The Easter Journal

April 23, 1916 – Easter Sunday

My family found it interesting that this year my twentieth birthday coincided with the rising of our Lord.  I didn’t really think much of it.  Perhaps I should have been somewhat proud of the similarity, but it wasn’t exactly the most pressing issue on my mind.  Father got me a present this year, just like he said he would.  He spent nearly all of his money to buy me a Winchester 1897 12-gauge shotgun that was smuggled into the country.

It was hard to come by ever since those damned Brits put up the imported weapons ban.  But Father didn’t want me to be stuck with some German piece of junk like everyone else.  He insisted on getting me something that was American-made.  You know how he’s obsessed with the Yanks.  If he could, he’d pack up everything we had and go right to America.  Hell, he already considers himself one with that flag he’s got.  You know, the one Mother really hates?  She still thinks that if the Brits see it we’ll be hauled off.  She’s just paranoid.

But it is a shame that we can’t go to America.  Even though some of them don’t want us, there are still plenty of opportunities there.  There are even little neighborhoods full of Irish folk, so we can be with our own kind.  Father doesn’t get paid well enough for his crops though, so he can’t afford to take us all with him.  He told me the other night that his roots are too well situated in the motherland to just get up and leave it all behind as it is.  He wanted to send me to get a fresh start on my life.  I refused.  I couldn’t bear to leave without my family, and besides, I couldn’t explain my absence to Chloe.  If I couldn’t live with her, I’d rather not live at all.

Father expected that I would use the shotgun today, but it appears that’s not going to be the case.  Bill and his son Paul O’Hara, our neighbors next door, charged into our house this morning.  Mother thought it was because we almost missed church; she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.  Bill had a copy of the Sunday Independent with him.  There was an insert inside of it, reading “All orders for special action are hereby cancelled…”  We then saw who had authored the announcement, Eoin MacNeill, one of the leaders from our group, the Irish Volunteers.  I thought only Patrick Pearse could give that order since he was part of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, but Father told me he had all the authority he needed to do so.  

Then Bill produced another piece of parchment signed off by Pearse himself.  It mentioned something about how the parades would commence by midday tomorrow.  So it seems that I will be spared from having to fight on my birthday.  But as I look back at it, I am thankful that my wish was granted on this day, and I may thank Christ for it that I did not have to kill a man on the rising of our Lord.

April 24, 1916 – Easter Monday

Father woke me up early today.  We had to leave early if we were going to meet where everyone else was mobilizing at Liberty Hall in Dublin.  I think it was about three in the morning, I don’t remember.  I do remember that Bill O’Hara was just outside of our home with his 1911 Buick pick-up.  It was dark green, but at the moment you could not tell the difference.  I climbed into the bed of the truck and leaned up against one of the sides.  Father said something about not forgetting my tools.  I guess he must have meant the shotgun because I don’t remember if I had it with me as I fell asleep on the truck.  

I woke up later in the day when we were just a few miles away from Dublin.  It was getting close to around noon as we drove on, rattling across the bumpy road.  Between Father’s singing and the sound of the engine, I doubt any living creature could have stayed asleep much longer than I had.  It became clear to me that Father was singing one of my favorite songs and one most appropriate: “The Rocky Road to Dublin.”  It wasn’t long before the O’Hara men started joining in along with a few others in the truck with me and Father.  They too brandished their own arms, ranging from rifles to pitchforks.  But even though we thought we were heading into battle we could still find solace in the songs of our motherland.

When we take Ireland back from those damned Brits, I think I want to go into writing songs.  I know I’ve already filled a couple of these pages with some short verses, but to write the words as well as the music, I think I’d enjoy it very much.  If nothing else, it will make courting Chloe a lot easier.  I know how much she loves poetry, but I’ve never got up the nerve to recite any of my work to her.  When I return from Dublin, I’ll be sure to spend my first few hours of freedom with her, alone in the dusk reciting my work.

The beat-up truck we were in continued to bounce up and down until we were finally within the city.  It is a magnificent place.  I’ve been here twice before, but the air of the city still draws a breath of awe from me.  I can’t help but gaze up at the buildings and watch as cars and trams make their way across the busy streets.  One of the guys in the truck bed barked at me to stay focused on what was about to happen.  I don’t know who said it, but when I looked down I saw a few of those other volunteers scowling at me.  I guess they didn’t think I was taking this seriously.

