Eye of the Raven amoca-2

by Eliot Pattison

  Duncan did not return Van Grut's greeting when he rose from the stool, only grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close. "You lied to me!" he growled. "You were with Burke in Philadelphia! He's the one who hired you!"

  The Dutchman sagged as Duncan released him. "It didn't seem important. Not a lie exactly. I told you I was hired by the Virginia company. He was part of the company."

  "You heard me puzzle over connections to Philadelphia and never said a word about how Burke was here, in Philadelphia. You knew the killers were trying to implicate Indians in Shamokin and never said a word."

  Van Grut dropped back onto the stool. "Surely it was only happenstance that he was in Philadelphia. And there were Indians in Shamokin doing the killing … " The Dutchman paused, as if beginning to recognize there could be several reasons for Burke's presence in Philadelphia, not all innocent.

  "Hired by someone else," Duncan snapped. "If I had known of Burke's connection to Philadelphia I would have looked here sooner, before so many bounty hunters were breathing down my spine."

  "Surely his presence here had nothing to do with the killings. There were Indians," Van Grut repeated.

  "Are you certain? You wager your life on that slender belief."

  "Duncan, I never… " the Dutchman began, then Duncan's words seemed to register. "My life? But the killers are on the survey line."

  "Every instinct tells me otherwise. The treachery on the line is being orchestrated from Philadelphia. If someone in Philadelphia wanted all the Virginian surveyors dead, what do you suppose they will do when they find one walking the streets here?" There was a rustling of linen at the door. The taciturn maid had been listening, but now disappeared.

  For a moment, looking at the stricken Dutchman, Duncan almost felt sorry for him. He did not believe Van Grut was one of the plotters, only trying to keep open all his options for a livelihood. The odds that Duncan would ever get to the truth were slim, and Van Grut wanted to be able to take money from whichever land company emerged successful in the treaty negotiations.

  "No," the Dutchman said woodenly. "This is Philadelphia," he added, as if trying to convince himself. "The streets are safe. There are constables." He looked up with new energy. "I will help you, Duncan, I swear it. Tell me what I can do."

  Duncan frowned. "That merchant from Shamokin. Waller. See if you can locate him." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced the glass ball taken from Red Hand. "Two of the killers had these. Not beads. Not made by Indians. Not common even in towns." He dropped the ball into the Dutchman's hand. "If you want to help, tell me its story."

  "Fine work," Van Grut said with an uneasy glance at Duncan, as he rolled the ball between his fingers. "Flint glass, without a flaw. American made, I wager. Instrument makers here will recognize the work, know the fabricator."

  Duncan left Van Grut staring at the glass ball and again stole within hearing distance of the three elders who conferred by the library fireplace. He watched as worry grew on Brindle's face, marking how Conawago, and sometimes even Old Belt, cast wondering glances at the scores of books on Brindle's shelves. Inching closer, he strained to catch the low voices.

  "Surely you do not suggest the governments of Virginia or Pennsylvania have been corrupted!" Brindle protested.

  "It is not the governments that benefit most directly from the land depositions," Conawago pointed out. The words seemed to wound his host. When the magistrate pressed his point no further, Conawago relayed the final chapter of his tale, ending with the events in the barn an hour earlier.

  "Philadelphia is the lair for miscreants of all colors," Brindle stated. "It means nothing that this man you seek fled to Philadelphia."

  "That can be determined when he is caught. Meanwhile, as I explained, he means to slay the young girl in your custody."

  "I shall alert the constables immediately."

  "No. He is too clever to be caught by your constables."

  "There is nothing more I can do." Brindle studied the two Indians. "Surely you are not suggesting I become a player myself in this drama."

  "You already are, as your brother-in-law was."

  "Do not presume I will bend the laws of my province!"

  Duncan stepped into the light. "Then Skanawati's death will be on you." They were harsh words, brutal words, but they seemed to tear at something in the magistrate as he turned to see who had spoken them.

  "You!" Brindle gasped. "How dare you, McCallum! A fugitive of the law in my household! You give me no choice but to send for the constables."

  "It is the constables we must speak of."

