Eye of the Raven

by Eliot Pattison

  The Shawnee mocked him as Duncan lashed out futilely with his own blade. “Your god is waiting for you,” Red Hand called out.

  “McCallum!” came the gruff tones of Sergeant McGregor from below.

  “McGregor!” Duncan called back.

  Red Hand, knowing he would be an easy target for the soldiers’ guns once he was spotted, cursed, then slashed one of the stays and swung away. The Indian was, Duncan suddenly realized, retracing his path in the rigging, bound not for the river but the city. “McGregor!” Duncan shouted again. “The girl!”

  Mokie still stood by the mound of rope, watching the pursuers as if it were a grand entertainment. There was still no sign of constables, but McGregor’s entire squad had appeared and was trotting with their long muskets at the ready.

  Red Hand descended to the deck as Duncan swung across the gap between ships, then leapt onto the long bowsprit that extended over the wharf near Mokie. Duncan recklessly shoved off with another rope in hand, shouting Mokie’s name as he swung. The girl wandered a few steps down the wharf, looking up in confusion as through the shadows a new band of men emerged. Seeking protection, she ran to the side of the lampman who had been filling the lanterns and was still looking down the long pier when Red Hand landed a few feet away. Duncan dropped down a backstay, burning his hands on the rope, landed on the deck, and vaulted over the rail.

  As the Indian ran toward the girl the lampman fled, abandoning his keg and ladder. From the opposite direction came a solitary figure, charging at Red Hand. Hadley had no weapon but his fists. Red Hand took a step backward as Hadley reached him, and with a stroke of his tomahawk knocked the Virginian to the ground. The sound caused Mokie to turn. She screamed but was paralyzed with fright.

  Duncan was seconds away when he saw one of the men from the street wrestle with a soldier, pulling away his musket. He froze. The soldier was down, being pummeled by three ruffians, and beside them Felton was aiming the gun directly at Duncan as more of his companions fanned out to surround Duncan. The men from the street had come not to help the girl but to help Felton trap Duncan. Red Hand, seeming to understand, grinned, then saw the soldiers approaching from the wharf, McGregor in the lead.

  With a lurch of his gut Duncan heard Felton pull the hammer back, saw the fiery discharge. The bullet hit not Duncan, not Red Hand, but the keg of whale oil that Red Hand stood beside. As Mokie darted away the keg exploded into white flame, propelling its contents upward. An instant later, the volatile oil soaking him, Red Hand burst into flame. The tomahawk fell from his hands as the Indian desperately, futilely, tried to rub the flames out. His loincloth and leggings ignited, his lock of hair ignited, his very skin caught fire as with a terrible bloodcurdling groan he staggered toward Duncan, his oil-soaked body now completely in flames.

  “Mother of God!” McGregor moaned. The smell of charred flesh bit into their nostrils. The sergeant grabbed a musket from one of his men and fired. Red Hand jerked backward then dropped to his knees, raising his burning arms to the sky as a second soldier fired. He collapsed in a ball of fire to the planks of the pier.

  Duncan lingered for a breathless moment then leapt to the wharf’s edge and dove into the black waters below.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DUNCAN SWAM UNDERWATER with the long, sweeping strokes he had learned as a boy, keeping overhead the lighter shadow that marked the gap between the ships, swam until his lungs screamed, then surfaced to gulp fresh air and submerged again. With every stroke he was moving closer to the way of the outlaws, defying the entire city now, with every stroke the prospect of freedom and a new life tugged more strongly at his aching heart. He could climb up onto any of the great ships coursing out into the spring tide and leave his misery behind. Surfacing, he held on to the anchor rope of a dory left beyond the moored ships, watching as more and more torches were lit, as more and more men ran up and down the wharfs. Some searchers were being lowered on ropes to scan for him under the docks. A woman screamed, then another, as a crowd gathered around the charred remains of Red Hand.

