Celtic Mist Ch. 10

She commenced the following morning, girding herself for another round of surveillance.

Notwithstanding the success so far of her boot-polishing ploy in methodically obtaining the names of officers, all did not always proceed swimmingly. Moments of anxiety and embarrassment abounded. In addition to the daily search of her person by the sentries, there was ever present the worry that she might have to tend to her bodily needs whilst at the garrison --- on a few occasions she had been obliged to concede to the urgency and had ducked into the shrubs at the edge of the camp to relieve herself.

Quickly she had mastered the maneuver. Instead of dropping her breeches and drawers to her ankles as she had naively done back in September in Declan's company, she now slid them down only to her lower thighs. Squatting fully, she lowered her naked cunny nigh to the ground, below the level of the crotch of her garments. By such, she avoided splashing her clothes, and if surprised in the act, the position --- with her coat tails hanging over her bare bottom and her hands dangling between her thighs --- minimized the view of her privates and allowed a faster yanking up of her garments.

The latter she had learnt one morning when the crunch of leaves underfoot gave her only the briefest warning of a soldier's intrusion...evidently in the shrubs for the same reason. She jerked her breeches up in panic even as the young Redcoat turned abruptly away saying, "Have your shit, lad. I'll hie myself over here."

As for the sentries' searches, none had discovered her secret yet --- which did not speak well of the shrewdness of the Crown's forces. But what was lacking in discernment, Michael doubted not was more than compensated for by brutality.

She also contended with recurring embarrassing incidents with soldiers. From her crate in the yard, she oft observed soldiers emerge from tents and step up to nearby trees to piss --- the distance usually saving her from too close a view of the proceedings.

Another time she was not so lucky.

One morning in Camolin as she bent to place a pair of boots before a door, the adjacent door flew open and she beheld an officer clad only in his breeches --- the flap of which, along with that of his drawers --- was open, giving her a discomfiting view at face level of light brown curls surrounding the root of his organ.

"I thought I heard you out here. Michael, is it? I forgot to put my boots out, and I have a meeting with the Colonel in a quarter hour. Come in here and do them quick."

Reluctantly Michael entered and set to work, sitting on her crate and keeping her eyes upon her task --- inwardly flinching as the bare-chested man a few feet away pulled his cock out to piss into a chamber pot before hastily donning the rest of his uniform.

Sometimes she had to bite her tongue to contain her ire when she heard derisive and cruel remarks about her compatriots.

In Gorey, one of the Militia officers had detained her on the back steps as she was packing her knapsack to go. "Hold up a moment. I've just scuffed my boot and need a quick refurbishing." He raised his booted foot.

Michael retrieved the crate and a rag and knelt at the man's feet. As she worked, he was joined by another officer, also with an English accent.

Their conversation quickly turned to their entertainments of the previous evening. "So, did you slip in Willie Wallace last night after we left?"

The other chuckled. "That I did."

"Not with that red-headed maid at Flanagan's tavern? How much cajolery did that take?"

"A fair bit...but a little gold eased the way most remarkably." They laughed.

"What the Devil, Fetherston --- I don't understand why you bother with the flirting if you're paying anyway. There are whores aplenty at the bawdy house."

The other shrugged and responded in kind. "I don't understand why you pay for whores when you can find a fresh Irish wench so poor and desperate that you can buy her virtue for a shilling."

Michael gritted her teeth but kept her face down.

On a different occasion in Camolin, she overheard an officer encouraging a comrade to commission a new cloak at a clothier's shop in town. When the man responded that he hadn't the funds for it, he was advised to take it on credit and not trouble himself about paying --- everyone was doing it --- after all, "we are the ones with the guns."

In addition to such instances of abusing the populace, there were the ever-recurring officers' jeering references to Catholics as ignorant savages or dirty Papists who needed to be kept in their place --- even whilst a large portion of the men they commanded was Irish Catholic. Aye, 'twas a blatant indictment of the state of Ireland under English rule, that the Catholic citizens were so destitute that even the meager wages offered by the army could persuade them to fight against their own interests.

