It was a warm day at the start of August. Gráinne tugged at the collar of her dress, trying to allow some cooler air in under her clothing. She was standing among a huge crowd of people that thronged the streets of Dublin, who were all there for the funeral of the old Fenian, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa. His body had been brought back from New York where he’d died at the grand old age of 83, and was to be buried today in Glasnevin Cemetery, on the northern edge of the city.
But first the coffin, carried in a hearse pulled by four black horses, was to be paraded through the streets of Dublin so that everyone might turn out to pay their respects. Gráinne had found a spot to stand about halfway along the advertised route. The crowd was three or four deep on both pavements, but a tall man standing on the kerbside spotted Gráinne behind him and ushered her forward. ‘There, little miss. Now you can see, so you can.’
She smiled and thanked him, though inwardly felt her blood pressure rise at being called ‘little miss’. She was 17. She was a woman, and a proud Irishwoman at that! A member of the Cumann na mBan, campaigning for Irish freedom from British oppression, just as the great man being buried today had done.
Nevertheless, she took the tall man’s place at the kerbside, grateful that she would indeed now have a good view when the hearse went past. She pushed a strand of hair beneath the straw hat she’d put on to keep the sun off. The man who’d given way to her was standing a little too close for comfort behind her, but she could not move forward without stepping off the kerb. She would have to put up with feeling the additional heat of his body too close to her. On her right was another man, his head bare and bowed, his cap held over his heart as though already paying his respects even though the funeral cortege was nowhere to be seen yet. On her left, a woman with three small children was trying to keep them under control, but the youngest was grizzling in the heat of the day. ‘Ssh now, Jimmy. ’Tis a big day, one you’ll remember. Now stop your mizzling and keep a look out for the big black horses.’
‘It’s too hot for them, poor loves,’ Gráinne said to her, sympathetically.
The woman nodded. ‘’Tis that and all, but I had to come, and I’d no one to leave them with. My man’s away at the war, so he is.’
‘My brother is too,’ Gráinne replied. She didn’t like to think too hard about what Sean might be doing, over there at the Western Front. There were newspaper reports every day of the fierce battles taking place in trenches … and her dear Sean, an Irishman, was over there fighting the English war, like so many of his countrymen.
‘Look, so, isn’t that him coming now?’ The woman pointed along the road. All heads in the crowd had turned that way, and yes, Gráinne could see that she was right. The procession was on its way.
The hearse, pulled by four magnificent black horses with plumes on their heads, was in the lead. Behind it, a couple of motorcars carried some men in the uniform of the Irish Volunteers. And then regiments of Volunteers, some of them bearing rifles, marched two by two along the street. Were those rifles the very ones Gráinne herself had helped to land the previous year, at Howth? Very likely, she thought.
The crowd was still and silent as the procession passed. Men removed their hats and women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. The only sounds were the occasional snorts of the horses, the motorcars and marching feet.
At the back of the procession, members of the crowd shuffled solemnly along behind. It seemed almost everyone wanted to go to the cemetery, to hear the speeches and see the coffin of the great man finally laid to rest. Gráinne made a snap decision. She too would follow the cortege. There’d been rumours that Pádraig Pearse himself would speak. He was the founder of St Enda’s school at which her father taught – a school dedicated to Irish culture, Irish ways and the Irish language. After centuries in which the British had tried to suppress Irish culture, it was now making a comeback, thanks to Republicans like Pearse. Her father was the mathematics teacher at St Enda’s, and had spoken highly of Pearse on many occasions. ‘A future leader of our country, I’d say,’ he’d told her, nodding with pride, ‘when we’re finally free to govern ourselves.’
Freedom. That was what it was all about. English landowners had taken everything, worked Irish peasants to death during the Great Famine, made Irish Catholics second-class citizens in their own country. It was time it all changed.
Gráinne stepped off the kerb and joined the funeral followers, walking side by side with men in the uniform of the Volunteers, women with Cumann na mBan armbands, and members of the general public. Everyone had their heads held high and proud. O’Donovan Rossa had led a good, long life. This was not a sad occasion but one in which to remember him and all he had done to promote Irish independence.
