The Young Rebels (9 page)

O
n St Patrick’s Day there is a demonstration of nationalist feeling all across the country, with speeches and banners and parades. In Dublin a reviewing stand has been built on College Green, where Professor MacNeill will take the salute of the Dublin Brigade of Irish Volunteers.

Since eleven in the morning the battalions have been gathering at designated churches. They converge on Stephen’s Green, where they go through some manoeuvres while a number of curious people watch. To anyone who has seen photographs of a regular army the Volunteers don’t look very professional. In age they run from old men down to mere boys who
have never yet shaved, and some of their weapons are laughable. Those who did not get Howth rifles make do with antique guns or shot-guns or even pikestaffs.

But they have their hearts in their eyes.

The Fianna join the parade in full uniform and
feeling
very proud. The oldest boys march in front; I am in the second rank. By next year I shall be big enough to march in the first rank. But everything may be very
different
next year.

Ireland may be free.

Ireland may be free!

I hug those words to my chest.

At Trinity a crowd of college students has gathered to watch the parade. Most of them are Protestant and members of the Ascendancy, so their sympathies are British. A few of them jeer at us or make mocking
gestures
, but for the most part they just watch. Perhaps they are surprised by our numbers.

Eoin MacNeill on the reviewing stand wears rimless spectacles and looks very like a professor. Not like a warrior, though. I think the Provisional Committee is right to keep its plans from him. In brilliant spring
sunshine
he is wearing an overcoat all buttoned up and a thick muffler wrapped twice around. MacNeill is
obviously
a cautious man. There is no place for cautious men in a revolution. When we were studying the life of
Wolfe Tone Mr Pearse told us, ‘He hoped for the best and dared the worst.’

I shall hope for the best. I cannot imagine what ‘the worst’ might be, but we will know soon enough. It is only six weeks until Easter.

Once again the police are on duty to observe the movements of the Volunteers. And once again I see them taking down names. They don’t approach any of the Fianna, of course. They think we are harmless. Like Tom Clarke.

I feel like thumbing my nose at the police.

When the review is over we disband, and most of the Fianna from St Enda’s go back to the school. A few of the older boys decide to stay in Dublin for a while and return to Rathfarnham later by tram. I don’t think there is much to do in town. Because today is a holiday all the shops are closed.

But the feast day of Ireland’s patron saint is no
holiday
as far as the British are concerned. Dublin Castle is not closed. At the seat of government, today is just another Friday.

From Trinity to the Castle is only a short walk.

I’ve never visited my father at work. When I suddenly appear in my uniform he will see that I am almost a man, and not afraid of him any more.

I set out briskly for the Castle. When I reach the
fancy iron gates I slow my pace, then stop altogether. The guard on duty in the guard box gives me a curious look.

I almost,
almost
, ask for admittance. At the last moment my nerve fails me and I turn and go back the way I came. By the time I reach College Green I’m shaking. I’ve never been so angry with myself. I did not dare the worst.

Next time I shall.

On the day after St Patrick’s there is an article in the paper which makes me laugh out loud, though I
suppose
it’s not meant to be funny. Since the beginning of the Great War Britain has urged women to take up jobs outside the home so their menfolk will be free to fight. In Liverpool, women working at the dockyards have now quit their jobs because the men refuse to work with them.

I wonder if Marcella reads the newspapers?

The next weeks are spent in feverish activity. The Ardmháistir will not allow any of us to slacken our studies, but the Fianna drill every single afternoon, rain or sun. It’s easy to see why we are necessary. We will serve as scouts and messengers and join the women in carrying ammunition to the men. I hope to be assigned to the stretcher-bearers. If there are any casualties during the uprising the stretcher-bearers will be sent for
right away and get to see everything.

‘You just want to see the blood, John Joe,’ Roger accuses.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Blood makes me sick to my stomach.’

‘You’re full of blood yourself, eejit!’

When he turns pale, I laugh.

Actually I don’t think we’re going to see any blood. Willie says there are tens of thousands of Volunteers down the country now, not to mention the Citizen Army and the other nationalist organisations. Because of the Great War the number of British soldiers
garrisoned
in Ireland is at an all-time low. My father has always said that the British are very sensible, much more so than the Irish. When they see how strong we are and how determined we are, they will do the
sensible
thing and give in.

At the very least they will allow us to have Home Rule.

In church on Ash Wednesday the priest scribes the cross on my forehead, saying, ‘Remember man, thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.’

Afterward Roger teases me about my ashes. ‘I’ll have to teach you a good Protestant poem, John Joe. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, if God won’t have you the Devil must.”’

So I hit him. Then he hits me. Only once each, though.

