Duncan glanced at Hayes. Sarah was still at his bedside, listening closely.
The farmer’s wife pressed her hand to her heart and sighed. “Oh, he loves her so much, like in one of those romance tales. He won’t speak much of it, but over the years we’ve heard the story. He abandoned his comfortable life in Rhode Island and spent months looking for any sign of his dear wife. Rebecca, as she be named. After not finding any sign the first year and barely escaping captivity himself several times, he went back to Rhode Island, then sold his holdings to his brother, we hear. He made himself up to be a tinker and trader so as to move unsuspicious-like among the tribes and villages in the north. The second year, he showed up with darling Sadie,” she added with a nod toward the monkey, who laid curled up beside Hayes, “and they’ve been like father and child ever since. Only real family he has now.”
As the woman stirred the steaming kettle that hung in the hearth, Duncan examined Hayes once more. Sarah, on a stool beside the bed, held the tinker’s hand. As Duncan lifted the other hand, Sadie stirred, snuggling closer to her master.
“His pulse is stronger,” Duncan reported. “A good sign.”
When Sarah did not acknowledge him, Duncan turned to his second patient. Will lay with his head propped up by pillows, watching the low flames of the hearth. Duncan sat beside him.
“You must wish you had stayed in Mrs. Pope’s house,” he suggested to the boy.
“Never in life, sir! It’s been such an adventure! A monkey befriended me! I got a sea bear companion and got to feed dragoon horses! And then an Indian kidnapped me and Miss Sarah saved me! Ain’t it grand!”
“TABLE’S READY,” CAME THE FARMWIFE’S call as Duncan and Conawago returned from rubbing down and feeding their mounts. Duncan watched, his heart aching, as Will rose, steadying himself on chairbacks at first, and went to lead Sarah to the dinner. She steadfastly ignored Duncan. Hayes did not stir.
The party of travelers ravenously consumed the thick soup and fresh-baked bread. When Duncan reached for his pouch and offered to pay, the farmer held up a hand in protest.
“We had a bad time of it two years ago,” the man said. “Cow died, half our wheat failed. Mr. Hayes stopped over on his way west and saw our shame when we could only feed him half-rotting potatoes and some wild onions. He gave us five guineas out of his own purse, enough to get us a new cow and see us through that long winter. He and his friends will ne’r owe a pence for the hospitality of this house,” he declared as his wife poured out servings of buttermilk.
Duncan encouraged Will to drink two cups, then looked back at Hayes. He knew the tinker lay perilously close to death. “I fear there is a swelling in his brain,” he said. He had seen more than one man die from such an injury. “We need to keep cool compresses on his head, from buckets of fresh spring water.”
“There’s ice,” the farmer offered.
“Ice in May?” Duncan asked in disbelief.
“Aye, we have a pond out back with a cellar dug into its hillside.”
Ishmael followed Duncan out to the ice cellar. The tomahawk the young Nipmuc had put away while in Boston had returned to his belt, and he now used it to chip away at one of the large blocks at the rear of the low stone-walled chamber.
“They’re coming, Duncan,” he said as he helped fill a bucket with the chips. “The men from Worcester. We slowed them down, but not for long. There’ll be soldiers next.”
“You mean I shouldn’t be anywhere near this house.”
“It would go bad for our hosts if you were found here. And no sense in making it easy for those looking to cash your bounty.” Ishmael returned the tomahawk to his belt. “But I’m coming with you.”
“No. Stay with her. Keep her safe. I’ll not be far.”
“No. You must clear your name. Go north into the Abenaki lands. My uncle and I will find you.”
“Not until she is safely past the Hudson.”
“Then you are a fool, Duncan McCallum,” the young tribesman said, and grimaced at his choice of words. “The wise warrior stays away from danger until he understands it. You are just running headlong into it.” Ishmael lifted the bucket and cocked his head at Duncan. “My uncle speaks of the great Battle of Culloden, where Highlanders ran foolhardily into rows of English cannons with nothing but swords and wooden shields. Is that what you seek, a proper Scottish suicide?”
