But no one else laughed, no one else believed Old Belt had any intention of reopening discussions. Brindle wrapped his hands around his prayer book, gripping it until his knuckles were white. All watched wordlessly as Ramsey hovered over Judge Bradford, directing him to a piece of parchment crowded with writing. Skanawati looked on with a curious expression as the Philadelphia judge signed his death warrant.
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS NOT soldiers who escorted Skanawati from the jail to the gallows but the remaining Iroquois. Duncan had been returned with the Onondaga after the death sentence had been decreed, but had been in the jail only a few minutes before McGregor permitted Old Belt to take Duncan’s place in the little stone structure. Now Old Belt led Skanawati from the jail with his Mohawk guard at his sides. McGregor followed a few steps behind, carrying the shackles that he had removed from his prisoner.
Skanawati, seeming to know Duncan was to be removed, had solemnly addressed his cellmate. “You must not grieve, McCallum. Know this,” he said, draping his strand of sacred beads over his own wrist. “On the night after I first met you and Conawago on the trail by Ligonier, I had a dream. In my dream I was being hanged as a murderer, and afterward my people returned to the old ways.” Duncan could only stare at the beads forlornly. There had never been any hope, he knew now. The spirits had spoken to Skanawati, and dreams had to be obeyed.
The crowd by the gibbet had been gathering for hours, one group of Moravians reciting prayers in low voices, alternating with another group that sang somber hymns. Duncan had been in the custody of two of the Scottish soldiers much of the afternoon, but had been allowed to sit and talk with Hadley and Conawago, conferring in low, urgent tones as Ramsey paced along the street, futilely waiting for the chieftains to confer with him. They had seen the hangman, a thin scarecrow of a man, ascend the gallows, and they had watched, tormented, as the executioner had tested the rope and trap door with sacks of grain. Duncan had also seen the man’s worried, troubled expression, seen how he fidgeted with his rope before descending to kneel in front of Reverend Macklin as the missionary offered a prayer for him.
The crowd’s murmurs and prayers subsided as Skanawati approached, and the onlookers opened a wide corridor to give him passage. Duncan watched as Skanawati gestured for his escort to halt by the Scottish guards who kept the crowd back, twenty feet from the scaffold. He turned and went from man to man among the Iroquois, a hand on each warrior’s shoulder in turn as, his face open and peaceful, he spoke a few words to each. Conawago was there, and Moses, and when the chief finished speaking with them he paused, searching the silent faces. Stepping to Duncan, he grasped his hand in both of his own, rattling the chains that bound the Scot.
“Remember this, McCallum,” Skanawati said in a clear, untroubled voice, “the spirits intended that your clan and mine meet. I will seek out your old uncle on the other side and have him sing me some of those songs he died for.”
Duncan, unable to speak past the swelling in his throat, nodded and offered a forced, anguished smile.
Last came Old Belt, who paused and pulled one of the eagle feathers from his braid and placed it in Skanawati’s own hair. The two chieftains stared at each other for a long, silent moment, then Skanawati solemnly nodded and broke away. As he stepped out in the pool of sunlight that bathed the gallows, head held high, his body glistened with fresh oil that highlighted his many spirit tattoos.
“Good riddance to murderers!” One of the Philadelphia men called out, then threw an egg that broke against the chief’s knee. McGregor materialized before the man, hammered a fist into his belly, and the heckler crumpled to the ground. Someone raised a furious, high-pitched protest at the back of the crowd. Ramsey was trying to approach the gibbet, but the Moravians and Indians pressed together whenever he tried to enter, blocking his passage. One of the aristocrat’s men loudly cursed and tried to shove through. A kilted soldier swung a truncheon, dropping him senseless to the ground.
Several of the Moravian women began to sob as Skanawati climbed the stairs. Mokie, crying uncontrollably, buried her head in Hadley’s chest. Conawago began a low chant.