  Releasing the rope, he let himself be pushed by the current down the broad river, past another wharf, then another, letting several ranks of the big ships pass, until suddenly a large vessel loomed over him. He let the merchantman pass, then without thinking grabbed a trailing manline. For a moment, as he climbed up the rope enough to rest against the great black hull, he was free, for a moment he was on the way to the Indies. With an instant’s effort he could pull himself onto the deck and all would be behind him. The lights of Philadelphia passed alongside, and as they began to fade he looked up with longing at the ship’s rail and dropped away. Minutes later he found an algae-covered ladder built into a pier and climbed back into the world.

  The guard had been doubled by the time Duncan arrived at the tribe’s compound a quarter hour later. He watched from behind the trunk of a great elm, then slipped into the shadows under the high brick wall, worried now that the militia may have started patrols around the government house, worried too that the new fortune on his head might mean bounty hunters seeking him at all hours. He had no refuge left. His link to Marston was too thinly concealed for the scientist’s house to be safe now. Barns and outbuildings would be searched. By now, for all he knew, his gun and kit had been found and confiscated. If by Ramsey’s men, the lord would order his pipes be burned, as he had tried to do the year before. Duncan braced himself against a tree, fighting what seemed an overpowering weakness. He was cold and wet and bone weary, and hope seemed forever beyond his reach.

  Breathing deeply, refusing to succumb to despair, he suddenly sniffed the sweet, acrid scent of the tobacco used by the tribes and was buoyed for a moment by the memory of sitting in a sweat lodge with Conawago. He edged along the ivy-covered wall, discovering a small door, which he tried and found locked. Then hearing footsteps coming down the street, he launched himself into an awkward, desperate ascent, using the thick vines for support. He reached the top and rolled over, dropping onto the soft, moist earth of the garden.

  The Indian camp was quiet, its occupants all asleep save for the two men who were replenishing the small fire in the herb garden.

  Conawago said nothing, just reached out and embraced Duncan when he approached. “Still playing the fish,” he observed, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Old Belt threw more wood on the fire, then gazed at the lighted window of the kitchen. “I believe,” the Iroquois chief declared with whimsy, “we shall ask our servants to make us some English tea.”

  Mokie had been escorted to Brindle’s house by McGregor and his men, the Indians reported, while the charred remains of Red Hand had been wrapped in a sailcloth and taken to the pauper’s cemetery.

  “Felton will have drinks bought for him for a month,” Conawago remarked. “The Quaker hero saves an innocent girl, kills a fugitive murderer.”

  Duncan leaned over the fire, soaking up its warmth. “When the Shawnee died the truth died with him,” he stated.

  “With the Shawnee gone,” Conawago rejoined, “you can concentrate on making yourself safe.”

  Duncan did not have the strength to argue. He hovered over the fire in silence, pushing the river chill out of his bones, then watched with amusement as Old Belt led a small parade of the house staff out the kitchen door, the English servants carrying a tray with a teapot and fine china cups, chairs, and a small table. They watched in silence as the table was set for them by the fire and grinned as one of the women delicately poured out the tea and sliced a fresh loaf she had brought with it. Finding himself famished, Duncan quickly covered his bread with butter and chewed as Old Belt described the day’s futile treaty deliberations.

  Suddenly the chief paused, grabbing his belt ax at the sound of a cry in the shadows. Long Wolf appeared, dragging a man bleeding from several scratches. Hadley grinned sheepishly as he saw Duncan and Conawago, did not resist when Long Wolf shoved him into the firelight.

  “This fool,” the Mingo chief declared, “climbed over
the wall into a bed of thorn roses.”

  Duncan knelt at the Virginian’s side, first inspecting his head to confirm that Red Hand’s tomahawk had done no serious damage, then handing him a napkin to wipe away the blood on his arms.

  “When I came to, she was gone,” the Virginian reported in an anxious voice.

  “Mokie is safe for now, back with Brindle,” Conawago said.

