India found the Portadown road at last and stepped out onto the dark, silent thoroughfare. She scanned the moor on one side and the woods on the other, but there was no trace of firelight anywhere. She continued on walking briskly down the dirt road, wrapping her shawl closely around her.
India cursed herself for not wearing men’s clothing. She was unsure whether any women attended these rallies. Either way, tonight she knew she would only watch or listen from afar. At the worst, she would be discovered by her own people.
Suddenly, the wind changed and India heard voices droning in the distance and spotted a faint glimmer of firelight through the trees. She ran along the road until she found an opening in the woods then followed a deer path down through a mossy hollow. The terrain then sloped steeply upward, and she climbed an embankment pierced with sharp rocks to a plateau. A bonfire was on the wooded hill top. Flames flickered on the summit.
When she breached the hill, she stopped abruptly. She had anticipated a large boisterous group of rebels gathered to listen to Colm’s ranting, but instead a small group of hooded figures was gathered around a fire. Nearby was a colossal dolmen, a huge gray slab table supported by massive stone legs driven deep into the soil. The hooded figures turned slowly toward India. They were women. They looked at her as if they had anticipated her arrival.
India blinked in disbelief. She knew she should be afraid, but she sensed no danger from these quiet females. The tallest woman of the group lowered her hood. She had the hair and voice of very old woman yet the smooth complexion and clear eyes of a young girl. India’s lips parted in awe. The woman’s full white hair framed her youthful face. She smiled and stepped closer, holding out her hands in welcome. “Greetings, we have been expecting you.”
India stared at her speechless.
“Come,” the woman said gently taking India’s hand.
“No, “India said stepping back. “You are mistaken. I have lost my way.”
A smile flickered on the woman’s lips. “Aye,” she nodded, guiding her toward the group. “You have lost your way, but we will help you will find it again.”
India joined the circle of worshipers feeling confused and light headed. She had no doubt that these women were involved in some ancient Celtic ritual, yet she was oddly unafraid. She was reminded of the first time Colm had taken her to meet a group of nuns practicing their faith in secret in Roscommon. There was an aura of serene presence about them.
“I am Bronaugh Bree,” the white haired woman said. She gestured to the others introducing them. “These are my sisters. They are from your homeland of Eyre. I hail from Anglesy, an island near Wales, also called the Holy Island. We are resurrecting the ancient rites of our ancestors.”
India noticed one of the women toss granules into the fire. It gave the flames a blue color and a thick heavy smell permeated the air afterward. India looked at the oak trees overhead. They formed a vast cathedral, towering over the ancient dolmen, the blazing fire and hooded figures. The clearing seemed sacred and ethereal.
“Please sit with us a while. We will ask nothing of you but to listen.”
Bronaugh sat down by the fire cross-legged and patted the ground beside her. India sat down slowly looking at them curiously. Bronaugh closed her eyes and began murmuring prayers. The others did the same. Embarrassed and confused, India felt as if she was intruding as she watched them. She lowered her head out of respect but managed to steal a look at them now and then. Three of them appeared to be of middle age and one was a girl on the brink of womanhood. They all wore cloaks with hoods pulled up over their hair, or they wore shawls upon their heads. Placed in front of each one of them was a bowl of water, several stones and hawthorn branches.
Bronaugh finished her prayer and sighed, her palms resting open in an upright position on her knees. She opened her eyes and smiled at India. “Indeed this all seems very strange to you, but you have been brought here for a reason. There is something I must tell you.”
She leaned forward scrutinizing India’s face then looked at the others nodding as if she had found what she was looking for. Bronaugh began slowly, “We practice the old ways of the Celts and some of us have the ability to foretell the future with a second sight. It may sound absurd, but it is a practice as old as mankind.”
She looked down at the ground a moment, then up again at India. “Several months ago I saw a woman in a dream. She was the leader of a great rebellion. Not since the time of the high priestesses has there been a woman to lead the Irish people.”
Next she looked up at the moon, closed her eyes a moment then looked back at India. “But now, the time has come once more. I saw this woman. She has hair the color of wheat. Her eyes are as changeable as the sea, and hers is the sword of the Banshee.”
India swallowed hard and started to feel anxious. Tales of Druid sacrifices crept into her mind as her heart started to pound, and her body tensed.
Bronaugh continued talking and searching India‘s eyes. “I knew not where to find this unusual creature, but then one night, word came of such a woman. It is a woman who follows her husband in a struggle for freedom.”
India started to get up, but Bronaugh reached out to her and touched her knee. “Please do not be afraid. We ask nothing of you but to have faith in yourself. You are that leader.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” India murmured, rising again. “You have the wrong woman.”
“Please. It will be easier for you if you accept the truth. There is no running away,” Bronaugh said apologetically. “Your path is predestined.”
As India was about to bolt for the woods, Bronaugh took her wrist. She spoke quickly, almost frantically, “I have seen it, my child. You will fail on your home soil. But you must not give up the struggle. The Irish will be delivered to a new land, and you will be a part of that fight for freedom!”
