When the Clock Struck in 1916 E-Book

Derek Molyneux

• Herausgeber: The Collins Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

'Well, I've helped to wind up the clock – I might as well hear it strike.' Michael Joseph O'Rahilly. The Easter Rising of 1916 was a seminal moment in Ireland's turbulent history. For the combatants it was a no-holds-barred clash: the professional army of an empire against a highly motivated, well-drilled force of volunteers. What did the men and women who fought on the streets of Dublin endure during those brutal days after the clock struck on 24 April 1916? For them, the conflict was a mix of bloody fighting and energy-sapping waiting, with meagre supplies of food and water, little chance to rest and the terror of imminent attacks. The experiences recounted here include those of: 20-year-old Sean McLoughlin who went from Volunteer to Captain to Commandant-General in five days: his cool head under fire saved many of his comrades; Volunteer Robert Holland, a sharpshooter who continued to fire despite punishing rifle recoil; Volunteer Thomas Young's mother, who acted as a scout, leading a section through enemy-infested streets; the 2/7th Sherwood Foresters NCO who died when the grenade he threw at Clanwilliam House bounced off the wall and exploded next to his head; 2nd Lieutenant Guy Vickery Pinfield of the 8th Royal Hussars, who led the charge on the main gate of Dublin Castle and became the first British officer to die in the Rising. This account of the major engagements of Easter Week 1916 takes us onto the shelled and bullet-ridden streets of Dublin with the foot soldiers on both sides of the conflict, into the collapsing buildings and through the gunsmoke.

Leseprobe

DEREK MOLYNEUX & DARREN KELLY

DEREK MOLYNEUX and DARREN KELLY are close friends sharing a passionate interest in Irish and military history. Derek lives in Westmeath and Darren in Essex. They manage the popular Facebook page ‘Dublin 1916 Then and Now’. Derek has an intimate knowledge of Dublin’s streets, based on many years as a motorcycle courier, and how the same streets and people have preserved so much history from when the clock struck on 24 April 1916. Darren, originally from Drumcondra in Dublin, has built up an in-depth understanding of Dublin’s revolutionary period over many years. His initial interest in the 1916 Rising was sparked at the age of ten.

Follow the authors on Facebook: Dublin 1916 Then & Now

To our wives and children, for your endless patience, love and inspiration

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

1.The Assault on the Magazine Fort, Phoenix Park

2.The Battle of City Hall

3.Northumberland Road, Mount Street Bridge, Boland’s Bakery and Mills: Part 1

4.Northumberland Road, Mount Street Bridge, Boland’s Bakery and Mills: Part 2

5.St Stephen’s Green and the Royal College of Surgeons

6.The South Dublin Union and Marrowbone Lane

7.Jacob’s Biscuit Factory

8.The Four Courts

9.North King Street and North Brunswick Street

10.The General Post Office and Sackville Street: Part 1

11.The General Post Office and Sackville Street: Part 2

12.The General Post Office and the Battle of Moore Street

13.The Surrenders: Part 1

14.The Surrenders: Part 2

Epilogue

Notes

Sources

Acknowledgements

Map of Dublin City c.1916 outlining the principal Volunteer and Citizen Army engagement areas. NATIONAL LIBRARY OF IRELAND.

Introduction

‘Well, I’ve helped to wind up the clock – I might as well hear it strike.’

Michael Joseph O’Rahilly1

The Easter Rising of 1916 was a seminal moment in Ireland’s turbulent history. Its justification has been hotly debated ever since. Those who were there found themselves in the midst of a no-holds-barred clash of opposing forces, one of which was the battle-hardened army of an empire, and the other a highly motivated and well-drilled force of volunteers, most of whom did not expect to survive the engagement. The vast majority of the fighting took place within a built-up city, the most feared combat zone of any soldier, and it is precisely there that we begin our story.

Volumes of books and articles have been published on both the causes and the long-term effects of the 1916 Rising, most from a predominantly academic standpoint. What this book sets out to achieve, however, is to present to the reader the dramatic story of Easter Week, from the perspective of the fighting that took place, and to convey its utter ferocity. For this we make use of subjective interpretation and licence. Everything you will read in the following pages is based on fact. All of the characters and events are real. Where we aim to differ from the vast bulk of previously written text is in presenting the sequence of events in as vivid a manner as possible. To this end we have employed some use of creative non-fiction.

The principal sources of our information are the numerous witness statements that are now widely available online, coupled with our own general but extensive knowledge of the subject matter, and backed up by the highly commendable works of several other authors. We combine this knowledge with an imagining of what the fighting actually felt, smelt, sounded, looked and even tasted like. How did the hungry, terrified and vastly outnumbered insurgents feel when confronted with thousands of enemy soldiers? How did the young English infantrymen cope with being placed into a streetscape for which they had received little or no training, only to be faced with seemingly fanatical rebels, many of whom felt they had nothing to lose? How did the civilians deal with the unleashing of an event very few saw coming, and the terrible consequences that accompanied and followed the cataclysm that claimed the lives of so many innocents?

It is only by placing the reader in the midst of the cauldron that was central Dublin during Easter Week 1916 that we feel we can do justice to the memories of those who found themselves there, whether by choice or otherwise. This is our aim. We will let you be the judge as to whether or not that aim has succeeded.

It was said by many of the British uniformed troops who engaged the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army on the streets of what was considered to be Britain’s second city that it was as dangerous a battlefield as any they had encountered before or afterwards. To the Republican forces it was a shattering experience, being vastly outnumbered and outgunned. Their skilful use of street-fighting tactics and their dogged tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds, however, was commended afterwards from the most unlikely of quarters, one of which, astonishingly, was the then British Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith.

Whatever one’s opinions of the politics behind the event, its drama is undeniable. Both sides fought with great determination and, with some notable exceptions, great distinction. The casualty figures bear testament to this.

To Dublin’s civilian population, the Rising was both tragic and bewildering, not to mention ironic. Many of their fathers, sons, husbands, brothers and cousins were fighting in the very same uniform of those the insurgents sought to kill in the name of the Irish Republic. The vast majority of these at the time were stationed throughout the far-flung corners of the Middle East and Western Europe but nonetheless, a great deal of those who fought against the men and women under Commandants Pearse and Connolly spoke with Irish accents themselves.

