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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
It's time to choose: friendship, family or loyalty to the cause. When Emer Davey saves her neighbour Jack Madigan from drowning, it seems that they will be friends forever. But eight months later, they find themselves on opposite sides in a life-or-death struggle, as Dublin is torn apart by the Easter Rising. Emer's father is an officer in the Irish Volunteers who believes that armed rebellion is the only way to gain independence from Britain. His daughter has inherited his passion and is determined to help the rebels in any way she can. Jack's dad is a sergeant in the Dublin Metropolitan Police. They share a deep respect for the law and are sure that Home Rule can be achieved through peaceful politics and helping with the war effort. These two young friends find their loyalties challenged as the terrifying reality of war sets in – and the Rising hits closer to home than either could have imagined. 'Beautiful writing' Sunday Independent on Stormclouds
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Reviews
Praise for Brian Gallagher’s other books:
Across the Divide
‘The atmosphere of a troubled city awash with tension and poverty is excellently captured.’ Irish Examiner
‘A compelling historical novel.’ Inis Magazine
‘Highly recommended.’ Bookfest
Taking Sides
‘An involving, exciting read.’ Carousel Magazine
‘Gripping right from its first page … Dramatic action and storytelling skill.’ Evening Echo
‘Riveting.’ Sunday Independent
Secrets and Shadows
‘Heart-stopping action likely to hold readers aged nine to teens in its thrall.’ Evening Echo
‘Weav[es] historic fact and period detail into a fictional but nevertheless entirely credible story … Nail-biting.’ Books Ireland
Stormclouds
‘Just beautiful writing.’ Sunday Independent
‘Thoroughly researched historical fiction.’ Inis Magazine
‘This accurate depiction of violence … will surprise and educate many. A worthy accomplishment.’ Kirkus Reviews
Dedication
To the Halpin and Kelly familys – great cousins.
And in memory of Mary Webb, a great editor.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to Michael O’Brien for supporting the idea of a novel that would cover the Easter Rising from a different angle; to my editor, Nicola Reddy, for her skilful editing and advice; to publicist Ruth Heneghan for all her efforts on my behalf; to Emma Byrne for her excellent design work; and to everyone at The O’Brien Press, with whom, as ever, it’s a pleasure to work.
I’m grateful to Cliona Fitzsimons for her support, and to Connor Kelly, Emer Geisser and Ciara Fitzsimons, three young readers who shared with me their views of an early draft of the story.
My thanks also go to Hugh McCusker for his painstaking proof-reading, and to Amy Brogan for allowing me to examine the interior of her house on Ardmore Avenue. The subject matter of this book is still sensitive for some people, and any errors, artistic licence or opinions expressed are mine and mine alone.
And finally, the greatest thanks of all go to my family, Miriam, Orla and Peter, for all their support and encouragment.
Contents
Prologue
EASTER MONDAY, APRIL 24TH, 1916 CHURCH STREET, DUBLIN
Emer was thrilled to be on a mission. She made her way towards the General Post Office, her heart racing with excitement. She concentrated hard on walking casually, not wanting to arouse suspicion if she encountered the police or an army patrol. In truth, though, there was little normal about today, and already she had experienced the most dramatic events of her life. History was being made in Ireland, and she was part of it.
Her father was a part-time officer in the Irish Volunteers, but Dad would be horrified if he knew that she was playing a role in today’s uprising against the British. Although she was twelve years old now, her parents were protective; it was one of the drawbacks to being an only child. But Emer was willing to take whatever punishment came her way later on – she simply had to be involved in today’s events.
Despite the warm spring sunshine, she had felt goose bumps when she saw an Irish tricolour flag tied to a lance that was wedged into the roadway. She had heard people on a street corner saying that the rebels at the Four Courts had clashed with British cavalry, and that the Lancers had beaten a hasty retreat – a story that seemed to be confirmed by the captured lance serving as a makeshift flagpole.
Now as she walked down Church Street with a secret rebel report in her cardigan pocket, there was a tang in the air from the nearby Jameson’s distillery. She planned to avoid the British Army barracks at the Linen Hall and the police station at the Bridewell by cutting down Mary’s Lane. It seemed incredible to Emer that in the space of one day Dublin had gone from being a peaceful city to a place of turmoil, with explosions, gunfire, cavalry charges and the other trappings of war.
But while the rebels regarded themselves as soldiers fighting a justified war, and were dressed in uniforms, she was playing her role in civilian clothes. Would that make her a spy in the eyes of the British? The thought was frightening – spies were routinely executed. No! decided Emer. I can’t think like that or I’ll lose my nerve.
