NORA CONNOLLY THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916 OR THE UNBROKEN TRADITION THE IRISH REBELLION qf 1916 OR THE UNBROKEN TRADITION BY NORA CONNOLLY BONI AND LIVERIGHT NEW YORE Copyright, 1918, Copyright, 1919, By Boni & Liveright, Inc. Printed in the United States of America n a b c~ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS James Connolly . ._._._... . Frontispiece Countess Markievietz .... Facing page 12 Thomas J. Clarke " "36 The Proclamation of the Provisional Government issued at the G. P. O. on Monday, April 24, 1917 Facing page 44 John McDermott . . . . . Nora Connolly » % ■--. %**•'■ Liberty Hall Joseph Plunkett Thomas Macdonagh .... Eoin MacNeill Patrick H. Pearse Eamonn Ceannt << « 66 cc cc 88 cc cc 100 M « 118 CC (< 134 66 « 152 CC (( 170 <« << 182 MAPS PAGE 22 The Journey from Belfast to Leek . . . The Journey from Dundalk to Dublin ... 23 Map of Dublin Facing page 164 j.. r..- •:. ; m i icd INTRODUCTION There have been many attempts to explain the revolution which took place in Ireland dur- ing Easter Week, 1916. And all of them give different reasons. Some have it that it was caused by the resentment that grew out of the Dublin Strike of 1912-13; others, that it was the threatened Ulster rebellion, and there are many other equally wrong explanations. All these writers ignore the main fact that the Revolution was caused by the English occu- pation of Ireland. So many people not conversant with Irish affairs ask: Why a revolution? Why was it necessary to appeal to arms? Why was it nec- essary to risk death and imprisonment for the self-government of Ireland? They say that there w T as already in existence an Act for the Self-government of Ireland, that it had been passed through the English House of Com- mons, and that if we had waited till the end of the war we would have been given an oppor- tunity to govern ourselves. That they are not viii INTRODUCTION conversant with Irish affairs must be their ex- cuse for thinking in that manner of our strug- gle for freedom. To be able to think and to speak thus one must first recognize the right of the English to govern Ireland, for only by so doing can we logically accept any measure of self-govern- ment from England. And we cannot do so, for, as a nation Ire- land has never recognized England as her con- queror, but as her antagonist, as an enemy that must be fought. And this attitude has succeeded in keeping the soul of Ireland alive and free. For the conquest of a nation is never com- plete till its soul submits, and the submission of the soul of a nation to the conqueror makes its slavery and subjection more sure. But the soul of Ireland has never submitted. And sometimes when the struggle seemed hopeless, and sacrifice useless, and there was thought to make truce with the foe, the voice of the soul of Ireland spoke and urged the nation once more to resist. And the voice of the soul of Ireland has the clangor of battle. There have been many attempts to drown the voice of the soul of Ireland ever since the INTRODUCTION ix coming of the English into our country. There have been some who have had the God-given gift of leadership, but still sought to misin- terpret the sound of the voice ; who in shutting their ears to the call for battle have helped to fasten the shackles of slavery more securely on their country. There was Daniel O'Connell who possessed the divine gift of leadership and oratory, and in whose tones the people recognized the voice of Ireland and flocked around him. During the agitation for the Repeal of the union be- tween Ireland and England the people fol- lowed O'Connell and wdted for him to give the word. Never for one moment did they be- lieve that the movement was merely a consti- tutional one. Sensibly enough they knew that speeches, meetings and cheers would never win for them the freedom of their country. They knew that force alone would compel England to forego her hold upon any of her possessions. So that when in 1844 O'Connell sent out the call bidding all the people of Ireland to muster at Clontarf, outside Dublin, they believed that the day had come, and from North, South, East and West they started on the journey. Those x INTRODUCTION who lived in the West and South traveled the distance in all sorts of conveyances, many of them, especially the poorer ones, walked the distance; but the trouble, the weariness, the hardship were all ignored by them in the knowl- edge that they were once more mustering to do battle for the freedom of their country. But in the meantime, while the people were making all speed to obey the summons of O'Connell, the meeting had been proclaimed by the British Government; and the place of muster was lined with regiments of soldiers with artillery with orders to mow down the people if they attempted to approach the meet- ing place. Then it was that O'Connell failed the people of Ireland, and rung the knell for the belief of the Irish people in constitutional- ism. He said, "All the freedom in the world is not worth one drop of human blood," and commanded the people to obey the order of the British Government and to return to their homes. There are many pitiful, heart-breaking sto- ries told of the manner in which this command of O'Connell reached the people. Many who had walked miles upon miles reached the out- skirts of Dublin only to meet the people pour- INTRODUCTION xi iiig out of it. When in return to their ques- tions they were told that it was the request of O'Connell that they return to their homes, the heart within them broke for they knew that their idol had failed them, and their hopes of freeing Ireland were shattered. Within the Repeal Association there was another organization called the Young Ire- landers, which published a paper called The Nation. This paper was an immense factor in arousing and keeping alive a firm nationalist opinion in Ireland. The Young Irelanders were revolutionists, and by their writings coun- seled the people to adopt military uniforms, to study military tactics, to march to and from the meetings in military order. They made no secret of their belief that the freedom of Ire- land must be won by force of arms. During the famine in 184*7, when the people were dying by the hundreds, although there was enough food to feed them, the Young Ire- landers worked untiringly to save the people. At that time potatoes were the staple food of the people, everything else they raised, corn, pigs, cattle, etc., had to be sold to pay the ter- rible rackrents. The Young Irelanders called upon the people to keep the food in the country xii INTRODUCTION and save themselves; but day by day more food was shipped from the starving country to Eng- land ; there to be turned into money to pay the grasping landlords. It was during this time that John Mitchell was arrested and transport- ed for life to Van Diemen's land. In 1848 there was an ill-fated attempt at in- surrection. Even in the midst of famine and death, with the people dying daily by the road- side, there was still the belief that only by an appeal to force and arms could anything be wrung from England. In Tipperary, under Smith O'Brien, the attempt was made, more as a protest then, for famine, death, and misery had thinned the ranks, than with any hopes of winning anything. Most of the leaders were soon arrested and four of them were sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered; but this sentence was afterwards commuted to life im- prisonment. For many years after the famine the peo- ple were quiescent, and had grown quite un- caring about Parliamentary representation. And then was formed a revolutionary secret society calling itself the Fenians. The mem- bers of this organization were pledged to work for, and, when the time came, to fight for and INTRODUCTION xiii establish, an Irish Republic. James Stephens was the chief organizer. The organization spread through Ireland like wildfire. Even the English Army and Navy were honeycombed with it. Every means possible were taken by the English to cope with this new revolutionary movement — but they failed. The organization decided that a Rising would take place in Feb- ruary, 1867. This was later postponed; but unfortunately the word did not reach the South in time and Kerry rose. The word spread over Ireland that Kerry was up in arms. Measures were taken by the English to meet the insurrec- tionists, but before they reached the South the men had learned that the date of the rising had been postponed and had returned to their homes. Luby, O'Leary, Kickham, and O'Don- ovan Rossa were arrested. Still the Rising took place on the appointed date, although doomed to failure owing to the crippling of the organization by the arrest of its leaders, and the lack of arms. Even the elements were against the revolutionists, for a snowstorm, heavier than any of the oldest could remem- ber having seen, fell and covered the country in great drifts. They failed. But the teaching of the Fen- xiv INTRODUCTION ians and the organization they founded are alive to-day. It was the members of this or- ganization that first started the Irish Volun- teers. Ever on the watch for a ripe moment to come out and work openly, ever longing for the day when military instruction could be given to the nationalist youth, they seized upon the fact that if the Ulster Volunteers were per- mitted to drill and arm themselves to fight the English Government so could they. And in November, 1913, they called a meeting in the Rotunda, Dublin, and invited the men and women of Ireland to join the Irish Volunteers, and pledge themselves "to maintain and secure the rights and liberties common to all the peo- ple of Ireland." So once more the people of Ireland heard the call to arms, and right royally they answered it. The Irish Volunteer Organization spread throughout the land, and the youth of Ireland were being trained in the art of soldiering. Then it was that, like Daniel O'Connell and other constitutional leaders, Redmond proved himself of the body and not the soul of Ireland. He did not follow the example of Parnell, whose follower he was supposed to be, and use the threat of this large physical force party to INTRODUCTION xv gain his ends from the English Government. Parnell used to say to the British House of Commons : "If you do not listen to me, there is a large band of physical force men, with whom I have no influence, and upon whom I have no control, and they will compel you to listen to them." But Redmond, jealous of all parties outside his own (knowing well that when an Irishman had a rifle in his hands he no longer felt subservient to, or feared England; and that when the people of Ireland had the means to demand the freedom of their country they grew impatient of speech-making and pe- titioning), grew fearful for the loss of power of the Irish Parliamentary Party. He knew also, that, as in the days of O'Con- nell, Butt, and Parnell, the people firmly be- lieved that all the talk and show of constitu- tionalism was a blind, merely a throwing of dust in the eyes of the English Government, and to save himself and his Party he must ap- prove this physical Force party. But not con- tent with approval he needs must try to cap- ture the Irish Volunteers. This attempt, I firmly believe, was made upon the advice, or the command of the British Government. He sent a demand to the Executive Committee xvi INTRODUCTION that a number of his appointees be received upon the Committee. This would enable him to know and obstruct all measures made by the Irish Volunteers and would prevent the loss of power of the Parliamentary Party. By the votes of a small majority of the Committee these appointees were accepted. But the Committee soon found out that it was impossible to arm and prepare men for a revo- lution against a government, while the paid servants of that government were amongst them. They decided to part company even at the risk of a division in the ranks. They knew that every man who remained with them could be depended upon to do his part when the time for the Rising came. Then England went to war. Shortly be- fore this a Home Rule Bill had passed two readings in the House of Commons. Eng- land saw the stupidity of appealing to Irish- men to go to fight for the freedom of small nationalities, while any measure of freedom was denied to their own. So the Home Rule Bill passed the final reading in the House of Commons, and was put upon the Statute Book. Then fearful of the dissatisfaction of the Unionists an amendment was tacked on INTRODUCTION xvii that prevented its going into effect until after the war. John Redmond dealt the final blow to his influence upon Ireland when he began to re- cruit for the English Army. Many of his followers, taking his word that Home Rule was now a fact entered the English Army at his request. They were, in the main, young, foolish, and ignorant fellows unable to ana- lyze the Bill for themselves, and therefore could not know that the so-called Home Rule was a farce. They did not know that the Bill gave them no power over the revenue, over the Post Office, over the Royal Irish Con- stabulary, that they could not raise an army, or impose a tax, and that no law passed by the Irish Parliament could go into effect until the English House of Commons had given its approval. It was like telling a prisoner that he was free and keeping him in durance. And from the beginning of the war the Irish Volunteers spent all the time they could in intensive drilling, not knowing at what time their hand might be forced, or the opportune moment for the Rising might arrive. For in Ireland we have the unbroken tradi- tion of struggle for our freedom. Every gen- xviii INTRODUCTION eration has seen blood spilt, and sacrifice cheerfully made that the tradition might live. Our songs call us to battle, or mourn the lost struggle; our stories are of glorious victory and glorious defeat. And it is through them the tradition has been handed down till an Irish man or woman has no greater dream of glory than that of dying "A Soldier's death so Ireland's free." THE IRISH REBELLION OF 1916 OR THE UNBROKEN TRADITION My first mingling with an actively, openly drilling revolutionary body took place during the Dublin strike of 1912-1913. I was living in Belfast then and had come to Dublin to see how things were managed, how the food was being distributed and the kitchens run; and, in fact, to feel the spirit of the people. James Connolly, my father, was at that time in Dublin assisting James Larkin to direct the strike. He was my pilot. Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the Irish Transport and Gen- eral Workers Union, the members of which were on strike, was first visited. It is situated on Beresford Place facing the Custom House and the River LifFey. In the early part of the nineteenth century it had been a Chop House. Almost from the big front door a wide staircase starts. It ends at the second story. From there it branches out into innu- l 2 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION merable corridors thickly studded with doors. It took me a long time to master those corri- dors. Always I seemed to be finding new ones. Downstairs on the first floor were the theater and billiard rooms; and below them were the kitchens. During the strike these kitchens were used to prepare food for the strikers. It was to the kitchens my father first piloted me. Here the Countess de Markievicz reigned supreme — all meals were prepared under her direction. There were big tubs on the floor; around each were about half a dozen girls peel- ing potatoes and other vegetables. There were more girls at tables cutting up meat. The Countess kept up a steady march around the boilers as she supervised the cooking. She took me to another kitchen where more delicate food was being prepared for nursing and ex- pectant mothers. "We used to give the food out at first," she said. "But in almost every case we found that it had been divided amongst the family. Now we have the women come here to eat. We are sure then that they are getting something suf- ficiently nourishing to keep up their strength." She showed me a hall with a long table in the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 8 center and chairs around it. As it was near the "Mothers' dinner hour," as the girls called it, some of the striking women and girls were there to act as waitresses. We came to the clothing shop next. Some persons had caught the idea of sending warm clothing for the wives and children of the strikers; accordingly one of the rooms of Lib- erty Hall was turned into an alteration room. Several women and girls were working from morning to night altering the clothes to fit the applicants. One of the girls said to me, "It was a wonder to us at first the number of strikers who had extra large families, until we found out that in many cases their wives had adopted a youngster or two for the day, and brought them along to get clothed." Not strictly honest, perhaps, but how human to wish to share their little bit of good fortune with those not so fortunate as themselves. How many little boys and girls knew for the first time in their lives the feel of warm stock- ings and shoes, and how many little girls had the delicious thrill of getting a new dress fitted on. Thence to Croyden Park. Some time be- fore the strike this immensely big place had 4. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION been taken over by the Union. I do not know how large it was but there were fields and fields, and long pathways edged with trees. It was used by the members as a football ground and for hurley and all sorts of sports and games. But this time the fields were ringed round with men and women watching the rows and rows of strikers who were in the fields, marching now to the right, now to the left at the commands of Captain White, who stood in the center, a tall soldierly figure blowing a whistle and gesticu- lating with great fervor. Back and forth, right and left they marched with never a moment's rest; then round and round the fields they ran at the double; the Captain now at the head, now at the rear, now in the center shouting commands incessantly, sparing himself no more than the men. I re- member once he stopped beside my father and myself; he was in a terrible rage, his hands were clenched and he was fairly gnashing his teeth. He had given a signal to one of the columns and they had misinterpreted it. "Easy now, Captain," said my father, "re- member they are only volunteers." Captain White turned like a flash. "Yes," he said. "And aren't they great?" THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 5 And he forgot his rage in his admiration of the men of a few weeks' training. He gave an or- der, the men marched past and at a given place they received broom handles with which they practiced rifle drill. After rifle drill came the line up for the march home. We waited till the last row was filing past and then fell in and marched back to the city with the Irish Citizen Army. It was exhilarating. At no period could I see the first part of the Army. The men and boys were whistling tunes to serve them in lieu of bands. On they swung to Beresford Place, where they lined up in front of Liberty Hall. Jim Larkin and my father spoke to them from the windows. When one man called out, "We'll stick by you to the end," he was loudly and heartily cheered. Captain White gave the order of dismissal and the men broke ranks but did not go away. When they were not drilling, or sleeping, or eating, they thronged round Liberty Hall, attesting that "where the heart lieth there turneth the feet." When the strike was over and the men had won the right to organize, the membership of the Irish Citizen Army dwindled rapidly. When one takes into consideration the arduous 6 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION work and the long hours that comprised the daily round of these men, the wonder was that there were so many of them willing to meet after working hours to be drilled into perfect soldiers. But they knew that by so doing they were, in the words of my father, "signifying their adhesion to the principle that the freedom of a people must in the last analysis rest in the hands of that people — that there is no outside force capable of enforcing slavery upon a peo- ple really resolved to be free, and valuing free- dom more than life." Also that "The Irish Citizen Army in its constitution pledges its members to fight for a Republican Freedom in Ireland. Its members are, therefore, of the number who believe that at the call of duty they may have to lay down their lives for Ire- land, and have so trained themselves that at the worst the laying down of their lives shall constitute the starting point of another glori- ous tradition — a tradition that will keep alive the soul of the nation." And this was the knowledge that lightened all the labor of drill- ing and soldiering. I was present at a lecture given to them by their Commandant, James Connolly. It was on the art of street fighting. I remember the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 7 close attention every man paid to the lecture and the interest they displayed in the diagrams drawn on the board the better to explain his meaning. At the close of the lecture he asked, "Are there any questions ?" There were many questions, all of them to the effect, whether it would not be better to do it this way, or could we not get better results that way. All in deadly earnestness, thinking only on how the best