The Sword of the Banshee (5 page)

“But your husband,” the housekeeper said lifting her chin. “Your husband has offered us hope. Maybe our young will stay here after all.”

"He is a good man, Mrs. Burke."

"Aye," she agreed. "The best."

India had met a hundred women like this housekeeper, women beaten down by years of deprivation and grief. They were gray and wrinkled before their time, burying their children one after another, yet never waning in their love of the Lord. Now they could put their faith in Colm Fitzpatrick as well. Tirelessly, Colm traveled across Ireland, listening to them air their grievances and vent their anger. He met with them individually, at meetings or in public houses offering them hope and encouragement time and time again. He assured them to have faith that he and his repparees would bring a better life to them all.

India was in awe of her husband. He seemed to work miracles, and she felt useless and inadequate beside him. She wanted desperately to have a more active role in the rebellion, but he would not hear of it. He dismissed her saying that it was out of the question. He would not risk her safety.

India felt herself growing increasingly lonely and anxious. During the day when she was busy, she was content. She would prepare Colm's meals, visit with the staff, or go for a walk, but when night fell, she became restless. She would explore the library of the manor or play the pianoforte, but inevitably, she would grow bored and anxious. She desperately missed human companionship and worried about the safety of her husband continually.

India had little opportunity to make friends, and now that the babies were gone her evenings seemed interminable. When they were newlyweds, Colm used to take her riding after supper, but that ended. They used play chess in the evening, but now that he was gone every night, that diversion had come to an end as well.

Now she would sit by the fire and embroider. It was unnerving being inside the great houses at night. The housekeepers retired to their quarters after supper, leaving India alone to wander in the large rooms draped with sheets. Even though men stood guard outside, it was still eerie being inside the great homes when the sun set.

Colm returned after midnight then India was relieved. She felt warm and protected sitting cross legged on the bed like a child listening to his stories about the rebellion. He talked almost exclusively about the insurgency sharing strategies and maneuvers with her. Occasionally, he would ask her opinion, and this pleased her immensely. India knew that her suggestions seemed foolish and superficial, but Colm indulged her. Sometimes she would share what she learned from books on Greek and Roman military strategy, and he would listen patiently then pat her on the knee and say, “You
are
my adorable girl.”

One evening, Colm burst into the library demanding India's help. He startled her as she was reading, curled up in a window seat with a blanket. He explained that he must speak that evening to a very influential group of men. If he could convince them that his plans had merit, their donations could turn the tide of the rebellion.

Colm pulled the top off a crystal decanter and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey. He took a long pull, waiting for the liquid to warm his body then said, “I want you to write a speech for me.”

India straightened up. She had written several speeches for him years ago, but nothing of this magnitude. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I have no time! I have a hundred important things to attend to and writing this speech is not one of them. If I give you the main points to cover, can you do it?”

"I--I suppose,” she stammered.

“Good,” announced Colm.

After giving her an outline, he dashed out the door, and India sat down at the desk to begin writing. She finished an hour later just as he burst into the room demanding the copy.

Her speech convinced the gentleman to donate money to the cause of Irish freedom. They had been so moved by her eloquence that they donated far more than Colm had ever anticipated.

India continued writing his speeches. Every night Colm would give her the main points to include, and she would prepare his talks. India wrote speeches so profoundly moving and persuasive that notables across Ireland and America began to take notice. Funds and support tripled. By late fall, thanks to India Fitzpatrick, Colm was able to fund an entire army for the rebellion. 

Chapter 4

India had found her niche at last. She not only composed all of Colm's speeches but began drafting all of his letters too. She obtained benefactors for the cause all over Ireland, and she was wildly successful in the American Colonies. She found patrons from Massachusetts to the Carolinas. One gentleman in Delaware alone funded over one third of their operation. India learned that although Irishmen left their country to find their fortunes elsewhere, they never abandoned hope for an independent homeland.

Every evening she would sit at her desk in whatever manor they happened to be occupying and worked until the candles burned low. She not only courted new sympathizers, but regularly corresponded with current benefactors updating them on the progress of the rebellion. To keep support ongoing, it was necessary for the patrons to see growth and success. Not compromising these benefactor’s identities was important as well, so India employed several cryptology techniques when corresponding with them. She designed a stencil called a mask, concealing it inside a quill which she gifted to the benefactor. She would then post innocuous letters to the patron filled with mundane news, and they could put the mask on top of the letter to reveal secret correspondence about the rebellion. India also began writing codes into music for the pianoforte, but Colm found this foolishness and suspended the project.

The repparees had been very successful in the southern and central counties; blocking landlords from requisitioning land for grazing, harassing troops quartered in Irish homes and obtaining protection money from landholders. It was time to expand to Western Ireland. They started in Galway training sub-groups for the organization then they moved to County Mayo. The Fitzpatrick's changed residence more often now because of the heightened danger. Colm found he had to increase the number of guards to patrol the estates they requisitioned because local authorities were on heightened alert.

The house they occupied in Mayo was a weather-beaten manor located on the North Atlantic, a land of rock, wet peat and thin soil. In spite of the rugged terrain and weather, India walked several times a day. Her woolen cloak did little to shelter her from the damp icy winds and mist blowing off the ocean as she walked late one autumn afternoon. She looked down the rock face at the coves and inlets, sprayed with foam and she shuttered. This was rough country, and she wondered how people survived.