She turned into Mary’s Lane and headed towards Capel Street. She knew this part of the city well and had often visited the nearby market, where her father bought the supplies for his fruit and vegetable shops. Thinking of Dad, she hoped that he was all right. Emer had no doubt that he would fight bravely with his fellow rebels, yet part of her didn’t want him to be too heroic.
Before she could think about it any further, she stopped dead at the sudden appearance of a patrol of British soldiers. The troops turned a corner near the market and began crossing Mary’s Lane. There were seven or eight of them, and they carried rifles with bayonets attached. One soldier, who was wounded in the leg, was being helped by two of his comrades.
Emer realised that she shouldn’t have stopped on seeing them, and so she moved again now, making for the other side of the road.
‘Oi, where are you going?’ cried a voice.
Emer kept walking briskly, as though she hadn’t heard. She hoped that, with a wounded comrade to deal with, the soldiers might let her go.
‘You there! Halt!’
The order was shouted in a harsh English accent, and this time Emer had no choice but to stop, her heart thumping in her chest.
‘Get back here!’ cried the man, and Emer turned and retraced her steps towards the soldiers.
‘She’s only a kid, Corp,’ said one of them.
‘Kids can act as runners,’ answered the corporal, his eyes boring into Emer as she stopped in front of him.
The man had a boxer’s crooked nose and cold, hard eyes, and Emer felt her stomach tightening in fear. Stay cool, she told herself. Act as though you’re completely innocent.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m visiting my granny, Corporal,’ answered Emer politely.
‘There’s a bleedin’ war goin’ on, and you visit your granny?’
‘I wanted to make sure she’s OK. She lives on Mary Street, near the GPO, where all the trouble is,’ answered Emer, surprised at how readily the lie came.
The soldier was staring at her, and Emer wasn’t sure whether or not she had convinced him.
‘What’s your name?’
On instinct Emer gave a false name. ‘Gladys Clarke,’ she replied, combining the first name of her best friend and the surname of her teacher.
‘Gladys Clarke, eh?
‘Yes, Corporal.’
‘OK, Gladys, be on your way.’
Emer tried hard not to let her relief show. ‘Thank you.’
She could see that the leg of the wounded soldier behind the corporal was soaked in blood. He looked young and frightened and was obviously in pain, and as Emer prepared to leave, she felt sorry for him – even if he was the enemy.
‘But before you go,’ said the corporal, ‘turn out your pockets for me.’
Emer felt her blood run cold, but she tried not to panic. ‘Look, I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she said, trying to sound reasonable, ‘and I really want to check on my granny. Can I just go, please?’
‘When I say you can.’
‘We need to get Alf to a doctor, Corp,’ said one of the other soldiers, and Emer prayed that taking care of his comrade would be more important to the corporal than searching her.
‘Alf will be fine. But you won’t be,’ he added threateningly to Emer, ‘if you don’t empty your pockets.’
Emer desperately tried to think up some objection, but before she could, the soldier’s patience ran out.
‘Now!’ he snapped.
‘OK,’ she answered, taking coins and a handkerchief out of the pockets of her dress, then turning the pockets themselves inside out. ‘All right?’ she asked.
‘Now the cardigan.’
‘Look, I really–’
‘The cardigan!’
Emer’s eyes darted about. She was desperate for any avenue of escape, knowing that the rebel report would be found in her cardigan pocket. The corporal grabbed her collar and roughly pulled the garment off her.
Emer swallowed hard, aware of what was coming. The soldier quickly rifled through the pockets, then found the folded piece of paper.
‘Well, what have we here?’ He swiftly read the sheet, then lowered it. ‘I bloody sensed it!’ he said, drawing closer to Emer. ‘I bloody knew it!’
Even though she was terrified, Emer forced herself to stand her ground.
‘Little Fenian bitch!’ the man said, quickly striking out with his hand.
Emer reeled backwards, the smack taking her full in the face and knocking her off balance. She was shocked and her face stung badly, but she bit her lip, determined not to cry.
‘You’ll have some questions to answer back in the Linen Hall!’ said the corporal, grabbing Emer and pushing her ahead. ‘OK, lads, let’s get Alf to a sawbones.’
Emer moved in a daze as the patrol crossed Mary’s Lane and continued north towards Linen Hall Barracks. She could feel her limbs trembling, but she tried to think clearly. In about five minutes they would reach their destination. She shuddered to imagine her fate when they got to the barracks; somehow she had to get away before then. But how? The one advantage she had was that she knew intimately the warren of streets between the vegetable market and the barracks, and if she could just break away she might well shake off her pursuers. The soldiers were also slowed down and distracted by the wounded trooper.
