Celtic Mist Ch. 11

Now Kitty asked to be excused from work tomorrow for 'twas barley planting time and her cousin's bairns were too young to assist in the field. Aoife's sense that Mrs. Sutton valued her work even after so short an acquaintance was confirmed by the woman's leniency at her request. They agreed that Kitty would make up the hours by working longer for several upcoming days.

The next morning, Michael reported to the Militia garrison as usual, and after finishing the boots headed directly to Fleetwood's farm for the special commission. Her alarm was great indeed upon discovering that one of her two companions on the mission was Declan "O'Toole."

Whilst Captain Fleetwood demonstrated a hidden compartment in the wagon to Declan and the other lad, Jamie Byrne, Michael crouched nearby petting a dog, keeping her face down as she frantically considered her next course of action. She was to be in close proximity to Declan for an entire day, could she hope to escape detection? Should she withdraw from the mission? But that would rouse suspicion in and of itself. And Fleetwood felt her presence would aid them.

The two young men climbed onto the wagon seat. The moment of decision had arrived.

She jumped into the wagon bed.

The wagon bed proved to be her saving grace: they filled it with shorn fleeces at Byrne's farm, and here atop the pile she was safe behind Declan's back and several feet above his eye level. Moreover, she had an improved view of the road as they traveled --- whilst yet near Enniscorthy, she kept her head low lest they encounter any soldiers from the garrison who might grow suspect at the sight of Michael Goodwin riding with two croppies.

All went smoothly at the outset, the ride commencing with Jamie telling her about his family and their farm, and their accord upon the sham story of being brothers. By and by, there was a moment of anxiety when Jamie pulled the wagon to the roadside and announced he needed to piss.

As he and Declan swung down to the road, Michael was forced to make a precipitous decision. Aye, she did indeed need to relieve herself --- she had for some miles been endeavoring to ignore the urge to piddle. Now was her chance --- take it or wet her breeches.

On nervous legs, she climbed down and headed for a copse of trees alongside the road. Her belly twinged at the sight in her peripheral vision: Declan and Jamie standing several feet apart in the sheugh in that disconcerting, unmistakable male stance --- hands at their groins, shoulders squared, legs braced a little apart.

No doubt they would assume she needed to shit, but there was no help for it. Her cheeks warmed as she ducked into the cover of the trees, but she endeavored to ease her embarrassment by reminding herself that they were all lads as far as those two were concerned, and she was likely dwelling more upon the matter than they were. Several paces into the woods she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Confirming herself fully screened by the intervening foliage, she lowered her breeches and squatted.

Much to her discomposure, the glimpse of Declan holding his cock as he pissed most inopportunely called forth the never-forgotten image of him in the ruined church...stripped naked with the moonlight illuminating his quickening organ. Ah damn! Begone! She hissed to herself and forced her attention back to the task, if not at hand, then at least between her legs. 'Twas a moment ere her agitated body managed to relax. The stream of piddle was muted on the damp, leaf-covered ground.

Her emergence from the trees occasioned no particular notice, much to her relief.

Once again underway, Jamie asked Declan about his history and Michael listened in incredulity to the tale he narrated of growing up in Dublin and being sent to Wexford by his uncle. Whether or nay he had grown up in Dublin she could not know --- perhaps he had lied to her about being from Kilkenny and the name Muldowney. But no mention made he of those facts that she knew to be true: being a boxer named Declan Quickfist and being a guardsman for the Duke of P---. His dissembling only fortified her mistrust of him.

When Jamie made a similar inquiry of Michael, she supplied her now standard answer of Michael McArdle's family having perished in the dragooning of Ulster.

The next botheration was Jamie's reckless indulgence of his rutting instincts when he should be lending his full attention to the mission: he offered a ride into Wexford town to two bonnie lasses walking along the road.

