Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  Sarah’s shift had a slice in it along the ribs, and Duncan saw small spots of crimson seeping through the linen. As he darted forward, she snapped an angry Mohawk word at him, a command for Duncan to back away, like a warrior claiming a prize. Her assailant’s grin widened. He was obviously pleased to have his prey served up one at a time. Duncan eased along the wall, looking for something to use as a weapon, until Sarah growled at him to stop. She touched the patch of blood on her shift, then with the blood-tipped finger hastily drew two stripes on each cheek. “Come meet my blade!” she taunted her opponent in the Mohawk tongue. “Don’t come sneaking in the shadows against my people unless you are ready to bleed!” she hissed.

  When the man hesitated, Duncan assumed it was because he did not understand the words, but then he saw the intruder’s treacherous grin and realized it was just his surprise that she was challenging him in the Iroquois tongue and had adorned herself with a warrior’s stripes. Duncan stared in confusion; then, as the man pulled off his hat, tossing it out the window, he saw the tattooed fish on the stranger’s neck at the end of a long, slanting scar that crossed his forehead and continued down a cheek, a wound from a sword. Despite his European clothing, the man was an Indian. Then Duncan saw that his tattered brown waistcoat wasn’t worn over britches, but over deerskin leggings, and on his feet were moccasins. A piece of fur dangled from his belt.

  As Duncan grabbed a heavy pewter candlestick and perched on the balls of his feet, ready to spring, the warrior lunged at her. Sarah avoided his blade with an effortless twist of her body. She taunted him with a Mohawk curse about his mother in her afterlife then, as she spoke, made a surprisingly high leap and came down at the stranger’s side. The Indian smiled again, then hesitated and touched his shoulder. His hand came away bloody. She had nicked his arm.

  Duncan had not seen this savage side of Sarah for years. Captured at an early age, she had been raised by an Iroquois sachem, a spirit chieftain who was revered and feared throughout the tribes. He had bestowed his love and wisdom on her but also his bearlike ferocity, which she had amply displayed when struggling with the Europeans who tried to keep her from her beloved tribes.

  “Duncan, get back!” Sarah snapped as she inched sideways.

  The intruder paused, looking at Duncan for a heartbeat; then Sarah waved her knife in the man’s face. The stranger lunged again, but feinted, twisting and thrusting his blade at Duncan’s belly. As quick as a cat, reacting faster than Duncan, Sarah kicked the man’s hand away and delivered a downward blow, cutting into the man’s upper arm deeply enough to bring a surprised gasp.

  The stranger straightened. There was still amusement in his face as he studied Sarah, but also a new respect. His gaze drifted to the amulet that hung from her neck, now spilled out from her shift, and he froze. His eyes went round. The amulet, whose contents not even Duncan knew, was decorated with ornate quill-work depicting a human eye flanked by a serpent and a bear, fastened at the top with the talons of an eagle. It had been worn by Sarah’s Iroquois father, Tashgua.

  The intruder retreated a step, whispering what sounded like a prayer in a tongue Duncan did not recognize; then he lowered his blade. He cast a long, disappointed glance at Duncan and in a flash of movement disappeared out the window. Duncan closed and locked it behind him.

  Sarah dropped the knife to the floor and accepted Duncan’s embrace.

  “Mussh, nighean, mussh,” he whispered in Gaelic as a silent sob racked her body. Hush, lass, hush. They stayed locked in each other’s arms for several long breaths.

  “There!” Sarah said as she pushed away and straightened her shift, not realizing she was leaving bloodstains with every touch. “I’m finished with Boston!” she declared. “I need the forest around me. Too many people,” she added, as if the Indian intruder were no more a concern than being splashed by a passing wagon.

  “How did you discover him?”

  “I had opened the window for the cool breeze and was drying myself after using the washbasin. I heard the creak of a floorboard, and when I turned, he was there.”

  “What exactly was he doing? Looking to attack you or get past you?”

  Sarah ignored the question. “We’re packing tonight,” she said in an insistent voice.

  “But the preparations are for dawn the day after tomorrow.”

  “Tonight. This is the last night I spend in this city.”

  “You know he wasn’t from Boston, Sarah. What did he want?”

