The days of reckoning

• Arrests begin, and many without rebel connections are held.
• Details of outrages are made public, including the murder of Francis Sheehy Skeffington.
• Court martials commence on May 2nd.
• Pearse, MacDonagh and Clarke are executed the following day.
• By May 12th, 15 are executed.
• Public revulsion at the harsh treatment of leaders combines with antagonism to conscription.

AFTERMATH

On the night of May 7th, just hours before his execution, Michael Mallin, who had commanded the Citizen Army at Stephen's Green, wrote to his wife of how he had passed their house, a few hundred yards from Kilmainham gaol, as he was being led from Richmond Barracks to his final destination. He hoped to catch sight of his "darling Wife Pulse of my heart" or their four young children.

"The only one of my household that I could cast my longing Eyes on was poor Prinnie the dog she looked so faithfull (sic) there at the door . . . I am so cold this has been a such a cruel week."

Mallin tried to keep up a brave front, but the reality of impending death, and of his departure from his wife and children shattered him: "My heartstrings are torn to pieces when I think of you and them of our manly James happy go lucky John shy warm Una dadys (sic) Girl and oh little Joseph my little man my little man Wife dear Wife I cannot keep the tears back when I think of him he will rest in my arms no more . . . my little man my little man my little man, his name unnerves me again all your dear faces arise before me God bless you God bless you my darlings . . ."

In the context of a vicious war, it was probably inevitable that the British authorities would mete out the ultimate punishment to at least some of those who had attacked their forces and openly declared an alliance with the enemy. In the context of Irish history, it was perhaps equally inevitable that those reprisals would alienate much of Irish opinion. Most Irish and even many British politicians understood this, but with martial law in force and Sir John Maxwell installed as military governor, political subtleties were never likely to dominate the official response.

In the immediate aftermath of the Rising, the authorities arrested 3,430 men and 79 women thought to be "Sinn Féiners". The accuracy of the intelligence on which the arrests were based can be judged from the fact that 1,424 were released within a fortnight, and all but 579 were subsequently released on the grounds that they posed no danger to the state. Even some of those who were deported, along with the veterans of the Rising, to English prisons and the Frongoch detention camp in Wales had no previous involvement in violent nationalism. The main effect of the arrests, therefore, was to alienate nationalist opinion. At the same time, details began to emerge of British atrocities, including the murders of Francis Sheehy Skeffington and other innocent civilians. The revelations undermined the assumption of moral superiority that, for the authorities, justified the executions of the leaders of the Rising.

THE FIRST MILITARY courts martial sat on May 2nd and immediately sentenced three men - Patrick Pearse, Tom Clarke and Thomas MacDonagh - to death. The three were taken that evening to the disused Kilmainham gaol and shot at dawn on May 3rd in the Stonebreaker's Yard. Clarke, who had spent a quarter of his 58 years in prison for IRB activities, told his wife during the night that he was "relieved" that he was going to be executed because his greatest dread was that he would be sent back to prison again.

Immediately after the executions of Pearse, Clarke and MacDonagh, the Irish Party leader, John Redmond, warned the prime minister, Herbert Asquith, that "if any more executions take place in Ireland, the position will become impossible for any Constitutional Party or leader". Asquith himself warned Sir John Maxwell that "anything like a large number of executions would . . . sow the seeds of lasting trouble in Ireland". But Maxwell kept the executions going, even after May 8th when the prominent Irish Party politician, John Dillon, told him that "it really would be difficult to exaggerate the amount of mischief the executions are doing".

The courts martial were held in secret, at least partly because, after a chaotic week, it was extremely difficult for the authorities to present detailed evidence against specific individuals. According to one of those tried, William Cosgrave, "my recollection is that we were assembled into groups and ushered into the Court, consisting of three senior officers. The President of the Court, or the Crown Prosecutor, Lieutenant Wylie, informed us we were being tried by Field-General Courtmartial. No person was allowed to appear and speak on behalf of the prisoner, but each prisoner would be permitted to bring a friend with him, who he could consult and who would be free to advise the prisoner but not address the Court."

