It was heaven for India to be sleeping in the open again. It reminded her of the days back in Cork with the Ballyhoura Boys and the blissful weeks in camp by the mountain spring in the Barnsmore Gap. She loved hearing the birds chattering in the morning, and the rush of river water bubbling over rocks. Every evening she would gaze over the peaceful rolling hills of the valley, see the green grass sprinkled with yellow iris and fill her lungs with the sweet air of sunset.
Phineas loved the setting as well. He would hunt and fish endlessly, and when Quinn had the time, he would take him back to the stables to ride his horses. Powell was always there, grumbling but loyal as an old dog patrolling and guarding the Calleigh property around the clock.
“I believe we will have some definite answers for you about the occupation,” Alden Quincy said to Quinn, one sunny afternoon in June. “O’Donnell and Powell and the boy are up at the house with Lady Allen right now. Hiram Pickles is translating a letter from Philadelphia.”
Calleigh rubbed his forehead and nodded. “Good,” he said. “At last.”
He walked down to the river to smoke before going up to the house. Long days in the sun had darkened his skin, and his curly hair had grown long. More than ever Quinn Calleigh resembled a gypsy.
Suddenly he heard hooves, and he turned around, startled. It was his brother Ian on horseback. “Quinn!” he barked. “Renegades masquerading as patriots have been sighted in the area. They may be at your property.”
Quinn jumped on the gelding Ian brought for him, and they flew up the hill onto the road. Five men followed in their wake. They thundered over bridges, past farms, fields and woodlands. As they rounded the curve to the Calleigh estate, Quinn was in the lead, riding fast and riding low. Before his gelding even stopped, he jumped to the ground and began running. Carrying his rifle, he crouched low and bolted toward the house. The others followed.
The grounds were ominously quiet. The men flattened themselves against the walls poised for a fight. Quinn looked around the corner and saw something hanging from one of the trees. His stomach twisted. Panic and despair flooded him. Was it India, or was it the boy?
He scanned the grounds and nodded for the men to proceed, his heart pounding. Rifles poised and ready, three of the sharpshooters burst into the clearing as two dashed into the house, but all was quiet. The outlaws were gone.
Quinn stepped out as well and realized with horror that it was Hiram Pickles hanging from the tree. The man was swinging slowly from left to right, his britches hanging around his feet. The renegades had tied his wrists and ankles, hanged him from a tree and castrated him. He had bled to death.
“Quinn! Over here!” Ian shouted.
Calleigh dashed from the tree over to the stable door. Ian was standing over the body of Cian O’Donnell. The huge Irishman was flat on his back, a gash running the length of his abdomen. Blood and tissue was everywhere. O’Donnell had been disemboweled. Calleigh grit his teeth and swallowed hard fighting back the bile that was rising in his throat. Not far away Enoch Powell was sprawled out, shot through the head.
“The house was sacked!” two of the men called, running out of Calleigh’s home. “No one remains.”
“Have you seen Lady Allen or the boy?” Calleigh asked anxiously.
Before anyone could answer, they heard a noise in the stable. In a flash, Quinn and Ian flattened themselves against the stone wall, rifles poised. After a moment, Calleigh cautiously stepped inside the cool darkness of the stable followed by Ian. The horses danced around nervously as the men crept past.
Someone was crying in the back of the stable. In the darkness, Quinn recognized Phineas sitting in the hay, his legs crossed, rocking back and forth and whining. The boy didn’t recognize Calleigh at first. He cried out when he saw him and scrambled on all fours across the floor trying to escape, stricken with terror. Quinn ran after him and scooped him up. Phineas kicked and hit Calleigh, struggling madly to break free.
“Phineas! No!” Quinn pleaded as the boy tore at his face and hair. “Stop! It’s me!”
“Leave him, Quinn!” demanded Ian, from the door of the stable. “Get out here!”
Quinn put Phineas down and ran out into the bright sunshine. Several of the men were standing by the well looking down at something on the ground.