  She shrugged. “The city attracts his type. Thieves, pickpockets, beggars, people who take advantage of open windows. He didn’t expect to feel the sting of a Mohawk,” she declared with a proud glint. Suddenly her head snapped toward the hallway. “Margaret! I heard Margaret scream!”

  “She fainted,” Duncan explained. He heard Mrs. Pope’s comforting voice in the hallway. “Her mother has her.” As he spoke, the voice in the hall paused, then grew louder and closer. They looked up to see a fearful Will Sterret in the doorway, with Mrs. Pope placing a hand on his shoulder. Duncan had forgotten the boy had been sleeping in the extra bed down the hall.

  “There, there,” the matron said to Will, patting his back. “Nothing for a wee one here.” The boy, who had seen so much death that week, stared round-eyed at the blood on Sarah as Mrs. Pope led him away.

  Sarah’s gaze fell to the hand that had held the knife. It was shaking.

  “Sit,” Duncan said as he pushed her down on the bed. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I will just wash up and join you as you eat.”

  Duncan retrieved the towel she had left by the basin and rubbed at her cheek. “Perhaps before you go to the kitchen, we should remove your war paint.” He had cleaned the first cheek when he paused. “I didn’t understand his words,” he said.

  “The coward. If he had tried that in the north, a war party would be chasing him already. Some hatreds never die.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “He was from the Canada country, Duncan. An Abenaki.”

  THE APPEARANCE OF AN ABENAKI so soon after one had scalped a ranger from the Arcturus was simply a coincidence, Sarah tried to convince him, but Duncan’s instincts screamed otherwise. Loading one of the new pistols they had bought the week before and returning his knife to his belt, he slipped outside, first going to the stable, where he was disappointed to find no sign of Ishmael, then circuiting the house twice, pausing each time to study the sturdy ivy-covered trellis that rose up to the edge of the roof, past Sarah’s window. It could be no coincidence, yet it seemed impossible that the Abenaki killer would seek them out or even know how to find them. The Abenaki had seemed to recognize Duncan, or at least his name, but he had no connection to the killer, except, he reminded himself, through Hancock and Livingston. Gooseflesh rose along his spine as he recalled how the Abenaki had cut out part of Oliver’s heart. He circled the block, his hand on the pistol tucked in his belt, before returning to Mrs. Pope’s kitchen, where Sarah and the shaken proprietress waited with a fresh bowl of stew and bread.

  His nerves had settled enough for him to eat, and censuring glances from Sarah made it clear that he was not to contradict her explanation that a drunken reveler had climbed the trellis looking for a free bed for the night. Duncan kept quiet, focusing on his meal, and Mrs. Pope soon retired upstairs to her own bedroom, carrying a rolling pin against future intruders. Sarah was filling their cups from a crock of water when a sharp, urgent rap on the door broke the stillness.

  Henry Knox let himself in without waiting for an answer. “I wouldn’t trouble your household so late, Miss Ramsey, but I saw the light and—oh, Duncan!” said the youth as he spied Duncan behind Sarah. He dropped three books onto the table, bound by a leather strap. “I had to search in every store, Miss, and they came dear. Three shillings eight pence, I fear.”

  Duncan grabbed the strap to pull the books closer, but Sarah self-consciously pulled them away, though not before he glimpsed the titles of the buckram-bound volumes. Pamela by Samuel
Richardson, The History of Tom Jones by Henry Fielding, and Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Famous books about a servant, a rogue, and a hermit.

  “For the school,” Sarah explained with a blush, then pulled down a pouch from the mantel over the hearth and extracted a handful of coins. As she counted out his payment, Knox took a seat at the table and accepted a slice of the bread from the plate Duncan nudged toward him.

  “Is it true that you have trees in your wilderness that two men can’t span with their arms spread wide?” the youth asked as he chewed.

  “Oh, aye,” Duncan replied with a grin. “On the Monongahela I camped once beneath a giant sycamore that took six of us to span.”

  Knox’s eyes went wide, then he offered a solemn nod. “Someday I will cross the Hudson myself,” he boldly vowed, as if the great river marked the edge of the civilized world.

