“Most of the bats fly up the tunnel,” Duncan interrupted. “But not all of them.”
The boy reached into his makeshift pouch and pulled out one of his captive creatures. He held the bat gently near his lips, whispering to it, then released it. The bat flew back and forth as if to get its bearings then shot down the left-hand tunnel. Ishmael followed so quickly that he was nearly out of sight before Duncan and Macaulay sprang after him.
The boy set a fast pace and muttered a syllable of glee when the tunnel began to ascend. No one gave voice to the fears Duncan knew they all shared. Their little candle would last no more than an hour.
They reached another fork, and another, each time releasing one of Ishmael’s bats and following its chosen path. Several times they had to bend to their knees to crawl, the boy surrendering the candle to Duncan, who managed an awkward gait while holding the rapidly diminishing light. Macaulay began murmuring a prayer.
Suddenly they arrived in a cavern that had been heavily worked with pick and chisel, opening into three more tunnels. “One more,” the boy declared uneasily as he produced the last bat, spoke to it in his native tongue, and released it. It circled about then shot straight upward. As Duncan extended the candle over his head, the flame bent.
“Wind!” Ishmael exclaimed.
“God be praised!” Macaulay exclaimed, then he quickly quieted as the flame revealed that the ceiling was several feet over their heads. As they stared hopelessly upward, the candle sputtered out, leaving them in a cold empty blackness.
A long dreadful moment passed before anyone spoke.
“Jesus wept!” groaned Macaulay. “We’ll never find our way back. T’is our grave for certain.”
Duncan reached out in the darkness, searching for Ishmael, but touching only the cold rock wall. “It’s still night. The returning bats will tell us when the sun approaches. Then we just find a way to follow the daylight coming through their hole.” He shifted a few feet and reached out again, finding the boy’s shoulder, which he gripped firmly. “A few hours, no more.”
A nervous prayer left Macaulay’s lips.
“Ishmael?” Duncan said. When no response came, he repeated the boy’s name and shook his shoulder.
The boy’s response came out like a moan. “The blackness,” he said, and nothing more.
“We’re going to sit here and be blind men for a few hours,” Duncan explained, working hard to keep his own fear out of his voice. “A small price for our freedom.” But as soon as he stopped speaking, the fear rose up, gripping his belly. He pulled the boy closer, and they settled onto the floor of the cave, backs against the wall.
“It was a fearless thing you did, Ishmael,” Duncan said, trying to keep the boy from thinking of the darkness, “to visit the witch who frightened grown men.”
“Mr. Bedford had a rhyme on his wall. ‘For the little bent squaw laughter he makes. Until she begins to throw off her snakes.’ I asked him about it, said it was different from all the others. He said it was a reminder for us to keep people surprised, so we won’t be taken for granted. He said his mother used to carry snakes in her pockets and would throw them at people who irritated her. I thought it was some kind of joke. But when I saw that hut I knew it was no joke. Snakes are servants of the gods, and someone who throws them would be. .” he paused, searching for a word.
“A witch, to some,” Duncan offered.
“If there is such a thing as a witch,” Ishmael said, “then wouldn’t she be a servant of the gods too?”
The question hung in the black silence. He sensed motion nearby and knew Macaulay was crossing himself.
He had no notion of how much time had passed before he heard the murmur. Macaulay was singing, his words barely audible at first, but soon the tune grew louder. “Who will take the cow to grass?” the Scot sang. “And who will fill the kettle?”
“It’s a ballad from Scotland,” Duncan explained to the boy, “about a fisherman lost in a storm.” Soon he joined in the familiar song, keeping his arm linked through the boy’s as he sang.
They sang one ballad after another, sang for what seemed hours, until their voices were only hoarse, fading whispers.
