The Young Rebels (10 page)

W
hen I wake up, at first I don’t know where I am. Everything looks strange. Roger is lying beside me, snoring like rocks rattling in a tin bucket. I reach over and shake his shoulder. ‘Stop making that noise.’

‘Hunh? What?’ He sits up and looks blearily around. ‘Where are we?’

By now I know where we are. I recall everything very clearly, but it is not very comforting. ‘We’re on the top floor of the Metropole Hotel but we have to get out of here. Don’t you remember what happened
yesterday? The Rising started and we’re right in the middle of it.’

‘Oh good,’ says Roger, absolutely deadpan. ‘Is our side winning?’ He can be funny when one least expects it. I can never tell if he does it deliberately or he’s just being Roger.

Cautiously opening the door of our room, I peer out. There is no one in the hallway. The hotel is eerily quiet.

At my shoulder, Roger asks, ‘Is there not a kitchen here?’

‘I’m sure there is.’

‘Then why don’t we smell food cooking?’

We find a toilet and wash-hand basin at the end of the passage and make ourselves as tidy as possible. There is not much we can about our clothes, which are badly rumpled. We should have taken them off before we went to bed but we were too sleepy then, and it’s too late now.

When we are as ready as we’re going to be, I lead the way down the stairs to the ground floor. We don’t meet anyone on the stairs. Is the hotel deserted? Did
something
terrible happen last night while we were asleep?

I’m relieved to see there is a desk clerk on duty, though not the same one who was here yesterday. 
Otherwise the lobby is empty. The clerk is making notes in a ledger. When he sees us he pushes his
spectacles
up onto the top of his bald head.

‘Where did you boys come from?’

‘Our room,’ I reply with a careless upward wave. At the same time I glance toward the glass doors. No policemen.

‘Are your parents still up there?’ asks the clerk.

‘They’ve already gone out.’

‘To have breakfast,’ Roger interjects. ‘We’re just about to join them.’ He hurries across the lobby and pushes a door open, then turns back toward me. ‘Come look at this, John Joe! The street’s full of paper!’

I join him to stare in amazement. From the O’Connell Monument to the Pillar, shop windows are smashed and litter lies everywhere. There are no policemen or British soldiers to be seen, only our own Volunteers. They look like real soldiers themselves now as they run, bent over, from one position to another.

The air stinks of bitter smoke.

There is the sound of a rifle shot. A chip of stone from the façade of the hotel flies past my face.

‘Janey Mack!’ Roger almost knocks me down as he tumbles back into the lobby.

The desk clerk runs over to us. ‘You boys can’t go out there now, it’s not safe. I don’t know where your parents are but if they left you here, this is where you should be. They’ll come and find you when they can.’

I can hear the sound of heavy firing coming from the quays.

‘This is real,’ Roger says breathlessly. I don’t think he’s trying to be funny.

‘Very real,’ agrees the clerk. ‘The Sinn Féiners are staging a rebellion.’

I start to tell him it’s not the ‘Sinn Féiners’, but he’s in no mood to listen. ‘They must be crazy to try something like this,’ he says angrily. ‘I pray the authorities put a stop to them before it goes any further. It’s emptying out the hotel.’

I draw myself up to my full height and glare at him. ‘Don’t you want Ireland to be free?’

‘Free? Free of what?’

‘Of Britain, of course! Of foreign domination!’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, son. Everything was perfectly fine until yesterday.’

Roger retorts, ‘It may have been fine for you. You have a job and enough food to put in your belly. But there are thousands of people in Dublin who go to bed hungry every night. The authorities don’t care. It’s all
right with them as long as plenty of Irish soldiers fight King George’s war, and plenty of Irish produce is shipped to English tables.’

I turn to stare at my friend. All those hours in the classroom, when he was gazing out the window and I thought he was daydreaming, he must have been
listening
after all. Some time between the death of his brother and yesterday morning, Roger has turned into a rebel.

