Celtic Mist Ch. 07

"Aye, get to it."

"'Tis a faery tree, so it is." Declan stared in shock at the grim Englishman.

Potts' brows drew together. "What the bloody 'ell does that mean?!"

"Ye canna be cutting down a faery tree, 'tis a blasphemy." Declan noticed the other men had paused in their labors and were observing the exchange with keen attention. 'Twas evident that most of them shared Declan's objection.

"I don't give a damn what kind of tree it is! What is that shite?! Some bloody taig superstition?!" He thrust the axe handle towards him. "Chop it down or you don't get paid."

The men muttered round them. Declan's hands remained motionless by his sides. "Chop it down yourself."

Potts' eyes darkened and his face flushed. He dropped the axe and swung his fist at Declan's head. The man was no trained fighter, to be sure --- 'twas easy to duck the wild blow. With the continued momentum of his swing, Potts stumbled off balance for a moment before recovering himself. The watching men snickered. Declan's fists had clenched by instinct, but fortunately he thought the better of striking back...the last thing he needed was more trouble.

With a brief grin at the raging man, he turned on his heel and headed towards the road. He chanced Potts attacking him again from behind, but now the foreman was screaming at the laughing workers, "Get back to work, you bloody Paddys!!"

Declan strode away on the road south.

*****

.

WHEN the sun that now holds his bright path o'er the mountains

Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before,

When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains -

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

--- J. J. Callanan

.

'Twas dusk three days later when Declan arrived in Enniscorthy in County Wexford, and the evening was even greyer and colder for the misting rain. The wanderings of his life as a homeless urchin had never taken him this far south on Erin's Isle. With his cloak collar turned up and his cap pulled low, he followed the curve of the River Slaney into what appeared to be a large, prosperous town. Along the riverbanks were a few skiffs and small boats but no larger docks or wharves as there had been in Dublin. In the center of town, a squarish castle was distinguishable against the darkening sky, resembling a smaller version of Kilmaedan Castle, and its similarity summoned forth the unsettled matters in Declan's mind.

The memory of his family had been given substance by Mr. O'Toole's knowledge of his father --- by God, no figment of his imagination had the Muldowney family been! The confirmation of the facts bolstered not only his mission of vengeance...but his new resolve to uphold his father's commitment to Ireland's freedom.

With directions from passersby, he found his way to Foley's Tavern --- an old building along a crooked street lined with other shops --- and stepped inside, shaking the raindrops from his cloak. 'Twas a modest sized tavern, warm and cheery with a fire burning in a stone fireplace, several tables, and a scarred oak, L-shaped bar. Some dozen or so customers, all men, were gathered round the bar and fire, talking, drinking, laughing, and jostling each other in good humor. Another trio of men entered immediately behind him, prompting Declan to approach the bar and find a stool at the far end.

Perusing the room, Declan sensed here a more convivial atmosphere than had pervaded Murphy's tavern in the destitute City Quay neighborhood of Dublin.

By and by, the busy barkeeper got round to him and took his order for a pint of Smithwick's. As Declan drank, he surveyed the establishment and endeavored to identify the proprietor Colin Foley to whom Mr. O'Toole had suggested he apply.

There appeared to be two men who worked there, both at present behind the bar. One, the man who had served him, was a chap of about forty with light brown hair and a freckled, lined face. The other was a lad about Declan's age with red hair and a similar crop of freckles. Although the older man had not a red beard as O'Toole had described, Declan guessed him to be the man he was seeking. For some time, he sat debating how to initiate the necessary conversation.

When all the customers had been attended to, the older man circled back to Declan and pointed his chin towards his mug. "How are ye fixed?"

Declan lifted the mug. "Aye, good." He cleared his throat. "Be ye the owner of the place?"

"I am." The man reached for an empty cup on the bar, then his eyes shifted back to Declan. He stared for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "Quickfist!" he pronounced with a grin. "You're the prizefighter Quickfist, the Duke of Kilmaedan's champion, so ye are!"

Declan hesitated, then nodded. "Aye, so I am...erm...was."

"I've attended several of your matches...me son and me together. I saw your first fight against Iron Gut Garrett in Gorey town --- what a debut! Your matches in Kilmaedan town, in Dublin..." The man shook his head, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "What an honor to have ye drinking in me humble tavern!"

"Ta." Declan glanced at the pair of men sitting to his left; they were absorbed in their own conversation. Looking back at the proprietor, he said, "Did you see my fight in Carlow town?"

The man nodded. "So I did. I made a fine return on me wager...rightly betting how many rounds it would take."

"Sure, 'twas a lucky town for me too...in more ways than one." Declan grinned and took a swig of ale. "In fact, I've just come from Carlow town on me way here. I've a letter from your cousin Toby."

As he rinsed cups in a pail of water, the man glanced up at Declan and smiled wryly. "Och, that old wastrel! What is he getting up to these days? Did he sell the old plough?"

"Well, he was congratulating himself over something, to be sure."

Mr. Foley turned his head as a group of men came in from the street and called out jocular greetings from across the room.

"I'll hear the tidings in a bit after I tend to these vagabonds," Mr. Foley said with a wink. He moved to welcome the newcomers heartily --- he and his young helpmate taking their orders.

Declan waited, his mind somewhat calmer. He took his pint to a chair by the fireplace, doffing his cloak as he fully warmed after his long, cold journey. 'Twas good to be here after the morass of Dublin --- meditating peacefully over the honest scent of damp wool and burning logs.

Above the fireplace hung a flag he did not recognize...perhaps city or county colors, flanked by a collection of rams' horns. On the surrounding walls were scattered sketches of boxers, fists cocked, as well as numerous printed notices for recent prizefights in Ireland...he even saw one for his match in Dublin against Mal MacDonald "The Highlander."

As the hour grew late, the tavern eventually cleared of customers, and the young barkeeper collected mugs and began cleaning. Mr. Foley approached with a black and white dog trotting at his heels, and Declan rose from the chair.

"Nay, keep your seat." Holding a pint, the man took the chair opposite him, whilst the dog sniffed at Declan's legs and hands. Foley took a long draught, his blue eyes assessing him as Declan scratched the dog's head. "So, what says me cousin Toby?"

Declan glanced over at the young man behind the bar. At Mr. Foley's nod, he pulled Mr. O'Toole's letter from his knapsack and passed it to him. The man unfolded it and read. Refolding it, he looked up at Declan for several moments, tapping the letter against his thigh. Then he leant forward and placed the paper in the fire. "What happened?"

Declan swallowed. "I was working at the docks...I resisted the press gang."

Mr. Foley nodded. "So, I gather you're no longer in service to the Duke of Kilmaedan?"

"Aye, no longer."

Mr. Foley drank from his mug and said with a smile. "I would have wagered you'd be Ireland's next boxing champion. What happened?"

Declan shrugged. "I had some sense knocked into me, ye might say."

Mr. Foley studied him. "What do you intend to do with yourself now?"

Declan's gaze was steady as he met the man's eyes. "I want to fight for Ireland."

The fire crackled. Foley emptied his cup. At last he spoke. "I think we can get ye sorted, so we can."

*****