The Sword of the Banshee (51 page)

The blood drained from Quinn’s face, and he thought that he was going to be sick, but the spectacle wasn’t over. Somehow the girl managed to roll out of the inferno and stagger to her feet. Her gown ablaze, she began to bolt across the open field to what she believed was sanctuary in the trees. Her hair was in flames, and it trailed out behind her like a mane of fire. The draft she created while she ran fanned her living torch, and before she ever reached the tree line, she dropped to the ground screaming and burning to death.

Horrified, Quinn was jostled forward again by the mob who wanted a closer look.

Suddenly, someone shouted from the tavern, “Wait, we have one more!” It was Oliver Dupuis speaking. He stepped aside on the stairs to let two men pass who restrained yet another woman. The mob turned toward the next victim. They cheered again as the trio started down the stairs.

Quinn was panting and dizzy. The injury, his fatigue and the horror he witnessed was taxing his reserves. He licked his dry lips and looked up as the victim walked past with her escorts. She too appeared to be a whore. She was dressed in a torn, low cut gown, and her hair was tangled and dirty, yet something was different about this victim. This woman did not struggle. She did not cry out. She did not raise her eyes from the ground but one time. When she did, Quinn’s jaw dropped. There was no mistaking those eyes.

“India!” he gasped.”

In spite of the roar of the crowd she heard him call her name. She turned toward him and instantly her eyes ignited into green fire.

When they reached the blaze, the crowd pulled back once more into a circle, ready for the deadly spectacle. Four men took India’s limbs roughly and swept her off the ground. She did not struggle. She did not cry out, although when one of the men lost his grip on her ankle, she smashed him in the face with her foot. The crowd laughed and applauded the unexpected entertainment. The burly man covered his bloody face and disappeared into the crowd. Someone else stepped forward to grab her ankle, and they began to swing her.

“One!” the mob roared.

Quinn’s eyes grew large and his heart started to pound.
I must do something! I must act now!

“Two!”

He stepped forward with his rifle, knowing the futility of one shot, but he had to act.

Then it happened. 

He saw Ian looking at him across the circle. Dropping his firearm Quinn roared, “Ian, the Irish ladder!”

Ian’s face lit up, and he bolted toward his brother. When they met, Ian laced his fingers together, and Quinn thrust one foot into his hands. With all his might, Ian sent his brother soaring through the air just as the crowd cried “Three!”

With his arms outstretched, Quinn sailed toward India as she flew toward the fire. He met her in midair with a smack, and they tumbled to the ground, falling a short distance from the bonfire.

The mob was stunned. All went quiet. Quinn and India lay on the ground, the wind knocked from their lungs.

“What is it!” cried Dupuis from the steps of the tavern, his thin voice carrying across the silent crowd. Captain Arnold stood next to him, confused and scanning the mob. Dupuis thrust his chin into the air, listening. “What the hell happened?” he called again.

Suddenly a woman stepped in front him on the stairs.

“Oliver,” she murmured.

His head jerked. He recognized Lucretia’s voice.

“I’ve come back,” she said.

Lucretia lifted a pistol and fired. Oliver Dupuis was hurtled backward by the blast into the door of the tavern, blood and matter spattering everywhere.

Lucretia slipped inside the crowd. All eyes turned back to the blaze where a man galloped past, a rifle on his hip, his long white hair flowing in the wind. It was Algernon. At first the spectators thought he was a ghost, but when fifteen sharpshooters, rifles raised, poured out of the woods behind him, they understood.

Bridger Creek was under siege.

Immediately the noise of battle erupted, and it was mayhem. Quinn jerked India to her feet to run for the woods as the sharpshooters charged on horseback into the crowd. Gunshots popped. Women screamed and grabbed their children. Villagers dropped to the ground, while others ran. Soldiers scrambled for their muskets as Captain Arnold shouted orders.

Quinn’s men picked off Redcoats and Loyalists like they were on a turkey shoot. Their horses reared up, jerking this way and that, trampling the mob as everyone scrambled for cover. Some of the horses were taken down with bayonets, but the sharpshooters were not deterred. They jumped to their feet and fired on their assailants or smashed them with the butts of their rifles. When their rounds were exhausted, the sharpshooters retreated to the woods, but it was far from over. Now the Overmountain Men took their turn. They poured out of the underbrush on horseback, sending bullets and blasts of smoke into the hysterical mob. Soldiers and Loyalists dropped to the ground, killed instantly or writhing in pain. Women who raised weapons were taken down as if they were men.