The charges were laid according to a formula: "You are charged with having been one of a party at [whatever location] from which shots were fired, occasioning casualties amongst His Majesty's troops, and you are further charged with conspiracy with His Majesty's enemies." The evidence against many of the rebels was deeply confused, however. Those who fought at the South Dublin Union and Marrowbone Lane were charged with having been in Jacob's factory. According to Cosgrave, "Captain Rotheram, one of the best known and most popular sportsmen of the County Westmeath, the best polo-player at No. 1 in Ireland, took the surrender of the Volunteers at South Dublin Union and Marrowbone Lane, and marched with the prisoners to Bride Road. He was called upon the following day to give evidence of the surrender in both places. His reply was that he had not seen these men yesterday, that he did not know them, not having seen them before, that he would not know them again; that he would not feel justified in giving testimony. It is but fair to say that his sight had become impaired, which was the reason assigned for his relinquishing polo."

Many of the prisoners had little idea what to expect. Some of the leaders, including Patrick Pearse and Thomas MacDonagh, knew even before their trials that they would be killed. Pearse wrote to his mother on May 1st that he hoped his followers would be spared, but "we do not expect that they will spare the lives of the leaders".

Many of the rebels, however, seem to have expected relatively lenient treatment from the authorities. William Cosgrave reported "some astonishment" among the prisoners at the sentencing of two men, Dick Davis and Sean McGarry, to eight years penal servitude. Even some of the most prominent leaders seem not to have expected a death sentence. According to Cosgrave, "[ Eamonn] Ceannt had determined to make a fight for his life. [ John] MacBride evidently thought he was facing a term of imprisonment, as he expressed to me his anxiety that his position as an official of the Dublin Corporation would be there for him on his release."

These illusions were shared by some of the families of the rebel leaders and were prolonged by the often haphazard handling of the executions. The secrecy of the trials added to the confusion and the decision as to who would or would not be executed was at times arbitrary. Maxwell explained to Asquith that those to be executed would be either signatories of the Proclamation, commanding officers, or known murderers. But Willie Pearse, who was not among the leaders, seems to have been killed for no reason other than his relationship to his brother, Patrick. Eoin MacNeill was arrested and tried, even though he had tried to stop the Rising. Of the 90 death sentences handed down by the courts martial, moreover, all but 15 were commuted by Maxwell, among them that of Constance Markievicz, who, according to the young barrister William Wylie, who was co-opted as deputy-advocate general, had pleaded at her trial: "I am only a woman, you cannot shoot a woman, you must not shoot a woman."

Some prisoners heard their comrades being shot and wondered if they themselves would be next. At daybreak on Friday morning, May 5th, William Cosgrave, whose cell in Kilmainham was next to that of Major John MacBride, "heard a slight movement and whisperings in the Major's cell. After a few minutes there was a tap on his cell door. I heard the word 'Sergeant', a few more whispers, a move towards the door of the cell, then steps down the corridor, down the central stairs. Through a chink in the door I could barely discern the receding figures; silence for a time; then the sharp crack of rifle fire; then silence again. I thought my turn would come next and waited for a rap on the door, but the firing squad had no further duty that morning." That afternoon, Cosgrave learned from a priest that his death sentence had been commuted.

FOR THE FAMILIES of prominent prisoners, the uncertainty created a roller-coaster of hope and fear. Michael O'Hanrahan's family was summoned to Kilmainham in the early hours of May 4th by a message from the authorities that he wished to see them "before his deportation to England". When they arrived at the jail, however, they met Kathleen Clarke and Ned Daly's sisters and were told that Daly was to be shot. "We were horror-stricken, overcome, as we realised that the same fate must await our own brother."

Áine Ceannt believed, from a newspaper report on May 4th, that her husband Eamonn had been sentenced to just three years in prison. "When I read this I was delighted." Her sister-in-law told her, however, "that I need not believe what I saw in the papers, that four more had been executed, Willie Pearse, Ned Daly, Michael O'Hanrahan and Joe Plunkett . . . She also told me that the military escort sent for Mrs MacDonagh had failed to reach her, so that Mrs MacDonagh had no final interview with her husband."

On Saturday, May 6th, Áine Ceannt managed to meet the Provost Marshal, Viscount Powerscourt, "who was very amiable. He said he did not know what sentence these 'gentlemen' got, but consented to give me a note to the Governor of Kilmainham, which permitted me to interview my husband. I arrived at Kilmainham, was shown in and found Eamonn in a cell with no seating accommodation and no bedding, not even a bed of straw. The first thing I noticed was that his Sam Browne belt was gone, and that his uniform was slightly torn. A sergeant stood at the door while we spoke, and could say very little, but I gathered from Eamonn that he had heard about the supposed three years' sentence and he felt it would worry me . . . I said to him that the Rising was an awful fiasco, and he replied 'No, it was the best thing since '98'."