We arrived at Liberty Hall at around noon.  I always wondered what it would be like to perform there.  I’ve never seen a show myself, but I’m sure it’s a wonderful experience.  After all of this is over, maybe I can take Chloe here sometime.  I’m sure she would enjoy herself.  Mother talks so much about the shows she used to go see.  That will be my gift for her when we get home.

The hall itself was surrounded by soldiers, not more than two thousand I’d say, made up of both men and women.  Most were dressed in dark and light-green uniforms (representing the Citizen Army and the Irish Volunteers respectively), but others, like us, were dressed in their normal clothing.  My father and I had on caps and collared shirts dirtied by the soil in which we worked.  We also had on matching dark brown slacks and black boots.  Father didn’t go anywhere without his pipe, which he proudly displayed in his mouth.  A smile came over him as we neared the steps of the hall.

Above the men was a banner.  It read “WE SERVE NEITHER KING NOR KAISER BUT IRELAND”.  I thought surely that if one of the Royal Irish Constabulary, that police force of Irish men still loyal to the Crown, would have found out about that sign and sent for a battalion of the Brits to come after us, but someone told me that the sign had been up since eight that morning.  Maybe they didn’t take it seriously.

My father and I received orders by a well-dressed officer of the Volunteers that we were to be dispatched at the General Post Office as part of James Connolly and Patrick Pearse’s fifth battalion.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I want to be as close as I can to the men who will lead us to independence from the Crown.  They are the ones largely responsible for organizing this rebellion and I want to be able to pass the tale down to my children that I was there when the legendary companionship of Connolly and Pearse broke the chains of tyranny which had bound our land into submission to the Brits.  What a glorious notion!

In what seemed like no time at all we were already marching down the streets of Dublin towards the G.P.O.  Father and I had been practicing with the neighbors for weeks on getting the steps and commands committed to memory.  Were we a sight to behold!  An Irish militia marching down Dublin in perfect precision with no resistance, some carrying firearms both legal and illegal, others were carrying whatever could be used as a weapon such as farm tools, dressed in several different uniforms.  This must be what those “minutemen” were like when the Yanks held their own rebellion.  I could tell Father was thinking the same thing by the grin on his face.  I have never seen him as proud as I did that moment.

We came to a halt just across from the G.P.O.  I remember seeing people walking the streets and going about their business, only offering us glances as a response to how queer we appeared to be.  Indeed, I suppose we may have looked a tad silly standing in our ranks looking slightly less than professional in our appearance.  The tension would not last long as James Connolly moved out in front of the G.P.O. with his well pressed green uniform and slouch hat.  He was a stocky man with a bushy moustache; he easily stood out among the other men.  Soon he began to bark orders, first to face left, then came the order of “Charge!”

It didn’t take long at all for us to occupy the building.  We took the guard by surprise and hurried out all of the post office workers before we barricaded the doors and windows with whatever we could find.  Desks, chairs, cabinets, even doors leading to smaller offices were used to help fortify our position inside of the building.  Not a shot was fired until a few Lancers came galloping down the street towards the building.  But we were only concerned with scaring them off, and after some of the men fired some warning shots with their pistols from the windows, they hurried away.  I remember father laughing with delight watching them run for their lives.

After our initial shunning by the public, we slowly drew attention as a small crowd of civilians gathered in the street around the G.P.O.  The first order of business when Connolly saw the crowd gathering was to raise display our colors.  He had some man named Eamon Bulfin go to either side of the building and raise two separate flags.  On the right corner of the building by Henry Street a green flag with the words “IRISH REPUBLIC” inscribed on it as raised with the left corner by Princess Street was overlooked by the raised green, white, and orange tri-color flag of our land, greeted by a few cheers from the spectators outside.

I walked out of one of the windows on the second floor that had yet to be fortified out towards O’Connell Street.  The crowd had become bigger since we had raised our flags.  It was indeed a sight to see as the sea of dumbfounded faces gazed up at our new make-shift fortress and base of operations.  But nothing could prepare them for what happened next.  I saw the front doors below me fly open and saw Patrick Pearse step out holding a sheet of paper.  I immediately called for Father who came to my side to watch as our commander-in-chief addressed the crowd.

“In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.”  I will never forget those first few words from Pearse for as long as I live.  As he went on, the meaning of all that we had trained for and what we had done in the past few hours.  My father patted my back and pointed down Pearse, a grin wide across his face.

