Eye of the Raven

by Eliot Pattison

  “She has malaria,” Duncan explained. “Shivering fever. With Peruvian bark we can cure the symptoms.” He turned to Old Belt. “Magistrate Brindle would no doubt be responsive if you requested a physician to bring some tomorrow.” The Iroquois chief nodded his agreement. “Ask him for a large supply. She needs to be out of here, back in the Iroquois towns, where she can be cared for away from the miasmas of the city.”

  The woman with the boy was reluctant to let Duncan touch her son until Old Belt stepped closer. She uttered an exclamation of awed surprise, obviously recognizing the great chief, then nodded to Duncan. Instantly he saw that the boy had a broken arm, the skin an ugly mass of green and blue from coagulated blood, one end of the bone protruding into the muscle.

  Conawago spoke with the woman in a comforting voice, then explained to his companions. “The boy was carrying food up the ladder when he fell. She fears he will never be whole again. In the village of her youth a boy who could not shoot a bow was considered worthless, abandoned by his people.”

  “He will shoot a bow again,” Duncan promised, then spoke to Conawago. “I need some of the broken harness I saw hanging on the wall, two small planks, and some of the flour sacking from the first stall.”

  By the time Conawago returned Duncan had the boy stretched out on the straw, his mother holding his good hand. He cut a four-inch piece of the heavy leather and told the boy to bite it whenever he felt the pain grow sharper, then began shaping the splint as Conawago ripped apart the sacking. Duncan began singing a low song, a Scottish sea shanty of his youth, repeating the chorus in a soft voice. He rubbed his fingers along the broken bone then, nodding at the boy to bear down, with a single smooth stretching motion snapped the bone back into place. He wrapped the arm in one layer of the makeshift bandage, then tightly wrapped the splints with the remaining sacking, and finally made a sling out of the leather.

  “For two moons,” he said to Conawago, not trusting his own translation, “tell her to keep it like this for two moons and the boy will be whole again.”

  Duncan smiled as the woman gripped his hand in both of hers and thanked him, again and again.

  “He broke his arm taking food into the loft,” Conawago observed.

  Old Belt needed no further prompting. An unfamiliar energy had entered his eyes, the fire of an aging horse remembering tricks of his youth. He bent over the oldest of the children for a moment, whispering. “There is a secret room up there,” he reported as he straightened. “With chairs and pallets and Europeans belongings. And there is a ladder at the far end that will take us up without being noticed.”

  Duncan was inclined to ascend the ladder alone but did not object when one of the Iroquois braves shot past him and stealthily disappeared into the darkness above. As they gathered near the top of the ladder moments later, they could plainly see the sentinel at the far end, cocking his head toward them, and just as plainly see the long arm that materialized around his neck, dragging him into the darkness.

  The second brave pressed ahead, taking up a station on the other side of the door, as Duncan pushed past to enter the chamber. The room had been cleverly built of rough planks on the exterior but was lined with finished boards on the inside, giving it the character of a comfortable habitation. Sacking had been tacked to the floor for a crude carpet, castaway furniture scattered around the room. One Indian was in repose, his head sagging onto the back of his chair, and another four were sitting at a blanket in the center of the floor, rolling the colored stones that were the Indian equivalent of dice, each with a stack of European coins beside him.

  The four men on the floor shot to their feet as Duncan entered, hands to the knives that hung on their chest straps. Duncan watched uneasily as they spread out, their muscles coiling, the blades suddenly out of their sheaths. They did not mean to parlay, did not even mean to challenge their intruders before attacking. The man closest to Duncan lifted a long tapered wooden club, a marlin spike used in ships’ rigging. It was lethal looking, and Duncan crouched to defend himself against a certain blow, when suddenly the four men froze. They stared in amazement at Old Belt, who had appeared in the doorway, fixing each in turn with a stern, disapproving gaze. As recognition sank in they sagged, lowering their weapons, two muttering low, reluctant syllables of respect for the revered Iroquois leader.

  “We will have the Shawnee called Red Hand,” Old Belt quietly declared.

  Duncan bent to a pallet by the wall. “Still warm,” he reported.

  The man in the chair, a Nanticoke, judging by his oyster shell adornments, awoke and cast a sour look at the intruders. “We know no one by such a name, old man, just get—” He never finished his sentence. One of Old Belt’s escorts tapped his head with the ball end of his war ax, and the man collapsed to the floor. No one reacted.

  “We will have the one called Red Hand,” Old Belt repeated.

  Duncan sprang forward the instant one of the Indians glanced toward a shadow in the far corner. In two leaping strides he found himself going down a short, narrow passageway into a storeroom, then spotted the open hatch used for loading supplies by pulley and rope. He leapt to the opening, steadying himself by grabbing the rope that still swung in the darkness.

  Red Hand, having made good his escape, stood in a pool of moonlight fifty paces away, his arms thrust toward the sky as he taunted Duncan. There was no hope of catching him. By the time Duncan slid down the rope and reached the pool of light the Indian would be lost in the labyrinth of the city.