  Brindle's face was a storm of emotion as he rose from his chair. "I am obligated to inform the courts of your appearance, to tell the one who swore out the warrant against you."

  Old Belt stepped to Duncan's side. "Answer me this, my friend. Until the treaty is concluded do you not have the Virginian runaways in your-" he turned and leaned toward Conawago with a whispered question.

  — your custody?" Conawago finished the question.

  As if on cue the muffled cry of a hungry baby came from somewhere in a room above them. "I do."

  "Then I shall keep McCallum in my custody," replied the Mohawk chief.

  Brindle winced. "Mr. McCallum is answerable to a much more powerful authority."

  "In the end of this affair," came Conawago's quiet voice, "that will be the conundrum, will it not?"

  Brindle's brow wrinkled. "Sir?"

  "In the end there is an authority supreme even over the great houses of Philadelphia."

  The Quaker dropped back into his chair and gazed into the flames of the fireplace.

  Duncan stepped close enough to read the documents on Brindle's table. "The documentation for the Susquehanna Company," he observed, studying the magistrate with new interest. Companies were only formed by act of the government. Brindle had removed the documents from the court records. "Why, amidst a crisis in the treaty negotiation, would the lead negotiator be investigating the ownership records of a Philadelphia land company?"

  Brindle grimaced. "Do not be fooled by appearances, you told me once.

  "Even in the Old Testament there were wolves in sheep's clothing," Conawago observed.

  "This company has become the largest, the most active of the land ventures," Brindle said. "If the Virginia land claims are defeated, it will mean Pennsylvania will be in line for those lands."

  "And if Skanawati hangs for killing a Virginian, there is no way the Iroquois will ever cede land to the Virginians. Meaning the Susquehanna Company will have the most to gain from the hanging of Skanawati," Duncan concluded. As he saw the tormented way Brindle stared at the documents he realized the magistrate had already reached the same conclusion.

  Brindle sighed. "Great things doeth he which we cannot comprehend."

  "If I am not mistaken," Duncan said, "those words were written about Lord Jehovah, not Lord Ramsey."

  Brindle fixed him with a level stare. "Your bitterness over your indenture clouds your vision, sir."

  Duncan gestured to the papers. "Who are they?" he asked. "Who are the owners?"

  "The records are incomplete. I can find only the initial promoters and owners of the company," Brindle explained. "Good solid citizens. Old Philadelphia families. Leading merchants. Christians all."

  "Shares get sold," Conawago suggested. "Especially when new wealth arrives."

  Brindle glanced at the doorway. "Be careful what you say, sir."

  "This is America," Duncan shot back, "not the fiefdom of a few aristocrats."

  "I daresay not all aristocrats agree," came Brindle's quick reply. The Quaker grimaced, as though regretting his words. "The company was formed before Lord Ramsey arrived in our city, yes." He gathered up the documents into a pile. "It is beyond my powers to learn more."

  "Officially," Duncan said.

  Brindle did not reply. "Even if I do not call the constables down on you, Mr. McCallum, I am not sure I do you any favor. There are handbills wi
th your name on them at every corner."

  Duncan paused, studying the Quaker a moment. "I encountered your nephew tonight."

  "He is idle while the treaty delegation lingers in the city."

  "Of all the bounty hunters, he is the only one who knows my face."

  Brindle gazed into his folded hands and sighed. "He is a proud lad, trying to make a good start in life. It is no sin to assist the law."

  "A good start? Is he not already gainfully employed?"

  "He wishes to buy a stake in a commercial enterprise on the frontier."

  "He tried to convince me to flee into the wilderness instead of going to Shamokin."

  Brindle offered a lightless smile. "He read a romance about a Scottish highwayman. Perhaps it made him sympathetic to your plight. But now he can't be blamed for joining the ranks of those pursuing the bounty."

  "What if he were working for Lord Ramsey?" Duncan asked abruptly.

  Brindle's eyes went cold. "Impossible. If you are seeking to have me stop him I cannot. And I have not yet decided myself what to do with you."

