“River on the north, the death swamp to the east, and the overseers living on the south side. We got twenty more, some almost as mean as Trent.” With another wheezing laugh Gabriel turned back toward his horse, where an escort of two riders waited.
Trent raised what looked like a quarterstaff, capped with a heavy wooden knob, except that the opposite end had been split into a dozen foot-long slats, the splintered ends of which were designed to deliver stinging blows. He pointed his weapon toward a track that led into the long fields, then led them forward, the impassive Winters following a few steps behind.
They made a grim, silent procession, their passage accompanied by the metallic rattle of their chains. Crows flew over their heads, drawn by the scent of blood. Seagulls worked at the freshly turned soil. Duncan studied the masts of the ships. One had a stern mast rigged for a triangular schooner sail for sailing close into the wind, allowing greater maneuverability. The other was a square-masted brig, made for deep-water sailing, which meant they must not be far down a tributary of the Chesapeake. Red Jacob’s map had pointed them toward the Potomac and the Rappahannock.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Murdo muttered.
“Silence fore and aft!” Trent growled.
Duncan followed Murdo’s gaze toward a line of men, all on their knees, all eyes fixed on the ground before them. They did not look up as the newcomers were led down the silent row.
The men were wasting away. It was the only medical term that might describe them. Those with their shirts off showed ribs and long scars or more recent lash scabs on their shoulders. Their faces were gaunt, drained of strength. Some, apparently more recent arrivals, did not look as skeletal but wore the same blank, hopeless expression as the others. Hyanka, the fresh brand on his cheek, knelt at the end. Near him was a man with half an ear missing. Albert Sinclair of the Conococheague, Analie had reported, had half an ear taken by the Shawnee. Duncan kept count as he walked by them. Twenty-five. Another six had been captured with the nineteen from the north.
Trent motioned them to kneel at the end of the line, then went back to supervise a party of African women and boys who had arrived with a mule cart to distribute lunch.
“Six of the Pennsylvania men,” Murdo whispered. “Burns, Sinclair, Buchanan, Innes, Carpenter, and Barlow. Don’t see McIndoe.”
“Hyanka and two more Iroquois rangers,” Tanaqua said. “And one more of the forest,” he added studying an older native who worked apart from the others.
“So this is what you call a rescue, McCallum?” Murdo chided, wincing as he walked.
“We know where they are now.”
“And we be the only ones in chains.”
They quieted as an adolescent boy approached, laying a slice of bread on each man’s extended palm. Behind him came the slow-moving cart, with a large black kettle, from which a woman ladled a thin fish stew onto each slice. The men ate in silence, then the same woman and boy repeated their progression, this time offering a ladle of water from a cask on the cart. The boy’s wide eyes locked on Duncan’s, and Duncan saw a deep curiosity on his mahogany face. The woman, not looking up, gently slapped his shoulder and pushed him on.
After the meager meal they were marched to a stack of hoes and stubby, pointed sticks. Their job was to heap the freshly harrowed earth into mounded rows, into which evenly spaced holes were made by plunging one of the sticks into the soil. Behind, far down the massive field, African slaves were planting seedlings. Their little band, watched over like dangerous criminals, apparently had the lowest, meanest job on the plantation.
Trent hovered over them like a hungry predator. Anyone he caught speaking paid for it with a sharp rap from the knob at the end of his club. A man with thick red hair paused for a moment to look at Ross with a mournful expression, and quickly doubled over as Trent slammed his staff into his belly. The men were afraid to show any acknowledgment of the newcomers. They labored without a break until nearly dusk, shadowed by the overseers.
“Here they come,” Trent crowed in the late afternoon. “The mighty pharaohs.” Duncan dared to look up, seeing four men on black horses trotting along the perimeter road, accompanied by a pack of hounds. The two men in the front wore dark cloths over their heads, bound by straps around their foreheads, giving them the look of ancient Egyptians. One of the riders in the rear held a long forked spear, resting in a boot affixed to his saddle. Trent lifted the horn that hung from his belt and pretended to blow on it. Gabriel and his pharaohs reigned over Galilee.
