James Joyce and the battle of Portabello
The year was 1916, and James Joyce had just turned 21. Not to be confused with the Irish writer, Jimmy was idealistic, impressionable and fiercely patriotic. He worked as a barman in the Portabello pub on the Southside of Dublin. It is located on a vital bridge over the Grand Canal, and it is about a hundred yards from an army barracks.
He hated his job, he hated some of the customers, the English soldiers from the barracks, and most of all, he hated his boss, a miser of a man who worked his all day for the smallest of pay.
But in the spring of 1916 all that changed. The Easter Uprising had been hatched by Paidreag Pearce and James Connelly, with their attendant staff and army chiefs. Early on Easter Saturday they held up the main Dublin Post office and made it their headquarters. A quick volley of fire against a charge of Lancer Cavalry sent the message out loud and clear. Ireland is out of her corner and ready for the fight.
James had woken up early that morning after a fitful nights sleep. He replayed his instructions in his mind for the hundredth time. He was to take the Portabello pub, barricade it, and hold off the army reinforcements who would be pouring out of the barracks and over the canal bridge, into the city centre.
He reached under his bed, and unwrapped the shirt covering his most prized possession, a colt .22 revolver given to him by James Connelly himself.
His team assembled at the required time at Grand Canal dock. Ruane was an old friend from school. A good man on the rugby pitch, he was an aggressive tackler. It was largely Jimmy that had brought him into the plan. Enda was the total opposite, a thin, shy lad, he didn’t draw much attention unless he was talking about him republican view, when he would become animated and passionate. Rory was the last of the four. A Tipperary man he was studying at U.C.D. in drama, and he was fascinated with the film industry, which was then in it’s infancy. Physically he was of medium build with dark brown hair and freckles. The girls loved him.
Without speaking, they began their slow walk to their destiny.
In the early morning mist the Portabello stood before them. James could hardly breath, his palms were sweating and his legs were unsteady. He said a quick hail Mary and opened the door.
The owner, Mr Higgins barely looked up from the ledger he was reading on the bar when James walked in, he just looked at his watch. "That’s ten minutes late for the last time Joyce, I am giving you your two weeks notice."
James, bristling with anger and anticipation reached for his pistol and the moment every downtrodden barman dreams of.
"And I am giving you ten seconds Mr Higgins. This building is being occupied by the Irish Republican forces. All of you, out now!"
The shocked Mr Higgins was marched out the door, and immediately ran towards the Barracks,
James' boys needed no telling what to do next. One guarded the roof, the rest barricaded the doors with benches and tables overturned. Plate glass windows were smashed, fire positions marked out and ammunition was brought up. By now there were reports of smoke coming from the city centre and sporadic gunfire was echoing around the city. In the distance an alarm bell could be heard coming from the barracks. They had minutes left. Ammunition was checked, food and water was checked, messages were passed down from the Portabello to the Republican Army Headquarters.
Position ready to begin defensive operations. God Bless Ireland. Joyce.
"Jimmy, they're coming." The lookout yelled. James' stomach tied itself in knots. The smart, marching soldiers began their route down the far bank towards them, not in range yet. They turned the corner up the Canal bridge, not yet lads. Not yet. Weapons were cocked, trigger fingers twitched. They were halfway on the bridge. Now or never, Jim.
"Roight lads, give it to them!"
Weapons fired, louder than Jim thought they would, due to the enclosed space. Rifles kicked back into shoulders, ears were ringing, and smoke filled the room. Shot after shot was fired at the bridge, and the men on it. No, the soldiers, Jim, don't think of them as men.
Every time he swallowed he could taste cordite, the room was covered in broken glass and freshly splintered wood.
"Cease fire, lads." No one responded so he had to resort to grabbing their shoulders and making stopping motions. His ears actually hurt and rang constantly. The figures had gone, they retreated, taking their dead and dying comrades with them, the trails of blood were proof of that. English blood. Jimmy was exhilarated at the thought.
