Duncan paced along the rows of books, and an unexpected thrill ran down his spine as he touched them. There were many religious tracts, but also Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, Defoe, and Voltaire, books that would not be allowed in a formal church library. “It was you,” he said, turning with sudden realization, “you who jibed with the king of France.”
As the old Nipmuc folded his hands over the book, a faraway smile lit his features. “I liked that king,” Conawago said, gazing at the candle flame, “though not his courtesans. He was shorter than I expected. He asked about the skills of the forest, so I took him to his royal garden and showed him how to lay a snare. His sister wanted me beheaded when we caught one of her lap dogs, but he was laughing about it for days. He wanted me to stay with him, grow up with him at Versailles.” Conawago’s smile grew melancholy. “I told him I had to return to America, because my mother was waiting for me.”
Duncan pulled a stool close and leaned toward his friend. “I want to hear it all. I want to know what a young Nipmuc thought of the grand palace, what you ate, and the color of the king’s robes.”
Conawago’s face lit with delight. He spoke with an energy Duncan had seldom heard in his voice, of the huge square-rigged ships in the convoy to France, of being terrified at seeing the endless ocean that first time as the convoy cleared the islands, of riding to Paris in a carriage with golden adornments. It was, Duncan realized, the salve they both needed, a carefree, intimate sharing like they knew at their mountain campfires. For brief moments the years seem to disappear, and Duncan could see the young adventurer in the old man’s face. Duncan found a bottle of the monk’s port, and they shared a cup as Conawago described the ridiculous fashions of the French women. At last, spent yet somehow refreshed, they drank another cup.
“Why are we here?” Duncan finally asked.
Conawago rose and dropped another log on the fire before answering. “They say if a Jesuit had been at the crucifixion he would have negotiated secret exile to some Roman isle for the son of God.” He turned and poked the fire with the iron rod by the chimney. “They’ve been out of favor with the Pope’s court for years, but that suits them best. Lingering in the shadows is more their way, manipulating events to their interests, quietly informing those in power.”
“Those they chose to inform,” Duncan added.
“They have always been the church’s scholars.”
“Back in Rome sometimes they grow too zealous about their unorthodox ideas and their compulsion to alter the affairs of men. Some revert to quiet intrigue. Those who agitate too loudly are sometimes sent to the New World.”
“You’re suggesting Brother Xavier is in exile?” Conawago asked.
“He spoke about an early life at missions, but he is writing letters in Italian. I wager he has also lived in Rome. I think he is a man who would turn exile into opportunity. Some men pull puppet strings just for the delight of it.”
“Or because it serves a cause they fervently believe in. Jesuits have been helping the Christian Mohawks for generations now.” Conawago stirred the embers. “But I am not certain bringing the allies of your enemy into your last fortress falls into that category. And for a hundred years our sanctimonious friends have not tried to stop the butchery of the raids into English territory.”
“So it is a trap? If the French were to take the elders of the Iroquois Council, they could keep the Iroquois from fighting. We are surrounded by French troops. Why are we here?” Duncan asked again.
“What was it that Delaware said to you of the crossed boy?”
“He always cheated.”
Conawago nodded. “They needed you to bear witness that their beloved renegade has cheated.” After Duncan had shocked him with the coin, Xavier had sat with his head in his hands listening to the details of the murders and theft.
“Before I came in here,” Conawago explained, “Xavier and Tatamy were arguing about something, raising their voices. When I eased the door open after a long silence, Xavier was on his knees at that table,” Conawago said, indicating a small, low table along the tapestry wall bearing a brass cross and a small image in a simple wooden frame. “‘Forgive me father,’ he kept saying, like the sinner in a confessional.”
“Monks pray for forgiveness like everyone else.”
“For a monk like Xavier, sins are more complicated.” Conawago reached into his shirt and extended a slip of paper bearing two words.
“Fortress Island,” Duncan read.
“He gave it to me. He’s telling us where the half-king is, his camp on the river.”
“Why should we believe him?”