The reminders of the struggle are to be found today in just about every corner of Dublin’s city centre. From the numerous bullet holes throughout the buildings along Northumberland Road and O’Connell Street, to the imposing facade of the Four Courts, there is much evidence of what the city endured, and what its people were faced with. It is also a reminder of what these same people overcame.

Dublin was a divided city in 1916. Its population was split between loyalty to the British Empire and fervent nationalism. Huge divisions also existed between the rich and poor. Regardless of their varying allegiances, its inhabitants were united in suffering through an event that resounded throughout the world at the time, and still does to this day. The story of such a relatively small number of men and women taking on the world’s biggest empire in its own back yard stirred the imagination of both young and old everywhere.

It has been a truly humbling experience putting this work together. We have studied earnestly and, in doing so, have developed great empathy for the characters featured. We hope their experiences will leap from these pages and leave an emotional imprint on your mind. We do not set out to do this in order to manipulate or to suggest any particular opinion or ideology. We do it instead because it is our history, and it is rich. It is also more likely to be understood and remembered if presented in the compelling manner it deserves.

We have dealt with each of the Republican garrison areas separately in our work. This, we feel, will make it easier for the reader to break the Rising down and understand it piece by piece, or battle by battle, as it were. Having each confrontation presented as something of a set piece will hopefully facilitate this. We deliberately avoid bestowing laborious judgements upon the strategies employed by either side. Hindsight allows one to be analytical in depth, but it is not our aim here.

Some of the scenes we have presented may prove difficult to read for some, owing to their extremely graphic and bloody nature. We deliberately sought to present what street fighting was and is. We do this not to offend but instead to lay bare the very nature of combat. Sanitised descriptions of fighting do little justice to the unfortunate individuals who were ordered to kill and die in the name of the King, or the Irish Republic.

It is to the fighting men and women on both sides of this struggle, and the civilians caught between that we now dedicate this work. It is also to their descendants, the ordinary people who through their stories will never allow our history to be forgotten. Finally, it is to the woman whose witty comment quoted below inspired the decades of interest that eventually resulted in this book.

‘Their bombs would barely singe the wallpaper … but they held for a week.’2

Derek Molyneux & Darren Kelly

Prologue

‘I know you’ll come through, but I won’t.’

WITNESS STATEMENT

Bureau of Military History, 1913–1921

Statement by Witness

Document Number WS 157

Witness: Joseph O’Connor

Identity:Lieut. A/Coy. 3rd Bn. Dublin Bde. 1914–1915 V/Comdt. 3rd Bn. Easter Week 1916

At a meeting of the Battalion Council in 144 Great Brunswick Street on Good Friday night the following, I am nearly certain, were present:–

Commandant de Valera

Captain Begley

Lieutenant Byrne

Lieutenant Charlie Murphy

Volunteer Michael Hayes – on Adjutant’s staff.

I represented “A” Company, Sean McMahon; “B” Company, Eddie Byrne and Michael Malone; “C” Company; Captain Begley, “D” Company. “E” Company was not represented, nor was “F” Company.

We were given precise orders as to the positions we were to occupy on Sunday and informed as to the quantity of stores we would have at our disposal. A large quantity of provisions had been purchased and in addition each Company using their Company funds plus the £25 had accumulated an amount of stores. Each Company was to be responsible for the collection of such stores and for having them transported to the area in which his Company would operate.

The Commandant went over the plan in very great detail. In fact, he was able to tell each Company Captain where he would enter on to his area and what he would find to his advantage or disadvantage when he got there. The thing that concerned the meeting to a very great extent was the firm belief that enemy action would be taken before we had occupied positions, and it was with a view to having an alternative plan that an amount of the discussion resolved itself into.

The positions to be occupied over the area were given in detail.

“A” Company was to occupy the railway line between Grand Canal Quay to Dún Laoghaire. They were to occupy all the level crossings and assist in dominating Beggars Bush Barracks front and rere. They were to hold the railway workshops in Upper Grand Canal-Street and generally help other units coming within their range of fire.

“B” Company were to take over Westland Row Railway Station. They were to send a party up to Tara Street and link up with the 2nd Battalion who would be in charge of the Amiens Street section of the railway. They were on the other side to connect up with “A” Company on the railway at Grand Canal Quay.

“C” Company were to occupy Bolands Bakery and the Dispensary building at Grand Canal Street. They were to occupy Roberts builders’ yard on the corner of the canal and Grand Canal Street. They were to barricade the canal bridge connecting Upper and Lower Grand Canal Street. They were to occupy Clanwilliam House, the schools and parochial hall on Northumberland Road and No. 25 Northumberland Road. “C” Company were also to have controlled the canal bridges at Upper Mount Street, Baggot Street and Leeson Street and join up with the 4th Battalion or the Irish Citizen Army.

“D” Company were to connect with “A” Company at the level crossing at Merrion. They were to hold a line from Merrion to the Liffey along the coast including a boom which would be defended from land positions. This boom was to be at the end of the South Wall extending from south to north of the river. Their base was to have been Bolands Mills or the Distillery immediately adjoining which they were to have garrisoned. These were the instructions they got to occupy Bolands Mills.

“E” Company were not present and we were informed that they had a task to perform. This, we later heard, was to form part of the garrison of the G.P.O.

“F” Company was to connect with “A” Company at Dún Laoghaire Railway Station and to maintain the Railway Station and landing pier in the harbour.

On a calculation we all were certain that we would have eight to ten hundred men at our disposal.

After a very lengthy discussion as to the co-ordination of our forces Lieutenant Michael Malone of “C” Company, who had been detailed to occupy 25 Northumberland Road, walked over to where I was after the meeting had finished, and said, “Well, Joe, It’s pretty close to hand. I know you’ll come through, but I won’t.”

One of the main factors in the position was the railway line connecting Dublin and Dún Laoghaire. This was a main route of supply from Britain and it was very important that the enemy should be denied its use as it entered the very heart of the city.

I was amazed at the amount of information our Commandant had accumulated and how thoroughly he understood about the position each Company was to occupy. He was able to discuss every detail even to the places where it would be possible to procure an alternative water supply, where we could definitely find tools for such things as loopholing walls and making communications. I am positively certain that he had spent months reconnoitring that entire area and in our discussions, particularly that one of Good Friday night when we really got down to the task put before us, I cannot remember a query put to him that he was not able to answer immediately, and there was not a solitary suggestion to improve the dispositions made. De Valera certainly showed that he had given his full attention to the task ahead and that if anything did go wrong it certainly would not be his fault. This was all very encouraging to us.

