The Sword of the Banshee (34 page)

She walked down the steps and looked up into his face. He did not take her hands. He did not touch her. Slowly his smile dropped; he searched her eyes and said, “I asked you here because I want you to promise me--”

India swallowed hard. Thunder rolled in the distance. Soldiers continued to march by and crowds cheered, but they saw and heard only each other. “Promise me that you will continue the fight.”

India bit her lip and looked away, her chest heaving. “Stop this talk,” she stated firmly. “You will be back.”

“Listen to me,” he demanded. India had never seen such intensity in his eyes. “I may never return. You and the boy must take care of one another. You--” he hesitated. “You are my family.”

It started to pour. The rain drenched them as the crowd began to disperse, running for cover. They said nothing for a long time. At last, Quinn took a deep breath, looked around at the empty street and said, “You must know by now that I am in love with you. That will never change.”

India stared at him, her lips parted, rain running down her face. Calleigh studied her intensely, as if memorizing her every feature. He said nothing more, expecting nothing in return. He was simply happy he had told her of his feelings at last.

A junior officer came up behind him and said, “Sir?”

Quinn did not take his eyes off of India. “I am on my way,” he said to the young man.

Calleigh dragged his eyes from her face and mounted his gelding. India stood motionless in the deluge watching Quinn disappear into the distance.

Chapter 30

Wilmington was taut as a bow string waiting for news about the battle. It came late September 11
th
, 1777; the Continental Army had been defeated at Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania, on the Brandywine River, not far from the Calleigh homestead. The British were making their way toward Philadelphia.

India was stunned. She stared out the window at the dark empty street. The messenger left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Parnell rose and took a kettle from the fire making a cup of herbal tea. When he handed it to India, she looked up at him as if waking from a dream, her hair down around her shoulders. “What is this?” she murmured.

“Tea to help you sleep.”

“Sleep?” she said, her brow furrowing. “I will not sleep tonight. I am leaving.”

Parnell’s jaw dropped. “No, Lady Allen.”

India nodded. “I must,” she said, rising.

“You cannot go up there. You have no experience in this kind of engagement. You only know partisan raids, not widespread battle. There will be casualties everywhere, scavengers and marauders feeding on the victims.”

The renegades who slaughtered her companions and raped her mercilessly sprang to her mind. She swallowed hard, her heart beginning to pound. “I will be armed. There is no question about it. I
must
find him, Mr. Parnell.”

Touched by the emotion in her voice, Parnell sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Then I will go with you, but you must disguise yourself.”

Dressed in a nightshirt and robe, he took a candle from the table and walked into the shop. India followed. In the dim light, the mannequins looked like phantom soldiers standing at attention.

“There are no horses left in Wilmington. We must walk,” he said lighting a candelabrum, illuminating the room. He bent over a barrel of old clothing and pulled out a tattered shirt and breeches, discarded by a patriot in exchange for a uniform. He handed the bundle of rags to India. “Here, put this on. You must dress like a man.” He raised an eyebrow looking at her long hair. “We will bind your hair up around your head with a bandage as if you are hurt.”

Parnell woke Phineas and had him dress for the journey as well. India donned her brown homespun breeches and shirt. As she pulled her riding boots on, Parnell said, “Do not wear those, Lady Allen. Someone will kill you up there for a good pair of boots.”

“Mr. Parnell,” India said straightening up and brushing the hair from her face. “I appreciate your concern, but I have already considered that risk. There are more than enough free boots for everyone now that the battle is over.”

Understanding what she implied, he nodded, frowning. “Indeed, Lady Allen.”

“Where are we going?” asked Phineas coming into the room, dressed for the journey and yawning.

“To the battlefield to find Mr. Calleigh,” said India, now using Quinn’s real name. Pretense was no longer needed about his identity with Phineas.

She finished wrapping her head with a bandage and put on a dirty brown tricorne hat. Parnell gathered food and a lantern as India put medicine, clean rags, rope and a blanket into a leather bag. Strapping on shot pouches, packs and picking up their weapons, the group set out on the four hour journey to the battlefield at Chadd’s Ford.

They followed the wide trampled-down path, traveled a few days earlier by Washington’s troops into the black environs of the forest. Even though Parnell lead the way with his lantern held high, the woods at night unnerved India. The chasm of darkness engulfing her brought back memories of Cragmere Ruins on All Hallows Eve and the Druid women at the dolmen stone in Armaugh. She believed that she would swoon if anyone came up behind her and touched her.

For hours they walked in silence through the dark forest, heavy with the thick smell of pine and rotting leaves. Occasionally, Parnell would carry Phineas on his back with India in the lead holding the lantern. They traveled at a feverish pace, stumbling over roots and rocks along the trail. Sometimes they could hear the river rushing beside them, or a large creature lumbering though the brush nearby, but they did not hesitate; they pushed on to Chadd’s Ford.

They traveled in and out of open spaces, across farm fields and through meadows meeting no one for hours when suddenly a man called, “Hallo!” and they started. There was a pinpoint of light in the distance.

“Hello to you, friend!” Parnell called in reply.

“If you are indeed a friend, I have news,” the man called, coming closer. “If you are foe, I have a weapon.”

Parnell took Phineas off his back and stepped forward to meet the man, holding his rifle, ready for a confrontation. A young man in buckskin came into view, holding a musket. India put a hand on her pistol. The dim light of the lantern illuminated the fresh face of a boy maybe seventeen years of age. It was apparent he had seen battle, his clothing was covered in blood, and his face was spattered as well.

“Greetings, I am Bartholomew Jessup, and I am an American,” he said, shaking Parnell’s hand.

“A fellow patriot,” Parnell replied with a smile. “My friends and I are traveling to Chadd’s Ford. What news do you have?”

