The fascinating tale of ordinary life at 16 Moore Street during the 1916 Rising
16 Moore Street was the final HQ of the Army of the Irish Republic
Editors note: Barry Kennerk is an historian and freelance writer. His latest book is 'Moore Street - The Story of Dublin's Market District'. He remains a committed campaigner onbehalf of the market traders.
The aftermath of Easter Week 1916 – In a silence broken by sniper fire, Annie O’Flanagan stood in an upstairs room of No. 16 Moore Street. She didn’t need her hall key because the front door had been smashed in. She was there to right the upended home of her employers, the Plunkett family. Amid the rubble, she found a silver flask inscribed with the name ‘P.H. Pearse’. Nearby lay a draft of the rebel leader’s surrender, scrawled on the cardboard backing of a photograph. Outside, the street was littered with slates, fallen masonry and the bodies of civilian dead.
For the most part, No.16 was spared by the fighting but in fact, the Rising was only one of many dramatic incidents in its 150-year-old history. Having started life in 1760 as a ‘Dutch Billy’ (a building style common to the Netherlands), the house was the scene of a brutal murder in 1822. Thereafter, it was leased to a stained glass maker before falling into the hands of a succession of china and delft merchants who traded there for over half a century. In 1902, it almost burned down when a fire started in a back lane shed but all the residents were evacuated to safety.
A decade later, Pat Plunkett, a jarvey from County Meath was sufficiently inspired by his brother’s success in the trade to open a butcher’s on the same site. He kept pigs at the back and his son John recalled collecting slops for them every morning from the local hotels.
In an era before supermarkets, the Plunketts catered for some of the poorest people in the Dublin. Saturday was their busiest day when they could be found hard at work, cutting the meat with handsaws and sharp knives. Cheap cuts like brisket, tail end and ox-tongue sold particularly well. Without refrigeration, much of the meat was pickled in a barrel of saltpetre out in the yard.
‘I remember a retired butcher telling me they started work at 8am but they used to go in early’, Pat’s grandson Brendan recalls. ‘They had to kick hell out of the front door to frighten the rats. One of the butchers who had a terrible dislike of them used to grease a rafter and put a barrel underneath. When he arrived the next morning, the rats would be swimming around in it; he used to put his pick in and drown them’.
Under the Plunketts’ steady control, the business prospered. Pat, like many other butchers of his era, was a smart dresser. His shirts, suits and shoes were all handmade. One Capel Street firm even kept a wooden mould of his feet for prospective purchases. He employed a maid servant and collected rent from several upstairs tenants – among them the McDonaghs and the Doyles.
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