results might be achieved and not one man commenting on the danger to life the acts would surely entail. That one would have to risk death was taken for granted. Their one thought was how to get the most work done before death came. A few months later there were maneuvers between one company of the Irish Citizen Army and a company of the Irish Volunteers. The Irish Volunteers had been formed after the Irish Citizen Army and by this time had spread over the length and breadth of Ireland. While the Irish Citizen Army admitted none but union men the Irish Volunteers made no such distinction. And as they both had the one ideal of a Republican Ireland there was much friendly rivalry between the two bodies. This time the maneuvers took the form of a 8 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION sham battle, which took place at Ticknock about six miles outside of Dublin. The Irish Citizen Army won the day. I particularly re- member that afternoon. My father came into the house, tired but pleasantly excited — he had been an onlooker at the sham battle. "I've discovered a great military man," he said in high glee. "The way he handled his men posi- tively amounted to genius. Do you know him — his name is Mallin?" I did not know him then. I met him later when he was my father's Chief of Staff. Dur- ing the rising he was Commandant in charge of the St. Stephen's Green Division of the Army of the Irish Republic, and he was exe- cuted during that dreadful time following the surrender of the Irish Republican Army. II During the month of July, 1914, I was camping out on the Dublin mountains. The annual convention of Na Fianna Eireann (Irish National Boy Scouts) had just been held, and I was a delegate to it from the Bel- fast Girls' Branch, of which I was the presi- dent. On the Sunday following the conven- tion we were still camping out; but were suf- fering all the discomforts of blowy, rainy, stormy weather. Madame (the Countess de Markievicz) had a cottage beside the field where we were encamped, and it was thronged with us all that Sunday. Noth- ing would tempt us out in the field that night, and we kept putting off the retiring time, hour by hour, till it was nearly twelve o'clock. At that time we had just taken our courage in both hands, and were forcing ourselves to go out to our tents. We were standing near the door with our bedding in our arms when some of the Fianna boys halloed from outside. We 9 10 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION gladly opened the door — another excuse for putting off the evil moment — and about half a dozen boys came in to the cottage. They were in great spirits, although they had tramped some miles in the rain, and exhibited strange looking clubs to our curious eyes. "Guess what we've been doing to-day, Ma- dame," they said, but with an expression on their faces which said, "you'll never guess." "It's too much trouble to guess," said Ma- dame. "Tell us what it was and we will know all the quicker." "We've been helping to run in three thous- and rifles." "Rifles — where — quick — tell me all about it. Quick." "At Howth. But did you hear nothing about it?" "Nothing. Tell me quick." "Did you not hear that we had a brush with the soldiers ; and that some were shot and some were killed?" "No — no. Begin at the beginning and tell us the whole story." "Well, during the week we were told to re- port at a certain place to-day — that there was important work to be done. This morning we THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 11 met as we were told, and we were shown these clubs. They were to be all the arms we were to have. We started out to march with the Volunteers to Howth. We knew, somehow or other, that we were going to get rifles but none of us knew for a fact how we were going to get them. As we marched we made all sorts of guesses as to how the rifles were coming. Of course, we did not carry the clubs in our hands; we brought them with us in the trek cart. But for a few others we were the only ones who knew what was in the cart. And do you know, Madame," he said with a vet- eran's pride, "we marched better than the Vol- unteers." "When we came near Howth," said another boy as he took up the story, "two chaps came running towards us and told us to come on at the double. The Volunteers were rather tired but when they heard the word 'rifles' they simply raced. When we arrived at the harbor we saw the rifles being unloaded from a yacht. You ought to have heard the cheers when we saw them! Then it was that the clubs were distributed. They were given to a picked body of men and they were formed across the en- trance to the pier. They were to use the clubs 12 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION if the police attempted to interfere with them. The rifles were handed out to the men, but there were more rifles than men so some had to be sent into the city in automobiles. Most of the ammunition was sent into the city in auto- mobiles but quite a lot was put into the trek cart. But none was served out to the men." "That was a nice thing to do," said the first boy, "to give rifles and no ammunition. And when we were attacked we couldn't shoot back. We had a fight with the soldiers and the police near the city. And when the soldiers and the police attacked us and might have taken the trek cart from us, we had only the butts of our rifles to defend it with. But we beat them off. Later on, though, they took their revenge when they shot down defenseless women and chil- dren. They just knelt down in the middle of Bachelor's .Walk and fired into the crowd. I don't know how many were killed — some say five, some say more." "But you brought the rifles safe," said Madame. "The whole city is excited. The people are walking up and down the streets, they don't seem to think that thev have any homes to go to." COUNTED M VRKIEVIETZ THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 13 When we heard that we wanted to dress and go down to Dublin. We wanted a share of the excitement, if we had not had any share in the fight. But Madame vetoed that suggestion almost as soon as it was mooted. We had to go to bed. But we had so much to talk about that we scarcely noticed the sogging wet tent when we were inside. The next morning was gloriously fine. We breakfasted and were making plans to go into the city to hear some more about yesterday's exploit. Madame had already cycled in, and we were left to our own devices. We had not quite finished our work around the camp when we saw a taxi-cab stopping near the gate that was used as an entrance to the field. As we ran towards it we wondered what had brought it there. Before we reached it, however, one of the Fianna captains had jumped out of the taxi and was coming towards us. "I have about twenty rifles in the car, and I want to get them to Madame's cottage," he said. "Will you help?" We were glad of the opportunity. We jumped over the hedge into the next field where there were no houses, and had the rifles handed to us. We could only carry two at a time. The U THE UNBROKEN TRADITION captain stood at the car on the lookout, and also handed the rifles to us. We carried the rifles down to the window back of Madame's cottage, and when we had them all there one of us went inside to open the window to take the rifles from the other girls as they handed them through. We were delighted to handle the arms. Later on one of the neighbors said that it was wrong to leave the rifles there. "There is a retired sergeant of the police who lives a lit- tle way up the road and he wouldn't be above telling about them." This rather frightened us. If the police came and took them from us, what could we do? I decided to go in to Dublin and go to the Volunteer office and tell them about the rifles. When I had told about the rifles two of the men present accompanied me back to the camp to take the rifles from there. We set off in another taxi and arrived at the camp before there was any sign of the police becoming active. All the rifles were carried out again and put in the taxi. When they w^ere all in it, it was suggested that we should get into the taxi and sit on top of the rifles. The police would be less suspicious of a taxi THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 15 with girls in it. It was not a very comfortable seat that we had on that trip to Dublin. But the rifles were saved. When we got back to the office I offered to sit in any taxi with the rifles if they thought it would divert attention. I sat on quite a number of rifles that day. And at the end of the day I had a rifle of my own. In the meantime, the bodies of those who had been shot by the soldiers were laid out and brought to the Cathedral. Preparations were made for a public funeral to honor the victims of English soldiery in Ireland. All the Vol- unteers were to march in honor of the dead, and the local trades unions, the Irish Citizen Army, the Cumann na mBan, the Fianna, and as many of the citizens of Dublin as desired to do so. The Fintan Lalor Pipe Band, con- nected with the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, were to play the Dead March. And there was to be a firing party of the Irish Volunteers who were to use the rifles that had so soon been the cause of bloodshed. I spent all the day of the funeral making wreaths. The funeral was not to take place till the evening so as to permit all who wished to attend to do so. The Fianna boys went round to the different florists asking for flow- 16 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION ers to make wreaths to place on the graves of the dead. And they were richly rewarded. Every florist they went to gave bunches and bunches of their best flowers, and these the boys brought to Madame's house. Madame and I, and two or three other girls, worked con- tinually all during the afternoon turning the flowers into wreaths. .When we had finished we had seventeen glorious big wreaths. Just before six we piled into an automobile, some of the boys in Gaelic costume stood on the run- ning board. The saffron and green of the kilts and the many wreaths made quite an ar- tistic dash of color when we arrived at Beres- ford Place to have our place assigned to us. The bodies of the five victims were removed from the Cathedral and placed in the hearses. Behind each one walked the chief mourners. Much interest was aroused by the sight of a soldier in the English uniform, who marched, weeping openly, after one of the hearses. He had joined the English Army and had prom- ised to protect the English King, and now the soldiers of that king had shot and killed his innocent defenseless mother. Dublin was profoundly moved as the funer- al cortege passed through the city. Thousands THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 17 upon thousands marched to the cemetery after the hearses, and thousands more lined the streets. They were attesting their sympathy with the families of the dead, and their realiza- tion that England still intended to rule Ireland with the rifle and the bullet. The firing party, as they marched after the hearses with their rifles reversed, excited much comment. The people contrasted the differ- ence in the treatment accorded the National- ists when they had a gun-running, with that accorded the Ulster gun-runners. And they knew once more that England would kill and destroy them rather than permit them to have the means to protect their lives and to fight for their liberties. The authorities were aware of the feeling aroused in the peojDle by the killing of the un- armed women and men, and to prevent any further disturbance they confined the soldiers to their barracks that evening. Still the feel- ing against "The King's Own Scottish Border- ers" (the regiment that had done the shooting) ran so high that the entire regiment was se- cretly sent away from Dublin. Ill About one week later, while the people were still incensed at the shooting, England went to war. Almost immediately she issued an ap- peal to the Irish to join her army. Later she appealed to them to avenge the shooting of the citizens of Catholic Belgium. Because her memory was short, or perhaps because her need was so great she chose to ignore the fact that English soldiers had but shortly shot down and killed the unarmed citizens of Catholic Dublin. But Dublin did not forget. The Irish Citizen Army distinguished itself when John Redmond and Mr. Asquith, who was then Prime Minister, came over to Dublin shortly after the outbreak of the war. They came to hold a recruiting meeting in the Man- sion House. It was supposed to be a public meeting at which the Prime Minister and the Irish Parliamentary Leader would appeal to the citizens of Dublin to enlist in the British Army ; yet no one was let in without a card of 18 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 19 admission. A cordon of soldiers were drawn across both ends of the street in which the Mansion House was situated, at Nassau Street and at St. Stephen's Green. No one could pass these cordons without presenting the card and being subjected to a close scrutiny by the local detectives. This was to make sure that no objectionable person could get in to the meeting and make a row. But the National- ists of Dublin had no intention of going to the meeting ; there was to be another one that would give them more pleasure. A monster demonstration had been decided upon by the Irish Citizen Army to prove to Mr. Asquith, and through him to England, that the mass of the Dublin people were against recruiting for the British Army. They mus- tered outside of Liberty Hall. The speakers, amongst whom was Sean Mac Dermott who was there to represent the Irish Volunteers, were on a lorry guarded by members of the Irish Citizen Army armed with rifles and fixed bayonets ; a squad similarly armed guarded the front and the rear. They were determined that there would be no arrest of anti-recruiters that night. They marched around the city, the crowd 20 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION swelling as they went, and they stopped at the "Traitors' Arch" (the popular name for the Memorial to the Irish soldiers who fell in the Boer War) , at St. Stephen's Green, two blocks away from where the recruiting meeting was being held. As speaker after speaker de- nounced recruiting, and denounced England, and Redmond, and Asquith, feeling surged higher and higher until it reached a climax when James Connolly called on those present to declare for an Irish Republic. Cheers burst from thousands of throats and a forest of hands appeared in the air as they declared for a Republic. We were told afterwards that the recruiting meeting had to stop till the anti- recruiters stayed their cheering. The armed men of the Irish Citizen Army resumed the march first to make sure that none would be molested. Down Grafton Street they went and halted again beside the old House of Parliament, where Jim Larkin called on them to raise their right hands and pledge themselves never to join the British Army. Every one present did so. Then, whistling and singing Nationalist marching tunes and anti-recruiting songs, they marched back to Liberty Hall and dispersed. As a result of THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 21 Asquith's meeting, or because of the Irish Citi- zen Army meeting, only six men joined the British Army next day. Midnight mobilizations were a feature of the Irish Citizen Army. They served a twofold purpose. They taught the men to be ready whenever called upon, and were a great source of annoyance to the police. At every mobiliza- tion of the Irish Citizen Army a squad of police and detectives were detailed by the au- thorities to follow and report all the move- ments. One midnight the men mobilized at Liberty Hall; they were divided into two bodies, the attacking and the defending. They marched to the North side of the city, one body going across the canal, and the other remain- ing behind to prevent the entrance of the at- tackers. The battle lasted two hours. It was a bitter winter's night and the police were on duty all the time as they did not dare to leave, for there was no telling what the Irish Citizen Army might be up to. After the men had completed their evolu- tions around the bridge they formed ranks and marched round the city, the police following them. They stopped at Emmet Hall, Inchi- core, for refreshments. There they had a song Illustrating journey from Belfast to Leek. See pages 54-71 22 AKO-AQH. ; 10 UT Hound Illustrating the journey from Dundalk to Dublin. See pages 142-163 23 24 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION and dance, one chap remarking that the thought of the "peelers" (police) and the "G men" (detectives) outside in the cold added to the enjoyment. They broke up about six o'clock a. m. and marched back to Liberty Hall followed by the disheartened, miserable, frozen police. There was another midnight mobilization later on. Announcements were made publicly that on this occasion the Irish Citizen Army would attack Dublin Castle, the center of Eng- lish Government in Ireland for 600 years. The thought of such a deed never fails to fire the imagination of an Irish Nationalist. A favor- ite phrase of one of the officers of the Irish Citizen Army, Commandant Sean Connolly, was, "One more rush, boys, and the Castle is ours." He was in command of the body that attacked the Castle on Easter Monday. It was while calling on his men to rush the Castle that he received a bullet through his brain, thus achieving his lifelong dream of dying for Ireland while attacking the Castle. One other mobilization which took place at midnight some time before the Rising was a disappointment, perhaps because it was un- official. One of the Irish Citizen Army men THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 25 heard that a number of rifles were stored in a place near Finglass. He knew the where- abouts and whispered the news amongst his comrades. A number of them decided to make a raid on the place and capture the rifles. They started out at midnight, marched twenty miles before morning, but, unfortunately, the rifles had been removed before they arrived. They were disappointed but not downhearted ; such things they considered part of the day's work. They had another disappointment which was more amusing, at least our men could laugh at it when a few days were past. There was in Dublin a body of men called the Home De- fense Corps. They wore a greenish gray uni- form and on then sleeves an armlet with the letters "G. R." in red — abbreviations for Georgius Rex. They were called the "Gor- geous Wrecks" by the Dubliners. They were mainly men past the military age who had registered their willingness to fight the Ger- mans when they invaded England, Scotland, or Ireland. These men paraded the streets of Dublin making a fine show with their uniforms and rifles, especially the rifles. Some of the Irish Citizen Army thought those rifles too 26 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION good to be left in the hands of "those old ones" and followed them on a march to find out where the rifles were kept. When our men came back they gathered a number of their friends together; after a short talk away they went for the rifles. It was done in quite a military manner; sentries and pickets were placed, the building surrounded and entered. Several made their way to the room where the rifles were kept and opened the windows to hand the rifles to the eager hands outside. Their plan was to march home with them quite openly as if returning from a route march. The leader of the band was well known for his lurid and swift flow of language. Suddenly bursting out, he surpassed all his previous ef- forts and completely staggered the men around him — they beheld him examining one of the rifles. It was complete in every detail, just like an army rifle, but on lifting it it was easy to know that it was a very clever imita- tion. The men were heartbroken and dis- gusted, but they brought several of the rifles away with them to show their officers what the "Gorgeous Wrecks" were going to fight the Germans with. During a raid by the Dublin THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 27 police in a well-known house one of these rifles was taken away by them. How long it took them to realize its uselessness we do not know as it was never returned. IV Towakds the end of 1915 the hearts of the Irish Citizen Army beat high, when they were summoned one night for special business. One by one they were called into a room where their Commandant, James Connolly, and his Chief of Staff, Michael Mallin, were seated at a table. They were bound on their word not to reveal anything they should hear until the time came. Something like the following con- versation took place: 11 Are you willing to fight for Ireland?" "Yes." "It might mean your death." "No matter." "Are you ready to fight to-morrow if asked?" "Whenever I'm wanted." "Do you think we ought to fight with the few arms we've got?" "Why wait? England can get millions to our one." 28 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 29 "It might mean a massacre." "In God's name let us fight, we've been waiting long enough." "The Irish Volunteers might not come out with us. Are you still ready?" "What matter? We can put up a good fight." "Then in God's name hold yourself ready. The Day is very near." To the eternal credit of the Irish Citizen Army be it recorded that only one man shirked that night. Then on top of this glorious