Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  “They wrote letters,” Hancock said over Duncan’s shoulder.

  Occom took the cue. “Letters in the sealskin. The last one from ten days ago. The ship called in Halifax. When it embarked, two new passengers were on board.”

  Duncan recalled Will’s report, that the men who accompanied Oliver to shore had been passengers from Halifax. “Who?”

  It was Hancock who answered. “Two men, very well dressed, their clothing a bit too fancy, suggestive of Paris, though they spoke perfect English. Midthirties, both of them, calling themselves Hughes and Montgomery, though the steward suspected those were but names of convenience. The letter says”—here Hancock seemed embarrassed—“they wore conspicuous fragrance, lavender scent.”

  Occom took up the tale. “The passengers, as is customary, dined with the officers, and they told a tale of being scholars from Oxford coming to visit colleagues at Harvard College, but they evaded all questions about Harvard and Oxford. That was all. The rest of the letter was about Scripture, suggestions for a sermon we might preach together when we returned to our congregation in Connecticut.”

  Another round of the smoky Scotch was being poured when Duncan stepped back into the meeting room. All eyes were trained on Samuel Adams, who sat at the head of the table as if presiding over one of his Sons of Liberty gatherings. As Duncan sat, Livingston pushed a dram toward him. Duncan quickly drained it, and Livingston poured him another.

  “The governor says he is done being patient,” Adams declared in a heavy voice. “He has begun a more aggressive campaign, giving orders this afternoon for Mr. Hancock’s ship the Liberty to be towed out into the harbor and put under naval jurisdiction until a formal inspection of her books can be completed. There was some resistance when the navy arrived. Some heads were broken, and customs officials were accosted. The crowd chased them into the streets.” Adams wrung his hands in worry. “We prayed to avoid the presence of more troops on our streets. But now marines from the ships have been called out. When word reaches General Gage in New York, he may well summon infantry from Halifax.”

  In the silence that followed, Adams fixed an expectant gaze on Hancock and Livingston. But Duncan spoke first. “Halifax,” he said. “What, Mr. Livingston, was it about your ship that caused that cutter to follow it from Halifax? I thought it was following the ledger, but is it possible they were following those two passengers?”

  “Is there a meaningful difference? Different hounds on the scent of the same fox,” Livingston replied, then shrugged. “The captain is beyond our reach,” he reminded Duncan. “And the ship’s books are on the bottom with him. We will never know more.”

  “Two men got off before the ship exploded, helped by Mr. Oliver, who was likely deceived by them and then murdered for his trouble,” Duncan replied. “I think they boarded in Halifax to intercept your secret ledger and then Lieutenant Beck pursued them, as if he had been watching them, with the cutter at his disposal. And if they were coordinating with the Abenaki assassin, they were planning this for weeks, if not months.”

  “Impossible!” Livingston protested.

  “They knew Oliver was on your ship, and they knew he was a ranger. How would they know that?”

  Livingston had no answer.

  “They knew an Abenaki warrior who would do anything to kill a ranger from St. Francis, even knew where to place him and when, over a period of days, he might expect the Arcturus.”

  “My ships are punctual,” Livingston said in a sulking tone.

  Duncan ignored him. “They had help, in the north and probably in New York, where the records for the Livingston ships are maintained, as well as here in Boston. Agents provocateurs, we called them in the war.” He met Munro’s gaze. The war isn’t over, the old soldier had said, although Duncan was beginning to wonder if they were witnessing the birth of a new war.

  Hancock stared intensely at his dram, then abruptly looked up. “You must find the ledger, Duncan. I beg you.”

  “We have already had this conversation,” Duncan shot back. “I cannot. I will not. These are Boston troubles, not mine. And even if I were to consider helping, I would never do so while you withhold the full truth from me.”

  Hancock threw up his hands in frustration. “Enough! The package stolen from the cask had a list and a small parcel given us by the widow of a ranger who recently died in Quincy. The list is of names we are compiling, only ten or twelve thus far, ‘Spartans of the cause,’ we call them. Leaders with military experience in towns of New England and New York who we think will not shirk the cause of liberty when it arrives at their doorsteps.”

  “Who would want a list of your Spartans?” Duncan asked.

