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Prologue ... The Easter Rising, Ireland, 1916

The man leaned his head and shoulder against the door frame for support as he looked around the darkened room, the lines on his forehead had deepened and despair was clear on his face. The low turnout to fight was unanticipated.  They had been ill-prepared to fortify the building. The desperate situation at the GPO needed to be reported.

The windows had been covered but in the dim light he saw a boy amongst the half dead men laying on the floor, others in the next room already were. The boy’s head was bowed with exhaustion but he was awake and uninjured.

“Son I need ye to pass a message.” The fatigued boy lifted his head and his eyes fluttered open. His struggle turned to elation seeing his hero. He jumped up, he was tall and thin. He’d be starving like the rest of the city but was eager to impress, “Yes sir Mr Connolly.” 

The man was revived by the boy’s transformation though concerned by his Midlands accent, “Are ye able for this?” The boy exclaimed, “I’m Sir. I’m a Fianna Boy!” The man suppressed a smile. He recognised him from the proclamation. His dedication to the cause was palpable. He passed the folded paper, “to the Green, good luck.” 

The boy hesitated. The man sighed; his face troubled. “Do ye know the way?” The boy nodded, “Who should I give it to?” The man smiled, “Don’t ye worry about that.” The boy pocketed the message, not like any he’d delivered before. He put on his cap and buttoned his threadbare jacket. The men were roused, understanding the heroic action the boy was taking which he himself was unaware. Some men nodded, patted his leg as he passed and he heard a whispered “god bless ye son.”

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