happening came the attempted raid on Liberty Hall by the police. That morning I was in the office with my father when a man came from the printer's shop and said, "Mr. Connolly, you're wanted downstairs." My father went downstairs. About five minutes later he came into the office again, took down a carbine, loaded it and filled his pockets with cartridges. "What is it?" I asked. "Can I do any- thing?" "Stay here, I'll need you," said my father and he left the office again. He was gone about five minutes when the door was banged 30 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION open and the Countess de Markievicz burst into the office. "Where's Mr. Connolly?" she demanded ex- citedly. "Where's Mr. Connolly? They're raiding the Gaelic press — the place is sur- rounded with soldiers." "He left here five minutes ago," I said. "He took his carbine with him and told me to re- main here as he would need me." She ran out again. In a few minutes I heard her and my father coming back along the corridor. She was talking excitedly and my father was laughing. They came into the office — he took down a sheaf of papers and commenced signing them. They called for instant mobilization of the Irish Citizen Army. They were to report at Liberty Hall with full equipment at once. "Well, Nora," said my father. "It looks as if we were in for it and as if they were going to force our hands. Fill up these orders as I sign them. I want two hundred and fifty." I busied myself filling in these orders. The Countess began to help me — suddenly she stopped and cried out, "But, Mr. Connolly, I haven't my pistol on me." THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 31 "Never mind, Madame," said my father. "We'll give you one." "Give it to me now," she said. "So my mind will be easy." She was given a large Mauser pistol. Just then a picket came running in. He saluted and said, "They've left the barracks, sir." He was referring to the police. A line of our pickets had been stationed reaching from the barracks to Liberty Hall; their duty was to report any move they might see made by the police. In that way no sooner had a body of police left the barracks than word was sent along the line and in less than three minutes Liberty Hall was aware of it. "Now, Madame," said my father when the picket had gone. "Come along, we'll be ready for them. Finish those, Nora, and come down to me with them." I finished them and went down to the Co- operative shop. Behind the counter stood my father with his carbine laid along it; beside him Madame, and outside the counter was Miss Moloney taking the safety catch from off her automatic. I gave the batch of orders to my father ; he called one of the men who stood in the doorway, and said, "Get these around at 32 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION once." The man saluted and went away. Just then another picket came in and said, "They will be here in a minute, sir, they've just crossed the bridge." "Very well," said my father, and the men went away. Miss Moloney then told me that some police- men had come in and had attempted to search the store, and that she had sent word to Mr. Connolly through the men in the printing shop, which was back of the Cooperative shop; and then busied herself resisting the search. One policeman had a batch of papers in his hands when my father came in. He saw at once what was going forward, drew his automatic pistol, pointed it at the policeman and said: "Drop them or I'll drop you." The policeman dropped them. My father then asked what he wanted. He said they had come to confiscate any copies of The Gael, The Gaelic Athlete, Honesty or The Spark that might be on, the premises. "Have you a search warrant?" asked my father. This was a bluff, because under the Defense of the Realm Act any house may be searched on suspicion; but it worked; the po- liceman said he had none. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 33 "Go and get one/' said my father, "or you'll not search here." The police went away ; and it was then that my father had come back to the office to sign the mobilization papers. Shortly afterwards there came into the shop an Inspector of the police, four plain-clothes men and two policemen in uniform. I was be- hind the counter at this time. "I am Inspector Banning," said the Inspec- tor. "What do you want?" asked my father. "We have come to search for, and confiscate any, of the suppressed papers we may find here." "Where's your warrant?" asked my father. "I have it here," said the Inspector. "Read it," said my father. The Inspector read the warrant — it was to the effect that all shops and newsvendors were to be searched, and all copies of the suppressed newspapers confiscated. "Well," said my father when the Inspector had finished reading. "This is the shop up to this door," — pointing to one behind him, — "beyond this door is Liberty Hall, and through 34 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION this door you will not go. Go ahead and search." "We have no desire to enter Liberty Hall," said the Inspector. "I don't doubt you," said my father, whereat we all grinned. At an order from the Inspector one of the policemen began to search around the place where the papers were kept. He looked at my father standing in the doorway with his car- bine, and for a moment we thought he was going to rush him. Perhaps visions of stripes danced before him; but, at an order from his superior he went on with his work. It was a good thing for him that he did so, as there were the best of shots present, with less than ten paces between him and them. "There is nothing here," he said at last to the Inspector. (We had made sure there would not be.) And then they all left the shop. In the meantime, a series of strange sights were to be seen all over the city. The mobili- zation orders had gone forth and the men were answering them. Women hi the fashionable shopping districts were startled by the sight of men, with their faces still grimed with the dust of their work, tearing along at a breakneck THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 35 speed, a rifle in one hand and a bandolier in the other. Out from the ships where they were work- ing; from the docks; out of the factories; in from the streets, — racing, panting, with eager faces and joyful eyes they trooped into Liberty Hall. Joyful because they believed the call had come at last. No obstacle was great enough to prevent their answering the order. One batch were working in a yard overlooking a canal. A man appeared at the door, whistled to one of the men and gave him a sign. "Come on, bo}'S, we're needed," cried one and made for the door. The foreman, think- ing it was a strike, closed the door. Nothing daunted they swarmed the walls, jumped into the canal, swam across, ran to their homes for their rifles and equipment and arrived at Lib- erty Hall, wet and happy. Another batch were busy with a concrete column and had just got it to the critical period, where one must not stop working or it hardens and cannot be used* when the mobilizer appeared at the door and gave them the news. Down went the tools and out they went through the gate in the twinkling of an eye. 36 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION All day long the men were arriving at Liberty Hall. Tense excitement prevailed amongst the crowds that came thronging out- side the Hall. A guard was placed at the great front door, another at the head of the wide staircase and the rest were confined to the guard room. This guard room had a great fascination for me. The men were sitting on forms around an open fire; ranged along the walls were their rifles, and hanging above them their bandoliers ; at the butts of the rifles were their haversacks containing the rest of their equipment; all was so arranged that when they received an order each man would be armed and equipped within a minute, and there would be no confusion or delay. When I first went in the men were singing, with great gusto, this Citizen Army marching tune : We've got guns and ammunition, we know how to use them well, And when we meet the Saxon we'll drive them all to Hell. AVe've got to free our country, and avenge all those who fell, And our cause is marching on. Glory, glory to old Ireland, Glory, glory to our sireland, Glory to the memory of those who fought and fell, And we still keep marching on. 1 IK»M \~ i ( LARKE THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 37 I knew then what was meant by sniffing a battle. I did not want to leave that room. The atmosphere thrilled me so that I regarded with impatience the men and women who were going about the Hall attending to the regular business of the Union, and not in the least perturbed by all the military display. "Busi- ness as usual," one chap remarked to me as I stood watching them all. I did not stand long, for a Citizen Army man came to me and said, "You're wanted in No. 7 by Mr. Connolly." No. 7 was my fath- er's office. When I got there my father said, "Nora, I have a carbine up at Surrey House and a bandolier. It is in my room." He then told me where. "I want you to get one of the scouts, who are always at Madame's house, to put the bandolier on and over it my heavy overcoat. Tell him to swing the rifle over his shoulder and come down here with it as if he were mobilizing. Get him here as soon as you can. I'll be staying here all night," he added. I started off immediately for Rathmines where Surrey House, Countess de Markie- vicz's residence, is situated. On my way I met one of the scouts who was going there. When I told him my errand he offered to be the one 38 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION to bring the things back to Liberty Hall. When we reached the house, I went to the room, found the things which my father wanted and brought them down to the scout. He had just put them on when Madame called from the kitchen and asked me to have some tea. Of course I said I would have some. While I was waiting to be served she said to me, "What do you think is going to happen? I am going down to Liberty Hall immediately to take my turn of standing guard. By-the-way, what do you think of my uniform?" She stepped out into the light where I could get a good view of her. She had on a dark green woolen blouse trimmed with brass but- tons, dark green tweed knee breeches, black stockings and high heavy boots. As she stood she was a good advertisement for a small arms factory. Around her waist was a cartridge belt, suspended from it on one side was a small automatic pistol, and on the other a convertible Mauser pistol-rifle. Hanging from one shoul- der was a bandolier containing the cartridges for the Mauser, and from the other was a haversack of brown canvas and leather which she had bought from a man, who had got it from a soldier, who in turn had brought it THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 39 back from the front; originally it had belonged to a German soldier. I admired her whole outfit immensely. She was a fine military figure. "You look like a real soldier, Madame," I said, and she was as pleased as if she had re- ceived the greatest compliment. "What is your uniform like?" she asked. "Somewhat similar, 5 ' I answered. "Only I have puttees and my boots have plenty of nails in the soles. I intend wearing my scout blouse and hat." "This will be my hat," she said and showed me a black velour hat with a heavy trimming of coque feathers. When she put it on she looked like a Field Marshal; it was her best hat. "What arms have you?" she then asked. "A .32 revolver and a Howth rifle." "Have you ammunition for them?" "Some. Perhaps enough." I then turned to the scout who was to carry my father's rifle and bandolier to Liberty Hall, and said, "We'd better go now." Say- ing "Slan libh" ("Health with ye") we left the room. On our way to the door we heard a heavy rap at it. I ran forward and opened 40 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION it. Judge of my surprise to see two detectives standing outside. "What do you want?" I asked. "The Countess de Markievicz." "Wait," I said and closed the door. Running back to the room I said, "Madame* there are two detectives at the door. They say they want you." All the boys looked to their revolvers, and the boy who had my father's rifle said, "I hope I'll be able to get these down to Mr. Connolly." Madame went into the hall and lit a small glimmer of light. The boys remained in the darkened background, and I opened the door. The detectives came just inside of the door. "What do you want with me?" asked Madame. "We have an order to serve on you, Madame," said one of them. "What is it about?" asked Madame. "It is an order under one of the regulations of the Defense of the Realm Act, prohibiting you from entering that part of Ireland called Kerry." "Well," said Madame, "Is that to prevent me from addressing the meeting to-morrow night in Tralee?" Madame was advertised to THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 41 speak at a meeting to organize a company of boy scouts the following day in the town of Tralee, County Kerry. "I don't know, Madame," he answered. "What will happen to me if I refuse to obey that order and go dow r n to Kerry to-morrow ?" asked Madame. "Will I be shot?" "Ah, now, Madame, who'd want to shoot you? You wouldn't want to shoot one of us, would you, Madame?" said the detective who was doing all the talking. "But I would," cried Madame. "I'm quite prepared to shoot and be shot at." "Ah, now, Madame, you don't mean that. None of us want to die yet: we all want to live a little longer." "If you want to live a little longer," said a voice from out of the darkness, "you'd better not be coming here. We're none of us very fond of you, and you make fine big targets." "We'll be going now, Madame," said the detective. As he stepped out through the door he turned and said, "You'll not be thinking of going to Kerry, Madame, will you?" "Good-by," said Madame cordially. "Re- member, I'm quite prepared to shoot and be shot at." 42 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "Well," she said as the door closed. "What am I going to do now ? I want to go and defy them. How can I do it? I'm so well known — but I'm under orders. Perhaps Mr. Connolly wouldn't allow me to go anyway. I'll go down and talk it over with him. Wait a minute, Nora, and we'll all be down together." On our way down a brilliant idea, as I thought, struck me. "Write your speech out, Madame, make it as seditious and treasonable as possible. Send some one down to Tralee to deliver it for you at the meeting. In that way, the meeting will be held, your speech delivered, and the authorities will not be able to arrest you on that charge." "I was just thinking of that and who I could send down. But I'll decide nothing till I see Mr. Connolly," said Madame. We met my father at the top of the stair- case in Liberty Hall. "What do you think, Mr. Connolly," cried Madame. "I've received an internment order or rather an order prohibiting me from going down to Tralee. What am I going to do about it? Shall I go or shall I obey the order." "Did you bring the carbine and bandolier?" asked my father turning to me. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 43 "Yes," I answered. "Harry has them." "No, Madame," said my father. "You can- not go down to Tralee. If you make the at- tempt you w r ill probably be arrested at some small station on the way, and sentenced to some months in jail. You are too valuable to be a prisoner at a time like this; I'll have need of you. If the authorities follow up their action of to-day we may be in the middle of things to-night or to-morrow ; who knows ? No, you must stay here. You are more important than the meeting." "Should I send some one in my place, then?" asked Madame. "That is for you to decide, though I think it would be a good thing." "Whom will I send?" asked Madame. "Send some one who cannot be victimized in case our hands are not forced ; some one who is already victimized. Why not ask Maire Perolz?" "The very girl!" said Madame. "You can always pick out the right person." "You had better get hold of Perolz, then," said my father. "Tell her what you want her to do and write out your speech. We'll relieve you of guard duty to-night, and promise you U THE UNBROKEN TRADITION that if things look lively we'll get word to you in time." Madame left the Hall, and when I returned to her house a few hours later, she was busy writing out her speech. I sat down in the room and from time to time she read me out parts of it. It certainly was seditious and treasonable. She wrote on for quite some time after that and then with a sigh of satisfaction she said, "I have it finished. Perolz will come for it in the morning — she will take an early train." Perolz had come and gone before I came down in the morning, but when she returned a few days later, I heard the whole stoiy of her adventure, told in her own inimitable way. She had traveled down to Limerick Junc- tion accompanied by a very polite, attentive detective, whose company she dispensed with there by leaving the carriage she was in at the very last minute, and taking a seat in another. Hers was not a case of impersonation, for the Countess de Markievicz is very tall and rather fair while Maire Perolz is of medium height and has red hair. She is very quick-witted and nimble of her tongue, never at a loss for what to do or for what to say. - POBLAC HT MA H E IRE ANN. v TIE PEWISIONAl &0mNMMT IRISH RiPUBLIC to the mm sr ikhand. IRISHMEN AHli IRISHWOMAN • wnaawo >od id generations firon whiob she receives her f I - - /©d Ireland. Uu *jmraoo#- h*r children 10 hi- • Having orgs* u m • . -/.ioriary or^or-salior.. the r military orKJinisatiii.*. my having patiently perfei ted her discipline. I m . r>. c *l • i ;he now - i • a a Amcru* ar.d D; £*. wit o I "it- s ihc first u3 r.»;r <>*n irtnr/.rc ^:m unkes m roll i en fid We declare :r.L- right lot .wr.cr..:v

r ir»-n de . . go and indefeasible, i usurpation oi lhai m d ti m .ir-ns Standing bii thai . e f aw of tb« world, we h«i by n ., n . state. . and wc pledge our lives ai . 10 the cause of its - uf its welfare, and oi its exaltation Th« Irish Ri-puoiic .s rniit <»s to ls | beret)) claims the allegiance or every Irishman uid Irishwoman. Tb« . religious and • ivil liberty. equal rights and equal opportunities* lC rf declares lis resolve to pursue ■ the happiness and prosperity .ol the « &cd ol all its parts, cherishing all [ the children ef the nation equally, and oblivion of the differences carefullj fostered by an alien government, whtch have di% . nty m the past Dnui jar arms have brought the opportum r .ment :or th( • itab i hment of a permanent National Governroer, c B whole people or Ireland and elected by U)e suffrages oTalVber men and era the Provisional Government, hereby constituted, "Will administer th< i uurj affairs of the Republic in trust for the poopir. We place the miueof the Irish Repul li under tha protection of the Most Hi^h God Ahov- blessing we invok.. upen our anas, and *« pray that no one who serves that cause will dishonour it by . owardke. inhuzoanity, oi rapine In this upreroe hour the Irish nation must, by its v,; > ur and dis< iplir* anc by the readiness of ;> children lo sacrifice themselves for the c-.m/nw. *o«i. prove itself worthyofthe august destiny to which it u called ' ' ^»neJ .M. tlcf«* .1 1IM l^«.*«. na j II Mrn| fc> THOMAS J CLAJIKE. y. »** «ac DU31MADA. THOMAS MacDONAGR. Jp JAMES CGp.'OLLY. THE PROCLAMATION OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMEN1 [SSI ED \I THE G, P. <>., ON MONDAY. APRIL 24TH, L917. