Celtic Mist Ch. 08

No enlightenment was forthcoming. After gazing round the dark street for some time, Declan at length admitted defeat and headed for Foley's tavern.

* * * * *

Even as Declan's suspicions about Michael were burgeoning, the company was in a state of uproar over the tidings from the neighboring counties.

The new commander of the Crown's forces, General Lake, had made good on his reputation as the merciless author of the dragooning of Ulster. He had ordered abandoned the "free quarters" policy of pressuring the rebels to yield their weapons and had instead instituted his preferred tactics of unbridled terror.

Reports were pouring in from Counties Kildare, Kilkenny, Wicklow, Meath, Tipperary, King's and Queen's: an onslaught of "croppy-hunts" by the Militia, Yeomanry, and Scotch Fencibles was underway, replete with house-burnings, floggings, half-hangings, pitch-cappings, and other means of torture to extort confessions about weapons. Wooden triangles had been erected in town squares to make public displays of suspects being persuaded by the cat o' nine tails. So unchecked was the savagery that there was even tell of the Crown's soldiers shooting victims as they fled their burning homes.

For Fleetwood's company, the news, far from striking them with fear or swaying them from their purpose, had the effect of fortifying their bitter resolve to bring down Ireland's oppressors. Before commencing drills, the men shouted the catechism of the United Irishmen en masse --- their voices ringing vigorously in the misty glen. They set to the daily training with renewed fury.

With the rising anticipated to begin any day now, and the Crown's campaign of terror underway in the neighboring counties, coordination with the other United Irish companies and allied Defenders lodges in the county was urgent.

On the morning of May 8th, when Declan arrived at the farm, he was immediately summoned to join Captain Fleetwood and the other officers by the barn, where the two horses were saddled and waiting. Fleetwood was riding to Wexford town to meet with the commander of the company there, Bolger was taking the other horse to Boolavogue, and Declan was to walk to Ballaghkeen. Foley and Coe would remain at the farm to supervise the ongoing preparations. Fleetwood gave Bolger and Declan each a letter and orders.

Declan set off at once. His destination, Ballaghkeen, was nigh an hour and a half journey to the east. As he strode down the lane away from the farm, whom should he chance to see but Michael approaching from the opposite direction, brandishing a stick in his hand like a sword. Declan's gut tensed, but as their eyes met, he bade him good morning.

"Where are ye off to in such a rush?" Michael asked.

Inquisitive devil, so he was! But by God, he was damned if he revealed anything further to him! "Oh, just back to town...there's a broken tap at the tavern." Declan nodded briskly and continued on his way, after a couple of minutes stealing a glance back at Michael crossing the front yard of the farm. Aye, as soon as he returned from his mission to Ballaghkeen, he would share his suspicions about their supposed spy with Fleetwood.

And come darkness, he would resume his vigil outside of Blaylock's Yeomanry garrison.

Declan's pace was animated by the beating tension of anticipation: not only was the rebellion days away, but Blaylock was in his sights! The sun soon rose full, burning off the mist and revealing the sheep and cattle grazing in the lush pastures...peacefully ignorant of the powder keg of Ireland under them. A detour round a muddy stretch of road slowed his progress, and he arrived in Ballaghkeen two hours later.

There he met with a man named Eoin Gallagher, who was the master of the local Defenders' lodge, and a blacksmith to boot. Their meeting took place in the man's forge, where Declan gave him the letter from Fleetwood, and they debated how best to coordinate troops the night of the rising whilst studying a map they had drawn upon the back of Fleetwood's letter. Over the next two hours they talked numbers, communication, and weapons --- eventually shaking hands over the outlines of a plan.

On his return journey, Declan took a different route to avoid the muddy stretch of road that had delayed his outbound walk. He made good time on the alternate road and anticipated reaching the farm in the late afternoon --- in plenty of time to meet with Fleetwood and make his report of the meeting with Gallagher. All in all, it had been a successful exchange that Declan judged had achieved Fleetwood's purpose. And 'twas essential to discuss Michael "McArdle" with him.

The landscape grew hillier and more wooded as Declan proceeded. By and by he reached the summit of a gentle rise in the terrain and was following the road's curve to the left where it skirted past some woods, when a faint drumming sound fixed his attention. In alarm, he scoured the surroundings.

