Celtic Mist Ch. 10

In recent days, she had confirmed Blaylock was not presently at this garrison, but she was yet awaiting the arrival of the new Militia captain of whom she had heard tell. If it was not he, her next destination would indeed be Enniscorthy, where she had learnt there was another company of the North Cork Militia. If she proceeded there, then she could further pursue Bolger's invitation.

On Friday, April 13^th, the new officer at last arrived at the Ferns garrison. Michael was mucking stalls, aquiver with anticipation and praying that this would be the lucky day of her quest...despite the inauspicious date. But 'twas not to happen --- the garrison's officers stood at attention in the courtyard whilst the new officer stepped out of his coach. Michael watched from the stable door: he was not Blaylock.

Michael took her leave of Ferns that day after completing her labors at the garrison.

* * * * *

Heading south, Aoife noted with the old joy of childhood the changes of spring upon the land. It had been a little over a month since she had left Dublin --- the green was now erupting over the pastures and trees, and scattered pink and yellow flowers were budding on shrubs and vines along the stone walls.

A month --- in that time she had returned to the site of her family members' deaths in Kilmaedan, walked to County Wexford, and had wormed her way into three separate garrisons of the Crown's forces: Gorey, Camolin, and Ferns. A month in close proximity to Redcoats and Yeomen...aye, long gone was the unhinged lass who had fled in terror at the sight of uniformed men.

In the meantime, practical matters must be addressed: her reflection in the mirror that morning had revealed a layer of bright red hair over her scalp, displacing the brown tresses. When Aoife spotted a wooded area on the road to Enniscorthy, she diverted course and, as she had done previously, collected the necessary ingredients and brewed a pot of dye in her stoneware crock. Upon arriving in Enniscorthy in the evening, she secured a room at an inn and happily washed her now matted locks with soap and water before re-dyeing them.

The following morning, Michael's first order of business was to find the Enniscorthy Militia garrison. She yet had Lieutenant Bookey's character letter --- 'twas not addressed to any particular recipient and might be used again after she warmed and supplemented the wax with a candle to reseal it.

At the garrison, Michael waited outside the gate whilst one of the sentries fetched a junior officer to hear 'him' out. The Redcoat studied the letter and scratched his chin, at last instructing the would-be boot black to return tomorrow after he had presented the proposition to his commanding officer.

With the rest of the day at her disposal, she again considered the invitation made by the United Irishman Denis Bolger whom she had met in Ferns a few days ago...an invitation that had scarce left her thoughts. Since the turn of 1798, the unrest over the island was only escalating. All indications suggested, at least to the government and the citizens, that it would culminate in an armed rebellion --- led by the United Irishmen. Aoife wanted to be part of it.

The directions to what Bolger had jestingly referred to as the United Irishmen's garrison she had committed to memory; thither then did Michael eagerly walk...nigh an hour from town.

The place proved to be a farm that grew barley and grazed cattle. Four barking dogs ran up to her as she approached --- she stood still and let them sniff her, ironically realizing that these creatures knew instantly what dozens of men had failed to perceive...fortunately they could not speak. She petted them for a few minutes, and soon they were escorting her as she walked slowly across the yard, uncertain as to her next course of action.

She considered the cottage, then hearing hammering noises, proceeded past it. Behind it was a barn where a group of men were occupied at a workbench --- among them she found Bolger, whose handsome face lit up with a grin when he spied her.

"Michael McArdle, you found us! A fine thing, so it is." Setting aside his hammer, he told the lad to wait whilst he fetched the captain from the farmhouse.

Soon, the three of them were conversing behind the woodshed.

Captain Arthur Fleetwood was a tall, strong-looking man in his early thirties, whom Michael quickly realized had already been apprised of her circumstances. Nevertheless, he had the lad recount the history again, whilst he assessed her with shrewd hazel eyes.

He asked her several questions about her situations in the garrisons, then posed to her the venture he was contemplating: Michael would continue his search for the officer in question, and simply report back to Fleetwood all intelligence gathered so doing.

To Michael it was a satisfactory commission --- she would be doing nothing more than she already was, save with the fortuitous opportunity to now share what she learnt with those who might best profit by it.

She readily agreed, asking only that no hint slip of her quest lest her quarry be forewarned of it. Fleetwood and Bolger swore silence upon the matter, and Michael was administered the oath of the United Irishmen. The conversation continued for some time as she supplied them with information about the three garrisons in which she had already worked.

