Eye of the Raven amoca-2

by Eliot Pattison

  Duncan found his gaze drifting toward the half-walled corner from which the landlord dispensed his drinks. Above his head a stuffed crow presided over the chamber, sitting on a shelf where other oddments had been arrayed. A tall angular hat, in the style of another century, that could have been worn by old Penn himself. A wooden shoe. A portrait painted on a board, of a bewigged aristocrat whose bulging blue eyes and large nose identified him as King George the Second. He glanced back at the men amusing themselves with the ball, taking dares and bets now over their performance. Their antics had the flavor of a lacrosse game.

  The solitary man with the writing lead gazed in drunken puzzlement at the stuffed crow, as if perhaps he had seen it move. He ran his fingers through his long hair, then looked back uneasily at the bird. With a nudge from Conawago, Duncan regarded him more closely. His ear had been cut off.

  "They say," Duncan declared as he slipped into a chair beside the man, "that ours is a new fraternity of mercenaries."

  The man turned with a dull, resentful look, then Duncan lifted the hair at his temple to expose the long, ragged scar along his scalp.

  "God's breath!" the man gasped, jerking Duncan's hand down. "Have you no sense! The mark of the savage is like the mark of the devil to these city folk."

  "Then you are not of the city?"

  The man answered cautiously, all signs of drunkenness gone. "Bethlehem, in the north."

  Duncan knew it only by reputation. "The Moravian town?"

  "Ja. But here I take my education," the stranger offered in a hollow voice.

  "As a surveyor?"

  The man nodded. "I am an excellent surveyor. Though I fear I lost my equipment in the wilds."

  "Along with your ear?"

  The German winked. "I expect it's now being worn on some savage's necklace. My father declared it was a sign I should return to mission work. Missionaries be protected by God."

  "I hear surveyors are needed for the Virginian claim in the west."

  "I hear," the man shot back, "they require as many grave diggers as surveyors." He accepted an apple from a servant girl who wandered among the patrons with a basket of the fruit. Duncan sipped from his tankard as the man unfolded a pocketknife and cut the fruit into wedges.

  "Suppose a man were desperate enough," Duncan said. "Who would he see?"

  The Moravian pushed an apple slice toward Duncan and ate one himself as he studied the crowd. "There is a tobacco merchant who sells Virginia leaf and pipes to smoke it, a Potomac man."

  "How many has he hired?"

  "Half a dozen perhaps."

  Were there men still out there, Duncan wondered, unknowingly proceeding toward their deaths? "How long since-" his words died in his throat. The men playing with the ball had stopped, had taken off their hats, and were standing at the corner counter where drinks were dispensed. A familiar figure stood at the front of the group, staring directly at Duncan now. The notices declaring a bounty on Duncan would be meaningless to the residents of the city since they would not know Duncan's appearance. But Samuel Felton, the magistrate's nephew, knew his face. One word from Felton and every man in the room would turn on Duncan.

  The lanky Quaker caught the eye of first one, then another of his group, both broad-shouldered beefy men with the sunburned faces of those who worked the river boats. Conawago was on his feet now, his hand instinctively going to his belt, where his war ax usually hung. But they had left their weapons at the stable. They had no weapons, only the barest acquaintance with the alleys and streets outside the door. Eyes began drifting toward Conawago, who had lifted a heavy stick from the hearth, bracing for a fight.

  Suddenly the door of the inn burst open and a dark-hooded figure appeared silhouetted by the light of the street lanterns behind him. A murmur of recognition rippled through several of those present, and they began to back away as the cloaked man, carrying a large wooden box, took several steps inside. The shapeless garment he wore extended nearly to the floor, its hood obscuring his face.

