Celtic Mist Ch. 07

Declan remained where he was as Mr. Murphy continued with a slow step-clop, step-clop to one side of the square. Here the man removed his hat and bowed his head. For several minutes Declan pondered Mr. Murphy's words, holding his own cap as he listened to the sound of the wind rustling the dried leaves. By and by, Mr. Murphy crouched awkwardly and placed something from his pocket upon the ground.

On their return to the tavern, they sat side by side at the bar, the afternoon light slanting through the windows behind them. 'Twas not yet open for business and they were the only people in the room. Mr. Murphy poured them cups of whiskey and relayed the rest of the tale.

"Several months after Patrick's death, my daughters found work steady-like, and the family at last secured some lodging, sharing a room with another family of six. Things continued tolerable till the winter of 1793." Mr. Murphy took a draught of whiskey. "I was still away and only learnt of the events after. Even as my son James was seeking work, the hospital where me daughters worked as laundry maids closed. There was not enough money for food and rent both, and me eldest girl was preparing to commit an abominable act to pay the rent."

Mr. Murphy took a slow puff on his pipe. "'Twas then that James filched a sovereign off a gentleman on the street. Aye, he stole, so he did --- he stole to save his sister from that fate." He exhaled small puffs of sweet-smelling smoke. "He was caught and sentenced to seven years transportation to Van Diemen's Land."

He nodded at Declan's shocked expression. "Aye, seven years bondage for the taking of one sovereign." Murphy smiled bitterly. "But my bondage was to end soon. On June 1, 1794, the British navy engaged with the French fleet...perhaps ye've heard tell of the "Glorious First of June" battle?" He snorted. "Glorious, be damned! I canna say which side won true, but I know for certain that me leg was blown to smithereens in a volley. After that they were most agreeable to terminating me service." He took another swig.

"I returned to Dublin minus me leg and without recompense for the sacrifice. One son had been hanged and one transported. Thank God for me old mate Dempsey from the docks. He had opened this tavern and took me on as a partner. It fell to me when he passed."

Declan cleared his throat. "When is your son's bondage over?"

"1800. But it could be 1900 for all it matters. Unless he strikes it rich, he can never pay the passage back. Mary and I have been putting by everything we can...maybe someday we can afford to go to him." Mr. Murphy pursed his lips. "Me boys are...would have been...twenty-four today." He uncorked the whiskey bottle and gestured with it in offering.

Declan pushed his cup towards him to accept the refill.

"How 'bout ye, Declan, do ye see your Da regular-like?"

Declan slowly rotated his mug round on the bar. "He's dead. He...he was murdered for defending the right to speak out against tyranny."

Their eyes met and Mr. Murphy's lips tightened grimly. Both fell silent.

Declan stared into his whiskey...he thought on Mr. Murphy's life...his son in Van Diemen's land...and considered what it would be like to know his father was alive somewhere but that he would never see him again. He thought on his own imprisonment for breaking a pane of glass. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky...he could have been sold in bondage...transported to the other side of the world...forced into years of military service!

*****

'Twas three and a half months after his arrival in Dublin --- the end of January 1798 --- that it happened.

Declan and his fellow lumpers were loading barrels of salted pork onto a ship. He was in the hold of the vessel when he heard the fracas outside on the dock --- shouts, whistles --- then a gunshot!

Leaping up the ladder to the deck, he beheld a melee of dockworkers and men in grimy uniforms --- perhaps a dozen in number --- the dockworkers scrambling to flee, the uniformed men brandishing cudgels and attempting to collar them. A handful of men had already been shackled. "The press gang!" a man hissed behind him, then sprinted down the gangplank.

A pair of recruiters jumped onto the plank as Declan ran down --- he knocked one into the foul water.

"There's a rum 'un!" someone cried. "Seize him! The big lad!" Hands grabbed at him --- he thrashed them away, stumbling towards the street as they dragged him back. A tremendous blow of a truncheon to his flank made him double over with a groan, then two men heaved him upright between them, restraining his arms.

"Damn, he's a strong, young taig. The commander will be bloody well pleased. Shackles."

Fury animated him. Even had he not his own urgent mission to pursue, he was damned if he was going to give six more years of his life serving a villainous master!

