Celtic Mist Ch. 08

Chapter 8: Dangerous Toys

FOUR millions hand in hand,

Shall by each other stand,

And with one voice demand

Irishmen's due.

--- 'By a Lady', Paddy's Resource

As soon as Colin Foley learnt that Declan was experienced at tending bar, he offered him a job in the tavern. He and his son Brian could use the help on busy nights, and the rest of the week, Declan's addition to the tavern would allow Foley to have, in his words, "a day of rest regular-like." They had no extra beds, but Foley offered him a pallet in the storeroom behind the bar, which Declan gratefully accepted.

Declan soon made the acquaintance of the rest of the family. Mr. Foley was a widower, and his son and daughter --- Brian and Rose --- lived with him. Brian, a good-humored eighteen-year-old, was the red-haired lad who had been tending bar with Foley. Rose, a brisk, pretty lass in her twenties, had the keeping of the house, and in her work accepted the apparently unwanted guidance of her grandmother --- Foley's mother-in-law, Mrs. O'Shea. Rose's husband John Moynihan was the other adult in the household, and the couple had two weans, a lad of four, and a lass of two. The final member of the family was the dog Dara.

Declan also heard tell of Mr. Foley's older son Cormac who had been killed in Dunkirk five years ago fighting the French Republic during his service in the British Regulars. "Aye, he joined when he was eighteen," Mr. Foley said, shaking his head. "He was a belligerent lad, so he was...but who isn't at that age? In his blind commitment to oppose his da, he chose the one course that would break me heart for certain --- to enlist in the British army. 'Tis no solace that he came to regret his decision after seeing how they treated Irish soldiers...and indeed anyone who wasn't English. He was sore tempted to desert but feared the bringing of trouble to the family." Foley shrugged bleakly. "But in the end, 'twas the bitterest trouble of all that landed at our door."

As for Mr. O'Toole's coded referral of Declan to Foley for consideration as a fighter for the United Irishmen, nigh a month passed without the man alluding to the subject. Declan sensed that Foley was assessing him --- he observed Declan about the tavern discharging his duties and his manner with customers and the family. He oft engaged Declan in conversation as they tidied the bar at night.

As best he could, Declan curbed his impatience to embark upon an endeavor more noble than pouring pints of ale. He did not resent the man's circumspection, understanding right well that the rebel group was a secret society that the Crown had been ruthlessly attempting to suppress for some time now --- their efforts aided by a bewildering network of spies and informers, several of whom had been men who had infiltrated the society and betrayed it from within.

To Mr. Foley's questions about his past, Declan relayed the essentials, abbreviating his family's fate as murder for defending a man's criticism of the English occupiers. His break from the Duke's service he credited to an awakening of conscience prompted by the witnessing of an atrocity against a tenant family. Just as Foley had his reasons for caution, so too did Declan --- he guarded the names Muldowney, Aoife, and Blaylock close to his heart. He had no reason to distrust the tavern-keeper, but Declan had become increasingly wary of jeopardizing his opportunity to catch Blaylock unawares by the far-fetched chance that innocent words disclosing Declan's quest might somehow reach his ears. Apart from that reticence, he readily answered Mr. Foley's questions about himself.

Foley and Declan agreed that he should present himself as described in Mr. O'Toole's letter: the nephew of an old friend who had been sent by his uncle to escape the corrupt influences of Dublin life. He now went by the name Declan O'Toole.

Keen as ever to supplement his income, Declan queried the family regarding any potential work about town. Rose's husband John Moynihan, who worked in a glazier's shop, pointed him in the direction of Carley's Bridge Pottery, a firm nigh a mile from the tavern. Here Declan found employment as a digger. Several mornings each week he would report to the workshop, then ride out to the fields in a wagon with two other diggers to spend the day harvesting the clay rich soil.

Between his work in the tavern and digging clay for the potter, Declan quickly adapted to his new circumstances.

One Saturday afternoon about a week after his arrival in Enniscorthy, Declan was in the yard behind the tavern splitting logs for the fireplace when Mr. Foley approached. "Here lad, I've a commission for ye, if ye will."

Declan lowered the axe. "Aye, to be sure."

"There's a barrel tap I need you to fetch from the dry goods purveyor Casey across town." He proceeded to give Declan directions and coins. "'Twill be two shillings."

