They walked silently back to the river and stood again by its edge.
“Bricklin said no travelers had passed us but that one family,” Tanaqua explained. “That is true but as we approached this camp today a canoe was pushing off. A man with yellow hair wearing black clothes was in it, with another who was laughing with him as they floated away. Talked like men who wore wigs. English gentlemen. Teague was waiting here when we landed.”
“The Irishman was waiting?”
“Waiting for Bricklin.”
“You mean he had brought those men the canoe.”
“A rendezvous of three men, two who left in the canoe. Teague greeted Bricklin like an old friend, and Bricklin told us to welcome the bull of Ireland to our company.”
“You too waited for Bricklin,” Duncan stated.
“I don’t understand.”
“You have an urgent mission to retrieve the sacred mask. In a solitary canoe you could have traveled faster. But you chose to come with Bricklin.”
“I saw the body of the boy who died. Siyenca, Adanahoe’s grandson. In his hand was this—” Tanaqua extracted from a pocket inside his waistcoat a flat six-inch piece of wood. In the moonlight Duncan could see the many notches cut into it. It was a tally stick used by traders to keep track of transactions or inventory. “The Trickster will never travel in a straight line. All I knew was that he was going south. He will never be where he is expected.” Tanaqua looked back at Bricklin’s dugout, where the Dutchman slept as if guarding the little chest destined for Dr. Franklin. “But spirits follow spirits. Spirits talk with spirits, even those in a box.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Neither Duncan nor Tanaqua mentioned the snake in the morning but they stayed near each other as the canoes were loaded, and took the paddles of the same canoe as Bricklin gave the order for the convoy to push away.
The Dutchman, in his faster dugout, worked his way back and forth among the big cargo canoes as if herding them downstream, conspicuously pausing to watch Duncan as he worked the paddle in long, powerful strokes. He nodded his approval and sped forward, yelling at a pair of Welshmen to balance their canoe better.
It had been many months since Duncan had been on open water, and with a flush of excitement he touched the neck pouch with his spirit totem inside. As he did so he was drawn back to the days of his youth, sailing the waters of the Hebrides with his grandfather. The bright clear water kindled powerful memories of the old Scot laughing in the teeth of a gale, diving among seals, even once rolling out onto the back of a great basking shark just for the joy of it.
After two hours of steady progress down the river he became slowly aware of a lessening of movement, and saw that Teague, in the lead canoe, had stopped paddling. Duncan watched him in confusion, then became aware of a strange new sound, a soft liquid hissing. Suddenly the river was alive with movement, rising and churning as if it were one huge beast that had abruptly grown anxious. The surface began to boil and change to silvery tones.
There were more fish than he had ever seen in one place, packed fin to fin as they swam upstream. Jubilant whoops broke out from those at the front as the silver mass passed around them, and Bricklin yelled for the boats to make for the lee of rock ledges in the middle of the river. “Give the plankers the way,” he shouted with a braying laugh, then snapped up a foot-long fish in his hat.
Shad. Duncan had never fully credited the tales he had heard of the spring runs of the fish up the Susquehanna and Delaware, with fish jammed nose to tail for as far as the eye could see. But now as he witnessed the reality, the tales did the fish no justice. Hundreds of thousands, even a million fish swam before them. They were so tightly packed it seemed he could walk on their backs across the river. He paused and turned back to Tanaqua. The night before he had stated that the river would become quicksilver land this day. The Mohawk warrior seemed not to notice him. He just stared at the fish with a serene smile, then dipped his hand into the water, not to catch them but to touch the passing fish as he murmured a prayer in the forest tongue. Not all the gods had abandoned his people.
Most of the men energetically scooped up fish in hats and with their bare hands. Bricklin, trying to paddle toward the front of his fleet, gave up and let his dugout be carried backward with the throbbing, silvery mass. The blanket in front of the Dutchman began to move and a small shape leaned out, blanket over its head, to peer out over the side, and then squealed in delight. Bricklin pulled away the blanket to expose long locks of tangled hair. The girl started singing to the fish.