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 45 She was met at Tralee station by a guard of honor from the local Cumann na mBan (women's organization), Irish Volunteers, and intending boy scouts. They had never seen the Countess de Markievicz and conse- quently did not know that it was not she who had arrived. Although Maire told me that she almost lost her composure when she heard one of the girls say, "She isn't a bit like her photograph." She was escorted to the hotel. When she arrived there she said to the officers of the organization, "I am not Madame Markievicz. She received an order last night prohibiting her from entering Kerry. Things were look- ing lively in Dublin and Madame was needed. She wrote out her speech and I am to deliver it for her. In that way the meeting will be held and Madame's speech will be delivered, and Madame will still be able to do useful work. There is no need to let the public know till to-night." The officers agreed that it would be best to keep the knowledge of the non-arrival of Madame from the public and the police. Just then the proprietor of the hotel came to the door and said, "Madame, there are two police- 46 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION men downstairs and they want your registra- tion form at once." Under the Defense of the Realm Act every one entering an hotel, or boarding or lodging house is required to fill in a form declaring his name, address, occupation, and intended destination. This rule was most rigidly enforced by the police authorities. "Can't they wait till I get a cup of tea?" asked Maire. "No. They said they would wait and take it back to the station with them." "Very well," said Maire. "Give it to me." She filled out the form something like this, neglecting the minor details. Name: — Maire Perolz. Address: — No fixed address — vagrant. Age: — 20? Occupation : — None. Nationality : — Irish. She then gave it to the proprietor who took it away. From the window they watched the policemen carrying it to the police station, ap- parently very much absorbed in it. They re- turned shortly and asked to see the lad}'. When they came in to the room they still carried the registration form. "You haven't filled in this form satisfactor- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 47 ily, Madame," said one. "You must have some fixed address and some occupation." "No indeed," said Maire. "I live on my wits." "And you are a Russian subject." "How do you make that out, in the name of God?" asked Maire. "You are married to a Russian Count." "First news I've heard of it," said Maire. "Now listen here, I've filled that form out cor- rectly and you'll have to be satisfied with it. I'll not fill out another." They accepted the form at last. That night Maire delivered Madame's speech, told why Madame could not be present, then added a little anti-recruiting speech of her own which evoked great applause. The next day she re- turned home in great spirits at having once more helped to outwit the police. About this time the Executive of the Cum- ann na mBan (women's organization) in Dub- lin were having trouble in procuring First Aid and Hospital supplies. I suggested that being a Northerner and having a Northern accent, I could probably get them in Belfast. I knew that a number of loyalist nursing corps were in existence in that city, and thought that by let- ting it be inferred that I belonged to one of them, the loyalist shopkeepers would have no hesitation in selling me the supplies, and in all probability would let me have them at cost price. And that is exactly what happened. I purchased as many of the different articles as I needed and at less than half the price paid in Dublin. While in Dublin I had visited the Employ- ment Bureau in the Volunteer Headquarters. Its business was to find employment for Irish- men and boys who were liable for military serv- ice. Under the Military Service Act every 48 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 49 man or boy over eighteen, residing in England or Scotland since the preceding August, was required to report himself for service in the British Army. The Bureau found employ- ment in most cases for those who preferred to serve in the Irish Republican Army and had come to Ireland to await the call. Of course, it was impossible to find jobs for them all; but those who had not received jobs were busy on the work of making ammunition and hand grenades for the Irish Republican Army. The greater number of them had to camp out dur- ing the miserable months of February and March, in the Dublin Mountains, so that too great a drain would not be placed on their slender resources. On my return to Belfast at a meeting of tile Cumann na mBan I suggested that we send hampers of foodstuffs down to those boys and men in Dublin. The suggestion was taken up with great gusto, and the members were di- vided into different squads; a butter squad, a bacon squad, a tea, a sugar, oatmeal, cheese, and tinned goods squad; and they were to solicit all their friends for these articles. They were then to be sent on to the different camps in Dublin to help on the fight. Since we had 50 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION done so well on the foodstuffs I thought it would be as well to ask the men and boys in Belfast for cigarettes and tobacco. I set about collecting on the Saturday on which we in- tended sending away the first hamper of food. I was so successful that I was unable to re- turn home for lunch before half-past three. When I arrived home my sister met me at the door and said there was a man in the par- lor who wanted to see me, and that he had been waiting since noon. I went into the room and saw one of my Dublin friends. "Why, hello, Barney," I said. "What brings you here?" He told me that there was some work before me and that he had the instructions. With this he handed me a letter. I recognized my father's handwriting on the envelope. The let- ter merely said : "Dear Nora, The bearer will tell you what we want you to do. I have every confidence in your ability. "Your father, "James Connolly." "What are we to do?" I asked turning to Barney. "Liam Mellowes is to be deported to-mor- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 51 row morning to England and we are to go there and bring him back." "Sounds like a big job," I said. "What are the plans?" "These are some of them," he answered showing me several pages closely written. "Some one will bring the final instructions from Dublin to-night." The plan in the rough was that the messen- ger, being on the first glance uncommonly like Liam Mellowes, was to go to the place where he was interned and visit him. While he was visiting he was to change clothes with Liam Mellowes and stay behind, while Liam came out to me. We were then to make all speed to the station and lose no time in re- turning to Dublin. Liam Mellowes had received, some time pre- viously, an order from the military authorities to leave Ireland. This was because of his many activities as an organizer for the Irish Volun- teers — as the order had it, because he was prejudicial to recruiting. He refused to obey and had been arrested. He w T as now to be forcibly deported. As Mellowes was abso- lutely essential to the plans for the Rising, be- ing Officer in charge of the operations in the 52 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION West of Ireland, the attempt to bring him back from England was decided upon. While waiting for the messenger to bring the final instructions from Dublin I sent out word to some of the Cum ami na mBan girls that I should like to see them. When they came I told them that I had received an order that necessitated my going to Dublin ; and that I should not be able to assist them in sending away the hampers. I gave them the money that I had collected for the cigarettes and to- bacco, and they said they would see that every- thing went away all right. It was with great surprise and delight that the "refugees," as we called them, received the hampers a few days later. VI After the girls left I fell to studying the instructions. The main idea was to go in as zig-zag a course as possible to our objective. My father had made out a list of the best pos- sible places to break our journey. On one sheet of paper in Eamonn Ceannt's handwrit- ing continued the plan; and on another, in Sean mac Diarmuida's, was a list of people with their addresses in England or Scotland, to whom we could go for safe hiding, if we found we were being followed by detectives. Shortly after seven that evening Miss Mo- loney arrived at our house. She brought us a message from Dublin. It was to the effect that it was not yet known to what place Liam Mellowes was to be deported, but we were to go on our journey, and when we arrived at Birmingham, there would be a message wait- ing us there with the desired information. All that was known was that Liam Mellowes was to be deported to some town in the South of England. 53 54 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION There was a boat leaving for Glasgow that night at eleven forty-five. We decided to go on it; it was called the theatrical boat, because it was on this boat many theatrical companies left Belfast; we thought we would not be no- ticed among the throng. I was to ask for all the tickets at the railway stations, as my ac- cent is not easily placed. On Sunday morning I went up on deck ex- pecting to be almost the first one there; Bar- ney, however, was there before me. He said we would be in Glasgow shortly. I went be- low for my suitcase. When I came up on deck again I saw that we were nearer shore and that we were slowing up. I asked a steward if we should be off soon. "No," he said. "We are slowing up here to put some cattle off." "Will it take long?" I asked. "About an hour." "How far are we from Glasgow?" I then asked. "Two or three miles." "Can we get off here instead of waiting?" "Nothing to prevent you," he said. So Barney and I picked up our traps and, as soon as the gangway was fixed up for the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 55 cattle to disembark, we went down it and on to the quay. We walked along as if we had been born there, although as a matter of fact, neither Barney nor I had been in that place before. After a few minutes we came to a street with tramway lines on it and decided to wait for a car. We boarded the first car that came along. After riding in it for a long time we noticed that instead of approaching the city we seemed to be going farther away from it. We left the car at the next stop, and took another going in the opposite direction, and after riding for three-quarters of an hour arrived in Glasgow. We were more than pleased to think that if the police had noticed us when we went on the Glasgow boat at Belfast, and had sent on word for the Glasgow police to watch out for us, the boat would arrive without us. Our next stop was to be Edinburgh. We went to the station and inquired when the Edinburgh train would be leaving. There was one leaving at eleven fifteen that would arrive in Edinburgh some time about one o'clock. We decided to go by it. Then we remembered that it was Sunday and that we had not been to Mass; also that if we went by that train 56 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION it would be too late when we arrived at Edin- burgh to attend. It was not quite ten o'clock then; if we could find a church nearby, we could go to Mass and still be in time for the train. Rut where was there a church ? "Look, Barney," I cried suddenly. "Here's an Irish- looking guard. We'll ask him to direct us." We asked him and he told us that there was a Catholic church five minutes' walk away from the station, and directed us to it. It took us more than five minutes to get there, but we arrived in time and were back at the sta- tion before the Edinburgh train left. We arrived at Edinburgh about one o'clock. We were very tired as we had not slept on the boat; and we were hungry for we had not eaten in our excitement at leaving the boat before the time. Our first thought was to find a place to eat; but it was Sunday in Scotland and we found no place open. After wandering around for some time, looking all about us, we de- cided to ask a policeman. He directed us to the Waverley Hotel, where we were given a good dinner. And when we told the waiter that we were only waiting till our train came due, and that we wanted a place to rest, he told us that we could stay in the room we were THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 57 in. After dinner I found myself nodding and lay down on the couch. I must have fallen asleep almost instantly for it was dark when I awoke. Barney came in shortly afterwards. He had been looking up the trains he said and our train left at ten o'clock. It was about eight o'clock. We had something more to eat and left the hotel to go to the railway station. To my great surprise when we came outside everything was dark. Not a light showed from any of the buildings, or from the street cars. Cabs and motors went by, and only for the shouting of the drivers and the blowing of the motor-horns we would have been run down when crossing the streets. We have no such war regulation of darkness in Ireland. We ar- rived at the station at last. We had to go down a number of steps to get to the gate, and if it was dark in the streets it was pitch blackness down there. I was not surprised at the num- ber of people I met on the steps, as I thought it might be a usual rallying place, but I was surprised to hear them talking in whispers. We went down till we came to the gate — it was closed and there was a man on guard at it. "Can we not get in?" I asked. 58 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "Where are you going?" "To Carlisle." "It's not time for the Carlisle train yet." "But can't we go in and take oar seats?" I asked. "No," he answered, and after that I could get no further response. We waited awhile at the gate. I noticed that quite a few were given the same answers although they were not going to the same place. More time passed and I began to feel anxious ; I was afraid that we would miss the train. "What time is it now?" I asked, turning to Barney. As he could not see in the dark he lit a match. Instantly, as with one voice, every one around and on the steps shouted, "Put out that light." And the man at the gate howled, "What the H does that fool mean!" We were more than surprised; we did not know why we could not light a match. Just after that a couple of soldiers came towards the gate. I could hear the rattle of their hob-nailed boots and see the rifles swung on their shoulders. They talked with the man at the gate for a few minutes, then saying, "All right," went up the steps again. This hap- pened more than once. My eyes were accus- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 59 tomed to the darkness by now, and I could see a sergeant, with about twenty soldiers, com- ing down the steps. As they made for the gate I whispered to Barney, "Go close and listen to what the guard says to the sergeant." He went — and as the sergeant turned away, came back to me and picking up our bags said, "Come on." I followed without asking any questions. When we were out on the street Barney turned to me and said, "The guard told the sergeant to go to the other gate. We'll go to." We followed the clacking sound of the sol- diers' boots till we came to a big gate. It was evidently the gate used for vehicles. As we entered we were stopped by two guards who asked, "Where are you going?" "To Carlisle," I answered. They waved us inside. We walked down a long passageway. When we came to the train platforms, I asked a porter who was standing near: "Where is the train for Carlisle?" "There'll be no train to-night, Miss," he answered. "But why?" "Because, Miss," in a whisper, "the Zep pelins were seen only eight miles away, and 60 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION a moving train would be a good mark for them." "But they will not come here, will they?" I asked. "They are headed this way, Miss, they may be here in half an hour." "Then we can't get to Carlisle?" "To tell you the truth, Miss," he said, "I don't think any train will run to-night, except the military train. Make up your mind you'll not get to Carlisle to-night." "When is there a train in the morning?" I asked him then. "There's one at eight-fifteen." "Well, I suppose we'll go by that one," I said. And so we left the station. We went back to the hotel. We were startled for a second when the registration forms were handed to us ; we hadn't decided on a name or address. I took the forms and filled them with a Belfast address, put the one for Barney in front of him, placing the pencil on the name so that he would know what to sign. After signing we were shown to our rooms. I went to bed immediately as I was completely tired out. I was roused from a heavy sleep THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 61 by a knocking on the door, and a voice saying something I couldn't distinguish. I thought it was the "Boots" wakening me for break- fast, and turned over to finish my sleep. Some time later I was again wakened by a loud knocking on the door. "Who is it?" I called out. "Barney," was the answer. "What is wrong?" I asked when I had opened the door. "The manageress came to me," said Barney, "and said, 'Mr. Williams, go to your sister, I am afraid she is either dead or has faulted with the shock.' " "What shock?" I asked, peering into the black darkness but failing to see anything. "Nothing, only the Zeppelins have been dropping bombs all over the town." "What!" I cried. "Zeppelins! You don't mean it. Have I slept through all their bomb- ing?" "You have," he said dryly. "The manager- ess wants all guests down in the parlor, so that in case this building is damaged, they'll all be near the street. Put something on and come down." I put some clothes on me and went outside 62 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION the room. I could not see my own hand in front of me. ''Hold on to me," said Barney, ''and I'll bring you downstairs. I know where the stairs are." * "All right," I said, making a clutch at where the voice was coming from. "You'd better hold on to my back," said Barney. "That's the front of my shirt you've got." * I slid my hand around till I felt the sus- penders at the back and held onto them. "Go ahead," I said, and we went. I tried to re- member if the corridor was long or short, and if there were any turns from the stairs to my room, but I could not. Never have I walked along a corridor as long as that one seemed. After a bit I said, "Barney, are you sure you're going right? I don't remember it being as long as this." We were going very slowly, gingerly placing one foot after the other. "We keep on," said Barney, "till we come to a turn and then between two windows are the stairs." And so we went on, but we came to no turning. We were feeling our way by placing our hands on the wall. At last, we felt an open space. "All," said Barney, "this THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 63 must be the stairs." And although we did not feel the windows we cautiously stepped to- wards it. It was not the stairs and I felt curi- ously familiar with it. I stumbled over some- thing on the floor and stooped to pick up — my shoe. We were back at my room ! We did not know whether to laugh or to be annoyed. We began to laugh and Barney said, "Come on, I know the way back to my room and from there we'll find the stairs." "Couldn't you strike a match?" I asked. "We were warned not to, when the 'Boots' knocked on the door," said Barney. We went along the corridor till Barney found his room. From there he knew the turns of the corridor, and at last we found the stairs. Going down I asked, "How is it that we are meeting none of the people?" "Because," said Barney, "they've been down since the first knock and you had to be wakened twice." "I thought they were wakening me for breakfast," I said. The stairs seemed to twist and turn, and at one of the turns I saw a figure standing at a window, near a landing as I thought. "Are we going the right way down to the 64 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION parlor?" I asked the figure, but received no reply. "He's probably scared stiff and thinks he's in a safe place," said Barney. We reached the foot of the stairs and one of the men took us and led us towards the parlor. All the guests of the hotel were there huddled closely around the remains of the fire. I found a seat and sat down. There was very little talk. I could hear the guns going off very near. One of the women leaned toward me, and said, "You were rather long getting down. Did you faint — were you frightened?" "No," I answered. "I slept through it all, until my brother came and wakened me." "You lucky girl!" she exclaimed in heart- felt tones. We sat there for about an hour. It was a silent hour inside, but from outside came the sound of running feet and hoarse excited voices. A motor car tore through the streets ; it must have had its lamps lit, for some one yelled after it, "Put out those lights." There was no sound of the Zeppelins again, but the people in the parlor kept silent. I felt that one word spoken would set all their nerves on edge. Suddenly there was a long drawn THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 65 "Oh!" followed by a thud. I could feel every one in the room quivering. All turned to tha sound, but we could see nothing. Then we heard a man's voice say, "My boy has fainted." They ministered to him there in the darkness. A few minutes later a delicate looking lad, about twelve years old, was brought up to the circle round the fire. One of the women made room for him and he sat on the floor with his head resting on her knee. The manageress must have left the room during the excitement, for she returned then and said, "We will not be disturbed again, so we can go to bed and finish our sleep." The tension was lifted and we all began talking as we made our way to our rooms. When I was going down the stairs next morning, I was amazed to see that the figure I had spoken to while trying to find my way, was a statue. The waiter told us, at break- fast, that some bombs had been dropped in the street back of the hotel. They had killed eight people, damaged one or two buildings, and made a hole large enough to hold the din- ing-room table. He also said that he had heard of a lot of other places, but that was the only one he had seen. We finished our breakfast 66 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION in a hurry and left for the station. There we bought a paper to read the full account of the raid. But all the mention of it was: "Zeppelins visited the East coast of Scotland last night. No damage done/' On the journey to Carlisle the carriage was so warm and the seats so soft that I became drowsy. I was about to yield when the other occupants of the carriage came over to my side and stared out of the windows. As the Zep- pelins were still in my mind, I thought that this might be one of the places they had visited, and looked out of the window too. All I could see was a large field with brick buildings in the center, somewhat like factories, only they had sloping roofs made of glass. There were quite a crowd of men in the field. ''That's a German Internment Camp," said one