* * *
As soon as everyone was assembled at the cloister church, Calleigh announced, “I have just received news that the first engagement with the British has occurred in the Colony of Massachusetts at Lexington. Eight minutemen were killed.”
No one moved. “The British were to seize a stockpile of arms in Concord, but thanks to successful intelligence, the rebels were able to move the guns and ammunition to safety. Numbers are unclear, but so far, we know that forty minutemen are dead from a later engagement at Concord.”
Calleigh paused. “It has begun.”
There were no cheers, no loud huzzahs, just stony silence.
“Lady Allen,” he said quietly. “Report please.”
Calleigh sat down with his eyes never leaving India as she walked to the table, but once she started to speak, he stared at the floor.
India shared news from her contacts, Parnell’s progress on uniforms and the forgery of papers and placement of moles in the British military. She outlined her recommendations for future raids and maneuvers, proposed strategies and long range plans, but Calleigh was too preoccupied to hear what she was saying. He hated her. He hated women born to wealth and entitlement, well educated in every way but that of survival and a hard scrabble existence. He hated women like her who used men and threw them away.
Then he stopped himself. He knew that she was far from a helpless female. Her hands were white and smooth, her hair silken, and her manner feminine and graceful, but strip away the soft exterior, and you would find she was made of cold steel. She was a woman more capable of taking care of herself than most men.
Calleigh rubbed his forehead. If this was all true then why do I long to yank her into my arms, pull the pins from her hair and run my lips along her warm skin? He realized now that the restlessness he had felt over the past year had foretold her coming. He clenched his teeth feeling anger rise. Indeed, the Gods had played a cruel trick on this carefree Irishman.
India finished her report and sat back down to listen to Quinn’s instructions for strikes. She found it uncomfortable to watch him. He moved across the room with such confidence and authority that it both hypnotized her and disgusted her. How dare someone of such low birth hold himself in such high regard? He is not only arrogant but deluded.
She was confused and puzzled by her reaction to Calleigh. If I despise him so much then why does my heart race when he looks into my eyes? Why does heat flush my skin when he stands near me, and why do images creep into my mind of his arms crushing me to him? It must be some unusual reaction of my hatred and distaste for the man. Phineas had even noticed India’s response to Calleigh, commenting on her blush whenever he was around. This observation mortified her.
When she returned home after the meeting that night, she lingered on the window seat in her bedroom looking out at the full moon. It was the first warm night in April and moonbeams drenched the dew-soaked lawn, glistening like shards of glass. She could just see the dark river sparkling in the distance. As a breeze moved the curtains gently, she remembered the canary-colored bed chamber on the estate in Kilcommon where the windows soared two stories high. Although she had fond memories of that room, she did not long for those days again. At last, her life was her own, and she felt more alive than ever.
India unpinned her hair, tossed her dressing gown onto a chair and slid into bed drifting off into a deep sleep. She did not hear the man approach the open window. She was unaware of the sound of his boots on the cobblestones and his shadow dropping over her body. Leaning onto the frame of the window, Quinn Calleigh smoked his tobacco and watched India breathe, and he watched India dream.
* * *
Lexington and Concord was the catalyst for which the rebels had been waiting. Things were happening at last. Within a month, India was visited by Hiram Pickles, the man who was to translate intelligence information composed in Yiddish from the Singers, India’s merchant contacts in Philadelphia. He was a chubby, studious looking little man with thick spectacles. They sat side by side at her desk in the sitting room, while he translated letters from Yiddish into English.
These letters contained information gathered by the Singers about British supply orders and troop escalations. They also had surprising news as well about a group called The Green Mountain Boys who had seized Fort Ticonderoga in the north. India was very interested in these men since their style of warfare was similar to her own. Another letter was from the Diviner, Lucretia Dupuis, requesting a meeting with India. She had pertinent information for her and would like to meet as soon as possible.
“Thank you, Mr. Pickles. This has been most helpful.”
