Celtic Mist Ch. 14

She thought on Lieutenant Bolger, the first United Irishman she had met...that night in the carpenter's shop in Ferns...genial, handsome, freckled Bolger, who had first invited her to join the Society. She thought on earnest, deliberate Captain Fleetwood...wry Colin Foley...jolly, randy Jamie Byrne...big-hearted Rory Redmond...rascally Brian Foley, his hair nigh as red as her own.

And Declan. Strong, intense, green-eyed Declan...who had twice saved her from ravishment, who had run to warn the Defenders of the coming Yeos, who had trained Fleetwood's company to fight...who had pleasured her with his mouth and revealed to her the paradise of Medb's gifts.

Declan, who might be the traitorous bastard undermining their cause by his selective betrayals.

She looked under the judges' bench...for what? His ghost? Answers to a question she had not quite formulated?

Then she pondered her other mission. Had she only two days to avenge her family? Would Blaylock and the Yeomen continue still at Rossnalough Manor once the rising began? Or would the fiend disappear again in the chaos of war?

Her steady fingers flagged not, changing floss for the knight's helmet, then later for the family motto on a white banner. 'Twas midafternoon when she at last finished, unfastening her frame and tugging the cloth smooth. She thanked the clerk in the vestibule and left the courthouse.

The flat, grey sky matched Aoife's disconsolate mood as she headed back towards Mrs. Sutton's shop, her frame slung over her shoulder and her basket on her arm. By and by she began to note the unusual numbers of people hastening along the sidewalks in the same direction as herself. The hairs prickled in dread on the back of her neck...but as if under a spell, she was drawn against her will into the throng that spilled into Abbey Square.

Oh, no --- NO! NO!

The screams were audible ere she saw the cluster of Yeomen and Redcoats round the triangles. In the jostling crowd, Aoife realized that a second contraption of torture had been deployed next to the triangles.

This was a sturdy wooden rectangular frame some eight feet tall and four feet wide, standing on end, affixed to an axle mounted with broad wheels. Two Yeomen were holding it upright, and from the top center brace a man was hanging by his neck from a rope, purple faced and struggling, his hands bound behind his back. Good God! The terrible invention was a portable gallows!

As the victim's jerking began to ease, the two Yeomen who were holding the side struts tilted the rectangle down so that the man's body crumpled on the cobblestones. Another Yeo threw a bucket of water in his face. After a few moments, the victim returned to consciousness gasping and heaving.

Aoife identified Captain Pounden, the officer who had mounted the maid over his desk --- he kicked the groaning man and crouched to question him, the words inaudible over the surrounding noise. Then he signaled the two soldiers holding the rectangle --- at once they tilted it back up and the poor man writhed as he swung from his neck.

Through the stinging rage in her eyes, Aoife realized who the victim was: Thady Furlong, the carpenter who had made most of the pike hafts...who had played the pipes at the Byrnes' party. Again, before the life left his body, the Yeos lowered him and interrogated him.

Even at the same time, a lad was suspended by his wrists from the triangles and was being flogged with the cat o'nine tails by another Yeoman, supervised by Lieutenant Drury. In disbelief, Aoife recognized Thady Furlong's apprentice Darby, not even a man full grown. A cloud of blood sprayed out from his back with each blow, and his screams rose piteously. Whatever he was saying when they paused to question him failed to appease them, and the lashing resumed.

In the surrounding circle, other Yeomen were making an example as they had done with Rory Redmond, smashing the implements of Furlong's trade on the cobblestones with sledgehammers. Redcoats at the periphery restrained shouting and flailing family members and kept the onlookers back.

Aoife's wild eyes scanned the square for some hope of God's mercy. In the shifting and pressing crowd, she searched the intent faces of her fellow Irishmen and beheld their varied reactions to the atrocities before them: people with their hands over their gaping mouths, children crying, people with silent tears upon their cheeks, women turning their faces away, others simply watching with blank countenances, and some openly gloating and cheering.

Over the tops of the buildings on the north side of the square, the Hell was completed by a column of black smoke expanding in the grey sky.

In despair, Aoife turned away, using her embroidery frame to push her way through the crowd. She escaped the square by the first street she came upon, stumbling past even more citizens heading to observe the spectacle. Scarce did she mark her route, so distraught was she.

