Greg DalyFr Columbus Murphy was one of the Capuchin friars most heavily involved in the events surrounding the Easter Rising, and in July 1916 wrote a day-by-day account of his experiences. His account, edited by UCD’s Dr Conor Mulvagh and Prof. John McCafferty, has now been published by the Irish Manuscripts Commission. The following extracts are just a sample of his important account…
Monday, April 24
“Dinner had just finished about 12.25pm when a startling burst of firing rang out in Church Street. What was wrong? What had happened? Going out I saw people running past the Friary. A man came along, shot through the arm, he was on the point of collapsing. I helped him into the parlour. While attending to him an Indian doctor entered to offer his services, saying that he heard a man was shot. As he was dressing the wound, he informed us that he was on a visit to Dublin and had gone up to see the Phoenix Park. Some trouble started, he said, at one of the Forts.”
– Fr Aloysius Travers’ account published in the 1942 Capuchin Annual includes the same detail but identifies the doctor as an Australian.
“Trouble — I was prepared for. Yes a clash with the Police, or even with the soldiers, was possible. But a rebellion! Let me admit that the very thought never entered into my head. It is a very easy and cheap popularity to pretend to be wise after the event, as one hears on all sides to-day.
“And I may mention that the fifteen acres of the Phoenix Park would scarcely be large enough to hold all those who, in confidence, claim to have fought in the General Post Office; where the garrison was scarcely 300 all told.”
– It is striking that spurious boasts of having fought in the GPO must have become common currency within weeks of the Rising, given how Fr Columbus’s account was written in July 1916. By the 1920s, local wits were proposing that should Dublin host the Olympic Games, only the post office would be capacious enough to accommodate the crowds of spectators.
Wednesday, April 26
“I got far across the Iron Foot Bridge at the run, and into the arch at the far side for safety. Almost immediately the firing ceased. I had actually started off to continue my journey, when a thought struck me. Believing that hundreds must have been injured in that terrible bombardment: and knowing that Jervis Street was the nearest hospital; and realising that there was no priest there; I decided that my place was there; and reluctantly returned. I remained at the hospital for a few hours. However as the Volunteers had already evacuated the Hall the night before, only a few cases came in. As it was too late now to venture across town; and as one of the priests from Marlboro Street had arrived; I wended my way back to the Friary.”
–What Fr Columbus calls ‘the Iron Foot Bridge’ is the Liffey Bridge, known to Dubliners now as the Ha’Penny Bridge, but typically referred to in historical accounts of the Rising as ‘the Metal Bridge’. It is not clear which of the priests from St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral is referred to here, though Fr Edward Byrne, later Archbishop of Dublin, and Fr Joseph McArdle arrived at Jervis Street Hospital that morning.
“Judge then my alarm for my parents as they were living at the end of the street, the corner of Merrion Square – strangers in a strange city. I made up my mind there and then that come what may, I would go over next day to see them. Subsequent events proved how justified was my anxiety; because when returning to the house a fortnight later, they found that the military had broken into the house from the back.
“They burst open with revolver shots all locked doors, doing much damage to the furniture. If they had been in the house at the time what a panic they would have got in to.”
– A significant portion of Fr Columbus’ account is devoted to his attempt to make contact with parents, detailing his circuitous route via their home on Upper Mount Street by an uncle’s house in Sandymount to a cousin’s house on Leeson Street, and eventually back to the friary on Church Street.
Thursday, April 27
“There was the sound of singing outside, and going to the door there were an English soldier and sailor, arm in arm, and much the worst of drink in the middle of the road. They were of course in imminent danger of being shot.
“A priest, I quite forget his name, came out into the hall and together we induced them to come into the hospital, though it was much against their will as they said they were just as good Irishmen as many; and the Shinners wouldn’t touch them’.”
– Many of the British soldiers in 1916 were, of course, Irish, and regarded themselves as proudly such. Public drunkenness is a recurring theme in Fr Columbus’ account, invariably with reference to British troops.
“The whole sky towards O’Connell Street is lit up — immense tongues of fire leap into the air — a huge mountain of yellow smoke envelopes and hangs over all. And beside me and around me was the hideous din of rifle and machine gun fire.
“Of course, I put all notion of crossing the bridge out of my head, and was actually looking for a house where I could ask hospitality for the night, when a soldier coming down for a fresh supply of ammunition from one of the windows, said a man had been shot, and was lying on the far side of the bridge.
“That changed the whole aspect of things; safe or not, duty called, I had to go. Waiting for a little time while the officer sent word to the soldiers to cease fire; and hoping there was sufficient light to have the Volunteers recognise me.
“I took my stole in my hand and walked across in the middle of the bridge. I got to the man but he was quite dead; and did what was necessary for him.”
– A soldier had attempted to discourage Fr Columbus from crossing the Liffey back to his community, given the dangers of doing so, but his pastoral duties came first.
Saturday, April 29
“…some time towards 3pm the stench became so offensive, that we had to take some action in the matter. As we could get no outside help, it was decided to dig a large grave in the plot, on the far side of the street behind St Mary’s Protestant church, and bury them together.
“All available hands were called; Red Cross armlets were prepared and given out; picks and spades were collected. At the time, it is true, the firing had appreciably died down, but we took it simply as the calm before the storm, as each time the buildings attacked were well ablaze, the big guns ceased activities.
“We were waiting for Dr Byrne who had gone to telephone the Military authorities to have word sent to the officer in charge of Capel Street district, of what we were doing and not to fire on us. Suddenly he brought back word that there was no necessity for our job, as the fight was over. He could give no details whatever, except that it was finished.”