“Impossible!” Duncan groaned as he recognized the French girl. “I left her thirty miles from the river!”
Tanaqua, confused, shrugged at Duncan. “The moon was out. The traders always like her. Oiseau francaise, the little French bird they call her. Her songs always bring good luck.”
It was Duncan’s turn to be confused. “You know her?”
“She sometimes sings for the elders in Onondaga. But her hair was never the color of straw.”
“Surely you’re mistaken. She’s just—” Duncan’s words faded away. He did not know what she was. A liar and an enchanter. The girl’s voice was casting a spell. There was a strange harmony between her voice and the watery sibilation of the fish, still passing by like a giant silver raft. The rough, powerful men in the boat were all but paralyzed, done in by the hand of nature and the call of the little French bird.
Suddenly Teague pointed as a patch of fur approached, looking like a small weasel riding the living raft. The big Irishman leapt onto the ledge beside his canoe, ran to its far side, and scooped up the fur as it passed by. With a little jig he put it on his head. It was a cap of rich fur, probably mink, of a style worn by prosperous gentlemen. When, far too small for his head, it slipped off, he snatched it and expertly threw it to Analie. She grabbed it out of the air, waved her thanks, and pulled it onto her own head without breaking her song.
Bricklin drove them hard after the shad passed, refusing to pause for a midday meal, to make up the lost time. Yet the convoy moved in high spirits, buoyed by the French girl’s singing and anticipation of roasted shad and fried roe that evening.
They beached on a broad, flat island where rings of blackened stones and lean-to poles tied to trees attested to its frequent use as a campsite. The tribesmen cut green willow sticks for spitting the shad; the Welshmen were able to split a few cedar planks to cook them on; and Teague threw mounds of rich roe, the rarest of frontier delicacies, into a pan of sizzling lard.
“You lie to me Analie,” Duncan said to the girl as he sat beside her with his plate. “You lie to me every time we meet. A bad habit in one so young.”
The girl seemed unconcerned about his accusation. She scooped up some fried roe with her fingers, and swallowed with a satisfied smile before replying. “My mama said do whatever I had to do, say whatever I had to say, so long as I just stayed alive. That was my vow to my mother. To stay alive. I will not surrender.”
“Surrender?” he asked, puzzled at her choice of words.
“To the hornets, the vipers, the catamounts, the bears, the knives, the arrows, the bullets. Not even angry gods who kill my friends.” She sang an Iroquois cradle song between bites then, the impish child again, she pulled on her new mink cap, rose, curtseyed, and picked up her mug to fill from the river. She began to kneel at the water’s edge, then staggered backward and screamed.
Ducks exploded from the water. Her shrieks echoed down the river. Crows, quieting for the night, fled from their roosts with angry screeches. The girl’s terrified cries echoed from across the expanse of water.
Every man in the camp ran to her side, some raising muskets, scanning the riverbanks for the cause of her alarm. Then she pointed a trembling hand. The source of her horror had drifted away and snagged on a log jutting off the island bank. One of the Welshmen reached the log first then froze and backed away, crossing himself. Another man fell to his knees as Duncan passed him, retching up his dinner.
The face
of the dead man, clearly a European, had been slit open and the skin on one side peeled away. Four claws had slashed the remaining cheek. His nose was gone, an ear was gone, and one eye hung loose, out of its socket.
“Jesus bloody wept!” moaned Teague, crossing himself.
Bricklin appeared with a paddle and shoved the body free of the snag.
“We didn’t . . .” Duncan began as the corpse drifted away in the current. “We should . . .” His words died away. No one, including Duncan, wanted to touch the dead man. There were many kinds of death, and this one seemed somehow tainted, as if it would curse anyone who came near.
When he turned, the frightened men, one cradling Analie, had retreated to the fire. Only Tanaqua stayed, staring with a stricken expression. They had both seen the mark of the Blooddancer. “He is hungry for flesh,” the Mohawk said. “The more he eats, the more he wants.”
