In the first week of the new year Mr Pearse returns from one of his meetings in a state of excitement. He tells us, ‘By the end of the year the Irish Volunteers had almost ten thousand men signed up! There is to be a female auxiliary as well, called Cumann na mBan.’
‘What can women do?’ I ask; thinking of my poor frail mother lying in her bed, so helpless …
‘Without the support of the women the nationalist movement would be far weaker. They have their own quiet courage,’ Mr Pearse asserts, adding, in a faraway voice as if he’s thinking of someone special, ‘and more grit than many men.’
Yesterday Countess Markievicz paid a call on Mr Pearse. This morning he summons me to his office. ‘John Joe, the Fianna is growing rapidly. Boys who are too young to join the Volunteers are flocking to be members. How about you? It would give you something to take your mind off …’ He does not finish. I knew what he means, and am grateful for the suggestion.
‘I should like very much to join the Fianna, sir. But when I asked for permission before, I was told it would worry my mother.’
‘It will not worry her now,’ he says gently. ‘Shall we try again?’
CHAPTER FIVE
MARCH 1914
In February the Ardmháistir went to America on a fund-raising tour for the school. Without his stern presence we might have run riot, but we did not. We boys worked harder at our lessons than ever so Willie would send him good reports of us. We redoubled our efforts at sports, too, and with the Fianna.
The St Enda’s Company of Na Fianna Éireann is commanded by Con Colbert, who is a strict drillmaster. No larking about is allowed. We form up in lines as straight as if drawn by a ruler, and we obey orders instantly. We have only rifles carved of wood for weapons drill. But when the order comes to shoulder arms every imitation weapon sits on every shoulder at the same precise angle.
The Fianna uniform includes a double-breasted dark green tunic with lots of useful pockets. The hat is the same as that of the Boy Scouts in Britain, but the Fianna badge is a gold sunburst with a white pikestaff head on a green field. For dress parade there is a saffron-coloured kilt like those Fionn’s warriors wore. The first time I saw boys in kilts I started to laugh at them, but then I changed my mind. They looked … proud. Before I came to St Enda’s, my teachers told me the Irish were ignorant peasants with nothing to be proud of, but now I know that’s wrong.
We had Cúchulainn and Fionn MacCumhaill and Brian Boru. And Mr Pearse says we have the future, too.
My uniform has been ordered from a woman in Dublin who makes them, but it hasn’t arrived yet. With so many boys anxious to join there’s quite a backlog. Roger’s joined, too, and already has his uniform. In his new gear he doesn’t seem pudgy, but sturdy, like a real soldier. So I tell him, ‘You look a right pillock,’ and he gives me a shove and I give him a shove.
I’m grateful to Aunt Nell for giving me permission to become one of the Fianna. I’ve heard nothing from my father, however. I suppose he’s glad to be rid of me.
I don’t care. I have the Pearses. And the future.
On the parade ground – which is also our playing field – Commandant Colbert issues his commands in Irish. In the school’s prospectus Mr Pearse states that St Enda’s can turn a boy into a competent Irish speaker within a year. But I can understand Con Colbert already.
Countess Markievicz can shoot a rifle. She demonstrated it for us today and hit the bull’s eye three times in a row. I never saw a woman shoot a rifle before. She is a wonder. She is an officer in James Connolly’s Citizen Army, which is mostly composed of working-class people, and drills with them in Croydon Park. She also set up a soup kitchen in Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the trade union movement, for victims of the lockout. She spends part of every day working there, yet she still finds time to visit the various companies of the Fianna around Dublin. When the Countess comes to see us we step out smartly while she watches like a general reviewing his troops. A slight nod of approval from her makes us feel ten feet tall.
I think Madame – that’s what we call her, she has no use for titles – should wear golden armour and brandish a great sword. For her sake I would storm the gates of Heaven. Or of Hell, though I’d never let Mr Pearse hear me say that.
He wants so much to believe that we are pure and good, filled with the high ideals he cherishes. The truth is, we sometimes have bad thoughts and do bad things. We are just boys.
