The Sword of the Banshee (37 page)

Phineas cast once more, refusing to look.

“The little bastard,” Quinn growled. “I got a better reception from the horse.”

“No, Quinn,” Ian said, shaking his head. “He is a man now and does not want you to see him cry.”

Frowning, Quinn looked at Phineas again. He blinked several times then turned his attention to India. She was standing by the wagon, her arms folded tight against her bosom as if to keep her feelings from spilling out all over.

“Come here,” he said, reaching out.

Taking India’s hand, he kissed it, and said, “The fight is far from over, Lady Allen; freedom for the Irish, the war
and this love affair
. I will not give up on any of them.”

India smiled a crooked smile. “Nor I,” she murmured.

Just as they leaned in to kiss, Phineas shouted, “Look, Mr. Calleigh! Look what I caught!” On the end of his pole flopped a trout half the boy’s size. Its sleek brown body wiggled on the line while Phineas laughed with delight.

Quinn grinned from ear to ear. “That’s my lad! Keep it up, boy. I will be back fishing with you again in no time!”

Quinn looked at India, and there were tears in his eyes. “Good bye,” he said hoarsely.

“Good bye,” she whispered and dropped her eyes.

Ian snapped the reins, and they disappeared down the trail toward Pennsylvania.

*           *            *

The next morning after donning her claret riding habit, India ducked down to look out the window. Phineas was loading his pigeons onto a cart along with her trunk and hatbox. The Quincy's would deliver their belongings to the Philadelphia waterfront where they would set sail tomorrow for Charleston. India and Phineas would be riding up to the city that night on horseback so India could make final arrangements with her contacts.

Phineas locked the last crate and ran up to her as she came outside. “Dundee just got in,” he said referring to one of the pigeons. He handed her a note the pigeon had carried from Philadelphia. “He brought this for you.”

Lucretia Dupuis and Phineas had been testing the birds lately, so correspondence was not unusual. India unrolled the paper and read,

Need your help. Come quickly,

Lucretia

India frowned and looked at Phineas. “We must leave now.”

With haste, they rode to Philadelphia, arriving well after dark. Without stopping to eat, they traveled directly to Pegg’s Run. India had no time to dress in rags, but it mattered little; she exuded such an air of determination, no rascal dare stop her. They pushed their way through the noisy streets filled with beggars, thieves, and whores. The miscreants were gathered around fires or lounging in doorways where they hawked their wares, smoked, and drank. They let India pass, staring after her indignantly, but they did not dare stop her. Occasionally, one would bark a profanity at her, but India did not respond.

At last they turned down the dark alley of the Red Unicorn and headed for Lucretia’s tent. Two torches stood on pedestals in front of the dusty enclosure. Back in the shadows, a large man in a dirty smock and tricorne hat was leaning against the wall, his arms folded on his chest. He narrowed his eyes at them when they walked up.

“Someone tells fortunes here?” India asked, nodding at the tent.

The man spat tobacco juice and replied, “She do.”

“Is she with someone now?”

He shook his head slowly, offering no further assistance.

“May we go in?” India asked, bending toward the door of the tent.

“I’m not stopping ya,” was his curt reply.

India drew back the flap and stepped in with Phineas behind her. Lucretia was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, her head in her hands. When she looked up, India’s jaw dropped. “Lucretia,” she gasped.

Lucretia’s nose was bandaged and both her eyes were black. Even in the semi-darkness, India could see a dark bruise in a diagonal line across her face. Lucretia dropped her eyes.

India and Phineas sat down, still staring at her. “What happened?” India asked.

“Dupuis uses his cane for more than walking, Lady Allen.”

“Why?”

“I told him my feelings about fireships.”

“Fireships,” India repeated. “What are fireships?”

Lucretia shook her head in disgust and said, “If one of his cracks--girls--gets a disease, he sets fire to them. It is not an uncommon practice here.”

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?”