Good Friday is a sombre occasion at the school. Most of the boys have gone home for the holiday, of course. With the Pearse family, I keep the vigil and follow the Stations of the Cross. I’m trying hard to
concentrate
on the meaning of the day, on Christ’s love for us and his great sacrifice, but my thoughts keep running ahead to Sunday. Not to Christ’s resurrection but to Ireland’s.

On Saturday morning, the St Enda’s Fianna are
summoned
to a meeting at the school. Not a single boy fails to attend, though some have had to travel quite a distance. A silvery sea of bicycles lies at the edge of the playing field.

‘I shall not be with you tomorrow,’ Con Colbert tells us, ‘because I have been chosen as bodyguard to the Commander-in-Chief.’

What an honour! Oh, if only the uprising could wait for two or three more years –
I
might be Padraic Pearse’s bodyguard!

‘The plan,’ Con Colbert continues, ‘is to seize a number of strategic locations throughout Dublin, including the General Post Office, which will become Headquarters because it’s centrally located and the telegraph’s on the top floor. As soon as we have control
of communications we can prevent the authorities from sending to England for more troops.

‘The nearby rural battalions, such as Thomas Ashe’s men in North County Dublin, will join us in Dublin. Meanwhile the Volunteer brigades down the country will capture their local garrisons.’

‘What about us, sir?’ I ask eagerly.

‘You boys have worked very hard to be ready, but by the order of the Commander-in-Chief only those of fifteen and over will be allowed in the contested areas on Sunday. The rest of you will be assigned to duties well away from any possible danger. Be assured that whatever you are asked to do will be very important.’

Fifteen and over. I’ve been growing as fast as I can and I’m as big as any fifteen-year-old boy. But my
birthday
will not be until October.

I’m too old to cry and too young to take part in the Easter Rising.

The most important thing that has ever happened in my entire life is going to happen without me.

I glance over at Roger, who is a month younger than I. One would expect him to be relieved. Poor pudgy Roger would not make a very fleet-footed messenger anyway. But he looks almost as disappointed as I am. ‘I should have expected this,’ he mutters, hanging his head. When the other boys choose up sides for games,
Roger is always the last one taken.

The older boys are given specific instructions for tomorrow. They will report to posts around the city and await further orders from the officers. The rest of us are to keep ourselves ‘in readiness’.

I know what that means. We’re to stay home and wait.

I’m not very good at waiting.

‘I guess I won’t see you tomorrow,’ Roger tells me. He looks so downcast I feel sorry for him.

‘Maybe you will. Maybe they’ll send for us after all,’ I say in an effort to cheer him up.

He only shakes his head.

Willie is at St Enda’s this afternoon, working in his studio. There is no sign of the Ardmháistir. I suppose he is tending to last-minute details in the city. I wander around the house, feeling rather lost. The classrooms and study hall are empty. I am the sole inhabitant of the dormitory. It’s funny how a place seems to echo when you know there are not many people around.

Mrs Pearse and Margaret would not mind if I sat in the parlour with them – they are doing some sewing – but I cannot sit still for very long, so there’s no point. Instead I wander around the grounds. They are so beautiful. Everything has been arranged to make St Enda’s a heaven for growing boys.

It’s hard to imagine that a revolution is about to begin beyond the safety of these walls.

And I won’t be there!

I have little appetite for tea when it is served. Willie eats nothing at all. After a short while he excuses
himself
and goes into the Ardmháistir’s office. I can just barely hear the rumble of his voice; he’s making
telephone
calls.

At last I take a book from the library and go up to bed. Maybe I can read myself to sleep.

The book is a collection of stories by Rudyard Kipling. They are exciting tales, full of wild animals and grand adventures. I’m almost able to forget about the Rising for a while. Just as my eyelids finally are growing heavy Willie enters the room. He has a strange
expression
on his face.

‘I’m afraid something has gone wrong, John Joe.’

I
sit up so quickly my book slides to the floor. Mr Pearse would not like that, he insists that we take very good care of books.

‘What’s wrong?’ I want to know.

Willie sits down wearily on the next bed. ‘Eoin
MacNeill
found out about our plans. He’s issued an order countermanding Pat’s orders.’

I don’t understand. ‘Can he do that? Mr Pearse is the Commander-in-Chief now, is he not?’

‘He is – but no one told Professor MacNeill. We were afraid he might interfere and now he has. The story was in the late edition of the papers.’