In reply Conawago pushed the candle toward Duncan. He lifted it and stepped to the little table. He assumed the framed image would be one of Christ, but it was instead an ink drawing of an older man with long curly hair, much like that of Xavier. Father Francis, read the caption on the bottom.
“His sins are as complicated as his schemes,” Duncan said as he returned to Conawago. “There is something more. Something he is not telling us.” He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t want to die in a French prison.”
“Since we accepted our mission from the Council we have had one foot on the other side, Duncan. The French will let the half-king play out his hand. And we know what he intends. If we don’t give him the alliance he wants then he will demand you, me, and the elders. Five of us for the children. It saves the children and gives him an even stronger hold on the Council.”
“I could not bear to see the elders tied to the half-king’s posts.”
“Do you possibly think we would let the half-king use us against the League?”
Duncan studied Conawago uneasily.
“Don’t lie to yourself, my friend. You and I are on that belt. When you hold a belt you must speak the truth. When you are woven into a belt you must live the truth.” Conawago stood and fixed Duncan with an intense stare. “That first night when the elders arrived at our camp, Custaloga asked if I had a good sharp knife, and he showed me his. He said they would never be pawns to the French or the Hurons, that to do so would disgrace the League. He said they had all agreed.”
Duncan did not speak for several heartbeats. “I don’t understand.” He did understand, but he could not admit the terrible truth.
“The warrior’s duty, Duncan. If the French or the half-king try to take us prisoner, Custaloga will cut Tushcona’s throat, and then I am to kill him. He made me promise. Then, he said, when you and I come across our army would be waiting.”
His last bit of hope seemed to die with the embers Duncan stared at. If they fled toward the British, or simply fled into the wilderness, they would have failed the Iroquois and would carry the dishonor for as long as they lived. If they stayed with the Jesuits and the Caughnawags, they would become two more puppets of the half-king. The elders might choose a quick death at the hand of a friend, but the half-king had promised Duncan a death of five days.
He looked to see that Conawago had retired, then rose and walked along the books again. He had at least expected Xavier to parlay to keep the tribes from destroying each other. Instead he had just brought them to see an injured Mohawk girl. Duncan looked toward the chamber where Hannah lay. Xavier had left the girl in their care for the night, and the Jesuits did nothing by chance. Had he wanted them to have an opportunity to speak with her in the quiet hours?
He paused at the end of the tapestry then pushed open the door. Ishmael sat on the stool beside the cot, speaking in hushed tones with the Iroquois girl. Duncan advanced slowly, making sure they heard his footsteps.
“I wanted to check your wound,” he said to Hannah, glancing at Ishmael, who looked into the shadows as if to avoid Duncan’s gaze. He bent to feel the girl’s pulse before lightly touching the flesh around the wound on her cheek then turning to the bucket to freshen the cloth on her forehead. When he turned back to her, she was staring at him.
“My mother used to say I was the prettiest girl in the village.” The girl’s v
oice was surprisingly strong. “No more.”
Duncan put the moist cloth on her head. “One side of your face will captivate all those who see you, the other will humble. The tribes of the forest wear their battle scars with great pride.”
The girl’s smile was hollow. “The rose loses its flower but never its thorn.” She cast an expectant glance toward Ishmael, who nodded his encouragement. “Ishmael says I should tell you something because you understand the secret ways of Europeans.” The girl lifted her blanket and produced a slip of paper on which an image had been drawn, a series of curves and lines running together.
“The kilted men who went north with us, wherever they went they made this symbol. Carved it on trees. Used charred sticks to mark rocks with it.”
Duncan turned the paper this way and that, trying to make sense of it, then went still as recognition finally reached him. He asked for her writing lead and drew it again, very carefully, first a letter J and a letter R with a space between, then he joined the letters by nestling a figure 8 between them.
“Yes!” the girl said, nodding, “that is it.”
Duncan had not seen the sign for years. Jacobus Rex, the cipher meant, or more particularly King James the Eighth, the last Scottish King. Although forgotten by many, it had always been a secret sign of Jacobites, a sign that got men arrested, and worse, during the last uprising.
