Swearing Allegiance (The Carmody Saga Book 1) Read online

  One of the riflemen turned from the window, crouched down, and leaned his back against the wall. Holding his rifle loosely in one hand, he ran his fingers through his dusty hair with the other and shrieked like a tenement wife. “The buggers are breaking through! We’re done for, I tell you! There’s no way out of this!”

  For the first time, Danny’s breathing steadied to an even pace. Walking to the centre of the room, he thought again, He’s right. Everyone in this post office is going to die. We’re all dead. None of us will be spared British punishment.

  Standing directly behind the council members, he waited for one of them to speak. He wanted to cover his ears and shut out the booming, mostly incoherent voices, but he was scared to miss an important word. Finally, someone from within the crowd shouted over the crashing and banging, and the thunder of armoured vehicles hammering the pavements.

  “What’s the plan?”

  For a brief second, heads turned, mouths snapped shut, and the room appeared to grow silent.

  “Hold!” James Connolly’s voice rang out in reply.

  Danny’s heart leapt at the sound of Connolly’s voice, but the sight of his ashen face sleek with sweat and eyes wide and dazed with pain tore at his guts.

  “No, it’s not over! We can still win this!” Connolly shouted. “We’re staying. We’ll give it one more hour, just one more, and then we’ll leave. Our best bet is to get inside the Four Courts. If we can reach Bow Street, we’ll be fine! One final stand, men – that’s all I’m asking!”

  Pearse was standing next to Connolly. Nodding his head in agreement, he looked pensively at the men, and then he shook his head in anger. “Damn it! If that German ship with our Russian rifles hadn’t been scuttled and if we had gotten more support from the provinces, it would have been a different story, but we don’t have the advantage anymore. There’s a British gunboat on the River Liffey and streets filled with troops and artillery. We need to be thinking about drafting some sort of surrender.”

  “We don’t know what’s going on down the road or if our men are still holding out at the other places,” Connolly reminded him.

  “They won’t hold out for long, Mr Connolly,” Danny blurted out without thinking. “The Four Courts and Jacob’s Biscuit Factory are surrounded, much the same as here. The British are setting fires everywhere—”

  “They’ll smoke us out of here too, eventually,” Pearse interrupted. “So we’ll do as Mr Connolly says and stay for one more hour. Then we leave. If we can gather at Bow Street, we might still stand a chance.”

  Despite the noise, a sense of calm settled over everyone. Pearse flicked his eyes from face to face and then spread his arms in a gesture of resignation.

  “Look, I’ve always maintained that this might be a suicidal mission for me, but remember this: You cannot conquer Ireland. You cannot extinguish the Irish passion for freedom. So if our deed has not been sufficient to win this freedom, then our children will win it by a better deed.”

  Chapter Two

  Friday, 28 April 1916

  Patrick Carmody sat on a stool with elbows on knees; fingers entrenched in his thick mousy brown hair. Looking about him, he thought, if anyone else orders me to tend to another wounded person or to stay out of his way, I’ll punch him in the mouth. Four days without respite from the noise of incendiary bombs, mortar, and machine-gun fire had rendered him useless. His brain felt as though it had already gone to sleep. His limbs were shaking with exhaustion, and he could no longer hold a scalpel or stitch a sliver of skin, even if he wanted to.

  Members of the Irish Citizens Army filled the main reception area. Its leaders, Commandant Michael Malin and Countess Markievicz, Malin’s second in command, sat huddled in a corner next to the barricaded front entrance. They looked skittish, Patrick thought, like two lovers desperate to hold on to their last moments together before being torn from each other’s arms.

  Flicking his eyes back to the men, he noticed a renewed air of urgency. For the past couple of days he’d watched the rebels wander up and down the hallways without clear purpose or destination. Since they’d barged in there, all they seemed to have done was barricade doors and windows, effectively corralling themselves inside. But they hadn’t fired many bullets from their rifles, nor had they made any advances on their enemy.