It was all impossible, all unreal. For the past weeks Duncan had been driven by the certainty that he would save the innocent man in the end, that justice would intervene at the last moment. But now the hour of death had arrived and Duncan was helpless. The magistrate, tormented though he may be, was equally powerless. Now there were only Skanawati and the German hangman, who nodded awkwardly at the Onondaga chief, before glancing at Reverend Macklin below. With a stricken expression he regarded the noose in his hand as Skanawati lifted his hands and held them, open, over the German’s heart a moment. Speaking a final prayer, he placed the noose over his own head.
“My name is Skanawati, son of the Onondaga, chief of the turtle clan,” he called out in a clear, ringing voice that had no trace of fear. He spoke not to the crowd but to the sky. “My people are the original people. They will not be forgotten.” He paused, cocking his head, then an unexpected joy rose on his face.
High overhead, a raven was circling.
Skanawati looked back at the hangman, who seemed paralyzed. The German retreated a step. With a frantic hope Duncan saw he was not going to push the lever that dropped the hatch below the noose.
Skanawati offered the man a grateful nod. “My name is Skanawati,” he called out once more to the spirits, then touched the fur amulet that hung from his neck and, with a long stretching kick, slammed the lever. The door opened and his body dropped.
The terrible silence as the body twitched, then went still, was like none Duncan had ever known. Half the bystanders openly wept, the remainder did not speak, could not speak. Every tongue, whether Indian, German, English, or Scottish, was numbed. The swinging rope creaked in the gibbet. From somewhere high overhead came the deep, throaty call of the raven.
The Iroquois warriors began a death chant. Under a nearby chestnut several Moravians began a quiet hymn.
Duncan forced himself to turn from the wrenching scene. He caught McGregor’s eye, nodding for him to follow, then found Magistrate Brindle staring transfixed at the body, gripped his arm, and led him away.
Three hours later Duncan stood panting at the edge of a clearing by the river trail, rubbing the chafed skin where the manacles had scraped his wrists, anxiously watching the wide river trail, resisting the temptation to call out to verify the stage had been set as he had instructed. His freedom, his very life, had hung by a thread after the hanging, for Ramsey had been in a white-hot fury, in no mood to be denied anything. Duncan shuddered as he recalled the poison in Ramsey’s eyes when he and Judge Bradford had come upon Duncan and Brindle talking, minutes after Skanawati’s body had been cut down.
“You bungling fool!” Ramsey snarled at the Quaker. “You have lost the treaty for us!”
“I prefer to think of it as preserving our honor,” Brindle replied in a quiet voice. “I daresay it will be years before the Iroquois speak to us again about land.”
“The governor shall hear of this!” Ramsey barked. “The proprietor himself!” As he signaled for one of his men to retrieve Duncan, the patron’s face flushed with rage. He would make Duncan pay for his losses, would start that very day.
“I am afraid,” Brindle interjected, “that Mr. McCallum remains my prisoner.”
“To hell you say!” Ramsey shot back. “He is mine. Your jurisdiction over him is finished.” Ramsey gestured to his judge, as if it was Bradford’s cue.
“There are still inquests into the other deaths,” Brindle said, staring only at Ramsey. “He will be a key witness.”
“Do not be so bold as to suggest you will keep him from me!” Ramsey put a hand on the shoulder of his judge, as if about to push him forward.
“I suggest you will not have him until I am finished with him. You will need an order from the governor, who shall hear from me of the strange dealings in the stock of the Susquehanna Company and the coincidence of calamities that
forced the sales of its stock to you.” The color began to drain from Judge Bradford’s face. He retreated, stepping toward the coach that waited behind them. “We shall see you in Philadelphia.”
Ramsey’s face grew apoplectic. “You are ruined! No chief judgeship, not this year, not ever! You’ll be lucky to keep your post!” Ramsey spun about and climbed into his coach.
“He means it,” Duncan said as they watched the dust cloud from the team.
“Men like that will not always have the power in this land,” Brindle said quietly. It had the sound of a vow.
