The Young Rebels (5 page)

Are we proud!

In double-quick time we’ve emptied the cart of batons and stacked the wooden ammo boxes inside.

The spectators on the hill, the private motor cars, the heavily-laden taxicabs – all disappear within a matter of
minutes. By the time we leave Howth it looks just like the sleepy little fishing village it was when we arrived.

Yet everything is different now.

W
ith Mr MacDonagh in the lead, we march back toward Dublin even more swiftly than we came out. Officers move up and down the column, taking the names of the men who grabbed rifles for themselves. I overhear one officer say sternly, ‘Either hand over that rifle at the next meeting of your
company
, or pay for it in weekly instalments.’

We keep up a hard pace until we reach Raheny. Our work done, the party of Fianna is bringing up the rear. At Raheny the column stops for a short break. Poor Roger is gasping like a fish out of water and he’s not the
only one. Our rest is far too short and then we’re off again. By now it’s a matter of gritting my teeth and keeping my head down. Refusing to give up. I have a dreadful stitch in my side but I will not give up. Roger, bless him, is as stubborn as I am. We won’t disgrace ourselves.

As we near Clontarf there’s a commotion up ahead. I’m craning my neck but I can’t see what’s going on. Then one of the Cycle Corps comes pedalling back along the column, shouting, ‘The police and the
soldiers
were waiting for us with fixed bayonets! Get the Fianna boys away!’

Our party swerves off the main road and makes for the Malahide Road. Just our luck – Roger and I are on cart duty again. We trundle after the others as fast as we can.

We have hardly gone a hundred yards when we hear gunshots. The Volunteers at the front of the column are clashing with the police.

We proceed a few hundred yards more while the din grows worse. Rifle shots and revolver shots and at least one scream of pain. Some of our boys break ranks and run back the way they have come, unable to resist joining in the fray. I’m about to go with them when an officer cries, ‘Save the ammunition at all costs!’

Roger stands there with his mouth open but my brain is racing.

We can’t run far dragging the cart. With a rock from the roadside I smash open one of the boxes and begin stuffing the ammunition into my clothing. The nearest boys join in.

Soon a score of us are positively clanking with metal. Leaving the cart behind, we scramble down into a ditch and head across an open field. Many of the Volunteers are fleeing too, trying to save their weapons. I see one man who is bleeding badly as he stumbles along.

We come to a laneway that leads to a big country house almost hidden by a high hedge. Some of the boys turn in there to bury their ammunition in the grounds. I think we’re still too close, so I keep running.

If Roger was huffing and puffing before, he’s in a desperate state now. I can hear him floundering along behind me but I keep on. My only thought is to save the ammunition.

‘Where are we going?’ Roger croaks at last.

I have to stop to take bearings. We are eight boys alone in the middle of unfamiliar countryside. Since this was my idea the others are looking to me as their leader. For a moment I’m scared; I don’t know how to be a commander.

The continuing sound of gunfire carries clearly across the open fields.

‘I think we’d best deliver this ammunition to Madame,’ I decide. ‘She’ll know what to do with it.’

Surrey House, in Dublin, is Madame’s town
residence
, although she also has a small cottage in the country. She once marched us past Surrey House so I know where it is. It will be a long walk, tired as we are. I wish I could return to Fairview and collect my bicycle but I dare not.

A steady rain begins to fall.

By the time we reach Madame’s house we are all desperately weary. There are lights in the windows, but suppose no one is home? I have no idea what we will do then. Getting us here is all I can manage.

The knocker makes a thunderous sound. Almost at once there is a quick, light footstep inside and the door opens. Madame herself is standing there, looking out with surprise at what appear to be eight very fat Fianna boys. She brings us into the sitting room. There is a comfortable-looking couch in a big bow window and a fire burning brightly in the fireplace. Warming
themselves
by the fire are Nora Connolly, James Connolly’s daughter, and a troop of Irish Girl Guides, sort of like a female Fianna. The girls burst into giggles at the sight of us.

I wave my arm in the air as if brandishing a rifle. ‘Guess what we’ve been doing!’

‘It’s too much trouble to guess,’ Madame says. ‘Tell us about it and we’ll know all the quicker.’