Panting, Calleigh joined the others, and the blood drained from his face. It was India. She was squatting down on the ground, knees apart, by a bucket of bloody water. The skirt of her gown was up to her thighs, and her legs were bare. She had removed her neckerchief and was repeatedly soaking the cloth, wringing it out and washing herself between her legs. She was completely oblivious to their presence.
Quinn watched her a moment, stunned, and then noticed the British flag on the ground nearby. One end of the flag pole was stained with blood. He realized suddenly, with horror, that the outlaws had assaulted India with the pole.
Calleigh swallowed hard then bent down and gently picked her up. India hung in his arms limply, like a rag doll.
“Ian,” he ordered. “Get your mare and take Lady Allen and the boy back to camp.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Do as I say!” Quinn barked.
Ian stared at him, not moving. Calleigh handed India to one of the other men then headed for his horse.
“Quinn, wait! Not alone,” Ian protested, grabbing him by the coat. “Wait until we can organize a party!”
Calleigh yanked himself free, mounted his gelding and sneered, “Oh yes, give them time to brutalize the whole God damn community!” He tucked pistols in his belt, adjusted his rifle and kicked his horse.
Ian and the others scrambled into their saddles to follow. He tore down the road, kicking up a storm of dust. Calleigh knew that he could catch up with the outlaws on Alden Quincy’s property. It was the next homestead on the road to Willow Creek. It would take some time to collect spoils from such a prosperous farm.
A cold determination swept over him as he approached the homestead. He bent low over his gelding, set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. The wind tore the hair from his queue as his fists tightened around the reigns.
The Quincy homestead came into view. Just as Calleigh thought, the outlaws were there. The first one he saw was a tall man trotting to the barn with Alden Quincy’s thirteen year old girl over his shoulder. The girl kicked and screamed wildly, but the man held her fast. A body lay on the ground nearby.
Galloping furiously, Calleigh straightened up and locked his knees to both sides of his horse. Dropping the reigns, he pulled the rifle from his saddle. A challenge for even a seasoned marksman, Quinn brought the rifle up, took careful aim and fired. The man dropped in his tracks, shot through the head. The Quincy girl stood up and ran for the woods. Calleigh rode up quickly to inspect a body next to the renegade and realized it was Alden Quincy, shot trying to defend his daughter.
Without a moment to spare, Quinn spun his gelding around in search of more outlaws. The horse danced around in fury. Calleigh spotted a grizzly backwoodsman on the steps of the house with a musket. The man raised the weapon, took aim, and fired at him but missed. Quinn rode up, yanked a pistol from his belt and shot the man in the face.
Pandemonium ensued as the rest of Calleigh’s men arrived. The marauders scrambled frantically onto horseback or ran for cover into the woods. Although they were a gang of fifteen, the outlaws were no match for Quinn’s seasoned sharpshooters. They picked off renegades like squirrels.
“Stop,” an old outlaw cried, hobbling out from the smokehouse. “We are patriots routing Loyalists!”
“The hell you are,” sneered Ian, thundering up to him on horseback, his pistol drawn. With a toothless smile the old man hurtled a hatchet at him. Ian ducked and countered with a pistol shot in the chest.
Across the clearing, Quinn dropped from his gelding to pursue a burly renegade as he fled into the woods. He yanked the man to the ground, and without hesitation, he slit his throat.
Calleigh ran back to the clear
ing, jumping over logs and pushing aside brush. He scanned the property, panting. The assault was over; the renegade party had been wiped out. He stood for a moment, surveying the grounds once more. Staggering to his gelding, Quinn mounted and rode back to India.
Chapter 29
India thought the Ballyhouras looked peaceful and green today. Just yesterday, they were gray and gloomy. She smiled. People said her eyes changed color as often as the mountains changed moods.
The sun was warm on her cheeks as she raised her face to the sky. Her guardian told her that all the walking and riding were turning her skin a deep golden brown. She smiled and told him that the sun had done its work on him as well; his skin was almost the color of chestnuts.
