The Sword of the Banshee (17 page)

Brandywine Valley, Delaware Colony. 6
th
November 1773

My Dear Lady Fitzpatrick,

I was told once that freedom for the Irish will be found in the New World. I know now this is true. It is a land ripe with opportunities to carve a new country. I beg of you, bring your fight to the New World. We need your brilliance to light our way to freedom. It is here that the Irish people will find their liberty.

Should you, for any reason, decide to cross the Atlantic and join us, I have booked passage for you at Cork. Report to the brokerage of Abbott and Tierney at your leisure, they will make all the necessary arrangements.

Your Humble Servant,

Mr. Quinn Calleigh

Philadelphia, Colony of Pennsylvania

1774

Chapter 14

India stood motionless with a bag in her hand on the wharf of the city of Philadelphia. Without moving her head, her eyes swept across the panorama of chaos. Crates swung over her head, their frayed ropes straining from weight, sweat stained sailors rolled barrels up and down ramps into warehouses, and teamsters whipped oxen pulling wagons bulging with cargo. Seagulls screeched overhead dropping without warning to the stone pavement, pecking at dead rats or discarded produce from vendors. 

The smell of fish, salt and vomit permeated the air, but India did not touch a hankie to her nose. Instead she filled her lungs with the familiar smell of land and city. She was glad to have the solid feel of earth under her feet again. She was told that the voyage from Cork to the Colonies had gone well and been uneventful, but for her it was the adventure of a lifetime.

A smile flickered over her lips. Dublin seemed provincial compared to this rough, boisterous jumble of humanity huddled on the shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. Even though most of the inhabitants were from Great Britain, India observed many large, raw-boned folk with light hair speaking German, Dutch and Swedish.

A large crowd of blacks filed past her, chained together. The African slave seemed to outnumber everyone. She noticed some of them hauling cargo supervised by draymen with whips, other slaves were dressed in livery waiting by coaches, and she spied several black-skinned women in mob caps shopping with baskets over their arms. It was a sight not common in Ireland, even in Dublin.

Suddenly someone clamped onto India’s arm and yanked her to the right.

“Look lively, Miss!” barked a dirty faced boy, pointing over her shoulder.

India looked behind her and saw amber liquid pouring down where she had been standing. A terrified cow swung overhead in a harness, bellowing loudly and urinating.

India’s jaw dropped, and she turned back to the boy. “Thank you.”

The boy smiled at her, his teeth blackened and his dark hair matted. He grabbed her wrist again and pulled her. This time a man standing on a crate swung over India.

“You can’t stand here. You’ll get killed. Come on--”

He pulled India onto a street of public houses and shops. It was lined with sagging wooden structures and a few red brick buildings. The boy looked at India’s shabby brown gown over her white shift. She was dirty from the voyage and in need of a bath. “Are you looking to be a house servant, Miss?”

India nodded. “Yes, but before I find a situation, I must find me brother,” she said in an affected Irish brogue.

She looked around trying to decide what her next move would be. The streets were crowded and people rushed past, jostling them. Carriages stopped at the public houses depositing patrons.

“Maybe I can help you find him,” shouted the lad over the noise.

India clutched her bag to her breast and looked him up and down. She concluded that he was about nine years of age and obviously a street urchin. He was dressed in filthy rags smelling of urine. In spite of his poor teeth he had a contagious smile.

She narrowed her eyes. “You best not be after me purse, boy. There is nothin’ to pinch there anyway.”

He straightened up indignantly, “No, Miss! I am up to nothing of the kind.”

“Hmmm,” said India. “What’s your name?”

“Phineas Martin-Pierpoint.”

India’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t expected such a dignified name. “Well, Master Pierpoint, where are your people?”

He shrugged, and she noticed the dust shower off of him.  “I take care of myself. What’s your name, Miss?”

“Miss Calleigh, Lorna Calleigh.”

On the voyage she had decided to use an assumed name until she could learn more about her patron Quinn Calleigh.

“Your brother is Mr. Calleigh? Well I’ll be! I know the man. I know just where he lives--” His eyes rested on a pie man’s cart. “For a roly-poly, I’ll take you there.”

India thought for a moment then sighed. She knew the boy was lying, but she had an idea. “Very well,” she said walking over to the cart.

After paying, they sat down on a bench under a tree. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she tasted the chicken pie. She tore into it ravenously. After the voyage she had been momentarily rejuvenated by the excitement of the New World, but now relaxed she realized she was weak and famished.

The boy ate his meat pie in two gulps, and then watched India finish hers. She watched the pedestrians and the carriages pass by as she ate. The carriages were beautiful and well-crafted and the ordinary folk’s dress was of good quality. Compared to Ireland, the Colonists seemed prosperous. She looked up at the umbrella of trees overhead. The abundance of flora astounded her. Ireland had been depleted of natural resources hundreds of years ago.

When she was done, she brushed the crumbs from her lap and said, “Now that your belly is full, Phineas do ya want to tell me the truth?”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “About what, Miss?”

“Ya don’t know where Mr. Calleigh lives. In fact, ya have no idea who the man is.”

“But--”

“He doesn’t live here at all. He lives in the Brandywine Valley.”

Phineas looked at India wide eyed and said, “If you knew where he lived, why did you buy me a roly-poly?”

“Because I need ya to help me. Ya know things about the Colonies that I don’t know. Ya can help me get situated and keep me safe.  Now I ask ya again, where are your people, lad?”

He scowled, made a foul gesture at her and started walking away.

