The room was a warm sunny space with green and cream colored furnishings. When she stepped in, the men stood up, their chairs scraping on the hardwood floors. There were five of them, including Calleigh. Quinn had been expecting India. He knew that her health and well-being would never stand in the way of her commitment to the revolution.
“Please be seated gentlemen,” she said.
Calleigh ran his eyes over her slim figure with her wheat colored hair swept up at the back of her neck. She is indeed a handsome woman, he thought warming at the thought of her in his arms.
The officers sat down looking at one another, confused by her presence.
India removed her gloves and said, “I must apologize for the interruption, gentlemen. My name is Lady Allen. I reside in the Brandywine Valley. I am chief officer of intelligence in Mr. Calleigh’s partisan operation.”
They looked at Quinn, and he nodded his assent. Amused at her aplomb, he tried to stifle a smile by lighting some tobacco.
“Please do not let me stop you,” she continued. “I have come to familiarize myself with your plans.”
One of the men jumped up and brought her a chair. India sat down near the desk, sweeping her skirts to the side. The officers shifted in their seats, cleared their throats and resumed the meeting. They discussed plans, reviewed strategy, and surveyed maps, all the time stealing glimpses at Lady Allen. She was completely oblivious to it, but Quinn saw the admiration in their eyes.
India listened for a long time until one of the officers, an older man with an Irish accent said, “Lady Allen, my name is William Maxwell. I am aware that you and your late husband lead the partisan campaign back in my homeland of Ireland.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes a bright blue. “That is correct, General Maxwell.”
“Can you add anything to what we have said today?”
“Very little,” she replied. “I came here feeling discomforted, fearing you were underestimating the abilities of General Howe and Cornwallis, but now I see that it is not true.”
“We are greatly in need of good intelligence though.”
“I must apologize, General. Our operation suffered many losses recently, but we are scrambling for pertinent information. Are your men destroying bridges and felling trees to slow the progress of the troops?”
“Yes.”
“Hiding food supplies and cattle?”
“Indeed,” said Maxwell.
“Are the millstones hidden?”
He nodded.
“Then I only have only one other suggestion. You mentioned that you and the sharpshooters are employing the tactics of the American Indian in the Cooch Bridge ambush tomorrow?”
“Yes, we are.”
“It is imperative that your men strike and run. Do not allow them to be drawn into a bayonet battle. Our men are inexperienced in this type of engagement. As you can imagine, the British regular is highly skilled in this arena.”
General Maxwell studied India a moment with an astonished look on his face. He nodded his head at last and chuckled. “She is right, gentlemen. Thank you, Lady Allen.”
The meeting adjourned and the officers filed out. India picked up her skirts and started out the door and down the stairs quickly, trying to avoid Calleigh. He was talking to Maxwell when he saw her hasten out the door. He smiled and shook his head. The old India is certainly back, he thought.
“Lady Allen!” he called, chasing after her. “I will see you home.”
She stopped in her tracks without turning around.
Calleigh hustled down the stairs. He hooked her arm, taking charge. Quinn stole a look at her and grinned, ready to goad her. “We have not spoken since your recovery. You seem to be back in full form.”
“Yes, I have been meaning to thank you for all of your help.”
“Yes, that was apparent as you ran down the stairs,” he replied sarcastically.
They turned down a cool tree-lined street walking arm in arm threading through the crowd. Usually, a sleepy little mill town, Wilmington, had become a busy place, bulging with Continental soldiers, supply wagons, horses, and munitions. It was midday, and the sun was high in the sky. Even in the shade, it was a hot and a sultry day. Calleigh had removed his topcoat, slinging it over his shoulder. The sleeves were rolled up on his white linen shirt, and India looked away trying not to notice the well- defined muscles in his forearms.
“It is too hot to be in town today. I should be home fishing with Phineas,” he said.
“He has missed you.”
“Have you missed me?” Quinn said, turning his dark eyes on her.