India's path was narrow, bounded by the treacherous waters below and soggy marshes above. She looked inland and spied several cows in the distance starting home for milking. The candlelight in the stone and thatch cottage looked cozy as the animals ambled toward the dwelling. She too decided to turn toward home.

India hopped from one flat stone to the other, jumping over mossy bogs on her way back to the manor. The house was a tall severe structure set back from the coastline. From the upper windows, the sweeping panorama of the sea was visible. India loved this place, finding it wildly beautiful but lonely.

Her skirts were soaked, and her hair fell around her face in tangles when she reached the front door. "Good evening Mr. Peadar," India said to the guard.

He was a large, middle aged man with scars etched on his face like a map. He tipped his hat and opened the door for her. India stepped over the threshold, pulling her gloves off. She walked through the massive hall wishing she had started a fire before leaving. There was just enough daylight left to find her way to the library. After lighting a fire she grabbed a cloth and toweled her hair off, sitting down at her desk with a sigh.  She noticed the housekeeper had left her sliced mutton, bread and cheese on a tray.

Tonight after supper India decided to compose a letter to their best patron in the Delaware Colony. She sat back in her chair chewing and mentally composing her letter. She picked up her quill and began to write. She worked late into the night, encrypting large quantities of information about the rebellion into a letter which seemed to be nothing more than news of the day. It was a painstaking process and required intense concentration for hours.

The candles burned low and the fire needed another log when she finally finished her task. Except for her desk, the library was in darkness. She sat back and looked around the room. At last she had grown accustomed to being alone in these large houses. Being busy helped her immensely. If her mind was occupied then her imagination could not plague her.

India straightened up in her chair and stretched from side to side. After sanding her letter, she placed it in an envelope for Colm's approval and stood up. Walking to the window she pulled the heavy drape back. She gazed at the lawns stretching out to the sea. It was a clear night and even though there was no moon, the stars cast a silver glow on the leaves wet with dew.

India needed some fresh air before Colm got home so she decided to take a walk before bed. Pulling on her cloak and gloves, India opened the front door. Marcas Peadar was still there. "My goodness Mr. Peadar," she said. "You are still here. Have you eaten?"

"Aye, Lady Fitzpatrick. That I have," was his reply.

"Well, will your replacement be here soon?" she pressed.

"Aye, milady."

India paused a moment then said, "Well then, I am going to the cliff walk for about twenty minutes."

He tipped his hat, and she set out for the coastline. India liked to walk, especially in the evenings. There were fewer distractions at night, and she seemed more in tune with the rhythm of her footsteps. She thought the cottages in the distance looked pretty with candlelight flickering in the windows. Even though it was a wild and remote place she liked it here by the sea. The steady beat of the waves soothed her. Listening to it kept her from worrying about Colm. India tried not to dwell on the dangers he encountered every night, but she knew violence was a fact of his life. His men were loyal and committed, but it was small consolation when they encountered the well-armed and ruthless British garrisons.

India stopped and looked out to sea. Sometimes it all seemed too much to bear. She wanted to run away, maybe to America to start a new life. She wanted peace and stability, a home and children. Yet, she and Colm were committed to something more important, something fine and worthy that would bring peace and stability to an entire land. Her needs were not important.

She wrapped her cloak more closely around herself and thrust her chin into the air. She must not think of hearth and home anymore. She must bury these thoughts with her children. It was dangerous to dream.

India smiled cynically as she turned back toward the house. It was no wonder they called her the "Ice Queen".  Every bit of fire and passion had been snuffed from her soul. Now only lofty ideals and frosty thrones remained.

Suddenly, she felt tired. She pulled herself up the hill toward the manor house. Mr. Peadar was gone from his post, and she was glad.
Poor man, perhaps now he can get some rest.

As she approached the steps, she noticed that he had forgotten his pack. The bundle lay across the threshold just inside the open door. As she approached, her heart jumped. It was no bundle at all, but a man lying under the stone archway. In a flash she was on her knees beside the man. It was the guard, Marcas Peadar. When she pulled him toward her, blood spattered her face and gown. India blinked and jumped back in horror. He was still alive, and he clutched her bodice frantically. He was gasping and gurgling, blood pumping from his neck. Quickly she gathered her cloak pressing it against his throat. The gash was too deep, it soaked the material instantly. India watched helplessly as the life poured out of the man. Suddenly his body relaxed and he was silent.

India stared at him, too stunned to move. Slowly she stood up, holding her palms out, soaked with blood. She looked at the open door, then out toward the woods. She opened her mouth to call for the guards than caught herself. The assault had just occurred. Whoever had killed Mr. Peadar may be in the house at this moment searching for her. She pictured the assassin going from room to room, knife in hand ready to slit
her
throat. Like a bolt of lightning, India shot down the steps and across the lawns toward the cover of the wood.

Tearing madly through the brush, she dashed into the darkness, running madly and without direction deep into the woods. She began to sob, looking back over her shoulder again and again, but she saw no one. She followed a deer trail yanking her skirts up, jumping over fallen trees, tearing branches back.  Suddenly she lost her footing and tumbled down a ravine, rolling head over heels, hitting rocks and razor sharp brambles, ripping her clothes and banging her head. She lay at the bottom, bruised and exhausted. Her head was spinning. When she caught her breath, she listened. She heard the wind rustling the trees, nothing more. She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled on through the brush toward a light in the distance. There was a stabbing pain in her side, and her lungs felt as if they would burst. She continued to run and look over her shoulder. She was so parched that she started gagging. Finally she came to a large clearing with a cottage in the distance. It was the cottage she had seen earlier that day.