Celtic Mist Ch. 08

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Declan's twentieth birthday was two days later. After a pleasant supper with the Foley family and a game of horse racing with the two wee bairns wherein he and Brian were the horses, he took a walk through the dark streets of Enniscorthy. For some time, he stood upon the bridge watching the moonlight reflected in the river. 'Twas the first birthday in eleven years that he had knowingly marked.

So many versions had there been of himself in his young life --- Declan Muldowney for the first nine years, plain Declan the homeless lad, Declan Quickfist, Declan Muldowney briefly again, Declan Delaney at the Dublin docks, and now Declan O'Toole --- that he felt compelled to remind himself of the truth.

It had now been seven months since the night he had remembered who he was --- the same night he had met Aoife O'Farrell.

Declan Muldowney. With the sound of the flowing river below him, he said aloud the names of his slain family members: "John Muldowney, Brigid Muldowney, Rory Muldowney." Blaylock's days were numbered, so they were! He spoke again his vow of vengeance, newly swollen with bitterness at Ireland's dishonor --- he would avenge his family and his country both.

Over the next two weeks, events began to unfold at an increasing pace throughout the country. In the wake of the proclamation of martial law, the commander-in-chief of the Crown's forces in Ireland, General Abercromby, instituted measures to disarm the mutinous populations of the counties north of Wexford. His first step was the issuance of ultimatums giving the citizens ten days' notice to surrender stolen arms. Failure to comply would mean free quarters --- troops would be housed in the people's homes.

The Enniscorthy United Irishmen waited in suspense for tidings from their brethren in the neighboring counties. Would they hold strong or capitulate?

One night in late April, as the ten-day ultimatums began to expire, Declan and Colin Foley were cleaning the tavern when the bell upon the street door jingled. Declan was about to call out that they were closed when he saw it was Fleetwood.

The Captain glanced quickly about. "Are all the customers gone?"

"They are," Foley said. "Is there news? What brings ye here at this hour?"

Fleetwood locked the street door and approached the bar, motioning them closer. "I've just received word of a cache of guns we can lay our hands on." The three men leant on the bar as Fleetwood enlightened them in low tones, his eyes agleam. "A merchant in the former Virginia colony in America --- an Irishman by birth and true to the cause --- hid a shipment of firearms in a cargo of tobacco that arrived in Wexford port today."

Declan and Foley regarded him with excitement.

"They've passed from the dockmaster to a wool merchant named McBride --- both United Irishmen. 'Tis from McBride's warehouse that we shall fetch them. Declan, you should be one of the men who goes so you can determine if they are the true article."

"Aye, sir."

"Jamie Byrne will go with you. You'll take the wagon loaded with shorn fleeces...the Byrne family has been selling its fleeces to McBride for several years, so his appearance there will occasion no notice."

Declan nodded. From the ongoing training at the farm, he knew Byrne as an enthusiastic lad near his age --- strong and quick. His family owned a farm near Fleetwood, and his knowledge of the Wexford wool trade would greatly bolster their cover.

"And the last member of the party will be Michael McArdle."

"Which is Michael McArdle?"

"He's that ragged lad who's been lurking about the farm. You can pass him off as a younger brother come along for the excitement of going into town to sell the fleece."

Declan nodded again. He remembered him now. Always wary about spies, he had noticed the newcomer when he had appeared at Fleetwood's farm last week. A thin, dirty lad wearing smudged spectacles, looking as if he had been living on the streets.

When he had asked Foley about him, Foley had recounted how Lieutenant Bolger had been in the nearby town of Ferns, meeting with a local Defenders' leader, when the lad --- a stranger to both of them --- had all but burst in to impart urgent intelligence he had overheard at a Yeomanry garrison. Impressed at the lad's gumption, Bolger had urged him to come to the farm to meet Fleetwood. Fleetwood questioned him, arriving at a like assessment, and had swiftly administered the United Irish oath to him and put him to use as a spy.

'Twas a shrewd assignment. Declan knew right well from his own days as a street dweller how little regard they garnered...and how resourceful a mind could be honed by the hard life. To his additional advantage, Michael's matted brown hair was tied back in a queue...a fashion that should further disarm the loyalist subjects of his espionage.

For over a century, men had been wearing their hair long --- short hair on men was viewed with distrust, particularly in light of the fact that short-cropped hair was the favored fashion of the recent French revolutionaries. Irishmen sporting the fashion were thus suspected of harboring insurgent sympathies. "Croppies" had become the loyalists' epithet for them.

