The Sword of the Banshee (19 page)

Phineas stepped heavily onto India’s foot, and she lowered her eyes, heeding the boy’s warning.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. This has all been difficult. I was born years after Quinn left Kildare. He never knew me.”

At the mention of Kildare, the man’s eyebrows shot up, and India knew that she had hit her mark. She remembered Calleigh mentioning County Kildare fondly in his letters. She also remembered his love of horses as well, so she looked over at the pasture and said, “Ah and there’s his little darlin’s.”

Out of the corner of her eye, India could see the man look her up and down suspiciously.

She turned back to him and asked, “Were you a friend of his?”

“I was,” he said curtly, offering no further information.

“Would you mind showing me his restin’ place?”

He grumbled and said reluctantly, “Over there,” and pointed to a cluster of weeping willows by the river.

“Thank you,” she said.

India and Phineas walked over to the group of trees. Red sumac and thick bayberry shrubs covered the river bank, and several otters slid down into the water as they approached. At the base of a large willow was a mound of dirt with a wooden cross.

India walked over to it, bowed her head and said under her breath, “Have you seen anything?”

Phineas whispered, “I saw him hide some keys in his pocket as he walked up to you.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing else, just someone watching us from the woods,” Phineas said.

“What?” said India, fighting the urge to look up. “Is that all?” she said sarcastically.

“I saw him for just a minute, and then he was gone.”

India pursed her lips, thought for a moment then said, “Well, I am guessing this will flush them out.”

She started back toward the house. The man was sitting on the steps waiting for them, and he stood up. India said, “Have you been takin’ care of Mr. Calleigh’s property since his passin’, sir?”

“I have.”

“May I have a look inside the home?”

“No, I didn’t bring the keys.”

India looked disappointed. “Oh, well then may I ask your name so we can look ya up tomorrow when Quinn’s eldest brother arrives? Since he is next of kin, he will be wantin’ to move in right away.”

“Brother? Now wait a minute here--”

“Your name is, sir?”

“Enoch Powell but--,”

“I am sorry to have kept ya from your work,” India said, starting down the driveway with Phineas.

They returned immediately to the inn and waited. India knew that before the night was out she would have a reaction.

That evening when they went downstairs to supper, the tavern was empty. There was only one man sitting by the door drinking. He was hunched over the table with his tricorne hat shadowing his face. He did not look up when they sat down.

The innkeeper approached with a tray. “It is chops and kraut tonight,” he said, setting down their supper. It had been dark for some time and a fire blazed in the fireplace. India could hear the wind howling outside. Again Phineas gobbled his meal and washed down a tankard his of ale. Before India had finished her chop, he was snoring in his chair again. The man by the door was sleeping too, his head on his arms.

India chuckled and swept the crumbs from her gown, starting to get up. As quick as lightning, someone sat down beside her. She started. It was the man who had been sitting by the door.

He said in a drawl, “Someone wants to meet with you.”

Although the firelight shadowed his face, she could see that he was a man of middle years with heavy bags under his eyes and a body as scant as a scarecrow.

India asked coolly, “Who wants to speak with me?”

“When he’s ready, he’ll tell you,” the man said. He held India’s gaze then spit tobacco juice onto the hearth. “Come with me.”

India moved to wake Phineas, and the man stopped her. “He stays here. He had plenty of rum in his ale tonight. He won’t even know you’re gone.”

“Muller!” he barked at the innkeeper. “Take the boy to bed.”

The innkeeper scurried over, lifted Phineas and carried him up the stairs. The man jerked India roughly to her feet dragging her out to the front of the tavern and had her get onto his horse. He crawled up behind her and tied a blindfold over her eyes. India did not struggle. She was eager to end this mystery.

They started down the road. Since her vision was inhibited, India’s hearing and sense of smell became keen. The wind was raw and stung her face and hands. The dry leaves rustled overhead, and crunched under the horse’s hooves as they trudged along a wooded path. She heard an owl hoot in the distance, and she could smell the dry, dusty scent of crumbling leaves.

The homespun fabric of the man’s jacket was rough against her skin as he leaned over and spit tobacco juice as they rode along. They passed through a marsh where the air was heavy with moisture and alive with crickets. The horse began to pull them up a hill and pass through a field. India heard a dog barking in the distance, and suddenly sounds were muffled and they were out of the wind. She knew they were near buildings. The horse stopped. The man dismounted, pulled her down and untied her blindfold.

India rubbed her eyes and looked around. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but she could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. She turned and the dark form of a barn loomed up before her.

The man took her arm and pushed her inside the structure. It smelled of hay and dung and was pitch black except for a blaze of light at the far end of the barn. India licked her lips and took a deep breath. It was hard not to feel unnerved. She did not know who or what was waiting in the darkness, but she could feel something there. A tingling sensation crawled up her spine and if anyone were to touch her suddenly, she thought she would swoon.

Hesitantly, she walked toward the light and as she drew closer, she realized that it came from four candelabrums set on a table. She took several more steps and looked up. A vast roof stretched over her head.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a group of men in white sheets gathered behind her. In a rush, all her memories of Cragmere Ruins returned, and her heart started to pound. India stopped in front of the illuminated table, swallowed hard and waited. Chairs scraped on the floor on the other side of the table as if several people were sitting down. India strained to see past the flames blazing before her.

At last, someone demanded in a rough voice, “What is your name?”

India steadied herself and said, “Lorna Calleigh.”

“Tell us your name.”

India repeated, “Lorna Calleigh.”

“God damn it!” the man roared, slamming his fist on the table. “That is not your name! Now what is it?”

