Irish Voices from the First World War a blog based on PRONI sources

The Easter Rising April 1916

The Easter Rising April 1916

On Easter Monday 24 April 1916 Irish Republicans seized key buildings in Dublin and proclaimed an Irish Republic. During the ensuing fighting more than 450 people were killed and considerable damage was caused to central Dublin.

Document 1: Diary of Sir Robert Baird (D3330/B/1/16)

Sir Robert Baird (RHHB) was managing director and owner of the Belfast Telegraph and other newspapers. He was in Dublin over the Easter weekend with his wife.

Monday, April 24. The Sinn Fein Rising. RHHB accompanied by Mrs Baird and George Canning left the Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, at 8.30 for Tullamore, they motored via Selbridge and Geashill, and arrived at Tullamore at 11.50. It turned out a very wet day. Shortly after arriving at Tullamore, Mr Killender, who is the postmaster, and in whose house RHHB and Mrs Baird were entertained, informed all that the Sinn Feiners had taken possession of the GPO, Dublin. This was at 12.20 pm. RHHB and Mrs Baird left Tullamore at 5.20, and had as passenger a man named Walton, who was the clerk in the Depot of the Royal Irish Rifles, Dublin, and who asked a seat to Dublin as the train service was entirely suspended. George Canning remained at Tullamore, and left on Tuesday by motor car for Mullingar, and reached Belfast by that route. Nothing happened until RHHB’s car reached James Street, when it was sent round by the South Circular Road; it was then stopped every few yards by military, and the car was searched for arms – or rather, RHHB was asked had he any arms. At the corner of Harkness Street a gentleman stopped the car and advised RHHB not to go near the Shelbourne, as the Sinn Feiners had possession of Stephen’s Green, the gentleman volunteered to direct the way the car should be driven, later another man came forward and stated that on no account should they proceed to the Shelbourne, as the Sinn Feiners were in possession of the Hotel, that cars had been commandeered, and had been turned upside down to form a barricade for the Sinn Feiners. Motored to Kingstown via Donnybrook, and was very fortunate in obtaining accommodation in the Royal Marine Hotel.

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Tuesday, April 25. An eventful day. Mrs Baird and RHHB found themselves prisoners at Kingstown, and there were a number of Belfast people also in the same predicament. Met Mr Lawder, Lafayette’s, who kindly lent RHHB £20. Met Mr Johnson of Bovril Ltd, Councillors M’Caughey and Hinds, and the nieces of the latter. There were no trains or trams, or any connection with Dublin; the mail boats did not run. Learned that Mr Meyer crossed the night before via Mail Boat to Holyhead, but he did not reach Belfast till Thursday, and had to travel via Ardrossan. Met Mr and Mrs Weldon, Mr Weldon is a son of Ned Weldon. Met Mr and Mrs Rynski. Made arrangements to leave Kingstown at about noon, but after consultation with Mrs Baird decided not to attempt the journey on Tuesday. It turned out a very wet afternoon. Made many friends in Kingstown, including Mr Coffey, barrister. Learned that Mr Atkinson and Mr M’Daid left for Belfast at 2 pm. Mr Taylor, of the Soho Foundry, called at the Hotel.

Wednesday, April 26. Left Kingstown about 11 a.m. Was very angry with Councillor M’Caughey and Hinds. They had promised to return to Belfast with RHHB, and to be at the Hotel at 9 and they went on to Belfast on a car, the property of Mr Kelly, coal merchant, without informing RHHB that they were so doing. Asked Mr and Mrs Weldon and Mr Rinski to accompany RHHB and Mrs Baird to Belfast. Mrs Rinski was left behind. Found things were not so bad as they were stated to be, and was stopped for the first time at Kilmainham, and went round by a circuitous route, there happened to meet Mr John M. Peake, who resides at St. Martha’s SCR. Mr Peake entertained the party to refreshments, and RHHB gave him a letter of authority to call at the Sherbourne Hotel and look after the luggage for Mr and Mrs Baird, which was left behind at the Hotel.

Travelled to Belfast via Slane, Ardee, and Dundalk, and arrived in Belfast at 7.30. At Dundalk learned of the serious disturbances at Castlebellingham on Easter Monday, when many Belfast cars were held up, and the chauffeurs made drive the insurgents to near Dublin, and also had a graphic description of the chauffeur of Captain Dunville, who together with three policemen were made stand against a paling and were fired at by a party of about six men, the result being that Constable Magee was killed and Captain Dunville was wounded.

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Contemporary postcard (D2638/F/17)

Document 2: Miss Barcroft’s experiences during the Easter Rising (T3519/1)

Miss Barcroft and her sister were visiting Malahide, a few miles to the north of Dublin, when the Easter Rising broke out.

