The Sword of the Banshee (9 page)

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 late.

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.

Suddenly there was a crack. O’Neil looked surprised then staggered and fell back against Colm. There was blood streaming
from his temple.

As if out of nowhere, British soldiers charged up on horseback surrounding the assembly. The rally dissolved into mayhem. People screamed in terror, pushing and shoving. Colm and the other leaders jumped from the cart into the crowd.  Everyone tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. Donkey carts were blocking the streets and British soldiers on horseback encircled the assembly. They pushed their horses inward, trampling pedestrians, and began to shoot into the crowd. In return the insurgents shot back or used clubs and flails, smashing the legs of the soldiers or bashing the heads of the horses. Villagers scrambled over the donkey carts trying to get away, and mothers dropped to the ground covering their children with their bodies.

Instinctively, India dropped when she heard shots. Several people kicked her as they stampeded past, crushing her hands and kicking her head. She crawled along the ground on her hands and knees stopping several times to roll into a ball, covering her head to protect herself from the stampeding horses. She saw a donkey cart and crawled under it, catching her breath. Bruised and shaken, she rolled to the other side and pulled herself to her feet out on the road. Before she could take a step, she was knocked to the ground by a man fleeing a soldier on horseback. She rolled back under the cart once more to avoid being trampled.

The next time India stood up, she burst into a full run. Dashing past warehouses and cottages, she ran through town. Suddenly a man jumped out of a doorway and grabbed her. “Lady Fitzpatrick!”

She recognized the pock-marked young man. She had seen him earlier in town. He was disguised as a sailor. “You’re one of Colm’s men,” she gasped, her heart in her throat.

“Aye! We must hurry,” he said taking her arm.

“I have a horse up the road,” she cried as they began to run.

They raced up the dark country road toward her horse. She tried to keep up with him, but his long strides were too much. Several times she stumbled. At last India recognized the bend in the road where her horse was tethered. “Here,” she cried yanking his arm. They slid down the ravine and followed the stream.

Suddenly, India stopped running. The young man stumbled into her.

“Hush,” she said. India straightened up erect and silent, trying to listen over the hammering of her heart.

“What is it?”  

“Someone is coming up the road,” she said. India started running back to the road.

“No! Lady Fitzpatrick!”

She scrambled up the ravine, pulling her cap off and shaking her hair free. She dashed to the middle of the road just as a soldier rode around the bend. The man reined in his horse in so abruptly that the animal reared up, spattering India with mud.

“God damn it! You stupid cunt!” the soldier roared.

India reached into her belt and pulled out her pistol.

“What the hell--” he exclaimed.

With deliberate calm, India rested the pistol on her forearm and pulled the trigger, putting a bullet into the soldier's forehead. His horse reared again, and he toppled backwards onto the ground.

India took the reins and called to her young compatriot. He stumbled out of the woods, stunned by her action.

“Here,” India said, holding out the reins. “Ride back to the manor. Do not wait for me.”

He stared at her.

“Get a hold of yourself man,” she barked, tossing him the reins. “Now ride!”

Chapter 7

If Colm knew about India’s involvement in the Watermore attack, he did not acknowledge it. There was no time for personal matters; the rebellion was in complete chaos. They fled to Donegal, the home of clan leader Cian O’Donnell, and camped in the Blue Stack Mountains. The privacy of a wild and remote mountain terrain was what they needed to recover. They had suffered many losses. Twelve of Colm’s elite were killed along with Taggert O’Neil and Roibeard McGuire the two clan leaders recently out of exile. Here in the hills of Ulster, the insurgents could organize, restructure and resume the rebellion.

For the first time in many years, Colm Fitzpatrick slept under the stars with his repparees. They camped near a mountain spring on a hillside. It was a wild wood filled with bracken and yellow primroses.

India loved the surroundings. She would walk everyday barefoot along the spring’s mossy banks watching the water tumble down to the lake below. With fresh air filling her lungs, her heart quickened as she gazed across the green and gray peaks. She relished the freedom life in the open brought to her. Her husband could not shut her away here like a caged bird in a fortified manor house now. Here she was a part of the world.

Her whole life had changed. She would wake with the birds each morning and help prepare meals, take afternoon walks then sit at the campfire at night and listen. She knew women were not welcome in the conversation, so she would sit in the shadows and critique what she heard about partisan activities and strike plans.

The women were courteous to India but insular. It was of no consequence to her, she preferred her privacy. She would visit with them at meal times when she prepared and tested Colm’s food for poisons, but the rest of the day she held herself apart. She felt more at home in the male world of maneuvers and battle, not child care and housekeeping

Night after night she sat in the flickering firelight, listening to the men discussing strategy. Since Colm’s top men had been killed at Watermore, Cian O’Donnell recruited his most respected clan members to attend the talks. They brought fresh ideas to the table and were eager to play a part in the rebellion. India found their ideas creative and filled with potential, but Colm did not like them. Originally, he had been eager to include the Ulster clansmen in the fight for freedom, but now he had changed his mind. He seemed jealous and did not want their input, resenting their involvement.

One summer afternoon after washing her hair in the spring near the camp, India encountered Cian O’Donnell. He was returning from a short hunt carrying several red grouse.

He smiled sheepishly and held them up. “Well, it’s not a stag, but it will add to supper.”

India noticed the ruddy glow to his skin and his healthy smile.

She nodded her head. “They are fine indeed.”

“The sun is settin’. Are you headin’ back?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, picking up her comb and towel.

He fell in step beside her on the path back to camp. Even though his brown hair was tousled and his face had a day’s stubble, he smelled fresh as if he had just bathed in a spring.

“I noticed ya sittin’ in the shadows by the fire every night,” he said. “Are ya not bored by all our talk of war?”

“On the contrary, when we quarter in the estates, I spend much of my time in the library reading books on the subject.”

He looked surprised. “Ya do?” he exclaimed. Then he asked teasingly, “Well then Lady Fitzpatrick, what do you think of our plans?”

His sarcasm was lost on India; she was so excited to talk about strategy. “Well I certainly agree with your cousin. The raid in Banrally
is
premature.”

O’Donnell stopped and looked at her. “Oh it is? Is it?”

India nodded, a lock of blonde hair falling into her eyes. She pushed it back and continued walking, telling him why it was imprudent to conduct a raid in Banrally and telling him what she suggested instead.

When she finished, Cian stopped walking and looked at her. He believed her ideas were sound, quite possibly outstanding. If this Lady Fitzpatrick had been a man, he would have been intimidated. “I’ll be damned,” he said studying her eyes for a moment. He did not know what to make of this grave beauty telling him how to manage a rebellion.

They stepped into the clearing just as Colm was dismounting, coming home from a day recruiting in a neighboring glen. He was weary, hungry, and not happy seeing his wife step out of the woods with Cian O’Donnell. Even though the man was married, Colm did not trust him.

“You have a most unusual wife, Lord Fitzpatrick,” O’Donnell called to him.

Colm gave the reins to a boy and said to Cian coolly, “She has been my rock all these years.”

Linking arms with India, he patted her hand and said, “You run along now.”