The Young Rebels

by Morgan Llywelyn

  As we move out into the countryside a strong wind begins to blow off the Irish Sea. The sun was shining earlier but clouds are gathering now. Although the temperature is dropping I’m not cold. I swing along with my chin up and my shoulders back as if Madame herself were watching. Roger is already eating the food he brought. I don’t want to open my pack while we’re marching. It would not look very soldierly.

  Clontarf, Dollymount, Raheny, Kilbarrack, Sutton. We pass small cottages and large country houses, sheep in pens and horses in pasture, fields of corn and vegetable plots. The Hill of Howth rises ahead of us like the shoulder of a giant emerging from Dublin Bay.

  I’m getting a blister on my heel but I’m not going to limp. I don’t cry and I don’t limp.

  We’re almost in Howth when the order is given to halt. ‘About bloody time,’ Roger mutters. He’s out of breath at this stage. We’ve marched about eight miles, I guess, without a break. I’m breathing hard myself but I keep my mouth closed so it doesn’t show.

  The Fianna are summoned to the front of the column by an officer called Cathal Brugha, whom I recognise because he’s been to St Enda’s a couple of times. ‘We need nimble lads who can move quickly,’ he tells us, ‘so the next part of the operation is up to you. We’ll be following this road on into the village. The harbour will be on your left. When a yacht called the Asgard arrives you are to go aboard as soon as she docks, and unload her cargo. Don’t waste a minute. Once the goods are ashore the Volunteers will take charge of them.’

  Roger and I exchange glances. He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Unload cargo?’

  ‘It’s no worse,’ I reply, ‘than being a draft horse for a trek cart.’

  The march resumes. Some of the Volunteers were singing earlier, but they’re tired now, and quiet by the time we enter the village. To our left a forest of masts rises from the water. Lobster pots are stacked on the stone quay fronting the harbour. The air smells sharp and salty. Gulls shriek overhead. One drops a great white splodge on the shoulder of the boy in front of me, but I don’t tell him. Instead I nudge Roger and we grin silently.

  Three large motor cars pass us at speed. They park along the quay. Several men in long coats get out and begin walking back and forth, gazing out toward Ireland’s Eye. Fishermen who are spreading their nets to dry watch them curiously.

  Since I’ve never been to Howth before I want to see everything. My head swivels around to look at the little boats bobbing like corks on the water, the cottages scattered across the hill, the sweet shop with a row of glass jars in the window …

  ‘No time for gawking, lads,’ Bulmer Hobson calls out. ‘Take possession of the pier now. Step lively!’

  We trot smartly onto the timber pier and form two lines. Behind us on the quay, the Volunteers wait impatiently. There’s a lot of foot-shifting and milling about. Obviously they aren’t as well-drilled as we are.

  Spectators are gathering on the hillside above us. What do they expect to see? There is a tingling in the air like the atmosphere before thunder. I don’t know just what’s going to happen but something is, something big, something exciting.

  We are barely in position when one of the men in long coats gives a shout. ‘It’s the harbinger of liberty!’ He points to a sleek little yacht beating its way toward Howth against the rising gale. It seems to be very low in the water. As the yacht draws nearer we can make out two women among the small crew on deck.

  Glancing around, I see Mr MacDonagh talking with the men in long coats. His face is flushed and his eyes are very bright.

  From the far side of the harbour a coast guard vessel flying the Union Jack sets out to meet the yacht. I hold my breath, I’m not sure why. They turn back when they see how many men are gathered at quayside. There are only four or five men on the coast guard boat and almost a thousand of us.

  Several taxicabs have arrived by now, and parked on the quay. They leave their motors running.

  After skilful manoeuvring to avoid the fishing boats, the yacht reaches the pier. It almost overshoots, but as the lines are thrown out a couple of the Volunteers make a valiant effort to catch them and pull the yacht back. In a couple of minutes the vessel is securely docked. The Fianna in the front row – including Roger and me – quickly go aboard.

  When I jump down onto the deck I can feel the yacht sway like a living thing. My stomach comes right up into my throat. But there’s no time to be queasy. The hatches have been removed and we can see the cargo waiting for us below.

  The penny drops.

  The Asgard is packed with rifles for the Irish Volunteers!

  A man in oilskins identifies himself as Erskine Childers, the captain of the yacht, and very politely thanks us for coming. He helps the two women onto the pier, then he and three other men disembark.

  Meanwhile some of the Fianna go below. They find the saloon-cabin and passageway almost blocked by stacks of guns, taking up every conceivable inch of space. More are piled onto the bunks and stowed in the lockers. ‘They’ve put their mattresses down on the guns and been sleeping on them!’ a boy shouts to those of us on deck.

  They begin handing the weapons out to us through the hatches. As the first rifles appear, some of the Volunteers break ranks and rush forward, shoving the Fianna on the pier aside in their eagerness to get to the guns. It’s awfully dangerous; one boy is almost knocked into the water between the pier and the boat.

  Erskine Childers shouts, ‘There’ll be no unloading until someone takes command of those men!’

  An extremely tall, bespectacled officer is the first to bring his company under control. He uses his voice like a whiplash. Shame-faced, the Volunteers fall back.

  ‘That man is a friend of my parents,’ Roger boasts. ‘He’s a maths teacher called de Valera.’

  With order restored, we begin handing the weapons up to the Fianna on the pier. The spectators on the hillside cheer! The operation goes with amazing smoothness, every boy doing his part. By passing them hand to hand along the column, nine hundred rifles and several boxes of ammunition are unloaded in half an hour.

  My arms and shoulders ache and my hands are filthy with grease. If I were not wearing my Fianna uniform I would wipe my hands on my clothes. Instead I wipe them on one of the lines securing the Asgard to the pier. I suppose a little grease won’t hurt a piece of wet rope.

  The Volunteers pack the rifles into the waiting taxicabs, which roar away toward the city as soon as they are loaded. A number of the Volunteers keep rifles for themselves.

  But the ammunition boxes are still sitting on the quay.

  Bulmer Hobson calls us to him. ‘It appears the Fianna are the only ones who have enough discipline to be entrusted with ammunition. Empty out the trek cart and put these boxes into it. They’re your responsibility now.’

  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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JULY 1914, SURREY HOUSE

  With 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.’