The Sword of the Banshee (25 page)

Feeling satisfied, India rearranged her hair, pinned on her plumed hat once more and resumed the excursion to Singer Rum Brokerage. It was just a few doors down, a large red brick warehouse near the quay. They entered the office door.

“Good Morning,” said a petite woman with gray hair. She was dressed in a gray gown with a neckerchief tucked into her bodice and a mob cab on her head. In spite of her years, she was still a handsome woman. She stepped down from her high desk. The room smelled of ink and sawdust. Two other workers sat at desks, looking up briefly before returning to their work.

It was dark in the office but India could see into the warehouse where there was a loading dock alive with activity. Men were stacking barrels onto wagons, shouting orders and giving instructions.

“I am here to see Mr. Malachi Singer,” she said.

“That is my husband,” the woman replied.

She stepped to the door of the warehouse and called for him. A big raw boned man, with thick features and dark eyes turned around. His head was bald and he had a quill behind his ear. When he reached India, his eyes widened with a look of recognition. Mr. Singer directed India to a desk at the back of the office as the woman took Phineas aside and offered him some maple candy.

Mr. Singer’s desk was littered with papers. He held a chair for India then sat down on the other side, taking the quill from his ear. Pretending to scratch items onto a list he said in a voice thick with a German accent, “I know who you are. Calleigh told me you’d come. What is it you need?”

India said quietly, “I understand you are a rum broker and sometimes do business with the British Army.”

He nodded. “On a small scale for local supplies. Their large orders come directly from the quay. Mr. Calleigh asked me to continue dealing with them even though I am a patriot and would rather honor the ban on trade,” he explained.

“Do you know why he wants you to continue to trade with them?” asked India.

He scanned the office quickly. A customer came in and was discussing an order with his wife. “I believe he wants knowledge of where the rum is being delivered to the army.”

“That is correct,” she said. “I will need those facts delivered to me the moment they become available to you. This will be dangerous. Can you obtain information on large shipments as well?”

“I can report what I see and what I hear on the quay.”

“Now, about a courier--,” she started to say.

“I have already thought of that,” he said.

“What do you propose?”

“I was born in Germany, but I am of Jewish descent. I will write the information in Yiddish and have it delivered to my friend in Wilmington who speaks Yiddish as well. He will bring it to you and translate it for you. Is that acceptable?”

India nodded and smiled slowly. “That is acceptable.”

“If I may ask,” he said. “Are you Irish?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

He nodded. “Our reasons for this revolution are the same, Lady Allen. We are both without a homeland.”

*           *            *

The next stop was at the residence of Camille Ashton an actress known for entertaining British officers and gentlemen. She resided in a large town house in a fashionable district of Philadelphia. When India and Phineas arrived they were turned away because Mrs. Ashton was still completing her toilet. When they returned an hour later, they were admitted into the sitting room, and there they waited.

The room was decorated in the latest fashion of the day with murals on the walls of French landscapes, gray wainscoted walls and cabinets filled with figurines on either side of the fireplace. India slid onto the edge a wing back chair by the hearth, and Phineas sat on a footstool at her feet, looking about stiffly as if he was afraid he would break something.

After thirty minutes, the doors rolled open and Camille Ashton swept in, sumptuously dressed in an emerald green gown embroidered with tiny bluebells and a violet wig. Her face was powdered a stark white and sprinkled heavily with beauty marks. Phineas’ mouth dropped open as India ran her eyes over the woman; she thought the ensemble was far too garish for afternoon attire.

“Please state your business quickly,” Mrs. Ashton said abruptly. “I have rehearsal in a few moments.” She turned her back on them and looked in a mirror, arranging her wig.

India said, “Phineas please wait outside in the hall.”

The boy went out and pulled the doors shut.

Mrs. Ashton turned around. “Well, what is this about?”

India stood up. “My name is Lady Allen, Mrs. Ashton. Quinn Calleigh has sent me to discuss your role in the cause of freedom.”

Camille Ashton ran her eyes over India. “Oh yes. Well, you will have to make an appointment. I am very busy.”

India’s eyes grew wide and turned a bright green. Taking a deep breath, she asked calmly, “Mrs. Ashton, are you interested in a having a role in the rebellion?”

“I am but as I said--”

“Then
sit
down,” India snapped.

Camille Ashton’s jaw dropped, and she lowered herself into a chair, her eyes never leaving India’s face.

“If you want to be part of this operation, you will do as I say, when I say it, without question. Is that clear?”

“Yes--Yes, Lady Allen,” she stuttered.

India glared at the woman. “I understand that you entertain British officers and Loyalists.”

“That is correct,” she replied, her eyes on India.

“I find it unlikely that they will discuss military matters with you so I have a mission for you which is quite different than what you would expect,” explained India, standing in front of the hearth. “I want
you
to feed the British
information.”

Mrs. Ashton frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I will give you false information about the condition of our troops and false information about our troop movements which you will in turn pass onto them. I don’t care how you do it or how you say your received the information, just spill it.”

“I see,” Camille said, swallowing hard. “Will you bring the information here to my home?”

“Not personally. It will be sent to you coded into theatrical scripts. I will leave a tool with you today called a mask which will help you decipher the code, any questions?”

“N--No, I don’t believe so,” said Mrs. Ashton, suddenly fanning herself.

India reached inside the pocket of her gown and handed Camille a quill. “This is hollow. Inside, rolled up, is the mask. Place it over the scripts I send to you, and the information will be revealed.”

Camille turned it over in her hands, examining it.