of the men. "There are over two thousand Germans there." The view of the camp started a con- versation on the war which lasted till we reached Carlisle. From Carlisle we were to go to Newcastle. On looking up the timetable we found that we could get a train in three-quarters of an hour. We then left the station, so that if the porters THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 67 were questioned as to whether they had seen us or not they could say that we had left the station. In this way the trail would be broken and would give us all the more time till it was picked up again. The journey from Carlisle to Newcastle was not so long as the last one. On arriving there we again left the station and wandered about the town. We had so much more time there, and walked in and out of so many streets, crossed so many crossings, that my memory of Newcastle is very much blurred and confused. Before returning to the station we went into a restaurant and ate the first meal of our English trip. Next we took tickets for [Manchester, but did not go there. While we were on the train we decided that we had better go to Crewe- When the conductor came round for the tickets, we asked him if this train would take us to Crewe. No, he said, but if it was to Crewe we wanted to go he could change our tickets at the next stop, and there we would get a train for Crewe. The next station was Stalybridge, and there we took the train to Crewe, where we arrived at one-thirty a. m. From Crewe we went to Birmingham. It was there we were to receive information as to 68 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION where Captain Mellowes had been deported. We called at the address given to us and told who we were. Mr. Brown said that he had just received word that we were coming, but that was all. There was no news for us about the deportation. This was both amazing and puzzling; it was Tuesday and Captain Mel- lowes was to have been deported on the Sun- day past. Why had we received no word — and what were we to do? There was nothing for us to do but wait. A hotel was recom- mended to us; we went there and registered as brother and sister. Our pose of being on a holiday compelled us to stay out all day as if sightseeing. Tuesday we visited all the prin- cipal buildings, Wednesday we walked all over the city. Thursday was a repetition of Wednesday. Friday, tired of each other's com- pany, we went out separately, and each suc- ceeded in losing the way, but managed to ar- rive back at the hotel for supper. Not knowing the city we had not ventured out at night time, for like all other big cities in England, Birmingham was darkened at night-fall. But on Friday we went out. The streets seemed to be all alike to us, we could not tell one from the other. The corners of the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 69 curbstone were painted white, so as to glim- mer faintly and warn pedestrians when they were approaching a crossing; policemen stood in the center of the crossing flashing a lamp attached to their belts, now a red light, now a green one. Trees, telegraph, telephone, and trolley poles were painted white to the level of the eyes. Not a light showed anywhere, not even at moving picture palaces; and as is usual in darkness all voices were subdued. I am sure it is at night time that the people of England realize most that they are at war. Saturday came and still there was no news for us. We were not puzzled now. We were very anxious. Something must have gone wrong, we thought, or we would have had some word before now. We changed our hotel as we felt that the people were becoming too interested in us. At the new hotel we registered as teachers on our way to Stratford-on-Avon, where the Shakes- peare celebrations were in full swing. We left there in the morning, carried our suitcases to the station, and left them in the Left Luggage Office. Then we went to Mr. Brown again to find out if any word had come for us. There was a note for us there telling us to go to the 70 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION Midland Hotel. When we arrived there we met a young lady from Dublin. She had come over with the word. She gave us the address of Captain Mellowes, and told us to lose no time. We looked up the timetable and found that there were no trains going" there on Sun- day afternoon. We were in despair till our Birmingham friend told us he could hire a private motor car for us. He did so and we left Birmingham at one-thirty p. m. We traveled all afternoon through what is known as the Black Country. We did not bother much with the scenery as we spent most of our time in giving each other instruction as to how to behave in different eventualities. We had hired the car to take us to Stoke-on- Trent. It was to return empty. We thought it would be a much safer plan if we could get the car to take us back to some big station on the line; thus instead of waiting at the local station for a train, apprehending every mo- ment the discovery of Captain Mellowes' flight, we should be well on our way before it could be found out. I did not expect that there would be any trouble to get the chauffeur to bring us back. I figured that any money made on the return trip would be his, and a working THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 71 man is always ready to make more money. Rut it must be done in such a way as not to arouse suspicion. Secure in my figuring I spoke to the man. I said, "I want you to take us to the railway station at Stoke. I expect a friend there to pick us up." He nodded. It was dark when we drew up at the station. I said to the man, "Wait a minute till I see if my friend is there before we take out the things." Then I went into the station and walked in and out of the waiting rooms, up and down the platform, and asked a porter if there would be a train soon to Leek (our real objective). I returned and said to Barney, "He is not there," and to the man, "Have 3 T ou any objections to going on to Leek? It is eight miles distant. There won't be a train for an hour, and I can have all my business in Leek done in that time." He said he would take us there. I then asked him if he were going straight back to Birmingham. He said he was. "If you can wait three- quarters of an hour, you can take us back down the line to one of the big stations, and be something in pocket. The trains are so ir- regular at small stations on Sundays." He said he could wait three-quarters of an hour. 72 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION When we arrived in Leek Barney and I jumped out of the car as if we knew every inch of the ground, although neither of us had been in the city before. "Where are we going?" asked Barney. "When in doubt go right," I said, and we turned to the right. This town was darkened too. After a few minutes' walk I stopped an old lady and asked her to direct us to the street I wanted. "Two streets up on the right," she replied. We found the place; it was an ordi- nary house and to our surprise there were no detectives watching it. We knocked at the door. A man opened it about six inches and peered at us. "Well?" he questioned. "We are friends of Captain Mellowes and heard he was staying here, so we stopped to see him," I said. "Is he in?" "Come in till I take a look at you," he an- swered. After looking at us, "Come in here," he said, leading us to a room. "I'll go find him for you." After a few minutes Captain Mellowes came into the room. He seemed surprised to see us, and was about to enter into a conversation THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 73 with us when Barney said, "I've an important message to give you. Where's your room?" "Come upstairs," said Captain Mellowes, rising at once. They went upstairs. I could hear them mov- ing about the room, and once in a while I heard something fall on the floor as if they were throwing different parts of their clothing to each other. After a few minutes' silence, I heard footsteps on the stairs and went out to the hall to be ready. Both came down the stairs, Captain Mellowes went forward and opened the door while I was saying "good-by" to Barney, who was remaining behind in the Captain's place. Barney left the house the following day; he took a train at the local station which ran to Crewe, and from there he made connections that brought him back to Ireland the day after the Captain's arrival. Once outside the house, Captain Mellowes and myself wasted no time in getting to the car. I asked the man had we kept him long and he said we had been only half an hour. He started the car and away we went again. After three hours' ride we stopped at Stafford Station. "Can you not go as far as Crewe?" I asked. 74 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION ''No, Miss," he replied. "Crewe is alto- gether out of my direction." "Very well," I said. "We'll leave here." .We then left the car, gave the man his fee and entered the station. I took tickets for Crewe and found that we had only twenty minutes to wait. We arrived at Crewe about one a. m. and at one-thirty were in the train for Car- lisle. When we were near Carlisle the conductor came to collect the tickets ; I asked him if Car- lisle was the last stop. "No," he said. "From there we go on to Glasgow without stopping." "Oh," I said, "I didn't know that this train went to Glasgow. That's where we want to go. You had better make us out Excess Fare checks and we'll go on." He made them out, I paid them and he went out through the car- riages. During this time Captain Mellowes was lying in the corner as if asleep. In my list of "safe addresses" was one in Glasgow. When we arrived there next morn- ing we made our way to that address, and there we stayed all day. During the day we man- aged to procure a clerical suit for Captain Mellowes, complete even to the breviary and THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 75 umbrella. At eleven we took the train to Ardrossan; from there we could get a boat to Belfast. We had decided before leaving the house that we would travel as if we did not know each other. My accent was no longer needed, as a strong Irish accent was quite the thing for priests' clothing; but we were to keep each other in sight all the time. That Captain Mellowes really looked the part was proved in the train. The porter lifted his cap to him, took his suitcase, and deferen- tially placed him in the seat next to me. There Captain Mellowes sat, his chin resting on his hands, which were supported by the umbrella, as if lost in holy meditations. Almost at the last moment, half-a-dozen North of Ireland cattle dealers tumbled into the carriage, shout- ing, laughing, and swearing. The porter had locked the door and the train had started be- fore they realized what company they were in. A sudden silence fell on them all, they straight- ened themselves up, lifted their hats in salute to the priest, while questioning each other with their eyes. Then one lifted his cap again and turned to the rest as if to say, "I'm used to the company of priests," and addressed Captain Mellowes. 76 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "Are you crossing to-night, Father ?" he asked. "I am," said Captain Mellowes. "I hope we'll have a good night, Father." "I hope so." "I hear they caught a submarine up the Bangor Lough this morning; but I don't think there's any danger. Do you, Father?" "I don't think so," said Captain Mellowes. One dealer broke in then demanding to know that if there was no danger, why could they not insure the cattle they wanted to send across. Then each dealer tried to give his opin- ion at the same time. They became so ex- cited, each one trying to get an audience at the same time, that they forgot all about the priest^ and gave back word for word to each other. With raised voices they cursed and swore, stamped their feet, pounded the floor with then sticks, struck their hands, till one jumped from his seat in a rage and his gaze fell on the priest. The priest was still resting his chin on his hands, taking no more notice of them than if they were miles away. His very ab- straction was a rebuke to them. The one who had jumped up said humbfy, "I'm afraid we've THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 77 disturbed you, Father." Captain Mellowes came to himself with a start. "No, no, not at all," he said hurriedly. "I wasn't thinking of you at all." But the men looked as if they had offended beyond hope of pardon and kept silent till we reached the boat. Early next morning I went up on deck. We were steaming up the river, I could see the city in the distance. Nearer to me w r ere the famous Belfast shipyards, all alive with the clangor of hammering. As we approached I could see the swarms of men, poised on derricks and cranes, hard at work on the skeletons of ships. Just before we docked Captain Mellowes came on deck and walked over to the rail where I was standing. There was some byplay of sur- prised recognition between us for the benefit of those standing around. I asked him to come to the house for breakfast, and told him that he could not get a train to Dublin before ten o'clock. It was then seven o'clock and the gangplank was being put in place. I told Captain Mellowes that I was well known on the docks since the dock strike, and that it would be wiser for him to follow me instead of coming with me; that he would probably pass the Harbor Constables and policemen better 78 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION alone, because, as they knew me, they would be likely to give my companion a scrutinizing glance and he would be better without that. There were two Harbor Constables and two policemen at the end of the gangplank; they were on the watch for deserters from the Army and Navy. When I walked down the gang- plank I saw that they recognized me and was glad that I had told Captain Mellowes to fol- low. I w T ent in to the shed and on towards the exit. Midway I paused, dropped my suit- case as if to ease my arm, and glanced back to see if Captain Mellowes was following. He was just at the end of the gangplank; the four constables were saluting him and he was gravely saluting them. I passed out into the street and walked slow- ly ahead to allow Captain Mellowes to catch up on me. In a short while we were walking together. It was too early to get a tram, and it would attract too much attention if a car drove up to our door, so we waiked the dis- tance. Falls Road, in Belfast, is called the Nationalist district, and my home was near the head of that road. When we got to that part of it where policemen were more plentiful and I was better known, I told Captain Mellowes THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 79 to walk on ahead. I was glad I had done so, for I derived a great deal of amusement from the number of salutes Captain Mellowes had to return. Men and boys were on their way to work and they all saluted him. Every policeman on the road saluted Captain Mel- lowes ; not one of them dreaming that the cap- ture of the young priest they were so courteous to, would probably realize for him the dreams of Sergeantship every young policeman in- dulges in. It was with a sigh of relief that I ushered Captain Mellowes into our house. The door was open and we entered without rapping. My mother thought we were the painters — she was expecting them that morning — and came out to remonstrate with us for not knocking. She was astounded for a moment, to see us in the hall, then she threw her arms around us both and literally dragged us both into the room where breakfast was on the table. She then called up the stairs to my sisters and told them we were home. On the instant there was a clatter and scamper, and pell-mell down the stairs charged my young sisters, some partially dressed and some in their nightgowns; burst- ing into the room they flung themselves on 80 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION Captain Mellowes, hugging and kissing him as if he were a long lost brother returned. They hung about him asking him ques- tions, interrupting each other. They poured forth so many questions that he could not answer them much less cat his break- fast. Mother noticed that his breakfast was growing cold and turning to the youngsters said in a voice that tried to be severe, "Chil- dren. I'm surprised at you — look at your clothes." Then there was another rush to the door and a scamper on the stairs as they raced up to dress. Never were they dressed so quickly before, for in less time than it takes to tell they were down again; crowding around the table each giving the other in excitable voice the story of how Captain Mellowes managed to return; but none of them bothering to ask Captain Mellowes or myself how it really hap- pened. Now that Captain Mellowes was in Belfast the next thing to be done was to get him to Dublin. He could not go by train for there were detectives at all the stations. There have always been detectives at railway stations in Ireland, whose sole business is to watch and to report the arrival and departure of the im- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 81 portant members of the Separatist Party (the revolutionary body). This method keeps the local authorities informed as to the where- abouts of "such and such a person." On this account I sought a friend who owned an auto- mobile. It so happened that he was going to Dublin that very evening and he agreed to take Captain Mellowes with him. When I arrived home again I saw a woman in the parlor, who looked up at me through her veil, in the most mournful way; certainly the most forlorn person I had seen in a long while. But as I went nearer I recognized the clothes. My young sisters had decked Captain Mellowes out in our clothes to see if they were skillful at disguising. They were — but the clerical clothes were better. I told Captain Mellowes of the arrange-? ments I had made — we were to walk into the country along the Lisburn Road for about two miles, and there meet the motor-car. When it was time we started out. We were a party of four, Captain Mellowes and another young man, who was at that time hiding from the police in our house, my sister Agna, and my- self. We walked along the country road and arrived at the appointed place too soon. The 82 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION car was a little late ; every car that came along would lift our hearts up and when it whizzed by would leave us little more nervously ex- cited. It came in the end, however, and stopped for a minute while Captain Mellowes was being bundled on to the car, then sped away leaving us in the dark country road. I arrived home about one-thirty and went to bed, tired out and fully resolved to stay there for the next day. But, alas! the news had got about and after school hours some of my friends called to hear my version, and com- pelled me to get up. The day or so following I took part in a Volunteer play called "Ire- land First" in order to give the impression that I had been in Belfast and rehearsing with the company. On Saturday my mother received a letter from my father; the only reference he made to the job he had given me was, "Tell Nora I am proud of her." VII After that I was kept busy with the Ambu- lance class, and in preparing field dressings and bandages. There were about fifty girls working under my instructions and the work was beginning to be piled up. One squad was cutting up the material, another wrapping it up in waterproof material, others pasting on the directions, others sewing the completed bundle up in cotton bags which permitted them to be sewn into the men's coats. We were kept busy. When one of the officers came to the room to order the field dressings for his men, he voiced the opinion of all when he said, "Well, this looks like business. As soon as I stepped inside the door I felt that something important was going on. I suppose you all- feel that way?" We did, and worked all the harder for it. Some tune before this my father had asked me if I would be in Dublin with him during the fight, but I had said, No, I would rather 83 84 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION stay with the Northern division; that I thought I had better stay with the girls with whom I had been working. A younger sister had also decided to join the Northern detachment. My mother and the rest of the family were going to Dublin so as to be near my father. We were leaving the house just as it stood, to avoid sus- picion, taking nothing from it but the trunks containing clothes. These could easily be taken without causing undue suspicion as it is quite a usual thing for families to go away for the Easter holidays. Between helping to pack up the trunks at home and the field dressings outside I managed to secure six hours' sleep during the latter part of Holy Week. My mother left Belfast on Good Friday, my sister and I the following day. The instructions given the First Aid corps were: To meet at the Great Northern Sta- tion with full equipment and two days' rations. When we met the station was crowded with holiday-goers. There were three different queues circled around the station. We divided ourselves amongst them so that our party would not be large enough to attract attention. I found myself behind a party of soldiers going home on furlough. I could not help wonder- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 85 ing if their furlough would be cut short, and if I might meet them again under different circumstances. After I had taken