Blood of the Oak: A Mystery

by Eliot Pattison

  Teague spat blood at Duncan. “The Indians are dying. It’s our job to help them on their way. People ain’t safe with them in the world.”

  A catlike snarl rose behind Duncan. Analie charged past him and collided with Teague. It happened so quickly Teague simply stared for a moment in confusion, then more blood streamed onto his shoulder. She extended a wrinkled bit of flesh toward him like a trophy and the Irishman spattered blood across the clearing as he shook his head and roared. The French choirgirl had sliced off his ear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Can there be a greater thrill than coming into a new land with the dawn at your back?” Conawago had once asked him as they had traversed the Endless Mountains to the north. “I feel like a young boy climbing his first tree!” the old man had explained. “I know the gods have not forgotten me, because they have granted me the freedom to glimpse anew their power and beauty.”

  Duncan had indeed felt a thrill of discovery when he had first glimpsed the fertile rolling lands of the Conococheague Valley, adorned by pockets of mists glowing silver in the sunrise. But now the thrill was being rapidly replaced with foreboding. The rich hills below the Kittatinny Ridge were not heavily populated but the few settlers they encountered were uniformly cool, even openly suspicious of the two travelers. Men working horse teams in the fields did not acknowledge their waves. Women called children into their houses as they passed. Duncan found himself checking the priming in his rifle. Analie no longer skipped ahead of him but stayed close at his side. Her songs became less frequent, and more than once he cuffed her for turning about to stick her tongue out at the unfriendly strangers.

  Duncan had all but decided the Acadian refugee was not the young adolescent girl she appeared to be but a mischievous, persevering sprite in the shape of a girl. She seemed so innocent singing her hymns but then at times he would find her assessing the landscape with a predator’s eyes. Or was she just another lost soul, abandoned in the wilderness? On the first night after leaving the Susquehanna she woke in the early dawn, weeping and shivering, not seeming to recognize Duncan, speaking in French, and she would not be consoled. He had wrapped his arms around her until, having stopped shivering, she regained her senses, looked up in surprise, and sprang away.

  As they walked along a flat stretch of the hard-packed wagon road Analie called a cheerful greeting to a tired-looking native woman carrying a basket to men plowing a field, but she only raised a hand in warning and hurried away. In the early afternoon they reached two men laying a snake rail fence along the road. “I’m looking for the Ross farm on Pine Creek,” Duncan called out. He longed to put the unfriendly valley behind him but he had made a promise to Sarah.

  The younger of the two stepped toward a rifle leaning on a stump. The older man studied them, then surveyed the road behind them. “Who ye bringing?”

  Duncan glanced at Analie, who huddled alongside. The strangers seemed to suspect they were guides or scouts. “Just my niece.” Analie put on her angelic smile and offered a shy wave.

  The two men exchanged a glance, then the older man shrugged. “A mile up. Take the north track by the ancient sycamore on the far side of the next creek. But that’s no place to tarry.” There was warning in his words. “Not y’er fight. And if ye turn toward Fort Loudoun we will surely know it.”

  Only then did Duncan see two fast saddle horses tied in the trees. He saw now they had no tools. The men were not fence builders but sentinels, standing watch and ready to run with an alarm. But run from what? They weren’t watching the western mountains, the direction of the hostile natives. They were watching to the east, in the direction of Lancaster and Philadelphia.

  Analie quickened her pace as she saw the massive sycamore leaning over the creek but Duncan grabbed her arm and quickly pulled her into a nearby alder thicket. A moment later a boy in a red jacket and tan britches, beating a drum in slow time, appeared over the crest of the hill beyond the tree, followed by a half company of scarlet-backed soldiers, briskly marching to the beat. Duncan led Analie deeper into the shadows. An officer, stiffly mounted on a black horse, followed the patrol, watching the landscape with a sour, impatient expression. Why, he asked himself, would the army need to patrol the remote farming valley? Surely the sentinels by the fence were not keeping watch for soldiers.

  The wind died as the infantrymen moved out of sight and in the distance he heard a fife and a volley of practicing muskets. He hurried Analie out of the thicket and up the hill. Below them, half a mile south of the wagon road, lay the sprawling log palisade that must have been Fort Loudoun. He stared at it in silence for several breaths, feeling a strange unease at the sight of the soldiers. Woolford was a captain in the army but it was Duncan he had asked to save the missing men, not the military.