In this vein, Michael had learnt more about the hard life of the rank-and-file soldiers compared to the officers --- they were paid a wage but were expected to feed themselves. Thus the presence of camp-followers.

In her former life, Aoife had assumed the term referred to prostitutes who serviced the bawdy needs of the soldiers; but now she understood that 'camp followers' included a variety of civilians who supported the soldiers and the company, including wives to cook, clean, and tend the wounded...tradesmen such as carpenters, teamsters, and blacksmiths...and merchants who sold fresh food, liquor, and dry goods from their tents and booths.

Evidence of the army's contempt for and exploitation of the Irish people was not the only thing Michael's espionage uncovered. Although she had infiltrated the garrisons in order to find Blaylock, she realized that, simply by carrying out her boot-polishing duties, she had access to intelligence about the Crown's military corps that would be useful to such organizations as the United Irishmen and the Defenders --- intelligence such as numbers and routines of soldiers and officers, quantity of cannons and horses, maneuvers being drilled, and supply operations. She often inadvertently overheard plans for excursions outside the garrison...and reckoned that if she deliberately eavesdropped, she could learn much more.

Alas, she knew not any anti-Crown forces with whom to share this information.

As she prosecuted her mission of vengeance, Michael observed everywhere about her the increasing unrest among the people --- the same unrest that she had felt brewing in Dublin when she was at the convent.

At the garrisons, she heard the officers' discussions of croppies and rebels in the neighboring counties raiding the homes of the gentry to seize weapons...heard their debates upon the best tactics to disarm the insurgents...and heard their conjectures about rebel activity in County Wexford.

More than once Michael had to hide her fury when she overheard the officers endorsing the Crown's scheme of deliberately inflaming Protestant citizens throughout the isle with petrifying rumors of Catholics intending to massacre them.

The effectiveness of such strategies was apparent as Michael walked through the streets, went to markets, or ate in taverns. She saw the dire predictions that headed newspapers and heard the frightened and bellicose chatter of the people: the Papist United Irishmen would murder them in their beds and rape their wives and daughters --- the military must be expanded, the suspected rebels must be rooted out and executed.

On March 30th, great indeed was the exultation of the officers at the garrison when the campaign of fear yielded fruit in the establishment of martial law throughout Ireland. The significance of this development was a topic of much uneasy speculation...even in seemingly loyal County Wexford.

The nights were Aoife's only times of respite --- at least whilst awake. Safe in her humble room at an inn, she released the linen binding round her breasts, stretching and breathing deeply. Then with a cloth and washbasin she bathed, taking care to keep the soap out of her hair, lest it lift the brown dye.

But once she fell asleep, the dreams came: Blaylock was at the garrison and she had failed to spot him, or he had changed his name, or she found him but her arms were bizarrely too weak to wield the dagger, or her secret was discovered and she was standing stripped naked in the courtyard as the company of leering and hooting soldiers closed in.

* * * * *

Despite Aoife's apprehensions, all was proceeding tolerably well so far at the Ferns garrison --- within a few days, she knew most of the officers' names and was keeping her ears open for the remainder. With much excitement had she also heard tidings of a new Militia captain soon to be arriving, and she awaited his appearance on tenterhooks.

On her third day, Captain Smyth offered Michael further employment working in the stable, which she accepted with alacrity --- her funds from selling her hair would not last forever, and she was keen to supplement them. In the previous two towns, she had augmented her earnings by plying her polishing service on the streets after her work was done each day at the garrisons.

One morning after completing the boots, she was in the stables mucking a stall when two Yeo officers --- Lyndon and Lefroy --- entered and called for their horses. As the groom readied their mounts, Michael could hear the officers' conversation on the other side of the stall door.

"'Twas some fine intelligence your spy provided. How did he infiltrate the Defenders? Is he a Protestant masquerading as a Catholic?"

"No, he's Catholic --- he was already a member of the lodge. Money was the trick: even the most devoted taig's loyalties can be purchased for a price."

"Ha! We'll at last catch these ignorant rick-burners red-handed."

