In his hand Ramsey carried a pair of calfskin gloves. The black eyes above his heavy jowls gleamed with excitement. “Had I only known, I would have left you to rot in that Scottish prison!” he spat. He lifted his gloves and slapped them lightly across Duncan’s jaw. Before Duncan could react Teague slammed his open right hand against the place where the gloves had touched. Duncan staggered but did not fall. He twisted at a cry from Sarah and saw her being seized by two of Gabriel’s men. Ramsey slapped his other cheek with the gloves and Teague hit him there.
“Father!” Sarah sobbed. “No! I beg you!”
Ramsey seemed not to hear. He slapped Duncan’s chest and Teague pounded it with a fist. There was no point in resisting. The men all around held clubs.
For a moment Sarah broke free, and shouldered her way into the circle, almost reaching Duncan before Ramsey touched her cheek too and Gabriel slapped her viciously, knocking her to the ground. Two men grabbed Duncan’s arms, preventing him from reaching her. “You said you would not—” she cried.
“What I said,” came Ramsey’s oily voice, “was that I would not kill him when we met.” Duncan had learned long ago to hate the thin cruel smile that formed on Ramsey’s undersized mouth. He slapped Duncan again, in the belly, on his mouth, on his thigh, in his belly again. Teague landed a hammer-like strike at each spot his master indicated, until finally, as Duncan crumbled, he continued with his own unprompted flurry of kicks.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The freshly mounded graves had been arranged in neat rows, the simple markers nearest him spelling the names of his friends. Murdo Ross, Tanaqua, Patrick Woolford, Elijah Webb. The last was Duncan’s own, still empty, waiting for him. From the dirt mound beside it a hand emerged, desperately reaching into the air, exposing the turtle tattoo on its wrist.
Duncan woke, his heart hammering. His first effort to move brought a paroxysm of pain. Teague’s fists had bruised more than just a few muscles. His ribs ached, his kidneys hurt, and the flesh over his heart, where the Irishman had concentrated his final blows, was a swollen, tender mass.
He sat up, fighting a wave of nausea, and moved unsteadily toward a line of light, thinking at first he was back in one of the slave wagons, then he fell onto a packed earth floor. His dizziness subsided, and as his eyes focused he discovered three steps leading up to a slanted double door of rough timber. In the dim light, shelves were visible on the walls of the chamber, most lined with what appeared to be empty wicker baskets and demijohns. He was in the root cellar behind the manor house, the holding cell for those going to torture.
Duncan pushed on the doors. They were barred from the outside. As he pounded on them a spill of light broke through in a knot. He dropped back to the floor, combing the darkness with his fingers until he found a stone, then began chipping away at the knot. In a few minutes he had knocked away the knot entirely, opening a hole as wide as his thumb.
Pressing his eye to the hole, he saw the manor lawn in repose, the only creatures in sight being the dozen sheep that kept the grass down, clustered near the big chestnut tree. Around the edge of the manor he glimpsed a stretch of the river that encompassed the Ardent at the dock and beyond it, anchored midstream, the captured sloop, the brigantine, and Ramsey’s yacht. He studied the ships with a critical eye, considering the architecture of the vessels then trying to remember the timing of the tides that reached up the wide river.
His concentration was broken as Titus appeared on the rear portico, carrying a basket to a worktable below the kitchen window. He upended oysters onto it, the big Chestertown hogs, and two of the scullery maids settled down to open the shells. From somewhere to his right came the distant sound of an African work chant.
Benjamin Rush appeared on the kitchen porch, and soon was deep in conversation with Titus. After a few minutes the two men descended the steps and drifted along the lawn, distracted in conversation. Halfway across the lawn Titus abruptly threw an oyster shell at the nearest ewe, which gave a sudden cry and bolted, starting the others, who reacted in confused jumps and short spurting runs. The maids sprang after them. Titus started shouting, adding to the confusion as Rush darted to the cellar door. “Duncan!” he called. “Wake! I am here!”
“I am not asleep, Benjamin.”
The sound of Duncan’s voice so close gave the young doctor a start, then he saw the knothole. “Quite clever. Excellent. Did you see that stately African?”
