Woolford extended the tube of his telescope and studied the vessels. “It must have been his plan all along.” He turned to Duncan with a grim expression. “He brought his long boat into shore to make certain he knew where we were, and that we knew he was leaving. One of his own rangers sought us today while I was up here watching the island.”
“You make no sense.”
“They’ve been using us. Before I could stop them, my men revealed that you had gone to the island to meet with the half-king. Amherst has been away with the navy. He knows about Cameron’s falsified report on the payroll theft. He didn’t fail to act against Cameron. He is acting against him now.” Woolford extended the telescope to Duncan. “But this,” he shook his head forlornly. “Look at the gunboats! Every gun is a mortar!
“It was no coincidence that the canoes were set adrift. Those men towing away the long boats had been at the camp, brought in casks of rum despite the colonel’s edict against spirits. They were Amherst’s men, sent to make sure the camp was drunk tonight.
“And to make sure those on the island are trapped with no way off.” Woolford gestured toward the ships. “Those are siege guns on the gunboats, fortress breakers, deployed against mere tents and huts. Amherst barely tolerates the Scots in the best of times, and he despises the Indians. This is what he wanted all along. Now his most troublesome foe and the Highland traitors are stranded in one small place. The island will be a killing ground. There won’t be a man alive by dawn.”
Duncan discovered he had dropped to his knees as the horror of Woolford’s words sank in. Amherst had deceived them all. He had openly rejected all suggestions of a supposed conspiracy between Scots and the rebel Indians, allied to the French. But secretly he had followed events, had bided his time so he could trap the reviled Scots and Indians together and unleash his killing machines. He intended total annihilation. Most of those on the island would be drunk, and Cameron would no doubt be distracted by his dying laird. The ships would be obstructed from view of the camps by the bluff that swept up at the eastern end.
“We have to go!” Duncan cried. “We have to take them off the island!”
“We’ll be dead as soon as we are in rifle range. You killed half the Wolverine warriors. You stole the half-king’s treasure.”
Duncan grimaced, knowing the ranger spoke the truth. There were scores of Highlanders on the island, good men who, like so many before, had linked their fates to a losing cause. The nightmare image of his dead father flashed in his mind’s eye, pointing at Duncan. His father had been telling him that he was supposed to die with the Scots on the island, the last of the Highland rebels.
Conawago appeared at Duncan’s side and took the telescope from Duncan’s hand. “The guns are all pointed upward,” the Nipmuc said as he studied the boats.
“The mortars on the gunboats will throw explosive balls high in the air, over the bluff, and down into the camp,” Woolford explained. “If there are canoes left at all, the cannons on the ships will destroy any leaving.”
“The river runs fast through here,” Conawago observed after a long, painful silence. “They have difficulty getting anchorage.”
He offered the glass back to Duncan, who quickly saw that his friend was right. “The frigates have set their anchors at the two ends of the line,” he reported, “and the gunboats are being moored to lines secured to the frigates.”
The three men stared in grim silence at the vessels. Ishmael appeared at their side. “If the anchor lines were slipped, they would all be at the mercy of the river,” Conawago pointed out.
“The British navy knows how to set its anchors,” Duncan countered. He was gripped by a terrible, helpless paralysis. Everyone on the island would die.
Conawago bent over the boy, speaking in low tones. Ishmael broke away, running to the nearest trees.
Duncan, transfixed, lost track of how long he stared at the ships. He was vaguely aware that the boy had returned, and he cast an absent glance as Conawago and Ishmael cleared away grass and arranged a small fire.
He seemed fated for constant torment. There had been a few moments when he had glimpsed a Highland kingdom in America, but he would never give up the Iroquois children and the Iroquois League for it. Duncan had felt a glimmer of victory when he had finally freed the children. But then they had lost Sagatchie and Custaloga. Now he had helped seal the doom of dozens of Highlanders and betrayed his father. Voices rang in his head. Take a canoe and warn them, at whatever the cost, one shouted. No, another said, you will die. They will never believe you in any event. Light a warning fire on the shore. No, even if they were warned, Amherst’s intended victims still would have no way off the island. He doubted one man in fifty would be able to swim the treacherous river.
