Celtic Mist Ch. 11

By and by, Jamie reappeared and sent her out to talk to Fleetwood. The Captain's interrogation indicated he was pursuing a like suspicion of betrayal; Michael narrated the events faithfully. Nothing she relayed appeared to be news to him --- likely her story comported with Declan's and Jamie's. He was deep in thought when she concluded.

"Think ye that there's a spy among us?" she asked, apprehensive at his demeanor.

"I fear so...but at which end is the question."

After a protracted silence, Michael cleared her throat. "I have some news from the Yeomen's garrison. 'Tis not much, but I'm returning tonight." She proceeded to report what she had observed so far.

Fleetwood seemed distracted as he listened. At last he said, "Good work, Michael."

Michael reflected upon the grim development as she walked out to Rossnalough Manor --- there were undoubtedly numerous possibilities as to how McBride had been betrayed...or was it even known that his arrest was connected to the gun smuggling? Nevertheless, her underlying suspicions about Declan now bubbled to the surface. Had he removed the boxing match notice? As his accounting of himself during the wagon ride had indicated, he was evidently concealing from the United Irishmen his former position as a guardsman for the enemy. Should she share her misgivings with Fleetwood?

That evening as she polished boots upon the stool in the kitchen at the manor house, she felt yesterday's nervousness supplanted by a calmer mien. Again, the dagger in the shoulder strap had gone undetected. On the grounds near the manse, she had spied two soldiers on patrol duty...so there were at least two and likely more. Inside, there was again the guard at the foot of the stairs, and no officers visible in the halls.

Aye, patience and deliberation would be necessary to achieve her purpose.

She noted the activity in the kitchen. In addition to the cook and her assistant, there were two serving maids who were coming and going, carrying laden platters out and empty dishes back. Supper was in progress --- Blaylock must be in the dining room. The impassive expressions upon the maids' faces, even out of sight of the officers, did not speak to a task that afforded much pleasure.

Michael timed her next trip to the row of boots in the hall to coincide with a maid's departure from the kitchen and was able to observe her enter the dining room, which proved to be in the other arm of the hall --- opposite that in which Lieutenant Drury's office was.

Michael switched to fetching one pair of boots at a time from the entry hall, to increase her opportunities for surveillance. As she returned the final pair of boots, a chorus of raucous laughter sounded from the hall by the dining room.

"I'll wager you never made that mistake again!" a man chuckled slyly.

The voice froze Aoife next to the stairs: 'twas the voice that had never ceased echoing in her mind. The only thing that kept her from rushing headlong at him this very instant was the fact that her bag --- with the dagger --- was presently on the kitchen floor downstairs.

"Are you finished, boy?" Corporal Bates said, startling her from her reverie. As he paid her, the officers swept through the entry hall. Aoife dared to raise her face enough to glimpse Blaylock, no more than ten feet away, at the head of the group...his cheeks creased with a mirthful expression. They continued into the far hall and disappeared behind a door at the end.

And perhaps the missed opportunity was for the best, she consoled herself as she soon started down the dark road back to Enniscorthy. Was she prepared to lose her liberty and perhaps indeed her life whilst exacting her revenge? After a long moment she decided that she was --- if that was what was necessary. But 'twas too precipitous a conclusion at this juncture.

About a mile from town, Michael became aware of a man walking along the road towards her. Presently the moonlight revealed the unexpected sight of Declan, striding purposefully with a knapsack upon his back. "Hullo, Michael," he said, the cheerfulness sounding forced. "Done with the boot-polishing?"

"Aye." They passed each other, and for the next several dozen paces her thoughts raced. What the Devil was Declan doing out here? He lived at Foley's tavern...there was naught but Rossnalough Manor along this road --- and farms. He must be going out to the estate! But why? She recollected his intent questions to her concerning her sighting of Blaylock at the manor. All her suspicions flared anew.

The arrest of McBride had occurred but two days after Declan had learnt of Blaylock's return. Had Declan re-established a connection with his former commander? Was Declan the spy? Why else would he be going to Blaylock's garrison?