Slowly the procession made its way northward, out of the city centre to Glasnevin Cemetery. A few peeled away as they got closer. It was going to be too crowded to see or hear much, but Gráinne wanted to stay, regardless. As they made their way along the paths among the graves, she did her best to jostle through the crowd, squeezing through gaps, dodging around groups of people who were trying to stay together, moving closer to the front.
‘Gráinne MacDowd? Is that yourself?’ A familiar voice called her, and she stopped, staring about her to see where the voice was coming from.
She spotted him, standing at the edge of the crowd. ‘Emmett O’Sheridan! It’s a long time since I saw you, all right!’
‘Come over here,’ he beckoned, and nodded over his shoulder. She could see what he was suggesting. Rather than follow the huge crowd there was another way, cutting between some tall memorials. It might be possible to get nearer the grave, where Rossa’s coffin was now being reverently unloaded and draped with the green flag of the Irish Republicans.
She hurried over to him, and he caught hold of her hand and pulled her across the grass, between a couple of sarcophagi and around a tall stone cross, until they emerged behind the grave. There were still too many people in front of her for Gráinne to see much but at least here she’d have a chance of hearing the speeches.
The priest was talking, saying prayers for the departed, and Gráinne and Emmett fell silent along with everyone else. She was only half listening. It was Pearse she wanted to hear, not the priest. Beside her, Emmett stood tall and broad-shouldered. He’d been her brother’s schoolfriend. She hadn’t seen him for a few years, certainly not since Sean had left to join the British army the previous year. She’d always liked Emmett but knew that he saw her only as his friend’s annoying little sister, always trying to cut in on their boys’ games. ‘Go and play with your dolls, Grá,’ he’d told her more than once, laughing. He and Sean had been busy making fishing rods and were planning to see what they could catch in the Liffey. She’d been pushed away then, by both boys, though Sean had apologised later in the day.
‘Here’s Pearse now, getting ready to speak,’ Emmett whispered in her ear, and Gráinne stood on tiptoes trying to get a glimpse of him, but to no avail.
She could hear him, however, and she listened carefully as he gave a stirring speech, referring to Rossa as ‘this unrepentant Fenian’, and calling on all Volunteers present to stand together for the ‘achievement of the freedom of Ireland’.
The listening crowd was absolutely silent as Pádraig Pearse reached the conclusion of his speech, with words that Gráinne knew then that she would never forget, words she instinctively knew would echo down the ages inspiring all those that loved Ireland.
‘Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations. The Defenders of this Realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think they have foreseen everything, they think 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.’
Gráinne let out a little gasp at these closing words. She couldn’t help herself, but she was not alone. Emmett had too, and as she looked up at him, she saw that his eyes brimmed with tears.
‘It is a call to arms, Grá,’ he said quietly. ‘A call to arms, and not the call your brother answered.’
She nodded, too overcome by emotion from Pearse’s words to speak. She wished Sean had not joined the British army. But he’d been convinced it was the right thing to do, along with so many others. She stood quietly while O’Donovan Rossa’s coffin was lowered into the grave and a volley of three shots fired over it, and cast her mind back to events almost a year earlier, the year in which everything began to change.
War had broken out in Europe. The Home Rule bill, that had seemed so close to passing through Parliament in faraway London, had been shelved for the duration. Irish nationalists were understandably frustrated. They’d been so close to achieving self-governance via the political route, but the war had scuppered that for now. In September, John Redmond, who had founded the Irish Volunteers, of which Sean was a member, had urged his Volunteers to enlist in the British Army. Sean had listened, and had signed up.
He’d come to visit her in her lodgings in the centre of Dublin, where she was a shop assistant in the grand department store of Clerys on Sackville Street, right opposite the General Post Office. She lived in a staff dormitory on the upper floors, but there was also a staff refectory where she could buy him a cup of tea.
He’d come to say goodbye, and explain his actions. ‘If we help the British now in their hour of need, they’ll remember this and thank us when the war is done, and Ireland will be rewarded with Home Rule.’