“Everyone has missed you,” India replied quickly, not making eye contact with him.
“I long to ride again. I have been too busy here to find time.”
“Where did you move the horses?”
“Not far to the south, they are at the Bjorklund home near New Castle.”
“Phineas is worried about his pigeons,” she said.
“As well he should. If food gets short, many will see them as a fine meal. Tell him to watch them closely. Now more than ever we need them for the Revolution.”
“He has been successful sending and receiving messages to Lucretia Dupuis and even communicates with patriots in Virginia.”
Quinn nodded. “It is most amazing. These birds will be instrumental in our communication with the Southern Colonies. We have already sent messages as far as South Carolina. The birds can fly almost two hundred miles. They can be relieved at their destination by a fresh bird who will carry a message to the next bird, right on down the coast.”
When they arrived under the sign of the spool and needle, Calleigh took India’s arm and turned her around to face him. “The troops move to Chadd’s Ford in a few days. You and Phineas are not to return home under any circumstances. Stay with Parnell. I want you to report to me just before we march. I have some last minute instructions for you before I depart. Be at headquarters at sunup that day.”
A bolt of anxiety shot through India. Until now, it had not occurred to her that Calleigh would be participating in battle. She had not worried over the past few years, his skills in partisan warfare were so polished, but battlefield engagement was quite another matter. She looked at him with panic written on her face. Quinn read her eyes, a feeling of bittersweet pleasure flooding him.
He kissed her hand and said, “Until then.”
* * *
Wilmington was in an uproar over the next few days preparing the troops for departure. India worked day and night intelligence gathering, sending, and receiving reports and releasing counterfeit information to Camille Ashton and others to confuse the enemy. The streets were noisy all through the night with wagons thundering past the shop and men barking orders. Parnell was busy too, hunched over his sewing around the clock, perspiration dripping from his forehead as he fitted soldiers and spies for uniforms.
Phineas was spellbound by all the excitement. He would sit on the front steps and watch all the activity. On several occasions, India had to comb the streets for him. She was frantic that some regiment had snatched him up as a drummer boy. She and Quinn had both agreed not to encourage Phineas to serve yet. They both knew from years of experience that the glamor of war was a dangerous illusion.
During the day, India was able to keep her mind occupied and away from the thought of Calleigh leaving, but when night came so did the anxiety. She would drop into bed exhausted from hours of work, but rest would not come. She would lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling with feelings churning inside her. She could not understand why she should care so much about a mere colleague who aggravated and annoyed her in so many ways.
The final night before departure was ominously quiet in Wilmington. The officers wanted the troops rested before their march four hours to the north and eventual rendezvous with the enemy. Just before sunup, India rose, laced her stays, and pulled on a petticoat and a simple green cotton gown. Parnell had made her clothing suitable for the wife of
a tradesman, so she would blend well on the street. She tied her hair up into a knot, covered her head with a linen mob cap, and picked up her straw hat with tiny roses and sage green ribbons.
When she stepped outside, town was coming to life. Residents were beginning to line the streets ready to send the troops off. The sun was struggling to show through clouds heavy with rain as India walked to headquarters. The crowds were becoming thick and boisterous. Continental soldiers began to line up. There was a drummer boy in the front line along with a young man playing a fife. Several officers on horseback accompanied the group. The soldiers started to march down the street and cheering began.
“There’s me boys!” townspeople cried. “Draw and quarter the bloody bastards!”
India pushed her way through the crowd, jostled by spectators who were eager to cheer the rebels to victory.
“Freedom, liberty, or death!” they called.
Old men, wives, mothers, and children filled the streets as dawn broke, were clapping and cheering. India stopped for a moment to watch. The first group that marched past looked polished and professional in their uniforms of blue or brown jackets, white britches and boots marching in formation. They were followed by men dressed in buckskin and homespun fabric, wearing coonskin caps and tricorne hats. They carried hunting rifles and buck knives, patriots fresh from the fields or the back woods of Delaware and Pennsylvania. Wagons filled with supplies rolled past, horses pranced, followed by more troops.
