Celtic Mist Ch. 01

'Twas not long before the Captain himself came through the door, accompanied by Mr. Bruckton. Declan and Brodie halted their exercise to come to attention and salute. Seeing them, the two men approached. Never having seen the Duke's chamberlain from such proximity before, Declan noted how strong Mr. Bruckton's stocky body looked, even though almost a head shorter than Blaylock and wearing his wig and finery.

"At ease," the Captain said.

Mr. Bruckton cocked a bushy black eyebrow as his assessing gaze moved over Declan, Brodie, and the sack of grain. "By all accounts from Captain Blaylock and Brodie, you are progressing admirably in your education, Declan. We feel the time has come for your first match."

Declan looked alertly from Mr. Bruckton to Brodie to Blaylock, then back to Mr. Bruckton. "Aye, sir. I'm ready."

"Splendid. In fact, his lordship has just entered into a gentleman's challenge with Lord R--- of Wexford. I am arranging terms with his chamberlain, Mr. Clayton."

From the corner of his eye, Declan saw the sudden change in Brodie's countenance, and glanced about to note the pointed looks the other three exchanged.

"'Tis Garrett?" Brodie said.

Blaylock nodded.

"His first fight...against Garrett?" Brodie seemed disbelieving.

"Pardon, sir. Who is Garrett?" Declan asked.

"Jack Garrett, better known as "Iron Gut Garrett," Lord R---'s champion."

"He was me last match --- he got the better of me." Brodie looked chagrined.

Mr. Bruckton nodded slowly. "'Twould seem that his lordship is eager for the redemptive balm of vengeance."

A sense of unease possessed Declan at the realization of the import of this match. "When is it to be?" he said.

"'Tis set for April 7th. We will journey to Gorey town in County Wexford."

"A little more than a month hence --- we will be ready, so we will," Brodie promised.

Over the next month, Declan's training redoubled, whilst Brodie acquainted him with the person of Iron Gut Garrett: a cocky Dublin coal porter by origin, discovered by Lord R--- as he challenged passers-by to fight for a shilling. In the ensuing three years of prizefighting, he was undefeated.

"His arms are long and powerful, but he canna strike as quick as ye. 'Tis by such that ye'll have the advantage of him, and how ye'll beat him...strike him fast and hard...three punches for each of his." Brodie mimed the action, jabbing the air. "The other advantage ye have, laddie, is that no one knows a whit about ye, how ye fight. Aye, he won't be prepared for the likes of ye." He grinned and clapped Declan on the back.

The morning of April 7^th finally arrived: sunny, crisp...and portentous.

The prizefight-bound cavalcade set off from Kilmaedan Castle with much pomp and circumstance. At the head were three guardsmen on horseback, the center man beating a rhythm on a drum, and the two on the sides each bearing a fluttering standard on a pole --- one being the flag of Kilmaedan town, the other being the Duke's coat of arms.

Next in the procession was the black and gilded coach in which rode the Duke of P--- and Mr. Bruckton, attended by the uniformed coachman and his assistant up top, and two footmen at the back. Riding alongside the coach was an escort of six mounted guardsmen.

Behind the coach, Brodie and Declan rode side by side upon their own horses, followed by six additional guardsmen who had been released from duty to lend their support to the expedition. The rear of the convoy was brought up by an open wagonette break in which rode the two gentlemen's valets along with a handful of other staff who also had been granted leave for the day: the gamekeeper, the head gardener, the stablemaster, the butler, and two other men whom Declan did not recognize. Captain Blaylock completed the company, riding at different positions in the group throughout the day.

The drummer stilled his sticks after the procession passed through Kilmaedan town, to Declan's relief. His restlessness of the preceding night continued unabated, and his agitation had only grown as his heartbeat matched the brisk rat-a-tat-tat of the drum.

During the three-hour journey upon the king's highway, Declan was silent, his stomach fluttering and twinging as he recited to himself again and again the tenets of his recent instruction: arms up, light on his feet, belly tight, uneven bobbing, punch "through" his opponent...

Intermittently, he took note of the countryside through which they travelled --- of farmers in the fields looking up from their toils to take in the passing parade. But for the luck of being discovered by the Captain and Mr. Bruckton a mere five months earlier, that would have been him laboring in the field --- contemplating with apprehension how to earn his keep after the planting season was over.