India paused and studied the man for a moment. “Excuse me for asking, but you appear to be a highly educated man.”
He removed his spectacles, wiped them with his handkerchief and shrugged. “I was a pedagogue in Germany for many years, but in the New World there is no work for me. They want gentiles to teach their children, not a Jews. They want someone who will teach them the Old and the New Testament.” He shrugged. “So now I am a clerk in Wilmington instead.”
“Mr. Pickles, would you consider taking on a student?”
“What kind of a student?” he asked, putting on his glasses once more.
“I have a boy who has had no formal education whatsoever or any instruction in social graces. Much work is needed, but he is bright and extremely likeable. I will pay you handsomely.”
He bowed slightly and said, “I am at your disposal, Lady Allen.”
That evening, India lifted her skirts and started for the stable to find Phineas. The horses rolled their eyes at her nervously as she called for him. He was not there. She found him down by the river sitting in a tree.
She could barely see him through the leaves. “Phineas, come down here. I must speak with you. I have just engaged someone to teach you to read and to write.”
There was no response.
“Phineas, I can see your feet dangling. Come down here immediately.”
She saw branches bend as the boy reluctantly climbed down from his perch.
“I don’t want no schooling,” he mumbled. “That’s for candy asses.”
“There,” India exclaimed. “That is the manner of speech I want eliminated. This is not open for discussion. You will attend.”
“Mr. Claddagh teaches me the important things,” he grumbled.
“Who?”
“The man who owns the horses.”
India pursed her lips. She realized that Phineas was referring to Calleigh. “He comes here often?”
“Sometimes,” the boy stated, shrugging. “He is teaching me how to ride, how to fish and even to shoot so I can hunt.”
India sighed. She decided to drop the argument for now. “Speaking of hunting, I would like you and the other stable boys to go hunting for me.”
“Hunting for what, miss?”
“Mice.”
“Mice?” Phineas asked with surprise.
“Mice, but don’t kill them,” she stated. “Catch as many as you can over the next few days. I will pay you per mouse. Bag them up and keep them alive.”
Phineas stared at India with his mouth open then ran off, ready to begin his quest.
* * *
Several days later, India and Phineas arrived in Philadelphia with seven bags of mice. It was late afternoon by the time they set out for the docks with the rodents hidden in a valise. India held a note in her gloved hand with an address on it.
British soldiers swarmed everywhere. A ship had arrived that afternoon full of supplies for the army which the regulars were unloading and warehousing. The air smelled of stagnant fish and decaying fruit. Gulls were screeching, men were shouting and vendors were hawking their wares as India and Phineas wound their way through the chaos.
“That’s the last of it,” an officer called as a crate was lowered onto a wagon. India watched as the soldiers wheeled it down an alley and up a ramp into a warehouse filled with rations and supplies. A sentry st
ood near the open door.
India looked at Phineas from under her plumed hat, “It is time. These mice will destroy the army’s foodstuff. Work quickly. Let no one see you. ”
She picked up the skirt of her royal blue traveling gown and walked down the alley toward the sentry. Phineas followed, dressed in his livery carrying the leather valise.
“Good Sir,” she called, holding out the note in her gloved hand. “I am hopelessly lost. Would you be so kind as to direct a lady to her destination?”
The sentry was a sandy-haired young man, reserved and respectful. Tipping his hat he said, “Of course, madam.”
India smiled at him. The blue of her eyes so distracted the young man that he did not notice Phineas slip behind him to the warehouse door. She edged a little closer, asking the guard questions as Phineas emptied rodents into the warehouse.
Suddenly, the valise slipped from Phineas’ grip and mice tumbled out everywhere onto the ramp, scurrying toward the sentry’s feet. India’s eyes widened when she saw the creatures flooding toward the guard. Just as the sentry was about to look down, there was the report of a firearm from the street behind them. He turned abruptly and looked up the alley. The rodents scampered past his boots, out onto the quay.