The story comes tumbling out of me then, with
constant
interruptions and additions from the other boys. Except for Roger, who has discovered a tray of pastries.

The girls are camping out in Madame’s back garden. When the rain got too heavy they came inside – and then we arrived. We are treated like heroes and
immediately
given cups of sweet, hot tea. Madame insists we take off our wet boots and socks, and after we unload our bulging pockets, Miss Connolly spreads our tunics before the fire to dry. I feel like a feather without all that ammunition weighing me down. I’m positively light headed.

Perhaps that’s why I don’t notice at first that Madame seems distracted. She goes to the door several times and peers out. When the telephone rings somewhere inside she almost trips over a footstool in her haste to answer. She returns wearing a deep frown, but forces a smile when she sees me watching.

‘I think you boys deserve a party.’ Madame glances toward the pastry tray, but Roger has left only crumbs. ‘Nora, will you fetch some minerals from the pantry and set your girls to making sandwiches? When that’s
done we shall need pallets made up for these lads, they’re spending the night here.’

‘I can’t possibly,’ I protest, ‘I’m expected at home.’

‘I’m sure you all are, but I prefer that you stay with me until morning. Dublin is not a safe place tonight.’

Madame can be very firm. We do not argue.

‘I’m glad you’re staying,’ one of the Girl Guides tells me. She is small and thin, with a great mass of curly hair tied back from her face by a ribbon. ‘It was pretty boring until you boys arrived.’

‘I shouldn’t think one would ever be bored with Madame.’

‘Oh, not her. But some of the other girls are very silly. They don’t like sleeping in a tent because they’re afraid of spiders.’

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Marcella.’

‘Are you not afraid of spiders, Marcella?’

She tosses her head with a laugh. Her ringlets bounce up and down like bedsprings. ‘Let the spiders be afraid of me!’

When the rain has passed the girls are sent back to their tents in the garden. Marcella gives me a wink as she goes out the door. She holds up one hand with the fingers bent like spiders’ legs. I can’t help laughing.

We boys remain settled in front of the fire. Already
our adventure seems like something that happened to someone else – except for the dreadful blister on my heel. I dread putting on my boots in the morning.

There are more telephone calls, then a couple of men come to the door. They hold a low-voiced
conversation
with Madame but do not enter the house.

After talking with them, Madame looks more grave than ever.

I have to ask. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘It
is
bad, John Joe. None of the Volunteers was killed, as far as I know, though a number were injured. But there’s been a massacre at Bachelor’s Walk.’

‘What!’

‘The Dublin police and the soldiers – the King’s Own Scottish Borderers – failed to disarm the Volunteers, who escaped with almost all of the weapons. The troops had to return to town empty-handed. News of their failure reached the city ahead of them. A great crowd gathered to heckle them: men, women, even small children. The King’s Own made their way along the quays toward their barracks in the Phoenix Park, then stopped and took up a position at the Ha’penny Bridge. The heckling was out of hand by then. The soldiers fired on the crowd. Four people were killed and dozens have been taken to hospital.’

‘The soldiers fired on innocent civilians?’

Madame narrows her lips into a thin line. ‘Oh yes,’
she says. ‘Oh yes.’

Madame sends word to our parents that we are
staying
the night with her. I don’t think I can possibly fall asleep, but the next thing I know a bright sun is
streaming
through the windows.

After breakfast Madame announces that she will take us home herself.

I explain that I need to go to Father Matthew Park to collect my bicycle. ‘I shall take you there, then,’ she replies, ‘and you can ride your cycle home. Or we can carry it in my car if you like.’

What could be more wonderful than being driven to my own house in the motor-car of Countess Markievicz?

Unfortunately my father is at work and does not see my triumphal arrival. But Aunt Nell does. She dithers around waving her hands in the air and saying things like ‘Your Ladyship’ until finally Madame takes pity on her. ‘Eleanor, my friends call me Con and I hope you will too.’

Aunt Nell turns a bright red. ‘Oh I couldn’t!’ But as Madame is taking her leave, she manages to stammer, ‘Thank you so much for your kindness to John Joe, Your La … I mean, Con.’

I suspect my aunt will drop references to ‘her friend Con’ in every conversation from now on.