Although boys enjoy a good scrap among themselves, in the Fianna we imagine a common enemy and are training to fight him together. There is a great spirit among the Fianna: esprit de corps, Madame calls it.
One afternoon on the playing field I offer to help Roger improve at hurling. In return, he invites me to come to his house and play with his dog. I’m going to do it, too! My father can’t stop me playing with someone else’s dog.
When Mam died I thought I would never have fun again. But I am having fun. Although sometimes I feel guilty, it’s hard to feel guilty all the time.
In addition to drilling at the school we go on manoeuvres in the Dublin mountains with other Fianna companies. If the weather is not too bad, we bring a big trek cart to hold our supplies and tents and we camp out. Roger, who used to complain so bitterly about the cold, is one of the most eager campers.
Madame Markievicz personally leads the Fianna on marches through the streets of Dublin. We strut along the cobbles, past the blue and green gas lamps, with our heads up and our chests out and feeling as grown-up as anything. Madame points out historic sites such as the old Irish Parliament building – we no longer have a parliament of our own – and the place where Robert Emmet was hanged. We know all about Robert Emmet. We’ve been studying him in school, particularly his famous speech from the dock. Every time I read, ‘When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth …’ I get a lump in my throat.
The nationalist movement is gaining strength every day. Nationalists believe that Ireland should belong to her people and not to the British crown. The Ardmháistir and Willie Pearse and Thomas MacDonagh are all nationalists, and what they say makes sense to me.
Who is King George to tell us what to do? He’s not even English, he’s German, his family name is Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. I read that in the Freeman’s Journal the other day. Willie goes out early every morning on his bicycle and brings back the newspapers, which we are encouraged to read.
My father never offered to let me read the papers. He said I wouldn’t understand them. But I do. I understand when, on the twenty-fifth of April, the newspapers report that 35,000 rifles and 2 ½ million rounds of ammunition have been landed at Larne for the Ulster Volunteer Force.
Yet a recently passed law denies ordinary Irish men the right to bear arms. That’s in the papers too.
A number of people who have nothing to do with the school are paying calls on Mr Pearse. Sometimes the lights burn very late in his office, and from my dormitory window I can see large black motor-cars parked in the forecourt.
Between the playing field and the long drive that leads up to the house is a wide border of trees and shrubbery. There are a lot of laurels and rodo-somethings that keep their leaves all year. When we leave the playing field we often take a short-cut through the border. This afternoon I stopped to whittle my initials – very small! – on a tree trunk, but before I finished I heard the bell ringing from the house to call us to tea. I dropped my knife into my coat pocket and began to run.
When I took off my coat to hang it up, the pocket was empty.
So here I am on hands and knees, searching the border for the knife my father gave me. His father gave it to him, and if I lose it – well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
I hear voices. The Ardmháistir and Mr MacDonagh are walking down the drive deep in conversation. I don’t want Mr Pearse to know about me carving my initials, so I keep very still, trusting the leaves to hide me.
To my horror the two men stop only a few paces away. Can they hear the sudden pounding of my he
art as I crouch here in the shrubbery? I say a quick prayer, promising God that if they don’t find me I shall never eavesdrop again. Never ever.
‘Things look very grave, Tom,’ Mr Pearse is saying. ‘According to today’s papers, the UVF now claims to have over one hundred thousand men. They intend to set up what they call the ‘provisional government of Ulster’ if the Home Rule Bill passes in Parliament. It could mean another civil war.’
‘My colleagues in Trinity are more concerned about the possibility of war in Europe,’ Thomas MacDonagh replies. ‘The arms race is proceeding headlong with no concern for the ultimate result. Austria, Germany, France, even Russia … why, the whole place is a powder keg, Pat. Any spark might set it off. Just think how many Irish men are in the British army right now. For so many of our poor it’s the only way they can earn a living and support their families. If there is war on the Continent thousands more will be recruited, or conscripted, to protect British interests there.’
‘To fight for King George?’ Mr Pearse’s voice crackles with anger. ‘It’s this country our lads should be fighting for!’