“No more tyranny! Death to the Lobster back!” spectators cried.
With her hat in her hand, India pushed her way through the crowd and climbed the steps of the Tatnall home to scan the crowd for Calleigh. She was amazed that Wilmington could produce so many people. It was so loud and chaotic that she began to feel panic. She could not see Quinn anywhere. Her palms started to perspire. What if I missed him? What if, in all the commotion, he had forgotten to meet me?
Suddenly, he appeared at the base of the stairs dressed in the blue and white uniform and polished black boots of a Continental officer. He had just dismounted and was still holding the reigns of his gelding. He looked up at India and smiled, taking his tricorne hat off and tucking it under his arm. Even though his dark hair was tied back, several curls fell onto his forehead. When India looked into his eyes, her heart jumped. The crowd moved in a steady stream around him, but for India, there was no one, all she saw was Calleigh.
She walked down the steps and looked up into his face. He did not take her hands. He did not touch her. Slowly his smile dropped; he searched her eyes and said, “I asked you here because I want you to promise me--”
India swallowed hard. Thunder rolled in the distance. Soldiers continued to march by and crowds cheered, but they saw and heard only each other. “Promise me that you will continue the fight.”
India bit her lip and looked away, her chest heaving. “Stop this talk,” she stated firmly. “You will be back.”
“Listen to me,” he demanded. India had never seen such intensity in his eyes. “I may never return. You and the boy must take care of one another. You--” he hesitated. “You are my family.”
It started to pour. The rain drenched them as the crowd began to disperse, running for cover. They said nothing for a long time. At last, Quinn took a deep breath, looked around at the empty street and said, “You must know by now that I am in love with you. That will never change.”
India stared at him, her lips parted, rain running down her face. Calleigh studied her intensely, as if memorizing her every feature. He said nothing more, expecting nothing in return. He was simply happy he had told her of his feelings at last.
A junior officer came up behind him and said, “Sir?”
Quinn did not take his eyes off of India. “I am on my way,” he said to the young man.
Calleigh dragged his eyes from her face and mounted his gelding. India stood motionless in the deluge watching Quinn disappear into the distance.
Chapter 30
Wilmington was taut as a bow string waiting for news about the battle. It came late September 11th, 1777; the Continental Army had been defeated at Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania, on the Brandywine River, not far from the Calleigh homestead. The British were making their way toward Philadelphia.
India was stunned. She stared out the window at the dark empty street. The messenger left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Parnell rose and took a kettle from the fire making a cup of herbal tea. When he handed it to India, she looked up at him as if waking from a dream, her hair down around her shoulders. “What is this?” she murmured.
“Tea to help you sleep.”
“Sleep?” she said, her brow furrowing. “I will not sleep tonight. I am leaving.”
Parnell’s jaw dropped. “No, Lady Allen.”
India nodded. “I must,” she said, rising.
“You cannot go up there. You have no experience in this kind of engagement. You only know partisan raids, not widespread battle. There will be casualties everywhere, scavengers and marauders feeding on the victims.”
The renegades who slaughtered her companions and raped her mercilessly sprang to her mind. She swallowed hard, her heart beginning to pound. “I will be armed. There is no question about it. I must find him, Mr. Parnell.”
Touched by the emotion in her voice, Parnell sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Then I will go with you, but you must disguise yourself.”
Dressed in a nightshirt and robe, he took a candle from the table and walked into the shop. India followed. In the dim light, the mannequins looked like phantom soldiers standing at attention.
“There are no horses left in Wilmington. We must walk,” he said lighting a candelabrum, illuminating the room. He bent over a barrel of old clothing and pulled out a tattered shirt and breeches, discarded by a patriot in exchange for a uniform. He handed the bundle of rags to India. “Here, put this on. You must dress like a man.” He raised an eyebrow looking at her long hair. “We will bind your hair up around your head with a bandage as if you are hurt.”