The gunfire is almost continuous now. While I am trying to decide what to do next, a man rushes into the lobby. ‘The looters are throwing every sort of
merchandise
out the windows of Lawrence’s! There’s a dead horse at the top of the street and a bonfire between Nelson’s Pillar and the Parnell Monument. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

To his credit, the desk clerk keeps his wits about him. ‘Do you wish to check out, Mr Preston?’

‘Where would I go? I came to Dublin on business and there’s no business to be done today. No, give me my room key and I’ll stay here for now. At least I’ll be in a good position to know what’s happening. But I’m going to have my bags packed. I warn you,’ he shakes a finger at the desk clerk as if it’s all his fault, ‘I am going to have my bags packed!’

He disappears up the stairs.

So the hotel is not empty after all. Maybe this is the best place for us to be, too. ‘We’ll wait for our parents upstairs,’ I tell the clerk. Seizing Roger’s hand, I tug him after me.

We don’t return to the top storey, though. On the first floor we find an empty room – obviously just vacated, the bed is still unmade – and settle in. The windows give a good view of the street. And we’re that bit closer to the action.

Thus we see the first squad of Volunteers arrive to take over the Metropole. They enter the lobby without firing a shot. A few minutes later two of them escort our desk clerk out the door. One walks with him all the way to the Bridge to see that he gets across safely.

‘Now no-one knows where we are,’ says Roger. ‘Should we not go down to the lobby and tell the
Volunteers
we’re here?’

‘And have them turn us over to the Ardmháistir? I think not. He would insist on sending us away.’

We hear a lot of noise below as the ground floor windows are smashed and barricaded. A few more guests – including the excitable business man – leave, again politely escorted by Volunteers. Then the hotel falls quiet.

It is not quiet outside. Gunfire, shouting, the wail of an ambulance … and somewhere off in the distance a more ominous sound, like gunfire magnified many times.

‘Is that artillery, John Joe?’

‘It must be.’

‘Do you suppose our reinforcements have arrived yet?’

‘I don’t see any more Volunteers out there than we saw yesterday.’

‘But they will come, won’t they?’

‘I’m sure they will, Roger.’

There is a lone newsboy across the street with a bundle of papers under his arm. I wonder if I dare run across and buy one?

A little scouting locates a back stair that leads to a door in the alleyway. Leaving Roger to guard the door and be sure to open it for me when I return, I wait until there is a lull in the commotion in the street, then dart across and buy a newspaper. I hold it so tightly in my sweating hand that the newsprint smears onto my fingers.

Back in our room we eagerly spread the paper out on the unmade bed. Then we discover it is Monday’s edition. ‘No new news,’ Roger says regretfully.

Yesterday’s news is bad enough.

Thanks to Eoin MacNeill’s countermand, it appears that the Volunteers down the country believed the Rising was cancelled. So they are not on their way. Even if they did set out now, it would be too late. The British are already ordering large numbers of troops into Ireland to quell ‘the insurgency’.

It will be just our small band against the might of the Empire.

By leaving our windows open in spite of the cold, throughout a long day we learn more bits and snatches of information as the men below in the street call out to one another.

Yesterday afternoon – and oh, I wish I’d been there to hear it! – Padraic Pearse read out the Proclamation of the Irish Republic in front of the General Post Office. The GPO is now officially the General Headquarters of the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic.

Both Mr Pearse and James Connolly, who is Commandant-General of the Dublin Division, are there, together with a mixed force of Volunteers and Citizen Army. Joe Plunkett is Chief-of-Staff. Some of the older Fianna are in General Headquarters too, where the women of Cumann na mBan are providing a commissary.

The First Battalion of Irish Volunteers, under the command of Edward Daly, Tom Clarke’s brother-
in-law
, has occupied the Four Courts. When we learn that the Second Battalion under Thomas MacDonagh is in Jacob’s Biscuit Factory, Roger gives a sigh of envy.

‘War,’ I remind him, ‘is about more than getting your hands on an unlimited supply of sweet biscuits.’

