Jahoska smiled again. “I looked for that tree for years but never found it. But my children heard about it, just in case.”
As the men began climbing onto their pallets Murdo bent over Duncan. “Did they take them, lad?”
Duncan looked up in question.
“Your papers. Gabriel had an air of playacting today. I don’t think it was out of perverseness that he made us strip off our clothes.”
“But he made everyone strip.”
“Strip and leave their clothes behind, around the corner of the building. Why leave them where we couldn’t keep them in sight? Because they wanted to search them without us knowing. That cart came up and stopped behind the stable while the pharaohs worked their whips. I reckon it held a maid from the house.”
“You make no sense.”
“If I’m not mistaken, she had needle and thread. Check your leggings.”
Duncan did as he was told, taking the leggings to one of the slits where the last light of day filtered in. He studied the seams then looked up in surprise. “They’ve been opened and resewn, by a hand more skilled than mine.”
“The stamps and the commission?”
“I hid them last night.”
“Gabriel just needs an excuse. If he finds those papers, and discovers y’er are not a runner he may just hang ye as a thief and be done with ye.”
Duncan gazed out at the purple sky, weighing Ross’s words. “Someone told them about the stamps,” he whispered.
“Oh, aye. A bird that sings to Gabriel. Probably the same creature who killed poor Devon.”
There was just enough light left outside for Duncan to make out the corpse propped in the yard. “Why kill him?” he asked.
“You asked hard questions last night. He spoke freely, but you saw how he was wary of being overheard. He had to be silenced.”
“But surely . . .” Duncan’s heart seemed to shrivel. “You mean he died because I asked him questions.” He looked out at Devon’s body. The Virginian would be alive but for him. “Do me a favor,” he said to Ross. “Go down to the end of the building. Distract the men there while I retrieve the papers.”
Ross frowned. “Aye,” he reluctantly agreed.
Moments later, as Ross broke out in a loud Gaelic ballad, Duncan slipped behind the latrine curtain, stood on the bench, and retrieved the papers from where he had jammed them between a beam and a roof shingle. He walked purposefully toward the gathering around Murdo and held out the first of his treasures, the Virginia Gazette with Colonel Barre’s speech. He recounted how he had obtained it, making sure to acknowledge that Townsend had given it to him, earning a grateful nod from the man’s son, then read the speech in a slow, loud voice. Eyes that had lost their fire showed a spark, and several men gathered around the speech.
Larkin urged him to read the last passage again. “About our blood,” the old ranger prompted. “—has caused the Blood of those Sons of Lyberty to recoil with them,” Duncan recited.
“Amen, amen,” Larkin said, and the men repeated his words in a chorus.
Duncan pinned the speech with a splinter into the wall and withdrew the tax commission.
“Mathias Lee, Caroline County,” he read, “is hereby appointed revenue commissioner for His Majesty’s government.” He extended it into the flame of a candle.
“McCallum! No!” Frazier called out, knocking Duncan’s hand from the flame.
“I never meant to be captured with this,” Duncan explained. “Just having these could still be enough to stretch our necks.” He looked up into the grim faces. No one protested.
Burns gave a mischievous grin and called out. “Sinclair, still have that stash of Oronoco in your sock?”
The Pennsylvania Scot grinned and darted to the pouch over his pallet as Burns methodically folded and refolded the commission. He ripped the paper along the fold, then sprinkled Sinclair’s tobacco along one of the halves and rolled it into a tight cylinder. “The king’s cheroot!” he declared, then bent and lit the roll, handed it to Duncan, and began rolling the second one.
Soon the scent of the fragrant tobacco filled the stable as the men, eyes gleaming, passed the cheroots around.
“Shhh!” Murdo called out with a glint in his eyes, and moved to a window slit. “What’s that? Do ye not hear it?” He leaned toward the window, playfully cupping his ear before turning to his companions. “It’s Prime Minister Grenville, lads. He says he has been waiting for his taxes, says we owe him for each puff!” The big Scot blew smoke out the slit. “Here’s what the liberty boys said to that, sir!” he shouted, and made an obscene gesture toward the night.