As to how much our officers and men knew, I cannot say. I knew that there was to be a rising, and with outside help I thought it could be successful; I thought that every man would rush in to help.

The ordinary conditions of the national life had become so bad that it was nearly impossible to see a difference between Ireland and England. The little the Gaelic League did was largely undone by the Great War, and something big should happen to reawaken the country to her sense of importance.

1

The Assault on the Magazine Fort, Phoenix Park

‘Wake up, wake up, Tim. It starts at noon.’

On Sunday morning 16 April 1916, 27-year-old Irish Volunteer Paddy Daly entered Clontarf Town Hall, which was situated at the seafront 2 miles to the north-east of Dublin’s city centre. Once inside, he was greeted by Seán McDermott, one of the three Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB) members who were holding a meeting there. McDermott then introduced Daly to his two fellow members saying: ‘Paddy has some great ideas about the Magazine Fort and I would like you to hear what he has to say.’1

Daly subsequently laid down his plan for the proposed attack to destroy the British Army High Explosive and Ammunition Reserve held in the Magazine Fort in the Phoenix Park.

The Fort dated from 1734, and presented a daunting yet tantalising objective. It was a granite walled structure whose 12-foot-high and 4-foot-thick walls were protected by a deep ditch and ringed with several turrets into which firing slits had been placed. The surrounding area was heavily wooded and contained numerous small hills and depressions, but to use these features to conceal the approach of an assault force would be impossible. Its designers had ensured that the immediately surrounding ground was clear of any such potential sources of advantage to an attacker. To reach the Fort required a steep ascent on foot over several hundred yards of open ground, to where it dominated the entire southern area of the Phoenix Park, 2 miles to the north-west of the city. It commanded a relatively unobstructed view of both sides of the River Liffey, and several army barracks were located close by, the nearest being less than a mile away at Islandbridge, while another two sat within 15 minutes’ marching distance. Daly then explained that the attack would have to be made during daytime, as any movement at night of a large force of men towards the structure would be seen as suspicious by its guards.

The Magazine Fort and the area from where the insurgents attacked and escaped.

At first glance, the mission’s potential pitfalls seemed insurmountable, but the ever-inventive Daly was only too happy to offer his solution. He worked inside the Magazine Fort as a carpenter, and possessed an in-depth knowledge of its day-to-day running and, more importantly, the strength of its guard. This knowledge would be combined with the imaginative employment of tactics used since the Trojan War: deception and guile.

Daly explained to the three men that during the daytime it was not uncommon for large groups of footballers to pass the Fort heading towards the nearby Fifteen Acres playing fields. The assault force could simply disguise itself as such a group until its men were close enough to its main gate to mount an attack. When asked by Thomas Clarke, the 59-year-old Republican veteran who stood next to McDermott, if there was a large quantity of high explosive still in the Fort, his reply was that in spite of the bulk having been removed to England for use on the Western Front, there was still more than enough to make a large bang.

Clarke nodded and the decision was made to go ahead with the attack, and to use its huge explosion, which would no doubt be heard throughout the city, as a signal to all that the Rising had begun. Clarke then asked Daly how many men the mission would need. ‘About thirty,’ was the reply, before he added that they would all need to be young Volunteers and preferably Na Fianna members.2

Thomas MacDonagh, the third of the upcoming insurrection’s leaders present, entered the conversation by informing Daly that he would need to be promoted, so that he could assume overall command of the mission, and presented him there and then with his lieutenant’s commission. As Lieutenant Daly prepared to leave, McDermott issued him with the orders: ‘Take the Fort. Blow it up, but no loss of life if possible.’

The following day, Lieutenant Daly had a meeting with 24-year-old Eamon Martin, Commandant of the Dublin Brigade of Na Fianna, about the upcoming attack. He then held another meeting with two brothers from the same organisation, 21-year-old Garry and 19-year-old Patrick Holohan, during which he informed them also of the plan, and explained additionally that he needed them to recruit thirty men as part of a special force for the assault. The three then parted company temporarily before the enthusiastic siblings returned just over an hour later with the requested list. It bore their own names at the top.

Three days later, on Thursday 20 April, Lieutenant Daly, Eamon Martin and the Holohan brothers met with Commandant MacDonagh, and made their final selection for their unit. They then gathered the men they had selected, and the plan was laid out. Each Volunteer was told of his specific role in the attack, which was set to follow the force’s assembly at the Holohan brothers’ small bungalow at 8 Rutland Cottages, close to Summerhill in the city centre, at the appropriate time on Easter Sunday. Contingency plans were then put together, and any potential mishaps were played out. There would be little or no room for error.

On Easter Saturday, the day before the Rising was due to commence, Garry Holohan found himself sitting in his bedroom staring at his haversack. His Martini-Henry rifle lay just across from it. With the rebellion just hours away, his nerves were starting to get to him, so to keep his mind occupied he checked his backpack over and over. It contained 24 hours’ rations, consisting primarily of dry biscuits, cheese and some jam; there were also 100 rounds for his rifle, his bayonet, first-aid kit, water canteen and entrenching tool. Everything was there, but to his frustration he knew that his tortured mind would inevitably insist that he check it all again. He entered Pat’s room, and when he explained his predicament, his brother laughed and replied that he was having the same trouble. They chatted for a few hours, before Garry left the cottage and went to Eamon Martin’s house on Shelbourne Road in Ballsbridge, where he spent the night.

The following morning, on what should have been the day of days for the young Na Fianna men, Eamon Martin and Garry Holohan arrived suddenly in Pat’s bedroom and flung that day’s Independent newspaper onto his bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced over its headlines, a look of horror spreading across his face. He looked initially to Martin, and then to his brother, who explained to him that Eoin MacNeill had issued a countermand order, and that the whole thing could be off.

Soon afterwards, a somewhat agitated and breathless Lieutenant Daly arrived at the cottage, carrying information that was no less confusing. He brought word from Commandant MacDonagh that in spite of the day’s unexpected newspaper alert, the job was merely to be postponed for 24 hours. He explained all he knew about the increasingly uncertain situation and then left, telling them he would return at the same time the following day.

