The Sword of the Banshee (24 page)

“I can.”

“With these disguises we will plant moles within the British Army from regulars to officers.”

Quinn sat back in his chair, his arm over the back. “Very well,” he replied, listening.

“Next I want an informant who is doing business with the British, a merchant, who can tell us where supplies are being delivered to the army. If we hit their food source they will crumble. Food is more important than weapons.”

“Indeed. What else?”

“Men visit brothels and taverns. When they drink and whore they spill information. I want contacts in the lower class sporting houses as well as in the more fashionable salons where the ranking officials go. I know you have brothels here, but do you have exclusive bordellos for gentlemen here in the Colonies?”

Quinn smiled a crooked smile. “We do. Where ever you find men, you find a variety of sporting houses.”

Calleigh studied India as she talked. He marveled at her indifferent attitude toward prostitution, a topic most women would find unspeakable, but she delivered it to him like a recipe for venison pie.

What a fascinating woman,
but what a tragedy she is so cold
. He wondered if she had ever felt a moment of passion or desire in her entire life. He had his doubts.

“Now regarding partisan activities,” she continued. “I want crews to sabotage bridges making them weaken and fall as the British move large artillery across them. I want double agents and false messengers feeding the enemy inaccurate information, and I want agents within the British army disabling weapons and dampening gunpowder. These are just a few techniques I will be employing to keep the enemy preoccupied. They will have no time to fight.”

A broad smile spread over Calleigh’s face as India finished. He stood up, held out his hand and helped her to her feet. “Lady Allen, you do not disappoint.”

They stepped out of the church and into the crisp night air as the snow drifted down lazily around them.

“Where will I be able to find you?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I wanted to discuss that with you. When the weather is mild I camp outside, but when the winds grow cold--” and he stopped abruptly.

India searched his eyes for a moment then a look of recognition spread over her face. “Oh I see,” she said. “Mr. Calleigh. I have camped with men in the past and you will find that I am far from a shrinking violet. Of course you must stay at your
own
home during inclement weather.”

Quinn bowed low and said, “Thank you, Lady Allen.”

When he straightened up, he was stunned. As if a veil had dropped from her face, she seemed suddenly warm and her eyes had turned a soft gold. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him but before he could comment the window above them flew open.

“Quinn! In here, now!” said the sentry.

In a flash, Calleigh jerked India back into the church. The sentry jumped over the railing landing on the main floor in front of India. Startled she jumped back.

“Show off!” said Calleigh with a grin. “This is my brother, Ian.”

The young man was a much thinner version of Quinn, complete with the familial bravado.

“It’s patrols, Quinn,” Ian announced.

“Is it now?” Calleigh said. His eyes were dancing as he turned to India and asked, “Are you ready for an adventure, Lady Allen?”

Before she could answer, they whisked her out the back door where three horses were waiting. India hoisted her skirts, put her foot in a stirrup and mounted a mare, riding astride.

“Good,” exclaimed Quinn. “No time to play the lady.”

The men jumped into saddle and the three bolted down the road, India following Ian with Quinn in the rear.

“Ha!” laughed Quinn calling to his younger brother. “Just like the good old days, right lad?”

“Good old days my ass!” Ian called back to him.

India frowned. She thought them reckless and foolhardy making so much noise. They would most certainly alert the soldiers of their whereabouts.

They flew down the lane ducking and bobbing to avoid low hanging branches. Cloud cover made it difficult to see the road, but the snow on the ground reflected enough light to guide their way.

“Ha ha! I feel like a young buck again!” yelled Quinn.

Suddenly there was the report of a firearm. The patrols had heard them and were in full pursuit.

“I believe it is time,” called Calleigh, pulling a pistol from his belt.

“You lucky bastard,” Ian laughed.

“Don’t be an idiot, Calleigh,” screamed India as they thundered down the lane, spattering mud and snow. “They are out of range.”

“True,” he shouted with mirth in his voice. “I will have to drop back.”

Appalled, India looked over her shoulder. Calleigh was slowing the pace of his gelding.

“Stay with me, Lady Allen,” Ian called. “Do not wait for him.”

Calleigh turned in his saddle, shot once and then again, turning back to duck branches.

After several volleys India yelled, “Shoot their horses, Calleigh!”

“Shoot horses? Blasphemy!”

The British patrols were gaining when Quinn straightened up, took careful aim and fired. The first rider toppled over, a bullet in his forehead. The patrols fell back. The horses had been spooked.

Calleigh kicked his gelding and sped ahead, joining India and Ian.

They dashed through the brush at a breakneck speed, jumping over dead trees and brush that littered the forest floor. At last they came to the river and slowed their pace. Dismounting they stopped to let the horses drink from an open spot of water.

Calleigh stretched and walked over to India and Ian.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” India asked. All of the years she had spent in the rebellion, she had never seen such excellent marksmanship.

“I got lucky.”

“It is impossible to be that accurate on horseback,” she argued.

“You’re right,” Ian chimed in. “That was not luck, Lady Allen. He developed his skills when he was robbing coaches back in Ireland. What you saw tonight was nothing.”

“Well you may be a good shot,” India said. “But you are certainly a fool. You led the British right to us with your adolescent whooping and hollering.”

Quinn smiled and looked at his brother. Ian smirked and looked away.

“You are right Lady Allen,” Quinn said.

India began pinning her hair up and shook her head with disgust.

“We lead the British right to us but away from the settlement,” he explained. “You see it continues to masquerade as a cloister, but it in fact now houses our officers and their families.”

Slowly India dropped her hands, feeling very foolish and said, “I--I see.”

