Eye of the Raven

by Eliot Pattison

  Duncan cast a pointed glance at the four rough-looking men hovering nearby. “That remains to be seen.”

  Ramsey lifted an eyebrow. “These men are deputized by our esteemed court.”

  Duncan eyed the stranger, an older man with the air of a courtier. “I look forward to experiencing such a court.”

  There was a quick movement at his side. The man holding the leash dropped a small object into the curved plate on his arm and began twisting the chain, tightening it. Duncan jerked back as a needle of pain shot up his shoulder. The man had dropped a little barbed ball into the harness to dig into his muscle. It was not a leash. It was a torture device.

  “Save your ironies, McCallum. You have no audience for them here. In fact these men are charged with making certain your words have been subdued by the time we arrive back in Philadelphia. My disappointments in New York were all because I failed to see you properly broken to the harness. There is a special enclosed wagon arriving tonight, equipped with other useful devices,” Ramsey announced with a cold smile. “It will be a memorable journey for you. I understand they have a team of deaf horses, so your screams will not startle them.” Ramsey’s thin laugh was obediently joined in by his minions. Duncan ventured another look backward. The Highland soldier had been blocked at the door by two of Ramsey’s deputies.

  “We have put our idle time here to good use,” Ramsey explained, emptying the glass of wine beside him. He pointed to a freshly drawn document, a new indenture. “We have of course given you credit for the time since you stepped off the boat. Six years and three months remaining.”

  “My indenture was assigned to your daughter. She has the document at the settlement in New York.”

  Ramsey gave a shrug. “So far away. The mountains between here and there are high. Everyone knows I brought a company of Scottish bondsmen from Britain last year. We just want to perfect the title, as it were, for the Pennsylvania province.” The bespectacled man at his side nodded approvingly. Ramsey raised his empty wineglass and turned to a side door. “Where is that damned girl?”

  The lawyer lifted the document and extended it to Ramsey, who ceremoniously lifted a quill from a silver inkpot and signed it as Mokie appeared with a freshly decanted bottle of wine. She glanced at Duncan then averted her eyes to the floor. She was breathing heavily.

  Ramsey extended the quill to Duncan as Mokie filled his glass. The barb on his arm bit deeper. He looked dully at the pot of ink, gestured for it. As Ramsey pushed the pot to the side of the parchment, Duncan upended it onto the paper.

  The little barbs digging into his flesh felt like a dozen knives. He groaned, closing his eyes against the new pain, hearing only Ramsey’s furious curses at first, then a hammering like the drums of battle. Boots. Soldiers’ boots. He heard a protest behind him, the sound of a quick blow, and a groan as one of the deputies doubled over. Suddenly McGregor was at his side, his face clenched in fury. He grabbed the chain on Duncan’s arm and loosened it, throwing it to the floor, stomping on the curved plate. The barbed ball that rolled away was covered in blood. A moment later Magistrate Brindle stepped into the room.

  “This man,” he declared, “is remanded for assistance in concluding the treaty.” Duncan glanced at Mokie. She had been running. Brindle’s chambers were a quarter mile away.

  “We conduct a purely private contract matter here,” Ramsey observed in a level voice. “We do not require your assistance, Brindle.” As he spoke the judge beside him dabbed at the parchment, trying to salvage it.

  “The governor has directed that the treaty is the paramount purpose of our mission to Bethlehem.” Brindle paused, looking at the blood dripping to the floor from Duncan’s fingertips.

  “Of course. And a grand celebration shall there be when you return with the signed treaty in your hands. I understand,” Ramsey added in a pointed tone, “you are being considered for chief justice in the lower courts of Philadelphia. You are no doubt familiar with Justice Bradford, who sits on the Supreme Judicial Court for the entire colony.”

  Brindle would not be baited. “Should either of you wish to dispute me, you may send a petition to the governor in Philadelphia. In the meantime I shall conduct treaty business as I see fit.”

  The older judge finally found his voice. “The matter of the murders rests with me, Brother Brindle,” he intoned in warning. His voice had the crisp, refined tones of London. He was, Duncan suspected, only recently arrived from England.

