Authors: Marita Conlon-McKenna
âTen minutes,' he said firmly.
Grace's heart pounded alarmingly and she could feel the trembling in her leg and foot. Her hands began to shake too as fear of what lay ahead for Joe almost engulfed her.
He stood up. He looked pale and the bandage around his neck was filthy, but his eyes reassured her as he reached for her hands and stilled the tremors. He was so calm and even in these last minutes she knew that Joe cared deeply for her, never thinking about himself but worried for her, wanting still to protect and love her for as long as he lived. She knew if she spoke she would break down, perhaps even turn to attack the soldiers around her like a wildcat, so she sat down beside him, trying to gather her thoughts and emotions.
âDarling Grace, you must be brave,' coaxed Joe, unselfish as ever. âYou are my wife now and I promise that you will be cared for always.'
A heavy tear slid down her face.
She listened as he spoke quietly of his friends and his belief in a new republic, a new Ireland. Their fight for freedom, the Rising, was only the beginning.
Joe had his faith and told her that he wasn't afraid to die.
âI am happy, dying for the glory of God and the honour of Ireland.'
She squeezed his hand, feeling the familiar pressure of his thumb caressing and circling her palm. There was so much she wanted to say, to tell him, but she knew if she even began to speak, a torrent of words and tears would pour from her, like a river bursting through a dam, and that she would not be able to control it or hold it back.
âYour ten minutes are up,' declared the sergeant.
Grace could not believe that ten minutes had passed and they had barely said anything to each other. They needed more time, needed privacy. But there was none. Joe nodded at her quietly and they held each other's gaze for those last few seconds as the sergeant ordered her to leave.
A moment or two later Grace was being escorted from the cell and back out through the prison. The memory of Joe's eyes, the touch of his hands, his words and his immense courage were seared in her heart.
Somewhere a prisoner screamed, like a child having a nightmare. Voices shouted, telling him gruffly to go back to sleep.
Grace stopped, feeling weak, barely able to breathe or move. A young soldier offered to get her some water. She leaned against the wall and sipped at it slowly, thinking of Joe alone in his cell.
The soldier confided to her that, along with Joe, three other prisoners were to be executed before dawn. One of them, she discovered, was Willie Pearse, and she let out a gasp at the mention of his name. She thought of Willie, with his art and sculpture and devotion to his older brother. When she was only seventeen he'd twirled her around the dance floor at college socials.
It was still dark when she walked out through the heavy prison door. Flecks of light peeped through the darkness and she could hear birdsong in the early hours of that still May morning.
She could not return home and it was unfair to go back to Mr Byrne's home and waken him once more. Father MacCarthy hoped to organize somewhere else for her to stay, or a motor vehicle to drive her to her sister Kate's home.
Grace stood waiting near the prison wall, a shiver running through her, for she felt such a strange coldness surrounding her. She wanted to stay: she still harboured a forlorn hope that perhaps there would be some last-minute reprieve, a change of mind about Joe's sentence. Grace still had hope.
Suddenly in the creeping morning light she heard rapid gunshots. Was it a firing squad? Fear gripped her. Once again there came the sound of gunfire. Shot after shot in the silence. Then more yet again.
Was it Joe?
She breathed slowly, then the stillness was broken by another booming volley, so loud and clear, breaking the calm of that early morn. A few seconds later, a single shot.
Grace's mind was filled with the image of Joe and the firing squad, and she knew instantly in her heart that this time it was him. She doubled over in pain at the realization that she would never see or speak or touch Joe again in this lifetime.
She stood there transfixed. It was over. Finally over. Joe was dead â shot like his friends MacDonagh, and Padraig and Willie and brave Tom Clarke. The rebellion crushed. His life taken from him because he had dared to dream, dared to fight for a new republic, an independent, free Ireland.
Mother had said they were fools, traitors, disloyal to the crown. A strange weariness came over Grace. How could she ever return to her childhood home again? She had nowhere to go now that Joe was dead. He had told her to be brave, but she was not like him â¦
The sky was getting lighter, brighter, the dawn with its first faint streaks of sunlight breaking the darkness. She looked upwards, thinking of Joe on the other side of the high wall only a few seconds ago.
