Blood of the Oak: A Mystery

by Eliot Pattison

  Duncan’s head swirled. Edentown couldn’t possibly be a station. Surely Sarah, so committed to separating her settlement from the evils of the rest of the world, wouldn’t allow it.

  “The others,” his wife put in, “were good lads of this valley, from families who had felt the yoke of the oppressors in the Highlands and just wanted to keep to themselves. But they flocked to our barnyard when Mr. Smith and Murdo started public readings of Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Locke.”

  “The lace-headed lairds of London,” one of the Scots at the table groused, “they think they would tell us how to live in the Pennsylvania hills. But they got it wrong.” The words brought a chorus of “ayes” and affirming curses from the others at the table. Duncan had a sense that he was hearing something of a eulogy for Jessica Ross.

  “We are not the only ones who disagree with those lairds,” Murdo added. “We embrace the king, but he knows naught what his ministers do. It’s not just the hills of Pennsylvania where men think this way.”

  “You mean the committees,” Duncan put in. “The runners bear messages from one colony to the next. Running south from Johnson Hall.”

  Murdo eyed him uncertainly. “Have ye tried my wife’s stew? She truly does wonders with rabbit and squirrel. It’s those forest herbs learned from the Mohawk.”

  Duncan extracted Red Jacob’s broken dice and dropped it on the table. “Red Jacob, shot in the back and his arm cut off while running on an urgent mission from Johnson Hall. There was another on Captain Woolford, left for dead on the same trail. Then a young gentleman from Philadelphia serving as a messenger from Dr. Franklin and his friends. He had his face sliced off while he yet lived.” Mrs. Ross herded her children out of the room, covering the ears of the nearest. Duncan continued, dropping the bound feathers from Shamokin. “A Moravian named Rohrbach and his pregnant Delaware wife.” He gestured to the banner. “A beautiful Scottish girl at Edentown. How many more will die?” He turned again to Ross. “Do they carry secret messages from one colony to the next?” he repeated. “I tend to think your daughter thought so when she threaded lines connecting those colonies, as a message coded into newspapers sent from Johnson Hall to Franklin confirmed. You said she was bold, that she died for what she believed in. A wasted death if her secrets die with her.”

  Murdo lifted the dice. “If I had more of these I’d crush every last one myself.” His eyes narrowed as he saw the confusion on Duncan’s face.

  “Who are these men carrying messages?” Duncan pressed.

  Ross spoke in a slow, tentative voice, suspicion now in his eyes. “There are men well trained to move with stealth along the frontier,” he observed.

  “You mean rangers are helping. But rangers are in the army. Then why do you watch for the army?”

  “Rangers are on the fringe of the army,” Murdo said, as if correcting him. “Shadow soldiers. What you see here,” he made a broad gesture that took in the room and the open door beyond, “is something else. Something just about the Conococheague Valley. Sometimes there must be more than words.”

  Suddenly Duncan remembered what Sarah had told him in Edentown. He had been so obsessed with the killings he had forgotten the rest of the news he had heard in Sarah’s kitchen. “You mean like stopping trade convoys.”

  A low rumble rose in the throat of one of the men behind Ross, who put up a hand as if to restrain him.

  “Two hundred hand axes concealed in grain sacks,” Murdo explained. “Thirty muskets hidden in bundles of blankets. Two kegs of flints, twenty of gunpowder marked as flour. Not trade goods, but war goods. Men in Philadelphia gave us the law that banned all shipments of weapons to the western tribes. Other men in Philadelphia thought they could put themselves above that law, that they would make a windfall by defying that law. We told the army at Fort Loudoun and they refused to intervene, even though we said those axes and muskets would come back to kill our own people. It’s an old game. A piece of silver buys a blind eye.

  “But we lost too many loved ones to the raiding tribes. Of course we stopped the convoy. We separated all the commercial goods and told the bastards they were free to move on with them to Fort Pitt. Then we made a pile of the contraband. It made a right pretty inferno.”

  Duncan recalled that there had been a confrontation with troops, that some soldiers were still missing. “And the king’s troops stood by watching.”

