Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part II.

By Kathleen Handrick.

This is the second part of my fictional monologue spoken by Michael Rogers, who was a prisoner amongst the hundreds detained in Frongoch Internment Camp, Bala, North Wales after the 1916 Easter Rising. He was a contemporary of my grandfather, the two families living beside each other in North Mayo, a place steeped in Irish history, being the site of the French Landings in 1798.

Michael was described as one of the greatest Seanachai (storyteller) of his time by Eoin MacNeill. 

In the first part of the monologue, Michael talks to new arrivals in Frongoch and you can find that here. In this, the second part, he recites a story to them given to him as a child from an old neighbour, Mickey Forde, who witnessed the arrival of the French soldiers in 1798 at Kilcummin, in the parish.

Michael's Story of Lacken, North Mayo 1798

Look at ould Mickey Forde now. He must have been nearly eighty when I was but a child. He'd sit down by the back strand, waiting for the men to bring up the mackerel. Then we'd all go along to his cabin for a bit o’ kitchen and then, there'd be singing and dancing and storytelling... oh ’twas great sport we had.

Would you ever believe now that Mickey was a garsún in '98.  Just think on that a young boy...in ‘98!
Come.  Éist liom anois.

Listen now and I’ll tell ye the story just the way Mickey would be telling me when I was a youngster.

I was roaming above in the fields and I saw three strange ships anchored below in the bay. I ran like the hare to tell my father but he couldn't be found. There were neighbours and strangers running and roaring everywhere -crying out that the French had landed! We children were told to stay at home and not go wandering abroad.

Commemoration at Kilcummin
© Kathleen Handrick

But me, well now, I was an adventurous kind of lad, and a day or two later, I crept out to the crossroads. Suddenly, I heard a tremendous sound – like thunder -  yet the afternoon was a fine one. I scrambled down beneath a hedge and looked along the Foghill road. I saw, coming towards me over the rise, a great dark cloud. There were sparks of light flashing here and there and, as the vision came closer, I thought my ears would burst with the deafening sound.

'Twas the foreigners - marching to the beat of a fife and drum. They were led by a horseman wearing a long green coat and a tall fur hat, sitting upright and bowing his head to the one or two countrymen who were standing in the fields. He looked most fine.  As the soldiers passed me by, I saw it was the sun, striking the buttons on their jackets, that was causing the flashes of light to blind me.

Statue to commemorate the first French Soldier to die on Irish soil in 1798.
© Kathleen Handrick

I heard again the sound of another horse and as it came nearer, I saw it was a gig and in this gig, there was a man, like none I’d ever seen before.  He was dressed in the grandest style- a wide black hat upon his head and a splendid uniform with gold on his shoulders and jacket. There were even more soldiers marching behind him.

 Now ... I thought then, my mind had been affected by this happening, because there - to my astonishment– following all this were my own people – a great crowd of them talking and shouting excitedly.  They were carrying pikes and pitchforks –sticks and loys- and there- in the midst of them was my father!

St Cummin's Church
© Kathleen Handrick

I scurried back home to my mother and found her with the women kneeling in prayer at the holy well.  They stayed there, waiting for news ... on their knees praying - and all the time, they say, you could hear the uproar from Killala, above in Cashel.

Now my lads, Mickey would tell me that story often and I would be at his feet – just like you now - and I’d never tire of it.

Yes, his father did return - a beaten man but others ... alas, they never came back.

Poor Mickey, the Lord have mercy on him. He went to meet his maker in heaven, still longing for the day his father's dreams would come true.

Images & text of this post © Kathleen Handrick.
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Kathleen Handrick is retired and lives in Oldham with her husband and family.  She joined MIW in 2013 as a novice writer and enjoys participating in the writers’ events. Her Irish roots are in County Mayo.

Kathleen wrote ‘Michael Rogers’ for MIW's commemorative event, '1916: The Risen Word', which was performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester on March 10 2016. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.

Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part I.

By Kathleen Handrick

My fictional piece is a monologue spoken by Michael Rogers, who was a prisoner amongst the hundreds detained in Frongoch Internment Camp, Bala, North Wales after the 1916 Easter Rising. He was a contemporary of my grandfather, the two families living beside each other in North Mayo, a place steeped in Irish history, being the site of the French Landings in 1798.

Michael was described as one of the greatest Seanachai (storyteller) of his time by Eoin MacNeill.
Douglas Hyde published Michael’s work in his collections of traditional Irish stories. He was an employee and close friend of Patrick Pearse and his friendship with Eamon De Valera continued until Michael’s death in 1936 in Rathfarnham.

In this first part of the monologue, Michael talks to new arrivals in Frongoch.

MICHEAL MAC RUAIDHRI - MICHAEL ROGERS

Cén chaio a bhfuil sibh? Suígí sois anois. Ah, maith go leor!

Now, that's no problem. I can use the English language if I need to but ... it’s not a thing I’d be given to boasting about!

So, how’re ye doing anyway, lads, and welcome to Frongoch! Were ye in the gang brought in from Stafford yesterday? 

Captured Irish soldiers in Stafford Gaol after the failed 1916 Easter Uprising.
Michael Collins marked with an 'x.’

Well the air and the scenery here’s better than in those English gaols, I'd say.

Some of the lads, now, say it puts them in mind of Wicklow or Galway even but that’s a bit o’ wishful thinking. It’s certainly not home anyways - you’ll be finding that out soon enough.

