Colbert designed their drills himself and issued his commands in ringing Irish. Under his tutelage the company became expert at marching in formation and reconnoitering enemy positions.
For want of a better image, Ned imagined the enemy as English.
Some “bold boys” who had once been troublemakers found a new outlet for their adolescent energy in the Fianna. Impudence and joie de vivre were the hallmarks of Madame’s army and were never discouraged, merely redirected.
But there were other “bold boys” outside the positive influence of the Fianna. Two strapping youths who lived at the edge of Rathfarnham had taken to amusing themselves by waylaying pupils from Saint Enda’s as they made their way to or from the village.
The bullies were a year or so younger than Ned. But they were bigger. He prudently avoided them—until the day they thrashed one of the smaller students and left him with torn clothes, a black eye, and a copious nosebleed. Ned happened to encounter the victim as he returned to the school, valiantly trying not to cry.
“What happened to you, Gerry?”
“Those big lads. They were waiting for me in the road and…”
A muscle twitched in Ned’s jaw. “Right. Go have Mrs. Pearse see to you, I’ll be back soon.”
The culprits were easy enough to find; they were strutting up and down the road only a few hundred yards from the front gate, hurling stones at trees. When they saw Ned coming toward them the taller one called out, “You looking for some of what we gave your friend?”
“You’d better go back,” sneered the other. “We wouldn’t want to be hurtin’ you now.”
Ned tossed his head to throw his curly dark hair out of his eyes. “Would you not? That’s decent of you—considering I intend to hurt you mightily!”
For a moment they just stared at him. In that moment Ned had plenty of time to be afraid, and he was. His belly plummeted toward his feet and his skin prickled all over.
I’ve survived the Titanic, he forced himself to remember.
Ned danced toward them with both fists raised and a grin like the rictus of a corpse and landed two blows on the bigger boy before the other could defend himself, then whirled to punch the second bully square in the mouth.
“Ye mis’rable git!” the boy cried, fighting back with flailing arms. But he was not used to an opponent as fit as Ned. The physical drill at Saint Enda’s had given the young man strength and reflexes that stood him in good stead now.
The first bully sprang forward and tried to knock Ned down with his shoulder, but Ned spun around and left him stumbling through space, cursing. The pair then tried to pin Ned between them while he skipped, ducked, dodged, and landed two blows for every one they inflicted on him. His breath was coming in harsh gasps and he knew he would be bruised in the morning, but he did not mind.
To his astonishment, he was having a wonderful time.
When he saw a crucial opening Ned drove his fist up from his hip to make a cracking connection with an unguarded chin. The bigger bully staggered backward and sat down hard. His eyes went perfectly blank.
After a moment’s hesitation, his companion took to his heels and ran.
“Come dance with me at the crossroads any time!” Ned called after him.
He was sorely tempted to give the fallen bully a kick for good measure. But he could almost hear Mr. Pearse saying, “That would make you no better than he is.” Regretfully, Ned shrugged and turned away.
As he walked back to Saint Enda’s, whistling rather breathlessly, he kept playing the scene over and over in his mind. It had been fun. The pure unalloyed joy of releasing all his youth and strength—and frustration too—in one unrestricted explosion made him feel ten feet tall.
Yes! Yes!
A steady stream of visitors called at Saint Enda’s. Bulmer Hobson came to discuss the school’s financial situation, Douglas Hyde to exchange educational theories. William Butler Yeats, Standish O’Grady, Edward Martyn, Pádraic Colum, and the historian Alice Stopford Green were frequent visitors, eagerly glimpsed by the students as they arrived to discuss literature or the theater or Irish history.7
When Constance Markievicz came to conduct target practice with the Fianna, Mrs. Pearse always set out the best tea service in the drawing room so the countess could be properly entertained afterward. But Madame would as readily drink out of a chipped cup. Ideas and action interested her; material objects did not.
On one memorable occasion Eamonn Ceannt arrived complete with traditional Irish piper’s costume—handmade by himself—and played his pipes, to the delight of the students, although some made a great show of putting their hands over their ears.