Gráinne sighed. ‘They won’t. They’ll promise lots and deliver nothing, Sean,’ she replied. ‘Just as they have so many other times. Didn’t you ever listen when Dad talked to us about our history? They’ll use you up and spit you out, that’s if you even survive! Don’t do this, Sean. Fight for Ireland, not for England.’
‘But there’s no fight here, is there? There’s only talk, so. There’s nothing more. This is a route to Irish independence, and it’s a route that will work. We can see the way ahead. John Redmond says so, and what better politician do we have than him?’
‘There are others who say differently.’ Gráinne had joined the Cumann na mBan at the age of fifteen, and had already proved her worth with the other women. She listened carefully to all the chatter, especially that of the older women and the members of the Irish Volunteers who sometimes came to their meetings. ‘There’s talk the Volunteers will split. That those who don’t want to enlist will stay here, and when the time comes, they’ll fight for Ireland.’
‘But that’s my point, Gráinne!’ Sean ran his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘When the time comes – when will that be? Who’s going to pick the fight?’
‘I’ve heard that …’ Gráinne stopped, and bit her lip. Should she tell him? It had been an overheard conversation, between an important member of the Volunteers and a senior Cumann na mBan woman.
‘You’ve heard? Come on, Gráinne. I’m your brother, and a patriot, and you can tell me.’
She nodded. Of course she could tell him. Even though he’d just signed up to join the British army, he was an Irishman first and foremost. ‘I’ve heard people say that England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity. That while England is distracted with this war, it’s the perfect time.’
‘Perfect time for what?’
‘For a revolution.’ There. She’d said it. The word was out, hanging in the air between them. The word that promised so much, the word that might bring freedom and self-governance to their oppressed land.
But, to her dismay, Sean merely threw back his head and laughed. He had a loud, merry laugh that usually she could not but help join in with. But not today. Today she scowled at him, her arms folded across her chest.
‘Ah, my lovely, sweet sister. The Irish have tried it all before, rebel, rise up and break free. Sure, didn’t Wolfe Tone try in 1798 with his United Irishmen? And then the Young Irelanders in 1848? Every generation they try, and every generation they fail. But now we have the possibility of Home Rule – wasn’t it agreed by Parliament, and on the point of implementation when this damned war broke out? We’ll get it, just as soon as we’ve seen off the Kaiser’s armies. We’ll help defeat the Germans and then we’ll have our Home Rule, and Ireland will be as good as independent from Britain. You’ll see. This is the way to go. There’s no appetite for a fight here on home soil, unless it’s to defend against the Kaiser.’
‘I think you’re wrong.’ It was all she could say to him. He was convinced he was right, and she’d always agreed with him and trusted his judgement in the past. At four years her senior, he’d always been the person she’d looked up to. But not this time.
Sean shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Time will prove who’s right and who’s not.’ But he grinned as he said it, and winked, and she knew he was convinced that he was right and she was just being that irritating little sister again, the one who tried to cut in on his games with his friend Emmett, the one who didn’t really understand anything.
Sean had left within a day or two of that argument, sailing over to England to start his training. And the Volunteers had indeed split. Most had followed Redmond, leaving only a few thousand left in the Irish Volunteers, under their new leader Eóin MacNeill. Gráinne had accompanied Sean to the docks on the day he sailed, and hugged him farewell with tears in her eyes. ‘Stay safe,’ she’d urged him, ‘and come back to us soon. Ireland needs you. I need you.’
‘I’ll be grand, Gráinne. Don’t fret.’ He’d kissed her forehead and strode up the gangway onto the ferry, waving over his shoulder at her and at his country.
‘Will we go, now? Emmett said, bringing her with a jolt back to the present, back to the funeral. Around them people were beginning to move away, to return to their homes and their lives. ‘Will we get ourselves a cup of tea somewhere we can catch up?’