  `Ave caesar!Morituri to salutamus!" the mysterious figure called in a ragged voice. Impossibly, he was speaking Latin. `Ecce ignis! Ecce ignis!" he repeated. Duncan stood, inching toward the door as he watched not the stranger but the crowd, frantically trying to see where Felton had gone. He looked back at the intruder in confusion. Hail Caesar, he had called in Latin, we who are about to die salute you, the call of the gladiators, then behold the fire. The men who had backed away had stopped as if they sought only a safe distance. The proprietor watched from his corner with an expectant, almost amused expression.

  The same Latin words were repeated, rising in volume to a crescendo. A drunk at a table near the front threw a heel of bread. With a quick, deft motion, the stranger opened the hinged lid of his box, produced something like a wand with a metal ball at the end, and aimed it at the drunkard, extending it to within inches of the man's face.

  A bolt of lightning leapt out and struck the offender's nose.

  The room erupted into chaos. The man who had been struck screamed, tumbled off his chair, and crawled under the table, whining in terror. His companions leapt up and fled to the far side of the room. Except for Conawago and Duncan, the half of the room nearest the door was emptied. The stranger turned his contraption toward Duncan for a moment, muttering, Apage!" with a short, quick gesture toward the street before stepping closer to the crowd. Begone! Several onlookers began crossing themselves, one even lifted a cross from his neck and extended it in front of him.

  "Tanta stultitia mortalium est." the cloaked figure cried, making a jerking motion toward another drunkard, who promptly fainted. What fools these mortals be. One fearful spectator swung a poker from the fireplace at the stranger, who aimed another bolt of lightning at him. The lightning hit the iron poker, and the man yelped in pain, dropping it to the floor. From the rear came hoots of amusement, from those closer more fearful prayers.

  Duncan turned and darted out the door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He did not know what direction he took through the darkened streets, did not care, only became aware of Conawago passing him. Minutes later they stopped, gasping, the river wharves with their ranks of ships looming on one side, a hulking building on the other, with a row of low wooden structures like cages along its rear wall.

  "Where are you-" Duncan began as Conawago tested the latch on the building's back entry. A snarl erupted from one of the cages.

  His friend cut him off with an upraised hand as the door opened under his touch. "Let us not disturb the neighborhood when safety is so near at hand," he warned, and he stepped inside.

  Where they were, he now realized, was the warehouse with the Iroquois markings on the front door.

  They moved through a large chamber that seemed part kitchen, part workshop, into a hallway that connected the front and rear of the building, then settled onto the floor near a patch of moonlight. His eyes shifting from the rear door to the front entry, just visible beyond the shadows, Duncan relayed his conversation with the Moravian surveyor in the tavern. As he finished, the latch of the front door rattled. A solitary man entered, laughing to himself, whimsically reciting the Latin words Duncan had heard in the tavern as he set a large box on the table by the entry.

  They warily rose, retreating back into the shadows as the stranger lit a candle before stepping into the hallway. Duncan touched the knife he kept at his waist, his only weapon.

  The stranger did not seem surprised to see them. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Veni vidi vici!" he concluded cheerfully. "They know not what a gift it is," he added as he pushed back the hood of his cloak, "to have the channels of their brains reenergized." He handed the candlestick to Conawago, leading them to a door in the middle of the hall before gesturing them to wait as he trotted to lock the rear door. Lighting a second candle from the first, he opened the door and led them up a steep, winding staircase that took them into a spacious chamber, where their host began lighting several oil lamps.

  "Dr. Henry Marston,"
he announced with outstretched hand.

  Duncan did not immediately respond. He gazed in confusion at one of the oddest chambers he had ever seen. The long troughs, designed for feeding livestock, that lined the two sidewalls were filled with salt. In the center of the room was a large, bizarre device of wood and glass. Along the front wall, behind a heavy wooden chair whose arms held straps for restraining its occupant, was a long table on which sat several large glass jars pierced through the top by metal rods. What appeared to be a brass ball hovering over their heads proved on closer examination to be connected to a long brass rod extending up through the ceiling. Duncan recalled the metal spears on the roof. On two smaller tables were an array of glass containers, strips of metal, and discs of what appeared to be hardened tree resin.