India locked eyes with the woman. Her head began to spin, and there was buzzing in her ears. Scenes of bloodshed and struggle passed before her eyes, and for an instant she believed everything to be true about this strange woman’s premonition.
Then in a flash, she shook her head casting off the spell. India yanked her arm away from Bronaugh and ran to the woods, sliding down the hill, struggling through the brush, dashing out onto the Portadown road. She raced back to the manor in a fury, across the lawn and into the house, slamming the kitchen door behind her. She bolted it quickly and leaned against the door panting.
India pushed the hair from her face trying to make sense of this madness. Gradually she caught her breath. It all seemed outrageous. Who were those women, and how did they know her? Grabbing Colm’s decanter of brandy, India dashed upstairs to her room. For the first time in her life, she tried to drink herself into a delirium, but try as she might, she could not forget the terrifying prophesy of the Druid priestess.
* * *
When the sun peeked over the horizon, India fell asleep. She woke up late in the afternoon with a headache. The glare of the sun made the events of the previous night seem ridiculous. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through her hair trying to massage the throbbing. The ritual on the hilltop seemed preposterous, and she laughed out loud.
“The people of Armaugh are certainly curious,” she mumbled, dismissing the incident.
India noticed that Colm’s side of the bed had not been slept in. She knew that he was probably out planning another raid.
She had the housekeeper bring water to her room, and she bathed slowly washing and pulling briars from her hair. Her first order of business for the day was to learn to use her pistol. After dressing, India tied her hair up, took her pistol case, and stepped out into the garden to look for one of the guards. She spied a young man sitting under a tree watching the driveway with a musket over his knees.
“Hello there!” she called to him. “I am Lady Fitzpatrick.”
The bulky lad sprang to his feet pulling his cap off his head. “Yes, my Lady,” he said expectantly.
“I am considering purchasing this new pistol for Lord Fitzpatrick for his birthday,” she announced, flipping open the case. “It is to be a surprise so please say nothing to him,” she said smiling. “I am sorely unfamiliar with the workings of a firearm. Would you be so kind as to try this pistol to see if it is indeed a weapon of quality?”
Flattered, the boy’s eyebrows shot up, and he said eagerly, “Of course Lady Fitzpatrick, at your service.” His heavy hands handled the pistol with reverence. “It is indeed a lovely piece.”
India nodded then her eyes narrowed as he loaded the weapon. She memorized his every move watching him pour powder into the barrel; ram the ball, powder the pan, cock, aim and fire.
“Yes,” he said holding it out and turning it over. “It works well.”
“Would you try it one more time please?” India asked.
The lad looked at her with a smile. “Of course, Lady Fitzpatrick,” he said. Once more he loaded the pistol as India watched carefully and fired.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “You have been a great help.”
Satisfied but unsure how long she could retain the information, India walked directly to the stable, saddled a mare and road to a remote area of the estate. There in the sunlight and solitude of a meadow, she spent the autumn afternoon practicing loading and shooting her new firearm. Every day she practiced in the meadow until she could load and fire without hesitation. Although her skill at loading had improved, she was frustrated with her lack of accuracy hitting a mark. Her aim was poor because the gun was incredibly heavy for her. After much experimentation, trial and error, India decided to rest the pistol on her forearm and shoot. Gradually her accuracy improved.
At last she felt ready to attend meetings again. This time, she would have her gun with her for protection. All she needed now were men's clothes. Colm’s clothing was too large for India and too short, so she bought one of the servant boys at the manor a new suit of clothing, taking his cast offs for her disguise. After sewing several pieces of flour sack together for a white shirt, which was the official uniform of the repparees, she was ready to go. She also wore a hat, tucking her long hair into her jacket and pulling up the collar.
It felt delicious to live dangerously and in such an independent manner. She attended rallies for weeks on end, until all hours of the night, standing anonymously among crowds of outraged Irishmen who were eager for vengeance.
Over time, India learned the tactics of the partisan. She was eager for knowledge and absorbed the plans to every strike like a sponge. Her mind was greedy for information, and she listened intently to everything discussed about lines of attack and operations. She learned about active and passive resistance, networking, and spy techniques.
Then one day, she realized that the repparees were using strategies that she had suggested to Colm years before, strategies which she had discovered from her comprehensive reading on the subject and shared with him. India found it curious that he had never told her that he was using her ideas. Nevertheless, she felt gratified that she had made some contribution to the fight.
She chuckled as she crossed the meadow coming home from a meeting one night in the pouring rain; all those games of chess had paid off. At last she felt informed about the rebellion, her only wish now was that she could actively participate in the revolution.
* * *
Even with her new found adventures, India did not forget her correspondence with patrons. The continued success of the freedom fighters depended heavily upon their regular donations. She even made several new contacts in France and Spain. Although these benefactors masqueraded as individuals, India believed it was the French and Spanish governments behind the donations. France and Spain were age-old rivals of Great Britain, and she knew they welcomed an independent Ireland; Irish soil was in close proximity to London.
