“An oak,” Duncan said. “The heart of the forest.” He picked up the spade and began covering the body. They did not speak until the job was done, and afterwards Winters dropped onto the boulder as if utterly exhausted.
Chuga stood and made a circuit of the grave, touching the earth with his nose.
“Two things,” Duncan said. “You said he asked you to do two things.”
He was not sure Winters had heard. The young overseer sat staring at the mound Duncan was shaping over the grave.
“For you,” Winters explained after a moment. “He wanted you to have this,” Winters said, reaching into a pocket. “He said you were the one who would keep it now.” The overseer dropped a stone into Duncan’s hand.
“I don’t understand what . . .” Duncan began, then his heart blocked his throat. It was the fossil from the ancient altar. Duncan had given him his own seed stone, and Jahoska had given him that of his people. He squeezed it tightly in his hand and turned to face the bay as moisture filled his eyes. The gift seemed to break something inside. A new wave of emotion surged through him. He felt a profound melancholy, but something new was burning now, deep inside.
Chuga opened his mouth and gave a mournful howl that seemed to go on forever, echoing down into the woods. When the dog was done he stepped to Duncan’s side and looked up expectantly. Duncan knelt and put an arm around the dog, then rose and held the stone out in his palm, first for Chuga, then for the moon, to see.
Winters spoke again. “If . . . if you are trying to get the company away . . . I will help you.”
Duncan turned back with a new glint in his eye. He knew with certainty what Jahoska had wanted for them. “We’re not just escaping, Jamie,” he declared. “We are stopping them.”
IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN THEY RETURNED TO THE fields. They stopped as they reached the stable but Duncan showed no sign of going inside. “Is the manor house open?” he asked Winters.
“Titus sleeps lightly. He will let me in. But if you are caught, Duncan . . . why take such a risk?”
“Because Jaho was not demented. He was telling me something out on the field today. He was answering the question I did not know to ask.”
Titus was instantly awake at Winters’s tap on the door, handing Duncan a candle as they entered the kitchen. He left Titus and Winters behind and stepped into the hall, where bunting was being draped for the coming festivities. He paused by the reproduction of the Virginia charter, holding the candle close to read the artist’s name. Jeremiah Bowen. He then entered the sitting room, forcing himself not to look up at the painting of Lord Ramsey as he studied the three smaller paintings in the room.
There was the Indian maid handing tobacco to the European, by the same artist. He stepped to the next, of the man praying, also by Bowen. The same graceful style and painstaking detail was so obvious in the third, that of the native in full tribal regalia, with tilted feathers on his head, that he did not need to look at the name in the corner. He stepped back so he could see all three paintings. Through the fog of his coma Jaho had heard Duncan speak with Murdo and Webb of the letters from the mill, puzzling over why such mundane writings could be considered so important.
“Is it true?” came a tight voice behind him. “That Gabriel killed Jahoska?”
Duncan slowly nodded at Alice Dawson, standing in the doorway in a dressing gown. She sobbed and sank into a chair by the door, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“He died on his terms,” Duncan offered. “Before he died he was trying to tell me something about this man Bowen.”
“He never showed resentment,” Alice said, “all these years when we came and took his land Jaho just stayed and helped. He was so patient. It was like he was waiting for something.”
“Who is this man Bowen?”
She looked up, scrubbing at her eyes. “Bowen could never earn a living from his painting. He became a miller.”
“The mill over the ridge?”
“You astound me Duncan. Jaho is dead, the gallows are up, and you risk your life coming to talk about the miller?” She saw the fierce light in his eyes. “Yes. The same, the man who disappeared after Ramsey’s men arrived.”
Duncan gazed at the painting of the Indian and realized it was a much younger Jahoska, made up as a warrior. He still could not understand the dying man’s message.
“A new edict came today. The Africans are no longer to be taught reading and writing. Gabriel complained about my classes to Lord Ramsey last month and now some official in the Colonial Office who never set foot in Virginia demands I stop. Edicts and commands come from London like the word of God.”
