The Sword of the Banshee (47 page)

Turning her head from side to side, India observed that her eyes looked dull, and her face looked thin. She shook her head. This endless war was taking its toll on her.

With maps rolled up under her arm, India rode over to the tavern and dismounted. She noticed that there were at least twelve to fifteen horses tied up outside the building which she found curious. When she walked into the tavern, the room was filled with people. Most of them were men, but several women were there as well. It was loud and smoky and candles flickered overhead. Many of the men looked at her as she walked into the room. Most of them were strangers, but some were familiar to her as well. The group who had stopped them on the trail that first day in town sat at a table as well as the Muldoons and Reverend Lamb who were standing at the bar.

India put her maps down and turned around. The room grew quiet. She cleared her throat, put her chin up, and looked at the women. “Welcome ladies,” she said and nodding to the men she added, “And good evening to you, gentlemen. I bring news tonight of the conflict with the Redcoats in the Low Country.”

India noticed there was something distinctly different in the atmosphere tonight. There were more people at the meeting, and they were more attentive. She reviewed first the ramifications of the British occupation of Charleston then went on to outline the details of some of the partisan activities in the area. For the first time, the Overmountain men seemed to be listening and not just appraising her physical attributes. Some of them nodded their heads, and she heard others mumbling affirmations. Out of the whole group Carrig Muldoon was the only one who was not paying attention. He kept looking out the window. Suddenly he stood up, walked around the perimeter of the room and opened the front door of the tavern. He announced, “There are people out here that have come to see ya.”

India said, “Well, tell them to come in.”

“I don’t think so,” was Carrig’s reluctant reply. “Ya better see for yourself.”

Exasperated, India walked to the door and looked out. The sun was setting and it blinded her at first. She squinted and put her hand to her brow shading her face. When at last, her eyes focused, she understood. The clearing around the tavern was full of people, men leaning on long rifles, others on horseback, women holding babies on their hips, old men sitting on barrels, and young children sitting cross legged. People were everywhere.

She looked at the road. Wagons full of people were rumbling toward the tavern, followed by more men on horseback and more wagons. They all were gathering in front of the tavern to hear her speak. Reverend Lamb came out and stood next to India, astounded. “Well, I’ll be damned.” he muttered. He called for some boys to pull over a hay rack, and Arden Muldoon helped India climb onto it.

She stood up straight and took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming,” she announced loudly. “In Ireland, I was known as--”

“We know,” an older man shouted.

India stopped for a moment then nodded.

Suddenly she saw Quinn Calleigh step out from the trees. He was carrying his rifle across the back of his neck, his hands hanging from it. He greeted her with a nod.

A smile flickered over India’s lips. She knew at that moment that she had made the right decision--about many things.

Chapter 38

India was no longer afraid of love. She allowed her soul to have the animation for which it had yearned. It was as if her spirit had been slumbering from the time of her birth, waiting to be awakened and flooded with life. She was alive at last. There would be suffering with great love, she knew, but it was worth the risk.

Quinn too had lost his heart, but his experience was more subtle. All his life, he had embraced every feeling and acted upon every desire, impulsively, aggressively, and passionately. Now with India, he learned serenity. He understood that although the ecstasy of love could be glorious, it was fleeting. The quiet day to day contentment and trust that came with loving someone was what sustained two people. With India, he had found this satisfaction, this peace.

India understood at last that Emilee Dubonnet had meant nothing to him. There had been a brief liaison years ago, but the affection had been one sided. India and Quinn could now be complete in their devotion to one another.

“We must marry, of course,” announced Quinn one day as they lay by a mountain stream. He rolled over and looked at India, smiling broadly.

Her smooth hair spilled out around her head on the grass, and her eyes turned a dark amber. “Not until Phineas is home.”

Quinn’s smile faded, and he looked down. The reports had not been good from the battle of Waxhaw. There had been many, many fatalities. The Hennessey twins had sent word that Phineas had been at this engagement, but there were not reports that he had survived. Quinn sighed and lay back down on the grass.
The lad cannot be dead. It would break India’s heart. It would break my heart.

The two spent the rest of the summer enlisting the support of the Overmountain folk for the Revolution. They traveled with a small but loyal contingent of partisans and sharpshooters from settlement to settlement conducting rallies, gaining recruits and planning strikes. Lucretia and Algernon were not among them. Lucretia had given birth to a healthy baby boy in August, and for safeties sake, they elected to stay in Bath to help the Hennessey twins with their partisan operation.

India and Quinn were busy from sunup until sundown trying to save the cause. Quinn scouted sharpshooters and coordinated their strikes while India courted the Scotch Irish. In her speeches, she reminded the mountain folk of the British strategy used on them back in Ireland, the strategy of divide and conquer, and she warned against it here. She encouraged them to set aside their differences and bond together to fight a common enemy. Here they were all Americans.

As they moved from one camp to another, India was reminded of the early days with the repparees in the mountains of Ireland. Wistfully, she remembered Cian O’Donnell and Jamie Kinsella and her days filled with the hope and passionate conviction to free Ireland. She thought of the first time she met Cian by the stream. She chuckled, embarrassed. He had asked her casually about the rebellion, and she had enthusiastically expounded at length on strategy and technique. She remembered Jamie Kinsella's masquerade as a simpleton to spy on the British and how effectively he had gathered information.

“Do you miss home?” she asked Quinn one night by the fire.

But his answer surprised her. “I do. There is no place like the Brandywine Valley.”

India stared at him. It was then that she realized Quinn Calleigh was truly an American.

