Celtic Mist Ch. 14

From Foley she learnt that the carpenter Thady Furlong had at last succumbed to the noose but had held his tongue to the end. Under the lash, his apprentice Darby had admitted to making the pike hafts, but was flogged to death unable to say where they went from the shop.

"The poor lad truly hadn't the know of it," Foley said.

Lieutenant Bolger had died from his wounds as well, Foley continued grimly. Of his three assistants at the malt-house who had also been pitch-capped, the lad who was a member of Fleetwood's company had been scalped and bled to death like Bolger. According to witnesses, neither United Irishman had yielded anything to the Yeos.

But the two others had babbled everything they knew of the comings and goings of their employer and workmate. They had been spared the scalping but were left with the caps yet adhered to their heads. "I dinna think they had any useful information to give the bloody Yeos," Foley opined.

Michael's heart was heavy as she returned to the Sutton shop.

Wiping away her tears, she began her day as Kitty. With the passing hours, her grief and despair gradually transmogrified into their cold counterpart: fury. Outwardly she calmly stitched, cut, and gathered fabric for some aristocratic lady whose life was so idle and foolish that she could concern herself over the trivialities of her finery, whilst inwardly, Aoife raged and screamed for justice.

When her duties in the shop were concluded, she hastened up to the garret where she pulled out the green fabric and resumed her work. Her needle flew as the minutes ticked away...she must finish it! Some two hours later, she at last rejoiced at its completion. She spread it upon her bed, the dull sheen of the silk comporting with the satisfied gleam in her eyes.

From the remaining, unused fabric, she cut as many neckerchiefs as she could --- seventeen.

After a brief deliberation, she dumped out the contents of her knapsack and added a second rectangle of heavy linen to the back of the bag, fashioning a secret pocket. Into it she slid her green fabric handiwork, all folded and carefully distributed. She sewed the top edge of the pocket shut. Now the side of the knapsack that rested against her back had an even, subtle padding. Tonight, she would bring them to Fleetwood after leaving Rossnalough Manor.

She repacked the bag, adjusting the dagger and knitting pin in their hidden slots in the straps. Last night she had contemplated leaving the knife inside the wall with the pistol, but should she encounter Blaylock elsewhere than his lair, she had been loath to be entirely unarmed.

At ten past eight, Michael gingerly tilted open the window of the dormer and scanned the neighboring windows and dark alley below. Assured of being unobserved, she turned and extended her legs out the window, first one then the other, bracing her shoes against the shingles. Gripping the overhang of the dormer's roof, she pushed the window shut. By now she had memorized the route over the roof and avoided the loose shingles. She descended the side of the house with successive hand and foot holds on cool scratchy wood shutters, cooler brick ledges, and the hard, creaking drainpipe.

Curfew was not till ten, so she took a direct route through the town, her steps brisk and her eyes alert. Several Redcoats did she spy, but they simply watched her pass without impeding her.

Soon she was heading out into the dark countryside west of Enniscorthy, and the lights of the town receded behind her.

*****

"PUT off that mask of burning gold

With emerald eyes."

"O no, my dear, you make so bold

To find if hearts be wild and wise,

And yet not cold."

"I would but find what's there to find,

Love or deceit."

"It was the mask engaged your mind,

And after set your heart to beat,

Not what's behind."

"But lest you are my enemy,

I must enquire."

"O no, my dear, let all that be;

What matter, so there is but fire

In you, in me?"

--- W. B. Yeats

The night was cool and clear, and a half moon lit the road to Rossnalough Manor. The rows of young crops and dim shapes of ruminating sheep usually were reassuring to her, but tonight there was a sinister quality to the dark fields. Perhaps it was the tainting of the fresh country air by the faint, residual acrid odor from yesterday's house burnings that yet hovered over the land.

Michael's feeling of disquiet increased as she neared the pair of lanterns that marked the gateway to the Yeomen's garrison --- to her dismay, one of the two sentries on duty was an unfamiliar soldier.

She approached with her heart thudding distantly in her chest. The man she knew searched her knapsack as he oft had done, and she took up the usual stance for the frisking with her arms straight out and her feet about a half yard apart. Alas, 'twas soon apparent that the new sentry was decidedly more methodical in his search than his predecessor, and Michael struggled to maintain an easeful demeanor. Please, let him not feel her galloping heartbeat!