Monday 24th April. The Easter weather seemed mild and promising, so early on Easter Monday Sarah and I decided to go to Malahide for the day and visit the ruins at Swords. Passing Liberty Hall, we saw volunteers gathering in ones and twos and men cleaning rifles, but not more than as it might be the preparations for a field day. As we walked into Amiens Street Station an enormous crowd of men and boys poured out, coming from a Northern train. It seemed curious that no women were amongst them. We caught the 10.45 train to Malahide and with us were the usual crowd of golfers. ...

We lunched on the golf links and then settled ourselves on the sands to read. The glorious sunshine, clouds and sea made a perfect Easter Monday. About 1.30, we heard an explosion not very far off. It had a tinny sound which made it quite distinct from quarry blasting. The idea of something malicious did just enter our minds but we quickly dismissed the ridiculous thought.

About 4 o’clock, the rain came on and we went to the station to take shelter. Greatly to our surprise we found the platform crowded, mostly with men from the golf

- 4 - links, who in the ordinary course of events would not return to Dublin till a train at 6.10 at the earliest. As we came on to the platform, Sarah was accosted by a bank official with whom she sometimes does business, who said ‘Miss Barcroft, have you heard the dreadful news about Dublin? The Sinn Feiners have seized the General Post Office and cut the lines of communication and blown up the bridge at Donabate.’ We could hardly believe it, though we at once remembered the explosion we had heard whilst we were eating our lunch. The stationmaster soon came up and announced that the Military had taken over the line and that no more trains were to be allowed on the line. Whilst we were on the platform debating what was to be done an engine and one coach containing officials, military and otherwise passed northwards. Fergus Greer and his son were waiting but decided to walk home the nine miles. Everyone was in despair, nine miles was a long way, not knowing what was at the other end though of course the real gravity of the situation not the dangerous state of all the approaches to the city had not by means transpired.

We went to the hotel to look for rooms, but were we told they had not a corner as the gentlemen were already occupying all the sofas. Meals seemed to be scarce in the near future and our picnic basket was nearly empty, so we had tea at the Hotel. We saw Mr Knox depart with another man on a car. He was in a terrible state of nervous tension about his bank, the Northern in Sackville Street, about three doors from Henry Street and the Post Office. When we got back to the village the Easter Monday crowd were trying to get rooms at the various lodging houses in Malahide. Where should we go? The police had advised us on no account to attempt to go back to Dublin as all communication with Kingstown was cut off. My thought ran to advice from the local clergy and then we remembered that Canon Lindsay, who had once been at The Glen with the Swanzys, was rector of Malahide.

A policeman showed us the way to the Rectory and we determined to ask Canon Lindsay to be so kind as to recommend us to suitable lodgings. A smiling maid reassured us that her master was at home and showed us in. Canon Lindsay received us most kindly and sympathetically. We were refugees, no friends, no home and very little money, strangers in Malahide. What kindness and help meant at that juncture could not be put into words! Canon Lindsay, who has a great reputation as a horticulturalist, remembered the lithospermum at The Glen, inquired after many of our friends and

- 5 - mutual acquaintances. In a few minutes Mrs Lindsay came in and they kindly invited us to remain at their house. No words could express our gratitude.

We went to the Post Office to send a wire to Mamma but every possible means of communication was cut-off. No posts in or out, no telephones, no telegrams and no trains! The police came out fully armed, we questioned one, who said ‘You won’t get to Kingstown tonight, take my advice and don’t attempt to go to Dublin.’

We returned to the Rectory, thankful and grateful that we were together and that our lines had fallen amongst such kind friends. In the course of the evening, we heard that Westland Row, the Post Office and the Four Courts had been taken and were held by the rebels, that all lines of communication were cut, but that the railway bridge at Rogerstown beyond Donabate had only been partially destroyed and that trains could pass over it on one line. After dinner we sat at a big log fire and Canon Lindsay, who is a much travelled and a very interesting man, kindly read aloud. Moments would come when one forgot the cause of our unexpected visit and one caught oneself enjoying the pleasant surroundings in which we found ourselves. Naturally we had no luggage with us, but Mrs Lindsay made us welcome and comfortable for the night. I cannot say the night was one of restful sleep. Before daylight several trains is succession passed through and again after daylight several more came. One said to oneself ‘Troop trains’!

We came down to breakfast to a Sabbath like stillness. The news of the previous day was confirmed, also that the phantom trains of the night were troop trains, from the North. We went to the village with our hostess, and again the same story. No posts, trains nor any means of communication. A policeman (the same) told us there was no connection with Kingstown, that the rebels had dug themselves into Stephen’s Green with machine guns and the Dublin shops were broken into and looted. Our thoughts flew to our friends. What had become of Mrs Smith and Miss Kirkpatrick, were they forced to witness all these horrors. And what of many more. The local fishmonger had been up to Dublin for supplies very early, he reported that he had been held up at the entrance to the town by men with loaded revolvers and searched and that he had had difficulty in getting away again. ...

