Eye of the Raven

by Eliot Pattison

  Duncan looked up, suspicion in his eyes. “You didn’t come to help me.” He shook his head angrily. “You are using me.”

  Van Grut looked away, at the tree. “My travels, my equipment, are costly. My family lost every guilder in the collapse of the markets in Antwerp years ago. There are three ways one can earn an income while living on the frontier. Trapper, soldier—”

  “Or surveyor,” Duncan finished.

  “It is an honorable pursuit,” the Dutchman protested, but the hint of remorse in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Yet you didn’t tell me.”

  Van Grut twisted his fingers around the drawing lead in his hands. “I do two or three days of survey work, then two or three collecting specimens.” He regarded Duncan apologetically. “They said he was nailed to a tree. How was I to know it was this tree?”

  “You suspected it. Why?” Duncan grabbed the journal and pushed it toward Van Grut’s face. “Why?” he demanded again.

  “Burke,” Van Grut whispered. “He was one of the owners of the land company I work for.”

  Duncan sighed heavily. “All the time in the infirmary, you never said a word.”

  “Surely it would not have changed anything you did. And he was here in his role for the militia.”

  Duncan did not argue. He looked back at the tree, seeing again the dying man in his mind’s eye. Burke clearly stood at the confluence of many events. Of many mysteries. “Tell me about the land company.”

  “It is owned by Virginians. A vast tract was ceded to them by some Iroquois chiefs, but the government will not accept the deed without a more definite description. More land claims will come, everyone knows, and they mean to use this tract as the anchor for fixing the location of future deeds.”

  “It was Burke who paid you?”

  Van Grut nodded. “A month’s wages.”

  “When?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “By another marker tree, the one with the roman three cut in it. A few miles east of here.”

  Duncan paged through the book and found the corresponding drawing, complete with the roman numeral and Indian carvings, but none of the geometric symbols found on the tree before them. He pointed to the strangely haunting shapes. “What do they mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You were not curious?”

  “I am always curious. They seem to mark out the boundary in some other way. I do not know why, or for whom.”

  Duncan walked along the wide trunk. “There is a sequence, based on the weathering of the wood. The Indian signs from long ago. The Roman numerals from months ago. These peculiar runes made a day ago. How many of your other trees had Roman numerals?”

  Van Grut did not need to consult his book. “Only the ones with Indian signs.”

  Duncan handed the journal back to Van Grut, who opened it to a blank page and quickly began drawing.

  “What else did he say that day?”

  “We made conversation. Spoke of the task at hand. He struck me as being in a hurry.”

  “What exactly about the task?”

  “I showed him my drawings. He was most pleased with them, said he would choose ones to buy for his parlor wall when all was finished. Then he changed my assignment.”

  “How so?”

  “There had been another surveyor named Putnam assigned to this region. He disappeared months ago. I assumed it had something to do with him, that they had found him or his records.”

  “But what was your original assignment?”

  “I was to originally record a detailed description of the last fifty miles of the trail, the final western segment of the boundary line. Two days ago Burke declared that the last tree, by the Monongahela, no longer needed to be visited. In fact he said plainly do not visit it. I took it as an order.”

  “Burke had the whole wide forest,” Duncan said as the Dutchman recorded the marks on the tree, “yet he left his men and came here. As his destination. It must have been to meet someone. He met his killer at a boundary marker just as he had met you the day before at one. Why?”

  “A convenient place to meet,” interjected McGregor, who had been watching the forest uneasily. “No other tree like it, because of the marks. You can’t just say meet ye at yon beechy tree,” he added, gesturing to the landscape around them. There were hundreds, thousands of beeches all around them, interspersed with groves of hemlock.

  It was, Duncan had to admit, a likely answer. “Who else was in the region two days ago?”

  “The Highlanders,” McGregor quickly recited. “Three hundred regular infantry. A handful of scouts. Teamsters on the Forbes Road with their wagons.”

  “Teamsters going where?”

