The huge assembly camped only one night and when they set out the next day, India and Quinn were with them. They rendezvoused with other Overmountain men along the way and within two weeks the force had reached Cowpens in South Carolina. A spy brought word that Ferguson and his troops were nearby. Everyone was ready and eager to engage them.
“The sharpshooters are leaving tonight,” Quinn said to India, as he tied a pack to his saddle. “The rest will join us tomorrow.”
India nodded. In spite of being a seasoned veteran of partisan warfare, her stomach still tied into knots when it was time to say farewell to Quinn.
“Come, I must eat something before I leave,” he said, taking her hand.
She followed him like a child to the campfire where he ladled some stew into a wooden bowl. He handed it to her, but she shook her head. Quinn frowned and said, “Very well.”
Someone was playing a fiddle in the distance, and India thought it sounded melancholy. Just as they sat down, she remembered a note had come for her earlier. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out. It was hard to read by the firelight but gradually she made out the words. When Quinn looked up from his meal, India was staring straight ahead, her lips parted.
“What is it?’
India blinked as if waking from a dream and said, “Oh, nothing of interest.” She folded the note and pushed it back into her pocket.
Quinn sighed and put his bowl down. “Don’t lie to me, India,” he said.
“I have some things to attend to,” she said, standing up. She kept her eyes lowered.
Quinn grabbed her wrist as she started to walk away. “Sit down,” he ordered.
India shot a look at him. She knew when he used that tone, there was no arguing.
“What is this about?” he demanded.
India raised her chin, reached into her pocket and handed Quinn the note, avoiding his eyes. Looking at her suspiciously, he yanked it out of her hand and read it. The Hennessey twins had found Phineas. He had been taken prisoner and was in a mine outside Bridger Creek, South Carolina.
India sat back down as Quinn stared into the fire. The light flickered on his face. He rubbed his forehead and nodded. “Aye, we will go and get him after we take care of Ferguson and his gang.”
India said nothing.
Suddenly, Quinn swung around and looked at her sharply. “Don’t even think about it!” he roared.
“N-no,” she stammered defensively, “I couldn’t do it alone. It would be too risky.”
Quinn knew that she was lying. “You could make things worse. You both could be killed. Promise me you won’t go.”
He stared at her for a long time until she shrugged and exclaimed, “I won’t go!”
A young man approached. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said to Quinn. The boy wore buckskin and carried a long rifle that was taller than him. “The sharpshooters are assembled.”
“Thank you,” Quinn mumbled, dismissing him.
Quinn put one last spoonful of stew into his mouth, forcing himself to eat, his eyes never leaving India as he chewed. He did not trust her. He put down the bowl and stood up abruptly, furious that he had to go. Why did this news have to come before a major engagement?
He took India’s hands and pulled her to her feet. She fell into his arms, burying her face into his topcoat. Quinn clutched her so tightly, she could hardly breathe. She looked up at him, and he put his hands at the back of her head pulling her roughly into a kiss. His caresses were frantic and desperate. He kissed her cheeks, her hair, and then her mouth again and again, then abruptly stepped away from her, looking at her hard.
He put on his hat and swung into the saddle. India watched him without expression. No tears came into her eyes and no words came from her lips. Quinn knew that look. She had assumed the role of freedom fighter once more, and she was going for Phineas.
“Don’t do it,” he said, but India did not respond.
He clenched his jaw and jerked the reins of his gelding turning toward his own battle and possibly his own demise.
Chapter 39
India narrowed her eyes examining the gray and red field stone structure. It was the guardhouse of the makeshift prison where Phineas was housed, and she was standing in the woods examining the mine from a distance. What had once been Bridger Creek Mining was now in ruins and abandoned to the elements. The only structure left was used as a guardhouse, and that too was crumbling and overgrown. Field stones had been scavenged by farmers over the years for the construction of foundations and chimneys in the area leaving very little evidence of the original structure above ground.
India could see two guards sharing a bottle. When they emptied it, they dropped down onto their knees to shoot dice. A hunched woman in homespun was walking away from them down a road toward an inn in the distance. She had two buckets on a yoke swinging from her shoulders and a basket on her arm. India watched her closely. She guessed by the way she was walking the buckets were empty as well as the basket. The woman had just delivered food and water to the prisoners.
There was a rumble of thunder overhead and India looked up. It was early October and already the wind blew cold. She gathered her shawl more closely around her shoulders. Leaves tumbled around her feet as she looked back at the mine with anxiety. She pressed her eyes shut for a moment and bit her lip. She could not allow herself to dwell on the horrors that Phineas may be enduring in the bowels of that monstrosity.
India was wearing a brown homespun gown too with a white neckerchief and mob cap. She had a shawl over her shoulders. It was imperative she look like a farm wife when she approached the townspeople of Bridger Creek.
Mrs. McIntosh, one of the Overmountain wives, and her son had quickly escorted India to Covington, a town not far from the mine, then hurried home to harvest. They did not care to stay in the area. The region was a stronghold of fierce Loyalists, prone to patriot lynching and mob rule. India had to travel a short distance alone. Although the journey was charged with danger, she had made it safely.
