Eye of the Raven

by Eliot Pattison

  “Sir?”

  “Are you a landholder in Pennsylvania province?”

  “I am not.” Duncan’s mind raced. He could ill afford to have the judge probe his background. If they knew the truth, that he was technically indentured to the family of Lord Ramsey in New York, they would never let him testify, and they would probably order him put in irons. “I am but recently arrived from Scotland,” he ventured.

  McGregor, standing at the side of the makeshift courtroom, loudly cleared his throat. “Men who volunteer to scout against the enemy heathen, your lordship, be of great service to the province.” He was looking not at his major but at the magistrate. Latchford’s eyes blazed at the insubordination. The Quaker’s brows rose in surprise. But the nod he cast at Duncan was approving. “You were at the scene of violence as well, I take it?” he asked.

  Movement at the rear of the assembly caught Duncan’s eye for a moment. The young Iroquois he had seen making arrows in the yard was now there, in front of nearly a score of other Indians, watching intently.

  “Conawago and I found Captain Burke together. He had already been set upon, only minutes before. We tried to help him.”

  “But you were not at Burke’s side when he died?”

  “I ran to retrieve a dressing for his wound, to staunch the flow of blood. The militia arrived as I was gathering it.”

  Latchford leaned forward, clearly resenting the Quaker’s domination of the questioning. “Was Captain Burke dead when you left his side, McCallum?”

  “He was not.”

  “Then how, McCallum, can you testify it was not your friend who delivered the death blow?”

  “I examined Burke. The fatal wounds were already inflicted when we arrived. Conawago is no murderer. Someone with a tomahawk inflicted them. He carries no tomahawk.”

  “Do not practice your sophistry on us, sir!” Latchford lashed out. “In fact you are no witness at all. You did not see the murder. We have had a dozen good men say without hesitation they saw it, and your friend committed it.”

  “They served the dead man. They hate Indians.”

  Latchford ignored his protest. “Were you able to see your friend at all times or not?” he demanded. “As he was alone with Captain Burke?”

  Duncan’s despair was a black, living thing inside him, rising up, gripping his heart, choking him. He turned toward Conawago. His friend’s face was open and serene. He offered Duncan the gentle smile that had touched his heart so many times. Duncan looked to the ground. “I did not,” he murmured.

  Magistrate Brindle gave a chagrined shrug. Latchford leaned back and offered a smug nod to the officer of his provosts.

  Duncan did not realize he had been dismissed at first. He stumbled away as if in some terrible dream, barely hearing the pistol butt that hammered the table to close the testimony. He only vaguely noticed that the Indians gathered at the rear were moving about now, whispering, distracted by something behind them.

  It was Van Grut who intercepted him and guided him back toward the tree where Sergeant McGregor waited. Brindle and Latchford conferred in whispers for less than a minute. Duncan had already resented Latchford, now he knew he would forever despise the major for directing a provost to make ready the noose before the verdict was spoken.

  Brindle asked for Conawago to stand.

  “Having dispatched its solemn duty,” Brindle began, “this court has no choice but to—” his words died away, replaced by an eerie, high-pitched sound, like the drawn-out attack screech of a hawk. All eyes shot upward in confusion, some men ducking for cover as the sound grew louder. Then abruptly the source of the screech landed in the grass, not three feet from the judge’s table. It was a projectile tipped with bone carved into a whistle, an Iroquois signal arrow.

  The Indians ran forward, then stopped as abruptly as the arrow when they reached the open space between the judges and the benches. A figure had materialized in the space, a bronze statue of a man wearing leggings, breechcloth, and a sleeveless waistcoat. His skin glistened with oil and fresh paint in the pattern often worn by Iroquois war parties. The young warrior who had been in the fort the day before stood at his side, a bow in his hand, his countenance filled with pain. Duncan saw the way the Indians revered the painted man, then as he stepped closer recognized the tattoo of the turtle on his cheek.