Michael then was subjected to the drama on the wagon seat --- initially 'twas the obvious pairing off of the two couples that roused her irritation. Her perch upon the fleeces offered her a disconcerting view of the mammary accomplishments of the sisters --- she peeked down at her own flatly bound bosom, feeling in chagrin the knowledge that even unbound, her breasts could not compete with their generous globes. She watched Declan as he glanced at Hannah beside him, finding comfort in his apparent lack of interest in her. Indeed, even as Jamie and Betsy were chatting away merrily, Declan too seemed to be irritated with this turn of events.

But to merely be irritated swiftly became a luxury when faced with the next calamity: they were accosted by a detachment of Militia.

Michael nigh panicked when she beheld the approaching Redcoats --- what if there were among them some who recognized her as Michael Goodwin? That fear vanished when they drew rein, and she saw only unfamiliar faces --- but as the soldiers questioned them and searched the wagon, other fears grew. Would they arrest them? Would they search their persons? Torture them as she had heard about during the dragooning of Ulster? Discover her secret? Rape the lasses?

When the Redcoats at last let them continue on their way, otherwise unharmed, the relief was short lived, for Michael's discomposure quickly mounted as Jamie and Betsy, without the least discretion, conducted themselves according to the passions evidently inflamed by the encounter with the soldiers.

Betsy was upon Jamie's lap, and from her elevated position, Michael could see that Jamie's hand was under her skirts...could see the moving bumps of his knuckles in her lap where her legs were slightly separated.

Declan's face was not visible, but he appeared to be focusing on steering the wagon --- at least initially. As Hannah unsubtly pressed her thigh against his and leant her head on his broad shoulder, Declan presently put his arm round the girl's back. Michael stared down at them in vexation.

Then Michael began to overhear Jamie's lewd murmurings --- at that she twisted round on the wool and lay upon her belly with her head towards the rear of the wagon. Shortly thereafter, when Jamie told Declan to halt, and the randy couple abruptly decamped into a clump of trees alongside the road, Michael was only a little shocked. In her mind flashed an image of the couple fucking in the Dublin alley, and she felt keenly the irony: what was a source of tormented rumination for her, was a pleasure in which others simply partook without misgivings.

Behind her there was an awkward silence from the pair yet on the wagon seat. Irked, Michael scrambled down from the wool cargo and stalked into the field next to them. If Declan wanted to take Hannah into the trees and lie with her, let him not hesitate on account of Michael's presence! For some time, she stood in the field, facing away from the road --- part of her not wanting to know how he had chosen.

At length she judged it time to return, but as she approached the wagon, the bitterness twisted in her heart to behold it unoccupied. No one was in sight upon the road either. So, he had evidently done as Jamie had and indulged his bawdy appetites.

However, when the two couples returned and they were underway once more, Michael perceived a distinct difference between the eased contentment of the one pair and the tense civility of the other. Whilst Hannah seemed dejected, Declan sat straight-backed and alert to the surroundings. Michael could only suppose that either nothing had happened between them, or whatever amorous activity had transpired had not unfolded in a mutually satisfactory manner.

Once relieved of the lasses' company, the remainder of the journey went more smoothly with the successful acquisition of the guns and uneventful return to Fleetwood's farm. Even after darkness fell, Michael rode in the empty wagon bed, not wanting to risk sitting next to Declan on the seat.

* * * * *

The next morning, April 24^th, Michael heard two pieces of important news at the Militia garrison.

The first was that General Gerard Lake was the new Commander in Chief of all the Crown's forces in Ireland. The extent of Michael's dismay at this news was exceeded only by the pleasure it elicited in the officers.

'Twas General Lake who had been in command of the campaign of terror --- the dragooning --- in the northern province of Ulster last year to root out and punish those with rebel sympathies. Unhappy with what they considered the excessive leniency of General Abercromby's strategy to disarm the rebels in the southern counties, the officers rejoiced in the tidings of the new commander on high.

The second piece of news was much more promising to Michael: a new Yeomanry company had been commissioned and would soon be established in Enniscorthy. No other details did she overhear such as officers' names or whether they would be posted in this garrison as well. After working at the Enniscorthy Militia's garrison for just over a week, she had learnt the names of all the officers presently stationed here (no Blaylock), but the news about the Yeomanry company was reason enough to continue her work in hopes of learning more.