There was more movement beside him. Hetty and Tushcona were there now, kneeling by the fire, dropping tobacco and other aromatic leaves on it. The death rites would continue into the night.
“We must take a swift canoe to Amherst,” Duncan said to Woolford, “to explain why the rebels are no longer a threat, to plead for leniency.”
“Even if we reached him,” Woolford replied in a taut voice, “he would never agree to see us. He is probably drafting his report to London already, describing how he cleverly disposed of the Jacobite and Indian threat in one sweep. He has his eyes on a high title and estates from the king.”
“We have to try!” Duncan pleaded.
“Night is falling,” the ranger pointed out. “We would never make it in time. Those naval commanders love their fireworks at night. I wager they will start the bombardment within the hour.”
Several items had appeared on a flat rock beside the fire. A small soft doeskin pouch. A little object rolled up in fur. The hollow wooden tube in which Sagatchie had kept his paint. On the far side of the rock the hell dog sat, looking at Duncan expectantly.
Duncan realized his hand was clutching the scrap of otter fur given him by Graham. He gazed forlornly at the English ships, then paused and turned. Conawago, Ishmael, and Tushcona stared in anticipation at him.
“You know I mourn the lost ones,” he said uncertainly.
Conawago dropped more tobacco on the fire. The others retreated, leaving only the two of them in the aromatic smoke.
“This is not about Sagatchie, Duncan. This is about recognizing when the spirits are speaking to you. Could it be time for you to take your skin?”
Duncan grew very still. Conawago was talking about the most sacred of topics, more directly than Duncan would ever have expected. He was speaking of Duncan’s spirit protector.
“Surely this is not the time, my friend.”
“This is precisely the time. Why did it push itself to your heart? It is speaking to you. Listen.”
Duncan looked down in confusion to see he was unconsciously pressing the old otter fur against his chest. For a moment the world fell away. He became aware of nothing but the gaze of the wise old Nipmuc and an unfamiliar energy quickening deep inside. Conawago turned his back to Duncan, signaling that this last mystery was between Duncan and his spirit protector. The hell dog cocked his head at Duncan then lowered it, touching the bundle of fur on the rock with his muzzle.
Duncan found himself kneeling at the flat rock. With a tentative finger he probed the lump of fur. There was an exquisitely carved animal inside. He knew it was the carving Conawago had worked on for weeks, the carving he had kept secret from Duncan. Conawago had known just as his grandfather had known that Duncan, alone of his siblings, had needed to be baptized by the gales at the edge of the Scottish cliffs. Conawago had seen the connection long before Duncan. In his mind’s eye there was the sudden image of the same animal cavorting with him in the waters of his youth, of another following their canoe up the Mohawk River, even seeming to lead them. The dying laird could have given the precious token of fur to those closer to him, but something had compelled him to give it to Duncan.
With a trembling hand he touched the carving to his lips and recited a short
Gaelic prayer, then an Iroquois prayer. He rolled the otter image up in the Scottish fur and inserted the bundle into the pouch. There should be a ceremony, he knew, but the benediction on Conawago’s face as he turned back to Duncan was blessing enough.
When he hung the amulet around his neck he felt a surge of strength. An unexpected serenity entered his heart. He looked up with fierce determination at the English ships and instantly knew what must be done. He heard movement and saw Conawago gesturing Ishmael, Kass, and Woolford forward.
“Sagatchie kept his tomahawk razor sharp,” Duncan said to Kass. “Did you find it?”
“His war ax was taken, but his tomahawk was in his hand.”
“Do you think he would let me borrow it?”
With a small sad smile, Kass nodded, then turned and darted away.
“You keep a pot of beargrease in your supplies,” he said to Woolford.
“To daub on wounds, yes.”
