“We lead the British right to us but away from the settlement,” he explained. “You see it continues to masquerade as a cloister, but it in fact now houses our officers and their families.”
Slowly India dropped her hands, feeling very foolish and said, “I--I see.”
“It is of no consequence, Lady Allen,” Quinn replied with a shrug. “There are many things you have yet to learn about Quinn Calleigh.”
Chapter 22
Shortly after the meeting at the cloister, Calleigh sent India a list of contacts. She set out the next day for Wilmington to meet her first contact, a tailor by the name of Antoine Parnell. Much of the snow had melted, and her driver was able to take her into town in the coach.
Wilmington was a neighboring milling town located on the shores of the Christina and the Delaware Rivers. Across the water on the north bank was the Brandywine Village, another small milling hamlet. Early settlers erected towns near the river here to provide local farmers with mills and transportation of grain to Philadelphia. In the warmer months it was a busy place with waterwheels turning, mill stones grinding and carts rolling grain to the landing, but it was winter now, and the hamlets seemed to be asleep.
India looked at the sturdy field stone houses and barns nestled along the river, their land blanketed with snow. She assumed they were the residences of prosperous millers, and she wondered if they were sympathetic to the cause of freedom. If so, they would be valuable allies in the rebellion with their access to wheat and other grains.
Yet in town, she saw folk dressed plainly, and she wondered if this was a Quaker community. She had recently learned that many of the residents of Delaware and Pennsylvania were of The Society of Friends. They were known for being pacifists, and if so, she would have no support here for a revolution.
It was not difficult to find the tailor shop of Antoine Parnell. It was one in a string of white-washed wooden buildings lining the river. A sign swung over the door with a painting of a spool of thread and a needle. India pulled up the hood on her cape and cast down her eyes as she stepped from the carriage onto the cobblestone walk and passed quickly into the shop. A bell tinkled as she opened the door and looked around.
“May I assist you, Madame?” she heard someone say.
India dropped her hood and looked at the black man standing behind a work table scattered with fabric. He was tall, later in years, wearing a rose colored embroidered waistcoat, white linen shirt and dark britches. His coarse hair was graying and long, falling around his shoulders in tiny braids. She noticed a gold earring in one ear and a measuring tape around his neck.
“I am looking for Mr. Parnell if you please,” she stated.
He stared at her a moment then nodded his head and said, “I am Parnell.”
He pulled the tape from his neck, stepped around the table, past the mannequins and locked the door of the shop. “Please come into the back, Lady Allen.”
India followed him into the sitting room in the back of the shop. “How did you know I was Lady Allen?” she asked.
Parnell smiled and said, “I asked Mr. Calleigh how I would know you, and he said your eyes would be your calling card. They were indeed.”
He pulled several bolts of material off a chair by the fire gesturing for her to sit down. It was obviously his residence. India looked around as she pulled off her gloves. It was a small well-appointed room, somewhat disheveled but clean. There was a heavy rich blue drape hanging in one corner to hide his bed, a small kitchen table covered with a blue damask cloth and a small hutch holding fine china.
He leaned over with a pot holder and pulled a kettle from the fire, pouring them both a cup of tea. His manner was dignified and reserved. India guessed that he may be highly educated. As he handed India the teacup, she wondered under what circumstances this man had gained his freedom and managed to establish a successful business here in a country that condoned slavery.
“Has Mr. Calleigh told you anything?” she asked.
“No, Madame,” was his reply. “In what capacity will I be serving?”
“As a tailor, Mr. Parnell,” India said.
He drew his eyebrows together. “How--”
“You will be making and resizing British uniforms for spies. When engagements occur with the British, we will obtain uniforms from the dead soldiers or off of the prisoners. You will need to launder them, repair and re-size these uniforms. Before the conflict begins though, I will supply you with material.”
He studied India for a moment. Clearly he was taken aback by a woman who was in a position of authority and so well versed in matters of war.
“So these men will be planted as spies within the British Army,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
Antoine Parnell looked into the fire.
India studied him a moment then stated, “I am told Wilmington is mostly Loyalist. If you are caught, you will lose everything. You will lose your life.”
The fire popped and snapped. At last he said, “I certainly understand that the price of freedom is always high, Lady Allen. I will do it.”
* * *
After Wilmington, India returned home and made preparations to leave for Philadelphia. The rest of her contacts resided there. She made sure Phineas had bathed and his hair was trimmed because he was going to accompany her. When he wasn’t serving as her footman, he was in the barn with the horses. Phineas adored the equines and per Calleigh’s instructions, he was being trained as a groom.
Just as they were about to leave, Phineas asked, “Are we going back to the dressmakers, Miss?”
“No, we are going to see a merchant first. Then in the afternoon we will see a lady on Otis Street and after that we go to a place called Pegg’s Run.”
Phineas’ eyes grew wide. “Pegg’s Run? You should not go dressed like that,” he said, pointing to her azure gown.
“Oh really? Is it an impoverished area?”
“No, Miss,” said Phineas shaking his head. “It is very poor.”