Instead, he was here in this company...the weight of everyone's hopes upon his young shoulders. Brodie was uncharacteristically quiet as well, which only augmented Declan's disquieted state.

Some two hours into the journey they stopped in a village to water the horses and take a brief respite at an inn. Declan was without appetite and was content to find refreshment in a draught of cold water from the well in the inn's courtyard. He stretched his legs with one foot then the other braced against the side of the well and his elbows on the top edge of the stone wall, eyeing a large black crow perched upon the crest of the inn's roof, motionless...watching him.

Presently Brodie joined him, leaning on the wall next to him. "Ye'll do fine, laddie. 'Tis just a first match to get yer feet wet. Dinna fret yerself overmuch."

Declan glanced at him. "Aye," he said tonelessly.

There was the sound of boots upon the cobblestones as Captain Blaylock emerged from the side door of the inn. Declan and Brodie straightened.

The Captain gave Declan an appraising look. "Are you set to fight?"

"Aye, sir."

"I heard you not, guardsman."

"AYE, SIR!" Declan said more forcefully.

Blaylock nodded and started to turn away. Pausing, he looked back at Declan. "By the way, Iron Gut Garrett sent you a message by way of Mr. Bruckton."

Declan regarded him with sudden curiosity. "A message, sir?"

"Yes. He said, 'No sheep-fucking wee country lad is going to knock him down.'"

Declan flushed with rage; the Captain turned on his heel and strode away. The crow on the inn's roof squawked, and with a flash of iridescent black feathers took to flight.

For the remainder of the journey, Declan seethed over the taunting message, his fury growing with each mile. Aye, so Garrett was from grand auld Dublin town --- so he was a renowned bruiser...he would show Iron Gut Garrett what this wee country lad could do, so he would! He'll see...he'll see! Declan ranted to himself.

And yet, the mockery of his youth and naivete struck a deeper chord in him. He felt in it the astute gibe about his manhood --- nay, he had never fucked a sheep...but he had never fucked a lass either. Here he was surrounded by these men who had appointed him their champion of manliness...and he was assuredly the only virgin in the company...why even the stable lad assistant to the coachman had probably bedded a wench. Declan felt himself a fraud, and his chagrin at the reminder smoldered into a full-fledged rancor towards his upcoming opponent.

The bitter blood was pounding in his chest and clenched fists as the rousing beat of the drum swept them into the match site on the outskirts of Gorey town. 'Twas just as Brodie had described it: upon a hurling green a ring had been erected --- scarce visible among the throngs of spectators. Declan had never seen so vast a gathering of people before...why it must be nigh a thousand souls! His stomach twisted. People of all rank and age...men, women, children...elegantly dressed gentry, prosperous looking merchants, even --- despite the admission fee --- humbler folk, farmers, apprentices, servants, and the like.

They dismounted, and the murmuring crowd parted to let the Kilmaedan procession approach the ring. All about him, Declan saw the speculative stares as the assembly endeavored to identify which among them was the foolhardy young challenger. "We'll gore him in Gorey!" came a shout, and the chant rose round them: "Gore him in Gorey! Gore him in Gorey!"

At last Declan could make out the ring. 'Twas a wooden platform some four feet off the ground and twenty-four feet square. Sturdy posts marked the four corners and supported a plank rail about the stage's perimeter. He nodded to himself: during his training, Brodie had had the estate's carpenter construct a small wooden platform in the courtyard so that Declan could accustom himself to the feel of fighting upon the boards.

They made their way to the roped off area next to the ring reserved for the Duke. The two footmen set down the ornate chair they had carried from the coach, and the two guardsmen planted their flag poles in the ground behind it. Lord R---'s party was already in possession of their ground on the opposite side of the ring with their own flags flying.

The Duke and Lord R---, identifiable as the other richly garbed ringside gentleman, approached each other on a neutral side of the platform and shook hands, whilst Mr. Bruckton likewise greeted a man who, by the looks of him, must be his counterpart chamberlain in Lord R---'s household. The four bewigged men conversed in a most cordial manner.

In the meantime, Declan scanned the ringside men for his opponent. In a moment Brodie said by his ear, "There he is." Across the elevated platform Declan beheld the upper body of the one man it must be: the hard-jawed, broad-shouldered young man with fierce red hair. A visceral throb of animosity possessed Declan.