Michael listened with all her ears as she continued sifting the straw with a shovel.

"I cannot wait to behold their faces when they discover that their secret delivery of muskets will come with a surprise of forty Yeomen!" They snickered.

The groom led their horses over. There was a pause as a horse snorted, then the creak of leather as they swung astride. "I'll give the orders to Sergeant Wheeler. We'll assemble here and be ready to depart at ten tonight."

"Aye. Who can foretell, Lyndon --- perhaps we might even earn a medal if we capture the leader."

"Perhaps. But I think we might let the men practice with their new pistols on the rest of the lot."

They rode away laughing, leaving the unseen Michael standing motionless in the stall, gripping the shovel handle, frozen by the import of what she had overheard. The Yeomen were raiding a Defenders lodge tonight...whilst they were receiving contraband weapons...and they intended to slaughter her Catholic brethren!

By God, she could not stand by! She must warn them somehow!

In agitation Michael rushed through her work. How could she find a member of the Defenders? She knew from her brothers' involvement that it was a secret society --- one could not simply approach someone on the street and ask for directions to their meeting house...or ask who the lodge master was.

An idea seized her as she hurried from the garrison in the early afternoon. She'd wager the town's priest would know how to find the local Defenders members --- but no doubt he would not easily relinquish the information to an unknown lad who might be a spy for the Crown. Aye, she would need to convince him of her loyalties without compromising her disguise.

At a butcher shop with a Catholic name on the sign, Michael obtained directions to the mass house in Ferns, and she hastened to the simple wooden house bereft of any signifiers of its purpose.

Inside was a plain room with rows of pews and an altar --- nary a soul was in sight. "Father!" she cried. "Is anyone here?"

There were muffled footsteps from behind a door to the left of the altar; a moment later it opened, and a man emerged garbed in simple black garments. He was a short man of about forty, with a round face and a ring of reddish blond hair round a balding pate. "I am Father Aspel. What is the trouble, lad?"

"There's a plot afoot to harm the Defenders! I must warn them, but dinna know where to find them!"

"Here now, calm yourself. Sit down. What are you on about? Start from the beginning. What is your name?"

They sat in the first pew.

"Me name is Michael McArdle." She borrowed a name from a family she had known growing up. "I work at the garrison as a boot black and a stable boy. This morning I overheard the Yeomen officers planning a raid upon the Defenders lodge --- they mean to arrest them or kill them! We must warn them, Father!"

Father Aspel merely regarded her with a calm expression.

"Please, you must believe me! I'm a Catholic. I was baptized in Benburb town. Me brothers were members of the Defenders in County Armagh --- their lodge master was James Duffy. They were comrades with Sean McGarry! They were killed at the Battle of the Diamond."

The priest's eyes were glinting with interest although his staid demeanor was unaltered --- 'twas unclear if the names signified anything to him. "The Battle of the Diamond, ye say? You're claiming that your brothers were Defenders --- killed by Protestants --- and yet you're working for the garrison?" he observed shrewdly.

Michael felt her cheeks warm. She cleared her throat. "Well...I-I'm spying-like. I'm pretending to be a Protestant whilst searching for the British officer who...murdered me sister's family."

A solemn, but not unsympathetic expression came over Father Aspel's countenance. "I know not what you intend, Michael, but if you are indeed a Catholic you must know that justice is the purview of God: 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

Michael's fists clenched. "Aye, I do."

They stared at each other silently for a moment, then Michael pleaded, "Please, Father, will ye not help me warn them afore they're slain?"

Father Aspel drummed his fingers upon his knee. Abruptly he stood. "Aye, I'll take you to someone. Come along."

Leaving the mass house, he led them back through the center of town and to a narrow street on the east side of the square where they entered a carpenter's shop with the name Sheehan on the sign. They were in a tiny, presently unoccupied front office. "Wait here," Father Aspel instructed, and disappeared behind a door at the back, from whence could be heard hammers and saws.

Michael paced back and forth in the small room, fists thrust in her pockets, eyes darting repeatedly to the lengthening afternoon shadows visible through the window. What the Devil was taking so long?!

