The Young Rebels (8 page)

A
fter the Ardmháistir’s speech there is absolute silence. Then a party of Volunteers step
forward
and fire a volley over the grave. How the crack of gunfire echoes!

The Fianna march in a body to the Botanic Gardens to be collected by their families – or in my case, a motor car which will take myself and the Pearse women out to Rathfarnham.

As we walk along Roger is very quiet. He does not look around, but only down at his feet. When he sees his parents looking for him he slouches off to join them without even saying goodbye.

Mrs Pearse and her daughters are waiting for me in a
taxicab parked at the kerb outside the Gardens. The Pearses do not own a motorcar; I suppose all their money goes into the school. Willie and even the
Ardmháistir
usually travel by bicycle.

When I sit into the taxicab Mrs Pearse says, ‘I have never heard Pat speak so well, have you?’

Before I can reply, Mary Brigid clasps her hands together and cries, ‘Oh was he not splendid? Was he not magnificent?’

Margaret Pearse frowns at her sister. ‘You’re
exaggerating
again, Mary Brigid,’ she says sternly. ‘Please make an effort to control yourself.’ She sounds annoyed. She always sounds annoyed when she speaks to Mary Brigid.

They are nothing alike. Margaret Pearse looks like the spinster she is, with her hair scraped back into a knot and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Mary Brigid is smaller, softer. She has a pretty face and a fluttery manner, like a bird about to take wing. In fact she has taken wing. She is no longer living at the Hermitage, but has rented a little house in the village of Rathfarnham. I don’t know if it was her idea or not. I suspect the family finally found her too difficult to live with and suggested she would be happier elsewhere.

But I secretly agree with Mary Brigid about her
brother’s speech. When you hear something as grand as that, it’s easy to be swept away.

Maybe when I grow up I shall be an orator.

Roger returns to school for the autumn term with the other students. He is still moody, not like his old self at all.

At St Enda’s we are taught to pay attention to every living thing and try to understand how others feel. I’ve never done that before, but now I cannot help doing it. I suspect Roger is torn between loyalty to his brothers, which includes the cause they serve, and a growing feeling of loyalty to the land of his birth. I’m glad I don’t have that problem.

In September twelve hundred Irish Volunteers march openly through Dublin carrying Howth rifles. That same month, the women of Cumann na mBan stage their first parade in their new uniforms.
Meanwhile
the companies of the Fianna are drilling like
veterans
all around the city. The Irish Girl Guides are drilling too, just like Cumann na mBan and the Citizen Army. It’s very exciting, so many ordinary men and women, boys and girls, all of us saying to the King of England, ‘We don’t want to fight in your war. We want our own country back.’

But will he listen? I don’t think so. He is too busy quarrelling with his cousins. I read in the newspapers that Czar Nicholas has now taken personal command
of the Russian army. I wonder if King George will do the same. Those two sovereigns should meet one another on the battlefield and have a battle of
champions
, just the two of them, the way it was done in
Ireland
at the time of the Fianna. Then no one else – like Roger’s brother – would have to die. And when it is over they can exchange gifts and be friends again, as Roger and I did.

It seems very simple to me. It’s the adults who make things complicated.

My friend Roger never misses a drill. Sometimes he seems to enjoy them. Other times one can see his heart isn’t in it. He still thinks he’s supposed to be British. If we really do have an uprising, I wonder how many other people in Ireland will feel the way he does?

It takes a lot of courage to break free. Many Irish people don’t seem to care if they are dominated by a foreign power. My father’s like that. The British
government
employs him so he’s content to have them here. He simply passes the domination on to anyone who’s weaker than he is.

Being at St Enda’s has given me a chance to look at things in a whole new way. After the uprising, when Ireland is free, maybe there will be schools like this all over the country, and our people can learn what an ancient and glorious heritage we have. Then they will
be proud to be Irish instead of trying to be English.

Maybe I’ll be a teacher in one of those schools.

After O’Donovan Rossa’s funeral Mr Pearse is called away to more meetings than ever. There is more marching, too, by both the Volunteers and the Citizen Army. I wonder why they don’t join up and do
everything
together?

I’ll ask Willie. He has become like the big brother I wish I had. I guess I feel about him the way he feels about the Ardmháistir.

My question makes him laugh. ‘You have a good head on you, John Joe, but it’s the old Irish story. Rivalry instead of cooperation. The leaders of the
Volunteers
are intellectuals like my brother and Tom
MacDonagh
and Joe Plunkett. The Citizen Army was created by the leaders of the labour unions and is mainly working class. Each corps has its own
command
structure and its own way of doing things. Also, the two groups have differing visions for Ireland.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pat and his friends want an independent Irish Republic. James Connolly is a socialist. He and his
followers
are interested in creating a socialist state.’

‘Cannot Ireland be both?’

