Celtic Mist Ch. 10

"Michael Goodwin."

"Are you new in town? I haven't seen you here before."

"Aye, just arrived."

"Where from? You don't sound like you're from here."

Michael hesitated as she whipped the rag back and forth across the leather, recalling her very first conversation as Michael --- with the barkeeper in Bray. Not knowing the extent of their knowledge of Ireland, 'twas best not to dissemble. She quickly adjusted her story. "Ulster originally."

"You're far from home! How do you come to be all the way down here?"

She launched into a version of her own story, but given these soldiers' sympathies, she reversed the roles of Protestant and Catholic. "Well, 'twas my brothers and meself there on our farm. Me two brothers were in a lodge that protected Protestants from the savage Catholic Defenders gangs. There was a battle between the gangs, and me brothers were killed by those bloody taigs."

Michael motioned for the next boot. "Since then, I've been on me own-like. I came here looking for some distant relations, but no luck." She shrugged.

The officers exchanged looks. "An unfortunate history," Filgate said.

Penn agreed. "Alas, there are Defenders gangs here in County Wexford as well, but between the Regulars, Yeomen, Militia, and Orangemen, we've got those dirty Papists well cowed."

Michael's head stayed bent to her task. 'Orangemen' she knew to be the even better organized and more insidious successors to the Peep O'Day Boys who had killed her brothers.

The second man took his position at the crate. As she applied wax to a rag, her gaze traveled from the tip of the sword scabbard hanging at the level of her face, to the scarlet coat, yellow facings, and white shoulder-belt of the man towering above her.

"How tall do ye have to be to join the Militia?" she asked.

Penn raised an eyebrow. "Stand up, lad."

Michael rose to her feet with an eager expression.

The two men eyed her, exchanged looks, then shook their heads. "You must be taller than a musket to enlist. And be able to carry a heavy pack."

"I'm very strong for me size, so I am."

Filgate's countenance was sympathetic. "You've been going hungry for some time, I'd wager. Get some hearty meals in you. With an inch or two more of height, you're in."

Michael glumly squatted to resume the polishing. "Mayhap ye can let me in sooner. I'm ready to crush those bloody Defenders now."

Filgate and Penn laughed, but Filgate slipped her an extra penny before they left.

The third day, Penn and Filgate did not reappear, but evidently had recommended her to their comrades, for four other officers --- two red-coated Militia first, then two blue-coated Yeomen later --- sought her out upon leaving the garrison.

"There's the boot black," one said pointing at her.

Evidently, officers usually cleaned their own boots, but unlike privates, could afford to pay someone to do it for them. A farthing to relinquish this duty was clearly irresistible. As for officers' names, from these four she heard some of the same names as before, and a few new ones, but none was the name Blaylock. She was still not certain however that she had learnt all the commanders' names at this garrison.

In addition to her various activities to fill her idle time between customers, she soon took to observing the routine of the encampment. The soldiers had training drills in the field in the morning and afternoon...the blue-coated ones mounted on horses, the red-coated ones on foot.

Various small detachments of soldiers occasionally left the garrison and headed into the town, led by an officer, apparently to patrol the streets and surrounding roads. There were frequent wagons, driven both by uniformed and non-uniformed men, delivering supplies to the garrison in barrels, sacks, and crates.

Again among the soldiers' tents, Michael spied women cooking, and even a few weans playing. Now too, did she realize that there were other non-military tents at the periphery of the camp...she wandered past and saw that they belonged to civilian merchants who sold various necessities that the soldiers might require.

On the fourth day, Penn and Filgate were back, and this time informed Michael that they had obtained a license for the boot black to work inside the garrison if he could be there at half five in the morning, before the officers dressed for the day. All the officers would pay for his services and give him an extra six pence a week to make it worth his while.

"How many pairs?"

"Twelve."

"When do ye need them by?"

"Seven o'clock."

Michael scratched her chin. "I canna do twelve pairs in that time...maybe six."