A smile flickered on her lips. The lad never ceased to amuse her. She followed his recommendation and packed clothing she had in the back of her wardrobe which was threadbare and worn, used specifically for this type of excursion.
After getting settled at the inn on Chestnut Street, they set out for their first meeting with a merchant by the name of Singer. They walked several blocks down a brick covered walkway past tidy shops, coffee houses and businesses built in Greek Revival Style. They stopped in front of a peruke and periwig maker’s shop as India looked at displays of wigs. Some were for everyday use as well wigs for formal occasions stacked high and decorated with flowers and bows. She hadn’t worn a periwig since she had lived with Colm. On impulse she decided to have several of them made. She knew before long there would be invitations in the Brandywine Valley. She stepped inside and was fitted on the spot by two gracious women.
Feeling satisfied, India rearranged her hair, pinned on her plumed hat once more and resumed the excursion to Singer Rum Brokerage. It was just a few doors down, a large red brick warehouse near the quay. They entered the office door.
“Good Morning,” said a petite woman with gray hair. She was dressed in a gray gown with a neckerchief tucked into her bodice and a mob cab on her head. In spite of her years, she was still a handsome woman. She stepped down from her high desk. The room smelled of ink and sawdust. Two other workers sat at desks, looking up briefly before returning to their work.
It was dark in the office but India could see into the warehouse where there was a loading dock alive with activity. Men were stacking barrels onto wagons, shouting orders and giving instructions.
“I am here to see Mr. Malachi Singer,” she said.
“That is my husband,” the woman replied.
She stepped to the door of the warehouse and called for him. A big raw boned man, with thick features and dark eyes turned around. His head was bald and he had a quill behind his ear. When he reached India, his eyes widened with a look of recognition
. Mr. Singer directed India to a desk at the back of the office as the woman took Phineas aside and offered him some maple candy.
Mr. Singer’s desk was littered with papers. He held a chair for India then sat down on the other side, taking the quill from his ear. Pretending to scratch items onto a list he said in a voice thick with a German accent, “I know who you are. Calleigh told me you’d come. What is it you need?”
India said quietly, “I understand you are a rum broker and sometimes do business with the British Army.”
He nodded. “On a small scale for local supplies. Their large orders come directly from the quay. Mr. Calleigh asked me to continue dealing with them even though I am a patriot and would rather honor the ban on trade,” he explained.
“Do you know why he wants you to continue to trade with them?” asked India.
He scanned the office quickly. A customer came in and was discussing an order with his wife. “I believe he wants knowledge of where the rum is being delivered to the army.”
“That is correct,” she said. “I will need those facts delivered to me the moment they become available to you. This will be dangerous. Can you obtain information on large shipments as well?”
“I can report what I see and what I hear on the quay.”
“Now, about a courier--,” she started to say.
“I have already thought of that,” he said.
“What do you propose?”
“I was born in Germany, but I am of Jewish descent. I will write the information in Yiddish and have it delivered to my friend in Wilmington who speaks Yiddish as well. He will bring it to you and translate it for you. Is that acceptable?”
India nodded and smiled slowly. “That is acceptable.”
“If I may ask,” he said. “Are you Irish?”
“Yes, I am. Why?”
He nodded. “Our reasons for this revolution are the same, Lady Allen. We are both without a homeland.”
* * *
The next stop was at the residence of Camille Ashton an actress known for entertaining British officers and gentlemen. She resided in a large town house in a fashionable district of Philadelphia. When India and Phineas arrived they were turned away because Mrs. Ashton was still completing her toilet. When they returned an hour later, they were admitted into the sitting room, and there they waited.
The room was decorated in the latest fashion of the day with murals on the walls of French landscapes, gray wainscoted walls and cabinets filled with figurines on either side of the fireplace. India slid onto the edge a wing back chair by the hearth, and Phineas sat on a footstool at her feet, looking about stiffly as if he was afraid he would break something.
After thirty minutes, the doors rolled open and Camille Ashton swept in, sumptuously dressed in an emerald green gown embroidered with tiny bluebells and a violet wig. Her face was powdered a stark white and sprinkled heavily with beauty marks. Phineas’ mouth dropped open as India ran her eyes over the woman; she thought the ensemble was far too garish for afternoon attire.
“Please state your business quickly,” Mrs. Ashton said abruptly. “I have rehearsal in a few moments.” She turned her back on them and looked in a mirror, arranging her wig.
India said, “Phineas please wait outside in the hall.”
The boy went out and pulled the doors shut.
Mrs. Ashton turned around. “Well, what is this about?”
India stood up. “My name is Lady Allen, Mrs. Ashton. Quinn Calleigh has sent me to discuss your role in the cause of freedom.”
Camille Ashton ran her eyes over India. “Oh yes. Well, you will have to make an appointment. I am very busy.”
India’s eyes grew wide and turned a bright green. Taking a deep breath, she asked calmly, “Mrs. Ashton, are you interested in a having a role in the rebellion?”
“I am but as I said--”
“Then sit down,” India snapped.
Camille Ashton’s jaw dropped, and she lowered herself into a chair, her eyes never leaving India’s face.