Duncan saw now how both Hannah and Ishmael looked uneasily into the shadows past the big wine barrels. He lifted one of the candles and ventured toward them. In a small alcove beyond them he discovered another cot, on which an aged man lay propped against the stone wall. He appeared to be asleep but roused as Duncan approached with the light. A smile lit his craggy face.
“Ciamar a tha sibh?”
The face, and the Gaelic greeting, stopped Duncan. For a moment he was transported to another place, another time. He did not know the man, but he certainly knew his features and his accent. He had known a hundred such men in his boyhood, the old ones who bridged the generations, who piped and danced and led joyful gatherings on misty isles.
The man’s voice was hoarse, as if he had not used it in a long time. “I am Clan Graham,” he explained, “and you are Clan McCallum. An age ago I danced with McCallum lasses. I was no weakling but it was difficult to keep up with them,” he said with a wheezing laugh.
Duncan lowered himself onto a stool and set the candle on the upturned crate by the man’s bed. On the crate were several bleeding cups beside small bottles with familiar labels. Laudanum, the tincture of opium used for severe pain. Powder of Algaroth, used as an emetic. Peruvian bark, for fevers.
“Strong children those two,” the stranger said, nodding toward Ishmael and Hannah. “Bodes well for America, wouldn’t you say?” With visible effort he swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, bringing his face out of the shadows.
The man’s hands trembled. His deep, intelligent eyes looked out from a worn, wrinkled face.
“May I?” Duncan asked Graham, reaching for his withered wrist. “I studied for some years at the medical college in Edinburgh.”
The old Scot did not resist when Duncan gently took his arm. His pulse was weak and irregular. “The great college! I entertained many of its professors at my Edinburgh home. Buchanan, Oglesby, even McPhee, before he had that bother over the corpses in his classroom.”
Duncan could not hide his pleasure at hearing the names of learned men he too had known and admired. They spoke for several minutes of mutual acquaintances before Graham reached behind his pillow and produced a heavy bottle. He uncorked it with a conspiratorial grin. “The best medicine of all,” he said, pouring some of its golden liquid into two of the bleeding cups and handing one to Duncan. Graham lifted his cup and closed his eyes as he sniffed. “The water of life, lad.”
It had been too long since Duncan had tasted good Highland whiskey, and as he let the first sip linger on his tongue, memories of other old Scots and their whiskey washed over him.
“McPhee would love to have me on his table when I breathe my last,” Graham said in a surprisingly congenial tone. “He would debate with his class for hours over whether it was my lungs, my liver, or the growth in my belly that killed me. I prefer to think of it as just the harvest of a long life well lived.” Graham said nothing when Duncan pressed his fingertips through the thin linen of his shirt, just stood up like a compliant patient. The tight lump beside the man’s stomach was prominent. He had a tumor.
“Alice McCallum,” Graham recalled with a whimsical glint as Duncan probed. “The lass had the deepest blue eyes I ever saw. A man could wander for days in those eyes. I was in love with her one summer,” he confessed, holding up his arms as if embracing a dance partner. Suddenly he noticed Hannah and Ishmael standing by the barrels. With surprising grace he glided to the maiden and bowed before her. Hannah laughed, tucked her splinted arm against her body, and took Graham’s proffered hand as he began humming a waltz.
As Duncan watched the aged Scot and the Iroquois maiden dance, he recalled how Graham had introduced himself. Clan Graham. It was the address for a clan chief. The Grahams had been one of the most powerful clans in the northern Highlands, and before the uprising their clan chief would have been a great laird, ruling like a king. After the uprising there were huge bounties placed on the heads of the rebel lords.
Ishmael took up the humming, and soon Graham and the young Mohawk girl began laughing so hard they had to stop. The glee on the old man’s countenance twisted into a grimace of pain. As he clutched his belly, Duncan helped him back to his cot and poured him another inch of whiskey.
“I remember meeting a company of McCallum men,” Graham said when he recovered. The more he drank, the more pronounced was the Scottish burr in his voice. “At the kyle along Skye it was, and the fools were swimming shaggy cows across the channel from the island to the drovers’ camp near Lochlash. Long before you were born, lad.”
