India’s eyes widened as she stared at her in horror. Lucretia continued, “It is a demonstration to assure customers that diseased girls are not tolerated by the management. I cannot watch another one set on fire, Lady Allen.”
India and Phineas exchanged looks as Lucretia lowered her head and sobbed.
India announced, “We leave tonight. In fact we leave right now.”
“How? He has posted a guard,” Lucretia said, her eyes wide.
Phineas piped in, “We will exchange clothes.”
India and Lucretia stared at each other a moment. A log fell in the fire, sending sparks soaring out the smoke hole. “I cannot,” Lucretia said. “It is too dangerous for the boy.”
“Not for me!” Phineas declared, jumping to his feet. “I grew up here. I can outsmart anyone in Pegg’s Run.”
India bit her lip, considered a moment then nodded. “It is a good plan.”
There was shouting outside. “What is going on?” India asked.
“It is starting,” Lucretia said as she began to stuff vials, herbs and candles into a bag. “You realize the moment Phineas leaves in my clothes, that goon outside will follow him.”
“That is just what we want. We will lose him in the crowd,” India said. Turning to Phineas she instructed, “Exchange clothing, and after we leave, I want you to count to sixty then go into mob outside the tavern. We will be watching from the alley. Once in the crowd, when the guard isn’t looking, drop your robe and melt in amid everyone. If anyone gives chase, we will scatter in different directions. They will not know which one of us to follow. We will meet at Singer Rum Brokerage.”
Undressing to her shift, Lucretia pulled on Phineas’ boots, tricorne hat, and woolen topcoat. The coat was long enough to hide her shift and bare knees. The boy remained in his breeches and shirt and put on her dark blue robe bordered with Zodiac signs pulling up the hood.
“Look at no one, Phineas,” warned India. “You certainly do not have Lucretia’s eyes.”
The women stood up and looked back at the boy as he sat down by the fire. Lucretia pulled her collar up and her hat down stepping out of the tent. The guard was still leaning against the wall, chewing his tobacco with his arms crossed over his chest. He glanced at them then looked back at the crowd. He was more interested in the fireship demonstration.
A gust of wind blew India’s hair as they walked down the alley. A perfect night for a bonfire thought India with a shudder. The two women ducked into a doorway. The spectators were all men, mostly British soldiers and sailors, and they treated the spectacle as quality entertainment.
Dupuis forced all of his girls out into the crowd as a lesson to them. They were dressed in shabby low cut gowns which were torn and soiled, and their dirty hair was pinned up haphazardly. They tried to act unconcerned, allowing the men to grope them openly in the courtyard in exchange for coins, but they were obviously on edge. Their eyes darted nervously from the bonfire to the front door of the tavern to watch for the victim.
India looked at the tent just as Phineas emerged. He wore the hood of Lucretia’s robe low over his forehead, and he started to walk briskly toward the crowd. The guard spit tobacco juice and fell into step behind him. The women held their breath as he worked his way into the mob.
Lucretia grabbed India’s arm and nodded toward the door of the tavern. Dupuis was stepping out, his nose in the air, and his white eyeballs rolling. “I want Lucretia to see this,” he called to one of his men in his whinny voice. “Go get her.”
A short balding sailor nodded and started toward the tent. He spotted Lucretia’s blue robe in the crowd. “She is here already,” he called back, pointing.
“Bring her to me. I want to talk to her,” Dupuis demanded.
“Cragland!” the sailor shouted over the din at the thug standing behind Phineas, “Bring her here. The boss wants to talk to her.”
Under the hood, Phineas’ eyes widened. Before he could move, the iron grip of the guard was upon his wrist. Cragland dragged him through the crowd until he was standing in front of Dupuis.
“Here she is,” Cragland said.
Phineas heart was hammering in his chest.
Dupuis jerked his head. “Who?”
“Lucretia,” stated Cragland.
Dupuis leaned forward, his nostrils flaring and sniffed Phineas. He jerked back and snarled, “You stupid bastard! This is not Lucretia!”
Cragland’s bloodshot eyes grew wide, and he yanked the hood off of Phineas’ head.