Wednesday 26 April. We slept well, but woke at 8 o’clock to the continual sound of naval gunnery, such as I had heard at Plymouth, that thunderous roll. Again the same

- 6 - conditions. Sunday quiet, no posts etc, no trains. We went to the Hotel and wrote a letter, hoping a motorist or someone going North would kindly post it, as we heard conditions were fairly normal north of Drogheda. Everyone was out in the street, we heard Swords police station had been taken, the wires cut, and Donabate in process of receiving the same treatment. The rebels might at any minute arrive here. Eventually we went to church and then Sarah and I walked to the top of a hill from which we could see Dublin Bay, the view was hazy but we could see three black objects in line, which we took to be the armed cruisers of whose arrival we had heard. We have never left the immediate precincts of the house, and have no news of the outer world; people trying to motor to Dublin have been turned back. No trains pass. At 3.30 more naval guns have been firing.

A lady told us in the morning that her governess who had got herself out of Dublin on Monday evening had had to walk through pools of blood and had seen three men shot. That the road at Fairview was strewn with corpses, no doubt from the conflict between the rebels and the military. More troops passed in the night, men have gone off to help to guard the bridge over the estuary. Martial law has been proclaimed in Dublin and the police relieved of all responsibility.

Miss Mollie Burton, who is staying in Malahide came to tea. Later we heard that Jerry Franks who had been into town with his father, had been turned at Amiens Street. Troops were all along the line, a naval gun was pointing down Talbot Strret and the rebels were all behind a barricade there. Sir Thomas Myles was shot, we hear (Not confirmed), whilst trying to perform first aid, and one fears many others too. Firing continued all evening and after we went to bed. ...

Friday April 27. No news. The flour has given out and there is no bread. Our hostess has begun to kill the fowl. We hear Howth is starved. Walked up the hill but could only see smoke from Dublin. Refugees seem to be coming out, into the Coolock neighbourhood and want food. We met Miss Jameson who is a Military masseuse. She was due at Randalstown on Tuesday night and was very anxious to get off. She is going to sit on the station all day in hopes that owing to her military rank she may be able to get into a patrol train. We think we shall try the same dodge and hastily collect our few possessions. Sat on the station for three hours till almost 2 o’clock, on a tension as to

- 7 - whether we shall be admitted and not even knowing whether a train is coming. A friend kindly had our thermos filled and brought us some bread and butter and the last two pieces of Chocolate in Malahide. Let it be said here that the owner of the ‘The rooms’ where the refreshment was obtained would take no payment and only said ‘Ah! sure aren’t we all in trouble together’. A patrol train drew up at the opposite platform. Next the engine was an armoured railway wagon, with iron sides and loop-holes for shooting. Men’s heads popped up above the sides and their caps displayed the badge of the Royal Irish Rifles. They grinned at us and some small chaff was exchanged, the all important question ‘Is the North quiet?’ elicited the answer ‘Yes’. The first newspapers seen for days were on it, and a sight of the only one which was left behind was an honour to be chronicled in red letters.

The patrol train moved off and after waiting some time longer we heard that a train on the down line had left Dublin. At last the signal dropped and the awful moment arrived, Should we be allowed in? A tiny train appeared pulled by two engines. It stopped and plainly contained refugees. So were we and we travelled without tickets accordingly.

Contemporary postcard from the papers of Ronnie Whelan (D3041/8)

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Document 3: Reminisces of Ronnie Whelan (D3041/5/B/2)

Dublin born Ronnie Whelan was a civil servant and Red Cross volunteer living in Dublin. This account of his experiences during the rising was written in 1963.

I was cutting the lawn at our home 139 Clonliffe Road, Dublin, on the lovely sunny Easter Monday morning on 24 April 1916, when the news came that rebellion had broken out and the Sinn Feiners had occupied public buildings, factories, bakeries and other advantage points.

When six of us Red Cross men on the north side of the city, found we were cut off from our assembly point at Beggars Bush Barracks, we were told next day to report to our Pharmist, Mr W Kennedy, for orders. He informed us we were posted as auxiliaries to the Royal Army Medical Corps, under the command of Lieutenant JC King, Doctor in RAMC. (I still have my armlet RAMC which was issued to me) Dr. King gave instructions to us to act as an Ambulance Unit to the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, who were holding our line. ...

Anyway all hell had broken loose, rifle fire from all quarters, buildings on fire, and the civilians to be seen were mostly looters. As the Dublin Fusiliers refused to get shot we were not kept very busy at first. The next day I was told to make my way to Amiens Street Station to see how they were fixed for ambulance service in that area. My route was via Rutland Square, into Sackville, now O’Connell Street, and down Earl Street. In fact one of the hottest parts of the area. Dead cavalry horses lay in the sun near Nelson’s Pillar. These had been shot during a charge against the rebels in the wide street.