  "Do as you will with me, your honor," Duncan offered. "But after tomorrow. After we catch Red Hand. I am convinced he has the answers to all our questions."

  "How do you propose to work that magic after he has eluded so many so long?"

  "Call off the constables around the northern docks. Red Hand is, after all, just another mercenary. Tomorrow evening he shall find an irresistible target, an easy bounty for the taking. In the middle of our trap."

  "No, Duncan!" Conawago protested. "He is a cold-blooded killer!"

  Brindle glanced from Duncan to Conawago, then sighed as he understood. "You are suggesting the bait will be yourself?"

  As he spoke Old Belt turned toward the shadows behind an overstuffed chair at the far end of the room.

  "We will let word spread in the taverns near the Indian barn that I have been seen by the ships," Duncan explained, "as if I am trying to steal away on the evening tide. Some of the Iroquois guards can hide on the wharf to help me. It's the best we can do," he added in a determined tone.

  "Not the best," a young, soft voice broke in. Mokie sprang up from behind the chair, where she had obviously been listening. "We know whom he seeks."

  "Never, child!" Brindle gasped.

  "Tomorrow at sunset!" Mokie declared defiantly as she inched toward the wall. "The north docks!"

  An instant before Old Belt reached her, she leapt through the open window and was gone.

  The Philadelphia waterfront was so alive with activity Duncan wore himself out watching it from the high east-facing window of Marston's attic. Ships and boats of all sizes and shapes were astir under a steady spring breeze. Fat shallops heaped with shad and oysters were delivering their loads to the kitchens of Philadelphia. Slow-moving barges stacked with lumber were poled into the city from upcountry. Stevedores swarmed over square-rigged merchantmen bound for Europe or the Indies.

  Duncan watched as one of the big ships was towed to the center of the river and slipped away for the broad Atlantic. It would be such a simple thing, to dart out of the house and leap onto the deck of one loosening its moorings. Such far-ranging vessels were always in need of able-bodied sailors and would not press him for his real name. He could leave everything behind, make a new life. As a tutor perhaps. Maybe he could even establish himself as a doctor in a distant port town.

  The sound of the thin plank door scraping on the floor broke him from his reverie.

  Expecting Conawago with news of Mokie, Duncan did not turn right away, then heard a groan and spun about to see Conawago and Marston carrying Van Grut to the low bed at the wall. The right side of the Dutchman's face was bruised and swollen, his hair matted with blood. Duncan's quick examination showed four broken ribs-not cracks but clean breaks that would greatly pain Van Grut when he regained consciousness, long bruises on his forearms from fending off clubs, several slashing cuts on his scalp, and a stabbing wound in the thigh.

  The Dutchman's eyes fluttered open and shut several times before he seemed to recognize Duncan. The guilt in his eyes was obvious even through his pain.

  "Perhaps you understand now," Duncan said. "This was not someone trying to send a message. You're lucky to be alive."

  Van Grut's words came out garbled, and he paused, confused, rubbing his cheek. Duncan pushed away his hand, studying the bone underneath. "They fractured your jaw as well as your ribs," he explained. "Not broken clean, but it will take some weeks of healing." He showed Van Grut how to press the jawbone in place to speak.

  "At the Broken Jug I heard there was a lacrosse game, at a field north of town." The Dutchman's words were twisted and slurred, as if his tongue were swollen. "A dozen Indians, as many townsmen. I think they were after me in the game, trying to kill me like they killed Ohio George. I was tripped several times with the sticks. An Indian jumped on me, but an Englishman fell on top, then scolded the Indian for forgetting to take his knife off before playing."

  Van Grut paused as Miss Townsend tipped a glass of water onto his lips. He winced as he swallowed. "I was so tired afterward I wasn't paying attention, just wandered toward town to find some ale. Four of them cornered me by that big barn where the Indians stay. One was that Shawnee who knew Ohio George. Red Hand. He kept shouting encouragement as they used their sticks on me. They were dragging me toward the barn, would have finished me, but some of the European players came by and assisted me, started yelling that the Indians shouldn't be bad sports because they got beaten, that if they wanted a fair match they shouldn't come to the game half-drunk."

