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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Coyote_Havoc on 2025-05-10 19:16:31+00:00.
“Oh the night fell black and the rifles’ crack made perfidious Albion reel. Amid the leaden rain, seven toungs of flame did shine o’er the lines of steel. By each shining blade a prayer was said that to Ireland her sons be true. When the morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the Foggy Dew.”
-Excerpt from “The Foggy Dew”-
Footsteps echoed down the roads of Islay, echoing through the mist and the darkness.
They came from Bowmore, Port Charlotte and Ballygrant. Men and women gathering in cause, leaving children with their grandparents, a kiss to their mothers and fathers with a promise they could never hope to keep. They came from Ardnave, Ardbeg and Portnahaven bearing relics of war that had most recently been used for hunting and ammunition that was dubious at best. Sons and daughters of ancient Celtic families that had fled to Arran to preserve their heritage, drawn by the fire in their hearts, a burning anger at the bodies of suspected insurgents left to rot in the streets of Port Ellen.
The Dexians had hoped to douse a rumor, to put to rest the notion that the Gallóglaigh had resumed fighting across Brodick. Nobody really knew where the rumor came from, conjecture being the most likely source, but the response was swift as a storm rolling in off the sea. Twenty-four young men who had been under surveillance were torn from their homes and jobs, marched out into the center of Port Ellen, accused and convicted of espionage against the Dexians, and gunned down in front of their families and friends.
What they had assumed would dround out any hope for rebellion only fanned the coals to reignite, hotter than ever before.
They came from Sheppard’s homes and little farms, their shoes caked with mud and wet grass. They came from distilleries and pubs, coats still wet with spilled whiskey from rage fueled drinking. They came from shops and fishing boats, little inns where the lights were left on in the hope that they would find their way home. They came from every corner of the island, deafening footfalls echoed in every ear, feeding the terror growing in the mind of every Dexian in garrison at Port Ellen.
Retribution marched across the blood soaked stones as the bodies were retrieved and spirited away to burial in unmarked graves. A roaring wind of vengeful voices demanding compensation for the innocent lives denied their peaceful end. Panicing yellow eyes and twitching blue lips met the mob bearing weapons in trembling hands slick with sweat and exposure to the moist sea air.
A single mistake, a moment of uncertainty and panic, maybe just the moisture of the misty night causing a finger to slip or an unintended muscle spasm that squeezed the trigger. The authoritative bark of the fired weapon and they dying scream of a human. A moment of unblemished silence for those who had perished in the day and those about to die this night as well.
/////
It was too much for Major Stone and his small intelligence gathering force to ignore. Perched on the fourth floor of a small apartment building they had paid witness to the mock trial and overly excessive execution. Now they watched as thousands of people crowded in the streets with no cover or concealment, easy pickings for a well regimented and appropriately armed military force. If they followed their orders, they would be captured sometime later in the night when the Dexians started clearing buildings. If they disobeyed…
With the dying scream of some unfortunate soul in the street below their path was laid bare before them. No words needed be spoken, no action needed be laid out and approved, every man that could went to a window and embodied the vengeful spirit of wrath, merciless angels of War defending the lives of the innocent from on high. No more the stoic and silent soldiers on an espionage mission, tears of anger streaked every cheek as obscenities were screamed to whatever vindictive gods would answer their blasphemous prayers. Bullets and coherent light tore through the dexian flank like a dull Scythe being passed through stalks of rye, leaving tattered and torn corpses in its wake.
Initially stunned by the death in their midst, the civilians were quick to capitalize on the distracted Dexians, overrunning their previously well established lines. Those with rifles let loose with the pinpoint accuracy achieved by hunting rabbits in their fields back home for generations. Those not armed with rifles or pistols opted for loose pipes and boards, even rocks and bricks pried from nearby walls. Those same streets that had flowed red with the blood of the innocent in the warm afternoon sun now raged in the darkness and gloom with the blood of the damned.
As the guns fell silent and the cries of the dying faded toward the dawn, a song rang out clear, voices previously filled with rage now filled with something else, a mixture of sadness and pride that carried the longing of every heart assembled. Major Stone and his mean only understood bits and pieces of the song, but it’s meaning remained crystal clear as the local star began its ascent into the sky.
“Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear. Sé mo shéasar, ghile mear. Suan gan séan, ní bhfuair mé fién, Ó chuaigh I gcéin mo ghile mear.”
/////
Major Stone handed the report to Laird MacSweeney, his blood-shot eyes betraying the sleepless night. The sodden uniform hung limp from his haggard shoulders. His return from Islay through fog and rough seas was mentioned in the report as little more than a footnote against the mock trial and execution of twenty-four young men, the white hot anger that spilled out into the streets of Port Ellen in response, his men’s disobedience to orders, and the revelation that the Gallóglaigh were not just on Brodick as the Dexians had initially assumed.
With a heavy sigh, Laird MacSweeney flopped in his chair and tossed the pages of the report in the air.
“What’s done is done.”
“Laird,” Major Stone croaked past dry lips, “I take full responsibility for the mission and its failure.”
“Failure?” Laird MacSweeney scoffed. “You could no more control or take responsibility for what transpired than I or Robert could have predicted it would happen.”
“We acted against orders…”
“And saved countless lives in the process.” Laird MacSweeney interrupted. “If there is any blame to be had it does not rest on your shoulders Major.”
Major Stone collapsed into a chair as if the burden of command was the only thing holding him up, and relived of that had nothing else to support him. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in one sweet sip of the rest his body and soul demanded, but refusing to indulge further.
“No Major, you and your men are to be commended for their actions. The Garrison that blocked our access to Kilnaughton Bay has been annihilated, the people of Islay have tasted liberty restored, and we have no more time to spend on what could be or might have been.”
Laird MacSweeney picked himself up from his chair and grabbed a pen and paper.
“You and your men should rest for a day, maybe two or three based on your own appearance.”
“A couple hours of sleep and a hot cup of coffee will suffice.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Laird MacSweeney replied returning to his seat. “You should remain on Jura for the time being, to defend this island from what is coming.”
Major Stone felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.
“You mean “WE” I assume?”
Laird MacSweeney didn’t answer right away, busy with writing a few words, considering the message and nodding in approval.
“The time for cloaks and daggers is at an end Major, I will take the Ceithearn to Port Ellen and head to Bowmore from there.”
Folding the message, Laird MacSweeney dripped blue wax on the edges and pressed his signet it seal the document.
“Give this to Sorcha when she returns. Make sure she knows to deliver it directly to Colonel Grant and no one else.”
Major Stone looked at the seal of Clan MacSweeney pressed into the wax. The Laird was clearly done hiding and snooping from a distance.
“May I inquire as to what it says?”
Laird MacSweeney smiled, much like he had before the invasion. A familiar glint in his eyes as if the last several months had vanished like a bad dream. The authority of his name and his governorship of his home was reflected in his face as he spoke the three words that called his people to war.
“Raise the Saltire.”