At Boland’s Mills and Bakery, the Third Battalion is commanded by Éamon de Valera. Éamonn Ceannt and the Fourth Battalion have taken over the South Dublin Union.

Battles are raging everywhere.

‘Is there a chance we can win?’ Roger asks me. He means we the Irish, not we the British. All of us Irish together.

I cannot give him an answer, I simply don’t know enough.

If Roger were not with me I would go to the GPO. That’s where I want to be. The Ardmháistir might be angry with me, but he would understand. I feel
responsible
for Roger, however. He would be no good in a real fight, he would just get himself hurt. He’s safe enough here for the time being, so I had best stay here with him.

From conversation in the street below we discover that an attempt by the Citizen Army to seize Dublin Castle yesterday was not successful. But Countess Markievicz is second-in-command at Stephen’s Green. On our way into the city we almost came right past her. If I had known, that’s where we would be now.

I’ll bet she would let us fight.

We are getting very hungry, so we go on another scouting expedition. The Volunteers are on the ground floor but no one is in the cellar, where the larder is. Roger and I manage to sneak down without being seen. We soon hurry back to our room with bread and cheese and cold meat and tinned fruit. Roger wants to bring a basket of eggs until I remind him we have no way to cook them.

We have left a note in the larder, listing the supplies we’ve taken and promising to make it good when the revolution is over. I keep a similar list to be sure the debt is paid in full.

As we eat we can hear machine-gun fire; it seems to be coming from the south quays. I never heard it before but the sound is unmistakeable. Rat-a-tat-
tat-tat
-tat-tat. Vicious.

The food sits like a stone in my stomach. Even Roger doesn’t eat very much. He tears his bread into pieces and rolls it into little pellets, like ammunition.

In mid-afternoon, someone in the street announces in a loud voice that martial law has been declared in Dublin.

Eventually we decide we might as well go to bed. There’s nothing else to do anyway, and the light is beginning to fade. After making a last trip to look out the window into the street, I throw back the covers and stretch out with my arms folded behind my head.

There are cracks in the plaster on the ceiling. I try to make them form a map of the world, but they are not in the right places.

Just as I am dozing off, there is a scratching at the door.

‘Roger. Sssst, Roger, do you hear that?’

‘I do hear it. What do you think it is?’

‘Rats, maybe.’

‘In the Metropole? I doubt that! My parents have stayed in the Metropole Hotel.’ It is Roger, not me, who gets out of bed and pads across to the door. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Are you with the Fianna?’ asks a high-pitched voice.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Conor and Francis and Gerry. We’re Fianna too.’

Roger flings open the door. There stand three little boys, silhouetted against the gaslight in the hallway.

By now I’m on my feet. ‘How did you find us?’

‘Can we come in?’

‘Hurry before someone sees you!’

‘No-one will see us, they’re asleep downstairs. Even the sentry at the door. We tiptoed right past him.’

We know these boys, we’ve all drilled together. The speaker, whose name is Conor, is perhaps a year younger than I am and is wearing long trousers. The other two are still in short pants.

I fold my arms on my chest and try to sound stern. ‘You have no business being here, you’ll have to go home.’

The littlest boy lets out a wail. ‘Tell him, Conor! Tell him we can’t go home!’

Conor says, ‘When we heard what was happening yesterday we decided to come and see for ourselves. So we walked into town. We got all the way to the bottom of Sackville Street before anyone even spoke to us. Then things got very scary. We hid under some debris for a while. When we finally crawled out I looked up and saw you in the window, John Joe. We want to join the fighting too.’

‘You can’t join the fighting,’ I try to tell them. ‘Roger and I aren’t fighting, we’re just here. As observers,’ I add, to make it sound official.

‘Well, we can’t go back. There are lots of British
soldiers
between us and home.’

‘Surely they would let three children pass through their lines unharmed.’

Conor looks as if he might cry. ‘You don’t
understand
. We don’t want to pass through their lines. We want to stay here and fight!’

What are we going to do with them?