  “The western forts have to be regularly replenished. Ligonier, Bedford, Pitt. As many as fifty wagons a week this time of year.”

  “Coming from where?”

  “The Forbes Road goes from Philadelphia to Lancaster, Conestoga, Carlisle, Bedford.”

  “Who else?”

  “That pack of French Indians you reported, looking for fresh stew meat,” the sergeant added, referring to the enemy tribes’ notorious, though much exaggerated, reputation for cannibalism.

  “The tribal politicians,” Van Grut added.

  “Politicians?”

  “The treaty delegations. Representatives of the tribes subordinate to the Iroquois are coming from many directions, with a rendezvous at Ligonier before traveling east. Half chiefs, the Iroquois call them.”

  “People are looking for peace with these treaties, not murder,” Duncan countered.

  Van Grut winced at Duncan’s seeming naïveté. “Do you understand nothing? The dispute over the Virginians’ claim to this tract of land is the primary reason for the treaty meeting.”

  Anger simmered in Major Latchford’s eyes as he watched the arrival of still more treaty participants. The flood of civilians clearly rankled him. The teamsters and their mules brought disarray to his orderly bastion, the merchants who traveled with the convoy defied his orders not to engage in trading out of their wagons, the Indian chiefs ornamented with tattoo, fur, and paint ignored his command to remain in the tribal campsite he had designated in the outer grounds, wandering around the fort like curious spectators. But as Duncan watched the officer from the stable, where he and McGregor unsaddled their garrison horses, it was the half-dozen men dressed in simple black that were the real target of the major’s smoldering expression. It wasn’t merely that the Quakers were obviously men of affluence or that they gave but cool welcome to the king’s troops in their province, McGregor reported, it was that their leader announced that he was commissioned as a magistrate.

  Latchford had known the Pennsylvania official was coming, Duncan realized, but had assumed he was not arriving until the next day. The major had lost his race to deal with the murder before the arrival of the Quakers, before the arrival of a civilian with judicial authority.

  Duncan watched from the shadows of the stable as a tall, poised Quaker, flanked by a lean blond man of Duncan’s own age and a square-shouldered figure of perhaps forty, spoke to the provost sentries at the guardhouse. Duncan, fighting a near-paralyzing fear over the fate of Conawago, watched from the shadows as the tall Quaker pointed toward the barred door, shook a finger at a sentry who seemed to argue with him, then dispatched his companions toward the Virginians’ camp before disappearing into the headquarters building.

  Sitting with his back against the stable wall, Duncan had succumbed to his fatigue when he was suddenly seized by the shoulder and pulled to his feet.

  “The major commands your presence,” barked one of the soldiers Duncan had seen on duty at the headquarters. He proceeded to shove Duncan, groggy from sleep, across the yard.

  Inside, the smoke had barely cleared from what had obviously been an explosive argument. The Quaker leader sat ramrod straight in the chair opposite Latchford’s desk, fixing the major with a sober stare. Latchford w
as eyeing his dueling pistol again.

  “I was explaining to Magistrate Brindle that all is in hand,” he declared to Duncan with a meaningful stare. His hand rested on the brown envelope, now closed with a seal. The letter to Philadelphia that would condemn Duncan. “Your report must be nearly complete.”

  Duncan gazed from one man to the other. The Quaker looked straight ahead, regarding the major with an expression of sober piety on his narrow face. His hand was on a small black book perched on his knee. In the shadows past Brindle was the tall blond man Duncan had seen outside, watching Latchford warily.

  “Captain Burke was killed with forethought,” Duncan ventured. “As a result of blows with an ax or heavy tomahawk, then his own dagger, which caused fatal hemorrhaging within minutes of the attack.”

  Latchford offered a short, uncertain nod.

  “There seemed to be a ritual involved with the killings,” Duncan added.

  “A ritual?” Brindle asked.

  “There was a clockwork gear driven into his heart.”

  The color drained from the magistrate’s face.