Then she saw it â a bird, flapping its wings, its long neck and head and beak stretched forwards, rising upwards and upwards across the new morning sky. She watched it, looking up at the sky, dizzy, the bird flying free above her, soaring high over the city.
It wasn't over. Joe was right. It wasn't over at all.
This was just the beginning â¦
FOLLOWING THE SURRENDER
and arrest of all those involved in the rising, General Sir John Greenfell Maxwell, the newly appointed military governor of Ireland, was determined to quell any further chance of rebellion. He immediately ordered that hundreds of prisoners be transported by ship to prison camps in England, Scotland and Wales. He ordered the trial by court martial and then the execution of all those suspected of organizing the Rising.
Fourteen leaders of the rebellion were shot by firing squad in Kilmainham Jail: Padraig Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, Thomas Clarke, Joseph Plunkett, Willie Pearse, Michael Mallin, Edward Daly, Sean Mac Diarmada, Eamonn Ceannt, Con Colbert, John MacBride, James Connolly, Michael O'Hanrahan and Sean Heuston. In addition, Thomas Kent was executed in Cork and Roger Casement was tried for treason and executed by hanging in Pentonville Prison in London.
Dubliners, who had developed a grudging respect for the amateur army, were shocked by the executions, especially that of the badly injured James Connolly who, unable to stand, was shot sitting in a chair. Public opinion began to change.
Memorial cards of the dead leaders of the Rising were circulated throughout the city. General Maxwell and the British soon realized they had somehow made martyrs of the men and halted the executions, but it was too late. The Rising and its leaders' belief in a new Republic of Ireland had caught hold. The insurgents once considered traitors or fools for their actions were now becoming heroes.
The fight for Irish freedom continued, led by Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera on their release from prison. Sinn Fein won seventy-three seats in the 1918 elections and set up an Irish parliament, Dail Eireann, on 21 January 1919. The War of Independence followed, with the IRA carrying out new, guerrilla-type attacks against the British forces in Ireland.
In December 1921 Michael Collins, Arthur Griffith and Britain's prime minister, Lloyd George, signed the Anglo-Irish Treaty, ending the war and recognizing the formation of an Irish Free State. However, âthe Treaty' kept Ireland within the British empire and excluded the six counties in the north. This caused a huge split among republicans, which led to a violent civil war. Michael Collins was shot dead before his country finally gained its freedom from Britain and became an independent nation. Ireland became a republic in 1949.
Nellie Gifford Donnelly
Nellie was imprisoned in Kilmainham Jail until June 1916. On her return to Temple Villas her mother refused to let her cross the threshold. Nellie begged to see her father, but sadly she was only allowed to see him briefly before she moved to America where her sisters Ada and Sidney were both living. She toured around parts of the US recounting her experiences of the Rising, fundraising for the widows of the Volunteers and organizing talks promoting the republican movement. She married publisher Joseph Donnelly in New York and had one daughter, Maeve. In 1920 she returned to Ireland and, following the break-up of her marriage, became a successful writer and broadcaster, writing stories and plays for the new Irish radio station 2RN and for newspapers.
Fearing that people would forget the Easter Rising of 1916, Nellie was determined to gather together a collection of items related to the rebellion. In 1932 she persuaded the National Museum to exhibit her collection at the time of the Eucharistic Congress and Tailteann Games in Dublin. Among the 250 exhibits were Countess Markievicz's green jacket, pamphlets, guns and valuable personal items belonging to family members and friends. At the end of the popular exhibition it was clear to Nellie that a permanent home for the collection was needed. Much of it now forms the basis of Ireland's important historic 1916 Collection housed in the National Museum in Dublin. In the 1960s Nellie became a founder member of the Kilmainham Jail Restoration Society. The prison is now one of Ireland's most popular visitor sites.
After a long life filled with many interests, Nellie Gifford Donnelly died in 1971.
