“A ranger did this to you,” Duncan stated. “A ranger stripped of his weapons, fighting with the only thing he could find.”
The sergeant glared at Duncan, then shot an uncertain glance at Woolford. “Not rangers. French. Spies. Infiltrators in army clothes. The major gets information about such.”
“Where are the others who were with you that day?” Duncan demanded. “In the boats to Edentown?”
“Not them. The others be gone. Assigned to new posts, every last one. India. . some to Jamaica.”
“How convenient.”
“Damned your eyes! They were French we killed by the tree that day. Scouting targets for the Huron raiding parties. The major warned us that they sometimes used ranger uniforms, for deception.”
“You did not think it strange that Pike had you change your own uniforms to those of the Forty-ninth?”
“Confuse the enemy about troop placements, that’s why. That’s part of what his office does. They were French, I tell you!”
“Sergeant!” Pike shouted. “I command you to hold your damned tongue! Do not be beguiled by these outlaws!”
One of Jamie’s men pounded a slab of firewood against his temple. Pike slumped, slid down the post to the ground.
“Not French,” came a ragged, angry voice from the shadows. Two new rangers had appeared, carrying between them in a litter the blond Scot Duncan had left at the mission. “You murdered them in cold blood.” One of the rangers carried a crutch, hung with a shoulder strap along his rifle. He removed the crutch and extended it to the wounded Scot. The man refused help as he struggled to his feet.
“Ten of you bastards,” he hissed, “six of them, all but one asleep. I was helping them after the massacre at the tree, following the tracks of those who had done it, was running back in the dawn to tell them I found a fresh camp not far away. A camp for ten men, abandoned before dawn. I ran back with the news but stopped when I got near, because I didn’t understand what I was seeing. A grenadier walks up to the ranger lighting the morning fire, talking all friendly-like, then quick as lightning he has a dagger to the ranger’s throat, warning against any sound. I thought it was me they wanted, for desertion, so I hid. I didn’t really understand until it was over. It took less than a minute. A volley of muskets, then they finished those still living with bayonets. Only one lived long enough to fight you, you bastard, and that only with his ice creeper, because you took all their weapons. Then his skull was crushed from behind with the butt of a Brown Bess.”
Duncan angrily threw the grenadier’s cap at the sergeant’s head. “A blow with the ice creeper to your cheek. Another blow to your crown into your borrowed cap, with enough force to knock the cap off. You didn’t bother to pick it up.”
“Because by then he was running after me,” the wounded Scot explained.
“But someone else picked it up later.” Duncan glanced toward the shadows where the bound Ramsey men sat watching, all except Hawkins, who leaned against a tree, sleeping. “Probably Hawkins. He found it and gave it to Arnold. Hawkins and Arnold eventually understood the significance.” Duncan looked up to Woolford, whose face was dark with anger. “It was how they got Pike to help them this time. Pike showed them how it was done, finding easy unarmed targets at the sacred tree. And once they understood about the death ritual, Ramsey knew it could repeat it a year later to destroy the remaining old chiefs.” Duncan leaned over the sergeant. “Just hide on the ridge and fire down on them when they were lined up by the sacred tree. Is that how you did it last year?”
The sergeant cast a baleful glance at the Scots. “Those deserters last year were going to die no matter what. No one said anything about the others there being Iroquois. If Indians were with the traitors, they had to be Huron, the major said. They were just Indians,” he added, his voice gone hollow.
“Tell me, Sergeant,” Duncan asked, “did someone try to transfer you, too?”
The burly man seemed to be shrinking before their eyes. He nodded slowly. “The major gave me papers for the East Indies. But I took sick with the flux the day before sailing. When I was finally fit for duty, they needed every able-bodied man, so transfers were cancelled.” His face, turned to the ground, had become gaunt. “God’s breath!” he groaned. “I never. . I wouldn’t have. . our own rangers,” he said in a desolate whisper, and kept repeating the words. “Our own rangers. .”