General Lake's appointment as Commander in Chief was a development of considerable interest in the whole of the town.

The following afternoon, as Mrs. Sutton, Susanna, and Kitty were busily plying their needles, young Samuel Sutton hastened into the workroom, having come home early from work. Eagerly did he apprise them of the unrest on the streets occasioned by the tidings and urged them to walk out and see for themselves.

Mrs. Sutton fetched her shawl and the four set out, exchanging greetings with their neighbors who were likewise drawn out of their homes by curiosity. There were indeed more people about the streets than were usual for a Wednesday afternoon, and upon reaching Abbey Square, they discovered people in such numbers as would typically attend the fair.

But at present, there was nothing of note happening, save the palpable tension in the air. Citizens in pairs and small clusters were speaking in low voices to each other, keeping their children close. A pair of lads hawked newspapers. Loitering about the south side of the square was a group of Orangemen recognizable by the orange ribbons upon their coats and belligerent glint in their eyes.

"I heard that the Militia had to break up a fight between the Orangemen and the Defenders earlier," Samuel murmured.

Aoife could not identify the Defenders lads among the people, but there was a detachment of fifteen Redcoats standing calmly in the center of the square --- among them an officer whom Aoife recognized from her boot polishing at the garrison! Flustered, she had to remind herself that she was Kitty McDonnell now.

Amidst the gathered people, she also spied scattered United Irishmen whom she had seen at Fleetwood's farm --- wisely, they were keeping their allegiances to themselves.

And then across the square she saw Declan.

Hastily she fumbled in her apron pocket for the spectacles, realizing a moment later that they were unnecessary. The distance between them and the absence of her red hair should guard against provoking in Declan any reminiscence of Aoife O'Farrell, she assured herself. Over the rims, she observed him with more deliberation and saw that he was with Colin Foley, Foley's son Brian, and another young man and woman. Both Declan and Brian were carrying a wean on their shoulders...Declan a wee lad, and Brian a younger wee lass.

Aoife's first thought was one that she had never considered before: that Declan was married and had children, but as she studied the group, she saw the resemblance between Colin Foley and the young woman. The children must be hers and the man's whose arm she was holding.

Aoife stole glances at Declan intermittently as she continued to observe the square. Eventually 'twas clear that despite the unrest, no momentous spectacle was to unfold, and the people gradually began to disperse, including the Sutton family.

In her attic room that night, Aoife pondered the import of the development: would General Lake dragoon all of Ireland?

Over the following days, Michael listened with all her ears at the garrison for further tidings about the new Yeomanry company --- lurking about cleaning her rags whilst the officers assembled for their morning meeting. For three days no additional intelligence on the subject was uttered...at least none that she overheard. Then on Friday, April 27^th, she was sidling past the officers in the hall, preparing to depart, when she caught the end of a sentence:

"--- and the Yeomen are taking possession of Rossnalough Manor today."

Throughout the remainder of the morning and afternoon in the shop, Kitty forced herself to remain attentive to her sewing as she awaited her moment of freedom to investigate the news of the Yeomen. She endeavored to subdue her excitement, reminding herself that she had found no clue of Blaylock at the last four garrisons.

In response to her casual inquiry, she learnt from Mrs. Sutton the location of Rossnalough Manor...and a lengthy description of the last three gowns commissioned by the lady of that manor. 'Twas evident that Mrs. Sutton was in ignorance of the commandeering of the estate by the Yeomen.

At last Kitty was finished with her labors in the dress shop and ran upstairs to don her lad's garb and climb down to the alley. A half hour's walk took her into the countryside west of town where she spotted from afar a convoy of wagons upon the road. This must be it! Soon she was walking past a stone wall some eight feet high that demarcated the estate's grounds. Ahead of her, wagons laden with bundles of cloth, barrels, and crates were turning off the road and rolling through the open wrought iron gates in the wall --- no one stood on sentry duty.

