for what to say.

[Illustration: THE PROCLAMATION OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT ISSUED
AT THE G.P.O. ON MONDAY, APRIL 24TH, 1917.]

{45}

She was met at Tralee station by a guard of honor from the local
Cumann na mBan (women's organization), Irish Volunteers, and
intending boy scouts.  They had never seen the Countess de Markievicz
and consequently did not know that it was not she who had arrived.
Although Mairé told me that she almost lost her composure when she
heard one of the girls say, "She isn't a bit like her photograph."

She was escorted to the hotel.  When she arrived there she said to
the officers of the organization, "I am not Madame Markievicz.  She
received an order last night prohibiting her from entering Kerry.
Things were looking lively in Dublin and Madame was needed.  She
wrote out her speech and I am to deliver it for her.  In that way the
meeting will be held and Madame's speech will be delivered, and
Madame will still be able to do useful work.  There is no need to let
the public know till to-night."

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 two {46} policemen 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, {47} 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.

{48}

V

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 every {49} man 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 had {50} done 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-morrow {51} morning 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 the {52} West 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.

{53}

VI

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.

{54}

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 the {55} cattle 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 train {56} it 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 were {57} in.  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.

{58}

"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 were {59} accustomed 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, and {60} a 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 sleep {61} by 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 outside {62} the 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, "this {63} must
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 the {64} parlor?" 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 {65} "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 breakfast {66} in 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.

[Illustration: JOHN 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 porters {67} were
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 to {68} where 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
the {69} curbstone 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 the {70} Midland 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 working {71} man 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.

{72}

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 conversation {73}
with 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.

{74}

"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 and {75}
umbrella.  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.

{76}

"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've {77} disturbed 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 better {78}
alone, 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 Mellowes {79} to 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 on {80} Captain
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 the {81} important 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.  The {82} car 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."

{83}

VII

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 rather {84}
stay 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 wondering {85} if 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 hauled {86} her 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 under {87} their
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 sireland
    Shall 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 peal
    We'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.  {88} 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?"

[Illustration: NORA 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 to
{89} come 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 their {90} remarks 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 was {91} and 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?"

{92}

"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, {93} 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.

{94}

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 the {95} North, 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.

{96}

VIII

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; and
{97} following 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, the
_Independent_ says, '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 the _Independent_, 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 order
    Eoin 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 he {98} had 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.  It {99} was 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.

{100}

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."

[Illustration: LIBERTY HALL After 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 with {101} you, 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.

{102}

IX

We knew that the men were to rise at twelve o'clock and as that hour
drew nigh we watched and listened anxiously to hear or see if the
news had reached the North before us.  At twelve o'clock we left the
train at Portadown.  There was a large body of men belonging to an
Orange Band parading up and down the platform beating their drums.
They were going to some meeting in Derry.  The noise was terrific but
we bore it gladly for it told more than words that our men in Dublin
had been able to carry out their plans without any untoward accident.
We changed into the other train and finished our journey in a less
anxious frame of mind.  But there was disappointment awaiting us at
Tyrone; when we arrived there the men had already received the
demobilizing order of MacNeill and had obeyed it.  The Belfast
contingent was already in Belfast and the country divisions had not
had time to mobilize before the order from MacNeill had {103}
arrived.  When I found this out I sent messengers to the various
bodies advising them of what was going on in Dublin.  The principal
dispatch was the one given us by Pearse and that one was sent off in
care of my sister, other girls going to other places.  There was
nothing for the rest of us to do but to await the return of the
messengers.

At eight o'clock that night a boy came from Belfast who said that he
had been sent to advise us to return to Belfast and asked us to go
back with him.  I asked the officer of the local Volunteer Corps if
they intended to go on with the fight now that the men in Dublin were
out, or if they intended to obey MacNeill's order.  He replied that
they were in honor bound to assist the Dublin men.  I said that being
the case I would remain with them and that we would attach ourselves
to their body as they had no First Aid Corps.