Duncan worked in numbed agony, the manacles chafing his ankles, his hands blistering around the rough handle of his hoe, the scabs on his back constantly breaking with his movement, then stinging from his sweat. Finally a bell rang from the manor house and the overseers herded the staggering, exhausted men back to their quarters, depositing them in the yard bounded by the logs. Several prisoners collapsed in the shade of the tree, while the others stood in line for a drink from a barrel set in a corner by the slave stable.
Whenever he could, Duncan stole glances at the overseers. The young overseer Winters sat on a log with a quarterstaff on his lap, watching the old native, a man with a gentle expression whose leathery, wrinkled face spoke of great age. Trent paced along the log perimeter, tapping his club in his palm with an expectant, hungry expression.
Tanaqua sat among the natives. Although the Iroquois now seemed excited to see him, none rose to greet him, as if still wary of betraying any acquaintance. Ross seemed confused over the same reaction among the Conococheague men, who reacted stiffly, frequently glancing at the overseers. Too many wore empty expressions, as if the misery had simply broken them.
No one spoke to Duncan as he stood in line, first for a drink of the tepid water, then for the wooden bowl of porridge and hard bread that served as their evening meal. He ate alone, and watched with interest as the young overseer, whose gaze had turned to the manor house, finally rose and walked among the men, then silently sat beside the old native. The man’s long hair, streaked with grey, was tied at the back with a braided leather strap. Along one jaw were tattoos of fish and flying cranes that came alive as he chewed. He had wisdom in his eyes, and much sorrow. Duncan found himself drawn to the incongruous pair, and after taking another drink settled down a few feet away from them.
The old man noticed Duncan wince as the shifting manacles pinched his flesh. “Inside by the water butt there’s a tub of axle grease,” he said in a dry, gravelly voice, nodding at Duncan’s feet where the irons were rubbing his skin raw. “I always find it eases the chafing.” His voice was soft. His face was like old wood. Duncan nodded his thanks. “I have lived among the Iroquois,” he ventured, “but I do not know the southern tribes.”
The old man’s smile seemed to express gratitude. “The rivers were once home to many tribes,” he said. “There is a Nanticoke who works with the blacksmith, and some Conoys supply fish to the kitchen.” With a look of great pride he tapped his own chest. “I am Jahoska of the Susquehannock.”
Duncan, surprised, nodded his head deferentially. “I have heard tales of the mighty Susquehannocks. They were lords of the great river,” he said, referring to the massive waterway that bore their name. Though they had been defeated and nearly exterminated in the prior century, he knew from tales around Iroquois hearths that the tribes had fielded the fiercest warriors the Iroquois had ever met. The tales all spoke of how the greatest of them fashioned helmets of bear skulls, with the lower fangs extending below their own jaws. When Conawago had first related such a tale Duncan had remarked that it seemed they fought like the beserkers of Viking legend.
“Lords of the great Susquehanna and all the lands it touched. Now we have but a little slice of the Rappahannock,” the elder added, then shrugged. “To everything there is a season.” He spoke the words of Ecclesiastes with a meaningful glance at the young overseer beside him, who looked away as if somehow shamed.
The company began moving, stepping into the long stable as Trent hovered by the
door, cursing at those who stumbled on the short step into the doorway. “The sun is down, old man,” Winters growled to Jahoska, lifting his club. “Do I have to lift your skin to get you inside?” His words were harsh but his tone was of soft chiding, and the Susquehannock just smiled, stretched, and rose for the door.
The Judas slaves warily filed into the stable, most collapsing onto the long sleeping platforms as the young overseer counted heads, the surly Trent lingering impatiently at the entry. A moment after the door was shut Duncan heard the thud of a heavy bar locking it for the night.
The sound transformed the company. Instantly the Iroquois were on their feet, surrounding Tanaqua and firing excited questions at him in their native tongue. The Conococheague men gathered around Murdo Ross, some pummeling his shoulders and others embracing him in greeting with welcoming words in Gaelic. Ross quickly introduced Duncan to those around him—Burns, Buchanan, Innes, Carpenter, Barlow, and Sinclair, all names from Analie’s list. Six names. One was missing. The remaining men, gathered at the far end of the building, stayed away. Duncan warily approached them.