  “It’s what the savages do, uncle,” put in the blond man in the shadows. “A dead man can be used to send a message.”

  “A message, Samuel?” In afterthought, Brindle gestured to the tall man. “My nephew Samuel Felton.”

  Felton stepped closer to the magistrate. “To the other side,” he continued.

  “A gear in the heart seems more a message for this world,” the magistrate observed in a haunted tone.

  “A savage who would do such a thing has such hatred for Europeans he wanted to express it for this world and the next,” suggested Felton.

  Latchford frowned. “What the old Indian intended is of no concern. He will hang all the same.”

  As Brindle turned toward him, Duncan had the sense of being under the eye of one of the stern priests of his childhood. “Did this Virginian succumb in the territory of Pennsylvania?”

  “He died along the Forbes Road, sir. I am given to believe that the Pennsylvania province has agreed to take it over from the army.” Duncan glanced at the book again. It was not a Bible. It was a book of laws.

  Brindle’s smile was thin and lightless. “And did this Indian in the guardhouse kill Captain Burke, Mr.—?”

  Duncan looked at the floor. “McCallum. If I am to be a witness, I should not be answering to the judges prior to their proceeding.”

  “Judges?” Latchford’s eyes flared.

  Brindle spoke politely but firmly. “As Mr. McCallum reminds us, Pennsylvania has equal jurisdiction in this matter.”

  The major seemed about to launch himself at Duncan when suddenly the lieutenant appeared, rushing to hand Latchford a note. Duncan inched around the corner of the table, straining to see the paper. It seemed to be a list of names. Latchford settled back with a victorious grin and nodded toward the sentry at his door. “Then by all means let us not delay our justice. Your services, McCallum,” he added, “shall not be required.”

  Moments after Duncan was roughly escorted outside, officers began streaming out of the building, barking orders for soldiers to gather benches from the barracks, which were arranged in two rows before a large table under one of the largest oaks. The trial was to take place outside, with not one but two chairs at the presiding table.

  Duncan found himself moving toward the guardhouse, his heart in his throat, his gut churning with fear and anger. For a desperate moment as he watched the heavy door open he found himself studying the horse pistol in the belt of the provost officer, envisioning in his mind how he might rush the man, seize the pistol, and free his friend.

  Then suddenly a hand was on his arm, squeezing so tightly it hurt. Sergeant McGregor pulled him away, back into the shadows, as the procession emerged. Conawago paused, blinking, in the sunlight, then stumbled in his chains, falling to the ground but shrugging off the help of the soldiers as he struggled to his feet.

  In a daze, Duncan allowed himself to be led to a bench at the rear of the makeshift courtroom. His friend was pushed into a chair flanked by two provost guards with bayonets fixed to their muskets. For the first time Duncan spotted the noose strung from a heavy limb of the big oak.

  “He’s innocent!” Duncan exclaimed. A sob escaped him.

  “It’s the wilderness, lad,” McGregor said, as if it explained much. He tightened his grip on his charge’s arm.

  But Duncan no longer was in the wilderness. He was back in Scotland, and English brutes were killing his brother and sisters in the name of the king. He would stop it! He had to stop it! He wrenched his arm free and leapt up, but the burly Scottish sergeant grabbed him again, more forcefully, and pinned him against a tree with an arm across his chest. At that moment Latchford pounded the table with the butt of his pistol, commencing the proceedings.

  The two judges moved with sober efficiency, quickly working through the first bench, packed with witnesses from the Virginia militia company. Latchford led the questioning.

  “’Twas as cruel a heartbreak as a man could bear,” declared Duncan’s enemy, the bearded sergeant, the first to sit on the witness stool, “our poor captain’s lifeblood spilling out as the damned heathen waited with his knife over him, ready for one more cut at his tormented body.”

  “A lie!” Duncan shouted out as McGregor tried to clamp a hand over his mouth. “What kind of justice is this, that—” but his words were lost as the shaft of a halberd slammed into his gut. He doubled over in pain, gasping for air.