Most of the large buildings were burning fiercely. I remember particularly Clerys Store with the looters, mainly women, inside the smashed windows, trying on clothing and hurling abuse at each other for grabbing what each considered to be their rightful property. Two passed me as they pulled and fought viciously over a length of linoleum. I watched cars being loaded with looted articles. The looters had no thought for the shooting going on around them, on the terrible danger from the burning buildings – greed, not safety was their motto, but many received bullet, and other wounds, and crawled home to their tenement rooms to lie unattended for days.

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When I got back to my post at Upper Dorset Street I found sandbag barricades erected, and some first aid equipment had been taken from chemist shops around us. Later a RAMC Sergeant arrived. The only job he did was to act as cook-cute fellow. Food was short, but tea without milk was in plenty, bread could not be got as the rebels were in the bakeries. Two of our fellows went foraging and arrived back with a very large roll of cheese in a hand cart.

A couple of our men were called to a tenement house where, in a back room, they found a woman with an ugly wound in her leg around which a dirty blanket had been coiled. They had difficulty in stopping the bleeding, fortunately the bullet had torn its way through the fleshy part. She called on high heaven to witness she hadn’t got shot looting in spite of the evidence around her, and she refused to be moved out from her blood soaked the bed. They did what they could for her, and left to make a call at another tenement; when they got as far as the hall the occupants gave the alarm that, the police had arrived, and our two fellows had to crouch in the hall, while the tenants hurled down buckets and furniture from five story landings on top of them, and they were lucky to escape unhurt.

When these two boys returned and saw us sitting at our ease in the sun behind the sand bags they told us what they thought of us as well as the tenements.

There was trouble from a sniper behind a chimney pot opposite, who was trying to pick off some of the troops of the Notts and Derby Regiment, who had move into our line. My attention was drawn to a corporal who had a different looking rifle to the others, and who moved about freely without check from the officers. He went slowly up a few steps of a house, paused to light a cigarette and look over the scene; suddenly he lifted his rifle and blazed away a spot on the roof opposite. A man tumbled over and over down the slates. There was no more sniping from that quarter. ...

Some-one told me that Jimmie and Paddy Dunne – two earlier playmates of mine – were with the rebels behind a barricade in the centre of Annesley Bridge, Fairview. I decided during my release period to go along and try to contact them. They were in a different area to ours and about a mile and a half away. I got to the end of Clonliffe Road, and worked my way in the shelter of a warehouse wall until I came in sight of the bridge, and waited my chance got across the road, and over some furniture into the rebel

- 10 - stockade. There were my old pals sure enough. We carried on an argument as quietly as possible under the circumstances, as I tried to persuade them of the folly of it all, and that they hadn’t ghost of a chance of holding out without ammunition, food and water, but to no effect, they showed me a crudely printed bulletin sheet they received that morning, which told them to hold on as ‘forty thousand German troops had landed, and were marching from Limerick to relief of their gallant comrades in Dublin’.

I was amazed that anyone with an ounce of sense would believe such a report. I pointed out how it took months of preparation to effect such a landing, even in peace time, and in any case the German troopships could never get through the British naval blockade. But nothing I said could convince them. The ‘Commandant’ over the dozen or so scruffy looking young fellows had been making a survey of his position after a train from the North stopped on the embankment opposite, and the Royal Irish Rifles scrambled from the carriages to take up positions to advance on the post. The ‘Commandant’ spotted me for the first time – I can still see his face with a ‘butt of a cigarette stuck to his lower lip – ‘What the H... is that fellow doing here?’ Jimmie Dunne explained I was an old pal of his, and doing ambulance work for the British, and I had come along to see if they were alright. ‘Well!’ cried the ‘Commandant’ ‘he’d better get to H... out of this, as those fellows out there are going to blow this post to H... in a few minutes.’

I did not wait to argue further, but hopped over the barrier furthest from the attacking troops, and made my way as fasts as possible back to my post. The barricade was blown to bits, as the ‘Commandant’ had predicted, and I never saw or heard of Jimmie or Paddy Dunne from that day to this. Two well educated fellows, so my poor arguments had no effect on them. Don’t ask me what prompted me to such an action. You don’t reason, you just act in such situations.

Document 4: Eva Chichester’s Experiences in Dublin (D4563/13/2)

Eva Chichester, from Newcastle County, Down, was visiting Dublin with her mother and sister when she was caught up in the Rising.

I want to make an effort to write an account of these last six terrible days, because I think we shall be glad afterwards to have done so. I write now on a lovely April morning and on what should be a peaceful quiet Sunday; but alas! Instead of church bells all

- 11 - round us, there is the unceasing crackle of rifles; surely it is the strangest Sunday we ever spent.

We three ladies came up to Dublin on Tuesday, April 18th, for a month; having made many plans for shopping, attending concerts and meetings, going to the Irish Church Synod and meeting friends. Needless to say, these plans were never carried out. The Concerts, meetings, and Synod are at an end; for all I know the very shops we wanted to go to are now no more; and any friends who live outside our own street might as well be in another hemisphere.

