* * *
“If it suits ya, milady, we will not make a formal announcement of Lord Fitzpatrick’s demise until he is buried, and the repparees have dispersed,” said Taghd O’Meadra, one of Colm’s men. He stood in the foyer with his tricorne hat in his hand waiting for her approval. O’Meadra was one of Colm’s top guards, a good-natured redhead with a face like a jack-o-lantern. He waited and searched her eyes.
“Very good, Mr. O’Meadra,” India said turning slowly, starting upstairs to change clothes. She was fatigued and took the steps slowly.
“We will be back in an hour to escort ya to the funeral, Lady Fitzpatrick.”
India nodded, lifting her skirts and dragging herself up the steps. She heard him return to sit with Colm's remains in the sitting room.
She sighed. At last she was alone. The day had been an ongoing stream of repparees and their families offering condolences and prayers. One after another, they queued up in the sitting room, speaking in hushed tones, filing past Colm’s cadaver with reverence and giving India their blessings.
India looked at Colm only once and noticed that someone had laced a rosary through his fingers. She shook her head in disgust and ran her eyes over his remains. The poison had turned his skin a bluish-gray. It matched his expensive silk top coat and britches. He was surrounded by plants and flowers, but the odor from his decomposing body oozed into the room. India fought the urge to gag. She couldn’t wait to get away from the macabre sight.
Back in her room, she dropped onto a chair and looked out the window at the sharp sunshine. She felt unsettled and resentful. She thought that Colm’s death would leave her feeling relieved, but instead, she felt troubled. Something nagged at her belly which she could not identify.
India stood up and began to dress for the funeral. The housekeeper had prepared a mourning gown of black muslin for her, which included a black stomacher edged in lace and a long veil. After pulling on the gown, she walked to the long mirror and looked at herself. She was glad that her blonde hair stood out, defying the volumes of black. She arranged a wide brimmed hat, heavy with plumes, onto her head and dropped a veil over her face.
She leaned closer to the mirror. Her face was drawn and her eyes looked lifeless. She remembered Taghd O’Meadra’s eyes. They had been full of hope and expectation when he talked to her today. He had been waiting for her to take charge of the funeral, of the rebellion, of everything, and she had ignored him. Everyone looked to her once more with those expectant, childlike eyes. They looked to her for leadership, leadership she did not want. The rebellion was in shambles, and India did not want the responsibility of resurrecting it.
Yet, how can I turn my back on them? The people of Ireland need me. But why? More useless bloodshed? True, with Colm’s demise I saved children from the battlefield, but have I been short-sighted? The rebellion is now without leadership. It is in a shambles, and Ireland is still enslaved.
India sighed deeply, suddenly feeling very old. There was a knock on the door. It was time for the funeral. She stepped out the front door and heard music coming from the hills. Fifteen men stood on the mount paying tribute to Colm with the mournful wailing of their bagpipes.
India lowered her veil and took the hand of an officer who escorted her to a carriage. They followed a heavily draped hearse pulled by horses wearing tall black plumes. They stopped at an overlook by the ocean. A small group was gathered on the cliffs, just Colm’s top officers and several guards. It was far too unsafe to have the funeral open to everyone.
The site was barren, and the wind swept bitterly off the ocean coming in icy waves up and over the cliff tops, sweeping over the group. It snapped India’s skirts and stung her skin making her eyes run and her lips burn.
They laid Colm Fitzpatrick to rest on the rocky moors overlooking the sea. It was a wild and lonely place with waves exploding violently along the jagged coastline.
As they lowered the casket, India considered her lack of emotion. She found it curious that after so many years, she could so easily dismiss her husband. He had been her only companion for years and years. He had given her the most precious gift ever, her twin girls, and for that she was grateful, but beyond that she felt nothing. There was no sadness, no bitterness, and no remorse.