India picked up her bag and ran after him. She caught his arm and said, “I am not pryin’ into your life. I just don’t want to take ya away from someone who cares for ya.”

Phineas yanked his arm away. “Ain’t nobody that cares for me.” He looked up at her, his lower lip pushed out. “Why don’t
you
tell
me
the truth? You ain’t no servant girl. I can tell by your hands and the way you say your words. You are a lady in servant’s clothes.”

She pursed her lips, looking at him. “Smart boy. Alright Phineas,” she said dropping the accent, “--if that’s your real name.”

“It is.”

“If you can keep a secret and help me, I can give you food and shelter. I need someone with wits to accompany me to the Brandywine Valley. Do we have a deal?”

He put his grubby hand into hers and grinned, showing his blackened teeth. “Deal.”

*                *            *

Phineas knew where to catch the coach and by mid- afternoon they were headed for the Brandywine Valley. The vehicle was bulging with people and packages as it tumbled down a dirt road headed for the sleepy towns of rural Pennsylvania and Delaware. While India was stuffed inside the coach with two German matrons and an elderly English gentleman, Phineas was perched on top of the vehicle with two other men, clinging to the luggage bar, being tossed about like popcorn on a fire. The wind tangled his hair and made his eyes tear as the countryside shot past him in a blur. The threat of being thrown and possibly killed did not dampen Phineas’ enthusiasm; in fact it thrilled him beyond measure.

India too was enthralled. For the first hour she leaned forward looking out the window, eager to observe this new land. The untouched forest seemed to go on endlessly. It was in sharp contrast to Ireland where the woodland areas were few and dotted the landscape only occasionally. Here in the fall, the brush and foliage was ablaze with color and so thick one could not see beyond the path traveled. India wondered if she looked closely, she might actually see an Indian.

The sun blinked at her through the chestnut trees as they passed through an open meadow. A short while later she saw a stream tumbling down out of the hills over mossy rocks and spied a deer as it bounded into the safety of a hickory grove.

“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said an elderly gentleman sitting next to her. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Duncan Durham. I heard you talking to your boy earlier. You are Irish?”

For the first time since they left Philadelphia, India looked at the other passengers in the coach. The elderly gentleman talking to her was dressed in a white wig and fine clothes holding a newspaper in his lap and there were two German women sitting across from her fast asleep, leaning head to head with parcels on their laps.

“Aye,” she said burying her hands in the folds of her gown, remembering what Phineas had said about having the hands of a lady. “It is most beautiful here. I am enjoyin’ the ride.”

“And the lad, he is up top?”

India chuckled, “I hope he is still up there.”

The man nodded toward the woods and explained, “We have not yet reached the Brandywine River Valley. That is when the true beauty begins.”

She smiled, and they traveled in silence once more, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. Eventually the elderly gentlemen leaned back closing his eyes. India took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He was tall and thin with a long nose and large feet. He wore an expensive shirt of the finest linen and rich leather boots. India imagined he must be a man of some importance and social standing.  She noticed several rather vulgar rings on his fingers where he held a newspaper.

She sat back too, the movement of the coach rocking her gently and making her drowsy. She dozed until the scenery called to her again, and she resumed her observation.

“Do you like this new land?” Mr. Durham asked suddenly.

“Oh, you are awake,” she said with surprise. “Aye, it is very peaceful here.”

“Ah but sadly you are wrong, There is no peace in this land as long as rubbish like this is circulated,” he said picking up his newspaper.

India frowned. “I am afraid I don’t read,” she lied. “What is it, sir?”

“The Boston Gazette, they have published private letters of the Governor of Massachusetts to the Crown. He requests troops sent over to put down the rabble who oppose the King. Of course, the rebel incendiaries are making the most of this.”

Pretending to be naive, India pressed him. “Has there been trouble here?”

“Trouble! There has been nothing
but
trouble here. There is an extraordinarily loud group of subjects here in the Colonies who are fighting His Majesties taxes to pay for a war that saved them from French domination.”

India looked at him thoughtfully and said, “It seems ungrateful.”

“Indeed! And it doesn’t stop there. There have been several acts of destruction destroying his Majesties property, violence in Boston against the King’s troops and against loyal subjects. I tell you it is mob rule!”

Durham stopped abruptly and looked at her as if he was ashamed. “I must apologize. You were so very happy to be here a moment ago and now I am ruining—yet wasn’t there a rebellion in Ireland recently?”

India looked out the window. “It’s over now.”

“Another example of ungrateful subjects,” Mr. Durham mumbled to himself.

“Indeed,” murmured India. “They will have to find their freedom elsewhere.”

Chapter 15

“This is the Brandywine Valley!” exclaimed Mr. Durham with a broad grin.

Suddenly, the landscape opened up before India, like someone had snapped a patchwork quilt open and laid it across soft down pillows. Gone was the constricting dirt path winding through the dense forest, and in its place was a graceful valley, with tree and vine-covered banks sloping down to a dark green river.

The setting sun cast a golden glow across the hills before the chill of an autumn evening tiptoed in. India looked up as a flock of geese crossed in formation across the valley. Here and there she noticed evidence of settlers, their split rail fences lining the hills and field stone walls bordering their homesteads. The scene was one of pastoral harmony.

“Look there,” Mr. Durham said leaning over and pointing out the window. “That’s the Quaker meeting house.” Tall pines lined a road leading to a hexagon-shaped structure.

India took of deep breath of the sweet smelling air, filled with the dew of twilight. “It smells fresh and new here. Everything seems young in this land,” she said.