“I need it.”
Woolford suppressed the question that was in his eyes, stepped back, and trotted toward his camp.
Duncan lifted the container of paint and handed it to Tushcona, then peeled off his jerkin. “I want a pattern of the river on my body,” he said, “and the stripes of a warrior on my face.” The hell dog stepped to the cliff and sat, facing the river.
Tushcona looked at Duncan in confusion, then she followed the dog’s gaze and her face lit with understanding. She thrust her fingers into the pigment.
By the time Woolford returned, the sky was a deep red and Duncan’s body had been transformed. Tushcona had covered his torso with images of fish, snakes, and beavers. Sagatchie’s tomahawk was strapped tightly to his waist, his amulet to his chest. His hair had been knotted at the back of his neck. He wore no clothing but his britches.
Woolford still did not understand. Then Duncan took the grease and began applying it to his skin, and the ranger gasped.
“Suicide!” he gasped. “No man could work against that current!”
“There are only two anchor lines out,” Duncan calmly explained. “What do you think will happen when they are severed?”
“The boats will be swept miles downstream. But it is impossible! You mustn’t!”
“Do you speak as my friend or as a captain in the king’s army?”
“I lost one particular friend today, Duncan. I don’t want to lose my only other.”
“Most of the men on the island are nothing but pawns in a game set by others. Their only sin was false hope.”
Woolford stared at him for a few heartbeats then cursed and grabbed the grease. “I will look for you at first light,” he muttered, and he began applying the grease to Duncan’s back.
When he finished, first Conawago, then Woolford linked their forearms to Duncan’s in the warrior’s grip. Duncan touched the hell dog’s head, tousled Ishmael’s hair, then cupped his hands to push the aromatic smoke toward his heart. Without another word he touched his amulet and sprang toward the edge of the cliff, launching himself with a long arcing dive into the silver water.
Chapter Sixteen
Duncan awoke slowly, gazing groggily up at a gull that drifted in the cool breeze, listening to the rhythmic lapping of water on the side of his boat. He sat up in sudden apprehension. The boat was empty. He was adrift on the treacherous river.
His aching muscles protested as he pulled himself onto a seat, but the pain cleared his mind. He saw now the familiar bluff above him and the trail that led up from the beach of skulls.
Tucked into a notch in the sun-warmed rocks was Conawago, puffing on the little German pipe he used in relaxed moments. Duncan had not seen him use it for weeks. “You were still asleep when we arrived,” his friend declared. “I told them not to waken you, that your body is still recovering from its ordeal.”
Duncan worked his tongue around his mouth, wondering about the hint of anise and mint on his tongue. “You gave me one of your potions,” he recalled.
Conawago grinned. “You did not protest when I offered the tea. We had to carry you to the boat. You deserved a long sleep for your efforts. Such a spectacle.”
It all seemed like a dream now. Reaching the first anchor line in the treacherous current and dying light had been far more difficult than Duncan had expected, but a grim determination had driven him, and when he had finally found the heavy anchor line, stretched tight as a fiddle string, Sagatchie’s tomahawk had made short work of it. The British sailors had frantically fired their guns as they felt their vessels slip, but their shells hit only the tip of the island and the river itself. By the time he found the second line, they had the sense to send rockets into the air to illuminate the darkened river, and marines had begun to aim at him from the frigates. The muskets had only spattered the water around him, and the glow had made Duncan’s work easier.
The flares came quicker and quicker, lighting Duncan’s struggle to the shore of the island, his arms and legs screaming against the final effort. Fleeting, staccato images of the British calamity came with the flashes when he finally crawled onto the rocky shore beneath the island’s cliff. The river grabbed the frigates much more violently than Duncan would have expected, spinning them about. In one flash the curving line of gunboats had begun to straighten. One of the boats kept firing, its shells hitting a rocky shoal near the island. Another rocket flash showed that its guns had shifted, tilting the boat. The next showed the guns sliding off, with the crew not far behind. In the next the crew was climbing onto the upturned hull. The retreating ships kept firing their rockets as they drifted downstream, desperately trying to avoid rocks and shoals. The remaining gunboat crews hacked away at the lines fixed to the drifting frigates until at last they were free of the threat of being capsized, only to drift even quicker than the frigates down the river.