Later as they returned to the yard, Michael looked about at the various men carrying pikes and crates and said, "Isn't there anything else I could do to help the cause? Can I fight as a soldier?"

Fleetwood smiled and shook his head. "Your strengths lie elsewhere, Michael. Spying is the best way to help now, and you're facing danger enough doing that."

She was crestfallen for a moment. "How about making ready for battle --- can I assist with that?"

Fleetwood gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Aye, you're a fine Irish patriot, so you are. Bolger will find employment for you."

* * * * *

Michael returned to the Enniscorthy Militia garrison the following morning and was informed that the boot-polishing proposal had been accepted by Captain Snowe --- 'twas too late today, but she could start the next morning. A sutler's license was drawn up and after a brief orientation to where she would be working, Michael left the garrison.

Lieutenant Bolger and Captain Fleetwood had encouraged her to come out to the farm anytime she had intelligence to impart but indicated that if the lad wanted to work there, Saturdays and Sundays were when most of the preparations were occurring.

Yesterday, Bolger had instructed her in sharpening pike heads at a grindstone; deliveries of the weapon heads from the blacksmith usually were on Saturday, so there would plenty of work on Sunday. It being Sunday, Michael accordingly returned to the farm.

There were more members of the company about the farm today than there were yesterday, and Michael made the acquaintance of three who were busy in the barn attaching pike heads to the long wooden handles supplied by the carpenter.

She worked for some time at the grindstone, driving the spinning stone with a pedal as she honed the edges of the pikes --- very cautiously as she gradually gained skill at the operation. The lads at the workbench chatted whilst they toiled and soon asked the newcomer about himself.

Michael recounted her now ready tale of fleeing Ulster after 'his' family had been killed in the dragooning.

When completed honing each pike head, she handed it off to one of the others. After a couple of hours, a lad named Daniel Kirwan took her place at the grindstone to give her a respite. And none too early, for as she stood, she became aware of the soreness in her pedaling leg.

Wandering out of the barn, she discovered Bolger in the yard repairing a wagon wheel and informed him of her encounter that morning at the garrison. As they spoke, she observed a group of men heading away from the farmhouse into a field. In response to her inquiry, Bolger explained to her that they were going to participate in the drill underway in the glen.

"You're welcome to have a look --- go through the trees at the end of the field."

Across the field Michael eagerly proceeded --- they might not let her fight as a soldier, but perhaps she could learn maneuvers that would aid her against Blaylock. At the far end, on the other side of a copse of trees was a slight, rocky bluff above a clearing in a wooded area, wherein some forty men --- in simple working garb, not uniforms --- were presently arranged in pairs, engaged in a drill of knife combat.

Descending into the glen and walking along the periphery, Michael stepped over the scattered coats that had been tossed aside. Over the rims of her spectacles, she noticed a man giving guidance to a pair of combatants at the far end of the clearing, and by analogy to what she had seen during the garrisons' drills, she took him to be one of officers of the company.

His back was towards her as he demonstrated a movement, emphasizing the twisting motion of his shoulders and pointing at the position of his feet. As the two men repeated the maneuver, he stood by and watched, making an adjustment to the arm position of one. At last, the officer nodded and turned to observe the next pair of rebel soldiers.

'Twas Declan Muldowney.

Michael froze. She had a clear, lengthy view of him ---- there was no uncertainty this time! It had been seven months, but she instantly recognized that tall, wide-shouldered lad with dark brown hair. Her heart pounded frantically, and her limbs trembled with the urge to flee.

You're disguised, you're disguised, no one has guessed yet!

She endeavored to still her panic with slow, deep breaths. Dinna run...no, she mustn't draw his attention. Was he looking in her direction?! Aye, by damn! He was too far away to suspect anything, wasn't he?

His attention was back on the drill now. Tugging her wool cap lower, Michael hunched her shoulders and moved away from him, keeping to the side of the array of men. What would a true lad do? Once she had lengthened the distance between them, she paused and pretended to be engrossed in the drill, miming the motions with enthusiasm as she fought an imaginary opponent. She continued the pretense for a while, moving back to maintain the separation between them as Declan worked his way down the clearing among the men.

At length, Michael reached the rocks and made a show of searching for something in her pockets before ascending and hastening back across the field towards the farmhouse. What the Devil was Declan bloody Muldowney doing here?! By what vindictive turn of Fate had he been forced into her life again?! How did he come to be a United Irishman?

