“A Huron did that to the child,” the chieftain declared.
“Have the northern Mohawks grown particular about whom they maim?” Duncan shot back. A cruel, poorly timed jab, but he was tired of being a pawn and not understanding, weary of the casual cruelty that injured so many.
Tatamy sat beside him on the second stool. “It was a French colonel who spoke first to us about the half-king who called himself the Revelator. We have been allied with the French for nearly two hundred years, and Andrew explained that alliances between France and Scotland go back even further.” He shrugged. “We fight wars to win them.”
Duncan was confused by the regret in the man’s voice. “Those were your men at Bethel Church,” he said.
Tatamy nodded grimly. “Four of them were. My best warriors, who had made raids in the South before and knew the land along the lakes. We were told it was to be a daring raid on supply lines, deep into enemy territory, that much glory would come of it. They said the Indians who lived in the town had raided our own villages. But one of my men came to me when they returned. He had been having bad dreams. He said those who died had not fought, but had sung. They were not warriors, they were peacemakers. He showed me a cross he had taken from one of the dead.”
Tatamy looked up to Duncan with apology in his eyes. “The Revelator’s men made sure my men gave no trouble. Our Caughnawags held their tongues until they returned home and could speak to my face. All are having bad dreams. They know now there was no honor in what they did, that the dreams are telling them they must put things back in harmony, they must rectify things somehow. It is wrong to build a new world on the suffering of good people.”
Suddenly Duncan felt a glimmer of understanding. Xavier was a key lieutenant in the conspiracy, but only a lieutenant. “Father Xavier didn’t know it was also being built with stolen silver,” he suggested.
“The tale of the Revelator has built great hope among our people. He promises great things.” The chief stared at Duncan pointedly. “We do things for him others cannot.”
Duncan considered the words as he gazed at the sleeping girl. “The people of Bethel Church died, and the children were betrayed because of that treasure. Just some shiny metal.”
“The Revelator thinks he must have it for his cause to succeed.” The chieftain frowned. “Just some shiny metal, yes. He means to turn the world upside down with it. If something happened to it, the half-king would give much to get it back.”
Duncan hesitated, first wondering if he heard invitation in Tatamy’s voice then grasping the full weight of the chieftain’s words. “You mean he does not have the payroll in his hands yet.” He spoke slowly, responding to the mischievous gleam in the chieftain’s eyes. “You mean he would trade the children to someone who did have it. But the French surely must have the coins by now. They would not tolerate him interfering with their plans.”
“Their plans?” Tatamy asked. “Have you not listened today? The French have helped him, the French embraced the opportunity to wreak havoc in the British lines. But the plans were laid in that very chamber,” he said, gesturing toward Xavier’s vault, “not in some war room.”
Duncan’s mind raced as he gazed into the shadows where Graham laid. There had never been French generals behind the half-king’s scheme. It had been a broken Scottish laird and a Jesuit monk who had unleashed the Revelator and his poet of death. But like most wild animals, they had proven difficult to control. He looked back at the Mohawk chieftain. “You suggest someone else might obtain the treasure and buy back the children.”
“It is the greatest of his secrets. My men were with the raiders on the lake, were there when their bateau met another loaded with gunpowder kegs. Now the half-king calls for twenty of my men to be ready before dawn the day after tomorrow, at a cove on the far side of the river, to go to a field with rows of earthen mounds. We are to remove our crosses, be ready for a hard day’s march. He wants us to look like Mohawks from the South, arrived to carry loads for the army.”
“But if you don’t have the coins and he doesn’t have the coins. .” Duncan said slowly, and then a grin lit his face as he finally understood. The Revelator had indeed made a fool of King George. He had made the British army transport its own stolen payroll.
