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him on his bare arse at all. In fact, he felt that Collins somehow envied the attention his bottom was receiving from O’Mahony.
    “You alright, boy?” asked Collins.
    “My name is Eoin Kavanagh.”
    “Are you alright, Eoin?”
    “I’m fine.” He paused a second before adding, “I hope you two will make up.”
    “Make up!” hissed O’Mahony. Collins didn’t say a word, just turned on his heel and headed back to the front of the GPO. He knew he had met his match. “Fookin’ men,” said O’Mahony.
    “How old are you?” asked Eoin.
    Róisín was taken aback by the freshness of the question. “Too old for you, sonny boy.”
    Eoin was quiet for a second. “We’ll see,” he said with enough cheek to match his patriotic arse.

7

    E OIN’S D IARY F RIDAY , A PRIL 28, 1916
    General Post Office
Sackville Street
Dublin, Ireland
    M e arse is sore, but I’m recovering. Róisín says I’ll live, and she’s awful busy with all the wounded, including Commandant-General Connolly, who has a severe leg injury. Connolly is in terrible pain from being hit in the ankle by a shell. Besides the rest of the wounded, Commandant-General Plunkett is very sick. By right, he should be in hospital. They say he has consumption of the neck glands. I wonder if his disease is related to me Ma’s. Captain Collins seldom leaves his side .
    Collins has put Jack Lemass in charge of me. Jack’s a couple of years older than I am and is from Capel Street. Jack was supposed to be with Commandant de Valera over at Boland’s Mills, but with all the disarray caused by the countermanding of maneuver orders, it looks like the Volunteers are going to the nearest location they can get to. Collins has told me to stay out of the way and to keep my head down. He ordered Jack to go up to the roof and bring down the tricolour. I have a feeling we are coming to the end. As soon as Collins left, Jack asked if I was well enough to help him.
    We got up to the roof, and, from the parapet, the scene in Sackville Street shocked me. Total destruction on the east side of the street. Right opposite the GPO, at the entrance to North Earl Street, there was a burnt-out tram. I counted at least two dead horses. The Dublin Bread Company building, the tallest on the thoroughfare, was totally gutted. Commander-in-Chief Pearse had sent men out earlier in the week to stop the looting. The women from the neighborhood had their way with Clery’s. The poor children from Tyrone Street and Greg Lane enjoyed Christmas in April as they did their mischief in Graham Lemon’s Sweetshop. The wreckage is a lot worse than I ever imagined. I had a feeling someone was looking at me, and, as I looked up, I realized it was Lord Nelson atop his pillar, just as he had peered down at me when I first gained access to the GPO with my letter for Pearse. Mammy once took the first three boys—me, Charlie, and Frank—to the top, and it was like we were on top of the world, looking down on the Dublin Mountains. Why a British admiral is in the middle of an Irish street is beyond me. I look down on Dan O’Connell’s statue at the foot of the Liffey and see Charles Stewart Parnell’s monument at the Rotunda end of Sackville Street. Nelson’s Pillar is an insult to these two great Irishmen.
    I have yet to meet an Irishman who gives a shite about Trafalgar. Just another battle in endless English wars. Maybe someday, someone will blast the admiral’s stone arse into the sky, the closest the adulterant hoor will ever get to heaven. As Jack and I got close to the flagpole, we had to hit the deck because of the sniper fire. I think it’s coming from the D’Olier and Westmoreland Streets area. Maybe from the top of Trinity College. It was hard to say with all the smoke and soot in the air. “Fook this,” said Jack, and we left the poor tricolour to fend for itself.
    All the lads have been very kind to me. One of the Volunteers, Arthur Shields, came over and asked if there was anything he