Celtic Mist

Chapter 14: Morrigan's Will

Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Saturday, May 19, 1798

Michael made her way in the grey dawn light to the Militia garrison. She had been providing Captain Fleetwood with regular reports on the Redcoats' activities that she observed there; thus would she continue her boot polishing work as long as such profitable intelligence was to be gleaned.

Shortly after breakfast, now as Kitty, Mrs. Sutton dispatched her back to the courthouse to continue her embroidery work on the tablecloth. This time, the clerk in the vestibule admitted her to the courtroom. Aoife blushed as she seated herself and positioned the embroidery frame, thinking on the romp that had here unfolded fewer than twenty-four hours ago. Today, however, there were no such remarkable distractions, and she worked for two steady hours before heading back to the shop.

There could now be no doubt that the Crown's bloody campaign to suppress the insurgents had arrived in County Wexford. In the wake of the public flogging of the blacksmith Rory Redmond, the burning of his forge, and the destruction of the mass house in nearby Davidstown, the somber atmosphere in the town was unmistakable. There were fewer people than usual on the streets, and their expressions were guarded. Scarce were the children playing on the sidewalks.

Passing through the square, Aoife eyed the tall wooden triangles that yet stood there, the timbers and cobblestones splattered with Rory's blood --- the now black stains serving as a stark reminder of the Crown's power. At the sound of approaching boots, she joined the rest of the citizens hastening out of the way. A detachment of Yeomen marched past, their boots echoing on the cobblestones and their vile chant filling the air:

Ye croppies of Wexford, I'd have ye be wise

And go not to meddle with Blaylock's Boys,

For Blaylock's Boys they vow and declare

They'll crop off your head as well as your hair.

Derry-down, down.

Ye rebels take heed, we'll bloody the waters

Farewell bid your wives and uncropped daughters,

For Blaylock's Boys on croppy hunts,

Will pike your cropped heads, and cock-pike their cunts.

Derry-down, down.

A feeling of dread came over her. The last time the Yeomen had paraded so was before the flogging of Redmond and the destruction of his forge. What devilry were they up to today?

In the shelter of Mrs. Sutton's shop, Aoife could only speculate upon what was passing in the town. Nothing amiss was appreciable from the quiet workroom in the back of the building, and after a couple of hours of undisturbed peace, Aoife hoped her fears had been misplaced.

Come early afternoon, Mrs. Sutton, Susanna, and she were engrossed in their sewing when the bell on the front door of the shop sounded. As usual, Mrs. Sutton doffed her apron and smoothed her gown before leaving the workroom to wait upon the customers.

After several minutes, Mrs. Sutton called out from the front room, "Kitty! Fetch a needle and dark blue thread for some quick mending!"

Aoife set aside the sleeve she was stitching and went to the rack of threads on the wall. Collecting a needle, scissors, and two candidate blue spools, she turned to the open doorway into the shop.

She halted, her heartbeat surging. Two Yeomen were in the shop --- two officers! Their blue coats were encrusted with row upon row of silver braid, and long swords hung at their sides. As they stood conversing with Mrs. Sutton, they held their black helmets under their arms.

By God, one was Lieutenant Drury, the officer who had initially approved her working at Rossnalough Manor! The second was a taller man, his back towards Aoife, a blood-red sash tied round his waist over his uniform, and his black hair in a queue at his nape. Then he swiveled slightly.

'Twas Blaylock.

Aoife went rigid. Her vision closed in tunnel-like in blackness, then expanded again in a rush of blazing color. Her hand curled into a fist about the spools of thread.

"Kitty?"

Aoife snatched her spectacles from her apron pocket and thrust them on. As she walked towards them, their echoing voices were lost in the thumping blood in her ears. She began to tremble as she neared...either man might recognize her: Drury as Michael, and Blaylock as Michael or Aoife O'Farrell. Both men turned towards her.

"Oh no!" Aoife gasped, tripping. She dropped a thread spool so that it rolled past them towards the windows at the front of the shop. "I'm so sorry!" Crouching, she scampered past the trio, her head lowered as she searched for the escaped spool on the floor. Once she had retrieved it, she straightened and faced them again, having put the light from the windows behind her. Immediately she curtsied, bowing her face again. "Sirs," she murmured, hiding her shaking hands under her apron.