Phineas looked up at him and grinned. Enraged, Cragland roared and grabbed him by the robe, but Phineas was too quick. He slid out of the garment like a snake sheds its skin and bolted into the crowd. Before the spectators knew what was happening, the boy was zigzagging through the mob. Phineas was almost free of the gathering when Dupuis’ sailor caught up to him. He was about to grab the boy but tripped suddenly and fell to the ground. Unscathed, Phineas looked back once then dashed out of sight.
“Oh I’m terribly sorry, mate,” one of the girls said to the sailor. She bent down to help him up. “I must have tripped you,” she said. After she brushed him off, she locked eyes with Lucretia and smiled.
Lucretia nodded her thanks and dashed into the darkness.
Philadelphia 1777
Chapter 32
Mrs. Singer looked up from her desk at the man standing in the doorway of the warehouse. The December sun, riding low on the horizon, blazed a frame around the stranger, throwing his features into a shadow.
It was late in the day, and she was the last one remaining at Singer Mercantile. Slowly, he began to limp toward her. He looked like a scarecrow. He was thin with ragged clothing and wild unruly hair. He wore a tricorne hat and a woolen scarf on his head that was tied under his chin. Mrs. Singer’s palms started to perspire, and her heart began to pound as he approached. Slowly, she reached in the drawer for her firearm.
“Mrs. Singer,” the man said quietly. “It’s Quinn Calleigh.”
She blinked and looked into his dark eyes. Shutting the drawer, she gasped, “Mr. Calleigh! What in the name of God has happened to you?”
“I need your help.” He reeled suddenly, catching himself on her desk.
The little woman jumped down from her stool and took Quinn’s arm. He was so thin she could feel the bones through his ragged topcoat. His breeches were threadbare and his feet were bound with canvas. He wore gloves without fingers.
“Come into the house,” she ordered in her thick German accent. She put her hand gently on his back. After locking the office door, she guided him into their private apartments behind the warehouse. They stepped into a tidy white-washed kitchen where a fire blazed under a pot of stew. Polished copper pots hung on racks over the table and pewter plates lined the mantel next to Malachi’s pipe and tobacco tin. A colorful braided rug was on the floor.
The smell of food made Quinn feel weak, and he eased himself down onto a chair at the kitchen table. Mrs. Singer stared at him, stunned. Usually so robust, Quinn Calleigh had been reduced to skin and bones. His dark eyes were sunken, and his cheeks were hollow. His hair was dirty and his clothing covered in mud. There was dried blood on the bandages on his feet.
“You have no shoes,” she gasped. ‘There is snow on the ground.”
Slowly Quinn’s eyes traveled to her face.
“My mother used to talk about The Great Hunger in Ireland. We have a taste of it now at Valley Forge.”
Mrs. Singer’s jaw dropped as she eased down into a chair, looking at him. “What? There is no food?”
Quinn stared at her.
“This cannot be. We did not know,” she cried. “We did not know!”
“It is as we would have it,” Quinn said. “We cannot let anyone know. If the Crown knows we are weakened, it would be the end of us.”
“You must not be seen on the streets here,” she warned.
“That is why I come to you in street clothes today.”
“Nevertheless, the British could press
you into service if they see you,” Mrs. Singer said.
Abruptly she jumped to her feet. “You must eat. What is wrong with me,” she said, hitting her forehead. She jumped up, ladled stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “It is your Christmas day today, is it not?”
Quinn did not answer. He was too engrossed in the stew. The hot broth, tender beef and savory carrots flooded him with warmth and life. He felt it course through his veins like hot whiskey.
“For us, it is Chanukah,” she murmured, looking at the Chanukah Menorah on the table. “I make latkes now.” She tied on her apron and started to grate some potatoes, stealing looks at Quinn. The hot oil sizzled as she dropped potato pancakes onto a spider trivet. “I cannot understand it. The crops were good this year. Why is there no food?”
