Chapter Thirty Six

Aftermath

While the shooting, if indeed that was what it had been, had now thankfully ceased, nothing could have prepared Mary for the appalling sight which greeted her eyes when she walked briskly out from St. Stephen's Green bound for the Shelbourne Hotel. What she then saw in front of her would stay with her for the rest of her life. Later, when she could bring herself to speak of what she had witnessed that afternoon to both her father and mother back in England, Mary would liken the scene now before her as an appalling, dreadful, horrifying image culled in some awful way from Dante's Inferno and, by some equally unfathomable means, brought hideously, and paradoxically, to life on a busy street here in the heart of Dublin.

By the park railings she saw a man crouched down against the low wall with his head in his hands, heard him telling a blood spattered soldier kneeling beside him that his wife had been killed. Close by stood a young boy tightly clutching a small Jack Russell. To Mary, the lad looked to be about eleven years old; he was incredibly pale, his hair burnt and singed, staring, seemingly unseeing, with huge frightened eyes. That particular image would haunt her forever. Seeing the suffering etched in the boy's face, Mary felt a sudden rush of sympathy; did something she had never done before in her life. Heedless of all propriety, of any concern for her clothes, she knelt down on the dirt strewn pavement, reached forward, and drew the young boy, still tightly clutching his dog, into her arms, holding him close, burying his face against her shoulder, whispering what she hoped were words of comfort.

"What's your name?" she asked of him gently.

"T … T … Tommy" sobbed the little boy brokenly. Mary felt her heart lurch. If it were possible, she held the boy tighter, tried unsuccessfully to force back a sudden surge of emotion, felt unbidden tears begin to fall. Well, let them come.

The pavement on which Mary herself was kneeling was filthy, littered with debris and dirt, with earth and stones, with shards of glass and timber, with … Oh God! One more look at something like that and she knew she would vomit up the contents of her stomach. Mary turned her head away, managed to stifle the urge to retch.

In front of the two of them, on the road, all the traffic, the motors, the trams, and the horse drawn vehicles had come to a complete stand. In the shafts of a brewer's dray, a bay horse whinnied, tossed its head and stamped its hooves. Bleeding profusely from a head wound, the driver of the dray lay slumped across his seat, the reins still gripped tightly in his hands.

Mixed with a fug of choking petrol fumes from the motors, smoke was still rising from a large crater in the middle of the road; immediately beyond it stood the blackened, burnt-out, mangled remains of a tram, its windows completely shattered, its paintwork blistered and scorched. Next to the wrecked tram, there were people lying in the street, both civilians - men, women, and children - and soldiers too, some with limbs missing, many crying for help; along with the stench of burned flesh, there was blood everywhere.

The force of the explosion - whatever it was that had caused it - had obviously ruptured a water main. A tide of water was now gushing, pouring, sweeping down the street, streaming over the bodies of the injured, the dying, and dead, coursing among the litter of hastily discarded musical instruments which, supposed Mary, must have belonged to the military bandsmen.

An increasingly thick shroud of smoke, mixed with spray from the broken water main, now overhung the whole ghastly scene, and through the drifting haze and gathering murk, here and there, Mary saw people moving slowly about as if in a dream, many of them bloodied, all disheveled, their clothes torn, calling out, evidently searching for friends and relatives.

It was then that Mary made the mistake of glancing over beyond the wrecked tram; then immediately wished she hadn't done so. Across the street, on the far side of the road, a pall of dirty black smoke was pouring from the broken ground floor windows of the shattered front of the Shelbourne Hotel. Horrified by the appalling carnage, Mary remained on her knees, clasping the young boy tightly to her, completely unmoving, unsure of what she should do. Never had she felt so alone, so helpless.

As Mary knelt there on the pavement, both dazed and shocked, still unable to comprehend either the scene before her or what had caused it, with mounting anxiety and increasing concern, she watched, as through the drifting, eddying smoke haze there emerged yet more people. Those uninjured by whatever it was that had happened, along with several bloodstained walking wounded; men, women and children, who coughing, crying, retching, and stumbling, all were quickly herded, and, she observed, none too gently, away from the once imposing frontage of the Shelbourne by the dark blue uniformed members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. But of Edith, Sybil, and Tom, she saw no sign; none whatsoever.

Khaki clad soldiers now began to appear on the scene too, in ever increasing numbers, who under the barked commands of their officers, commenced throwing up a tight cordon around the hotel. Brooking no nonsense whatsoever, with their rifles to the fore, the soldiers firmly pushed back the ever growing, increasingly restless, restive crowd of bystanders who had come to look, to watch, and to gawp at what was now unfolding; to speculate on what had happened, and on the likely cause. And that was how Mary came to hear, for the very first time, the word "Shinners"; to learn that that this appalling incident was no terrible accident, but that in all likelihood, it had been caused by a bomb. But surely not? For, thought Mary, however dearly held, nothing, nothing on this earth, nothing at all, no belief, no cause, no struggle, could ever justify doing this, inflicting such appalling suffering on innocent people.

