The Sword of the Banshee (48 page)

“Send up your dead!” a voice roared from above.

Phineas started. He heard two men on the other side of the dimly lit cavern stand and shuffle down one of the subterranean passages. He pulled himself quickly up against a wall to get out of the way. Moments later there was the sound of something being dragged toward the light. At the same time a long wicker basket was lowered on ropes by the sentries. When it rested on the floor of the mine, the two men came into view dragging a corpse. Without words, they tossed the body onto the basket and one of them tugged on the rope. The guards pulled up the dead soldier toward the sunlight.

Phineas watched for a moment then closed his eyes. He had seen this ritual before, and it unnerved him. It appeared as if the body was ascending into heaven’s light. He was glad that he did not know the dead man. In fact, there was no one left in the prison that he knew.

As much as he missed his comrades, he was glad none of them were here. He hoped they were safe at some encampment in the hills with the Continental Army. Jeb Hitchcock, the boy with whom he had enlisted, had not escaped. In the first moments of the battle of Waxhaw, Phineas had seen a British regular run him through with a bayonet.

He remembered little about the battle, and he made no effort to recall it. His childish illusions about the glories of war had been dashed that day in the first minutes of combat. Phineas found battle to be a frenzy of blood- letting and chaos beyond anything that he had ever imagined. He thought battle would be waged from a distance with firearms, but instead it was fought with bayonets and bludgeons in a great muddy, stinking, heaving mass of mayhem.

At first, he supposed that he had been lucky to have survived with only a gash on his leg, but when the fever started, he prayed for death. The illness visited him several times, and the last time it had almost killed him. There was only one frail soldier in the mine that cared for him, giving him water and encouragement, but after several days, he too fell ill.

Phineas could hear the dying man repeating a prayer to the Virgin Mary as he lay on the earth nearby. Every time he mumbled the line, “Holy Mary, mother of God--”, Phineas would think of India. He had never seen a likeness of this Virgin Mary, but he imagined that she must look something like Lady Allen. The thought of her sustained him throughout his darkest hours until his fever broke days later.

Phineas looked up at the light. The corpse was gone, pulled up, and out of sight, only to be lowered somewhere else back into the earth forever. He put his head back and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the pastoral days of summer on the Brandywine River.

*           *            *

In spite of the attempt on her life, India carried on, rallying support and organizing partisan warfare. After the direct challenge sent by Ferguson, the Overmountain men conducted several successful strikes then met at Sycamore Shoals in late September for, what Quinn thought resembled, a clan gathering. Over a thousand Overmountain folk gathered to ready themselves for the long march to meet the British. Women worked around the clock, contributing food and clothing. Lead was mined at Bumpass Cove for ammunition and Mary Patton, another woman toiling for the revolution, manufactured black powder at her mill nearby. Frontiersmen came in droves on horseback carrying their long rifles and camped out under the stars, their bonfires dotting the countryside that evening.

The huge assembly camped only one night and when they set out the next day, India and Quinn were with them. They rendezvoused with other Overmountain men along the way and within two weeks the force had reached Cowpens in South Carolina. A spy brought word that Ferguson and his troops were nearby. Everyone was ready and eager to engage them.

“The sharpshooters are leaving tonight,” Quinn said to India, as he tied a pack to his saddle. “The rest will join us tomorrow.”

India nodded. In spite of being a seasoned veteran of partisan warfare, her stomach still tied into knots when it was time to say farewell to Quinn.

“Come, I must eat something before I leave,” he said, taking her hand.

She followed him like a child to the campfire where he ladled some stew into a wooden bowl. He handed it to her, but she shook her head. Quinn frowned and said, “Very well.”

Someone was playing a fiddle in the distance, and India thought it sounded melancholy. Just as they sat down, she remembered a note had come for her earlier. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out. It was hard to read by the firelight but gradually she made out the words. When Quinn looked up from his meal, India was staring straight ahead, her lips parted.

“What is it?’

India blinked as if waking from a dream and said, “Oh, nothing of interest.” She folded the note and pushed it back into her pocket.

Quinn sighed and put his bowl down. “Don’t lie to me, India,” he said.

“I have some things to attend to,” she said, standing up. She kept her eyes lowered.

Quinn grabbed her wrist as she started to walk away. “Sit down,” he ordered.

India shot a look at him. She knew when he used that tone, there was no arguing.

“What is this about?” he demanded.

India raised her chin, reached into her pocket and handed Quinn the note, avoiding his eyes. Looking at her suspiciously, he yanked it out of her hand and read it. The Hennessey twins had found Phineas. He had been taken prisoner and was in a mine outside Bridger Creek, South Carolina.

India sat back down as Quinn stared into the fire. The light flickered on his face. He rubbed his forehead and nodded. “Aye, we will go and get him after we take care of Ferguson and his gang.”

India said nothing.

Suddenly, Quinn swung around and looked at her sharply. “Don’t even think about it!” he roared.

“N-no,” she stammered defensively, “I couldn’t do it alone. It would be too risky.”

Quinn knew that she was lying. “You could make things worse. You both could be killed. Promise me you won’t go.”

He stared at her for a long time until she shrugged and exclaimed, “I won’t go!”

A young man approached. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said to Quinn. The boy wore buckskin and carried a long rifle that was taller than him. “The sharpshooters are assembled.”

“Thank you,” Quinn mumbled, dismissing him.

Quinn put one last spoonful of stew into his mouth, forcing himself to eat, his eyes never leaving India as he chewed. He did not trust her.  He put down the bowl and stood up abruptly, furious that he had to go.
Why did this news have to come before a major engagement?