  The atmosphere had changed. That afternoon he saw stricken faces filled with defeat. And with the sorrow came a heightened scurry of activity: a weapons cache being placed on the floor, rifles standing against the walls, and men buttoning up their jackets as though they were getting ready to leave, some raising their voices in heated discussions. The British were coming in.

  He didn’t know the ins and outs of Commandant Malin’s original plan, but whatever it was, it had failed miserably. Outside, the British troops held the Shelbourne Hotel and the other tall buildings, overlooking the nearby St Stephen’s Green. He thought back to Easter Monday and the British Army’s intense attack with machine guns perched high up on window ledges. They had gunned down anyone brave or stupid enough to be on that lush green field. Suspecting trouble, he and his father, Robert, had decided to go to the college with the intention of securing as many of its archives, medical textbooks, instruments, and equipment as possible. His father’s main objective, however, had been to save his research, which he’d just completed after ten long years.

  Upon their arrival, the building had been relatively calm and everything outside looked just as it should. No lectures or operations were being performed in the theatres, because of Easter, but a few students studied in the library. When the first shots from the area surrounding the green were fired, he and his father were inside the latter’s office, gathering research papers and documents to take to London the following day.

  “Dad, it’s starting. We’re going to get trapped in here unless we leave right now!” Patrick had shouted harshly.

  Hearing the chaos outside, they’d gone to the window. The Irish civilian army, trying to take the surrounding buildings, were scurrying like rabbits across the green or dying where they fell. In a surprise attack, the British forces swept the green with machine-gun fire, forcing most of the rebels to retreat into the college, and that’s where they had remained.

  Patrick’s instincts now kicked in. Neither he nor his dad had wanted to join in this ridiculous fight or swear allegiance to one side or the other, yet there they were, trapped, just like everyone else in the building. Coming there had been one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. If he could turn the clocks back, he would have insisted upon erring on the side of caution, tied his father to his armchair, locked his brother Danny in his bedroom, and barricaded his family home from any outside threat. However, clocks didn’t go back on a whim; he and his father might die for damn research papers.

  From where he sat, he could see through the windows of a set of double doors. Beyond them was a short corridor and, at the end, the college operating theatres and lecture halls. How many people had he seen being carried in through those doors? He tried to remember. Some had died before they could even be treated – mostly curious civilians who’d been in the green. He’d lost count of them. He could no longer see their faces or even conjure up the gut-wrenching emotions that had suffocated him during the first two days of the rising. He was twenty-five years old, but he felt like a horse fit for nothing but the knackers’yard.

  Hearing his dad’s voice, he looked up and sighed with relief. “Jesus, Da, you look worse than I do. Where have you been?”

  Carrying two packed briefcases, Robert smiled as though it were just an ordinary day. “I’ve been busy collecting the last of my papers. I can’t afford to lose a single page.” Looking around him, he asked, “Is there any word of our Danny?”

  Patrick shook his head. They’d had no word from the little tyke since his cheerful voice shouted “Goodbye, see you later!” early on Easter Monday morning. “I’ve heard nothing. No one in here has seen or heard from him. Most of them don’t recognise his name,
but knowing him, he’ll be in the thick of things and getting himself into all sorts of trouble.”

  “No doubt,” Robert said worriedly. “When I find him, I’ll kick his arse – just as soon as I’ve finished hugging him. Come on – it’s time we got ourselves home to your mam. She’ll be sick with worry. We’ll look for Danny on the way.”

  “Are you daft, man? How do you propose we get out of here? And where on God’s green earth are you going to start looking for our Danny? I’ve just spoken to one of the rebels. He got in here a short while ago. God only knows how. He says the post office and biscuit factory are in flames. Sackville Street has been torched top to bottom. That will bring the rebels out into the open. The streets will be crawling with troops in no time. We need to stay, Dad. It’s not safe to leave here till the guns have stopped firing. It’ll be like a bloody graveyard out there.”

  “Sure, it will be that – and filled with foolish Irish men and women with overinflated ambitions and useless dreams,” Robert said angrily.

