Celtic Mist Ch 12

Foley's Tavern, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Tuesday, May 8, 1798

I saw her coming through the flowery grass,

Round her swift ankles butterfly and bee

Blent loud and silent wings; I saw her pass

Where foam-bows shivered on the sunny sea.

--- Francis Ledwidge

Declan was in a jubilant state after the astonishing discovery at the waterfall earlier that afternoon: Michael was Aoife! She was here in Enniscorthy and had been hidden under his very nose these past three weeks! Oh, rare, fine lass!

Notwithstanding his restraint in saving for his later solitude the further contemplation of the entrancing details of what he had seen, such was Declan's distraction at the flood of joyous emotions that he could scarce lend his attention to his work behind the bar: he poured ale instead of whiskey and vice versa, he cleared away mugs ere they were emptied, and he filled Dara's water bowl with cider.

'Twas when he stood by the money drawer, his unfocused mind confounded by the calculation of returning change that he looked up to find the similarly freckled faces of Colin and Brian Foley --- one on each side of him --- father and son both grinning from ear to ear.

"Who is she?" Colin Foley asked.

Declan felt a rush of heat in his face. "Who is who?"

"The lass who's put you in such a state."

"Aye," Brian said. "You went to Ballaghkeen today, so ye did. Did you meet a bonnie maid?"

Declan slid farthings into groups on the counter, endeavoring to tally them.

"Och! There's a right ruddy face! Who is she?"

Declan shrugged.

Brian punched his arm, making him knock the coin stacks into disarray. "Did ye dance the blanket hornpipe?"

"Nay, son. Give Aengus Og his due. Look at this lad --- this state of beguilement is no quick brush."

"The mighty Quickfist has been felled by love!" Brian chortled.

Again, Declan tried to count, but was interrupted by Colin Foley shaking his head with a smile as he swiftly collected the correct coins himself and turned to the bar to give them to the waiting customer.

Brian danced about and poked at Declan's flanks as he sang, "Declan's in lo-ove! Declan's in lo-ove!"

A yelp ensued as Declan abruptly threw an arm round the other lad's neck and fixed him in the crook of his elbow --- his other fist roughly rubbed Brian's crown of red hair. Brian grabbed at Declan's torso and they scuffled behind the bar, eliciting hoots and whistles from the customers.

Colin Foley laughed and terminated the wrestling match. "Here now, lads! Back to work. Stop teasing this lovesick fool."

Brian and Declan straightened with grins. Colin's countenance grew somber as he addressed Declan aside. "'Sure, 'tis all good if you've found love...here's luck to you if ye have. But you canna continue in such a dither --- there's work to be done. You have a mission tomorrow, and you'd better get yourself sorted by then so ye can give it your proper attention."

Declan nodded solemnly...aye, tomorrow there were indeed matters of importance to pursue. "I will."

That night after the tavern closed and the family retired, Declan "sorted himself" on his pallet in the storeroom...as best as his calloused palm and spittle allowed. He let loose the barrage of erotic images that had been waiting in his mind...Aoife's bare, nubile figure poised on the mossy stone ere she dived into the pool...the flashes of her spread vulva as she somersaulted in the water...her face tensing with pleasure as the waterfall thrummed over her privates...the close view from behind of her bonnie little quim and bottom hole as she knelt upon the bank in front of his hiding place...the alluring way her lips parted and her secret, pink aperture showed a little more each time she bent forward...and lastly what a wondrous vision it would be --- his cock fully opening that wee slit! He groaned through his clenched teeth as the ropes of sperm shot over his chest.

Declan was thus able to sleep, but the next day broke with a quick revival of his amorous longings, and he knew that to accomplish the day's mission, he would need to invoke the former discipline that had enabled him to focus upon the boxing match at hand and suppress his wayward thoughts of a possible shag with one of the comely ringside lassies.

For today he was to accompany Lieutenant Coe on a journey to the county just north of them: County Wicklow --- the county in which Kilmaedan town lay, and one of the counties presently being subjected to General Lake's campaign of terror to crush the rebellion.

Over the past week and a half, the Crown's forces --- bent on uncovering the insurgents and their weapons --- had been methodically burning houses, arresting people, and torturing suspects in the towns and villages of the counties surrounding Dublin.