The sound of a mob resounded from Chilton Street. “What’s going on?” the sentry mumbled. He was too busy craning his neck to notice India and Phineas leave.
As they hurried away, India made big eyes at Phineas, and he grinned back at her nervously. When they reached Chilton Street, it was apparent that a lynching was taking place. A crowd had formed in front of a private dwelling where two men on the steps, stripped of their clothing with their hands and feet bound.
“Bloody loyalists be damned!” roared a blacksmith with his fist in the air. The mob cheered. He was accompanied by two other men standing nearby with a barrel that was steaming and a large burlap bag.
“What is it, Miss?” Phineas asked, jumping up and down trying to see beyond the crowd.
“Never mind,” said India. She knew there was about to be a tar and feathering, a harmless act of humiliation and punishment popular in the English Colonies.
One of the captives, an elderly gentleman, looked directly at the crowd with the haughty air of an aristocrat while the other man, a bald portly gentleman, kept his eyes lowered, determined not to challenge the jeering spectators. The citizens of Philadelphia jostled and pushed to get a closer look. “Pour it! Pour it!” they all chanted.
“Douse the Loyalist bastards!” someone roared.
The blacksmith and one of the other men lifted the steaming barrel of tar over the head and shoulders of the captives. The crowd cheered as the men let out blood curdling screams.
“They boiled it extra hot this time!” someone cried with approval.
The men fell to their knees, writhing in agony. They twisted and struggled, crying for mercy as the scalding hot, sticky mass melted their skin. Next they were showered with a bag of feathers as the crowd guffawed. Afterward they were carted to a nearby hog pen and rolled in fresh dung.
India gaped in horror at the grotesque display. She had heard of this as a form of humiliation, never realizing this was unabashed torture.
At last when the elderly gentlemen fell into a swoon, India turned on her heel in disgust. “Come, Phineas,” she snapped, grabbing the boy’s hand. “I can countenance no more.”
She felt nauseated and rubbed her forehead. She was worried. Why am I so affected by this display? I have seen violence before.
After changing into simpler clothing, they started for Pegg’s Run. India gathered her threadbare shawl closely around her shoulders as Phineas followed in the rear. He had to run every few steps to keep up with her quick step tonight. She seemed oblivious to everything around her. Walking blindly in the twilight, she still could see the Loyalists writhing in pain. She smelled the scalding tar, heard them sobbing for mercy, and felt the energy of the mob around her, thirsty for blood and revenge. India’s heart started to pound as the rage surged within her. I have seen enough war for six lifetimes. I am sick to death of it! I have witnessed enough evil to populate Hades. Enough! Enough! She stopped so abruptly that Phineas ran into her.
By the time they turned onto Pegg’s Run, it was dark. The neighborhood smelled of smoke, feces, and stale spirits. Phineas once again took the lead to Lucretia Dupuis’ tent. Several fires lined the streets as the inhabitants tried to warm themselves. Children clothed in rags cooked sausages, watching Phineas suspiciously as if he might try to snatch their supper.
Sailors and soldiers poured onto the streets headed for taverns as whores called seductively to potential customers from doorways and windows. “How about some slap and tickle, boys?”
India’s stomach felt as if it were about to turn inside out. By the time they arrived at the Diviner’s tent, she was light headed and weak. When they entered the dimly lit enclosure, Madame Dupuis’ jumped up said to India, “You are ill.”
India groped around for a stool as Lucretia held her elbow. Easing herself down, she murmured breathlessly, “Thank you.”
Phineas sat crossed legged by the dog watching India apprehensively. The low drape of the ceiling, the darkness, and the firelight were soothing to India, and she felt her heartbeat began to slow. Madame Dupuis opened several jars scooping out dried herbs and put them into a teapot. Removing a kettle from the fire, she poured hot water over the concoction then opened a basket putting biscuits onto a plate.
