“But the Jesuits kept me for seven years, took me to Europe. I came back with gifts, with books, with new European clothes, with great plans for building a new village for my people. But they were gone. There was a new trading post there, new farms. I could barely recognize the land. There was only one of my family left, an old uncle who had become a drunk. He laughed when I said who I was, said I was dead. I discovered that my mother had refused to leave the land, saying she was waiting for me, until the trader there convinced her I was dead, made up a letter saying so and read it to her. She believed written words were magic, that they could never lie.
“For years I tried to find them, following the trail of every camp of Indians forced to move by the settlements. Some old Lenni Lenape said I should go to the Ohio for them. In the Ohio country they said maybe I should look along the Niagara. There they said to try the Kentucky lands. Eventually I went back to the Mohawks, lived with Hendrick, sometimes Tashgua.”
“In New York harbor,” Duncan ventured, “there was a man with a staff walking away after the attack. It was you who shot those arrows, and the staff was your bow.”
“It was a signal Adam had arranged, to let the Ramsey tutor know I was there. We were supposed to meet at a tavern the next day. I waited two days, but you never came.”
“The first arrow wasn’t a signal.”
“I had seen how the captain mistreated the old one, kicked him even when they were dragging him to the wagon. I feared he was about to do the same to you.”
“If it weren’t for that arrow,” Duncan offered, “I would be on the way to Jamaica.”
“You gave up all that sunshine for this,” Conawago said.
They exchanged small, melancholy grins.
Their silence was broken by the loud crack of Woolford’s rifle. An arrow whirled overhead, then another. Two rifles answered the ranger’s shot. Conawago leapt to Woolford’s side, his ax in his hand. The Huron war cries seemed to come from every direction. Duncan grabbed his tomahawk. Then, as suddenly as it started, it ended. His companions settled back as Woolford loaded the last round in his rifle. The forest went deathly quiet.
“I want to attend to McGregor,” Duncan announced after another long silence.
“Attend?” Woolford asked.
“A funeral of some kind. A farewell for an old Scot forced from his Highland home.”
He felt Woolford’s withering gaze through the darkness. He expected a rebuke, a curse, even a bitter laugh. “What would you say to a burial at sea?” the ranger asked instead.
Woolford joined in preparing the body as Conawago watched the moonlit forest. With small vines they tied his feet together, then bound his arms across his chest after setting several flat rocks inside his shirt. Duncan retrieved his pipes from his pack as Woolford dragged the body to the edge of the cliff, then began a slow, sad tune. When he finished, they flanked the body.
“He died on his feet, in battle,” Duncan offered.
“‘He who dies pays all debts,’” Woolford added, ever ready with Shakespeare. Then they tipped the body over the edge. Duncan lingered, gazing into the silvery water, then lifted his pipes again.
“Enough,” the ranger said. “It just makes you a better target.”
Duncan ignored the warning. He played another lament, and another, not aware of when Woolford returned to Conawago’s side. An icy hand gripped his heart as he realized it was for his own funeral, too. By dawn he would be scattered in pieces among the rocks, his scalp hanging from some Huron’s belt.
The thought caused him to falter, to break the rhythm of his song. But then he smelled fresh heather and the scent of wool long steeped in the smoke of peat. He dared not turn for fear of ending the spell, but he knew his grandfather was lingering close by. He remembered that in the old Highland regiments there were those who did not fight but only played the pipes throughout the heat of battle. They were always conspicuous targets, but they never stopped playing. If a piper received a mortal wound, he would be braced against a tree and keep piping, his last breath on earth exhaling through the reeds.
He played as he had never played before, drawing the notes out, pausing only to slip the tomahawk and knife into his belt, at the ready. After several minutes he leapt atop a tall, flat column, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He would make it a Highland death after all, with a blade in one hand, pipes in the other, and his grandfather at his side.
Chapter Fourteen
The first rays of the sun woke him where he had leaned against a rock an hour before dawn. He leapt up with a groan, tomahawk in hand, shamed at not having maintained the vigil.
