The Young Rebels

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Roger pulls away with blazing eyes. ‘She didn’t lose him, they took him away from her and killed him!’ Turning to me, he cries, ‘Donald died for King George!’

  I have never seen such bitterness on any face.

  The Irish soldiers being slaughtered on the Western Front in the name of the king are honoured by people here as heroes. That is right and proper, because there is no doubt they were brave men. But Roger is not thinking about his brother’s heroism, only about the waste of his life. I understand how he feels. Donald was young and strong and now he is dead and cold, sacrificed for a cause that was not his.

  O’Donovan Rossa spent his life in the struggle for Ireland’s freedom.

  On the day before the funeral, his embalmed body lies in state in City Hall. The Pearses take me into the city with them to pay respects. Uniformed members of the Volunteers serve as a guard of honour around the coffin, which is standing on trestles. The lid is open. That means we shall get to see him. The only other dead person I’ve ever seen was Mam.

  It won’t be as bad this time.

  Following Margaret Pearse, I join the queue of people filing past the coffin. Many are carrying rosaries. Quite a few are weeping. Did they know him when he was alive? I wish I had. If it were not for Mr Pearse I would know nothing about O’Donovan Rossa’s gallant struggle, and that of the other Fenians, to break Ireland’s chains.

  At last I look down at the pale face on the satin pillow. His gaunt features are very noble. Willie Pearse could sculpt that face. Perhaps one day he will. I expect there will be magnificent statues by William Pearse in museums all over Ireland in years to come. I shall go to see them and tell the admiring crowd, ‘I knew him, you know. Willie Pearse was a friend of mine.’

  Ned Halloran is one of the members of the guard of honour standing at the four corners of the coffin. When no one is looking he gives me the tiniest wink. At least I think he does. He looks so stern and grown-up it’s hard to tell. He has crossed an invisible line and become a man. When will I cross that line? I wonder. Will I know it when it comes?

  August first is Lughnasa, the ancient Celtic festival of the sun. But we won’t see much of the sun today. By the time the funeral procession forms up outside City Hall, a bank of heavy cloud is building in the north. In turn, the Irish Volunteers, the Citizen Army, the Fianna, Cumann na mBan, the Irish Girl Guides, the National Foresters, and the Hibernian hurling teams all take their place in the long procession.

  With the exception of their officers, most of the Volunteers still do not have uniforms. James Connolly has got funding from somewhere so the Citizen Army is sporting a new dark green uniform. I think the Fianna are better drilled than either organisation, though I must admit they are improving. But we’re the only ones who manage to march in step.

  Priests and labour union officers and members of the literary community join the procession too. There is no representative from the government, however. The British government that rules Ireland.

  I don’t think O’Donovan Rossa would want them anyway.

  Accompanied by a sombre rattle of drums, he sets out on his final journey.

  A large crowd has turned out to line the streets on the way to Glasnevin Cemetery. The men remove their hats as the coffin passes by, and the women throw paper flowers since there are few real ones to be had at this time of year.

  When we reach Glasnevin the Dublin Metropolitan Police are waiting for us. They are all very tall men, wearing dark blue uniforms and metal helmets with spikes on top. They are supposed to look intimidating, and they do. As the procession starts through the gates the police do not try to stop it, but I see several of them with notebooks out, taking down names.

  A crowd of civilians has also been waiting for us outside the cemetery. As the Fianna approach the gates a woman exclaims, ‘Look at those dear little lads in their costumes!’

  My face flames. We are not ‘dear little lads’. We are warriors of Ireland! I throw my head back and march forward like the soldier I am.

  Joe Plunkett is in charge of the arrangements at Glasnevin today. He has everything well organised. Inside the cemetery gates two of the youngest Fianna are handing out beautifully printed programmes and pasteboard passes to the graveside, where a crowd is already waiting. Older members of the Fianna are setting up camp chairs for women and old people.

  O’Donovan Rossa will not be alone in his final sleep. On every side lie the graves of other Fenians. Some have rosary beads draped over the headstones. The oldest stones are settling back into the earth, the way I snuggle back into my quilt on a cold night.

  This is a very solemn place. Very peaceful. But the skies are overcast and there is a sort of tingling in the air. Maybe a storm is coming.

  Wearing the uniform of a Commandant of the Volunteers, Padraic Pearse steps forward. He is taller than most of the men around him. He takes a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his tunic, then removes his peaked cap and tucks it under his arm before beginning the graveside oration.

  He speaks slowly, in a deep, strong voice. From his first words, the large crowd is spellbound. No one coughs or even rustles a programme. They listen to every word as if they had never heard such words before. And perhaps they have not. The Ardmháistir is speaking of splendour and pride and strength as Irish qualities.

  ‘Our foes are strong, and wise, and wary,’ he says, ‘but they cannot undo the miracles of God, Who ripens in the hearts of young men the seeds sown by the young men of a former generation.’

  Young men. Like me.

  The final words of Padraic Pearse’s speech carve themselves on my heart.

