Chapter 5
After the death of Peadar, Colm moved the operation north to Donegal. They found an estate near Kilcommon and settled once more into the routine of training repparees and planning strikes against the British. It was a small manor overlooking a quaint harbor filled with colorful fishing boats.
India thought she had settled back into her old routine again; making her husband’s meals, writing letters and taking her walks again, but in reality, she had changed. The violence and bloodshed of the rebellion had found its way to her doorstep, and she was shaken. For a long time she had nightmares about the death of Marcas Peadar, waking up soaked in perspiration and gasping for air. At the most unusual times the grisly scene would flash before her eyes, starting her heart pounding and her palms sweating. She felt the need to arm herself, but Colm refused. It had been months since he had found and hanged the traitor who killed Peadar, so for Colm, the incident was over, but for India it lived on.
“Why would you want a weapon?” he said. “This is foolishness. Have I ever failed taking care of you?"
“No, Colm but--“
“When I am not here, do my men not watch over you?”
“They do, but what if I had not been walking that night Peadar was killed? The assassin would have found me alone and defenseless.”
“Nonsense,” was his reply as he patted her on the cheek. “I have increased security now, and they will never get to you. There will be no more of this talk about a weapon.”
India knew better than to argue with Colm. She had learned a long time ago that every aspect of their lives must meet with his approval. It was this unyielding vision which made him such a powerful and unstoppable force in the rebellion. She admired it in the political arena, but she was not sure she liked it in a marriage.
Something else had changed India as well. She could not forget Donal McGuire. It was not the man that haunted her but the look in his eyes and the words he whispered to her, “Ah, but you’re a grand beauty.”
India was astounded by these words. No one had ever bothered with Lady Fitzpatrick before. It was always her husband, Colm they wanted to see. For the first time in her life, she wondered if she was even remotely attractive. The possibility made her smile and warmed her blood. She started to notice the men stealing looks at her, and she wondered if they had been doing it all along or if she had suddenly changed. They were frequently tongue tied when they spoke with her, but she had assumed it was because she was the wife of the great Colm Fitzpatrick.
India leaned forward and looked at herself closely in the mirror. She did not think her eyes were unusual. They always looked blue to her. She knew that she was indeed tall and slim and her light hair had a pleasant sheen, but she could not see anything exceptional.
One fact did remain the same though, Colm treated her no differently. He continued to pat her on the hand and call her his, "little sparrow”. In the past, India had accepted this description of her, but now she was not so sure she agreed with him.
* * *
The manor Colm and India inhabited in Kilcommon was the residence of Lord and Lady Gilmore of Rochester. India remembered her mother speaking of them years ago. They were known throughout England for their exquisite taste, gentility, and money. Although the manor was small, the interior of the home was exceptional. The furnishings were of the latest design and several of the rooms on the main floor had wall murals, two in the sitting rooms depicting the English countryside and one in the dining room of the Orient.
India loved the house. She had the housekeeper take all the coverings off the furniture so she could enjoy the superb Chippendale craftsmanship and the French upholstery. India’s favorite room was the master bedroom. It was a large chamber with tall ceilings and walls painted a pale yellow. The massive oak four poster bed with canary-colored linens was dwarfed by two expansive windows that soared from the floor all the way up another story. India loved to sit and read by the windows in the afternoon when the sun drenched the room. In the evening, she looked forward to retiring there. It was a joy spending the last few moments of her day in such a beautiful room. She would slip into her plum-colored dressing gown, sit by the window, and look at the lights flickering in the hamlet below. The other window overlooked the moors and was as dark as a sea after the sun set.
India was surprised one evening when she was looking out this window and spied an orange glow in the distance. She assumed it was the bonfire from one of Colm’s meetings. The dancing light reminded her of All Hallows Eve that night so long ago at Cragmere Ruins. Bonfires always stirred India’s Celtic blood. It brought to her mind images of pagan rituals and primeval rites. She stood in the window with the breeze moving her hair and her light dressing gown.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and India jumped. No one ever came to her door at night, and she was immediately on guard. She took a candle and walked to the door.
Before she could answer, a man said, “Lady Fitzpatrick, its Brendan Coyle. I have a message for ya.”
India opened the door a crack, shedding candlelight on the ruddy face of a young man with curly dark hair.
“I’m sorry Lady Fitzpatrick,” he apologized handing her a letter. “This came just now on the packet from Cork, and it's weeks late. There was a storm and the vessel ran aground. I thought I had better get it to ya right away. It’s from the Colonies.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coyle,” India said taking the letter and closing the door. She walked to her nightstand and broke the seal. It was a letter from her Delaware patron. He spoke of plantation news, crops, and of horses. With a jolt, she realized that this was an encrypted letter. She needed her mask.
Flying out of the bedroom, India raced down the stairs to the library unlocking her desk drawer. She pulled the candle over and spread the mask out over the paper. The encrypted message said that a ship was scheduled to arrive in two weeks from the American Colonies filled with guns and ammunition for the rebellion. India looked up and gasped. The letter had arrived so late that tonight was the date of the ship’s arrival at Reardon‘s Cove.