A company of United Irishmen just north of the county line near Carnew town had arranged to give over their hoard of guns to Coe and Declan --- 'twould be better to distribute the hard-acquired weapons among the currently unsuspected rebel companies in County Wexford than to have them be confiscated and completely lost to the cause.

But how long would the Crown remain ignorant of the rebel forces in Wexford? Aye, that was the question! God grant that the United Irish central command give the signal for the rising to begin ere General Lake turned his attention further south!

As on the previous journey to Wexford town, they took the wagon with the hidden compartment --- today covered with sacks of barley and bales of hay. No Michael this time...Declan shook his head as he considered how on that first excursion, Aoife had been perched right behind his oblivious head the whole way. Fortunately, Coe was unlike Jamie Byrne, and let nothing distract him from their mission.

Crossing into County Wicklow, they were detained by a detachment of blue-uniformed Yeomen from Carnew who demanded to know their purpose.

To visit his cousin's farm, was Coe's rehearsed response. Upon further interrogation, Coe gave the location of the farm and explained that the hay was for his cousin, since his had molded over the damp winter. The wagon was searched: soldiers thrust sabers into the hay bales and burrowed their hands in the bags of barley --- but the secret compartment remained undiscovered.

At last, they were permitted to resume their journey.

Arriving at their destination --- a small farm with sheep in the pasture --- Coe steered the wagon into a field and pulled to a stop next to an ash tree, where a farmer heading from the cottage joined them. Already acquainted with the man, Coe introduced Declan to Martin Goff, the local United Irish leader.

The three of them unloaded the hay bales to supplement the screen of greenery about the wagon, and Goff lifted aside a large flat stone on the ground to reveal the opening to what proved to be a natural limestone cave.

From inside Goff handed out some forty firearms. Declan quickly examined them as they were loaded into the wagon compartment --- muskets, pistols, and blunderbusses --- aye, a good haul, so it was.

Goff walked alongside the wagon back to the road. On the horizon to the east was visible an ominous black plume of smoke.

"The Yeomen are likely burning a suspect's home in Carnew," Goff said with a hard expression.

The three men stared at the hovering cloud for a minute, then Coe and Declan took their leave.

They returned to County Wexford via a different road than they had left it, but again were waylaid by Yeomen, albeit a different band of soldiers. Coe informed them that they were bringing the bags of barley to a malting house.

One of the soldiers said something in a low voice to the officer, at which the man regarded them with suspicion. "A little late in the season to be malting barley, is it not?" He signaled for the men to inspect the bags.

Declan's belly tightened as the men clambered on top of the compartment of contraband, but he sat still.

Coe was unruffled. "So I said to me old da back in the winter. I didn't realize how witless he had grown till I found these in the woodshed. I heard there might be malt houses in Gorey that will yet take them on." When the Yeomen again found naught but barley in the sacks, they were waved on. Once out of sight, Coe and Declan exchanged tense grins.

Now they needed to deliver the guns to two different destinations before returning to Fleetwood's farm. Coe had spoken a part of the truth to the Yeoman captain: the first stop was indeed a malt house in Gorey town --- a long, low brick building with three smokestacks --- belonging to one William Hope, captain of the Gorey company of United Irishmen. With the rear of the wagon backed up to the delivery dock, they unloaded a third of the secreted cargo.

As they passed through the town on the way out, Declan recalled the last time he had been in Gorey: two years ago at his first prizefighting match against Iron Gut Garrett. 'Twas hard to reconcile his present self with that guileless lad...Blaylock's and Bruckton's lackey. The field with the boxing ring had been somewhere in that direction. And now they were passing the White Stag Inn where he had had his very first fuck with the serving maid Tessie in yonder stable...aye, he had had his first fuck, but arguably had not lost his damned innocence!

Two years later and two further partners...he had learnt much in that time...more in theory than in practice...but had not yet found a lass with whom to share Love's offerings...physical or metaphysical.

By God, it had been over a year since he had taken a turn at Bushy Park! The longing came over him something fierce --- he indulged in a brief reverie of Aoife before curtailing his imagination --- this was not the time for such pleasures.

The ride to the second delivery site was longer, and they passed through Enniscorthy to head southwest --- Declan scanning the streets for Michael --- before reaching the village of Davidstown after nightfall.