"'Tis time, gentlemen," came the announcement.

The gentlemen returned to their respective sides of the ring. The Duke took his seat and Mr. Bruckton placed himself at his right hand. The remainder of the Kilmaedan party assembled round them.

The mayor of Gorey town had climbed into the ring and was waving his hands to silence the restless crowd. "Hear, hear!" he shouted. "We are set to commence the proceedings. In a matter of gentlemanly honor and sport, a challenge has been agreed upon between Lord R--- and the Duke of P--- to be settled by the noble art of pugilism. Representing Lord R--- is Mr. Jack 'Iron Gut' Garrett!"

The crowd roared as Garrett mounted the stage, followed by a second man. "Iron Gut! Iron Gut!" rose the cheers. "His second is Mr. Hugh Mortimer."

The mayor waved his hand again over the cheering. "Representing the Duke of P--- is Mr. Declan..." he consulted a slip of paper in his hand. "Mr. Declan of Kilmaedan! His second is Mr. James Brodie."

The small Kilmaedan contingent cheered and shouted "Declan! Declan!" as he and Brodie climbed into the ring. A few scattered whistles and hoots joined the chant.

Declan's gaze fixed upon his adversary. He was a few years older than himself --- about his height, but several stone heavier. Garrett looked him over perfunctorily, an insolent smile upon his countenance, before turning his attention to his second.

"Gentlemen, as this is an exercise of honor, the proceedings will be governed by Broughton's rules. Your word signifies your acknowledgment and observance of these terms."

The four men gave their assent. Declan had been well tutored in the rules by Brodie.

"Select your umpires."

Each side chose an umpire. Declan and Brodie selected Captain Blaylock, whilst Garrett named a man from his party's side of the ring. The two appointed umpires together agreed upon an independent third umpire selected from the audience.

"You may commence." The mayor climbed out of the ring.

With that, the two fighters removed their hats and stripped to their knee breeches. The crowd cheered and whistled as they bared their chests.

Declan and Garrett each bowed to the Duke and Lord R---. The Duke was sitting languidly with one leg crossed over the other, partaking of a pinch of snuff. He acknowledged Declan's bow with a brief arching of one pale eyebrow.

Declan now saw the truth of Brodie's assessment: Garrett's arms were disproportionately brawny for his size. Moreover, every muscle bulged in his chest. But he could take the bastard down, Declan endeavored to reassure himself. Aye. He was in as fine trim as Garrett.

Declan expanded his chest with a deep breath as he and Brodie stepped to mid-ring, the cool air on his bare skin only accentuating the sensation of hot blood coursing through his body. The two fighters placed their toes to the scratch --- the square yard chalked at center ring --- and raised their fists. Declan's heart was pounding as he locked gazes with Garrett's intense blue eyes.

Their seconds stepped back, and upon the count of three the contestants set to.

Shouts and cheers rose as they slowly began to circle each other, their fists waving hypnotically. The seconds were in the corners and the three umpires hovered round them. Declan was champing at the bit to punch that smug smile from Garrett's gob with one massive swing, but he adhered to the decided stratagem of letting Garrett strike first, holding out to unnerve him with suspense. Cries of "Strike him!" surrounded them.

Garrett's first blow was a revelation --- the mass of his fist into Declan's chest threw him back several feet with a shocked "Whooof" of exhalation. The spectators roared. Declan stumbled but quickly recovered himself, facing Garrett again.

They danced about --- Declan still biding his time as Garrett's fists came at him again. He deflected most of the blows with his arms but took several hits to his chest and belly. This time he was prepared and did not falter. Garrett's smirk seemed a little less assured at the continuance of Declan's restraint in concert with his evident defensive skill.

Declan's clenched fists were pulsing with the urge to attack...at last from the corner of his eye he saw Brodie's signal.

Immediately Declan launched a volley of jabs and cross blows, the first thudding into Garrett's forearms, the others landing solidly on his chest and neck. Shouts rose from the Kilmaedan company. Garrett staggered back for a moment, his face all astonishment. Then he lunged forward with a grim expression --- the smile vanished.

The punches flew back and forth now without moderation, the crowd screaming their approval. As he struggled to connect with his target, Declan saw how Garrett's trunk like limbs not only delivered a colossal blow when well landed, but served to better block Declan's fists. And true to his nickname, any hits that Declan succeeded in planting upon Iron Gut's belly scarce seemed to affect him.