In truth, short hair was nowadays worn by many young men, unconnected with any political inclinations, a fact that failed to dispel the general bias. Declan unintentionally had been a "croppy" for some time now. When he had left the streets to become a guardsman at Kilmaedan Castle, his hair had been shorn to rid it of lice. When he had started boxing, the short hair better served his purposes. Now he kept it cropped for the convenience.

Aye, Jamie, Michael, and himself would be a credible trio of farm lads, distracting any passing busybodies or authorities from their true mission.

Fleetwood looked from Foley to Declan. "Come to the farm Monday morning by eight o'clock, Declan. You'll depart from there."

"Aye, Captain."

Fleetwood clapped him on the shoulder and bade them goodnight.

Early Monday morning, Declan strode along the road to Fleetwood's farm. His mind was in a state of agitation --- both excited for the day's mission and unsettled by his dream the preceding night. In his dream, he had seen Ma clearly...'twas the first time in over ten years that he had been able to call forth the image of her face, despite frequent attempts to do so during waking hours. He dreamt that he was trying to save her from a band of masked men, but his feet were weighted by chains and he could not reach her.

He breathed deeply of the cool morning air to clear the memory of the dream. He had saved Aoife from Blaylock...he prayed she was indeed safe and tried to find solace in that.

As the mist rose round him, Declan could see the verdant green of spring now coloring the fields and stone walls, spotted here and there with pink and yellow flowers. Newborn lambs tottered alongside their mothers. Walking across the land and smelling the soil and growing things reminded him wistfully of Aoife.

For all the years that he had been roving the countryside, it most strangely had been those three days with Aoife that had left a fixed impression upon his mind. When he contemplated Ireland thus, a sensation stole over him that throwing out the English...throwing out all those of Blaylock's ilk...might be a revenge more powerful than the slaying of Blaylock alone.

The pent-up forces inside him propelled him into a run the rest of the way --- the popular prophecy among the rebels repeating over and over in his head in rhythm with his footsteps: "A wet winter, a dry spring, a bloody summer, and no King."

Arriving at the farm, Declan found Fleetwood and Byrne hitching a horse to the wagon, and Michael McArdle crouching nearby, scratching the belly of one of the farm's dogs.

Fleetwood demonstrated to them the hidden space under the wagon bed's floor planks --- a space the same area as the wagon floor and some five inches deep. He gave Declan a handful of nails. "Seal the boards well on your return so they don't rattle. Ready lads?"

As Michael extracted himself from the dog licking his face and approached, Fleetwood observed, "Make him Byrne's brother --- 'tis a better resemblance." The lad wiped the spittle off his spectacles with his shirt, blinking bleary-eyed as the three men looked at him and nodded. Aye, Byrne, with his shorter, wiry frame and similar shade of brown hair was a more likely brother to him.

"You'd best clean yer face, me brother," Byrne said with a wink. "The Byrnes may be poor farmers, but we do wash our faces."

Michael scrubbed at his dirty face with his coat sleeve, looking self-conscious.

Declan felt his chagrin, remembering right well the rarity of having a bath when one was homeless. "Let's be on our way," he said to change the subject. He and Byrne mounted the wagon seat, whilst Michael jumped into the back.

They stopped at Byrne's family's farm a half mile down the road where they loaded shorn fleeces into the wagon, filling it to the top rails. Then they were on the road, setting off for what was anticipated to be a four-hour journey, Declan and Byrne taking turns holding the reins, and Michael seated atop the pile of wool behind them.

Not long underway, Michael spoke up. "If I'm to be yer brother, ye'd best acquaint me with the family --- in case anyone asks."

Byrne nodded. "Aye, 'tis true."

"What's yer full name, for a start?"

"James Byrne...but call me Jamie."

"How old are ye?'

"Twenty-one. And you?"

"Eighteen. How many brothers and sisters have we?" The exchange continued thus for a few minutes with Jamie apprising Michael of the basic facts of his family and the farm.

Declan, preoccupied with the mission ahead, asked Byrne for the details on McBride's wool warehouse ---- where in town was it, how was it situated on the street, would they be able to pull the wagon inside so as not to be witnessed? Together they devised a plan for exchanging the wool for guns undetected.