Conawago and Woolford were watching the forest intently, chewing on strips of dried venison from Conawago’s bag. Woolford’s weary countenance remained fixed on the shadows below as Conawago nodded to Duncan and offered him a piece of the meat.
“They never came,” Duncan said in a confused tone.
“In the forest,” the old Indian said, “there’s always a bigger predator to steal your kill.”
Duncan looked down the slope in alarm. The three bodies that had been visible were gone. The forest was silent. No birds greeted the dawn, no small animals scurried among the trees. He shuddered to think of what possibly could have frightened the fierce Huron warriors.
Duncan bent to stow his pipes in his bag, wondering whether he should ballast it and throw it over the cliff to rest with old McGregor instead of allowing the pipes to be destroyed in the final attack. He chewed the venison, gazing for a moment at the pool below, where the old Scot lay, then took a step toward Woolford and abruptly flung himself against a rock. A warrior stood at the bottom of the hill.
Duncan grabbed the third rifle, aimed, and was about to pull the trigger when Woolford pushed the barrel down. “Aiming a gun, even an empty one, is not what you want to be doing to this gentleman,” the ranger said in a strained voice.
“Haudenosaunee,” Conawago whispered. “An Onondaga,” he added, though there was no relief in his voice.
Duncan would never have guessed the man was an ally. He was dressed in a breechcloth and leggings, his body adorned with red and black paint in a speckled pattern, a war ax in one hand. In his other hand the warrior held a painted stick on which was impaled a small creature, clad in white fur. He searched his memory for what he had learned of the Iroquois tribes. The Onondaga were the center nation, the keeper of the council fires for all the tribes.
Woolford warily stepped away from his cover, his palms open and empty at his side, then uttered a syllable of greeting.
The warrior did not reply.
Conawago stood, also without his weapons, and motioned Duncan to do likewise. Duncan did not miss the hesitation in the stranger’s eyes as he saw Conawago, the brief look of human chagrin before the predator’s face returned.
As the stranger took several steps forward, Conawago called out, speaking quietly in the Iroquois tongue, asking questions. The warrior softened slightly but did not reply except to ask his own question, pointing at Duncan.
Conawago spoke again, gesturing to Woolford and himself. The Iroquois’ face darkened and he turned toward Woolford. He seemed to know Conawago and did not wish to speak with him. There was no need to translate the anger in his voice when he replied.
Conawago sighed and turned to Duncan as the Iroquois stepped to within thirty feet of them. “He wants you to go with him.”
Duncan studied his companions, not comprehending the worry on their faces. “Who is he?”
“From the ones all in the Six Nations fear. The protectors of the sacred one. The singers of death. From the bear spirit himself.”
“Tashgua.” The name escaped Duncan’s lips like a moan. “Why me?”
“Because,” Conawago said in a hesitant tone, “he says you were the one who spoke with the gods last night. His name is Ravencatcher.”
“You know him?”
“He is the son of Tashgua. When he was young, I spent several seasons in his camp.
Since last year, he no longer trusts Europeans or those who have lived with them.”
“The dead thing on the stick,” Duncan said. “What does it mean?”
Woolford spoke this time, gesturing to the stick in the Iroquois’s hand.
The response came in a low, impatient voice.
“He says he did not come to weave words in empty air,” Woolford explained. “He wants to know if you are coming or not.”
“If I say no, are they going to attack us? If I say yes, are they going to attack you?”
“I don’t know,” Woolford admitted. “They’re angry as hell. It’s a killing season like no other.”
Duncan searched Conawago’s face. The old Indian shrugged. “The tracks before us are like none I have seen before.”
If he left his friends alone, Duncan realized, they still could face the Hurons, with one bullet left. Before he could reply, the Onondaga took another few steps forward and lifted the dead thing in his hand. Something in Duncan wanted to laugh, something else wanted to cringe. It was a wig, one of Ramsey’s short powdered wigs. Exposed underneath it, at the end of the stick, was the skull of a young bear. “Tell him the three of us go or none of us go.”