Now all they could do is sort themselves out and wait.
A cheer broke out from the houses further down the street, some of them people Jimmy knew. The soldiers over the bridge pulled back and assembled a Vickers machine gun over the hump of the bridge. They obviously thought the Republican forces were strong enough to advance.
The day passed without further incident, and slowly night fell. What little light was inside the pub was from small candles under tables. In the distance they could hear soldiers marching back and forth, trying to work a way through their lines. On the far bank of the canal there was a low concrete wall which covered the soldiers advance, as long as they went on hands and knees.
Gunfire and smoke indicated that the battle had started in earnest. Jimmy sent runners out into town to find out what was happening. Ruane, a young lad of nineteen got as far as Harcourt station then was turned around. The Rebels had successfully taken the Boland's Mill, and were holding Sackville street. They had nearly taken Dublin castle too, but had been beaten back. Even so, not a bad start.
*** 2 ***
They kept their spirits up, ate, played 'A Soldier's Song' on the piano, which soon had half the neighbourhood joining in. From over the canal the strains of 'God Save the King' retorted.
Suddenly a figure crept up to the building from the east side of the street. Enda saw it first, scurrying through the shadows and alerted the boys inside. They pretended to carry on drinking but armed themselves with pistols and knives from the scullery. The heavy footed figure slowly opened the door inch by inch, it was heavily clad in black.. "Any chance of a drink lads?"
Jimmy breathed a giddy breath "Ah, jeysus Jack, you scared the shite out of me, come in will ya? Just keep your head well down, those Brits are handy with the rifles."
Jack Cullen was an old customer at the Portabello, a pint of porter at six at night every night. Any other day he wouldn't be drinking on Easter Sunday, but this was far from any normal day.
He wasn't a small man, and at 78 he was far from nimble. But he dually sat down on the floor next to the former barman-turned-freedom fighter. "So how are ya gettin' on boy?"
For the next hour they discussed the days violent events as though it was any other day. They had a good joke about Jimmy getting the last laugh on his former employer who worked him an eighty hour week.
Finally, his regulation three pints later, Jack bid them good night and god bless and crept back out into the night.
They took turns to sleep, or tried to. The neighbourhood helped them keep watch on all corners, warning them of any movements. Some attractive girls crept in and out, anxious to get their hands on a real life patriot.
About seven o'clock in the morning Easter Monday they heard a low diesel rumble coming from the barracks. "Action lads!" Every man sprung up and made ready his position. Ammunition was checked, safety catches re-checked.
Over the brow came a Roll-Royce gun-car. Basically a small urban tank with tyres, and two machine guns hidden in turrets, either side of the driver. The basic purpose hasn't changed much even in modern times.
It slowed to a halt and commenced machine gunning the front of the building. Inside the boys ducked for cover, upturning tables and hiding pathetically under single chairs, cut and scratched by flying glass and wood splinters. The noise was deafening, the fear tangible. Beer and water soaked the floor under their bodies. Prudently, they had taken the spirit bottles down and hid them in a cupboard, as much for safety from fire as any discipline issue. It pinned them down as a half platoon of six men, no, soldiers, piled out the back and advanced on close range to the front of the building.
"Jimmy!" Enda was gesturing to a pair of dirty hands pulling down their barricade. Ruane fired a shot through the barricade and demonstrated the difference between cover from view and cover from fire. Boot steps reverberated around the sides of the building. With shaky hands Jimmy reloaded his pistol when the door opposite burst open, and a burly soldier stood in the door. Like a rabbit caught in headlights Jimmy froze. Ruane turned and coolly fired two shots into the man at point blank range. Hot sticky liquid drops showered Jimmy, and the man fell heavily. Enda crawled over and checked for a pulse. None. Instead he did his best to give last rights to the man, and then took his gun belt. While he was doing so Ruane fired three wild shots at the front of the building. The remaining men took cover behind their transport. Jimmy retrieved his bullets, reloaded them with his cut, stinging fingers and retook his fire position.