  Van Grut winced as he pulled on his watch chain, the only adornment left on his body. The device was smashed, its crystal shattered, the face and case dented. He stared at it forlornly. "My father's," was all he said.

  "Half an inch to one side and the blade in your thigh would have slashed an artery. Like Burke."

  Van Grut's eyes widened. "Red Hand! He stood back from the others, with a hammer and something else in his fingers. Christ in heaven!" he gasped. "They weren't taking me to the barn, just to the wall. He was going to nail me to the wall!"

  "What did you expect?" Duncan's voice held little sympathy. If Van Grut had not held the truth back he would be days ahead in his search for answers.

  Marston cast uneasy glances at the two men. "I will get more bandages," he said and retreated.

  "You were gambling again," Conawago deduced. "You were at the Broken Jug."

  It took a moment for Duncan to understand what his friend was saying. "My God, Van Grut, surely you weren't hoping for another offer of work?"

  The Dutchman winced and pushed at his jaw again to speak. "I lost everything but my watch in a card game in Lancaster," he confessed with downcast eyes. "Burke had allies here. I thought if they saw I was not intimidated, that I was still willing and able to work in the Indian country, they would hire me. If need be I would step forward and declare myself to the Virginian delegation, saying they must honor the contract made by Captain Burke. Once the land claims are settled by the treaty they will need more surveyors than ever. The right men in the colony could get me a teaching position at the College of William and Mary." Van Grut seemed to see the anger in Duncan's eyes. "I would never do anything to hurt you, I swear it! It's just that … I must make my own way in the world, McCallum. What choice do I have?" he asked in a cracking voice.

  Duncan looked out the window as he spoke. "You'll need rest, weeks of rest. I will impress upon Marston that you are a man of science. He is seeking a collaborator for writing up his experiments. He may be willing to let you stay here. But your jaw will need to be wrapped in place. It will be egg in milk for you, through a reed."

  Van Grut did not try to speak again until Marston reappeared with strips of linen and a basin of steaming water. "I tried to help," he said in a pleading tone. "I discovered there is a glassmaker named Wistar who specializes in fine containers and instruments."

  Duncan looked up. He had almost for
gotten his request of Van Grut.

  "His agent in Philadelphia recognized the little ball when I showed it to him, said it was unmistakably from the Wistar works. But the rest of his explanation made no sense."

  Duncan signaled for Marston and Conawago to prop up the Dutchman as he wrapped his ribs. "What explanation?"

  "Smaller balls they sell as marbles, for those who can afford something more than clay balls," Van Grut said with a wince of pain. "But he has a special customer for the larger balls. He sold a gross of them last autumn to him, to one of the Philadelphia aristocrats."

  Duncan looked at Conawago. His whisper was full of foreboding. "Ramsey."

  Van Grut nodded. "He labels them as trade baubles in his invoices."

  Conawago sighed, then pointed out the window at one of Old Belt's men, approaching from the docks, and slipped out of the room.

  Duncan was showing Miss Townsend how to change Van Grut's jaw bandage when Conawago returned ten minutes later and sat heavily on a dusty stool by the window. "Mokie is moving in and out of the market. She stole an apple at one stall, upset a basket of onions at another. She is," Conawago added pointedly, "better than that."

  Duncan instantly grasped his friend's meaning. "She is trying to be seen, letting it be known there is a runaway slave girl working mischief near the docks." Several watchers, including Marston, Miss Townsend, and some of the Iroquois, had been trying to find the girl since dawn. But Mokie would not be caught unless she wanted to be caught, and she would gladly face Red Hand if it would help her friend Skanawati.

  "Will Brindle cooperate?" Duncan asked.

  "Call back the constables? Not likely. I don't think he has the power to do so. Not now." Conawago reached into his belt and dropped a copy of the day's Pennsylvania Gazette on the table. In the bottom corner of the cover page was a primitive cartoon, with an image of a man with the face of a cat tied at a pole, encircled by Indians with torches. On the man's chest in crude letters was written Brindle. Underneath was the uncharitable caption, The stink begins to rise from the polecat.