The little speech, perhaps aided by the tobacco, revived the company, and men pounded fists on the platform to register assent when Murdo proposed that they leave the stub of the cheroot to shove into Devon’s shroud. After Duncan drew on the second cheroot and passed it on he produced the sheet of tax stamps, then laid it flat on the platform. The men watched silently as he folded the sheet then started tearing off the stamps one by one.
When he finished, Duncan had stamps for each of the men in his hand. “These are liberty stamps. Don’t take one unless you believe we will find our liberty. One we save for Devon,” he added, dropping a stamp into his pocket.
As he walked along the men, each took a stamp from his palm with a solemn nod. He felt like a priest giving communion.
THE NEXT MORNING THE DENSE FOG THAT OFTEN COVERED THE swamp at night had overtaken the fields. As they stepped groggily along the gruel line Winters moved among them, tapping men with his stick. Old Jaho, Murdo Ross, Frazier of the northern rangers, Burns of the Conococheague, and finally Duncan.
“Work party to plant poor Devon,” he announced.
In the night someone had secretly been at work on the dead man. A sack had been tied around his head, and a garland made of oak leaves wrapped around vines had been draped around his neck. The Virginians were clearly put off by the interference with the body, but Tanaqua and the other tribesman gazed at the garland with sober expressions, as if it secretly spoke to them. Tanaqua saw the inquiry on Duncan’s face and Duncan was about to step to his friend when Trent shoved him toward the corpse, pointing to the lengths of rope and four shovels that had been dropped by the whipping post. Moments later two new overseers appeared to take over the Judas company for the morning.
Their procession through the fog had an otherworldly quality to it. The stable and every other building quickly faded from view. From the direction of the river came the sound of one of the low-pitched horns blown by sailors making way in fog. Ahead of them an owl hooted. Through the murk over the field came a disembodied, mournful African chant. The slaves from the other side of the field somehow knew about the dead man.
Jahoska, carrying a shovel on each shoulder, led the way, sometimes getting far enough ahead that wisps of the ground-hugging mist obscured his lower body, so that he appeared to be some antlered beast floating along in front of them. Winters, walking alongside the men carrying the corpse, seemed oddly contemplative, and not at all disturbed by the Susquehannock’s wandering. “The overseers in the fields are given pistols on days like this,” he declared. “They worry about runaways. No crews go into the fields until the bosses can see the distance of a pistol shot in every direction.”
Not for the first time Duncan wondered about Winters, who often seemed uncomfortable with his duties. Even Trent was different somehow from the other overseers, for the glint in his eyes was often that of a deep-seated anger at something rather than the casual cruelty displayed by the others. Now, accompanying the burial detail, he had lost his usual surliness. “Mend y’er lines, ye lubbers,” he mildly chastised when Burns stumbled and lost his grip on the carrying rope, letting the corpse touch the ground. “Level y’er ballast, damn ye,” he added, though it came out as more of a dutiful reprimand.
Through the mist came a new sound. Old Jaho, almost invisible now, was speaking. Duncan knew none of the Susquehannock words, but he recognize
d the tone. It was a burial chant, a request for a gate to open into the next world. The words grew louder as they began to climb, and Duncan realized they must be nearing the burial plot on the side of the hill. Small white crosses materialized out of the gloom, then suddenly the air stirred and they found themselves in a pool of sunlight, surrounded by graves. A changed world opened before them. The fields were still covered in the ground fog, a grey quilt that obscured all but the highest roofs, the tallest trees, and the masts of three ships on the river.
Jahoska’s chant faded away and he pointed to a patch of open ground. Winters distributed the tools and outlined the grave with his heel in the soft earth. They had dug nearly two feet into the moist soil when Duncan realized the old Susquehannock was nowhere to be seen. Trent, sitting on a boulder, was strangely reserved, just frowning at Winters, who gazed toward the top of the hill. As Trent stood and handed around a water gourd, Murdo shoved the stub of the commission-paper cheroot into Devon’s shroud. The Scot had paused in front of Sergeant Morris as they had left the stable yard, extending his palm. Morris had mumbled an apology, saying he had forgotten, and dropped the remains of the cheroot into Murdo’s hand.
