Celtic Mist Ch. 14

She thought on the encounter with Blaylock in the shop, and despite herself, her body trembled under the quilt. Fair certain was she that her true identity had not been suspected, but the manner in which he had considered her bosom made her blood run cold. In dread of the possibility of him raiding the Sutton house and seizing her again, she had laid her dagger and pistol close at hand before climbing into bed. If the fiend was still on the hunt for virgins, she prayed that her lie about a husband had terminated any interest in Kitty McDonnell.

Unable to sleep, Aoife at last rose and fetched her breeches and knapsack. Now that she had once more seen Blaylock in person after all these months, the long-sought confrontation was looming more and more fearsome. Picturing his office again and contemplating her dagger and the one shot with the flintlock, she had an additional idea to improve her prospects.

Inside the breeches, attached to the outer side seam, she fashioned from scraps of linen a long, narrow pocket some nine inches long and an inch wide that opened into the existing pocket. Constructing a second, similarly sized pocket, she concealed it in the strap of her knapsack, opposite the strap with the secret pocket for the dagger.

She tried one of her knitting pins in it: the quarter inch diameter, pointed wooden stick slid smoothly into both pockets. Aye, 'twas a feeble weapon, so it was...she shook her head ruefully. But the little task at least eased her agitation sufficiently to fall asleep.

Sunday dawned wet and cold, and without duties in the shop, Aoife was able to devote the day she would have otherwise spent at Fleetwood's farm to working on the green silk project --- the hours of stitching accompanied by the pattering rain on the roof and the cat Malachy sleeping on her bed.

Even if she intended to avoid the farm for fear of seeing Declan, Aoife still had intelligence she must pass on to Fleetwood: the map from last night, the presence of Magistrate Jacob at the Yeomen's garrison, the documents and correspondence she had read in Captain Pounden's office, and various overheard and witnessed tidbits from the Militia garrison.

Lieutenants Foley, Coe, and Bolger were other United Irish officers to whom she might convey her report. Alas, she knew not where to find Bolger or Coe. Should she seek out Foley at his tavern? But...she was just as likely to encounter Declan there as at the farm.

That night she undertook an experiment. With Michael's usual arrival time at Rossnalough Manor, her work time overlapped with the officers' supper --- an arrangement beneficial whilst she had been searching the place. But now that she had found Blaylock's office, she needed to be there after he had left the dining room if she were to have her chance at him alone.

Tonight, she thus arrived some forty minutes later than usual. When the sentries at the gate remarked upon it, Michael replied that her master at the stable where she mucked stalls had required her to work later than usual. The soldiers had accepted the explanation without further query and passed her inside.

With the completion of her duties, she was at last able to climb into the tunnel. She extinguished her candle before advancing on her tiptoes inside the wall next to Blaylock's office, pausing to retrieve the pistol from where she had hidden it last night. She crouched at the peep-hole.

Her ploy had worked! Someone was inside! There was more light than previously, and she heard a man's voice!

Michael adjusted her eye at the hole. Two men were in the room --- sitting in chairs by the fireplace with a cut glass decanter on the table between them. One was indeed Blaylock; the other was the hawk-faced Magistrate, Captain Archibald Jacob.

By God, should she attack now and lose her liberty or perhaps her life, or wait till he was alone? Her eye glued to the hole, she watched and listened.

"'Twas a fair haul yesterday," Jacob said.

"There's better to be had," Blaylock replied.

"For instance?" Jacob sipped an amber colored liquid from a crystal goblet.

"My spy reports that the blacksmith Redmond was attended by one Dr. Woods of Bellefield House. I understand he is a wealthy landowner in addition to being a physician."

Jacob nodded. "Indeed. Bellefield is a fine home. Many are the treasures to be found there."

"Among them evidently, a lovely young daughter." The fire highlighted the creases in Blaylock's lean cheeks as he grinned.

"Ministering to the blacksmith is cause enough to arrest him on suspicion of treason." The Magistrate's solemn tone was belied by his sly smile. "And 'tis true that my own spies have placed Dr. Woods, when last in Dublin, at a certain bookshop on Grafton Street with known United Irish connections."

"Indeed, the loyalties of the entire family are suspect. I intend to arrest and interrogate all of them." Blaylock's fingers tapped restlessly upon his knee. "I am all eagerness to do so." A leer transformed his countenance.