Duncan had found himself laughing until, his body too spent for the return swim, he collapsed against a boulder.
When Woolford’s canoe finally came into sight, the sky had lightened to a dull grey. The ranger captain spoke in utter astonishment of the night’s work, then presented him with a breakfast of bread, cheese, and brandy. As Duncan ate, Woolford had produced two folded papers from his jerkin and spoke in low, urgent tones.
They had climbed up the bluff warily, half expecting to be fired upon, and the surly Highland sergeant they met on the top seemed inclined to do so. Duncan calmed him with a Gaelic greeting, and he had quickly agreed to bring Colonel Cameron.
The Scottish officer seemed to have aged twenty years overnight. He walked up the slope with difficulty, and his two grenadier escorts hovered close as if they expected him to fall. Cameron’s face was desolate, but as he studied the half-naked Duncan, still adorned with paint and grease, curiosity seemed to overtake him, followed by something like awe. “One of my men said he saw a blond Indian by the light of those damned rockets, doing battle with an anchor rope. Surely. .” Cameron lowered himself onto a nearby log. “My God, McCallum, my God.” He gazed down the river, where the two surviving gunboats could be seen, grounded on distant shoals.
“Laird Graham breathed his last after you left,” the colonel finally said. “We hadn’t the heart to tell him we had been tricked out of our treasure. Everyone was condemning you as a traitor. But then last night you saved us from a horrid death.” Cameron’s gaze drifted toward the southern bank of the river. “You swam from the far shore?” he asked, as if still not believing Duncan’s feat.
“I was raised in the western isles, sir,” Duncan reminded him.
“If this were the western isles,” Cameron said with a sad smile, “they’d be singing ballads of your exploit already, and for the next hundred years. You saved us. At least for another day,” he said, gazing pointedly at Woolford, who wore the king’s uniform.
The ranger captain sat beside Cameron. “You know that General Amherst thinks little of my native rangers,” he began, “but I am under orders to General Calder. And Calder gave me instructions to probe the enemy defenses and gather intelligence
wherever possible. I have had men inside Montreal this past week. Three days ago I wrote a report to General Calder but copied General Amherst since the news was so important. My men confirmed that the bank in the city has substantial quantities of gold and coin. Over ten thousand pounds’ worth at least. I congratulated the generals since they would now be able to pay the Highland troops as soon as Montreal falls. I copied you as well, Colonel Cameron, as the ranking Scottish officer.”
Cameron took the first paper offered by Woolford and read it, then read it again. He studied the ranger captain as if seeing him for the first time. “A daring stroke, Captain,” he said at last with the hint of a smile. “Amherst will be unable to conceal the treasure in the bank once he takes Montreal. At least some will come out of this wretched episode with satisfaction.”
Woolford extended the second paper. “Along a battlefront, communications can get confused. General Amherst was somewhere downriver, not possible to reach.”
Cameron nodded uncertainly. “He said he went downstream to meet the navy and the troops coming up from Champlain. But. .” he gestured toward the wrecked boats, “we know what he was doing.”
“This is another report, dated yesterday. It recounts how I had discovered the whereabouts of the infamous rebel leader called the Revelator, the one who stands in the way of our victory. I sent secret word to you as the nearest senior officer, and you deployed to Fortress Island in force, as secretly as possible so as not to scare the enemy. You remonstrated with the Revelator. You explained to him that by your persuasion the Caughnawags were standing down. Without them, you explained, his cause is lost.”
“A noble touch, Woolford, but it will not be credited when the Caughnawags begin attacking us.” Cameron paused, returning Woolford’s steady stare for a moment. “Surely you are not suggesting-”
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