N
ow that our little band has expanded, I decide we should go back to the top floor. It might be safer there. However the five of us spend an
uncomfortable
night. I insist we stay together in the same room, which means there is only the one bed. We can all lie across it width-wise, but it is almost impossible for anyone to turn over. Besides, my feet hang over the edge. Finally I make pallets out of the bedclothes and put them on the floor for the younger boys. Roger and I sleep on the bed with our overcoats for cover.

The people in the GPO must be a lot more
uncomfortable than we are. The gunfire is continuing off and on, even at night.

By morning Roger is not the only one complaining about being hungry. Leaving Conor in charge, he and I return to the larder. The Volunteers must have
discovered
it; there is hardly any food left. I insist we save what there is for the little boys. Roger grumbles but agrees. It’s obvious, though, that we cannot stay here for much longer without anything to eat.

I decide on a bold tactic. Beyond the service entrance of the hotel is the alley where deliveries are made – when anyone is making deliveries. The alley leads me into a narrow street that gives on to another narrow street, and that to yet another. I find a number of small shops – all closed and shuttered – and, at last, a pub that’s still open.

Yet not far a way there is the constant sound of gunfire.

Now is not the time to be manly. I need to look like a starving child. Fortunately, I’ve studied acting at St Enda’s; I know how to convince an audience. First you have to believe it yourself.

I recall the pains that gnawed my belly when my father shut me in my room all day and all night without anything to eat. When you’ve been really hungry you can never forget it.

Then I scoop up a handful of muck from the gutter and smear it across my face. Turning up my coat collar, I bend my knees to make myself shorter, and walk
timidly
into the bar.

The barman has a face like a boiled pudding. ‘Wot’s yer pleasure, guv’nor?’

He’s mocking me but I don’t care. ‘Please, sir, my little brothers and sisters are hungry. Our parents went out yesterday and haven’t come back. I don’t know what’s happened to them. I’m scared.’

His expression softens. ‘They’ll be all right, lad. You run on home and wait for them.’

‘But what will we eat?’

Fifteen minutes later I’m back at the Metropole with a big jar of pickled eggs and some brown bread and sugar and lemons and cold bacon and a packet of tea. The barman even gave me an almost-sharp knife to cut the bread. How we will brew the tea I do not know.

The little boys fall on the food like ravening wolves. Roger, who is more resourceful than I realised, searches the empty bedrooms on this floor until he finds five drinking glasses. He fills the glasses with hot water from the tap in the basin. We dump in the tea and wait until the brew turns a sort of pale brown. Then we squeeze some lemons into it and add a lot of sugar.

It’s the best tea I ever tasted.

After we finish eating, I unfold a sheet of paper from my coat pocket and spread it out on the bed. ‘Look at this, lads. These are posted on walls all around here, so I took one down for us.’

The boys gather around a creased copy of the
Proclamation
of the Irish Republic. The type is black and rather smudged. Roger begins to read aloud:

‘Irishmen and Irishwomen: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us,
summons
her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.

‘Having organised and trained her manhood through her secret revolutionary organisation, the Irish
Republican
Brotherhood,’ – I know about them! – ‘and through her open military organisations, the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen Army …’

In my mind’s eye I can see Padraic Pearse standing in front of the GPO. What courage it must have taken to read these words out loud in a land that has been
occupied
by a foreign power for over seven hundred years!

‘We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland.’

The ownership of Ireland!
I have a lump in my throat.
Our own land!

‘We hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a
Sovereign Independent State … We pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations … The Republic guarantees civil and
religious
liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its resolve to pursue the
happiness
and prosperity of the whole nation and of all its parts, cherishing all the children of the nation equally …’

There are seven signatures at the bottom. Thomas J. Clarke, Seán MacDiarmada, P. H. Pearse, James
Connolly
, Thomas MacDonagh, Eamonn Ceannt, and Joseph Plunkett.

The words of the Proclamation are still ringing in my ears when we hear a terrible booming explosion. We all run to the windows. From the direction of the river an immense cloud of dust is billowing into the sky.