  “A somber responsibility, your honor.” Brindle returned the justice’s stare. “I have no doubt you are consulting with God and your conscience to assure justice is served.”

  “These matters will not be settled in a storm of lightning and brimstone,” the lace-collared judge put in, raising a snigger from Ramsey. “We are ordained to do the justice of men, not that of the Old Testament.” Not all the leaders of the colony, Duncan reminded himself, were Quakers. “My authority derives from the proprietor of the Penn colony,” Bradford continued, “not the proprietor of heaven. And we shall see whose authority prevails tomorrow. With the dawn comes the time for king and empire.”

  Duncan saw the magistrate’s fists tighten, the color rise on his face. McGregor gestured a soldier to Duncan’s side before steering the Quaker away from the table.

  “What did he mean?” Duncan asked the Highland sergeant as they left the building. “About tomorrow being a day for empire?”

  “’Tis the last day,” McGregor explained. “The governor and the general have decreed it, in a message from Philadelphia. Plans for the new western forts are finished. Construction must begin. Brindle has been charged with sending the treaty to Philadelphia with a fast rider by dusk tomorrow. They say they know the Indians will sign, provided a firm hand is taken.”

  Only when the jail door had been finally barred behind him and Duncan was once again the cellmate of Skanawati did he realize McGregor had stuffed a note into his belt as they had left the Gemeinhaus. It was from Reverend Macklin. I have discovered that there is a book somewhere in the Gemeinhaus, Duncan read, that records the true names of the adoptees after their families stepped forward.

  The Gemeinhaus an hour before midnight had the air of an old German castle. Conawago had listened attentively at the side of the jail that evening, then dismissed Duncan’s suggestion that they meet under the high moon behind the huge log building. But when Duncan had pressed, insisting that they first hide one of the long Moravian coats and a black hat for him under a nearby oak then be ready with Moses, he had acquiesced. Still he had seemed surprised to find Duncan walking freely down the path in Moravian garb and had pushed the coat back to reveal the soot from the chimney. Even now as Moses led them by candlelight down the long hall of the building Conawago kept looking back. From his expression, however, Duncan could see that his real disbelief was that Duncan would leave the jail and choose to delve into the secret vaults of the Moravians rather than fleeing.

  Reverend Macklin had been willing to explain the nature of the journals they sought, and even offered to join them, but they would not risk his being caught by the elders. There were two offices at the eastern end of the second floor holding cabinets of books, the keys for which were secreted on the top corner of each cabinet. Moses led them through the heavy door at the entrance, into a large central hall that smelled of pine and beeswax. The two Indians moved with instinctive stealth past the huge case clock at the rear of the hall then into the eastern corridor, staying in the darkest shadow, pausing at a sudden sound, continuing as they realized it was but a twig scraping against a window in the spring breeze.

  They made their way up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor, into an office that overlooked the street. Conawago watched the hall, Duncan the street as Moses opened a cabinet and searched its shelves of ledgers and journals. After a few minutes Duncan joined him, starting with the top shelf. Foodstuffs for Single Brethren House 1755 read the title page of the first volume he opened, Linens and Sundries for the Sisters House 1758 on
the next, then Supplies for Missions 1757, and Inhabitants of God’s Acre. The Moravians were a fastidious people.

  “God’s Acre?” Duncan asked.

  “The cemetery,” Moses explained.

  He quickly leafed through it. “Indians are buried there?”

  “Those who wish it,” Moses said absently as he surveyed another book. “There is an old yard of Indian burial scaffolds two miles up the river trail.” He raised the journal in his hand. “Rolls of the Returned Souls,” he read from the title page. “It’s what the early teachers called those returning from the tribes.” He laid the book on the table in the center of the room and pushed the candle closer. The list grew longer each year, the names after the first two years acquiring narrative descriptions under each. “1757,” he recited and ran his finger along the list. “Rohrbach,” he read, “Mueller, Gottlieb.” His finger stopped at the last name. “Smith.”