In a dark yard behind the mass house, they met with the Noctor brothers: Patrick, the lodge master of the local Defenders company, and James, the parish priest. Here they transferred another third of the guns to a cleverly concealed chamber under the mass house altar.

Thus delivered of the precious cargo, Coe and Declan headed back to Fleetwood's farm to conceal the remaining guns.

The road from Davidstown took them by Rossnalough Manor, passing the Yeomen sentries standing on duty at the gate.

Over the past several days from his hidden post in a tree, Declan had been surveilling the estate, learning the pattern of patrol of the guards and planning his attack on Blaylock. A troubled feeling now heightened as he recalled his sighting of Michael at the gate of the manor. Somehow, she had undergone the search of her person by the sentries without her sex being discovered. Then she had passed from his view up the lane to the manse...a manse wherein were more soldiers.

Christ! What would happen if her disguise failed? Would they deduce she was a rebel spy, or might they be persuaded that she was only a brave lass loyal to the Crown --- who simply wanted to help by polishing boots? If the former, or if Blaylock recognized her, then the game would assuredly be up. Declan flinched in anguish at the thought of what would likely ensue. Even if they believed her to be a loyalist, 'twas no guarantee of her safety...it might only mean that they would let her live when they had finished with her.

He struggled with the powerful urge to intervene in her quest...to protect her. But, he reasoned unhappily, she had as much right to seek vengeance as he did --- her being a lass did not affect that truth. He inhaled deeply, endeavoring to reshape his agitation into a coherent assessment of the quandary.

* * * * *

The next morning Declan awoke late with thoughts of Aoife possessing his mind and a rigid cock hugging his belly, but he heard people in the kitchen and was obliged to suspend the pursuit of immediate relief.

Having no demands upon his time till the tavern opened that afternoon, Declan allowed himself to indulge in his amorous preoccupation with Aoife...mentally anyway. Four days ago, ere he knew Michael's true identity, he had followed the lad into Enniscorthy from Fleetwood's farm, but had mysteriously lost sight of 'him' on a street south of Abbey Square.

Consumed with curiosity and yearning, Declan left Foley's tavern in the late morning and directed his footsteps south, his eyes attuned to the passersby for both Michael and Blaylock. A detachment of Redcoats was marching in formation through Abbey Square, drums beating and fifes loudly trilling --- he forced himself to maintain an unflustered stride as he passed them.

To the street where Michael had vanished the other night Declan now returned, swearing to himself that he would not importune her or betray her --- he simply wanted to know she was safe and perhaps salve his longing with a glimpse of her face.

The night when he had followed her, he had formed an impression of a well-kept middle-class street; now in daylight he confirmed that impression and judged from the names on the shops' signs that it was a Protestant neighborhood. He followed the curve of the street, noting a few people walking along the sidewalk and chatting in front of the shops, but no sign did he see of Michael.

There ahead of him was the entrance to the alley where she had disappeared. Not wanting to loiter about aimlessly, he quickly surveyed the shops nearby and fortunately found a public house across the street.

To his luck, the Golden Arrow was open. Inside there were few customers --- no surprise given the early hour --- two occupied tables and one man at the bar with a whiskey and a newspaper. Declan took up a position at the bar from whence he could observe the street and the alley entrance through the window, above a display on the sill of old stoneware and glass whiskey bottles.

The barkeeper, a lad near his own age, set aside the mug he was drying and approached. "Good morning. What will you have?"

"Tea, please, if you've got it."

As he waited, Declan scanned the shops that flanked the alley's entrance across the street. On the right was a solicitor's office and a land surveyor's office. On the left was a dressmaker's shop and a book binder. Down the alley proper, he recalled, were the backs of these and other houses. Could 'Michael' be employed in one of these establishments?

A pair of wee lads trotted by, rolling hoops in the street.

"Here's the tea."

"Ta."

"I haven't seen you in here before. 'Tis good to see a new face. Welcome. My name is Will."

"Declan." They shook hands. Declan scanned the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. "How are the new malting taxes affecting business?"

The young man resumed wiping mugs with a towel. "My Da --- he owns the place --- says it's too early to tell. We've had to raise prices a farthing here and there. 'Tis a damn shame, treating us like dirt, then taxing one of the rare comforts of life, just to raise money for their bloody wars."