Mrs. Sutton shook her head. "Kitty, whilst I assist the Lieutenant, the Colonel has a loose braid upon his coat that needs mending. Please attend to it. Fear not, Colonel. She is not as clumsy as she appears. Indeed, she is quite clever with a needle."

"No doubt she is." The unforgettable sound of that deep, decisive voice gripped Aoife's chest. Were his words a menacing message for her, or simply an off-handed gallantry?

"Where is it, sir?" With the constriction of her throat, her voice came out nigh a squeak. She felt his eyes upon her but could not meet his gaze.

He rotated slightly and indicated a silver braid trefoil on the back of his coat, over his left hip, just below the belt of his sword scabbard. The loop of braid had come unmoored from the underlying wool. When she stepped behind him, nervously holding the two spools towards his coat to judge which color to use, she realized that he had somehow maneuvered such that she was facing the window light again.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Could you face the other direction so that the light falls upon your coat?" she dared ask.

Mercifully, he complied without evident suspicion, addressing Lieutenant Drury as he did so. "Did you send for the wagons?"

"Yes, sir."

Standing behind him with her face once more shadowed, Aoife struggled to thread a needle with her trembling fingers. At that moment Blaylock set his helmet on the little table next to them and unbuckled the belt holding his sword scabbard.

The motion of his arms working the belt buckle summoned forth an onslaught of horrific images in her mind: Blaylock striding out of the cottage, buttoning his breeches and fastening his weapons belt as Clodagh's sobs sounded from behind him.

"Well, lads, now that I've loosened her up, enjoy yourselves. When you're done with her, dispatch her to their popish heaven..."

The fury burbled up, stinging and hot behind Aoife's eyes, threatening to erupt...her gut twisted and gathered, and for a second she felt herself on the brink of vomiting. She was standing directly behind him --- if only she had her dagger or pistol, she would kill him right now, so she would!...not even caring that Lieutenant Drury would immediately kill or arrest her.

In danger of throwing herself at him and stabbing at his broad back with her tiny sewing scissors, she forced herself to kneel behind him. He towered above her. She could have performed the task standing, and as much as she abhorred kneeling at this man's feet, Aoife felt the urgency of keeping her face as far away as possible from those piercing, dark blue eyes. Sliding her fingers under the lower edge of the coat, she held the braid in place with her thumb and began to sew.

In the background, Mrs. Sutton's conversation with Lieutenant Drury indicated that the man was wanting some pretty undergarment for his mistress. When he apologized to Blaylock for the delay, Blaylock shrugged and said he needed his coat mended anyway, then added, "You're a fool, Drury."

The simple row of stitches proved to be a distressing task as Aoife struggled with the distortion of the spectacles, afraid of losing their cover by lowering them too far upon her nose. Her arms were wobbly with waves of hot and cold rage pulsing out to her hands.

Blaylock glanced over his shoulder at her, and from the corner of her eyes over the spectacle rims, she saw his gaze was directed down at her bosom...a view no doubt sweetened by the advantage of height. Her initial relief that he was not looking at her face was quickly replaced by the fear that she had once more attracted his prurient interest.

"What is your name, girl?" he asked, facing front again.

"Kitty McDonnell, sir."

"Where are you from, Kitty McDonnell?"

"Dublin." She fought the quaver in her voice.

"Dublin? You don't sound like you're from Dublin."

Her fingers began to shake again. Damn him! He had an astute ear for an Englishman. "I'm from County Down originally," she lied, naming the county next to her home county --- the accent would be close enough. A quick glance aside showed Mrs. Sutton and Drury at the front of the shop looking at the rolls of fine batistes. "I left after me husband died," she added in a low voice.

A minute later she knotted the thread and buried the end. "Done, sir," she announced briskly, snipping it.

His large, sinewy hand reached back and tested the braid. He gave a curt nod.

Standing, Aoife bobbed a curtsey and retreated to the workroom. Out of sight and hearing of the shop, she collapsed back against a cabinet where she clutched the spools against her chest. Ironically, now out of Blaylock's sight, she was trembling even more violently than before. Under her fists, her bosom rose and fell with her agitated breathing.