She adjusted the pistol in her waistband so it did not show, picked up her bag and started for the inn. Split rail fences bordered the road as she trudged along. Although she was exhausted, the thought of being close to Phineas again gave her renewed energy. The wind tangled the skirts around her legs. She watched the woman who delivered water put down her buckets and walk inside the inn
The Hennesseys had said in their note that the innkeeper and his bartender were patriots. There were among the few freedom fighters in this part of the mountains. They instructed her to contact these men but to be very discreet. They were completely undercover and appeared to be pillars of the Loyalist community.
Bridger Creek was like every other village in the Carolina back country. It consisted of a blacksmith shop and inn placed at crossroads, surrounded by fields, pasture then dense forests full of mountain laurel. But there was one dangerous difference; this cross road was the epicenter of Tories in the Carolina Mountains.
Chickens scattered as India walked up the steps of the Bridger Creek Inn. She came prepared with a story about coming to stay with her sister, Mrs. James MacDougall, who was the only other patriot contact in Bridger Creek. She too was undercover.
When India walked in, a large bald man with a full beard looked up from the fireplace where he was squatting. He wiped his hands on his apron and lumbered over to her. He towered over India, his large stomach straining against his dirty breeches. It was early morning, and the inn was empty except for the woman she had seen earlier. She was behind the bar, pouring herself a drink. Bridger Creek Inn was dilapidated and dirty. Greasy hams covered with flies hung from the ceiling, and the patron’s tables were covered with crumbs and sticky beer stains.
“Good day to you,” India said to the man. “I am looking for my sister, Mrs. James MacDougall.”
A glimmer of recognition came into the man’s eyes. It was obvious that he was expecting her. He nodded, looked cautiously at the woman nursing a drink then
back at India. “My name is Bledsoe. You came sooner than expected,” he growled in a deep bass voice. “The MacDougalls are gone on business with the innkeeper until tomorrow. You can stay upstairs tonight.”
“Very well,” she said.
“Mrs. Granger,” he barked at the woman. “Take her to a room.”
Mrs. Granger was a woman late in years. She had a weathered face, and her cheeks and nose were reddened from years of drink. She tipped her head back, emptied her tankard and started up the steps sullenly. India followed behind her, up the creaky wooden staircase. They went to a dark, dirty room that smelled of stale smoke and vomit. India wanted to put a hankie to her nose but refrained. Mrs. Granger stepped to a cupboard and took out some gray bedding, handing the bundle to India.
When she started for the door, India said quickly, “I don’t like to drink alone.”
Mrs. Granger looked at her sharply, her eyes narrowing.
India held up a coin and said, “I’ll buy.”
“I’ll be downstairs,” the woman said, closing the door behind her.
India sighed and looked around the room. She was pleased that Mrs. Granger was a drinker. She knew now that she could ply the old woman and the sentries with liquor. It would be a simple task to render them defenseless with alcohol then go about her business freeing Phineas and the others.
She found out that the woman took food and water out to the prison at sunrise and sunset. That afternoon India fed Mrs. Granger copious amounts of rum, pretending to drink with her, but all the time obtaining alcohol free beverages from Mr. Bledsoe at the bar. When Mrs. Granger was snoring by the fire, India stepped outside into the twilight, tying her shawl across her breast. Rain had left the air cold and damp, and she shivered. She could not stop worrying about Phineas and wondering about his health, living in a mine underground in conditions similar to these, day in and day out.
India found the yoke in a shed out back, filled the buckets with water and hoisted the yoke across her shoulders and picked up her basket. She was going out to get a closer look at the prison and get familiar with the sentries.
As she walked toward the mine it struck her how quiet it was out here. She could hear nothing but the wind in her ears. She knew the cries of pain and suffering were muffled forty feet below.
As she approached she could see the guards pulling a rope hanging from a pulley, straining as if hoisting a great weight. An oblong wicker basket emerged from the mine shaft, swinging slowly back and forth. India realized that there was a body in the basket. The guards pushed it away from the shaft and lowered it onto the ground.
A dark haired young soldier with chiseled features looked at India and barked, “Where’s Granger?”
“Sleeping,” India said, examining the face of the corpse anxiously to make sure it was not Phineas.
“You mean drunk,” said the other guard, a paunchy man in his middle years with heavy jowls and sagging eyes. He was wheezing and sat down heavily.
India put the buckets down and reached into her basket lifting out a bottle. “Here’s your daily ration from Mr. Bledsoe.”
The younger guard yanked the bottle out of her hand, examining it. “Daily ration my ass,” he exclaimed. “We never got this before.”
A smile flickered on India’s lips. She could tell they were falling for her story. “Is this the first you’ve heard of it?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. “Mr. Bledsoe told me he sends a bottle out to you every evening with Mrs. Granger.”
“Well, that old cow!” exclaimed the older guard with astonishment. “We never got a bottle. I’ll wager she’s been keepin’ it for herself all this time.”