Chapter Fourteen
Tatamy’s men escorted them to the canoes an hour before dawn, stealing through a thick fog past work parties who hauled cannonballs onto the ramparts. Graham’s words echoed in Duncan’s mind. The greatest gathering of Highland military might since the uprising was approaching Montreal, and Highlanders had a long memory. There would be a new Scotland. Duncan would have a croft, a boat, a medical practice among his own people, Highland and tribal. He drifted into visions of that new world, of raising his own family, of Conawago at last finding fulfillment as he taught gleeful red-haired and black-haired children. Four thousand Highland soldiers would be liberated.
Duncan cocked his head at Conawago as the others boarded the canoes. The old Nipmuc had the wampum belt out and was staring at it. He felt Duncan’s gaze and looked at him, then turned the belt toward Duncan, as if he needed reminding. They had seen the price being extracted by the half-king for that world. The elders had understood when they had woven the belt. Tatamy had glimpsed it and decided he no longer wanted to be part of the bargain.
By daybreak the mist was breaking up and they were on the opposite bank of the wide river. At Tatamy’s direction the three canoes containing Duncan, Conawago, and the Iroquois were in the front, and as they passed a small fog-shrouded cove, Duncan realized they were alone. The northern Mohawks had disappeared into the mist.
Duncan guided them warily along the wooded shore until the coughing cry of a merganser broke the silence, and two canoes shot out from a bed of reeds. The first, holding Woolford and one of his tribal rangers, circled them, offering quiet greetings. The second, holding three more rangers, took up position at the rear of the procession as Woolford directed them toward a point of land half a mile away.
Custaloga gasped as they entered the bay beyond the point. It was overflowing with British soldiers. Longboats were ferrying troops off transport ships. Mortars and cannons were being lowered from yardarm cranes onto squat gunboats. On what had been the broad pasture of a farm, troops were parading in time to loud drumbeats. A band played a jaunty tune as longboats disgorged ranks of redcoats. Scores of white tents were arranged in orderly rows on the slope above the field.
To Duncan’s relief, Woolford turned toward the shore and directed their party into a grove of maples where half a dozen more rangers waited to guide them to a campfire for a hot breakfast. Woolford lingered by the canoes with Duncan, explaining the regimental flags arrayed along the waterfront.
The screech of a whistle, the double tones of a boatswain’s pipe, interrupted them. As Woolford spun about, the color drained from his face. Two long boats rowed by sailors, one filled with a squad of marines and the other with officers in brocaded finery, were rapidly approaching.
“The grand bastard himself,” Woolford declared in a worried voice, and he whistled sharply toward his camp. The rangers began herding their guests deeper into the forest.
“Amherst?” Duncan asked.
No reply came, but none was necessary. Oars were shipped, letting the boats coast into the shallow water. Sailors from the officers boat leapt into the water to take a heavy chair held out by the marines, followed closely by two junior officers who assisted an older, bewigged officer into the chair. As he was carried to shore, he had the air of a raja on his palanquin. His round, puffy cheeks showed signs of rouge, the brass gorget on his chest shined mirror bright. Duncan took a step backward, longing to be in the shadows.
“It is always reassuring to see our rugged frontline emerge safely from the forest,” the officer announced after he had straightened his uniform.
For a moment Duncan thought Woolford was going to bow. Instead he dipped his head and touched his temple with a knuckle. “General Amherst. W
e are honored.”
The general looked down his long thin nose at Woolford. “Do you bring word from General Calder, Captain?”
“He hopes you will not sweep away the enemy before he has a chance to join the field.”
Amherst offered a thin smile, then extended a hand to one of his staff officers, who quickly opened a silver snuff box. “We will draw the frogs out,” the supreme commander declared with a gesture toward his massed troops. “Then Calder will be the hammer that drives them onto our anvil.” With a delicate motion he lifted snuff with his finger and thumb then pressed it up his nostrils. For a moment his eyes narrowed and he studied the camp behind Woolford, then he withdrew a handkerchief and sneezed.
“I am going downriver for consultations with the navy,” he announced. “I look forward to news of Calder’s arrival above Montreal.” He made a vague gesture toward the forest. “Carry on,” he said with a lightless smile.