“It is of no consequence, Lady Allen,” Quinn replied with a shrug. “There are many things you have yet to learn about Quinn Calleigh.”

Chapter 22

Shortly after the meeting at the cloister, Calleigh sent India a list of contacts. She set out the next day for Wilmington to meet her first contact, a tailor by the name of Antoine Parnell. Much of the snow had melted, and her driver was able to take her into town in the coach.

Wilmington was a neighboring milling town located on the shores of the Christina and the Delaware Rivers. Across the water on the north bank was the Brandywine Village, another small milling hamlet. Early settlers erected towns near the river here to provide local farmers with mills and transportation of grain to Philadelphia. In the warmer months it was a busy place with waterwheels turning, mill stones grinding and carts rolling grain to the landing, but it was winter now, and the hamlets seemed to be asleep.

India looked at the sturdy field stone houses and barns nestled along the river, their land blanketed with snow. She assumed they were the residences of prosperous millers, and she wondered if they were sympathetic to the cause of freedom. If so, they would be valuable allies in the rebellion with their access to wheat and other grains.

Yet in town, she saw folk dressed plainly, and she wondered if this was a Quaker community. She had recently learned that many of the residents of Delaware and Pennsylvania were of The Society of Friends. They were known for being pacifists, and if so, she would have no support here for a revolution.

It was not difficult to find the tailor shop of Antoine Parnell. It was one in a string of white-washed wooden buildings lining the river. A sign swung over the door with a painting of a spool of thread and a needle. India pulled up the hood on her cape and cast down her eyes as she stepped from the carriage onto the cobblestone walk and passed quickly into the shop. A bell tinkled as she opened the door and looked around.

“May I assist you, Madame?” she heard someone say.

India dropped her hood and looked at the black man standing behind a work table scattered with fabric. He was tall, later in years, wearing a rose colored embroidered waistcoat, white linen shirt and dark britches. His coarse hair was graying and long, falling around his shoulders in tiny braids. She noticed a gold earring in one ear and a measuring tape around his neck.

“I am looking for Mr. Parnell if you please,” she stated.

He stared at her a moment then nodded his head and said, “I am Parnell.”

He pulled the tape from his neck, stepped around the table, past the mannequins and locked the door of the shop. “Please come into the back, Lady Allen.”

India followed him into the sitting room in the back of the shop. “How did you know I was Lady Allen?” she asked.

Parnell smiled and said, “I asked Mr. Calleigh how I would know you, and he said your eyes would be your calling card. They were indeed.”

He pulled several bolts of material off a chair by the fire gesturing for her to sit down. It was obviously his residence. India looked around as she pulled off her gloves. It was a small well-appointed room, somewhat disheveled but clean. There was a heavy rich blue drape hanging in one corner to hide his bed, a small kitchen table covered with a blue damask cloth and a small hutch holding fine china.

He leaned over with a pot holder and pulled a kettle from the fire, pouring them both a cup of tea. His manner was dignified and reserved. India guessed that he may be highly educated. As he handed India the teacup, she wondered under what circumstances this man had gained his freedom and managed to establish a successful business here in a country that condoned slavery.

“Has Mr. Calleigh told you anything?” she asked.

“No, Madame,” was his reply. “In what capacity will I be serving?”

“As a tailor, Mr. Parnell,” India said.

He drew his eyebrows together. “How--”

“You will be making and resizing British uniforms for spies. When engagements occur with the British, we will obtain uniforms from the dead soldiers or off of the prisoners. You will need to launder them, repair and re-size these uniforms. Before the conflict begins though, I will supply you with material.”

He studied India for a moment. Clearly he was taken aback by a woman who was in a position of authority and so well versed in matters of war.

“So these men will be planted as spies within the British Army,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

Antoine Parnell looked into the fire.

India studied him a moment then stated, “I am told Wilmington is mostly Loyalist. If you are caught, you will lose everything. You will lose your life.”

The fire popped and snapped. At last he said, “I certainly understand that the price of freedom is always high, Lady Allen. I will do it.”

*             *             *

After Wilmington, India returned home and made preparations to leave for Philadelphia. The rest of her contacts resided there. She made sure Phineas had bathed and his hair was trimmed because he was going to accompany her. When he wasn’t serving as her footman, he was in the barn with the horses. Phineas adored the equines and per Calleigh’s instructions, he was being trained as a groom.

Just as they were about to leave, Phineas asked, “Are we going back to the dressmakers, Miss?”

“No, we are going to see a merchant first. Then in the afternoon we will see a lady on Otis Street and after that we go to a place called Pegg’s Run.”

Phineas’ eyes grew wide. “Pegg’s Run? You should not go dressed like that,” he said, pointing to her azure gown.

“Oh really? Is it an impoverished area?”

“No, Miss,” said Phineas shaking his head. “It is very poor.”

A smile flickered on her lips. The lad never ceased to amuse her. She followed his recommendation and packed clothing she had in the back of her wardrobe which was threadbare and worn, used specifically for this type of excursion.

After getting settled at the inn on Chestnut Street, they set out for their first meeting with a merchant by the name of Singer. They walked several blocks down a brick covered walkway past tidy shops, coffee houses and businesses built in Greek Revival Style. They stopped in front of a peruke and periwig maker’s shop as India looked at displays of wigs. Some were for everyday use as well wigs for formal occasions stacked high and decorated with flowers and bows. She hadn’t worn a periwig since she had lived with Colm. On impulse she decided to have several of them made. She knew before long there would be invitations in the Brandywine Valley. She stepped inside and was fitted on the spot by two gracious women.