Carefully pocketing the money, Declan set off on foot, observing with interest the new town in which he had landed. Daylight confirmed his earlier impression of a prosperous-appearing city --- good-sized but without the pervasive blight of Dublin. The streets were busy with carriages, carts, and townspeople. He noticed two church spires above the rooftops and crossed not one but two different squares on his route. The first was a market square active with vendors and customers. The second was near the castle --- a large, oblong, cobblestoned space called Abbey Square. This square opened out upon the River Slaney on one end and was flanked by elegant looking buildings along the other sides.

As he traversed Abbey Square, weaving among pedestrians and carts, Declan momentarily tensed as he spied a pair of Redcoats strolling towards him. He maintained a nonchalant pace even as he kept a wary side-eye upon them. The soldiers paid him no heed as they passed. Declan's breath eased. Aye, he must ever be conscious that he was a fugitive from the press-gang...and must ever be vigilant.

At length, he arrived at the dry goods shop and purchased the copper barrel tap, discovering that 'twas only one shilling, not two.

Whilst he was walking back through Abbey Square, he was startled by a male voice calling out, "Declan!" After a few seconds of agitation and quickened heartbeat, he recognized in relief the bright red hair and freckled face of young Brian Foley...waving a flat wooden stick as he hastened towards him across the square. Declan returned the wave.

"Heading to the tavern, are ye?" Brian asked, drawing up alongside him.

"I am." They fell into step together.

"Where are you coming from?"

"Your Da sent me to fetch this tap."

"Oh, aye. From Casey's?"

"Aye." Declan nodded towards the wooden, paddle-shaped stick Brian was carrying. "Hurling?"

Brian grinned. "Aye, a good match with the lads. We lost, but we were a lad short." They turned from the square onto Castle Street. A moment later, Brian's demeanor abruptly changed, and he muttered "Damn!" under his breath. His grip visibly tightened upon the hurling stick.

Declan's alert eyes registered what no doubt had caught Brian's attention: walking towards them was a pair of lads their age dressed in working class garb. They would have been otherwise unremarkable if it were not for the stares they fixed upon the pair of them, and the orange ribbon cockades on their coat lapels. No time was there to query Brian, but Declan's fighter's instinct warned him of potential trouble.

The strangers' gazes and path wavered not, but Declan observed no threatening motion in their hands. As they passed each other, one lad's shoulder smacked into Brian's. At the insolent challenge, Brian pivoted with a growl --- but then checked the swing of his stick.

The two lads halted and turned back, sneering. "Oh, I beg your pardon," one said. "Didn't realize ye were a pair of molly altar boys. We should have had more care for your delicate condition."

'Twas evident that Brian was sore tempted to respond to the taunt but was restraining himself, his face flushed and his knuckles white upon the hurling stick handle. Declan, being well versed in the pre-fight insult game, was able to control himself. The last thing he needed was the attention of the law. Calmly, he perused the two lads, then his lip curled in a half-smirk. "Let's go." Turning their backs, they walked away.

The evidently puzzled lads were silent for a moment, then called after them, "Aye, go on and flee, ye Papist cowards!"

After crossing another street, Declan asked, "Who the Devil were those bastards?"

"Orangemen!" Brian jeered. "Bloody Protestant gang members! By God they were begging for it, so they were!" He slashed the hurling stick through the air. "But Da said to stay out of trouble now that we're..." he faltered and glanced at Declan. "Well, just to stay out of trouble." A bitter smile grew on young Foley's countenance. "I would have loved to see their faces had we unleashed Declan Quickfist upon them!"

At Declan's warning look, Brian nodded. "I know, I know. 'Tis a secret. You're Declan O'Toole."

Declan had been vaguely aware of the Orangemen previously, and with his new knowledge from reading the United Irish newspapers, he understood that the pro-Crown brotherhood was so named in commemoration of the victory of the Protestant King William of Orange over the Catholic King James at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 --- a victory that had secured the Protestant Ascendancy in Ireland.

By the time they returned to the tavern, Brian's good humor was restored, and he acceded to his wee nephew's pleas to play "hurlee" with him in the yard. Declan gave the barrel tap and extra shilling to Colin Foley.