"How about doing one half tomorrow morning, and the other half the next --- alternating days?"

"Aye, that would work." Michael tempered her elation at gaining access to garrison, merely nodding.

"Splendid." Filgate handed her a small metal object. "Use this when you enter the garrison."

'Twas a tin token, like a thin coin, but stamped only on one side with a symbol of the crown and the words 'Sutler, Lic. 1798.'

"What is 'sutler'?"

"It means you're a civilian merchant licensed to sell your services to the Crown's forces."

"I'm a sutler. Mr. Sutler, Esquire. Sounds fancy-like," crowed Michael with a grin, flipping the token and catching it in the air. "I'll be there, sir."

Accordingly, at dawn on the fifth day, Michael approached the garrison gate carrying the wooden crate and her knapsack, concealing her apprehension under a sleepy air. In truth, she was as alert as ever --- her life in the convent having well accustomed her to rising at five.

From observing the gate over the past four days, she knew that civilians entering the gated area of the grounds were searched by the sentries...in what appeared to be a perfunctory manner that should not uncover her secret...or so she tried to reassure herself. And yet...she was prepared to bolt if need be.

Dressing that morning, she had taken special care to make the binding on her breasts as flat and smooth as possible and had even tucked a wad of fabric into the front of her drawers. Her knapsack contained only the rags, wax, and a canteen of water. The sewing and knitting supplies, female garments, dagger, and money she left in her room hidden under a floorboard.

The sentries on duty were fortunately two soldiers whom she had seen on a previous day --- who had witnessed her polishing their officers' boots --- and they evidently had orders to expect the boot black. Michael set down the crate and handed over the sutler's token and her knapsack to one sentry.

The other ordered her to stand with her legs apart and her arms out. Her heart pattered as she complied...the next moment the soldier pulled off his gloves and his hands were upon her.

Outwardly she was calm as the large hands ran up and down her arms and checked the pockets of her coat. Then he opened the coat, and his hands were inside, palpating her armpits and sliding over her flanks and back. She kept her eyes averted from his, suppressing the memory of Bruckton's examination. The man's palms grazed over her chest without provoking a reaction from him --- the tightness of the binding and the thickness of the overlying shirt and waistcoat seemed to be working.

From the corner of her eye, she observed the other sentry inspecting the contents of the knapsack and noted that his attention was confined to the interior.

Now the soldier in front of her crouched to search her legs: with one palm on the inside and one on the outside, his hands frisked down then back up over the breeches. Her heart was pounding as his hand neared her crotch. Could he detect her trembling? His face betrayed nothing. Her breath halted as she felt his fingers high on her inner thighs...then they moved on, running over her buttocks and checking the hollow of her groin on each side. Mercifully, he seemed to be as reluctant to touch the lad's privates as Michael was for him to do so.

"Right," he said at last. The knapsack and sutler's token were handed back. "Proceed on the path to the door. You will be met there."

Michael released her breath as she left the sentries behind her.

Inside the still dim building, another soldier --- not an officer but an orderly, she judged --- pointed her to her task. From where they stood in the entry hall, two wings for the officers' accommodations extended in either direction in the long, low building: Militia in one wing, Yeomen in the other, so the soldier informed her. The wings were mirror images of each other, consisting of a stark hall flanked by three doors on each side and one door at the end. Outside every other door along the sides was a pair of boots --- six pairs total. Aye, her work was cut out for her!

"You can work in the yard out back if you need more light," the soldier said and left her to it.

The officers must yet be abed, for no one was about save the orderly as Michael began her task, sitting on the crate in the cobblestoned yard behind the building. From here she could see in the early light the stables and the rows of tents for the rank-and-file soldiers...could see the women presently emerge and stoke the firepits to begin cooking.

'Twas different polishing a boot without the owner's leg inside to support it, she discovered. On the one hand, she no longer was obliged to kneel before the hated oppressors...nor to contend with the disconcerting bulging contours of their privates in their breeches right before her face. On the other hand, she now had to slide one arm into the boot to brace it...and had not the opportunity to listen to their conversations.

