TANAQUA WAS KEEPING A SOLITARY VIGIL OVER JAHO’S SMOLDERING cedar chips when they returned, leaning into the fragrant smoke as if praying. “In the mill,” Duncan whispered as he handed him Kuwali’s drawing. The Mohawk’s countenance lit with a fierce intensity. He looked up at the sleeping platforms and gave the soft cry of a nighthawk. Ononyot instantly shot up, followed a moment later by Hyanka and the other Iroquois.
As they huddled around Tanaqua, Jaho handed Duncan his medicine bag. “Kuwali,” the Susquehannock said, and nodded to the bag. Duncan opened it and extracted a news journal. Kuwali, who had frequent contact with the house servants, had inserted a copy of the Maryland Gazette, only three weeks old. “Annapolis,” the dateline said.
“Riots!” Duncan did not realize he had given voice to his reaction to the lead article until he saw Webb, then Murdo, approaching, rubbing their eyes. “There’s been riots over the tax!” he exclaimed as they reached him. “In Boston, Newport, even Annapolis.”
Webb grabbed a candle. Ross lit another. Suddenly half a dozen men were around them. As Duncan read, more and more men rose, until soon nearly the entire company was listening. The tax commissioner in Boston had been hung in effigy, he read. Commissioners in New York and New Hampshire had resigned under public pressure. There had been a mock trial in Connecticut of a symbolic Stampman.
Ross took up the narrative when Duncan paused for a drink. “He was charged with conspiracy to kill and destroy his own mother, America!” Murdo crowed, to guffaws all around. He turned to the next story, reporting on an exchange in Parliament between William Pitt and Grenville. “‘When were the colonies emancipated to choose what laws apply to them,’ Grenville had asked. ‘When,’ said Pitt, ‘were they made slaves?’”
Even the Iroquois were listening now, as Ross read the final report, about how colonists were signing pledges not to buy anything from Britain until the tax was removed. At gatherings in town squares throughout the colonies, women were sewing hundreds of dresses and britches out of homespun in lieu of wearing British fashions.
The men gleefully passed around the paper, pausing over passages and reading them aloud again. Duncan did not even notice that Frazier had backed away until Larkin hooted. “There’s a bonny lad!” he said, and pointed to the wall.
On a blank space near the door, Frazier had used a piece of charcoal to inscribe the words. “I swer not to by English guds.” With a flourish the young ranger signed his name, eagerly followed by Larkin. A line of grinning men added their names. The Iroquois queued at the end of the line, and when their turn came, inscribed their runner marks on the wall.
THREE HOURS AFTER SUNSET THEY WAITED AGAIN BY THE AFRICANS’ shed, watching from the shadows as a night patrol trotted past. Duncan’s gut tightened as he saw the dogs with the riders. “If the wind shifts they will get our scent when we cross back over to the stable,” he said to Tanaqua, at his side.
“Then we will go around,” the Mohawk replied, pointing toward the river. He meant they would risk venturing closer to the manor compound to get back to their quarters. His eyes blazed with a warrior’s determination, had burned so since seeing Kuwali’s drawing the night before.
Jaho had insisted on bringing Ursa and Kuwali with them, just as Tanaqua insisted on bringing Ononyot. Ursa led the way up the ridge behind the sheds, moving with the stealth of a warrior himself. As they began to climb, a new figure joined them. Chuga trotted silently to Jahoska’s side, who murmured a greeting in his river tongue. The dog hesitated as the others moved up the trail, then turned and stepped deliberately along the bottom of the hill. Duncan and Jaho hesitated only a moment, then followed the dog, who halted at a pile of heavy timber with a long saw laid across it.
“A new outbuilding they say,” Kuwali explained as he and his father caught up with them. “Some of our men have been shaving timbers and making the joints.” Ursa gestured them back to the trail.
Duncan lingered, Chuga watching him as in his mind he tried to match the mortised joints chiseled in the heavy posts. There was a stairway, two long posts cut to make a high frame in the center, and no roof. Something icy seemed to grip his spine and he backed away, then ran to join his friends.
Minutes later they were looking down at the mill compound.