A couple of hours into the journey, they stopped to stretch their legs and answer Nature's call. "There's room on the seat here if ye want," Declan said to Michael as they returned to the wagon.

The lad scrambled back up the pile of fleeces. "Nay, I'll ride up here." He bounced up and down a few times on the wool, then flopped onto his back with a grin. "I'll wager the King hasn't a coach half so fine!"

Once again underway, Jamie asked Declan about himself, and he relayed the fiction that Fleetwood, Foley, and he had agreed upon: he had grown up in Dublin, where his uncle had his guardianship. His uncle, afeared that he was succumbing to profligate influences, had sent him away from the city's temptations to work for his old friend Colin Foley in Enniscorthy.

Jamie prodded his side with an elbow. "Little did your uncle suspect that a determined lad can find temptations anywhere, so he can, be it in the country or the smallest village," he teased.

Declan laughed.

"How's 'bout ye, Michael...what's your story?" Jamie asked over his shoulder. "Ye dinna sound like a Wexford lad."

"I'm not. I'm from Ulster."

"You're far from home, to be sure."

"Aye. Last year the Yeomen burned down our farm a-searching for weapons. Me family all died in the fire. Ma had sent me to town to buy flour, and when I returned, I found them." Michael's voice was tight. "I came down to County Wexford to find me relations --- but I couldna find them."

The moment of levity evaporated. Declan and Jamie exchanged sober glances. There were too many souls in Ireland with similar tales of misfortune. Michael's family had evidently been victims of the Crown's dragooning of Ulster --- 'twas no wonder he wanted to help the United Irishmen's cause.

"How have you managed since?" Declan asked.

In the pause that followed, Declan looked behind him to see the top of Michael's wool cap --- he was lying on his back upon the fleece, one hand behind his head, the other holding a piece of straw upon which he was chewing. At last, he said, "I didn't want to beg...I wandered about trying to find work...then I learnt how to polish shoes and boots. Sometimes I can earn a ha-penny mucking out stalls."

Declan was contemplating his words in commiseration when Jamie nudged his arm and handed him a flask he had pulled out from under the seat. After taking a swig of whiskey, Declan passed it back over his shoulder. "Michael?" There was a sloshing sound, then the lad returned it.

"So Michael, Fleetwood said ye had devised a clever ploy for infiltrating the garrisons. What's yer secret?" Jamie asked.

"Well, 'twasn't my intent at the outset...it just happened accidental-like. Once I learnt how to polish boots, I discovered that Redcoats and Yeomen were most of me custom, so I started setting up outside the garrisons. I call meself Michael Goodwin...and say me brother was killed by a Catholic gang...and I ask how old one must be to join the army. Soon they were having me come inside the garrison to polish their boots afore they dressed for the day. After that, I just kept me eyes and ears open."

Declan raised his brows, impressed, sharing a look with Byrne beside him.

For centuries, life in Ireland had been dominated by the relentless hostility between peoples of differing religious persuasions. 'Twas true that most of the hardship was borne by Catholics, both in degree and by virtue of their sheer numbers within the population. And 'twas further true that the fewer numbers of Irish people taking the part of the British were mostly Protestant. Aye, Michael had chosen a right Protestant name --- Goodwin, and a credible story to explain his loyalty to the Crown and gain the garrisons' trust.

Declan said, "'Tis a brave gambit, so it is."

"Well...I want Ireland to be free, just like ye's do. What I wanted was to be a soldier and fight the bastards meself, but Captain Fleetwood said I'm not strong enough yet. He says to me, so he says, 'Spying is the best way to help now.'"

"Aye, what yer doing is just as important as carrying a pike," Jamie said.

"But I still want to be a soldier as soon as I can."

Declan and Jamie nodded sympathetically.

The journey continued for some time with little further conversation of note. Nigh three miles outside of Wexford town, the fields and pastures gave way to a wooded landscape, and soon they encountered a tall stone wall running along one side of the road, eventually passing a closed wrought iron gate with elaborate scroll work. Through it, at the end of a curving lane and groomed gardens, was visible a large manor house.

"Whose is that?" Declan asked.

Jamie shrugged. "Some damned gentry, no doubt. They'd best beware...soon that land will be restored to the Irish people." Shortly, his embittered expression was replaced by an eager grin as he nudged Declan again with his elbow. "Do ye see what I see? A pair of bonnie maids!"