Was there any other trick she could use? Yes, she decided, she could give the impression of being defeated so that they might pay less attention to her. ‘I’m sorry, Corporal,’ she said, feigning tears. ‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble.’
‘Should have thought of that before now!’ snapped the soldier.
‘What will happen to me?’ asked Emer, with a sob in her voice.
‘Same as all the other traitors who’ve stabbed our lads in the back!’ said the corporal. ‘Now shut it till we get to the barracks!’
Emer snivelled and walked on with her head down. She reckoned that she had fooled the corporal into thinking her a thoroughly broken opponent, but to take advantage of it she had to act soon. They came to the junction with Cuckoo Lane, and the wounded soldier cried out in pain as he lost his footing on the smooth curve of the cobblestones.
‘It’s OK, mate, we have you!’ said one of his comrades, tightening his grip on the grimacing soldier.
‘Hold on to the lads and take the weight off your leg,’ instructed the corporal.
For a moment all the attention was on the injured soldier, and Emer realised that she mightn’t get a chance like this again. She felt paralysed with fear, knowing that if she ran away she might end up with a bullet in the back. But being held prisoner and interrogated was terrifying too, and Emer willed herself to be brave.
The corporal was tightening a rough tourniquet around the wounded soldier’s leg. Emer took a deep breath and forced herself to act. She backed away slightly then suddenly turned and sprinted down Cuckoo Lane. She tried to keep her first steps really light, to gain as much ground as possible before the soldiers realised that she was fleeing. She heard a cry behind her, then the corporal shouted, ‘Plug her!’
A shot rang out and Emer accelerated, sheer terror fuelling her speed. Up ahead was the junction with Halston Street. If she could get round the corner she might be able to hide in the church, or escape into the nearby side streets. If she could get round the corner.
She zigzagged, trying to make herself a harder target. Another shot rang out, and the bullet ricocheted off the cobblestones at her feet. Her pounding heart felt like it would explode, but still the corner of Halston Street loomed ahead. Emer frantically sprinted towards it, approaching the junction just as a murderous volley of shots was unleashed by the soldiers.
Part One
Build-Up
Chapter One
JULY 1915
TOLKA VALLEY, DUBLIN
Three weeks into the summer holidays, Jack Madigan came face to face with death. It was a beautiful sunny day and all the Ellesmere gang had walked the two miles from Ellesmere Avenue to their swimming haunt on the River Tolka. There was Jack, Ben Walton and his sister Gladys, Joan Lawlor and Emer Davey.
There had been nothing to suggest that it would be anything other than another happy summer day. They had pretended to walk the plank when crossing the lock on the Royal Canal near Broom Bridge, placed a halfpenny on the track of the Great Western line and had it flattened by a passing train, and sung along when Jack led them in the lively music hall song ‘Any Old Iron’. Even Ben’s bitter complaint about the Football Association – which had decided there would be no international soccer next season because of the continuing war between Britain and Germany – hadn’t dampened their spirits.
While crossing Ballyboggan Road Emer had used the melting tar to smear her initials onto a kerbstone, and even though he disapproved slightly, Jack hadn’t objected, not wanting to spoil the mood. As the son of a policeman Jack had inherited his father’s deep respect for keeping the law. Emer, on the other hand, had a father who was a member of the anti-government Irish Volunteers. She also had a headstrong streak, which Jack’s mother said was indulged because she was an only child. Nevertheless Jack liked Emer and usually avoided conflict with her.
Leaving Ballyboggan Road behind, they had made their way to the swimming hole on the River Tolka. Joan Lawlor led the run to the water’s edge before jumping in with her usual cry of ‘Gang way!’ Despite the summer heat, the river was chilly, and after a few minutes various members of the gang began to swim to the grassy bank and climb out.
Jack had been the last to make for the bank and had drifted a little downstream from the others when he got into trouble. He had been swimming for about a year and had never had a problem before. Unlike Emer, who was a brilliant swimmer, Jack didn’t like immersing his face when he swam, but he had developed a version of the crawl that was reasonably effective.
Now, though, as he went to kick his legs he found his right foot trapped. The unexpected pull on his leg disoriented him, and in crying out in surprise, he swallowed a mouthful of river water. It had a reedy taste, and Jack immediately gagged. He kicked his right leg to free it, but the clump of weeds holding his foot didn’t give way. He felt a surge of fear. Instinctively twisting his head to see what was trapping him, he swallowed more water and felt the horrible sensation of his stomach filling and liquid going up his nose. Losing his bearings, he thrashed about in panic and found his head submerged. He opened his eyes and could see sunlight filtering down through the water. His chest felt like it would burst, and he flailed about with his arms, desperate to break the surface and to gasp oxygen into his lungs.