Abruptly Declan lifted his feet so that his full weight fell onto the grasping arms on each side. The unexpected shift immediately yanked his captors off balance and lurched them towards each other. Declan's arse was nigh to the cobblestones when he dropped his feet back and thrust violently to standing, simultaneously twisting his shoulders to the left. His right arm broke free from the imprisoning hand, and as he continued the twist, he drove his fist into the face of the man holding his left arm.

The lout released Declan's arm and staggered back, crumpling to the ground. Declan flinched at the solid thunk of a cudgel upon his neck. He twisted back to the right and launched himself at the other recruiter, punching past the flailing stick and landing a heavy left in the man's gut. As he bent over grunting, Declan finished him with a right uppercut.

He was free!

Leaving the two uniformed men quivering on the ground, Declan raced headlong from the dock, darting into the nearest side street and weaving a zigzagging course through the teeming streets and alleys. He ran till he was certain no one had followed, then wound his way circuitously to Murphy's tavern, slipping inside through the alley door and locking it behind him.

Kate was sweeping in the bar room and looked up in astonishment when he burst in, panting, "Where is Mr. Murphy?"

"I think he's in the parlour."

He found Mr. Murphy at his desk going over the ledger. His quill paused as he took in Declan's agitated appearance. "Here, lad, what's happened?"

Declan flopped onto a chair and breathlessly relayed the tale to him, concluding with, "I think I must leave Dublin posthaste, lest they find me and throw me in prison --- or worse! 'Tis sorry I be to leave ye without help so sudden, when you and Mrs. Murphy have been so good to me --- but I dinna want to bring trouble to your door!"

"You knocked down two press-gangers? Forgive me lad, if I rejoice for a moment at that vision." Mr. Murphy grinned and shook his head. "You should have been a prizefighter!"

Despite the circumstances, Declan could not help laughing...he laughed so hard that he slumped back in the chair clutching his belly.

Mr. Murphy nodded. "Aye, but you're right...you must flee Dublin. Dinna mind about the job --- I'll find another lad. I won't have ye stay and be captured by those bastards. Does the office at the docks have your name?"

"Well --- I told them Declan Delaney."

Mr. Murphy chuckled. "Wise. Declan is a common enough name that it won't expose ye. Do they have your address?"

Declan thought for a moment. "No."

"Anyone follow ye here?"

"No one I saw."

"Well, you have a wee bit of time, so ye do. Let's wait till Mr. O'Toole gets back from work --- it won't be long. As insufferable as he can be with that Catholic-Protestant brotherhood shite ---" Mr. Murphy winked, "--- he might have some useful advice about what ye should do. Till then, go pack up your things."

When Mr. O'Toole returned an hour later at dusk, Mr. Murphy and Declan brought him to the yard out back, from whence their conversation could not be overheard by the other lodgers. Once apprised of the situation, O'Toole paced up and down for several moments, his hands in his coat pockets. At last, he halted.

"You need to get far away from Dublin, to be sure. Do you have money?"

"Some."

"So you'll need work." Mr. O'Toole pushed his spectacles up his nose. "I understand well that you have an unresolved debt to settle, but if you are still interested in what we talked about last week ---" It had been last week that Declan had asked him about helping the United Irishmen. "--- then I can point you to a man to contact regarding that endeavor."

Declan nodded.

"He's in County Wexford, where I'm from. That should be sufficiently far from Dublin. I suspect the press gangs have more 'pressing' matters than chasing down one lad across Ireland. I shall write you a letter to bring to him --- 'twill be but a few minutes."

After some ten minutes, Mr. O'Toole reappeared from the house and handed him a letter. The outside was labeled Mr. Colin Foley. "That's the man. He owns a tavern by that name in Enniscorthy. Read it --- it may also serve as a story for your background as you make your way south."

Declan unfolded the paper, stepped close to the light coming through the kitchen window, and read:

Dear Mr. Foley,

I trust that this letter finds you and your worthy family in good health. I am writing on behalf of my young nephew Declan. He is a fine lad whom I fear is in danger of succumbing to the unsavory elements of Dublin. In particular he has recently been pressed to join the ranks of a gang of unscrupulous vagabonds who roam the streets wreaking havoc. It is my hope to deliver him from their evil influence, and such is my reason for writing.