"What is this?" the soldier demanded. His hands were moving up and down under her coat according to the usual procedure, but his more astute fingers had identified the top edge of her linen chest binding in the frayed armhole of her waistcoat.

Michael swallowed, then lifted her gaze to meet his eyes that glinted in the lantern light. "'Tis a bandage. I was playing with this stray cat at the stable last week, and she came over sort of crabbed-like and scratched me something fierce. Well, after that a big, red boil swelled in me oxter...fearsome painful, so it was. Anyways, the groom stuck it with a nail today and all this pus comes a-rushing out...I didn't want to soil me clothes."

The sentry hastily withdrew his hands. His palpation of her lower body was notably less enthusiastic. At last, they let her through the gate. Michael wryly considered how oft she had extracted herself from a scrape with a tale of a misadventure with a cat...that or pretending to stumble.

She got through the boot polishing quickly --- in her back and forth between the kitchen and row of boots under the main staircase, 'twas clear that the maids had stopped carrying up new food courses and were bringing empty dishes back from the dining room. But as to Blaylock's whereabouts, Michael could only guess.

As on the previous nights, she washed her rags in the courtyard, waiting for her chance to cross to the carriage house and sneak in. Across the grounds from the direction of the soldiers' tents, she heard sounds of chatter and intermittent bursts of raucous laughter. Among these men were those who had pitch-capped the men and manned the gallows, chortling at their victims' agony.

The cruelty of laughter at the suffering of another human was perhaps equal to the crime of the torture, Michael decided. Aye! All too well did she remember Blaylock's vile chuckle and grin as he stepped out of the Lanigan cottage buttoning his breeches...and the leering laughter of Blaylock, Lynch, and Bruckton as they held her down and pried open her most secret places.

Through the haze of rage, she was yet alert enough to note a new impediment to her plans: as she crouched by the well scrubbing her rags, two Yeomen entered the carriage house where the ordnance was stored --- one holding a lantern. What were they doing? Would they notice the missing pistol? Nay, she could not worry about that --- she had a mission to carry out.

She could get to the stall with the trap door from the stable, instead of by her usual route through the carriage house, but by this approach she could not as easily assess the stable for the presence of others before venturing in. As the two men failed to emerge from the carriage house after a few minutes, Michael realized that she would simply need to take the risk of the alternative means of entry.

Waiting for the gap in the marching guards' sightlines, Michael scampered across the cobblestone courtyard and slipped through the door to the stable, immediately ducking down inside. She was in a space between two stalls which provided cover as she crept towards the main center aisle. Not a sound did she hear. Still crouching, she peeped round the edge of the stall --- nary a soul was in sight in either direction. Up she leapt and crossed to the stall wherein the entrance to the tunnel was located.

In a trice, she was climbing down the dank shaft on the rusty rungs. Lighting her candle at the bottom, she swiftly traveled the tunnel under the courtyard to the intersecting one inside the cellar wall of the mansion. At the foot of the narrow stairs up to Blaylock's office, she paused to fasten the dagger belt round her hips and transfer the knitting pin from the knapsack strap to the slot in the breeches along her right thigh.

She blew out the candle and ascended the stairs. In the utter blackness, she inched her way through the restricted space inside the wall, by feel extracting the flintlock from its hiding place between the studs. Her thumb checked the position of the hammer...aye, half-cocked and ready.

The tiny beam of dim light coming through the peep-hole in the wall beckoned her forward, and she eased herself soundlessly into a crouch to bring her eye level with the hole.

The chamber was unoccupied.

Her hopes momentarily thwarted, she prepared herself to wait. She confirmed the ease of opening the panel and scanned the room, seeing nothing new since last night. Briefly, her eyes rested upon the portrait above the fireplace of the young auburn-haired woman who resembled Clodagh. Then she stepped back into the wall and pushed the panel shut.

Michael waited, adjusting her cramped position after several minutes.

'Twas not long after that she heard a sound --- she went motionless --- a door opened and closed. The hall door was outside of the range of vision of the peep-hole, but within seconds Blaylock was visible.

Alone.

Her heartbeat accelerated.