The men sat down and began passing the liquor back and forth, chugging it quickly. While they were preoccupied with the rum, India ran her eyes over everything, scanning the mine shaft, looking at the pulleys, firearms and the guards.
“How many traitors are down there?” she asked.
The men looked at each other. She could tell they weren’t sure. The young man shrugged. “Thirteen, fourteen.”
India looked at the basket of food and swallowed hard. There was not enough food in there to feed four men.
The older guard ran his eyes over India. “Join us,” he said, holding the bottle out to her.
“Tomorrow,” she said, smiling.
“Make sure you come out tomorrow, not that old crone,” the young guard said. “God damn her.”
India nodded and started back to the inn, satisfied that she had ingratiated herself to the guards.
* * *
Phineas woke up with a start. It seemed as if all he did lately was sleep. There was little else to do in this damp, foul tomb, and after his illness he seemed to have so little energy. It had even become difficult to stand, and he knew that it was not just because of his injured leg; it was lack of food and sunlight as well. He was growing weaker everyday.
He heard men’s voices from the main shaft. The few prisoners who now moved around the subterranean passages were of questionable character, and Phineas remained aloof from them. He had known their kind on the streets when he was a boy, and he knew they were ignorant brutish thugs, who would use every means necessary to satisfy their desires. A few hours earlier they had informed him that they were planning an escape and would be demanding his assistance shortly. Phineas knew that the only reason they had the energy to plan a break was because they were stealing everyone’s food. Either way, there was little chance of success. He placed his hopes instead in the war ending soon and his eventual release, yet as each day passed, his optimism faded.
In the dim light, Phineas saw a grizzly man approaching him. “Get up you lazy bastard and help us pull beams down to the door!”
Saying nothing, Phineas struggled to his feet. Holding the slimy wall for support, he followed the man to a shaft that had caved in and was strewn with rocks and splintered beams. Although Phineas’ legs shook, he helped the man drag a large timber beam down to the end of the main shaft. A lantern hanging on a nail cast light on a wooden door which had, at one time, been another exit. The British had barricaded it when they had converted the mine to a prison.
More men came with more timber dropping the beams onto a pile leaning against the wooden door. When Phineas had gained enough strength to speak, he asked, “Are we going to ram it?”
The grizzly prisoner wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked at Phineas as if he was stupid. “No, we’re going to burn it.”
* * *
That evening Bridger Creek Inn came to life. The noise started about ten o’clock and built steadily as the night progressed. India could hear the patrons laughing and shouting and the whores giggling as they escorted johns upstairs to the rooms, one after the other. She judged that the inn must have had five or six full time working girls. She watched discreetly from the window as men flooded into the tavern. Many of them were British regulars who brought tankards outside to smoke, tell bawdy jokes and take the girls into the bushes. Bridger Creek Inn did a thriving business with the Loyalists and India marveled at the amount of information the innkeeper and his employee Mr. Bledsoe must have been able to obtain for the patriot cause.
That night India slept little and rose before dawn, determined to beat Mrs. Granger to the buckets and yoke. Today was the day she would free Phineas. She slipped quietly downstairs to the dimly lit bar room which was quiet and empty except for a figure sitting by the fire with his back to her. The man was sitting very straight holding a cane.
“Good morning, Lady Allen,” he said.
India’s heart jumped into her throat. She recognized Oliver Dupuis’ nasal voice as certainly as he recognized her footsteps. Thin as a scarecrow, he did not move a muscle, his hands resting on the knob of his cane. India put her hand to her nose. He still smelled of rotten teeth and unwashed clothing. She walked in front of him.
“I hope you have found my establishment to your liking. I have been the innkeeper here since Philadelphia fell,” he said. “I have been exp
ecting you.”
India narrowed her eyes and said, “Don’t think for a minute you can stand in my way, Dupuis.”
He raised his hand to his breast sarcastically. “Me? Really Lady Allen, you have a low opinion of me. At times of war we must put our personal differences aside for the greater good. I remain the true and loyal patriot I have always been.”
India’s head was swimming. She was not prepared for the presence of this monster. He was not only unpredictable, self serving and dangerous, but he had an ax to grind with her for taking Lucretia from him.
Suddenly the front door of the inn flew open and the middle aged guard from the prison burst in. “Smoke in the mine!”
“What!” India cried.
“They’ve built a fire,” the man replied, his face ashen.
India gasped and pushed him aside, running out the door. Picking up her skirts she flew down the steps of the inn, and ran down the road to the mine. She could see the younger guard looking down the shaft as smoke belched out.
As she ran up, he pointed to the tree line. “No rush. They’re gone. I saw them run out the door at the other end and into the woods. They set fire to it.”
“Are--” and she panted, trying to catch her breath. “Are you sure they are all out?”
The young guard sneered. “Who cares?”
India grabbed the body basket. “Help me hook this up. We are going to lower it just in case,” she demanded.
The guard looked at her indignantly. “Who the hell are you? I have orders no one is to come out of that mine.”
India straightened up, reached around to the back of her skirt and pulled out her pistol, pointing it at him. “Oh, you’ll help me.”
The Sword of the Banshee Page 36