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed in disgust. He was disappointed at his father’s attitude and with the statement he’d just made. His father was an Irishmen, born and bred, but having studied and worked in London for years, he had taken on the air of an imperialist. The only reason he came back to Ireland was to teach at the Royal College of Surgeons, and even now he spent half the year in London at some fancy private medical practice in Harley Street, having refused to give up the high life. Growing angrier, he felt the urge to utter a retort. There was nothing foolish about wanting a free Ireland, self-governing and not being beholden to British laws. The republicans had the right idea. They just hadn’t gone about it in the right way. As far as he was concerned, violence never solved anything. They needed a political solution, although it seemed to him they’d blown that chance right out of the water.

  “I’ve heard of a lot more British troops losing their lives today than rebel Irishmen and women,” he said tersely. “And you shouldn’t scoff at men’s ambitions, Da, not when you’ve spent your life drowning in them!”

  Robert grumbled beneath his breath, turned his back on Patrick, and then walked towards Commandant Malin. “Are you coming or not?” he called over his shoulder to Patrick. “I’m not going to discuss politics with you in here.”

  Malin stood up as soon as Robert reached the door. Looking at the briefcases, he asked, “Dr Carmody, where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m going home to my wife and children. Best you all be doing the same thing before it’s too late,” Robert said, handing one of the briefcases to Patrick.

  “If you go out there, you’ll not get more than ten feet before being shot down,” Malin said. “We’re going to surrender shortly. I’ll vouch for you and your son and for all the civilians caught up in this. For God’s sake, man, just stay put and don’t do anything foolish.”

  Robert sniggered. “Sure, you can vouch for me till Irish whiskey stops flowing, but those jittery soldiers out there won’t take chances. They won’t care if a man professes to be a bystander just trying to get home or a doctor who’s been up for four days saving lives. They’ll arrest us all, and I have no desire to go to prison. If it’s all the same to you, Patrick and I will risk the streets.”

  Malin motioned to two soldiers to stand in front of the entrance. “I’m not opening these doors for you.”

  “You don’t have to,” Robert said. “My son and I will go out through the morgue downstairs. It’s right at the back of the building. It’ll be safe enough. I’ll show you the way if you and your men want to come with us.”

  “No, I won’t risk any more of my men’s lives.”

  “Then I’ll bid you all a very pleasant evening, and I’ll even say a wee prayer for you,” Robert said to Malin as a parting dig.

  Patrick and Robert exited the building through the morgue’s double doors. Being in the underbelly of the building, they had to walk up a small incline to the road. At the top of the hill, they halted and surveyed their surroundings. Tightly packed streets on the opposite side of the road appeared relatively quiet. Men shouted, a collection of footsteps thumped the ground, the odd incendiary devices, and gunshots went off, but the latter sounded as though they were some distance away. Patrick’s entire body shook with fear. Earlier he’d wanted to get rid of the numbness dulling his senses. Well, dullness had well and truly left him. He was a quaking wreck.

  Darkness had fallen, enhancing the brightness of red flames rising from the General Post Office on Sackville Street. It was also windy, making the flames jump higher and spread quickly. To the south, Jacob’s Biscuit Factory was also on fire, and it looked as though the whole centre was alight. Intensifying the sky’s glow further, yellow flares were whistling as they shot upwards and ending in muffled bangs as their last sparks died. At least it stopped raining, Patrick thought, and then the notion of that being a good thing changed. Rain was needed to put out the fires.

  Halfway along York Street, Patrick and Robert were forced to cover their mouths and noses with their jacket sleeves. The smell of smoke hovering between the rows of houses was rancid, not sweet or inviting like a wood fire. Patrick tasted rubber, metals, and something else, which made him want to vomit.

  “In the name of God, what is that?” he spluttered.

  “The fires have spread to the sewers. It seems even shite burns,” Robert whispered.

  Deciding to take a longer route home forced them to circle around a block of terraced houses. First they headed south, then west, and eventually they came out north of the college, beyond the conflict area. Robert’s motor carriage was parked about a mile away. It was a good distance from the River Liffey and the bridge that had been under attack on Easter Monday. But even so, after what Patrick had witnessed and heard in the past four days, he thought they’d be lucky to find it in one piece, or find it at all.

