The Sword of the Banshee (20 page)

These interactions with the pompous landed gentry of Ireland furthered his hatred for the British occupation of his homeland. Calleigh had his eye on Colm Fitzpatrick from the start. Early in the Irish rebellion, Calleigh believed the man may be successful, but he did not offer monetary support until he received letters from Lady Fitzpatrick. Her articulate correspondence and powers of persuasion were uncanny. Instinct told him to invest; with someone of her capabilities, the rebellion could succeed.

Unfortunately, he had been wrong, Fitzpatrick proved to be a despot and the rebellion failed. It was then that Calleigh turned toward freedom for the Irish in a new land, inviting Lady Fitzpatrick to join him in the Colonies. Here in America he believed independence was truly possible. 

Returning to the stable refreshed, Quinn was met by Enoch Powell. He dismounted, handed the reins to Powell and asked “Well, what do you think of her?”

“Who, the new Connemara or the Fitzpatrick woman?” Powell growled.

Calleigh flashed a wry smile at him. “You know who I mean.”

He shrugged and said, “The men won’t like taking orders from a woman.”

“Aye, it will be difficult for all of us,” admitted Quinn. “She observes her first meeting here tonight.”

“What the hell can she have to offer us? I tell you, I don’t like it, Calleigh.”

Quinn laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Admit it, Enoch. You don’t like anything new.”

“That’s right,” Powell replied with a scowl. “And about those new ponies--”

“See what I mean?” said Quinn starting toward the house. He waved back at him and said with good nature, “Tell me later, Enoch!”

Chapter 18

“I think you should let me go to the meeting with you, Miss,” grumbled Phineas as he sat in front of the fire whittling a twig. He wore a man’s shirt which India had found for him instead of his tattered rags. He was swimming in the garment, but India was satisfied, at least it was clean.

“These meetings are not for small boys,” India replied, pulling her gloves on. “I am acquainted with the leader of this group, and my safety is assured.”

He frowned and thrust his knife hard against the twig.

“Good night,” India said, wrapping herself in a homespun shawl and stepping out the door.

A man was waiting for her on the steps of the inn and handed her up onto a horse. They journeyed through the woods and the swamp, taking the same trail as the night before. This time India was allowed to see the way. It was a cool clear autumn night punctuated with a sharp breeze. The leaves skittered across the moonlit path making India’s mare jumpy, but she held the reins tightly.

They arrived at the farm on the hill, and India ducked into the barn before the men started arriving. She found a chair toward the front and slid back into the shadows to observe the meeting discreetly.

Moon beams streamed down onto the floor through a gaping hole in the roof, and she could see bats zigzagging across the sky. Although she knew she was not in danger, the surroundings still unnerved her.

Forty to fifty white shrouded men filed in silently and gathered before the table blazing once more with candles. India could feel the air charged was with tension as they entered. Rage emanated from them, and she was anxious to see how Calleigh would channel it into successful strikes.

India sat up straight. She too was suddenly charged with emotion. It had been a while since she had felt the vigorous outrage of militants, and she loved the power it promised. The Irish rebels had been drained of their energy, and it would take generations for the cause to be rekindled once more. 

The officers behind the candelabrum called the meeting to order. A man with a gravelly voice was the chairman and opened with a list of grievances against the King, which consisted of issues of taxation, the quartering of troops and something called, “The Intolerable Acts.” India waited for the list to climax with heinous abuses like the Irish had endured, but it did not happen.

She noticed that the leader referred to the enemy as, “Parliament” or, “The Crown” or “The Tories”, never as “The British” or “England.” It was at that point she realized these men thought of themselves as British subjects. This was not a fight against enemy occupation; this was a civil war.

India pursed her lips and continued to listen. Next on the agenda was a discussion of possible targets and raids. India was eager to see if they would implement any of the skillful ambush techniques of the American Indian but nothing was mentioned. After all the talk, no definite plans were made or targets pinpointed. The men were allowed to ask a few questions then after some light business, the meeting was adjourned.

India straightened up and looked around as everyone began to file out. She was dumbfounded. Nothing had been accomplished. All that bottled up rage that could have been used so productively had been squandered.

After the men left, India stood up and approached the table of four officers.

“Please have a seat,” someone said. India heard the hint of an Irish lilt in the voice and knew it was Calleigh.

She slid onto the edge of a chair, pulled her shawl around her more closely and folded her hands into her lap.

“Thank you for coming tonight, are you comfortable, Lady Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes, I am, thank you,” she replied trying to look past the candles. “But gentlemen, please call me Lady Allen. I prefer to use that alias from now on.”

“Very well,” Calleigh replied.

The man with the gravelly voice said, “Lady Allen, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alden Quincy. We are anxious to hear what you thought of tonight’s meeting.”

India put her fist to her lips and looked down to gather her thoughts. She wanted to be diplomatic, but what she had to say was not flattering. “I have much to learn about life here in the American Colonies. I have much to learn about this revolution. It is not like my country. I look around, and I do not see the same abuses. I listen and do not hear the same words. It is not a fight to which I am accustomed.”

“The fight is the same. It is about freedom,” Calleigh said tersely.

“You Calleigh, of all people, should know it is
not
the same.”

Calleigh’s jaw tightened. He knew what she meant. She thought they did not suffer enough here in the Colonies.

“Lady Allen,” said one of the officers. “You heard the grievances. Surely you think we are justified?”