In three steps, India was at the window, throwing the sash up. “Mr. Coyle!” she called. “Brendan Coyle!” she called again. Her face was pinched with anxiety as she listened. There was no response.
Drawing herself back in, she went to the desk and stuffed the letter and mask in the drawer, locking it. India ran to the front of the house and pulled the massive door open. She stepped out onto the step in her bare feet and called again. There was no response. “Damn them! Where are your loyal guards now, Colm?” she mumbled to herself.
India turned and slammed the door racing up the stairs to her room, hoping that she would not stumble in the dark. The candles still burned in her room. She pulled the tenant clothing from Donal McGuire out of the wardrobe. As she was putting on the threadbare garment, she looked out the window at the bonfire. Colm must be notified to meet this ship. If the vessel was discovered by the British, lives would be lost.
India squinted and moved closer to the window. There was no longer one bonfire, but five blazes dancing on the hills of the moor. Stunned, she realized it was midsummer, and the people were building fires all over to celebrate the longest night of the year. “No!” she gasped. She had no idea how to find Colm now.
Grabbing a shawl she swept from the room and out the front door. Again, she called for a guard, but there was no reply. She raced out through the garden to the edge of the moor, her heart pounding. The golden lights of the fires winked at her from each hill top. She considered setting out across the wilds, but it was too dangerous trying to cross the moor at night. It was nothing more an endless tract of bracken, heather and bogs, impossible to navigate, and she was not sure if she would find the meeting.
India turned on her heel and ran to the stables, her hands shaking as she lit the lantern. She knew someone in town would know where to meeting was being held. She quickly saddled the gelding she had ridden yesterday and was off, the hooves clattering lou
dly on the brick driveway. She sped toward the harbor, the cool night air taking her breath away and making her shiver. No tenant would ever be on horseback, so outside of town, India would have to abandon the gelding and proceed on foot. For now it was the quickest way to the village. She needed to find someone who knew the whereabouts of Colm.
On the outskirts of town, India jumped off the horse and slapped him on the rump, sending him flying back to the stable. She bent down rubbing dirt on her hands and face and walked briskly down the steep road to the harbor. She scanned the coastline for ships in the half moon light but saw nothing, only small fishing crafts moored in the harbor.
The hamlet of Kilcommon was nothing more than a cluster of cottages and a few shops around the water. She could hear the sea slapping against the hulls of the boats and an occasional bell ring on the crafts. It was a lonely sound. Most of the town seemed to be asleep except for a bit of activity around an inn. She took a deep breath and pulled her shawl up over her head, not knowing what to expect. It was highly unusual for a woman to be out alone after dark.
When India got closer, she could make out the uniforms of several British soldiers. She cursed her luck. The men were talking and laughing outside the entrance to the inn. Two of them turned toward her. Her mouth went dry, and her palms began to perspire.
“Oh! What have we here!” one of them roared, staggering toward India.
“Now Lockton, mind your manners,” another soldier warned, and they all laughed.
Lockton, a light-haired youth thrust his face into India’s face and demanded, “What’s your business here?” His breath stunk of tobacco and spirits.
India pulled back and said in Gaelic, “My sister is giving birth, and I am looking for her husband at the public house.”
He rolled his head back, exasperated and sighed. “Christ! Speak English!”
India stammered and told them what she wanted in broken English as if she was not used to the language.
The men roared with laughter. One of them said, “It figures he is out drinking!”
India started toward the inn then hesitated. The men were blocking the door. She stood before them rigid and holding her breath.
One of them said, “Well go on,” and they stepped back.
When India moved toward the door, one of the soldiers thrust his hand into her crotch grabbing her roughly, yanking her back and forth. He made a gurgling sound in his throat, looking into her eyes. India jumped back, pushing his arm away with both her hands. The men guffawed.
She stumbled into the inn, scared and humiliated. More soldiers were sitting by the fire drinking. They looked up from their table then went back to talking. The room had a low heavy beamed ceiling and dirt floor. It was small and blue with smoke. India saw three more soldiers playing cards by the window. No villagers were in the public house.
The innkeeper, a bald, pocked marked fellow, looked at her with surprise when she walked into the room. He knew everyone in town, so when a stranger entered, he was shocked. He limped over to her and said impatiently, “Aye? What is it?”
India noticed the soldiers look up and listen so she decided to resume her masquerade until she could speak with the innkeeper alone. She took a deep breath and said in Gaelic, “My sister is giving birth, and I am looking for her husband.”
She noticed beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. She thought it was unusual the way he kept glancing anxiously at the door. He said loudly, “Yes, Mary’s husband is in back fast asleep. Too much drink. Come with me.”
India’s eyebrows shot up. Why did he say such a thing? The man took her roughly by the elbow and thrust her into the pantry slamming the door behind them both. He held his hand up to silence her as he leaned against the door listening.
Suddenly, India heard profanities then gunshots were fired. There was shouting and banging in the public room as if there was a struggle and furniture was being overturned.
Someone pleaded, “No, no don’t!” and there was the blast of a firearm.
She heard the crack of a chair being broken then more cries, a whimper, some calls for help--then silence.