"Dr. Woods, certainly. But mind how you address the situation of the family --- 'tis a delicate matter and we don't want another Bastille Day on our hands."

Blaylock scoffed, crossing one booted ankle over his other knee and leaning back in his chair with a smile. "The rebels will not be reformed by mercy, Jacob. General Lake has ordered that the insurgents be disarmed by any means necessary. Even if there is doubt that such measures are needed in County Wexford, I shall not be dissuaded from my plans. The dearth of evidence of rebel activity in the county proves nothing. They are here and we must be relentless in flushing them out, even if we must, alas, 'interrogate' their young daughters."

The Magistrate rotated his goblet slowly in the firelight.

"Take heart, Jacob. The capture of Fitzgerald gives us free rein to proceed without restraint or reproof."

The Magistrate nodded. "A valid point." He held his glass as Blaylock leant forward to refill it. In a musing tone Jacob commented, "I am astonished that that damned blacksmith even survived. I was certain that the cat had drained the life from him."

Blaylock drank with a brusque motion of his wrist. "I as well. 'Tis vexing, that. Had I been wielding the lash myself, as I used to do, then he would not have drawn another breath. But now I must preserve the distinction of rank."

"Oh, the botherations of being a Colonel!" Jacob chuckled.

"To that point, tomorrow inaugurates our new programme of --- shall we say --- enhanced persuasion." Blaylock's teeth flashed. "Indeed, let us go meet with the officers to discuss the particulars."

Captain Jacob nodded and emptied his glass. The pair rose to their feet and departed through the hall door.

Michael straightened and immediately rotated to peer into the peep-hole in the opposite wall, but the library remained dark. Where were they headed? She struggled to remain soundless as she retreated inside the narrow space without her candle. Once back in the main tunnel, she relit her candle and hastened to the passageway between Hunt's and Pounden's offices --- no one was in them.

Desperate to hear the rest of the conversation, Michael hurried into the tunnel under the east wing and the one stair with peepholes between the ballroom and billiard room. These were also unoccupied. Wherever the officers' meeting was taking place, she would not be privy to it.

But even the brief exchange she had overheard was sufficient to propel her with all urgency back through the tunnel, stable, courtyard, house, and out the front gate. Once out of sight on the sentries, she broke into a run.

By God, Dr. Woods must be warned! He had to flee, to hide his family! And what had Blaylock said about Fitzgerald? The Society's heroic leader, long fugitive, had at last been captured?!

The black road was muddy from the rain earlier in the day, and with the overcast sky, there was neither moon nor stars to light the way back to Enniscorthy. Panting harshly, Michael slid and slipped as she ran in the darkness, falling several times.

How could she get the warning to him? She knew not where Bellefield House was! Should she go to Colin Foley's tavern and tell him? But no --- Declan would be there --- Blaylock had said that his spy had apprised him of Dr. Woods' visit to Rory Redmond. Declan had known of that visit, so he had. If she went to Foley's, Declan might overhear and attempt to subvert the warning. Aye, she must tell Dr. Woods herself.

With lungs burning, Michael at last arrived in Enniscorthy, where she stumbled to a brisk walk. 'Twas very late. Directly to the O'Connor residence did she go and knocked, praying someone would answer. Eventually the door opened a crack --- Mr. O'Connor, thank God!

"Michael? What brings ye here at this hour?"

"How is Mr. Redmond faring?" she panted.

"He's holding his own."

"The Yeomen are planning to arrest Dr. Woods and his family --- I overheard them at the garrison. I must warn him, but I dinna ken where he lives!"

"By God, the bastards! When?!"

"I don't know! I must tell him tonight!"

"Aye, ye must." O'Connor gave her quick directions. "Godspeed, Michael."

Michael thanked him and hurried away, making her way northeast. As she passed through Abbey Square, the stout struts of the triangles loomed dull and black over the glistening cobblestones.

"Hey!" came a shout. "You! Halt in the name of the King!"

In panic, she beheld a pair of Redcoats hastening towards her from the east end of the square. She broke into a run.

"HALT! HALT OR WE'LL SHOOT!"

Michael dodged into a side street, hearing their boots thundering behind her. There was a deafening blast and a patch exploded in the bricks of the building next to her. What the Devil?! Why were they chasing and shooting at her?! Then it came to her --- she was out on the streets after the new curfew!