Parnell woke Phineas and had him dress for the journey as well. India donned her brown homespun breeches and shirt. As she pulled her riding boots on, Parnell said, “Do not wear those, Lady Allen. Someone will kill you up there for a good pair of boots.”
“Mr. Parnell,” India said straightening up and brushing the hair from her face. “I appreciate your concern, but I have already considered that risk. There are more than enough free boots for everyone now that the battle is over.”
Understanding what she implied, he nodded, frowning. “Indeed, Lady Allen.”
“Where are we going?” asked Phineas coming into the room, dressed for the journey and yawning.
“To the battlefield to find Mr. Calleigh,” said India, now using Quinn’s real name. Pretense was no longer needed about his identity with Phineas.
She finished wrapping her head with a bandage and put on a dirty brown tricorne hat. Parnell gathered food and a lantern as India put medicine, clean rags, rope and a blanket into a leather bag. Strapping on shot pouches, packs and picking up their weapons, the group set out on the four hour journey to the battlefield at Chadd’s Ford.
They followed the wide trampled-down path, traveled a few days earlier by Washington’s troops into the black environs of the forest. Even though Parnell lead the way with his lantern held high, the woods at night unnerved India. The chasm of darkness engulfing her brought back memories of Cragmere Ruins on All Hallows Eve and the Druid women at the dolmen stone in Armaugh. She believed that she would swoon if anyone came up behind her and touched her.
For hours they walked in silence through the dark forest, heavy with the thick smell of pine and rotting leaves. Occasionally, Parnell would carry Phineas on his back with India in the lead holding the lantern. They traveled at a feverish pace, stumbling over roots and rocks along the trail. Sometimes they could hear the river rushing beside them, or a large creature lumbering though the brush nearby, but they did not hesitate; th
ey pushed on to Chadd’s Ford.
They traveled in and out of open spaces, across farm fields and through meadows meeting no one for hours when suddenly a man called, “Hallo!” and they started. There was a pinpoint of light in the distance.
“Hello to you, friend!” Parnell called in reply.
“If you are indeed a friend, I have news,” the man called, coming closer. “If you are foe, I have a weapon.”
Parnell took Phineas off his back and stepped forward to meet the man, holding his rifle, ready for a confrontation. A young man in buckskin came into view, holding a musket. India put a hand on her pistol. The dim light of the lantern illuminated the fresh face of a boy maybe seventeen years of age. It was apparent he had seen battle, his clothing was covered in blood, and his face was spattered as well.
“Greetings, I am Bartholomew Jessup, and I am an American,” he said, shaking Parnell’s hand.
“A fellow patriot,” Parnell replied with a smile. “My friends and I are traveling to Chadd’s Ford. What news do you have?”
“It is not good,” Jessup said, shaking his head. “Washington has retreated to Chester and taken the injured with him. Nothing but the dead remain for burial.”
India’s stomach lurched.
“I am returning to my home for wagons and shovels.”
Jessup gestured toward the bandage on India’s head and said, “I see you are injured. Is there fighting in Wilmington as well?”
“An unrelated injury,” Parnell replied quickly.
“I must make haste before the dogs begin to scavenge. God speed to you,” the young man said turning to go.
“And to you too, wayfarer,” Parnell replied, his voice trailing off in disappointment. He looked at India to see her reaction, but she looked away. Squaring her shoulders, she continued down the trail.
They walked on until daylight. Sunlight burned off the morning mist and dappled the trail in front of them. Squirrels began to stir in the trees and birds began to sing. The atmosphere was becoming hot and humid, even at this early hour. The three stopped for breakfast in a clearing of an abandoned farm. They sat down in the shade of an elm tree and opened their packs, pulling out bread, cheese, and some dried apples. Knowing that the heat would cause them to dehydrate, they drank down large amounts of cider, passing the jug back and forth.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 25