Quinn looked up from eating, his spoon in mid-air, as if waking from a dream. “The British deliberately stripped the land and the farms around Philadelphia before they occupied the city to reduce us to this. What little food there is, the farmers hide for themselves. They too are starving. If there is any surplus, they sell it to the British for gold. Continental currency is worthless.”
“Can nothing be brought in by the Congress?”
“They are a disorganized mess,” Quinn said, pulling a plate of latkes over as Mrs. Singer poured ale in a tankard for him. “If I had a potato for every committee they have, I could feed the army.”
“How many men are at Valley Forge?”
“Twelve thousand, but many have deserted or died. Disease has taken its toll; typhoid, the flux, and small pox.”
Calleigh sighed and slumped back in his chair, his belly at last full. “Can you help us? We need food and tools to build shelters. We are most desperate, anything will help.” He paused to catch his breath. He was weak. “But Mrs. Singer, before you and Malachi agree, you must know such a delivery will be dangerous.”
“I speak for Malachi,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Ya, we will help. There is no question. Now,” she said sternly. “I get water for a bath and fresh clothing. You stay as long as you like.”
“My thanks, but I can stay only one night. Tomorrow I see Mrs. Ashton. We will have her leak information that Washington’s troops have obtained ample supplies and are back to full strength. The General has instructed me to say we are forty thousand strong,” He chuckled cynically. “If only it were true.”
Mrs. Singer dried her hands on a towel and said, “Not a month ago we gave Lady Allen and the boy shelter.”
Quinn looked at her sharply. “They were here less than a month ago?”
“Ya, with Mrs. Dupuis of Pegg’s Run. They were hiding from that dreadful husband of hers. There had been trouble, and she was leaving with Lady Allen. There were delays to their voyage, and they stayed in hiding with us several weeks. Malachi saw them safely on board the ship for Charleston.”
Quinn, slumped back in his chair again, sighed and closed his eyes, grateful for some good news at last.
* * *
India looked at the quayside of Charleston. It closely resembled the docks of Philadelphia; it was busy, dirty and dangerous. It was lined with deteriorating warehouses leaning precariously on their foundations; sailors loitered in doorways, picking their teeth or smoking, and seagulls picked at refuse. A man without legs sat on a barrel playing a fiddle. The aroma of fresh bread wafted from a baker’s cart punctuated with the odor of decaying fish and vomit. It was a wharf like any other in the New World with one exception; the port of Charleston was the largest point of entry for the slave trade in the American Colonies. The predominant cargo of the port was human.
Africans filed off the ships in heavy iron chains, their bodies slick with sweat and grime, their ragged clothing hanging on their cadaverous frames. Burly white men armed with whips and bludgeons stood guard and barked orders, their thick arms crossed over their broad chests as they glared at the captives. Dandies sitting in carriages eyed the human cargo as they lined up, appraising each one for purchase as they headed toward the auction block.
Phineas stood watching with his mouth agape. India grabbed his arm and pulled him away. When they found a quiet spot, she reached into her pocket and read the note Ian had given her from Maxwell the day she left the Valley. It was a cordial letter from the General, written from a gentleman to a lady. He told India that they should wait at the quayside where the Hennessey twins of Charleston would escort them home. The pair would meet them at the docks and they would be under their protection the whole time they were in South Carolina. Maxwell informed India that the Hennesseys were, in his estimation, the most dangerous yet capable patriots in the entire Continental Army.
“What do these men look like?” Lucretia asked, dropping the hood of her traveling cloak and looking around.
India frowned and shrugged. “I wish I knew.”
Phineas was growing bored and sat down on the dock, taking a toy top out of his pack. He had received it that morning from a sailor on board ship, and he was learning how to use it.
India and Lucretia watched him try unsuccessfully to spin the top as the crowd on the quay marched past. Suddenly, an older woman stepped up to the boy. Her dress was disheveled, and her gray hair tangled and wild. She was accompanied by five canines of different shapes and sizes that proceeded to jump all over Phineas. The dogs licked his face affectionately and crowded him for attention. He laughed and hugged them.