  “I am called Skanawati of the Onondaga,” the man declared in a voice that would carry miles, his English words slow and carefully pronounced. “I am a member of the Grand Council, keeper of the hearthfire of the Iroquois nations, chief of the turtle clan.” Duncan saw that a smear of red paint had been added to the tip of the blade that hung over his chest, and to the blade of a tomahawk in his belt.

  Latchford’s face twisted into a snarl. His provosts hovered beside him, waiting for an order to clear the disturbance. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” he demanded.

  The Iroquois chief waited until the Indians with him had surrounded Conawago, as if to protect him. “I have come to tell you it was I, Skanawati, who killed the Virginian captain.”

  Chapter Four

  AT FIRST DUNCAN did not understand Latchford’s furious response to the confession by the Iroquois chieftain, did not entirely grasp the change in the atmosphere. Brindle closed his Bible and clasped his hands as if praying. Then Duncan saw the reluctant nod by Latchford that sent the provosts to remove the manacles from Conawago and place them on Skanawati.

  “Blood of Christ!” McGregor muttered. “There’s a foot in the kettle.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Thank God y’er friend is safe. But the major knows that without the treaty the army will never get Iroquois help in subduing the western tribes. The Six Nations won’t even get to the negotiating table if the army hangs their lead negotiator at Ligonier.”

  “But he confessed,” Duncan said uncertainly, looking at Skanawati and the Indians, still not entirely grasping what was unfolding.

  “Lose the Iroquois or lose the Virginians. Not even the esteemed and sanctified magistrate will take that decision. ‘Twill be for the governor and general to decide how to get the noose on him. Unless the Burke company charges forward,” the sergeant added.

  Duncan followed McGregor’s gaze toward the knot of Virginian soldiers who now surrounded Latchford, their lieutenant haranguing him, angrily pointing at the stone-faced Skanawati, who stood between his new guards.

  “Now!” the Virginian officer barked. “While the rope is fresh!” His men would not be denied their justice, or at least their vengeance. The magistrate and governor might be slow in meting out punishment, but Latchford was clearly considering a swifter resolution. Duncan could see the cool calculation in the major’s eyes. He was desperate to keep the Virginians in his garrison.

  Duncan’s mind raced as Latchford announced to the Quaker that the army would have to take custody of the confessed murderer, then Duncan found himself pushing through the crowd toward the judges’ table. His words were drowned out by the loud protests of the Virginians, some of whom were now pointing to the noose, eyeing the provosts as if about to rush them. He spoke only to Brindle, his eyes only on the powerful Quaker, then when he realized he was not penetrating the din around him, he placed his palm over the dog-eared Bible in front of the magistrate.

  Brindle saw the hand first and followed his arm upward to meet Duncan’s gaze, then raised his own hand for silence.

  “Mr. McCallum, you were saying?”

  “I was saying, sir, that with so many hostiles in the region the garrison has no time to deal with such difficult legal matters. Matters that are, after all, the business of the province.”

  “I was aware of only one matter,” Brindle observed in his level, refined voice.

  “Far be it for me to tell your honor his business,” Duncan replied. “I was thinking of the crime against the Virginian, of course. Then there is the matter of respecting Iroquois justice if an Iroquois is to be charged while the province negotiates a treaty with the
m. I suppose it is possible that Pennsylvania may decide the army is responsible for relations with the tribes,” he observed, well aware of the constant tension between the Quakers and the military. “But there are still the interesting issues around the new citizen of the province.”

  The din began to fade as the major, then more and more of the company stopped to listen to Duncan’s words. “New citizen?” Brindle asked.

  As if on cue the small party transporting Burke’s body back to Virginia could be seen by the guardhouse, shoving the escaped slaves toward the gate. As Hadley had warned, the returning soldiers could not resist the reward they knew awaited those who returned Colonel Burke’s property.

  “Born last night, on these very grounds.”

  Latchford, who finally seemed to grasp Duncan’s direction, lifted his pistol and hammered its butt on the table. “Did you not hear me, McCallum? This court is adjourned!”

  Duncan, ignoring the major, leaned toward Brindle. “Born in provincial territory.”