They offered none of the warmth the Iroquois and Pennsylvania men were showing, just returned his look of cool appraisal. “My name is Duncan McCallum. I come from Edentown,” he offered. “Edentown station.” They gave no reply, only stared with unwelcoming expressions.
He saw now they stood in two groups, the smaller of which, only five men, all wore tattered green bands around their sleeves. He recited the first of the names of the missing rangers. “Corporal Larkin.” A gaunt man with a salt-and-pepper beard looked up in surprise. “Robson, Hughes, Frazier,” he continued. “I came to help. You are in grave danger.”
Larkin offered a bitter grin. “Ye mean ’cause we might become slaves?”
“I mean because you might become dead.”
The man gave a sour frown, as if Duncan’s presence offended him. “Up the hill at the end of the fields is the slave graveyard. We already died, lad, when they threw us in that damned black wagon. This be our hell. Ain’t we laid poor McIndoe to his rest there this past month?” McIndoe. It was the seventh name on the list of Pennsylvania runners. “Death is the relief from our hell.” Larkin saw the uneasy way Duncan eyed the men with the green bands. “Virginia rangers,” he explained, with a gesture toward a compact, tight-faced man wearing one of the bands who was approaching. “Sergeant Morris, he’s the—”
Morris interrupted, fixing Duncan with a hard stare. “How comes a stranger by the names of the company?”
Duncan did not understand the suspicion in the man’s voice. “I came down the runner’s path. The remaining runners are being murdered. You’re marked for death. Word will come and everyone here will die.”
“Damn y’er eyes!” Before Duncan could react, Morris moved with lightning speed, shouldering Larkin aside and slamming his fist into Duncan’s belly. “We know the bastards’ tricks! If they can’t beat it out of us they try to scare it out of us!” As Duncan staggered, two others seized his arms to hold him for his assailant. The furious sergeant had landed a third blow before Duncan was able to summon his strength, bracing against the men who held him and landing a kick on Morris’s belly that sent him reeling backward.
“Woolford!” Duncan shouted as he violently twisted, throwing the men who held him off-balance enough so that he could kick one in the knee, sending him to the floor, then throwing the second man onto him. “Woolford sent me!”
“Death to spies!” a man standing on the sleeping platform shouted and leapt, locking his hands around Duncan’s throat as he landed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fists pounded his ribs and spine. Duncan struggled to pull away from the grasp of his captors but the blows kept coming, and he slowly sank, bending over in a futile effort to protect himself. Then one of the Virginians groaned and staggered backward. One assailant after another was jerked away and Duncan found himself lying in a ring formed by Tanaqua and his Iroquois companions. As the Virginians retreated, the youngest of the natives knelt and studied Duncan, then called for a candle and pulled down the shoulder of Duncan’s torn shirt. He held the flame close and murmured a syllable of wonder as he saw the tattoo.
The Iroquois, including the battered Hyanka, bent over him, staring in surprise at the sign of the dawnchaser. The young native motioned to his chest. “Ononyot of the Oneida,” he said in introduction, then pulled Duncan to his feet and helped him onto the sleeping platform. His back screamed where the lash marks had reopened and were bleeding again. His arms and shoulders throbbed where fists had pounded him. With painful effort he extracted the little metal disc inscribed with a tree and held it out for the rangers to see. “I ran the woods with Woolford in the war. I was with Johnson when Montreal fell.”
A grunt of surprise came from the shadows and a man in his thirties with a dark powder scar on his cheek pushed forward. “And with Murray when the Highland troops gathered for mutiny!” he exclaimed, stepping closer to grab Duncan’s hand, shaking it hard. “By Christ, it is you! I’ll ne’er forget that night you swam the St. Lawrence. You be the one who cut the cables on the gunships that were aimed at us.” He turned to his companions. “Hughes,” he said to a brown-haired man with a bent nose, “McCallum saved us that night!” He gestured to Larkin. “Corporal, you know that damned scheming General Amherst would have fed us all to the crows if McCallum had not been there.” He kept pumping Duncan’s arm as he spoke, then introduced himself as Ian Frazier before stepping between Duncan and his assailants.