She could endure the suspense no longer --- she burst through the door and found herself in a shop where three men employed at workbenches looked up at her curiously. Through the windows at the far end of the space, she spotted Father Aspel standing with two men in the yard, engrossed in conversation.

She ran through the shop and clattered through the rear door.

"Please, you must make haste! The Yeomen know about the musket delivery tonight! They mean to catch ye at it! You must halt it!"

The two men looked at her sharply. They were both about thirty years of age and dressed in the garb of working folk --- one wearing a coat and hat, and the other coatless with a leather apron and shirt sleeves rolled above brawny forearms, apparently another carpenter.

"What say you, now? How do ye ken they know?" demanded the carpenter.

Michael recounted the morning's incident in the stable, the words tumbling out: the officers' names, their conversation as near as she could remember. As the men continued to eye her with suspicion, she repeated what she had told Father Aspel about being Catholic, her brothers, the Battle of the Diamond, the reason for her presence in the garrison.

The two men exchanged looks.

The carpenter nodded curtly. "Well then, ye've warned us." He glanced at the priest. "Father, will ye keep this lad at the mass house till we know the truth of the matter?" The carpenter's blue eyes bore into Michael's. "Ye'd best be telling the truth, lad. We've no mercy for spies and turncoats."

Michael and Father Aspel left for the mass house as the two men rode off on horses.

The afternoon soon turned into evening and the evening to night as they waited, the priest writing at the desk in his study with the door open, intermittently glancing in her direction. No inclination had Michael to flee. Wrought with apprehension as to the fate of the Defenders lodge, she alternately paced up and down the aisle and fidgeted upon a pew.

In the wee hours of the morning, they were both nodding off when the front door swung open. In strode the carpenter and his companion, prompting Michael and Father Aspel to their feet with expressions of eager inquiry.

The carpenter met Michael's eyes and nodded. "Thank ye, Michael McArdle." He held out his hand. "Donal Sheehan, lodge master of the Ferns Defenders." They shook hands.

"What happened?" asked the Father.

"'Twas as Michael said. We diverted the lads transporting the muskets --- just in time. Our meeting started at half nine and the first order of business was to leave the barn and head for the hills. We left two men hidden to keep watch, and by God, the Yeomen came shortly after ten!" A wry grin lifted his lips. "But the bastards...sorry Father...found naught but an empty barn, so they did!"

A wave of relief overcame Michael.

Sheehan's face grew grim. "Now, there's the problem of which of me lads betrayed us. From who was absent tonight, I have a notion which it might be." He clapped Michael upon the shoulder. "Many thanks to ye, Michael. You're a brave lad, so ye are."

As Michael gathered her knapsack, Sheehan's heretofore quiet companion addressed her. "So, Michael, you've been infiltrating garrisons in search of a rogue officer?" The man's earnest, freckled face reminded her of Hugh McDonnell...if he had lived so long.

"Aye."

"I imagine you see and hear much of what goes on with the soldiers and their ordnance."

"That I do."

The man gave her an appraising look for a moment before saying, "My name is Denis Bolger. I belong to the Enniscorthy company of United Irishmen --- know ye who they are?"

Michael nodded with wide eyes --- a United Irishman, in the flesh! "Ireland for Irish people of all faiths," she murmured.

Bolger smiled. "A lad so resourceful and courageous as yourself would be a great boon to the cause of Ireland's freedom --- simply with the intelligence ye come by on your search."

She hugged her bag to her chest, her face all eagerness as she listened.

"If ye ever are down Enniscorthy way and want to aid a worthy cause, you should come to our so-called garrison (he chuckled) and meet the Captain." He proceeded to give her directions to a farm east of Enniscorthy town.

Michael pondered Bolger's words as she polished boots at the garrison later that morning, her demeanor all innocence as she gleefully noted the effects upon the Yeomen of the failed raid. Yesterday's swagger was now replaced by stiff postures, terse words, and a lengthy officers' meeting behind closed doors.