  “The king’s officers were blinded to the right of it.” Ross abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “When free men have the truth of something, that is all the authority they need.” He pointed to a paper pinned to the wall by the hearth. “At least the English did that one thing right.”

  Duncan hesitantly rose and examined the paper, a page torn from a book. To his astonishment it was a plate of the Magna Carta. He eyed his host uncertainly. “Some knights writing five hundred years ago weren’t thinking of hostilities with American aborigines.”

  Murdo gave a slow shake of his head. “What they did at Runnymede was no different than what we do here.”

  Duncan returned Ross’s determined stare then nodded. “She died with honor. I wished I had known her better.”

  Ross replied with a melancholy smile then motioned Duncan toward the door. The men from the barn were outside now, milling about in small groups, some smoking clay pipes, others washing themselves at the well. Ross called over a compact man with broad, thick shoulders and introduced him. “Ian McQueen, blacksmith from the north reaches of Skye.” He jerked a thumb toward Duncan. “The lad says he is of the Hebrides, Ian.” Ross still wasn’t totally convinced Duncan wasn’t a spy.

  McQueen assumed a businesslike air, seeming to recognize that he had been given a task. “So ye ken An T-eilean Sgitheanach?” he asked Duncan.

  “The winged isle, aye,” Duncan replied in a level voice. “I spent some happy summers working on Skye.”

  “Have ye climbed the Cuillins then?”

  “McCallums were drovers and shipbuilders since before time,” Duncan said. “We would comb the Cuillins with McNichols and MacLeods each fall for the shaggy beasts. We’d camp at the head of Loch Sligachan and drive the coos for the swim across the kyle, though personally I favored the seafaring side of the family. My grandfather courted selkies on every isle of the Minch.”

  McQueen grinned, and with a fatherly gesture tussled Duncan’s hair. “He’ll do, Murdo.”

  Ross nodded. “Stay the night, McCallum,” he suggested, then marched away toward the barn.

  Duncan lowered himself against an oak as if to watch Analie and Clare play with a cat, but he kept his eye on the restless men in the yard. They were like a private army. Sarah had stated that the Conococheague men, these very men, had captured an infantry patrol, but there was no sign of the soldiers.

  McQueen brought him a tankard of cider. “Captain Smith himself be coming soon, if he feels it’s safe,” the Scot announced.

  “Safe?” Duncan asked.

  “He has a farm up the strath but some fool magistrate signed a warrant for his arrest. While the misunderstanding continues he keeps on the move so no family will be charged with harboring him.”

  “Misunderstanding?”

  “While the general in Philadelphia still misunderstands his duty to the king,” McQueen explained in an earnest tone, then dipped his own cup to Duncan before drinking.

  “How long have your men been watching the wagon road?”

  “These six weeks and more.”

  “Did two men pass through recently, one with blond hair and dressed in black?”

  “We don’t stop each traveler, mind, just be sure they keep moving.”

  Duncan tried not to be obvious as he studied the landscape for the makeshift jail that must hold the soldiers. It was probably a root cellar or a cave on the mountain behind them. At least he now understood the sentinels, and the tension among the men. The farm was a powder keg. The soldiers would be furious at being restrained, and would try to escape. Or resentful troops would come to force their r
elease. Duncan was not sure how to characterize the strange drama that was playing out in the valley but if soldiers were killed, there would be no forgiving these proud Scots.

  As he watched the yard, McBain, the big man who had been wrestling Murdo Ross, bent over two men who were slumped against the barn wall, asleep, and woke each with a light kick on the leg. They responded with deferential nods. As they hurried to the well a sentinel shouted. “He’s coming down the trail!”

  Duncan watched in confusion as McBain gave a shrill whistle. One of the men who had been sleeping ran to the wash line and pulled away the length of tartan hanging there. He and his companions hurried after the big man, into the barn, followed by five more men. Those remaining in the yard gathered along the front of the long shed, many with expectant smiles, making an effort at standing at attention as three riders appeared from the far side of the house. Two of the riders, young men in fringed hunters’ tunics, quickly dismounted and led their mounts to the trough by the well. The third rider, a man in his forties with a strong, determined countenance, stayed erect on his tall chestnut mare, studying the company with the eye of a hawk. He rode along the ragged line of men, several of whom touched deferential knuckles to their foreheads.