“Look down there, boy,” he told me.  “You’re watching history in the making.  And all shall remember this day and the men here for what we have done for our land.”  I smiled back and nodded.  Holding my shotgun tight in my grasp I lifted my arm and cheered out the window after Pearse posted the address to the wall of the building.  If only those outside shared my enthusiasm.

We had hoped that the public would hear the address and join with us to defend our position.  Unfortunately, most of the citizens of Dublin didn’t know how to respond to their new freedom.  I saw some laughing at us as if this was all some big joke.  Others scurried away, probably to escape any sort of violence we are sure to attract.  Still others yelled at us to quit fooling around and get sense about us.  They thought we didn’t know what we were getting into and that the Brits weren’t a burden to us.  They’ve just fallen victim to the propaganda of those tyrants.  We’ll show them that what we are doing is for the good of all Ireland.  We will be victorious!

April 25, 1916 – Tuesday

Today I was introduced to the captain of our company.  His name is Michael.  Apparently he has played some part in the planning of this rising, but I had never heard of him before this afternoon.  I met him as I was taking stock of what supplies we were able to bring in today.  A lot of the people who saw us yesterday took our actions as a meaning that order had been abolished and began looting stores.  A couple of us went out among the crowd to gather some extra things to go along with what was coming in by our supply teams this morning.

But I digress.  Michael had been making his rounds around the building when he spotted me taking stock by myself and organizing our supplies.  There was plenty to be put away, such as ammunition, field dressings and food among other things.  We took time out of what he had to do to help me out.  After he introduced himself to me, we started talking.  Not about battle or glory or anything to that extent, but more so about life in general.  

He told me that he had been born in Sam’s Cross; a quaint little place by Clonakilty, County Cork.  I learned that he had been born into a family of farmers, much as I had, except that his family was very prosperous and were much wealthier than most farmers I had known.  His family was blessed to own over 140 acres of land with very rich soil.  But unlike myself, he did not conform to living the life of a farmer as his parents had.  He moved to London to live with his sister, much as most other young people did in Clonakilty.  I couldn’t possibly imagine what that was like for him.  All my life I’ve been told how horrid the Brits were, I couldn’t imagine being such a place as that with them crawling all over.  It must have been horrible for him.

He explained to me that while there he took the civil service exam there.  I figure it has something to do with politics, something I don’t know much about at all.  But anyway, he tells me that he had to write about his undying allegiance to Britain the greatest empire, or something to that affect.  I couldn’t contain my laughter as he explained that to me, and I guess he found it funny as well because he joined me in my laughter.

After that we talked some more about my own life and experiences.  He was very attentive and offered his own insight into some of my problems; he even gave me advice on how to properly court Chloe.  Michael explained to me that the freedom we were fighting for would cause most of our woes to disappear.  When he spoke of this new government, I couldn’t help but listen in awe to him.  He was very well-spoken and knew just how to get me emotionally involved in what he was saying.  I wish I could speak like that.  He was so passionate in what he said; I just couldn’t wait to get my chance to fight those Brits.  The spark for battle has once again ignited the flames of rebellion in my soul and I have Michael to thank for that.

I received some word after my encounter with Michael that all of the Volunteers were to begin shooting at looters around the G.P.O. stealing from the local shops.  I had no idea why this order was put into action.  I knew that Patrick Pearse was not thrilled over the reaction of the citizens of Dublin’s slums to go into a state of anarchy, but I did not believe he would retaliate in such a manner.  Nevertheless, some marksmen did begin shooting at the looters.  I decided it was better for me to save what ammunition I had for the Brits.  I did not want to waste my precious shells on my own countrymen.  Later, I found that Pearse was not the one who gave the order, but a lower ranking officer of the Volunteers.  When Pearse found out, he quickly countermanded the order and scolded the officer.

By supper we were finally starting to feel the pressure of the Brits.  All day they began to gather their forces around the G.P.O.  According to our spies inside the crowds, the British Army had declared martial law on Dublin in light of the looting and the armed takeovers of several positions around the city.  There have been some demands by the Brits to have us surrender, but all they received in reply were gunshots from our marksmen.  We know full well what we are doing and of the consequences.  But we are all ready to face judgment from the Almighty for the glory and freedom of Ireland.