India wiped the perspiration from her forehead and looked at the woman. Madame Dupuis had a gold braided chain around her head holding back the light brown hair which framed her face. She was wearing the dark robe again which was adorned with Celtic symbols.
Madame Dupuis poured a cup of tea, handed it to India and said, “This will calm you and settle your stomach.”
India had forgotten that she had one blue eye and one green eye. She stared at her. Lucretia smiled and said smoothly, “You too have unusual eyes, Lady Allen.”
India looked away and began to sip her tea. Phineas ate a biscuit then stretched out beside the big yellow dog and began talking to the animal as it thumped its tail. India placed her cup down and looked at the fire, rubbing her forehead. Madame Dupuis watched her closely.
“I cannot seem to quiet the whirlpool within me,” said India. “For the first time in a long time, people—events affect me, and my reactions boil over before I can stop them.”
Lucretia shook her head and cautioned, “Lady Allen, this is a dangerous path for a leader.”
“It is indeed,” agreed India, running her hands up and down her arms as if she had grown suddenly cold.
Lucretia sighed and looked away. They turned and watched the fire. A log collapsed, sending sparks flying which roused India from her reverie. She looked over at Phineas. He had fallen asleep with his head resting on the dog.
“I do not often talk with other women,” India said, breaking the silence. “They seem to be so warm and full of life. That has never been the case with me.”
“You are not like other women. You are about to embark on a journey you cannot avoid, but I assure you, you will prevail.”
India looked up at Madame Dupuis. Her voice was different. Gone was the trance-like detachment of the psychic. This time her voice had the warmth of a friend.
Chapter 25
India left Phineas sleeping in the tent while she went to meet with Oliver Dupuis. As she walked down the dark alley, she wondered what was so important that Lucretia’s husband would speak only to her. India knew she was near The Red Unicorn when raucous laughter and the sound of a fiddle reached her ears. There were British regulars everywhere outside the tavern. They were in the alleys and doorways and on the steps of the tavern.
When India stepped inside the tavern she saw them lining the bar and occupying all the tables, smoking, playing cards and singing. Several soldiers brushed past her, arm and arm with molls, on their way upstairs to conduct business. The Red Uni
corn was indeed a popular tavern with the British. What a perfect setting for intelligence gathering, India thought, pleased with Calleigh’s choice.
She scanned the bar room. The air was blue with smoke and the lights were low. India pulled her shawl up over her hair and wound her way through the crowd. No one took notice of her as she approached the bar to inquire about Oliver Dupuis. The burly bartender jerked his head toward the hearth where a pale, sickly looking man sat alone staring at the fire. India narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him. He was dressed in a dirty topcoat, threadbare breeches, and a tricorne hat. He wore darkened spectacles, and his greasy hair was tied back in a queue.
As she approached him, he did not look at her but said in a nasal voice, “Good evening, Lady Allen.”
India realized then that he was blind. Nevertheless she was surprised that he recognized her by her footsteps. She sat down on the edge of a chair by him. Dupuis sat with his legs crossed and his arms outstretched resting on the knob of a black cane.
“Would you care for a drink?” he offered, staring straight ahead.
“No thank you, Mr. Dupuis. I understand you have some information for me.”
“Well, well,” he said. “You certainly waste no time, Lady Allen. I will share it when I am ready. I made it clear to Mr. Calleigh that I have reservations about dealing with a woman. In my world, men take charge of women.”
India glared at him and said, “Mr. Dupuis, you are correct about one thing. I waste no time. I am a very busy woman. Now what is so important that I have to make a special trip to see you?”
“You seem anxious, Lady Allen. Please relax. I assure you, I do not bite.”
India looked around the room, taking a deep breath and struggling to keep her composure. “Mr. Dupuis. You seem to think that because you are blind, you have a sixth sense about people, but please, leave the divination to your wife. Either relay the information to me, or I will be on my way.”
The Sword of the Banshee Page 20