In a matter of weeks, their efforts at recruitment had paid off. More and more Overmountain men showed an interest in the call to arms, and they began organizing and conducting strikes on Loyalist outposts. Word spread throughout the mountains that Lady Fitzpatrick, the leader of the Irish Rebellion, had gathered not only Irish Catholics, but the Scotch Irish to undo the despotism of the Crown in America. Word of her presence reached British officials and immediately a bounty was placed on her head.

“What did you think they would do?” she asked Quinn, when he raged at the news.

“I knew it was coming. But now that there is money involved, the treachery will start.”

Until now, Quinn had struggled silently with spreading the news of India’s identity. He knew her self-respect depended upon it, but he hated the danger it imposed upon her. With great reluctance, he had assembled the folk in Munroville months back. Quinn knew from the start that the British would move swiftly and decisively to squash her influence.

By autumn, Major Patrick Ferguson, one of Cornwallis’ officers, unwittingly tripled enlistments for the patriots by sending a challenge to the Overmountain men. He said that if they didn't lay down their arms, he would "march his army over the mountains, hang their leaders, and lay waste the country with fire and sword."

India knew the results that sort of threat would bring, and she was riding the wave of the challenge. Shortly after Cornwallis captured Charlotte Town, she scheduled a speech. The British were encroaching on Overmountain territory, and they needed to organize and act quickly.

The gathering was in a meadow outside of Chapelville. It reminded India of the field in Ireland where she took target practice years ago with the pistol Calleigh had sent to her. It was a large open area surrounded by a thick growth of poplars, firs and black walnut trees. Quinn helped her up onto the bed of a wagon, and she started to address the group of about one hundred local settlers. The sun was setting and Quinn noticed how it flooded India with light, illuminating her fair hair and the rosy flush on her face. The deep blue print gown she was wearing with crisp white lace across the top of the bodice complemented her sleek figure and long neck. He was proud of her when she spoke. Quinn saw the look of awe on people’s faces, and he knew that it had been that way in Ireland as well. She had the power to inspire with her understated charisma and passionate conviction.

Suddenly, there was a shot. Quinn’s heart jumped into his throat. It came from the woods, and he knew instantly India was the target. Before she could react, Quinn was upon her, tumbling her off the wagon onto the ground, toppling spectators as well. There were more shots and the crowd ran in every direction, screaming. Some dropped to the ground, others ran into the underbrush. Horses reared up and charged off in terror.

“It is over! You’re safe,” Carrig shouted over the din. “My brother shot him!”

No one seemed to hear, and they continued to run for cover. He shouted again, “It’s over. You are safe!”

Suddenly, it grew very quiet. Everyone was stunned. People looked at each other for reassurance. Cautiously, Quinn stood up and looked around. The Overmountain men and his sharpshooters had dashed into the woods in search of Loyalists. Other men stood guarding their families, rifles poised and ready. Gradually, the women and children got back to their feet. All was well.

Quinn yanked India to her feet. Clutching her arms, he roared, “God damn it, India those shots were meant for you!” His face was white, and he gave her a shake, saying desperately, “I can’t take this anymore!”

India took a breath and swallowed hard. She too was shaken but refused to show it. She lifted her chin and stepped away from Quinn, tucking her hair back into place. She climbed unsteadily back onto the wagon bed.

Panting from fear and rage, Quinn refused to help her up onto the platform. India’s legs were shaking so badly, she thought her knees would buckle under her, but she pulled herself up to her full height to continue her speech. Slowly people started to assemble again.

India looked Quinn defiantly in the eye and stated simply, “I will
not
be beaten.”

*           *            *

At first, Phineas thought he was dead, lying on the dirt floor of the cavern. He was enveloped in darkness, and the air smelled of soil and earthworms. He raised his hand, and he could not see it in front of his face. His heart started to pound, and he gasped for air.
Someone has buried me alive!
Confused and panicked, he struggled to stand, but a flash of pain in his leg stopped him. Phineas dropped back down onto the hard packed earth, panting.

There was a circle of light at his feet, and he followed the beam upward. It was coming from a hole, high above him. Suddenly, his memory returned. He had just emerged from the delirium of fever, and he remembered that he was in prison. He and forty other patriots had been captured at Waxhaws, and after two months of confinement in a warehouse, they were sent to a damp, fetid abandoned mine. It was an enclosure teaming with rats, bugs, foul air, and disease. Phineas lay back and rubbed his injured leg, a wound he had received in battle. Relieved that he was not buried alive, his breathing slowed, and he listened to the steady drip, drip of water behind him. He looked up at the light once more.

The mine had one exit forty feet above ground, and this was the light Phineas gazed upon. He was housed in an impregnable fortress guarded by two British regulars. The abandoned mine had been requisitioned by the British army shortly after the battle of Waxhaw, and they dumped their prisoners there. At one time, there had been another passage to the surface, but it was no longer accessible. It was a wooden door at the far end of the main shaft which had been barricaded by the British and was impossible to move. As a result, the guards were unconcerned about the possibility of prison breaks. They drank and dozed at the mouth of the cavern, secure in the knowledge that the prisoners had nowhere to go. The sentry’s only activity was lowering moldy bread and putrid water down to the prisoners twice a day.

Phineas had been at Bridger Creek Mine for over a month. When his fever started, he lost count of the days and became disoriented. He was not the only one to contract fever. The prisoners grew ill from the damp cold surroundings, decay in the air, and lack of sunlight. Most of the soldiers who needed medical attention released their tenuous grip on life in the rotting underground confine within a week. The fifteen who remained were sentenced to death by starvation or scurvy. Rather than buy rations for the prisoners, British officers pocketed the money, sending down putrid meat once a week and moldy bread daily. The result was disease and malnutrition. It was an outrage committed on both sides during the war.