  The bearded Virginian sergeant, who had been arguing with Latchford, looked at Duncan as if he had spoken sacrilege. “Property of the company proprietor!” he roared. “The law clearly states that the child of a slave belongs to the mother’s master! Lieutenant Burke will tell you!” he urged, pushing the new commander of the militia forward.

  “So says the law of Virginia,” Duncan said, looking only at Brindle. “But Pennsylvania law would say someone born in the province is a citizen of the province.”

  Brindle followed Duncan’s gaze back to where Becca was bravely shielding her infant as one of the Virginians herded her along with a switch. For the first time Duncan saw emotion flare on the magistrate’s face. The Quakers were particularly fervent in their views on slavery. Brindle turned and spoke to the Pennsylvania sergeant who had escorted him, who then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Duncan shrugged. “An interesting philosophical question for the leading province of America. Even if Pennsylvania were to determine this infant is free, his mother is a slave. Yet the boy cannot survive without his mother.”

  Lieutenant Burke, a pampered-looking man who seemed a reluctant participant, found his voice again. “You go too far, sir!” he shouted as he pushed through the throng. “Do not presume to interfere with Virginia chattels!”

  “Pennsylvania has no say over the affairs of our soldiers!” Latchford barked. He seemed to be coiling for a lunge at Duncan.

  Brindle stared for a moment at Latchford, without expression, then looked up as the Pennsylvania soldier reappeared, herding Mokie, Becca, and the newborn toward him. For a long moment the Quaker looked at the baby boy, who seemed to return his gaze with a question in his small black eyes, then he asked Duncan, “Does this infant have a name?”

  Duncan struggled not to grin as he recognized the shrewdness of the mulatto woman. “His mother has called him Penn.”

  The announcement seemed to seal Brindle’s decision. He stood and turned to the remainder of the squad of militia who escorted him, all of them Pennsylvania men. “After you escort the Iroquois prisoner to my tent,” the magistrate said in a loud voice, “you will secure the infant in question, along with his mother. They will all be traveling with us to Lancaster.”

  His sergeant grinned, summoning his soldiers to his side, square-built men who looked as if they were made of oak.

  Latchford glared angrily at the brawny, determined Pennsylvania men, then muttered a command. His own soldiers retreated. But the major lingered, glaring not at Brindle but at Duncan. “You did this, McCallum!” From his pocket he produced a brown envelope. With a chill Duncan recognized it, the letter to army headquarters that would turn him into a fugitive again. The Quakers who ran Pennsylvania might have no appetite to prosecute runaway slaves, but they would zealously enforce Lord Ramsey’s property rights in Duncan.

  Conawago winced every time his horse’s hooves hit the earth. His friend’s ribs were badly bruised, his wounds not yet healed, and Duncan had begged him to make camp and wait for them near the fort. The old Indian had readily accompanied him to a bed of moss under a hemlock to rest, but when Duncan had gone back with food an hour later he had found him packing his meager belongings.

  “You are in no condition to travel,” Duncan protested.

  “I do not dare to tarry,” his friend said stubbornly.

  Nowithstanding that Conawago had been freed, Duncan was still filled with foreboding. “And where, my uncle, will you be bound?”

  “Skanawati told us where the troubles start. At the bloody water.”

  “Surely it is just some kind of symbol, an Iroquois allegory.”

  “Not at all,” Conawago said as he began stripping to the waist. “The creeks at the end of the Warriors Path are full of iron. The rocks rust, tinting the water. It is a name sometimes used for that section of the Monongahela, which can run reddish there after a storm.” He pulled the roll of linen bandages from his belt and unbuttoned his shirt. “Now tie me again around the ribs.” Duncan watched his friend’s face as he pulled the linen tight over his bruised and tattooed chest. Inevitably there was pain on his countenance but also melancholy, and a strange, urgent determination.

  “My God,” Duncan said as the realization hit him. “You think Skanawati is innocent.”

  “Look to your heart, Duncan,” Conawago said as he began dressing, “and you will find you do as well.”