With irony she pondered the fact that this was a considerable amount of work to be doing for the enemy...damn, she should have charged more!

Michael quickly made the happy discovery that the owners' names were written inside the boot shafts. By God, the officers' names were here at her disposal! She grinned. Well, at least half of them anyway. Most were names that she had already overheard on the sidewalk, none being Blaylock. Tomorrow she would presumably see the other half of the names.

As she returned the boots to the hall, she realized that neither of the doors at the far, opposite ends of the hall had boots outside of it. These doors were further distinguished in having a brass plaque affixed to them. On the Militia side the plaque read 'North Cork' and had a symbol of the crown and the intertwined letters 'G' and 'R' in a fancy script. On the Yeomanry plaque, the same symbols and letters were surmounted by the words 'Gorey Cavalry'. These must the chambers of the commanding officers! Perhaps tomorrow she would see the names in their boots.

At the conclusion of her labors, the orderly who had met her at the door paid her the agreed wages. Through the front gate and past the sentries, Michael headed away along the street.

She had done it! She had gotten into the garrison, masquerading as a lad right under the enemy's nose!

* * * * *

The following morning Michael returned to the garrison. Along the sides of the hall, she did indeed find six pairs of boots...but again none were outside the doors with the brass plaques. Eagerly she checked the names in this group of boots but found not her quarry's.

Over the next several days, she arrived every morning to polish six pairs of boots, but never found a pair upon the commanding officers' thresholds. These two men were the only ones of whose names she was yet in ignorance. Each morning she eyed the doors with the plaques...could Blaylock be behind one?

Damn! If only she could be here later in the morning when the officers must emerge from their chambers! She had been leaving promptly after receiving her wages, but now as she grew more confident in her disguise, Michael dared to delay her departure with an elaborate routine of washing out her rags --- a ploy that evoked no rebuke and allowed her to observe many of the officers after they had left their chambers...but still not the two in question.

Aoife had been apprehensive at being ensconced behind walls with dozens of soldiers --- what would happen if her secret were discovered? But it soon became apparent that the dirty urchin hauling boots between the hall and the yard was all but invisible to the men, and she began to feel a guarded ease in her role.

A week later, sitting upon the crate in the courtyard, Michael was yet pondering the mystery of the two bootless, brass-plaqued doors. The last boot of the morning was gripped between her knees, and the cloth was a blur under her flying hand.

"There's our future recruit," said a familiar voice behind her.

She looked up to see the officer Filgate grinning at her.

"Hullo, sir."

"How are you getting on, Michael?"

"Right well. Thank ye for arranging it."

"'Tis I who must thank you. You shine my boots better than I ever could."

Michael adjusted the boot between her knees. "Are there any other officers coming to the garrison? I could use all the coins I can get."

Filgate shook his head. "None to my knowledge. Bowen and Fetherston are only just arrived, so we're full up on officers."

"Whose are the doors at the end? Dinna they want their boots polished?"

"Oh no, they have their own manservants to take care of their uniforms and boots."

Disappointed at having failed to elicit the names, Michael tried again. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Do ye reckon yer commander...what's his name?"

"Lieutenant Swayne."

Ah ha! "Do ye reckon I could talk to Lieutenant Swayne about joining soon?"

Filgate smiled. "I think I had better broach the subject, Michael. We have an officers' meeting in a few minutes, so it will have to wait for a less pressed occasion."

Michael nodded. "Ta." Now she only had one name left to procure: that of the Yeomanry commander.

After Filgate returned to the building, Michael finished the boot and placed the polished pair in front of the owner's door. Heading back to the yard to collect her supplies, she passed the open door of a spacious room with a long table, presently unoccupied. A conjecture prompted an idea: perhaps this was where the officers' meeting to which Filgate had alluded was to happen. If she dallied longer than usual, she might glimpse the unknown Yeoman commander.