By now one of the soldiers was waving a white flag and pointed towards one of his men, who was writhing on the ground in a pool of blood. Jimmy shouted an agreement that a stretcher party could retrieve the man. They duly did and the gun car reversed back over the hump of the bridge.
"End of round two, boy." Jimmy gave Enda a nervous grin. Christ almighty, how long could they keep this up?
Night fell on the second day, and another uneasy night. Snipers fired single shots throughout the night at anything that looked threatening. Night time was the scary part. You were not scared when your blood was pumping and the enemy were bearing down on you. All you feel is anger and aggression. But at night when you are tired things look different. If you stare at a tree long enough, it won't just move it will get up and dance for you. You want to sleep but you can't. You want to move but you are too tired. Paranoia sets in, tensions run high.
Dawn, blessed Dawn, Still freezing though, absolutely bloody perishing wind whistled through the shattered windows and timber walls. Ruane saw them first, then awoke Jimmy and the rest of the party. In the middle of the road was a small group of British officers and one small man, in rather flamboyant dress. Jimmy suddenly had a stroke of recognition "Jeysus, do you know who that is?"
The other lads were too red eyed to really pay close attention "That’s Skeffy, he is a local protester, bit of a nut job, funny guy though."
"So what's he f****n' doin' wid dem British officers?" Ruane said, not really that interested.
"He's a hostage by the looks of t'ings." Jimmy replied. Slowly the small party made their way back out of range of the Portabello picket.
Later that morning the cracks of rifles were replaced by something bigger and louder, like thunder.
"Artillery, Eighteen pounder, gotta be." Jimmy speculated. He had heard artillery before at his aunt's farm on the Curragh. "Something’s going on, lads. I want to check out what."
"Ah, now Jimmy, don't be goin' off on a wonder on us here. Were supposed to be guarding this junction."
"Listen, I won't be long, I just need to check on what's going on in the city centre."
"Alright, just be bleedin' quick ok?"
*** 3 ***
Jimmy took his leave out the kitchen door, out of sight of the soldiers from the garrison and skulked down the back alleys of tenements, where he was well know and liked. On days like this it pays to have people like you, your life depends on then.
Dublin was hiding behind closed doors and shuttered windows. No deliveries were expected, no post either.
Quietly he ducked down the back lanes and through the yards of neighbours and made his way to Harcourt station. Henry O’Hallohan and a small fire team were holding it, preventing troop trains penetrating into Dublin city centre.
The over-tired lunatics on the door nearly shot him as he approached. He was waved through to the station-master’s office that now housed O’Hallohan’s headquarters. “Ah, young Joyce, how’s my southern flank holding out?” He said, barely looking up from his maps.
“Fine, holding well. Any news from the main headquarters?”
“Not much, although they did have a running battle with troops in Sackville street.”
“Can you spare any ammunition?”
“I only have barely enough for my own lads.”
“Alright. Well, I had better get back then, I can’t be gone for too long. Good luck boys.”
Jim stuck his head out of the ticket office window, and smelt a mixture of fresh air and burning wood. The streets were as silent as the grave, except for shots echoing around deserted streets. He ran from cover to cover, doorway to doorway, through the slums and back alleys of the new national capital.
As he got closer to the Portabello he could hear more and more gunfire. He drew his pistol and took the last corner very slowly. Figures in green khaki moving about, just in front of the pub. More gunfire and splintering wood. He entered by the back door, to a scene of chaos.
Enda was propped against a wall, bleeding from the abdomen. Ruane was firing wildly away through the barracade at an enemy he couldn’t see, he was just guessing. Rory was fiddling with a rifle, trying to re-c**k it. There was a flash and the room was showered with wooden splinters and flying glass. It was time to go. Jimmy grabbed Rory and they each took an arm and a leg of Enda, while Ruane covered their exit. They made their way out the back door, not caring who was out there. They made their way back down to the first doorway, a big Georgian monstrosity. The occupants had either fled or were hiding in their basements.