“Nothing is settled,” Woolford said as they sat in front of one of the back lodges an hour later, giving voice to the new foreboding that had been growing in Duncan’s own heart since returning to the village. Duncan poked with a wooden spoon at the corn mush they were eating for supper, nodding his agreement. A gallows was still being built in Edentown. Those of Tashgua’s band who survived could no longer stay in the village, for the army knew where they were now. Duncan’s heart still wrenched every time he thought of Sarah, who was to be taken back to have her brain opened. And Woolford, Duncan knew, was beginning to understand what for him may be the harshest reality of all. They had no assurance that once back in their world either Ramsey or Pike would pay for what they had done.
“But the tribes,” Duncan ventured. “The tribes know what Ramsey did.”
“And they will do what?” Woolford interjected in a bitter tone. “Bring a suit of law against Ramsey?”
“The war. Official action will have to be taken, to protect the alliance.”
“No,” the ranger sighed. “The ones killed were the ones who wanted the Iroquois to end the alliance, to stop taking sides in the affairs of Europeans. This just makes it easier for the tribes to keep sending warriors to Albany. For the old ones, what will be remembered is that the sacred bear is revived, a sign that the old ways are not totally dead. For the young ones, what will be remembered is that the sacred tree is gone, that it destroyed itself and Tashgua with it. At many of their council fires, there will no longer be voices speaking up for the old ways.”
“There are other trees,” came a quiet, sad voice. Conawago leaned and stirred the embers of the fire before them. “When your lodge is burnt, you find another.” For a moment Duncan remembered how Conawago had sometimes paused when they traveled together to seek out sacred places, some of them rock formations, some of them old trees. “There are ceremonies, to introduce spirits to new homes.”
“And of those who know such things, old friend,” Woolford asked, “how many of you are left?”
Conawago gazed into the flames. “Every time the wind takes a leaf from a tree, the world is forever changed.”
They were silent a long time. When he spoke again there was a hard edge in Conawago’s voice. “You don’t know Ravencatcher. He will not let Ramsey forget his visit to his father’s temple.”
Woolford and Duncan exchanged an uneasy glance as Conawago stepped toward the path to the far side, where the Indians, with Sarah, still prepared their dead.
“Ramsey will not forget,” Woolford said. “He lost his vicar.”
“No,” Duncan said, “what he will remember is that he lost his ten thousand square miles, lost his private kingdom.” The patron, like everyone else, had been numbed by emotion after the explosion, though in his case the true remorse had not struck until he had found Arnold’s coat sleeve empty.
“I know what you did with the charter, McCallum,” Woolford announced. “I consider it-” as the ranger searched for words, several phrases ran through Duncan’s mind. An act of treason. A blasphemy against the king. A theft of vast dimensions. “I consider it to rank with your other miracles, McCallum.” The ranger offered his hand. After a moment Duncan took it, and the two men solemnly shook.
“There will still be a trial in Edentown,” Duncan pointed out.
“I am overdue at Quebec. And you are on my register of rangers. Come with me. I can protect you, give you a different name on the payrolls.”
“I will not abandon Mr. Lister.”
“They will take you back in chains.”
“Which is why I need help. Someone
who can watch out for Sarah, at least until she is with Crispin. Someone to take a message to the mission. Someone with soldiers who can be trusted. And you must not interfere with what Ramsey is going to do to me. Let him work his fury on me.” Woolford gazed into the fire, then looked up with a conspiratorial gleam as Duncan began to explain what he needed.
At dusk the remainder of Tashgua’s warriors filed down from the ridge. They did not pause to eat or drink, but immediately surrounded Lord Ramsey, who sat alone at one of the cooking fires as Cameron and the remaining Company men readied the canoes at the river landing under the watchful eyes of several rangers. The warriors were freshly painted, as if for war. The patron was so alarmed, he was not able to find his tongue as the Iroquois led him away, did not protest until, his face turning chalk white, they began tying him to the post.
“Woolford!” The call came out as an anguished groan. Ramsey called again and again, the words coming out as a scream, fading to a moan as he saw the ranger at the side of the camp. Woolford, having settled onto a log, extracted his pipe and was lighting his tobacco as he calmly watched the Iroquois. Ramsey’s gaze fell upon Hawkins, awake at last, still bound, watching with amusement in his hollow eyes. In the last light of dusk, more of the Iroquois emerged from the shaman’s lodge. As they arranged bundles of dry grass in a ring around the pole, a figure in a white doeskin dress appeared in the doorway of bones.
