Jim

Silence, pure and unadulterated silence, brings an unexpected terror to my already shattered nerves. I never realised how much dread the lack of any habitual sounds could instil, but right now I’m feeling it, feeling it with every fabric of my being. Knowing they’re out there makes it all the more spirit crushing, I can practically taste the sweat on their brows but this damned blindfold keeps them forever in the darkness.1

Somewhere a perfectly polished boot scuffs the ground and pebbles hop sporadically in a cloud of dust. Habitually I throw my head in the direction from which the sound emerged but without my ocular senses I can’t even be sure if I’m facing the right direction; my muscles tense at the unknown. 2

I listen harder now, trying to suppress the sound of flags fluttering in the morning breeze, of leaves and birds sharing a daybreak serenade for the world. Somewhere distant a car rolls to a halt with a squeal of breaks and crushing of stones. A door opens with an audible ‘cluck’ but it is a near-by cough that draws my attention. Damn this blasted blindfold!3

Settling back, the hard wooded chair bites into my spine and my already numbing wrists howl in an agony shared with my ankle; that pain, however, has been a constant companion for some time. I winch at their cries but even my subtle movement relieves the pressure from parts of my buttocks. Oh jouissance de vie!4

My new position doesn’t bring with it any more of an acoustic advantage but I hear someone else entering the yard. His footfalls are heavy and purposeful and I can almost follow his path from the sound alone. Eventually he comes to a halt to my left and I hear him mutter to those already here; “Let’s get this bloody charade done quickly. I’m a busy man.”5

An inaudible reply is given and I hear the crisp sound of an arm being raised sharply followed but the echo of multiple persons entering the yard. Their practiced footfalls sound comical to me sitting here near blinded by pain. Once more I wince and settle back in the chair. God how it hurts!6

Some distance away the footfalls stop, overhauled by an entirely new collection of sounds. Wood cracks the ground, booted feet snap together and even I can sense the nervous tension on the air. Instructions are given and I hear a number of boots scuff the dry earth as some of the latest brigands take a knee; somewhere a signal has been given.7

“Do it,” that voice, the only voice I’ve heard all bloody morning, commands and all in assembly go silent.8

“James Connolly,” a second voice ads a more baritone sounding to the morning’s choir, “you have been found guilty of high treason and sentenced to death by firing squad. This sentence will now be carried out this morning, May 12th 1916. May God have mercy on your soul.”9

A less than impressive send-off I couldn’t think of but at this moment my mind is preoccupied by other events. My damn ankle hums with pain and this blasted blindfold hides my executioners from sight. Rifles begin to be cocked, again at some unknown signal and my body droops, no need to fight anymore. Here I sit, hands bound, body shattered and my principal sense stripped from me. I take one last breath but the air sucked audibly through my nose is drowned out by the loudest noise I’ve heard all morning: the last sound these old ears will ever hear.