One shoulder barge and they were in. A long corridor, a door on either side, and a staircase at the end. No carpet, dusty air. They took the left hand door. Inside there was a table, a chair and a bed, which probably housed an entire family, the timber had bowed.
Enda was laid down on the bed and Rory checked the window. Jimmy tore the filthy bed clothes to rags and tried to stop the bleeding. He pressed hard, causing his comrade much pain, but it seemed hopeless. They had to get him to a hospital, but that was nearly a mile away. And it seemed like Ruane would not be joining them. The Harcourt picket was two blocks away but they could hardly spare the medicine.
Rory came and knelt down next to him, trying to help how he could. “Jimmy, we need to get him to hospital. The game is up, boy.”
Jimmy wasn’t listening, he just kept mopping the blood off his wounded friend. He turned. “Rory, are you saying we should give up? Just like that?”
Rory was taken aback, a little. “As an act of compassion, yes. To preserve life, absolutely. We can’t take him with us.” Rory looked at his commanding officer. Jimmy couldn’t meet his look.
“Look if you want to continue then go right ahead, but I am staying here with him. If we surrender we can get him to a military hospital.” Rory said. Jimmy knew he was right, even if he wasn’t ready to accept it.
The two men shook hands and Jimmy made his way out through a kitchen window, and over a yard fence.
He went left, down another alley, and ran straight into a Dublin Metropolitan Policeman. Both men stared at each other for a second. Then, at some unspoken signal they attacked. The Peeler was heavier than Jimmy, and a good six inch taller. He was on him in seconds, calling out for help. The footfall of soldiers came closer. Jimmy was forced onto his front, his lips stuck with dirt, his arm behind his back. The Peeler had his knee in Jimmy’s back Two soldiers arrived on the scene and immediately began kicking the proverbial s**t out of the Rebel. One particularly heavy kick brought Jimmy’s head into collision with the brick pathway and all went dark.
Now, only feelings and echoes. Echoes and voices and noises in the distance.
Being dragged by the arm. The ticking of a van’s engine. Movement. The taste of mud and drying blood. Intense pain in the head and shoulders. Being dropped on a hard, cold floor. Then unconscious bliss.
He woke up sometime later, and there was no light coming in from the window. Was it night time or had the smoke of battle blotted out the sun? In the distance he could still hear gunfire. Somebody was still fighting, and the thought made Jimmy feel better inside, a little warmer.
He collected his thoughts as best he could. The short ride indicated that he was in the Richmond army barracks. He was not actually arrested, just thrown in the cell. Ruane was probably dead, Enda too. Rory was most likely alive but almost certainly captured. With the Portabello picket gone the troops now had access to Camden street and a route to the city centre. The Harcourt station picket too, would probably be lost, as they would now be outflanked by the soldiers who could approach from the east.
*** 4 ***
He tried hard not to be angry with himself. He and his team had fought well against a stronger better armed enemy, and held him off for longer than many expected.
Footsteps approached from down the dank corridor. Two sets, in fact. There was a jangle of keys and the door unlocked. Two men, a little older than him marched in and stood against the wall opposite. One was a private, and one was a sergeant indicated by the stripes on his arm. They stared at him for a long second, trying to size him up. “Your name is James Joyce of 118 South Circular Road, and you are an employee of Mr Colum Higgins, of the Portabello pub, is that not correct?”
Jimmy gave a weak smile through his split lips “Aye, former employee. I don’t think he will be wanting me back now, even if there was something left to go back too.”
The guards just looked stony faced. The other one spoke “We do not recognise your uniform.”
“Sure, you must, I’m Irish Citizen’s Army, formed 1913 to protect the citizens of Dublin from the police. You must have seen us about.?”