“Sarah! God on earth, daughter!” The cries were frantic now. “Stop them, dear Sarah! You must stop-” The words choked in the patron’s throat as his eyes met those of his daughter, who now approached at a slow, ceremonial pace. Sarah Ramsey returned his terrified gaze with a look of cool pity.
Ramsey fell back against the post as if struck, making small whimpering sounds as Sarah helped the Iroquois arrange the tinder.
“Not this way!” Duncan cried. His hand went to his tomahawk. As he took a step forward, the shaft of a war ax pressed against his belly. He looked up. Conawago did not speak, only soberly shook his head from side to side.
The Indians, now including most of their adopted Highlanders, began moving in slow rotation around the post, beginning a low, steady chant. Torches appeared, stuck in the ground outside the circle of warriors. Ramsey started shouting in a trembling voice, something about money, something about the King of England, but his words were drowned out by the chant, now louder and louder. Suddenly the voices reached a crescendo and abruptly halted. Duncan stopped breathing for a moment. A spirit had materialized inside the circle.
The spirit’s crimson face was wrinkled, and its white eyes, round and hollow. Its mouth was strangely puckered. On either side of the wooden mask hung what appeared to be lengths of horsehair. The spirit’s arms and legs, though human, were painted white. In one hand it held the bone rattle of Tashgua.
The spirit dancer shook the rattle at Ramsey as the circle began to move again, with a new, more animated chant. The masked dancer circuited the post as well, with gruesome, writhing motions. Each time he completed a circuit, he shook the rattle at either side of Ramsey’s head.
Duncan glanced at his rifle. Conawago, who never seemed to miss a motion, touched him with the shaft of his club again, gesturing for him to sit beside Woolford, who, puffing his pipe, watched in fascination.
From the shadows beside Duncan, the Indians and Scots who had been watching suddenly burst into activity. Cameron and his Company men had emerged from the river trail and were trying to reach the English lord. There was a brief flurry of silent motion, and when it settled, all the men except Cameron were pinned against trees, some with blades pressed against their throats to prevent further movement.
The circle was moving faster now. A spark of defiance kindled within Ramsey, and he began berating the men as vulgar savages, swine of the forest, reminding them that he shared blood with the king. But the spark quickly died as one of the warriors, who had sliced open his own palm, passed his hand over Ramsey’s head, leaving blood dripping down the Englishman’s cheek. The patron’s eyes were frozen in terror. Ramsey’s jaw opened and shut without making sound. As snakeskins were draped over his shoulders, his bladder emptied.
The chant of the shaman warriors grew almost unbearably loud. A torch appeared in the hand of the spirit dancer, and Ramsey found enough voice to scream as the masked man lit the grass.
Only Duncan and Ramsey reacted to the fire, Ramsey screaming louder, Duncan leaping to his feet. A calm, expectant glance from Sarah stopped him. Then he saw the tobacco leaves being laid on the fire by the dancers. The ring of burning grass, already ebbing, was no closer than two feet from Ramsey. It was a purification fire, a fire to cleanse the man at the post. The Indians knew they could not exercise their full fury on an English lord. But they were not going to leave the source of their misery untouched.
The chant renewed itself as the tobacco fumes spiraled upward, the masked dancer again using the bone rattle, the circle moving faster. Duncan, mesmerized by the chants, the smoke, the rhythmic music, lost track of time. Suddenly he was aware that the masked dancer was gone.
The other dancers gradually widened their circle, until they eventually disappeared into the shadows. To Duncan’s surprise, it was Conawago who cut the patron’s bonds. The old Nipmuc was speaking in a low voice to the stunned Englishman, with words that were strangely familiar. Conawago, he realized after a moment, was giving Ramsey the prayer he had once taught Duncan, the prayer used by children lost in the forest. Suddenly another figure was there, pushing Conawago aside. Cameron wrapped a blanket around Ramsey’s trembling shoulders and led him toward the lodge where the Ramsey prisoners were being taken for the night.