Everything was absolutely quiet, so far as we know, on Easter Sunday. We went to the beautiful afternoon service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and then sauntered home, all unconscious of trouble, through the crowded slums which surround it.

The first hint of anything unusual came on the morning of Easter Monday, April 24th, when I went round to Baggot St. about some rooms. The landlady there mentioned that the ‘Sinn Feiners’ (pronounced ‘Shin Fainers’) were to meet that day. N. and I were just going out, having a vague idea of exploring Trinity College on chance of the library being open; but as we know whenever there is a row in Dublin it is generally near the college, we began thinking that a Bank Holiday after all was not a very good day to go, and that we would take a walk in Stephen’s Green instead.

There were a good many Sinn Feiners marching about in their smart green-khaki uniform and plumed hats, and carrying rifles with fixed bayonets; but we only gave them a passing glance, thinking they were going to have a parade of some sort. We strolled through the Green, looking at the rockery flowers and rare birds and presently met a little bare-footed boy, who was crying because his sister was round at the other side of the lake, and he had lost himself. We took him with us and retraced our steps, making a long detour until he was safely restored to the other children. By this means we found ourselves near home again, and not far from the gate by which we had come in. We little guessed that our small ragged friend had been sent to us that morning to save us from serious danger. Had we carried out our intention of walking to the far end of the Green, we might never have returned.

As we approached the gate opposite to the Shelbourne Hotel, a Sinn Feiner was standing there in full uniform with a pistol in his hand. He was politely showing out the people

- 12 - who were inside the Green (a woman with baby and perambulator, and a few others) after which he shut the gate. We walked on quickly to the next gate; it was already shut. We tried a third; it was a small one and still open having evidently been overlooked, but as we passed out some men came up as if to shut it. We saw that the large entrance-gate was also closed, and a man was just beginning to dig the first trench inside. I believe it was just after that that the rebels were lying in ambush all round the Green, with rifles pointed outwards. Our rooms were only a few minutes walk from the Green, so it did not take us long to return. During the rest of that day we kept hearing from our sitting room strange sounds like the clatter of a pile of wooden planks thrown down. It made us vaguely uneasy, as the noise continued through the night; of course we know now that it was volleys from the rebels’ rifles. The whole thing came like a thunderclap upon everyone, and I fear the number of troops that first day was quite inadequate.

The Sinn Feiners not only took the Green, but every house round it which they considered suitable, posting snipers on the roofs ready to shoot each soldier who appeared. They marched to the General Post Office, took possession of all it contained (Old Age Pensions, separation allowances, etc. etc.) and cut all telegraph wires between Dublin, England, Scotland, and Belfast, practically isolating us from the whole world. At the same time they blew up Donabate Bridge, thus cutting off all railway communication with the north.

They got the four courts, so as to shoot troops coming from Phoenix Park; they took the ‘Wireless School’, and sent messages from it all day long, they also took Harcourt St and Westland Row Railway stations, and tore up the lines from Kingstown. Jacob’s great Biscuit Factory and Boland’s Bakery were two of their chief strongholds, and ‘Liberty Hall’ was their headquarters. By Monday night the rebels had also taken possession of suitable houses in Sackville St and stretched barbed wire across the street. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights there were fires in the city, but the Great Fire which destroyed Sackville St raged from Thursday night till Sunday morning.

All these facts we learned afterwards, but meanwhile we only knew that the Sinn Feiners had risen and that more troops were coming in.

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The soldiers began to arrive on Easter Tuesday, but had to fight every inch of their way into the city, sometimes before tasting food. For three and a half days some of the ammunition wagons tried to fight through into the City, and at last succeeded. ...

Contemporary postcard (D4131/K/10)

While on this subject I may go on a day or two, and describe Major S –‘s thrilling adventures in his attempt to return from Belfast and join his wife and daughter in Dublin. The military had commandeered all trains for the exclusive use of the troops proceeding to Dublin, for the whole of Ireland was now under martial law. Major S – was on recruiting business, and had great difficulty in getting permission to accompany the troops who were coming up to Dublin on active service, but at last he was allowed to do so. Donabate Bridge had been patched up sufficiently to allow the troop trains to go over it, so he reached Amiens St station safely. But to leave Amiens St and cross the City to join his family was no easy task. Troops were holding the station under fire, for the rebels shot at them from every window which looked down on Amiens St. Major S – was warned that if he walked through Dublin in khaki he took his life in his hand, so after sleeping on a bench at the station he changed into a suit of plain clothes, and attempted

- 14 - to pass the armed sentry, but in vain. The man had his orders to let no civilian through. Major S – persuaded, reasoned, and expostulated, and at last the sentry requested him to give the name of even one of the officers in the station whom he knew. Unfortunately all their names were unknown to him! Although they had had plenty of conversation together. Just then he espied an officer in the distance.

‘Oh! I knew that man’, said Major S – and beckoned to him. But the officer looked askance at the man in plain clothes, and only recognised him when Major S – explained.

