The Guns of Easter (11 page)

His whole body still felt weak and frail, as if a sudden gust of wind would blow him away. The sacks of food were very heavy. Still, he was elated. He was going home, and he was loaded with food.

He tried to keep his mind empty of everything except the act of walking. He must ignore everything else – the soldiers and the rebels and the great, empty tiredness of his body. This was the last lap in his own personal race; he must not fall now when the finishing line was so close.

HALF AN HOUR LATER JIMMY STOOD
on Nassau Street. So far no-one had challenged him. He went up Nassau Street along by the railings of Trinity College, afraid that at any moment he might be stopped and sent back. For all the soldiers knew, the sacks around his neck might hold guns or grenades: they might even shoot him first and ask questions later. But at this stage he’d rather be shot than sent back.

Still, he was neither stopped nor questioned. The soldiers paid no attention to him at all.

The sound of big guns had grown louder as he came towards the river. He knew he’d have to pass them. The gunfire seemed to come from all around him here. It was as if he stood at the eye of a storm, with thunder all around.

The heaviest firing was coming from right ahead near O’Connell Bridge. Jimmy heard the rifles and the machine-guns, and the ‘crump’ of the artillery. Most of the rifle fire came from the army: the heavy booming sound of a rebel rifle came only occasionally. Jimmy had heard enough shooting now to recognise the difference between the two.

The sky to the north was full of dark smoke. It hung in the air like a shroud over what could only be Sackville Street.

There was no point in waiting. Only a long sleep would ease the tiredness he felt, and if he stayed here too long it would just get harder to start off again. Even his determination couldn’t keep him going forever: sleep or fear would get the better of him.

His body shook with tiredness, and the street seemed to shimmer in front of his eyes. He left the doorway, crossed the road, and set off again around the corner at Trinity College. One foot first, then the other; then the first foot again, with each step feeling as though his feet were made of lead.

Overhead, from the roof of the college, the firing was heavy and constant. Jimmy staggered on, wishing he was invisible. Looking up Westmoreland Street he saw the bridge at last.

Beyond it, Sackville Street was hidden by a blanket of smoke. Above the smoke he made out a corner of the Post Office roof. The two flags still flew there, and when he saw them still flying Jimmy felt a strange thrill of pride.

The soaring finger of Nelson’s Pillar rose over the dark cloud too. Below, the smoke eddied like fog. For a moment the statue of Daniel O’Connell at the near end of Sackville Street was revealed, glaring down towards the guns as though demanding to know who was daring to
attack the city. Then the smoke covered the statue again.

Around Jimmy groups of soldiers came and went, ignoring him. The sound of the guns didn’t seem to disturb them: indeed, they kept looking over almost fondly at the roaring weapons. The sound of your own big guns must be comforting, Jimmy supposed, especially when you knew that your enemy didn’t have any.

The buildings around echoed and magnified the roar each time one of the guns fired. Still nobody seemed to notice Jimmy. He felt like a mouse creeping through a field of giants, hoping they wouldn’t look down. Each yard of progress seemed precious, but each yard also seemed to demand more steps than the last.

‘Boy!’ He heard the call clearly over the storm of gunfire, but he tried to pretend, even to himself, that he hadn’t. There could only be one boy here. Surely they couldn’t stop him now – not after all this.

He might have tried to run, but he knew he couldn’t: he could hardly walk anymore. Maybe if he ignored the call, the caller would be distracted.

‘Hey! You with the sacks. Stop there! Stop!’

Jimmy stopped. When he stopped walking, he almost fell over. The weight of the sacks seemed to double when he stood still. The call had come from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He hadn’t the strength.

Marching feet approached Jimmy from behind, the
sound of a squad of soldiers in army boots. Tears blurred Jimmy’s vision still more. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

‘Well,’ said a Northern Irish accent. ‘What have we here? I do believe it’s our heroic wee Dubliner.’

It was the accent as much as the voice that Jimmy recognised. He turned in disbelief. He looked up into the big, scarred, friendly face of the sergeant who’d ordered him off Butt Bridge on Wednesday. Behind the sergeant a party of soldiers had come to a halt. Among them, grinning at him, Jimmy saw the faces of Jimmy Martin and the silver-haired corporal who’d collected the five shillings for him.

THE SERGEANT LOOKED DOWN
at the pale boy in front of him. ‘Still around, eh?’ he asked.

Jimmy wondered at the change in the sergeant. In spite of his smile, he seemed subdued. Jimmy was so surprised even to see him that he forgot to answer his question. The sergeant gave a little laugh.

‘Hard to get a word out of the wain,’ he said to his men. ‘I had the same trouble with him the first time I met him.’

‘Please, sergeant,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Did you see your relative, little man?’ asked the silver-haired corporal.

Jimmy nodded, thinking quickly. Over the past few days he’d told so many versions of the truth that he wasn’t sure any more which one he’d told the soldiers.

‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘I did.’ He indicated the bulging sacks that weighed him down. ‘I got all the food we need,’ he said. ‘But now I can’t get it home.’

The soldiers smiled at him. They seemed able to ignore the storm of gunfire that was going on around them. But then, he supposed, soldiers must get used to gunfire. It was just part of their job. Da must be used to it now.

‘You’re still a game wee fellow anyhow,’ said the corporal. ‘You were heading back through the field of fire without a thought for your own skin.’

‘Didn’t I tell you he was a brave lad?’ Martin asked proudly, as though any credit for such bravery was partly his. But Martin’s voice sounded subdued too, and Jimmy noticed now that, under their smiles, all of these men looked very grim. ‘Was it bad here?’ he asked.

The big sergeant spat on the roadway. ‘Not for us,’ he said. ‘But it was bad, aye. Bad for them poor swine in the Post Office. There were a lot of people shot, too, that had no part in this.’

Like all of them, he had to raise his voice to be heard above the shooting. He sounded almost angry. The
other men looked uncomfortable.

‘You can have some of this food, if you like,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ll have plenty for my family now.’

It was true enough. He could be generous now. He had a feeling this meeting was lucky for him. Besides, he felt he owed these men something. They’d been kind to him.

The sergeant looked silently at him for a while. Then he spat on the road again, as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth. He shook his head.

‘No, son,’ he said. ‘We’ve been well fed. It’s the people in your part of town who must be starving. If there’s food left over, you give it to them.’

Again he looked at Jimmy, an odd, intense look. It was as though he were weighing the boy up in his own mind. Then he turned to his men.

‘You, Martin,’ he said. ‘Take this boy across that river.’

It was what Jimmy had been hoping for, but the suddenness of it took his breath away. He’d been trying to think how he might persuade the soldiers to do this very thing. Now it was just happening.

Some part of Jimmy’s mind resented the sudden stab of happiness that he felt. It resented his being so grateful to the enemy. But it wasn’t these men, he thought, who were the enemy. They were just soldiers, like his Da. Maybe these Northerners didn’t feel comfortable with what they were doing either.

Private Martin saluted the sergeant. The other soldiers
all wished Jimmy goodbye and good luck. He wished the same to them, really meaning it. Then Private Martin set off towards Tara Street, and Jimmy followed him without looking back.

‘Well,’ Martin said. ‘Here we are again.’

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy. ‘Going the other way.’ It seemed strange that he should be returning as he’d come, with Private Martin leading him.

Tara Street was quiet. There were only a few soldiers there, and the guns in the tower of the fire station were silent. The area across the river was now in British hands.

From here Jimmy could see the smoking, gutted buildings at the Sackville Street end of Eden Quay. Some of them were still burning and black smoke and flames rose in the sky above Sackville Street.

‘The whole street must be burning!’ he said, awestruck. It was one thing to hear about it, another to see the flames with your own eyes. He’d been walking there only a few days ago.

‘The south end of it anyway,’ Martin said. He didn’t sound pleased by the fact.

‘What’s wrong with the sergeant?’ Jimmy asked him.

‘The sergeant?’ Martin frowned. ‘Oh, I think some of us are wondering what we’re doing here shooting at Irishmen and burning down Dublin.’ He seemed to deliberately shrug off his unease. He looked at Jimmy and grinned. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You got your food, anyway. Your
people should be all right now.’

Private Martin offered to carry the sacks for a while. Jimmy didn’t want to part with them even for a second, but he told himself not to be an idiot. He eased the belt from around his neck and put the sacks on the ground. Private Martin picked them up and swung them across his shoulder.

‘Good Lord!’ he said, feeling the weight. ‘How far have you carried these?’

‘From Northumberland Road.’

The soldier grinned again. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you should join the army when you grow up. Carrying a full pack would be no bother to you.’

‘No!’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll join no army!’

He regretted the words instantly. Private Martin might feel insulted. But to Jimmy’s surprise the soldier nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, lad,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

They crossed the river at Butt Bridge.

‘I think I’ll be all right from here,’ Jimmy said.

Martin looked at him doubtfully, but nodded. ‘Okay, old son,’ he said. ‘But go carefully.’ He looked seriously at Jimmy for another long moment, then he smiled and winked.

‘Up the rebels, eh Jimmy?’ he whispered.

Jimmy summoned up strength to return the smile. ‘Up the rebels, Jimmy,’ he whispered back.

Martin put the sacks back on Jimmy’s shoulders. They
seemed lighter now that he was close to home. Small and shabby though it might be, home called to him now in a voice that spoke of safety and peace – and a place to sleep for a very long time.

It was almost too easy now. Jimmy reached his own house without seeing a soul. The people of the slums, after five days of war, were cowering in their houses, hoping that the fighting would stop soon.

