t is wrong with that?"
"Do they need your protection?" The woman seemed to be infuriated. Suddenly, she stood up from the table and walked towards Lucas, who was leaning against the cupboard. Her square jaw tightened firmly. "Irish women are not widows living in disgrace, not docile maidens waiting to be rescued by you from the arms of the British. An Irish woman is me. An Irish woman stands before you. These are her hands, hands that have wielded sickles, wielded axes, fired guns. With these hands, she has held you. With these hands, she has killed."
Lucas looked down at her outstretched hands and asked, "You''re not talking about killing on the battlefield, are you?"
"No," she replied expressionlessly. "The person I killed was my own son. He had just been born a few days ago. I used this hand to cover his tiny mouth, and soon, he stopped crying."
Lucas silently gazed into her eyes, indicating for her to continue.
"My husband fought at Vinegar Hill. When Father Murphy was captured in Tullow, my husband was with him. Among those heads impaled on the spikes at the courthouse, there was my husband''s head. They hanged him first and then beheaded him, just like Father Murphy. The day I found out was the day my son was born. There was no father present when I had him baptised. When I heard that the French had landed at Killala, I cut off my hair and joined them, heading west to fight against the British. As for my son, I would rather have him die in freedom than live under enslavement."
Lucas took a long pause before speaking, "Do you truly believe that you can succeed? Can we really attain liberty?"
"Of course not." She sneered, "I set out knowing full well that I was bound to die. The British have tens of thousands of cavalry, their sabers shining bright. We have scarce gunpowder, many of us wear clothes meant for toiling in the fields, armed with nothing but spears. Laughable? Each one of us came to die. After t