After that more difficulties arose; he had no pass to take him through the military cordon, and finally was obliged to return to the station (and almost failed to pass into it again!) for another night. He spent his time putting blankets on the horses (who were stabled in a very draughty place and beginning to suffer from coughs caused by damp and cold), and in trying to get food. A kind woman who owned a small tavern lent him a pillow and gave him something to eat, and would take no money. After three nights (I think) spent in the station, Major S – became desperate, and made up his mind to walk through the City at all costs. He put on his khaki, and over it a light coloured overcoat as a slight disguise. By this time the troops had drawn a strong cordon round the centre of the City, but outside that of course countless snipers were still on the roofs and behind windows. Major S – expected to be stopped when attempting to cross the Liffey, so he ‘put on the airs of a general’, as he expressed it, and the sentry did not challenge him. But once through the military area came the real dangers. Bullets whizzed past his head, sent from invisible rifles hidden behind windows. He determined not to walk near any women who might be out, lest their lives should be in danger too, and he took off his khaki cap in the vain hope that he would look less like an officer. He walked up Dawson St and through the well-known Leinster Lawn museum, and at last reached his destination, strolling up our street just as my mother happened to be looking out the window. She knew at once who the bare-headed officer must be, and joyfully announced his arrival to us, but by that time we had reached the stage of suffering agonies of mind at the sight of a man in khaki, and we imposed her to come away from the window for fear of what she might see. Fortunately he got into his house safely, merely remarking as he went in that the Sinn Feiners must be very bad shots, for they hadn’t managed to hit him once! I think it was the day after this that N – and I went across to see Mrs S - . One was afraid of every man in the street, lest he should be a rebel concealing a revolver; so

- 15 - we did not much like having to pass a man in nondescript clothes who hung about the steps as we waited for the door to open. He wore a checked cap and badly fitting suit, walked stiffly, and carried something in his hand. I thought the door would never open. Then the man came nearer and raised his hand, which held a catch-key. It was Major S – in borrowed clothes! ...

Extract from the Irish Volunteer newspaper (D1507/A/15/25)

Document 5: Memoirs of John Regan (D3160/1)

Before the War John Regan had been a District Inspector in the Royal Irish Constabulary. When the Rising broke out we was a Captain with the Royal Irish Rifles based in Dublin.

Things in connection with the Irish Volunteers seemed gradually to get worse. We started to lose rifles in the battalion in a most mysterious way. I lost a number in my company although they were in a locked room and chained to the wall as was customary in India, so it was obvious that there was some clever traitor amongst us whom we never suspected. We had to find an in-lying picket of, at least, one hundred men daily, which was a nuisance. A matter arose in connection with this which I have never been able to understand. On Easter Sunday, 1916 I was in charge of the picket which consisted of four officers and the one hundred other ranks. I had allowed two

- 16 - officers to go off on recreation and was alarmed when in the early part of the evening, I received an order to stand to and issue ammunition, my relief being great when I got a couple of officers to replace those absent. I fell in the party, issued ammunition and then tried to find out what we were likely to have to do, so that I could think it over, but was made no wiser. Having waited for a long time ready to go out I was directed to pile arms, which we did, and continued to wait wondering what on earth was happening. Sometime after 10 pm we got orders to 'stand down'. I never learned the reasons for the order having been issued, but it seemed strange that this should have happened on the eve of the Rebellion as everybody seemed taken so much by surprise when it broke out the following day.

Next morning I handed over the charge of the picket to Major Leathem, who, poor man, was shot quite early in the rebellion and suffered from the Wound for the rest of his life. I wished him luck and went off with two other officers to Fairyhouse Races. After we had left the barracks and were going in the taxi towards Portobello Bridge we saw a body of armed men in green uniform approaching. One of our officers who had been out for a ride was just behind them. We thought that the party of Volunteers were on one of their usual route marches and as they waved to us we waved to them and went on our way. They had not gone fifty yards further, I understand, when they occupied a public house which commanded one of our barrack gates and fired on the officer on horseback before he reached barracks. We knew nothing of this and passed Stephen's Green where there were great signs of activity, green uniformed figures being at the gates and all over the place. We said, 'The Volunteers are having a big field day today.' They were. We noticed nothing further that I can remember and reached Fairyhouse.

During the day at the races we heard rumours of trouble in Dublin, but did not quite believe it. Before the end of the races we knew that something was up but had no idea of its nature or magnitude. We started for home. One of the party who had done himself rather well sat with the driver. We were in uniform, of course, and were stopped entering the city by a man whose appearance suggested he was of the ultra-Irish type, who advised us not to enter the city but to go out and remain somewhere in the country for a few days. Our slightly inebriated companion in front with the driver asked him where the IRA were in strength and being told they were very strong in the GPO at once said, 'Driver, drive to the GPO.' My friend and I in the back seat took good care that he

- 17 - did not, and after some inquiry we were advised to try to make for Dublin Castle. The people were all very friendly. Women and girls got on the footboard of the car and guided us through the back streets till we came out on to the Quays, where we had we thought a clear run for the Castle. We went down the quays as fast as we could and it was not pleasant as we were being fired at from the direction of the Four Courts, but fortunately the bullets were hitting many yards behind us. Just as we thought we were safe, we were stopped by a barricade and had to turn and again run the gauntlet, but none of us was hit. We were once more guided by women and girls down side streets and eventually reached the Castle by the back gate in Ship Street.