India’s father was on business in London and her mother was away in Glastonbury. They arranged to have a dark haired man and two females to manage Ballydunne. They were to watch over her as well.
India liked her guardians. One was a girl around sixteen years old. She came in the morning, and they would walk in the woods or on the trails beside Loughlorcan. They would talk about books or music or pick wildflowers. The other woman came later in the day. She had the most unusual eyes India had ever seen. One eye was green and the other eye was blue. India liked her. She was a gentle person and always spoke softly to her. Their favorite pastime was building bonfires. The woman said she could read signs in the smoke, and sometimes she would throw herbs onto the flames brushing the smoke over India to cleanse her of demons.
By far her favorite guardian though was the man she called, “the gypsy”. He would come sometimes in the evening to take her riding. He had a love for horses like no other person she had ever known, and sometimes he would bring his son. The three of them would thunder across the countryside on horseback, racing up and down hills, splashing through streams, and jumping fences. Every night, when the boy went home “the gypsy” and India would watch the sun set over Loughlorcan. Sometimes, the man would put his arm over her shoulders and they would sit quietly. “The gypsy” always made her feel safe.
* * *
Quinn Calleigh’s world had crumbled. His closest friends were dead; his organization was crippled and worst of all the woman he loved had retreated to a land far away. India had lost her mind after the attack. He buried the dead and had the old grist mill by the river cleaned out, fixing it up as a cottage for India while she convalesced. Her physical wounds took a month to heal, but the emotional scarring was much slower to mend.
He hired Alden Quincy’s oldest daughter, Ruth to stay with her in the morning and Lucretia Dupuis in the afternoon. He would come in the evening with Phineas.
Philadelphia was in immediate danger now too. In July, General Howe had sailed up the Chesapeake and landed at Head of Elk in Maryland. From there he had been on the march toward Philadelphia.
Calleigh could offer little help to General Washington. The Delaware militia and his sharpshooters continued to strike, but it was largely ineffective; Washington needed a reliable network of intelligence and with India incapacitated, there was little assistance.
The strain of it all was starting to show on Quinn. Dark circles developed under his eyes, and he seldom smiled. He was cross with his men and his sleep was fitful. He was always on the move, traveling to Wilmington where Washington was camped or to Philadelphia with the Congress. The only time he had any peace was when he visited India at the mill or rode across the valley with Phineas.
He marveled at the strength and unflappability of the boy. It was amazing to watch him visit with his mistress day in and day out. The boy’s good nature and loyalty to India never wavered. Quinn knew that Phineas had escaped the violence that day by hiding in the stable, but he asked him nothing. It was enough that he had witnessed the atrocities from afar.
It had been months since the attack, and India was still not aware of her surroundings. She was serene and peaceful but child-like in her demeanor. Most of the time, she believed that she was back at her familial estate in Ireland, and Quinn did not try to tell her otherwise. He knew that when she was ready, she would return to him.
He felt ashamed of himself, but he loved that India needed him at last. If terror suddenly flooded her, he could rock her in his arms or stroke her cheek. When they sat by the river, she would allow him to put his arm over her shoulders. He longed to kiss her lips but never dared. It would only confuse her and delay her journey home. Quinn knew that someday she would return, and he would be there to greet her.
* * *
“Someone is playing the bagpipes again,” India said, listening to the strains in the distance. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” replied Quinn, looking across the treetops.
India blinked several times but said nothing. Weeks ago, she had begun to hear the echoing of the bagpipes in the distance. The sound had been faint at first then growing louder every day. One evening in mid-August, as they were sitting on the riverbank, she heard them again. She jolted suddenly, as if waking from a deep sleep, and looked around. Realizing that Quinn had his arm around her, India jerked away looking at him indignantly.