“That is not what I meant, Mr Joyce. I am saying that I do not recognise you as a legitimate soldier in any legitimate army. Nor would such army belong to any legitimate Government in Ireland, other than that of His Majesty.”
James just glared back, knowing that he would be in for a rough now.
“Am I under arrest in that case?”
“No, you have been interned. You are not permitted contact with the outside world until we deem it appropriate.”
“And I am not being charged with anything?”
“We have enough witnesses for attempted murder and treason.”
“So, you’re charging me?”
“In our own time, you will be dealt with.”
And with that, the two men left. James was a bit shocked now. Why had they not arrested him? And did anybody actually know he was here? Was Rory here too?
He lay back on the hard wooden bed and tried to think. He did know some of the people in the barracks, they were regulars, and they may have seen him being brought in. Would they be sympathetic? Could they get a message out to his family, or even the Rebels?
He tried to sleep but couldn’t. His head was racing with plans, objectives and messages. Eventually, though he succumbed to rest.
Early the next morning the door creaked open. In came a little old man Jimmy knew as old Breen with a small bowl of bully beef and a cup of water. “Jesus, Jimmy, what the hell did they do to you?” The old man whispered.
“I’m alright, just get word to my family that I am alive and in here, be sure to do that for me ok? Now, are any of my boys here?”
“I will do that. I don’t know about your boys but a few people have been brought in for questioning. Now I have to go. Good luck, Jimmy.” And with that the old man left the room. The guard behind him locked the door.
Virtually nothing happened for the rest of the day. Jimmy heard the sporadic gunfire, in the town. From his window, high in the wall he could see smoke, coming from somewhere north in the main city. All he knew was that the Republican forces were hanging in there. But they couldn’t last forever, they had no reinforcements. The British had armed Regiments in Liverpool ready to depart for the western front. It would eventually be a slaughter.
That evening he was lulled to sleep by distant gunfire.
Early the next morning he was woken up by even more gunfire, only this time it was much closer quarters. He hardly dared breath, was it an assault on the barracks? A rescue attempt from him?
Or, God help him, a firing squad at work? The relative quiet that followed convinced him of the latter. He stood up and paced around his cell, wondering if he should rush the next guard who enters.
A guard did, in the end, enter, but he had company. A tall officer Jimmy had seen the other day walking the streets with his hostage. Two bars on his shoulder indicated the rank of captain. Something about him suggested malevolence. “Bring him out.”
Jimmy was dragged out into a courtyard in clear sunshine. His eyes stung against the daylight. In the corner he could see two young soldiers scrubbing bloodstains off the cobblestones. He nearly vomited with fright.
From the courtyard he was taken through into a smaller cell block and a single room about twenty feet square with bare brick walls.
In the corner, chained up, was a man with a sack over his head. His clothes were filthy and bloodsoaked. He had clearly been badly beaten.
The Captain and another soldier stood in the room with them, not speaking, just staring. A third man brought in two wooden chairs. Jimmy was sat on one, and the other man, once unchained, on the other.
The hood was lifted to reveal a face Jimmy barely recognised. It was Ruane. Neither dared speak, but they did nod acknowledgement.
*** 5 ***
The Captain spoke at last. “I thought I would get you boys reacquainted. You have had quite an exciting couple of days.” He spoke slowly, calmly, but with a strange detachment.
“We know there were four of you, and we know you were split up when we stormed the Portabello pub. You stalled our advance for nearly three days, gentlemen, quite an achievement. But playtime is over now, and you have to pay for your sins.”
Jimmy was nervous but tried to think like a soldier. He had some interrogation training, but when it was time for the real thing, he was terrified.
“I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war.” He said, not in quite the strong voice he would like. In fact his words broke off his tongue. “I am an officer in the Irish Republican Army.”