Eamon Martin soon got up to leave, saying that he was going to see James Connolly to find out what was happening. He arrived back several hours later, this time accompanied by a pair of teenage Na Fianna members. He confirmed Lieutenant Daly’s instructions and assured both Holohan brothers that the job was definitely on for the following day, Easter Monday.

(L–r): Eamon Martin and Garry Holohan, both of whom helped to spearhead the assault on the Magazine Fort on Easter Monday, photographed in 1916. EAMON MURPHY

The three immediately began to write dispatches to send to their other squad members, ordering them to report to Rutland Cottages by early afternoon the following day. The two recently arrived Na Fianna teenagers were dispatched with the orders, before Garry Holohan set about collecting the 24 revolvers and semi-automatic handguns that had been hidden in the cottage for when the time came. With little else to occupy their time while they waited, the three sat down and began cleaning the weapons, methodically stripping each to its component parts while they talked about what might become of their planned insurrection.

At 10 a.m. on Easter Monday, an out-of-breath Lieutenant Daly banged on the Holohan brothers’ front door. As Garry opened it, Daly barged past and exclaimed in great alarm, ‘It starts at twelve, not half three! How many men do we have so far?’

‘None at the moment,’ was the somewhat startled reply from Holohan. This was immediately followed by more disturbing news for the young rebels, when the two Na Fianna runners sent out the previous day arrived back with word that most of the squad members they had been sent to contact had gone camping for the weekend, believing the job to have been postponed indefinitely.

The same two youngsters were ordered to proceed urgently to the houses of the individual squad members who were still at home, with instructions for them to report at once to Rutland Cottages. Garry Holohan rushed outside and jumped on one of several bicycles that had been leaning against the neighbouring wall, and pedalled at full speed to Tim Roche’s house, which was in nearby Seville Place. He stormed through the front door and ran towards the bedroom, shouting, ‘Wake up, wake up, Tim. It starts at noon! You need to get a van and be outside the Magazine Fort by half eleven!’ Roche rushed to dress himself, while Holohan returned in haste to Rutland Cottages.

When he arrived back, he noticed that Seán Ford had arrived with the mission’s supply of canister bombs, meaning that they now had the means, if not the men, to carry out their attack. A decision was rapidly made: Ford would stay there and guard the bombs while the others would go to Liberty Hall to see what help they could get there. Lieutenant Daly, the Holohan brothers and Eamon Martin cycled off at full speed to Liberty Hall in Dublin’s Beresford Place, roughly half a mile from the cottage.

They arrived at 10.40 a.m. and were spotted by Irish Citizen Army Captain Seán Connolly. He asked what they were doing there and they promptly outlined their precarious manpower situation. They were immediately ushered into the office of the Commandant General of the Irish Volunteer Forces, where James Connolly, the 47-year-old veteran socialist, ordered a memo to be typed and delivered with speed to the four Volunteer battalions preparing to launch their uprising, stating that each was to donate six or seven men to the ‘special force’.

The four then remounted their bicycles and set off, pedalling furiously in their various directions to the relevant parts of the city, where each rebel battalion was preparing. Garry Holohan’s bones shook as he sped across the cobblestones that led to Commandant Éamonn Ceannt’s house in Dolphin’s Barn. As he was about to knock on the 4th Battalion’s Commander’s front door, 20-year-old Volunteer Barney Mellows walked out and told him to hurry inside. Ceannt quickly read Holohan’s dispatch, but replied that he could not spare any men as he was already seriously undermanned. Holohan asked if he could take Mellows. ‘Yes’, was the reply from the sombre-looking Ceannt, who also suggested that he show the order to Captain Con Colbert, whose Company was assembling in Emerald Square.

Holohan jumped on the bicycle and caught up with Mellows. He told him to go straight to Rutland Cottages, explaining hurriedly that he was needed for a job. He then pedalled to Emerald Square in the Coombe area of Dublin, where he was met by his good friend Con Colbert of F Company who was gathering his group of Volunteers. He handed him the order, adding that he needed men without uniforms. Colbert called out six men and passed them into the command of his comrade. Holohan told the Captain he would see him when it was all over. ‘Sure you will,’ was Colbert’s confident reply.

Holohan quickly saw his six new charges onto another tram, pausing momentarily to ponder the contrast between himself and the blissfully carefree passengers, before cycling back to Rutland Cottages. On his way, he noticed the men of Commandant MacDonagh’s 2nd Battalion gathering for their march on Jacob’s biscuit factory. He sensed great urgency and increased his speed, hoping that Lieutenant Daly had managed to muster some men from the same assembling Battalion.

When Holohan eventually arrived back at the cottage it was full to the brim with men, while others continued to arrive either on foot or by bicycle. It seemed as though the walls of the small building would burst with all the movement inside, while the cache of handguns was distributed to those who had arrived unarmed. Then, with a rough map of the target, Lieutenant Daly laid out the plan to all and made sure every Volunteer knew his precise position and role in the upcoming attack. Fragmentary orders were given to the attentive sections of men, outlining precisely how each individual move was to be played out by their particular squad or group. Daly then asked if everything was clear, and looked around for any doubtful-looking faces. It was imperative that everyone, down to the last man, knew exactly what he was to do. The men, however, appeared satisfied. As they began to filter out, Daly issued a final word, that once the job was done, they were to try and make it back to their various battalion areas.

Tim Roche had no trouble starting the van he had selected for the job, albeit without the permission of its owner, and as he sped down Queen Street towards the quays he glanced at his wristwatch. He reckoned he should be just in time for the 11.30 a.m. rendezvous. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dog darted across the road in front of him. Roche swerved to avoid the animal, but crashed into a lamp post. The impact temporarily dazed him, and as he did his best to pull himself together, the few locals who had seen the crash began to gather around the vehicle.