“One,” Tanaqua whispered as he pointed to the guard on the dock.
“Two,” Ononyot added, indicating a shadowed figure at the head of the riverside track to the manor.
Ursa made a clicking sound with his tongue and pointed to the latrine as another soldier emerged, buttoning his britches. In a low whisper Kuwali explained that the mask was in the center of the five storerooms built into the rear of the mill building, two of which were used as quarters for the officers and a third as an office. The Blooddancer had been leaning against the wall, on bags of grain. Tanaqua nodded, then he and Ononyot each scooped up a handful of soil and rubbed it over their exposed skin before melting into the darkness.
In the stories shared in the stable Duncan had learned that Ononyot was famed for infiltrating enemy camps, never taking a weapon other than his belt knife. It meant that he, like Tanaqua, engaged in the ancient form of tribal warfare, which did not aim for the death of enemies but for the release of captives, taking of prisoners, or other acts meant to shame the enemy and bring honor to their tribe.
A moment after the Iroquois disappeared Ursa also faded into the shadows. Duncan saw the proud smile on Kuwali’s face. “My father was a war prince in our tribe, known for leading raids deep inside our enemy’s territory. Once he brought back the headdress of their king, taken from his side as he slept.” Not for the first time Duncan was moved by how similar the African tribes and the woodland tribes were.
“He has told me,” the boy continued, “of how our warriors often fought enemies of much greater strength, pounding their shields like thunder to break the enemy’s will before charging.” The boy leaned forward as if trying to glimpse his father stealing among the shadows.
“That northern god is angry.” Duncan looked up to see Jaho bent over Kuwali now, whispering. “He does not like being a prisoner,” the old man explained in a solemn voice. “No one is feeding him. The living god must be fed like a living human. When that Blooddancer gets angry he plays with bodies like toys. Do you understand me, son?”
The African boy replied with a worried nod.
“Those in the manor house must be warned.”
Ursa’s son nodded once more, and Duncan cocked his head in confusion at the old Susquehannock.
The old man gave Duncan one of his serene smiles. “Is there a river where you live?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I would have to bring Chuga.”
As understanding slowly sank in, Duncan returned his smile. “Chuga could swim in cool, fresh water all day long.”
“In the swamp men could die from one false step.”
“I have a rope. We will get more, to tie men together.”
“In a few days then,” Jaho said, “when the moon is at the quarter. Not too dark, not too light.”
“We should get men to the island of your ancestors, then move them out a few at a time. The Virginia men will help from there.”
No one spoke again until Tanaqua materialized out of the shadows. “He is there, Duncan! Just as this brave warrior told us,” he added, starting a smile out of Kuwali as he offered the boy a quick bow of his head before turning to drop a metal ball in Duncan’s hand. “In one of the sleeping quarters there is an English fowling gun.” Duncan held the small-caliber ball up in the dim light. It was, he suspected, from the same gun that had shot Woolford.
Ononyot appeared, carrying trophies of his own foray. In one hand he held a hammer and a coil of rope. With a proud smile he opened his other hand, in which lay a little gold braid, sliced from an officer’s epaulet, which he presented to Kuwali, and a small square of silk, which he handed to Duncan. “On the entry door,” the Oneida explained. It was small flag, bearing the image of a c
astle with a gauntleted fist over it. Duncan folded the flag into his pocket.
Ursa appeared, carrying two loaves of bread, one of which he gave to Duncan before breaking off a piece of the other for his son.
“I could bring the ancient one back,” Ononyot offered. “We can hide him in the woods.”
Tanaqua’s eyes gleamed at the prospect. He had come so far, and suffered so much, to find the lost god.
“Not yet,” came a soft voice. “He is not finished with those men.”
The two Mohawks stared at Jahoska and hesitantly nodded.
“You call him Blooddancer,” the Susquehannock said, “but in my father’s lodge he was always just the old Trickster.” Jaho gave one of his wheezing laughs. “They think they captured him but they will find that it is they who have been captured.”