One of the Fianna guarding the bridge comes
running
up Sackville Street, waving his arms and shouting. ‘The British have a gunboat on the Liffey! They’ve fired on Liberty Hall!’

Within minutes a terrific bombardment is striking the area around Butt Bridge and the Customs House. The noise is deafening. We can see the occasional leap of flames above the rooftops. ‘They must be firing
incendiary
shells,’ Roger remarks. ‘I’ve read about those,
they’re being used in Europe.’

Mr Connolly was wrong about British capitalists. They
will
destroy property – so long as it’s Irish.

Our troops are firing back with everything they have. We don’t have to go looking for the war, it’s all around us. Something smashes against the side of the
Metropole
and the entire hotel shudders. Plaster flakes fall from the ceiling and pepper my shoulders like dandruff. The little boy called Francis shouts, ‘It’s snowing indoors!’

Another tremendous explosion, very near, sounds even worse. ‘What was that?’ I shout down to the nearest man in the street.

‘The GPO. I think something hit the top storey.’ He starts to run in that direction.

Will the Commander-in-Chief order an evacuation? I do not think so. I know Mr Pearse. He will not run.

How I wish there was something we could do to be useful. But all around is total confusion. If we go out into the street we have no orders and no weapons, we would just be in the way.

Funnily enough, I’m not afraid of being hurt. I
suppose
I should be, but I’m not. Something deep inside me has become very calm and quiet, like Mr Pearse.

‘What shall we do, sir?’ Gerry, the smallest of the boys, asks me. Me. Sir!

‘We are going to stay here for now and keep a sharp lookout. I don’t know what will happen next but we must be ready for anything.’

‘We are sir,’ the little lad says cheerfully.

I reach out and tousle his hair.

The shelling goes on and on. At first every explosion makes us flinch violently, but after a while one almost gets used to the noise. Otherwise one would soon be exhausted. Much of the city, at least that part which we can see from here, is being laid to waste. I wonder when it will be our turn.

We hear a commotion in the passageway, then a thunderous knock at the door. ‘Who’s in there?’

We freeze.

‘In the name of the Republic!’ another voice cries. ‘Is anyone in there?’

I run to the door and throw it open.

Four men wearing civilian clothes and Volunteer badges stare back at me. It is hard to say who is more surprised, me or them. ‘What are you lot doing up here?’ one asks, indicating the other boys in the room.

‘We’re Fianna, sir. We came to see the fighting.’

He cannot help grinning. ‘Seen enough yet, have you?’

‘We’ve seen a bit but we don’t know what’s happening.’

‘The British are closing in on us, that’s what’s
happening
. We’ve had to evacuate some of our wounded, but we’re still holding Headquarters.’

‘Is the Ard … is the Commander-in-Chief all right?’ I want to know.

‘Pearse is amazing, as cool as well water. I don’t think he’s slept at all since Monday. He spends his time either going around and encouraging the troops, or writing a ‘newspaper’ as he calls it, trying to keep up our spirits by telling us how well everything’s going.’

Roger asks, ‘Is everything going well?’

‘Hardly. We’re done for, though no-one’s willing to admit it. We’ll hold out for as long as we can, though. Let’em know they’ve been in a scrap. Me and my men have been assigned to take over this floor of the hotel as a sniper post. We did not know anyone was still up here, not until we heard voices in this room. Mind if we join you?’

‘We would be honoured, sir,’ says Conor.

The Volunteers take up positions, two in each of our two windows. I am almost certain that the rifles they carry were part of the Howth cargo. The men watch the street below with frightening intensity, and we watch them. Every now and then one sights along his rifle and squeezes off a shot. I notice that they are careful with their ammunition.

‘Have your men had anything to eat today?’ I ask their leader. His name, I have learned, is Captain
Fitzsimons
. ‘We have some pickled eggs. And we can make tea for you.’

The captain rewards my offer with a weary smile. ‘Just when I thought we were all out of miracles.’