“What in God’s name was that about?” Duncan asked as the boats rowed away. “The king’s anointed one came to show off his glittering snuff box?”
Woolford shook his head. “I wish I knew. He despises our Indian allies and anyone else who does not march to his strict beat. If I reported to him instead of General Calder, my company would be disbanded in a heartbeat.”
“But you are far removed from General Calder.”
“I am his eyes and ears.”
“Which Amherst knows.”
“Calder does not like to proceed onto unknown ground.”
“The payroll was going north to Amherst,” Duncan observed as he watched the retreating boats. “He must not take it kindly that Calder lost it.”
Woolford nodded. “Except that Amherst ordered the payroll investigation closed. I am commanded to gather battlefield intelligence. There are not just French and their militia to watch, but Huron and Abenaki and Caughnawag camps.”
“Meaning Calder is worried about them.”
“He is perhaps four days away, slowly making his way up the lake to the river. It is a laborious affair, moving thousands of men. And he has little appetite for moving into the chain of islands since he knows the half-king is waiting for him somewhere along the river, with a few hundred men at last report, and more no doubt pouring into his secret camp every day.”
Duncan extended the paper from Xavier. “Not so secret.”
Woolford’s eyes went round with surprise. “I know this place, a few miles above Montreal. The island has a high ridge on the south and east that shields it from this side. He could mass an army there and not be seen.”
“But surely with Calder’s strength-” Duncan began.
“His strength is hollow. One in three of his men are just recalled from the West Indies, meaning they are still weak from fever. Half the others may not be reliable.”
“You mean Highlanders.”
Woolford frowned, then nodded. “Several hundred are already here, with the troops that came from Quebec City. Amherst has his own watchers. He doesn’t trust them.”
“And what will the generals do when they find they haven’t simply lost the use of the Highlanders but have to face them on the battlefield?”
Woolford’s head snapped toward Duncan. “Even speaking such nonsense would be considered treason by Amherst!” His expression soured as Duncan reported what the half-king intended to do with the Scottish troops.
“What will the English troops do when several regiments of Highlanders charge their line?” Duncan asked as he concluded.
Woolford stared intensely at Duncan. He grabbed a handful of pebbles, which he angrily hurled one at a time into the water. “The grenadiers will stand and die, and all the others will break and run, as any sane man would do. When the Highlanders have their blood up, they are a machine of death.” He looked at Duncan. “But if they were going to turn, surely they would have done so.”
“The moment of battle has not yet arrived.”
“Duncan, I cannot believe the Scots will betray their colors for a few pieces of silver. They are made of sterner stuff.”
“Exactly. The money is a token, an enticement, an excuse to get them to listen. What they will hear is that they finally have the opportunity to make a strike for the clans, to pay back the king for the way he has abused the Highlands. It won’t be about the money in the end.”
“Surely they won’t all desert just for some hollow vengeance.”
Duncan showed the ranger the paper with the Jacobite symbol on it. “Thousands gave their lives in the ’46 uprising to support the Stewart prince. Families gave everything for their prince. He was like some mythic hero rising up to slay the monsters that plagued them.”
“You’re talking history.”
“That same prince still lives. At the Vatican, with the Jesuits.”
“But the hold of the Jesuits here, and in Rome, has been slipping away.”
“Tell me this, Patrick: Who are the lasting enemies of England, enemies for centuries? It’s not just the French.”
“Again, you’re speaking of history.”
“Then you are as blind as Calder and Amherst. The Roman Church, the Jacobites, the French. The trinity that prays for the destruction of England. I spent last night with a Jesuit monk who exclaimed with great confidence about the new world that is coming. I met an old Scottish laird who was a leader of the Jacobites. He knows Rome. He is an intimate of the Stewart prince. The Jacobites and the Jesuits mean to carve out a new kingdom, supported by the tribes and the Highland troops. The theft of the payroll, the kidnapping of the Council’s children, and the rising of the half-king are all moves on the same chessboard.”