The camp fell into a grim silence as the men readied it for the night. The fire was stacked higher instead of being allowed to smolder, and Bricklin passed around a jug of rum then called for two guards on each watch. Duncan was not alone in sleeping with his hand on his knife.
By daybreak the men were trying to convince themselves that what they had seen had been the result of a tragic accident. The man had drowned and fish had worked at his face. Others argued he had capsized in rapids, and razor-sharp rocks had raked and killed him. Duncan and Tanaqua exchanged knowing glances, but neither spoke.
Duncan had revisited the image in his mind during the night. The man had dark brown hair with no sign of grey, and with his fine woolen waistcoat and matching britches had been unusually well dressed. His shoes, with silver buckles, had been made for city streets. He was a stranger to the frontier. The anomaly had troubled Tanaqua as well. Duncan had stood watch with him at midnight, and he had found the Mohawk at the tip of their little island, staring downstream.
“We used to have great wars with the tribes in the southern lands, and our war chiefs at home said the disappearance of our men there is the sign of a new war. There is an old tale of a half king of our people lost in the south somewhere. He had great powers once. Maybe he summoned the god.”
“Is that what you think—that you are going to a war?”
“War has changed for us since the Europeans arrived. Now all the tribes have lost so many they can barely make up a war party. Attacking a village is nearly impossible. But attacking your enemy’s gods can be done by stealth, by a handful of men.” He made a gesture toward the moon, as if gesturing for it to listen. “Why?” he asked. “Why would my god trifle with a pasty-skinned man of the city? That dead man had never even heard of the Blooddancer.”
“But they met.”
“The Trickster doesn’t meet. He stalks. He kills the ones he needs to kill. What did he need?” Tanaqua aimed the question at the moon, then turned to Duncan. “The dead man had something tied to his hand. What was it, McCallum?”
“I didn’t see. I just pray he was dead before the mutilation began.”
Tanaqua shook his head. “The Trickster kills a man many times before he dies.”
The company remained grim through the morning and when Bricklin ordered Analie to sing, all she offered were songs of the High Church. They moved slowly, warily—all aware they were moving in the same direction as the macabre body—with the haunting notes of the “Ave Maria” and “Tantum Ergo” echoing along their passage.
It was late morning when they passed the dead man, washed onto a rock ledge in the middle of the river. The crows that worked at him already had stripped the skinned half of his face to bone. One hand, in the water, was worked back and forth by the current so he seemed to be beckoning to them.
“We should bury the poor bastard,” Bricklin said, but went no closer.
Every man but Duncan and the Iroquois looked away. As the others hurried past, Tanaqua turned their canoe into the shallow water around the rising ledge. Without a word he leapt out into knee-deep water and splashed to the dead man. For a moment he examined the man’s bare forearm, then his other hand, before lifting the hand trailing in the water. There was in fact nothing in it, but a piece of twine was looped around his thumb, extending into a pocket. Duncan, having trouble keeping the canoe in place, whistled. Tanaqua emptied the pocket, then ran back and leapt into the canoe just as it drifted out of the shallows.
He studied the object he had recovered, in confusion. Tied to the string was a small enameled box. The Mohawk unwrapped the long piece of twine, which judging by the many small knots tied into it had seen heavy use, then tossed the box to Duncan.
It had been an elegant piece when it had been crafted, probably in the last century, but the enameled images of a man and woman picnicking under a tree were chipped, the silver edging nicked and worn. It bore no words, no marks of any kind other than the maker marks on the bottom. He opened it and dumped the damp snuff inside into his hand, smelling it, probing it with a finger. Finding nothing else, he dropped the contents into the river and examined the interior of the box, expecting to find a secret. But there was no hidden pocket, no false bottom, just the old, corroded tin lining.
