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.
“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.
Similar Books
