"Can he keep his mouth shut if he doesn't buy in?" Plunkett asked.

"Yes," Pearse said. "But it's our job to sell him. Let me tell you how we'll do it."

William Butler Yeats stood at the mirror in his rooms at the Hotel Nassau on this fine spring afternoon and considered his appearance.

Augustus John had sketched him in 1908, giving him a wild «gypsy» cast, or so Yeats had thought, but rendering him alive and vigorous. Charles Shannon had painted him quite charmingly, resembling Keats. Best of all had been the charcoal drawing of John Singer Sargent, sharp-featured yet with a sensitive mouth, looking passive but verging on a decisiveness Yeats seldom could rouse. His hair was parted to a high and uncombed forelock that fell over one eye, lending a Byronic note overall. His body then had been lean.

And now, eight years later? The hair was still there, but it framed a face of more fleshiness and care. The eyes were more puffy than dark and deep set. What had George Moore said of him on his return from his American lecture tour? "… with a paunch, a huge stick and an immense fur overcoat."

"You left out the intestinal troubles, George," Yeats muttered, and turned toward the door.

Bright sunlight dappled the Dublin streets through shade trees and overhead wires. Open trams trundled boater-topped men and their ladies to the parks. Single men on cycles whipped in and around them and the occasional plodding horsecart. Yeats stood at the curb looking for a chance to step off.

William Butler Yeats did indeed have a good apprehension of what awaited him in a closed-for-business tobacco shop on a Sunday afternoon. Particularly when it was the shop of Tom Clarke and his invitation had come from Patrick Pearse. Pearse had ostensibly talked of literary matters, referring pointedly to Yeats' own poem, "September 1913," bemoaning the trading of Irish romanticism and nationalism for moneygrubbing. Pearse had let Yeats know that not all Irishmen had made that bargain.

Yeats had no illusions of the men he'd meet or of himself, not this day. He had written a more recent poem, "To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing." In a dark moment he felt he'd written it of himself.

But the prospect of redemption was at hand.

With resolve and vigor Yeats stepped off the curb. Today he had no need of a fur coat against the March breeze nor a huge stick to support him.

"Gentlemen," Yeats said mildly.

"Mr. Yeats," murmured some of the assembly. "Willie," said MacDonagh and Pearse.

Yeats settled into the vacant chair, the only one in the room with arms, and clearly for him.

"I more than suspect that the IRB is planning a rising," he said, and held up a forestalling hand. "What do you want of me?"

"We have the shock troops to mount a rising," MacDonagh said. "We need the country behind us to make it stick. Otherwise the British will wear us down."

"Ah," Yeats said. "You want me to write your pamphlets, your addresses and exhortations. Odes to the rising. Maud was always after me for that in the 90s, and I wouldn't. I was more idealistic about the uses of my art then. But I suspect you want more."

"We want your pen, Willie, and your voice and your name," Pearse said, and smiled. "All three have increased in value since then."

"You have several jobs, it seems. Tell me in what specific capacity you want me, and convince me that this rising has a chance for success."

"We don't have a cabinet yet, Willie," MacDonagh said. "We shall once we declare a republic, and we can make you a cabinet minister. Minister of Information, perhaps. But for the moment we are a military organization. This is the Military Council of the IRB, and Pearse is Commandant-General. I propose a staff rank of general for you, reflecting the eminence that poets of ancientEireann had to their kings."

"A general," Yeats repeated softly. "I've taken on roles, worn masks, but never one such as that."

He sat back in reflection. The others sensed his inward casting and held silence.

What am I? Yeats considered. What have I truly done in this life? What is my legacy? I am a minor poet of narrative lyric work and plays. Verses and essays of a parochial Irish nature, written in the style and tradition of Rossetti, Pater, Herrick and others of an earlier day. I have no wife, nor am I likely to have one. Maud won't have me in that role. I leave no children. And in the modern, real world emerging, I have no credentials. Perhaps if I live through-and shape-this rising I can find a more forward-looking and expansive arena for my poetry. For we will be dealing with life and death in our time, and not Cuchulain's.

And-an inward chuckle bubbled up-perhapsthiswould win me Maud.

If this is self delusion, well… perhaps I'm allowed an indulgence now and again.

He looked up. Pearse met his eyes, and spoke:

Yeats sat upright in his chair. "I take the point, Padraig, even when you make it with my words. There's work to be done, and we're not dead and gone. Not yet. So let me hear your plans for making this grand thing work."

While much of Dublin was enjoying the quiet of a bank holiday following Easter, a body of irregular soldiers poured forth from Liberty Hall, a large structure devoted to trade unionism on the banks of the Liffey. This was not the Irish Volunteers, a broader based group which commanded the largest number of armed and organized men in the country. Its leader, Professor Eoin MacNeill, had ordered his 10,000 men to withdraw from Easter Day maneuvers once he knew that leaders of the IRB had planned to escalate them into what he considered to be a disastrous and quixotic insurrection. Some of his men joined the rebels nonetheless.

This was the Citizen Army, headed by a more radical, bolder (some might say more impetuous) leadership. Patrick Pearse, James Connolly and Joseph Plunkett formed at the front of the HQ company, all self-proclaimed Commandant-Generals. Though not all of the soldiers were uniformed, or even armed with rifles, these three wore green uniforms crossed by Sam Browne belts and sheathed ceremonial swords.

Four city battalions had mustered elsewhere and were occupying their positions around the center of Dublin and Dublin Castle itself-administrative headquarters of the British occupation and (a complicating factor) also a Red Cross hospital. These city battalions were charged with impeding troops from the British barracks in the outlying reaches of the city from pinching in on the rebel command post, which would be set up within the General Post Office-once it was taken.

The generals formed up their column of perhaps fifty men, backed up by a couple of trucks and motorcycles and a late addition, Michael O'Rahilly-known as The O'Rahilly, himself being the head of that storied clan. Cofounder of the Irish Volunteers, he had arrived at the last minute in his green Ford touring car, which he helped load with homemade bombs and spare ammunition. Though his organization had attempted to abort this revolution, his addition to the force gave it a huge lift. With a sure touch for the apt word, he had announced, "I helped wind this clock. I've come to hear it ring."

At their leaders' command the column set off for O'Connell Street, a broad boulevard flanked by a few stately Georgian homes and an array of hotels, shops and public buildings. Dominating this scene was Nelson's Pillar, 135 feet tall and capped by a statue of the naval hero. Ambitious view seekers could climb its winding steps for a fine outlook over the city and, near to hand, the GPO.