The wheelwright drained his cup before speaking. “That’s why yer here? Hadn’t thought rangers had any unfinished business until recently. We signed the peace with the French five years ago.”
“I’m sure that’s what Daniel Oliver would have thought,” Munro observed.
The wheelwright’s brow furrowed. “Daniel be off at sea somewhere, probably on the t’other side of the world, frolicking with those Pacific beauties the whalers rave about.”
“If only it were true. He was murdered last week in Boston,” Duncan declared.
Chisholm’s head snapped up. “To hell you say!” He seemed to weigh Duncan’s words. “Nay, nay, people might talk, but ye don’t know the man. T’ain’t a cutpurse in Boston that would be a match for old Daniel.”
“Tomahawked from the back,” Duncan explained. “Scalped. This was stuffed into his mouth.” He unrolled the strip of cloth he had taken from the dead man.
Chisholm went very still. “Abenaki!” he whispered.
“Oliver was at St. Francis,” Munro observed.
The words triggered a storm of emotion on the former ranger’s face. “Aye, he was there, both of us corporals then with Major Rogers. Pulling each other out of the muck of the swamps, building human chains to cross the fast rivers. The major drove us hard. ‘We’re gonna hit them where the raiding bastards least expect it,’ ” he told us that night we left Crown Point, rowing with muffled oars so as not to be heard by French spies. And blessed Mary, that we did. No one ever did such a feat, not before and not after.”
“Were you with Oliver in the fighting?” Duncan asked.
Chisholm seemed not to hear. “We thought the stealthy journey there was the ordeal,” he continued in a hollow voice, “but the return was worse by far, with the French and ’Nakis on our tails through the damned barren wilderness, no time to take a meal or sleep. The major split us into small groups so we might evade our pursuers better, told us to reach the little militia fort down on the Connecticut as best we could. We attacked with nearly a hundred fifty men and lost only one in the attack, but we returned with ninety, all those others taken in the pursuit. Afterward we heard about them the heathens captured. Burned alive. Skinned alive. Given to women with small knives who cut off little pieces for days of slow death.”
In the silence they could hear the bees among the flowers. “Why would an Abenaki go to Boston to continue the war all these years later?” Duncan asked.
The former ranger looked up into the sky, as if seeking an answer from the heavens, then fingered the necklace of pewter and porcelain beads that hung from his neck. It occurred to Duncan that the necklace could be a trophy taken from an Indian foe. “The ’Naki are breaking up, I hear. Some moving farther north into the Cree country, some going west into the Ohio country and beyond.” He looked back at Duncan and shrugged. “A solitary ’Naki? That’s just an angry man.”
“A warrior on a trail,” Duncan said, as if correcting him.
“Surely it was Oliver’s bad luck to run into him in Boston, and if he did commit murder, ye can bet he’s hightailing it back north now.” The wheelwright looked at his freshly turned soil. “What exactly did he do to my friend?” he asked in a tight voice.
It was Munro who replied. “Stabbed him and left the knife’s sheath beside the body. Then he stuffed this cloth in Oliver’s mouth and lifted his hair.”
“He follows the old ways, then. The power is in the hair from the top of his enemy’s head. He’s taking Oliver’s soul back north. He left the knife as tribute ’cause it belonged to one of his fallen warriors. Fulfilling some kind of vow, I wager.”
“He left the knife in his chest,” Duncan said. “After cutting out a piece of his heart.”
Chisholm seemed to choke and had difficulty speaking. “Mog!” he finally spat in a haunted tone.
“Mog?” Duncan asked.
“Mogephra, war chief of the Abenaki—at least he was. Like a rabid wolf in battle. Collected scalps all over New England, more than fifty by his hand alone, he would brag, and if he knew the man was a ranger, he would eat the heart. The major had us give chase to him once, sent off a young scout ahead. We found pieces of the boy along the trail the next day. A hand, a foot, the liver, the head, then the torso, with a great hole in his chest where his heart had been. The major always said it was his biggest disappointment, not killing Mog that October day in ’59. But we took his family, had to, so as to knock the fight out of him the way he had done to so many on our side. I would have thought he’d be gone out west by now, carving out a place among those warlike tribes.”