  They hastened to the sycamore and up the stream. He would see his promise fulfilled quickly so he could leave the army and the chilly souls of the valley behind.

  The farm was just as Sarah had described it from Jess’s tales of her home—an apparent oasis on a low shelf on the mountain, looking out over the wide valley with pastures and fields below. A sturdy two-story stone farmhouse was flanked by a stone-and-plank barn to one side and a long open-faced shed on the other, forming a large U-shaped barnyard. On a wash line between trees hung linens, clothes of homespun and calico, and a length of plaid. In the center of the yard was a stone-walled well with a long sweep hanging over it. Between the barn and the house a kettle hung over a low fire.

  Duncan and Analie had climbed halfway up the winding dirt track that led to the farm when he halted beside a pasture with half a dozen sheep and two milk cows. He studied the buildings, then handed the girl his rifle and continued on until they were a hundred feet from the barn. With a restraining hand on Analie’s shoulder he spoke toward a large maple in the pasture. “We come as friends,” he loudly announced.

  A man edged around the trunk. “This ain’t no public house. You’ll find inns in Mercersburg. Take your friendship down the road.”

  He felt Analie tense. She too now saw the two rifles aimed at them from the shadows.

  “A word with Mr. and Mrs. Ross is all I ask.”

  The man muttered a low complaint then stepped into the open and gestured them forward. As they reached the barnyard another guard with a musket appeared, watching them warily. These were men of the frontier, who well knew that Indian attacks would come from the west, from the wooded slopes behind them, but these men too were only watching the east, in the direction of the soldiers.

  As their escort pounded on the sturdy oak door of the house, Duncan pulled Analie closer to him, not certain of what to expect in this farm that seemed armed for battle. Over the lintel was a plank on which black paint spelled out Wilkes and Liberty.

  The door cracked open a hand’s breadth. “A man to see Ross,” their escort announced.

  “Does he know we tarred and feathered the last spy?” came a gruff voice.

  Duncan called out a Highland greeting. “Fearsgar math. Is this how you treat a visitor from the Hebrides?” he continued in Gaelic.

  The door swung open and an auburn-haired woman in an apron planted her feet in the entryway, studying him with hands on her hips. “McLeod, McQueen, Macaulay, McKinnon, or MacDonald?” She whimsically fingered a sprig of laurel pinned to her blouse as she sounded off the larger clans of the islands. Her face was an older version of the dead Jessica’s.

  “McCallum, nigh Kyle of Lochlash, though my grandfather claimed he has laird of all the sea to Stornaway.”

  A smile flickered on the sturdy woman’s face. “The Minch can be troublesome sailing.”

  “The rougher the water the louder he would sing. When on land he would play his pipes in the teeth of every gale.”

  Her smile broadened and she whispered instructions to someone inside. A moment later an adolescent girl with russet braids appeared, extending a tin cup of milk to Analie before guiding their guests to a bench along the front of the house. The woman picked up a
sewing basket left on the bench and gestured them to sit. “We can offer refreshment, McCallum of Lochlash, then off ye go.”

  “Why do British citizens fear British troops?” Duncan asked.

  She eyed him warily. “Lean too far over and ye’ll get y’er nose bit off,” she replied, then called for stew. Another girl, of perhaps seven years, with the same red hair, appeared with two bowls that she filled from the large kettle over the smoldering fire by the side of the house. They were cooking for a crowd.

  The girl offered the steaming bowls with a shy, uncertain smile.

  “I grew up with the Mohawks,” Analie abruptly declared to the girl. “I could cut out your liver and fry it.”

  The girl gave a squeal of fear and ran to hide in her mother’s apron. Her mother only smiled. “Could you now lass? The Mohawks teach so many useful skills. Captain Smith will be most impressed.”

  “Captain Smith?”

  “Our constable and head of the local rangers. He was captured in one of the western wars when he was young and eventually found his way to the Mohawks. He always says leaving them was the most difficult decision of his life. And our own family be great admirers of the Mohawks as well.”