Duncan found his gaze drifting up to the image of Ramsey, seeing now his ermine collar, his golden rings. The painter had included a soft glow around the lord’s head like a halo. He suddenly understood. “That’s it, Alice! The word of God! No edict could come from London in a month!”
She wiped away more tears and looked up in confusion.
“In his world Ramsey is god! He acknowledges no rules. Ramsey produces the edicts that serve him. Where is the miller?”
“You speak in riddles.”
“There was a list of supplies in Hobart’s room. Badger hair, prussian green, lampblack. Artist’s supplies. They’re using Bowen! That’s what Jaho was trying to tell me. This artist made the perfect replica of the charter. So real it could be passed off as an official document. Where is he?”
“Gone away. They seized his mill and took him away on the cutter months ago.”
“And then edicts started arriving?”
“Yes,” Alice hesitantly replied. “A few weeks later.”
“Ramsey is using Bowen to create a shadow government, to block the committees!” Duncan exclaimed. “He makes up his own edicts, creates letters in others’ handwriting! William Johnson detected something false in the letter from Benjamin Franklin delivered by his son! We must find the miller!”
Ten minutes later they stood at the kitchen table, the map of the Chesapeake unrolled before them.
“He would be kept close, yet out of the way,” Duncan said.
They stared at the map. “The cutter leaves,” Alice said. “And if the wind blows fair she is back in three or four days.”
“Annapolis,” Winters suggested.
“Too big,” Alice said. “Too many real officials. It would need to be somewhere very quiet.”
Titus pointed to two other towns, Alice two more. Cambridge, Oxford, Chestertown, and Ononcock.
“There would have to be a printing press,” Duncan put in.
“All but Oxford are county seats,” Alice said. “County seats always have a printer.”
“Not Oxford then.”
“Surely the sailors must talk,” Duncan pressed.
“Never,” Alice replied. “They are too scared of Ramsey.”
Titus’s countenance suddenly lit with excitement. He slipped out the door and a moment later returned, dropping an oyster shell as big as his hand on the table. “The Commodore always wants his hogs,” the butler declared, the gleam still in his eye. “A bushel comes back with the cutter every time.”
“Hogs?” Duncan asked.
“Only one place these big ones can be found,” Titus explained. “That’s how they get their name. Chestertown hogs.”
AN INJURED OFFICER HAS ARRIVED, READ THE MESSAGE FROM Alice Dawson that came as he worked the fields the next morning. Please come at once. Trent grinned as he handed the slip of paper to Duncan. “She says please, mind you.”
As they walked alongside on the perimeter road Duncan realized that he too was studying the river.
“I wasn’t aware a new ship had arrived,” Duncan ventured.
“I ain’t been near the river for two days. But there be no new mast showing. Probably just some powdered fool who scalded himself on his tea.”
But the man lying on the upstairs bed bore the signs of battle. A cheek was badly burnt, with dark grains flecking his skin, and a long jagged spli
nter of wood was embedded in his shoulder. Blood oozed out of the wound. An empty vial of laudanum and a small tumbler lay on the nightstand, as did a suturing kit.
“Dr. Lloyd was denied permission to come onshore,” Alice explained.
“But these are battle wounds . . .” Duncan began.
“Smugglers,” the officer groaned through his pain. “They took half a dozen rounds from us. When we approached they let loose with two guns. Light ones, no more than six pounders, but one of the balls knocked a slow match onto a powder keg not ten feet from me. By then we were close enough for boarding. Our marines laid into them. The captain and half his crew are now food for Chesapeake gulls.”
Duncan stepped to the window. The two new ships had been obscured from the fields by the manor house. A little brigantine lay anchored midstream, beside a heavy sloop that had clearly taken battle damage.
“The doctor from Philadelphia asked for you,” Alice said to his back.
Duncan hesitated. Surely he had not heard correctly. “A physician who knows me is here?”
Before she could respond the door from the adjoining chamber was thrown open and a familiar figure hurried forward.
“Benjamin?” Duncan said. “You are supposed to be in Philadelphia.”
“Duncan!” Rush proclaimed with outstretched arms. “Praise God you are safe!”
