|
The Crawford Chronicles I
The Crawford Chronicles: Easter Rising
As the sun rose on the 26th of April, the 1200 Irish rebels had taken control of nearly every important point in the city of Dublin.The British War machine, after two days, was prepared to arrive in force and put down the rebellion. Thousands and thousands had arrived by train- there would be 16,000 British troops smothering the city by the end of the week. But for the moment, although knowing their revolution had little real hopes beyond being a sacrifice to wake up the people, Dublin was free.
Under cover of darkness, Kate and Crawford had slowly stalked through the streets of Dublin, their boots crunching the glass of a hundred broken store windows. The police had been pulled off the streets and looters had taken full advantage of the situation. They travelled slowly, with Kate leading the way towards her assignment, revolver sticking from her belt, and Crawford trailing behind brandishing his old rifle. The sky had just lightened to a dusky grey as the pair reached M street, and a small group of men was visible in a courtyard down the road.
The men, about a dozen or so of them, were organized in a semi circle, with one standing and speaking in the center. He was a short man, but with the strong arms and shoulders of a working man. Still in his prime at 28 years old, Mick Malone patiently explained the situation to the men and boys under his command. In his previous life, he'd been a carpenter. He nodded to Kate as she approached, but continued speaking.
"... boys will be in trouble. I think most of them are expecting a fistfight, but the damn British army is going to be able to bombard the piss out of most of us in the city without getting close eough to get their hair out of place. But we've got a good spot here, lads, and here, at least, will be different."
He gestured at Mount Street Bridge down the road.
"They've got to come over the bridge if they want to get at us. Sure, there's other ways in, but less convenient, and it's that one that controls the road, and if we're lucky then we'll get one of them by the book commanders told to cross the bridge, and not a real fighting man. Now spread out, and make damn sure you can hit the bridge from where you're at..."
As Mick was giving a few final instructions, Kate pointed at the bridge. The rebels, hurriedly, raised their guns, but her sharp shout lowered them. A boy had broken from the hill beyond the bridge and was sprinting across it, moving as fast as his legs could carry him. He soon approached and bent over, hands on his knees in the center, as he tried to speak. Kate handed him her flask of water and after a few moments, breathlessly brought word.
"Mick, you told me to keep an eye and boy, are you going to like this. There's hundreds of them coming, more soldiers than I ever seen at once in my life. But they can't shoot worth a lick. They got off the goddamn boats and had to be reminded how to shoot their bloody guns. They're green, Mick, greener than me!"
An excited murmur spread through the group, but Mick silenced them quickly and sent them off to prepare for the assault. Crawford and Kates headed towards a large house overlooking the bridge as, behind them, the boy fought with Mick unsuccesfully to be allowed to stay and fight.
The rebels had scattered in small groups throughout the buildings that overlooked the bridge and provided clear lines of fire. One such building was the abandoned Clanwilliam house. Kate and Crawford quickly picked their way through the yard and entered it, barring the door behind them, as Kate called upstairs in Gaelic. Boots were heard on the ceiling above as her call was returned and two young men came rushing down the stairs. It was impossible to tell their age, though they oozed a youthful exuberance that, though still a boy himself, made Crawford feel ancient.
"Orders, you have orders from Mick?" "Any news?" , they blurted simultaneously .
Kate raised her hand to silence them and spoke.
"We've a few minutes before they get there. There's hundreds of them, but it looks like they're straight from the training depot. Crawford, met Patrick Boyle and Tom Walsh. Boys, this is Chris Crawford and he's come to help us."
Switching his rifle to his left hand, Crawford went to shake and found his hand excitedly rung by both of the young men. They both began to speak to him simultaneously, but a shout from outside instantly cut off all communication. Kate pointed upstairs.
"You two get back up there and cover from the windows. Crawford and I'll hold the wall in front."
As the young men jostled each other running for the stairs, Kate pulled out her revolver and walked slowly with Crawford to the stone wall that ringed the house. It was about three feet high, and would provide excellent cover. The two lovers dropped with their backs against it. Kate quickly piled ammunition between them, emptying the bag she'd carried on her shoulder. Again checking her revolver, she leaned back against the wall and exhaled, feeling the cool stone through her dark hair. Her eyes closed, Crawford leaned over and kissed her. And then they heard the drum. Fire leapt to their eyes as Crawford loaded his rifle, and they waited.
The shooting began with the boys above, their enthusiasm hardly contained by the range limitations of their weapons. Crawford sneaked a glance over the wall, as a giant mass of soldiers came as one over the hill and headed toward the bridge. In a moment, Kate was next to him, levelling her father's revolver on the wall and firing, as the other rebels in the surrounded house opened up. Crawford squinted, and fired into the mass of men, hearing a scream in the aftermath. Swallowing his horror, he looked at Kate. She'd almost ceased to be human, the cold flame burning in her eyes looked empty, so focused was she on the task at hand. Crawford, knowing the time for words had passed, just kept shooting.