Michael lingered in the yard, washing out her rags with water hauled up from the well by the stable. In the field on her right, the rank-and-file soldiers were assembling in rows for the morning formation with the sergeants, whilst inside the garrison, officers were visible through the open door, gathering in the hall next to the room with the table. No one voiced an objection to her continued presence on the grounds.

At last, Michael judged the moment had arrived. She wrung out the rags, stuffed them in her knapsack and re-entered the building, edging past the officers, murmuring, "Pardon, sirs."

From the Yeomen's hall came the brisk tromp of approaching boots.

Michael slowed --- there striding towards her was a tall man, followed by an orderly. The splendor of his silver braid encrusted blue uniform left no doubt as to his identity: the previously unseen Yeo commander...and 'twas not Blaylock.

Michael stumbled back out of the man's way, wondering if she should salute. Inanely, her old training returned unbidden: the former Drumlevy Manor laundry maid began to curtsey --- then hastily converted it into an awkward bow. The man swept past her.

Blaylock was not at the Gorey garrison.

'Twas time to take to the road and head for the next garrison --- which she had learnt was seven miles southwest in the town of Camolin.

Although she might simply depart Gorey, it seemed more prudent to not give rise to any ill-will that might precede her to other garrisons. After completing her work the following morning, she loitered about to speak to Filgate, informing him that she had obtained information that the distant relations she had been seeking might live near Camolin. To Camolin then did Michael intend to go.

"Well, damn! You'll be sorely missed, Michael. But of course, you must go to your family. If you find them not, you are always welcome to return here."

Michael slung her bag over her shoulder. "If I do find them, do ye think the garrison there might need a boot black similar-like?"

Filgate grinned. "You're an enterprising lad. I'm certain that if they haven't yet considered it, they will be delighted with the service posthaste. I'll write you a note of introduction to give to one Lieutenant Bookey there. And show him your sutler's token as well."

Michael experienced the disconcerting thought that Filgate seemed to be an amiable young man --- even if he was a Protestant. 'Twas a sensation she had experienced before, when the Reverend Shaw and his wife had shielded her from the coarse advances of the students on the stagecoach from Ulster. Aye, the United Irishmen might indeed be possessed of wisdom to advocate for Protestant and Catholic brotherhood.

* * * * *

Armed with Filgate's letter, Michael packed her belongings at the inn and took to the road. After a walk of some three hours through farmland, she arrived in Camolin, where she secured lodging and made her preparations to present herself at the garrison.

Stationed here was a Yeomanry cavalry company, and the garrison was similar in configuration to that in Gorey town. Lieutenant Filgate's mark in the wax of the sealed letter earned her an audience with Lieutenant Bookey --- after a far less alarming frisking by the sentries here than at Gorey. The boot-polishing proposition was to the lieutenant's liking, and a similar arrangement was arrived at...save for the fewer number of officers in this company.

Over the course of a week, Michael worked diligently at her task as she observed the activity of the encampment and learnt the names of the officers --- no Blaylock. She could not pose the query openly, but from the overheard chatter of the soldiers, she discovered no evidence either of an incoming officer.

Having eliminated this garrison, at least for now, she was eager to be on her way and explained to Bookey that she must continue the search for her relations. In anticipation of this event, Michael had already --- when she had first met with the lieutenant --- planted the seed of her working to support herself as she traveled in search of her family.

Michael shifted from foot to foot awkwardly whilst requesting a character letter --- not wishing to call the man's attention to a pattern, she neglected to mention that it would be used at the garrison in the nearby town of Ferns.

Lieutenant Bookey quickly penned a note and gave it to her.

As at Camolin, the officer's seal upon the letter facilitated her entry into the Ferns garrison where were stationed both Militia and Yeomanry companies as had been the case in Gorey. Yeoman Captain Smyth approved Michael's enterprise on behalf of the garrison. Michael smiled to herself as the arrangements were agreed upon and he oriented her to the officers' quarters.