April 26, 1916 – Wednesday

I killed a man today.  Lord Jesus in heaven, Mary mother of God; forgive me for what I have done.  What I had to do, I did for the greater good of your God fearing nation of Ireland.  But it’s not that I killed him that frightens me the most, it is that I felt good doing it.  I felt an overwhelming sense of pleasure in taking that man’s life, like no other exhilaration I’ve ever felt before, even when I was with Chloe.  And deep within my heart, I know I long to do it again.

I remember that the Brits had begun bombarding the G.P.O. with small weapons fire from their marksmen, trying to shoot through the windows at us as they were still trying to avoid using artillery fire on this specific building for the time being.  The Brits had the entire building surrounded by infantry almost as far as the eye could see.  I could no longer make out civilians, only military personnel on the streets.  Morale among the men quickly dropped, needless to say.

Then I saw a young British soldier behind a makeshift barrier of sandbags.  Along with his fellow troops, he was wearing a dark green uniform and cap.  He was armed with a standard Lee Enfield rifle with a bayonet protruding near the end of the barrel.  I remember seeing such things at meetings of the Volunteers where we studied the various tactics and weapons employed by the British Army.  I could tell his inexperience by his jittery movements and his cringing at every sound of a gun going off.  Not that I felt like I had better experience in military procedures as he did, but at least I was prepared to die.

After several moments of staring this soldier down, I saw a man walk up near the soldier.  I don’t believe the young man knew that someone was behind him, because the soldier behind him yelled something into his ear, causing the younger soldier to jump.  In retrospect, I think the older soldier must have wanted to play a joke on the younger soldier by yelling “charge,” but didn’t anticipate his reaction.  The young man rushed toward my window, trying to fire his rifle.  It must have jammed, because I don’t remember hearing any blast from it.  Yet he continued on, and as he approached, I had no choice but to raise my shotgun and fire.

Silence is a strange thing.  For most of the morning I was wishing it would come, because the constant gunfire was causing me to have a headache.  All I wanted was silence.  And yet, then I found an eerie silence, one which I wish I could have escaped.  I saw rifles being fired at the G.P.O. and yet I heard no sound.  But as my hearing was disabled, I could see clearly.  I saw the fright in the young soldier’s eyes.  I could see his mouth open, as if wanting to scream, but with no breath for which to do so.  And I could see the blood trickling down from the hole I had made in his chest and the scattered smaller ones made from the protruding buckshot.  He stood but for a moment before he fell onto his back, limp and lifeless.  And there he would remain, for no British soldier would dare think about getting close enough just to fetch the body, let alone attack and those of us inside weren’t going to risk our lives to retrieve the corpse.

Father was the one who brought me back to consciousness by pulling me away from the window before I got shot.  He tried to comfort me and tell me that what I had done was the right thing, but I didn’t need him to tell me that.  As I mentioned earlier, I felt good about what I had done.  Seeing the blood coming from that young soldier was like having all the hatred I had for the British coming forth out of me into a physical entity that was that dying solider.  This is what frightens me.

Because of what happened today, I got my stock duties revoked.  Michael was the one who gave the order.  He told me it was best that I didn’t have to worry about killing and keeping stock of our supplies, claiming that those responsibilities would be too taxing on my young mind.  Finally, he told me to try and get some rest further inside the G.P.O.  I guess I can not complain though a part of me still wanted to fight.  I knew that Michael was giving me an opportunity to try and relax through this chaos and I wasn’t about to pass it up.

As it turns out, Michael was doing more for me than just saving me from myself.  I learned recently that the British forces began to outnumber our men by at least twenty-to-one.  The British gunboat Helga anchored in Liffey River and began to fire its artillery into the city in an attempt to destroy Liberty Hall, but its aim was off and it ended up hitting civilian homes, establishments, and even British encampments around the city.  The Brits even resorted to using a 9-pounder artillery gun on a single sniper we had positioned in the city, God rest his soul.  Here at the G.P.O., five men had been killed by British marksmen.  

We were starting to get some word of the other operations around Ireland.  Most of the news was not good.  The Citizen Army led by Michael Mallin at Saint Stephen’s Green was being slaughtered by British snipers inside the Shelbourne Hotel while they were trying to dig trenches.  At Mount Saint Bridge, twelve of our Volunteer brothers were fending off several companies of the British infantry for most of the day, but they were quickly beginning to become overwhelmed with the enemy and their lack of sufficient supplies.  No word has been received from those at Dublin Castle; we fear the worst for them.