Willie nods. ‘Possibly. But neither group can achieve what it wants unless Ireland is free. Britain will never
willingly allow Ireland to become an independent republic because that would set a bad example. Other conquered colonial possessions might demand their freedom too.

‘The Empire is built on capitalism, so Britain will not allow Ireland to go socialist, either. Socialism means giving working men equal rights with industrialists and that’s against everything the Empire stands for.’

‘Do you think we can ever win our freedom, Willie?’

‘The Americans did,’ he points out.

‘Will they help us?’ To show him that I know quite a lot already, I ask, ‘Is the Irish Republican Brotherhood an American organisation?’

Willie looks startled. ‘How do you know about the IRB?’

‘I once overheard you and the Ardmháistir talking about it. You were in his office and the door was open.’

‘You never should have heard that!’

‘I’ve never mentioned it to anyone else and I never will,’ I assure him. ‘But just what is the IRB, Willie?’

‘You know about the Fenian Brotherhood which was founded in New York in 1848, and to which O’Donovan Rossa belonged. Well, the Irish Republican Brotherhood was founded in Dublin ten years later. Together they form an underground movement whose sole purpose is, and always has been, to set Ireland
free. The IRB is secretly funding the Volunteers, using money raised in America. We’re hoping for aid from the Germans, too, in the form of weapons.’

It is my turn to be startled. ‘I thought we were at war with Germany!’

‘Ireland has never been at war with Germany, John Joe. The Germans have done us no harm. Britain, which has been our enemy and oppressor for
centuries
,
is
at war with Germany – and the enemy of our enemy is our friend.’

Imagine that! Nations far across the sea reaching out their hands to help Ireland! On the world map we are so small, yet we have powerful friends.

At least I hope we do. As I recall from my Irish
history
studies, we thought the French were our friends and would help us, but in 1798 they let Wolfe Tone down badly.

Can we trust anyone but ourselves?

There is a small nationalist political party here which calls itself Sinn Féin: Ourselves Alone. Sinn Féin was founded by a man called Arthur Griffith.

The Irish Parliamentary Party is much larger. They seem content to work within the system we have. Their leader, John Redmond, has urged the Irish
Volunteers
to enlist in the British Army. He promises that Britain will reward them by giving us Home Rule
when the war is over.

Eoin MacNeill, who is President and Chief-of-Staff of the Volunteers, disagrees. He says Home Rule is a cheque the British will continually post-date. Professor MacNeill teaches early Irish history at University
College
Dublin and is a very intelligent man.

Besides, even if we did get Home Rule we still would not be independent of Britain. I think independence is terribly important. It’s like growing up; being in charge of your own life.

Before I came to St Enda’s I knew nothing about politics. Now I see that politics is like a giant,
invisible
spider web all around us. According to the
Ardmháistir
politics affects every part of our lives – how we live, what we earn, even what our old age will be like. When I was a child I never thought about such things.

But I’m about to be a man.

If I try to talk about politics with Roger, he gets that stubborn look he gets sometimes. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he says.

I guess Roger’s not ready to be a man yet.

There are lots of secrets now: secret meetings, secret plans, secret military manoeuvres late at night. St Enda’s is right at the heart of everything – at least the
Ardmháistir
is. Professor MacNeill may be Chief-of-Staff, but Mr
Pearse has a lot of influence in the Volunteers. He is Director of Organisation and also part of a secret
Provisional
Committee within the Volunteer Corps.

The Committee consists of members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Professor MacNeill does not belong.

I’m not supposed to know this. But when I went to the Ardmháistir’s office this afternoon, looking for Willie, I saw a packet of papers on Mr Pearse’s desk with a slip of paper on top. On the paper is written ‘
Faoi rún
’, which means ‘In confidence’ in English.

No one was in the office. A person who was not meant to see those papers could have walked in and read them, and I was sure Mr Pearse would not like that. So I carefully put them away in the top drawer of his desk – after I took a quick look through them myself.

I shall never tell a soul what those papers contain; not ever. But I’m thankful I can read Irish now.

The plans for the uprising are much farther along than I thought. After New Year’s there will be a meeting to set the actual date. Companies of
Volunteers
down the country are eagerly awaiting more weapons. Once those arrive they will be ready to march. Auxiliary organisations such as Cumann na mBan are waiting to support the men in the field
with first aid and a constant flow of supplies. The Fianna, too, will play a strategic part.

Strategic means we boys are absolutely necessary to the success of the uprising!

I
wish I could tell someone what I know, but I can’t. A secret is not a secret if you tell. Besides, the Pearses trust me and I will never betray their trust.

With Christmas approaching, I am growing anxious. It is too much to hope that my father has forgotten about me. This year surely he will demand I come home, and if he does, Mr Pearse will have to let me go.