A glance over her shoulder showed only the empty moonlit road behind her. Michael turned and darted off the road, hiding in the fields as she headed back towards the estate. Shortly, she spied Declan and covertly followed him, but some five minutes into her surveillance, she was obliged to pause behind a tree where the road curved. When she emerged again, the wily young man had vanished. Bewildered, she crept all the way back to the entry gate but found him not. Damn! Where the Devil had he gone? There must be another means of ingress to the estate!

Should she share her suspicions with Fleetwood? Perhaps she should amass more evidence against him? But would waiting jeopardize the company?

The question weighed upon her that weekend at the farm, where emotions were running high. Her rebel comrades and herself alike were incensed at the reports coming from the neighboring counties to the north...reports of house burnings, floggings, arrests, pitch-cappings, and other tortures of suspected United Irishmen.

They roared the catechism en masse before commencing the drill:

Fleetwood: What have you got in your hand?

Answer: A green bough.

Fleetwood: Where did it first grow?

Answer: In America.

Fleetwood: Where did it bud?

Answer: In France.

Fleetwood: Where are you going to plant it?

Answer: IN THE CROWN OF GREAT BRITAIN!!

But every time that Michael saw Fleetwood that weekend, he was either engrossed in conversation with the officers, including Declan, or Declan was nearby...on the training field, near the barn, in the pasture. It even seemed that Declan was watching her with suspicion --- by God, had he discovered her true identity? Torn between the need to talk to Fleetwood, and the urge to stay clear of Declan, she was not able to have a private audience with the Captain.

* * * * *

Over the next several evenings at Rossnalough Manor, Michael's progress in her mission was limited. She suspected that the door at the end of the hall was Blaylock's office, but had not proof of it. On two different occasions, officers had been in the hall when she collected boots, but none were Blaylock.

In view of her additional purpose of gathering intelligence for the United Irishmen, she had sought permission from Corporal Bates to wash her rags at the well in the courtyard. The soldier on guard duty at the rear of the manse had been apprised of her sanctioned presence there. Thus, she was able to mark the surroundings as best as she could in the lantern lights, whilst she cleaned her rags.

Between her approach to the front of the manse when she arrived, and her presence in the courtyard, she was able to observe the guards on duty and the patterns of their patrol: in addition to the sentries at the gate on the road, there was one guard along each side of the mansion. Further away by the perimeter walls, she intermittently made out in the darkness the pale-colored breeches of another set of guards, but 'twas difficult to count how many there were --- certainly there were gaps in their coverage as they walked up and down.

Behind her, she noted the location of lights in the mansion's windows and theorized which ground floor rooms might be used by the officers.

Before her, as she washed her rags, she studied the arrangement of the outbuildings: the long brick stable was built against the outside stone wall; adjacent to it was a large carriage house, as well as several other smaller buildings whose purpose she could not discern. At the late hour, there was not usually much activity about the courtyard apart from the guard pacing back and forth. Occasionally an officer or two would ride up and dismount, turning his horse over to a uniformed man who appeared hastily from the stable.

But she had not seen Blaylock again since the glimpse in the hall.

To the east side of the grounds where the tents were arrayed, she witnessed the activities of the rank-and-file soldiers. Whilst at the Militia garrison in town, she had overheard the officers discussing this Yeomen company, remarking with evident admiration that Colonel Blaylock had assembled a corps comprised almost entirely of Protestants --- including a large number of Orangemen.

'Twas thus a force whose loyalty to the Crown was unassailable --- so the Militia officers opined --- and which might enjoy the freedom of unchecked savagery against Catholic civilians since there was no need to be troubled by the potentially fragile sensibilities of Catholic soldiers among the ranks.