  ‘I hold it a Christian thing, as O’Donovan Rossa held it, to hate evil, to hate untruth, to hate oppression, and hating them, to strive to overthrow them.

  ‘Life springs from death, and from the graves of patriot men spring live nations. The defenders of this realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us, and intimidated the other half.’

  Mr Pearse pauses; takes a deep breath. Raising his chin, he looks out across the sea of headstones. I would swear there is a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘They think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! They have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AUTUMN 1915

  After the Ardmháistir’s speech there is absolute silence. Then a party of Volunteers step forward and fire a volley over the grave. How the crack of gunfire echoes!

  The Fianna march in a body to the Botanic Gardens to be collected by their families – or in my case, a motor car which will take myself and the Pearse women out to Rathfarnham.

  As we walk along Roger is very quiet. He does not look around, but only down at his feet. When he sees his parents looking for him he slouches off to join them without even saying goodbye.

  Mrs Pearse and her daughters are waiting for me in a taxicab parked at the kerb outside the Gardens. The Pearses do not own a motorcar; I suppose all their money goes into the school. Willie and even the Ardmháistir usually travel by bicycle.

  When I sit into the taxicab Mrs Pearse says, ‘I have never heard Pat speak so well, have you?’

  Before I can reply, Mary Brigid clasps her hands together and cries, ‘Oh was he not splendid? Was he not magnificent?’

  Margaret Pearse frowns at her sister. ‘You’re exaggerating again, Mary Brigid,’ she says sternly. ‘Please make an effort to control yourself.’ She sounds annoyed. She always sounds annoyed when she speaks to Mary Brigid.

  They are nothing alike. Margaret Pearse looks like the spinster she is, with her hair scraped back into a knot and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her nose. Mary Brigid is smaller, softer. She has a pretty face and a fluttery manner, like a bird about to take wing. In fact she has taken wing. She is no longer living at the Hermitage
, but has rented a little house in the village of Rathfarnham. I don’t know if it was her idea or not. I suspect the family finally found her too difficult to live with and suggested she would be happier elsewhere.

  But I secretly agree with Mary Brigid about her brother’s speech. When you hear something as grand as that, it’s easy to be swept away.

  Maybe when I grow up I shall be an orator.

  Roger returns to school for the autumn term with the other students. He is still moody, not like his old self at all.

  At St Enda’s we are taught to pay attention to every living thing and try to understand how others feel. I’ve never done that before, but now I cannot help doing it. I suspect Roger is torn between loyalty to his brothers, which includes the cause they serve, and a growing feeling of loyalty to the land of his birth. I’m glad I don’t have that problem.

  In September twelve hundred Irish Volunteers march openly through Dublin carrying Howth rifles. That same month, the women of Cumann na mBan stage their first parade in their new uniforms. Meanwhile the companies of the Fianna are drilling like veterans all around the city. The Irish Girl Guides are drilling too, just like Cumann na mBan and the Citizen Army. It’s very exciting, so many ordinary men and women, boys and girls, all of us saying to the King of England, ‘We don’t want to fight in your war. We want our own country back.’

  But will he listen? I don’t think so. He is too busy quarrelling with his cousins. I read in the newspapers that Czar Nicholas has now taken personal command of the Russian army. I wonder if King George will do the same. Those two sovereigns should meet one another on the battlefield and have a battle of champions, just the two of them, the way it was done in Ireland at the time of the Fianna. Then no one else – like Roger’s brother – would have to die. And when it is over they can exchange gifts and be friends again, as Roger and I did.

  It seems very simple to me. It’s the adults who make things complicated.

  My friend Roger never misses a drill. Sometimes he seems to enjoy them. Other times one can see his heart isn’t in it. He still thinks he’s supposed to be British. If we really do have an uprising, I wonder how many other people in Ireland will feel the way he does?

  It takes a lot of courage to break free. Many Irish people don’t seem to care if they are dominated by a foreign power. My father’s like that. The British government employs him so he’s content to have them here. He simply passes the domination on to anyone who’s weaker than he is.

  Being at St Enda’s has given me a chance to look at things in a whole new way. After the uprising, when Ireland is free, maybe there will be schools like this all over the country, and our people can learn what an ancient and glorious heritage we have. Then they will be proud to be Irish instead of trying to be English.

  Maybe I’ll be a teacher in one of those schools.

  After O’Donovan Rossa’s funeral Mr Pearse is called away to more meetings than ever. There is more marching, too, by both the Volunteers and the Citizen Army. I wonder why they don’t join up and do everything together?

  I’ll ask Willie. He has become like the big brother I wish I had. I guess I feel about him the way he feels about the Ardmháistir.

  My question makes him laugh. ‘You have a good head on you, John Joe, but it’s the old Irish story. Rivalry instead of cooperation. The leaders of the Volunteers are intellectuals like my brother and Tom MacDonagh and Joe Plunkett. The Citizen Army was created by the leaders of the labour unions and is mainly working class. Each corps has its own command structure and its own way of doing things. Also, the two groups have differing visions for Ireland.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pat and his friends want an independent Irish Republic. James Connolly is a socialist. He and his followers are interested in creating a socialist state.’

