Ballots Are Hand Counted

In the Brit parliament, politicians were spewing sound bites for the media: a vote for Sands was a vote for IRA violence, terrorism, blah, blah, blah. The whole world seemed focused on the story and the politicians and establishment do-gooders weren't sparring in their opprobrium.

But in the Kesh, Block OCs put the men under strict orders not to make a fuss one way or the other when they got the news, so that the screws wouldn't deduce that men had radios. A broad search of all cells would not be a good idea, especially if the screws were incensed by a Sands' win. Sinn Fein election workers, doing the equivalent of what we would call exit polls, were predicting a strong showing, maybe even a victory was possible.

The ballot boxes had been locked and flown by British army helicopter to the Fermanagh College of Further Education in Enniskillen to be counted by hand. No dangling "chads" to worry about, but blatant cheating and voting often was common enough on both sides. Even the dead were prone to cast ghostly ballots from beyond the grave for their favorite candidate. The Unionist candidate, Harry West, and Owen Carron for Bobby Sands, watched the clerks like hawks as they tallied the ballot papers. The press swarmed like bees.

"Sands, Bobby, Anti-H Block/Armagh, 30,492..."

Owen Carron and Republicans throughout Ireland had run a frenetic campaign. Mostly the message was delivered door the door and out slow moving car windows on village and country roads. Everyone was exhausted, but not many could manage to sleep the night before the ballot count.

At around 3 PM, the men in H4 heard screws cheering; they were devastated. They thought Bobby's defeat had been announced. But no, the screws were watching a televised snooker game.

Somewhere between 4 and 5, BBC radio prepared to announce the results. A stiff faced election official in a very serious, very affected British accent monitored the results into a microphone: "Sands, Bobby, Anti-H Block/Armagh, 30,492. West, Harry, Official Unionist, 29,492" The impeccably dressed, sour gentleman might have said a good deal more, but nothing after the syllables "Twenty nine..." could be picked up on radio. Certainly not the one that Bik McFarlane had to his ears. The room exploded with wild cheering. Unionists moaned and howled in disbelief. The men in the Kesh would know the results seconds later.

The Blocks Explode

Blanketmen with radios quietly told the rest throughout the protesting Blocks. In H5, there was absolute silence after hearing the news, in keeping with the order to cool it win or loose. Then a man here or there couldn't control himself and let out a muffled "yes!" or choked back in his throat a slightly audible cheer. The silence was just too much. Then the men lost it. "Up the IRA!," someone shouted at the top of his lungs. Everyone now was screaming, eyes popping out of flushed red faces, "Victory to the Blanketmen!" and banging piss pots and smashing fists on their cell doors. It spread from wing to wing like electrons in a nuclear reactor. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby..."

In The Prison Hospital

The din was heard throughout the vast, hollow prison. Perhaps not as far as the prison hospital where Bobby Sands, Member of Parliament, was taking a bath. There is no record of what Bobby was thinking about when he found out. He was too smart to think it would matter in terms of saving his life. But he must have felt something, maybe even something like a happiness. He must have felt justified. At least he would die knowing that the people supported him and his cause. He knew certainly, although he would die, that he would live in the hearts of at least the 30,492 people who voted for him. I don't think he could possibly have comprehended that he would inspire millions and assume Tone, Pearse and Connolly-like stature, that his poetry would be read and songs sung by people throughout the world, that his election would change the Republican movement's political/electoral strategy for 20 years and probably forever, and that the momentum would bring about what could be an irreversible peace process with Republicans assuming the high ground.

Blanketmen And Screws

In H4, the scene was even more surrealistic, with bizarre, silent pantomimes taking place among the men as the news spread from cell to cell "along the pipes" and the men tried to follow their OC's orders to remain silent. The message was whispered Irish, "Bhi An Bua Againn!" [Victory is ours!] and the men danced around silently with each other in their cells like lunatic monkeys, waving their hands in the air. This forced suppression caused them to burst unexpectedly into laughter hours later, as if some brain part was being involuntarily stimulated.

When the screws came back into the wings at around 6 PM, they were visibly shaken. The screws also tried not to let on what had just happened, but like the men, they couldn't control their emotions either. Their world was turned upside-down by a criminal, a terrorist, a despised Blanketman on hunger strike. Bobby Sands was today a member of their bloody parliament.

"The Kiss of Judas"

The British establishment was also shattered, but they weren't so circumspect. "Elected: The Hon. Member for Violence" blared a Sunday Express headline. An editorial condemned the over 30,000 voters, predominately Catholics, who elected Bobby: "Their attendance at Mass this morning is as corrupt as the kiss of Judas." Margaret Thatcher commented on Bobby's election with a full stomach after a royal banquet on a trip to Saudi Arabia, "A crime is a crime is a crime." You can hear those words in your gut 20 years later, if you ever heard her say them even once -- the cold harshness of the sound of them, the dead look in her eyes, the pursed lips hardly moving as she said them. The look of a cold blooded murderer. "A Crime is a crime is a crime," she said. "It is not political, it is a crime," she said. She wasn't alone. Francis Pym, Leader of the House of Commons, immediately sounded out the MPs to expel Bobby from parliament because he was a criminal, worse than a criminal. The move got nowhere because even the Brits knew it would make them look stupid. How could they allow him to run and then disqualify him because he won? Besides, the Movement would simply run him again in the ensuing bi-election, or run another hunger striker. No. Best just let him die.

Francis, Patsy and Raymond Follow Bobby To Hospital

As the count was going on in Enniskillen, Francis Hughes was being moved to the prison hospital. Patsy O'Hara was feeling terrible. He had shooting pain in his stomach and side. A few days later, on the 15th of April, both he and Raymond McCreesh would follow Francis and Bobby into the hospital

The Brits could do whatever they wanted with the reality of Bobby's election and the hunger strike in their stinking hellhole jail, but one thing they could no longer do was to ignore the situation. Not now. Not with a Member of Parliament starving to death in Long Kesh.