I wonder now, is that what they call English wit, do you think- to detain hundreds of Irishmen in a dry distillery! Huh, you'll see quite a few of 'em taking in a few good breaths down there ... but I fear they be disappointed. It's only the smell of the rats, they'd be getting. 

The guards? Well now, I suppose, they could be worse. Some are getting on a bit now – the fights gone out of them... but...just watch your man over there, though. He'll be after you to volunteer for France, especially if he knows you only have the English.

In fact lads - it's best if you just lay low for now. Don't get yourself noticed for the wrong things. There's plenty here to be filling your time - Irish, history, politics – even a bit o’ Latin –though I’d be thinking now, you’ll be well able at that already ! Of course, then there's football, running and plenty o' marching. 

I tell you now, you'll be amongst the finest specimens around Dublin when you leave here –fit and educated – what could be better!

Ah, were you down below earlier? Well, most evenings now I lead the rosary. Just listen out for the bell and come along.

Take it from me lads; it’s a great comfort – all those voices raised in prayer...

“Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta ...”

and now, I'd say- it's a good sign to them - that we all stand together- we won't be broken. And some of them join in you know.

In fact, Sergeant Matthews even asked us to pray for his son - killed in France. That was no problem. He's a decent enough ould fella.

Me? Well, indeed, I am an old man. Old, I suppose, to be in here anyway amongst all you young fellas!

Now then, listen here and I'll tell ye. 

I was born and raised in Foghill, in the parish of Lacken, Mayo... 1860, by my reckoning. 

And – that’s right - you are correct – I am known as a story teller -Seanachai.

I didn’t learn that kind o’ thing at school though. Well, now, that place wasn’t for me at all.

No, I much preferred the company of the old folk around and ... I'd be thinking now, I learnt more that way. I would listen to their stories, their music – their way of talking and ... I would gather it all together and store it away – not only in my head but in my heart.

Oh, I heard all the ancient legends from them –of Crom Dubh and the blessed saint himself, and I've recited them often enough. I just love to be telling them and to be sure

I was winning many a medal for my efforts but I’m telling you now, my people taught me much more than those tales.

I tell ye, there were many stories of great sadness and hardship and you know, you don’t forget those kinds of things when you hear them, even though you're but a child.

They stay with you and form your thinking- they grow in you and you need to do something. You must!

But ... first, I had to earn my living. I became a gardener so – and, after a few jobs round about, I was offered work up in Dublin in the gardens in one of the big houses. That was ... more than twenty years ago.

I was in demand for my language - to give lessons you know and my love of stories and music introduced me to others who thought like me. Then I met Pádhraic - Patrick, may God be merciful to him.

Pádraig Pearse

He was no more than a boy then ... and he too loved the ancient stories and our native tongue.

He is –oh, I can't yet think of his cruel death, you know - he was, I mean – so passionate! He believed so much in educating our young– in Irish for Ireland - and I am so proud to be part of that school. I'm the only native speaker there you know! Fair play to them- Pádhraic and the others – they all learned it and they cherished it like me!

My job? Well, I’ve been the gardener and lodge keeper now since the school opened ... keeping a keen eye over the comings and goings. I teach a bit of horticulture- gardening - and I converse with the boys.

The lads from Connemara, now, ah they’re grand -they relish the lessons and the chat ... but the ones with only the English – hmm- they think I'm a hard task master. 

They need to learn though - like yourselves. It's the future – and - pay heed to my words, we will be free one day to speak and live our own ways. That's my prayer anyway and it will happen, I do believe.

Well, you know Pádhraic and me, we liked each other, right from the beginning and that’s why we got on so.

I suppose you could say, I've been like a father to him since his own father died. We have a certain – ‘trust’ of each other– did have a trust- there I go again – that was different to that of him and his brother, Willie.

Let me put it this way – there is more to me than a gardener and Pádhraic and the rest thought so too.

Ah yes, I was... I was there beside him at the Post Office. I wanted to stay but he sent me back to the school - to tidy things up and look after the women folk. It was a most distressing time and the... well ... they rounded me up too... and ... here I am!

Sin é.

That's enough for now of the ramblings of an old man.

Now my boys! Can you hear that fiddle? Are you singers? The lads have a few songs most nights. It passes the time before lights out. There's still time for you to go and join in.

Me? No I won't be bothering this evening. I'll just stay here and think about Pádhraic for a while. You know ... when he was in Kilmainham, he sent a farewell message to me and I pray it every night since.

Slán leat, a Mhicheál, Slán leat go deo.

Slán leat a Mhicheál, as Contae Mhaigh Eo!

Slán agus beannacht leat, a Phádhraic.

Part II of Michael's monologue, where he recites a story given to him as a child from an old neighbour who witnessed the arrival of the French soldiers in 1798 at Kilcummin, in the parish, wwas published on the MIW Blog on Sunday 5th June 2016. You can read it here. 

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Image credits:

Prisoners at Stafford and Patrick Pearse are in the Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Map of Mayo is in the Public Domain, via The British Library. 

Michael Rogers plaque & text of this post are © Kathleen Handrick.

Kathleen Handrick is retired and lives in Oldham with her husband and family.  She joined MIW in 2013 as a novice writer and enjoys participating in the writers’ events. Her Irish roots are in County Mayo.

Kathleen wrote ‘Michael Rogers’ for MIW's commemorative event, '1916: The Risen Word', which was performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester on March 10 2016. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.