Duncan darted to the door and closed it. Alice closed the hallway door and leaned against it. “I am not safe, Benjamin, and neither are you. You must flee immediately, the same way you arrived.”
Rush’s smile flickered, fading and returning more than once as he struggled to understand. “That is problematic,” he finally said. “You see, our ship is no longer our ship. There was a tragic misunderstanding with the Virginia navy.”
“Surely you were not on the smuggler?”
The young Philadelphia doctor gestured Duncan to the window and spoke in a whisper. “Not a smuggler. We chartered the Penelope for an expedition of natural philosophy. Reports reached Philadelphia last year that the rivers feeding the Chesapeake contain sturgeon of unnatural proportions. Dr. Franklin and his scientific society suggested they may represent an as-yet-undiscovered species. We announced that we sought to capture some of the creatures for study.” He lowered his voice. “A note came from the Conococheague Valley. It seemed a propitious time to launch an expedition.” He extracted a slip of paper from his waistcoat and handed it to Duncan. It was in a child’s scrawl. Galalee on the Raphonock. Sayv thm.
“Analie?” Duncan asked. “Is she safe then?”
“They came by horse, arriving in the hills two days ago.”
“They?”
Rush seemed not to hear Duncan’s question. “The captain had called at Galilee years ago and readily agreed to sail up the Rappahannock, to what he said was the best hospitality on the river. We were approaching the river mouth when the navy appeared and acted as if we were pirates.” His face clouded. “There were casualties. I fear our captain’s luck ran out, may he rest in peace. When they questioned the crew and discovered the captain was the owner and had no heirs, they were ecstatic. With no one to object they would call the sloop a prize.”
Duncan had a hundred questions, but the officer on the bed moaned, reminding him that there was more urgent work to do. He examined the splinter wound.
“I didn’t dare take it out,” Alice said, “for fear of a burst vessel.”
“You did right,” Duncan confirmed, then hurried to the basin to wash his hands. With Rush assisting, they had the treacherous piece of wood out within minutes. Rush began stitching the flesh together.
“And the crew?” he asked Rush.
“It was dusk when we anchored. Most slipped away in a boat to the far shore as soon as it was dark.” Rush cast an uncertain glance toward Alice Dawson. “There are other injuries. The professor is doing his best, down the hall.” He bent over the now-unconscious naval officer, taking his pulse.
“Professor?”
Rush cast a nervous glance at Alice. “I will finish here. Perhaps Mrs. Dawson can make introductions.”
Alice did indeed take him into the corridor but stopped at the back window that overlooked the fields and outbuildings. “Gabriel was boasting about it at breakfast. The traitor’s cradle he calls it.” She was looking at the gallows. Four nooses now dangled from it.
She reached out and gripped Duncan’s arm. “Gabriel brought in more of his thugs. They patrol the hills like soldiers. He says he hopes you all try to run, since a ball of lead costs a lot less than a good rope. I’m so scared, Duncan.”
Duncan too found it difficult to look away. It was as if he were staring into his own grave. For years he had suffered nightmares of his father hanging on the gibbet outside Inverness, pointing at an empty noose.
Alice tugged at his sleeve, pulling him toward a room at the end of the hall. “The professor is a great scholar of the Old World. He spouts Latin and asks for Earl Grey tea.”
Duncan glanced at the stiff back of the man in powdered wig and velvet waistcoat who bent over his patient, whose head was mostly obscured with a bloody bandage. Duncan took a tentative step forward, then his heart leapt as the professor extended his hand to adjust the bandage and he saw the tattoo of a turtle on his wrist.
It was all Duncan could do not to cry out when the man turned. For the first time in weeks he felt lightness in his heart. The professor nodded stiffly to Duncan, then bowed to his hostess. “My esteemed and beneficent Mrs. Dawson,” came his rich, refined voice. “I beg your leave. We must perform a more complete examination of our patient’s body, if you get my meaning.”
“Of course, Professor Moon,” he heard Alice say. “I leave you gentlemen to your . . . delicate affairs.”