India sighed, and without a tear, she threw a handful of dirt onto the casket. She realized suddenly that she did have one feeling. It was gladness. She was glad to be burying the remains of the man that reeked not only of hatred but of sandalwood.
* * *
Kinnel O’Mordha, a handsome young repparee from Galway, met India’s carriage at the manor after the funeral. He took his hat off and helped her down the steps saying, “Lady Fitzpatrick, please forgive me, but the men have asked me to talk to ya. May I have a minute of your time?”
India nodded her head reluctantly and paused on the doorstep.
“I will come to the point right away, milady,” the young man said. “We know you are in mournin’, but the rebellion needs your leadership, and we need it right away. Things are an awful mess, and there is a meetin' tomorrow night. Could ya help us please?”
When India looked at him, he dropped his eyes to the ground. He had never talked to Lady Fitzpatrick before, and it stirred something deep within him to look into her eyes.
She did not answer at first and he was afraid she had taken offense. He knew that she was grief stricken, yet it was imperative he enlist her aid quickly. He had heard about her years of leadership. It was called the Golden Age of the Rebellion, and her expertise was crucial for them to resume.
The mourning veil brushed against India’s full lips as she said, “I will do what I can, Mr. O’Mordha. I will look at Lord Fitzpatrick’s accounts and papers and have an answer for you at the meeting tomorrow night.”
* * *
India slept for only a few hours that night. She heard the clock strike one then two, and when it struck three, she threw the covers off and put on a dressing gown. Lighting a candle, she went downstairs, made tea and started wading through the mountains of papers and documents pertaining to the rebellion and her husband’s personal affairs.
At sunrise, the cook brought in breakfast, and India thanked her absently, continuing to calculate the notes Colm owed. He had expensive tastes, and he had not been afraid to indulge himself.
By midday, India was starting to see a trend. Colm regularly siphoned money donated to the rebellion into his own personal account. He was living high off the devotion of others.
India sat back and sighed, pushing the hair from her face and shook her head. It was no surprise, and the evidence was before her in black and white. Colm had been embezzling contributions for years. She did not start on the affairs of the rebellion until after sundown and those numbers were not good either. It seemed that Colm had depleted the funds first on himself and then on payoffs and bribes for the revolution, bribes that would never be honored. She rubbed her forehead. The news was not good for the repparees. The rebellion was bankrupt.
After changing into a simple gown and neckerchief for the meeting, India dined alone in her room. It was almost midnight and time for the meeting. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she tried to loosen the kinks in her back. She wished she could offer the repparees at least some monetary compensation. Rubbing her temples, she was trying to think of a way to compensate them when she remembered her patrons.
Had they stopped contributing? Perhaps donations addressed to me had come without Colm’s knowledge.
India ran to the library and dumped everything onto her desktop, sifting through half written proposals, old speeches and pages of addresses. She wondered if she had tucked something away in her desk, forgetting about it in her drug-induced stupor. Perhaps the housekeeper had put something addressed to me in a drawer months ago.
At last she found a letter from a patron in France. She ripped it open. There was a pledge of support and a bank note. She found another letter from a wealthy aristocrat in Dublin and even more correspon
dence from America. They all contained bank notes yet to be drawn upon.
Elated, India stuffed them into a leather pouch. She was about to grab her cloak and head for the meeting when a letter on the desk caught her eye. It was from the patron she had known for years in the Colony of Delaware, the patron who had sent her the pistol. It was sent months ago and was still unopened. She broke the seal and began reading it. When she finished, she leaned back in her chair and stared straight ahead.
Shaking her head she blurted, “Foolishness!” and jumped up, starting for the meeting. But as she stepped over the threshold, Bronaugh Bree’s voice echoed in her ears, and she stopped.
India thought for a moment then said, “I must be mad,” and pulled the bell cord. She went to the desk, signed all the notes and put them back into the pouch. The housekeeper appeared, and India handed the pouch to her.
“Mrs. McBain,” India said. “Please have your son deliver this to the meeting tonight.”