(L–r): Pat and Garry Holohan with Na Fianna comrades Michael Lonergan, Pádraig Ó Riain and Con Colbert. NATIONAL LIBRARY OF IRELAND

They were dumbfounded when Roche leapt out and ran away. He sprinted towards the lower end of Queen Street where he noticed a horse-drawn cab with its driver, or jarvey, on board parked up at the roadside, waiting for a fare. He jumped in, asking the driver to take him to the Phoenix Park. The jarvey, pleased with his first fare of the day, then shouted ‘Gee up!’ and they set off. When the cabbie made a comment about the beautiful spring weather, Roche looked briefly up at the sky, but felt he had more pressing matters to discuss with his new-found accomplice. He checked that he still had his revolver and leaned back in the seat and told him he would have to wait when they got there as they would be picking up some more people. The driver smiled broadly, hardly able to believe his luck at getting what could possibly be the best fare of the day so early on a bank holiday.

Back at Rutland Cottages the assault force was leaving in small groups, some on bicycles, and others on foot, but with the intention of catching a tram. They planned to regroup near the Magazine Fort. When they had all departed, Daly, Martin and the two Holohan brothers set off on their bikes towards the Phoenix Park, making sure to stop at Whelan’s shop on Ormond Quay, a known Volunteer meeting point, to procure a football.

When they arrived there, Séamus Whelan was sitting behind the counter of his shop. He looked up and nodded at Garry Holohan and Lieutenant Daly as they stepped inside, before the latter approached the counter explaining that they needed a ball, but didn’t have any money. The proprietor laughed, but reached under the counter and produced a leather football. ‘Will this do?’ he asked as he handed it over. They thanked him and left to rejoin their comrades outside, before continuing to the Fort.

They entered the Phoenix Park via its Islandbridge Gate, where Garry Holohan scanned the wooded and hilly area nearby for Tim Roche and his van, concerned at their apparent absence. They eventually passed the parked cab, at which point Roche jumped down next to Holohan and explained to his surprised comrade the events which had led to him sitting in a horse-drawn cab. Holohan glanced at the driver and then asked Roche if he thought he suspected anything. ‘Not a thing’ was the reply. Holohan told him to ensure the driver did not bolt once it started, then dropped his bike and ran to catch up with Lieutenant Daly, who was now walking towards a group of men who had their eyes firmly fixed on the mission’s leader. By the time he reached his side, Daly had thrown the football into the centre of the group. Their ‘kick about’ on the grass started and they began to edge towards the Fort.

The sentry at Magazine Fort’s main gate cursed the monotony of his two-hour beat as he watched the bank-holiday footballers making the most of the midday sunshine. Most of his comrades were by now enjoying the Fairyhouse Races some 15 miles away in County Meath, and being stuck on sentry duty was not a chore that any private soldier relished. He kept his eye on the footballers as they drew ever closer. A game of soccer would have been the perfect antidote to his boredom.

The ‘footballers’ began to form into three sections. Paddy Boland shadowed the Volunteer carrying the ball, all the while keeping an eye on the sentry, who was now paying them his utmost attention.

‘We’re late,’ muttered Garry Holohan to Barney Mellows. He looked at his wristwatch: it read 12.20 p.m. They both then glanced up into the air, as the ball arched up and over the Fort’s wall. The game was on.

They asked the sentry if they could have their ball back, to which the answer, ‘of course’, came from the trusting young soldier. Paddy Boland drew level with the ball’s kicker, priming himself for what was to come. He then pounced forward as the sentry turned, having opened the gate. As the sentry bent down to pick up the ball, he found himself suddenly dragged to the ground, where he crumpled unceremoniously under the weight of Boland’s unexpected assault. He feared the worst momentarily as he felt the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressing into the nape of his neck, but the sharply uttered words, ‘don’t move and you’ll be fine’, provided welcome relief while he weighed up his options. The clatter of leather boots trampling close by his head as the rebels rushed past him convinced him that such options were few. He offered no resistance. The special force was in.

Daly’s section stormed into the guardroom, having been the first to pass the grounded sentry. They overpowered the guards there before any of them had a chance to react. Holohan and Mellows then rushed past its door, keeping an ear out for any shooting from behind as they raced down the long corridor. The lack of gunfire to their rear reassured them that their backs were satisfactorily covered in order to allow them to capture another sentry, who was positioned on the parapet of the large quadrangle at the Fort’s centre, before he could raise the alarm.

They burst through the door at the end of the corridor and into the bright sunlight, shielding their eyes as they scanned the parapet, but saw nothing. ‘Where is he?’ muttered Holohan, then he suddenly spotted the tip of a bayonet sticking out by one of the machine-gun huts scattered along the structure. He rushed to the steps nearest him, while Mellows ran to the set furthest away, thereby surrounding the sentry, before they mounted the steps onto the parapet and shouted ‘Surrender!’ while Holohan covered the sentry with his pistol.

The sentry un-shouldered his rifle to shoot, but his face suddenly twisted in pain as a shot rang out. Holohan had fired and hit him in the leg. He fell to the floor of the parapet, screaming. The pair of rebels scanned their surroundings for danger.

As the reverberations of the pistol shot faded, a pair of Volunteers went to knock on the door of the residence next to the Fort’s guardhouse. Mrs Isabel Playfair, 46 years old, went to open the door to the two, who expected her to assume the shot had been a ‘negligent discharge’ and hoped that she would want to give the Fort’s commander, her husband, a right earful over the troop’s lack of discipline. However, she drew back with a look of shock as she opened the door to the two armed men who then ordered her to ‘gather the children and come with us, and no one will be harmed’.

Tim Roche, standing by the horse-drawn cab, noticed the section of Volunteers who had remained outside the Fort manoeuvering into covering positions. They looked from side to side as they moved, and scanning the small, narrow roadway that led east and west from the Fort. Roche walked slowly towards the horse, and patted it gently on the head. He assured the driver that it would not be much longer. The reply suggested that there was no hurry. Roche smiled back at him.

Daly and his section soon managed to enter the Small Arms Room, where they started smashing open the many ammunition boxes situated just inside. They were unable, however, to find the keys to the High Explosives Room. They decided to improvise, piling the broken ammunition crates against the wall, which they then covered in paraffin, drums of which were wheeled in from outside. Seán Ford unpacked the many canister bombs while Eamon Martin and Pat Holohan methodically placed them throughout the explosive cocktail. They hoped the ensuing blast would blow through the wall and ignite whatever high explosives were inside.