Paying no attention, the old woman clapped her hands and exclaimed, “A peg top!” She dropped to her knees and picked up the toy, quickly wrapping the string around it. Then, with the snap of her wrist, she sent the top spinning and whirring in tight circles across the dock.
“How did you do that?” Phineas cried, as the dogs kissed his face.
The woman did not answer him, but mumbled instead, “My, my, my, quite pleased, quite pleased indeed.”
Then as if she had just remembered something, she stood up abruptly, looked at India and announced, “How do you do, Lady Allen. My name is Penelope Hennessey.”
India and Lucretia’s jaws dropped simultaneously.
Before they could respond, the woman turned to Phineas and drawled, “Do you like fritters? We call them hush puppies here in Charleston. My sister is at home making some right now. Let’s you and I go home.”
She grabbed Phineas’ hand, and they started down the quay toward an open carriage waiting on the cobblestone street. Thunderstruck, Lucretia and India exchanged looks and followed. A rickety carriage called a landau was waiting nearby, driven by an elderly black man in shabby livery. Penelope Hennessey climbed in and sat on one side with Phineas as Lucretia and India sat down in the opposite seat. The driver swung the door shut, pulled himself laboriously onto the driver’s seat, and snapped the reins. India put her head back and sighed. The breeze from the open carriage felt refreshing after the stifling sea voyage.
“We are so excited that you are here!” Penelope said to Phineas as they rolled through town. “I have so much to show you.”
She turned to Lucretia and declared, “And my sister, Prudence said you were coming. She could feel it.”
Lucretia’s eyebrows shot up. India turned and looked at her, but Lucretia shook her head and shrugged.
“Oh, there is the auction block--” Penelope exclaimed her with her voice sounding ominous. She pointed at the slaves lining up before a wooden platform. “But don’t look! We always look the other way when we pass it. We don’t like it. Prudence freed all our darkies years ago. The spirits told her it was the right thing to do.”
They rolled past rows of shops and residences in downtown Charleston. They were built in the Georgian style, straight and symmetrical with Greco-Roman facades and lined with brick walkways. Although the architecture was similar to Philadelphia, the landscape was quite different in South Carolina. Palmetto trees were everywhere as well as magnolias and cypress dripping with Spanish moss. The surroundings were lush and thick with humidity, even though it was December.
&
nbsp; At last, India’s curiosity was too much for her. She was anxious to get on with her new assignment and meet the Hennessey men. “Mrs. Hennessey, will your husband be--”
“No, no,” corrected Penelope. “Neither my sister or I are married.”
India stared at her a moment, nonplussed. “You mean--are you--?” and she hesitated a moment, trying to find her voice. She asked doubtfully, “Miss Hennessey, are you even acquainted with General Maxwell?”
“General Maxwell? Of course, of course, a lovely man,” she drawled with a far-away look in her eyes.
India looked at Lucretia then leaned back in her seat and stared at the landscape. She decided to wait and see if Prudence Hennessey had more coherent information for her.
The driver followed a road out of town along a river. The setting sun cast a golden glow on the rippling water traveling out to the sea. Miss Hennessey informed them that this was the Ashley River. The waterway was lined with rice and indigo plantations, palatial estates which, in some ways, reminded India of the large properties of Ireland, worked here by African slaves instead of Irish tenants.
The sun had set when they reached the Hennessey plantation, and it was almost dark. When they turned up the long driveway, lined with oaks, cypress, and azaleas, they saw a large shadowy structure with several candles winking in the windows.
As they approached, it became apparent that the home had been, at one time, a grand residence, but now, it was sadly neglected and deteriorated. The wood siding was in need of paint and the landscape was overgrown and thick with Spanish moss. The front steps were sagging, and the outbuildings were caved in and rotting. Crooked mullioned French doors lined the lower level topped by a shabby balcony which was supported by white pillars. The gallery wrapped around the entire house. The home had been a grand dame once, but now it was a monument to faded glory.
Miss Hennessey leaned forward. “Welcome to our home,” she said proudly.
India smiled, but it faded when she saw Prudence Hennessey waving from the front steps. She was identical to Penelope in every way, except she wore the hooded robe of a diviner.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 28