The Republican Part 1

A novel of historical fiction set in Dublin during the Rising of 1916

This is not about the Irish Writer, this is about the Irish Republican

The year was 1916, and James Joyce had just turned 19.  Not to be confused with the Irish writer, James was idealistic, impressionable and fiercely patriotic. He worked as a barman in Davy’s pub in Portobello, 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 Joyce 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 Davy’s 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 Webley .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 James 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 views, 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 Portobello stood before them, and their objective, Davy‘s pub.. James could hardly breath, his palms were sweating and his legs were unsteady.  James took off his heavy overcoat to reveal his dark green uniform underneath.  He said a quick hail Mary and opened the door.

The owner, Mr Davy 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 Davy. This building is being occupied by the Irish Citizen’s Army. All of you, out now!"

The shocked Mr Davy 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 were 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 Portobello to the Republican Army Headquarters.

James quickly scribbled down ‘Position ready to begin defensive operations. God Bless Ireland. Joyce‘ and passed it to his runner, Enda, who would convey it to the General Post Office where the main force headquarters would now be located.

"James, they're coming." The lookout, Ruane, 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, James.

"Right lads, give it to them!"

Weapons fired, louder than James 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.

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. James 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 James 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.  Runners reported in from town. 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?"

James breathed a giddy breath.

 

 "Ah Jesus, Jack, you scared the shite out of me, come in will you? Just keep your head well down, those Brits are handy with the rifles."

Jack Callaghan was an old customer at Davy’s pub, a pint of porter at six at night every night. Any other day he wouldn't be drinking on Easter Saturday, but this was far from any normal day.

He wasn't a small man, and at 78 he was far from nimble. But he  sat down on the floor next to the former barman-turned-freedom fighter.

 

 "So how are you getting  on boy?"

For the next hour they discussed the day’s violent events as though it was any other day. They had a good joke about James 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.

"James!" 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 James reloaded his pistol when the door opposite burst open, and a burly soldier stood in the door. Like a rabbit caught in headlights James froze. Ruane turned and coolly fired two shots into the man at point blank range. Hot sticky liquid drops showered James, 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. James 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. James 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." James 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.

 

James’ mind wandered back through his past, to the day he had first set out on this journey.

 

James Alphonsus Joyce was born 18 March 1897, to Alphonsus Joyce and his wife Mary.  One other daughter survived infancy out of a total of four.  Alphie, or Dad to James, was a driver for the Dublin Tram company.  His mother stayed at home but did a lot to help the neighbourhood.
Even though life in Edwardian Dublin was austere in the extreme the family was mostly happy.  James was a bright but easily distracted pupil, and did not pass many exams.  By the age of eleven he was known as a bit of a trouble causer and his parents puzzled on which new school to send him.

 

St Enda’s school in Ranleigh was set up by Paidraig Pearse to teach the Gaelic language, history and sports.  It was here that James started t o blossom.  He knew by heart the stories of Culcallen, Wolfe Tone and Emmet.  He became fluent in Gaelic and he persevered at sports such as Hurling and Gaelic Football.

 

When he was thirteen he went with his father to Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union.  That night he heard a man speak like no other.  His name was James Larkin, and he was a giant of a man, a gifted orator with a huge personality.  But it wasn’t Larkin who would have the most impact on James’ life, it was the man next to him,  James Connolly.  This unassuming Scot was the brains behind Larkin’s convictions.  And he would mastermind the Dublin Strike and Lockout of 1913.

 

The background of this dispute was the employers refused the workers the right to form a union.  Their other issues were with housing and healthcare.  Dublin was yet again a powder keg.

Riots ensued, brutality, even deaths.  Connolly formed an army to protect the striking workers at rallies from the police.  The Irish Citizen’s Army was trained and led by Captain Jack White, a former British army officer and Boer war veteran.  He drilled his boys to use arms, march and attack anybody armed with anything.  James was one of the first to join and he loved every minute of it.

 

In the early days they were considered a rabble, armed only with Hurleys and sticks.  In march 1914 an I.C.A demonstration was attacked by police and James spent his eighteenth birthday in police custody.  After Captain Jack transferred himself to the Irish Volunteers the I.C.A came under the control of James Connolly, who would change their mandate completely.

 

While White and Larkin had conceived the I.C.A. as a citizen’s self defence army Connolly turned them into an instrument of revolution.  Connolly was by then a recruiting agent for the secret society, the Irish Republican Brotherhood.  It was he who handed James his first rifle, a bolt action Mauser.

 

But back to the current day.

 
Dawn, blessed dawn, Still freezing though, absolutely bloody perishing wind whistled through the shattered windows and timber walls. Ruane saw them first, then awoke James 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. James suddenly had a stroke of recognition "Jesus, 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 doing with them British officers?" Ruane said, not really that interested.