About an hour later the local organizer came to the hotel and asked
for me.  I went out to him; he said that it would be better if we
were in a less conspicuous place--would we go to some place out in
the country?  It was nearer to the meeting place.  We agreed to go
and started out about ten o'clock.

{104}

It was a night of pitch darkness, a heavy rain was pouring steadily.
After a ten minutes' walk we were out on a country road where the
darkness seemed to grow thicker with every step.  We could see
nothing but trusting to our guides soughed up and down in the mud.
For twenty minutes we walked on, then we were told to turn to the
right.  We could see nothing that showed a turning, still we turned
and found that we were in a narrower road than before.  It was even
muddier than the road we had left but it was shorter.  At the end we
were stopped by a door of what appeared to be a barn.  One of the men
rapped on it and it was opened to us.  We stepped inside and when our
eyes were used to the light again, saw a number of men with their
rifles.  The hall was filled with standing men, a place was cleared
around the hearth upon which was blazing the biggest turf fire I had
ever seen.  On a bench near the fire were a half dozen women; they
had brought food to the men and were now waiting to take the girls
home with them.  After a short wait we started out again, still
following blindly where we were led.  At length we came to a
crossroads and there the party divided.  I, along with some other
girls, {105} was taken to a large farmhouse where the folk were
waiting up for us.  We went into a large kitchen and sat around a big
turf fire.  There was porridge, in a pot hanging over the fire from a
long hook, for those who liked it; and the kettle was boiling for
those who preferred tea.  We had a long talk around the fire.  The
old man told us of his experiences when he was a Fenian and drew
comparisons between that time and this.  Our time was nothing like
his--so he told us.

In the morning we rose early; we expected to have word from Belfast
every minute telling us to get on the march.  But no word came that
day.  As the hours passed my anxiety became unbearable.  I had had no
word from anybody since I had come there.  The men and the boys could
not work for fear the word would come when they were in the fields
and might be delayed if they were not on hand.  And all the day long
they were riding up and down the roads on the watch for the messenger
who would give them the orders to rise.  The second day passed, still
the word never came.  The men and boys came to us every hour to
report all they knew.  And on Wednesday at noon a man burst into the
farmhouse crying, {106} "Pack up in the name of God, the word has
come!"  With what joy we packed up.  How quickly the water bottles
were filled and the haversacks stuffed with food.  Butter, eggs,
bread, and milk were thrust upon us.  We could not take enough to
satisfy the good people.  The place was full of bustle and
excitement, and then--the order was rescinded; it was a false alarm.

That disappointment ended my patience.  I determined to go after my
sister, who had not returned since she had left me to deliver the
dispatch written by Pearse; and when we were together again we would
both start for Dublin.  I told the girls that I did not think that
there would be any need of us in the North, that the men in command
were waiting too long.  That being the case it would be better for
them to go home to Belfast and Agna and I would go to Dublin.  They
did not want to go from me, but I said I was speaking to them as
their officer and they should obey.  After a good deal of explaining
they agreed to go home the next day.

I found that if I wanted to go to the town where my sister had gone,
I would need to go {107} by car.  So a car was hired for me the next
day.  Just before the hour set for them to leave, a brother of one of
the girls came to see what had happened to them.  They all went home
together.  The car for myself came a little later and in it I piled
as many of the Ambulance supplies as I could.  There was only room
for myself in the back, most of the room being taken up with the
bundles.  We started on our journey about six o'clock.

The town to which my sister had taken the dispatch was called Gortin;
but later I had heard that she was at Carrickmore, since when I had
not had any news of her.  Before my mother had left Belfast she had
entrusted Agna to my care, therefore I felt that I could not return
without her.  While on my way to Carrickmore to see if she was still
there I had to pass through a village whose streets were thronged
with soldiers.  As we went out of the village and on into the country
we met at least half a dozen motor trucks filled with soldiers.
There were more marching behind, so many in fact that I asked the