"Kitty? Are you ill?" Susanna asked.

Aoife's eyes focused upon Susanna's concerned visage, and she babbled, "Oh...I-I'm so affrighted! That-that officer was the one in command at the flogging of that poor man!" Her clenched hands came over clammy and sweat broke out upon her face. "Excuse me," she muttered, dropping the thread and darting to the side door that led to the back hall. Fighting waves of dizziness, Aoife dragged herself up the narrow, twisting stairs to her room where she clawed her corset ties loose and fell upon the bed.

Her mouth opened against the cool pillow as if to scream, but no sound issued.

For nigh a quarter hour she lay, inhaling deep breaths, then she rose to splash her face with cold water from the pitcher.

Once she had regained her composure, Aoife returned to the workroom. Blaylock and Drury had departed, and the shop was quiet once more. She sewed the remainder of the afternoon, outwardly calm.

But the excitement was not yet over for the day. As the three ladies hung up their aprons at the completion the day's work, Mrs. Sutton's son Samuel rushed in, flushed and breathless, and beckoned them to make haste to witness the remarkable happenings unfolding in the neighborhood. In mounting unease, Aoife followed the Suttons to a nearby respectable, middle-class street where far in advance they could hear the shouts and crying.

They joined a growing circle of onlookers round a well-kept, three-story wooden house. A contingent of some ten or so blue-coated Yeomen were swarming it, methodically divesting it of its valuables --- carrying out pieces of furniture, paintings, dishes, clocks, books, and tossing linens and clothes from the upper story windows to the arms of their comrades in the street. All was being loaded into two horse-drawn wagons, and several other horses waiting were nearby.

Aoife spotted Lieutenant Drury standing before the house, observing the proceedings with his hands upon his hips. Blaylock was nowhere in sight. A Yeoman was binding the wrists of a staid-faced man in his thirties, clad in plain but good quality garments, whilst nearby, another soldier restrained a young woman beseeching the Lieutenant as three small crying children clutched her skirts.

"Whose house is this?" Aoife murmured in consternation to Samuel.

"William Murdoch, a solicitor."

Mr. Murdoch! Aoife knew of him. He was a United Irishman...fighting in the civilian sphere. She watched in helpless rage.

Ere long, the plundering of the house was complete, at which Lieutenant Drury raised his arm and barked an order. A spark flared, then a torch blazed alight. The onlookers gasped and stepped back. Another torch was lit, and two Yeos disappeared into the house wielding them. Within a minute, flames were visible in the upper windows. When the soldiers ran out, the two torches were thrown with lusty whoops --- one into the front hall, and one through a first-floor window.

As the roaring flames engulfed the house, the Yeomen mounted their horses and set off, Mr. Murdoch's bound hands tied by a leash to the saddle of one. He struggled to run alongside them as the horses broke into a trot. Mrs. Murdoch screamed and ran after them, the wailing weans trailing her, but soon she stumbled upon a cobblestone and fell to her hands and knees in the street, eliciting raucous laughter from the departing soldiers.

"Daddy! Daddy!" the children cried. Several women rushed to the wife's side.

Aoife turned away with burning eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. A cloud of smoke billowed over the street.

She returned to the shop feeling every inch her smallness and weakness.

Past Saturdays, she oft had gone out to Fleetwood's farm at this time, but now she was torn. Aye, she did not want to encounter Declan, but that seemed a trifling concern compared to the monstrosity surrounding them. But she also ken that after Redmond's flogging, no new pike heads were there for her to sharpen, and she had already prepared all the powder horns and cartridge kits.

Up and down Aoife paced in her room, now by habit spinning her dagger back and forth over her thumb knuckle between forward and reverse grips. Casting her eyes about for some occupation, her eyes fell upon something that gave her sudden inspiration.

'Twas a roll of silk cloth that she had discovered in her attic room, behind the stacks of crates where the slope of the roof met the floor. It had been wrapped in linen, and with much curiosity had she unwrapped it. The fabric was an intense emerald green color and a good, sturdy weight. She had considered asking Mrs. Sutton about it, but uncertain of the woman's sympathies, Aoife did not want to give her anything to report to her friend the Magistrate, Captain Jacob. Given the roll's obscure location, she would simply suppose that her mistress would not miss it.