The soldiers' footsteps redoubled. Skidding and tripping on the wet cobblestones, Michael scuttled into an alley. From here, she weaved through narrow lanes and climbed through yards, hearing the pursuing boots at length mercifully fade away...only to be replaced by a trail of barking dogs.

Onward she pressed, running on her toes to prevent the clatter of her shoes on the stones. Keeping to the side streets, she bypassed Market Square, where a brief glimpse between buildings revealed yet more Redcoats on patrol.

At last, the circuitous route brought her to a dark, quiet residential neighborhood on the edge of town. Bellefield House was a stately, but not lavish, stone and brick manse surrounded by gardens and a wrought iron fence. A low light was visible in one ground floor window, but the remainder of the house was in darkness.

In her mind's eye, Michael imagined the peaceful home transformed into a scene of terror...the rampaging Yeomen tearing through the gardens, breaking windows, parading out with furniture...saw the family struggling and crying as they were forced out...saw Blaylock's feral grin as a young lass was dragged before him.

She shook the gate, but it was locked, and she found no bell pull. Glancing about and spying no watchers, Michael grasped the iron bars and wedged her foot against a cross bar. Up the fence she hauled herself, tensing her belly against the metal spike tips as she rolled over.

A flickering lantern at the front door guided her up the path between beds of dripping plants and flowers to a paneled door surrounded by leaded glass panes. Through their distortion, she glimpsed a dim, unoccupied entry hall. She rapped upon the door with the knocker. After a few minutes of silence, she knocked again harder, and soon thereafter a weary looking man holding a simple candelabra opened the door. His clothes looked hastily donned.

"Dr. Woods?" she said.

The man looked her up and down, his expression impassive. "Who shall I say is calling?"

"Michael McArdle, from Mr. O'Connor's house...from Mr. Redmond. Please 'tis urgent!"

"Wait here, please." The door closed again. Michael waited, shifting from one foot to the other. A glance downwards showed her coat, breeches, and hands to be smeared with mud, and she tried to scrape it off. When the door reopened, a short, squarish man of about fifty stood there, wearing a dressing gown. His wide, clean-shaven face had a kindly expression.

"Michael! Come in, do. I am Dr. Woods. You may go, thank you," he said to the manservant standing behind him.

Dr. Woods led her to a room off the entry hall where a fire crackled in the grate. The details of the room and hall were elegant but not ostentatious. This room appeared to be his study and was pleasantly cluttered with books and small wooden boxes on shelves. On the desk was a curious looking instrument composed of vertical brass tube seeming to be a telescope affixed in a stand.

"Please sit, you look all in. I'm pleased to at last make the acquaintance of the famous Michael. That unguent you made --- truly remarkable! I would love to know its constitution." Dr. Woods took a seat at his desk. "But that is a subject for another time. What brings you here at this hour? Has Redmond taken a turn?"

"Oh no, sir. He's stable. I've come to warn ye --- the Yeomen intend to arrest you and yer family." As Dr. Woods listened intently, Michael recounted how she came by the intelligence and what had been said. "Please, you and yer family must hie away from Enniscorthy, or at least from this house!"

Dr. Woods' earnest face had grown tight and grim. "Aye, so it would seem...and posthaste!" He stood quickly. "You're a brave, honorable lad, Michael. God bless and protect you."

After declining Dr. Woods' offers of tea and a ride home, Michael accepted his escort back to the gate. "Are you certain I cannot send you home in my carriage?"

She shook her head and thanked him.

"No, 'tis I who must thank you. Although my family may never meet the lad in whose debt they stand, their deepest gratitude goes with you as well." Dr. Woods glanced up and down the street. "Take care, the Militia are enforcing the new curfew."

"Aye, I'll give them the slip," she said with a bleak smile and headed out into the dark street.

*****

Foley's Tavern, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Monday, May 21, 1798

Michael watched Foley's tavern from her concealed vantage point across the street. She was after polishing boots at the Militia garrison and had taken herself to this neighborhood directly following. Knowing that Mrs. Sutton had scheduled her to report after breakfast to the courthouse to finish her embroidery work on the judges' tablecloth, she had opted to forgo the morning meal in order to seek out Colin Foley and report her recent intelligence.

Reluctant to encounter Declan, she was monitoring the tavern in hopes of seeing Colin Foley alone. Accordingly, she situated herself across the street, a few houses down, sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the front of a cooper's shop. A standing barrel next to the front door served as a screen against being seen from the windows of the tavern.