With the exception of the
Freeman’s Journal
, all the newspapers express outrage at what they call ‘an unprovoked attack on authority by a gang of armed outlaws’. As for the killings on Bachelor’s Walk, that is recounted in a way which makes the Volunteers sound as if they were to blame.

That night at the dinner table my father is ranting about the vicious criminal element who call themselves the Irish Volunteers.

I glance at my aunt. She says nothing, but keeps her gaze fixed on the plate in front of her.

A month to the day after the assassination of the archduke, Austria declares war on Serbia.

On the first of August, the Kaiser declares war on the Czar. And at Kilcoole in County Wicklow a boat called the
Kelpie
lands more rifles for the Irish Volunteers. It’s reported toward the back of the
Irish Times
. The
gathering
storm in Europe is on the front page.

Two days later the Kaiser declares war on France.

The little nation of Belgium lies in the way of a German advance into France. Britain has a treaty with Belgium, promising to protect the smaller country in the event of aggression.

The British have never honoured their treaties with us.

In my room is a calendar advertising Sunlight Soap. Every morning I mark off the number of days left until I can go back to St Enda’s. On the fifth of August I mark off the day, then go downstairs for my breakfast. Aunt Nell is sitting at the table with the
Irish Times
spread in front of her. She looks up at me with tragic eyes. ‘Germany invaded Belgium yesterday, John Joe. Britain has declared war on the Kaiser.’

Every day I strike off the calendar brings more bad news. Austria declares war on Russia, Serbia declares war on Germany, Germany and Austria threaten to attack Italy if it tries to remain neutral. Russia declares war on Germany. Events come thick and fast and seem to make no sense at all.

When I ask Aunt Nell if she understands what’s going on, she shakes her head and clucks her tongue. ‘It’s terribly sad, John Joe. Queen Victoria’s sons and daughters married into all the great royal courts of Europe. The English King and the German Kaiser are first cousins and the Russian Czarina is Victoria’s
granddaughter
. Just a few years ago they were the best of friends, they went on holidays together. Look at them now. Thousands of men are going to die for the sake of what is, after all, a family squabble.’

A family squabble. We know about those, in this house.

Colourful recruiting posters appear on hoardings, urging men to sign up for the British army. ‘Free
Belgium
and Serbia from the Hun!’ ‘Join the Fight on Behalf of Small Nations!’

One Saturday night my father bumps into me on the stair. He stumbles back, the smell of drink off him as thick as muck. When he raises one hand I draw back before I can stop myself. I know it’s a mistake, that always makes him worse.

Instead of hitting me, he laughs. A sneering,
snarling
laugh. ‘They’re claiming this war will be over by Christmas,’ he says, ‘but for your sake I hope it lasts longer. Military service would do you a power of good.’

If I ever do fight I want to fight for Ireland. This is a small country too.

The following day, Aunt Nell and my father have a dreadful row at dinner. In the finish-up he grabs the table cloth and hurls our entire meal onto the floor. The bacon and cabbage, the roast potatoes, the fragrant brown gravy … and I haven’t had a chance to take a bite yet.

My aunt pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. Her face is as tightly closed as a shuttered window. ‘That’s done it, Bertie. Ye’ve seen the last of me in this house.’

‘You can’t!’ my father cries. ‘What about the boy?’

‘You should have thought of that sooner. I strongly suggest you ring the school and ask the Pearses to take him before the autumn term begins.’

What bliss to be back at St Enda’s! This time I have been allowed to bring my bicycle with me, since there is no fear I might run away. Having my own
transportation
makes me feel more independent.

Mrs Pearse lets me help her prepare for the return of the other students. They will be here in a couple of weeks so there’s a lot to be done. We sweep and dust and scrub, boil sheets, beat rugs, polish windows and mirrors, take an inventory of the pantry. I’ve never done any of those things before. At home I would scorn them. Here it’s an honour. Besides, Mr Pearse says a man should be able to turn his hand to anything.

‘When it’s time to boil the Christmas puddings
perhaps
you may help me again, John Joe,’ his mother
suggests
. ‘I shall need someone strong to tie up the puddings in the pudding cloth, and my boys are so busy these days.’

Someone strong. That’s me!