Woolford studied Duncan a moment, betraying no emotion, then translated.
The Iroquois spat an unhappy syllable, spun about, and without another word stepped back down the hill.
“He reluctantly accepts your terms,” Woolford explained, hastily gathering his equipment. “But he’s waiting for no one.”
Moments later they were leaving the rocks, Woolford in the lead. Duncan followed for several paces, then paused. The Pennsylvania long rifle was still leaning against a boulder. He hesitated a moment, scrambled back to retrieve the gun and its powder horn, then ran to join his friends.
The uneasy procession increased in number as they reached the adjoining ridge, with warriors materializing from behind trees and boulders, some even rising from shallow hollows in the forest floor, until they were a dozen in total, moving silently along the well-used trail at the gait of the forest runner. The scalp lock of one of the men in front of Duncan showed russet hairs. Another man, the only one with long locks, wore them plaited and pinned at the rear in the style of a sailor. His hair was the color of ripe barley.
As they paused at a spring to drink, Duncan approached the man with the plaited hair, who dressed with the breechcloth and leggings of the other Iroquois. To his arrow quiver was tied a small swatch of black-and-green tartan. Duncan asked him in Gaelic if he were a Gaidheal, a Highlander. The man’s reply was in the Indian tongue, spat over his shoulder as he rose and resumed the trail. Duncan recognized only one word. Haudenosaunee. When he looked to Woolford for an explanation, he saw the ranger on his belly, drinking from the stream. A passing Indian paused long enough to kick him in the ribs.
They were nearly inside the village before Duncan noticed the bark-covered longhouses in the shadows along the bottom of a low, steep ridge. At first the camp seemed abandoned. There were no dogs, no children, no crops, no sign of any activity. Four of the five habitations were in the shadow of large trees, beyond which lay a long, sandy groin at the edge of a river. In the distance was the low rumble of a waterfall. The fifth house was set apart from the others, beside two tall outcroppings like pillars, which flanked a well-worn trail up the ridge. The entry to the thirty-foot-long lodge was hung with animal skulls of all sizes and shapes. Over the door was one so huge it seemed impossible that it could ever have belonged to a flesh-and-blood creature. Its massive teeth seemed ready to close over anyone who dared trespass inside. A long string of massive bear claws hung down one side of the entry. Duncan found himself clutching the stone bear in his pocket as the Indians gathered up the rifles he and his friends carried, and he fought the temptation to offer it up and flee.
He was led to the far side of the clearing, a hundred feet from the solitary lodge, where a heavy log, stripped of bark, had been sunk in the ground. It was covered with painted images of animals and men. At its base, the bare earth was covered with ominous stains. With a start he saw that Woolford and Conawago were being led into the shadows by the other longhouses. As three somber warriors moved toward him, Duncan retreated, until suddenly he found himself backed against the painted post. His hands were seized from behind, and before he could resist, they were bound behind the post. Three more Indians appeared. Not Indians, he saw. Though their hair was darkened with grease, all of their locks were fair.
“My name is Duncan McCallum,” he declared in a taut voice. “From the Highlands nigh Lochlash.” He saw that each of them held stout lengths of wood only an instant before the nearest one hit him.
The blow to his abdomen doubled him over. “I am called Duncan, of Clan McCallum,” he gasped in Gaelic as he straightened. “From the-” The next blow took him on the shoulders, slamming his head against the post.
“From the English sewers where spies and other rodents are bred,” spat a lean, muscular man with the left half of his face painted black. The blows came quicker now, on his legs, on his ribs.
“The Pied Piper for all the redcoats,” one of the Scottish warriors snarled.
“The king’s lapdog,” muttered another as he landed a club on Duncan’s thigh.
