Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  “Why do you follow me?” asked the man in an accent Tom had never heard before.

  “I’m not. I mean, I . . . I . . . I was searching for my friend’s murderer,” said Tom bravely.

  “And you thought I was that man?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tom, still trying to get a proper look at the stranger. “We did not know who we were looking for. But in any case, now I know who it was who killed my friend.”

  “Shepton?” Tom could hear the hatred in the man’s voice.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I know that devil. I have been searching for him this very night,” said the man. “And this friend he killed? This friend was Will Piggot, I think.”

  “You knew Will?” exclaimed Tom.

  “I did know him. Was proud to know him. Such skill in one so young. I only caught him picking my pocket by accident. I never saw such swiftness of hand, such quick wits. What a hunter he would have made. I watched him work the crowd for an hour before I spoke to him.”

  “It was you who paid him to put the Death and the Arrow cards in those men’s pockets! It’s your fault he’s dead!” shouted Tom.

  There was no reply. Tom feared for his life again and wished he had held his tongue.

  “Yes,” said the man at last. “I am to blame, as sure as if I had strangled him myself, and I’m sorry for it. It gives me another sorrow in a life of sorrows, and another reason to seek Shepton’s death. Now there are only two of them left. He and the one called Fisher. They are the last.”

  “No,” said Tom. “Fisher is dead.” He told him about the attempt on his life and of Fisher’s fall to his death.

  The man crouched down and began to untie the ropes from around Tom’s ankles. Tom could still not see his face beneath the brim of his hat. When his feet were free, he momentarily considered kicking out at his captor, but his hands were still tied, and who knew if anyone would ever find him?

  Tom let his legs drop on either side of the beam, welcoming the chance to move and shake off some of the damp chill of the night. His captor stooped over him, holding a huge knife, and Tom cried out in fear of his life; however, the knife was used to cut not Tom’s throat but the rope holding him to a metal bracket behind his head. He was grateful to be released, but instantly felt even more aware of the drop below.

  “I have food. Eat.”

  The man tossed a leather bag into Tom’s lap. It was decorated in a similar way to the beaded shoes. Again Tom tried to remember where he had seen that decoration before. He reached inside the bag and found a small loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He took hearty bites out of both.

  Meanwhile, his captor took off his hat and wig, tucking them into the space between wall and rafter by Tom’s head. He then dropped down to sit astride the beam opposite him. Tom gasped in amazement.

  Most men in London shaved their heads and stuck their wigs to their scalps. But this man had a ridge of hair running from the top of his head to the nape of his neck, tied at the back with a single black feather. But more, much more extraordinary than this, his face and neck were decorated with strange patterns not unlike those on his shoes. Silver triangles hung from his ear-lobes. The sergeant’s talk of demons flooded back into Tom’s mind.

  “Wh-wh-what are you?”

  “I am Tonsahoten.”

  TONSAHOTEN

  "You are an Indian?” said Tom, now more excited than scared.

  “Your people call me such — and worse. Mohawk is what I am.”

  Now Tom remembered where he had seen decoration like that on the Indian’s shoes — Dr. Harker had showed him shoes like that. He called them “moccasins.”

  “I had never thought to meet a sav —” Tom winced and eyed the Mohawk nervously.

  Tonsahoten smiled. “Yes. You call us ‘savages,’ ” he said with a sigh. “And yet I have seen what white men are. I have seen what white men do.”

  “But why are you here? How did you get here?”

  “I came here in search of the men who killed my family, who killed my people.”

  “The sergeant!” said Tom. “He told us that he attacked a village. He thought those people had killed his men and robbed the army. Was that your village?”

  “Yes,” said Tonsahoten. “My village. My mother. My father. My sister. My people. Only I escaped.” He looked away. “They are all gone. My life is gone now. Yes—I killed the sergeant.”

  Tom could think of nothing to say, but all fear had gone now; only pity remained.