India had unwittingly stumbled onto one of Colm’s raids. She stood rigidly, staring at a cask of brandy, holding her breath and imagining the carnage in the next room.
Someone outside the door called in Gaelic, “It’s over.”
His hand on the latch of the door, the innkeeper looked at India and demanded, “Who are you?”
“I am Lady Fitzpatrick. I have news for Lord Fitzpatrick.”
The man’s eyes grew large, and his jaw dropped. He opened the door and called, “I have Lady Fitzpatrick here!”
Barry Gallagher, one of Colm’s top men leaped across the mangled bodies and took India by the hand, navigating her around the massacre. He was a lean young man with a shock of red hair and freckles. He apologized to her as the hem of her gown sopped up the blood. She nodded and swallowed back the bile as it rose in her throat from the thick, hot smell of bodily fluids. Several of the soldiers had been shot in the face, one lay on the table, and the rest were on the floor in pools of blood.
Outside the inn the scene was much the same. The soldiers who had harassed her were lying in the road with their throats cut. India looked up at the hills. In the moonlight she could see the repparees from the raid scattering into the woods.
Gallagher took India’s hand again and they began to run too. Once they were a safe distance from the village, he stooped down into the brush and whispered, “Why did ya come, Lady Fitzpatrick?”
Panting India said, “You must find Lord Fitzpatrick immediately. I received word that a shipment of guns is arriving tonight from the American Colonies. A vessel awaits him in Reardon’s cove.”
Gallagher’s jaw dropped then he looked out to sea. He looked back at India as if reluctant to leave her. “I will find my way home,” she assured him.
Still the young man hesitated and India snapped, “That is an order. Now go!”
He dashed from the brush and ran down the hill into the night.
India was still on edge, not sure what to expect from the rest of her journey home. Either way, she knew she must hurry. Stumbling through the brush she found the road back to Gilmore Manor at last. All was quiet when she returned.
India went to the stable, unsaddled the gelding she rode earlier, and then looked for the estate guards. They were still not to be found. She wondered if they had left the estate to be part of the raid. She had little energy left to speculate so she went to her bedroom and locked the door. Easing herself into a chair by the large open window, she watched and listened for any movement below.
She dozed off for a short time then woke up with a start, realizing that she must prepare to leave. After tonight’s raid, the British would be everywhere, and they would have to evacuate.
Colm was not home yet. She assumed he was at the ship dispatching arms. She stuffed her clothing into a bag and went down to the library to empty her desk. She heard someone bang on the main door of the house.
She went to the entry. “Yes?”
“Lady Fitzpatrick. It is Barry Gallagher.”
She pulled open the massive door and there was the young man again standing in the moonlight. “We rendezvoused with the ship tonight at Reardon’s Cove.”
“Oh, good,” said India with a sigh, clutching her bodice.
Gallagher handed her a box with a note attached. “This was with the cargo. It is for you.”
“A package for me?” she said taking the box. India looked at him perplexed.
“I am here for another reason too, Lady Fitzpatrick. I am to take ya to County Armaugh. Your husband had already left.”
“Had he been informed about the shipment of guns before he departed?”
“Aye, but he decided to move on and leave it to me.”
So Colm had decided to leave the ship and the safe passage of his wife to others. Her jaw tightened, and she nodded. “I see.”
“I’ll wait
for ya outside, Lady Fitzpatrick.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher.”
India walked back into the library and set the box on her desk. She noticed it was polished to a high shine and that it was inlaid. She broke the seal on the note and read, “My dear Lady Fitzpatrick, even one as courageous as you needs protection.”
She released the catch and opened the box. Her patron in Delaware seemed to value her life more than her own husband. He had sent India a pistol.
Chapter 6
India anticipated sleepless nights and terrifying memories to haunt her after the raid at Kilcommon, but instead she slept soundly, resuming her normal tasks without interruption. Day after day, she waited for the nightmares to begin, but nothing happened. She was grateful but surprised. She believed that at last she had become hardened to the realities of a rebellion. No longer was she the dainty decorative wife of a high-born lord. She was now a courageous and empowered young rebel. She felt detached from the old India Fitzpatrick, scoffing at the immature, naive girl of the past. She was at last ready to be involved directly.
There was one major obstacle though, her husband. She knew that a frank, open discussion would end her involvement, so she elected clandestine activity instead. She decided to start by attending one of the repparees’ gatherings. The manor they inhabited currently was on the outskirts of Armaugh, a large gray imposing structure surrounded by gardens. She slipped out the kitchen door undetected by the three sentries patrolling the grounds. India suspected that Colm had the guards posted at the manor to watch her movements as much as to protect her from assailants. She overheard him say earlier in the day that the bonfire meeting was going to be off the Portadown road. She knew she could use the half light of the moon and the golden flames of the blaze as her guide.
Dressed once again in her tenant clothes, India started down the driveway then pushed through the tangled masses of raspberry bushes and dog roses that grew along the edge of the wood and stepped into the dark cathedral of oaks. Her heart began to beat strongly and a rush of independent spirit coursed through her. She stopped for a moment to inhale the deep musky scent of the forest. It took her back to her walks as a child in the woods bordering Loughlorcan.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 5