When she finally collected herself several minutes later, she saw that she was heading in the wrong direction for the dressmaker's shop. Orienting herself, she adjusted course. When a second tower of black smoke rose before her, attended by shouts and wailing, 'twas clear that the outrages were multiplying. With a sinking heart she drew near another cluster of onlookers in a smaller square formed by the confluence of three streets. A long, low malt-house on one corner was ablaze, and the owner's pillaged possessions were piled in a wagon.

A group of eight Yeomen were busy in the street in front of the burning building, and it took several minutes to appreciate the full horror of the scene.

Two men in working class garb with their hands bound behind them were reeling in the road wearing bizarre, conical, dunce-like caps upon their heads --- they were screaming in agony and dashing their heads over and over against the brick side of the neighboring building. From under the mottled linen caps, a thick black liquid was slowly running over their faces and necks.

The watching Yeos chortled with glee. A third man, similarly capped, was on the ground, slumped against the building, seemingly unconscious.

In the road was a squat iron kettle simmering over a firepit, and a soldier was ladling viscous black liquid from it into another stiff linen cone held by a comrade.

"Oh God! What is that?!" Aoife gasped to a woman at her side who was pressing her apron to her mouth with both fists.

"'Tis p-pitch, so it is!" the woman choked.

A fourth man was kneeling in the road with his hands tied behind him, his expression stoic as a Yeoman hacked off his ginger hair with a large shears. Even as the tops of his ears were cropped off by the brutal barber, the man refused to cry out, merely grimacing.

The next moment, the pitch filled cone was upended atop the man's shorn head, and he could no longer contain his shrieks. Two Yeomen held his wrenching body down by the shoulders as the boiling tar oozed out from under the cap. When they at last released him, he fell to the ground, screaming and scraping his head against the dirt...then he staggered to his feet, running and tripping as the pitch flowed into his eyes. The Yeomen cheered and whooped.

No surprise at all was it when Aoife saw the officer in command of the savagery. Blaylock stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face impassive as he directed his troops.

He barked an order, signaling towards the man slumped against the building, at which two soldiers hastened over, grasped him under the arms, and dragged him over the dirt road to Blaylock's feet. They heaved the man's torso upright so that he was kneeling, and Aoife saw that he was conscious.

And she saw who it was: Lieutenant Bolger.

"Oh God!" she whimpered. With the dried black runnels of pitch and blistered red flesh of his face, he was nigh unrecognizable. She remembered now that he owned a malt-house...no doubt 'twas his afire in the background.

His expression yielded nothing, even as Blaylock stared into his eyes.

Behind him, the most recent man pitch-capped was stumbling about, begging for mercy, "Please, PLEASE! Oh God! Make it stop! Please make it stop! I'll tell ye's anything, just make it stop!"

"Shut your gob!" Bolger growled over his shoulder.

Blaylock's boot kicked Bolger in the gut, and he said something to him, inaudible over the background screaming. Bolger shook his head with a defiant expression, which seemed to please Blaylock. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

"Hold him!" he commanded, and the two soldiers pressed down upon his shoulders. Blaylock unfolded his arms, seized the distorted point of the cap, and with a twist of his powerful hand, ripped the cap from his head, scalp and all.

The crowd cried out in horror --- a woman nearby swooned.

'Twas as if Bolger's voice box had been torn out as well, for no sound issued from his gaping, tormented mouth. Blood erupted from the ragged hole of skin and in seconds his entire head was awash in it. He fell forward onto his face, his body shaking.

Tears burning and bile rising in her gorge, Aoife whirled round and shoved her way back through the crowd. As her vision blurred in sickening waves of expanding white, she swayed and tottered, falling to her hands and knees upon the ground. Her belly heaved for a moment, then she struggled to rise.

A strong hand gripped her under her arm, lifting her to her feet. Through the oscillating brightness, she beheld the russet hair and hawk-like face of the Magistrate, Captain Archibald Jacob.

He quickly bent to retrieve her dropped basket and embroidery frame. So distressed and dizzy was she that she could not immediately understand his sudden appearance here. He supported her, guiding her away from the scene.

Then Aoife remembered: he was part of the campaign of terror...he was Blaylock's associate in crime. He had been at the garrison last night to aid in the planning. Her vitriol urged her to throw off his seemingly solicitous arm, but her reason and self-preservation advised her not to provoke this man's rancor.