His companions did not seem convinced. Frazier leaned closer to the man who had first attacked Duncan, who glared at Frazier. “If Woolford says this man will help, Sergeant Morris, then I’d listen to him.”
“Help?” Morris snarled. “He’s the one wearing chains. Look at him, he can barely stand up.”
With painful effort Duncan rose off the platform. “Why would you expect a spy?” he asked Frazier.
Morris pushed Frazier aside. “Because someone broke the system,” the sergeant snapped. “Someone stole our secrets or we wouldn’t be here. Because there’s more they want to know and don’t they try to beat it out of one of us most every day in that damned smokehouse of theirs. Goddamned spider will keep changing its web ’til it catches fresh meat, eh? Just when they realize the runners stand together and won’t be broke, you show up.”
“But you’ve already been captured,” Duncan pressed. “What more do they need to know?” As the words left his tongue he recognized the trap he had laid for himself. Pushing to understand the secret would be exactly what a spy would do.
Frazier opened his mouth but said nothing, cut off by an angry glare from Morris, but then turned his back to Morris and bent over Duncan. “One of us gets dragged away most mornings,” he explained in a low voice, “left in the root cellar by the great house, until they shove him into the smokehouse for interrogation.”
“Asking about what?”
Morris grabbed Frazier’s arm and roughly pulled him away.
Murdo Ross stepped to Duncan’s side, followed by his Pennsylvania men. “If you don’t know McCallum ye do know me,” he declared to the northern runners. “Who among you hasn’t taken my hospitality at the Conococheague station? Someone has infiltrated the committees. Someone is using the committees, someone urgently trying to stop communication among the colonies.”
Duncan picked up the explanation. “Woolford said your lives will be forfeit.”
Each of the northern rangers had been trained to stalk and kill. Except for Frazier, they still stared at him as if he were their prey. Duncan saw the old Susquehannock, Jahoska, in the shadows, listening intently.
“We’re ain’t frail children to quake at some stranger’s words,” Morris growled. “There would have to be trials, and judges.”
“Last month near Edentown,” Duncan continued, fixing the sergeant with a level gaze, “Captain Woolford and an Oneida ranger named Red Jacob were ambushed. Red Jacob died of a bullet in his b
ack.” Ononyot, standing near Tanaqua, whispered something and touched the spirit pouch hanging from his neck. Hyanka pounded his fist against the sleeping platform and called out something in his native tongue toward the heavens. “Woolford was wounded too severely to continue, to even explain himself to me. The next day a young Scottish woman, the daughter of Murdo Ross there”—he nodded toward the big Scot—“was killed by a shot from the forest.”
“Jess!” Frazier gasped. “Not the bonnie Jessica Ross!”
Duncan answered with a solemn nod. “They tried to a kill a young French girl.”
Larkin pressed forward. “Analie?” he asked. “Not our sweet Analie too!”
“Analie was traveling with Woolford and Red Jacob. They shot at her and missed. Then she followed me despite my objections. She and I continued, just behind the killers. We found a man from Philadelphia dead on the Susquehanna, son of a committeeman. Peter Rohrbach and his Delaware wife at the Shamokin station were murdered at their homestead. Then a freed slave on the road north of here. A path of killings leading here. None of them had trials. Which of you had a trial before being imprisoned here?”
“Where’s the French girl?” Larkin pressed.
“We were drugged at Townsend’s Store.” As Duncan spoke the words the man turned toward the group who huddled further down the aisle. “We told her to flee north if anything happened.”
“Drugged at Townsend’s Store,” Larkin repeated more loudly, staring accusingly at the young man at the front of the Virginians, a blond youth in his late teens.
“He’s a good man,” the youth protested.
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 19