“Your uncle teaches you too much,” Duncan muttered, as if the battle where so many of his clansmen had died was somehow his personal secret. He dropped the last of the ice chips into the bucket. “Those men were brave, fighting for a noble cause.”
“And such a fine line it be between stupidity and courage. You need to find those Frenchmen and let your friends handle these problems,” Ishmael said as he closed the cellar door and turned to the house.
Duncan lingered at the cellar, weighing Ishmael’s words. “Wrap the ice in a piece of linen,” he called to the youth’s back. “If he wakes, make him drink.”
The young Nipmuc paused, then spoke over his shoulder, sounding uncannily like his uncle. “You won’t reach Sarah by pushing toward her.”
GRIPPED BY AN UNFAMILIAR TORRENT of emotion, Duncan watched as the dark of night settled over the little farm. A deep anger had taken hold of him, anger at the florid merchants, anger at the French for refusing to accept their defeat, anger at the killers, anger at the ruthless Horatio Beck. Most of all, he was furious at himself for keeping the Edentown party for so long in Boston against Sarah’s wishes just for the pleasure of its many ships and books. At his core, though, it wasn’t anger that tormented him, it was the ache from the withering looks Sarah had thrown at him, stabbing deep into his heart. She had often been distant during their time in Boston, often reluctant at his touch, but tonight she had refused to even acknowledge him. Hearing the tragic tale of Hayes’s quest for his wife and his charity to mere acquaintances had only hardened her toward him. If Hayes died, that ice would be in her gaze forever.
Goliath responded to his warbling whistle by trotting out of the shadows of the pasture, standing eagerly as Duncan saddled him. He tied on his rifle and mounted, then eased out into the moonlight in front of the cabin. Someone looked at him from the dimly lit interior. He saw only a silhouette but knew well that gentle shape. He stayed motionless, praying Sarah would come outside. She did not wave, did not hold an open palm to the glass as she had so many times in Edentown for a final farewell. He lingered, too long to avoid more pain, then dug his heel into Goliath’s flank and they sprinted to the top of the hill above the farm, where he dismounted and sat on a ledge rock, gazing down on the farm with an unexpected desolation.
HE STEADIED HIMSELF AGAINST THE memory of that bleak day back in March when Sarah wouldn’t speak with him when he returned to Mrs. Pope’s house, would not even answer his knocks on her bedroom door when he heard her weeping inside. When she arrived at breakfast the next morning and saw him at the table, she had abruptly turned and gone back up to her room. He had never seen her like that, had indeed expected that her visit to Boston at the end of his five-month stay would be five weeks of joy, as his indenture would expire soon and he would no longer be her bonded servant.
To his great irritation and his great shame, it had been John Hancock who explained Sarah’s distress. The merchant had been unable to look Duncan in the eye. He had found him on the Hancock Wharf, where Duncan was directing the unloading of cargo from one of the merchant’s coastal ships. Duncan had given the tally board to Munro and followed Hancock to a private place between stacks of crates.
“Duncan, a solicitor came to our offices—” Hancock began as he nervously flattened a torn label on one of the crates. “He had me sign an affidavit he had already prepared. I thought it was just another dispute between consignees of cargo, in which the court often wants to confirm particulars of shipments or of a voyage. It seemed just a confirmation that one of my sloops ran to Bermuda and back, with a list of the cargo and confirmation of the officers.”
Duncan tried to look interested. Hancock’s legal affairs were of no concern to him.
“It stated that you were the captain, that you left Boston on such a date and returned on another. My clerk confirmed the details, and I signed. I get documents every day to sign, you know. Now I feel practiced on. If anyone had explained the point, I never would have signed, you have to believe that.”
“The point?” Duncan asked impatiently. He was eager to return to work.
“That it was about you, not the cargo. You and Sarah,” Hancock added, and quickly looked away.
Duncan went very still. “Sarah?”