It was all over after a few moments. The sharpshooters and Overmountain Men had done their job, departing as quickly as they had come. Bodies littered the field. The bonfire was abandoned. All was quiet.

*           *            *

There was no wind that night in Bridger Creek. The smoke from battle lingered over the town like a funereal shroud. Separated in the confusion, Quinn searched frantically for India. It was dangerous to remain in the settlement, but he would not leave without her.  The smoke from the firearms and the dying fire choked him and stung his eyes. He stumbled amid the distorted corpses, his rifle poised. She was nowhere to be found.

Chapter 41

“India,” Quinn called. He coughed and blinked. His eyes ran as he tried to brush the smoke from his face.

“India?”

Suddenly, a breeze changed the direction of the smoke, sweeping it away into the night sky. She was not far from him, stepping out of the woods with a bundle of wood in her arms. She walked over the mill bridge and tossed a log onto the fire.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Someone had to get dry fuel for the fire,” India replied brusquely. “That wood you used was wet.”

“Well it just rained,” Quinn said defensively.

Flames shot up suddenly as the dry wood caught fire, snapping and popping, casting a golden light on the two of them. It was a cool night, and India had on her red cloak. Quinn draped his arm over her shoulders, and they watched the fire. Filling his lungs with fresh air, he declared, “Ah, but it's good to be back in the Brandywine.”

“It is good to be home,” she agreed.

India looked over her shoulder at the river disappearing from view in the darkness. “Phineas should be here,” she said with a sigh.

“Aye,” said Quinn.

“It has been a year.”

“All Hallows Eve is coming up,” he replied.

“Yes,” India agreed. Suddenly, she remembered a night a long time ago. “You realize that my freedom fighting started on All Hallows Eve. It was at a bonfire like this at Cragmere Ruins.”

“Cragmere Ruins?” Quinn asked. “Where is that?”

“Near Dublin,” India replied. She stared at the flames, growing pensive. She thought of that dangerous midnight excursion with her cousin Lorna and the repparees carrying jack-o-lanterns. She thought of Colm, the rallies, the bonfire of the Druid priestesses and the blaze at Bridger Creek. “You know, Quinn, it seems all the pivotal moments of my life have been accompanied by a bonfire.”

“Have they now?” he mused.

They watched the flames in silence then India chuckled.

“What is it?”

“I just remembered Lucretia’s first divination about me. ‘She will wield the sword of the Banshee, but in the end, she will be consumed by fire’.”

Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “It was a different sort of blaze she was talking about, darlin’ ”

“Yes, indeed,” India said with a smile.

He pulled her close under his arm.

Suddenly, there was the crunch of leaves and the snapping of twigs. They heard someone walking in the woods followed by footsteps crossing the mill bridge. Quinn looked over his shoulder and called, “Where have you been, boy?”

“Tending the pigeons,” Phineas called back. “One just returned with a message.” He crossed the bridge walking toward them briskly. Phineas had made a full recovery. His weight was back, and he was taller.

He handed Quinn the note. Breaking the seal, he read it hastily. Quinn looked up and stared straight ahead.

“What is it?” India asked anxiously.

“They--” he broke off in disbelief. “They’ve surrendered. The British surrendered a week ago at Yorktown.”

India’s eyes grew large, and Phineas’ jaw dropped.

Stunned, Quinn blinked then looked at India. “We did it. We did it, girl. We’ve won our freedom!”

He stepped over and grabbed them both roughly. Throwing his head back, he guffawed and roared, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

Phineas took his hat off, whooped and threw it into the air. Quinn linked arms with him, and they began to dance a jig around the fire.

India was still too stunned to move. Her eyes filled with tears instead.
So the battle is over at last. It started at Cragmere Ruins and ends here, halfway around the world. It was hard fought but worth every bit of the struggle.

And have I changed? Yes, indeed
.

Ironically amid the brutality, danger, and bloodshed, she had found her humanity.

India turned and looked at the fire
.
Her eyes reflected the golden light of the flames.
Indeed, it is true. The greatest moments of my life have always been at a bonfire.

About the Author

All her life Amanda Hughes has been a “Walter Mitty”, spending more time in heroic daydreams than the real world. At last she found an outlet writing adventures about audacious women in the 18
th
Century. Her debut novel,
Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004V12JIK
was published in 2002, followed by
The Pride of the King
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056QJOVE
in 2011 and
The Sword of the Banshee
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BB0NR9E
in 2013. Amanda is a graduate of the University of Minnesota, and when she isn’t off tilting windmills, she lives and writes in St. Paul, Minnesota. Please visit her at
http://www.amandahughesauthor.com