In fond gratitude do I recall your generosity in providing me with an honorable apprenticeship when I was a lad of his age, an education which, by God's will, subsequently allowed me to succeed in the humble endeavors I have undertaken. It is my hope that you are yet in a position to grant such estimable guidance to my nephew. He is a good lad and will work hard for you. If upon receipt of this letter, this proposition is agreeable to you, please respond to further discuss the financial settlement.

Your friend,

William O'Toole

"'Tis a loose code, but it should suffice to convey the message. But to further the point, I shall give you a password --- a phrase actually --- that will alert him to the underlying meaning in this message."

Declan nodded, listening intently.

"Mr. Foley is a man of average height and stocky build. He is about forty. His hair is light brown, and he had a reddish beard last I saw him. When you see him, you will say: "I've come from Carlow with a letter from your cousin Toby." Try to fit it in naturally with conversation. You will know you have the right man if he responds: "Oh, did he sell the old plough?" Then you can give him the letter. Is that clear?"

"Aye. I've come from Carlow with a letter from your cousin Toby." Declan carefully placed the letter inside his knapsack. "Thank you, Mr. O'Toole, thank you."

Mr. O'Toole grasped his hand. "Good luck, Declan."

When he held his hand out to Mr. Murphy, the man shook his head. "A handshake won't do, lad." He pulled Declan into an embrace for a moment then clapped his back. "May the road rise up to meet ye."

"Thank you...and Mrs. Murphy...for everything you've done for me." With a short wave, Declan slung his knapsack over his shoulder and slipped out the gate into the dark alley.

*****

For the third time in the past five months, Declan was once more a fugitive.

He took the inland route southwest, keeping to smaller paths off the turnpike till he had put a day's worth of distance behind him. By such he would also avoid passing near Kilmaedan town on his journey --- in the past three and a half months he had heard no tidings of Burrows' and Fitzgibbons' deaths. No mention of it had he seen in the Dublin newspapers anyway --- but no matter, 'twould be best to steer clear of the town.

He was loathe to tap his fund of coins for his England mission, but the frigid winter weather obliged him to pay for lodging when night fell...the meanest room he could find. During the daylight hours, the brisk walking along with his muffler and gloves --- courtesy of Mrs. Murphy --- sufficed to keep him warm. The second night he spent in Athy, provoking a wry memory of Moll from Athy...Moll and the black and white striped stockings.

In the morning, Declan walked through Athy town, contemplating his next course of action. In the square he paused to eat some of the food that Mrs. Murphy had given him on his departure from Dublin. Although his present objective was to make his way to County Wexford and seek out Mr. O'Toole's friend Colin Foley, he vowed to never relent on his crusade for vengeance.

By and by his attention was captured by a man shouting from across the square. "Laborers needed! Here ye! Laborers needed!"

Declan quickly joined the cluster of men gathering and soon learnt that the man was a builder contracted by the township to repair a bridge south of town. 'Twas anticipated to be a month's employment. The wages were right decent, no doubt to recompense for the hardship of toiling outside in winter. Moreover, lodging would be provided. The urgency of the endeavor likely prompted the comparative largesse as well: the income generated by the stagecoach traffic between Dublin and Kilkenny on the turnpike would be forgone as long as the bridge was impassable.

A fair opportunity to earn money as he traveled need not be eschewed, Declan reasoned. He knew not what awaited him in County Wexford --- he might not be so fortunate to secure as advantageous an arrangement for bed and board as he had enjoyed in Dublin.

Declan thus joined a team of fifteen other men whose circumstances were as meager as his own and decamped to the work site five miles south of Athy. Here a bridge crossed a stream, and in a recent freeze, one stone archway had buckled and partially collapsed. The plan, according to the builder was to construct a temporary bridge onto which traffic might be diverted, whilst the repairs were effected on the stone bridge.

The men were left under the command of the foreman Potts --- a thickset, red-faced man in his thirties with a Cockney accent nigh unintelligible. He divided the men into two groups --- one to build the temporary bridge, one to dismantle the damaged portion of the existing bridge. During the day, Potts stalked back and forth between the two crews, directing with a sharp eye...and fist as needed, whilst the builder and engineer daily stopped by in a coach to assess the progress.

