Uprising by C R Dempsey

Author:C R Dempsey [C R Dempsey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CRMPD Media Limited
Published: 2021-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

22

Becoming his own man

On the mainland by the shore of the lake was Eunan’s horse and a guide waiting to take him to the Maguire and his forces. The horse looked plump and content; the guide looked stern and impatient. Hugh Maguire had taken to the forests of western Fermanagh once more to evade detection by the Crown’s forces. The trees bent their naked limbs and greeted Eunan as he rode through the familiar countryside. The puddles seemed shallower that appeared, and the muddy paths beckoned him forward. The cold barely penetrated the blanket sent by the Maguire, and even the grey inflated clouds appeared as a comfort rather than the bringer of rain and cold. Eunan was ready to return.

Once in the camp, he got directions to the men of south Fermanagh. Eunan ignored the camp of the O’Cassidys, for he knew his welcome was as worn out as their few tents. Óisin was waiting for him in the disorganised camp of the men he had recruited and assembled in Eunan’s absence. He ran and clasped Eunan by the forearm.

“It is good to see you again, lord.”

“I am your friend, not your master,” replied Eunan. “But it is good to see you too.”

Óisin extended his arm to show the village of tents that surrounded them.

“Let me show you what a good job I have done for you in your absence. Men! Form a line and meet your constable!”

Curious heads popped out from the slits of tents and faces stacked together as heads peered out from behind each other.

“Form a line, not a gaggle of geese,” Óisin shouted. “And bring your weapons!”

Men and boys leaned into and behind the tents and picked up whatever implements they had brought with them, which they thought, or hoped, could yield English blood. An age elapsed before Eunan could witness his men form a crooked line. The occasional man stood in line with three or four boys on either side. Some axes, mainly of the wood-cutting variety, the occasional sword, but mainly hay forks and the sporadic long-sharpened stick impersonating a pike, made up Eunan’s new arsenal.

A sarcastic laugh came from behind him as Cillian O’Cassidy, in free chain mail and helmet, smirked at him. Cillian slapped the shoulder of a newly recruited Galloglass, who stood beside him and joined his master’s smirk.

“I see you are planning to run away from the next battle as well,” called out Cillian before he disappeared behind the tents in his own campsite.

Óisin looked at Eunan and decided he needed some reassurance.

“We were all naïve farm boys once.”

“But we had time to grow up before the next battle,” grumbled Eunan.

Eunan sat by the campfire that evening and caught up with all his old comrades. Óisin told him they expected Cormac MacBaron to re-enter Fermanagh any day now and link up with the Maguires. Eunan soberly accepted the news, much to the disappointment of Óisin. That night Eunan retired to his bed, weary from travel, ale and disappointment. As

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