Throughout the month of February, as Declan worked and bided his time, Foley recruited him several more times to perform errands. On some occasions, it was carrying letters to recipients in Enniscorthy or nearby towns. Other times he was sent again to buy items --- mugs at the Saturday market, a bottle of Islay whiskey from a larger tavern across town, a new collar for the dog. Foley again provided him with coins for each excursion. Eager to be of assistance, Declan took care on these commissions, delivering the letters untampered with and returning the difference of the coins for the purchases.

* * * * *

One Sunday at the end of February, Mr. Foley asked Declan to accompany him as he took the dog Dara for a walk. They headed east past the castle, encountering people here and there about the streets.

Declan caught himself checking the face of a red-haired lass as they crossed the bridge over the river. For some time now he had known right well that Phoebe's milking of his cock...as pleasant as it had been...had failed to extract the spell of Aoife.

Presently they left the town limits and found themselves in the countryside, the road continuing between fields. Here, with no other people in sight, Foley turned to him. "'It has been a month since you came to Enniscorthy, Declan."

Declan nodded. "Aye, so it has."

"Do you recall your words the night we met?"

"I do. 'I want to fight for Ireland'. I am as eager to do so as ever."

"Are ye ready to take the oath of the United Irishmen, then, full proper?"

Declan squared his shoulders. "I am. More than ready, sir."

Mr. Foley smiled and nodded. "'Tis good. Now, mark well the route we take; henceforth you'll need to make your way to the farm yourself."

For some time they walked past stone walls, leafless trees, and winter-dormant fields where sheep and cows grazed on brown grass. When they turned off the main road onto a smaller unpaved lane, Foley said, "Dinna turn from the road here if anyone is following or can see you. If so, keep walking straight." After another mile or so, they turned yet again onto an even narrower path.

Nigh an hour after leaving the tavern, they arrived at their destination.

From the lane, Declan beheld a modest-sized, stone farmhouse with smoke rising from the chimney. Several yapping dogs ran across the yard towards them. Foley released Dara from his leash, and the dog scampered to join the others, exchanging friendly, tail-wagging greetings.

"This farm belongs to Arthur Fleetwood. He is the captain of our company of United Irishmen. This is where we meet. Officially, however, we're a Druid's lodge." Foley winked.

Declan looked about with keen interest. The farm was wholly unassuming, fortunately betraying no hint of its owner's sympathies --- nothing whatsoever was there to attract the attention of any passing Yeomen or Militia. They walked through the yard; behind the cottage was a garden and a barn. A plough and a wagon were standing idle in the yard. Beyond that the land was a mix of tillable fields and hillier, grazing pasture with cows. A group of a dozen or so men trooped through the pasture, heading away from the barn.

'Twas to the barn that they proceeded. Inside were four stalls --- two occupied by horses and one by an apparently ailing cow. The remainder of the space housed a workbench, a foot-pedaled grindstone, and a rack of tools. Four men in farmer's garb were presently occupied at the workbench, fastening pike heads to long wooden poles. Another was seated at the grindstone, sharpening a knife.

"Where's the captain?" Foley asked the men. One nodded towards the farmhouse. As Foley and Declan stepped back into the yard, three men appeared round the side of the house engrossed in conversation. They halted by the plough, where two took their leave of the third with brisk nods.

The remaining man was a lean, strong looking chap in his early thirties. He was taller than average --- almost as tall as Declan. Under a wool cap, dark blond hair was visible. His gaze shifted to Foley and Declan as they approached.

"Captain Fleetwood," Mr. Foley greeted him.

Fleetwood tucked a folded paper inside his coat. His hazel eyes narrowed as he took the measure of Declan. "You would be the prizefighter, Declan Quickfist, I wager," he stated in a voice with a full, deep timbre.

"Aye, sir. Formerly. Now I go by Declan O'Toole."

"And you want to fight for Ireland, so I hear."

"That I do, most earnestly."

Fleetwood placed his fists upon his hips, his eyes hard as he studied Declan. "So, you used to do the bidding of a lord of the realm."

Declan nodded, grimacing.

"Well, there is no shame in that. We all were elevated to a state of enlightenment by virtue of our mistakes and trials." One corner of Fleetwood's mouth lifted in a half-smile. "'Tis presuming you've renounced any loyalty to your former masters?"

"Aye, that I have, sir!"

"Then, you are ready to take the oath of loyalty to the United Irishmen?"

"Aye! To take the oath...to fight...anything that will further the cause."