The woman took the pouch, curtsied and disappeared. India headed back to her desk one more time. She had almost forgotten to burn the letters from her patrons. The fire was low, but she tossed the papers onto the coals. Afterward she grabbed her cloak and pistol and left the manor.
When she stepped outside, cold air nipped her face. India straightened her back and stretched, rolling her head back and forth several times. She looked up at the bonfire on the hill where the repparees were meeting. The golden light winked at her through the swaying trees, but this time she did not follow its beacon. Instead, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and started down the road away from the meeting.
Back in the library, the letters burned slowly on the grate. The last paper to ignite was the letter from India’s patron in Delaware. It read:
Brandywine Valley, Delaware Colony. 6th November 1773
My Dear Lady Fitzpatrick,
I was told once that freedom for the Irish will be found in the New World. I know now this is true. It is a land ripe with opportunities to carve a new country. I beg of you, bring your fight to the New World. We need your brilliance to light our way to freedom. It is here that the Irish people will find their liberty.
Should you, for any reason, decide to cross the Atlantic and join us, I have booked passage for you at Cork. Report to the brokerage of Abbott and Tierney at your leisure, they will make all the necessary arrangements.
Your Humble Servant,
Mr. Quinn Calleigh
Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania
1774
Chapter 14
India stood motionless with a bag in her hand on the wharf of the city of Philadelphia. Without moving her head, her eyes swept across the panorama of chaos. Crates swung over her head, their frayed ropes straining from weight, sweat stained sailors rolled barrels up and down ramps into warehouses, and teamsters whipped oxen pulling wagons bulging with cargo. Seagulls screeched overhead dropping without warning to the stone pavement, pecking at dead rats or discarded produce from vendors.
The smell of fish, salt and vomit permeated the air, but India did not touch a hankie to her nose. Instead she filled her lungs with the familiar smell of land and city. She was glad to have the solid feel of earth under her feet again. She was told that the voyage from Cork to the Colonies had gone well and been uneventful, but for her it was the adventure of a lifetime.
A smile flickered over her lips. Dublin seemed provincial compared to this rough, boisterous jumble of humanity huddled on the shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. Even though most of the inhabitants were from Great Britain, India observed many large, raw-boned folk with light hair speaking German, Dutch and Swedish.
A large crowd of blacks filed past her, chained together. The African slave seemed to outnumber everyone. She noticed some of them hauling cargo supervised by draymen with whips, other slaves were dressed in livery waiting by coaches, and she spied several black-skinned women in mob caps shopping with baskets over their arms. It was a sight not common in Ireland, even in Dublin.
Suddenly someone clamped onto India’s arm and yanked her to the right.
“Look lively, Miss!” barked a dirty faced boy, pointing over her shoulder.
India looked behind her and saw amber liquid pouring down where she had been standing. A terrified cow swung overhead in a harness, bellowing loudly and urinating.
India’s jaw dropped, and she turned back to the boy. “Thank you.”
The boy smiled at her, his teeth blackened and his dark hair matted. He grabbed her wrist again and pulled her. This time a man standing on a crate swung over India.
“You can’t stand here. You’ll get killed. Come on--”
He pulled India onto a street of public houses and shops. It was lined with sagging wooden structures and a few red brick buildings. The boy looked at India’s shabby brown gown over her white shift. She was dirty from the voyage and in need of a bath. “Are you looking to be a house servant, Miss?”
India nodded. “Yes, but before I find a situation, I must find me brother,” she said in an affected Irish brogue.
She looked around trying to decide what her next move would be. The streets were crowded and people rushed past, jostling them. Carriages stopped at the public houses depositing patrons.
“Maybe I can help you find him,” shouted the lad over the noise.
India clutched her bag to her breast and looked him up and down. She concluded that he was about nine years of age and obviously a street urchin. He was dressed in filthy rags smelling of urine. In spite of his poor teeth he had a contagious smile.