The vestiges of Duncan’s remaining strength seemed to be sucked out by the cold rock at his back. Although he could not remember ever feeling so weary, sleep would not come. Images as black as the cave swirled about him. Conawago was being tortured, singing his death song. The dead of Bethel Church stood around him, pointing accusing fingers. A noose was being tightened around his neck by a mocking Colonel Cameron. He became aware of Ishmael squeezing his arm. The boy made a low clucking sound with his tongue, the kind of sound woodland hunters made to acknowledge each other’s presence. Duncan realized that he had been moaning and, like Conawago, the boy was trying to stir him from his nightmares.
The silence seemed to endure forever, a palpable thing that ebbed and flowed, interrupted by the occasional rustling of clothing. It bore down on Duncan like a dark ocean, nearly drowning him, sometimes making him struggle even to breathe. He knew his companions felt the same. He could tell by the big man’s irregular breathing that Macaulay was not sleeping. A new, desperate murmuring came through the blackness. The big Scot was whispering the Hail Mary.
When the sounds of movement overhead finally came, they were like distant leaves rustling in the wind. Then came a tiny peeping, and another, starting above them before quickly fading down the tunnel. The winged mice were returning. Waiting for the light seemed almost unbearable now. Duncan found himself holding his breath for long moments. If the blackness did not abate, they would surely die.
At last came the barest hint of greyness above darker shadow. Minutes later he could distinguish nearby boulders, then the shape of Ishmael beside him. A small patch in the ceiling began to glow.
“God, no!” Macaulay cried as he leapt up, his arms extended in desperation. The hole, rapidly filling with light now, was at the end of a narrow slanting ten-foot long chimney that started several feet over their heads. Even if they could reach the hole it looked too small for the two grown men.
Macaulay cursed, again and again. Ishmael attempted to scramble up the rough slanting wall toward the chimney, again and again, but he fell back each time.
Duncan paced around the chamber, studying the walls and the chimney. “If I am not mistaken that is a feileadh mor you wear, Macaulay,” he said at last. The army had begun to issue short field kilts, worn like skirts, but many of the Highland soldiers still wore the traditional long kilt, which was nothing but a swath of wool several yards long carefully folded and pinned around the body.
“Aye,” Macaulay replied with an uncertain gaze, but he slowly grinned as Duncan explained his plan. The big Scot began to unwrap his plaid.
After several awkward efforts, Ishmael finally succeeded in climbing up the human ladder made by Duncan sitting on Macaulay’s broad shoulders. The length of wool wrapped around the boy’s waist made his passage up the chimney more difficult, but gradually he levered himself up, back against one side, feet pressed against the other.
“It’s morning here!” the boy cried out as he climbed through the opening into the daylight.
Duncan grinned, then reminded Ishmael to tie one end of the cloth around a sturdy tree before tossing the other end back down the chimney. He let it slide past him, the end stopping at Macaulay’s waist, then gripped it tightly and began climbing.
Ishmael was already prying stones from the edge of the opening when Duncan’s hand reached out into the daylight. His shoulders would not fit through, but the stone at the surface was brittle shale, and as he pushed and Ishmael pulled they broke enough away for him to slide out.
He found himself gulping the fresh air, the drowning man pulled from the black sea, then he saw the cloth pull tight and he rolled to the side. With a string of Gaelic curses Macaulay began to climb. The big man, clad only in the long shirt worn under his kilt, had trouble finding purchase in the chimney. “Heave up ye slag
gards!” he shouted. Duncan and the boy grinned at each other then began hauling up the brawny Scot. He had to wait, braced in the chimney, as they pried more stone from the hole, but soon he was out. Minutes later they knelt at a stream, sluicing water over their filthy arms and faces.
“Dear Lord!” Macaulay called up to the sky, “may ye strike me down if ever I think an unkind thought about a bat again!”
Ishmael laughed then laughed again as he watched Macaulay go through the ungainly process of lying on the ground to wrap his kilt around him. Duncan tied his hair back and began brushing the grime from his clothes. When he finished he pointed to an overhang of rocks half hidden behind alder bushes. “I will be back. We have to find Conawago,” he said to the boy. “And we have to find the children. You can hide in there until I return. Get some sleep.”
“Late for an appointment are ye?” Macaulay quipped.