‘Ireland? Ireland’s nothing more than a supplier of cannon fodder for Britain,’ Mr MacDonagh says glumly. Although usually cheerful, he has melancholy moods. I suppose that’s part of being a poet.
They begin walking again and pass out of my hearing. But those words echo in my ears. Cannon fodder for Britain.
I wait for a long time before going back to the house.
The Study Hall is a large, rectangular room in a wing off the main house. At the far end is a big pull-down map of the world. The British Empire, coloured a vivid pink, dominates. If we glance up from our desks it is the first thing we see.
To the right of the map is a doorway that leads to the Chapel. On one side of the room is a stage for our theatrical performances, on the other side are tall windows that look out onto the lawn. The March light coming into the hall is dull and grey, and I am squinting at my own handwriting, trying to make sense of the chicken tracks on my paper, when the Ardmháistir enters. His unexpected appearance comes as a surprise. We’re not supervised in study hall because we’re on our honour. We all stand up. Mr Pearse acknowledges our courtesy and gestures for us to sit down again. He goes to the map. Producing a small pot of paint and a brush, he begins to paint Ireland green.
It’s the most defiant act I’ve ever seen.
Or is it? I almost remember something that happened when I was very small, a terrifying morning when … no, it’s slid away. I don’t want to remember.
The boy sitting beside me today, Ned Halloran, is several years older than I and comes from the west of Ireland. While the rest of us gape at the Ardmháistir, Ned rises to his feet and puts his hand over his heart.
‘The Republic of Ireland,’ he says in a strong, clear voice.
A swift intake of breath, then we are all on our feet.
‘The Republic of Ireland!’
CHAPTER SIX
JULY 1914
I’m spending the summer at home, but it’s no holiday. My father either shouts and roars or is deadly quiet, it’s hard to know which is more dangerous. When there’s drink taken he slams his fist against the wall and breaks the furniture. Some nights he does not even come home. To make matters worse, he and Aunt Nell are fighting worse than ever. I’m afraid she’ll walk out and leave me alone with my father.
At night I kneel beside my bed and pray to Mam, asking her to help me. I know I should be praying to Jesus and Mary and the saints, but the only face I see behind my closed eyes is my mother’s.
In June the nationalists stage their annual pilgrimage to the grave of Wolfe Tone at Bodenstown, and the Fianna, led by Constance Markievicz, are invited to take part. I desperately want to go but I make the mistake of asking my father on a morning when he has a sore head.
‘I won’t have you consorting with nationalist rabble!’ he roars. Then winces at the pain behind his eyes.
Good. I hope it really hurts.
Later the newspapers carry the story. The Irish Volunteers, the Citizen Army, Cumann na mBan and the Fianna all turned out for the event, which was huge. A notorious republican called Tom Clarke gave a ringing address at the graveside.
And I was sitting at home.
Mr MacDonagh was right.
On the twenty-eighth of June, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria and his wife were shot dead as they rode in their carriage. The assassin is a Serbian. I know where Serbia is; it’s in the Balkans, one of the areas which is not pink on the map.
The killings have brought Austria and Serbia to the point of war. Britain has offered to mediate – which means try to make peace between the two – but the offer was rejected. The Kaiser of Germany condemned the British offer as ‘insolence’. It’s as if the great nations were just waiting for an excuse, like boys spoiling for a fight. The Russian Czar has mobilised his army. So have Germany and France.
Closer to home, the Irish Press reports the Ulster Volunteer Force marching through Belfast fully armed and carrying two Colt machine guns.
On the twenty-fifth of July a handwritten note addressed to me is delivered by a member of the Fianna. ‘On Sunday next, Na Fianna Éireann will stage a joint exercise with the Irish Volunteers. Manoeuvres shall consist of a long route march originating in and returning to Dublin. Following early Mass please present yourself in uniform at Father Matthew Park in Fairview. Bring a day’s rations.’
The Irish Volunteers have been holding route marches for weeks. If we’ve been invited to join them I’m determined not to miss it!