Joseph Plunkett and Thomas MacDonagh were always warmly welcomed to Pearse’s study. For a time Mary Brigid Pearse had a crush on Joe Plunkett that she made little effort to conceal. Sometimes her behavior bordered on the outlandish, but he treated her with the same exquisite courtesy he showed everyone.
Aside from a love of Gaelic culture, neither the happily married MacDonagh nor the flamboyant Joe Plunkett, whose father was a hereditary papal count, appeared to have much in common with Pearse. Yet the three men were good friends. Plunkett teased the sober headmaster by calling him “Poor Old Pearse,” and MacDonagh claimed, “Pat only founded this school so he could make all the speeches he wanted.”8 They deliberately made Pearse laugh, easing the lines of strain around his eyes.
“Being caught up in the Larkin riot has involved you in politics whether I approve or not,” Pearse told Ned one day after class, “so it’s time you had more understanding of the issues. Madame Markievicz is coming out tomorrow to discuss some recent developments in the labor movement; why don’t you join us in my study?”
Ned was delighted.
He learned that the workers’ revolt had broadened. Jim Larkin was the uncrowned king of the Dublin working man, and Larkinism had been condemned by the Irish Times as “intolerable tyranny.”9 But since his arrest new leaders were coming to the fore. There was much talk of James Connolly, a Scottish-born trade union organizer from Belfast who had been working with Larkin. “Frank Skeffington says he has the best mind in the labor movement,” Constance Markievicz told Pearse.
Francis Sheehy-Skeffington, socialist and pacifist, had been the first lay Registrar of Trinity College, Dublin. A dedicated champion of women’s rights, he had resigned after a dispute over allowing women academic status. He also had testified on behalf of Jim Larkin after Bloody Sunday and made an impassioned plea for his exoneration—a plea that fell on deaf ears.
Now Pádraic Pearse said of him, “Frank’s opinions are always worth listening to, but I must reserve judgment on Connolly. I recently heard him quoted as saying, ‘Ireland as distinct from her people is nothing to me.’”
Madame Markievicz smiled knowingly. “He wrote that in an editorial in the Irish Worker. But the rest of the quote is ‘and the man who is bubbling over with love and enthusiasm for “Ireland” and yet can pass unmoved through our streets and witness all the wrong and suffering, the shame and degradation, wrought upon the people of Ireland without burning to end it is, in my opinion, a fraud and a liar in his heart.’10 You have more in common with him than you think, Pat.”
Eamonn Ceannt observed Connolly from a civil servant’s perspective. In early October he reported that under Connolly’s influence the labor movement was extending its energies in a widening ripple that lapped at the very walls of Dublin Castle. The Castle, headquarters of the government, was a fortress of British bureaucracy. The common people rightly claimed it was indifferent to their situation.
“But the problems of the working man are symptomatic of larger issues,” Ceannt said, “and they can’t be ignored any longer. We’re hearing the rumblings even in that hole where I work. The strikes and the lockouts go on and on, and police brutality is getting even worse. As a result, in a few days James Connolly is going to lead four thousand workers in a march through the streets of Dublin. That will make the senior civil servants
sit up and take notice!”
In November, Big Jim Larkin was released from Mountjoy and promptly went to England to drum up support for Irish workers among British trade unionists.
That same month, Ned was present when Pearse asked Thomas MacDonagh, “Did you read Eoin MacNeill’s latest article?”
“The one calling for the formation of a volunteer corps to counterbalance the UVF?” MacDonagh’s eyes danced. “Indeed I did! And I heartily approve.”
“What’s the UVF?” asked Ned.
“The Ulster Volunteer Force, a Protestant militia founded last year by Sir Edward Carson’s Unionist Party,” Pearse explained. “They are the only Irish political party with any real influence in Parliament. Their support is helping keep Prime Minister Asquith and his Liberals in power. The avowed purpose of the UVF is to prevent Home Rule, which unionists interpret as a threat to the special privilege Protestants have enjoyed here for centuries.”
