“I found him like this,” Hogan explained frantically. “The horse was walking home.”
When she touched the back of Colm’s coat, it was wet. Automatically her fingers went to his neck. There was a faint pulse.
“Shot in the back. He is still alive,” she said. “Take him to the first cottage you see and have them tend to him.”
India could see the confusion on the guard’s face. “But Lady Fitzpatrick--”
“I am not going with you,” she announced. “There are more lives at stake than Lord Fitzpatrick’s tonight. I must warn the repparees. They cannot be without a leader.”
County Longford 1775
Chapter 8
When she wasn’t looking, Cian O’Donnell would study Lady Fitzpatrick. He knew the burden of leading the rebellion wore on her. He had watched her work furiously resurrecting the revolution and sustaining it. Watching her in front of the fire every night, he would see her fall into a deep silence, brooding until someone woke her from her reverie. Then she would blink as if emerging from a deep enchantment.
It had been several years now since Colm had been paralyzed and Lady Fitzpatrick had taken command of the rebellion. Shortly after the accident, she had summoned Cian O’Donnell to help her reestablish order among the rebellion and create new plans. It had been no easy task, but within a year, everything was back in order.
Many nights, Cian would see her set off to walk alone in the woods or out by the sea. If they were quartered indoors, he would hear her pacing in her room like a caged animal. She was like no woman he had ever known. She worked day and night and had a firmer grasp on military strategy than any man he had ever encountered. The rebellion flourished under her command, and in spite of her sex, the men followed her like she was the reincarnation of Brian Boru.
Where ever Lady Fitzpatrick traveled, the incapacitated and addled Lord Fitzpatrick went too. She ate supper with her husband dutifully every night, but she no longer bedded with him. He slept in manor houses, whereas Lady Fitzpatrick slept under the stars. She believed if her troops must endure the elements then she must too. In the morning, she would rise, go to the manor, drink a cup of tea with Colm then resume her work once more as commander of a great rebellion.
Lady Fitzpatrick didn’t know Cian O’Donnell was in love with her. She was too driven by her work to notice. They spent endless hours together pouring over maps and discussing tactics, and it tormented him that she never acknowledged he was a man. He spent more time with her than his own wife, yet there was a barrier between them as great as the Blue Stack Mountains.
The man upbraided himself. How can I love someone I do not know or understand? How foolish I have become. Yet when she looked at him with those indescribable eyes, it took his breath away.
O’Donnell watched Colm Fitzpatrick closely as well. Slowly, the man was gaining strength, and his mental faculties were improving. The bullet had dug deep into his spine, and there was no question he would not walk again, but it was entirely possible he would regain command of the rebellion once more.
Fitzpatrick had been unconscious for many weeks, losing weight and muscle tone until he resembled a corpse, then one day he awoke, befuddled and confused. Over time, under a nurse’s care, he was able to feed himself and look at books, but he tired easily.
When he was awake, he was a raging tyrant. Lady Fitzpatrick had to wait on him like a servant girl, but she endured it only a short time, pleading work demands elsewhere.
O’Donnell worried about the time when Fitzpatrick would reclaim his place as supreme commander of the rebellion. He had duped the people of Ireland into thinking he was a committed and selfless patriot when in fact he was nothing more than an ambitious autocrat orchestrating a rebellion to further his own political aspirations.
O’Donnell did give Fitzpatrick credit in one regard though, he was a talented thespian. For years he had masqueraded as a brilliant military virtuoso when, in fact, his wife was unwittingly operating the entire rebellion behind the scenes.
Since Lady Fitzpatrick had taken command of the rebellion, everything had changed. Their raids were more organized and more effective and fewer men lost their lives. O’Donnell observed that she had a second sense for intelligence and because of this talent their encampments had not been raided once. Her intuition for effective strategy was remarkable as well, and she seldom missed her mark. She instructed them that the way to defeat the British was through underground and partisan warfare. She asserted that the Irish must never confront the King’s army on the battlefield. He agreed; the British had the skills and the armament to annihilate the rebels in formal warfare. They both knew that the rebellion could be won only by subversion and surprise strikes, similar to the strategy of the Indian in the American Colonies.