  The Mohawk hung his head. “It happened some years ago. White men had brought their wars to my country again, and again my people had allowed themselves to become a part of it. Some of us fought for the French against the English, some for the English against the French. We allowed ourselves to be bought for guns and whiskey, while piece by piece the white man took our land, cut down our forests.”

  He stopped and looked at Tom. “But even so, we lived as peaceably as we could, ignoring the taunts of the drunken English soldiers who were camped near our village. Then one day I was hunting on my own in the great wood and I saw them—a group of soldiers. One of them—the one we now know as Shepton—had a bow and was practicing firing arrows into a tree. I had heard that a soldier was paying for lessons in the bow and here he was. He was good. He rarely missed. The soldiers cheered each time the arrow struck home, and then they gathered together in a huddle and began to talk in whispers too quiet to hear. I tried to move closer, but a jay set up a cry and gave me away. They picked up their guns, and I fled.

  “I thought no more about it until some days later when I saw the same men riding through the woods on the trail heading north. They formed part of a group of eight outriders guarding a wagon. The sergeant led the group. There was a kind of ditch not far from the trail, and I could walk alongside unseen.

  “All of a sudden, Shepton, who was riding toward the back of the group, made a sign with his hand. He and four others reached into the back of the cart and pulled out bows and a quiver of arrows. The men took an arrow each.

  “They were so close to their targets that they could not miss. Two of the men shot the driver and his guard, and another two shot the two riders ahead of them. Shepton had the hardest shot, and he appeared to have missed because he only hit the sergeant in the shoulder. But this was intentional. He wanted a witness who would say for sure that it was an Indian attack.”

  “Sergeant Quinn,” said Tom.

  “Yes,” said Tonsahoten. “Shepton shouted, ‘Injuns!’ and kicked his horse forward, pretending to have been shot himself. He told the sergeant to get clear, and he slapped his horse.”

  “So the sergeant would think Shepton had saved his life,” said Tom.

  The Mohawk nodded. “As soon as the sergeant was out of sight, the robbers finished off the soldiers they had shot and then, taking tomahawks from the back of the wagon, they scalped them.” Tonsahoten saw the look of shock on Tom’s face and smiled grimly.

  “They hurriedly changed out of their bloody clothes, ripped them up, and scattered them about in the woods for the English to find after the sergeant reported the incident. Then, with a triumphant whoop, they made off with the wagon at great speed.

  “I did not wait for the soldiers to find the bodies. I could see what they would think, what they were meant to think. The arrows used were from my own village, and I ran to warn the elders of the danger to our people.

  “But they would not listen. I was young, they said. The English would listen to us, they said. And when nothing happened, when no soldiers came, I began to believe that they were right. But it was not to be.” Tonsahoten looked down and shook his head, unable to speak for a few moments.

  “A week or so later, the soldiers came, very early, before the hunting party had left the village. At their head was the same sergeant who had been with the other soldiers. He looked pale, and his left arm hung down by his side, bandaged under his uniform.

  “The shaman from our village—our priest—walked
slowly toward him and asked him what he wanted. The sergeant took out his sword and ran it through his chest. Then the soldiers began shooting.

  “I ran for my bow, but a soldier blocked my way; I turned to run, but was confronted by another. He struck me with the butt of his rifle and I fell to the ground. He split open my head and blood flowed down my face and neck. The blood and my lifeless appearance saved me from the bayonet that would surely have followed. But when I saw what lay around me, I began to wish I had been killed.

  “My mother, who had never harmed anyone in her life, was dead. My lovely sister... my father, who taught me to hunt and to fish... my friends, my whole village— all dead. All dead. All dead. . . .” Tonsahoten broke off from his story and hung his head.

  “I’m sorry for it,” said Tom after a little while, but still the Mohawk did not reply. They sat in silence for several minutes until Tonsahoten finally spoke again.

  “I tell you all this so that you will leave this hunt. Shepton is the man you seek, but he is mine, promised to me by my oath. Nothing must stand in my way.” The words hung in the air between them, part threat, part warning. Then the Mohawk took a quick look around and said, “Come, I will see you safely home.”