India opened the sitting room doors, and Phineas jumped up. She looked back at the stunned Camille Ashton and said, “You are dismissed.”

*           *            *

It was twilight, and the last contact was in Pegg’s Run. After changing into ragged clothing India and Phineas took the coach within several blocks of the district and told the driver to wait.

The majority of the buildings appeared to be abandoned, most were dark, decaying and in poor repair. They were not like the smart, well-kept brick shops and residences they had visited earlier. The inhabitants of the area seemed to be decaying as well. Many of them appeared homeless, dirty and diseased. Many grasped at India’s skirts as she passed, calling for alms then spewing obscenities at her when she did not stop.

Phineas whispered, “You must do as I say, Miss. I know this area.” He looked from side to side furtively. “I will go first. Keep your head up and walk tall as if you know where you are going and don’t be afraid to look hard at people. Let them know you are not to be bothered.”

India nodded and pulled her shawl over her head. She walked erect, following Phineas closely, weaving past men gathered around open fires drinking and warming their hands, past taverns bulging with patrons who were singing or arguing. An abundance of whores lounged in doorways, smoking and laughing. Some of them were on their knees openly engaged in satisfying customers or were pressed against a wall by a john with their skirts hiked up. India shuttered to think of what Phineas had experienced in this fetid place.

Phineas was right, if they walked quickly and confidently no one would bother them. He knew exactly where India wanted to go and without any confusion they found the tent of the spiritualist Lucretia Dupuis on a lonely back street. It was a square tent of faded canvas which swept upward to a peak where a hole allowed smoke to escape.

India did not know how to summon the woman. One could not knock on a tent, but Phineas noticed a bell hanging by the door and rang it.

“Enter,” a woman replied.

They ducked low and stepped inside the dark enclosure. The embers of a fire glowed in the center of the tent and several candles were burning on low tables. Behind the fire sat a young woman on a stool. There was a rug on the floor and large yellow dog lying on his side. He did not bother to get up, only thumped his tail several times to greet them. Immediately Phineas sat down beside him and stroked his fur.

India was stunned when she saw Lucretia Dupuis. The young woman’s eyes were each a different color, one green and one blue. Even in the low light it was unmistakable. She was dressed in a black robe with a hood covering her head bordered with Druid symbols.

“Welcome, Lady Allen,” she murmured staring at India as if mesmerized. “My Hibernian sisters foretold your coming.”

Images of the women by the dolmen stone flooded India’s mind but she ignored the statement and said instead, “Mr. Calleigh said you can help us. This is indeed a perfect setting for private meetings.”

Madame Dupuis smiled and lowered her hood. She was a stunning woman with high cheekbones and light brown hair. “My husband runs a tavern in Pegg’s Run, just down the lane. It is frequented by regulars of the British Army. There is much to be learned when drinks are poured. He will tell me what he hears, and I will pass it along to you.”

Looking at the woman’s robe, India asked, “I believe those are Celtic designs. Are you from Ireland?”

Again Lucretia smiled, “Lady Allen, the Celts were in France as well. I was born here in the Colonies. My folk are from France.”

India nodded. “Someone will come for information regularly. You will know them by a green sprig in their hat.”

“Very well.”

India started to get up, and Madame Dupuis said, “Would you like a divination?”

“Oh, I think not--”

The woman reached into a basket and held out some greens. “Please.”

India looked over at Phineas. He was lying on his side talking to the dog. He did not seem in a hurry to go. Reluctantly, India took the greens and twigs.

“It is mistletoe and oak. I practice the Druid rite of Dendromancy. Put the mistletoe and oak into the fire and I will divine for you from the patterns of the smoke.”

Reluctantly, India tossed the sprigs onto the embers. The flames jumped, and the fire crackled as Lucretia followed the flow of the smoke. After watching it for some time, she closed her eyes, and her lips moved as if she were deep in prayer. Then slowly she opened her eyes and looked at India. “The queen of Ireland will be flooded at first by water.”

India looked around, uncomfortably. It was too much like the night in Ireland long ago, and she wanted to leave.

The woman continued, “She will wield the sword of the Banshee but in the end, she will be consumed by fire.”

India shook her head and sighed.

There was no reaction from the woman. She merely looked at India.

India stood up and said, “I was exposed to this nonsense years ago. Thank you but I am not interested.”

She took Phineas by the hand and left the tent.

When they arrived back at the inn, it was much later than India had planned. They were both exhausted. Phineas fell asleep immediately, but she had trouble unwinding. Too much had happened that day, and there was a great deal to consider. When she finally drifted off to sleep, it was fitful. Dreams of death by drowning and by fire haunted her. Visions of pagan women by the dolmen plagued her, but by far her most profound dream was when she was in her deepest sleep. She dreamed she was in the tent once more at Pegg’s Run in front of the fire. Across from her was a figure in a dark robe but when the specter lowered its hood, it was not the spiritualist at all, it was Quinn Calleigh.

Chapter 23

India threw herself into her work. She was busy obtaining material for Mr. Parnell for British uniforms, finding someone to forge documents for the spies and setting in place a clearinghouse for the information as it began to pour in.

All this time, Quinn Calleigh was nowhere to be found. He disgusted India. She knew he was off winning new recruits with his so-called wit and charm. She was certain that he was spreading his bravado on thick with promises of adventure and daring deeds to the men and flirting with rich widows for hefty donations. She knew he would flash his broad smile, and they would all fall into line behind him like faithful canines while she toiled over reports and details back at the house.