“I am a captain in the king’s infantry. You are a naval ensign seconded to the Virginia water militia.” Woolford made a wide gesture toward the windows and the town beyond. “Perhaps you have noticed that you are on dry land. In the colony of Maryland.”
The ensign glanced up the stairs that led to the third-floor bedrooms. He did not take his hand off his sword.
“These men,” Woolford continued, “are irregulars under my command. What you do next is going to be one of the great decisions of your life. You can die. Or you take my order to stand down and walk away.”
Murdo spoke sharply, in Gaelic, and two of the marines lowered their muskets.
“There’s a barn across the street,” Woolford stated. “Take your men there. Leave your firearms here for now. Get some sleep. Don’t come out until I send word.”
The ensign’s hand slowly dropped from the hilt of his sword. He cast another uncertain glance up the stairs, then gave another command in a low, hoarse voice. The sergeant, his temper fueled hotter by the order, leapt forward, his bayonet aimed at Duncan’s belly, and was promptly dropped to the floor by the butt of Woolford’s pistol. His men removed their bayonets, picked up the sergeant, and followed the ensign down the stairs.
Teague was nowhere to be seen, but Duncan had lost interest in the Irishman. He and Woolford both moved toward the stairs to the third floor but Duncan held up a hand. “No. Only me.”
He quickly climbed to the next level and pushed open the only door that showed light. Sarah Ramsey stood by a table in the center of the room. A huge weight seemed to lift from his heart. But then he paused, confused by the fear on her face.
The door was slammed shut behind him and Lieutenant Kincaid stepped out of the shadows, a heavy horse pistol aimed at Duncan.
“What opportunities America provides!” Kincaid exclaimed. He pushed the latch to lock the door then cocked the pistol. “The two things Lord Ramsey wants most in all the world! His insolent daughter off to be broken by some Yorkshire bulldog and the one man he is obsessed with destroying, both right in front of me. Not dead, he told us. McCallum may be broken but not dead, that was the order if we found you. He is a man of vast appetites, your father,” Kincaid said with a glance at Sarah. The gun was fixed on Duncan’s heart. “He reads books about the Crusaders. There was a torture used by the Saracens. The death of a hundred days. The lord has read the passage to us, at more than one of his dinners. So elaborate. It involves starving and hanging by the arms on a special apparatus that will carry the weight so the shoulders don’t break right away.” Kincaid gave a high-pitched, snorting laugh. “Ingenious really. Then slices of skin are removed from the lower body, day by day. There was something about hot wires pressed into the flesh and needles thrust into the privates, under the fingernails, then in the tongue and eyes. I think he has the passage memorized, like it was his personal Gospel.”
“If you have touched her—” Duncan said in a voice savage with anger.
“Look at her!” Kincaid stepped closer, his gun still steady on Duncan as he lifted one of Sarah’s curls. “Exquisite in every detail! How could she not be touched! She’s made to be touched! Did I tell you I am to accompany her across the ocean? Adjoining cabins, though hers will be kept locked to all but me. I am authorized to administer doses to keep her quiet. Imagine that! I shall touch her, McCallum, I promise you. You’ll be strung up in some Jamaican barn, begging to die, and I will be with Miss Ramsey, doing my duty. That impoverished woolmonger, her future husband, would never complain, given the size of the dowry he is getting.”
Duncan inched forward. Sarah took a step around the table, out of Kincaid’s reach. The lieutenant ignored her and raised the pistol toward Duncan’s head. “You need to be alive,” he declared in an amused tone, “but Lord Ramsey will understand if I have to put a ball in your knee or elbow. Or perhaps both?”
“The Iroquois kept saying it was a demon god who butchered those men in the north,” Duncan said. “I never believed it was a spirit, just a man with a demon in his soul, a man like Ramsey but not Ramsey. You played the officer when convenient, even the circuit rider. But it’s the role of the demon that best suits you. Now I wonder, with all the false papers here, do you even have a commission, Kincaid?”
The lieutenant gave an amused nod. “Bought and paid for by my father, the rich shoe merchant in Manchester. And the Kraken in the Admiralty will make me a captain by the time I’m through.”