Over the next several days Declan worked on the temporary bridge --- a raft-like arrangement of wooden planks atop bales of straw over a bed of stones in the shallow water. The labor kept his body warm enough, but intermittently he needed to warm his numb fingers with his breath. A tent with a woodstove had been erected as a shelter: each day the men were allowed two five-minute rest periods and a half hour for a meal of soup and tea. A minute over, the tent flap without fail would be flung open by Potts. "Back to work, you bloody bogtrotters, or no wages!"

Lodging was provided at a simple inn in the nearby village of Ballylinan --- two rooms, each shared by eight men. Declan counted his coins carefully for his other meals and spent the evenings with his fellow workers in the tavern. After an arduous day of work, many of the men, married or not, were ever on the search for a bit of tail --- recalling to Declan many a past night in Kilmaedan town with the off-duty guards.

The opportunities for bawdy diversion were limited in the small village: quickly it was determined that a few of the maids at the tavern and inn supplemented their wages with sexual favors. Several of the more determined members of the road crew even walked the four miles to and from the larger town of Athy to indulge their appetites.

The proximity of Ballylinan village to Carlow town set Declan to thinking. The last time he had bedded a lass was in Carlow after a boxing match --- the encounter with Mr. and Mrs. Burke. That had been a year ago now.

By God, a year!

A year with nothing more than a kiss from Moll, groping with Kate in the garret, and ogling...as it were...of Sophie. A year --- of which the last five months he had been consumed with thoughts of Aoife. Aoife of the fiery red hair and icy blue eyes...Aoife with the sign from the goddess Morrigan in the freckles upon her cheek.

Such contemplation caused Declan to take stock of his life --- and he berated himself for this fruitless pining...'twas becoming farcical, so it was.

Just yesterday he had realized that in the field next to the construction site was a faery tree --- an old hawthorn tree with stones round its base and tattered ribbons and scraps of paper tied to its bare branches. He had pulled a button off the shirt Aoife had borrowed and added it to the other prayer tokens, wedging it in a hollow knot in the trunk and saying a silent prayer for her safety...and daring to wish that he might see her again.

Aye, he needed to let this maiden go from his heart...she wanted none of him. Love was not necessary to relieve this damnable ache in his ballocks that frigging could not fully relieve. Three months ago, he had resisted Sophie's and Kate's advances...they had been bonnie, jolly lasses...perhaps he had erred then in indulging his heart's melancholy.

But now 'twas time to leap into the breach, his mind admonished. If he fucked another lass, 'twould break Aoife's spell.

But despite this new resolve, Declan could not muster the enthusiasm to approach any of the maidens in the village. He endeavored to convince himself that he was simply being circumspect and not succumbing to heartsick dejection.

One evening after the other men had disappeared upstairs in the tavern with some wenches, Declan wandered out onto the streets of the village. He breathed deeply of the cold night air as he walked, feeling very much a soul in purgatory --- all the forces in his life thwarted, throbbing in suspended animation, and demanding decisive action...action he could not at present take.

'Twas not long ere he found himself at the further end of the small town.

Winding his way back along the outskirts of the village, he presently saw a light in a field on the other side of the stone wall he was following. As he drew closer, the light resolved itself into a firepit surrounded by a group of people, some hundred paces into the field. Beyond them, visible in the firelight and moonlight, was a half-circle of barrel-roofed wagons. Over the night air drifted the melodious sounds of singing.

Declan had encountered these caravans of roving people throughout his life, especially when he himself had been wandering the countryside. He had heard them called tinkers, and similarly to his observations of the women of the streets, had been troubled by the scornful treatment to which they were subjected.

At this moment, the convivial gathering round the fire was the most pleasant sight he had recently beheld. He paused next to the stone wall savoring the music as he wrapped his wool muffler higher round his neck.

"Good evening, sir," a young, female voice said. A figure had appeared on the other side of the wall. In the moonlight, Declan could make out a lass with a blanket wrapped round her like a shawl.

"Good evening."

"You can come by in the morning if you're looking to buy something," she said.

Declan was confused for a moment. "Oh, I'm not looking for anything...anything material anyway. I'm just walking about."

"What are ye looking for, then?"

He could not make out her expression in the dark, but her voice sounded teasing.