Chapter 8: Dangerous Toys
FOUR millions hand in hand,
Shall by each other stand,
And with one voice demand
Irishmen's due.
--- 'By a Lady', Paddy's Resource
As soon as Colin Foley learnt that Declan was experienced at tending bar, he offered him a job in the tavern. He and his son Brian could use the help on busy nights, and the rest of the week, Declan's addition to the tavern would allow Foley to have, in his words, "a day of rest regular-like." They had no extra beds, but Foley offered him a pallet in the storeroom behind the bar, which Declan gratefully accepted.
Declan soon made the acquaintance of the rest of the family. Mr. Foley was a widower, and his son and daughter --- Brian and Rose --- lived with him. Brian, a good-humored eighteen-year-old, was the red-haired lad who had been tending bar with Foley. Rose, a brisk, pretty lass in her twenties, had the keeping of the house, and in her work accepted the apparently unwanted guidance of her grandmother --- Foley's mother-in-law, Mrs. O'Shea. Rose's husband
John Moynihan
was the other adult in the household, and the couple had two weans, a lad of four, and a lass of two. The final member of the family was the dog Dara.
Declan also heard tell of Mr. Foley's older son Cormac who had been killed in Dunkirk five years ago fighting the French Republic during his service in the British Regulars. "Aye, he joined when he was eighteen," Mr. Foley said, shaking his head. "He was a belligerent lad, so he was...but who isn't at that age? In his blind commitment to oppose his da, he chose the one course that would break me heart for certain --- to enlist in the British army. 'Tis no solace that he came to regret his decision after seeing how they treated Irish soldiers...and indeed anyone who wasn't English. He was sore tempted to desert but feared the bringing of trouble to the family." Foley shrugged bleakly. "But in the end, 'twas the bitterest trouble of all that landed at our door."
As for Mr. O'Toole's coded referral of Declan to Foley for consideration as a fighter for the United Irishmen, nigh a month passed without the man alluding to the subject. Declan sensed that Foley was assessing him --- he observed Declan about the tavern discharging his duties and his manner with customers and the family. He oft engaged Declan in conversation as they tidied the bar at night.
As best he could, Declan curbed his impatience to embark upon an endeavor more noble than pouring pints of ale. He did not resent the man's circumspection, understanding right well that the rebel group was a secret society that the Crown had been ruthlessly attempting to suppress for some time now --- their efforts aided by a bewildering network of spies and informers, several of whom had been men who had infiltrated the society and betrayed it from within.
To Mr. Foley's questions about his past, Declan relayed the essentials, abbreviating his family's fate as murder for defending a man's criticism of the English occupiers. His break from the Duke's service he credited to an awakening of conscience prompted by the witnessing of an atrocity against a tenant family. Just as Foley had his reasons for caution, so too did Declan --- he guarded the names Muldowney, Aoife, and Blaylock close to his heart. He had no reason to distrust the tavern-keeper, but Declan had become increasingly wary of jeopardizing his opportunity to catch Blaylock unawares by the far-fetched chance that innocent words disclosing Declan's quest might somehow reach his ears. Apart from that reticence, he readily answered Mr. Foley's questions about himself.
Foley and Declan agreed that he should present himself as described in Mr. O'Toole's letter: the nephew of an old friend who had been sent by his uncle to escape the corrupt influences of Dublin life. He now went by the name Declan O'Toole.
Keen as ever to supplement his income, Declan queried the family regarding any potential work about town. Rose's husband John Moynihan, who worked in a glazier's shop, pointed him in the direction of Carley's Bridge Pottery, a firm nigh a mile from the tavern. Here Declan found employment as a digger. Several mornings each week he would report to the workshop, then ride out to the fields in a wagon with two other diggers to spend the day harvesting the clay rich soil.
Between his work in the tavern and digging clay for the potter, Declan quickly adapted to his new circumstances.
One Saturday afternoon about a week after his arrival in Enniscorthy, Declan was in the yard behind the tavern splitting logs for the fireplace when Mr. Foley approached. "Here lad, I've a commission for ye, if ye will."
Declan lowered the axe. "Aye, to be sure."
"There's a barrel tap I need you to fetch from the dry goods purveyor Casey across town." He proceeded to give Declan directions and coins. "'Twill be two shillings."
Carefully pocketing the money, Declan set off on foot, observing with interest the new town in which he had landed. Daylight confirmed his earlier impression of a prosperous-appearing city --- good-sized but without the pervasive blight of Dublin. The streets were busy with carriages, carts, and townspeople. He noticed two church spires above the rooftops and crossed not one but two different squares on his route. The first was a market square active with vendors and customers. The second was near the castle --- a large, oblong, cobblestoned space called Abbey Square. This square opened out upon the River Slaney on one end and was flanked by elegant looking buildings along the other sides.