  Captain Smith turned to the brawny owner of the farm. “Are our guests in good health, Murdo?” he asked with an uplifted eyebrow. Murdo Ross gestured toward the barn and as if on cue the Scots who had disappeared emerged at a trot. One man stumbled as he tucked his tartan under his belt. Another tried to fix his bonnet on his head while trotting toward the line being formed at the center of the yard. Each man wore a regimental kilt and bonnet. They had become soldiers. Though none wore a sword, each had kept his dagger in his belt. The captured soldiers from Fort Loudoun had been in front of Duncan the whole time.

  “Sergeant McBain?” Smith called out.

  The big man who had been wrestling Ross stepped forward at the end of the line. “All accounted for, sir.”

  “And not suffering, I take it?”

  “We did hae’ to endure a screechin’ that McQueen called a song last night,” McBain reported in an overly earnest tone.

  Duncan’s jaw hung open in astonishment. The Highland farmers had captured Highland soldiers. Not just Highland soldiers, he realized as he recognized the black and green tartan of the uniforms, but members of the elite Black Watch, the toughest fighters in the king’s army.

  Smith dismounted and turned back expectantly to Ross, who with a sheepish expression gestured several men forward then after a chastising glance from Smith sent them back to retrieve their muskets. The show of prisoners needed a show of guards.

  “Captain Smith says we must keep things in perspective,” explained McQueen, standing at the end of the line. “They have their duties and we have ours. A man must stay true to his duties.”

  Analie settled by Duncan, erupting with low giggles as Sergeant McBain inspected the troops, Smith sternly following a step behind. The sergeant berated a man for haphazardly gartering his red and white hose, another for having his bear-fur cockade twisted under his bonnet. Duncan watched with amusement as the inspection was completed, realizing he may have seen some of the men during the earlier Champlain and Quebec campaigns in the north, then laid back and languidly closed his eyes.

  “It would take a great fool to come here under false pretenses,” a stern voice announced at Duncan’s side. He looked up into the inquiring eyes of Captain Smith. “Or a very bad provocateur,” the rebel leader continued. “I can’t decide which you are. If the latter I would be saddened. We have been able to avoid the shedding of blood thus far in our little affair. You play a dangerous game, McCallum, pretending to know about the runners but not even knowing about the dice.”

  Duncan straightened. “Sir?”

  “You’ve led my comrades to believe you are part of the committee network. You are not. Yet you seem to do committee work and travel with our French songbird.” Smith kept his tone light but Duncan saw the cool determination in his eye. “My friends may seem amiable enough but I assure you, you will feel their wrath if you are deceiving us. There is tension here you do not see. The soldiers are shamed at being taken. Campbells from the next strath have arrived and to their surprise found McDonalds among the troops,” he said, referring to one of the oldest and bloodiest of the feuds between Highland clans. “They will be at each other’s throats if we don’t watch close.” He glanced up, toward the mountain trail, and Duncan recalled Smith was in flight from an arrest warrant.

  “Why not release the soldiers?” he asked.

  “Because they have half a dozen of our own in the stockade at the fort. If they would only—” He was interrupted by the wail of a hunting horn from the mountainside.

  As Murdo quickly herded the soldiers back inside the barn, half a dozen men grabbed muskets and ran to covered positions.

  Smith pulled a small pistol from his belt, entirely crafted of metal in the Highland style, and hurried to where the trail opened out of the forest. Two quick whistles sounded from a lookout in a tree, and moments later two men on horseback appeared, one of them leading a battered, staggering prisoner by a long leather strap tied to his neck.

  Analie plucked at Duncan’s sleeve, but he needed no urging. He darted toward the horses, drawing his knife as he ran. Smith shouted for him to halt, and he heard the sound of at least two muskets being cocked. With one swift motion he cut the strap and spun about to face the others, standing with his back to the captive, his knife held out in threat.