“This Abenaki who killed Oliver had a scar,” Duncan said. “I saw him.” He slanted his hand over his face again.
A curse escaped from Chisholm, and he crossed himself. “A saber did that to Mog at Lake George, though the bastard killed the officer who gave it to him.”
“He broke into a warehouse in Boston the day after he killed Oliver.”
“After committing murder, a little theft wouldn’t trouble him.”
“The warehouse belonged to John Hancock.”
Chisholm did not look up from his cup, but Duncan did not miss the way his jaw tightened.
“The ship Oliver served on was destroyed in an explosion outside Boston harbor,” Duncan continued. “Oliver escaped just moments before, only to be murdered. The ship was owned by Robert Livingston.”
A low, guttural sound rattled in Chisholm’s throat, though Duncan was at a loss to know whether it expressed surprise, disapproval, or remorse. The wheelwright bent and pulled a weed from his bed of soil.
“You’re familiar with the name,” Duncan observed.
The former ranger sergeant frowned. He stood and retrieved the spade, then broke up several clods of earth before replying. “I was one of Livingston’s men, ye ken. One of the score he promised for the first New York ranger company in the war, made up of volunteers from his tenants. He promised us each fifty acres, and he made good on the bargain for those of us who survived, good bottom acreage along the Hudson.” He buried the spade in the earth and looked up with something like apology in his eyes. “Then the new troubles arrived, and he asked us to stand with him. Law-abiding men must stand together when the rabble rise up, he said. A pompous prig often, but he knew the right things to say.”
Duncan tried to piece together the words with his memories of events in recent years along the Hudson. “You mean the tenant uprising?”
“Aye. Livingston raised his own private army. But I was loath to bust the heads of poor hardscrabble farmers wanting nothing more than a few acres to feed their families. It became like a battle among the great lairds in the old country. The lords of Massachusetts sent in their farmers to make claim to land all the way to the Hudson, while the lords of New York insisted that their colony ran east to the Connecticut. Mr. Livingston had the better of the argument, based on his grant from the king. One of the other former rangers sided with the tenants, and Livingston revoked his land grant. Men were dying needlessly on both sides, and I prayed for a way out. I ne’er wished ill of my brother, but when he died, it was like the Lord had intervened. I told Mr. Livingston I had to come here to support his family, and we parted on good terms. He gave me his best wishes, and I came to my new life.” He gestured to his shop. “I like wheels. Useful things, wheels. Jen has a joke. ‘Wheels make the world turn,’ she says.” With a forced laugh, Chisholm put the cork back in the crock, as if his hospitality had ended.
“Good men have died,” Duncan pressed. “Your friend Oliver was murdered. I think you got a package sent from St. Francis just as he did.”
The big man gave a heavy sigh. “I put him on that boat. At night in our ranger camps he sometimes said he had a notion to see other lands, and he asked me if I thought Mr. Livingston would ever have a berth on one of his great vessels.” As soon as I told Livingston that Oliver had been a ranger, he agreed, and off Dan’l went across that saltwater wilderness. That’s what he called it in a letter he w
rote me from the Azores—the saltwater wilderness.”
“Your work for Livingston did not end when you left New York, did it? Oliver and another ranger named Branscomb received secret packages recently. Did you?”
Chisholm winced. “It’s a complicated proposition, ye might say. Livingston and Hancock have tasks from time to time, mostly Hancock, now that I’m in his colony. Go meet a cobbler in Providence. Go talk with a schoolteacher in Framingham. But that’s not what the package was. The package came from the north. Knew as soon as I saw that purple ink. There’s secrets in the north, and not all known to me.” He leaned on the spade and looked back up at the boneyard. “Our fathers had kings,” he declared for no apparent reason, “their fathers before them, and beyond, to before the tales of men began. How could it be otherwise? It shakes my bones to think on it.”
“Yes, but where are those secrets?” Duncan asked impatiently. “I need to know where they are, how to find them,” he pressed. “It wasn’t just Oliver who died. After he left his ship, it exploded. Thirty-seven dead all told. I mean to find the killers.”