Roger is going to leave the school a few days early to spend more time with his family. ‘The holidays will be awful,’ he moans, ‘with James still at the front and Donald …’ He can’t finish the sentence.

‘At least you have both your parents,’ I say
consolingly
. For a wild moment I’m tempted to ask if I can go
home with him. But how could I explain? I have not told anyone but the Ardmháistir about the things my father does, and I never shall. The years of beatings and the fear that never goes away – those are my secrets.

Yet in spite of them, I can never betray my father.

Sometimes I wonder if all fathers are like mine. Maybe they are. And their children never tell.

To my relief, my father has asked that I be kept at the school for the holidays. Mrs Pearse just gave me the news. She seems genuinely puzzled, both by the request and my cheerfulness about it.

The explanation I give her is, partly, the truth. ‘My father works in Dublin Castle and they’re terribly busy right now. There is no one at home to mind me, so I’m happy enough to stay here if it will make things easier for him.’

She gives me a little hug. ‘You are a brave and
understanding
lad, John Joe. But I do think the man could make arrangements to spend at least a few days with you. Even the Castle shuts down for Christmas.’

Actually that’s not true. There is a possibility that
conscription
will be announced within a matter of weeks, and the lights are burning late in government offices. If conscription does go through English men will be shipped off to the Great War whether they want to go or not. Can Ireland be far behind?

Mary Brigid comes home to the Hermitage for the holidays and every evening we are treated to a harp concert in the family dining room. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend it’s
my
family dining room, with my mother and my brothers and sisters around me.

Later I lie in my bed and wonder how my father is, and what he’s doing. Is he lonely? Should I not be with him?

Part of me feels awfully guilty.

To my surprise, one afternoon Aunt Nell comes out to the school to spend a few hours with me. She has tea with us and makes polite conversation with Mrs Pearse. ‘I would take John Joe home with me for the holidays,’ she says, ‘but I have just a wee little cottage and there’s no room for an active boy.’

‘I understand completely,’ says Mrs Pearse. But I know her, she’s just being agreeable. She could not really understand anyone who did not want to have a boy in their house. Her entire family loves children. They have dedicated their lives to us.

Aunt Nell is making an effort, however. She gives me a Christmas present – a box of socks – and another gift which she says is from my father. ‘Bertie’s after sending you half a crown,’ she tells me, ‘for pocket money.’

My father would not give me half a crown if his life depended on it. I suspect it came from her own purse.
Sometimes I really am fond of my aunt. She hides it well, but I think she has a good heart.

On
Nollaig na mBan
, the sixth of January, the House of Commons votes overwhelmingly for conscription. Single men will be called up first, but the newspapers say married men may go soon. The slaughter at the front is enormous and calls for more and more bodies.

We shall be next. The generals have always put the Irish in the front lines to spare English lives.

Meanwhile the number of Irish men volunteering for the British army has slowed to a trickle. Thousands are drilling with the Volunteers instead. Recruiting
meetings
are held in the towns and villages – Mr Pearse goes to a lot of those – and country roads feel the thud of marching feet.

We cheer them when they come past St Enda’s.

More of the Volunteers have uniforms now. Those who don’t, wear Sam Browne belts and soft hats to identify them as members of Ireland’s own army. They may be poorly equipped and short of almost
everything
, but there is no doubting their courage. The Dublin Brigade continues to carry firearms openly. The police watch but make no effort to stop them. I don’t think the government knows what to do about the situation. They were severely criticised for the disaster on Bachelor’s Walk and they are preoccupied with the
Great War. Maybe they hope the nationalist movement will just go away.

It won’t.

I wonder what my father, secure behind the walls of Dublin Castle, makes of all this. He has shown no interest in me since I’m off his hands, but surely he cannot be unaware of the Ardmháistir’s republican connections. At some stage will he demand that I resign from the Fianna and leave St Enda’s?

Let him. If he does, I shall rebel openly. Even run away if I must. Maybe one of Mr Pearse’s friends in the IRB would hide me.

Yesterday the Dublin Brigade carried out a sham attack on the post office! It was planned with the
greatest
secrecy and carried out quietly; neither the Citizen Army nor the Fianna took part. However we’ve been promised that we shall share the action on St Patrick’s Day, when military reviews will be held all across the country.

We’re going to shake our fists at King George.

Dublin Castle is concerned about the growing tide of Irish nationalism. Some prominent activists have been arrested and charged with ‘sedition’, which means urging rebellion. They are being held in prison but so far none have stood trial.

It’s important that the government has no idea of our
real strength. There was a small item in one of the newspapers this morning, to the effect that there are only nine hundred ‘outlawed’ rifles in the hands of the Dublin Volunteers, and less than five thousand in the whole country.