She narrowed her eyes. “You best not be after me purse, boy. There is nothin’ to pinch there anyway.”
He straightened up indignantly, “No, Miss! I am up to nothing of the kind.”
“Hmmm,” said India. “What’s your name?”
“Phineas Martin-Pierpoint.”
India’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t expected such a dignified name. “Well, Master Pierpoint, where are your people?”
He shrugged, and she noticed the dust shower off of him. “I take care of myself. What’s your name, Miss?”
“Miss Calleigh, Lorna Calleigh.”
On the voyage she had decided to use an assumed name until she could learn more about her patron Quinn Calleigh.
“Your brother is Mr. Calleigh? Well I’ll be! I know the man. I know just where he lives--” His eyes rested on a pie man’s cart. “For a roly-poly, I’ll take you there.”
India thought for a moment then sighed. She knew the boy was lying, but she had an idea. “Very well,” she said walking over to the cart.
After paying, they sat down on a bench under a tree. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she tasted the chicken pie. She tore into it ravenously. After the voyage she had been momentarily rejuvenated by the excitement of the New World, but now relaxed she realized she was weak and famished.
The boy ate his meat pie in two gulps, and then watched India finish hers. She watched the pedestrians and the carriages pass by as she ate. The carriages were beautiful and well-crafted and the ordinary folk’s dress was of good quality. Compared to Ireland, the Colonists seemed prosperous. She looked up at the umbrella of trees overhead. The abundance of flora astounded her. Ireland had been depleted of natural resources hundreds of years ago.
When she was done, she brushed the crumbs from her lap and said, “Now that your belly is full, Phineas do ya want to tell me the truth?”
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “About what, Miss?”
“Ya don’t know where Mr. Calleigh lives. In fact, ya have no idea who the man is.”
“But--”
“He doesn’t live here at all. He lives in the Brandywine Valley.”
Phineas looked at India wide eyed and said, “If you knew where he lived, why did you buy me a roly-poly?”
“Because I need ya to help me. Ya know things about the Colonies that I don’t know. Ya can help me get situated and keep me
safe. Now I ask ya again, where are your people, lad?”
He scowled, made a foul gesture at her and started walking away.
India picked up her bag and ran after him. She caught his arm and said, “I am not pryin’ into your life. I just don’t want to take ya away from someone who cares for ya.”
Phineas yanked his arm away. “Ain’t nobody that cares for me.” He looked up at her, his lower lip pushed out. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? You ain’t no servant girl. I can tell by your hands and the way you say your words. You are a lady in servant’s clothes.”
She pursed her lips, looking at him. “Smart boy. Alright Phineas,” she said dropping the accent, “--if that’s your real name.”
“It is.”
“If you can keep a secret and help me, I can give you food and shelter. I need someone with wits to accompany me to the Brandywine Valley. Do we have a deal?”
He put his grubby hand into hers and grinned, showing his blackened teeth. “Deal.”
* * *
Phineas knew where to catch the coach and by mid- afternoon they were headed for the Brandywine Valley. The vehicle was bulging with people and packages as it tumbled down a dirt road headed for the sleepy towns of rural Pennsylvania and Delaware. While India was stuffed inside the coach with two German matrons and an elderly English gentleman, Phineas was perched on top of the vehicle with two other men, clinging to the luggage bar, being tossed about like popcorn on a fire. The wind tangled his hair and made his eyes tear as the countryside shot past him in a blur. The threat of being thrown and possibly killed did not dampen Phineas’ enthusiasm; in fact it thrilled him beyond measure.
India too was enthralled. For the first hour she leaned forward looking out the window, eager to observe this new land. The untouched forest seemed to go on endlessly. It was in sharp contrast to Ireland where the woodland areas were few and dotted the landscape only occasionally. Here in the fall, the brush and foliage was ablaze with color and so thick one could not see beyond the path traveled. India wondered if she looked closely, she might actually see an Indian.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 12