The Captain half smiled down at him “I’m sorry, I don’t recall hearing of that army. Nor do I remember hearing of them signing the Geneva convention. You are traitors, boys. Not even rebels, just low murderous, traitors.” He spoke matter-of-fact, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Jimmy could hear Ruane’s breathing quicken. He was coughing and wheezing a lot, and definitely needed medical attention.
The Captain spoke again “In days gone past we did you in the nastiest fashion possible. First the traitor would be hung and stretched, then they would cut him down while he was still breathing and they would cut his bowels open. His organs would be pulled out, and his arms and legs were cut off. Finally he would be beheaded. True justice, lads, what do you say?”
Jimmy and Ruane said nothing, just stared at the floor.
“Well today we are a bit pushed for time so we will just have to do it with a bullet.”
Jimmy and Ruane raised their eyes, the Captain had upholstered his revolver. He pointed it at each man in turn. “So who goes first?”
Jimmy’s breathing had gone hard. He wasn’t in the mood for praying. He was only a few feet away from the officer, he may be able to bat the gun off target. Even so it was just him and Ruane against three men, one armed.
The captain pulled a coin from his pocket, and turned it through his fingers. Jimmy knew the question that was coming.
“Heads or tails lads?”
Jimmy couldn’t breath, could he reason with this man? “You can’t do this, people know we are here. My family knows I am here. You have no authority to execute us, you will be court martialled for this.”
The captain stared for a second then turned around and tossed the coin. “Heads it is..”
Jimmy and Ruane exchanged a strangely calm last goodbye look.
The Captain turned around, his eyes an impervious mask, put the gun to Ruane’s temple and squeezed the trigger.
The noise was deafening in the small room, the blood showering over the back walls, and mostly over Jimmy. He screamed loudly, and shook his whole body like a dog, trying to get the warm blood off him. He fell on his side, at Ruane’s feet, and received a boot in the guts from the captain. Again and again the blows rained into his chest and abdomen, pure hate powered every blow. Eventually they stopped.
He felt a hot circle, the end of a gun barrel, press against his temple. What would his last thoughts be? He couldn’t think of anything at all, how stupid was that?
He shut his eyes and waited for the end.
*** 5 ***
A banging came on the outside door, and one of the other soldiers went outside, a minute later he was back in again. He spoke to the Captain “Major Vane is back, sir.”
The captain looked alarmed for a second, then ordered Jimmy be taken back to his cell. He couldn’t walk so the soldiers would have to carry him. As they lifted his up by his arms, the captain spoke quietly, “Well it looks like today is your lucky day, Fenian swine. Take him away and keep him out of sight till Major Vane is gone.”
He was half carried, half dragged out of the room back across the courtyard. A truck was being parked over the blood stained cobbles. Jimmy, barely conscious, could not run, so he let the guards carry him back to his cell, where he lay down on the bare board that served as his bed.
He heard excited voices in the distance, his two gaolers. They were arguing about what to do with him. One said something about Ruane and the word inquiry came up once or twice. Minutes later his door was unlocked and the two soldiers dragged him back out, down a different corridor towards another yard where an army truck was waiting. He thought about shouting for Major Vane who may arrest the rogue captain, but he could barely breath, never mind shout. He was dragged into the back of the and hidden under a Hessian sack. One of the guards got in with him and off they went.
After a few minutes drive the guard spoke “Sorry about your friend there, I didn’t know he was going to shoot him, the crazy British b*****d. It was totally unnecessary, it was murder. We are taking you to a safer place for now, out of harms way. All you have to do is stay quiet and not try to escape, understand?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a croak. The guard gave him a little water to drink. As he swilled it down his parched throat he could taste his salty blood.
They drove for only a few minutes into another yard. It must have been Rathmines Police station, as there was nowhere else close enough that had holding cells. As Jimmy was transferred he heard a sound like thunder, yet the sky was clear blue. It could only have been heavy artillery.