Muriel Gifford MacDonagh
Muriel was devastated by the execution of her husband, Thomas MacDonagh. With his death she could no longer afford to continue renting their home in Oakley Road. Her mother, Isabella, called to see her, but instead of giving support, spoke out against Muriel's husband and his role in the rebellion. Countess Plunkett, who had always had a huge regard for Thomas MacDonagh and was fond of Muriel, offered her one of the Plunkett houses in Ranelagh in which to live.
Dressed in her widow's clothes Muriel was striking and beautiful, and the British authorities feared that her appearance at rallies and events would incite even more resentment of their actions.
In July 1917 a seaside holiday was organized for âthe Widows of 1916' and their children in Skerries, and Grace and Muriel decided to join all the other women. One day Muriel went out swimming as her two-year-old daughter Barbara sat playing with shells on the beach. Tragically, Muriel, although a good swimmer, got into difficulty and drowned. It was suspected she had suffered heart failure. In Dublin huge crowds gathered for her funeral, watching silently as black-plumed horses drew her coffin towards Glasnevin Cemetery.
Grace Gifford Plunkett
The tragic story of Grace Gifford's wedding to Joe Plunkett appeared not only in Irish newspapers but also across the globe, with Grace finding herself thrown into the spotlight. Unable to return to her parents' house, she went to stay in Larkfield, the Plunkett family home.
Grace's appearance at republican rallies drew huge support. She designed anti-British posters and leaflets for election campaigns and she herself was elected to the Sinn Fein executive. Like most of the wives of the leaders of the Rising, Grace was firmly opposed to the Treaty. She wrote to the press and created a series of anti-Treaty cartoons. In 1923 she and her sister Kate, who had also become a republican, were arrested and imprisoned in Kilmainham Jail for seven months. There Grace drew a mural of âThe Madonna and Child' on her cell wall.
Following the end of the Civil War in 1923, Grace continued to work as an artist and she also published a number of books of cartoons of the Abbey Theatre's actors. She often struggled financially. She had little contact with the Plunkett family and in 1934 took legal action against them as they had failed to follow the terms of Joe's will, which asked for her to be given everything he possessed. Countess Plunkett refused to honour it and eventually the matter was settled out of court, with Grace receiving a one-off payment from the family.
Grace died in 1955 and was buried with full military honours in the Plunkett plot in Glasnevin Cemetery. Grace Gifford Plunkett is considered to be one of Ireland's leading female artists. A ballad about her and Joe's wedding became very popular and all those who visit Kilmainham Jail in Dublin hear of the tragic love story of Grace Gifford and Joseph Plunkett.
Isabella Gifford
Isabella blamed Countess Markievicz for influencing her daughters. Frederick Gifford died in September 1917, after which she sold the large house in Temple Villas and made her home in nearby Ranelagh. In time she was reconciled with her daughters and saw her grandchildren. Isabella died in 1932.
I owe huge thanks to my daughter Fiona Conlon-McKenna for your belief, enthusiasm and help in researching this book.
And thanks also to my husband James for your unstinting support through all my years of writing, and to my amazing family, Mandy, Laura, Fiona and James, my sons-in-law Michael Hearty, Mike Fahy and James Hodgins, and my pets Holly, Sam, Ben and Max.
I would like to express my grateful thanks to the following people and organizations who so generously helped me with the research for this book:
Muriel McAuley, for sharing some of your Gifford/MacDonagh family memories with me, and also her daughter, Michelle Drysdale.
Meadhbh Murphy, Archivist at the Royal College of Surgeons Ireland, 23 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2. Thanks for all your help, for giving me the tour and also for sharing information and stories of the 1916 College of Surgeons' garrison.
Attracta Maher (née Brennan-Whitmore) and her daughter Ann, for talking to me about William Brennan-Whitmore, father and grandfather, who served as Commandant in the Earl Street garrison and for giving me a copy of his wonderful memoir
Dublin Burning
.
Nancy Gallagher-Scanlon, for your kindness and help with researching the Gifford family.
Ann Clare, for your years of dedication and research in compiling and writing your marvellous biography of the Giffords,
Unlikely Rebels
, and for kindly agreeing to talk to me.
Sandra Galligan, for telling me about your grandfather Paul Galligan's trip to Dublin on Easter Monday 1916.