Now as Aoife unrolled the green fabric upon her bed, an eager idea took shape in her mind. From the workroom downstairs, she gathered her embroidery frame, scissors, pins, a needle, thread, a measuring stick, and scraps of fabric from the remnant basket. Back in her room, she set to work.

*****

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned...

--- W.B. Yeats

That evening, Michael could scarce maintain her saunter as she approached the pair of glowing lanterns flanking the gate to Rossnalough Manor and once more faced those hated blue uniforms. She hid her revulsion as the sentries searched her and her knapsack.

Again, she polished the boots with all speed to reserve as much time as possible for her surveillance in the tunnels. Later, after washing her rags in the courtyard, she slipped into the carriage house and felt her way in the dark to the rack where she had seen the pistols and absconded with one, along with a handful of cartridges. 'Twould be too difficult to smuggle her own into the garrison, she had decided.

Inside the tunnel, by the light of her candle a safe distance away, she primed and loaded the pistol, setting it in the half-cocked position. It appeared identical to the pistol that she had found in the attic and had practiced with the one time with Declan. She wriggled the dagger and its scabbard out of the concealed pocket in the knapsack strap and secured the leather belt round her waist, thrusting the pistol under it on the hip opposite the dagger. Thus armed she returned to the musty passageway next to Blaylock's office.

With nervous hands and heart, she crept inside the wall and put her eye to the glowing peep-hole. The chamber was unoccupied, and a low fire was burning --- similar to last night. In anticipation of her attack, she used the time to plot potential scenarios of the confrontation. Some eight feet in front of the peep-hole was the desk --- if Blaylock was seated at it, his back would be towards her. How quietly could she pull the panel open?

Michael tested it...tested opening it with one hand, whilst she arched her body out of the way of the door swing and brought her gun hand into position. The hinges and latch squeaked and the edge of the panel scuffed faintly in its frame. Softening a bit of wool wax between her fingers, she greased the hinges, latch, and panel edges. Again, she tried the maneuver from the fully closed position...now the panel opened silently.

She hoped to have the opportunity to deliver her message of wrath triumphant to his face, prior to killing him...which meant she either must deliver a non-lethal shot first, or delay shooting whilst she addressed him. Both options were problematic. She was not accomplished enough with the weapon to direct the shot appropriately...and any delay would give Blaylock a chance to escape or retaliate.

And supposing she was successful in shooting him, what would she then do? No doubt the explosion would swiftly draw other Yeomen to the chamber...by the hall door and likely the guards at the window. Aye, she would need to flee posthaste back into the wall. Then what? Could she manage to calmly depart the estate by the front gate as usual, or would the garrison be in an uproar, with all routes of egress sealed? Would she need to hide in wait in the tunnel till the commotion had subsided?

As she practiced her attack, Michael noticed that something about the room was different from last night --- the map of the county was now flat upon a small table near the fireplace. When she crossed the room to investigate, she saw that arrayed upon the map were multiple, small, wooden peg-like markers of red, blue and green. 'Twas clearly a plan of some military strategy.

Her mind racing, she hastened to the desk and drew out a sheet of paper. Noting the exact positions of the quill and ink well, she transported them to the table. Her hand flew as she roughly copied the map, marking the pegs as circles, squares, or triangles to correspond to the three colors. Soon finished, she returned the items to their original positions on the desk.

Back inside the wall, she stood watch for some time, waiting for her quarry. But as the hour lengthened and the fire burned low without his appearance, Michael at last left her post, hiding the flintlock inside the wall at the ready.

That night, she lay abed with the covers clutched under her chin, too tense to sleep after the day's distressing events --- Mr. Murdoch's arrest and the burning of his house. The same day --- she had learnt from Samuel Sutton later --- the Yeos had served a second man in the same manner, one Mr. Preston, a chandler. Mr. Preston she also knew to be a United Irishman. Two members had been apprehended in one day! Perhaps the execution of such outrages explained Blaylock's prolonged absence from his office. Where did they take the prisoners? The same place as Father Noctor...wherever that might be?

How soon would the Yeomen or Redcoats discover Fleetwood's company and their cache of pikes and guns?