She smiled at him and nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
Emmett held out his arm and she took it, and they walked together back through the cemetery towards the city, until they found a suitable café. Emmett pulled out a chair for her to sit down, at a table by a window. ‘I’m perfectly capable of seating myself, Emmett,’ she said, and he grinned.
‘Of course. I forgot how independent you can be. Sorry, Grá.’ He sat back as she ordered tea for two from the waitress. ‘But you’ll let me treat you to this? Please?’
‘I suppose so.’ Inwardly she was pleased. Money was a little tight. Her job at Clerys was a good one, but she was saving every penny she could so that she would be able to move out of the staff dormitories and into her own private flat. Emmett worked as a solicitor’s clerk, and she guessed his wages would be substantially more than hers.
‘Have you seen or heard from Sean, since he signed up?’ Emmett asked, once their tea had arrived.
Gráinne stirred a sugar lump into her tea. ‘He came home on leave after his initial training, and stayed with Dad. That was around December last year. But we haven’t seen him since. He writes, though. It sounds as though he spends most of his time digging trenches.’
‘Has he been involved in any battles?’
‘The letters are censored. So we’re not sure, but I think he’s seen some fighting at Ypres.’ There’d been reports that gas attacks had been used in the battles at Ypres. Gráinne shuddered at the thought of Sean being caught up in that.
Emmett reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Let’s hope he’s able to stay out of the worst of it.’
She sniffed and nodded. ‘I wish to God he hadn’t gone. It’s their war – the British and the Germans and the Serbians and the Austrians and all those others. It’s nothing to do with Ireland, sure it’s not. We have our own battles to fight here. I told him this, when he came to tell me he’d signed up. But he was so certain this was the right thing to do.’
‘As Redmond said.’
‘Yes, fight for the British so that they reward us when it’s all over. Emmett, do you think that will happen?’
‘I’m sceptical, Grá. I’d like to think so – I’d like to think that the sacrifices our Irish boys are making over there will not be for nothing. But I’m not so sure.’ He stared down at his cup of tea then looked up, directly at her. ‘I have joined the Irish Volunteers. And the Brotherhood as well, Grá. When the moment comes, I’ll be fighting for Ireland.’
She gasped. The Irish Republican Brotherhood was the most militant and the most secretive of the various organisations that had sprung up in recent years. Although, she reminded herself, the IRB was hardly new. It had been around for fifty years or more, arising from the ashes of past failed rebellions and committed to making Ireland an independent republic. ‘As will I, Emmett. I’m in the Cumann na mBan.’
‘I know you are.’ He smiled. ‘You women do a wonderful job. I was at an event last week where the Countess Markiewicz herself gave a speech. She was very inspiring. She thinks that women could not only work as nurses and messengers in a future rebellion, but could also possibly bear arms themselves. I don’t know if that’s right …’
Gráinne glared at him until he backtracked a little.
‘I mean, I’m sure some could, and will. But we should not expect them all to.’
‘We should not force anyone to fight who doesn’t want to. Man or woman.’ Gráinne spoke firmly. She’d also heard the Countess speak on this topic, and it was because of Markiewicz’s words that she herself had joined the Cumann na mBan. The Countess, or Madame as she liked to be called, was one of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. She’d married a Polish Count, but for many years had lived apart from him and had thrown herself into the Republican cause. Gráinne knew that the Countess had joined the Irish Citizen Army, a socialist group fighting for workers’ rights, as it was the only one of the rebel organisations that treated women as equal to men. If there was ever to be an Irish republic, Gráinne fervently hoped it would be one that respected women, that treated women as equal citizens, allowing them to vote and take an active part in politics and government.
‘Of course not.’ Emmett smiled at her and once more took her hand. ‘But I think the fight will be coming sooner rather than later. Before the end of the war in Europe, that’s for certain.’
‘Have you heard anything definite?’
Emmett shook his head. ‘No. I’m not senior enough to know. But there’re talks, always talks. Often at the Countess’s house in Rathmines. I’d like so much to be a part of all that, to be there when the big decisions are made, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I certainly would,’ Gráinne replied. She could think of nothing she’d like more than to be at the heart of it all, whatever happened.