  The first entry for the boy returned from the Hurons was brief, in a feminine hand. Moses translated from the German as he read. Estimated age 17, it read, returned by trappers on the Ohio. Very little English, no German. Apparently taken at an early age. After first bath, found in kitchens covering skin with bacon grease. Refuses to sleep in a bed. It required the efforts of four brothers to restrain him when we cut off his long blond braids. I am convinced there is a deep soul trying to come out if we can only reach it. The entry was signed S. Leinbach.

  There were more entries describing the classes, the program for the Returned Souls. Smith was noted for remarkable progress, but was also pulled from a hayloft while trying to fornicate with one of the Moravian Indian girls and was repeatedly cited by Sister Leinbach for missing prayer services, ripping pages from Bibles, even releasing a snake in Sunday chapel.

  “His adoption,” Duncan said in an urgent tone. “We need the adoption records.”

  Moses quickly leafed through the rest of the pages. “Not here. A separate book apparently. They would not want the adopted returnees to easily piece together their prior life. A clean break is sought.” He stood, returning the book, closed the cabinet, and led them into the adjoining room, which judging by its furnishings was the office of an important personage.

  “Leave everything as we find it,” Moses warned, discomfort entering his voice for the first time. “This is the bishop’s office.”

  Duncan and Conawago carefully opened the cabinet beside the large desk, finding financial records, birth and death records, ledgers of immigrants from Germany, even several Bibles of various sizes.

  “The bishop interviews the families in great detail and records his findings,” Moses whispered when their search proved fruitless. “The decision on adoption rests with him.”

  “And anyone who has been adopted would know this, would know the bishop kept such notes?” Duncan asked.

  “Of course. And often the decision is made in the spring, before the summer work begins.”

  “Which means,” Conawago said, “that he would be writing in the same journal now, making entries even today.”

  Moses nodded. “He often works late, making use of the evening light at the table by the window.” The table was the one piece of furniture they had not touched. Duncan held the candle close, illuminating a long single drawer underneath. Conawago tried it and found it locked.

  “Not locked,” Duncan said, pointing to a small wedge of wood that had been jammed into the gap between the drawer and the frame around it. “Only made to appear so.” He knelt, studying the lock carefully, pointing out the way the wood had been slightly splintered around it. Popping out the wedge, he pulled on the drawer. It was empty save for a few quills and a quill knife.

  “I saw the bishop working at this table this very evening,” Moses said. “He waved from the window. This tampering happened tonight, after he left.”

  “If you knew the building, and the routines of its inhabitants, what would be the safest way to steal the book?” Duncan asked.

  It was Conawago who answered. “Enter while the daily business is underway and hide, then take the book and leave in the middle of the night. Perhaps take a nap, wait for the big clock in the central hall to strike midnight since many of the faithful keep working until they need sleep.”

  It was a long chance, but the only one they had. Duncan glanced at the smaller clock on the bishop’s desk and lowered his voice to a whisper. “In a quarter hour.”

  “Then we must make ready now,” Moses confirmed, and he turned to look back into the hallway. “Upstairs would be the place to hide. There is another floor, then an attic, neither used as much as the lower ones.”

  Duncan blew out the candle and quickly conferred with his companions. At either end of the second floor was a set of stairs to the third floor, then one central one to the attic, all three with doors into the stairwells. They quickly placed a tall chair stacked with books against the one at the west end, leaving Conawago to watch there. Then Duncan and Moses crept up to the third floor. The first two chambers were storerooms stacked with crates against the walls. They positioned themselves in the open doorways on either side of the hallway. As they settled in Duncan began hearing small sounds and occasional creaks of boards. Such a huge log building would have noises of its own, Duncan told himself, and no doubt hosted more than a few rodents.

  The large clock downstairs chimed a hymn then struck the hour on a big bell that resonated throughout the building. Less than a minute later Duncan heard something new, a succession of squeaks from floor boards, and he ventured a look down the corridor. In the moonlight cast through the window at the far end of the hall was a new shadow, a figure creeping along the wall toward the far stairs. Moses was on his feet, ready to spring their trap once the man was forced to retreat to the stairs they guarded.