“His name is Titus.”
“From the noble Ashanti tribe! Have you noted the elongated jaw, and the huge ear lobes? He said I could measure his foot later.”
“Benjamin.”
“Oh. Sorry. I came to tell you that he is not going to . . .” Rush searched for words. “I mean I invoked the names of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Allen, the acting governor of Pennsylvania, and the Philosophical Society to get Lord Ramsey’s assurance. Your life is to be preserved at Galilee.”
Even in the darkness Duncan closed his eyes a moment, painfully aware of the truth that Rush’s naiveté did not permit him to see. Ramsey meant for Duncan to have a long and painful death, far from Galilee. “There’s over twenty others he means to hang, Benjamin.”
“I’ve seen the gallows, Duncan. High on the hill on the open field, just where the weather is funneled between mountains and river. Ridiculous.”
Duncan struggled to keep his frustration in check. “I need to see Woolford.”
“Would that I had an almanac.”
“Do not trust the men from the mill. Agents of the Kraken.”
“An iron pot or tray perhaps.”
“Sarah Ramsey. Is she safe?” Duncan had to ask the question twice to break through Rush’s strange ramblings.
“In the charge of Mrs. Dawson, who provides her with all possible comforts, though an overseer stays close.”
“Woolford? Conawago?”
“Arrangements are being made. I must go, Duncan. That man Titus said he could introduce me to warriors from the wild tribes of the Niger!”
“Do you have loose coin, Benjamin?” he asked, then continued when he saw Rush’s nod. “There is an overseer named Trent. A bald man with thick shoulders, usually carrying what looks like a quarterstaff. I need you to find him. Say he needs to bring me water. Give him a shilling for the favor.”
Less than half an hour later the sullen overseer was at the cellar door, carrying a demijohn. He did not realize Duncan could see him, and Duncan watched as he paused to study the marines who were approaching the manor house along the brick path. He spat in their direction and opened the door.
Duncan did not accept the demijohn when Trent extended it. “Come inside,” he said, “and close the door behind you.”
Trent scowled but complied, and as Duncan sat on a low shelf he settled onto the stairs.
“I could beat you into a lump of meat and say I caught you escaping.” Trent said, as if for the record.
“Of course.” Duncan nodded. “But what do you think of that sloop anchored in the river? And don’t tell me you haven’t studied her.”
Trent hesitated, raising a brow at Duncan. “Cedar built, and spry as a thoroughbred. Sixty tons or thereabouts, and able to spread enough canvas for a vessel half again as big. Once her rigging is repaired she could cut through the water like a knife, though I don’t know why her captain ain’t added a third jib in the Bermuda style.” He extracted a plug of tobacco from a pocket and bit off a chew.
“The Penelope’s captain is dead. He was the owner. He has no heirs. And now with a lie the Virginia navy makes claim to her.”
“I ain’t no sea lawyer if that’s why you brought me.”
“An old privateer knows about changing the identity of ships,” Duncan suggested. “A clever master could alter the bowsprit, raise her rails, give her a new coat of paint. Maybe add that jib you mention. No one would recognize her. London’s taxes are making wealthy men of those who are bold enough to evade them. The days of the pirate may be fading but America is going to become a smuggler�
�s paradise. Of course you would need men to get her away. Say about twenty or so.”
Trent stared at Duncan a long time, his tongue working the inside of his cheek. His contempt faded into curiosity. He looked at the earthen walls in the direction of the river. “The brigantine took damage but the Ardent would give chase and blow the sloop out of the water.”
“She can sail much closer to the wind, and I hear the bay has much shoal water, too shallow for a ship as big as the Ardent. With a few hours lead the Penelope would be perfectly safe.”
“Except that she won’t have a few hours.”
Duncan fought another spasm of pain before speaking again. “I will see that she does,” he said. “The tide breaks about midnight. The sloop could ride the current out and by the time the Ardent can follow, the tide will be coming in, against her.”
Trent listened, slowly chewing. “More like an hour after midnight,” he observed, then spat juice and shook his head. “You’re daft. And desperate. Desperate men have a way of ignoring hard facts. Like the patrols along the bay and the night riders with their dogs.”
