Friend or Foe

Praise for Brian Gallagher’s other books:

To the Halpin and Kelly familys – great cousins.

And in memory of Mary Webb, a great editor.

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.

E
mer 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.