Chisholm distractedly worked his spade for a few moments. “Who’s a man to trust?” he asked, staring at the soil. “It’s a long way to go, but there’s debts to pay.”
“Why would Oliver work with French agents?” Munro shot back.
“French? Don’t know about French. If Daniel was with any French, it was to play them. It was a game he and the major enjoyed sometimes, just walk into the enemy camp plain as can be, acting like they belonged there. A ranger rule, know the land of yer enemy as well as ye know yer own. If Dan’l was with them, it was to reconnoiter, if ye get my meaning.” He looked back up at the cemetery. “We got secrets, sure. Secrets within secrets. Secrets that can change the world.”
Duncan contemplated Chisholm’s words. It’s a long way to go, but there’s debts to pay. He remembered something else about the secret package that had been stolen in Hancock’s warehouse. “Saguenay secrets,” he whispered.
Chisholm stared at him, then seemed to relax. He nodded. “Saguenay.” He studied his two new friends with an intense expression. “I wasn’t going to tell, but I n’er expected two fellow Highlanders to come asking. On fuil na Gaidhealtachd?” he asked, and extended his hand.
He was asking for a vow of trust. On the blood of the Highlands. Duncan readily nodded and took the offered hand.
“Saguenay,” Chisholm said again, as if to seal their bond.
“Saguenay,” Duncan repeated, feeling shamed for his deception. “Tell me, do you ken an Ebenezer Brandt?”
Chisholm’s lips curled upward for a moment. “Corporal Brandt? Not all who seem crazy are insane,” he declared, then straightened. “There be time tomorrow to talk. It’ll make more sense when ye see the package, but I can’t fetch it today,” he said. “Ain’t here.” He gestured toward the boneyard above his shop. “I’ll get it for ye at first light. Now I’ve got a wheel to finish. Got to keep the world turning, ye ken.” The wheelwright plucked another weed. “When Shakespeare’s flowers start blooming, I’m going to have Jen sit here,” he said with a self-conscious blush, speaking toward the log seat, “and ask her if the bard also had golden-haired beauties in his gardens.”
6
MY UNCLE HASN’T MOVED,” ISHMAEL said in a forlorn voice when Duncan found him by the sawmill, still watching Conawago. “Except to reach into his pouch and put on an old wampum necklace. Every few minutes he lifts his amulet and seems to speak to it. I tried to talk with him, and he didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to know I was there.”
Duncan sent Munro back to the inn and stayed with Conawago’s nephew, watching in painful silence for several minutes. The men in the log yard were winding down their work for the day, gathering their long bark spudders and cutting tools in the fading light. As they walked away, Duncan moved in a wide arc that kept him out of Conawago’s line of sight, stopping in the shadow of a stack of massive oak and maple logs.
“Git out, ye damned beggar!” a stout, bearded sawyer snapped in an Irish accent as he passed the old Nipmuc, then stopped and threw a stone. With a lurch of his heart Duncan watched as it bounced off Conawago’s shoulder. His old friend had taken off his fine woolen waistcoat, pulled out the tails of his linen shirt, and untied his long hair so it hung unkempt over his shoulders. He did indeed look like one of the old natives who stayed alive by asking for alms in European settlements. It was as if he were doing penance.
Duncan darted toward Conawago and stood a few feet in front of him, blocking his assailant’s aim. The man saw the fire in Duncan’s eyes, tossed his next stone from hand to hand, then shrugged and hurried to join his friends.
When Duncan turned around, the old Nipmuc was walking alongside one of the great logs, one hand on its bark, whispering in his original tongue. Ishmael tried to pull his great-uncle back, only to have Conawago slap his hand away. Ishmael turned to Duncan with a tormented expression. Conawago looked frailer than Duncan had ever seen him.
“It’s a death song!” Ishmael groaned. There was anguish in his eyes. “He is singing a song about joining spirits on the other side.”
Duncan stepped to the end of the log and blocked the old man’s passage. “It’s been a long day, my friend.”
Conawago blinked and rubbed moisture from his eyes, then looked up as if seeing Duncan for the first time. “There you are, then,” he said, as if he had been looking for Duncan. “A long, long day, yes, and a longer night is coming,” he said. The bleakness in his voice tugged at Duncan’s heart. “But meanwhile I could join you in some nourishment,” he suggested, forcing a small grin.