The next day a soldier arrived at Áine Ceannt's door. He had come from Fermoy, where Ceannt's elder brother William, who would die on the Western Front on the first anniversary of the Rising, was stationed as an army quartermaster. William had asked the soldier, who was on leave, to get news of his brother's fate. That fate was still apparently uncertain. Shortly after the soldier left, an army officer arrived with a note from Eamonn asking Áine and his brothers and sisters to come and see him. When she got to Kilmainham, "Eamonn said his mind had been disturbed. He said 'I was quite prepared to walk out of this at a quarter to four in the morning [ to be executed], but all this [ uncertainty] has upset me'." As they were leaving the prison, Eamonn's youngest brother, Richard, spoke to a senior officer, who told him "There is no reprieve. Go back and tell your brother." Richard did not tell Áine about this conversation.

Áine Ceannt stayed up all night praying. At 6am, when the curfew was lifted, she went to the Capuchin priory at Church Street and asked for Fr Augustine, who ministered to many of the executed men. Fr Augustine had just gone up to his room, having come back from an execution. A priest offered to go and fetch him. "I said no, that I only wanted to know the truth, and this priest said 'He is gone to Heaven.'" Later that morning, she spoke to Fr Augustine himself, who told her that her husband's last words were "My Jesus, mercy". After this conversation "my sister-in-law suggested that we go and purchase some mourning. As the War was raging at the time and there were many young widows, it was easy to procure an outfit."

EXCEPT FOR THOSE of the leaders, the trials were often very short. William Cosgrave's lasted less than 15 minutes before he was sentenced to death. Even though the proceedings were often rushed and formulaic, however, those charged were seldom in a position to contest the broad thrust of the charges. As Cosgrave acknowledged, "there was probably not one 'innocent' man brought up for Courtmartial." It was not surprising, in the circumstances, that the courts martial found every single prisoner guilty.

Paradoxically perhaps, relations between the legal and military officials on the one side and the rebel leaders on the other were often characterised by decency and kindness. According to Cosgrave, "the members of the Courtmartial were pleasantly polite. Their knowledge of law was most elementary, so that the Crown Prosecutor had on several occasions to insist upon prisoner's rights." The deputy advocate-general, William Wylie, also tried to ensure that the trials adopted fair procedures, arguing unsuccessfully that they should be held in public and the prisoners should have defence counsel. The attorney general, James Campbell, rejected Wylie's arguments and told him that "he wouldn't be satisfied unless 40 of them were shot". Wylie nonetheless was determined to defend the prisoners' rights and "bring out every damn thing I could in their favour".

Capt HV Stanley, an Irish Protestant and an officer in the Royal Army Medical Corps, looked after wounded prisoners who were being held at Dublin Castle. According to Father Aloysius, a Capuchin friar who tended to their religious needs, Stanley "said it would be a consolation if one of the priests would drop into the 'Sinn Féin' ward in which the other prisoner-patients were, and say a word to those in it, and let their friends know that they were alive . . . I was permitted to go round to each bed and speak to the patients. Some of them said they would be grateful if I would send them prayer-books. Captain Stanley said he would distribute them with pleasure if I sent them; and he did very kindly distribute the books which were sent . . . Captain Stanley showed himself, all through, a Christian and humane man, and James Connolly spoke to me of his very great kindness to him, although Stanley was politically and in religion at variance with the prisoners . . ."

Eamonn Ceannt noted of his jailers on the day before his execution that "all here are very kind" and his last words, according to the priest who witnessed his execution, were "telling of the kindness of a British officer". One member of the firing squad who shot Con Colbert pinned the regulation white square above his heart "and then added 'Give me your hand now.' The prisoner seemed confused and extended his left hand. 'Not that', said the soldier, but the right.' The right was accordingly extended, and having shaken it warmly, the kindly-human-hearted soldier proceeded to bind gently the prisoner's hands behind his back, and afterwards blindfolded him."

FOR THOSE WHO were involved in carrying out the executions, they could be grisly affairs. Áine Ceannt was told by Fr Augustine, who attended many of the executions, that "in every case it would appear as if it were necessary for the officer in charge of the firing party to dispatch the victim by a revolver shot". Capt E Gerrard subsequently spoke to Capt HV Stanley, who told him "I was the Medical Officer who attended the executions of the first nine Sinn Féiners to be shot. After that I got so sick of the slaughter that I asked to be changed. Three refused to have their eyes bandaged . . . The rifles of the firing party were waving like a field of corn. All the men were cut to ribbons at a range of about ten yards."

