Who: Padraig (Irish Patrick!) What: A passionate plea to Saint George When: May 1st, 1916 directly after the Easter Rising Where: His tiny flat in Dublin Warnings: Depressing actual history, but nothing gory
It's cold.
Padraig looks up to his window and he watches as large raindrops, driven hard by the wind, splash sideways against the glass. The rented room he lives in these days is drafty and the candle he is using to light his endeavours flickers as the wind squeezes itself in to chill Padraig to the bone. Beyond his window, Dublin is burning and riddled with bullet holes. People mourn for lost loved ones in the wake of a bloody battle, and Padraig feels it all inside himself, as if he is burning and riddled with bullets as well.
His fingers hurt and he puts down his pen to flex them, hoping to warm them up or work out the ache. Cold always causes his fingers pain and has since his time in the Tower of London, when his dear brother George was forced to break his fingers with thumbscrews in order to escape detection from Henry VIII's fanatical and Catholic-hating lackeys.
It is almost fitting that his centuries-old injury would flare up now, as he writes his brother to plead for the lives of those men who had organised what was now known as the Easter Rising. There had been a time when George and Padraig had worked together against the tyrannical reigns of Henry VIII and Mary I. Now it is Irish against English. Brother against brother.
Of course it hurts.
Patrick picks up the pen again, the ache in his bones never abating. He puts pen to paper and bites his lip, unsure of where to begin.
He hasn't spoken to George in months, and things have been slightly strained between them for a while now. The events of April 24th to the 30th probably haven't helped. It is possible George assumes Padraig knew of the plans of the Irish Republican Brotherhood before they had been put into action. And if he assumes that, he is right. Padraig has willingly participated in an uprising against his brother's country.
In his mind, however, said brother's country had done far worse. The sound of the rain is heavy on the roof and the wind howls outside as Padraig finally begins to write.
George,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I am sure you are aware of the events of the Easter Rising. I am not writing to seek your support in what I have done to encourage the freedom of my people nor do I seek to convince you that the actions of my people during those six horrible days were right or just. They wanted freedom and some gave their lives for that hope, and that I believe is not up to us to judge as right or wrong. They are in God's hands, those that fell.
The rest of these men, brother, they are in the hands of England. And I fear for them so terribly it breaks my heart.
My people tried to declare themselves as a free nation, and they were cut down. The insurrection was unsuccessful. The leaders have been taken to Kilmainham and they are awaiting judgement from your courts. They are running out of time.
These are just men, George. Men who wanted to see a free Ireland. They are not trained soldiers like your British Army which came in, outnumbering them 16 to 1, and slaughtered them in Sackville Street for having the audacity to proclaim the beginning of an Irish republic. I know the cost of what they have done is high, but so often the cost of freedom is.
I hold out little hope that Pádraig Pearse, James Connolly and Thomas MacDonagh will be pardoned, as they remain the leaders of the rising. They surrendered unconditionally, however, and they laid down their arms in hope that no more lives would be lost, and I hope that too. Perhaps in vain. I plead for mercy on their behalf, as well as for the lives of Thomas J. Clarke , Joseph Plunkett, Michael O'Hanrahan, Edward Daly, Willie Pearse, John MacBride, W. T. Cosgrave, Eamon Ceannt, Con Colbert, Michael Mallin, Seán Heuston and Seán MacDiarmada. Look at their names, George. These are all men with families and jobs and lives. They deserve mercy as surely as anyone.
I beg you to speak with members of parliament, Herbert Henry Asquith, or even George V. Please don't let the deaths of these men add to the tragedy of this terrible event.
My country is bleeding, George. My people are crying out, and I with them.
If you can, I beg you to help me.
Your brother,
Padraig
He sets his pen down and immediately pulls the blanket wrapped around his shoulders tighter for warmth. He buries his throbbing fingers in the knitted wool and he stares at the words he has written, reading them again and again as his lips move with each syllable.
He can't waste time. These men do not have any. He knows George may not be able to do anything, even if he is willing, but he has to try. He will send the letter in the morning, heading out for the post office as soon as light touches the sky. Until then, he will pray for mercy and hope his pleas do not fall on deaf ears, just as he prays his letter will not fall into unwilling hands.