The remaining pebbles fell from Woolford’s fingers. He lowered himself onto a log. “My God. The vengeful shouts of a western chieftain will fade. The half-king alone is a nuisance who may put off our victory for another year, nothing more. But a plot hatched in the Vatican. .”
“Which has been looking for retribution ever since England split from the Holy Church. Thousands of innocents died then because of the words in prayer books. If the Vatican wishes to change the hearts of thousands, it sends out an army of monks. If it wishes to change an entire country, it sends out a handful of Jesuits. The Jacobite prince is desperate and embittered, but he is a devout Catholic living in Rome. By himself he has been powerless. But a few words spoken in the right ears in the Vatican brought an epiphany, that the Roman Church and the Jacobites might have common interests with the French in the New World. When their conspiracy succeeds, every river between here and the Atlantic will run with blood.”
Woolford lifted a stick and twisted it in his hands until it broke. “It’s all too fantastic, Duncan. There is no proof. Every question is answered by a riddle.”
“That’s the point. It isn’t about the riddles, it’s about the riddler.”
“You mean the half-king.”
“No. The half-king’s is someone’s soldier. There is a hidden chain that reaches through the old Jacobites to the exiled prince in Rome. I know the links to Rome now. But at the other end, there has to be someone close to army secrets, someone who understands the movement of Highland troops and paywagons. This is a clockwork maze of gears, but every clock has its mainspring. Something’s been bothering me ever since Oswego. Why was Colonel Cameron so protective of Rabbit Jack and the poet of death?”
Woolford shook his head. “Ridiculous. Cameron is more English than I am. Amherst trusts him implicitly. They say he was assigned to Calder’s staff to keep Calder in line. Amherst values him so highly he brought him back to help plan the battle.”
“Brought him back?”
“A fast escort of provosts riding with extra mounts brought him from Calder’s column yesterday. He’s the ranking officer of the Highland regiments.”
“What exactly did he do for Calder?”
“His adjutant, responsible for administration. Same as for Amherst, at least for the rest of the campaign. Overseeing the quartermaster, the infirmaries, deployment sche
dules.”
“Including the paymaster?”
Woolford hesitated before nodding. “And the paymaster.”
“Who would have been responsible for the report on the payroll robbery?”
“He would have been.”
“Get it.”
“Impossible.”
“You run an intelligence network for Calder. You have ways.”
“I don’t spy within the army, Duncan. Stealing such a report would be a hanging offense.”
“You can only hang once.”
“You are the one who accumulates capital offenses, not me.”
“I am thinking more of how you are going to help me ransom the Council’s children.”
An army won battles on the strength of musket and sword. It won wars on the strength of oxen and wagons. General Amherst was famed not for his ability in a battle line but for his prowess at moving huge amounts of men and supplies to where they would do the enemy the most damage. Duncan could not help but admire the temporary city that Amherst was building. Hundreds of men worked at erecting tents, digging latrines, cutting and hauling wood for scores of fires, even raising high poles for regimental colors.
Woolford nervously watched Duncan as they paced along the neat rows of freshly excavated earthen bunkers where kegs of gunpowder were being stored.
Duncan paused to watch one of the blue-coated artillery officers step into a pit and begin marking kegs with a piece of chalk. “Why does he do that?”
“An artillery officer’s world revolves around chalk marks. Marks to show when a batch of powder was tested last, marks to distinguish the coarse powder for the big guns from the fine, which is saved for small arms. Marks to show the age of the powder. Marks to show whether the powder came from the Birmingham works or the Durham works, since each has its own characteristics. In the field, kegs have to be marked for delivery to specific batteries. They all have their own codes. And that is just the powder. There is also the shot. The munitions will go to half a dozen batteries being built along the southern bank. Those expecting to face troops will receive grape shot, those planning to face ships will get chain shot.”
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