“You don’t fit in here, Trent. You’ll be leaving. The only question is whether you leave as a deserter or as master of a vessel that can give you a freedom, and a wealth, few men ever taste. And the night riders focus on the edge of the woods, not the water. I can see to it the dogs are not a problem.”
Trent stood and stepped to the door, but then paused, staring at the circle of sunlight cast through the knothole. “My first cruise with a blue band on my sleeve was up the coast toward New England. Kincaid spied a swift little sloop moving south and had us come about to give chase, shouting for more sails. When the master complained that Kincaid would split his canvas, Kincaid hit him and sent him below, and declared there was a piece of silver for the man who could bring the sloop alongside. I told him I would do it, though mostly I just wanted to feel a ship’s wheel in my hands again. It took nigh four hours but finally she lost a jib and we overtook her.”
Trent still spoke towards the door. “Kincaid spoke to the sloop, asking who she was. She replied she was the Nightingale, out of Newport with rum for Philadelphia. Kincaid just turned to a gun crew and had them blast her out of the water. He tossed me a coin and said I was meant for glorious things, then he pulled a pistol and said he would shoot any man who lifted a hand to help those in the water. T’is a forlorn thing watching good men going down at sea, begging for mercy. All they ever were, gone in an instant into the deep.”
He turned back to Duncan. “I would need papers to pass her off as mine.”
“We’re going to a man who makes papers as good as the king’s own. Shall we say you bought her in Boston?”
A new gleam lit Trent’s eyes. “Bermuda.”
Duncan began explaining his plan.
An hour later he was on the floor, studying an image of the Ardent he had drawn in the dirt, when urgent whispers rose from near the door. He peered through the knothole to see a mass of bright dresses. Alice Dawson was scolding the cook. “Polly! Look what you have done, you clumsy creature! My basket of best buttons all over the grass!”
Polly and four kitchen maids were dropping to their knees, searching through the grass as Alice, standing so as to block the line of sight from the kitchen door to the cellar, made a show of pointing to the scattered buttons on the lawn.
“Duncan, I swear I never knew he was connected to Galilee.” It was Sarah, kneeling by the knothole, obscured from the house by Polly.
“Of course not. But I would have come anyway.”
“It’s because of him and men like him that I said yes when Patrick asked if we would help the runners. I didn’t want you to know. I thought I could shield you, in case there was trouble.”
“Sarah, you must look to yourself. Leave now, while you still can. I beg you. You don’t know the depths of your father’s treachery.”
She ignored him. “But I was a fool not to understand the dangers. Jessica warned me to be more wary of strangers. You warned me to send out patrols.”
“What strangers?”
She turned away for a moment, and Duncan realized his question had distressed her. “That horrid Lieutenant Kincaid. He came to Edentown a few days before, as that circuit rider. I invited him to our evening meal. He even offered prayers, and said he would be traveling south soon if anyone had messages for loved ones in Pennsylvania. He led us in hymns before he left.” Sarah scrubbed at her eyes as Polly urged her to hurry. “Jess gave him a note to carry to her mother and father, and explained to him how to find their house. The letter would have spoken about Edentown station and would have made it clear she and her father were helping the committee runners. It was her death sentence. I know that now.”
“Surely, Sarah, you mustn’t blame yourself for—”
“I have to go. That horrid pharaoh man follows us everywhere. You must hold on. Take no risks. I have made an offer to my father that he will never refuse. He can have it all. He can have Edentown and all its lands. I keep only one thing.”
“No! Never in life!”
“Just one piece of paper. Your indenture. We can go into the wilderness, live with the Iroquois.”
“Away from those doors, damn ye!” came an angry shout from the porch. The pharaoh had seen her through the confusion.
“Just two or three days, Duncan.” Sarah pushed a finger through the hole. With a trembling hand Duncan touched it. Then she was gone.
THE SOUND IN THE LATE AFTERNOON STARTED AS A PATTERING OF light feet but soon rose to a louder trampling, accompanied by frantic shouts in English and African tongues. Duncan leapt to look out the door in time to see two large pigs trot by, snorting derisively as African field hands chased them.