It took Declan a moment to realize that Will, by the term 'us', was alluding to Irish people in general. 'Twas encouraging to encounter a foresighted lad able to look past his own presumed privilege as a Protestant and see the bigger problems of Ireland. And given the fact that a large portion of the United Irishmen was Protestant, it should not come as a surprise. What Declan had offered as idle conversation to keep himself at this favorable vantage point from which observe the street was evidently a sore topic for the lad.

In reply, Declan nodded and said, "Aye, I'm a barkeeper meself, and we're facing a like problem." His eyes followed a couple that walked past the window.

"Oh? Where do you work?"

"Foley's tavern."

Will's attention perked. "North of the square?" The lad glanced over his shoulder, leant closer, and lowered his voice. "Is that not a rebel tavern?"

Declan hesitated --- beware of spies, his gut said. But on the other hand, Foley's

was

a public house, not a secret lodge, and apparently its reputation preceded it. He noted the lad's cropped hair...which might reflect anything from rebel sympathies to a past bout of fever...to the wont of a young man to flout convention and dismay his parents. And yet...from his words, he might be ripe for recruiting.

Declan cleared his throat. "Well, many are the strong opinions on politics flying about there. I just try to do me work." His eyes were briefly drawn outside to a lad passing by carrying a knapsack...nay 'twas not Michael.

Will was nodding with an intent expression.

"But you're welcome to come in some night and see for yourself," Declan added. Colin Foley would be better able to judge the lad's potential.

Will looked over his shoulder again. "My Da forbade me to go there, but perhaps..." His voice trailed off and he straightened. "There she is," he murmured, his eyes fixed upon the window.

At that moment, Declan noticed a lass with a broom stepping onto the sidewalk from a shop door across the street. Will regarded her through the window, his expression eager. When she turned, Declan recognized Aoife.

His heart surged. She was dressed as a lass...he hadn't expected that. How bonnie she was! Her gown was a light purple-blue color and over it she wore a crisp white apron --- 'twas a simple uniform, but more becoming than a standard maid's frock. Upon her head was a smart, white cap that covered most of her hair, save for a couple of inches at the front. She had re-dyed the tresses brown since her bath at the waterfall and had similarly darkened her lush brows. The spectacles were absent, but either way she was too far away for him to see her compelling, pale blue eyes.

Red hair...brown hair...even no hair: to Declan she was the loveliest creature he had ever beheld.

She began sweeping the sidewalk before the shop, which Declan now noted bore the sign "Penelope Sutton, Fine Dressmaker."

From his unseen post inside the tavern, his gaze lingered yearningly upon her face. The demure fashion of her hair and cap showed her blooming beauty to advantage, and he appreciated anew the allure of her unusual features: the large, bright eyes, defined cheekbones with a pink flush, and a long nose that tipped up at the end...drawing the eye to a small, plump mouth.

Her eyes were alert to both her work and her surroundings, and Declan surmised that she like himself was wary of being recognized on the streets by Blaylock.

Declan's eyes warmed as he followed her motions, tracing over her petite, graceful figure --- her slim back and waist, the twitch of her skirts, the jaunty bow of the apron strings bobbing coyly upon her bottom. According to the present fashion, the front of the gown scooped low --- almost to the nipples --- and the swell of her small, round breasts was veiled by a white neckerchief tucked into the bodice. He could not suppress a sudden image of her naked charms just beneath her garb, and the answering ache rose in his chest and groin.

Realizing that he and Will were both were staring at her transfixed, Declan collected himself. "There's a comely lass. Who is she?" he asked in a tone of casual indifference, drinking from his cup.

"'Tis the dressmaker's new assistant, Kitty McDonnell."

Kitty McDonnell, was she?

"Hmmm. Looks like she's put you in a right proper state."

Will owned it without the least chagrin. "Well, look at her, man. I've never seen such a fine lass. And she's got a strange quality to her character...quiet-like, but not cold."

"You've spoken to her?" Declan followed the nimble steps of her low-heeled, buckled black shoes and cream-stockinged ankles visible below the swirling hem.

"Just the once so far. 'Tis unusual to see her outside the shop. I asked Samuel Sutton about her --- she's from Ulster and some tragedy befell her family in the dragooning."