He was led in the back way, by-passing the usual booking procedure and left in a cell. For the next two hours nothing happened, but he could see daylight fading through the fogged windows. In the distance he could hear the artillery and automatic machine gun fire. No single shots, however. This indicated that the Rebels were not attacking, and were probably out of ammunition. The rising was in it’s death throes.
A policeman came in to tend his wounds. He was an older man, maybe a reservist, and he didn’t say much, he certainly didn’t ask any questions or offer any answers. He returned an hour after that with some soup and a cup of water.
The next day the process was repeated, the policeman fed and watered his, tended his wounds, and said very little. Jimmy couldn’t even get the mans name, but he was Constable 3245 according to his uniform. In the station Jimmy could hear very little, except Policemen coming and going, Army vans driving north, into the city centre, and soldiers marching. The artillery fire died down, and the single shots ceased completely.
The next morning the two soldiers returned and entered his cell. “Well you luck bloody messy.” Said the first. True enough, Jimmy was a mass of bruises and grazes. “It’s over, they surrendered.” Said the other. The first soldier spoke to the reserve constable and thanked him for his help, then they dragged him out. Where were they taking him now? Please god, not back to the barracks? That seemed the most likely.
To his surprise he was led out into the street, with a soldier leading him by the arm. They led him back down Rathmines road, where the people of Rathmines came out to see him. If he thought he was in for a heroes welcome he would get a rude awakening. “Murdering Fenian scum!”
“Shoot the little b*****d and do us all a favour!” Shouted some old man with Sudan campaign medals proudly pinned to his threadbare jacket.
“Evil little b*****d, God if my Arthur was here he would blow his brains over the pavement. Lucky for you he is away at the front! He is more of a man than any of you will ever be.” Said some woman in a black shawl.
Somebody threw a pot of urine over him, stinging his grazed flesh. Then they started to pelt his with rubbish and eggs.
The guards were getting aggravated now “You all get back to your homes, seriously now, feck off, show’s over.”
“Don’t you tell me to feck off, it took you three days to battle a few Fenians with flintlock rifles. I see they kept the best soldiers on the western front.” The woman in the shawl drew herself up to her full height.
“Listen missus, you walk away now or spend a night in the cells. G’won I tell you, go.”
She took a step forward and then grabbed the soldier by the balls. “You go on, boy and you will be picking these in my hand out of the grand canal. You just make sure you bash this little f****r’s brains out, you hearing me?”
The soldier nodded and she let go and flounced off, three children following her single file.
The guard grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder and marched him onwards, quicker this time.
“Jesus, the things I do for my country.”
*** 6 ***
At the bottom of Rathmines road they crossed the Grand Canal bridge, and in front of them was the battle scarred Portabello. Jimmy’s own little Alamo. The newspapers were already there setting up their camera equipment. Clearly this was a pre-arranged photo call as they had arranged barriers to keep people back, and dragged a few bits of the pub onto the road for added ‘drama’.
Jimmy was made to stand facing the pub while the photographers took his picture from behind. Then they took one of him with his guards, and one with his lying on the ground, like he had just been captured. By now the people behind the barriers were getting restless as they had come from all over Dublin to express their rage. At an unspoken signal they charged forwards, beating him with sticks and fists, again this was photographed.
Eventually the two soldiers managed to pull him clear and marched him down the street. Several police joined them, trying to keep him safe.
From there they marched down Camden street, where there was hardly a single pane of glass still standing. Bullet shells littered the street, and urchins collected them.
They turned right, towards Harcourt street. The station was abandoned and blackened by smoke. In Harcourt street the walls and doors were peppered with bullet holes. Towards St Stephen’s Green now, which looked like a war zone. This had been held the whole time by Michael Mallin and Countess Markewitz with a small band. The pavements were stained with blood and chipped stonework.
They marched him down Grafton street and across Westmoreland street, past Trinity college. More locals came to hurl abuse and missiles. Jimmy was in no doubt now about who had won the battle, not just militarily, but politically. This was the end of the Republic. In their darkest, bloodiest hour the people of Ireland had sided with the British. Well, they were welcome to it.