“I just found out this very hour. My own solicitor was in court yesterday when the proceedings occurred.”
Duncan pushed Hancock down on a crate. “Stop looking away, John,” he demanded, “and speak to me straight.”
“A gentleman in London, a lord of some rank, had been paying someone to watch your comings and goings. The affidavit was used as proof that you left the territory of the American colonies. Apparently you have an indenture with Sarah, who is this lord’s daughter, an indenture imposed as a condition of your transportation to America. As a condition of your release from prison. I never knew, Duncan. You never told me.”
Duncan found his hands curled into fists. “And?”
“And you broke your bond by leaving America. When a servant breaks bond, the indenture renews upon his return, that’s a standard term.”
“Speak plain!” Duncan growled.
“The indenture started over the day you returned to Boston. There’s a magistrate’s order. You are bound for another seven years.”
Duncan had collapsed onto a crate, not even realizing that Hancock was gone until several minutes later. He stayed out late, wandering the streets, lost in despair, and when he returned, Sarah was shut in her room again, weeping. He had not even knocked, just sat on the stair near her door. They had gone seven years without joining as man and woman, without consummating the love they felt for each other. Their relationship could not survive another seven years.
Sarah did not speak until the following day, when she asked to walk with him on the Common. She was wearing a colorful new dress, and she tried hard, but failed, to put the same brightness on her face. “I had a note from Mr. Hancock,” she reported. “He says you know what Lord Ramsey did with a magistrate here.” She almost never referred to the aristocrat as her father.
Duncan tried hard to push his heart back down his throat. “Seven more years,” he murmured.
“And who cares what some old Boston nabob with a frayed wig says?” she asked, forcing a smile.
Duncan stopped, pulling her to face him. “Everyone, when that nabob is the law.”
“But I don’t!” she protested, moisture filling her eyes.
“Sarah, I would not shame your honor by—”
He would not have been surprised had she run away or put her hand over his mouth. He did not expect her to slap him. “Damn you, Duncan McCallum! We are not talking about my honor, and we are not talking about the vile creature who calls me his daughter, may he rot his eyes in a cold, hollow tree,” she snapped, conjuring a tribal notion of a particularly unpleasant hell. “We are talking about your stubborn Scottish pride that makes you a slave to a piece of paper! You would make me a slave to it as well. But I am no such slave! I am a woman full in my years, if you haven’t noticed!” Tears flowed down her cheeks, and Duncan pulled her to his shoulder.
“I’ve well noticed, mo leannan. I notice every day of my life, and when you are not there, I still set your image in my mind so I can get through my day.” He patted her back, but her fire would not be quenched.
“Stop it! Stop using your Gaelic words of love when you do not mean them!” She pushed away. “I wonder more and more, do you like the image of me more than me in real life? Is that the way of it, that you like the concept of my love better than the imperfect, tattered, fatiguing way of love with a real woman? I think you just harbor me the way you harbor your damned honor, like some trophy that can never be tarnished!”
The tears were flowing fast now, but she did not wipe them away. “You will have to decide, Duncan. Every time you swell your honor, you shrivel my heart.” And she turned, looking frail, and walked back to the house alone.
He had not gone back that night, but walked to the waterfront and sat on a pier until sunrise. She had spoken no more of indentures but mentioned more frequently the Mohawk way, in which a warrior just acknowledged that it was time to set aside his war ax and take a wife.
DUNCAN DID NOT KNOW HOW long he sat staring down at the farmhouse, but Goliath finally pressed his muzzle into his back, and he climbed into the saddle. He rode hard up the shadowed road, savoring Goliath’s power as he gave the horse his head. A special air of wildness seemed to settle over the forest at night, and he drank it in like a raw, renewing liquor. They had gone miles before he reined to a halt at a flat at the top of a mountain with a view of moonlit hills for miles to the east. He was alone and heart-weary, on a stolen horse, with men coming to kill him, but he found a weak smile on his face. If he squinted, the scene merged into an image of the Highlands, and in a distant memory he heard bagpipes.