‘Do you mean the rising’s been called off?’ A tiny part
of me feels a sudden guilty pleasure. If the revolution is postponed until next Easter I’ll be fifteen …

Willie says, ‘We don’t dare call it off, John Joe. We’ve learned that Dublin Castle has issued orders for the arrest of a hundred leading nationalists by the end of the week. If the Rising does not go ahead almost
immediately
, Pat and Tom and James Connolly and the others will be in prison. God knows what the British will do to them when they learn what’s been planned, as they surely will. Our men might even be shot for treason. Pat surely would; he’s been appointed
President
of the Provisional Irish Republic.’

President of the Republic. Our Ardmháistir.

‘If we go ahead,’ says Willie, ‘we have the IRB behind us, and they are a force to be reckoned with. They won’t slink away with their tails between their legs, the way Irish rebels have done in the past. We’re in this fight to the finish now. Because MacNeill’s
countermand
specifically states that the Volunteers are to stand down on Sunday, we are going to begin the Rising on Monday. Everything else will be just as before. In fact, there may be a slight advantage. The British troops stationed in Dublin will be out of the city, attending the races at Fairyhouse. It’s an Easter Monday tradition with them.’

Easter Monday. We’ll have our Easter Rising after all.

After Willie leaves the dormitory I lie sleepless in the dark. Once or twice I get out of bed to look out the window. The stars are very bright and very far away. Midnight has passed. It is Easter.

In the morning the entire Pearse family attends Mass together. The church positively reeks of lilies. I don’t like the smell of lilies, they remind me too much of Mam’s funeral.

From my place at the far end of the pew I occasionally sneak glances at the Ardmháistir. His face is very calm. He is the sort of man who, once he’s made up his mind, ceases to worry. Whatever happens now he is committed.

And so am I.

The Easter Rising is not going to take place without me.

O
n Monday morning Willie and Mr Pearse get early Mass. Then they are joined at the Hermitage by Con Colbert, Ned Halloran, and another St Enda’s
student
called Des Ryan, who sometimes works as Mr Pearse’s secretary. All five wear Volunteer uniforms and have bicycles.

Off to set Ireland free, on a bicycle.

Mrs Pearse and Margaret stand on the front steps to bid the little party goodbye. This is a family moment, so I hang back and watch from the doorway. The
Ardmháistir
bends down to allow his mother to kiss his cheek. She tells him, ‘Now Pat, don’t do anything rash.’

‘No, Mother,’ he replies quite solemnly.

As he is about to mount his bicycle he sees me and beckons me down to him. I am bareheaded, and he tousles my hair. My father never tousled my hair. ‘Do not forget to pray for us,’ Padraic Pearse says.

‘I won’t forget, sir.’ I snap my best salute.

With a smile, he returns the salute. ‘We hope for the best and dare the worst, John Joe.’

Then he is gone.

I stand on the gravel waving until they pass from sight beyond the curve of the drive. When I turn around, Mrs Pearse is crying. She held back her tears while her sons were here, but now she gives in. She takes a handkerchief from her bosom to wipe her eyes.

Margaret is not crying – not quite – but her eyes look very red and her lower lip is quivering.

Until now this has all been a huge adventure. But if the women are frightened, if they are actually grieving even before anything happens … gooseflesh prickles up my arms.

‘Come through, John Joe,’ says Margaret, ‘and we shall have some breakfast.’

I go to the kitchen with the women and keep them company while Mrs Pearse prepares a meal large enough for five people. I don’t point out that two hungry mouths will be missing. She knows.

Over breakfast we three try to make conversation
but it falls flat. The women are so obviously upset that I don’t want to leave them alone, so I stay at table longer than usual. At last Mrs Pearse asks me to help her clear the table and wash the dishes.

I wonder what’s happening in Dublin?

Finally I am free to go up to the dormitory. The large, empty room is full of shadows. The neatly made beds are lined up like so many soldiers. For a moment I stop and listen to the echo of my footfalls on the bare floor. I find myself imagining the sound of marching feet in Dublin.

At St Enda’s it’s easy to imagine all the things that have been, and all those that will be.

It’s hard to know what to take with me. I have no weapons. In the Fianna we’ve had plenty of target practice but not with live ammunition, and the
weapons
we use are locked away afterwards. I suspect they’ve gone with the Volunteers now. If I’m right, there will be no shooting anyway. The important thing is to make a huge showing, to have lots and lots of us to impress the British.

Once I get into the city shall I stay there all day, or shall I return to the Hermitage? I suppose it depends on what’s happening. Perhaps I had best be prepared for a long stay.

Taking the blanket and pillow off my bed, I roll them
into a cylinder to strap to the back of my bicycle. Then I put on my overcoat. The day is bright but very cold, and might be colder by the time I return.