  “Our enemies,” Livingston said in a curt, dismissive voice.

  “Then by all means you should try to recover it,” Duncan said with a chill in his voice. “For a few shillings Reverend Occom will no doubt pray for its recovery. And if you want everyone in the colonies to know of your quest, just explain it in one of your schoolboy codes.” Duncan drained his glass and stood. If he hurried, Sarah might still be awake.

  “Duncan, you misunderstand,” Adams protested, then leaned toward Livingston, urgently explaining something.

  “What, may I ask, was in the package from the ranger?” Conawago asked.

  “We’re not sure exactly,” Hancock said, “though the widow considered it very important, very secret, and said she didn’t know who else to trust. Her husband was a Sergeant Branscomb, who served as a ranger in the war with Major Rogers. There was an old gold coin in the packet, and a note that sounded almost like orders to report to duty, written very vaguely, very flowery. In purple ink, I recall, because I thought how very odd. Destiny will call, it said, and keep your powder dry, I remember that. And it said this coin is a reminder.”

  “And the coin itself?” Conawago asked.

  “French, one of those old gold louis you used to see in French Canada. Quite valuable. Of course, we intended to give it back to her, as belonging to her husband.”

  “But who sent it? When?”

  “Three or four months ago. From whom, we don’t know. No signature on the note, just a word at the closing. Saguenay.”

  A question flickered on Conawago’s face and was quickly gone.

  “I will see you at Mrs. Pope’s,” Duncan said to his friend, and took a step toward the door.

  “Duncan, no!” It was, surprisingly, Livingston who spoke. His face was suddenly dark with worry.

  “You misunderstand, Duncan,” Adams said again.

  “You keep saying that. Fine. I misunderstand everything but my need to leave.”

  “You misunderstand even that,” Adams said. His voice had an odd hint of apology.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You must leave, but to find these French saboteurs and the missing journal. You must clear yourself, Duncan. The navy won’t act against us openly, but you made a quick enemy of that man Beck yesterday. He has convinced the governor that you stole the ledger, saying it was the property of the king.”

  “The governor will forget the lies of some overwrought lieutenant when I am gone.”

  “No, he won’t, and Beck is not just some lieutenant. That uniform was a costume he put on for the cutter’s crew,” Livingston said as Duncan took another step toward the door, then quieted as Adams raised a hand. Livingston whispered into Hancock’s ear. His words drained the color from Hancock’s face.

  “I am sorry, Duncan,” said Adams. “There is a warrant for your arrest.”

  Duncan stared at the portly man. “Surely I did not hear correctly.”

  “You heard me. A warrant has been issued, signed by the governor.”

  Conawago and Ishmael moved to Duncan’s side, as if to defend him. Duncan pushed down the anger rising within. Soon he would be rid of this city and its troubles. “A misunderstanding among local officials. You are in the legislature. No doubt you can correct the mistake.” He paused, seeing now the shocked expression that lingered on Hanc
ock’s face.

  “Duncan,” Hancock said in a tight voice. “I’m so sorry. You have to go and find those responsible. To save yourself. Samuel thinks he can delay distribution of the warrant until midday tomorrow, but no longer. If Beck and the governor think the ledger is still in Boston, they will rip the city apart to find it. Soldiers will be sent to search houses, churches—anywhere there is a suspected Son of Liberty. They have to be convinced the chase lies elsewhere, that the ledger is with a fugitive fleeing Boston. For the good of the Sons, you understand. For the good of Boston.”

  “I am no fugitive.”

  The pleading in Hancock’s eyes changed to despair. “Prithee, Duncan, understand that I did not know until this minute. That man Beck works for the minister of war, for important men close to the king. The governor is cowed by him. Beck thinks you have what he so desperately seeks. He swore out an affidavit. The charge is treason, and thirty-seven counts of murder. At noon tomorrow you will be the most wanted man in all the colony.”

  5

  THE CONVOY FOR EDENTOWN MADE agonizingly slow progress in the early dawn light, having to yield frequently at the narrows of Boston Neck to the incoming carts delivering food to the hungry city. Already some mongers had set up stands and were shouting the virtues of their produce. As Duncan nervously watched from behind the seat of the first wagon, Enoch Munro reined in the dapple mare Sarah had purchased in the city and looked back at the three wagons behind him.

