Original Death amoca-3

by Eliot Pattison

  “They were wavering already since so many have relatives among the southern Iroquois who came north with Johnson. Their discovery of the half-king’s treachery at Bethel Church sealed their decision. But Amherst does not know it yet. You will deliver the news, Colonel. They will not attack the British forces. The half-king will soon be in retreat.”

  “But the navy. The attack intended for last night. It was based on intelligence about the mutiny of the Highlanders.”

  “You will say you had to let the rumors of mutiny circulate in order to build false confidence in the half-king, to lure him closer. You will tell General Amherst that you had no knowledge of his bold plan of bombardment, and because of his disappearance you had no way to inform him that you had been successful in your efforts. The navy will be deeply shamed by what happened to them last night. They will never let it be known that one man defeated a squadron. They can pretend that they successfully frightened the half-king away, and we can all bemoan the little tempest that apparently caused some minor havoc among their vessels.”

  Cameron stared at Woolford with new confidence. “It’s bold, Captain.” He read the report again in silence. “It’s a gamble,” he said with a small smile. “But why? Why would you do this?”

  “Because the Scots on this island are good men. Because this war will be soon over, and I have it on good authority they will be offered the chance to remain in America as their units are reduced. I am not returning to England. McCallum is not returning to Scotland. We want such men at our sides, men who are friends with the tribes.”

  Cameron waved the paper toward Woolford. “Still a gamble, lad.”

  “We will see that the Revelator has enough canoes to begin a conspicuous retreat, proving your tale. And the ultimate prize you give Amherst will eclipse his doubts and his sentiments about the Highlanders.”

  “The prize?”

  “The French know they have no chance without the northern tribes or the half-king at their side. Amherst has his own spies, who will confirm that the Caughnawags have withdrawn. The French will sue for peace. You will have made possible the near-bloodless fall of Montreal. Amherst’s mind will be filled with coming knighthoods and banquets with the king. He will never blemish his victory with the court-martial of his adjutant.”

  The colonel stared for a long moment at Woolford. “If you took credit for this, Captain, you would be a major in a fortnight.”

  A small grin rose on the ranger’s face. “Which would take me back across the sea to the next wretched war. I am staying in America.”

  Cameron stood and folded the papers into his pocket then looked out over the river. He spoke with a solemn, cracking voice. “Each of you has saved my life, and that of many good Highlanders.” He shook each of their hands.

  “It will mean no castle,” Duncan said.

  Cameron forced a weary smile. “It will mean my neck will not be stretched by the king’s rope.” He sighed and gazed on the ruined gunboats downstream. “My aspirations were born of the Old World. I see now a man has to have new dreams in this land. I will look for an early opportunity to leave the king’s service for a new life here. My clan took its strength from the soil for centuries. A croft in America may be as good as a castle back home.”

  When they reached the top of the trail, the old abbey and its grounds were empty. But Duncan spied a thread of smoke above the chimney.

  Tushcona was tending a pot of stew over a small fire in the kitchen hearth. Upstairs the children were in the monks’ cells, tended by the elders. Duncan paused by each cot, checking the health of the children and encouraging them to sleep.

  He heard movement above and saw that the door to the narrow winding stairway to the top floor was open. Stealthily climbing the stairs, he followed the sound to the little makeshift chapel. The great brown dog was on its haunches, staring out the low window.

  It took Duncan only a few minutes to find what he was looking for among the wooden boxes that lined the wall. The writing on the pasted lable was faded but still readable. Father Francis, it said, 1673. Strangely, it had two dates for his demise. The inked inscription indicated he had died in 1722, but above it someone had used a lead to inscribe 1734.

  Inside the box was a worn rosary, a small carved bird, a braid of long black hair tied with a red ribbon, and two cheap copper rings, the kind bartered by traders, bound together with a strip of white fur.