Duncan grinned again. “Those were my people, Lord Graham. My uncles used to boast of the days when they swam so many cows they could walk across the channel on their backs.”
Graham’s laugh ended in a violent shiver, and he pointed to the monk’s robe draped over the nearest barrel. As Duncan helped him into it, the good-natured old man lowered his head and made the sign of the cross, murmuring the prayer in French. “Call me Father Andre, lad. My days as Laird Andrew Graham are long ago memories.”
“I understand why the girl is here, Father,” Duncan said. “But you are not hiding in the vault because you escaped from the half-king.” He was beginning to suspect he was looking at the real reason he had been brought to Montreal.
Graham studied him silently. There was wisdom in his eyes, but also cunning. “The Highland way of life was just that, a way of life. Are we so shallow as to think it had to be lost because our lands were lost?” The old laird grew very sober. “I’ve seen mountains to the west, by the inland seas, that are covered with heather and pines just like home. There are four thousand brave Highland men converging on this very city. That fool Amherst doesn’t realize he has assembled the biggest gathering of Scottish fighters since the uprising in ’46.”
He leaned closer to Duncan. When he spoke again there was new strength in his voice. “With the western tribes, the French Indians, and the Iroquois at their side, they will be unstoppable. Neither king will have the stomach to stop them when they choose to establish a new Scottish nation around the inland seas.”
Duncan stared at the man, stunned. His heart raced as he lowered his whiskey. He had been so blind. They had all been so blind. Somehow the half-king had connected to the secret Jacobite network. Regis had found an old Highland laird whom he would present at the final hour to rally the Scots. The Revelator didn’t simply mean for the Highlanders to refuse to fight for the British, he intended that they would take up their own flag and fight against the British alongside the half-king. The French would be assured of their long-sought victory. He looked back at the cot under the sta
irs, where Hannah had drawn the Jacobite symbol. For the glory of Rome, all those in Rome, Brother Xavier had said. But Duncan did not ask the question that leapt to his tongue. “I had understood those to be tribal lands,” he said instead.
“And the half-king will treat all tribes as equals. We will be their protectors, their way to counter the threat of other Europeans. Surely you want Highlanders to find their true place. You are one of us.”
“Of course,” Duncan quickly replied, then he weighed Graham’s words. “But it is dangerous to make assumptions about the tribes.”
“I make no assumptions. I have smoked the pipe with every major chief in the West.”
Duncan studied the old Scot, considering his words. The half-king was not acting out of vengeance against colonists. Vengeance was a cover. He was acting out a carefully planned strategy, a grand and historic vision.
“The McCallum clan can start anew,” Graham said. Though his eyes were sunken, they were sparkling now. “Build a croft by the water. Perhaps tame some bison to be your shaggy cows.”
“The half-king roasts men alive.”
Graham winced, as if the remark jabbed him personally. “He can be impetuous, yes,” he said, and then continued to describe his vision. “We will organize companies of men to build barns and cabins. We will want a shipyard. The McCallums once built boats, I recall. Or a school, if that’s what you want. That’s it, lad! You’ll have the first medical school for the tribes! We will build you a-” Graham’s words choked away as he doubled up with pain. With a shuddering groan he clutched his belly, then suddenly Brother Xavier and Tatamy stepped out of the shadows. Xavier motioned Duncan away, as Tatamy placed a slat of wood between Graham’s clenched teeth. Through his agony the old Scot nodded his thanks to the Christian Mohawk, and Duncan realized they must be old friends. He backed away, staring in confusion. With his last words the old Scot had sounded as though the rebellion was his, not the half-king’s.
Xavier murmured prayers. Tatamy wiped his brow and spoke low comforting words in his native tongue. Duncan retreated to the cot under the stairs, where Hannah sat, looking uneasily in the direction of Graham. Duncan helped her settle for sleep as Ishmael curled up in a blanket by the foot of the cot. Tatamy appeared and bent over the girl to look at the stitches in her cheek.
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