Both my companions had been wounded in France and were in the excused duty category. I was fit and was placed in charge of the troops or rather individuals from all sorts of units, who had taken sanctuary in the Castle. They had arms wherever they came from. The IRA held the City Hall beside the Castle and we were to try to take it on the following night or so. Whatever night it was, the first couple of parties had tried in vain and a third party had just gone out. If they failed, it was my turn. Machine-guns firing from under the archway at the gate were making a most dreadful noise and, as I did not know the lie of the land, nor indeed where the building to be attacked was actually situated, I was feeling anything but comfortable. Luckily the party before us captured their objective.

It was decided to occupy a public house of some tactical importance in Dame Street and I was directed to get a party to do so, being informed that the Dublin Metropolitan Police would act as guides. I got my men and told the DMP Chief I was ready, on which he said his men were at the gate. They were, but they were also intent on staying there, an excellent safety- first precaution seeing that the IRA commanded Dame Street. They told me where the public house was situated and that we entered into by a door down a side street, but they were emphatic that they were not going out, so we had to go out without them. They lowered the DMP greatly in my estimation. We went down Dame Street at the double and I got the party into the pub, but after seeing them in had to get back again alone. I was always a fairly fast sprinter, but I think I did record time in getting back from the pub to the Castle. I was somewhat disgusted when I read afterwards how wonderful everyone in the Castle had been during the rebellion. ...

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We held command of the different streets covered by the occupied houses and, except for sniping, nothing much happened. Then the troops from England arrived. They had had a gruelling time coming into Dublin and did not know friend from foe. They regarded, not unreasonably, everyone they saw as an enemy, and fired at anything that moved. My men objected to this, and I had some trouble at first in keeping the peace, but after a little the newcomers settled down and all was well. People were of course not allowed to move about the streets and very soon there was a grave shortage of food, particularly bread. I was very sympathetic with all the housewives, more especially as I remembered how people like them had assisted my friends and me to reach Dublin Castle from Fairyhouse. I formed them up in fours, with their baskets, and marched them to the bakers shop and back again, so relieving the situation. Our only worry was snipers, whom it was very difficult to locate. Some we got on the roofs of houses, but those who fired from inside a room, over a blanket stretched across it and through a window from which the glass had been removed were nearly impossible to spot.

While engaged at a window in the rear of my headquarters building searching the surrounding area with field glasses to try to locate snipers, a bullet struck the wall inside the room within a few feet from me. I got a shock as the direction it had come from was free from snipers and although thinking at first that the enemy must be in the building soon found that such was not a fact and that the shots - for there had been others - had been fired by some English Tommies from behind a chimney stack on Jervis Street hospital a short distance away. We determined to stop them from firing at us so training a machine-gun on the chimney stack we gave it a few bursts of fire which must have scared the wits out of the men under cover behind it as we noticed they took up another position afterwards and left us severely alone.

The GPO eventually surrendered and I was present in Moore Street when a man was brought out on a stretcher to surrender. It was James Connolly. There was another man in green uniform who surrendered about the same time, and I thought the English officer to whom he gave himself up was very patient with all the conditions that were being talked about. It was at a late hour when the prisoners from the GPO passed my headquarters going to Dublin Castle. There is something weird in the sound of marching at the dead of night and as the prisoners were singing, 'God Save Ireland' I seemed to hear the words, 'What matter if for Erin's cause we fall', sung in deadly earnest for the

- 19 - first time. I was greatly impressed in spite of my antipathy towards them owing to the loss of some of my men.

When I returned to Dublin Castle after the surrender things had changed with a vengeance. When I had been there before no one would put his nose out on to the street if he could avoid it, now loyalists, with arm bands and carbines, were doing sentry when there was no danger of their having to challenge an enemy. The absence of bullets made a big difference.

Document 6: Essay written by Eva Gore Booth. ‘After Easter Week’. (D4131/K/1/7/1/4)

Eva Gore-Booth had been in London whenever the Easter Rising broke out. Her sister Constance Markievicz played a leading role in role in the rebellion acting as second-in-command of the forces fighting in St. Stephen’s Green. Eva’s essay describes events in Dublin the week after the Rising as well as her meeting with

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Constance in Mountjoy prison. The following extract takes the form of a eulogy to the radical activist, writer, pacifist and nationalist Francis Sheehy-Skeffington. Sheehy–Skeffington was not one of the rebels and did not take part in the Rising. On the first morning he attempted to bring aid to a mortally wounded British officer shot outside Dublin Castle. On Easter Tuesday he was arrested by British troops on Portobello Bridge as he was attempting to dissuade looters from ransacking shops. After his arrest he was detained in Portobello Barracks and in controversial circumstances was shot by firing squad the following morning.