  The sturdy Scot had offered his resignation from Hancock’s employ to join Duncan, but Hancock, unable to look Duncan in the eye after delivering his shattering news, had refused, saying that Munro would continue to be paid so long as he stood at Duncan’s side to protect him. With a determined glint, Munro had vowed to do so, for he grasped that they were not just fleeing Boston, they were seeking out the French killers, and he had a score to settle with their Abenaki assassin.

  As Duncan followed Munro’s rearward gaze, he realized that the Scot was not looking for troops, but simply gazing in frustration at the slow wagons. The first two wagons, covered with canvas, were packed with the vast quantity of supplies Sarah had acquired in the city. The third, much lighter, wagon had appeared out of an alley in the morning twilight, Reverend Occom driving its cargo of Bibles for his new school.

  As Conawago coaxed the first team forward, Sarah examined a new atlas from London that she had bought for Edentown’s schoolchildren. A huge dog with long black hair—Ishmael’s sea bear—paced alongside the second team, keeping a faithful eye on Ishmael, who drove the team of four heavy horses pulling the wagon, under whose canvas-covered frame were bolts of English wool wrapped in burlap, crates of wine, spermaceti candles from New Bedford, and coils of rope fresh from the ropewalk behind Beacon Hill. Lying behind Ishmael, concealed from sight by carefully arranged crates of tools for the new forge, was the bandaged Sergeant Mallory. The deserter, now dressed in the simple brown woolen of a farmer, kept a wide-brimmed hat close at hand to pull low over his face if soldiers probed the wagon.

  Walking between the wagons was Solomon Hayes. The tinker had shown up before dawn with a great sack of trade goods on his shoulder and a smaller sack hanging from his shoulder in which Sadie slept. The man, like so much else Duncan had encountered in the past three days, was a mystery, not the least because, despite his scholarly appearance, he had been the only one in Hancock’s warehouse to pursue the Abenaki assassin. More than once, the big dog, whom Ishmael had introduced as Molly of the Newfoundland, sidled up to him to sniff the pouch under his shoulder, cocking her head with an inquisitive gaze each time two appraising eyes peered out over its edge. Duncan had accepted the inclusion of the tinker on the word of Munro, who explained that Hayes visited every few months to restock his bag and chat with Hancock about mutual friends in the Rhode Island colony. The tinker, Munro assured Duncan, had an impressive knowledge of the frontier communities, and in any event would be with them only a few days on the western road. The Scot had overcome Duncan’s hesitation by explaining that the odd assortment of companions would be useful cover once constables and bountymen started seeking him.

  As the rays of the rising sun lit the wagon from behind, Duncan pulled out the slip of paper he had brought from Hancock’s warehouse. The Boston merchant, shamed and understanding Duncan’s outrage, had asked Adams and Livingston to leave and then sat with Duncan and Conawago to answer their questions about the list that was stolen from its place of hiding in the warehouse. The names were of reliable, like-minded men who, based on assurances from mutual acquaintances, could be trusted to keep secrets and who had particular talents that might be useful if the Sons, as Hancock put it, were to expand their efforts. Hancock could remember only half a dozen names he had supplied for the list, three of which were former rangers and three town leaders in Western Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Connecticut. Duncan had pointed to the first name, Sergeant Josiah Chisholm. Worcester wheelwright, it said. “You added ‘Rogers 1759.’ Why?” Duncan had asked.

  “I recalled he was on both our lists, Livingston’s and mine. A solid man who’s well respected in his town. A wheelwright now, but a ranger in the war.”

  “The year 1759 was the year of Major Rogers’s raid on St. Francis,” Conawago had pointed out. “And the next?” he said, reading the second and third names. “Ebenezer Brandt, Rogers 1759.” Then, “Daniel Oliver, Rogers 1759.” The old Nipmuc turned to Hancock. “And the dead ranger whose widow came to you, Branscomb. You said he had served with Rogers. Perhaps his widow can confirm, but I suspect he too was there at St. Francis.”

  The words had brought a dangerous gleam to Munro’s countenance. Hancock looked up with an inquiring eye.

