The Sword of the Banshee (49 page)

India found the yoke in a shed out back, filled the buckets with water and hoisted the yoke across her shoulders and picked up her basket. She was going out to get a closer look at the prison and get familiar with the sentries.

As she walked toward the mine it struck her how quiet it was out here. She could hear nothing but the wind in her ears. She knew the cries of pain and suffering were muffled forty feet below.

As she approached she could see the guards pulling a rope hanging from a pulley, straining as if hoisting a great weight. An oblong wicker basket emerged from the mine shaft, swinging slowly back and forth. India realized that there was a body in the basket. The guards pushed it away from the shaft and lowered it onto the ground.

A dark haired young soldier with chiseled features looked at India and barked, “Where’s Granger?”

“Sleeping,” India said, examining the face of the corpse anxiously to make sure it was not Phineas.

“You mean drunk,” said the other guard, a paunchy man in his middle years with heavy jowls and sagging eyes. He was wheezing and sat down heavily.

India put the buckets down and reached into her basket lifting out a bottle. “Here’s your daily ration from Mr. Bledsoe.”

The younger guard yanked the bottle out of her hand, examining it. “Daily ration my ass,” he exclaimed. “We never got this before.”

A smile flickered on India’s lips. She could tell they were falling for her story. “Is this the first you’ve heard of it?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. “Mr. Bledsoe told me he sends a bottle out to you every evening with Mrs. Granger.”

“Well, that old cow!” exclaimed the older guard with astonishment. “We never got a bottle. I’ll wager she’s been keepin’ it for herself all this time.”

The men sat down and began passing the liquor back and forth, chugging it quickly. While they were preoccupied with the rum, India ran her eyes over everything, scanning the mine shaft, looking at the pulleys, firearms and the guards.

“How many traitors are down there?” she asked.

The men looked at each other. She could tell they weren’t sure. The young man shrugged. “Thirteen, fourteen.”

India looked at the basket of food and swallowed hard. There was not enough food in there to feed four men.

The older guard ran his eyes over India. “Join us,” he said, holding the bottle out to her.

“Tomorrow,” she said, smiling.

“Make sure
you
come out tomorrow, not that old crone,” the young guard said. “God damn her.”

India nodded and started back to the inn, satisfied that she had ingratiated herself to the guards.

*           *            *

Phineas woke up with a start. It seemed as if all he did lately was sleep. There was little else to do in this damp, foul tomb, and after his illness he seemed to have so little energy. It had even become difficult to stand, and he knew that it was not just because of his injured leg; it was lack of food and sunlight as well. He was growing weaker everyday.

He heard men’s voices from the main shaft. The few prisoners who now moved around the subterranean passages were of questionable character, and Phineas remained aloof from them. He had known their kind on the streets when he was a boy, and he knew they were ignorant brutish thugs, who would use every means necessary to satisfy their desires. A few hours earlier they had informed him that they were planning an escape and would be demanding his assistance shortly. Phineas knew that the only reason they had the energy to plan a break was because they were stealing everyone’s food. Either way, there was little chance of success. He placed his hopes instead in the war ending soon and his eventual release, yet as each day passed, his optimism faded.

In the dim light, Phineas saw a grizzly man approaching him. “Get up you lazy bastard and help us pull beams down to the door!”

Saying nothing, Phineas struggled to his feet. Holding the slimy wall for support, he followed the man to a shaft that had caved in and was strewn with rocks and splintered beams. Although Phineas’ legs shook, he helped the man drag a large timber beam down to the end of the main shaft. A lantern hanging on a nail cast light on a wooden door which had, at one time, been another exit. The British had barricaded it when they had converted the mine to a prison.

More men came with more timber dropping the beams onto a pile leaning against the wooden door. When Phineas had gained enough strength to speak, he asked, “Are we going to ram it?”

The grizzly prisoner wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked at Phineas as if he was stupid. “No, we’re going to burn it.”

*           *            *

That evening Bridger Creek Inn came to life. The noise started about ten o’clock and built steadily as the night progressed. India could hear the patrons laughing and shouting and the whores giggling as they escorted johns upstairs to the rooms, one after the other. She judged that the inn must have had five or six full time working girls. She watched discreetly from the window as men flooded into the tavern. Many of them were British regulars who brought tankards outside to smoke, tell bawdy jokes and take the girls into the bushes. Bridger Creek Inn did a thriving business with the Loyalists and India marveled at the amount of information the innkeeper and his employee Mr. Bledsoe must have been able to obtain for the patriot cause.

That night India slept little and rose before dawn, determined to beat Mrs. Granger to the buckets and yoke. Today was the day she would free Phineas. She slipped quietly downstairs to the dimly lit bar room which was quiet and empty except for a figure sitting by the fire with his back to her. The man was sitting very straight holding a cane.

“Good morning, Lady Allen,” he said.

India’s heart jumped into her throat. She recognized Oliver Dupuis’ nasal voice as certainly as he recognized her footsteps. Thin as a scarecrow, he did not move a muscle, his hands resting on the knob of his cane. India put her hand to her nose. He still smelled of rotten teeth and unwashed clothing. She walked in front of him.

“I hope you have found my establishment to your liking. I have been the innkeeper here since Philadelphia fell,” he said. “I have been expecting you.”

India narrowed her eyes and said, “Don’t think for a minute you can stand in my way, Dupuis.”

He raised his hand to his breast sarcastically. “Me? Really Lady Allen, you have a low opinion of me. At times of war we must put our personal differences aside for the greater good. I remain the true and loyal patriot I have always been.”

India’s head was swimming. She was not prepared for the presence of this monster. He was not only unpredictable, self serving and dangerous, but he had an ax to grind with her for taking Lucretia from him.