“It is not good,” Jessup said, shaking his head. “Washington has retreated to Chester and taken the injured with him. Nothing but the dead remain for burial.”

India’s stomach lurched.

“I am returning to my home for wagons and shovels.”

Jessup gestured toward the bandage on India’s head and said, “I see you are injured. Is there fighting in Wilmington as well?”

“An unrelated injury,” Parnell replied quickly.

“I must make haste before the dogs begin to scavenge. God speed to you,” the young man said turning to go.

“And to you too, wayfarer,” Parnell replied, his voice trailing off in disappointment. He looked at India to see her reaction, but she looked away. Squaring her shoulders, she continued down the trail.

They walked on until daylight. Sunlight burned off the morning mist and dappled the trail in front of them. Squirrels began to stir in the trees and birds began to sing. The atmosphere was becoming hot and humid, even at this early hour. The three stopped for breakfast in a clearing of an abandoned farm. They sat down in the shade of an elm tree and opened their packs, pulling out bread, cheese, and some dried apples. Knowing that the heat would cause them to dehydrate, they drank down large amounts of cider, passing the jug back and forth.

After wrapping the blisters on Phineas’ heels, India was on her feet again; brushing off her skirt, ready to go. They waited under the tree as Phineas relieved himself in the woods.

“This heat will become oppressive soon,” India observed, looking up at the sky. “Already, it is stifling in this bandage and hat.”

“Yes,” Parnell agreed, mopping his forehead. “But when we get to the battlefield, you can remove your bandage and let your hair down. At that point, you must look like a woman. We want to look neutral on the battlefield. We do not want to draw attention from either side.”

India was about to pick up her pistol from the grass when suddenly horses thundered up. India and Parnell whirled around with surprise. Two men, dressed in uniforms of Continental Army officers, rode up. They tipped their hats and said, “Good day.”

One man rode a dappled gray mare. He was middle aged, with a low forehead, and tiny eyes. The other man had long dark hair and was so obese his horse looked as if it would collapse from the strain of carrying him.

India watched the men cautiously, wishing she could reach her pistol on the grass. Parnell’s rifle was out of reach as well, resting against the trunk of the tree.

“May we help you gentlemen?” said Parnell stiffly, sensing danger.

India noted huge blood stains on their uniforms, but the strangers seemed uninjured and strong. It was obvious they had looted the clothing from bodies on the battlefield.

“Well, well, Winston,” said the man with the low forehead, running his beady eyes over Parnell. “A runaway nigger.”

Antoine’s brow furrowed. “No sir, I am a free man,” he said, reaching inside of his coat. “I have papers to prove it.”

The man narrowed his eyes, pulled a pistol from his belt, and without hesitation, shot Parnell in the foot. Antoine toppled backward from the blast and slammed into India. The two tumbled to the ground. Dazed, they looked up at the men, in shock.

“With niggers, my motto is--” the man declared. “Shoot now, ask questions later. Now get the hell up. We’re gonna collect some ransom money.”

Parnell’s foot felt as if it was on fire and blood was pumping out of the wound quickly. He struggled to make sense of everything; it had all happened so fast.

“Get up nigger! And you too, boy,” the fat one demanded of India. She stood up, looking at Parnell’s injury anxiously.

Parnell reached down to push himself to his feet. Something cold was under his hand. It was India’s pistol. He had fallen on the weapon. He grabbed the pistol, whipped it out from under him, and shot his assailant in the chest. The blast knocked the man from his horse, killing him instantly.

Seizing her opportunity, India lunged for Parnell’s rifle but the fat renegade put a gun against her temple and said, “No, ya don’t.”

India froze, staring straight ahead.

“Now slowly, get over there away from that there rifle.”

India stepped sideways stiffly, her heart pounding, and blood rushing in her ears. Parnell was still on the ground, growing weak quickly from loss of blood. India felt panic flood her.
I must think of something and fast. Parnell is bleeding to death.

Suddenly, there was a popping sound, and the renegade lurched forward in his saddle. His eyes bugged out in his round face. He gasped.

India blinked, confused. The man gurgled, spit blood then dropped to the ground, dead. She stared at the corpse then looked up. Phineas was standing in the trees, white as a ghost, both hands holding a smoking gun.

*           *            *

India did not know Phineas had been carrying a pistol, but she was not about to reprimand him for saving her life. Quickly, they stopped Parnell’s bleeding, and then dripping with perspiration, they dragged the bodies of the renegades into the woods. With India on one side and Phineas on the other, they helped Antoine hobble to the abandoned cabin nearby. Once inside they eased him down onto a feather bed in the corner. India straightened up and stretched, looking around the house. It was a cozy one room log structure, complete with a hutch, a table, two chairs and a bed. Several pewter plates were on the mantel and a cast iron pot hung from the stone fireplace. It was cool and dark inside, smelling of smoke from the fireplace. It appeared as if it had been recently inhabited, abandoned perhaps because of the battle.

India pulled medical supplies from her pack and began to examine Parnell’s wound. It appeared as if the bullet had gone through and exited, not lodging in his foot. “Find some fresh water, Phineas. I must dress this,” India said to the boy. He nodded and hurried out to find a well.

“You must go on without me, Lady Allen,” Parnell murmured to India. “Or you may be too late.”

“That is something I will consider in a moment. For now, we must attend to you.”

She finished wrapping the foot and tied the bandage.

“Lady Allen, please. I will be--”

India looked up at Parnell, wondering why he had stopped talking so abruptly. He was looking over her shoulder. India turned and saw Phineas standing next to a large woman in a coon skin cap with a musket in her hand. She held the boy’s collar as if she had just dragged him into the cabin. His eyes were like saucers.