  The worried query on Conawago's lips suddenly transformed into wonder. "Electrical flux!" he exclaimed. Vigorously he shook Marston's hand, then introduced himself and Duncan.

  Marston beamed. "All creation can be reduced to the four main elements of earth, fire, water, and air." He finally removed his cloak as he spoke, revealing himself to be a slight, bespectacled man in his forties. "But it is electrical fluid that binds them all, the great common essence. We have wrung it out of the air to create fire, captured it in the water of the Leyden jars," he said, pointing to the glass containers on the table, "and used it to reduce any number of minerals to their base earth. We shall one day change the world with it!"

  "We?" Duncan asked in a stunned voice.

  "Dr. Franklin and I. Of course there are other practitioners today, but I was there in fifty-two to help launch his kite that first wonderful night when we captured the power of the storm in a jar. Such a spectacle! Newton had his apple, Archimedes his bath, Dr. Franklin his kite! When he returns from England I shall require days just to demonstrate the advances I have made since his departure!"

  Conawago stepped to the strange device in the center of the room, nearly six feet long and almost as high. The near end was a tower of two wooden pillars between which a glass globe nearly twelve inches in diameter was suspended on wooden spindles. At the far end was a large ornate wooden wheel mounted between two short posts, with a leather belt wrapped around its rim connected to one of the spindles of the globe. "A variation on Nollet," Marston announced, as though they would surely recognize the name.

  Conawago touched the handle extending from the center of the wheel and looked up at their host. It was all the invitation Marston needed. He would not be drawn into answering Duncan's questions until he had shared his thrilling advances with them.

  "This afternoon," Duncan said as Marston showed Conawago how to turn the handle to spin the globe, "we saw flashes of light coming from here."

  "Which is when I noticed you approach the building and study the lintel. I saw instantly that you recognized my signs. As you left I saw your friend's hidden braid and his bronze skin. I would have come immediately had I not been with a patient."

  Duncan was more confused than ever. "You practice medical science as well?"

  Marston lowered a finger to within an inch of the glass globe. "Here," he explained proudly as a spark leapt up to his finger, "is the primogenitor of all future science. Dr. Franklin and I began treating paralysis years ago with electrical fluids. Patients come now with toothaches, the cramp, sciatica. We have even seen some success with deafness."

  The scientist gestured Duncan toward the table, took his arm, and extended his open hand over one of the glass containers. "A Leyden jar, with only a small charge left," he explained, and as he slowly lowered Duncan's hand toward the brass ball extending from the jar a small sparking arc leapt up and connected with his fingertip. He jerked his hand back in alarm. For an instant he had felt a burning sensation, but quickly confirmed there was no damage to his hand.

  "Tonight at the tavern," Duncan said as he rubbed his hand, wondering at the tingling sensation that lingered in it, "you were not coming for a patient." He looked inside an empty jar. It held a small brass chain resting on the bottom, the top end brought up through a large cork stopper, then wrapped around a rod terminating in a ball. "But for us."

  "I was walking along the river and saw you enter."

  "But you could not have known we were in danger."

  "As the night wore on there would be those who would recognize Mr. Conawago's features, trust me." As he spoke Marston gestured them through a side door, into a pleasant parlor that overlooked the street. "More than a few who frequent the Broken Jug have been set upon by Indians in the wilds. And red men arrayed in European clothes have not always been friends of our city."

  Duncan studied the eccentric scientist as Marston lit several lamps. "We have heard of the great festival when the last Indian was hanged," he declared.

  The words seemed to shake Marston. He turned toward the window to gaze into the night.

  "You were the one making spirit fire at Shamokin," Duncan ventured.

  "That was never a term I used."

  "Why would you go two hundred miles to conduct your experiments?"

  "My partner believed it would be a valuable way to learn about the upcountry. Our new upcountry."

  "Your country?" Duncan asked.