“I won’t put Albany behind me without my kit.”
“Ye mean ye need yer gun.”
“I mean I need what was handed down to me by my father and his father before him. I’ll be back before noon,” he promised Ishmael, then he eyed the big Scot uncertainly. “You’re not bound to stay.”
“The second I left that hole I broke with the army,” Macaulay pointed out. He gestured toward the North. “A new life beckons.”
Duncan lifted the boy’s hand and gripped it tightly before leaving, but Ishmael only fixed Duncan with a reproachful gaze and clutched the medallion and protective amulet around his neck. The boy had been abandoned too many times in his short life.
Chapter Six
Woolford entered his room above the tavern in a great hurry, quickly closing the door and locking the latch as though he were worried about being followed. The ranger captain pressed his head against the door then splashed water on his face from the basin on the nightstand. As he reached for a towel he froze, at last spying Duncan’s rifle on his bed.
“His majesty’s army has misplaced a payroll,” Duncan declared from the shadows.
Woolford forced a small smile of greeting. “There are those who would kill you just for knowing that. Personally I am inclined to praise God that you still live. Your pack is under the bed.”
Duncan rose to retrieve his kit. “I kept wondering what might distract the general from hanging a hated murderer. But then I began counting all the Scots in the iron hole. They give the impression that their biggest crime was complaining about not being paid for months. They were promised hard coin last month, then again this month. A dangerous thing, not to pay the units that anchor your line of battle. It’s what you meant when you said the army’s victories are built on sand. The army itself is about to collapse.”
“The last units of the Highlanders are heading north soon,” Woolford replied in a worried voice. “General Amherst has promised them great glory in Canada. And their pay.”
“But now all his coins are gone. What are you doing in Albany without your men?” he asked when Woolford did not reply.
With careful disinterest the ranger wiped his brow.
“Seven thousand five hundred thirty-two was the number the general’s nephew recited. I thought it was supplies of some kind. Cartridges perhaps.”
“I am sorry Duncan. For hitting you. If I hadn’t the provosts would have used their halberds on you.”
Duncan ignored him. “But it was pounds sterling. A veritable fortune. Enough to finance the war for months.”
Woolford stepped to the smoldering fireplace and eyed Duncan in silence. “It would be irresponsible to speculate on such matters. Traitorous even.”
“It’s remarkable how easily speculation comes when your neck is to be stretched.” Duncan knelt and pulled his pack from under the bed. “Especially when so many seem so hell-bent on hiding the truth. Maybe that is my real crime, being the only one outside the general’s circle who knew enough to sense the disaster about to strike. Do you have a map?” he asked.
“Not here.”
Duncan glanced at the table by the window, where a quill lay by a pewter inkpot. “Paper then.” When Woolford gestured toward a drawer, Duncan extracted a sheet of paper, dipped the quill, and began drawing. “About ten miles below Bethel Church is a dock where bateaux call. Off this point of land,” he explained as he kept drawing, “is this small island with an aerie, just a few trees and rocks. The eagle is still on the nest.” He placed an X to the southeast of it.
“Get a swimmer. The bottom is about fifteen feet. Another soldier was killed there. Tied to a wheel and dumped into the water while still alive. Bring up the body. He was a dispatch rider. He confronted the thieves as they used that dock and paid for it with his life. Conawago and I saw a bateau going north above that dock. They shot at us. I think they were the ones who beat the rider and dropped him in the water.”
Woolford’s eyes narrowed. “One of the thoroughbreds reserved for dispatches showed up at the stables without her rider two days ago.” It was Duncan’s turn to stay silent. “It was you. You rode her here.”
“The raiders at Bethel Church stole the payroll and escaped in that bateau.”
The ranger captain slowly shook his head. “Impossible. If they had tried to open the strongbox there would have been evidence of it. It had not been tampered with. It was only that. .” he frowned, then lowered his voice. “The keys to its two locks did not work. They had to chisel the box open, then found it empty. The provosts were heard to speak of magic being used.”