All the same, talking to Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington that afternoon, one realised there was much more in the story of her husband’s murder than mere military carelessness and indifference. Both she and her husband were strong pacifists, and possess no weapons, but the windows of the room in which we sat were still broken by the volley fired into it by the soldiers when there was no-one in the house but herself and her little boy of nine. Since then the story of her husband’s murder has often been told, but at that time, the horror of it was still fresh. She showed us the poor little parcel, returned from the barracks, containing a watch and a tie and a collar, worthless things; that bore pathetic witness to the almost insane truth that those who did not scruple to steal human lives were yet most honourable and honest in their dealings with property, to them a much more important matter.

Hearing Mrs Skeffington talk one realised that though her husband never had a weapon in his hand, Militarism was wise in its generation, and in him had struck down its worst enemy, unarmed, yet insurgent idealism. It was not for nothing that the half mad officer who carried out the murder was promoted a week afterwards. The authorities knew their business well. All his life Skeffington had never ‘ceased from mental fight’ against all forms of tyranny, oppression and cruelty. He was a born rebel, a questioner of ancient traditions, a shaker of ancient tyranny. He refused to go out against tyranny with a gun, not because he acquiesced in authority, but because he did not acquiesce in any violence between human beings.

In a social state founded entirely on blind obedience to certain traditions and ideas, mental freedom means disaster, and the man who knows no obedience is the enemy. If

- 21 - the unthinkable had happened and Skeffington had been in the British army, he would not have shot James Connolly or Patrick Pearse. Not only would he have died protesting against those terrible crimes, but he would have tried to rouse the conscience of every soldier he came near. Individual conscience in the army means mutiny. It is the deadly and most fatal enemy of militarism. Skeffington on fire with hatred of violence and cruelty, attending recruiting meetings, speaking in the street against war, defending the cause of Labour, denouncing all oppression in the name of liberty, mercy and kindness, was a greater danger to the authorities than many a more violent revolutionist. For revolution and counter revolution are familiar to the weary world, but his voice was the voice of a new era – a terrible possibility, that nightmare of individual evolution and militant good will that shakes the dreams of militarism with strange threat. Truly it was easy enough to understand ‘why they shot Skeffy’, though the only crime that they could accuse him of was an effort to persuade a hooligan crowd not to loot shops. Militarism has a true instinct and a short way with its enemies – but perhaps the future is with Skeffington.

Document 6: Account of the death of Francis Sheehy-Skeffington written by Eva Gore-Booth. (D4131/K/9/1)

Eva also wrote an account of Sheehy-Skeffington’s actions as the Rising broke out and his execution by firing squad on the morning of 26th April 1916.

When the Rising broke out, his principles prevented him from taking any militant part in it, but his eager and energetic nature would not allow him to remain passive or to keep him away from the danger zone. When Captain Pinfield (an English Officer) was said to be bleeding to death in the street, he went out at the risk of his life under cross firing to try and assist him. He interested himself in an effort that was being made to prevent looting and rioting by the hooligan elements in the population after the police had been withdrawn from the streets.

The tragic story of his assassination had been told by Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington. Returning to his home on Tuesday April 25 between 7 + 8 o’clock (his description had been already circulated at the city bridges) he was arrested at Portobello Bridge &

- 22 - conveyed to Portobello Barracks...Though no charge was entered against him, orders were issued from head quarters that he was to be ‘detained’ and he was kept a prisoner in a separate locked cell. At midnight he was forcibly removed from the guard by Captain Brown Colthurst of the Royal Irish Rifles & taken a hostage with his hands bound behind his back as far as Portobello bridge with his captors.....At the bridge he was left in the charge of Lieutenant Leslie Wilson with orders that he was to be shot if there were any sniping, or any attack on the raiding party which went to raid & bomb Alderman Kelly’s premises a little further down. Escorted back with the raiding party & other prisoners he was locked up for the night handcuffed. He asked in vain that word should be sent to his wife who lived within ten minutes distance of the barracks. At ten next morning Captain Brown Colthurst again removed him from the guard and had him shot without warning & without any form of trial in the yard adjoining the cell. Noticing a movement in his body the officer had a second volley fired at the wounded man as he lay on the ground. That night his body, sown in a sack, was buried in the barracks. On the following Sunday bricklayers were brought to remove from the walls all traces of the crime! Such was the death of Sheehy Skeffington.

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Please note all the documents used in this blog have been edited for clarity and, in some cases abridged. For more information on the documents and PRONI’s sources relating to the First World War see our Guide to First World War Sources.

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