Duncan settled now onto a fallen log, pretending to be adjusting his moccasin but instead studying the long latticework shadow at his side and behind him. The old Indian cemetery, this one with aboveground scaffolds traditional to the local tribes, was exactly where Conawago had described. The tall wooden frames had been erected many years earlier at the bend in the river. Some had crumbled to the ground long ago, but at least two dozen still lay in the shadows, feathers and tattered pieces of fur hanging from many, the fur blankets used to cover the dead still intact on several newer ones. The ground was taboo to Indian and European alike.
Duncan was still sitting on the log when the lean blond man rode up and dismounted, calling out to the two Indian companions who had been running alongside him, following the conspicuous tracks Duncan had left from Bethlehem. The two Indians faded into the shadows, flanking Duncan, trapping him.
The timing had been a close thing. It had taken nearly an hour for McGregor to find a position out of sight of the townspeople but still in view of Felton’s men who drank outside the inn. McGregor had played his part perfectly. Turning his back for a moment, the sergeant had provided the opening for Duncan to feign a blow with doubled fists onto his neck, dropping McGregor to the ground so Duncan could steal the keys to his manacles. Freed, Duncan had fled up the river trail, with just enough light left in the day for his tracks to be read.
He now watched as Felton paced around the pool of fading sunlight, letting him grow impatient, watched as Felton lifted a skull from where it had dropped from a scaffold, then picked up two sticks and pressed them together into a makeshift racquet. Lifting the skull like a lacrosse ball, he juggled it in the air then lofted it, smashing it against the log Duncan sat on.
“I should have known when I saw you performing lacrosse tricks in the tavern,” Duncan said.
The Quaker scout’s hand rested on the tomahawk on his belt. “You slipped your master again, McCallum. Please keep it up. I shall make a rich career of catching you and collecting the bounty.”
“So it was you who hit me from the back in the Walnut Street prison.”
“Of course. Twenty Spanish dollars for that one. I’ll demand more this time. The market for your head increases every day.”
“Your career is over,” came another voice. Moses stepped from behind a tree.
“Come to offer me a prayer, old woman?” Felton sneered.
“Everyone was always looking in the wrong direction,” Duncan observed, keeping his eye on Felton’s tomahawk. “First suspecting the French, then the Iroquois as you intended.”
“I hate the Iroquois. Always have.”
“You were a Huron most of your life.”
“I had taken five Iroquois scalps before I was fifteen.”
“Then,” Duncan continued with a shudder, “we kept puzzling over different bands of Indians who might be the murderers, wondering why Burke would have been involved. Of course if I had but known Ramsey had his hand in, I would have looked for bribery and subterfuge in Philadelphia from the outset.”
“An outlaw and a dried-up old Jesus Indian,” Felton said. “You’re wasting your breath to complain.”
“It was that connection between the violence and the band of Philadelphia investors that was so well-hidden. A killer in the wilderness who knew all the surveyors seemed so unlikely, a savage who knew the pigpen code impossible. Were you also involved in those accidents that beset the investors in the land company? There was a ship burned in the harbor, a warehouse leveled near the wharfs.”
“A lantern through a cargo hatch, another thrown through a window. The work of a few minutes, for so very much money.”
“And you and Burke needed money, for your new enterprise.”
Felton looked back toward the broad river path, where his horse stood grazing in the moonlight with his rifle on its saddle.
“I doubt Lord Ramsey understands how fastidious the Moravians are about their records. Every orphan is recorded, every returned Indian slave, every former captive has entries, because they mean to keep helping those unfortunate souls whenever they can. Of course you had no need. You left them behind. You turned your back on their charity.”
“They are women,” Felton scoffed.
“They wrote things, in the interest of helping you. You were one of the most difficult of all the captives who returned from the tribes. They thought it was because of the trauma of shifting between worlds. Their hearts were too generous to see that it was because you had already become a predator years earlier, because you ran with Huron raiding parties for years and took scalps of settlers and Iroquois alike. You had a blood lust that would not be cured by soap and britches. A Huron raider in Quaker clothes. Your relatives in Philadelphia gave you every privilege, a scholar’s education, rubbing shoulders with scholars, but there was a place inside none of that could ever reach. Even when you had decided to take on your Quaker mantle to exploit the pleasures of Philadelphia you couldn’t resist killing Sister Leinbach.”