“You peeled the skin from living men. Cut off limbs.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Teague said we should practice if we wanted to play the part of Blooddancer. So we tried our tools on the drunken Iroquois who stole the mask for us. What a mess. He had already been stabbed by that damned pest of a boy, who clung to his back all the way to the river. We drowned that irritating boy then scattered that drunkard’s parts for the crows. Teague had worked in a butcher shop so he had an unfair advantage in taking off limbs. But I tried. Don’t go straight for the joints, do the tendons first, he taught me.”
“You sliced away the skin of a man just to spell a warning to us. You killed him for no reason other than to frighten us.”
“That African? Squealed like a pig.”
Sarah’s face drained of color. She backed away to the window and cracked it open as if needing fresh air to revive.
Duncan inched forward. “Is that what Ramsey plans to do in Lancaster, leave the mutilated bodies of the committeemen?”
“Of course not. A missing man on the frontier is one thing. But some might consider killing members of the legislatures of Pennsylvania and Massachusetts a bit reckless.”
Kincaid failed not only to notice the opening of the window but also the slow movement of Sarah’s hand to the little pewter porringer where red sealing wax had recently been melted. “Surely McCallum, you should give us some credit. Ramsey will show them his forged letters. Mr. Bowen is a most remarkable man. It will be a shame to kill him, but such a witness cannot be allowed to live. The handwriting on the new letters is indistinguishable from their real handwriting on the committee letters. Now that we have all the runners’ marks we can authenticate each one. Did you know those terrible gentlemen of the committees have been planning to build private arsenals against the government, to organize smuggling against the tax, even to conspire with our enemies in Paris? What entertainment we had, deciding what crimes to create! Hobart wanted to construct some intrigue between the governor’s wife and Patrick Henry, but I said mere acts of treason would suffice. With those letters Lord Ramsey could throw them all in chains, ship them to London for trial and hanging.” Kincaid paused and cocked his head at Sarah. She had made red lines on both her cheeks. He turned back to Duncan. “But of course Lord Ramsey will show his mercy. He will just keep the letters and have new puppets, new slaves in key positions in each colony. It will mean new charters for companies owned by Ramsey, new judges selected by Ramsey—”
Kincaid hesitated, looking again at Sarah, who now was whispering something toward the ceiling. Duncan took a step closer to the officer.
“Jiyathondek! Jiyathondek!” Sarah’s words came more loudly now. It was an invocation, a request for the spirits to come to witness. “Shatyykerarta!” she declared. “Enjeyeweyendane!”
Duncan’s spine went cold. They are in their graves, she had said. They will be comforted. It was a vow of retribution. He dared not rush Kincaid, for fear the pistol would discharge and hit Sarah.
“Dear God, woman, did I not tell you your father wanted you beaten if you played the savage again?”
“My claws are long,” she continued in the Iroquois tongue. “Feel my strength.”
Kincaid smiled as she stepped forward, extending her arms as if she wanted to embrace him. “What a wildcat! What a voyage we will have!”
“Enjeyeweyendane!” Sarah cried again and, stepping closer, flung her arms at him.
The thin smile on Kincaid’s face froze for a moment, then he looked down in confusion at the bone-handl
ed knife in his abdomen. Duncan recognized the blade as Tanaqua’s. An instant later the Mohawk lifted the window and stepped in from the roof.
“You silly bitch!” Kincaid gasped, and swung the pistol toward Sarah. Duncan grabbed the barrel, resting his hand over the hammer, and pulled it from the lieutenant’s weakening grip. Kincaid stepped backward, leaning against the wall, and with great effort reached for his sword. Tanaqua pulled the knife out of his belly then helped him pull his sword from the scabbard. He made sure Kincaid had a firm grip, then took a step back to give the officer room to swing the blade.
“Stupid heathen bastard!” With surprising swiftness Kincaid sliced his blade at the Mohawk.
Tanaqua brushed the sword aside with his war ax and plunged his knife into Kincaid’s heart.
Sarah watched as the lieutenant’s body slid down the wall to settle into a sitting position, his face locked in a puzzled expression, then stepped to the cabinet built into the corner and opened its door. The Blooddancer’s crooked smile greeted them.