Back on the parapet, Garry Holohan and Barney Mellows were tending to the soldier whom Holohan had shot. Unable to get him upright, and not wanting to leave him there helplessly in the midst of what they hoped would be an earth-shattering explosion, Mellows did his best to reassure him. He stemmed the flow of blood from the sentry, getting his hands and clothing covered in blood. Both he and Holohan then went to the guardroom, where they dispatched some prisoners to rescue their wounded comrade.

Next, Holohan joined his brother, Pat, and Eamon Martin, and they began laying the long fuses from the canister bombs. Five minutes passed, and all was ready.

Lieutenant Daly watched attentively as the wounded soldier was carried into the guardroom, before he turned to the group of prisoners, which included the horrified Playfair family, saying: ‘The Fort is to be blown. You have five minutes to clear out.’ He added that if any of them were seen heading towards the city they would be shot, before shouting, ‘Now leave!’ The frightened group did not need to be told twice.

He called to the Volunteers to withdraw from the Fort and ordered the captured weapons to be loaded onto the cab. As the rebels rushed out, the demolition squad, which included the Holohan brothers and Eamon Martin, accompanied by a covering team of two, patiently waited for the last of their comrades to leave. Everything was going according to plan.

Tim Roche drew his pistol and shouted at the cabbie ‘Don’t try anything now’, as numerous Volunteers ran towards them, weighed down with extra Lee Enfield rifles slung across their shoulders. Roche grabbed the horse’s bridle to hold it steady, while the driver felt a sudden feeling of dread overcome him. He recalled the fate of another cabbie several decades earlier, known as ‘Skin the Goat’, who was press-ganged into helping with the Phoenix Park Murders and subsequently sentenced to many long years in prison.

‘Are we ready?’ Martin asked his two comrades as they began lighting the fuses. A loud hiss prompted the three to make their hasty escape from the Fort, followed by the pair of men who had covered them. Once outside they saw their squad dispersing, and in a minute or so, the area around the Fort was empty. As the five men ran towards the cab, they found Mellows, Roche and Lieutenant Daly sitting around it, waiting for them. Garry Holohan jumped onto his bicycle while the others joined the three men with the terrified cabby. ‘To Blackhall Place, please,’ said Roche, his polite manners providing little relief to the petrified driver, who said nothing. He whipped the horse and they moved off, following Holohan who was now a short distance in front, acting as a lookout.

Suddenly, Lieutenant Daly spotted the Playfairs’ eldest son, 23-year-old George, sprinting through the Park’s Islandbridge Gate, having bolted to raise the alarm. He shouted, ‘Stop him!’ to Holohan. Cycling in hot pursuit, Holohan saw Playfair make a dash towards a policeman before running on again. Holohan pedalled hard, out through the Park’s gate where it met the Chapelizod Road, and it was here that he saw his target make the right turn onto Islandbridge Road. He turned the same corner and leapt off the bike, drawing his handgun as he did.

Playfair ran up the driveway of the house at No. 1 Park Place, the first of three houses diagonally facing the road junction, as Holohan coldly levelled his pistol. The terrified revenue clerk banged desperately on the Georgian door as the Volunteer took aim. The door opened, presenting Playfair with the brief hope of safety before three shots rang out. The housemaid who had answered his knocking screamed as the mortally wounded man slumped in the open doorway, shot in the abdomen. Holohan turned away but kept his handgun out, thinking he might yet have to deal with the constable, but there was now no sign of him.

He cycled back towards the Park’s gate, where the cab was now exiting. A dull boom sounded out from behind them, and the seven men in the carriage gave a loud cheer. Their exuberance was premature, however, as the High Explosives Room had not succumbed to their improvisations, and the noise they had heard was merely their failed effort to penetrate its wall. Holohan rode forward again and they moved towards Parkgate Street and the city, keeping their eyes averted from the unfolding tragedy in the doorway to their right where the horrified housemaid was doing her best to comfort the slowly dying man.

Lieutenant Daly suddenly sensed that something was wrong when he saw Holohan stop in the middle of the road and look back at them. The jarvey was told to slow down and come to a halt a short distance behind him. Fingers slipped onto the triggers of handguns. Ahead of them, a gun carriage bearing a coffin followed by a military guard approached. As it passed, the rebels waited with bated breath for any sudden move. They did their best to avoid drawing attention, which was not an easy task considering their driver’s increasing nervousness. They waited, and sweated, as the column passed them, before moving off again. Daly ordered the man facing him to watch their rear for any sign of military movement from Islandbridge Barracks.

Holohan soon drew level with the Royal Barracks. The River Liffey was to his right and the Barracks’ entrance archway was 100 yards to his left. The road in front was teeming with soldiers in British uniform being issued with instructions and extra ammunition. The rebellion appeared to have begun. The small convoy came once again to a stop. Their battalion area was only minutes away, but they were now deep within enemy territory.

Holohan cycled forward and saw groups of soldiers crouching and kneeling behind the 4-foot-high quay wall just ahead of him. He turned and pedalled the short distance back to the cab. They then made the decision to split up. Daly, Mellows and Murphy left the cab to proceed on foot, armed with revolvers, while the rebel column, with Holohan still cycling in front, pressed on, turning away from the quays as they moved towards the main gate of the Barracks, at which point Holohan turned right onto Benburb Street, and was followed by the cab. The street was thronged with troops, some carrying wounded comrades and others preparing to go into battle. The palpitating jarvey was warned not to try anything or he would get the first bullet. They would run the gauntlet. As they moved along the road, many soldiers stopped and stared at them, but no challenge came.

When they made the left turn onto Blackhall Place, they felt a huge sense of relief, as the road was completely deserted. The horse strained as the driver whipped it to increase their speed in spite of the slight uphill climb, having been assured it was not much further. They turned right onto North Brunswick Street and were met by the sight of Volunteers hastily building a barricade across the road. As they approached, Holohan cycled forward, causing the rebels there to reach for their guns. County Cork native Captain Dinny O’Callaghan, of the 1st Battalion Irish Volunteers, recognised him immediately, however, and settled his men with the words: ‘They are ours, lads, lower the guns.’

The captured weapons were quickly unloaded and passed across the barricade. The jarvey looked apprehensively at Tim Roche who gave him the nod to clear off. As the clatter of horse hooves faded into the distance, Holohan picked up the bicycle and threw it onto the barricade. He laughed loudly as he suddenly realised that he had been cycling a ladies’ bike, before he clambered over the barricade.