  No one among our missions showed more courage and faith than Father Francis when he ventured as the first of us among the Mingoes, began the note at the bottom of the box. It went on to explain that Francis was a natural leader who soon attracted a settlement of natives around his little chapel on the banks of the Ohio and then opened the first school in the western lands. But he had gone too far in adopting the native ways, and in 1722, when his abbot discovered he had sired a son with a Mingo maid, they had taken his robe away. Francis did not stop his mission work, however, and was famous for preaching about the purity of the savage soul. He insisted on keeping European technology from his flock and fervently condemned those who tried to introduce European currency, saying gold and silver represented false wealth. It was the scourge of Europe and would corrupt the souls of his people. He had buried his beloved wife in an epidemic and a year later had been killed by drunken warriors trying to burn his chapel. His son Xavier continued the mission work and was consecrated as a monk at an early age.

  Duncan closed the box and reverently replaced it, recalling how Xavier had begged his father’s forgiveness when he had discovered the half-king had committed murder for an army payroll. The Jesuit’s passion for the natives had made him a perfect lieutenant for Graham but in the end he too had become a pawn. Duncan gazed out over the broad river and the chain of islands that extended to the horizon. They could have been Scottish islands, and he could have built himself a croft, even a boat, and taught the old ways to a new generation. But the price had been too high.

  A movement on the field below caught his eye. Conawago was walking toward two long bundles lying by the rock-strewn bluff. He had almost forgotten the last of their sacred duties.

  They worked in silence, Ishmael and Duncan cutting and trimming sturdy maple saplings while Conawago and Kass erected the two scaffolds. When they unwrapped the blankets around the bodies, Duncan insisted on binding the many gaping wounds. Kass washed the bodies with water and sweetfern while he knelt with needle and thread. The elders arrived to light a small spirit fire. With cupped hands Conawago directed the fragrant smoke over the bodies, reciting a low gravelly chant that the others soon joined in. Duncan did not bother to wipe the moisture in his eyes.

  Hetty joined in the chants, the hell dog watching her vigilantly from the cliff’s edge, but as the others quieted, she continued with her own low, mournful song, in the Welsh tongue. When she was finished, Conawago spoke to the dead men in his Nipmuc language, and though only Ishmael understood what he said, the tone was unmistakable. There was mourning in his voice, but also apology and even guilt. With slow, painful realization, Duncan understood. His friend too needed to find a death with honor, and had expected it, had promised it, had been bound to it by the Iroquois Council. But he had failed to die.

  Tushcona seemed to sense the depth of his pain. When Conawago finished, she spoke to him in a somber, worried tone. The Nipmuc hesitantly pulled out the belt she had woven at Onondaga Castle. The weaver seemed strangely unsteady as she lowered herself onto a boulder and stretched the belt across her lap. Her brow furrowed as she ran her fingers over it, as if unfamiliar with the beads she herself had woven. Then she touched the central figures and began an urgent, whispered chant. Conawago touched Duncan, and he saw that all the others had retreated several steps, leaving the weaver in the center of their circle. As Duncan stepped back, Tuchcona lifted the belt over her head and spoke toward a huge bird that had appeared overhead.

  It was the first eagle Duncan had seen since the fateful day on Lake Champlain, and as she spoke the bird dropped clos
er. She kept speaking, sometimes pausing and cocking her head as if in conversation, then with a few powerful thrusts the bird changed course and began climbing. They all watched it until it was a speck high in the sky, then Tushcona sighed and looked apologetically at Duncan and Conawago, gesturing them toward her.

  “It was fated to be two companions, one old and one young, who crossed over to save us,” Tushcona explained. “The belt weaves itself. We only thought it was a Nipmuc and a Scot because you were the ones who came.”

  Conawago lowered his head. Disappointment showed through his sorrow. Finally he nodded his acceptance of her words. “The honor of dying was not ours this time.”

  Relief flooded Tushcona’s face. She carried the belt to Sagatchie’s scaffold and laid it across his chest, then spoke in a low voice in Custaloga’s ear, as if to give him final assurance. The spirits could be at peace again. Their two protectors had made it across.

  They had finished the rituals, finished the farewells to the lost warriors, and were lingering in silent contemplation of the two dead Iroquois when the hell dog bared its teeth and growled toward the abbey yard. Duncan saw no sign of intruders, but Hetty suddenly hitched up her skirt and ran, Ishmael and Conawago only a few steps behind. They had not expected their visitors so soon.