Suddenly Titus was in front of the cellar, his waistcoated back to Duncan. As the melee of pigs and hooting slaves ran by again he backed into the door and, with hands hidden behind him, lifted the bar. In an instant the butler was inside, smearing something onto Duncan’s face as someone else lifted his arms and pulled over his shoulders one of the long homespun slave tunics worn by many of the Africans. A tattered slouch hat was shoved over his ears, then Titus opened a pouch and poured a small pile of coal dust onto Duncan’s palm. Duncan began rubbing the dust over his exposed forearms and hands.
Kuwali, Ursa’s son, grinned and pushed Duncan up the steps and outside as Titus closed and barred the door, leaving the boy inside. “You staying alive in there, Mr. McCallum?” the butler asked through the knothole.
Kuwali’s reply was a low moan, and a quickly muttered curse. Titus flashed a smile at Duncan. “Good enough for one who’s been beaten and bruised. If the marines discover him he will say you tricked him when he brought you water.” The Ashanti produced a piece of charcoal and made one of the African hex signs on the door. “And that will discourage the overseers from touching the door.”
The slaves closed around him, and as the pigs were herded back into their pen, Duncan found himself being herded with them back to the tobacco fields, the impatient shouts of overseers behind them. Their ploy had been timed perfectly—as they joined Ursa and the other Africans the end-of-day bell sounded. With no more than the usual curses and impatient commands the overseers pushed the Africans back into their quarters. Ursa led Duncan inside as the others washed and prepared for their meager evening meal. The big African grinned as he gestured toward the burlap curtain at the end of the building.
Conawago was waiting for him. The Nipmuc elder sat on the floor before a bowl of smoldering sticks, beside the aged African woman Duncan had knelt before on his first visit. As Duncan sat down, the old African cupped her hands and pushed the smoke toward Duncan. It wasn’t the usual cedar, he realized, but something sweeter, probably sassafras. Conawago grinned. The Africans too used fragrant smoke for summoning spirits.
“Conawago, you have to leave, up the trail back to Pennsylvania,” Duncan pleaded as Ursa settled beside him. “Find Sarah and flee. There is too much death here.”
“You will find death everywhere if that is what you look for.” To Duncan’s surprise, the gravelly voice was not that of Conawago but of the old woman at his side. He had not known she spoke English.
“Not like at Galilee, grandmother,” Duncan said. “Here lives are bought and sold as cheap as grains of barley. Men die for speaking ill of those in London they have never met, who do not even know they exist.”
“In our own land,” she said, “our gods would impale such evildoers on thorn bushes and vultures would pick at their flesh for all time.”
“Here,” Duncan replied, “we are less patient for justice to be served. We will fight with sticks against their guns before we let them hang us. But I will not have you sacrificed in my fight.”
Ursa, prince of the Ibo, smiled patiently, then gripped and turned Duncan’s arm to expose the ugly brand. He pressed his own arm, with an identical scar, beside it. He spoke, and had the old woman translate. “There is not your fight or my fight,” she relayed. “This is our fight. Afterwards, when the moon has set, Ursa says he will climb with nails and a hammer.” Ursa stared at Duncan with cool determination, as if he had made a warrior’s vow.
Ursa’s wife appeared with bowls of food. “First you eat then wait for the dark,” the old woman announced.
Duncan grasped enough about the Africans to know there was much about their ways he did not understand. “Nails?” he ventured, but Conawago pushed a bowl of stew into his hand, then began peppering Ursa with questions about his tribe. Duncan finished eating and kept watch out of one of the slit windows. An hour after sunset Sinclair climbed inside, extending Duncan’s medicine bag before checking his sling and supply of pebbles.
Minutes later, Nancy, the maid from the house, appeared, holding another sack. “Bloodiest we could find,” she said, then made a solemn bow to the old woman before departing. Ursa took the sack to the nearest platform and upended it, spilling out six cuts of raw beef, then looked up expectantly. Duncan reached into his medicine bag and handed him the last two vials of laudanum. Ursa made a clicking sound and three of the African men approached, wearing mischievious smiles.
Blood of the Oak: A Mystery Page 34