  Hadley gave a sigh of relief then reached inside his shirt and handed Duncan a tattered piece of paper. “You wanted to know about the owners of the Susquehanna Company. Being a Burke has its advantages. I spoke to the man who is the tobacco merchant who acts as agent for the Virginia land company, then the family banker here. They made some inquiries. Before leaving for the pier, I took their reports.”

  The paper contained a list of eight names, with numbers beside each indicating a number of shares. “Eight of the original owners have sold their shares. Each of them had a tale of reversals. A ship lost at sea. A sugar mill burned in a southern colony. An unexpectedly adverse judgment from a Philadelphia judge. Orders for timber or turpentine cancelled. Contracts with the army suddenly terminated. They all suddenly needed cash.”

  “And Ramsey bought them out,” Duncan suggested.

  Hadley nodded. “He promised to do it quietly, so as not to cause public humiliation. It seems he now has a controlling interest in the company opposing Virginia for the western lands.” He pushed Duncan’s hand back when he tried to return the paper.

  “No,” Duncan said. “Get this to Brindle. Tell him everything you’ve just told me. Tell him if he looks he will find Ramsey’s hand in at least some of the calamities that forced the sales of shares.”

  Hadley nodded and secreted the paper back inside his shirt.

  “And ask the magistrate’s help in finding the merchant Waller. We must know who replenishes his accounts, who instructed him in dealing with the slaves.”

  The Virginian nodded again. “I will ask if I might stay in his stable, to help watch over Becca and Mokie and the little one.” He hesitated, looking up at Duncan. “What did you mean, the girl’s safe for now?”

  “In the race to protect Mokie,” Duncan replied, “has no one asked why they want her dead? She is still somehow a threat to the killers.”

  “But she is only—” Hadley began, then paused.

  Voices were being raised in the house. In the light cast through the open window Duncan saw something fly across the kitchen, heard the shattering of china dishes and the frightened cry of a woman.

  “What kind of bull have they released in there?” Conawago wondered out loud as a pot flew out the window.

  It was, Duncan saw a moment later, the most vicious bull of all.

  “Go!” he yelled at Hadley. “Find McGregor!”

  “Run, Duncan!” Conawago gasped.

  But Duncan did not move. “No. I am too weary,” he said, then a glance at his friend showed him Conawago understood the real reason. Most of those approaching from the kitchen door carried muskets. If they spotted Duncan fleeing they would fire into the Iroquois camp.

  From the light of the torches his escort carried, Duncan could see that Lord Ramsey had thinned in the past months, his plump face now much harder, though his fleshy jowls had not entirely receded, giving him an unflattering, half-made appearance. But his burning eyes, lit by arrogance and hate, had not changed.

  Not even his escort, four militia soldiers and two rough men with the look of stevedores, seemed prepared for Ramsey’s wrath. The lord, shoving the man in front of him out of the way, stepped to Duncan and began beating him. “You worthless pig!” he cried in a cracking, high-pitched voice. “You Scottish scum! You damnable worm!” He slapped Duncan, then slapped him again, before pummeling him with his fists. Another curse came with each stroke. Duncan did not react, did not move. The great lord could put little power behind the blows, and any resistance would only invite his escorts to join in. Duncan staggered, taking the blows, returning Ramsey’s malevolent stare until Conawago finally seized Ramsey’s collar and pulled him away like a misbehaving child.

  Ramsey turned on the old Nipmuc now, striking him with an open hand on the jaw, shoving him so hard that Conawago tripped and fell to the ground. Duncan watched as two, then four of the Iroquois braves leapt from their blankets, reaching for their war clubs. The militia soldiers uneasily closed in front of Ramsey, who gestured one of the street bullies toward Duncan. The man pulled a set of manacles from his belt.

  “’Tis an ungodly clamor for the time of night,” boomed a voice from behind them. “Ye’ll have the poor inhabitants of the city thinking the Hurons have attacked.” Sergeant McGregor was stepping out of the kitchen, six of his kilted men at his heels.

  “We are finished here,” Ramsey spat. “I am taking my property and leaving.”