He had learned much about freedom since arriving in America as a virtual slave, and the most important lessons had come from his tribal friends. There were freedoms in this continent that were unimaginable to the inhabitants of the Old World—freedom to earn your own way as an equal among men, freedom to travel the vast open spaces, freedom to cherish and worship whatever things a man held sacred, freedom to make your voice heard—but most powerful of all was the freedom he was beginning to sense now, the freedom of the land itself. The leaders of the Sons were fond of speaking of freedom, but he was no longer certain they understood it. The freedom spoken of in Boston taverns did not taste like what he found here. Was there a city freedom and a country freedom, he wondered, or did ten men have ten different notions of freedom, each his own?
Duncan bared his spirit the way Conawago had taught him, stretching out his arms and opening himself to the moon and the mountains, and he felt the power of the earth course through him. He calmed himself, knowing what Conawago would say if they were together. He did not know if he could outrun the noose, could not tell if the woman he loved was abandoning him, did not know if the lies of Beck and his invisible conspirators would destroy his good name, but no one could steal this, the freedom of his soul.
He found himself stroking Goliath’s neck, speaking low words that came unbidden, some in Gaelic, others in Mohawk. Despite their rash galloping, the big horse’s breath was still deep and steady. Goliath gazed out over the shining hills, and Duncan was convinced he too felt the power of the land. “Easy, boy,” Duncan chided. “You belong to the king.”
They continued westward until, perhaps an hour before sunrise, Duncan spied the camp of the little caravan. He slipped off Goliath and approached on foot, studying the sleeping shapes about the camp. The metallic click of a weapon being cocked froze Duncan in his tracks.
“Like a highwayman in the night,” came an amused voice in a Yorkshire accent. “Do you have any notion of the grand size of that bounty on your head, McCallum? You would addle some brass for me, as they would say back home in York.”
“Enough to set up a deserter in a new life,” Duncan suggested as Sergeant Mallory stepped out of the shadows, a pistol in his hand. “Glad to see you’ve recovered.”
“A new life? Gawd, a new world! I could set myself as a gentleman merchant in Savannah. New Orleans, even.” Mallory gave an exaggerated sign and eased the hammer back. “But where’s the honor in that? You saved my life, I seem to recall.”
“The bounty on deserters be almost as high,” came Munro’s voice. The old soldier had circled behind the sergeant. “And a thousand lashes would wait ye, if not the noose.”
The deserter turned to see the rifle Munro aimed at him, and he lowered his pistol. “Alas, McCallum and I are at you
r mercy. With McCallum’s bounty I could be a gentleman on a southern plantation. With both our bounties, you could be a prince of the frontier.”
“Already got a job, thankee,” Munro rejoined, nodding at Duncan as he lowered his own weapon. “Keeping this fool Highlander alive.”
Mallory tucked his pistol into his belt. “Better to aim for a less difficult challenge, sir, like keeping the sun from rising. His Britannic Majesty seeks McCallum’s head, and I fear that when the king wants something so desperately, he tends to get it.”
Munro stretched languidly. “I look forward to debating King Jordie about that particular notion. Now, do ye suppose there’s some of that good bacon from Boston left?” he asked, and marched off toward the smoldering fire.
Duncan helped Mallory feed grain to the horses as Munro and Occom prepared breakfast over the replenished fire. If the weather held, the reverend declared over their bacon and corn cakes, they might make their rendezvous with the Wheelock party on the Connecticut by nightfall.
“Wheelock?” Duncan asked.
“Oh, ye did not hear?” Munro said. “A messenger met us on the road. The eminent Eleazer Wheelock and his disciples are expected in Agawam, the settlement on the banks of the Connecticut.”
“He is my guiding light,” Occom declared. “The man who made me who I am. The tribal college I raised funds for these past two years was his inspiration. I was honored to be the instrument of his charity.”
Savage Liberty Page 17