Willie says the Castle is guilty of underestimating. ‘That’s what Pat wants them to do, John Joe. It means we shall have the element of surprise with us.’

‘How many weapons do we really have, then?’

Willie frowns. ‘That’s not my department, but I’m certain we have more than the Castle claims. Plus we’re expecting tens of thousands more. We’ll need them; when the time comes as many as a hundred thousand men may be standing with us. More than enough to win our freedom.’

I hope those weapons from Germany arrive soon.

Willie has told me a very big secret. The IRB has set the date for the uprising as Easter Sunday, the
twenty-third
of April.

‘Don’t breathe a word of this, John Joe,’ he warns me. ‘You are in a very privileged position because you’ve almost become part of the family here. Even Eoin MacNeill does not know a date’s been set.’

‘Why not? Isn’t he the chief-of-staff of the Volunteers?’

‘He is. But the professor insists the corps must be
used only as a defensive force. He will not allow them to go on the offensive.’

‘How can we win our independence by fighting defensively? That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Pat agrees with you,’ says Willie. ‘That’s why the arrangements he and the others are making must be kept secret.’

A number of sealed crates have arrived and been stored in the wash-house, to Mrs Pearse’s annoyance. The lights burn all night in the Ardmháistir’s office, where he is writing articles and pamphlets to
prepare
the country for the uprising.

During the day he has a steady stream of callers, including Joe Plunkett, who dresses in a flowing cape like an actor and wears a lot of jewellery, and a
handsome
young man with a limp, Seán MacDermott, who travels all around Ireland on a bicycle as an organiser for the Volunteers.

Another visitor is a frail old man called Tom Clarke who owns a tobacconist shop in Dublin. He looks quite harmless, he’s as thin as a rake and wears strong
spectacles
. Yet Willie tells me Mr Clarke spent years in a British prison and is a hero of the republican
movement
. I would love to talk to him. I’ve never known anyone who’s been in prison. The nearest I came was Jim Larkin’s son.

There is an air of tense anticipation at St Enda’s. Thanks to the increase in preparations, I’m not the only boy who knows what’s going on. Most of the Fianna have a good idea, especially the officers. I may be the only one who is aware that Professor MacNeill is being kept in the dark, though.

Willie tells me, with tremendous pride, that there has been a secret meeting of the IRB Military Council and Mr Pearse as been appointed Commander-in-Chief. When the uprising begins our own Ardmháistir will be in charge.

Yet life goes on at the school. We sit in our
classrooms
and study our textbooks and, about the middle of every afternoon, get a little bored and sleepy and wish we were doing something else.

Roll on, April!

One Saturday morning Roger and I go down to Emmet’s Fort for a game of pirates. To our surprise we find four of the Girl Guides there, including Marcella. This time she has a bright red ribbon in her hair. I don’t know if I could ride around on a horse wearing a red ribbon on my arm. Besides, I notice that she has skinned knees. I don’t think Fair Ladies are supposed to have skinned knees.

‘This is our place,’ Roger growls at the girls, ‘and you don’t belong here.’

‘We have just as much right to be here as you do,’ Marcella says with her fists on her hips. She’s only half his size but one can tell she won’t back down.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘We came out with Miss Connolly and her father. They brought us along for the drive.’

So James Connolly is paying a call on Mr Pearse!

We don’t dare throw the girls out. Mr Pearse is very strict about always treating women with courtesy; even girls with skinned knees. Suddenly it seems to me that playing pirates is childish. When I suggest we play rebellion instead, the others enthusiastically agree.

I am Padraic Pearse and Roger is James Connolly. The girls comprise the Volunteers and the Citizen Army. We search the woods for dead branches the size of rifles, then the girls march up and down with their weapons on their shoulders while Roger and I bark out orders.

The woodland is Dublin. The enemy is hiding among the buildings – that’s the trees. Every shadow could
conceal
lurking death. Roger and I plan tactics for our fearless troops. The girls do some amazingly clever things on their own, like camouflaging themselves with laurel branches threaded through their jumpers. It’s great fun for a while – until Marcella rebels. ‘I think it’s our turn to give orders now,’ she tells me.

‘But you’re girls!’

‘Countess Markievicz gives orders and she’s an
officer
in the Citizen Army.’

‘That’s different.’ I resent her using Madame to prove her point. Madame is special.

‘If we can’t have our turn,’ says Marcella – with her fists on her hips again – ‘we won’t play. You’ll just have to recruit your old army from somewhere else.’

Turning on her heel, she marches away with her back as straight as a soldier’s and laurel twigs still caught in her jumper. After a moment’s hesitation her friends follow her.

Roger looks at me. ‘Now see what you’ve done.’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’ At least I don’t think it was. How could things go sour so fast?

Roger and I skip stones across the pond for a while, then some of the other boys come along and we play rebellion again. But it isn’t the same.