  Tonsahoten replaced his wig and hat and carried Tom down from the high beam. As they walked through the city, the Mohawk kept his head bowed to hide the markings on his face. His bow and arrows were in a long leather bag thrown over one shoulder. He was far less noticeable than many of the strange inhabitants of the City of London.

  When they reached the alleyway leading to the Lamb and Lion printing house, Tonsahoten bid Tom farewell. He turned to leave but, as he did so, his way was blocked and four pistols were pointed at his head. Tom suddenly saw that Dr. Harker was standing nearby with his father.

  “I am Under-marshal Hitchin,” said one of the men. “You are under arrest.” He struck Tonsahoten in the stomach with a short staff.

  “No!” shouted Tom. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “What do we have here?” said Hitchin, ignoring Tom and pulling off the Mohawk’s wig. “Some sort of cannibal, here in our fair city.”

  The Mohawk stared impassively into Hitchin’s eyes and the under-marshal moved to hit him again.

  “Execute your duties fairly or the mayor will hear of it,” warned Dr. Harker.

  Hitchin did not acknowledge the doctor, but he did not hit the Mohawk again. “Take him away,” he said with a smile, then tipped his hat at Tom’s father. “Mr. Marlowe.” He turned to Tom. “Master Marlowe. You continue to keep strange company. I shall have to keep my eye on you.”

  “Don’t you dare to talk to my son like that!” said Mr. Marlowe.

  “My apologies if I caused any offense. To be sure, this savage is a vast improvement on that flea-bait Piggot.”

  Tom lurched forward but his father caught him by the arm. Hitchin smiled again and walked away as Tonsahoten was put in chains and thrown into a carriage bound for Newgate.

  Dr. Harker stepped forward and greeted Tom with relief. “Your father sent for a constable when I told him you’d gone missing. We feared for your life. Hitchin got to hear of it and wanted to grab some glory. What a vile creature he is. I think I shall be keeping my eye on him .”

  “Thank God you’re safe at any rate, Tom,” said Mr. Marlowe. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I’m fine, Father,” said Tom, watching the carriage disappear into the distance. What was going to become of the Mohawk now?

  BOUND FOR ENGLAND

  Tom and Dr. Harker took their place in the line outside Newgate prison. As always, it contained a motley collection of people. They paid their entrance money and stepped into the raucous world of the Common Ward.

  Inmates and their visitors were drinking at the bar, and a fight was erupting in the corner over a game of dice. Pigeons cooed from their perches and flitted in and out of the open windows. A pig trotted past, chased by a one-eyed dog.

  A flight of stairs took them to the Stone Hold, where they found the Mohawk crouched in the gloom. His feet and hands were manacled and chained to the floor, his head was bare, and he stared ahead with a fixed expression. He did not acknowledge their presence.

  The turnkey gave him a prod with the toe of his boot. “Visitors, you heathen scum,” he said. Tonsahoten turned and slowly rose to his feet. The turnkey shrank back toward the door. “Heathen scum,” he muttered from a safer distance. The Mohawk returned to his previous stance.

  Then, to Tom’s surprise, Dr. Harker began talking in the strangest way. Tom was about to ask if he was all right just as Tonsahoten turned and began to respond in kind. Something approaching a smile began to appear on his face.

  “You speak my language?” said the Mohawk.

  “A little,” said the doctor.

  “You speak it well, but for the boy’s benefit, we should speak English, I think.”

  “I am Dr. Harker,” said the doctor, offering his hand. “Tom here you already know.”

  Tonsahoten shook the doctor’s hand and got to his feet. Again Tom was struck by his size, especially in this confined space. “How do you come to know my language?” asked the Mohawk.

  “I traveled in your lands for some time in my younger days. How do you come to know ours?”