Michael ken that Irish Catholics formed a large portion of the Crown's troops --- a concession no doubt necessary since Protestants were a minority of the population in Ireland and were insufficient in number to fill the armies. She moreover understood that what was considered a potential point of vulnerability by the Crown was seized as an opportunity by the insurgents. Lieutenants Bolger and Foley, Fathers John Murphy and Mogue Kearns, and leaders of surrounding Defenders lodges operated a covert campaign to recruit spies and sway the sympathies of Catholic soldiers in the Militia and Yeomanry.

Studying the Yeomen at Rossnalough Manor, Michael had not the opportunity to confirm the religious persuasions of the men, but she did note several differences between this garrison and the others in which she had worked.

For one, the number of camp followers was markedly restricted: there were no wives or families among the tents. There were still civilian merchant sutlers whose tents and stalls were set up at the far end of the estate, but they were far fewer in number than at other garrisons.

Many more of the company's needs were tended to by uniformed members of their own ranks. Meals were prepared at a row of firepits that stood between the tents and the mansion's garden; here, soldiers trained as cooks were usually toiling away when Michael was in the courtyard.

She took right well the point made by the Militia officers: Blaylock had forged a fighting force which he strictly controlled to limit distractions and outside influences. Indeed, she had been fortunate that she herself had been granted a sutler's license to polish boots on the grounds.

Perhaps the effect of the enhanced discipline was discernable in the heightened tension among the soldiers when not on duty. From the area of the tents, Michael oft overheard the raucous laughter, scuffles, oaths, and crude names they called each other as well as their obscene references to females. Even when they waxed most vulgar, she maintained as unflustered an air as she could, keeping her blushing face bent to her work.

It did strike her, however, that this was the only garrison in which she was present at night: mayhap the uncouth male swagger was the same at all the garrisons at this hour.

No matter the cause, she was grateful for the darkness that hid her embarrassment when men stepped up to the nearby flower beds to piss, and when their voices carried on the night air. On her first Saturday there, particularly coarse revelry was underway, and Michael's eyes had widened in shock at the soldiers' song:

As I was sittin' by the fire

Tellin' lies and drinkin' porter

Suddenly a thought came to my mind

I'd never shagged O'Reilly's daughter

A larger contingent of disorderly male voices sang out the chorus, whooping between each verse:

Giddy I ay, giddy I ay

Giddy I ay for the one-balled Reilly

Shove it up, stuff it up, balls and all

Rig-a-jig-jig, shag on!

Up the stair and into bed

There I threw my right leg over

She didn't mind a goddam bit

Laughed like hell when the shag was over.

Chorus

Suddenly a noise upon the stairs,

One-balled Reilly out for slaughter

With a brace of pistols in his hands,

Lookin' for the man who shagged his daughter.

Chorus

I grabbed O'Reilly by the neck

Shoved his head in a bucket of water

Rammed the pistols up his arse

A damn sight faster than I'd shagged his daughter.

Chorus

Now all you maidens sweet and good

Yours is the choice to make entirely

Would you like it straight and true

Or up the arse like the one-balled Reilly?

Chorus

In her quest for vengeance, Michael endeavored to blot such unnerving happenings from her mind. But so long as she was working in garrisons disguised as a lad, she would no doubt see males in their most ill-mannered state.

There was one troubling topic she was unable to entirely squelch: Declan. Again the question plagued her: why had he been walking out towards Rossnalough Manor the other night?

Monday evening, Michael was hastening in the rain from Enniscorthy out to the estate, when there upon the road, now heading in the opposite direction towards town, she again beheld Declan! As before, they acknowledged each other with brief civility as they passed.

Two times now had Declan been out near Rossnalough Manor --- how much more evidence did she need of his questionable loyalties? The thought then occurred to her that perhaps Captain Fleetwood had commissioned Declan to spy upon the estate as well...and the possibility that she was not trusted disconcerted her. Aye, she needed to catch Declan in the act...ere tossing about accusations.

Upon returning to her room at the shop later that night, Aoife was undressing when there was a knock upon her chamber door. Swiftly she pulled her nightgown over the lad's drawers and opened the door to find Mrs. Sutton's daughter Susanna on the landing. Susanna informed her that the family was traveling to Wexford town tomorrow to attend her ailing grandmother, and the shop would be closed: Kitty would be at liberty.