Amid a cacophony of blaring horns, threading their way through the still stationary traffic, motor ambulances now began to arrive, along with doctors and nurses, and yet more soldiers, more police officers. A few moments later, Mary saw two men, their faces cut and bleeding, their clothes dishevelled, their hands handcuffed behind them, being dragged away by the police. Then, to her horror, through the front entrance of the hotel, Mary saw the first of several blanket covered stretchers being brought out - she could guess what the blankets concealed - and which were placed in one of the several waiting motor ambulances. She felt sick to the very pit of her stomach, utterly bereft and alone.

Thereafter, her repeated entreaties made to several passing soldiers, for assistance, to be permitted to pass through the army cordon, to find out what had become of Edith, of Sybil, and of Tom proved singularly fruitless.

After the latest curt refusal, wearily and fearing the worst, Mary hugged Tommy to her again. How could this be happening? To her? To whom could she now turn for help? Save for her two sisters and Tom, she knew no-one here in Dublin. Why, at this very minute, the three of them might be… Oh, God, no. Please, please, let them be safe and unharmed … all of them.

But then, after what seemed an interminable age, Mary had an incredible stroke of good fortune. The presence of the beautiful, dark haired, elegantly dressed lady, admittedly now somewhat disheveled in her appearance, and in some obvious distress, cradling a sobbing young boy in her arms, kneeling close to a lamppost, opposite the bomb damaged façade of the Shelbourne Hotel, had not gone unnoticed. On the other side of the street, the army officer stopped what he was doing and walked briskly over to where Mary was kneeling.

"Excuse me, madam? May I be of any assistance?" He looked down at her unsuspecting; but as she raised her head, the dark eyes were as he remembered them, quicksilver flashes of light, shadowed by long charcoal lashes; reminding him instantly of a similar scene, of a similar encounter, but a matter of days ago, on the road from Howth.

"Lady Mary Crawley?" With his open recognition of her, there came too late to Captain Miles Stathum the reluctant realisation that it was now impossible to say that he was mistaken, that to withdraw would be disrespectful, would only make what was an extremely awkward encounter even more so.

At the sound of the man's voice, hearing him so unexpectedly speak her name, her eyes glistening, shimmering, Mary looked up, slowly raised her smudged, tear-stained face, to find looking down upon her a dark haired, immaculately turned-out British army officer. From the three stars on his epaulettes, she recognised that he was a captain, the very same rank as dear, darling Matthew. The officer smiled, and then saluted. His voice had sounded somehow familiar, but for the present, for the life of her, Mary could not recall where she had heard it, or if indeed she had indeed done so.

She smiled a wan smile.

"Sir, you have the advantage of me. But, yes, yes, I am indeed Lady Mary Crawley". As she spoke, Tommy, who still had his arms clasped tightly around Mary's neck, hugged her even tighter. He had no intention of releasing his grip on "the beautiful lady".

For his part, Stathum thought Lady Mary Crawley to be one of those few women gifted with the uncanny ability, even in distress, to look as lovely as ever; in fact even more so. Somehow, her déshabillé, even her tears, did nothing whatsoever to mar her ravishing beauty, her innate elegance, or her natural poise.

"Here, let me help you". Stathum smiled a singular smile of reassurance. He bent down, held out his hand, and slowly helped Mary, somewhat awkwardly to her feet, while she continued to clasp hold of both Tommy and his dog.

Realising she still did not yet recognise him, the officer smiled again.

"Captain Miles Stathum, at your service. I thought it was you, Lady Mary". The officer paused, looked about him with evident grim distaste at the scene now surrounding the both of them. "Although, the last time I had the privilege of meeting and speaking with you it was in somewhat… different circumstances. We met at your aunt's home, Lady Rosamund Painswick, at your youngest sister's eighteenth birthday party, before the war. If your parents … either of your sisters, Lady Edith or Lady Sybil, is here with you, I'm certain they will vouch for me. In fact, I had the great pleasure of meeting with Lady Sybil and… er… her fiancé, a couple of days ago, here … in… Dublin".

Stathum forbore to explain the exact circumstances under which he and Lady Sybil had met; now, he surmised, was neither the time, nor the place.

"I trust both your parents are well? I'm sure they are very pleased to have their home back. Lady Sybil told me a convalescent hospital was established there, during the war?" he asked politely.
Mary nodded her tacit acquiescence.

"I have no doubt of that at all, Captain Stathum. And, while I assure you that in normal circumstances, I would be only more than happy to reminisce with you about our meeting, about my parents, about Downton, I do not wish to seem at all discourteous, but, I urgently have need of your help".

Stathum likewise nodded.

"Well, this rank ought to be good enough for that. How may I be of assistance to you, Lady Mary?" he asked coolly.