  Picking their way slowly along a street, they were mindful of snipers, armoured vehicles, and troops. There was no telling how far they were away from the areas where the army was patrolling. Patrick’s eyes flicked left, right, upwards to rooftops, to second- and third- floor windows with closed curtains, and finally down to the deep house porches. As they strode onwards, he glanced at some of the buildings that had been destroyed by weapons and at shops looking like empty shells after hours of iniquitous looting. “There’s damage everywhere,” he mumbled, genuinely shocked.

  “Dublin’s gone stark raving mad,” Robert said. “A load of thieving rascals capitalising on the city’s troubles – it’s a bloody disgrace.”

  A single gunshot rang out. Robert fell like a brick, landing in a gutter. Not a cry or groan left his lips. Patrick, lunging into a darkened house porch, heard the whoosh of a bullet passing precariously close to his ear, causing him to gasp with fright. Panting for breath, he pressed his back against a side wall and looked out into the street. From his position, he could see his father’s head lying on top of the gutter’s iron bars. After blinking a few times to clear his eyes, he focused on his dad’s face. His mind screamed, He’s dead! My dad’s gone! Yet he stood as still as one of the sculptured figures on top of Dublin’s monuments.

  At first numb with shock, he now began to pant louder with shallow breaths. His ears were making a high-pitched whistle. He touched one of them and felt hot, sticky liquid. A bullet had grazed him.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks, yet he felt as though his limbs were paralysed. Hearing footsteps farther along the street, he imagined being gunned down at any second and ending up in the gutter with his father.

  Move! he thought ferociously. He couldn’t carry his dad’s dead body. He wouldn’t get more than two feet away. He had to run the gauntlet down the street and hope for the best. His lips parted in a silent grief-stricken moan. He was going to be shot down like a dog the minute he left the terraced house’s porch.

  He glanced fleetingly at his dad’s neck. He could tell by the amount of blood coming from the wound that an artery had been severed. Coveri
ng his mouth, he took a deep breath and urged himself to take that first step. Do it. Run! Instinctively, he put one foot in front of the other, but he still couldn’t make his body obey his mind.

  The door behind him cracked open. An arm and then a face appeared. Patrick felt a man’s hand gripping his arm. “Get in here, ya feckin’ eejit, before you get yourself killed,” the man’s voice said, and then Patrick was dragged inside the house.

  Chapter Three

  The post office was a blazing furnace, making it an untenable position. Danny, although coughing and spitting out smoke that was seeping through the bottom of the closed doors, kept his eyes firmly planted on Mr Connolly’s face. A nurse binding his leg wound was shouting, yet it sounded like a soft whisper under the deafening din.

  The upstairs was in flames. Most of the rooms had been hit by incendiaries and were engulfed in thick black smog. Men were running towards the door carrying their rifles and grenades, and wearing the same air of determination and defiance that had seen them hold out against a massive British force for days. Instead of following the men, Danny moved closer to Mr Connolly, and hunched down beside him.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Connolly?” he asked.

  “Ah, Danny, you’re a good man. You’ve done a grand job already,” Connolly muttered painfully. He pointed to the door. “It’s time you got yourself out of here. Go with the boys to the rendezvous point. I’ll be there shortly,” he said. “I’m giving you an order, Danny Carmody, and you’ll not be arguing with me.”

  Tears stung Danny’s eyes. The dream was over, and all the Irish deaths had been for nought. “Is this it then?” he asked in a sullen voice.

  Connolly smiled. “Not for you. We in the council put our names to the provisional government document, knowing we might be signing our death warrants. But this is just the beginning of Ireland’s fight, regardless of what happens to me and the other leaders. Contained within this building was the heart and inspiration of our movement. The British will be vindictive, and they’ll hit us hard for this, but Ireland will be in good hands with the likes of you and the other brave men out there. You’ll carry on, will you not?”