* * * * *

Liberty! What an odd sensation, Aoife thought the following morning as she arrived back at the shop after her early stint at the Militia garrison. She chatted with the servants Mary and Alice at breakfast and learnt that they intended to visit family (Mary) and see her sweetheart (Alice) with their day of liberty. Aoife dallied for a while in her bedroom, making improvements to her knapsack, then decided she had had enough ease. She transformed back into Michael and headed out to Fleetwood's farm.

There was always work to be done, and this Tuesday was no exception. She encountered Declan leaving the farm as she arrived, and she noted that he had several days' worth of stubble upon his jaw. 'Twas odd for him to be leaving the farm so early --- to Michael's innocent inquiry as to his destination, he replied that he had to go tend to a broken tap at the tavern.

Captain Fleetwood and Lieutenant Bolger were also nowhere to be found. No matter, she by now knew where to employ herself about the farm. After working in the barn for a while, she joined a sword fighting drill in the glen. By mid-afternoon, invigorated and sweating, she took her leave and headed east --- away from Enniscorthy, bent upon her next intended use of the day.

Given her immediate plans, when Michael beheld from afar a detachment of Redcoats coming towards her on the road, extra caution prompted her to hide behind a shrub in a pasture. She watched till they tromped past towards Enniscorthy...and waited yet several more minutes till the sound of hooves completely receded ere being reassured 'twas safe to resume her journey.

She returned to the untouched forest she had discovered last month and eagerly immersed herself within the magical woodland. By the landmarks she had memorized on the first visit, she found her way back to the hidden waterfall. Here she again succumbed to Nature's seduction.

This time, she had come prepared with a change of clothes, for she meant to wash her lad's garments. Nigh two months of constant wear --- polishing boots, sweating, and limited bathing till her current position in the shop --- had abetted her counterfeit of a homeless beggar, but the odor was becoming a wee bit too much for her. Moreover, she would wash her hair and dye it again once returned to her room in Enniscorthy.

As she had the first time, she stripped naked, but this time her high spirits prompted a headfirst dive into the cool, brimming pool.

The exhilarating embrace of the water was as glorious as last time...she cavorted in the pool for a while, turning somersaults and diving to touch the stones at the bottom. Even the stream by her family's farm had not had a spot deep enough to exceed her height.

As before, she climbed up to the waterfall for her bath proper, soaping her body thoroughly...finding herself unable to stop her fingers from moving back and forth upon that beckoning bud nestled at the front of her split. She needed to clean her privates, didn't she? She could not help the tickling sensations that the necessary washing provoked. An involuntary arching of her hips quickly restored a sense of decorum, and she glanced about the surroundings guiltily.

The shaking of a clump of yellow irises near the pool abruptly drew her eye, but her spasm of fear was eased when a bullfinch with its thick, rosy neck emerged from foliage and flew downstream.

She returned to her bath, denying to herself that she was dallying as she assiduously rubbed her bottom hole with her soapy fingers. By God, why did it tickle so strangely back there too?

At last completed with the washing, she rotated in the falls to rinse away the soap, even daring to bend forward and spread her buttocks to present her privates to the plunging stream --- and nigh gasped at the pleasure that surged forth in her cunny and bottom hole under the voluptuous battering of the water. Oh Medb! She must stop...it was wicked, so it was!

Stepping aside, she calmed her heightened breathing. But her mischievous bent was not satisfied --- an idea sprouted as she breathed the mist billowing from the flowing column. She gingerly angled her pelvis forward to position the front of her vulva under the plummeting liquid...within moments she felt her belly muscles tighten and an expanding ache where the water drummed...her eyes closed and her hips swayed.

Abruptly she backed away, consumed with shame and excitement. She must attend to her chores and cease this wanton playing. Pushing herself from the pool, she addressed herself to washing her clothes, kneeling naked upon the bank and bending forward to rinse them in the water.