Their advance halted, and with a dozen men lying dead on the bridge, the British pulled back. But soon the trumpet sounded and they returned, with more force, pushing towards the bridge again. Above, Crawford could hear Patrick and Tom excitedly babbling as they shot.
"Isn't this a great day for Ireland?!" "Isn't it that?!" "Did I ever think I'd see a fight like this?! Shouldn't we all be grateful to the good God that he's let us to take part in a fight like this?!"
Having expressed his gratitude for his Maker, Patrick Boyle was shot in the head. His body draped on the window sill, his limp arms hanging down, as Tom screamed and pulled him back. With a sinking feeling in his heart, Crawford tracked a sergeant on the bridge that looked competent and put him down with one in the chest.
The shooting continued throughout the day, as the horrific process repeated itelf again and again. There would be a whistle every twenty minutes and British officers, charging with swords drawn, would lead their men up the road. The rebels would use their superior position to inflict crushing damage, and the British would fall back again. The day began with 17 rebels and unknown hundreds of British. As the day was coming to a close, nearly 200 British soldiers lay dead or wounded on the bridge or in the road. The wounded cried out in pain, or tried to grasp their water bottles. Each new charge would make it harder on the next, as the soldiers were hindered, or even tripped over, the bodies of their fallen comrades.
With ammunition running low, Crawford had begun to conserve his shots. He'd been dealt a glancing blow on his left arm that bled mightily, but had skimmed past the bone and major arteries. Easing one eye over the wall, the darkening sky was making it harder and harder to see.
He saw the shooter right before it happened. A young man, barely 18 by the look of it, with his rifle trained on the wall, waiting. He'd probably lost a dozen friends today, maybe even a brother. Crawford opened his mouth to warn Kate but saw, to his horror, that she was already rising to shoot. He dove at her, his shoulder hitting her thigh at the same instant the bullet pierced her chest with a sickening thud.
Crawford saw the blood spread across her shirt and frantically tried to stop the bleeding. Her eyes blinking, Kate took him by the hand that was pressed on her chest and gently squeezed. With a small smile, her eyes closed for the last time and her hand dropped to her side. Crawford knelt by her side for what seemed like an eternity, struck in disbelief. After a minute or an hour, he took his lover in his arms and stood, carrying her past the gate and down the road, away from the still raging battle. Like a man in a trance, he shuffled his feet, staring blankly at her face, whiter than it'd ever been, laying peacefully in the crook of his arm as if asleep. He carried her for miles, through the empty streets of Dublin and finally up the grassy hill, by the stream where they'd first met, and she'd first kissed him.
Her body lay peacefully in the grass, the full moon shining down on him as Crawford reached into the river. He washed her hands, her feet, and her face, with the water from the river intermingling with his tears as the grief overpowered him. He cried next to her for a long while, stroking his hand through her hair as he'd oft done when she was busy with something important and, unable to help himself, he was a grinning distraction. He'd hoped, in some ways, to cry forever, to avoid what must come next. But as they always do, the tears ran dry, leaving him with the empty grief that can hound men throughout their life. And he started digging. Digging with his hands, with tree branches, for what seemed like another lifetime, looking all the while at the porcelain face on the grass. When it was finished, he returned to the river again and, blinking, washed himself. Eventually he returned, and lowered his love into the ground. He kissed her one last time, and with each handful of dirt that he placed on her, felt a piece of his heart ripped from him, lost forever in the abyss. He turned away when covering her face, wishing desperately to cry again, if only to drive away the emptiness. But no tears came, and soon the job was finished.
Who can say how long he sat there. No doubt he considered ending his own life, and would most likely have done so to be with her, if it were not a sin she might not forgive him of. So he rose and walked away. And then ran. Ran with nothing in his pockets, with no plan other than to run. To put distance between himself and the pain. He signed onto the first ship without looking where it was headed, and it wasn't until he was halfway across the Atlantic that he'd thought to ask. Boston. A good a place as any.
The rebels had held the bridge for another day, until the British brought up machine guns and mortar, setting the buildings on fire and storming the city. Mick Malone died fighting, and four others with him. The rest slipped away into Dublin, now firmly in control of the British. Thousands of occupying troops dealt out swift justice, overwhelming the rebel positions and quickly arresting or executing thousands. The people, who had slumbered in contented ignorance until roused by the rebellion, were awakened both by the blood sacrifice of her patriots and the brutal response by the British. The next outbreak of revolution would see the people ready, and that one would not fail.
But one man was finished with revoultion, and finished with love, as he stood at the bow of a ship heading for an unknown land, staring into the waves and remembering the laughter of the only woman he would ever love, lost to him forever. |