  Duncan lingered, watching the dozen warriors who emerged from around the ruined barns, and turned to Sagatchie’s body with a new fierceness in his eyes. “We will make an end to this,” he vowed to his dead friend, then he turned to find Kass and Adanahoe standing behind him with fire in their eyes. They conferred quickly, then descended in a wide circle around the abbey.

  When he and Adanahoe finally stepped past the ruined outbuildings into the old barnyard, Ishmael was lying on the ground. Hetty and Tushcona knelt at his side trying to protect him from the angry Mingo warrior who hovered over him, dangling a string of scalps in his face. Duncan’s hand went to his knife as two men filed out of the abbey, carrying the elders’ packs. Scar glared at Duncan, who had left him unconscious and shamed at the end of the gauntlet. The man behind Scar, wearing the lynx pelt at his waist, paused, and a cruel, hungry grin rose on his face. The half-king still wore his war paint.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The renegade leader dropped the pack in his hand and stepped in front of his men, gesturing for them to get on with their work. They began dumping out the contents of the packs onto the ground.

  “Surely, Regis, you can tell by their weight that the packs don’t have what you seek,” Duncan declared in a loud voice.

  Hatred flared in the half-king’s eyes, then he shrugged. “There will be time enough for me to become the Revelator again. Next year, perhaps the year after. The western tribes will not be quieted. We will yet soak the land in blood. Blood will have blood.”

  “Shakespeare?” Duncan replied. “You’ve learned well from your poet.”

  Sounds of struggle came from inside the building. Another pack flew out of an upstairs window. A child cried out in fear.

  “If those children are harmed, it will be your men flying out the windows,” Duncan growled.

  Regis sneered and motioned to those beside Duncan. Tushcona was helping Ishmael to his feet. “We should be frightened of children and old women?” he mocked.

  “You’d be surprised. This one,” Duncan said, nodding towards Tushcona, “can kill by weaving you into a belt. This one,” he said, gesturing to Hetty, who was helping Ishmael to his feet, “can send a snake to fly and tell the spirits how you lied to them and lied about them. And this one,” he indicated Adanahoe “can kill with a finger. They are not in a forgiving mood.”

  “I will feed the fish with parts of your body as we travel up the river. You and I have unfinished business, McCallum.”

  “Aye,” Duncan agreed. “The old ones said it was always going to end here. I was just an ignorant Scot who didn’t know how to listen to them. But I am beginning to understand. The Island of the Ghosts. This is a place of truth, of absolutes. We are all just small people here. Wars and kingdoms are beyond us. It is why you were brought here. It is time to talk in front of the spirits, without the playacting, without the distractions of colored smoke and Greek fire.”

  “Time to die,” Regis spat. “I have men below erecting new killing posts.” He hesitated. “You did not bring us here. I am here for what is mine.”

  “You decided we tricked you out of your treasure. Your scouts were always going to follow us. We knew that. With your army all that silver and gold would have given you new glory. Without your army, it would make you one of the richest men on the continent. You came for what you deserve. I mean to see you get it. The generals may think in terms of regiments lost or won. We think more in terms of innocents slaughtered at Bethel Church.”

  “Give me the coins, and I will let the old ones and children live.”

  “Hiding it in the powder kegs was a masterstroke.” Duncan continued. “I remember the old stories of the cunning fox. He was very clever, but he was always done in by his lies. You lied to Tatamy. You said you killed enemy soldiers at Bethel Church.”

  “Tatamy has a weak heart. Too much time with the Jesuits.”

  “You had a Jesuit teacher. Father Xavier was very disappointed that you murdered the town of Bethel Church to steal treasure. You were supposed to be his virtuous warrior. It was your virtue that made you invincible.”

  “He forgets what it takes to be invincible in the wilderness.”

  Another child’s cry rose from upstairs, followed by a familiar war cry. “You have Wolverines with you,” Duncan said, fighting the temptation to run to the monks’ cells.

