The Sword of the Banshee (50 page)

The first thing Quinn did when he woke late that night was ask for India.

“She left for Bridger Creek within an hour of your departure, sir,” one of the lads told him. “A man came with a sick boy today from there, but he is gone now.”

Quinn’s eyes grew large, and he grasped the lad’s shoulders. “Where is the boy?”

“Over there,” he said, pointing across the makeshift surgery by the campfire. Women worked in the firelight, dressing wounds, carrying water and arranging bedclothes. Quinn could see Phineas on a bedroll not far from him. His stomach lurched.

As a nurse passed, he caught her wrist and asked, “What happened to that boy over there?”

The nurse, a thin, leathery woman, looked over at Phineas and shook her head. “It was smoke that done it. He won’t be waking up.”

“No!” Quinn roared, wild with despair. “God damn you for saying that. There must be hope.”

The woman stepped back, frowning.

“Get away from me,” Quinn raged, falling back onto his bedroll, his eyes still on Phineas.

The woman blinked, and walked away, shaking her head and muttering about lunatics.

Quinn never stopped watching Phineas. He would doze and wake repeatedly throughout the night, looking over at the boy for any movement, or any sign of change but none came. When most of the activity died down around the campfire, Quinn sat up, clutched his bedroll with his good arm and moved next to Phineas.

It gave him comfort to be near the boy, and Quinn stroked his head looking at him. Phineas was on his back, eyes closed, lips parted, breathing quietly. He did not move. He did not sigh. He did not moan. His face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken. Quinn ran his eyes down the blanket which was draped over a thin layer of flesh and bones. It was apparent the boy had been starving to death.

Quinn fell back onto his blanket, his hands in fists, and his eyes filling with tears.
How can this be happening!
Will I lose my boy?
And what of India? Have I lost her too?

The next morning, Quinn woke with a start. Ian was squatting over him, worry in his eyes. Propping himself up on his elbow, Quinn asked anxiously “My God, what is it?”

Ian took a deep breath, swallowed hand and said “Quinn, a courier just brought news. India died of smoke inhalation saving Phineas.”

*           *            *

Ian walked away. There was nothing more he could do. His brother would not talk nor move. When Quinn heard the news of Lady Allen’s death, he dropped back onto his bedroll and stared at the sky. Ian asked him questions, but there was no response. He even shook his shoulder to rouse him, but Quinn did not move. The shock of the boy’s injuries then the news of India’s death had been too much for him. Ian sat with his brother over an hour, impotent to help. At last he stood up and walked away, thinking Quinn would rather be alone.

The sun was warming the earth now as it rose clear and strong. The forest was a blaze of garish orange and blood red from autumn leaves. One of the women offered Ian some breakfast, and he sat down on a log to eat. He had no appetite, but he knew that he should have something. Mechanically he put bacon and cornbread into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

The camp was coming to life, many were rested now after the battle and making preparations to return home. Horses were being saddled, goodbyes were being said and packs were being tied up.

Ian drained his cup of coffee and decided to take some breakfast back to Quinn. He knew his brother would refuse to eat, but it gave him an excuse to check on him again. He wound his way through the camp, stopping several times to say goodbye to comrades or give orders to the sharpshooters.

He squatted down to look at Phineas as he passed and shook his head. The boy looked dead. He was ghostly pale and his lips were thin and white. Yet, in spite of the grim outlook, Ian hoped for a miracle. His brother needed the boy to survive. He needed a reason to live, and Phineas would give it to him. He looked over at Quinn, and his eyes widened. There was nothing on the rumpled bedroll. Quinn was gone.

*           *            *

“Everyone thinks Lady Allen had an accidental death,” Oliver Dupuis explained to Captain Arnold of His Majesty’s 33
rd
Regiment of Foot. The officer stood at the bar of the Bridger Creek Inn struggling to hold his temper as he listened to the oily, disreputable innkeeper. The tavern was empty and cold, the remains of last night’s debauchery strewn everywhere. Candle wax had run all over the tables. Spilled beer and tobacco juice were caked on the floor.

“Never fear,” Dupuis continued in his whiny voice. “She is confined, although I am keeping her well fed and comfortable. I want all of her senses to be in tact, in fact heightened, when she hits that fire.”

The tall, sandy haired Englishman ran his eyes over Dupuis with disdain. He did not like or trust this dirty tavern keeper of low birth. “I want no one to know that she is still alive,” the Captain warned. “I want no interference and above all no martyr’s death. The Irish here are as ignorant as they are at home. Slaves to legend and fairy tales, they cling to any second rate hero they can find.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know why you insist on death by fire. It smacks too much of that fanatic Frenchwoman at The Battle of Orleans.”

“I can assure you,” Dupuis said, wringing his hands. “Everyone thinks she is one of the fireships that I am burning tonight. No one will come for her. Word has been sent of her death to the sharpshooters and the mountain men.”

“There better not be any mistakes. I think we should have hanged her on the spot.”

Dupuis smiled and nodded. “I know, I know, Captain Arnold, but remember I forfeited my bounty money for this opportunity.”

Captain Arnold drained his tankard of rum, looked back at Dupuis and narrowed his eyes. “Why is it so important to you that she suffer?”

The oily smile dropped from Dupuis’ face. “She made me look like a fool. No one does that to Oliver Dupuis.”

The officer studied him a moment with amusement then turned away from the foul stench of rotten teeth.
As if this blind degenerate has a reason to be proud.

“I will be back tonight for the show,” Arnold announced and walked out the door.

*           *            *

The horse tore down the path along the river, as Quinn road low, dodging branches and urging the animal along at a furious pace. He paid a small fortune for this mare at a tavern in Sugar Rock after exhausting his first steed. When he roared into the town demanding a fresh mount immediately, the innkeeper raised his eyebrows and smiled. He told Calleigh that indeed he had a horse for sale, but it was a special mare and quite expensive. Quinn did not care if the man gouged him. He was desperate and bought the horse.