the tickets I went to the trains to see if it were possible to get a car- riage to ourselves. As the party had been split in two, one part to come on a later train, we could just fill a carriage. There was so much traffic that the railroad company had pulled out from many hiding places all the cars they could find. The line of cars presented a very curious picture as it stood waiting for the signal to start. There were the very latest corridor carriages, carriages quite new-looking, carriages old, carriages very old, and carriages so very old that they were an absolute tempta- tion to us. These last were of that old type that has no wall between tho carriages; the back of the seat is the only dividing wall. We picked out one and entered, took our seats, stowed away our haversacks, water-bottles, and hospital supplies under the seats and on the racks over our heads. Then we sat in pleasant anticipation to see who would enter the other carriage. One of the girls had put her head out of the window, and suddenly she gave a whoop and waved her arms. We hauled 86 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION her in angrily, demanding to know what she meant by attracting attention in such a manner — didn't she know that the fewer that saw us the better? "But," she said when she got a chance, "I saw the Young Ireland Pipers coming up the platform looking for a carriage, and I thought it would be great to have them in the next carriage. They would pass the time for us by playing the pipes." (The Young Ireland Pipers were attached to the Volunteers.) By this time the Pipers had come to the door of the carriage next to us and were getting in. They were both surprised and pleased when they saw the girls. Thej^ knew then that they could play all the rebel songs they desired, and say all the revolutionary things they could think of. That was one good thing about the Republican forces in our part of the country — every one knew every one else; and so it was elsewhere I am told. I doubt if ever pipers were so dressed going to battle. Slung from one shoulder was a haversack, crossing it was a bandolier filled with cartridges, a belt held the haversack in its place on one side, and from the other a bayonet was suspended. Strapped to the backs were rolled tar sheets, and under THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 87 their arms they held the bagpipes with their green, white, and orange streamers flying over their shoulders. They were most warlike mu- sicians. But more significant than all were the eager eyes shining out from under their caps. One young chap leaned over the wall and said to me, "My God! Isn't it great? We worked and worked without hope and now " One of the boys had been tuning up the pipes and as the train began to move we swung out of the station to the tune of: "Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland, Some have come from the land beyond the wave, Sworn to be free, no more our ancient sireland Shall shelter the despot or the slave. To-night we man the Bearna Baoighail * In Erin's cause come woe or weal, 'Mid cannon's roar or rifle's peal We'll chant a soldier's song." Tyrone was our destination and we arrived there before dark. .We were met by a local committee and taken to a hotel. After we had something to eat, we went over to the drill hall. There I had the first wound to attend to — one of the men had accidentally shot himself while cleaning his revolver. There was quite a crowd around me while I was dressing the wound. *Barna Bail "The Gap of Danger." 88 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION When I had finished, the men said that they hoped I would be detailed with their company, as they would feel much safer. I said that I didn't want to dress wounds till I had a chance to make some: at this they laughed and prom- ised me that I would get all the chance I wanted. I then asked them when they would mobilize. "To-morrow morning," they re- plied. "We are waiting for the Belfast Divi- sion to arrive. We start on our maneuvers at 12 o'clock. We will all be together then." We were still talking of our hopes when some one came into the hall and said that he had a message for Miss Connolly. "Here I am," I said. "What do you want?" "Come outside, Miss Connolly," said he. "I have a message for you." I. followed the man outside. The message he gave me was to the? effect that the Commandant in the North had sent him to say that there would be no fighting in the North; that he had received a demobiliz- ing order, but that he thought there would be fighting in Dublin. We could decide whether we would go back to Belfast or on to Dublin. He left the matter entirely in our own hands. I left the messenger and went back to the hall to call the girls together. I asked them to THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 89 come with me to the hotel. I then told them the text of the message I had received and asked them to decide whether they would re- turn to Belfast or go to Dublin. I said that I was going to Dublin and they decided to go with me. One of the girls suggested that we say the Rosary for the men who were about to fight. We knelt down and said it. We then began to get our things together again. I in- quired about the trains to Dublin and was told that there would be no train till midnight. It was almost 10 o'clock then and we were some miles away from a station. I asked one of the men where I could get a car to take us to the station. They protested against our leaving, but I said that we had our work to do, and must get to Dublin as soon as possible. After some talk he sent one of the men to get two cars for us. We waited most impatiently till they came, then piling on to them as best we could we left the town and went towards the station. While we were waiting for the train we saw the second contingent arriving from Belfast. The men had their equipment with them and swung out of the station in a truly martial way. I knew from their joyous faces and their 90 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION remarks that they had not received the news wq had, and I pictured to myself the change there would be when they did. Our train left Tyrone at twelve-thirty, and arrived in Dublin at five-fifteen. .We went directly to Liberty Hall for I knew my father would be there. Ever since the attempted raid on Liberty Hall, he had stayed there every night under an armed guard. He had deter- mined that he would not be arrested before the day arrived. As we approached to the building we saw an armed sentry keeping watch through a window; we went up the steps and knocked on the door. A sentry came to the door and asked our business. I said I was Mr. Connolly's daughter and that the girls were ambulance workers from the North. He did not know me, so he called to some one else to decide for him. The man he called to was the officer of the guard who knew me. As we went inside the door and up the stairs I asked him if he thought I could see my father. He told me that my father had not been able to go to bed until three o'clock. I said I thought it best to see my father at once. He then escorted me to the corridor in which my father's room was THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 91 and told me the number. I walked along the corridor till I found the room and knocked on the door. "Who is there?" called my father. "Nora," I answered. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with the North men." "Let me in, father," I said. "I am afraid there is something wrong." He opened the door and I entered the room. It was rather a small room, square and slightly furnished. There were but two chairs, a table, a cupboard and an army cot. My father was lying on the cot and looking at me in surprise. I went over to him and knelt down beside the cot to tell him why I was there. "What does it mean, father? Are we not going to fight?" I asked him when I had fin- ished. "Not fight!" he said in amazement. "Nora, if we don't fight now, we are disgraced for- ever; and all we'll have left to hope and pray; for will be, that an earthquake may come and swallow Ireland up." "Then why were we told last night that there would be no fighting in tha North?" 92 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "We received word last night that there could not be got fifty men to leave Belfast." "That is not true!" I cried. "Why, there were fifty men on the train with us leaving Belfast; and before we left Tyrone there were two hundred. I saw them myself. They are there now with all their equipment, eager and happy and boisterous with delight." "That is a different story from what we were told," said my father. "Mine is the true one," I returned. "But don't accept my word for it. Call in the other girls and question them." "Ask them to come in." I went out to the girls and said that my father would like to see them. They came in; they all knew my father but he did not know them all, so I told him all their names. "Tell me, girls," said my father, "how many men you saw in Tyrone before you left, Bel- fast men particularly." Their story was practically the same as mine. When he had heard them all, my father asked one of them to call in the guard who was on duty in the corridor. When the guard had entered the room, or rather stood at the door, THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 93 my father said to him, "Call the officer of the guard." Shortly afterwards the officer of the guard knocked on the door. I opened the door and he came inside, saluted and said, "Yes, sir?" "Send in five men who know the city thor- oughly," said my father. "Yes, sir," said the officer as he saluted again. "Now," said my father turning to us again. "I am going to send you to each of the other Commandants. You tell them just what you have told me. And after you tell them all, ask them to come here as quickly as they can." The five Citizen Army men came to the room shortly after that, and each of the girls was given different addresses to go to. It fell to my lot to go to Sean MacDermott. I had as my guide a man who looked as little an Irishman as he well might be. He was short and stout yet very light on his feet; he wore bright blue overalls, short black leggings, and his face was burnt a dark brown. He wore a wide black felt hat and from under it I saw hanging from his ears, big, round gold ear^ rings. He looked as I fancied a Neapolitan fisherman would look like. 94 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION The leaders slept no two nights in the same place. Only themselves knew where each other was sleeping. This was for safety. I was taken to a place beyond Parnell Square, about twenty minutes walk from the Hall. When we arrived there we had to knock the people up; and it was some time before we received any answer. They were very suspicious of us when I said who it was I wanted. The woman, who opened the door, consulted with some one inside the house, before she decided to let me in. The guide having done his duty in bring- ing me there and seeing that I was about to enter the house, went back to Liberty Hall to report. The woman then asked me who I was, what did I want, wouldn't any one else do, and a score of other questions. She went away after she had received my answers. In a few min- utes a young man came down to interview me also. I told him that I was Mr. Connolly's daughter and that Sean MacDermott knew me, and that I had a message for him from my father. He was still reluctant to let me see Sean and said that Sean had hardly had time to go to sleep. I said that I knew that but that I had been traveling all night from the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 95 North, and had wakened my father over an hour ago who had had even less sleep than Sean. After that he went away and came hack to say that I could see Sean MacDermott. I went upstairs and found him in bed. He was looking very pale and tired. He listened to me, while I told him all I had to tell, without saying a word till I had finished. He then asked me if the others knew this. I told him that there were other girls seeing the other leaders at the same time. He remained si- lent for a while and then said, "I am very glad you came. Tell your father that I'll be at the Hali as sooii as I can." I then returned to Liberty Hall. It was then about seven o'clock and we decided to go to Mass at Marl- borough Cathedral around the corner. VIII When we returned from Mass my father had risen, and dressed in his uniform was going about the room singing to himself: "We've got another savior now, That savior is the sword." I began to prepare breakfast for my father and the rest of us. But it was some time be- fore we sat down to our breakfast, as one by one the leaders dropped into the room, and as none of them had waited to have breakfast be- fore coming they had to be served. I remem- ber giving breakfast to a young officer who had come up on the night mail from Limerick, for final instructions. I gave Tom Clarke his last Easter breakfast. It seemed fitting he should have as table companion Sean MacDer- mott — they were always such close friends. Before they had finished Joseph Plunkett, his throat heavily swathed in bandages, for he had shortly gone under an operation, arrived; and 96 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 97 following him closely came Thomas MacBon- agh. Michael Mallin and my father had their breakfast together. They were all in uniform, except Tom Clarke and Sean MacDermott. Pearse did not have his breakfast at Liberty Hall; he arrived somewhat later than the others and had already eaten. While they were all standing around and talking, one of the girls came in and said, "Mr. Connolly, look, the Independent says, 'No maneuvers to-day.' What does that mean? Is it a trick?" "What is that?" said my father, taking the paper from her. "Maneuvers" was the name under which our men were being mobilized. If the Independent, which had the largest circu- lation of any Sunday paper throughout the country, printed such a bit of news it would disorganize our forces to a great extent. Yet, there it was: Owing to the critical situation all Volunteer parades and maneuvers are canceled. By order Eoin MacNeill. "What does this mean?" asked my father turning to Pearse. "Let me see it," said Pearse. "I know noth- ing whatsoever about this," he said when he 98 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION had read it. After that there was some low- voiced conversation among the leaders; and then the Council room. They remained there till after one o'clock. We then ate our long delayed breakfasts and then went to another part of the Hail to see more stirring sights. On our way out of the corridor we had to pass the Council room. It was guarded by an armed sentry who stood at the door forbidding all to pass. He stopped us and would not allow us to pass until one of the officers coming out of the room saw our, plight and told him who we were. When we came to the corner of the corridor we were again stopped by a sentry, but he knew me and we went on out to the front of the build- ing. Here, all was excitement, guards at the top and the bottom of the stairs, men and boys, women and girls running up and down; Citi- zen Army men arriving by the dozen armed with all then equipment, poured steadily into the great front hall. We remained about the Hall as we had been told to stay within call in case we were needed as messengers to the North. We remained in the vicinity until well on in the afternoon. It THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 99 was not until the Citizen Army started out on a march that we were freed. I have never been able to understand how it was that the authorities did not become aware that some- thing untoward was afoot. There were two dozen policemen detailed to attend the Citizen Army march and they hung around Beresford Place waiting for the march to be- gin. Surely they should have been able to sense the difference in the feeling of the crowds that were thronged around Liberty Hall all the day. There was no disguising by the peo- ple that they expected a different ending to this march than to all the other marches. Else why the haversacks filled with food, the ban- doliers filled with ammunition, and the supply wagons piled high with supplies? The men and women were under military orders. They were no longer a volunteer organization, they were a nation's army. Their fathers and, mothers, their wives and children, their sisters and brothers, and their sweethearts knew that from that day forth their lives wexe no longer their own, but belonged to IrelanchJ And while they openly exulted in this thought and brought parting gifts to their loved ones, the police saw nothing. 100 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION Before they went on their march my father called me to him and told me to bring the girls to Surrey House, the home of the Countess de Markievicz, so that they would have a rest be- fore reporting at Liberty Hall the following morning. They badly needed rest as they had had no sleep the night before. Our orders were to report at Liberty Hall the next morning at eight o'clock. The next morning when we reached Liberty Hall we were told that we were to be given a message to take back North with us. The message was to be written and signed by Pa- draic Pearse; therefore we had to wait until he came. While we were waiting Thomas Mac- Donagh came into the room. He was in uni- form. He greeted us in his gay, kindly way and pretended to jeer at us for leaving the city. "Here we are," he said, "on the brink of a revolution and all you are thinking of is to get out of the city before we begin. " While he was talking my father came into the room carrying a large poster. He unrolled it and spread it out on the table saying, "Come here, girls, and read this carefully. It would be too dangerous to allow you to carry it with THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 101 you, but read it carefully and tell the men in the North of what you have read." We all gathered around the table and read The Proc- lamation of the Irish Republic. I think that we had the honor of being amongst the first to see the proclamation. Pearse came in while we were discussing our intended journey. He was in uniform; his military overcoat making him look taller and broader than ever. My father told him that we were waiting for the message. He went to the Council room to write it and we followed him. While we were waiting my father gave me some advice as to what we should do when we arrived in the North. Then Pearse called to us and we went to him. He handed me an envelope and said, "May God bless you all and the brave men of the North." He said it so solemnly and so earnestly that I felt as if I had been at Benediction. I then said "Good-by" to my father and left the Hall to take the nine o'clock train to the North. IX We knew that the men were to rise at twelve o'clock and as that hour drew nigh we watched and listened anxiously to hear or see if the news had reached the North before us. At twelve o'clock we left the train at Portadown. There was a large body of men belonging to an Orange Band parading up and down the platform beating their drums. They were go- ing to some meeting in Deny. The noise was terrific but we bore it gladly for it told more than words that our men in Dublin had been able to cany out their plans without any unto- ward accident. We changed into the other train and finished our journey in a less anxious frame of mind. But there was disappointment awaiting us at Tyrone; when we arrived there the men had already received the demobilizing order of MacNeill and had obeyed it. The Belfast contingent was already in Belfast and the country divisions had not had time to mobilize before the order from MacNeill had 102 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 103 arrived. When I found this out I sent mes- sengers to the various bodies advising them of what was going on in Dublin. The principal dispatch was the one given us by Pearse and that one was sent off in care of my sister, other girls going to other places. There was noth- ing for the rest of us to do but to await the return of the messengers. At eight o'clock that night a boy came from Belfast who said that he had been sent to ad- vise us to return to Belfast and asked us to go back with him. I asked the officer of the local Volunteer Corps if they intended to go on with the fight now that the men in Dublin were out, or if they intended to obey Mac- Neill's order. He replied that they were in honor bound to assist the Dublin men. I said that being the case I would remain with them and that we would attach ourselves to their body as they had no First Aid Corps. About an hour later the local organizer came to the hotel and asked for me. I went out to him; he said that it would be better if we wera in a less conspicuous place — would we go to some place out in the country? It was nearer to the meeting place. We agreed to go and started out about ten o'clock. 