Popping a piece of straw into her mouth and assuming a saucy swagger, Michael proceeded through the gates and up the lane towards the mansion --- a grand, three-story structure which adhered to the new architectural style that had characterized Drumlevy Manor where she had been a maid. Blue-coated Yeomen were all about --- erecting tents, unloading wagons, and carrying items into and round the sides of the house. Orders were being barked out.

Scarce a glance did she receive as she attentively took note of their activities...soon she guessed why: there were numerous people about in civilian garb --- from the camp followers setting up at the far east end of the estate's grounds, to a few men and women in servants' garb. Michael deduced that at least some of the mansion's staff had been retained by the new inhabitants.

Michael's recent experiences had taught her how to distinguish officers from the rank-and-file soldiers by their uniforms. As she wandered closer, the straw at a jaunty angle in her mouth, she picked out a couple of officers --- one giving orders as to the arrangement of the soldiers' tents upon the park (she observed twenty pitched so far), the other instructing a group of soldiers to take the gunpowder barrels to the carriage house. She heard this latter one addressed as Lieutenant Drury.

With a deep breath, she approached him. "Hey, sir," she said in an eager voice.

The officer turned round and glanced down at the lad with an impatient expression. "Are you one of the servants?"

"I'd like to be," Michael replied with a grin, but the Yeoman officer had stepped round her and was shouting at a pair of soldiers carrying a large crate between them.

"Take care with that! Put it by the stable!"

Michael hastened after him, nigh running into his back when he abruptly stopped.

"What is it then?"

"D'ye need a lad to polish boots, sir? I do it for Captain Snowe and the officers at the Militia garrison in town."

The man looked harried as he consulted a piece of paper. "Cannot you see we're busy? We haven't time for boot polishing now." His eyes lifted from the paper and scanned the line of wagons waiting to be unloaded, then briefly stopped on Michael. "Come back on Monday once we've settled."

"Aye, sir." Michael turned away slowly, putting the straw back in her mouth as she noted the dimensions of a cannon being pushed round the side of the manse.

Then she saw him.

He stepped out of the mansion and onto the wide front steps. Any doubt that had possessed her of not recognizing him was instantly dispelled. 'Twas he, no mistake: tall, wide-shouldered, lean of face, and hair as black as the Devil's heart!

Everything fell silent save for the rushing sound in her ears. Blaylock's mouth was moving as he addressed a junior officer next to him. He towered over the younger man, his height sinisterly enhanced by his black helmet with its high crest of black fur arching from the brim in front to the back of his head. An upright, white feather plume was affixed to a blood red band round the brim.

He lifted an arm to indicate something --- the motion strangely drawn out as if in a dream. Those very hands had slain Paddy and Eoin, had forced Clodagh, and had pried her own legs akimbo to leer at her privates.

A quaking heat possessed Michael's limbs as she stared at him. Below her nose she became aware of the straw shaking with her quivering jaw, and she yanked it from her mouth.

"Colonel Blaylock, sir," a voice echoed nearby.

Blaylock's head rotated towards her, and she turned to casually walk down the lane to the front gate, her trembling hands thrust in her pockets.

* * * * *

She had found him! By God! By Medb! She had found the bastard!

Aoife paced up and down in her garret room, a storm waging in her mind as to her next steps...how to catch the man unawares, for she could not hope to best him in a battle of strength. As her thoughts grew chaotic, she forced herself to sit upon the edge of her bed, hold her head in her hands, and take several slow, deep breaths.

One thing at a time --- a methodical, deliberate approach was essential. On Monday she would return to Rossnalough Manor and, God willing, negotiate a boot-polishing service with the corps...upon this depended her further actions.

After a restless night and agitated day of work, first at the Militia garrison, then in the dressmaker's workroom, Michael at last arrived at Fleetwood's farm in the evening Saturday and shared with the Captain the tidings of the new Yeomanry 'garrison' at the Rossnalough estate. There were few United Irishmen yet present at that hour, and no sign of Declan. Michael had brought her dagger with her --- the dagger that had been Declan's during their flight from Kilmaedan Castle --- and now took the opportunity to hone it at the grindstone.