But then he forgot the blows, let them fall as they would as he stared into the blue eyes of the black-painted man who seemed to be the leader of the Scottish warriors. His blond hair was shaved deep along the temples, but the remainder was plaited down his neck. There was hate in his eyes as he returned Duncan’s stare, but there was also something familiar.
“Jamie!” Duncan gasped. “Don’t let it be like this!”
His brother muttered something in the Iroquois tongue. A man produced a switch and slapped Duncan’s shoulder, raising a sting like a cat o’nine tails.
Words rose behind Jamie, Iroquois words in a low, forceful voice. Two of the Scots instantly backed away. The words grew sharper. Jamie launched the club from his hand into the air so that it tumbled end over end above them. As everyone else, even Duncan, watched it, Jamie seized the club in the hand of the nearest man and pummeled Duncan again, with a quick, vicious rhythm. “Don’t ever use the name of my clan again,” he warned in a scalding whisper. “You forfeited the right long ago.”
“Cut me loose and I’ll teach you not to speak to the eldest of your clan so,” Duncan shot back, in the Highland tongue.
Jamie’s club, aimed now for Duncan’s head, slowed, then twisted downward. Someone was pulling the end. He resisted with a violent shove, knocking the interloper to the ground, raising the club again only to have it seized in mid-swing.
Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment. As Jamie spun about in anger, all the other Scots stared uneasily toward his feet. Duncan’s mind, clouded by pain, saw only a pile of feathers at first, then as the onlookers gasped and rushed toward the feathers, they took on a feminine shape. It was a cloak of feathers, Duncan saw, and inside it was a woman with russet braids.
“Sarah!” he cried, twisting in his bindings, struggling now to be free, to help her.
But she needed no help. As Jamie looked down, he seemed to shrink. He released his grip on the club and silently watched as half a dozen hands reached down to help Sarah to her feet.
“What have you done?” she asked in an injured tone. It took a moment before Duncan realized she was addressing him, not his brother. “You made a promise.”
Before Duncan could reply, more Iroquois appeared, pulling Sarah away as he stared after her. She was alive. She had changed. She was no longer pale, no longer fearful. The Indians who escorted her did not have scorn in their eyes, but worry.
In a moment no one was left but his brother. Jamie’s eyes flared as a blade appeared in his hand. For a moment his brother hesitated, as if deciding where to sink it, then it flew downward to cut his bindings, and Jamie slipped away as a new figure materialized in front of the post, glaring at Duncan.
It was the Indian who had brought
him from the ridge that morning. His paint had been wiped away, so that for the first time Duncan saw his face clearly.
“A crow,” Duncan heard himself say as he saw the tattoo above the Indian’s jaw. “You have a crow on your cheek.”
“A raven,” the Indian replied in a calm voice, the first time Duncan had heard him speak any English. “When I was young, my father found me in a nest of ravens on a cliff, playing with the birds. When I became of age, I was given the name Ravencatcher, though I always thought it was the ravens who had caught me,” he added. Then, to his utter surprise, Duncan saw a small, quick grin.
“This morning at the ridge you didn’t-” Duncan began, then started over. “You speak English well.”
“I had a good teacher when I was a boy,” his voice seeming to wander for a moment. “An old Nipmuc.”
“I am called Duncan.”
The Iroquois replied with a sober nod, then turned, gesturing him to follow. As Duncan followed him, an adolescent girl in a deerskin dress darted out of the bone lodge. With a shy smile she handed Duncan a turtle shell filled with water, motioning for him to drink. He drained the shell, then she handed him a small, round, yellow loaf, no bigger than his palm. He brushed off the soot from its edges and bit into it. It was of cornmeal, and to his long-deprived palate it tasted like the finest of cakes. She smiled again as he quickly devoured the bread, then darted back into the bone-covered entrance. Inside, Sarah lingered, shrouded in shadow, gazing at him. He moved toward her, returning her stare, question in his eyes. She had not been mistreated. She was no slave. But he could not decipher her strange behavior. What did the feather cloak signify? He had heard of cultures where captives were feted until they were offered in human sacrifice.
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