“If you want to be part of this operation, you will do as I say, when I say it, without question. Is that clear?”
“Yes--Yes, Lady Allen,” she stuttered.
India glared at the woman. “I understand that you entertain British officers and Loyalists.”
“That is correct,” she replied, her eyes on India.
“I find it unlikely that they will discuss military matters with you so I have a mission for you which is quite different than what you would expect,” explained India, standing in front of the hearth. “I want you to feed the British information.”
Mrs. Ashton frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I will give you false information about the condition of our troops and false information about our troop movements which you will in turn pass onto them. I don’t care how you do it or how you say your received the information, just spill it.”
“I see,” Camille said, swallowing hard. “Will you bring the information here to my home?”
“Not personally. It will be sent to you coded into theatrical scripts. I will leave a tool with you today called a mask which will help you decipher the code, any questions?”
“N--No, I don’t believe so,” said Mrs. Ashton, suddenly fanning herself.
India reached inside the pocket of her gown and handed Camille a quill. “This is hollow. Inside, rolled up, is the mask. Place it over the scripts I send to you, and the information will be revealed.”
Camille turned it over in her hands, examining it.
India opened the sitting room doors, and Phineas jumped up. She looked back at the stunned Camille Ashton and said, “You are dismissed.”
* * *
It was twilight, and the last contact was in Pegg’s Run. After changing into ragged clothing India and Phineas took the coach within several blocks of the district and told the driver to wait.
The majority of the buildings appeared to be abandoned, most were dark, decaying and in poor repair. They were not like the smart, well-kept brick shops and residences they had visited earlier. The inhabitants of the area seemed to be decaying as well. Many of them appeared homeless, dirty and diseased. Many grasped at India’s skirts as she passed, calling for alms then spewing obscenities at her when she did not stop.
Phineas whispered, “You must do as I say, Miss. I know this area.” He looked from side to side furtively. “I will go first. Keep your head up and walk tall as if you know where you are going and don’t be afraid to look hard at people. Let them know you are not to be bothered.”
India nodded and pulled her shawl over her head. She walked erect, following Phineas closely, weaving past men gathered around open fires drinking and warming their hands, past taverns bulging with patrons who were singing or arguing. An abundance of whores lounged in doorways, smoking and laughing. Some of them were on their knees openly engaged in satisfying customers or were pressed against a wall by a john with their skirts hiked up. India shuttered to think of what Phineas had experienced in this fetid place.
Phineas was right, if they walked quickly and confidently no one would bother them. He knew exactly where India wanted to go and without any confusion they found the tent of the spiritualist Lucretia Dupuis on a lonely back street. It was a square tent of faded canvas which swept upward to a peak where a hole allowed smoke to escape.
India did not know how to summon the woman. One could not knock on a tent, but Phineas noticed a bell hanging by the door and rang it.
“Enter,” a woman replied.
They ducked low and stepped inside the dark enclosure. The embers of a fire glowed in the center of the tent and several candles were burning on low tables. Behind the fire sat a young woman on a stool. There was a rug on the floor and large yellow dog lying on his side. He did not bother to get up, only thumped his tail several times to greet them. Immediately Phineas sat down beside him and stroked his fur.
India was stunned when she saw Lucretia Dupuis. The young woman’s eyes were each
a different color, one green and one blue. Even in the low light it was unmistakable. She was dressed in a black robe with a hood covering her head bordered with Druid symbols.
“Welcome, Lady Allen,” she murmured staring at India as if mesmerized. “My Hibernian sisters foretold your coming.”
Images of the women by the dolmen stone flooded India’s mind but she ignored the statement and said instead, “Mr. Calleigh said you can help us. This is indeed a perfect setting for private meetings.”
Madame Dupuis smiled and lowered her hood. She was a stunning woman with high cheekbones and light brown hair. “My husband runs a tavern in Pegg’s Run, just down the lane. It is frequented by regulars of the British Army. There is much to be learned when drinks are poured. He will tell me what he hears, and I will pass it along to you.”
Looking at the woman’s robe, India asked, “I believe those are Celtic designs. Are you from Ireland?”
Again Lucretia smiled, “Lady Allen, the Celts were in France as well. I was born here in the Colonies. My folk are from France.”
India nodded. “Someone will come for information regularly. You will know them by a green sprig in their hat.”
“Very well.”
India started to get up, and Madame Dupuis said, “Would you like a divination?”
“Oh, I think not--”
The woman reached into a basket and held out some greens. “Please.”
India looked over at Phineas. He was lying on his side talking to the dog. He did not seem in a hurry to go. Reluctantly, India took the greens and twigs.
“It is mistletoe and oak. I practice the Druid rite of Dendromancy. Put the mistletoe and oak into the fire and I will divine for you from the patterns of the smoke.”
Reluctantly, India tossed the sprigs onto the embers. The flames jumped, and the fire crackled as Lucretia followed the flow of the smoke. After watching it for some time, she closed her eyes, and her lips moved as if she were deep in prayer. Then slowly she opened her eyes and looked at India. “The queen of Ireland will be flooded at first by water.”
The Sword of the Banshee Page 18