Conawago did not move until the door latched behind her, then he just grinned and slipped off the wig. “Scratchy damned thing,” he said, tossing the curls on the bed. He seemed unable to speak for a moment as he examined Duncan. “You look thin, son,” he observed, and extended his arms.
Duncan felt like a lost child who had found his home as he embraced the old Nipmuc.
“My God, Duncan, we feared the worse,” Conawago said. “Thanks to Mr. Rush we had a fast boat from Philadelphia.”
“We?”
His question was answered as the injured man sat up and began unwinding the bandage from his head.
“Patrick!”
“My Scottish doctor advised no travel for several weeks,” Woolford said, “no strenuous efforts. But a boat cruise is no effort at all.”
The questions came in rapid succession. Analie had sped north as soon as she had seen Duncan and his companions put in chains. “You were right, Patrick,” Duncan declared. “They know the secrets. They mean to hang every one of us.”
Rage gripped Woolford’s face. “It’s this damned black Admiral of Virginia! He may operate with leave of the Kraken lords in London but hanging men still requires a warrant. He has no warrant. He has no evidence of a crime!”
“The evidence will materialize as he needs it,” came a worried voice from the connecting doorway. “And I’ve had a letter from a discreet friend in Williamsburg. The magistrate for our county has taken a huge loan from the Rappahannock Company.”
“Meaning he’s mortgaged his soul to Ramsey,” Duncan spat, then saw the question on Woolford’s face. “It’s Lord Ramsey, Patrick Ramsey is the black Admiral.”
The color drained from Woolford’s face, then he looked with worry at his hostess.
“She knows,” Conawago inserted.
Alice acknowledged the obvious question on Conawago’s face. “I am a great admirer of the theater, Mr. Moon. You played your parts exceedingly well but you should have put more powder over the tribal tattoos on your wrists.”
“I suggested bandages,” Conawago explained with a peeved look at Woolford, “but Patrick thought powder would do. Not enough apparently.” He bowed to Alice. “Forgive us. Conawago of the Nipmuc tribe, though I put on Socrates Mo
on when I don my waistcoat.”
Alice smiled. “And an elegant one it is.”
“A gift from my days in the French court,” Conawago explained. Although the fashion of the velvet cut was dated by some decades, the overdone French jacket was, Duncan knew, one of his prized possessions. The old Nipmuc touched his fingers to his forehead and bowed again.
As Woolford offered a reluctant introduction, Duncan saw the suspicion lingering in his eyes. “She is a friend,” he assured the ranger captain.
As Alice and her new acquaintances spoke, Duncan wandered to the window overlooking the river. A plank dance floor had been laid out by the portico. A launch was pushing off from the brig, rowing toward the mill around the point. A small party worked on the captured sloop. If the Penelope was to be claimed as a prize, they would want to rapidly repair her damage so she could be conveyed to a naval port for appraisal. Half a dozen dinghies and dugouts, used by river fishermen, were drawn up on the beach where the slaves were taken to bathe. A new boat had arrived, a little ketch with ornate paintwork and flying a long banner on its mast.
Below him a blonde girl ran across the dance boards, chased by one of the young housemaids into the lilacs. Titus watched, speaking with an auburn-haired woman.
Duncan did not realize he had made a sound but when he looked back his companions were staring at him. Conawago grinned as Duncan darted out of the room. Moments later, as his feet scattered the gravel of the garden path, the woman turned. Sarah’s eyes welled with tears but she did not move toward him. Analie gave a little yelp of joy and darted forward, only to suddenly stop and back away, staring behind him in sudden fear.
Gabriel had appeared, with half a dozen of his bullies moving to encircle Duncan.
Another figure stepped from the shadows, resplendent in red silk waistcoat and white linen, his long periwig dangling around his shoulders. Lord Ramsey had gained weight and the sash of his invented rank, embroidered with crown and lion, stretched tight over his belly. An ox of a man followed, a step behind Ramsey. Teague’s eyes were on fire. He touched the long, still-pink scar along his hairline as he approached, reminding Duncan that it was time for his vengeance.
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 33