His foot was still trapped, but sheer terror gave him strength. He kicked again, harder this time, and his trapped foot finally came free. But he wasn’t out of trouble. Between his panic and the awful sensation of the water suffocating him, he was still disoriented and found it hard to surface.
Jack swallowed more water just as he broke through, and he gagged and felt himself going under again. He had already been tired from swimming when he decided to come ashore, and much of his remaining strength had been spent in the effort to free his foot and stay afloat. Desperately he tried to surface again, then suddenly there was a splashing alongside him, and he felt his head being pulled backwards.
Overwhelmed by the instinct to survive, he continued to struggle, even though his head had been pulled above the water.
‘It’s OK, Jack, I have you!’
Despite his confusion Jack was aware that it was Emer’s voice, and he thrust out his hand, desperate for her help. He made contact with her arm and grasped it firmly.
‘Don’t pull me under, Jack!’
He felt Emer wrenching her hand free, and from the corner of his eye he saw her swimming around behind him. Sickened from all the water he had swallowed and gasping for oxygen, Jack couldn’t think clearly. He flailed again, fearing that Emer had abandoned him to protect herself.
‘It’s OK, Jack!’ she cried from behind him. ‘I have you, just relax!’
He felt her hand grasping his jaw.
‘Don’t fight me, Jack, just relax!’
His head was spinning, but somehow he realised that he had to be brave. His every instinct was to clutch her for safety, yet that was the very thing that would put them both in peril. His strength was gone, his lungs ached and he was still spluttering, but Jack forced himself to do as his friend ordered and ceased flailing about.
‘OK, Jack, I have you now!’ said Emer. ‘It’s all right, that’s good, that’s good!’
Emer had a firm grip on his chin, and Jack felt himself being towed backwards as she swam towards the bank. Before he knew what was happening, his friends hauled first him and then Emer from the water onto the grassy slope.
‘Roll him onto his stomach!’ cried Emer, and before Jack could react he had been rolled over and Emer was pressing hard on his back. The pressure on his lungs was painful, but he suddenly expelled the water that he had swallowed. It was a horrible feeling, yet he felt the better for it. Emer sat back wearily on the grass and, still panting, Jack sat up shakily.
‘Thanks, Emer,’ he gasped. ‘Thanks.’
‘My God, Jack, that was touch and go.’
Jack was aware that he could have pulled her under and, still gasping, he looked at her apologetically. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to get out. ‘I’m … I’m really sorry for–’
‘It’s fine. Really, I wasn’t complaining. I’m just glad you’re alive.’
‘Not as much as me,’ answered Jack.
‘I thought you were a goner!’ said Joan, her eyes wide with the drama of it all.
‘Thanks, Joan,’ said Jack.
‘No, like, I’m really glad you’re not. Imagine having to tell your da!’
‘If we were Arabs,’ said Gladys seriously, ‘Jack would be Emer’s slave now.’
‘What?’ asked Ben, looking quizzically at his sister.
‘I read in a book that if an Arab saves your life, then you owe him that life. Like you’re his slave for the rest of your days.’
Jack’s breathing was returning to normal now, and he looked at Gladys with a hint of amusement. ‘Just as well we’re not Arabs then.’
‘Pity though,’ said Emer with a smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a slave!’
Jack returned her smile, then spoke seriously. ‘I won’t forget this, Emer. I owe you a big favour. Anything you ever want – just ask. Is that a deal?’
Emer looked at him. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘That’s a deal.’
Chapter Two
Any excuse was a good excuse, Emer felt, when it came to interrupting piano practice. It wasn’t that she had anything against playing, as such, and if she could have done popular tunes like ‘Swanee River’ or ‘You Made Me Love You’, practising might almost have been enjoyable. Instead her mother sent her for lessons with Miss Gildea, who lived around the corner from Ellesmere Avenue in a tall house on the North Circular Road. Miss Gildea slapped her pupils on the knuckles with a wooden ruler, and insisted that the correct piano music for young ladies was by Chopin, Beethoven and Liszt.
Emer had been working her way through a Chopin prelude in the parlour when there was a knock on the front door. She was glad to hear Jack politely greeting her mother, then Mam ushering him into the hall. Her mother did the book-keeping for Dad’s greengrocer shops and would sometimes complain about being distracted if too many of Emer’s friends called to the door when she was going through the invoices. Mam liked Jack the best of all her friends, however, and had returned his greeting warmly.