From his elevated vantage point, he quickly identified the source of the sound: far behind him on the road, he spied a group of mounted soldiers --- their scarlet coats appreciable even from this distance. Only a moment of debate was necessary ere Declan leapt from the road and darted into the woods.

Fresh in his mind were the brutal "croppy hunts" underway in the neighboring counties to root out the rebels. Although no longer in possession of Fleetwood's incriminating letter with the map on the back --- Gallagher and he had burnt it --- he was carrying his flintlock and dagger in his knapsack, the discovery of which in conjunction with his short hair, would most assuredly be his undoing. After the encounter two weeks ago with the Militia on the way to McBride's in Wexford town, 'twas best to take no chances.

Declan wove among tree trunks in the dense woods, finally halting behind a massive oak, where he caught his breath and listened to the approaching hoofbeats. Had they spotted him? He'd wager not --- at that distance he'd had the advantage of the hill, and the muted colors of his garments would have blended with the woods and fields in the background.

He waited...and waited....the pulse beating in his fingertips against the bark...

Tromp, tromp, tromp, tromp.

He peered round the trunk. Through the intervening trees, he observed the detachment of Militia cavalry trot by and continue on the road towards Enniscorthy. They did not pause. He stood motionless till the rhythmic beat of the hooves had completely receded, then he allowed his breath to ease and leant back against the tree.

As his heartbeat slowed, he gradually became aware of the sounds of the woods about him --- wind rustling leaves, scattered birds' calls, and squirrels shaking small branches. After a few minutes of contemplation, he began walking. There was no visible path among the trees --- using his compass, he headed in the direction of Fleetwood's farm, choosing to remain in the cover of the forest rather than chance the open road so soon in the wake of the soldiers.

Within a few paces, Declan beheld on the ground before him a long, black feather with its spine pointing deeper into the shadowy woods before him. He halted and cast his eyes about cautiously. No crow did he spy...and the only birdsong he heard was a melodic warble of a finch. He picked up the feather. Turning it between his fingertips, the dappled light from above brought out the iridescent blues and greens of the ebon quill. Was it a sign from the Morrigan? The winged goddess of fate and death who had appeared to him in the past...was she again guiding him?

He advanced in the direction the feather had pointed, walking among ancient oaks whose knobby trunks were covered with moss and breathing deeply of the cool, mist-scented air. 'Twas clearly the hilly terrain that had protected these woods from the farmer's axe, thank God! Such a miraculous place it seemed --- untouched by the chaos and cruelty of mankind...a place so pure that it could bring a troubled soul into communion with a transcendent clarity. The last time he had been in a similar, enchanted forest had been with Aoife eight months ago...when he had carried her, and she had tended the laceration on his face...her fingers soft against his skin. His heart swelled in remembrance.

But, another woods from further in his past presently came to mind --- the one in which the Duchess of P—'s coach had been waylaid by a band of highwaymen, and he in his duty as a guardsman had slain two of them. Declan wondered now who those men had been...had they truly been rank riders or could they have been rebels bent on acquiring supplies? He had not long thought on the matter at the time.

He took stock of his life: he was twenty years old and had killed four men: the two highwaymen, Fitzgibbons, and Burrows. Not the slightest remorse could he evoke on behalf of the last two. He thought on how he used to go to confession as a wee lad before his family was murdered. With the fast-approaching rebellion, he pondered whether he should go make his confession before the battle began. His fingers slowly rotated the spine of the black feather. No --- he could not in good conscience accept absolution when he intended to kill again. Obliged he was to let his sins pile up a wee bit longer.

A motion far ahead of him among the trees caught his eye.

Declan halted and stared into the green shadows. There it was again --- a shape darting between tree trunks. At first, he thought it was an animal such as a deer or a wolf, but when it next appeared, he made out the form of a human, roughly heading in his direction. Declan sidestepped behind the cover of an oak. Could one of the soldiers have doubled back to find him? There was no telltale red coat, and yet...

Remembering the telescope in his knapsack, he drew it out and braced himself against the trunk to point it in the direction of the motion.