As Duncan watched Ramsey disappear into the shadows, something landed at his feet. His haversack.
“Go now,” Sarah urged. She had already packed and tied his sack.
“There’s an old Scot in a prison cell,” he reminded her.
“They may well kill you tonight, Duncan.” There was a new strength in Sarah’s voice, along with her foreboding. “One of the soldiers saw what you did with the king’s paper. He told Cameron.”
The camp settled quickly for the night, with the Ramsey men tied to the posts of one of the lodges. Duncan waited for nearly two hours, then rose from his blanket and stepped into the shadows, carrying his loaded rifle. He walked the length of the trail to the canoe landing at the river and back, studying each bend and curve, each pool of moonlight, trying to mimic the soundless way the Indians and rangers moved through the forest. Upon his return, he watched the slumbering camp for several minutes, confirmed that the Iroquois were all still on the far side of the ridge, preparing the dead by torchlight, and then retreated to the back of the lodge where the prisoners had been taken. The lodge was old and in disrepair. He had made a point of being there as the men were being tied, joining Alex as the boy offered a gourd dipper of water to each prisoner, noting the position of the men and the lodge poles they were bound to. He had marked one of the posts on the outside of the lodge with a white stone, and now, glancing one more time to confirm no one watched, he drew his knife and quickly sliced through the leather strap around the post. Then he rose and slipped back down the river trail.
He had waited only ten minutes behind a boulder where the trail opened onto the river flats before he made out the sound of running feet. His timing was not perfect as he sprang in front of the man, but it was good enough for him to land a glancing blow to the man’s temple that knocked him to the ground.
Hawkins had begun to squirm away when he saw the rifle leveled at his chest.
“You murdered an old Iroquois today,” Duncan growled. “A bullet in the back of his head.”
“And here I thought no one appreciated my work,” Hawkins sneered. The trapper glanced left and right. As his hand inched toward a stone, Duncan kicked it away. “He would have been dead a moment later anyways.”
“But then you would have lost the bounty,” Duncan continued in an icy tone. “If Jamie had died in the b
last, you would have had no claim to the money. Except you shot the wrong man.”
“An honest mistake,” Hawkins spat. “Who would have thought he would give his coat to some old buck?”
Duncan pulled back the hammer on the rifle. “Leave Jamie be, Hawkins.”
The oily trapper studied Duncan’s moonlit face. “Y’er the one who set me free? That be y’er bargain, boy? My freedom for y’er brother’s life? I don’t deal with slaves. And Ramsey would have me free on the morrow anyways.”
“Then why do you run, Hawkins? Because you fear I get close to a truth you can’t have others know? Like how Frasier died? That’s the price. Take a bullet now or tell me what happened at dawn that day.”
It was the lowest of pugilist tricks that undid Duncan, a quick hook of a foot around his calf that caused him to totter long enough for Hawkins to grab the barrel of the rifle. The trapper sprang up like a cat, wrenching the rifle away, clubbing Duncan with it. Suddenly Duncan was on the ground, the end of the rifle pressed against his neck as Hawkins probed his belt, lifting away Duncan’s ranger knife. Pressing the blade against Duncan’s throat, tucking the gun under an arm, the trapper deftly opened the frizzen pan and blew away the priming, rendering the gun useless.
“Ye’ve only a wee bit of a killer in ye, boy,” the trapper said, amusement in his tone as he tossed the gun aside. “Not near enough to survive in these parts.”
Duncan made a slight movement of resistance, twisting his spine, and the blade flashed downward, slicing into his arm before returning to his throat.
“I need money, boy.”
“I haven’t any.”
Hawkins sighed, raised the knife again, slower this time, toying with Duncan, bringing it down to slice the other arm. But suddenly it was frozen, immovable against the head of a war ax whose iron spike suddenly protruded through the flesh of Hawkins’s forearm. He uttered a long groan before grabbing the knife with his other hand, poised to throw it at the old Indian who held the ax. Then he froze once more, his entire body solid, as if it had gone numb. The knife slowly came down.
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