O’Donnell saw India excel in diplomacy as well. He believed since she was a woman, she had an instinct for dealing with men and their need to assert their authority. Listening to the regional leaders, India considered their views before making any decision of importance. She acknowledged openly that they were more qualified than anyone else to advise her on the geography and political climate of their particular region. After spending hours with each one, she created unity and a spirit of open dialogue which expanded trust and mutual respect among them all. When disputes arose between factions and clans, she discreetly guided them toward a compromise. Under this umbrella of cooperation and regard, the rebellion prospered and expanded. Lady Fitzpatrick ruled powerfully but with a velvet glove. With this attitude of open dialogue, she united the leaders from all parts of Ireland including Ulster. The rebellion was at last on track for victory.
Lady Fitzpatrick had but one problem, her husband.
* * *
A slushy snow covered the Ballyhoura Mountains. The yews and alders groaned under the weight of the frost, their branches sagging. It was almost Christmas, and it was cold. This time of year, rain and fog usually seeped through the mountain ranges, but this Christmas, the wind was frigid and there was a dusting of snow. India pulled the hood up on her red cloak and watched the ground as she walked. She did not want to soak her shoes stepping in an ice-covered puddle.
“Lady Fitzpatrick,” someone called.
India looked up and saw Barry Gallagher, the red-headed young man who helped her after the raid in Kilcommon. “Lady Fitzpatrick, I have news!”
He ran up the trail toward her, slipping and sliding on the snow. He was out of breath when he reached her. “I just received a message. The British are pulling out of Cavanaugh in exchange for Lord Dixon. The abduction succeeded.”
India smiled and looked out across the mountains of Cork saying a prayer of thanks. When she was a child, she thought the dark hills of the mountains were slumbering giants. “The Titans are awakening at last,” she said.
“Beg pardon?” Gallagher said.
“Oh, nothing. Thank you for the news, Mr. Gallagher.”
Starting down the trail, she said, “Come with me to the meeting, and you can tell them the news yourself. I believe you have earned the right to attend our meetings.”
Barry pulled his hat off and said, “Why thank you, Lady Fitzpatrick. I would be honored.”
India chuckled. “Honestly, Gallagher. Put your hat back on. It’s cold.”
* * *
The meeting was in a shepherd’s cottage on the mountainside. There was a blazing fire in the hearth and hot brandy for everyone. The humble shepherd had no chairs, so they all stood. There were five men in attendance with Lady Fitzpatrick. Barry Gallagher’s news was met with cheers and hearty handshakes.
“Aye, but that makes for a Merry Christmas!” O’Donnell roared.
“If we continue to see progress like this, anything is possible,” said Addis McGrath, one of the oldest members of the groups.
India said nothing, observing the gaiety.
“Not even this can move you, Lady Fitzpatrick?” said Cian O’Donnell stepping over next to her.
“Oh, but I am happy, M
r. O’Donnell. My spirit soars,” she said.
Cian searched India’s eyes for a moment then looked at her lips.
India looked away quickly. Walking to the table, she unrolled a map. Automatically the men gathered around.
“Lady Fitzpatrick, may I begin by sharing something else newsworthy?” asked Jamie Kinsella, a tiny man whose short neck and leathery countenance resembled a turtle.
“Of course,” she said straightening up.
“Garrett was telling me about it today,” he said, looking around at the others proudly. “There is a rich Irish Catholic livin’ in the colony of Maryland by the name of Charles Carroll. He is a descended from the fierce rebels of Tipperary. Well, it seems he is rekindlin’ the old family tradition of rebellion once more, but now in the New World. Carroll has been writin’ articles about British domination in America and stirrin’ up a hornet’s nest over there.”
“Good,” said Addis McGrath. “We’ll throw ‘em out on both sides of the Atlantic!”