Quinn watched her closely as she stood up. She rubbed her forehead, gazing out over the river. Had I fallen asleep? Have I been ill? Why am I here? Trying to sweep the cobwebs from her mind, India shook her head. The last thing she remembered was being up at the house with Hiram and Cian. There was the sudden thundering of hooves outside and—
“India?” Quinn asked apprehensively.
She stared at him blankly then looked out over the river, still rubbing her forehead. Suddenly her stomach twisted. “There was an attack. Cian and Hiram and Enoch were all killed, but I cannot remember--”
“Remembering everything is not necessary,” Calleigh assured her.
India swallowed hard and looked away. Suddenly her eyes grew wide and her breathing quickened. She turned abruptly and started to take long strides along the river bank, twigs crunching under her feet. Bits and pieces of the day in June began to flood over her. She remembered the men walking up the steps of the house, Cian confronting them, and the struggle. She remembered Phineas running to the stable, rough hands upon her then--
“India?” Quinn said, following her. “India, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said stopping and panting. Her palms were sweating, and her heart was hammering in her chest. “Nothing.”
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Raising her chin, she whirled around, looked Calleigh in the eye and snapped, “Don’t ask me anymore questions. I remember nothing.”
But Quinn knew she was lying.
* * *
It took another week for India to return to full health. She felt as if she had just emerged from a heavy fog and needed fresh air to sweep the mist away. She took long walks and rode for hours trying to put down the demons that haunted her.
Lucretia visited several times a week but never pressed India to talk. She would sit silently at her side or walk next to her along the river. Without India’s knowledge, she said prayers and incantations inviting heavenly spirits to intervene on her behalf.
Phineas visited too. He came down from camp and chattered about his hunting and fishing exploits, but the boy was on edge. He stole looks at India out of the corner of his eye, anxious that maybe his mistress would leave him again and drift off to her other world.
Calleigh was conspicuously absent during this time. Now that India was lucid again, he returned to his other duties. He left for Wilmington immediately to boost his partisan operation against Howe. Quinn was grateful that he could at last put the summer of 1777 behind him.
At first India, was relieved he was gone. She blanched wondering if she acted without dignity while she was sick or spilled secrets from her past. Yet, as the days passed, loneliness for him began to plague her. She missed Calleigh’s wit and good nature, his cavalier attitude, and even the mocking remarks directed at her. Even though she acted annoyed when he teased her, secretly his attention pleased her
. Being away from him twisted her stomach into knots and made her feel hollow inside.
After a week, India needed something to occupy her mind, so she moved from the mill back to camp to familiarize herself with Howe’s campaign. Quinn had appointed several new men as officers, and they briefed India on the progress of Howe’s march on Philadelphia. They reported that the outlook was optimistic in Philadelphia; the patriots in that city believed Washington would have no problem routing Howe and his army. Howe had expected a legion of Loyalists to come to his aid in Maryland when he arrived, and when they did not, it was believed his operation was severely undermined. India was not convinced the British were weakened though; in fact, she was alarmed by the complacency of the patriots.
Gathering her few possessions, she woke Phineas one September night and left for Wilmington by the light of the moon. She startled Antoine Parnell when she arrived, rousing him from his sleep at his shop in Wilmington. The tailor met her at the back door in his nightshirt with a candle in his hand.
“Lady Allen, is something amiss?”
“Indeed there is,” she murmured, stepping inside with Phineas. She dropped her dark hood explaining, “I have concerns about the occupation of Philadelphia. I am sorry to come to you so late, but I must speak with Calleigh and the others in the morning. Ordinarily, I would go directly to headquarters, but we risk friendly fire at this hour. May we stay here?”
“You are welcome anytime,” was his gracious reply.
In the morning, India dressed in her light blue polonaise, put on her simple pearl earrings and traveled to the home of Joseph Tatnall, a Quaker miller sympathetic to the cause of freedom. She climbed the steps of the sturdy stone home and was escorted to a sitting room that had been converted into a makeshift headquarters for General Wayne. Although headquartered in Wilmington as well, General Washington was not in attendance this morning.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 24