Duncan motioned him toward the inn. “Sarah’s waiting for us,” he explained, glancing up and down the street, remembering the warrant on his head. Munro had taken up a position in the shadow of a dovecote down the road, Duncan’s rifle still in his hand. The old soldier had not stopped keeping watch.
They discovered Sarah at a long trestle table in the back of the tavern’s barnlike dining chamber, chatting cheerfully with Solomon Hayes. As Duncan, Conawago, and Ishmael pulled out chairs at the table, the innkeeper put a hand on Ishmael’s arm. “Beasts feed in the stable,” the man stated, indicating Molly, at Ishmael’s knee.
“Please do send the beasts away,” Ishmael replied in a pointed tone, “but my gentle Molly stays with me.”
Sarah cut off the innkeeper’s protest. “She will be no trouble, sir,” she promised as the Newfoundland slipped under the table. “Just charge her as another guest, and all will be fine, I am sure.”
“No trouble,” the innkeeper repeated uncertainly, then called for the barmaid to bring a pitcher of ale and a board of bread for his customers.
“My father just wants to keep the peace in his establishment,” the girl explained as she distributed a tray of tankards. She had an open, amiable countenance, but her smile seemed somehow sad. “And I will nay charge for your handsome creature,” she confided in a lower voice.
Conawago dutifully chewed his roast pork and mashed peas, but he did not partake in the conversation that Sarah led about plans for new buildings at Edentown and whether early or late apples should be planted in the new orchard. Duncan realized that the old man was not even trying to follow the discussion, and he followed his gaze across the chamber to where half a dozen rough-looking men had settled for a meal. With a chill, Duncan saw that they were from the sawmill. The bearded Irishman who had cast a stone at Conawago seemed to ignore the Nipmuc’s stare at first, but when Conawago, after draining his first tankard, had not shifted his gaze, the man noisily pushed his chair back and marched across the room.
“I told ye,” he growled as he reached Conawago. “We don’t take to your kind in this town. Will ye go peaceable, or will ye do me the pleasure of going otherwise?” he asked with a malevolent grin.
The old Nipmuc motioned the man closer, as if he could not hear. As the man bent, Conawago moved with surprising speed, seizing a handful of the man’s shirt at
his neck and jerking him down while reaching for the ginger beer crock beside him. He smashed the crock onto the man’s head so powerfully, the thick ceramic shattered; then he slammed the man’s head sideways onto his plate.
“I am a chieftain of the Nipmuc tribe,” Conawago stated in a surprisingly level voice. “Can you say that? Nipmuc! Shouldn’t be difficult even for an ignorant fool like you.”
The bearded man struggled, but Conawago kept a tight grip, twisting the collar of the man’s shirt so tightly it began to choke him. He cursed and tried to rise, only to have his head pressed even harder into what had been a pile of mashed peas. Ginger beer ran down the back of his head onto his unshaven face. His hands, opened on the table, balled into fists as if to strike; then he went limp. The point of Ishmael’s knife was pressed into one wrist. “Nip—muc,” the Irishman sputtered through the peas.
Conawago kept his grip on the man but spoke in a conversational tone. “Long before Europeans arrived in this valley, it was the home of the Nipmucs,” he explained. “For centuries, my people lived here, always honoring the spirits in the trees here because they were the biggest, most majestic trees in all the world. We called this place Quinsigamond.”
The Irishman’s companions had taken notice, and three of them were now angrily approaching the table. Enoch Munro materialized out of the shadows, Duncan’s rifle in the crook of his arm, and positioned himself with his back to Conawago’s chair. Ishmael leaned toward his knife, still on the man’s wrist, as if about to pin the hand to the table.
“Quinsigamond,” Conawago repeated, heat in his voice now. “Try it, or do you truly have granite for brains?”
“Quinsmond,” the sawyer muttered. Mashed peas matted one eyebrow.
“Quinsigamond. Try harder.”
One of the sawyer’s friends advanced, raising his fist, and before Munro could react, a black mass of fur appeared in front of him. Molly emitted a low, rattling sound and bared her teeth. The man halted.
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