Ned started to say “I suppose no one willingly gives up being part of the ruling class,” but then he thought of Madame Markievicz and changed his mind.
“If the UVF succeed,” interjected MacDonagh, “they’ll make military force and the threat of armed violence the determining factors in relations between this country and Britain from now on. But you have to admire Carson in a way. Here’s a man born in Ireland, same as us—and a Trinity College man, to boot!—refusing to be pushed around by the ‘British government.’ More than that, he’s raised an army to give himself the power to stand up for what he believes in.”
Pearse nodded agreement. “A few of us met with Professor MacNeill yesterday at Wynn’s Hotel to discuss setting up a Volunteer corps of our own in the south.12 We’re arranging an inaugural meeting on the night of the twenty-fifth in the Small Concert Room at the Rotunda.13 Joe Plunkett has already agreed to come along. We can take you in his motorcar, Tom, there’s plenty of room.”
“I’ll certainly join, but I don’t know if I’ll be there on the night. Muriel hasn’t been feeling well and I don’t like leaving her and little Don alone. Why don’t you take young Ned here?”
“Please, sir!” Ned said so promptly that both men laughed.
ON the night of the twenty-fifth a crowd far in excess of anyone’s expectations descended upon the Rotunda. The Small Concert Room was inadequate to hold them and they overflowed into the skating rink. The majority were men, but many had wives and sweethearts with them.
Members of the Fianna were pressed into service as ushers.14 As Ned was helping people find the last available spaces, Eamonn Ceannt arrived flushed and out of breath, carrying a pipe-bag. “Sorry to be late. Been playing music.”
The first order of business was the election of officers. When the final ballot was taken Eoin MacNeill was confirmed as President and Chief of Staff of the Irish National Volunteer Corps, with Bulmer Hobson as Secretary. Pádraic Pearse was among those appointed to the Provisional Committee, the governing body of the new organization.
Once the elections were out of the way the speeches began. The new president was first to address the crowd. MacNeill was a highly respected historian and university lecturer. Three of his sons and a nephew had attended Saint Enda’s.15 MacNeill was a spare, erect man with ascetic features, whose northern accent betrayed his County Antrim birth. Throughout his life he had mixed with Protestants and Ulstermen, yet no one could doubt his devotion to Gaelic Ireland. Since co-founding the Gaelic League with Douglas Hyde in 1893, he had been a tireless campaigner for the native Irish language and culture.
During his speech MacNeill made a point of saying, “We do not contemplate any hostility toward the volunteer force in Ulster. The strength of that movement consists in men whose kinsfolk were amongst the most resolute in winning freedom for the United States of America. Many of them are descendants of those Ulster Protestants who protested in their thousands against the dismantling of the Dublin parliament in 1800.
“The more genuine and successful the local volunteer movement in Ulster becomes, the more completely does it establish the principle that Irishmen have the right to decide and govern their own national affairs. We have nothing to fear from the Ulster Volunteers nor they from us. We gladly acknowledge the evident truth that they have opened the way for the National Volunteer Corps.”16
Not everyone in the crowd was pleased by MacNeill’s moderate approach. For many, all that mattered was the last sentence. A national military force. An army of Ireland’s own for the first time in centuries.
When Pádraic Pearse rose to speak, he began by saying, “Our relationship with Britain is not a marriage of equals.” His eyes met Ned’s over the heads of the crowd. “All the power lies with Britain. We have only the right to throw our votes into the vast and complicated machinery of British politics, where they are disregarded.
“The passage of the Home Rule Bill would be the first step toward redressing the imbalance. Ireland should be allowed to govern her internal affairs. Canada has had her own prime minister since 1867; Australia since 1901. Yet the unionists refuse Home Rule here.
“The UVF is already heavily armed. They claim to be supporting the British constitution by protecting four Ulster counties ‘for the Empire.’ Their real purpose, however, is to prevent Home Rule.