  Analie seemed disappointed.

  “We tried to farm up north of Albany for a couple years, in the Saratoga country. I miss the Mohawk. Fine, stately men and women with hearts as big as the sky. I always felt safer when Iroquois were around. They shared their squash and maize that first year when our crop failed.” The older girl brought a bucket from the well. As Duncan washed, her mother spoke a warning. “This is not your fight, Mr. McCallum,” she said. “Get on with y’er journey when you finish y’er bowls.”

  “Is your husband here, Mrs. Ross?” he asked.

  “Not so you’d know it,” she replied in a tone that brooked no probing.

  She decided to take Duncan’s silence as acquiescence and played the hostess as they sat and enjoyed the hearty stew, asking about Duncan’s home on the coastal Highlands, explaining that she had been born on Skye but left for Ulster when she was ten and America when she was sixteen. Hers was a familiar tale of the Scots-Irish, who had fled to the northern counties of Ireland in search of a better life, which they ultimately found in America. The two girls sat on the ground on either side of their mother, the youngest now making faces at Analie, who energetically returned the favor.

  Duncan tried to recall the names he had heard from Sarah when she had attempted to describe Jessica’s family. “You must be Clare,” he said to her. “And Peggy,” he added with a nod to the older girl.

  The woman cocked her head. “Where do ye travel from, Mr. McCallum?”

  Analie answered. “Edentown, in the north.”

  The announcement strangely startled the woman. She fixed her visitors with an intense stare, then backed away before turning and dashing into the house, her daughters staring after her in confusion. Duncan was on his feet the instant she disappeared, approaching the big barn with an eye on the sentinels until, as they all looked away, he slipped inside.

  Light from the open windows of the loft filtered down into the big central bay, revealing more than a dozen figures gathered around a barrel on which two brawny, bare-chested men were arm wrestling. Men watched from other barrels and benches as the two men’s arms bulged and swayed. Four onlookers, with legs overhanging, sat in the loft, urging the wrestlers on in excited but strangely subdued voices, as if wary of being heard outside.

  “Rip his arm off, Murdo!” a young man with long blond curls called to the older man in a loud whisper.

  “Glory to the McBains!” cried another.

  The two antagonists were built like oxen. Their veins bulged, their throats emitted animal-like grunts, and despite the quiet calls from the crowd they stared only at each other.

  Duncan inched forward, trying to make sense of the oddly subdued company of Scots. Suddenly strong hands clamped around each of his arms and yanked him off his feet. In an instant he was dragged into the center bay and shoved to the floor. Before he could rise men began kicking him. Duncan grabbed a booted foot and twisted it, bringing the man down with a surprised groan. He coiled and sprang upward, scattering several men, who reacted not with anger but laughter. Duncan turned to attack the nearest man in the circle around him, shouldering him aside, then spinning from the grip of another.

  “Slippery as a snake!” the man spat.

  Duncan grabbed a knee and heaved upward, upending another man who took two more down when he fell. “I will speak with Mr. Ross!” he shouted.

  The men before him glanced at the older of the two wrestlers, who wore an armband of copper around his forearm in the fashion of ancient island clans. As they did so, several others near the door shot backward. Analie stepped into the light, swinging a hoe in a violent arc.

  A man near Duncan cursed and raised a pistol but his arm was quickly pushed down by the man with the armband. “It’s the girl, you fool!”

  “I know her!” another cried. “The French lark! She travels with the runners!”

  “You are Ross?” Duncan asked the big man. “Murdo Ross?”

  “Ye steal in here unannounced, with narry a by y’er leave,” the big man barked at Duncan, “and turn the girl a’gin us! The boys might have struck her!” He took a step forward and without warning delivered two quick hammer punches to Duncan’s belly.

  The blows were shattering. Duncan’s vision blurred. He gasped for breath as he sagged against a post. “Jessica. She’s dead,” he groaned, then faded into unconsciousness.

