The Young Rebels Read online

  ‘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 Ardmháist
ir 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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MARCH 1916

  On 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 ch
urch 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.’