THE NEXT DAY THE TRICKSTER STRUCK IN THE MANOR HOUSE. Duncan had been called to check on Dr. Lloyd and was descending the stairs with Alice Dawson when screams erupted from the kitchen. Servants began running out the front door. When they reached the kitchen Titus and Polly were on the back porch, futilely trying to calm the kitchen staff.
Duncan followed their terrified gazes toward the heavy work table by the hearth where a pig was being prepared for roasting. Apples and onions had spilled onto the floor. As Alice tried to calm the servants Duncan approached the table. The pig was being readied for a huge roasting pan. A knife lay by its belly where someone had started dressing it. The dead pig’s black eyes seemed to stare at Duncan. One of the frightened servants at the window yelled for Duncan to run. Then the pig arched its back and rolled toward Duncan.
The maids screamed, and Duncan shot backward. He halted halfway across the chamber, realizing that expectant eyes watched from the doorway. “Duncan, please . . .” Alice Dawson said, though whether in warning or encouragement he was not sure.
The pig was writhing now, as if trying to rise on its truncated limbs. Duncan took a deep breath and advanced on the table, clamping the pig down with one hand and grabbing the knife with the other. The writhing started again as he cut, until a gluttonous lump with two eyes appeared, followed by a long serpentine body that slid out onto the table.
Duncan grabbed the creature behind the head. It was a river eel. His discovery did little to quiet the onlookers. A maid squealed in fear as the creature squirmed in his grip, another spat what sounded like an African curse.
“It’s true!” Polly cried.
Titus appeared, extending a bucket of water, and Duncan dropped the eel into it. Alone of the house staff the tall Ashanti was undisturbed.
Polly took a few cautious steps into the kitchen.
“What’s true?” Duncan asked her.
“That red god, he’s terrible angry,” the cook declared. “He don’t like his people enslaved. They’re the blood of the forest.”
THE NEXT MORNING A SMALL BUGGY MADE A SLOW CIRCUIT OF THE fields as they worked. Titus drove the single-horse rig, while Alice Dawson, holding a parasol, studied the slaves. She directed Titus to stop repeatedly, and was so obvious about staring at them that Trent snapped out for the stablemen to avert their eyes from the mistress of the manor.
That afternoon Duncan was summoned back to the house. At first, fighting a terrible foreboding ever since seeing Ramsey’s portrait, he ignored Trent’s calls to him, and even turned his back on him, but finally the overseer impatiently tapped his baton on Duncan’s shoulder.
They did not speak while Duncan washed at the water barrel, but as they walked up the perimeter road Duncan kept pace beside Trent instead of dutifully following. Duncan watched a group of Africans digging holes in the knoll at the base of the fields, then noticed how the overseer’s gaze kept returning to the masts visible above the riverbank.
“Were you a bay sailor then,” he asked Trent, “or did you get out on blue water?”
Trent paused, and for a moment Duncan saw a faraway look in the overseer’s eyes. “The Florida islands up to the Delaware Bay, all those waters were my home, lad. Farther north to Georges Bank when we had letters of marque to take French ships in the last war.”
“A privateer then.”
“That was the pretty word for it. Pound a ship and take her cargo and you were a hero back then. But do the same thing without the letters of marque and suddenly you’re an outlaw.”
Duncan puzzled out his words. “You were caught raiding British vessels and you didn’t swing for it?”
“They’re rare short of bay pilots. The navy made me sign a paper swearing off the wild life and agreeing to pilot His Majesty’s ships.”
“But here you are.”
“The Commodore liked the way I handled myself. Seconded for his navy, he calls it. Said if I proved myself he would double my pay.”
“Prove yourself by tormenting prisoners?”
“By taking his orders without question.”
They walked on. “I miss the water,” Duncan observed. “For years I was never away from it. My grandfather would sail into the teeth of a gale, howling with laughter. At first I was terrified. But later I learned to feel the joy of it.”
The words brought a strange silence. “Sometimes when the wind is right,” Trent finally said, “you can smell the salt from here.”
Titus waited with a clean shirt in his little room off the kitchen. Duncan stood unresisting as the butler helped him change into it, then spun about at a gasp from a darkened doorway, which he had taken to be a closet. He leapt into the shadows and pulled back the woman who had flattened herself against the corridor wall.