104 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION It was a night of pitch darkness, a heavy- rain was pouring steadily. After a ten min- utes' walk we were out on a country road where the darkness seemed to grow thicker with every step. We could see nothing but trusting to our guides soughed up and down in the mud. For twenty minutes we walked on, then we were told to turn to the right. We could see nothing that showed a turning, still we turned and found that we were in a narrower road than before. It was even muddier than the road we had left but it was shorter. At the end we were stopped by a door of what ap- peared to be a barn. One of the men rapped on it and it was opened to us. We stepped inside and when our eyes were used to the light again, saw a number of men with their rifles. The hall was filled with standing men, a place was cleared around the hearth upon which was blazing the biggest turf fire I had ever seen. On a bench near the fire were a half dozen women ; they had brought food to the men and were now waiting to take the girls home with them. After a short wait we started out again, still following blindly where we were led. At length we came to a crossroads and there the party divided. I, along with some other girls, THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 105 was taken to a large farmhouse where the folk were waiting up for us. We went into a large kitchen and sat around a big turf fire. There was porridge, in a pot hanging over the fire from a long hook, for those who liked it; and the kettle was boiling for those who preferred tea. We had a long talk around the fire. The old man told us of his experiences when he was a Fenian and drew comparisons between that time and this. Our time w r as nothing like his — so he told us. In the morning we rose early ; we expected to have word from Belfast every minute telling us to get on the march. But no word came that day. As the hours passed my anxiety became unbearable. I had had no word from anybody since I had come there. The men and the boys could not work for fear the word would come when they were in the fields and might be de- layed if they were not on hand. And all the day long they were riding up and down the roads on the watch for the messenger who would give them the orders to rise. The sec- ond day passed, still the word never came. The men and boys came to us every hour to re- port all they knew. And on Wednesday at noon a man burst into the farmhouse crying, 106 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "Pack up in the name of God, the word has come!" With what joy we packed up. How quickly the water bottles were filled and the haversacks stuffed with food. Butter, eggs, bread, and milk were thrust upon us. We could not take enough to satisfy the good peo- ple. The place was full of bustle and excite- ment, and then — the order was rescinded; it was a false alarm. That disappointment ended my patience. I determined to go after my sister, who had not returned since she had left me to deliver the dispatch written by Pearse ; and when we were together again we would both start for Dublin. I told the girls that I did not think that there would be any need of us in the North, that the men in command were waiting too long. That being the case it would be better for them to go home to Belfast and Agna and I would go to Dublin. They did not want to go from me, but I said I was speaking to them as their officer and they should obey. After a good deal of explaining they agreed to go home the next day. I found that if I wanted to go to the town where my sister had gone, I would need to go THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 107 by car. So a car was hired for me the next day. Just before the hour set for them to leave, a brother of one of the girls came to see what had happened to them. They all went home together. The car for myself came a little later and in it I piled as many of the Ambulance supplies as I could. There was only room for myself in the back, most of the room being taken up with the bundles. We started on our journey about six o'clock. The town to which my sister had taken the dispatch was called Gortin; but later I had heard that she was at Carrickmore, since when I had not had any news of her. Before my mother had left Belfast she had entrusted Agna to my care, therefore I felt that I could not return without her. .While on my way to Carrickmore to see if she was still there I had to pass through a village whose streets were thronged with soldiers. As we went out of the village and on into the country we met at least half a dozen motor trucks filled with sol-- diers. There were more marching behind, so many in fact that I asked the driver if there was a training camp near here. "No," he said. "There is not. I'm afraid 108 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION those fellows spell trouble." Conscious that the soldiers were looking sharply at myself and the bundles, I felt more than relieved when the car spun on out of their sight. It was about eight o'clock when we reached the farm at Carrickmore. Fortunately the man to whom my sister had carried the dispatch was there. As I was telling him who I was and why I had come, his sister broke on me and exclaimed sharply: "My God! Why did you come here?" "Why," I asked in surprise. "Did you not meet the soldiers on your way here?" she asked. "Indeed, I did. I saw lots of them. What are they doing here?" I asked, turning to her brother. "They raided this place this afternoon," he said, "and have only left here three-quarters of an hour ago." "Raided the place!" I cried. "But, of course, they found nothing." "They did, though," he said. "They found three thousand rounds of ammunition." "Three thousand rounds 1" I cried amazed 109 110 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION and angry. "Where did you have it hidden?" "In the turf stack," he replied. "In the turf stack! Good God! What made you put it there? Doesn't every one who isn't a fool know that that would be one of the first places they would look for it. Three thou stud rounds of ammunition in a turf stack! Couldn't you have hidden it some place else? Couldn't you have divided it? Couldn't you have " and I broke off almost crying with anger and dismay. "I know, Miss Connolly, you can't say or think anything more of the loss than I do. But I haven't been able to look after things this past week. I'm in hiding, chasing from pillar to post trying to find out what is to be done." "And what are you going to do?" I asked. "This is Thursday and the men have been fight- ing in Dublin since Monday noon. What are you going to do? Think of the numbers ofi men and boys, women and girls who are at this minute in Dublin offering up their lives while the men of the North are doing nothing. It's a shame! It's a disgrace!" "What could we have done? The men were all dispersed when I received the last dispatch. It's a different thing to mobilize men in the THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 111 country from what it is in the city. There are a dozen or so here; six miles off there is a score ; ten miles off there are some more, and so it goes all over the country. What were we to do?" "Weren't you in a terrible hurry to obey MacNeiU's order? Why were the men chased home on Sunday night and Monday morning? They were all gone when we arrived at Coal- island on Monday at one o'clock. Why were you in such a hurry to demobilize the men when their Easter holidays lasted till Tuesday? Did you not want them to fight? Were you afraid that another order would come rescinding MacNeiU's ?" The questions poured from me breathlessly; I was emptying my mind of all the riddles and puzzles that had been torment- ing it. "Say what you like, Miss Connolly, what can I say?" And he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "It's a shame," I commenced again. "Why did you not tell the men and give them the option of going on to Dublin? Why were the girls so honored? Why, the North can never lift up its head again. The men in Dublin pre- paring to lay down their lives while the North 112 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION men were being chased home by their com- manders. It's awful!" "Miss Connolly, can't you believe that I feel it as much as you do? Think what it means to me that the men in Dublin are being killed while we are here doing nothing." "The men in Dublin are fighting for Ireland. In a short while you may be fighting up here — and why? Because the Ulster Division is already quartered in Dungannon and Coalisland, and are trying to provoke a party riot by parading the streets in numbers, crying 'To Hell with the Pope.' There are bunches of them sitting on the doorsteps of Catholic houses singing 'Dolly's Brae' (the worst of all their songs). And if they go be- yond bounds and those Catholics lose their temper, it will be in the power of England to say that while one part of the country was in rebellion, another part was occupied in re- ligious fights. If you had issued another mo- bilization order when you received the dispatch from Pearse, that could never happen. Why didn't you issue that order?" "We were waiting, Miss Connolly " "You were waiting. What for?" I broke in. "And now you have waited too long. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 113 There has been a flying column sent from Bel- fast, some two hundred strong, and it has taken up such positions that you are prevented from coming together. Dungannon, Coal- island, and all around there is completely cut off from this part. There is nothing now for the North men to do but sit tight and pray to God that the Dublin men will free their country for them. My God! A manly part! Where is my sister? I want to get her and go on to Dublin. I would be ashamed to stay here while the people in Dublin are fighting." "She took a dispatch to Clogher and is still there." "Is Clogher far from here? Can I get there, to-night?" I asked him. "No, you cannot get there to-night; it is too far away. It is over the mountains. Stay here the night and you can set out in the morning. Stay here as long as you like, make this place your home, and don't be too hard on the North. We acted as we thought best, and perhaps we are sorry for it now. It is MacNeilTs order that must be blamed. Good night, Miss Connolly." "Are you going out? Do you not stop here?" I asked as I saw him gathering up his 114 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION raincoat and cap. He straightened up his tall figure. "No," he replied. "I have not slept here since Monday. I am determined that I shall not be arrested without doing something worth while. Good night again, and remem- ber that this is your home for as long as you wish to stay." "Good night," I answered as he left the room. Then it seemed that all the hopeless- ness of the world descended on me as I thought that here was another day gone, and I had not been able to accomplish anything. I left the room in a few minutes and entered the kitchen. One side of the large farm kitchen was taken up by a fireplace. A large pot that was suspended over a huge turf fire the light of which reached across the room and danced and glistened upon the dishes that were standing on the top rack of the dresser. It was a sparsely furnished kitchen, for besides the dresser I could see only a table placed un- der the window, some farm implements on the other side of the room, and some benches. Except for the blazing of the fire there was no light, and while the ceiling was a roof of ruddy light, the rest of the kitchen was kept in semi- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 115 darkness by the farm laborers, who were sitting round the fire. The first thing I did was to arrange and make tidy my bundles of band- ages which had been carried into the kitchen by the driver of the car. As I straightened up, my glance fell upon one of the men sitting by the fire, whom to my surprise I recognized as Lieutenant Hoskins of the Belfast Volun- teers. "Why, Roiy," I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" "What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were in Dublin. Didn't you go there Saturday night?" "I did," I answered. "But I came North with a dispatch on Monday. I intend to go to Dublin to-morrow. But you didn't say what you are doing here." "There was more chance of something hap- pening here — we could do nothing in Belfast." "There will be nothing happening here," I said. "That's why I am going to Dublin." "Perhaps I'll try and make my way there to-morrow." "I'd advise you to," I said as I left the kitchen. I was shown to my room and lost no time in getting to bed. 116 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION When my sister was leaving with the dispatch, I took her haversack from her so that she would not attract any unnecessary atten- tion. That I might look like an ordinary trav- eler I put her haversack along with mine in a suitcase, and that suitcase had been carried to my room. The events of the night proved that it was a lucky thing for me that it had been brought to the bedroom. As I looked at it I wondered if a suitcase had ever before been packed in a like manner. I could not have been asleep fifteen minutes when I was awakened by a tremendous rap- ping. In a few seconds the girl came to my room. "Miss Connolly," she said. "What will we do? They are here again." I instantly thought of my revolver and cartridges which I had carried with me. "Listen," I said. "Put on my coat and go down and open the door before they get angry." "Why should I put on your coat?" she asked. "Because I have something in it that I do not wish them to see. Put it on," I said, "and hurry down to the door." THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 117 When she had the coat on she went to one of the windows and opened it. She put her head out and asked who was there. While she was parleying with the soldiers I remem- bered that I had one hundred rounds of ammu- nition in one of the haversacks wrapped up in some clothing. I jumped out of bed and opened the suitcase. I had to rummage be- cause I dare not make a light. I pulled article after article out of one of the haversacks in hot haste, but it was not there. I turned to the other one and began search- ing it. I had just felt it when I heard a step on the stairs. Grasping it in my hand I sprung back into the bed. I had only ar- ranged myself and was lying down when a light was flashed in my face. The light was so strong that I could only lie there and blink my eyes. In a few minutes the light was removed from my face and flashed about the room, enabling me to see that it was held by a District Inspector of Police, and that he was accompanied by a military officer and some of the Royal Irish Constabulary. The D. I. switched the light back on my face suddenly and asked: "Are you only waking up?" 118 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "Just now," I answered. "Don't be afraid," he said. "We heard that some more stuff came to this house to-day and we have come for it." "It's not the most reassuring tiling in the world to have soldiers and police come into your room at this time of night," I returned. "What is your name?" he asked. I told him. I did not give a false one, as I did not know whether he had asked the girl downstairs my name or not. "Where are you from?" was his next ques- tion. "Belfast," I replied. "Is that y our suitcase?" he asked, pointing to it. "Yes," I said. "Look in it," he said to the officer. "There is nothing there but my personal property," I said. "All the same we must look," the D. I. said to me, as he went down to his knees beside the officer. They gave it a rather cursory examination. Then they opened the wardrobe and looked into it, glanced into the drawers of the bureau. My heart almost stopped beating when they THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 119 came near the bed. What should I do if they told me to rise? But they only looked under it, and passed out into the sitting room adjoin- ing my bedroom. After they had examined the room they went downstairs again. I could hardly believe my luck. I was silently con- gratulating myself when I heard their heavy steps on the stairs again. They came into the room again. The D. I. said, as he poured the rays of his lamp on my face, "We have found something downstairs which made us come up here to look again." I did not say anything in reply, only lay there and wondered to myself if they had found the revolver on the girl and if she had told them to whom it belonged. The military man was down or his knees at my suitcase once more. "Did you say that there was nothing here but your personal property?" asked the D. I. as he knelt down beside him. And then began the second search of my suitcase. Very carefully he lifted out each article and examined it. The stockings were turned inside out as a woman turns them when looking for holes. The reason for such an act I do not know, save that they might have thought that I had a dispatch concealed in 120 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION them. The very fact that I knew that there was nothing incriminating in the suitcase made me lie back in the bed unconcernedly. Sud- denly the officer said, "Ah!" and passed some- thing to the District Inspector. As they were between me and the suitcase I could not see what it was. The District Inspector turned his head over his shoulder and asked again, "Did you say that there was nothing here but your own personal property?" "I did," I replied. "Well, what do you call this?" he asked, holding up two bundles wrapped in blue paper. "Do you call these personal property?" "Yes, they are," I said, seeking hurriedly in my mind for an explanation. The parcel he was holding up for me to see held two dozen roller bandages. "They're mine," I said with sud- den inspiration, "I got them cheap at a sale." The answer evidently tickled the two men, for they laughed and one said to the other, "Just like a woman." They next came upon a box of tea, sugar, and milk tablets. The Dis- trict Inspector asked as he held it up, "Are you going to start a commissariat department with these?" "No," I answered. "They are no good." THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 121 Having completely overhauled my suitcase they next directed their attention to the bureau drawers. Every piece of paper in the drawers, letters, bills, etc., were read, and even the pages of books were turned over to make sure that nothing escaped them. They looked under the bed again and then passed out to the sitting room, where they remained but a few minutes. Shortly afterwards they went down- stairs and then I heard them going out through the door. Hardly were they out of the house when the girl came running to my room. "Get up, Miss Connolly," she said. "Get up and go. They'll come back and arrest you. Get up." "Nonsense," I said. "If they intended to arrest me they would have done it now and not wait till the}^ came back. You're excited, but there is no danger." "You've just got to go, Miss Connolly," she said. "You can't stay here." "That's all very well," I said. "But don't you know that I am a stranger round these parts, and if I vent out now, at half past two, I'd wander away and get lost, to say nothing of the chances of my falling into the soldiers' hands. I don't intend to stay longer than the 122 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION morning, in spite of your brother's invitation." "It'll ruin this house if there is another arrested in it." "Who has been arrested?" I asked. "That Belfast fellow. He had his revolver, ammunition and uniform in the room with him. The policeman who arrested him said that he had enough on him to equip an army. So you see, Miss Connolly, you've got to go." "No, I don't see," I said. "I've no intention to go out into a strange, dark country road at this hour of the night. It's no use your talk- ing to me. I'll stay here till it's light and then I'll go, not before." And I settled myself down in the bed. She went away, but in a few minutes her mother came to the bedside. I was hurt to the heart, I had thought of this family as patriotic. I could not understand how they could profess to love the cause, and yet wish to turn one of its workers out of the house. I could not trust myself to speak, so I turned over and showed only the back of my head to the mother and answered not a word. After a shoi ' harangue from the mother, I said, without turning my head and controlling my voice as best I could: "I'll go when it's light." XI I was down in the kitchen before six o'clock. The girl had put some bread and butter on the table, a cup of tea and an egg. My heart was so full I could not eat but I managed to drink the tea. I then turned to the place where I had stacked my bundles of bandages tliQ night before. They were gone, even the knap- sack that held my few days' rations. ".Where are all my things gone to?" I asked. "The soldiers took them away last night." "When?" I asked. "How did they come to see them?" "After they came down from your room the first time," she replied. "They asked me who owned those bundles. I said the girl upstairs. Then they examined them, called in the sol- diers and told them to take those bundles." "Did they take the haversack with my rations?" "They took everything. And they asked me the name of the girl upstairs. And I said I didn't know; that you came last night and 123 124 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION asked for a night's lodging, and that I never turned any one away from the door." "You told them that!" I cried. "Did you want to make them suspect me? Do you usually give your guest room to women tramps? In the name of Heaven, how could you be so foolish?" "Well," she said. "I wasn't going to let on that I knew you." "What will I do?" I said. "Now they will be on the watch for