“Is that the official explanation? Sorcery? The provosts don’t deal well with subtlety.”
“The money was loaded into that wagon in Albany. Thousands of coins. Shillings, crowns, guineas, though most of it Spanish dollars with the army’s broad arrow mark stamped on them. The wagon was not disturbed en route. But there was not a coin left when it arrived in Quebec.”
“Arrived without all its escort.”
Woolford cocked his head at Duncan. “A Scot was missing. At the time he was treated as another deserter.”
“Jock MacLeod. The escorts were participants in the theft, except for him. He confronted them in the barn at Bethel Church, and they killed him.”
“Impossible. None of them knew anything about the treasure. They were assigned to the escort only an hour before its departure from Albany. And this morning Colonel Cameron ordered you brought back for interrogation. He is better with subtlety. They have indeed realized the man you are accused of killing was with the missing payroll. Right now you are more important to the Colonel and General Calder than any number of French raiders.”
Duncan looped the straps of the pack around his shoulders and began to tighten them. “You’re not normally so blind, Captain. Bring the body up out of the lake. There was a reason so many died at Bethel Church the day the pay wagon rolled through, a reason why a young Scot was drowned and another stabbed to death.”
“We’re at war. Our enemy is desperate but very clever.”
“That’s it? The citizens of Bethel Church slaughtered like animals, their children kidnapped because of the war? This wasn’t the war, Patrick, this was something else, something that so unsettled Conawago he disappeared into the forest without even trying to account for his long lost nephew.”
Duncan finally had Woolford’s attention. “Conawago wouldn’t run from-”
“Exactly. He wasn’t running away. He was running to something, somewhere in the wilderness north and west of here. His kinsman Hickory John was tortured for a secret then killed. There was a message sent by Hickory John to summon Conawago. This is how we first die, he wrote. Conawago and Hickory John were guardians of ancient secrets. The others may have died because they witnessed the theft. But not Hickory John. He was tortured for one of those secrets.”
Woolford lowered himself onto the bed, as if suddenly weak. “Not Conawago,” he said in an anguished tone.
“I must find him,” Duncan said, not certain how to read the alarm in Woolford’s voice.
“The war hangs in the ba
lance, Duncan. If the French have the treasure they will turn the tide. The generals will no longer be able to rely on the Highland troops. The French can buy every Canadian who can hold a rifle and arm every Indian north of the Saint Lawrence. This damnable war will go on another five years, and thousands more will die.”
“I’m talking about Conawago and captured children. But you are more concerned about the king missing some coins.”
“You are the one who suggests they are connected.”
“The army can’t have it both ways, Captain.”
“Both ways?”
“It either has to treat me as a murderer or treat me like the one man who glimpses the truth about the killings and the theft.”
“The court-martial will clear your name.”
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Come with me to the general.”
“You can’t be the dutiful soldier and still seek the truth.” Duncan opened the window onto the rear porch roof.
“Damn you, McCallum. You don’t understand.”
Duncan handed the paper to Woolford. “Find the drowned man. Even the general would have to admit that I could not have left a body strapped to a heavy wheel a hundred yards offshore. And the Forseys know of a lawyer in New York town who represents a man named Eldridge who was convicted of killing a Dutchman in Albany a few years ago. Find a way to ask him about the murder.” He lifted his rifle and moments later dropped from the roof onto the grass below.
As he stepped into the shadows of the trees behind the inn, a twig broke behind him.
“You would leave them to die then, all those Scots,” Woolford said to his back.
Duncan looked to the ground, not turning around. “What goes on in that prison is on the conscience of the general.”
“Not them. The dozens who will be executed because you have run away.”
Duncan slowly turned.
“The Highland regiments are going to mutiny. Any day now. Colonel Cameron has nearly lost control of them. Dozens of provosts have been brought up from New York town. Orders have been sent by General Amherst, commander of all the British armies in America. At the first sign of rebellion the provosts are to disarm every Highlander. They are to line them up. Every tenth man will be taken to the wall and shot.”
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