In the early morning light, Michael's curious eyes surveyed the modest little neighborhood --- some fractious misadventure had occurred here, so it had. There were numerous broken windows and hanging shop signs. Doors and walls had been vandalized with anti-Catholic and anti-rebel epithets. One such slogan was on the front of the cooper's shop --- a closer inspection of the letters above her shoulder told her that the rusty-blackish paint was blood...sheep's or cow's, she wagered.

All too unhappily it reminded her of her childhood in County Armagh...of the years of violence between the Defenders and the Peep O'Day Boys that had culminated in the fateful Battle of the Diamond in which her brothers and Hugh McDonnell had perished.

Michael wondered what had happened here --- not having gone to Fleetwood's farm over the weekend, she was in ignorance of the latest tidings. If she had to guess, she would lay the responsibility at the feet of the Yeomen or the Orangemen --- the spiritual successors of the Peep O'Day Boys.

A few people were about, sweeping up glass shards and scrubbing the bloody scrawls from their homes.

A motion by the tavern caught her attention. The front door opened, and Colin Foley stepped out holding a mug. He called a good morning to a man across the way sweeping the sidewalk. As Foley crossed the street to converse with his neighbor, Michael eagerly rose and approached, keeping one eye upon the tavern door.

"Mr. Foley!" she called.

Colin Foley turned. "Michael!"

"May I talk to ye?"

He nodded and excused himself, walking back across the street at her side.

"I-I haven't been able to go out the farm, but I have intelligence to report."

Colin ushered her inside, where Michael looked about nervously. The tavern thankfully was unoccupied but was remarkable for the broken furniture arranged into two piles.

"What happened?" she blurted.

"Orangemen rampaged in the neighborhood on Friday --- but they got a surprise in here: little were they prepared for Declan Quickfist, ha!" He looked about with rueful humor. "I wasn't here, so I'm relying upon Brian's accounting of it. So, 'twas either that, or he and Declan invited in a party of doxies for an orgy with the lads." He winked.

Michael felt her cheeks pinken and she scanned the room again. "Are ye...umm...alone?"

"Aye, so I am. The lads are still lolling about the breakfast table. Would you like some tea?" He gestured with his steaming mug.

Shaking her head, Michael crouched to extract the copied map from her knapsack. Upon it she had added notations of her other observations. Quickly she reviewed the paper with him, explaining the symbols on the map and the abbreviations for Yeomen and Militia.

She finished by recounting Blaylock's and the Magistrate's reference to the 'enhanced persuasion' programme to commence today, but left out the specific reference to Dr. Woods, still fearing that Declan, if he be the spy, might countermand her efforts to save the Woods family from Blaylock.

Should she share her suspicions about Declan with Foley? Her anxious eyes darted to the hall leading past the bar...what if he overheard her?

Foley was staring at the paper. "Christ!" he muttered. Then he collected himself. "Fine work, Michael. I'll pass this on to Fleetwood sharpish."

"May I keep reporting to ye?"

Colin Foley's mouth tightened, and he put his hand upon her shoulder. "Have ye heard the tidings, Michael?"

"About Lord Fitzgerald's arrest?" she asked, fear prickling. Searching his face, she saw the several days' growth of red bristles flecked with grey...and the weary lines about his eyes.

"Aye, that and the rising has been fixed for Wednesday night. The company will be heading off."

Her heart began to thump in her chest.

"Even though you're not going into battle, you have served the cause of freedom with rare courage and devotion, so ye have. By God, the risks you've taken! But, to your question, if ye have news and can find me, by all means report to me."

Michael felt as if she were collapsing into a cold hollow in her belly. The rising was to start! Incoherent thoughts struggled on her tongue. Then she came over numb. Nodding, she shouldered her bag, and took her leave of the tavern.

Aoife continued in a state of insensate resolve for some time, scarce recalling her return to her room at Mrs. Sutton's shop and her transformation from Michael to Kitty.

Somehow, she had made her way to the courthouse and now sat at the judges' bench, the partial coat of arms secured in the embroidery frame, her hand moving repetitively before her as if it were someone else's --- filling in the rampant lion with gold thread.

The day after tomorrow the rising would begin! All her comrades of the past weeks would be heading into battle with their pikes and muskets on their shoulders and the fire of righteous rage in their breast. The memory rose of her brothers and Hugh McDonnell waving farewell as their wagon pulled away from the farm in County Armagh...transporting them to their deaths.