George Playfair died of his wounds later that night.

2

The Battle of City Hall

‘Good luck, Seán, for we won’t meet again.’

In Liberty Hall on Dublin’s Beresford Place on the afternoon of Easter Sunday, 23 April 1916, Commandant James Connolly was in a foul mood. He had earlier been shown the countermand order placed in that day’s Sunday Independent newspaper by the man in charge of the Irish Volunteers, Eoin MacNeill. This order cancelled all Irish Volunteer manoeuvres for that day, and effectively put an end to the Irish Republican Brotherhood’s plans for a nationwide insurrection.

At 3.30 p.m., approximately 200 men and women of Connolly’s Irish Citizen Army lined up outside Liberty Hall regardless and awaited orders from their outspoken and burly commandant, who soon appeared on the building’s steps. After briefly inspecting their ranks he ordered: ‘Right turn, prepare to march!’ whereupon he joined the head of their two columns. They then set off across the River Liffey via the nearby Butt Bridge, which led them onto Tara Street, before they turned right on to Great Brunswick Street. Their route then skirted Trinity College and eventually brought them to the top of Grafton Street, from where they wheeled right and made their way back to Dame Street. As the marching men and women approached Dublin Castle, the seat of British colonial power in Ireland, tensely muttered rumours circulated among them that they were ‘going it alone’, but they eventually passed its gates and continued on their march up Lord Edward Street, turning right after Christchurch to make for the south quays. It was almost evening by the time they returned to Liberty Hall. The Castle was safe for now.

City Hall, Dublin Castle and surrounding area.

As the well-drilled Citizen Army members lined up once again outside the Hall, dressed in their distinctive bottle-green uniforms and slouched hats, Connolly was sent word from Pádraig Pearse, who was still inside with the other IRB leaders. After heated discussions the planned Rising had been set to begin at noon the following day, Easter Monday, 24 April. It was on.

Connolly immediately sprang into action. He ordered all members of the Citizen Army to remain at Liberty Hall overnight, with the exception of those who had to report for work. They were instead given instructions to return by noon the following day.

At 11 a.m. the next morning, as the Irish Volunteers and Citizen Army were gathering amid the feverish activity at Liberty Hall, 33-year-old Captain Seán Connolly and his detachment of 40 men plus a handful of women prepared themselves and their weapons for their attack on City Hall. The captain would lead the assault. This large and imposing building, dating from 1779, lay just outside the gates of Dublin Castle at the junction of Parliament Street and Dame Street. Their armaments included revolver pistols, single-shot rifles and the more rapid firing Lee Enfields. As they were setting off, James Connolly approached the captain and vigorously shook his hand, saying, ‘Good luck, Seán, for we won’t meet again,’1 before he himself hurried towards the much larger force that was preparing to march from the same building to the GPO.

Captain Connolly’s group then turned as a unit, to the tune of young Private William Oman’s bugle call, and marched across Butt Bridge. Many among them shared their commandant’s sense of foreboding of the trip being a one-way affair. As Captain Connolly and his men crossed the Liffey on what had become a sunny spring morning, one of the men asked if they were going to take Dublin Castle as well as City Hall. He replied: ‘It would be too great an area to defend, and with a Red Cross Hospital on site, too many mouths to feed.’ As their march continued along Tara Street, in almost identical order to the previous day, they were spotted by their captain’s brother Joseph, who had just finished his shift at the fire station. He waved enthusiastically to the unit and wished them luck, before rushing off towards Liberty Hall to join his own Citizen Army outfit, which had been detailed to St Stephen’s Green.

Soon afterwards, Captain Seán Connolly and his unit, which included another of his brothers, 15-year-old Matty, reached the end of Dame Street, where they broke into smaller sections. Sergeant Martin Kelly then set off with a detachment to capture the offices of the Daily Express and Dublin Evening Mail,2 which were in a four-storey red-brick building on the western corner of Parliament Street, where it met with Cork Hill. Sergeant Elliot Elmes and his group went about seizing Henry & James Outfitters, a similar building on the opposite corner of Parliament Street. William Oman and four others had been ordered to occupy the viaduct overlooking Ship Street Barracks at the rear of Dublin Castle. The remainder under Captain Connolly would storm City Hall itself, leaving a small squad under Sergeant Tom Kane to take its guardhouse and provide cover while the other positions were being occupied.

Sergeant Martin Kelly, who was in charge of the Citizen Army unit that wreaked havoc on the Dublin Fusiliers from his men’s position close to City Hall. BARRY LYONS

As they approached the main entrance of the Castle at Cork Hill, 45-year-old Dublin Metropolitan Police Constable James O’Brien rushed to close its gate. A loud crack of a rifle rang out, and the veteran policeman from Limerick fell to the ground, shot in the head. Connolly’s men had drawn the first blood of the Easter Rising.

This sudden plunge into action prompted Sergeant Kane to rush forward while firing into the Castle’s guardroom, quickly forcing the surrender of the small, startled group of troops inside. They were swiftly taken prisoner. The insurgents set about constructing a small barricade around the guardroom entrance. The other sections simultaneously assaulted their assigned positions upon hearing the same gunshot, while a small group opened fire on a cluster of British troops who had run up Parliament Street to investigate. The soldiers immediately retreated, and were then pursued by a single rebel who sprinted towards them pointing his gun, before he turned and dashed back towards City Hall.

Sixteen-year-old William Oman’s detailed objective at the viaduct posed the greatest challenge due to its significant distance from the launching point for the rebel attack. He and his men began their assault by sprinting up Castle Street, with City Hall at their backs. They broke through a nearby tenement house to their left and, rushing through its rear, they came upon an old graveyard. They crossed the uneven half-acre of ground, before Oman, displaying a tactical awareness that belied his youth, opted to man a separate position to the viaduct, which afforded the same field of fire but offered additional cover for him and his men. As soon as they were securely emplaced in their improvised positions, they noticed movement inside Ship Street Barracks. They swiftly undid their rifles’ safety catches and began firing through its windows, forcing the surprised troops inside to rush for cover as shards of broken glass flew and bullets smashed into the walls around them.