It does not take very long to cycle to Roger’s house. No one answers my knock at the front door. When I wander around to the back garden I find Roger there, playing with his dog. It’s a nice dog, a big shaggy brown fellow called Mumbles. Mumbles looks like an oversized floor mop and loves everyone. Although Roger is surprised to see me, the dog rushes up to me and nearly knocks me down with his greeting.

I wish I had a dog. It’s never been allowed.

‘Where’s the rest of your family, Roger?’

‘They went to call on my grandmother who lives in Monkstown. They’ll be back later. I suppose I should have gone with them but I hate visiting old people, all they ever talk about is the past.’

‘So what are you going to do today?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you hear about the cancellation of the Rising?’

He nods glumly. ‘My father read about it in the paper. It wasn’t called a rising, though. Just “military manoeuvres”.’

‘Suppose I told you that those manoeuvres will take place after all. Today.’

Roger is staring at me. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as eggs. Mr Pearse and Willie went into Dublin right after Mass. I’m on my way in myself and I thought you might like to come along.’

Roger’s face is suddenly flushed. ‘Are the Fianna called out after all, then?’

‘Not us, just the older boys. But there’s nothing to stop us from going in if we want to. You want to see it, don’t you?’

Roger gives a yelp of joy. ‘Wait right here, I’ll fetch some provisions!’

He runs into his house and soon returns with coat pockets bulging. This time I must remember to ask for a share before he eats everything himself.

Roger orders Mumbles to ‘Stay and guard the house’. Then we set off. We have not gone very far before Roger asks, ‘Does the Ardmháistir know you’re coming, John Joe?’

‘He does not.’

‘What will he say if we suddenly appear, when we’ve had orders to stay out of it?’

‘He’s going to be in the GPO setting up
Headquarters
. As long as we don’t go there, he won’t even see us.’

‘Where are we going to be, then?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that, Roger. Since it’s a bank holiday the shops on Sackville Street will be
closed, but the hotels should be open. We can
probably
see everything that happens from the Metropole or the Imperial.’

‘Won’t that be dangerous? What if the British decide to attack? Like with cannons or …’

‘Rubbish. They aren’t going to fire any cannons in Dublin. James Connolly says because the British are capitalists they will never attack property.’

‘How do you know what Mr Connolly says?’

‘Willie told me.’ I cannot resist boasting, ‘He tells me everything.’ It’s a lie, but only a little one. I’ll tell it in Confession and be forgiven. I’m glad I’m a Catholic. What can Roger do if he tells lies?

Actually Willie is not one of the leaders, not a member of the inner circle of IRB men. It is hard to imagine anyone as shy and gentle as Willie Pearse as a revolutionary. I suspect he’s a Volunteer only because he adores his older brother and wants to do whatever Padraic Pearse does.

We all feel like that.

As we pedal into the city, at first everything seems peaceful. Dubliners are enjoying their holiday. A
stylishly
dressed couple stroll together with linked arms; a boy not much younger than we are is rolling a hoop down the road; two little girls are playing with dolls on their front stoop.

When we turn into Harcourt Street I notice several people on the footpath, staring in the direction of St Stephen’s Green. Just outside Harcourt Street Station a large crowd has gathered. They are talking excitedly to one another with quite a bit of arm waving.

‘What’s happening?’ Roger calls to a stout man in a bowler hat.

Bowler Hat says, ‘You’d best go home, lads. There’s been some rifle fire.’

We immediately pull over to the kerb. ‘Where, when?’

‘It began this morning,’ he tells us. ‘At first we thought it was military practice, or maybe another march of the Volunteers letting off a few volleys out of high spirits, but …’

A woman in a big hat with a feather on it interrupts. ‘Rebels are attempting to seize the city!’

‘What?’ I try to look surprised.

‘It’s true,’ says an elderly gentleman with the erect bearing of a soldier. ‘A motley crew of insurgents
gathered
around eleven o’clock at Liberty Hall and marched to the General Post Office, which they have wantonly occupied. Others have attacked Dublin Castle and still another band is dug in at Stephen’s Green. I don’t know what this country’s coming to. We can’t have this sort of thing. We simply cannot allow it!’

Roger and I exchange glances.

I silently mouth ‘The Metropole’, and he nods.

We make those bicycles almost fly!

In the next block there are barricades. Motor cars have been driven into the middle of the street and abandoned to block traffic. We get around them easily enough on our bicycles, though.

Civilians crowd the footpaths in Westmoreland Street and everything looks normal, except for the
soldiers
. There are too many soldiers in the street, and even more policemen, milling about as if uncertain what to do. That means the element of surprise has been in our favour. Mr Pearse will be pleased.