  “He confessed. We saw him that very morning, not far from the murder. He has little warmth for Europeans, probably hates us.”

  “If not to your heart,” Conawago said, “then look to the facts. That Virginian came here to fight Indian raiders. He would never have let a strange warrior get so close without firing a pistol, without struggling somehow.”

  “Burke changed Van Grut’s orders before he died,” Duncan suddenly recalled. “He abruptly told him to stay away from the last marker tree even though it is vital for the survey. It surely signals the end of the Warriors Path.”

  “Survey?” Conawago asked. “Orders?”

  As Duncan explained what he had learned from the Dutchman, Conawago offered a small nod of acknowledgement, then he turned and began walking westbound on the road. The bloody water and the last marker tree. The dead captain and Skanawati had both been warning them away from the same place, the terminus of the Warriors Path.

  The treaty convoy, bound for Lancaster, had left before dawn on the eastward road, with Skanawati, now in chains, joining the slave woman Becca and her infant in the magistrate’s huge Conestoga wagon. Brindle had watched with a tormented expression as Mokie and Becca had to be pried apart by the militia. The magistrate had no grounds for keeping the girl away from the family that owned her. The new commander of the company, the oldest of the Burke nephews, meanwhile had declared that he and Hadley with four of the soldiers would travel with the convoy as treaty representatives, and to assure that Pennsylvania did not slacken in carrying out the justice due the killer. Hadley himself would be expected to provide a vivid chronicle of the murderer’s hanging.

  It was a drunken teamster, passed out in front of the stable, who had given Duncan hope of a quick journey westward that would still allow them to catch up with the slow-moving eastbound convoy. He had discovered the man’s wagon in the back of the building, its rear axle jacked up, a broken wheel waiting to be repaired by the smith. If one of the wagons would lag a day or two behind the convoy, its horses would be idle.

  “And why would I part with my brass snuff box?” Van Grut demanded when Duncan proposed he give it to the smith.

  “Because these horses are available today. It shall be the fee for borrowing them. With good mounts we can reach your western terminus. With them we can reach the final marker, return them, and still catch up with the convoy.”

  “Why the convoy?”

  “Because we are obligated to Skanawati. Because his confession raises more questions than answers. Because,” Duncan added, “the fate of your employment rides with it.�
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  Van Grut frowned. “I still have my orders,” he began, then considered Duncan’s words. “What do you mean my terminus?”

  “The end of your survey line. The place that Burke suddenly warned you away from.”

  “I tend to respect the words of dead men.”

  “There is a reason men are dying on the trail. I would have thought you would want to know what it is before you set out alone again.” Duncan needed the answers that were still hidden in the information Van Grut had gathered for the land company, but even more, he needed the surveyor’s resources to obtain the mounts. “No doubt,” Duncan said when Van Grut did not reply, “you wish to investigate alone. With the killer in the magistrate’s custody you must have nothing to fear.”

  Van Grut stared unhappily at Duncan, then muttered a Dutch curse, extracted his snuff box, and called out to the smith.

  A quarter hour later they had cleared the gates and turned their horses westward at a steady canter, soon overtaking Conawago, who gratefully climbed onto the spare mount led by Duncan. Now they rode in silence, each looking ahead with grim determination. They had gone less than a mile when Conawago shouted in warning, sending them quickly into a thicket to hide as a rider galloped by. With a sinking feeling Duncan urged his horse out of cover and called the man’s name.

  Hadley wheeled his horse around and halted, saying nothing as Duncan rode in a tight circle around him.

  “Desertion is a hanging offense, Mr. Hadley.”

  The young Virginian hung his head, not looking at Duncan as he spoke. “I said I remembered the murderer spoke with your friend in an Indian tongue, that the Colonel would expect the details of that conversation.”

  “That is a lie. You never witnessed such a conversation.”

  Hadley stared at his horse’s head. “I am the one who must record what transpired at the boundary tree. It will be published in Virginia with my name on it.”

  “You mean your words will become the truth.”

  Hadley looked up uncertainly.