Jimmy struggled up the steps but had to rest again in the dark hallway before starting up the stairs. He’d run all the way from Marlborough Street, tired and laden though he was. He didn’t know where he found the strength, but it was the last that he had.

He climbed the stairs very slowly, staggering with each step like a drunken man; but he didn’t care. He only hoped he didn’t pass out before reaching his own door.

When he finally reached his door he stood for a moment just looking at it, breathing heavily and swaying. He was listening. He heard no sound at all from the room beyond, not even a sigh.

The step forward that he took was less a step than a lurch. His hand, reaching for the doorhandle, didn’t feel as if it belonged to him at all. It was numb. He had to struggle with the handle, and in the end he needed both hands to turn it. Then he staggered forward, pushing the door open as he fell into the room.

JIMMY DROPPED TO THE FLOOR
and lay there, looking up. Yes, there was the sagging bed, there was the big mattress. By the fireplace was his Ma’s rocking chair. On the mantelpiece the old clock, the gateway to his daydreams, stood silent. Under its glass cover the hands on its face stood poised at five minutes to twelve, XI to XII. He was home.

Four people sat at the table and stared at him with wide eyes. For a long time neither he nor they moved nor spoke: they just looked at each other in shock.

Sarah and Josie stared open-mouthed at their brother, as though the sight of him frightened them. Beside them, Ma too looked fearful. Maybe they thought he was a ghost.

Ma looked very frail, her face lined with grief and worry, her skin pale. Her eyes were red from crying, the whiteness of her skin exaggerating the colour.

Ella, small and dark, sat beside her sister. She too had been crying. Marks of a beating stood out on her pale face.

‘I’m back,’ Jimmy said finally. ‘I got food. I had fever but
I’m better. I couldn’t get across the river before. I got the food from Ella’s. Mrs Breen gave me cake …’

The spell broke. Ma screamed, frightening Jimmy into silence. But it was a scream of joy, a scream in which he heard his own name. Ma jumped to her feet. Her chair fell, ignored, to the floor. She ran to her son and hugged him fiercely to her. She knelt down and put her head on his shoulder, sobbing with relief and happiness.

Over Ma’s shoulder Jimmy saw the other three still staring. It was as though they knew that for now they had no part in this scene. This was between Jimmy and his Ma.

After a long time Ma stopped crying. She stood up and wiped her eyes with her apron, keeping one hand still on Jimmy’s shoulder. It was as if she could only believe he was really there as long as she touched him. She looked closely at his face and saw the exhaustion there. She became suddenly cool and businesslike then, and when Jimmy tried to begin a faltering account of his adventures she hushed him instantly.

‘Later,’ she said. ‘Tell me later. Rest now. You’re worn out. Lie down,’ she ordered, her ‘policeman’s voice’ returning to her suddenly.

He didn’t lie down so much as fall on to the mattress. He was still wearing all of his clothes, even his boots. For a moment he listened to the hum of voices as his aunt and sisters finally began to speak. They all started at once, chattering excitedly. Then Jimmy heard nothing, and saw
nothing, but slept more deeply and more peacefully than he had ever done in the whole twelve years of his life.

Later, when Lily Conway came to look at him, she found that he was smiling in his sleep. She sat by his bed for a long time watching him, ignoring the excited whispers of the others as they examined the treasures he’d brought. The smile never left Jimmy’s face.

Outside, the guns screamed their deadly messages into the falling dark. Buildings burned and crumbled into rubble, and men hunted each other in a deadly game whose outcome meant very little to her. Whoever might win, she would still live in a single tenement room and fend as best she could for her son and daughters. She had no choice but to wait, hoping for her husband’s safe return from the bigger war, suspecting that if he did get back he would probably involve himself in this fresh fight.

Let men fight each other if they must: they always had, and Lily supposed they always would. She could see no sense in it herself. She too had a war to fight, but it was a war that made sense: the fight to feed her children and keep her family whole and safe. It was a secret war without any glory attached, a war just as old and just as dangerous as any fought by men, and the results of losing in that war were just as terrible.

The smiling boy sleeping now beside her had spent this week fighting in her war. Later, maybe, he’d join in
the wars of men, though she hoped he would have more sense. But this time at least he’d enlisted in her army. She didn’t need to know all the details of his adventures, though she was certain that she’d hear them all in time. She didn’t even need to know what things he’d succeeded in bringing back. He’d gone out and done what he could, sickening her with worry; he’d come back bearing gifts, returning her to life. The most important thing was that he’d come back.

Ignoring the sounds of her sister and daughters, and the growling of the men’s war that leaked in through the cracked window of the tenement room, Lily Conway smiled a smile that echoed her sleeping son’s. Her son had been gone, and now he was returned to her. Tomorrow, things might be different; tomorrow, things might be better – or worse. That was the way of the world. But for this day at least, in the war that for her was the only real one, she had won.