"Whither are you headed?" he asked.

"Mrs. Sutton's shop," she mumbled.

She protested not as he escorted her back, his arm under hers in a gentleman-like fashion, carrying her belongings with his other hand. In truth, in her present state, she might not have found her way back from the unfamiliar neighborhood for some time. But when they arrived at the shop, 'twas locked --- the Suttons must be out observing the events.

Aoife fumbled in her pockets for her key, and they entered through the rear door by the kitchen, where the Magistrate set down her basket and frame and removed his hat. The servants Mary and Alice had evidently gone to gawk as well, for the house was silent.

Another wave of nausea came over her. Aoife swayed and reached for the wall.

Captain Jacob's arm went round her shoulders. "My dear girl, you are quite unwell. Do sit down." He guided her to the parlour next to the kitchen and eased her onto a sofa. "Let me fetch you a small restorative."

Vaguely she was aware of him crossing to the sideboard, but her mind was swimming with grief as she saw them again: Furlong's congested face and bulging eyes above the noose, Bolger's face frozen in pain below the tide of blood from his torn scalp, and all the others' contorted and wretched countenances.

And Aoife knew there was no God.

Sobs wracked her body, and she covered her streaming face with her hands. If she had imagined herself inured to suffering, the new revelation of the depths of man's depravity showed how her heart yet beat vulnerable in her breast.

The brocade sofa cushion shifted next to her. "Here Kitty, drink this brandy," Captain Jacob murmured.

But she only wept. Oh why was he yet here, this man?

"I am much aggrieved that you had to see that terrible sight, my dear girl," he murmured, his arm round her back, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder. "'Tis indeed a shocking thing for a young innocent to behold. But know that no pleasure was taken in what had to be done. The rebels are naught but traitors bent on embroiling this peaceful island in strife and destruction and killing innocent citizens willy-nilly. Such draconian measures are necessary to weed out the criminals."

Gradually did Aoife's sobs subside, not from a soothing effect of his words, but from her rising vexation at his continued unwanted presence. She uncovered her face, gasping and hiccupping against her corset as her chaotic breaths slowed.

"There, there, sweet Kitty. Have you a handkerchief?" His fingers plucked softly at the front of her bodice.

"Oh no, sir --- 'tis not there!"

He withdrew his hand, and she groped in the folds of her skirts for her pocket, extracting a square of plain linen. As she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, he took her other hand and held it in his.

"Sweet Kitty..." he repeated, his voice museful.

Aoife lowered the damp linen and realized that his brief search for the handkerchief had untucked the ends of the delicate white cambric fichu from her bodice, and above the edge the gown the swelling top of her bosom was now exposed nigh to the rosy crests, pressed upwards by her stays. The lilac fabric was spotted dark purple from her falling tears, and a few teardrops were sliding down her trembling breasts.

In sudden embarrassment, her eyes darted sideways. The Magistrate was sitting quietly, lightly pressing her hand. She dared not raise her eyes to see where he was looking, but with her quick glance she became aware of the outline of his cockstand tenting the front of his breeches.

At once she stood, turning to hide her blush as she discreetly pulled together the ends of the fichu to drape over her bodice. "Captain Jacob, I must thank you for your kindness. But I shall be quite well now." She faced him again. "I must return to work, and 'twould be unseemly for us to be alone together. I have no wish to cause embarrassment to Mrs. Sutton."

He stood as well, tugging his coat across his breeches. "Are you certain you are well enough to be alone, Kitty? I would not wish to leave you in distress."

"I'm fair certain I've sufficiently recovered. As ye say, these measures cannot be helped." She crossed to the hall door.

He followed her into the shop and paused when she unlocked the front door. His smile was warm as he studied her face. "Then I am glad to have had the opportunity to be of service to you."

"Aye," she agreed. "'Twas indeed fortunate that you were close by when I stumbled. Thank ye again, sir." She held the door open.

"Another time, Kitty." He gave her a brief, civil nod, donned his hat, and departed.

How utterly strange it was, Aoife thought after locking the door behind him, repairing the disarray of her bodice, and taking up her unfinished sewing in the workroom. For a man of such dubious character to have expressed his amorous interest in such a courtly manner, all things considered. At least 'twas the only explanation that she could perceive for the awkward incident. Aye, there was no accounting for the vagaries of the human animal.