When they had nearly finished digging, Duncan wandered toward Trent, whose gaze, not for the first time that day, had drifted toward the river. He recognized the look of a stranded sailor. “The first I make to be a brig,” Duncan offered, “and the second, with the tall mast rigged fore and aft with the pennant at top, has the look of a fast cutter. But the third, the short one, I can make no sense of.”
“Just one of those squat snows that ply up and down the bay. Come fall when the crop is dried and loaded into hogsheads the snows and luggers will be swarming the river.” Trent caught himself and cast a peeved frown at Duncan, as if Duncan had tricked him somehow.
“I crewed my grandfather’s ketch as a boy,” Duncan said, “in and out of the western isles of Scotland. If we were anchored he would dive off and swim right under the keel each morning. The first time it happened I thought he had drowned for certain. I was leaning over the rail, desperately calling his name, when the old fool put his wet hand on my neck. Scared the hell out of me. He had climbed up the other side and was standing behind me the whole time I was calling him.”
For the briefest of instants there was a glint in Trent’s eye, then his face hardened. “That hole ain’t digging itself,” he barked, and with his quarterstaff pushed Duncan back toward their task.
By the time they lowered Devon into his grave, the fog had burned entirely away, exposing the wide fields below. Old Jaho had reappeared, carrying a bundle of willow bark, and patiently listened while Winters berated him halfheartedly as slovenly and irresponsible, telling the old man he had forgotten he was a slave. But when Jaho set a twig of oak on the head of the shrouded corpse the young overseer nodded.
“Agnus Dei,” Winters declared. Before Duncan could grasp that he was speaking Latin, he continued, “qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.” Lamb of God, he had said, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
In the silence Jahoska whispered, “Appointeth the moon.”
Duncan saw Winters nod.
“He appointeth the moon for seasons,” the young overseer went on, “the sun knoweth his going down. Thou makest darkness, and it is night, wherein all the beasts of the forests do creep forth. The young lions roar after their prey and seek their meat from God. The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in dens.” When he had finished Winters saw that all but Jaho stared at him. “It is a Psalm,” he said as if apologizing. “One hundred seven.”
Duncan saw a tiny, inscrutable smile on Jahoska’s face. It may indeed have come from the Christian Bible, but it could have just as easily come from an elder at a tribal hearth.
“My father was a pastor,” Winters added.
“There should be memories offered,” Murdo suggested. “Ain’t a proper funeral without mention of his life.” No one spoke.
“I never heard him curse,” Frazier volunteered.
“A good man with a hoe,” Burns offered.
Duncan dropped a handful of dirt into the grave. “I marked his carefree nature. He was one of the few who kept hope in his eyes, as if he didn’t believe”—Duncan glanced at the overseers—“his predicament would last.”
Winters cleared his throat and spoke toward the grave. “Gates. His full name was Devon Gates, from a family of famous sharpshooters in the Shenandoah country. Corporal Gates was the youngest member of the Virginia rangers in the late Indian war. When his father was elected to the House of Burgesses, Devon would often travel with him to Williamsburg.”
“You knew his family?” Duncan interrupted.
Winters shook his head. “But we were of an age. He was one of the first white slaves brought to the stable. In the early weeks we would talk at the water barrel sometimes, until Mr. Gabriel put an end to it. Slaves are beasts of burden, he said, and it was demeaning for a man to speak with his mule. He said if I needed intercourse with a slave so badly then he would give me one of the African girls they bring to the overseers’ barn on Saturday nights.
“He saw me speaking with Devon in the field last week. Don’t treat with dead men, he said, and laughed that high-pitched laugh of his. The hyena, the Africans call Gabriel, whatever that means.”