The executions and deportations created an ambiguity even among those mainstream nationalists who strongly opposed the Rising. On May 29th, for example, Meath County Council debated a motion which had been forwarded it to it from Tullamore Urban District Council, "that this council desires to record their outrage at the recent deplorable outbreak in Dublin which they believe to be greatly detrimental to the real industrial and political interests of Ireland". The motion was passed but so was an amendment to add: "That we respectfully request the government to deal in a lenient manner with the prisoners now in custody, who through youth or ignorance were the dupes of men who should have known better."

Like the county councils and the main newspapers, the Catholic hierarchy had initially taken a strongly negative view of the Rising. While some prelates maintained a discreet silence, those who spoke out were extremely hostile to the rebels. The Bishop of Ross denounced their "senseless, meaningless debauchery of blood". The Bishop of Kerry described them as "evil-minded men afflicted by Socialistic and Revolutionary doctrines".

But gradually, as descriptions of the last days of the leaders began to emerge in publications such as the Catholic Bulletin, the men were transformed from dangerous fanatics to Catholic martyrs.

For many of the prisoners, including the Marxist James Connolly, a fervent Catholicism provided consolation in dark times. "While in Richmond Barracks," remembered William Cosgrave, "prisoners' quarters were locked up at 8pm. Shortly after that the Rosary was recited and everyone settled down for the night . . . John MacBride told me on one of those nights that his life-long prayer had been answered. He said three Hail Marys every day that he should not die until he had fought the British in Ireland." In his cell in Arbour Hill barracks, Patrick Pearse wrote a poem in the voice of his own mother, comparing himself to Christ: Dear Mary, that didst see thy first-born Son/ Go forth to die amid the scorn of men/ For whom He died/ Receive my first-born son into thy arms,/ Who has also gone out to die for men . . .

ON THE NIGHT before Pearse's execution, the Capuchin friar, Fr Aloysius, ministered to him: "I can never forget the devotion with which he received the Most Blessed Sacrament. I could not help picturing to myself a scene in the Catacombs in the days of the persecutions in Rome. The bare cell was lighted from a candle at a small opening in the cell wall, and I had barely light to read the ritual. But the face of the man, he lifted it up to receive his God, seemed to beam with light."

A document that began to circulate in Dublin in June purporting to be Thomas MacDonagh's address to his court martial (its provenance is unclear, but MacDonagh's son accepted that it was probably genuine) had the same air of religious exaltation. He purportedly told the court that he and his colleagues belonged to the "great unnumbered army martyrs whose Captain is the Christ who died on Calvary . . . The forms of heroes flit before my vision, and there is one, the star of whose destiny sways my own; there is one the keynote of whose nature chimes harmoniously with the swan-song of my soul. It is the great Florentine, whose weapon was not the sword but prayer and preaching." This was a reference to the Benedictine monk Savonarola, who was burned at the stake for leading a revolt in Renaissance Florence, and to whom MacDonagh was devoted.

An emerging popular cult of the dead heroes, combined with fierce opposition to the threatened introduction of conscription, gradually handed the political initiative to a reconstituted Sinn Féin. When the opportunity came to contest a parliamentary seat in Roscommon after the death of the Irish Party MP, James O'Kelly, Sinn Féin chose a candidate who copperfastened the fusion of the religious and the political in its new identity. George Noble Plunkett was both the father of the executed Joseph Plunkett and a papal count. He easily defeated the Irish Party candidate in the election in February 1917.

Just over a year after the Rising, in May 1917, the reconstituted executive of the Irish Volunteers, including Michael Collins, who had been in the GPO during Easter Week, issued a new manifesto. It ordered Volunteers not to obey any instructions that did not come from the executive - an order that would have prevented the Rising itself from taking place.

And, in a further implicit rebuke to the tactics of the rebel leaders, it guaranteed that the executive would "not issue an order to take to the field until they consider that the force is in a position to wage war on the enemy with reasonable hopes of success. Volunteers as a whole may consequently rest assured that they will not be called upon to take part in any forlorn hope." The message was clear: the Rising was to be revered but not to be repeated.