India froze. The flames of the candles darted about nervously.

“If you don’t tell us who you are, you will be hanged as a British spy, right here, right now,” said another.

She tried to look past the candles but could only see shadows. Calling on all her reserves, she demanded, “I want to know who
you
are.”

There was silence. Intuition told India that danger was imminent and that she must move quickly. She reached inside the pocket of her gown and pulled out her pistol. Everyone jumped, but before they could grab her weapon, India laid it on the table.

“You are nothing more than school boys playing soldier,” she said. “This man had no instructions to search me. I could have shot him as we rode. This sort of negligence costs lives.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone take the pistol.

“Your attempts at dramatic effect are commendable, but superfluous,” she continued. “I don’t scare easily and neither will loyal Englishmen.”

India was met with silence. She began to think maybe they did intend to hang her. The air was thick with tension when a voice said, “Welcome to the American Revolution, Lady Fitzpatrick.”

Chapter 17

It wasn’t the storm that kept Quinn Calleigh awake that night. He ran his fingers through his curly dark hair, looking outside. It was useless to try to sleep when he knew something was about to happen. He could feel the tension in the air, and he could feel it churning in the pit of his stomach, yet he could not identify it.

The struggle for freedom was accelerating, and it was sure to explode into bloodshed any day, yet that was not what nagged him. Everyone in the American Colonies shared the same anxiety about the threat of war, but this was different. This was more personal and more threatening to
his
well-being.

Lightning blazed across the western sky followed by a deafening blast which shook the house on the Brandywine. Quinn looked past the rain toward the cluster of willows blowing horizontally by the river. That Fitzpatrick woman had been there earlier, searching the grounds trying to flush him out. Powell told him that she tried to get into the house. The men had thought she was a spy and did not trust her.

At first he was suspicious, but when he had seen the pistol, he knew it was Lady Fitzpatrick. It was her calling card to him. Even before she presented the firearm, he knew it was her. No woman this side of the ocean would have the audacity to address a group of men so ferociously.

Quinn smiled. So her husband was dead, and she was here at last. They could forge ahead. They had long needed her expertise to form a successful insurgency against the British in Delaware and Eastern Pennsylvania. He had to admit thus far they had been sloppy and careless, amateur in their tactics.

Without a doubt she was the expert they needed, but on a personal level, Lady Fitzpatrick was a disappointment.  He had imagined a proud, fiery beauty with volumes of dark hair and the carriage an Amazon, but instead she was a thin colorless peasant woman, as plain as a little gray mouse. His fantasy had crumbled when he laid eyes upon her.

Quinn chuckled and turned to the cabinet to pour a drink. He was always on the prowl for some new female, and most of the time he was disappointed. He had known too many women and grown jaded. No one seemed to turn his head anymore. The conquests were too easy, and he longed for someone unattainable.

He tossed his head back emptying the glass of whiskey as the thunder rumbled. The wind blew through the chinks in the window unsettling the flame of the candle, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He had not been sleeping lately and there were dark rings under his eyes.

Quinn knew that he looked like his Iberian ancestors. He was called, “Black Irish.” They were thought to be descendants of the Spanish Armada who were washed ashore centuries ago and assimilated into the armies of Irish chieftains. Dark haired Irishmen with swarthy complexions, these Irish men and women were few in number and exotic in look.

Quinn and his younger brother were the only siblings who exhibited these characteristics. The others had light skin and auburn hair. Most of them had married and become tenant farmers. He was the only child who shamed his mother by making his living from illegal activities.

The whiskey started to warm Quinn’s blood, and he felt his muscles relax. He was growing tired. There would be no more questions tonight about what nagged him. He sighed deeply, turned from the window and dropped fully clothed onto his bed. Sleep came at last.

*                *            *

Quinn rose early the next morning and went out riding before the sun came up. Since the charade of his death, it was necessary to do many of his activities under the cover of darkness. Saddling one of his thoroughbred geldings, he went down by the river for a run. The rush of cool air felt good on his face and cleared his head. Morning rides always had this effect on him.

He had been riding less lately, and he missed it. Since he had gone into hiding, it had been necessary to leave the care of his horses to Enoch Powell, a trusted friend, but he missed the company of his horses. He loved his thoroughbreds with their saucy attitudes and his quarter horses, the best sprinters in the world. Two Connemara ponies had just arrived from Ireland, and he regretted not being able to train them personally.

Quinn Calleigh had made his money in two arenas, horse trading and iron. His passion was horse flesh, his income was iron. In 1763, when he fled Ireland, he met a Quaker on board ship who encouraged him to work at his prosperous forge in the Schuylkill Valley of Pennsylvania.  After several months of grueling labor, Quinn elected to invest rather than toil, giving Benjamin Rush, the owner, the majority of his savings. The Rush Forge proved to be a lucrative investment enabling him to buy several large tracts of property in the Brandywine Valley where he bred brown Swiss cattle.

Years passed and Calleigh prospered beyond his wildest dreams. As the Colonies grew, so too did the demand for iron, and he found himself with a glut of resources. Eager to reinvest, he began indulging his passion of breeding thoroughbreds and quarter horses and selling them to the colonists of Delaware and Pennsylvania.

To purchase thoroughbreds, Calleigh had to return to Ireland to foster relationships with Irish landlords. These Irishmen had a long tradition of breeding the finest horseflesh in the world, but it was difficult dealing with them. Many of them were arrogant aristocrats and unscrupulous businessmen, but Quinn Calleigh was tenacious and succeeded in arranging scores of lucrative transactions. His quick wit and good nature served him well.