me. I can't go to Clogher by train. I'll have to walk. How far is it?" "It's not five miles," she answered. "You can walk it easily. About two miles from it you will come to a place called Ballygawley, and there you can get a tram that will take you to Clogher." "Five miles," I said. "I'll get there easily before noon. Which way do I go?" Before she answered a woman came in with a message from the girl's brother. She looked at me suspiciously till she was told who I was. I told her that I was going to walk to Clogher to get my sister who was there, and that after that we would make our way to Dublin. "To Clogher!" she said and looked at me in astonishment. THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 125 ""V, 'Yes," I said. "Does your road go near Ballygawley? If so, I'll go with you and you can point it out to me." "Yes," she answered. "But " But I was already on my way to get the suitcase and did not wait to listen to her objec- tions. As I came down again I heard the girl say: "—that's what I'd like to know." "Well," I said. "What I'd like to know is who the girls were who brought the message to Dublin from Tyrone. There were two, I know; one was redhaired but it was the other delivered the message by word of mouth. I'd like to know who she is." "I brought the message," said the girl who belonged to the house. "You brought the message," I said and stared at her. "YOU — did you know that it was a wrong one? Don't you know that you reported a false state of affairs? How could you?" "Well enough," she answered. "You've ruined this farm with your cajDers. The men are unsettled, my two brothers are in hiding, and not a thing being done on the farm." "Farm," I repeated and turned to the 126 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION visitor. I saw her blush for her acquaintance with the woman who had no soul but for a farm. "Come," said the visitor to me. "I'll show you the road." And without another word we left. We went silently on our way. We crossed fields which brought us out on to a road, along which we walked for about ten minutes till we came to a branching of it. "We'll go up here," said my guide. I saw that it was a kind of boreen leading up to a very small farm cottage. As soon as we en- tered the woman turned to me and said, "We're not all like that" — not saying who or what she meant. Then again she said, "It's our shame and disgrace that our men are not helping the men in Dublin." A young man had risen from his seat when we entered. She next spoke to him and gave him a message. "It's for him," she said, nodding her head in the direction we had come from. As she pointed to me she said to the young man, "She's going to walk to Clogher." "To Clogher," he repeated. "It's a long walk." "I've the day before me," I answered. "Well, I've got my message to deliver or THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 127 I'd go part of the way with you. It wouldn't be so long or lonely if you had company." "Thank you," I said. "But I'll get along all right." "Can I do anything for you before you start?" asked the woman when he was gone. "Yes," I said. "You can give me a drink of water." "Water!" she exclaimed. "Water! Indeed you'll get no water from me! You'll just take a long drink of milk. You'll need some nour- ishment to bring you over the long walk that's before you." With that she handed me a huge bowl of milk. She stood by me till I finished it, then she asked me if I had anything with me to eat in case I got hungry on the way. "No," I replied. "The D. I. and his men took away the bag containing my rations." "Well," she said, "you've got to have some- thing." She commenced to butter some bis- cuits. "Don't bother," I said to her. "I'll get along all right without that. I'll be in Clogher about twelve." "O, you will," she said. "Well, just take these in case you don't. And I don't think you will." 128 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION I took the biscuits, then lifted up my suit- case and started to leave the house. "Wait a minute," she cried. She went into a room and returned with a Holy Water bottle. She sprinkled me with it and said, "May God bless and look after you, and bring you safely to your journey's end." She then pointed out the road to me and I began my walk to Clogher. The road lay be- tween low, flat-lying lands for the better part of two miles. There was neither hedge nor ditch dividing the fields from the road; nor were there any trees for shade. It was a most lonely road; I walked on for hours and never met a soul. The sun was roasting hot that day, and I was heavily laden. Resides the suitcase containing the two kits which I was carrying, I was wearing a tweed skirt and a raincoat over my uniform. As I walked, the fields on one side of the road changed and in their place were bogs. An intolerable thirst grew upon me and there was nothing with which to slake it. Gradually the road became a mountain road. Had I not been so tired, what with the weight of the suitcases and the clothes I was wear- ing and the broiling sun, I could have admired THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 129 the quiet, shadeless road that stretched along for miles trimming the skirt of the mountains. The mountains sloped away so gently from the road as to seem no more than hills. Patches of olive green and brown edged with a brighter green rose one above the other, each one more pleasing. Here and there the trim- ming was the golden furze or whin bushes; and on towards the top patches of purple and blue told of the presence of wild hyacinths. And above all was the pure blue and white of the sky. Below, the mountains, on the left of the road stretched the bog as far as I could see, brown, brown, browner, and finally black. Here and there, standing cut sharply against the dark background, danced the ceanawan — the bogrose — disputing for place with the ever- present furze. Yet all I could think of was that I must walk for miles on that lonely coun- try road, with never a tree for shade and never a house to get a drink in. I knew by the height of the sun that it was nearly twelve o'clock, yet I had not come to Ballygawley. In terror I thought for an in- stant that I had taken the wrong road, and then I remembered that the woman had told 130 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION me that there was only the one road until I came to Sixmilecross. At a distance from me and walking to- wards me I saW an old man. I tried to hurry towards him but could not. With every step the suitcase was growing heavier and my hands were becoming so sore that to hold the handle was absolute pain. And my thirst was grow- ing. I could not understand how it was that I had not met with running water, it is usually so plentiful in Ireland. Finally my thirst grew so clamorous that I knelt down by the bog, lifted some of the brackish, stagnant bog- water in my hands and. drank it. Immediately I began to think, "What if I contract some ill- ness from drinking that water — what if I get fever " And I had visions of being taken ill by the roadside with no one to look after me. Rut the old man was very near me now, and as we came abreast I asked him, "Am I near Ballygawley?" "Ballygawley," he replied. "Daughter dear, you are six weary long miles from Bally- gawley." "Six miles!" I thought in despair. "How had the girl made such a mistake?" I stumbled on till I was completely worn THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 131 out and not able to go more than a few yards at a time. And then, while I sat by the road- side feeling that I could not rise again, I saw two girls coming towards me on bicycles. When they were nearer I thought that I recog- nized a voice. And I was right, for one of the cyclists was my sister. I struggled up from the ditch and staggered out on to the road in dread that they might pass me. Agna jumped from her bicycle and let it fall to the ground as she saw me swaying. She helped me back to the ditch. All I could say to her at first was, "I'm thirsty, so thirsty." She peeled an orange and gave it to me. I knew that I was babbling all the time, but neither of us could remember what I had been saying when we tried to think of it afterwards. I did not know that I had been crying till Agna said, "Don't cry, Nora. Here, let me wipe your eyes." Then I saw where the tears had splashed down on my raincoat and felt that my cheeks were wet. I suppose I was weeping from sheer physical exhaustion. "Weren't we lucky to come this road, Teasie? This is my sister Nora," said my sis- ter to the girl who accompanied her. "We were going to take the lower road," she said, 132 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION turning to me, "but we were told that although this was the longer it was the easier for cycling. And now, I'm glad we took the longer one, for if we hadn't we would never have met you." "Where were you going?" I asked. She told me. "Why," I cried, "that is the place I have left." "Is that so?" said Agna. "Then we needn't go. You can tell us the news. We wanted to find out what happened during the raid yes- terday." As I sat there on the ditch I told them all that had happened from the capture of the three thousand rounds of ammunition to my own expediences. When I finished Agna took the suitcase and balanced it on her bicycle and said : "We may as well go back now." "I'll cycle on in to Ballygawley," said Teasie, "and find out when there will be a train this afternoon. You can come on after me." "How far are we from Ballygawley?" I asked. "About two miles," she answered. "Never mind," said Agna, when she saw my THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 133 expression at that news. "We will go so slowly that you'll never notice it." The three of us went slowly along the road, Agna and Teasie taking turns at carrying the suitcase. At a turn in the road Teasie mounted her bicycle and rode off. After we had walked a long distance I said: "Agna, I can't walk any further. I'll have to sit down." I sat for quite a while till Agna said, "Try again, Nora. Keep at it as long as you can. When we get to Ballygawley you'll not have any more walking to do." "Wait a while," I answered. While we were sitting Teasie returned. "You'll be in plenty of time," she said. I stood up and we started off again. When we arrived at the outskirts of Ballygawley Teasie said, "I called in at a house I knew and they are making tea for us. You'll be refreshed after it." It was into a shop we went and in a room back of it a table was laid, and tea was ready for us. I drank the tea thirstily but was too tired to eat, although various things were pressed on me. When tea was over Teasie said to Agna: 134 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "We'll go on our bicycles and meet Nora at the station of Augher. That," she said, turn- ing to me, "is the station before Clogher. I think it would be better to get off there than in the station at Clogher. Every one would see you and they would be making all the guesses in the world as to who you are. The police would see you, too, as you would have to go past the police station. If you get off at Augher you can cross the fields to our place without any one seeing you. That's all right, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. They rode away. A young lad took my suitcase to the station for me and waited till the train came. The train was only the size of a trolley but had the dignified title of the Clogher Valley Railway. I sat in the corner and closed my eyes. I opened them at every stop to see if there was any sight of the girls. Rut it was not till the conductor called out, "Next stop Augher," that I had any glimpse of them. Over the hedge that divided the rails from the road I saw Agna's black curly head bobbing up and down and caught a smile from under Teasie's big-brimmed hat. They were peddling for all they were worth in an attempt THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 135 not to be too far behind the train in arriv- ing at Auglier. I waited at the station for about ten minutes before they came. They jumped off their bicycles ; and we commenced to walk along the side of the rails. About fifteen minutes after we crossed over into a field. It was a stiff piece of work for the girls to push their bicycles through the fields and lift them over hedges. When we had gone through four fields we commenced to climb a hill. Near the top of the hill we clambered over another hedge and crossed one more field before we arrived at the farm which was Teasie's home. Teasie's father and mother had made it a home for Agna since she arrived at the town; and to me they also extended a very kindly welcome. "She has walked all the way from Carrick- more," said Teasie to her mother. "We met her two miles outside of Ballygawley." "Did you walk all that distance?" asked Airs. Walsh. "Yes," I answered. "I don't see how it took me so long to walk it, I'm usually a good walker." "When did you start?" she asked me. "Before eight," I answered. 136 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION "I think you did very well to walk it in one day," she returned. "Agna and Teasie were going to cycle there and stay over night be- cause it was such a long ride." "I was told that it wasn't five miles," I said. "Five miles!" cried the mother. "It's fif- teen if it's one, and a bad road at that. You'll want to rest after it. Take her into a bed- room, girls, and let her lie down." The girls brought me to a bedroom and gave me cool water to bathe my face and hands and feet. Then they ordered me to go to bed. But although I went to bed I did not sleep. I had been lying there for about two hours when Agna peeped in to see if I was awake. "Come in," I said. "Nora, what are we going to do?" was her first question. "I am going to Dublin as soon as we can and you, of course, are going with me." "I had my mind made up to try and get there to-morrow when we came back, but I am glad you are here, for now we can be to- gether and won't have to worry about one another." She was speaking in her usual breathless fashion. "I'm afraid we can't go THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 137 to-night," she said. "Did you hear that there is righting in Ardee?" "No," I answered. "I did not hear that; but if there is, we'll go there. It's on our way to Dublin. The men who are fighting will probably make their way to Dublin. If we can catch up with them we will be safer and more sure of getting there. Find out if there is a train to-night." She went out and returned in a few minutes. "No," she said. "There is no train to-night, but there is one leaving at five minutes to six in the morning." "Well," I said. "I suppose we'll have to wait for that." We caught the five minutes to six train in the morning. It brought us to a junction where we took tickets for Dundalk. "You're going to a dangerous place," said the ticket agent. "We won't mind that," we replied. When we arrived at Dundalk the station was full of soldiers and constabulary. We hurried along out of the station so as not to attract attention. Agna went back and asked a porter if she could get a train to Dublin. The porter told her that the only train going 138 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION there was a military one, and that the line was in the hands of the military. "There's no telling when there will be a train," he said. It was then about one o'clock. "Come along," I said to Agna. "We will look for a restaurant and decide what we will do while we are eating." We walked down the street looking for a restaurant. At the foot of the street we saw one, a very small place. Just at the restaurant the street curved, and around the curve we saw that a barricade had been erected by the police authorities. Luckily we did not have to pass it to get to the restaurant. When we had entered and had given our order to the proprietress, she said that it would take some time — would we mind waiting? We as- sured her that we would not mind waiting and went into the parlor to talk over our situation. The first decision arrived at was, that as we did not know the name of the villages and towns on the road to Dublin and could not hire a car to take us to any of them, it would be necessary for us to walk. Our next decision was that we would have to abandon our suit- case as it would be likely to attract attention. In order to carry out the second I told Agna that she must go out to buy some brown paper THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 139 and string. Also, that while she was doing so she must find out if we would have to pass the barricade to get to the Dublin road. The reason why I sent Agna on this business, and did not go myself, was that Agna was so child- ish looking that no one would suspect her of trying to get to Dublin. Then again I knew that I could trust her to find any information necessary to us ; she had been a girl scout and had learned the habit of observation. Also, her accent was more strongly Northern than mine. With a parting adjuration from me not to be too long lest I become anxious, Agna went out on her errand. As she reached the door the proprietress came out of a room and said, "Are you going out, little girl?" "Yes," said Agna. "I am going out to get a paper." "Will you do a message for me while you are out?" "Certainly," said Agna. "What is it?" "Do you know the town?" asked the woman. "No," said Agna. "I haven't been in it this long time." (She had never been in it before.) "Well," said the woman. "I had better 140 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION come to the door and show you the place I want you to go to." She did so and gave Agna a message to the butcher's. Agna was glad to do the message because if she were stopped now and asked where she was going to, she could give a definite answer. She left the door and walked towards the barricade. The policeman on duty there did not stop her as she walked through. The barricade wa9 formed simply of country carts drawn across the roadway, leaving room for only one vehicle to pass through, and it was at this space that the policeman stood. As I sat by the window, I saw the policeman stop and examine cyclists, automobilists, and all other vehicles that were passing through. The barricade was on the road running from Dublin to Belfast. Within twenty minutes Agna returned. She came into the parlor and gave me a bundle of brown paper and string, and then went out to deliver up her other message. She came back quickly and began to tell me the result of her observations. The best thing was that we were on the right side of fche barricade and we should not have to pass it when we started out. But her next bit of information was not so pleasant; it was that according to the auto- THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 141 mobile signs there were fifty-six miles to Dub- lin. Still, nothing daunted, we began to transfer our kits from the suitcase to the brown paper. When we had finished we had two tidy-looking bundles much more convenient to carry than the suitcase. While we were eating our dinner the ques- tion arose as to what we should do with the suitcase. We settled it by asking the pro- prietress to take care of it till we came back from Carlingford. She was quite willing to oblige us, she said, as Agna had been so oblig- ing to her. I then paid the bill and we left the restaurant. I felt rather badly at leaving the suitcase behind me, as it had accompanied me for some ten thousand miles of my travels ; it was like abandoning an old friend. XII It was about two-thirty on Saturday when we started to walk from Dundalk to Dublin, and when it began to grow dark Ave were still walking. While we were discussing the prob- lem of where to spend the night, we came upon a barricade. We were in a quandary. What were we to do? We slowed up in our walk- ing but that was no use; we were bound to pass it eventually — or be detained. We had not the slightest idea as to what we should do. We did not know the name of the next vil- lage, so we could not say that we were going there. We did not even know the name of the village we were in! What should we do? If we were stopped and searched — I had my re- volver and ammunition and Agna wore her uniform under her coat and skirt — enough evidence to have us arrested. However, we put on a brave face and stepped forward bravely towards the barricade. About six yards from it we encountered two strong wires 142 THE UNBROKEN TRADITION 143 which were stretched across the entire width of the road, one reaching to the chin and the other to the knees. To give the impression that we had passed that way before and that we knew all about the wires, we ducked our heads under the high wire and put our legs over the lower one, then continued our walk to the barricade. It was in charge of a corporal's guard. As we came abreast the soldiers, evidently think- ing that we were country girls doing our Sat- urday's marketing, made some remark, in a broad Belfast accent, about carrying our bun- dles for us. In an accent broader than theirs, Agna gave them some flippant answer at which they roared with laughter; and while they were laughing we passed on. Further on we came to the village proper. Not until we saw the sign over the Post Office — "Dun- leer P. O." — did we know the name of the village through which we were passing. As we walked it grew darker. "What will we do — where will we spend the night?" I said to Agna. "There are no hotels about he±