Bumping Uglies

The Deepest Cut IV

12th December 1796, Lapal village

Snowflakes danced in the air like moths; flitting on the frigid breeze and landing in the hair and on the overcoats of the men gathered in the ramshackle shanty town of shacks and shelters.

Lord Dudley stood rigid, flanked by two secretaries who, in frock coats and britches, looked as out of place as they did uncomfortable. The Lord's face was set in an iron mask of disdain as he watched the men who had been in his employ for several years now arrayed before him. He was running his gaze along the row of navvies as if trying to read the soul of each man in the line.

Some of the navvies met his gaze, some of them cast their eyes downward as a lifetime of deference had taught them. Here and there a man was walking or stomping on the spot. With work suspended, the men grew cold quickly. Many had saved the coin that might have afforded an over-coat. Others had drunk it. Others had likely wasted it entirely.

"You men will recall, will you not, that my Goddaughter visited these works one week ago," Dudley had boomed, his voice carrying across ground deadened by a light blanket of snow.

"A fine Christian woman of grace and charity, my Goddaughter..." the Lord's voice had tailed off somewhat until one of his aides had jogged his elbow.

"After such visit, and to the present moment if you please, she has been neither seen nor heard!"

The foreman moved behind the men, making his way slowly along the line. He was ducking into shelters and the men could hear the disturbance of a search being conducted as he went through each of their spaces and possessions.

Conn was shifting uneasily from foot-to-foot. He tried to tell himself that it was a matter of keeping the gnawing cold from penetrating to his bones, but he knew it to be a manifestation of guilt.

"One prays to God that no ill has befallen such a kind and gentle creature, but fire and damnation most surely await any who might have perpetrated some malfeasance, or those who know of it and remain silent!" Dudley continued. Many of the men stared blankly, not fully understanding what was being said.

Conn knew.

So too, he reasoned, must Enda.

Enda's large and angular face was set in a grin and his eyes twinkled. Conn shuddered at the sight of his friend who seemed to be rapt, as if reliving a private joke or a treasured memory.

The foreman emerged from the shack that Conn and Enda had been sharing since their team had moved to Lapal to assist with the tunnel works.

"My Lord!" he called. "My Lord Dudley!"

"What, man? What devilment is this?" Dudley responded as the foreman emerged from the shack with something crumpled in his upraised fist.

"Undergarments, my Lord. Ladies' undergarments," the foreman held a slip of cream silk above his head triumphantly for all to see.

"Hidden away in this shack here." The foreman pointed a thick and grimy finger toward to Conn and Enda's little shelter.

Conn felt as if the pit of his stomach had fallen through the soles of his hobnailed boots. The foreman had found it in their shack. How could Enda have been so careless and so foolish as to have kept a memento?

"In whose possession?" Dudley demanded, striding toward the foreman.

Conn tensed. Enda was likely to lash out, this could get very bad, very quickly.