At this time Sir Matthew Nathan, the 54-year-old British Under-Secretary for Ireland, was holding a meeting in his first-floor offices inside the Castle. Also present was Ivor Price of British Intelligence and Arthur Norway, a prosperous gentleman from Cornwall who was in charge of the GPO. They had been discussing the possibility of severing the telephone lines of the city’s civilian population while the army rounded up the leaders of the Irish Volunteers. Rumours had been circulating for some time in the Castle about an imminent rebellion. They realised they had left it too late when the sharp, piercing cracks of rifle fire reached them. Price ran to the window overlooking the Castle’s main gate before turning to Nathan, saying that the rebellion appeared to be already under way. He hurriedly pulled his service revolver from its holster and began firing at the rebels now guarding the gate.

Price telephoned the nearby Ship Street Barracks and informed the officer in charge that a full-scale attack on the Castle had begun, while Nathan armed the constables on duty and then with their help locked its upper and lower gates. He was joined by a handful of British troops who had managed to scramble from the barracks, narrowly avoiding the fire from Oman and his men just above them.

In the meantime, about three quarters of a mile away, Irish Citizen Army Sergeant George King and an Irish Volunteer from their 3rd Battalion succeeded in opening a manhole cover on the corner of Lombard Street East and Great Brunswick Street, their movements covered by comrades keeping watch from the nearby street corners. They set about cutting the Castle’s vital communication cable with London.

Having locked the Castle gates, Sir Nathan returned to his office and telephoned Military Headquarters in the Phoenix Park to inform them of the attack. Next, he picked up the receiver of his direct line to London, but as he waited for an answer the line went dead. He exclaimed to Price: ‘They have cut the lines!’ He ran to the nearby Telegraph Office just off Dame Street, which would have been taken by the insurgents had they not been misinformed by a lady nearby that it was full of military. From here he wired London about the rebellion.

Captain Seán Connolly and his force entered City Hall via its basement on the eastern side at Exchange Street. A section was dispatched to its huge domed roof while the remainder set about barricading its ground-floor windows. To gain entry, the Citizen Army women had to climb over the tall black wrought-iron gates at the steps on the building’s Castle Street side, hoisting their long skirts as they did, much to the amusement of several small clusters of onlookers who peered out from the nearby laneways, keen to see what was going on. Once inside, the Chief Medical Officer of the Citizen Army, 42-year-old Dr Kathleen Lynn, ordered a field hospital to be set up on the ground floor, and a kitchen on the first. She could now hear gunfire from the roof.

Meanwhile, about 2 miles from City Hall, Colonel H. V. Cowan at Military Headquarters in the Phoenix Park telephoned Richmond, Portobello and Royal Barracks and ordered troops to rush to the immediate relief of Dublin Castle. He then placed an urgent call to the Curragh Army Camp in Kildare and requested Brigadier General Lowe to mobilise the 1,600 men of the 3rd Reserve Cavalry Brigade under Colonel Portal and advance to Dublin, before this line, too, went dead. A dispatch was then sent to the nearby Marlborough Barracks on Blackhorse Avenue ordering the 6th Reserve Cavalry Regiment to advance to the city centre.

A short time later, a large force of the 10th Royal Dublin Fusiliers marched out of the Royal Barracks on Benburb Street towards Dublin Castle. They immediately came under rifle fire from rebels positioned in the Mendicity Institute across the river and other positions which were springing up throughout that part of the city. However, they managed to cross the Liffey and, by using various backstreets, made their way through Christchurch and eventually to the cluster of narrow intersections around Longford Street. Here they connected with a company of the Royal Irish Rifles which had been advancing from Portobello Barracks having detoured along Mercer Street to avoid the recently taken rebel stronghold in Jacob’s biscuit factory.

At 1.30 p.m. William Oman’s small group of rebels were securely emplaced in their elevated position overlooking Dublin Castle and its surrounding area. Harassing fire was a growing problem and bullets regularly whined through the air close by, but their position gave them safe cover. Oman was the first to notice an ominous-looking force of about 200 khaki uniforms making its way towards Ship Street Barracks. His men immediately opened fire on the troops but they made it into the Barracks relatively unscathed, rushing through the arched entrance which sat halfway down the hill of the street to its right. The troops covered each other in sections and avoided the many rebel shots that ricocheted wildly off the cobblestones and walls around them. The tables turned once they gained the Barracks and soon Oman and his men came under fire. Within half an hour the Castle’s Bermingham Tower was swarming with British Army snipers. In spite of being a dangerous nuisance, they nevertheless posed little real threat to Oman and his men as their position provided them with adequate cover. The teenager’s last-minute improvisation regarding the tactical placement of his men was proving to be an inspired one.

The men on the City Hall roof were not so fortunate. Just after 2 p.m. an intense firefight developed between themselves and the Castle’s newly arrived garrison. Captain Seán Connolly made a circuit of the roof’s massive copper dome to check on his men, all the while doing his best to stay under the cover of its various-sized chimneys. He fired numerous rounds into the Castle grounds as bullets ricocheted around the roof nearby. British troops in the Castle hugged its many concrete parapets as the rebel bullets screamed back at them. In the Castle’s yards, small groups of soldiers dashed here and there, trying to avoid being hit. Connolly peered around the massive green dome to take another aim. A multitude of shots whizzed by, and one smashed into his chest. As he collapsed, Nurse Jinny Shanahan rushed to his aid while Dr Lynn was summoned from her improvised operating table below them inside the Hall. She came promptly, but the wound was mortal and Connolly died, while his brother Matty watched helplessly, sobbing. The captain, who was also an actor based in the Abbey Theatre, was the first rebel officer to die during Easter Week. He would not be the last.

In the meantime, the ferocious firing continued around them as Lieutenant John O’Reilly took command of the City Hall garrison.

At roughly this time, the British also lost their first officer when 21-year-old 2nd Lieutenant Guy Vickery Pinfield of the 8th Royal Hussars was ordered to lead an attack on the main Castle gate.3 Without a moment’s hesitation, he assembled several of his men and together they charged towards their objective. When Pinfield fell to the ground, shot in the chest, his men rushed to his aid but the shot, fired from a nearby window, was lethal. The attack stalled while the lieutenant was dragged to cover. The writer and pacifist Francis Sheehy-Skeffington4 witnessed the officer’s fall and rushed to his aid, despite the obvious danger to himself, but to no avail.