There was a rumor among the men that the Germans were coming to help us in the fight, as was previously promised by Volunteer officers, but as I woke up from my rest and looked out at the city in the twilight, I was not so sure.  A good portion of the city had been reduced to rubble and what wasn’t destroyed by the Helga was in the process of burning to the ground.  Looking down at the British encampments, more and more soldiers were arriving along with crates which held artillery shells.  It was only a matter of time before they rolled in the howitzers and 18-pounder field guns.  Lord in heaven, protect us.

April 27, 1916 – Thursday

I woke up this morning and my shotgun was missing.  At that moment, I knew this day was not going to go well.  I told Father that someone had stolen my weapon but he was of no help.  He was slowly beginning to lose his nerve from the fighting, fearing his own death.  Nearly every waking moment that I saw him, he was clutching his pistol and that American flag he brought with him, sitting down and staring at the walls as artillery fire burst through the building and set fire to furniture.  I could no longer count on him for support.

Captain Michael was the only one I could think of who could help me.  I found him by one of the windows, covering himself against a wall and peaking out from time-to-time to fire off a few rounds with his rifle before covering himself again.  When I joined him, he asked why I was coming to his aide with no weapon and I explained my situation.  He cursed the man who would steal from his own comrade and tried to think of something he could do to help me.

A fellow Volunteer came up and stood next to me, covering himself with the wall I was using as well.  He began yelling something to Michael about the British forces.  I remember him mentioning the name of Sir John Maxwell.  I had read about him back home in the Sunday Independent after his ordeals in France and Egypt in the Great War.  He was a General, and a powerful one at that.  The mentioning of his name could only mean that he had been reassigned to direct military operations here in Dublin.  My heart sank.

Michael became enraged and began screaming back at the Volunteer.  But the firing of the British artillery and the constant explosions made it hard for anyone to hear.  The Volunteer began to move closer to Michael and once he was out from behind cover, he was hit by a marksman’s bullet.  Unfortunately for him, the bullet became lodged in his throat, causing him to spew blood from his neck and gasp for air.  More blood came from his mouth as he fell to the ground suffering as I watched on, frozen solid as he wriggled and writhed.  When Michael saw this, he did the only humane thing he could, and put a bullet through his head with his side arm.

I wanted to vomit.  The sight of that man’s bloodied head and neck made me absolutely sick to my stomach.  As I looked down I could see that he had covered me with some of the blood that had come shooting out of his neck.  I could taste it on my tongue along with the salty tears that trickled down my cheek. Michael must have noticed me in my horrified state and dragged me away from the fight back to where Father was having his own breakdown.  

After a few moments, I could feel the sting of Michael’s slaps to my cheek burning my skin.  I came back from my dream-like state to see his face along with Father’s own confused look.  Michael got out Father’s pipe filled it with tobacco before handing it over to Father, telling him that it would calm his nerves.  Father didn’t refuse, allowing Michael to light his pipe and began taking slow puffs.  Michael then began to explain the situation to us; the entire G.P.O. was being bombarded by British heavy arms fire and supplies were starting to run low.  The British military had completely cut off all means of us being able to import ammunition and food.

The young and untrained British soldiers were also executing anyone suspected as being part of the rebellion.  Once the realized that some of us inside the building were not wearing uniforms, they began shooting all Irish men walking the streets by the G.P.O., unable to determine if they were the enemy.  These ruthless tactics began to light the fire in my spirit again to fight as my hatred for the British was beginning to out weigh my horror of death.  Father seemed to be coming around as well as he sat up straighter and listened to Michael intently.

He then began to tell us that one of our leaders, James Connolly had been injured.  I could not tell at first why Michael was telling us this.  It seemed to me that informing your soldiers that your leader had been wounded twice, the latter of which shattered his ankle due to a stray bullet would cause someone to want to fight.  And yet, he was able to turn it into a positive, as he explained that Connolly was still as much a part of the battle as he was before.  With the aide of some morphine, he was able to continue directing battle as best he could.  That was the kind of Irish soldier we aspired to be, Michael told us.  At once, Father and I stood up in the midst of the blazing and crumbling hell surrounding us, eager once again to fight for our motherland.  Thank God for Captain Michael.