  But the intruder did not retreat. Moments after he slipped into the stairwell, they heard the sound of pounding, then a splintering of wood.

  “Conawago!” Duncan cried, and leapt down the stairs. By the time he reached the second floor the sounds of struggle were unmistakable. The old Nipmuc was holding his own, sitting against the door, pushing with all his might as someone on the other side hacked at the thin wood with a hand ax. “A table!” Duncan called, as he reached his friend’s side. “I will bring a table to press against the door!”

  But his words were enough. The sounds from the other side instantly stopped. Without an instant’s hesitation Conawago flung the door open and was in chase, Duncan at his heels. At the top of the stairs they could see Moses silhouetted at the far end, his hand raised in signal. Their quarry was in one of the chambers off the hallway. Duncan darted into the first room, leaving Conawago to watch the hall. He found a broom and recklessly probed the shadows with its handle, aware that the intruder could be armed. But he had no time for caution. Every minute increased the likelihood he would be missed from the jail.

  Finally, in the third room, a figure sprang out from behind a crate. Duncan jumped forward, seizing the man’s leg. “The book!” he called to Conawago, who leapt toward them, knocking the journal from the man’s hand then launching a stack of dusty ledgers from a small table as the two men fell.

  “Bastard!” the stranger cursed in English, lashing out with his elbows, kicking off Duncan’s grip, and slamming a fist into the old Indian’s belly before grabbing his book and leaping up to flee along the hall. As he did so he uttered an urgent command in a tribal tongue.

  “There are two!” Conawago warned, and an instant later Duncan heard a familiar hiss. He flattened against the wall as the arrow rushed by, not expecting the second arrow that quickly followed the first. He heard with dread the thud as the arrow hit, heard the gasp as Conawago dropped to the floor.

  Duncan stood paralyzed a moment, stricken with fear for his friend, glancing at the shadowy shapes.

  “Go!” Conawago groaned. Duncan willed himself to move forward, gathering speed as he ran down the hall. Suddenly a war whoop erupted and one of the shapes launched himself out the window. The
n all was silent.

  He was back at Conawago’s side in an instant. His comrade leaned against the wall, an arrow protruding from his chest.

  “Noooooo!” Duncan moaned as he knelt.

  “It quite . . . takes the wind out of you,” Conawago said, his breathing labored.

  “They have a hospital here,” Duncan said, cursing the low light as he lifted his hands to probe the wound, praying the arrow had struck in a rib and not a vital organ. “Where is the pain?” he asked.

  “Like I said,” Conawago said in a lighter, more level voice, “it takes the wind out of you.” With a shove of unexpected strength, he pushed Duncan away then stretched out his hands, extending a heavy journal. As he did so the arrow too came away from his chest. A moment later Moses arrived with a candle, and Duncan could clearly see the projectile. It was embedded in the book, which had slammed into Conawago’s chest with the impact.

  “The fool took the wrong book,” Conawago declared.

  “Judging by these others,” Moses said as he opened two of the journals scattered across the floor. “He made off with one of the annual reports of linen usage in the Sisters House.”

  A thin croak left Conawago’s throat, then Moses chuckled, and suddenly they were all three laughing with abandon.

  “The one who leapt out the window,” Duncan finally asked. “Did he not know he was on the third floor?” It now seemed clear the second man had slipped down the stairs in the confusion.

  “He must have assumed he would land on soft grass,” Moses answered. “But instead it is cobblestone where he landed. And in the air his foot became entangled with his bow. He did not get up.”

  The Indian outside had broken his neck, Duncan confirmed as he bent over the body a minute later. He turned the head toward the light.

  “One of those from the barn in Philadelphia,” Conawago declared.

  Down the street men had begun to shout. “Take the body to the Iroquois camp,” Duncan said hurriedly. “Make sure Old Belt finds the other outlaws camped with this one. They are taking Ramsey money. Make him understand the truth, how they are all being manipulated by Ramsey and Felton. Take the book to Brindle, explain the truth about his nephew. I must get back to Skanawati.”