The figure moved now across his field of vision, and Declan steadied the scope to follow its movement. As it passed between two trees, he saw 'twas a young man...not in a red coat but in simple workaday garb. Then he saw the dirty face and spectacles and realized who the intruder was: Michael McArdle! The wheels spun in Declan's mind. He estimated that they were presently some forty minutes' walk east of Fleetwood's farm. Michael must have proceeded here after his exertions at the farm.

But why? Judging by his previous two experiences following him, the scamp apparently lived in Enniscorthy town...in the opposite direction from these woods. Putting away the telescope, Declan hastened after him, keeping trees between them and his footsteps soundless on the soft, mossy ground. Mayhap he had a rendezvous with a British official to whom he was passing intelligence. Declan might catch him red-handed!

He closed the distance between them whilst keeping concealed. 'Twas evident from Michael's purposeful gait that he had a definite destination in mind and was not simply ambling in the woods. Moreover, his repeated glances about him indicated that he was wary of being seen.

Over the next ten minutes, Declan followed him through increasingly rugged and more densely wooded terrain, with pines soon outnumbering the oaks. By and by, he became aware of the sound of flowing water, and realized that they were following a stream that was just on the other side of a wall of evergreens, rocks, and heavy undergrowth. After a few moments, Michael halted, and with a last cautious look about him, ducked under the low hanging pine boughs.

Declan delayed a few seconds ere approaching the spot where the lad had disappeared; here he crouched and peered through the foliage. Michael was pushing tree branches aside and climbing over stones a few paces ahead.

Maintaining his cover among the greenery, Declan crept forward, the soft crunch of his shoes upon leaves and twigs masked by the increasing sound of rushing water. When Michael came to a stop with his back to him, Declan froze behind a stone and adjacent clump of ferns.

Through the shrouding trees and shrubs, he beheld his quarry standing on the bank of a stream, just below a waterfall --- its generous spill plummeting some ten feet down to a flat stone. From its frothy base, a pool among the stones extended perhaps fifteen feet long and ten feet wide, terminating in a small rapids where the water flowed down the next rocky drop-off downstream. Surrounded by the thick cover of trees, 'twas an ideal place for a clandestine meeting --- secluded, remote, and with conversational privacy assured by the encompassing sound of the falls. However, no other person was in sight. If Michael was meeting someone, they were not yet present.

The lad shrugged off his knapsack and set it upon a boulder, then removed his hat and spectacles, placing the one inside the other and setting them on the stone as well. He rummaged inside the bag and withdrew a small object that he bent to place on one of the moss-covered stones in the bank of the pool. Declan could not discern what it was --- it did not appear to be a weapon. Michael tossed his threadbare coat atop the knapsack.

When he next kicked off his shoes without bothering to unbuckle them, then bent to tug off his stained stockings, Declan at once understood what his secret mission was. The furtive glances as he had walked through the woods were not heralding a covert appointment but were to assure himself of his solitude whilst he undressed to bathe.

Whether he was Michael McArdle or Michael Goodwin, whether he was spying for them or upon them, he was --- for as long as Declan had known him --- in perpetual want of a bath. He would give the grimy wretch his privacy to proceed thus. As Declan turned to make his stealthy retreat, Michael pulled his shirt off, and what was revealed halted Declan in mid-motion.

When he glimpsed the wide band of white linen wrapped round the slim torso, his initial supposition was that Michael had sustained a pike injury during one of the training drills. But it soon became apparent as the quick fingers unknotted the fabric and began unwrapping it, that there was an unmistakable fullness subdued within. Declan was dumfounded --- Michael was a lass?

Round and round the hands unwound the binding fabric...the suspense was intolerable. At last the final wraps of linen were loosened...Declan held his breath...the fabric was whipped aside. A pair of pert teats bounced gloriously free. His heart ka-thumped in his chest. By God, Michael was no lad at all!

Who then was this lass? His eyes traced over her naked breasts...such lovely breasts they were indeed...restrained in volume, but so lusciously round and proud and tipped by small pink nipples. Even as his body stirred and an ethereal thread tugged at the deepest recesses of his mind, he yet possessed enough wherewithal to pose the same crucial question: where did her sympathies lie? Was she or was she not spying on the rebel forces?