Colm and India had crossed Ireland several times, garnering support. The British watched their movements closely, and the Crown’s high command began anticipating formal warfare. It pleased Colm that they were at last taking him seriously.
Colm and the repparees arrived in Ulster stronger than ever. The region was a crucible of hatred and turmoil, and Colm made sure his forces were well trained before venturing there. England had confiscated more land in this part of Ireland than anywhere else. The British had literally starved out the Irish Catholic by importing Scots and Anglicans for over two hundred years.
Confrontation with the repparees came at last one evening in County Down. “The British received word that we are in Ulster,” said Colm. “And they have increased troop presence everywhere. They have been fortifying the large towns all day, thinking I would conduct a rally where I would find the widest audience, but tonight the meeting is in the village of Watermore instead. It’s a coastal hamlet far from the populated cities. I arranged for three banished leaders of the most powerful clans in all of Ulster to be with me, the O’Neills, the McGuires, and the O’Donnells. Have you heard of them?”
India nodded and leaned forward, engrossed in what he was saying.
“Their ship is scheduled to dock tonight at the quay in Watermore. These men will fan out across Ulster spreading word of the rebellion and organize repparees from their clans to further our fight for freedom.”
India realized the importance of this night. It was not to be missed. Her stomach jumped when she thought of listening to the three largest clan leaders of Ulster give their call to arms. Then she remembered with disappointment that Watermore was not within walking distance of their manor. It was pointless to ask Colm if she could go with him, he would not allow it.
Determined to attend, India decided to tell the guards that she was taking a late afternoon ride on the moor but in reality she would ride to Watermore. She would bring her men’s disguise along and change on the outskirts of town before the meeting. Upon her return, she would say she had been lost on the moor, if anyone asked.
Everything went as planned. She changed her clothing in a glen outside of town and tied her horse up by a stream. Although the mare was small, she was easy-going and quiet, a perfect choice for a clandestine outing.
India started down the road toward the hamlet. A gray mist hung over Ulster which brought early darkness to the countryside. She shivered, pulling her hat down and her collar up. The journey to Watermore seemed endless. When India finally arrived she saw a decaying old town on the coast with abandoned warehouses, crumbling cottages and two inns. A small merchant vessel and several fishing boats bobbed in the harbor.
She stood in the shadows of a warehouse watching the quay. Even though it was a small port, boisterous sailors were everywhere. She was surprised at the amount of activity the sleepy little town generated. Many of the seamen were drunk and others had whores on their arms. Their raucous laughter mingled with the shouts of several dock workers.
She looked past them at the quay. There was a great deal of activity surrounding a ship that just docked. It appeared to be a merchant vessel unloading cargo. India wondered if this was the ship carrying the clan chiefs. Her suspicions were confirmed when she spied Colm approaching the gang plank. Several of his men accompanied him holding lanterns.
Three men stepped off the ship greeting her husband. Just as India was about to get a closer look, a sailor passed in front of her, blocking her view. The pock-marked seaman burned a look into her, examining her face closely. She was indignant at first, then alarmed. She recognized him. He was one of Colm’s men. Now it was clear why there were so many men around. They were insurgents masquerading as seaman to watch for trouble.
She followed Colm and the three men. They crossed the square and disappeared into a tavern not far from the docks. India was disappointed. They were having a private meeting. Hoping there still may be a rally, she waited in the rain three quarters of an hour. Still no one appeared. She paced around the square, blowing on her hands and wiping her nose on her sleeve every few moments. She was growing frustrated. It was cold and damp and growing la
te.
Suddenly, the door opened, and the men emerged. At once there was a burst of activity around the town. Torches were lit in the square, and people started to gather.
India was flabbergasted. She had no idea so many people had been waiting, just like her. They flooded out of warehouses and up from the docks. Carts full of peasants rolled down from the hills and villagers emptied out from the cottages, parents with children, old men and women, sailors, merchants, and whores.
India’s heart leaped. There was going to be a rally, and it was going to be big. People started to gather by a large flatbed wagon, so India took her place, standing shoulder to shoulder with her fellow Irishmen. They were all eager for words from their leaders.
More torches were lit and Colm and the three men climbed onto the cart. A hush came over the crowd as the four stood proudly, looking out at their Irish compatriots. Almost one hundred people were in attendance, an impressive number.
Colm was the first to speak. India paid little attention to his words. She had heard them a hundred times before. Some of his words she had even written. She was more interested in the clan leaders. Two of men were middle aged, one tall and boney with an aristocratic nose and the other squat with dirty gray hair. The third man, the youngest of the group, seemed the most robust. He had curly brown hair and the weathered face of someone who had been at sea.
When Colm finished talking, the tall older man began to speak. His name was Taggart O’Neill. He cleared his throat and smiled, greeting his countrymen warmly. He started his appeal for unity and as he spoke, India looked at those around her. Their care-worn faces were upturned and filled with awe. Several of them shed tears. Everyone was moved by O’Neill’s plea for unity and strength. He filled them with a quiet faith and profound resolve.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 6