India gazed out the window. She was trying to remember something she heard once about a revolution in a far away land, but she could not capture the memory. It was a woman’s voice she heard. Shaking her head, she turned back to the table saying, “I wish them luck in the Colonies, but I will see a free Ireland first!”
“Here, here!” they cheered.
“Gentlemen,” she announced, bringing them back to matters at hand. “I fear we have overstayed our welcome in the Ballyhouras. We must discuss our next encampment and target.”
She leaned over the map and a long lock of blonde hair came loose from her chignon and fell onto the map. The men looked surprised and somewhat uneasy. It was at times like this, that the repparees remembered Lady Fitzpatrick was a woman. With bittersweet yearning, O’Donnell looked at her and wondered if there was any other woman on earth who could lead a rebellion and at the same time completely steal men’s hearts.
* * *
Watching the men rejoice touched India, and she decided to organize a celebration to thank them for their loyalty and success. A large gathering of repparees, full of drink and distraction would be a perfect target for the enemy, so discretion was of the utmost importance.
After much thought, India decided to approach the wife of Addis McGrath about hosting the celebration. McGrath was from the neighboring hamlet of Roslow. Being older, he was well established and had a large cottage on a lake in the country, affording plenty of room and privacy for a gathering.
India decided to be completely discreet. The repparees would receive notice only a few hours before the festivity. There must be no time for informants to leak information about the gathering.
The day before Christmas, India wrapped herself in a heavy shawl and started for Roslow with Jamie Kinsella, head of intelligence for the rebellion. Kinsella was meeting a contact at a tavern in town to collect information on where the British were quartering in the next county.
India loved to see this tiny, quick-witted man in action. His techniques were unprecedented. Kinsella would loiter in villages, near taverns and soldiers quarters, masquerading as a feeble-minded innocent. The soldiers and informants, not taking him seriously, would talk freely in his presence spilling valuable information about their objectives. Armed with facts, Kinsella would scurry back to the repparees with names, dates and places of every British maneuver in the area.
“Good morning, Mr. Kinsella,” India said, as she approached the cross roads where she was to meet him.
He pulled his dirty hat up off his head, and then put it back down. “Lady Fitzpatrick.”
She ran her eyes ran over his disguise. It consisted of a floppy hat, stained smock and ragged britches. “Looking a bit dirtier than usual today, Mr. Kinsella,” she said dryly.
“Aye, simple Harry doesn’t bother with personal hygiene. He is more interested in lookin’ at the dashin’ soldiers and oglin’ the pretty ladies.”
India smiled. Jamie Kinsella was one of her favorite people. He was colorful and always ready with a sharp answer.
They walked a while in silence then stopped a moment to look out over the icy blue waters of Lough Cullen. They were not far from the country of her childhood. The snow had melted leaving waterlogged bogs and soggy foliage behind. The wind whistled in India’s ears, and she could smell the damp earth around her. Looking over the mountains toward Ballydunne in the distance, she wondered if her mother ever visited the valley anymore. India sighed. Her youth seemed like an eternity ago.
“How does your family fare, Mr. Kinsella?” she said, turning to her companion. “Your wife and children are in Macroom, are they not?”
“That’s right, Lady Fitzpatrick. I have a wife and five girls.”
India started back for the road, raising her skirts and stepping high to avoid the wet underbrush. Jamie followed her. “I must be confused,” she said. “I thought you had a boy as well.”
Kinsella shook his head. “You’re not confused. I did have a boy, but we lost him some months ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry,’ India murmured.
“Please don’t be sorry, Lady Fitzpatrick. He is alive to me in many ways,” Kinsella said. He gave a wry smile. “You see, his name was Harry. He is the inspiration for my simple-minded character.”
* * *
When they reached Roslow, India pulled her shawl up over her head and cast her eyes down. The road was greasy and filled with dung, so they had to walk with care. The hamlet was merely a cluster of cottages with a common well and a Celtic cross. It was midday and the town was deserted. Most of the residents were in their cottages eating praties or stirabout. The aroma of food wafted out from the homes making their stomachs rumble.