Jimmy marched on, in a daze, no longer caring what happened. He hardly noticed the voices calling him a Fenian murderer or an I.R.B scumbag. He didn’t feel the fragments of wood thrown at him by urchins and their mothers. He didn’t really see the remains of Sackville street, the bombed out buildings, the looted shops, the soldiers and police everywhere. He did see, however, the General Post Office, charred and roofless. This is where the Republic had started and this was where it ended. He wanted to cry but found he couldn’t. He just felt a terrible emptiness.
Finally he was marched over to the Rotunda lawns, where he saw a few familiar faces, or rather backs of heads. About forty men and a few women Some had their hands tied behind their backs, others had them on their heads. Jimmy was forced down next to them with his hands tied. His cheek was cold against the mud and the grass tickled his nose. His whole body was cold and shivering with hunger. He felt numb and just wanted to die.
The man next to him whispered “Who are you boy?”
Jimmy didn’t really want to talk and took a second to answer. “Jimmy Joyce, the Portabello picket leader.”
The man passed the information down the line, as quietly as possible. Jimmy enquired about Enda. The man didn’t know who he was, but said he would try and find out. Among the forty or so people Jimmy later found out included Thomas Clarke and Michael Collins.
From the Castle came the inspectors of G division, who took away several men, usually by the scruff of the neck. Jimmy was astonished to find he was lying two bodies right of Eamon de Valera, who was also led away, probably never to be seen again.
That night they were all held there, men and women lying on their bellies. There were no toilet facilities or drinking water. Soldiers, disciplined before, had now become bored.
“So you little fuckers thought the people of Ireland would join you in rebellion? “ A nasty looking corporal breathed whiskey fumes in Jimmy’s face. Then he stood up and moved on to the next man.
“Well, look at you now.. The Fenian men, the glorious Irish manhood.. Lying on their bellies waiting for the bullet… you vicious little b******s..” The man slurred his hate filled words. This could get rather nasty.
Jimmy felt the boot connect with his jaw in an explosion of pain unlike anything he had ever known. He screamed loudly, not just in pain, but in frustration, in pure white hot anger at Ireland’s rejection of his sacrifice. He thought about getting up and running, just so they could shoot him, but he didn’t have the strength. More kicks connected around his ribs and abdomen. Eventually the corporal walked away, weaving like an evil Charlie Chaplin.
For the rest of the night whispered conversations passed to and fro. Jimmy found out that James Connelly had been shot in the thigh but kept up guiding the battle till the end. Sackville street had seen the heaviest of the fighting, with a gunboat firing shells at the G.P.O at one stage. Also their had been rioting on Moore street, lots of it.
In the distance they could hear the anthem ‘God Save the King’ being sung by pub goers. The only strange thing was that the voices were undoubtedly Irish. Jimmy knew this was truly the end.
He fell into a cold, shallow sleep.
Early the next morning the men and women were marched all the way back up to Richmond barracks. Jimmy felt more apprehensive than most, would his nemesis, this unnamed captain be there? Would he lead him away to have him tortured or shot?
When they got there Jimmy managed to borrow a trilby hat from another man and did his best to hide his features underneath it. They were held there in another courtyard for several hours and searched thoroughly. Sometimes they sang to keep their spirits up, other times they whistled. Some boys said the rosary. Others talked about overpowering the guards.
Eventually they were marched all the way back into town again and on to the North Wall docks. From there they were loaded on to a ship to take them away to Prisoner of War camps in Britain. Dozens of men were crammed in, not just like cattle, but literally with cattle. Through the wooden beams of the cattle cage Jimmy saw Ireland dissappear in the distance. He didn’t join in with the banter of the other lads. His beloved country was gone now.
Shame, perhaps that it was more beloved to him, now, than he was to it.
END OF PART ONE
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