– The strain on staff and resources at Jervis Street is grimly evident throughout Fr Columbus’ account, and its gruesome effects are all too clear from how plans were made for a mass burial.
“Seeing the boys collecting in large numbers; and fearing I suppose a sudden attack, the man lost his head, commenced to shout out, and order them back, and threaten to fire on them, using the most opprobrious and vile epithets.
“To my horror I saw he was a sergeant and that he was semi-drunk. The Volunteers naturally resenting these ugly names and his threats; and little guessing the terms of surrender, would fire on him in a minute. Suddenly an English officer, one of several who were imprisoned in the Four Courts, grasping the situation, came out in his British uniform to the railings, the called out to me to go and get the officer in charge of the district as the responsible person to take the surrender. The appearance of the superior officer sobered somewhat the sergeant and saved the situation.”
– This scene of chaos at the Four Courts where a British officer begins to panic when faced with a crowd of excited Volunteers who had just learned of the surrender order is matched in remarkable detail by the 1949 Bureau of Military History (BMH) statement of Volunteer Thomas Smart, who mistook Fr Columbus for the perhaps better known Fr Augustine, and described him as holding a crucifix during this episode.
“On going out with some of the girls to the commissariat department, I was more than astonished. The place was simply packed with all kinds of food stuffs – meat, bread, flour, teas, sugar, fruit and sweets – sufficient to last the garrison for a month at least.
“The commissariat officer had surely done his work well; commandeering plenty from the shops and stores in the neighbourhood. In the Four Courts there always existed a large restaurant where dinner or tea could be obtained, and consequently a large cellar containing wines and drink was provided. To the credit of the Volunteers be it said, no man was allowed to enter that cellar, or touch a drop of drink.”
– The extent to which the Four Courts could feed the Volunteers, as described here, is all the more startling in light of Áine Heron’s statement to the BMH that when the women arrived there on the evening of Tuesday, April 24, the men “had nothing but tea”. Subsequently the women busied themselves, according to Bridget Lyons, preparing tea, sandwiches, fried potatoes, and joints of meat.
Sunday, April 30
“He was seated with his head bowed down, sunk deep in his arms resting on a little table: weighted down by the sense of his responsibility; tired, worn out, exhausted after all he had gone through. Who knows the poignancy of his feelings; who would attempt to pry into the thoughts that occupied his mind.
“Disturbed by the noise of my entry, he slowly raised his head; looking at me in the vacant dazed fashion of a man awakening from sleep. Then recognising the habit in which I was garbed, he quickly got up, and stretching out his hand said: ‘Oh Father, the loss of life; the destruction; but please God it won’t be in vain.’”
– Fr Columbus described his first sight of the captive Patrick Pearse as “indelibly” marked in his memory, and was adamant in his account that the destruction and death of the Rising had not been in vain, citing the old adage about the blood of the martyrs being the seed of the Church.
Tuesday, May 2
“Then I spoke to the Countess for the first time. She was a lady of cultured mien; enthusiastic in her views; ardent in her feelings; idealistic in her aspirations; she had the courage of her convictions. I had a long conversation with her, on many topics; and then she expressed the wish to become a Catholic. I asked her when did she come to that decision? She replied that it was the example of the boys in the College of Surgeons and their wonderful love for the Rosary that decided her.
“Being fearful lest her request might possibly be the result of a sudden fit of enthusiasm, arrived at without due deliberation; and as at the time there was no question whatever of a trial taking place; I assured her of my willingness to do everything necessary in the matter for her; and suggested that she should in the meantime pray to God for light and guidance.”
– One Citizen Army member, Seamus Murphy, later told the BMH how he was surprised to see the Countess Markievicz produce a set of Rosary beads when the Citizens’ Army troops at the Royal College of Surgeons knelt together for a last Rosary before their surrender. Although she had attended Mass with them before, he said, he had never seen her with beads. Fr Columbus later arranged for the Countess to be given a catechism and instructed in the Faith; her reception into the Church is one of the concluding details of his account.
Tuesday night, May 2-3
“I must have remained well over an hour with him. He told me that the three of them had been court-martialled early that morning but the sentence was not passed on them till after 5 pm. Thereby clearly proving that the finding of the Court were communicated to the Cabinet in England. Thus it was they, and not, as is popularly believed, General Maxwell who were responsible for the executions.
“He likewise said that they had received nothing to eat since breakfast, and asked for something to eat. I asked a soldier for some food, he brought back a couple of biscuits and a tin of water, saying it was all he could get. Let me say that all the soldiers in the prison were Irishman; and were full of sympathy, and deeply affected by the tragedy that was being enacted. Grateful for the biscuits, he handed me the Volunteer badge he used to wear, as a little souvenir of him.”
– Fr Columbus’s account of his meeting with Tom Clarke – and indeed the whole tone of his narrative – sharply contrasts with that of Clarke’s widow Kathleen, who claimed that her husband had ejected the Capuchin from his cell when he had demanded that the rebel leader express sorrow for his part in the Rising.
Wednesday night, May 3-4
“Now strange to relate all three with the exception of J.M. Plunkett were in cells in the more modern wing. Having attended to them, we suddenly discovered that J.M. Plunkett had not received Holy Communion; as we had only one pix with us. As I alone knew my way about, hearing he was up in the girls’ corridor, I went up and actually gave him the Sacrament as he was leaving his cell.”
– A pix from a contemporary portable Mass kit as would have been used by the Capuchins in Kilmainham, are all currently on display at ‘Ministry, Advocacy and Compassion: The Catholic Church and 1916’ in St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral, Dublin.