  When he recovered, he was propped against the tree, McGregor squatting at his side. “That was a foul blow,” Duncan groused, rubbing his belly.

  “’Tweren’t me, ’twas the provost who came up behind. That Philadelphia man chided him for striking you, declaring you too would be given your fair time in the witness chair.”

  Duncan leaned forward and saw another witness now on the stool. Half the witness bench had been cleared. Brindle was taking notes, sometimes pausing to confer with his nephew Felton and his shorter, stockier companion.

  “Five witnesses so far,” McGregor explained as he recognized the query in Duncan’s eyes, “All with the same tale, though some vow that they saw your friend fixing to scalp their officer.” Latchford’s resistance to Brindle had faded when he saw the list of names ready to condemn his prisoner.

  Conawago himself appeared not to be listening to the proceedings. He was studying a red and black bird perched on a limb above him, a tanager, which seemed to be intently watching the men below. McGregor reached into his belt and extracted a scrap of paper. “Passed to the guard for you,” he whispered as Duncan recognized the elegant handwriting of his friend.

  I can see a hint of dawn between the bars, Conawago’s note began. It will be a fine day to begin a journey. There is a formation of rocks like a chimney on the ridge south of the river. If you happen to be nearby in a year’s time I will meet you there. I am Conawago, son of the Nipmuc. Listen to the wind and you shall hear my name.

  Duncan’s eyes welled with tears. The old Indian referred to his journey to the spirit world. Despite his training by the Jesuits, despite living in the European world for many years, he was steadfast in the beliefs of the woodland tribes. The journey to the other side took twelve full months to achieve, which is why rituals were held on the one-year anniversary close to the place of death.

  Suddenly young Hadley was on the witness stool. Duncan stood up and leaned forward, as the young officer described how he had been at the front of the column and noticed the movement at the big beech tree. He described his horror at discovering the Indian bent over his captain.

  “Is it possible,” Brindle asked, “that this Indian was ministering to the unfortunate Captain Burke?”

  “He had his knife out.”

  “To cut a bandage perhaps?”

  Duncan’s heart flushed with hope. The magistrate would not be led by Latchford.

  “I saw no bandage.”

  “It was a bandage!” Duncan s
houted as he shot up again. “Conawago was tending the wounds!” Protests rose up from those around him.

  Latchford pounded the table. A provost started toward Duncan, then McGregor pulled Duncan down.

  Hadley hesitated, looking at Duncan.

  “There was no bandage!” The low, insistent words came from the bearded sergeant at the front.

  Hadley looked at the sergeant, then at the simmering men of his company, neighbors and comrades all from home, before looking down into his hands. “There was no bandage.”

  “Why would he nail Burke to the tree?” Duncan shouted. “He had no nails! He had no nails!”

  Felton leaned over his uncle a moment, his whispered words bringing a shadow to Brindle’s face.

  “In the valley where you live,” the magistrate asked Hadley, “was there not an incident involving the nailing of hands?”

  Hadley’s own face darkened. He looked to the bench of militia before speaking. “There was an incident, not many years ago. Some Iroquois were caught taking food. They were punished.”

  “Punished?” Latchford pressed.

  Hadley choked for an instant. The bearded sergeant stood up. “We hanged ’em proper!” he barked. “Then nailed them to a barn by their war path. Now this old fool heathen thinks he takes his vengeance on us.”

  Duncan stared in disbelief, pushing down his roiling emotions so he could reason with himself. There had to be something he was missing, had to be a piece of evidence that would save the man who, more than any other, was like family to him. The boundary tree, the clock gear, the copper all meant something, but through his miasma of fear and fatigue he could not find the pattern uniting them.

  Suddenly McGregor was pulling him up, steering him toward the judges’ table. The Quaker magistrate stated Duncan’s name in a loud, steady voice.

  “Are you landed, Mr. McCallum?” Brindle asked as Duncan took the witness stool.