  “If you can work up such bravery, Henry,” Sarah offered, her eyes sparkling, “then you must come visit us in Edentown. We can show you wonders of the forest that you have never even imagined,”

  Before Knox could answer, a crash came from outside the door as someone missed his footing, falling on the step, and then Ishmael stumbled inside. The young Nipmuc seemed to see only Duncan. Like his great uncle, Ishmael seldom betrayed his emotions, but now his eyes were lit with alarm. “Mr. Hancock says come quickly!” Ishmael declared breathlessly. “He says the killers have breached the stronghold!” The young tribesman paused, wrinkling his brow, then gulped a breath and continued in a more tentative voice. “And a banshee has trapped Reverend Occom in the cellar!” He aimed his confused expression at Duncan, as if hoping for an explanation.

  Henry Knox shot up in excitement, only to be pushed down by Sarah. She fixed Duncan with a gaze full of warning, which Duncan returned without expression. “Go,” she said in a peeved whisper; then, more loudly, “Henry will keep me safe.”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Duncan replied, as if in apology. “Start your packing, mo leannan. One more day, and we leave all this behind.”

  THE WAREHOUSE THAT DUNCAN NOW knew to be a secret meetinghouse for the Sons of Liberty did indeed look like a fallen fortress. Outside the side door, the big Jamaican had collapsed against the stone wall and was pressing a bloody rag to his temple. The heavy door beside him hung open.

  Duncan placed his hand on his knife as he followed Ishmael inside, cursing himself for forgetting the pistol in his haste. Two more of Hancock’s men were at the end of the corridor, wearing the stunned, empty expressions Duncan had last seen on men in the aftermath of battle. One was bandaging the arm of the other, who used his good appendage to point down the cellar stairs.

  As they descended into the cellar, an ungodly screech rose up from the shadows in the far corner. “Duncan, the banshee!” Ishmael moaned, clamping a hand around the amulet that hung from his neck.

  “McCallum! Praise God!” Hancock called, rushing out of his secret meeting room. “Munro discovered your wretched heathen”—he paused with a guilty glance toward Ishmael—“the Indian intruder, and then fought him to a standoff at the chamber door. God knows what other casualties may been inflicted elsewise.” He wiped at his brow with a linen handkerchief, then touched the butt of a large pistol he had shoved into his belt. “I was just behind the door! But for Munro, I too would have been at the devil’s mercy.”

  Duncan saw now the figure slumped unconscious against a barrel. “Enoch!” he cried as he darted to his friend’s side. Munro had a lump on his temple and did not respond as Duncan lifted an eyelid. His pulse, though, was strong and steady.

  “What Indian?” Duncan asked. Men from a score of tribes, most just wanderers in need of work, could be found working on the waterfront on any particular day. “Why here?” His questions were overwhelmed by another ungodly screech from the far side of the cellar.

  “I fear the reverend is . . .” The ever-loquacious Hancock was at a loss for words. “Pinned by a demon,” he finally offered, though through the fear on his face Duncan thought he saw a flicker of amusement.

  Duncan straightened, drew his blade, and stole into the shadows, Ishmael a step behind him.

  The sound came more frequently now, varying between a high-pitched scolding cry and the nerve-rattling shriek Duncan had first heard. It was unlike anything he had ever heard in his life, and he could not push the memory of Highland tales of flesh-eating banshees from his mind. They were small but could devour humans, a great-uncle once told him, because their shrieks robbed men of their senses, and the old man had never gone out in the night without holding a nail, a horseshoe, or another piece of protective iron in his hand, the traditional charm against evil. Ishmael fearfully clutched his totem but kept pace with Duncan. They advanced stealthily down an aisle between stacked casks toward the awful racket until, in the dim light of a cellar lantern, he discovered the besieged Reverence Occom.

  The pastor did indeed seem paralyzed, sprawled as he was against the wall and staring up in mute horror at the pile of upturned crates from which the shrieks originated. Duncan saw movement to his right and discovered that Conawago had arrived and was staring at the reverend with undisguised mirth. With a quick glance, Duncan understood instantly what the old Nipmuc was thinking. The surface of the self-righteous tribal seminarian had been scratched, and the superstitions of the forest had left him cowering in the corner.

  The banshee, seeming to react to Duncan’s arrival, quieted.