Indeed, ahead of them, walking along the road towards town, were two young ladies, one carrying a basket. Without consulting Declan, Jamie reined the horse to a stop as they drew alongside them. "What ho! A fine day I bid ye fair damsels!"

The lasses stopped and looked up at them...their expression waxing mischievous as they took their measure of the lads. They were comely, golden-haired maidens with prettily plump figures accented by small waists, and were similarly dressed in plain, dark blue frocks with white neckerchiefs and caps --- some manner of serving maids, Declan guessed.

"Whither are ye lassies bound?" Jamie asked.

"To the market in Wexford."

"We're going into town ourselves. Would ye care to have a ride?" Jamie leant towards Declan and muttered under his breath, "We'll give them a fine ride, so we will." He winked at the girls, who exchanged looks, then approached the wagon with coy smiles, whereupon Byrne stretched a hand to help them up onto the seat.

Declan scooted to the side to make room for the lasses to sit between Jamie and himself, hiding his irritation with his comrade. They were supposed to be lending all their attention to the mission of procuring weapons --- not flirting with lasses! But 'twas too late now, he could not retract Jamie's offer of transportation into town.

"I'm Jamie, this is Declan...and that's me brother Michael up there."

"Hello," the girls said. There was a mumbled sound from Michael up behind them.

Byrne set the wagon in motion again. The conversation continued, with Jamie and the lass next to him having the lion's share.

"And what are yer names?"

The one seated next to Byrne said, "I'm Betsy, and this is me sister Hannah."

"Sisters, are ye's?" Jamie said, grinning. "'Tis no wonder, I've never seen such a pretty pair as the two of ye's. Which is older?"

The girls giggled. "I am," said Betsy. "By a year."

"Do ye lasses work at yonder mansion?"

"Aye, so we do. We're kitchen maids."

Hannah, next to Declan, chimed in, "Cook sent us to market to buy a ham, parsnips, and...." She looked in sudden consternation at her sister.

"Vinegar," Betsy finished.

"Do ye usually do the marketing?"

Betsy shook her head. "Cook usually goes, but today she's too busy making ready for a grand dinner party, so she sent us...said she couldna trust anyone but us." There was an extended pause during which Jamie and Betsy regarded each other. Then she asked, "Where are ye lads going?"

"To sell these fleeces," Declan said a bit abruptly, and was about to remind Byrne of the need not to be late, but he bit back the brusque remark when he noticed Hannah gazing at him. He was annoyed with Jamie, now discovering on the day of this crucial assignment that the lad was led round by his cock...a fine development...but there was no call to be uncivil to these innocent lasses.

Endeavoring to calm himself with a deep breath, Declan mustered the best genial expression that he could manage. As he prepared to utter a pleasantry to the lass next to him, a faint drumming sound interrupted him. His head swiveled forward, in the direction from whence it had come.

"Did ye hear that?" Jamie asked in a low voice.

"Aye." 'Twas growing louder by the moment...it must be a coach or a group of horses on the road ahead. Declan and Jamie exchanged pointed glances above the lasses' heads. Over his shoulder, Declan saw Michael standing up on top of the load of wool, shading his eyes against the sun as he peered down the road.

"Redcoats!" he hissed and quickly sank down again.

As the rumbling hooves approached, Declan's heart raced beneath his outward composure. They had no contraband at this moment...they were indeed what they appeared: farmers hauling a load of shorn fleeces to the market. Preparing for contingencies as ever, he thought on the small knife in his pocket --- his only weapon. For two years as a guard, he had never ventured out without a pistol, dagger, and sword. Now, unable to openly carry a weapon, he felt naked. Let it not come to defending their party --- lasses, a wee lad, and all!

Byrne steered the wagon as far to the left side of the road as he could as a company of a dozen mounted Redcoats approached at a trot --- Militia cavalry they looked to be. Jamie gave them a brief nod by way of acknowledgment, but it was not to be that easy.

"Company, halt!" barked the man at the front raising his hand. The group of soldiers reined to a stop alongside the wagon.

Declan and the rest of his companions stared silently at the soldiers, as uneasy as even the most innocent citizens would be under such circumstances. Declan took note of the pistols and swords they all carried. At the head of the troop, two men, appearing by their insignia to be the commanding and subordinate officer, deliberately assessed their party. Their eyes moved over the lads, lifted to Michael, then lingered with visible interest on the lasses. At last their attention returned to Declan and Byrne.