A pony pulling a cart trudged down the street with his head hanging low. The driver, a wizened old man, nodded to India and Jamie good-naturedly. A mother with a baby on her hip walked ahead of them with a jug of water as three children ran by playing tag. India noticed the moment they arrived in town that Jamie had assumed his role as village simpleton. He limped alongside her with a slack jaw, slurping his saliva and mumbling. He made eye contact with everyone on the street, smiling absurdly. The villagers knew India and Kinsella were not locals, but they did not single them out because several British soldiers were lounging by the well. They all knew it was best to remain mute about everything when soldiers were present.
Kinsella ducked into the tavern, a waddle and daub hovel, as India continued down the road toward the McGrath homestead. She looked down at her swaddled feet as she walked. Ordinary Irishmen could not afford shoes so they wrapped their feet in rags in the winter. Today, she had done the same. All the years India had lived at Ballydunne, she had never understood or even noticed the sufferings of the tenants. Her face grew red with shame thinking of how insensitive she had been.
At last, she saw the McGrath cottage in the distance. It was a tidy, well-kept farm on a lake surrounded by deep green mountains. Smoke was curling out of the chimney under a sky streaked with angry gray clouds. The wind blew fiercely across the water, and India quickened her pace. Her feet were beginning to numb.
Mrs. McGrath saw India coming and stepped out to greet her. The woman’s appearance startled her. She could have easily mistaken her for a man. Mrs. McGrath was a tall raw-boned woman, with an angular face and a bald head. Aside from a few tufts here and there, she was almost completely without hair.
“Welcome to my home,” the woman said, extending her hand. Her voice was gentle and quiet, as soothing as the glow of a peat fire.
“My name is India Fitzpatrick, Mrs. McGrath. I am acquainted with your husband, Addis.”
The woman put her hand to her chest and gasped, “What has happened?”
“No, no! He fares well!” India exclaimed. “I am sorry to have alarmed you. He is in remarkable health. I am here today to see you and to ask a favor.”
Mrs. McGrath started to laugh. “Oh, saints be praised! These days, one always expects the worst. Come in Lady Fitzpatrick.”
She took India into the cottage and had her sit down as she put a tea kettle on the fire. India unwound the rags from her feet, taking out several gold coins and handed them to Mrs. McGrath.
“My favor is this. Would you take this money and buy food and drink to make Christmas merry for my boys on Christmas?”
The woman stared at the gold. She had never seen so much wealth.
“Of course,” she mumbled, looking at India with surprise.
After explaining the details, India and Mrs. McGrath spent the rest of the day making plans for the celebration. It was good for India to be planning something other than battle.
As they finished up, Mrs. McGrath asked, “Tell me Lady Fitzpatrick, don’t ya’ get tired of all those men tryin’ to be boss?”
India sipped her tea and smiled. “I do get weary at times. Many of them think whoever yells the loudest or hits the hardest wins.”
“Do ya have any women to talk to?”
India shook her head.
“I don’t know how ya do it, all alone like that,” the woman said, searching India’s eyes. “Do ya get lonely?”
India felt uncomfortable and shrugged. She truly did not know the answer.
Mrs. McGrath got up and looked out the window. “We each have our own battles, do we not?” She turned back to India and said, “My hair was shorn by the British several months back. They held me down and took a shears to me. It was their way of lettin’ everyone know that I was married to a rebel.”
* * *
It amazed India how fine conversation could keep one warm, inside and out. Her step was light, and her feet were warm on the walk back to Roslow. It was the first time in her adult life that India had felt kinship with another woman, and it quelled some of her loneliness.
The walk seemed short back to the village, but her light-hearted afternoon took a serious turn when she rounded a bend. She saw three British officers by the town well, watering their horses at the trough and harassing a boy about the age of ten. The child was skinny and barefoot, standing in the mud, holding a bag. Although he was quivering, he looked up at the soldiers with his lower lip thrust out defiantly. Several villagers gathered to listen to the confrontation.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 8