  “St. Francis is the capital of the Abenaki,” Conawago explained. “A center for French irregulars during the war.”

  “Abenaki,” Hancock repeated with a shudder. His hand shook as he poured another whiskey. “I shall put guards around my house tonight.”

  “DARK AS A STORM,” SARAH said to Duncan late that afternoon as she urged the team up a slope. “It scares me. I’ve never seen Conawago so despondent,” she added. “Except once.” She paused and surveyed the low, flat valley that came into view as they crested the hill. “And it was here, in this very valley of Worcester, as we passed through on the way to Boston to meet you all those weeks ago. They were taking down some aged trees at the edge of the forest. It is always a bit sad to see the old ones fall.”

  Since leaving Boston, Duncan had developed a nervous habit of studying the road for signs of pursuit, but now his gaze stayed on Conawago, walking beside the wagon. His best friend, more like family to him than any living person, was usually so calm as to be unreadable, but since arriving in Boston, he had grown increasingly moody, sometimes even morose. He had barely spoken since leaving the city and, since he’d climbed down to walk, seemed oblivious to his companions.

  “The land,” Duncan observed, shaking his head. He felt an odd foreboding. “The land feels mournful here.”

  “The land?” Sarah replied. “Just more Massachusetts farmland. More rocky than ours, and thinner soil.”

  Not even Sarah, raised by the tribes, could grasp the intense relationship that Conawago, and many of the aged Indians Duncan had known, had with the land. Those born before the European occupation of their homelands, as Conawago had been, sometimes seemed to have an almost physical link with the earth, as if their native soil was somehow in their blood. Certainly it was in their souls.

  “There are secrets, Sarah, between him and the land,” Duncan said, knowing he could never find the words to explain what he sensed. “When I was last in Onondaga,” he added, referring to the capital of the Iroquois League, “he rose up from the council fire as if in a trance and without a word disappeared into the blackness of the forest. After an hour passed and he had not returned, I was about to go search for him, but one of the grandmothers at the fire ring said no, it was like this when the elders of the oldest tribes, like the Nipmuc, reached
their final years. She said the earth spirits would touch them in ways no one else could see or hear, that sometimes the old trees spoke to them with words only they could understand.”

  Sarah nodded solemnly. “My Mohawk father told me that when those of ancient blood approached their ending time, they could hear the strains of their death song coming through the forest. There were massive trees, sprouted when time was young, he said, where the oldest spirits lived, and they were the ones who whispered the songs. I asked one of the old matriarchs what he meant, and she gave me a sad smile and said it was because he was beginning to hear his own song.”

  Sarah’s words were like ice against Duncan’s heart. The old Nipmuc was his teacher, his confessor, his companion, his anchor. His relationship with Conawago was one of the great blessings of his life. For a moment, as he studied his old friend, he found it difficult to speak. “I think this is somehow different,” he ventured.

  “I pray that it is,” Sarah replied.

  They did not stop the team as the wagon rolled past Conawago, who now stood at the crest of the hill, transfixed, staring at the landscape below. The frame of a tall new steeple rose up above the trees along a winding river. On a knoll on the other side of the river the vanes of an old Dutch-style windmill slowly moved in the breeze. From the surrounding hills, teams of oxen were dragging massive logs toward the river.

  Sarah gasped and clutched the totem hanging at her breast, whispering an Iroquois prayer. They were taking down some aged trees at the edge of the forest, she had said. But now there was no forest. For a mile, all the way to the settlement of Worcester, there was nothing but cleared land. Here and there, men worked at stumps with axes and mules. Some of the huge logs, four feet in diameter and more, were being dragged to what looked like a sawpit along the riverbank, while others were being floated for delivery downstream.

  The tribes never objected to pockets of cleared fields here and there among the dense primeval forests—indeed, they cleared small fields for their own maize and squash crops—but this was different. This was wholesale destruction, annihilation of woods that had existed since long before Europeans walked the continent. Not all tribal members might believe in the possession of great trees by spirits, but all those Duncan knew were certain that the spirits that watched over the tribes took their nourishment from the wilds. Without the forests there were no wilds, and the spirits would drift away. Without their spirits, the tribes were lost.