They worked quickly, collecting all the correspondence and records they could find and dispatching the men back to Crabtown in the wide flatbottomed ferry that plied between the town and the floating sheds. Duncan and Woolford found the frightened soldiers huddled in the barn, where they explained that Lieutenant Kincaid, whose body had been taken by the rangers to be weighted and dumped in the river, had fled and they should not expect him back. They introduced the remaining Virginia rangers and stated that the marines had to stay in Chestertown for ten days, under the guard of the rangers. After ten days they would all return to Virginia, where the rangers would attest that they had all been attacked by bay pirates and that Kincaid had valiantly died in the struggle.
Analie was in the kitchen with Prindle and Bowen, who had nodded off in a chair. In her hand she studied a little piece of jewelry, which she held out for Duncan to see. It was a watch fob, made of a little disc of polished oyster shell chased in silver. Something about it nudged at Duncan’s memory.
“Mr. Prindle says they make them here in town, the only jeweler anywhere who does so.” Analie looked up, searching Duncan’s eyes. “I told you. Francis Johnson had one just like this when he visited Johnson Hall.”
BY MIDNIGHT THEY HAD ALL REACHED THE FLOATING DOCKS OF Crabtown, from which skiffs were shuttling men out to the Penelope, still hidden in the little cove beyond the point where she lay anchored.
As Duncan, Sarah, and Woolford watched one of the last of the skiffs shove off, Ononyot, at the stern, cried out in warning. They turned to see a massive figure standing in a punt coasting toward them out of the darkness, holding a treacherous pointed fishing gaff in each hand. With a roar Teague launched one of the gaffs at Duncan.
Duncan had no time to avoid the spear. With an explosion of pain it ripped into his thigh, embedding in the muscle. He staggered then collapsed halfway off the dock, one arm and the wounded leg in the water, the weight of the heavy spear dragging him down. Sarah screamed and grabbed him, jerking out the spear and pulling him onto the dock. He clutched at his wound with one hand and tried to push her away with the other.
“Look at ye now,” Teague laughed as he stepped onto the platform. “Christ knows I should have finished you both that day at Edentown. But Kincaid was in a hurry to get to the Susquehanna. Don’t start a job unless y’er going to finish it, I always say.” He balanced the remaining gaff in his outstretched arm as he approached them. Sarah threw herself over Duncan.
“Y’er such a wee thing,” Teague said to her. “I wager I can skewer ye both with one thrust,” he hissed. Through his fog of pain Duncan raised his hand, dripping with blood, to shove Sarah away, but she only rose enough to kneel beside him. As she reached for the bloody spear that had impaled Duncan a figure hurled past her with a furious Gaelic cry. Murdo hit Teague like an angry bull, knocking the spear from his grip and flattening him on the planks. He pounded the Irishman three times on the jaw before Teague could react. With a furious bellow Teague arched his back and threw Ross off.
“Ye murdered my little girl!” Ross shouted as he recovered, facing Teague with clenched fists.
The words caused Teague to hesitate. He grinned. “And such a sweet morsel she was. I only wish I had had the time to linger over her. I told Kincaid we should take her to the river with us but he said we had no time for sport.”
Sarah thrust the spear into Murdo’s hands. The big Scot made a feint toward Teague then threw it. It lodged in Teague’s side. With a howl of rage the Irishman tore the spear from his flesh and tossed it into the river.
“A darlin’ bud of a girl,” Teague continued as he inched forward. “When she tied on her petticoat that morn she never guessed she’d be gone by noon.”
“Don’t let him get close!” Duncan warned as he saw the cudgel in Teague’s hand.
But Murdo’s rage blinded him. He charged. The Irishman sidestepped and slammed the cudgel behind his ear. Murdo dropped with a groan then looked up, dazed, as Teague kicked him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him. The Irishman lifted Murdo’s torso into a sitting position and, holding him up with one hand, began pummeling him with the other. Duncan struggled to his knees and began crawling toward his friend but Sarah pushed him down and began dragging him away.
Murdo began to recover, landing weak blows on Teague’s shoulders, but the Irishman only gave a hideous laugh and hit him harder.
With a wild screech Analie burst out of a fish shed and launched herself at Teague’s feet. The Irishman was so intent on battering Murdo that he seemed not to notice at first, then aimed a kick that glanced off her shoulder. As the girl retreated, crablike on the wet boards, the Irishman paused, then let Murdo fall to the dock.