Declan feinted to the right, and as Garrett shifted to match him, Declan threw a swift left into his flank. His right came down to join his left in the momentary opening. Too late he saw the swing of Garrett's meaty right paw...SMACK into his jaw.

Down Declan went.

The umpires stepped between them and began counting aloud as Declan shook his head clear. By the count of five he was back on his feet and looking for Garrett's red hair. The first round ended.

Brodie drew him into the corner and spoke close to his ear against the noise of the crowd. "Yer doing fine, laddie."

The guardsman designated as bottle man passed up a wooden canteen. Declan gulped the water as Brodie continued. "He canna guard as well against yer left stance. Keep the punches fast and give him yer left for the money shot. Thank God yer a kitter fist."

The thirty seconds were up, and the fighters once again came up to the scratch at center ring. Round two was on.

After that, 'twas but a fog of flying fists, pain and fury. Declan had no ken of time...had they been fighting ten minutes or two hours? Vaguely he heard the shouts from the crowd, from Brodie.

Every time a fighter was knocked down, the round ended. They had thirty seconds to stand up or be declared beaten. Round after furious round was fought. He knocked Garrett down three times, but for each time he did, Garrett put him to the boards two or three times. Every time, he or Garrett was back on his feet before the count of thirty. Several times the umpires intervened as they locked in a clinch or trapped the other against the rails.

Again and again Declan recited to himself, "Light on your feet, keep your arms up." He knew he was struggling --- his arms and legs were burning, blood and snot were pouring from his nose, and blood and spittle were foaming on his split lip with each ragged breath. Was Garrett also getting tired? Declan had bloodied his nose too, but it had slowed up. It seemed Garrett's punches were less frequent...weren't they...and weaker?

A tremendous blow to Declan's fatigued belly immediately disabused him of that impression. He dropped to his knees, then to all fours as he vomited...water, spittle, blood...Oh God! He was getting the drubbing of his life...another heave.

The crowd was chanting the count with the umpires, "Eight...nine...ten...eleven..."

He lurched to his feet and made it to the center square; the round ended.

Declan was still dazed as he and Garrett came up to the scratch for the next round. He was staying light on his feet, but his bobbing and dancing were now clumsy. Before him was the ever-shifting wall of Garrett's burly freckled forearms. Amidst numerous deflected blows, Declan managed to land a few decent punches. Iron Gut was breathing heavily, but he gave no quarter.

Before he realized it, Declan's back was against the side rail. He dodged too late --- Garrett's right fist smashed into his left eye. He crumpled, almost falling out of the ring.

When he came to, he saw the faces above him. The motion of their arms told him they were counting, but he heard them not, his ears were ringing so. Shite...what was the count?! He struggled to his knees, then to his feet in the spinning ring. Blood instantly flooded his left eye. Brodie's arm was round him as he staggered to the center square and got his toes to the scratch --- he was told later --- on the count of twenty-eight. The round ended.

Withdrawing to the corner, Brodie's mouth was moving, but Declan could hear nothing. Brodie was trying unsuccessfully to stanch the blood streaming from the cut Garrett's fist had opened in his brow. When the thirty seconds ended, Declan rose unsteadily to his feet. Through the red haze he beheld Brodie's anxious face, then at ringside saw the somber expressions upon the Duke's and Mr. Bruckton's faces, and the concerned visages of his comrades behind them.

Swaying as he turned back to the ring, Declan saw Captain Blaylock in a bloody aura, his eyes boring into Declan's. All of them counting on him...his family...his home! He could not fail them! Brodie was saying something and trying to hold him back, but he shook him off.

Declan's heart pounded in his ears as once more he faced Garrett at center ring. At the signal, Declan, without a single bob or weave or care for the burning in his muscles, launched into him fist first, possessed by an instinct that transcended anything Brodie had taught him. Right in the gob! Left in the eye! His fists were a blur as Garrett's head jerked from left to right and he feebly tried to block Declan's blows with his arms. Right, left, right --- the blood sprayed over Declan's fists --- then the magnificent left cross...Garrett's head twisted so far to the left that Declan's elbow drove past his ear. Iron Gut stumbled once, then fell to the planks.