I went over to the dead man from earlier and took his rifle without so much as flinching at the sight of his corpse.  No, nothing was going to cause me to loose sight of my mission, our mission.  As God as my witness, I swear that I shall not let a British bullet stop me from fighting for the freedom that is rightfully ours.  I will see the end of this battle and I will return home to Chloe, my love.  Because it is for freedom and happiness we toil these many days and we shall continue to do so until our goals are met.  With Father by my side and Michael showing me the way, I just know we’ll be able to rise up from the ashes of our falling city victorious over the oppression of the British Empire.

April 28, 1916 – Friday, my final entry

It’s over.  Everything we’ve done, all the hardships and deaths we had to go through are all in vain.  I never thought that it could come to this.  Not once even in my worst nightmares could I have imagined what we are now faced with.  But somehow, I feel compelled to record what has happened in my final hours.

The G.P.O. was near collapse.  The entire building seemed to be on fire and the walls were crumbling due to the artillery fire.  Connolly, on his stretcher, ordered that all the women were to be evacuated to a building on Moore Street.  The morphine didn’t seem to be helping Connolly much anymore as he was visibly showing signs of his pain.  It didn’t help either that his friend and co-conspirator to this entire rebellion, Joseph Plunkett was dying of a glandular fever and couldn’t stand.  Pearse tried to turn our attention away from them by giving orders and trying to make speeches, but he could raise morale at all.

My nerve would finally be broken a little after noon.  Father was aiding the evacuation of the women when he saw a man shot and killed by a British marksman.  Enraged, he went to the window and began yelling out at the Brits, damning them to hell and firing blindly into the crowd.  I don’t know if he ever saw the howitzer shell flying towards his head.  I certainly hope he didn’t and I thank God that his death was quick as I sit remembering the sight.  But at the time, I could only cry as I saw Father’s headless body fall.

So much death, so much carnage, so much suffering.  And for what do we have to show for it?  It seems that every ten minutes I look on I see another man fall in a bloody mess, leaving behind their lives and families.  When I close my eyes I can see each one of their faces, staring at me with their cold, glazes eyes, mocking me.  They had found freedom in death and I am still here, suffering under the oppression of life and battle.  Not one death bothers me more though, than that young British soldier I had taken from this Earth.  He strikes out the most in my mind’s eye, for the sick pleasure I had in killing him.  The stench of his corpse still haunts me, even though I am no where near him.

Connolly finally ordered the rest of us to evacuate to Moore Street, taking whatever we could carry with us to defend our new position.  We escaped undetected, even with our wounded.  The Brits continued to shell the burning G.P.O., emptied of all life.  I was able to meet up with the O’Hara’s again.  At least they are still alive.  But even now as I sit by this fire in the night, I think we’ve only delayed the inevitable.  

I went out in search of Michael, looking for some sort of encouragement to keep on fighting even with these nightmares and my grief.  What I found, however, was Connolly, Pearse, and the other leaders discussing their future course of action.  I hid myself to listen in on their conversation.  What I heard caused me to finally loose all shred of hope.  They agreed to surrender the following morning.

I remember Connolly mentioning something about wanting to prevent further slaughter of both soldiers and innocent Irishmen.  Pearse agreed, claiming that only those who had signed their original proclamation of independence from Britain would be put to death while their soldiers would still live.  I was not very accepting of this belief.  We were all guilty of high treason as far as the Brits were concerned and they would certainly have each and every one of us put to death.  Even if I were to live, I could not bear living with the shame everyday of my life for not doing more to help us win.  And I know that my life with Chloe would not be able to reach its fullest potential with the continued oppression of the British Empire.

That is why now, I look to keep the promise I made in my last entry.  I will not let a British bullet cause my death.  I will not give them that satisfaction.  I place my life in my own hands now, and may God forgive me for what I am about to do.  I regret that I never got to express my love for you, Chloe.  I am deeply sorry for that.  I hope you understand when you read this, as I have entrusted Bill O’Hara with this diary in hopes that he may only receive a prison sentence from his court martial.  

And of the good captain, who made the extra effort to try and keep me sane in this mad world, I owe a great deal to.  I only wish I had more than one life I could spend by his side.  He is destined for great things and I wish that he is able to escape the gallows.  His voice should not be silenced and he should continue on his fight, though mine may be done.  As I put this rifle to my head, I say live a long and prosperous life, my friend, Michael Collins.