  Marston turned with a troubled expression on his face. "We had an alliance, the two of us. He would stake out new claims for our land company, sell half of them in Philadelphia, then use the proceeds to build there. I would have an edifice dedicated to my science, a temple of learning in the wilderness."

  Duncan stared at the man uneasily, wondering now if they had been lured into a trap. "Does your partner have a name?"

  "Francis Townsend, of course."

  Duncan looked at the man in disbelief. Surely the coincidence was too much. "You and Townsend had a land company?"

  Marston shrugged. "Many a new land company gets formed over cups in Philadelphia taverns. Most don't endure past the last round of rum punch, the others usually last a few months at most. The Dutch had their tulip craze, London had the South Sea bubble," he added, referring to two well-known financial disasters in Europe, "Philadelphia has its land companies."

  Marston's voice grew distant for a moment. "Yet our bubble too was burst." He sighed heavily. "I used what was left of my inheritance to pay our expenses. Francis, ever the adventurer, went on into the mountains, looking for likely tracts, seeking minerals that might have value. I stayed in Shamokin with my projects."

  "Projects?"

  "There is much important work to be done. I correspond with Dr. Franklin. He and I agreed on a course of research to penetrate the mysteries of negative and positive particles and the role of electrical fluid in the human body. There are reports from France of the dead being revived with doses of flux. But," Marston added, "not all the city fathers share our enthusiasm."

  From behind them Duncan heard a sharp intake of breath. "God's teeth!" Conawago exclaimed, "you were using Indians for your medical dogs!"

  Marston stepped to a wingback chair and collapsed into it. "We forced no one. They were always compensated."

  "What exactly," Duncan asked in a brittle voice, "did you do?"

  "Flew some kites with wires into jars of brass dust. Charted individual tolerances to negative and positive flows. Energized open wounds. There were some possums brought back to life, a lot of frogs." The scientist looked up. "Dr. Franklin killed a turkey once with a flux machine," he added earnestly, though Duncan was at a loss as to whether this was an apology or a justification.

  "Then why leave a proving ground as fertile as Shamokin?" Conawago wanted to know.

  "I was going to stay until Townsend came back from the mountains. There was a man called the French bear. He had a lot of influence with some of the chiefs. I explained the French were in competition with us English for advancement in the sciences, and that it was their duty to help their English allies. But he told them I was experimenting with ways to extract the spirits from Indians."

  Duncan lifted a candle in a pewter holder and ex
plored the shadows of the parlor. Scattered about tables and chests were more Leyden jars. On a work table near the window were pieces of cork being carved into oval shapes, beside a spool of silk thread, with four completed spiders identical to the one Johantty treasured. In the winter, the youth had said, he could make the spiders dance.

  "Testaments to our science," Marston explained. "Teaching instruments I give to the uninitiated." He saw Duncan's confusion and gestured to the adjoining table. "The largest jar still has a charge."

  Still uncertain, Duncan lifted one of the cork spiders by the thread glued to its back and held it over the brass rod extending from the jar. The legs began to move as they approached the jar, jerking up and down when he placed it directly over the rod.

  "When it is cold and dry you can rub fur or wool together to much the same effect," Marston said.

  Duncan stared at the little spider in fascination, moving it in and out of the invisible flux field. But as he did so a vision of Johantty sprang into his mind, Johantty somberly, desperately, playing his graveside drum, followed by an image of Stone Blossom weeping over her ruined island shrine.

  He lowered the spider and took a seat in a chair beside Marston. "Did you first meet Skanawati at his village or at Shamokin?"

  Marston's head jerked up, and he stared suspiciously at Duncan. "Who are you?"

  "Friends of the Iroquois. They have too few in Philadelphia."

  Marston pursed his lips, then slowly nodded. "I met him at Shamokin." His voice trembled as the scientist spoke of the Onondaga chieftain. "He was fascinated by my work, brought several of his clan to watch. He beseeched me to return with my equipment to his village."