  “Surely such a formidable man of the faith is not frightened of a petite capuchin,” Conawago observed to Occom, whose fear was quickly being replaced with resentment after Conawago’s appearance.

  “A monk?” Duncan asked in disbelief. The Order of the Friars Capuchin, he knew from his early days in Holland, were an offshoot of the Franciscans. He had never seen one of the barefooted, hooded ascetics in Massachusetts or anywhere else in the New World.

  Before Conawago could answer, Occom attempted to move, triggering a new round of the awful screeching. As Duncan tightened his grip on his blade and advanced another step, a stranger in a dark cloak darted past him to stand before the crates, facing Occom. “Suficiente de tu canto, me querida,” he called over his shoulder, toward the crates.

  Instantly the noise ceased. Duncan had the impression that he may have just witnessed an act of the dark arts. Then the Spanish words registered. Enough of your singing, my dear.

  The sorcerer threw off his cloak and bent solicitously over the fallen Occom. “A thousand pardons, sir! This is most uncharacteristic, I assure you. She is out of sorts over the violence. Perhaps Sadie misunderstood when you knocked me down with that bottle.” As the stranger grabbed Occom’s hand and hauled the confused minister to his feet, Duncan saw a bloody bruise on his forehead.

  The samaritan was a lean man, almost as tall as Duncan, with long black hair and a short beard of the same color. His eyes were bright, his countenance warm. He bent to lift a book from the floor and handed it to the minister.

  As Occom collected himself, he flushed with embarrassment. “It is possible I overreacted, sir. When I first saw you with that intruder, I thought perhaps you were in alliance with him, and then that . . . that creature gave me a start.”

  Hancock appeared, rushing to Occom’s side with anxious apologies. The merchant nodded to the dark stranger and turned to Duncan and Conawago with a peeved expression. “The reverend is an esteemed leader of the faithful,” he chided, as if they had not shown him proper respect, then led Occom back toward the meeting room.

  The stranger lowered himself onto a crate and gave a short whistle. A gasp rose from behind Duncan, and he turned to see Ishmael pointing in astonishment. A small head with dark brown hair on its crown had appeared over the edge of a crate. Its pink face put Duncan in mind of a newborn human, though its active, inquisitive eyes gave it an air of conspicuous intelligence. It inched over the box, revealing rich golden fur on its jowls, shoulders, and upper arms. The man on the crate spread his arms, and with a single leap the anima
l sprang several feet into his embrace. The stranger cradled the creature with obvious affection, whispering words of comfort into its tiny ears before extending it to examine its body. As he did so, the animal’s tail, as long as its twelve-inch body, wrapped tightly around his arm.

  Satisfied that the animal had suffered no injury, the man shifted it onto his shoulder. “Excuse our rudeness,” he said with a bow of his head to Duncan and the two Nipmucs. “My name is Solomon Hayes, and this is Princess Salome Alexis Bergerac, though her friends call her Sadie.”

  Ishmael took an uncertain step forward, his eyes filled with wonder. “She’s a . . .” he began, obviously having trouble fitting the creature with the fauna he knew from his native forests. “Part squirrel, part weasel,” he tried, “like the gods assembled her from leftover parts.” Ishmael paused and his eyes grew still rounder. “A jogah!” he exclaimed, referring to an impish spirit of nature in Iroquois legend.

  “A monkey,” Duncan explained, and bowed his own head. “Honored to make your acquaintances.”

  Hayes grinned and returned the bow. “Cabus capucinus, to be more precise. A capuchin, so named because the Spaniards who first encountered the creatures likened them to the old hooded monks of their homeland. Born on the shores of the Caribbean, where she mischievously decided to stow away on a New England merchantman. Sadie,” he added with a gesture toward their new friends, “where are your manners?”

  As Conawago gave a long, wheezing laugh, Duncan stepped past a still-uncertain Ishmael and extended his hand, introducing himself. The capuchin grasped his fingers and bent her head to touch it to them. Ishmael gave a cry of delight and pushed forward for her to repeat the gesture. “Princess Salome,” the youth said with a deep bow. “I’ve never met royalty before.” Conawago likewise presented himself, still chuckling. The capuchin had made a staunch ally in him by shaming Occom.