  “Ye are leaving, aye,” McGregor declared as he reached the circle of men. “I am charged with maintaining order and protecting the treaty delegation,” he added.

  “You have no authority over me!” Ramsey spat. “McCallum belongs to me! Do not interfere!”

  “I have authority, y’er lordship, over anything that disturbs the delegations.” Mockery was thick in the Scot’s voice.

  Ramsey turned on the burly sergeant. “You Highland scum! We should have finished you off in the last uprising!”

  “Ye should have tried,” McGregor shot back in a hot whisper.

  “I don’t know what fool decided to put you kilted apes in uniform!”

  “That particular fool, y’er honor, would be the king.”

  Even in the dim light of the torches Duncan could see Ramsey’s face flush. “This mongrel is mine!” he insisted. “I have warrants.”

  “I be not bound by warrants, y’er worship,” McGregor replied in a level voice. “Only the orders of my general.”

  Ramsey’s eyes flared. Grabbing the manacles, he viciously slapped them across Duncan’s cheek, then opened one of the wrist restraints to place on Duncan. The sword that suddenly pressed down on the chains seemed to materialize from thin air. “If ye wish to test a Scottish blade against y’er Philadelphia bulls,” McGregor growled, “I’m y’er man.” The militia soldiers nervously tightened the grips on their muskets. The rest of McGregor’s squad pressed close, making sure the muskets would be of little use.

  Ramsey dropped the chains and retreated a step. “You are already my prisoner, McCallum,” he reminded Duncan. “Take a step out of your savages’ refuge and you are mine!” He grabbed one of the militiamen, shoved him toward the kitchen door, and followed him down the path.

  Duncan watched Ramsey disappear into the house, then touched his cheek. Blood was dripping down his jaw, onto the chains below.

  “You must flee, Duncan!” Conawago warned. “Now. He will have his men surrounding this place soon.”

  “To where?”

  Conawago did not answer, just quickly walked to the little door in the brick wall, pushed back the bolt, and opened it. Marston stepped inside with a muffled lantern and nervously gestured for Duncan. “Our electrical friend says he has found us another sanctuary,” Conawago announced.

  Ramsey’s men could be seen organizing themselves on the corner near the front gate as Marston, Duncan, and Conawago darted through the shadows. Duncan lost track of where they were, was only vaguely aware that they moved away in a wide curve from the lamps of Market Street for several minutes then back toward them. At last Marston led them to the back door of a house, fumbled with a key, then opened the door.

  The first-floor windows of the house were cleverly rigged with dark canvas mounted on pins and pulleys, which Marston now lowered like sails to block out the glass before opening the screen on his lantern. “The owner is away,” he announced. “He would not object to you borrowing the house. In fact he is certain to be delighted when I tell him the circumstances.”

  It was a simple, comfortable dwelling, its only trappings of luxury the scores of books in the front room. Not just a library, D
uncan saw, as Marston lit more candles. Large Leyden jars stood in ranks along a table by one wall. Another table was cluttered with an odd assortment that included strange cast-iron shapes, stuffed birds, a globe, disassembled spectacles, two clocks, lenses, a dead dragonfly, and a wooden tray of lead type.

  “You must not attract attention,” Marston warned. “Beds are on the second floor, but no lights near the windows.”

  As they followed him up the stairway Duncan paused and looked at a strange leather hat hanging by the front door, shaped like a helmet but with a broad visor. “From the fire company,” Marston said absently and gestured him on.

  Conawago was next to pause, studying a strange device on the stairway wall. Two metal strips emerged from the ceiling and entered a wooden box, at the bottom of which was a small brass bell.

  “We invented this detector several years ago. When there is a charge collecting in the atmosphere before a storm it will ring. His is likely the first in the world, though I have been trying to duplicate it in my attic.”

  “His?” Conawago asked, then his eyes lit with recognition, and he grinned at Duncan.

  “As I said, he is in London as agent for the provincial government these three years past. What family is left has gone on a visit to Boston for several months. He asked me to watch things, lets me borrow such instruments as I may need.”