"He's a hostage by the looks of things." James 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." James 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 James, don't be going 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 bleeding quick ok?"

 

*** 3 ***

 

James 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.”

 

James 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 Portobello 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 barricade at an enemy he couldn’t see. 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.  James 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 slept an entire family, the timber bed slats had bowed.

 

Enda was laid down on the bed and Rory checked the window.  James 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.

 

“James, we need to get him to hospital.  The game is up.”

 

James wasn’t listening, he just kept mopping the blood off his wounded friend.  He turned. 

 

“Rory, we can’t give up, they will just put us against a wall and shoot us.”

 

Rory was taken aback, a little.

 

 “We don’t know that for sure, there are rules in war, you know.  You don’t shoot people when they are surrendering.”

 

 Rory looked at his commanding officer.  James 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.

 

James knew he was right, even if he wasn’t ready to accept it.  The two men shook hands and James 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 Policeman was heavier than James, and a good six inch taller.  He was on him in seconds, calling out for help.  The footfall of soldier’s boots came closer.  James was forced onto his front, his lips stuck with dirt, his arm behind his back.  The Policeman had his knee in James’ back  Two soldiers arrived on the scene and immediately began kicking the rebel savagely.  One particularly heavy kick brought James’ 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 James 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 Portobello 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 Arthur Davy, of the Portobello 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 recognize 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 recognize 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?  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 regular customers, 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 he knew as Brian with a small bowl of bully beef and a cup of water.

 

“Jesus, James, 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, James.  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.  James 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.  He hummed the song ‘The Peeler and the Goat’ to himself while his numbed mind drifted back through the recent days to the past.  His first major conflict with authority, when the Irish Citizens Army faced down the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

 

It had been hell.  James and a dozen other lads armed with Hurleys defending their marching band against the police.  But by the end of it, they had put manners on the police, to quote Captain Jack.  During the lockout the Irish Citizens Army did little fighting, their sheer presence averted police action.  The employers backed by the government imposed sanctions instead, starving out families.

 

James’ father had drifted back to work, in spite of his son’s protests.  In future weeks he would worry about the change in behavior of his son.  It started with a new pair of black shoes that appeared on James’ feet.  More than he could afford, these had been a gift from Captain Jack to his first volunteers.

 

The Citizen’s army transformed James’ life, and polarized his political views.  While his father had been moderately left wing, James seemed downright Bolshevik.  His life seemed to revolve around training, parades and lectures on Irish history.

 

 

James was part of a small group who were sent to retrieve a crate from a barn near the port of Howth late one night..  He found himself loading long wooden crates onto a horse and cart.  It wasn’t until they were safely back at Liberty hall that he found out what was inside.  He gasped with exhilaration as he found himself staring at a Mauser rifle.  It was long and cool, the gray gun metal shined back at him.  The chestnut stock was polished.  The weapon has a strange clinical smell, the smell of quick and painless death.  This was a true killing machine.  In the same crate James found the bayonet attachment which slid under the barrel.  In his hands this amalgamation of metal and wood could prove a lethal combination.

 

But not just yet.  The Easter Rising was still something that was talked over in bars and drawing rooms. 

 

Back in the present tense the next morning he was woken up by even more gunfire, only this time it was at 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 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 James 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.”

 

James 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.

 

On a chair, chained up, was a man with a sack over his head.  His clothes were filthy and blood soaked.  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 another chair.  James was sat down next to the other victim.

 

The hood was lifted to reveal a face James barely recognized.  It was Ruane.

 

 

 

*** 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  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 traitorous sins.”

 

James 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 Citizens 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.

 

James 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?”

 

James 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.”

 

James and Ruane raised their eyes, the Captain had upholstered his revolver.  He pointed it at each man in turn.

 

 “So who goes first?”

 

James’ 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.  James knew the question that was coming.

 

“Heads or tails lads?”

 

James could not 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 marshaled for this.”

 

The captain stared for a second then turned around and tossed the coin.

 

 “Heads it is..”

 

James 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 James.  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 twitching 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 James 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.  James, 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 jailers.  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 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 James 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.

 

That night James reminisced back to 1914 when the I.C.A and the Irish Volunteers faced down the Redmondites.  Now these fellows were a large splinter group of the Volunteers.  They were named after the Irish parliamentary leader, John Redmond.  They were nationalists too, but more in the spirit of a you-scratch-my-back agreement, with the British.  Their aim was the provision of  troops for the western front in return for Irish Home rule when the war was over.  In James’ view they were hopelessly naïve in their dealings with the English.