  ‘Cannot Ireland be both?’

  Willie nods. ‘Possibly. But neither group can achieve what it wants unless Ireland is free. Britain will never willingly allow Ireland to become an independent republic because that would set a bad example. Other conquered colonial possessions might demand their freedom too.

  ‘The Empire is built on capitalism, so Britain will not allow Ireland to go socialist, either. Socialism means giving working men equal rights with industrialists and that’s against everything the Empire stands for.’

  ‘Do you think we can ever win our freedom, Willie?’

  ‘The Americans did,’ he points out.

  ‘Will they help us?’ To show him that I know quite a lot already, I ask, ‘Is the Irish Republican Brotherhood an American organisation?’

  Willie looks startled. ‘How do you know about the IRB?’

  ‘I once overheard you and the Ardmháistir talking about it. You were in his office and the door was open.’

  ‘You never should have heard that!’

  ‘I’ve never mentioned it to anyone else and I never will,’ I assure him. ‘But just what is the IRB, Willie?’

  ‘You know about the Fenian Brotherhood which was founded in New York in 1848, and to which O’Donovan Rossa belonged. Well, the Irish Republican Brotherhood was founded in Dublin ten years later. Together they form an underground movement whose sole purpose is, and always has been, to set Ireland free. The IRB is secretly funding the Volunteers, using money raised in America. We’re hoping for aid from the Germans, too, in the form of weapons.’

  It is my turn to be startled. ‘I thought we were at war with Germany!’

  ‘Ireland has never been at war with Germany, John Joe. The Germans have done us no harm. Britain, which has been our enemy and oppressor for centuries, is at war with Germany – and the enemy of our enemy is our friend.’

  Imagine that! Nations far across the sea reaching out their hands to help Ireland! On the world map we are so small, yet we have powerful friends.

  At least I hope we do. As I recall from my Irish history studies, we thought the French were our friends and would help us, but in 1798 they let Wolfe Tone down badly.

  Can we trust anyone but ourselves?

  There is a small nationalist political party here which calls itself Sinn Féin: Ourselves Alone. Sinn Féin was founded by a man called Arthur Griffith.

  The Irish Parliamentary Party is much larger. They seem content to work within the system we have. Their leader, John Redmond, has urged the Irish Volunteers to enlist in the British Army. He promises that Britain will reward them by giving us Home Rule when the war is over.

  Eoin MacNeill, who is President and Chief-of-Staff of the Volunteers, disagrees. He says Home Rule is a cheque the British will continually post-date. Professor MacNeill teaches early Irish history at University College Dublin and is a very intelligent man.

  Besides, even if we did get Home Rule we still would not be independent of Britain. I think independence is terribly important. It’s like growing up; being in charge of your own life.

  Before I came to St Enda’s I knew nothing about politics. Now I see that politics is like a giant, invisible spider web all around us. According to the Ardmháistir politics affects every part of our lives – how we live, what we earn, even what our old age will be like. When I was a child I never thought about such things.

  But I’m about to be a man.

  If I try to talk about politics with Roger, he gets that stubborn look he gets sometimes. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he says.

  I guess Roger’s not ready to be a man yet.

  There are lots of secrets now: secret meetings, secret plans, secret military manoeuvres late at night. St Enda’s is right at the heart of everything – at least the Ardmháistir is. Professor MacNeill may be Chief-of-Staff, but Mr Pearse has a lot of influence in the Volunteers. He is Director of Organisation and also part of a secret Provisional Committee within the Volunteer Corps.

  The Committee consists of members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Professor MacNeill does not belong.

  I’m not supposed to know this. But when I went to the Ardmháistir’s
office this afternoon, looking for Willie, I saw a packet of papers on Mr Pearse’s desk with a slip of paper on top. On the paper is written ‘Faoi rún’, which means ‘In confidence’ in English.

  No one was in the office. A person who was not meant to see those papers could have walked in and read them, and I was sure Mr Pearse would not like that. So I carefully put them away in the top drawer of his desk – after I took a quick look through them myself.

  I shall never tell a soul what those papers contain; not ever. But I’m thankful I can read Irish now.

  The plans for the uprising are much farther along than I thought. After New Year’s there will be a meeting to set the actual date. Companies of Volunteers down the country are eagerly awaiting more weapons. Once those arrive they will be ready to march. Auxiliary organisations such as Cumann na mBan are waiting to support the men in the field with first aid and a constant flow of supplies. The Fianna, too, will play a strategic part.

  Strategic means we boys are absolutely necessary to the success of the uprising!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WINTER 1915

  I wish I could tell someone what I know, but I can’t. A secret is not a secret if you tell. Besides, the Pearses trust me and I will never betray their trust.

  With Christmas approaching, I am growing anxious. It is too much to hope that my father has forgotten about me. This year surely he will demand I come home, and if he does, Mr Pearse will have to let me go.

  Roger is going to leave the school a few days early to spend more time with his family. ‘The holidays will be awful,’ he moans, ‘with James still at the front and Donald …’ He can’t finish the sentence.