  Tonsahoten smiled. “The boy has no doubt told my tale,” he said. The doctor nodded. “Well, I vowed that I would avenge my family, my people. I left my home — the woods I had loved so much — and I became a seafaring man. The white men set great store by my head for heights and had me work at the top of the main-mast, looking for whales on the far horizon. When I saw one of those great beasts, I would shout out and then scramble down to the deck and into the longboats, ready for the chase. When my job as lookout was done, I turned harpooner, standing in the prow to do battle with those giant fish. It was dangerous work. I saw men snapped like tinder wood by a flick of their tails.” Tom’s eyes widened at every word the Mohawk spoke.

  “I learned your tongue and many others. The sea life is open to all, and I struck up friendships with men from all nations. Had I not vowed to search out my people’s killers, I would never have left that life. I might have been happy there.”

  “And how did you find them? Shepton and the others?” asked Dr. Harker.

  “By chance,” said the Mohawk. “I had made my mind up to come to London. I had a desire to see the great city I had heard so much about. I left my whaler in Nantucket and signed on as crew aboard a ship carrying tobacco, bound for England.

  “On reaching London, I quit my ship and set out to see the sights with two shipmates. We had not walked far when one of my companions pointed to a coffee house and said, ‘That’s the place for you, Tonsa!’ This on account of the golden arrow for its sign.

  “I smiled at his joke and would have thought no more of the Arrow coffee house if a man I recognized had not walked out of the door. It was one of the soldiers from the robbery. The one called Leech.

  “A rage welled up in me. I had sworn to myself that if ever I should see any of those men again, I would kill them on the spot. My friends saw the look on my face and asked me what the matter was. The one who had made the joke thought that I had taken offense. I told him that I had something I needed to do and that I would meet them later.

  “They parted company with me and I stood there, filled with violence. I followed Leech and had to stop myself from killing him there and then. But I knew that if I killed Leech, I might never see the others. And I wanted the others too.” The Mohawk’s voice had lowered as he spoke of the soldiers and he growled these last words out.

  “But I was not dressed for London. Even in this city of misfits I stood out, and people stared as I walked by. My head was still bare, for one thing, so my first stop was a wig shop. The man who served me looked a little surprised to have my business—as though I might eat him at any moment. But he took my money all the same.

  “And I had plenty of money. I had earned a great deal on the whaler, for I took
a share in each whale I spotted and each I helped to catch—and we caught many whales. I used the money to buy the wig, my hat, my coat and breeches, my shoes and stockings—all the strange, womanish garb you white men clothe yourselves in.” Tom smiled at Dr. Harker, who pretended not to notice and played with the ends of his wig.

  “I thought that if I watched the Arrow coffee house long enough, I might see the other robbers, and sure enough they came. I found that I could watch unseen from the rooftops of the city and I decided to panic them a little, as you might a herd of deer. That is where the cards came in. I had them printed here in the city. I made the printer a drawing of an image I remember seeing a shipmate carve into a whale tooth. All that was left was to deliver them. And that is where Will Piggot came in.”

  “But why Will?” said Tom.

  “I noticed Will picking pockets and saw his skill,” said Tonsahoten. “I gave him money and he put the first card in Leech’s pocket. He set off to plant the other cards as I followed Leech from the rooftops. It was a cold day; Leech put his hands in his pockets and found the card.

  “At first he was confused. I saw him look at the card and turn it over, trying to think how it might have come to be in his pocket. Then I called out to him. He looked up and saw me standing high above him, my head bare, bow in hand. And he ran for his life.

  “He ran down an alleyway and ducked through an arch into a courtyard from where there was no escape other than the way he had entered. He had just realized his mistake when the arrow hit him and he dropped to the ground.

  “I peeked out from behind a chimney to watch two men discover the body and declare him dead, baffled as to where his attacker had come from or gone to. I was about to make my escape when I saw another man enter the courtyard. He talked to the men but was too far away for me to hear what he was saying. When the others were distracted, this third man leaned over the body, broke off the arrow flight, and stuffed it into his pocket. I wondered why he would do this. I decided to follow him and it was not long before I saw his face—a face I had not seen in many years, but one I was not likely to forget.”