The girl had tied a rope to Teague’s knee. “Damned little banshee!” he hissed, then was about to turn back to Murdo when Tanaqua stepped out of the shadows. He was holding a heavy anchor stone. Teague hesitated, then cursed as he realized it was tied to the rope.
“You stole my god!” the Mohawk declared loud enough for the spirits to hear.
Teague frantically grabbed at the knot on his knee.
“You killed my brothers! Let the blackness take your soul,” Tanaqua declared, then tossed the anchor in a long arc into the deep river.
The rope tightened and Teague was jerked through the air. There was no chance for him to struggle, no time for him to free the knot that bound him to the anchor. With a surprisingly small splash the big Irishman entered the water and was gone.
THE PENELOPE SLIPPED THROUGH THE NIGHT, THROWING WHITE foam off her bow. Duncan, his jagged wound washed and bound, sat on a barrel watching the stars, the lantern at his side extinguished now that he had finished reading the letters taken from Chestertown. He sensed someone behind him but did not turn.
“It made no sense,” he said, “that the name of Socrates Moon was on the forger’s wall, with an example of the old gentleman’s handwriting. Right up there with the leaders of the committees, with Samuel Adams and Benjamin Franklin. You knew all about the murders. You knew what was going on in Philadelphia and Boston and Williamsburg. You helped Patrick in his secret tasks and used Edentown, Conawago. I couldn’t understand that day in Edentown when Jessica Ross kept looking at you when she spoke of the missing men from Pennsylvania. You invited her there to establish a station in the network.”
“Not without Sarah’s consent,” the old Nipmuc replied as he leaned on the ship’s rail. “She was going to tell you, in her own time.” They watched a skein of ducks fly across the moon. “All my life I avoided choosing sides. I spent my years searching for my family. It was a fool’s errand. I knew kings. I could have made a difference. But I chose to keep my world small, just as you did. Duncan, we have been obsessed with phantoms. My family is gone. Your clan is gone.
“When you and I were up on the St. Lawrence we could have changed the outcome of the war with the French but I chose to keep the Canadian tribes out of the final bloodshed and you chose to keep all
those Scots from dying as traitors. What have we got for the trouble? The French would have peacefully coexisted with the tribes as they had for centuries. But the British king despises the tribes. He and his lords will annihilate the tribes if they have their way, just as they would shackle the colonists with taxes and laws. Helping that kind of king was wrong. I see that now. Such a king has no place in America. That is the side I have chosen now. Not the French side, which is long lost. And not King George’s side. The side of this land. My land. Jahoska’s land. Your land. Europe has no place here. We can make it different.” A shadow emerged and stood beside the old Nipmuc. Woolford had been listening. He was not disagreeing.
“Words like that will get you killed,” Duncan said.
Conawago smiled as if welcoming the remark. “The age is turning, Duncan. Jahoska the half king understood that before the rest of us. And at every turning there is a fulcrum, a small group of men who set the new age in motion. We are the agents of the turning. America is destined as the place of the turning. There is something new meant for America.”
“It will get you killed,” Duncan repeated. “Enough good men have died.”
“I fear before it is over the good men who die will be like leaves on a tree,” the old Nipmuc said. “Does that make it wrong?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The angel on the sign swinging over the tavern door faced an old man with a scythe on the opposite side of a setting sun. From the stable across the road Duncan watched the sign sway in the breeze, wondering if the austere Quaker innkeeper had chosen the image to dissuade the revelers that frequented the other inns of Lancaster. The World’s End, though not the most prosperous, was certainly the most respectable of the establishments in the community, well chosen by the committeemen for its quiet location at the edge of town, with the stable and Sabbath meetinghouse its only close neighbors.
The quick song of a lark came from the loft overhead and Duncan edged closer to the partially open door. An ornate coach was arriving from the direction of Philadelphia, the two guards riding on the top beside the driver springing down before it rolled to a stop. Two more men on escort horses dismounted, and hurried to assist the rotund passenger out of the coach and into the tavern. Gabriel, attired in a poorly fitting suit and tricorn hat, followed a step behind Lord Ramsey, clutching a leather case and muttering in his usual surly tone.
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