He watched as she stripped off the worn, grey knee breeches to uncover a pair of plain linen drawers. A moment later, she slid the undergarment down too, her back towards his hiding place. Through the intervening lattice of green needles Declan viewed in wonder the descending cloth bare her slender waist, curved hips, and round bottom.

She now stood stark naked, her back towards him --- a young maiden with a petite, nubile form. A moment later, she turned to place the drawers on the stone and Declan had the answer to the question of her loyalties.

There at the junction of her strong, lithe thighs, a little flame of red curls cavorted upon the curve of her mound! The onslaught of recognition was so powerful that the joy and desire welled up in his eyes, throat, and groin, and he had to restrain himself from crying out her name.

He would know that fine, stubborn face and enticing body anywhere! So many months had the image of them illumined his most jealously guarded thoughts.

Declan gazed at the partial view of her face as she raised her arms and reached behind her head to free the bedraggled ribbon securing her hair back in a lad's queue. There was no doubt --- under the dirty smudges was Aoife's beautiful face. And yet...here for three weeks he had unknowingly been in her company...talking to her, training with her, traveling with her to Wexford town! He was stunned at the success of her disguise. In addition to the male garments, she had cut her long hair to the level of mid-shoulder blade and had somehow dyed brown its fiery red hue.

Aoife now stepped up onto a stone at the edge of the stream. Declan stared transfixed at her unclad beauties. Dimly, he was aware that the same impulse to give Michael his privacy should be extended to her as well, but by God he could not help himself! The lass who commanded his heart and indeed his very vitals here stood as naked as the day she was born! God forgive him! 'Twas ironic that the very first lass whom he had beheld in such a state should now, eight months later, be the second.

Such was his last cogent thought ere he abandoned himself to the unparalleled vision before him. All the useful blood in his body was presently taking up residence in his ever-expanding organ.

Through the foliage, he feasted upon a partial side view of her as she stood poised upon a stone some two feet above the water's edge. Her lissome figure was most provocatively graced by the protrusion of her small, coy breasts in front and her impudently curved buttocks behind. The moment of contemplation abruptly terminated with a tensing of her muscles as her knees bent and her arms raised --- she launched herself off the stone and dived headfirst into the pool.

Declan watched in wonder. She must have had previous knowledge of the pool's depth to make so bold a dive! For several moments there was naught but the restless surface of the water --- she was too long under --- why had she not surfaced?! He started up, ready to leap in after her, when her face broke the surface with a gasping laugh. Down again he sank to the ground. She began moving to and fro in the pool with sinuous motions of her arms and small kicks that intermittently bubbled the water's surface.

Keeping an eye on her, Declan took the opportunity to steal closer to the pool. In a low crouch he pushed through the undergrowth and climbed over rocks till he discovered a more advantageous post for observation. Between two large stones was a hidden space perpendicular to the stream. The back end was enclosed by tree trunks and stones, whilst the front end faced the pool, screened by a stand of yellow irises and ferns on the ground, and drooping pine boughs above.

Adjusting himself in his straining breeches, Declan knelt in the thick layer of pine needles, and between the plants, found a mostly clear line of sight upon the stream a few feet before him.

Aoife was sporting in the water now, repeatedly thrusting up and ducking her head under to upend herself in the pool --- her little white feet momentarily kicking above the surface --- before somersaulting back up. Several times as her bottom rotated out of the water, Declan glimpsed a flash of pink between her legs, causing his cock to groan in its confines.

By and by, she ceased playing and paddled to the stone to retrieve the object that she had there placed. He could see her teeth chattering --- aye, no doubt 'twas cold. Holding the object, she swam the few feet upstream and clambered out of the water to ascend to the flat stone upon which the falls tumbled. Here she stood, her pale, glistening body misted by the falling water just next to her and her nipples standing tight.

She now began to bathe in earnest. The object proved to be a piece of soap, Declan realized as she used it to briskly work her hair into a lather...her wet breasts jiggling with her motions. The suds soon darkened as the tint lifted from her hair, and she eventually tilted her head back into the falls, eyes shut, to rinse the soap away.