“If the Home Rule Bill is finally passed next year as we hope, there could be civil war. James Connolly is already commanding what amounts to a workers’ army, organized by himself and Jim Larkin. They are holding drills at Croydon Park with the purpose of preventing further outrages such as Bloody Sunday. But that is not enough, my friends. What is needed, as Professor MacNeill has pointed out, is a counterbalance for the Ulster Volunteers.”
Pearse drew a slow, deep breath, then raised his voice until it rang like a clarion. “If their object is to protect four counties for the Empire, should not the other twenty-eight counties dedicate themselves to the protection of Ireland? The nation of Ireland?”
The word hung in the air. Nation.
After a long moment, Eoin MacNeill spoke up. “It must be understood from the outset that we are to initiate no military action. The role of the Irish Volunteers is to be strictly a defensive one. Protection, as you say, and not aggression.”
Pearse nodded. “I am sure I speak for all here when I say we wish no man harm.”
“Even the bloody-minded Orangemen?” shouted a man at the back of the room.
Pearse fixed a cold eye on the speaker. “Do not condemn members of the Orange Order for the fervor of their religious belief. To do so is to serve them as badly as they have served Catholics in the past.
“My own father was raised in the Unitarian faith, though he subsequently converted to Catholicism.17 Many northern Protestants were among the heroes of the Rising of 1798. And we must not forget Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet, Charles Stewart Parnell…hall men who gave this country the last drop of their blood and their devotion. All Protestants. Ireland would be a much poorer place without them.
“When Ireland becomes a republic there shall be no state religion. Every citizen shall be free to worship God according to his conscience. Perfect freedom of worship shall be guaranteed as a right and not granted as a privilege.”
Only later did Ned learn that Pearse was quoting verbatim from the constitution of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.
At the conclusion of the meeting a stirring manifesto was read aloud, and elicited sustained cheering.18 Men were clamoring to sign up. Before the night was over, there were four thousand Irish Volunteers.19
Ned felt an excitement he could hardly contain. “I want to join too!” he told Pearse.
“Not tonight, lad. It’s enough that you are in the Fianna. A good and decent man is paying for your education at Scoil Eanna, and I cannot break faith with Lord Inchiquin by letting you give your studies less than your full attention.”
“But I’ll continue to study—”
“Indeed, you will,” Pearse interrupted. “When the school year ends next summer you will have com
pleted your formal education with us. Then if you still wish to join the Volunteers you may.”
Next summer. Ned hugged that promise to himself.
In the first flush of enthusiasm the Irish Volunteers grew rapidly. Sir Roger Casement, the hero of the Congo, was prevailed upon by MacNeill to accept a position on the Provisional Committee as treasurer. Having a former member of the British consular service on the committee was considered a great coup.
Not everyone was pleased about the new organization, however. At his next visit to Saint Enda’s, Plunkett reported, “Both Seán O’Casey and Big Jim Larkin are vocal in their antagonism to the Volunteers. Larkin has no interest in anything that doesn’t actively espouse a shift from capitalism to socialism. As for O’Casey, he’s made a career out of writing bitter plays that reject any seed of hope. It’s typical Irish begrudgery.” Wracked by coughing, he broke off while Ned ran to bring him a glass of water.
Joe Plunkett gave Ned a wrench of pain whenever he saw him. Flamboyant, romantic, and highly strung, he burned with a flame too hot to last.
Although Pádraic Pearse was increasingly preoccupied with the Volunteers he continued to teach, exhorting his pupils, “Never be mediocre, always do your best.” “Do nothing you would not do before the whole world.” And most tellingly, “Faith without works is dead.”
In the winter of 1913 Willie Pearse took the students of Saint Enda’s to a performance of Cathleen ni Houlihan that left Ned emotionally shattered. When a tragic old woman in a long cloak was ultimately revealed as Ireland herself, the Ireland who had inspired countless bards and for whom untold thousands had died, he wanted to leap to his feet and shout, “Don’t despair! I’ll save you!”
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