He took India’s hands and pulled her to her feet. She fell into his arms, burying her face into his topcoat. Quinn clutched her so tightly, she could hardly breathe. She looked up at him, and he put his hands at the back of her head pulling her roughly into a kiss. His caresses were frantic and desperate. He kissed her cheeks, her hair, and then her mouth again and again, then abruptly stepped away from her, looking at her hard.

He put on his hat and swung into the saddle. India watched him without expression. No tears came into her eyes and no words came from her lips. Quinn knew that look. She had assumed the role of freedom fighter once more, and she was going for Phineas.

“Don’t do it,” he said, but India did not respond.

He clenched his jaw and jerked the reins of his gelding turning toward his own battle and possibly his own demise.

Chapter 39

India narrowed her eyes examining the gray and red field stone structure. It was the guardhouse of the makeshift prison where Phineas was housed, and she was standing in the woods examining the mine from a distance. What had once been Bridger Creek Mining was now in ruins and abandoned to the elements. The only structure left was used as a guardhouse, and that too was crumbling and overgrown. Field stones had been scavenged by farmers over the years for the construction of foundations and chimneys in the area leaving very little evidence of the original structure above ground.

India could see two guards sharing a bottle. When they emptied it, they dropped down onto their knees to shoot dice. A hunched woman in homespun was walking away from them down a road toward an inn in the distance. She had two buckets on a yoke swinging from her shoulders and a basket on her arm. India watched her closely. She guessed by the way she was walking the buckets were empty as well as the basket. The woman had just delivered food and water to the prisoners.

There was a rumble of thunder overhead and India looked up. It was early October and already the wind blew cold. She gathered her shawl more closely around her shoulders. Leaves tumbled around her feet as she looked back at the mine with anxiety. She pressed her eyes shut for a moment and bit her lip. She could not allow herself to dwell on the horrors that Phineas may be enduring in the bowels of that monstrosity.

India was wearing a brown homespun gown too with a white neckerchief and mob cap. She had a shawl over her shoulders. It was imperative she look like a farm wife when she approached the townspeople of Bridger Creek.

Mrs. McIntosh, one of the Overmountain wives, and her son had quickly escorted India to Covington, a town not far from the mine, then hurried home to harvest. They did not care to stay in the area. The region was a stronghold of fierce Loyalists, prone to patriot lynching and mob rule. India had to travel a short distance alone. Although the journey was charged with danger, she had made it safely.

She adjusted the pistol in her waistband so it did not show, picked up her bag and started for the inn. Split rail fences bordered the road as she trudged along. Although she was exhausted, the thought of being close to Phineas again gave her renewed energy. The wind tangled the skirts around her legs. She watched the woman who delivered water put down her buckets and walk inside the inn

The Hennesseys had said in their note that the innkeeper and his bartender were patriots. There were among the few freedom fighters in this part of the mountains. They instructed her to contact these men but to be very discreet. They were completely undercover and appeared to be pillars of the Loyalist community.

Bridger Creek was like every other village in the Carolina back country. It consisted of a blacksmith shop and inn placed at crossroads, surrounded by fields, pasture then dense forests full of mountain laurel. But there was one dangerous difference; this cross road was the epicenter of Tories in the Carolina Mountains.

Chickens scattered as India walked up the steps of the Bridger Creek Inn. She came prepared with a story about coming to stay with her sister, Mrs. James MacDougall, who was the only other patriot contact in Bridger Creek. She too was undercover.

When India walked in, a large bald man with a full beard looked up from the fireplace where he was squatting. He wiped his hands on his apron and lumbered over to her. He towered over India, his large stomach straining against his dirty breeches. It was early morning, and the inn was empty except for the woman she had seen earlier. She was behind the bar, pouring herself a drink. Bridger Creek Inn was dilapidated and dirty. Greasy hams covered with flies hung from the ceiling, and the patron’s tables were covered with crumbs and sticky beer stains.

“Good day to you,” India said to the man. “I am looking for my sister, Mrs. James MacDougall.”

A glimmer of recognition came into the man’s eyes. It was obvious that he was expecting her. He nodded, looked cautiously at the woman nursing a drink then back at India. “My name is Bledsoe. You came sooner than expected,” he growled in a deep bass voice. “The MacDougalls are gone on business with the innkeeper until tomorrow. You can stay upstairs tonight.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Mrs. Granger,” he barked at the woman. “Take her to a room.”

Mrs. Granger was a woman late in years. She had a weathered face, and her cheeks and nose were reddened from years of drink. She tipped her head back, emptied her tankard and started up the steps sullenly. India followed behind her, up the creaky wooden staircase. They went to a dark, dirty room that smelled of stale smoke and vomit. India wanted to put a hankie to her nose but refrained. Mrs. Granger stepped to a cupboard and took out some gray bedding, handing the bundle to India.

When she started for the door, India said quickly, “I don’t like to drink alone.”

Mrs. Granger looked at her sharply, her eyes narrowing.

India held up a coin and said, “I’ll buy.”

“I’ll be downstairs,” the woman said, closing the door behind her.

India sighed and looked around the room. She was pleased that Mrs. Granger was a drinker. She knew now that she could ply the old woman
and
the sentries with liquor. It would be a simple task to render them defenseless with alcohol then go about her business freeing Phineas and the others.

She found out that the woman took food and water out to the prison at sunrise and sunset. That afternoon India fed Mrs. Granger copious amounts of rum, pretending to drink with her, but all the time obtaining alcohol free beverages from Mr. Bledsoe at the bar. When Mrs. Granger was snoring by the fire, India stepped outside into the twilight, tying her shawl across her breast. Rain had left the air cold and damp, and she shivered. She could not stop worrying about Phineas and wondering about his health, living in a mine underground in conditions similar to these, day in and day out.