India did not want to answer that question. Instead she asked, “How do you intend to fight the British?”

“There is talk in Philadelphia of organizing an army,” one of them replied.

India rubbed her temples. She was frustrated, and felt like she was dealing with small children. “You realize that you are taking on the most powerful--”

“We do,” interrupted Calleigh. “And yes, we will fail if we confront them
only
on the battlefield. That is why we are forming this partisan operation.”

India sighed and said nothing. She looked up through the lacerated roof at the moon then back down at the candlelight blazing before her. She could not commit to this fight.
These rebels are nothing more than spoiled children. They know no hardships. They know no suffering. I will leave the Brandywine Valley in the morning.

“Gentlemen, what would you like from me?”

“To help us win this war,” Calleigh said.

She knew they were not going to like her views, but they must know the truth. Taking a deep breath she said, “You need to completely overhaul your operation.”

There was a long silence. She continued. “First and foremost these men came to this meeting tonight filled with rage against Great Britain. They were charged with energy and emotion and you failed to harness that power and channel it into productive action. You talked, you discussed, and you adjourned. No plans were made for strikes or raids, no activity was planned.”

India sighed and continued. “I could not help but notice that you borrowed the strategy of cloaked figures from the White Shirt Boys of Ireland. That is a fine idea, but disguise is needed only when you conduct a raid. Guarding the anonymity of your members is not necessary during meetings. In fact it is detrimental.”

“But it is dangerous to share one’s identity,” said Quincy.

“Only for perhaps a few of the leaders, your men must be able to see each other and trust each other. They must be able to identify each other by sight to share information, to keep each other safe and for fraternity.”

“But what of informants?” one of them asked.

“Kill them. You must establish protocol for dealing with them, and it must be brutal.”

Calleigh was mesmerized. This doughty Irish peasant delivered these words with the callous indifference of an executioner.

“Next you must fragment your operation,” India continued in a monotone voice. “A basic element of successful partisan warfare employs small groups striking with lightning speed and withdrawing quickly. The Indians here in the Americas have had great success with this technique. I suggest you emulate them.”

Calleigh narrowed his eyes, leaned forward and examined her demeanor. He believed she was actually bored.

“What of the strikes?” he asked.

India shrugged. “Use the advantage of your terrain. Take the high ground; hide in the trees, and above all take out the officers first. This absurd gentlemen’s agreement between European nations about not shooting officers is sentimental tripe. Kill them.”

India stood up, adjusting her shawl. “Gentlemen, I am weary. I must bid you good night.”

Calleigh’s eyebrows shot up.
She
was dismissing
them
.

Before he could open his mouth to comment, she added, “And one more thing. It is a grievous error not to include women in your operation. They are your most effective weapon. Employ women as spies, informants, couriers and especially marksmen. Women frequently are your best shots. The power of a female is always underestimated.”

A smile played around India’s lips and she said, “Let
tonight
be your first example. Good night, gentlemen.”

Chapter 19

The next morning, India shed her peasant disguise. The job here in the Brandywine Valley was done. She stepped out from behind the screen and adjusted the sleeves of her jacket and arranged her hood. It felt good to be back in a well-made gown. Although the burgundy Brunswick was a traveling gown it was made of fine fabric and had a smart cut. She stepped in front of the mirror and started to arrange a plumed traveling hat onto her head.

She noticed Phineas’ reflection in the looking glass. He was staring at her with his mouth open. Dropping her arms, she asked, “What is it, Phineas?”

The boy said nothing and he went back to stuffing souvenirs into his pack; rocks, a sling shot and several dead frogs.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked, and he nodded.

India swept down the stairs with Phineas behind her, dragging and thumping her heavy bag down each step. She didn’t care if the innkeeper saw her now as Lady Allen; the need to conceal her identity was over. Before she could reach the door, Mr. Muller dashed over and opened it for her. India nodded her head as thanks and stepped out just as the coach appeared on the road.

It was a bright autumn morning in the river valley and the brilliant splash of color from the trees was almost blinding. India squinted. It seemed as if the sunbeams had set the leaves on fire; the oranges, reds and yellows were so intense.

The coach thundered up to the inn and stopped. Phineas immediately scrambled up to the roof of the vehicle and sat down. The coachmen threw India’s bag up to him then opened the door for her. On one side of the compartment was an elderly woman accompanied by her adult son and his two daughters, on the other side a middle aged Swedish couple sat with a young gentleman who was traveling alone. India greeted them and sat down beside the young man.

She settled in, arranging her skirts and sat back, planning to use the journey to Philadelphia to decide where to go from here. India sighed with relief. It was good to be leaving that wreck of an operation Calleigh had established. She believed it was destined to fail just like the entire American Revolution.

As they approached the Brandywine River ferry, her thoughts turned to her future. At least money was not an issue. India could feel her purse tucked down into her bodice, and she knew her jewels were safe in the hollowed out heel of her boot. She was grateful for Phineas as well. He was a valuable resource for her. He had first-hand knowledge of the ways of the streets, and he was good company. Between the two of them they would decide the best course of action for their future.

Just before they reached the bridge the coach stopped abruptly. The passengers looked at each other bewildered. They were not near a town, and there was no inn in sight. Suddenly the door flew open, and a young man with a scarf covering his nose and mouth pointed a pistol at them. He wore a dark three cornered hat tipped low over his forehead and barked, “Stand and deliver!”