  “Lower your knife, McCallum,” Smith called out angrily, “and we will lower our guns. Then we can both discover why a Mohawk has been treated so.”

  Tanaqua’s face was swollen from repeated blows and he seemed about to collapse of exhaustion, but his eyes burned bright. “The gods keep pushing us together, McCallum,” he said to Duncan, grinning through his obvious pain.

  Pulling one of his friend’s arms over his shoulder, Duncan half carried him to the side of the house and lowered him to the ground, his back to the wall. Analie appeared with a tin mug of water, which he silently drained, then offered a grateful nod as Duncan removed the end of the captive strap from the Mohawk’s neck.

  “Bastard was throwing our supplies off the ledge in front of the cave we were using,” one of his captors loudly reported as Smith stepped to Tanaqua’s side.

  “True,” the Mohawk said.

  Smith knelt beside him. “We have to hide stores in case the army decides to interfere with our spring planting,” the captain explained. “I told the men to use what caves they might find.”

  “He was shooting arrows at us,” one of the captors groused.

  “True,” Tanaqua agreed again. “In your direction.”

  “If this man was trying to kill you,” Duncan inserted, “you’d be lying in the forest with a shaft in your heart.” He studied his friend. Through Tanaqua’s fatigue and pain he saw a deeper melancholy.

  “You placed supplies in a cave behind a high open ledge,” Duncan said to the men who had dragged Tanaqua through the forest. “A cave whose walls showed painted hands and images of forest spirits.”

  What was left of Smith’s anger was turned on the two captors. “Is that true?”

  “Aye,” drawled the older of the two, a bearded man who paused to spit out tobacco juice. “Just dusty things of the savages. And some old rotting fur and bones we threw over the edge.”

  Duncan felt a heavy weight press down on him. “It was a shrine.”

  “More,” came Tanaqua’s voice, dry as sticks. “Since before memory our holy men have gone there to pray. A secret place.”

  “Hell,” said the bearded man. “Some windy rock ledge surrounded by gnarled trees with a cave behind. Right pretty up there. Could see for miles and miles.”

  Smith’s face colored. With a curt wave of his hand he dismissed the two men.

  “The fur was of a giant bear,” Tanaqua explained in a tight voice, “who lived there when the Great League
of my people was formed. He was very old and feeble even then, and when our holy men found him they sat and spoke to him for days, until he let them feed him. It was a great sign, confirming that the spirits blessed our League. They cared for him until he died. All these years. All these centuries the guardians of our spirits have gone there, to hold his fur and bones as they pray.”

  Smith crossed his legs under him and sat beside Tanaqua, and to Duncan’s surprise began speaking in the forest tongue. “Jiyathondek,” he said, “jadadeken raskerewake. Hai! Hai!” Hearken, he was saying to the spirits, thy brother of the bear clan is here. Woe! Woe!” They were the words of a condolence ritual.

  Duncan eased away and found the bearded man who had brought in Tanaqua at the well. “Was there also the body of another Iroquois?”

  The stranger winced. “We had naught to do with that. He was already dead, a week or more ago. The vultures were at work on him on the rocks below.”

  Tanaqua had been right. Kaskay, the guardian at the shrine, had been killed and scalped. Now the shrine had been defiled. He sent Analie with cider for Tanaqua and found himself just staring, disconsolate, into the well and the water deep below. Tanaqua had hoped to invoke the spirits, to pray for Blooddancer, but instead he had seen the body and the desecration of the sacred shrine. Duncan returned to sit beside Tanaqua and Smith, joining in the condolence.

  After a quarter hour, Tanaqua slumped against the wall, deep in sleep. Duncan found himself staring at a new adornment to the Mohawk’s arm, carefully drawn in ochre. It was the sign of the lost half king, the stick figure with the fish’s head. Smith whispered a last few words in the Mohawk tongue and then turned to Duncan. “I believe we have an unfinished conversation, sir,” he declared with challenge in his voice.