  Regis’s smile was like cracked flint. “Two of them decided to join me. They are very good at what they do.”

  “They should have gone home, should have run away from you when they had the chance. Don’t they know the abbey is taboo to Hurons?”

  “That long swim addled your brain, McCallum. I see we will have to work it out of you. I will take great pleasure in it,” Regis said, then he muttered a name, and a tall warrior, a Huron, appeared in the doorway.

  Adanahoe pointed at the man with her finger, and he jerked violently backward against the door. The dying man looked up at Regis, as if for an explanation, then with his last breath he looked down at the arrow that pinned him to the door. Blood trickled out of his wound onto his wolverine tattoo.

  Adanahoe stepped forward and pulled a beaded pouch from the dead Huron’s belt.

  “He took that from Custaloga,” Duncan explained in a cool voice. “He should have gone home,” he said again.

  Regis stared wide-eyed at the Iroquois matriarch as Scar and the Mingo who had taunted Ishmael retreated inside the building. She had killed with a finger. His head jerked about as he futilely looked for the source of the arrow among the ruined buildings, then he leapt forward and seized Ishmael. He wrapped his forearm around the boy, shielding himself with Ishmael’s body.

  “You stirred up the tribes by telling them the spirit world was out of balance,” Duncan continued, “that Europeans had penetrated it and were killing the ancient ones. That world was out of balance, but because your words made it so. I can’t imagine a greater betrayal of your people. You lied to the gods, and you lied about the gods. It was unimaginable to the Iroquois. But you were taught by Europeans.”

  Regis suddenly held a knife. “Two Nipmucs left,” he hissed. “By the end of the day, I will see the tribe extinct! I will tie you to a post, McCallum, and throw them to you in little pieces as you watch. A Nipmuc finger, a Nipmuc ear, a Nipmuc liver and heart.”

  “There was no murder on the other side.”

  The half-king shrugged. “It came to me in a dream. Everyone knows the gods speak to us through dreams.”

  “You thought you could break the taboo against lying about dreams. You had no such dream.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “It was not your dream, or Black Fish’s dream. It was just pieces of Shakespeare and
the Bible. You acted out a script from an old Scot and an old Jesuit, aided by your poet of death. What happened at Bethel Church was an afterthought, an unforeseen act of the play added by you and your poet.”

  “I am a warrior!” Regis barked. “I am the lion of the gods!”

  “No. That is just more of the script, another line written by your old Jesuit teacher Brother Xavier. You are no warrior. You are an actor on a stage. Except,” Duncan gestured about the nearly empty barnyard, “your audience has abandoned you.”

  Regis frowned as the two Iroquois matrons and Hetty closed around him. “The promise of a raid against a secret payroll wagon was what it took to guarantee French support,” Regis said. The half-king looked at Hetty and hesitated. “But I was hundreds of miles away when the raid finally took place. Someone else decided the witnesses had to die.”

  Regis looked down, seeming to remember Ishmael, still pinned against him. The boy did not flinch as Regis pressed his blade under the boy’s jaw, lancing the skin of his chin. When he saw the rivulet of blood, Duncan began bending slowly, coiling to spring. “You can buy him back, McCallum. One keg of the king’s coins, and I give him to you with his heart still beating. Two kegs and he can keep his fingers. Three and he keeps his nose and ears.”

  Ishmael squirmed, trying to reach for the knife, and Duncan struggled to keep from leaping on the renegade. Regis tightened his grip on the boy then paused and looked at his hand. Ishmael had not tried to seize his knife, he had placed a small belt of white wampum across his fingers. The boy’s eyes locked with Duncan’s. They burned with the same calm determination he often saw in Conawago.

  “I sat with a dying old Scot two days ago,” Duncan said. “He said he had been blessed with many lives, many wives, and many sons. But only one son survived him. His flaming spear, he called his last son, destined to scour the earth clean. Regis Thistle. Your Mingo mother was fond of the French, but your father wanted you to remember your Scottish blood. He was proud of you, but his last wish was to keep you from killing more innocents.”