Although her heart was still racing and her belly fluttering, Michael had outwardly collected herself by the time she reached the yard.

Bolger was yet toiling alongside the wagon, and she sauntered up to him with her hands thrust in her pockets. One of the dogs trotted up to her and determinedly sniffed at her crotch despite her embarrassed efforts to deflect his nose. She felt herself blushing, convinced he would betray her secret. As Bolger glanced up, Michael crouched, succeeding in diverting the dog's attention to her face, now level with his.

She giggled as the dog licked her cheek. "Need any help?" she managed at last.

"Hold this spoke so."

Michael did as instructed, assisting Bolger as he worked his way round the rim of the wheel. The dog at last lay down in the grass next to them. She asked the dog's name, and a few minutes later inquired in an off-handed tone who the lad was leading the drill.

"That's Declan O'Toole. He's our drill sergeant and master of arms."

O'Toole?! What the Devil?! Was not his surname 'Muldowney'? So he had told her when she had held him at gunpoint. The feeling of misgiving burgeoned. What game was he on?

She scratched her nose. "How long has he been in the society? He seems to know fighting right well."

"Oh, just over a month, I'd say. Aye, that he does...we're lucky to have him."

Michael's thoughts were in chaos, but she dared not ask further questions lest it rouse suspicions.

A half hour later she saw him again, coming across the field with two other men, his coat slung over his shoulder. She remained calm on the outside, holding a wheel spoke in position with her face tilted down. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pass within twenty feet of her...she felt his eyes upon her. Her heartbeat surged and her stomach gave a queasy twist.

Then he went into the barn.

Michael took her leave of the farm after helping Bolger finish the wagon wheels, her mind reeling as she walked back to Enniscorthy, periodically glancing behind her to assure herself that Declan was not following her.

How did he come to be here of all places? Where had he been the past seven months? What was his true surname? One --- or both --- must be a lie. To whom had he lied: her or the United Irishmen? Why the duplicity? What devilment was he planning now?

He had been a guardsman for the Duke of Kilmaedan Castle. She thought on the fight that had erupted when the men had been restraining her upon the table...how Declan had spirited her out of the castle...the lash marks upon his back. No matter how many times she had dissected the evidence, she was yet in ignorance of his true allegiances.

Perhaps he had not fully renounced his loyalist sympathies to the Crown and was spying on the United Irishmen.

As was her custom, she offered the counterpoint to her own argument: well, she had been a laundry maid to the Marquess at Drumlevy Manor for two years --- by the same reasoning, should not her sincerity be equally suspect? Indeed, what Irish citizen had not been obliged to work for the oppressors at some point in their lives?

But, being a guardsman --- her mind retorted --- was that not different? Being entrusted with the safety of the masters...and with weapons. It seemed a position that required a more robust and thoroughly interrogated loyalty.

No satisfactory explanation for the facts could Aoife find. Aye, she would need to watch him closely.

But should she even return to the farm? Her hands tightened upon the straps of her knapsack. She had not been recognized as a female yet, despite a multitude of searches of her person and conversations with people standing within an arm's length --- all to the bolstering of her confidence.

But she also had never been in the company of someone who had known her as Aoife --- would the disguise stand the test of prior acquaintance?

And what would happen if he did recognize her?

Well, he might betray her to everyone and ruin her chances for revenge...he might warn Blaylock if he yet had any loyalty to his former captain and was cognizant of his whereabouts. And whatever his reasons had been for holding her against her will those three days after fleeing Kilmaedan...it they still existed, he might seize her again.

She considered the importance of the United Irishmen's mission...the aid she could lend...the noble oath she had sworn yesterday.

What should she do?

Gazing at the darkening sky, she prayed to Medb for guidance.

In Enniscorthy, she found the inn and ascended to her small room, where she undressed and washed. As Aoife studied her reflection in the tiny mirror above the washstand, a defiant smile grew upon her face.

Damn Declan Quickfist Muldowney O'Toole...damn the bastard, whatever be his name! She would not let him, nor her fears, thwart her plans. No man had detected her secret yet, and he was as dull as any other member of his sex, she wagered.

Besides, last September she had fled his company precipitously --- she had unfinished business with him...aye, Blaylock was the true evil behind the events of that night, but this lad was not blameless. Her eyes gleamed. Perhaps Fate had granted her another opportunity for a fuller restitution for the wrongs committed that doomful night.