“Someone should send word to his parents,” Murdo suggested.
“His mother died birthing a sister two years ago. His father may be in flight himself now.”
“Flight?”
“The Resolves. His father helped Mr. Henry work on the Resolves.”
Duncan struggled to understand. “You mean a law from the Burgesses?”
“Something about who has the right to tax free Virginians, stating that London had no right to tax us, only the assembly duly elected by Virginians. There was talk of an arrest warrant against Mr. Henry. At a dinner in his palace the night the Resolves were passed, the governor said Henry and every man who joined him in the vote should be shipped in chains back to London to apologize to the king.”
“Enough palaver about London and governors!” Trent growled. “We ain’t taking ease in some tavern. And ye don’t want Gabriel to hear about more of y’er chatter with mules, do ye?”
“The boy stood with the oak,” Old Jaho said suddenly, then lifted a shovel and began covering the body.
“Yes, well,” Winters muttered, then straightened and collected himself. “Put your backs into it!” he ordered in the voice of the overseer.
When they had finished their melancholy work, Trent led them back to the company in time to share a lunch of beans mashed with lard. Winters took Jaho back to the stable, where he left the willow bark he had collected.
Three hours later Murdo gave a low whistle and nodded toward the stable. A new prisoner was being deposited there, supported by two men at his shoulders under the angry direction of Gabriel. The man appeared more dead than alive, but as they reached the door, he struggled, knocking off his powdered wig, and earning a knob on the skull from Gabriel. He was thrown inside and the door barred.
At the end of the day the door to the Judas slaves’ stable was still barred and Trent stood guard. Duncan ate his meager supper quickly then approached the door. Trent glanced at the setting sun and offered no challenge as Duncan lifted the bar and entered.
The man lying on the platform jerked awake at Duncan’s touch, pulling away and thrusting an arm over his face. He was perhaps forty years of age, and though his clothes were torn and soiled, they were obviously those of a gentleman. The blood on the back of his shirt showed that he had received his welcoming lashes.
“Your tormenters are gone,” Duncan said. “I would tend your wounds.” As he spoke he became aware of movement behind him, and saw Jaho filling a mug from a crock beside his makeshift altar.
“The willow bark,” Duncan guessed as the Susquenhannock extended the mug to the new prisoner.
The old man nodded. �
�I would have preferred to dry it and grind it, but this will do.”
Duncan took the heavily chipped mug and held it up to the man’s lips. “All of it, to ease the pain.”
The stranger sipped and winced at the bitterness before downing the contents of the mug. “There’s been some ghastly mixup!” he blurted out. “You must take me back to the manor house. These are slave quarters. By God, I will have strong words with that damned overseer!” He paused, considering Duncan and Jaho. “You work for him?”
“We are chattels of the estate,” Duncan replied. “If you were to rank the population of this plantation, there would be the unseen owner, then the aristocrats of the manor and the superintendent, after that there is the house staff, the field overseers, the Africans, the horses, the pigs, and finally those of us who inhabit this stable. Although Superintendent Gabriel might suggest the dung piles rank higher as well.”
The man’s anger waned, replaced by confusion. “But you sir—look at you. You are—” he searched for a word.
“Scottish,” Duncan suggested.
“Yes, well. Scottish,” he said with a nod, then cast an uncertain glance at Jaho. He took in his surroundings, and tried to rise, triggering a clang of metal. The color drained from his face as he discovered the manacles on his ankles, and for a moment Duncan saw despair in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, rose from the platform, and began to brush his clothes. “These must be quarters for the Africans.”
“The Africans are treated better. They are allowed their own gardens, and many live with their families. The only men we have ever seen in manacles are those of this building.” Duncan put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You were not mistakingly sent here.”
“I will summon a magistrate! They do not know who I am!”
“Our confinement is secret. You will not be permitted to send a message. I doubt anyone knows you are here.”
“I was taken in the night,” the stranger explained. “I heard a noise in my stable, went out to investigate, and was hit on the head. Secret? What can you mean, sir?”
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 22