sleepy little fishing village it was when we arrived.
Yet everything is different now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULY 1914, SURREY HOUSE
W ith 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 theonly 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.
Yet everything is different now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULY 1914, SURREY HOUSE
W ith 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 theonly 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.
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