He went directly to the fireplace on the opposite wall, added another log to the low fire, and stirred it. The flames soon crackled higher. From the mantel he picked up a bronze candelabra, removing one candle to light it from the fire and lighting the other four from it. Now carrying the candelabra, he crossed the room towards her --- she resisted the instinctive urge to shrink away from him. He could not see her, she reminded herself. Now she noticed that he had a pistol and knife on a belt round his hips.

Her quarry sat at his desk...his back was towards her hiding place, just as she had imagined the scene. Her left hand reached for the latch and her shaking right squeezed the butt of the pistol.

Then she panicked --- what if he heard the cocking of the pistol?! She had not considered that! She should have cocked it full when he was across the room by the fireplace! Her teeth worried her lower lip as she watched him unlock a desk drawer and pull out a small book.

This is your chance, ye damn idiot! Dinna waste it! There below the queue of his black hair was the broad target of his back in the silver-braid-trimmed blue coat. Even with her meager shooting skills, she could not fail to hit it.

Blaylock opened the book, took up the quill and tapped it briskly in the ink well. Michael's heart was thumping as she took a deep breath, placed her right thumb on the hammer, and drew the latch aside with her left forefinger.

A sharp knocking sounded, and Blaylock's head turned towards the hall door. "Enter," he said curtly.

Damn! Michael's hand stilled on the latch.

Sounds of the door opening and closing.

"Colonel, sir!" a clipped voice said. "The guards apprehended an intruder on the grounds by the stable, armed with a pistol and dagger. They brought him to me as duty officer, but I wanted to check with you if we should secure him downstairs directly, or if you want to question him tonight."

Blaylock only glanced up from his writing. "Bring him in, Drury. Let's have a look at him."

Door opening...a muffled "Bring him in."

Footsteps...door closing...footsteps.

Two Yeomen marched into view with Declan Quickfist Muldowney O'Toole between them!

His hands were behind his back, bound Michael guessed, and his feet were tethered together by a rope perhaps a half yard in length, so that he shuffled as he walked. Each soldier was gripping him by the upper arm.

At that moment, Michael recognized the Yeomen as the pair who had been pouring and applying pitch caps at the scene outside of Bolger's malt-house yesterday. She wondered if Blaylock had assembled a select group of malefactors from among the soldiers in his company, as he had done at Kilmaedan Castle.

The trio halted near the center of the chamber, with Lieutenant Drury next to them. All the Yeomen were armed with a pistol and knife. Blaylock set aside his quill and leant back in his chair, facing the group. With his back towards her, Michael could not see Blaylock's reaction, and despite being able to see Declan's face, his expression as he regarded his former commander was unreadable.

Now she would hear! Now she would know the truth! Michael lowered the gun and listened with all her ears. Expecting Blaylock to order them to release the prisoner for he was their spy, she was surprised at his silence.

"Lieutenant, you can go," he said at last.

"Yes, sir." Drury saluted and disappeared from view; the door opened and closed again.

Blaylock calmly rose from his chair and crossed round the desk to stand in front of Declan. He folded his arms over his chest and simply looked at Declan for several moments, whilst Declan returned his gaze without flinching. Face to face, Michael noticed that as tall as Declan was, Blaylock was even an inch or so taller. She now had a partial view of Blaylock's face, and she grew increasingly puzzled at the silent exchange, then at the slow grin that creased Blaylock's cheek.

"Declan Quickfist," he said at last, pronouncing it with deliberate emphasis as if it were a sentence complete in itself.

Declan spoke not.

Blaylock leant against the front edge of the desk and stretched his legs out before him, crossing one boot over the other. His arms remained folded, but his fingers tapped upon his upper arm. An amused expression grew upon his countenance.

"In the doomsday ledger of my career, there has long been a debt remaining outstanding. I must confess I never expected you to present yourself to settle it."

The corner of Declan's lips gave the faintest twitch. "Of what unsettled score do ye imagine ye have cause to complain?"

Blaylock's face hardened. "Surely, you are not pretending innocence. You're not that much of a simpleton. Where shall I start? Insubordination, dereliction of duty, desertion, and theft of the Duke's property."

"Was not the scarring of my back and forfeiture of my prizefighting winnings payment enough on those counts?"