Alice twisted out of his grasp and, pale and trembling, lowered herself onto a stool. “I am so ashamed,” she said, looking at the floor. “It’s only that Nancy said every man in the Judas stable received regular beatings. I didn’t credit it. But look at you. A doctor, and your back lies in ruin.”
“After the first ten or fifteen strokes the tips of the leathers dig into the flesh. Gabriel has little rivets set in his whip that claw away the tissue. You would be amazed at the gutters they can dig into a man’s flesh.”
She stared at the brand on his arm then looked up with anguish in her eyes. “I insisted on being shown your stable. You live worse even than the Africans. What have you done, Mr. McCallum, to deserve such torment?”
“Carry broken dice and ask the wrong questions,” he shot back, then regretted his glibness. “The men in the stable resist the stamp tax. And deliver messages for those who do so in Boston and Philadelphia and Williamsburg.”
His words seemed to genuinely confuse her. “Who does not speak ill of that dismal tax?” She shook her head. “The officers from the mill say you are all traitors and deserters who practiced vile crimes and would commit more if allowed to escape.”
“One of those demons stands before you.” She glanced up uneasily then quickly looked away. “The Commodore,” Duncan continued, “is a man who trades in lies like other men trade in Oronoco leaf.” Duncan pushed his arm into the sleeve held by Titus, then saw how she stared at him now, with a new, and intense, curiosity. “We are men who chafe against the yoke, and help those with more power discuss the nature of government.”
She stood and straightened her dress. “I don’t understand. Discuss? You make it sound as though our duties to government are negotiable. The government is the government. You may as well argue against breathing or the color of the sky.”
“Is the Commodore the government then?” His question seemed to strangely wound her. She turned and he spoke to her back as he finished buttoning his shirt. “Is this truly the government that ambushes and mutilates men in the forest, who detains us and treats us so, who threatens imminent death without so much as a trial?”
She stiffened, and silently led him to the stairs.
Dr. Lloyd was much recovered, or at least in a more comfortable stage of the terrible malarial cycle. The naval surgeon, draped with a blanket, was asleep in a rocking chair by the open window. He revived as Duncan lifted his wrist for a pulse.
“I am grateful for your efforts, sir,” the officer said. “I am loathe to prescribe the tincture to my sailors for fear of habituation but laudanum was the right measure for my extremity. I had a blessed rest and when I awoke the fever had passed. I should return to my ship but Mrs. Dawson makes me too comfortable. I am indebted, McCallum.”
Duncan hesitated and glanced at Alice. “McLaren. My name is McLaren. An easy mistake.” The woman cocked her head at him but said nothing.
Lloyd sighed. “My wits are yet dulled, sir. McLaren. Of course. You have the air of a man from the north. I myself had the honor of cruising up the St. Lawrence at the end of the late hostilities with France.”
“I was there at the fall of Montreal,” Duncan replied and, as Alice excused herself, the two men embarked on a quarter hour’s conversation about the northern campaign that had won the war for Britain.
“I trust you will be supplied with Peruvian bark soon,” Duncan said at last.
“Three days, maybe four” Lloyd offered. “The Commodore will bring fresh supplies.” The genteel doctor paused as he saw the cloud on Duncan’s features. “I beg your pardon. I said something to offend you. Most unintended.”
Duncan stood and backed away, making a half bow. The manor house was beginning to feel like more of a prison than the stable. “I must go. I am pleased to have played a small part in your recovery, though I daresay that Mrs. Dawson deserves most of the credit.”
“I was hoping to have you dine with me on board the Ardent. Roasted duck. I might be able to discover a passable claret in the hold.”
Duncan offered a grateful nod. “I am honored, sir.” He glanced up at Alice, who had appeared in the doorway. “But my time is otherwise committed,” he stated, and, making a bow, left the room.
She followed him down the stairs. “What is it, Duncan? Have we offended you somehow?”
They had reached Titus’s room before he replied. “You give no offense,” he said. She turned her back to him as he stripped off the linen shirt. “My business here is done.”
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 28