She recalled his conversation with Blaylock last night and prayed that Dr. Woods and his family had escaped.

So...today stood as testament to their new tactics of "enhanced persuasion," did it now? Her heart ached for the future of Ireland.

When the Suttons and the servants returned, Aoife was diligently sewing, once more master of herself. The lot of them had, as predicted, been watching the events in Abbey Square, and Mrs. Sutton was aflutter with her observations and exclamations about the ghastly happenings and the disgraceful rebels.

Aoife endeavored to blot out the disturbing, mindless chatter, but her ears did perk when Mrs. Sutton said, "...and rumor has it that the Yeomen intended to arrest Dr. Woods for aiding the rebels, but when they arrived at Bellefield House, they discovered the family flown. The house and all its contents were seized as forfeit to the King --- so I heard from Mrs. Wright anyway. But half of what comes out of her mouth is folly, so I shall apply to Captain Jacob for the truth of it."

In silence did Aoife rejoice at that one tolerable development of the day. As soon as she finished her work, she decamped from the shop. On her way to the back stairs, Susanna Sutton came out into the hall and beckoned her.

"Kitty, with all the upsetting events, I almost forgot to tell you that someone called for you this morning whilst you were at the courthouse...a young man."

Aoife felt a nervous discomfiture. "A young man?" she repeated, confused.

"Yes, he came into the shop, but was clearly not a customer, being dressed...well...as a laborer. He was quite tall and strong looking with dark hair and the beginnings of a beard. He would not leave a name but said he would call again." Susanna nudged her with a coy look. "You never mentioned you have a sweetheart, you sly thing."

Aoife's cheeks warmed. "That sounds like the lad who helps on me cousin's farm." Having already established the fiction of the cousin's farm to account for her absences on the weekends, the lie came easily enough. "He's not my sweetheart."

"Well, he's a handsome lad --- albeit in a rough, countryish fashion. Is he married? Does he have a sweetheart?"

Aoife shook her head. "Not that I know."

"Catholic, I suppose? More's the pity. Even so, I wouldn't mind a turn in his arms on the dance floor...just so long as Mama didn't hear of it."

"I'll be sure to inform him of your interest, and the pair of you's can create your own Romeo and Juliet story," Aoife teased with a tight smile.

"Kitty! Don't you dare!" Susanna giggled.

Upstairs in her room, Aoife spent the remainder of the afternoon stitching on the green fabric.

So, Declan had come by looking for her, had he? Her heart pattered despite herself. Before the outrages in town, by the sounds of it. What the Devil did he want? Was it about the incident in the courtroom, or was he angered about her interference in Dr. Woods' fate?

The sun at last set. Before heading to Rossnalough Manor, she hid her work in one of the crates along the side of the attic.

She again arrived at the garrison at the later time, but tonight had not the luck of the previous night. Inside the passage in the wall, she waited at the peep-hole for almost a half hour, but the chamber remained empty.

*****

Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Tuesday, May 22, 1798

The atmosphere at the Militia garrison was noticeably different than on previous mornings. Instead of the quietness of a not-yet-risen camp, there was terse, purposeful activity everywhere. In the grey dawn light, rows of Redcoats were already assembling for the morning formation. A pair of soldiers strode into the ordnance building, one with a book and pencil. The officers gathered as usual outside the room wherein their daily meeting occurred, but today they were taciturn.

Could they know that the rising was to happen tomorrow? Or was the tension simply the reflection of the palpably increasing unrest in the county? Yesterday's mayhem? The Redcoats had assisted the Yeomen in the atrocities in Abbey Square, so they had.

From the garrison, Michael hastened back to Mrs. Sutton's shop to retrieve the pistol she had discovered in the attic. Now that she had the stolen flintlock hidden inside the wall of Blaylock's office, she wanted to give this one to Fleetwood's company. Forgoing breakfast again, she used the time to return to Foley's tavern --- she would not let her skittishness about Declan stand in the way of adding another firearm to the United Irish cache.

Luck was on her side in that regard. The lads had already left for Fleetwood's, Colin Foley said, and he himself was likewise soon headed there. She gave him the pistol.