Suddenly the front door of the inn flew open and the middle aged guard from the prison burst in. “Smoke in the mine!”

“What!” India cried.

“They’ve built a fire,” the man replied, his face ashen.

India gasped and pushed him aside, running out the door. Picking up her skirts she flew down the steps of the inn, and ran down the road to the mine. She could see the younger guard looking down the shaft as smoke belched out.

As she ran up, he pointed to the tree line. “No rush. They’re gone. I saw them run out the door at the other end and into the woods. They set fire to it.”

“Are--” and she panted, trying to catch her breath. “Are you sure they are all out?”

The young guard sneered. “Who cares?”

India grabbed the body basket. “Help me hook this up. We are going to lower it just in case,” she demanded.

The guard looked at her indignantly. “Who the hell are you? I have orders no one is to come out of that mine.”

India straightened up, reached around to the back of her skirt and pulled out her pistol, pointing it at him. “Oh, you’ll help me.”

The guard’s eyebrows shot up sarcastically. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Go ahead and shoot me. One person can’t pull someone up alone.”

India knew he was right, but her finger itched to pull the trigger on this smug bastard. All of a sudden a huge frame shadowed the young man. It was Mr. Bledsoe. He pointed his rifle at the guard. “You think the boy is still in there?” he asked India.

“I have to be sure,” was India’s reply.

Suddenly there was the report of a firearm. They looked back at the inn just as the other guard stumbled and fell. Mrs. Granger lowered her smoking rifle. India’s jaw dropped. She had never suspected the old woman of being a partisan.

Looking back to Bledsoe, she said, “I’m going down.”

He nodded and lashed the guard’s hands as India hooked the basket to the ropes. Mrs. Granger joined them as India stepped into the basket. She took one last breath of fresh air then tied her neckerchief over her face. They dropped her down quickly into the darkness. When she hit the floor of the mine, India crawled out on her hands and knees, staying low to the ground where the air was less clogged with fumes.

She took a breath to call for Phineas but began to choke and sputter. She tried again, “Phineas!” she called hoarsely.

There was no response. Aside from the faint light coming from above, it was completely dark.

“Phineas!” she cried again, coughing. Thick black smoke rolled out of the main shaft and up toward the light. India rose to her feet with her arms outstretched, walking blindly around the cavern. Suddenly, she tripped and fell over something bulky. It was a body. She pushed herself up onto her knees and felt for the face. When she reached the head, she shook the shoulders of the victim and cried, “Phineas?”

There was no answer. A spasm of coughing racked her body once more and when she regained her breath, she ran her hands over the face. It was smooth and free of whiskers.

Gasping, India grabbed the clothing of the body and dragged it toward the basket. The exertion made her head spin. She could only hope and pray that she had found Phineas. She crawled into the basket with the victim and tugged the rope sharply.

Granger and Bledsoe pulled her up as fast as they could, and when she reached the top of the shaft, sunlight illuminated the face of Phineas. India sobbed with joy as they pulled the boy into fresh air. She knelt over him frantically and listened. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive. Tears streaked India’s blackened face as she got to her feet and jerked the ropes free from the pulley. With the help of Mr. Bledsoe, she began to drag Phineas in the basket toward the tree line.

Giving them a nod of encouragement, Mrs. Granger straightened her gown, arranged her mob cap and returned to the inn as if nothing had happened. India knew that, if questioned, the woman would feign drunken ignorance.

They bumped and dragged Phineas frantically across the field as fast as they could move, but India moved slowly, breathless from the all smoke. In spite of her frenzied desire to get Phineas to safety, her body would not allow her to continue. She dropped to her knees, dizzy and gasping for air.

Suddenly a group of Redcoats came around the bend in the road, hooves thundering.

“Stop!” one of the officers bellowed. They turned their horses into the field.

India turned to Bledsoe and yelled, “Run!”

Bledsoe looked from the soldiers to the woods, then back at India who was doubled over in the grass. She said breathlessly, “There is nothing you can do! Take him to safety.”

He scooped Phineas into his arms and ducked into the brush. By the time the regulars could fire, he was gone.

With great difficulty, India dragged herself to her feet. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Oliver Dupuis at the back of the group, one of the regulars holding the reigns of his mount. A tall British officer jerked his horse around to the front of the group and barked, “Lady Fitzpatrick, you are under arrest for crimes against the Crown of Great Britain.”

India’s lip’s parted.
They know my name.
Oliver Dupuis is not only exacting revenge for the loss of Lucretia, but he is collecting blood money for my capture.

Chapter 40

The battle at Kings Mountain was an overwhelming success for the patriots. They returned home exhausted but satisfied after confronting Ferguson and his Loyalists on the 7
th
of October on a hilltop in South Carolina. After only one hour of battle, the Overmountain Men and Calleigh’s sharpshooters soundly defeated the Tory militia. The patriots had few casualties whereas the losses for the Loyalists were devastating. It was the first link in a chain of events that would bolster the confidence of the Americans and guarantee a victory over Great Britain.

Calleigh and his sharpshooters had never fought beside a group of men so skilled with firearms. The Overmountain Men were a marvel to behold on horseback with their long rifles and keen marksmanship. When the battle ended at Kings Mountain and the smoke cleared, victory was imminent.

Although Kings Mountain was a success, Quinn did not emerge from the battle unscathed. He took a bullet in his shoulder early on. It knocked him from his horse, and dragging himself to cover, one of his men bandaged it hastily. Balancing his rifle on a rock, he continued to fire rounds until he could no longer aim steadily. Although the projectile had exited cleanly, it had shattered bone and muscle on its flight, and the pain was great. Luckily the battle was short because when Ian found him, he had lost consciousness. He was brought back on a litter to camp to recuperate.