Instead of approaching my father I go to Aunt Nell. ‘How far is Fairview from here?’
‘Miles away on the north side, John Joe. It’s land recently reclaimed from the estuary of the Liffey. Why are you interested?’
‘The Fianna are holding an exercise there tomorrow after Mass. May I go? I can ride my bicycle.’
A mischievous light comes into her eyes. ‘Very well, but you must be home by teatime. Let your father assume you’ve been playing with your friends.’
Aunt Nell and I are conspirators against my father.
On Sunday morning I dress as usual. Then I fold my Fianna uniform very tightly and stuff it into my backpack, together with a cheese sandwich and an apple. Aunt Nell and I attend Mass together. My father never goes to church any more. When the service is over I set out for Fairview, pausing long enough to change clothes in the toilet of a hotel on the quays. Several people are sitting in the hotel lobby reading the Sunday papers. When I come out wearing my Fianna uniform, the desk clerk tells them, ‘That’s one of the Countess’s boys.’
I cannot resist swaggering a bit as I leave the hotel.
Father Matthew Park is little more than a waste-ground with a few straggling bushes. By the time I arrive the place is already crowded with men and boys. Bicycles belonging to the Volunteer Cycle and Signalling Corps are lying on the ground to one side, so I leave my bicycle with the rest and start looking for someone I know.
Mr MacDonagh and Ned Halloran are standing with Éamonn Ceannt, who has played music for us at the school. All three wear grey-green Volunteer uniforms with Sam Browne belts and peaked caps. Most of the men here are in civilian clothes, however. They have done the best they can by belting their coats tightly around their waists and wrapping canvas around their shins to look like leggings.
A familiar voice shouts my name. ‘John Joe!’ Roger is running toward me. ‘This is some hooley! What did you bring for rations?’
‘Cheese sandwiches and an apple. You?’
He pats the various pockets of his tunic. ‘Buttered scones, fruit cake, a bottle of minerals, and three packs of chocolate biscuits.’
‘You better hope that butter doesn’t melt in your pocket. Do you know where we’re going?’
Roger looks smug, the way he does when he knows something I don’t. ‘Out to Howth and back.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Miles and miles,’ he says casual
ly, which means he doesn’t really know. ‘I brought a change of socks anyway.’
I did not think to bring a change of socks, but I’m not going to tell Roger that.
Con Colbert strides briskly toward us. He’s wearing his Fianna uniform with a Volunteer badge pinned to the tunic. ‘Glad you two could come, that gives us a full complement from St Enda’s. I won’t be your commandant today, though. You’ll take your orders from Bulmer Hobson.’
‘How many men are here altogether, sir?’
He sweeps the crowd with his eyes. ‘Eight companies of the Dublin Brigade and almost a hundred Fianna. Nine hundred in total, I’d say.’
‘Nine hundred,’ Roger murmurs, sounding impressed. He points to the Fianna trek cart, which is parked off to one side. ‘Do we have enough refreshments for so many?’
‘Can you lads keep a secret?’ We both nod, of course. ‘Well, today that cart’s loaded with weapons of self-defence in case the police try to stop us.’
In case the police try to stop us? What sort of march is this?
As soon as Con Colbert leaves us to join his comrades in the Dublin Brigade, I suggest we look inside the cart. Roger pulls up a corner of the tarp while I peek beneath. The cart’s filled to the brim with stout oak batons!
Just then Bulmer Hobson gives the order to form up. The Fianna are to march in the middle of the column, surrounded by Volunteers. The big trek cart, pulled by a team of Fianna, will bring up the rear. Since Roger and I happen to be standing near the cart, we’re among the boys assigned to the team.
It’s not always smart to be curious. I can’t help it, though.
The column sets off at a spanking pace. With the heavily laden trek cart, we’re pushed to the pins of our collars to keep up. Fortunately the teams are rotated frequently.
People hang out of their windows to watch the march go by. Some of them laugh and applaud. I feel like laughing myself, I’ve never had so much fun in my life.
The Young Rebels Page 4