Fleetwood and Foley exchanged smiles. "He's a ready lad, so he is." Fleetwood briefly went into the cottage, and when he emerged, he summoned the men from the barn, and led the group to the edge of the field. "These men will bear witness," he announced. "Face me."

Declan stood, solemn and straight-backed as he met Captain Fleetwood's piercing gaze, whilst the others formed a circle round them.

"Repeat after me."

Declan's heart thumped, and in a resolute voice he repeated line after line:

I, Declan O'Toole (Declan Muldowney, he said to himself), do testify and swear by my conscience and all that I hold sacred, that I will uphold and defend the tenets of the Society of United Irishmen: Man's unalienable rights of liberty, equality, and justice.

I do further attest that the true sovereignty of Ireland lies with the Irish people, and vow to never desist in my efforts until the unjust authority of England has been subverted and Ireland has secured its independence.

I hereby renounce all claims upon my loyalty by any other masters.

I swear to guard the secrecy of the Society, and neither by word nor deed betray it or its members, upon penalty of dishonor and death. So help me God.

Fleetwood nodded, then bent to scoop up a handful of soil. "Spit in your palm," he said. Declan did as instructed, and Fleetwood pressed the soil into his right hand. Declan squeezed it tight. "By thus, you seal your vow to Ireland." From inside his coat, Fleetwood withdrew a small green ribbon cockade and, stepping close to Declan, pinned it to the inside of his coat's lapel. "Come soon, we'll wear them on the outside for all to see." His mouth tightened and Declan nodded.

Over the course of the afternoon, Declan was made familiar with the farm. Colin Foley, whom he discovered had the rank of lieutenant in the company, took him across the pasture to the place where the men trained: a glen hidden by surrounding trees and hills. Here, for the remainder of the day, Declan drilled with some forty other men, practicing maneuvers with pikes. Quickly he made the acquaintance of many of his new comrades, including the other two officers: Lieutenants Bolger and Coe.

At dusk, Foley and he walked back to Enniscorthy and opened the tavern for the evening.

Declan could scarce fall asleep that night after the events of the day. He was a United Irishman, right true! Lying upon his pallet in the storeroom, he was consumed with heroic visions of routing the English from Ireland...and at last exacting his revenge upon Blaylock.

* * * * *

NOW our fathers oft were naughty boys.

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day.

For pikes and guns are dangerous toys.

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day.

--- Irish song by Peadar Kearney

Between Colin Foley and his son Brian, who was also a member of the rebel society, Declan was soon apprised of the particulars of the United Irishmen's present status. There were companies scattered all over Ireland --- the number of sworn members was judged to be almost 270,000. The Enniscorthy company led by Fleetwood had some sixty members.

The membership was drawn largely from oppressed segments of the population --- the so called "dissenters" who rejected the sanctioned Anglican church: Catholics from all walks of life and Presbyterian tradesmen, artisans, and journeymen.

Leadership over the local companies was at the county, then provincial level, with delegates reporting to the highest command level: the Executive Directories in Belfast and Dublin --- the leaders predominantly being educated Presbyterians such as barristers, merchants, and physicians.

Communication of commands from the Executive Directories to the scattered companies was by way of a network of mounted couriers.

With the restrictions imposed by the Society's outlaw status, and the fact that the members were predominantly from the working classes, opportunities for meetings were limited. Unlike in a formal military unit, in which men were compensated for the work of being a soldier, the United Irishmen were obliged to discharge their duties in their usual jobs, even as they trained covertly for the planned rebellion.

So it was that Captain Fleetwood and Lieutenant Coe worked their farms, Lieutenant Bolger ran a malting house in Enniscorthy, and Colin Foley had his tavern. Thus too did Declan continue working in Foley's tavern and digging clay for the pottery firm, making his way to Fleetwood's farm when he could...which was usually on Saturday and Sunday.

Likewise, the members of the rebel companies had not the means to acquire formal uniforms and were obliged to train in their work clothes. Come the rising, only a token of green --- a ribbon cockade, hat band, or neckerchief --- was anticipated to mark the patriotic soldiers.

Declan was fast apprised of their enemies --- the various military forces of the Crown with which they contended as they strove to prepare undetected for the upcoming battle...and would face during said battle. There were three main armed units opposing them. One, the British regulars: English troops sent to Ireland. Two, the Militia: Irish recruits serving outside their home county. Three, the Yeomanry: Irish recruits policing their own counties.