When we reach the quays we see deserted tram cars with no one in them, not even the conductor.

At the foot of Sackville Street the O’Connell Bridge is guarded by some of the older Fianna boys, carrying rifles. One of the lads recognises us. ‘Mr Pearse is expecting me!’ I shout at him without slowing down. ‘We have an urgent message from St Enda’s!’

They let us pass.

From Kelly’s Corner northwards everything looks different. The pubs appear to be open and a lot of people are wandering up and down the street, but there are also barricades made of overturned carts and rubbish and bits of furniture from nearby tenements.
Barbed wire has been strung in some places. Armed Volunteers are much in evidence now; also men in
Citizen
Army uniforms. Several women hurry up the street carrying ammunition boxes.

I started to say this is no place for women, but I
realise
that’s not true. This is everyone’s fight. If Marcella were here she would carry ammunition boxes, and I would be proud of her for doing it. I don’t think about girls in the same way I once did. Knowing Madame has …

‘Look up!’ cries Roger, pointing.

The windows in the top stories of several buildings have been broken out. Hidden snipers sweep the
barrels
of their rifles up and down the street.

The silver-haired doorman at the Metropole is attired in a splendid uniform with gold braid on his chest, but he does not look the least bit military. He looks extremely anxious.

As we lean our bicycles against the wall he asks, ‘Are you lads guests here?’

‘Our father is,’ I say without hesitation. ‘He sent for us.’

‘And right too,’ says the doorman. ‘You lads should be off the streets.’ He holds open the heavy glass door and we hurry inside.

The lobby is painted in rich dark colours; it takes my
eyes a few moments to adjust from the brightness of the street outside. Then I see a clerk behind the desk looking at me.

Putting on my best smile, I walk over to him. ‘Mam sent me to fetch my father. She’s frightened and wants him to come home.’

‘Is your father stopping with us?’

‘He’s visiting one of your guests. On the third floor,’ I add. ‘Can you direct me to the stairs?’

‘Certainly, young man.’ The clerk leans forward across the desk. ‘Turn to your left and go straight along that passageway.’

Roger trots hastily after me. Once we’re out of sight of the clerk he gives a low whistle. ‘You’re very clever, you are.’

From the street comes a sound like a rifle shot.

Roger and I bolt up the stairs.

I lead the way to the very top floor, where we walk along the hallway until we come to an open doorway. Peering in, I see that the room is unoccupied. The bed is neatly made and the curtains are drawn. ‘Come on, Roger,’ I hiss as I dart inside.

We close the door behind us and stand breathing hard.

‘Now what?’ says Roger.

I don’t know. This is as far as my imagination has
brought us. ‘Open the curtains and see if you can see the street. I’m turned around, I don’t know which way this room faces.’

When Roger looks out the window he gives a little gasp. ‘There are four … no, five … policemen down there.’

‘Are they coming in?’

‘I don’t think so, they’re just talking to each other. Now they’re walking away … no they aren’t. Two of them are coming back. It looks like they’ve been posted outside the lobby.’

If they have, we had best stay here until they leave. I wish I had thought things through better.

Roger sits down on a chair beside a small table and begins unloading his pockets. ‘We might as well eat while we wait,’ he says philosophically.

I have never been in a hotel room before. It is clean and very nice, but the air smells stale. I don’t want to open a window for fear of drawing attention to
ourselves
. There is nothing here to entertain two boys who came to join a revolution. The afternoon drags by. The atmosphere in the room is growing stuffy. We hear the rattle of gunfire in the distance; then it seems to come closer. There is a lot of unidentified noise out in the street. I’m reluctant to try to leave the hotel, though. The policemen are still outside. They might ask
questions I cannot answer.

When someone knocks on the door, I jump. ‘Who is it?’

‘The chambermaid, sir. Do you want your bed turned down before we leave?’

Do hotel staff leave at night? I don’t know. I’ve never stayed in a hotel.

‘We can do it ourselves,’ I call out. When we hear her footsteps walking away, I turn the key in the door. ‘I guess we’re here for the night, Roger. It’s dusk outside now; we could never ride all the way home in the dark.’

‘Will they charge us for the room, John Joe?’

I had not thought about that. ‘Not if they don’t know we’re here.’

‘But the chambermaid knows.’

This is growing complicated. I want to leave but I’m not sure how to go about it. And besides, I’m getting sleepy.

‘Maybe the best thing is just to go to bed,’ I tell Roger. ‘We’re safe enough here, and warm. In the morning we’ll find a way to sneak out.’

He must be sleepy too, because he does not argue. We crawl into the one big bed and snuggle under the covers.

And that’s the last thing I remember.