“All the syllables in all their books,” Felton said in a tone that sent a chill down Duncan’s spine, “don’t begin to equal the thrill of the war cry when you descend on an enemy camp.”
“She was just a woman full of her God,” Moses interjected. “There was never evil in her hand.”
“She would beat me, invent punishments meant to shame me. A true warrior never forgets a captor who beats him. I had to gag her when I brought her here, to stop all those damned prayers.”
The light was fading fast now. Duncan pressed on. “It seemed an impossible combination,” he said, “the bloody violence and the scholar’s code. It was a unique puzzle. And you are the unique solution.”
Felton grinned and took a sideways step toward his horse. He was fast, Duncan knew. If he reached his rifle he could kill them both, one with a bullet, and one with his tomahawk.
“Did you kill them all yourself or just watch as your renegades did it?”
“You were there today. The killer was hanged, on the word of a senior judge, after a proper trial.”
“Not a trial. A theatrical performance staged by Ramsey. You killed Burke. You were visiting your Huron friends just down the valley the night before. Mokie saw you. I saw you, the back of your head, though I didn’t realize it until now. I had you in the sights of my rifle. You were expecting Van Grut at the tree. Finding Burke there alone was a bonus, a victim sure to heat up relations between the Iroquois and the Virginians. Your plan had already been launched, you had no need for Burke any longer. You could probably convince Ramsey to pay extra since Burke’s death would mask crucial evidence and save Ramsey the considerable money promised Burke.”
“He refused to pay. Because Van Grut was still alive.”
“So you tried for Van Grut in Philadelphia.”
“Interfered with again.”
Felton glanced back at the trail and froze for a moment. His horse was gone. He retreated a step and gave a low whistle.
“It is blasphemy to disturb the graves the way you did,” Moses put in. He was there not because of the murders on the Warriors Path but because of Sister Leinbach.
“I am beginning to change my mind about taking a bounty,” Felton mocked them. “I can find enough room for both of you right here.” He gave another soft whistle, then looked into the shadows with new unease.
“They’re not coming,” Duncan said. As he spoke four more men appeared, all Iroquois
in the black coats of the Moravians.
Felton merely lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea what Ramsey will want me to do to you when I bring you back?” he said to Duncan. “I might make more if I just sell the parts of your body to him, piece by piece. I believe I shall take you with us, find a quiet place in the woods to finish you slowly. Once when I was ten the Hurons brought back a Mohawk prisoner who was given to us, the children of the village. We tied him to a post and kept him alive for ten days, slicing a little more meat away each day. Don’t cut any big blood vessels, was what the squaws taught us.”
“I would gladly give up my freedom to avenge Skanawati.”
“Avenge?” Felton snorted. “You and these women? I know these Christian Indians. If I told them I was going to chop them all to death right now they would stand in line waiting, reciting from their little books.” Felton looked into the shadows again.
“Your band is gone, those two and all the others,” Duncan explained. “They will be taken before the Grand Council as traitors to their nation.”
Felton took a step toward the path, as if he were retreating, then crouched and spun about, cocking the little pistol that appeared in his hand as he brought it to bear on Duncan. He offered a victorious grin, but an instant before the pistol discharged his arm jerked up and the ball was lost in the foliage.
Felton gazed in disbelief at the arrow in his shoulder. Conawago stepped out of the shadows, holding his bow.
“I think,” Duncan said, “you misunderstand something.” He signaled to the men in the dark coats, and they dropped them to the ground. Their chests glistened in the moonlight, reflecting fresh war paint. “We only borrowed the coats so they could move about the town freely.” The four men stepped out of the deep shadow. One of the Indians tossed something into the moonlight at Felton’s feet. A painted turtle shell. Another raised a strand of beads, a sign of Old Belt’s authority. Felton’s eyes suddenly went round with fear.
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