As he traversed Abbey Square, weaving among pedestrians and carts, Declan momentarily tensed as he spied a pair of Redcoats strolling towards him. He maintained a nonchalant pace even as he kept a wary side-eye upon them. The soldiers paid him no heed as they passed. Declan's breath eased. Aye, he must ever be conscious that he was a fugitive from the press-gang...and must ever be vigilant.
At length, he arrived at the dry goods shop and purchased the copper barrel tap, discovering that 'twas only one shilling, not two.
Whilst he was walking back through Abbey Square, he was startled by a male voice calling out, "Declan!" After a few seconds of agitation and quickened heartbeat, he recognized in relief the bright red hair and freckled face of young Brian Foley...waving a flat wooden stick as he hastened towards him across the square. Declan returned the wave.
"Heading to the tavern, are ye?" Brian asked, drawing up alongside him.
"I am." They fell into step together.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Your Da sent me to fetch this tap."
"Oh, aye. From Casey's?"
"Aye." Declan nodded towards the wooden, paddle-shaped stick Brian was carrying. "Hurling?"
Brian grinned. "Aye, a good match with the lads. We lost, but we were a lad short." They turned from the square onto Castle Street. A moment later, Brian's demeanor abruptly changed, and he muttered "Damn!" under his breath. His grip visibly tightened upon the hurling stick.
Declan's alert eyes registered what no doubt had caught Brian's attention: walking towards them was a pair of lads their age dressed in working class garb. They would have been otherwise unremarkable if it were not for the stares they fixed upon the pair of them, and the orange ribbon cockades on their coat lapels. No time was there to query Brian, but Declan's fighter's instinct warned him of potential trouble.
The strangers' gazes and path wavered not, but Declan observed no threatening motion in their hands. As they passed each other, one lad's shoulder smacked into Brian's. At the insolent challenge, Brian pivoted with a growl --- but then checked the swing of his stick.
The two lads halted and turned back, sneering. "Oh, I beg your pardon," one said. "Didn't realize ye were a pair of molly altar boys. We should have had more care for your delicate condition."
'Twas evident that Brian was sore tempted to respond to the taunt but was restraining himself, his face flushed and his knuckles white upon the hurling stick handle. Declan, being well versed in the pre-fight insult game, was able to control himself. The last thing he needed was the attention of the law. Calmly, he perused the two lads, then his lip curled in a half-smirk. "Let's go." Turning their backs, they walked away.
The evidently puzzled lads were silent for a moment, then called after them, "Aye, go on and flee, ye Papist cowards!"
After crossing another street, Declan asked, "Who the Devil were those bastards?"
"Orangemen!" Brian jeered. "Bloody Protestant gang members! By God they were begging for it, so they were!" He slashed the hurling stick through the air. "But Da said to stay out of trouble now that we're..." he faltered and glanced at Declan. "Well, just to stay out of trouble." A bitter smile grew on young Foley's countenance. "I would have loved to see their faces had we unleashed Declan Quickfist upon them!"
At Declan's warning look, Brian nodded. "I know, I know. 'Tis a secret. You're Declan O'Toole."
Declan had been vaguely aware of the Orangemen previously, and with his new knowledge from reading the United Irish newspapers, he understood that the pro-Crown brotherhood was so named in commemoration of the victory of the Protestant King William of Orange over the Catholic King James at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 --- a victory that had secured the Protestant Ascendancy in Ireland.
By the time they returned to the tavern, Brian's good humor was restored, and he acceded to his wee nephew's pleas to play "hurlee" with him in the yard. Declan gave the barrel tap and extra shilling to Colin Foley.
Throughout the month of February, as Declan worked and bided his time, Foley recruited him several more times to perform errands. On some occasions, it was carrying letters to recipients in Enniscorthy or nearby towns. Other times he was sent again to buy items --- mugs at the Saturday market, a bottle of Islay whiskey from a larger tavern across town, a new collar for the dog. Foley again provided him with coins for each excursion. Eager to be of assistance, Declan took care on these commissions, delivering the letters untampered with and returning the difference of the coins for the purchases.
* * * * *
One Sunday at the end of February, Mr. Foley asked Declan to accompany him as he took the dog Dara for a walk. They headed east past the castle, encountering people here and there about the streets.
Declan caught himself checking the face of a red-haired lass as they crossed the bridge over the river. For some time now he had known right well that Phoebe's milking of his cock...as pleasant as it had been...had failed to extract the spell of Aoife.
Presently they left the town limits and found themselves in the countryside, the road continuing between fields. Here, with no other people in sight, Foley turned to him. "'It has been a month since you came to Enniscorthy, Declan."
Declan nodded. "Aye, so it has."
"Do you recall your words the night we met?"
"I do. 'I want to fight for Ireland'. I am as eager to do so as ever."