In moments he was on his way again, gritting his teeth and wincing with agony as the horse sailed over fallen branches, rocks and woodland debris, running at top speed. Quinn could barely stay in the saddle, plus he knew that he was bleeding again. He saw the innkeeper eyeing his soaked shirt.

Bridger Creek was only a short distance now, and Quinn prayed that he was not too late. His instincts had told him earlier that India was still alive, but now he doubted his intuition. That morning, he could feel her life force as certainly as if she had been in his arms, but now her presence was fading.

It had been difficult finding the strength to make the journey, but Calleigh never questioned the necessity. After Ian left his bedside, he made sure no one was watching, and struggled to his feet. Giving one final anxious look at Phineas, he gathered his things and pulled himself onto a horse. Once mounted, he guzzled rum to dull the pain, ignoring the fact it made his blood run too freely from the wound.

Quinn rode hard all day, resting infrequently, and by the time he thundered up to Bridger Creek, the sun was setting. The first evidence of a settlement he witnessed was the sound of cheering in the distance, punctuated by roars of laughter. He reined his mare in and slowed her to a walk, holding his breath, trying to hear what caused the merriment. He wondered if it was a lynching. This was the heart of Tory country and a land teaming with Loyalists.  Redcoats were always looking for a patriot to hang.

Quinn dismounted in the shelter of the woods and changed the dressing on his wound, cautiously scanning the trees for danger. Next he yanked his topcoat from the saddle, carefully pulling it on. He must cover his blood stained shirt to blend in with the crowd. Before starting into the mob, Quinn decided to take another long pull of rum and eat something. Although his stomach was tied in knots, his head was light from hunger and loss of blood. He stuffed some bread into his mouth, tore at a turkey leg then grabbed his rifle. Taking a deep breath he set his jaw and said a prayer that India was still alive.

Taking the reins, he led his mare toward the tavern. Every step he took seemed unsteady, but he did not want to ride. He was less conspicuous on foot. Stepping out of the underbrush he started across a meadow when something caught his eye. It was a woman hugging a tree with a soldier behind her holding her skirt up, driving himself deeply into her. Quinn looked away with disgust.

Redcoats, Loyalists and local farmers were everywhere, drinking, smoking or talking. They stood in groups laughing, telling stories or watching the roaring bonfire in the clearing by the tavern. Children darted through the legs of the adults, running and tumbling. There were women carrying tankards on trays to men, flirting and laughing and some toted babies on their hips. Several soldiers threw dice as an old man played a fiddle. Others sang drinking songs at the top of their lungs while they sloshed beer. Merriment was in the air.

Quinn was out of breath when he reached the inn, and he leaned against a trough to rest and let the mare drink. People filed in and out the tavern in a steady stream.
Who can I approach about India? What can I ask?

“When is it starting?” Quinn heard a soldier ask his comrade.

“Any minute now,” the other said.

Quinn was confused. He couldn’t decide whether this was a harvest celebration or a lynching. In spite of the crisp autumn air his face was covered with perspiration. He reached up to wipe his brow with his sleeve and tried to gather his thoughts. The note India had received before she left to rescue Phineas said to contact the innkeeper at Bridger Creek. Patriot or loyalist spy, he believed that this man may know something, so he elbowed his way into the crowded tavern.

The smoke and noise made his head spin. The first thing he saw when he walked in was a grubby woman with heavy paint on her face guffawing as two boys reached down her bodice to fondle her breasts. The crowd jostled him toward the center of the tavern.

An old man elbowed Quinn and said, “I’d like a little slap and tickle with her,” and pointed to a whore dancing on a table with her skirts raised. The man’s beard was yellowed from years of tobacco and he licked spittle from his lips never taking his eyes from the girl. Quinn turned away to see a soldier unbutton his pants and relieve himself in the corner.

Despite the debauchery and mayhem nothing stunned him more than the sight of Oliver Dupuis standing behind the bar with his white eyeballs rolling. Quinn stared at him, his heart hammering in his chest.
So he was the innkeeper India was supposed to meet!
It all made sense now
.
This was the monster responsible for everything.

Quinn watched Dupuis pick up his cane and slip into a room at the back of the bar, as one of his men crawled upon the bar and roared, “The fireship begins!”

The crowd cheered and surged for the door. The throng swept Calleigh outside toward the bonfire. Now he understood what was about to occur. He remembered what India had told him about fireships, and he shuddered at the sight of the inferno. The flames of the fire licked high into the night sky, flickering grotesquely on the faces of the Loyalists and Redcoats. They laughed and joked about the upcoming spectacle, eager to witness the violence.

The cheering swelled as two men emerged from the inn escorting a girl down the steps toward the fire. She was very young and frail with dirty unkempt hair. It was obvious from the tattered low cut gown that she was one of Dupuis’ hired girls. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed and dug into the earth with her heels. Calleigh could see sores on her face from the French Pox, and he looked away as they dragged her past. Soldiers, towns people, even children were hurling obscenities at her and spitting on her. Everyone chanted, “Fireship, fireship!”

When they reached the blaze the crowd stepped back forming a wide circle around the hysterical girl and the pair restraining her. Two more men stepped forward from the crowd, and they each took a limb. The four of them began to swing her back and forth.

With the first swing the mob roared, “One!” The girl was sobbing and begging for mercy, but the crowd was oblivious. On the second swing they yelled, “Two!”

On the third count everyone screamed, “Three!” and the men let go of her. She sailed through the air, her hair flying and her skirts billowing as she clawed the air. When she hit the embers of the fire they heard a blood curdling scream, and everyone cheered.