"For the first two, perhaps. But, as happy as I was to add your money to my coffers, neither corrected the other two offenses." Blaylock stood to his full height, his cold, blue eyes fixed on Declan's. "No one defies me and gets away scot-free, Quickfist," he growled.

Declan did not blink. "Muldowney," he said. "My name is Declan Muldowney."

"So, you have adopted a new name...become a different man, have you? Such will not absolve you of your debt."

"'Tis no new name. 'Twas me birth name. My father was John Muldowney, the printer in Kilkenny whom ye murdered on June 7, 1787. Him and my mother Brigid Muldowney and my brother Rory Muldowney." Declan's green eyes shone.

Michael stared, frozen in shock at the revelation. Declan had not been lurking about the Yeomen's garrison because he was a spy, but because he too was intending to avenge his family! He hadn't betrayed the rebels at all!

The two soldiers holding him glanced at each other.

Blaylock too, for the first time since Declan entered, seemed taken aback. He stood with his hands on his weapons belt, studying Declan. "The dark-haired boy who escaped." A wry smile twisted one corner of Blaylock's mouth. "The boy who tried to fight me and gave me the scar by which I am named."

He began to laugh --- a low, mirthless chuckle. "This is a fortunate day, indeed. Never did I suppose that I would see two old scores settled in one evening. To finally clear that blemish from my record...the little boy witness who escaped me...excellent!"

Blaylock continued his amused assessment of Declan and shook his head. "No wonder you were such a ruthless fighter. But I am all puzzlement --- why did you join the Duke's guards and serve under my command...bearing this grudge of, what...eight years at that time?"

Declan's mouth grew tight. "I lost my memory the night you murdered me family. Had I known who I was, I would have killed ye years ago."

"Is that why you're here then? To kill me...to avenge your family? I see." Blaylock smiled. "So, for two years you unknowingly served the pleasure of the man who had so wronged you? What a splendid farce! How I wish I had recognized you and enjoyed the comedy of your eager efforts to impress me --- your unknown, avowed enemy." He shook his head and chuckled. "I was impressed --- truly I was. Indeed, I saw in you a lad whom I might mold in my likeness."

"Aye, I was a damned sapscull, so I was," Declan said matter-of-factly.

Blaylock began to pace up and down before the desk, his arms crossed, his fingers tapping as he appraised Declan. His mouth pursed sagely. "Let me guess --- you suddenly regained your memory that night whilst we had that red-haired cunt on the table?"

"I saw your scar."

"So, you decided then and there to recast yourself as the noble hero, defender of the weak and innocent?" He halted in his stride and studied Declan more intently. "And then perhaps you appointed yourself an angel of justice as well?"

Declan cocked an eyebrow.

"Not long after I left for England, I received word that Fitzgibbons and Burrows had been cut down in a manner that spoke to vengeance served. There are few men who could have accomplished the task alone. Was that by your hand?"

Declan's chin lifted. "Aye. So they deserved for what they did to the Lanigan family...and others."

"And that was what you were intending for me, I daresay? Before my soldiers caught you?" Blaylock grinned. "Excellent...and here I had resigned myself to a night bereft of diversion. But do enlighten me --- you participated that night as well, what is your punishment?"

"To have the weight of it on my conscience all the months since. Had I known what the mission was to be --- had I known your true character --- I never would have done it."

Again, Blaylock contemplated Declan for a prolonged moment. "Methinks these are not all the matters of interest between us, are they, Quickfist? Dare I say you've found some other occupation these past months aside from hunting me? Rumors were bubbling among the Orangemen of the remarkable fighting machine who routed their lads from a certain rebel tavern."

No response made Declan.

"So, if I were to guess, your noble fervor for justice has now found a home with the rebel forces. Nothing to say? You always did keep your own counsel. 'Twas one aspect of your character that I truly admired. But no worries, we can help you find your tongue." Blaylock signaled the two soldiers. "Chair!"

Declan struggled as the men abruptly dragged him backwards, whilst Blaylock crossed to the fireplace and thrust the poker into the flames. "Take care, he's a wily one," he called over his shoulder.

The soldiers forced Declan to sit in a heavy, tall-backed oak chair a few feet behind him, where they threw wide leather straps round his torso and neck. The straps were affixed to the chair back, and as they buckled them tight, his bound arms were crushed between his back and the chair.