 

That day all three factions, I.C.A, Volunteers and Redmondites had been at Bodenstown for the Parnell Anniverary Commemoration.  On their way back they found the Redmondites blocking the way.  James and many others were armed with rifles and bayonets, but no ammunition.  Like the O K Corral, the two factions glared at each other over a distance.  Then an Irish Volunteer officer started passing bullets down the line.  Not just to his own Volunteers, but to the I.C.A too.  James chambered the round and aimed the muzzle at the body of men opposite.  At first nobody dared breathe, then the Redmondites slowly dispersed, muttering threats.

 

It wasn’t long after this that James Larkin, the booming giant of Irish Unionism decided to go on an extended tour of America.  Connolly was mortified, but could not change his mind.  Larkin would never truly re-establish his position within the trade union organization.

 

 But his loss didn’t stop them.  Connolly had, by now, decided to reform the I.C.A as a revolutionary army.  James didn’t know what that meant but it sounded exciting.  War was declared in the summer of 1914 and the Redmondites were queuing up to get slaughtered in France.  The mansion house was being used by the army as a recruiting station, and Connolly selected it as a target.  He assembled a team of fifty men (all that remained out of nearly a thousand who originally volunteered) for the task.  The first task was to occupy and hold the mansion house to prevent it being used for recruitment.  In the end there were far too many troops in the building to realistically storm it, and the operation was shelved.  Throughout 1915 a strange silence reigned.  In March that year Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa passed away and a Republican funeral was called for.  Rossa was one of the founders of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, considered one of the most dangerous men in Ireland in his day.  He had actually died and been buried in America but was later disinterred to be reburied in his homeland.  His graveside eulogy was spoken by Pearse, James’ old schoolmaster.  The words boomed out of the charismatic teacher.

 

"They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything; but, the fools, the fools, the fools! — They have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace."

 

Over the next months rumours began of something much bigger, a general uprising of the Irish population.  The rumours finally became to big to be ignored and James had to ask Connolly if they were true.  Connolly stirred his tea, looked up and said they were true.

 

James’ heart skipped a beat.  He couldn’t believe he was serious.  But it was true and James’ part in it was soon to be revealed.  Connolly arranged a job for James in Davy’s Pub, Portobello bridge, where he could observe the Barracks over the canal.  He worked long hours for the owner, who was a total prick, in James’ opinion.  But he heard a lot of English accents, and soon knew who came from which regiment.  He listened to their complaints of understaffing, of outdated equipment, and learned their weaknesses.

 

On Holy Saturday James went to Liberty hall to receive his final instructions.  His team of ten had been whittled down to four, including himself.  But they had two rifles and two pistols between them and eighty bullets each.  The lads he had, he knew he could trust.  The four of them posed with rifles in full  I.C.A uniform  and slouch hats.  First they posed, two kneeling at the front with Connelly stood in the middle, flanked by the two others.  Then they posed as they practised firing on the ground.  They were now ready to fight and die for Ireland.

 

Connolly’s parting words to James were simple and heartfelt

 

“James, we go to our graves tomorrow.  Not for Ireland, not for some ideal or for glory.  We do it for the future of our people.  For them to enjoy peace and security free from the English who have stood on our dreams for too long.  That is all we ask God for.”

 

And that was the last time they saw each other.

 

The next day the process was repeated, the policeman fed and watered him, tended his wounds, and said very little.  James couldn’t even get the man’s name, but he was Constable 3245 according to his uniform.   In the station James 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, James 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 place.

 

To his surprise he was led out into the street, with a soldier leading him by the arm.  Five other soldiers joined the bizarre procession.  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 an 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, f**k off, show’s over.”

 

“Don’t you tell me to f**k 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.  Go on 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 like battleships in line.

 

The guard grabbed James’ shoulder and marched him onwards, quicker this time.

 

“Jesus, the things we do for our country.” He growled.

 

James could only share his sentiments.

 

 

*** 6 ***

 

At the bottom of Rathmines road they crossed the Grand Canal bridge, and in front of them was the battle scarred Portobello area.  James’ 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’.

 

James was made to stand with his back to the pub while the photographers took his picture.  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 Mankewicz 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.  James 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.

 

James 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.  James 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?”

 

James didn’t really want to talk and took a second to answer.  “James Joyce, the Portobello picket leader.”

 

The man passed the information down the line, as quietly as possible.  James enquired about Rory.  The man didn’t know who he was, but said he would try and find out.  Among the forty or so people James later found out included Thomas Clarke and Michael Collins.

 

From the Marlborough street station came the inspectors of G (political) division, who took away several men, usually by the scruff of the neck.  James 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 James’ 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.

 

James 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.  James found out that  Connolly 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 there 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.  James 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.  James 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 James 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 James saw Ireland disappear 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