With the horror now behind them they picked up speed and by late afternoon were coasting into the landing at Shamokin. More than five years had passed since Duncan had visited the town. Then it had been the thriving southern capital of the Iroquois League, second largest settlement in the Pennsylvania lands, a place of energetic trade and favored venue of day-long lacrosse matches.
Now it was a shadow of its former self. The big sutler’s store and largest tavern both lay in ashes. The proud Moravian church Duncan had visited was in ruins, replaced by a more modest log structure with a steeple of rough-hewn planks. The boisterous crowds of traders, trappers, merchants, missionaries, and natives of a dozen tribes had thinned. There were fewer European faces and nearly all the inhabitants, both European and Indian, wore nervous, cautious expressions. As he walked up from the landing, Tanaqua and Analie at his side, he saw that most carried weapons, either in their hands or on their belts.
“The Shamokin I knew was a sanctuary,” he said to the Mohawk, “with laughing children, singing Germans, and Shawnee women who chanted as they dried fish. Half the town would play lacrosse while the other half wagered on them.”
“That was before the uprising,” Tanaqua said. “Before the Pennsylvania governor offered a bounty on Indian scalps.”
“That’s but a rumor.” In the rebellion of the western tribes in 1763 there had been terrible bloodshed along the Pennsylvania frontier, with scalping parties active on both sides.
“No. A Delaware came to our elders with a broadside from a bounty agent in Lancaster. Five pounds for each scalp, payable in cash by the agents.”
Duncan halted. Five pounds was enough to buy a small farm. “Surely not. This is William Penn’s colony, the peaceable kingdom.”
“Penn is long dead. They want our land. From the moment they set foot off their boats they have wanted our land,” Tanaqua added in a matter-of-fact tone, then Analie pulled him toward a stable wall where animal skins were stretched for drying.
Duncan left his companions admiring a huge bear skin and approached the little Moravian church. In the cemetery behind it were several graves marked with crude split plank crosses, all but two bearing names familiar among tribal converts. Abraham Pine. Sally River. James Holdfast. Longhand Alder, he read on the first four. The last two graves, the earth freshly mounded over them, were connected by a long snakeskin, the ends draped over each cross. The black paint of the names still seemed moist. Rachel Rohrbach and Peter Rohrbach. Two precious strips of white ermine were tied above Rachel’s name, with drops of blood on them. A narrow strip of paper had been pinned to Peter’s cross. Duncan found himself on one knee, strangely drawn by the graves.
The paper at Peter’s grave wasn’t the epitaph he expected, but a most peculiar message, composed of carefully drawn images mixed with letters. An evergreen tree, the word go, then a draw
ing of a toe, followed by a fireplace grate and the letter r, then the letters hap beside a pie and bird nest. “In the ground just this morning,” came a soft voice in a German accent. Duncan rose to face a middle-aged woman of square build and bleak expression, dressed in black with a pewter cross around her neck. “Everyone said it wouldn’t work, a Moravian German marrying a Delaware maid. But they were too far in love to listen. We said stay in town, but they were bent on carving a farm out of the forest, a place apart to raise their children, they said. We don’t even know who did it. Could be some of those western Indians who never surrendered. Or Pennsylvania scalp hunters, black-hearted sons of Satan every one. Peter had hair as black as his darling wife’s.”
She paused to pick up a stone. “Such vermin would redeem his scalp too,” she continued, then turned and flung the stone into the bushes.
Duncan heard a cry of pain and a man stumbled into the open.
“Abziehen! Be gone! I’ll not have you disturbing the sleep of my babes!” the matron shouted, then punctuated her warning with a surprisingly strong German curse.
The man, attired in a fine but disheveled suit of matching tan waistcoat and britches, gazed forlornly at the woman, rubbing his shoulder. He was a few years younger than Duncan, and had the appearance of an English gentleman who had suffered unexpected setbacks. His clothes were torn, his hands deeply scratched. His long brown hair was escaping the ribbon that bound it at his nape. He hesitated, looking at Duncan with a forlorn expression before another thrown stone forced him to flee.
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 7