  HE WOKE IN A BED OFF A SMALL ROOM AT THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, wincing and holding his belly as he put his feet on the floor. A sober company waited at the big kitchen table. Murdo Ross, his broad shoulders now covered by a homespun shirt, sat at the end, flanked by two of the younger Scots. The woman who had fed Duncan, her face tear-streaked and looking far older now, sat at the other end, her younger daughter pressed against her shoulder. At the hearth, Analie, now wearing a boy’s britches and shirt, sat playing with a cat as the older daughter patched the clothes she had worn from Edentown.

  “My wife, Margaret, and I owe you an apology, McCallum,” Ross said. “These are stressful times in the Conococheague. I did not ken ye had spoken of Edentown to my wife.”

  The woman’s voice was choked. “Jessica was our oldest. The bravest. A lass of firm convictions.”

  Duncan gave a tentative nod, not certain why her mother would speak of Jess’s convictions. “There had been a murder in the forest,” he began, explaining the tragic circumstances of the girl’s death. They asked many questions, wanting to know the name of the dead Oneida, and the ranger captain with him, whether Jess had seemed happy at the Edentown settlement, even seeking news of Miss Ramsey, who had sent them a delightful letter the month before, reporting that their daughter’s presence at Edentown was a blessing to the entire settlement.

  When he explained how she had been accidentally killed by a bullet meant for Woolford, they seemed puzzled at his words. “And Shamokin?” Murdo asked. “What news from Shamokin?” Duncan looked at them in confusion. Why would they ask about the troubles at Shamokin? The runners. Some of the men had mentioned that Analie ran with the runners. As he tried to piece together their words he remembered the parcel Sarah had given him for the dead woman’s parents and retrieved it from his pack.

  “She died for what she believed, and we’ll always have that,” Murdo Ross declared.

  “But as I said, it was an accident, sir,” Duncan put in, more bewildered than ever. But then Murdo untied the muslin wrapper and unfolded the contents. Duncan had thought it a piece of embroidery or perhaps a small article of clothing sewn for a sister, and now stared dumbfounded.

  “That’s our girl,” Murdo murmured in a tight voice.

  It was a flag, whose image he had seen published in gazettes. On a piece of buff-colored linen Jess had sewn a snake in thirteen yellow segments, each bearing the name of one of the colonies. The segments were
all separated. Underneath were the words Join or Die.

  “Oh aye,” one of the men said. “And look what’s she added, the bold lass.”

  Murdo turned the flag into the light so they could all see the small embroidered lines that connected Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island. He lifted it higher for his wife, now at the hearth, to see.

  “Ever the fighter,” she said.

  Duncan stared at the flag, realizing that he had seen those same colonies linked elsewhere. Massnyconnri, the secret message to Dr. Franklin’s house in Philadelphia had said. As he struggled to understand, the older daughter lifted the shift Analie had worn to show her mother, putting a finger through two perfectly formed holes Duncan had not noticed before.

  “Was this from the same day then, child?” Mrs. Ross asked the Acadian girl. “At least an angel watched over one of you.”

  Analie looked up, not at the Scottish woman but at Duncan, with something like embarrassment on her face.

  Duncan rose and, disbelieving, put his own finger through the holes. A bullet had gone through the loose fabric of the shift below her right arm. In his mind’s eye he reconstructed the shooting. The first rifle had taken Jess Ross with a shot that hit squarely in her heart. The second shooter had hit Conawago, but Analie had indeed been in the line of fire. Duncan had been a witness. How could he have been so completely wrong about what he had seen? He had assumed the killers had ineptly tried to finish the job they had started with Woolford, but their shots had been well aimed. Jessica Ross had not died by accident, but had been the target of the shooters, who had also tried to kill young Analie.

  “I believe,” he said in a voice thick with confusion, “it is my turn to ask questions. Perhaps someone could start by telling me about the committee runners?” he asked, and turned toward Murdo Ross.

  The big Scot glanced at his companions before speaking. “T’is a perilous job,” Ross said, “and we are but a way station for them. Johnson Hall, Edentown, Shamokin, Conococheague. I warned every man, I did. Their messages aren’t just urgent, they are dangerous. They have been carrying fire, and someone was going to get burnt. But most were former rangers and know not of fear. The others . . .” he shook his head sadly. “You’ve seen the words we’ve taken as our creed. Wilkes and Liberty. Hell, if I were twenty years younger I probably would have joined them on the trails instead of just being their postmaster.”