  “He comes and goes,” Conawago reported as Duncan returned to his friends. The Nipmuc dropped onto the table a tattered pouch on which lewd figures had been drawn over old tribal decorations, the pouch Red Hand had carried at Shamokin. “His kit.”

  Duncan upended the pouch onto the table. A deck of stained and dog-eared playing cards. A gold cross on a strand of beads. The remaining two silver buttons from Winston Burke’s uniform. Three of the crosshatched nails from Shamokin. The chipped head of a small china doll. Several soiled silk ribbons, two tied around locks of delicate blond hair. The meager, macabre belongings of an Indian outlaw. Duncan pushed the ribbons aside and lifted an object from underneath them. A glass ball, nearly an inch in diameter, larger and more refined than a gaming marble, identical to the one found with Ohio George.

  He pocketed the ball, then turned toward the Indians who had been in the room, lined up against a wall now. As he did so one of the Iroquois guards appeared, shoving another Indian in front of him, speaking quietly to Old Belt.

  “This one was in the jakes,” the chief explained, “using this.” The guard extended a black book, a prayer book. Nearly half the pages had been torn out, starting in the rear.

  “Some will take such books because they are sacred,” Conawago said with a sigh. “Others take them for pages to wipe themselves in the jakes.”

  Duncan lifted the bloodstained book and opened it to the first page. Inscribed in a refined hand across the top were a date, 1749, and a name. Henry Bythe.

  Conawago paced along the Indians at the wall, who fearfully watched Old Belt, then spoke in low, terse syllables to each, striking up a conversation with the last man in line. “Red Hand owes this one much money,” he related after a moment, “and told him he would soon have it. Red Hand bragged about what fun he would have earning the money.”

  “Fun?” Duncan asked.

  “Red Hand said to expect the money tomorrow night since he had to earn it before Skanawati’s trial. He said,” Conawago explained ominously, “that he is going to kill a black girl, a runaway from Virginia.”

  It was Old Belt himself who insisted they stop at the magistrate’s house despite the late hour. Brindle was sheltering Becca, Mokie, and the infant, Penn, in his own household pending the decision of the governor on their fate. What’s more, the magistrate had confided to the Iroquois chief that he was keeping hours past midnight every night with his law and philosophy books, seeking an answer to his treaty dilemma.

  The door to
the large clapboard house was quickly opened by an austere woman wearing a white apron over her black dress. She did not greet them, did not react to the tall warriors who positioned themselves on either side of the door as sentries, simply ushered the visitors into a spacious room lined with bookshelves. Magistrate Brindle sat staring at the embers in his fireplace, the candlelit table by his chair heaped with documents bearing the wax seals of the courts, beside a law book whose pages gently stirred in the breeze coming from the open window beyond the fireplace.

  Old Belt, motioning for Conawago and Duncan to wait, stepped forward. The Quaker looked up with a melancholy nod. “My servants say I should be abed. But we workhorses feel the harness every hour of the day.”

  The chief said nothing, just placed Bythe’s prayer book on the table. The magistrate’s hand trembled as he lifted the bloodstained volume. He opened it and stared at the inscription for a long moment before looking up.

  “Your brother-in-law discovered the killers,” Conawago declared as he approached. “But they were not the French, as he sought.”

  Duncan hung back in the darkness, acutely aware that he was a fugitive in the house of a high-ranking judge. When Brindle spoke it was in a near whisper, directed toward the little Quaker book. “When we took his body down there was a long spindle gear hammered into his eye.” His voice cracked. “There were bloodstains around the eye. I think your medical friend would say it means he was still alive when it was done.”

  “We have seen other such gears,” Conawago reminded the judge. “And in Shamokin we have seen the death of one of those responsible. Another walks these very streets. Perhaps in the employ of a merchant named Waller.”

  Brindle’s countenance swirled with dark emotion. “I am no longer responsible for dealing with the deaths. With the murder of a family member I was considered too close to the crimes.”

  “A great benefit for those behind the killings,” Conawago observed.

  Brindle looked up. “I do not understand.”

  “Are you not still responsible for the treaty negotiations?”

  “That duty has not yet been removed from me. We speak for hours every day, but little seems to get done,” Brindle acknowledged. “We arrange and rearrange chairs at tables, organize meals, listen to speeches about why each of the delegations deserves the greater esteem.”

  “Not all at the table are telling the truth,” Conawago ventured. “What does the Psalmist say? The words of his mouth are smoother than butter, but war was in his heart.”

  “His words were softer than oil,” Brindle continued the verse, “yet were they drawn swords.” He leaned forward. The Iroquois had their wampum for assuring a listener’s attention. Magistrate Brindle had his Psalms.

  “Your removal from the murders keeps you from seeing that they are just one more device being used to manipulate the treaty.”

  Even from the shadows Duncan could hear the Quaker’s sharp intake of breath. After a moment he rose from his chair and laid another log on the fire. “Day unto day uttereth speech,” he recited, “and night unto night showeth knowledge.” He lifted a quill to continue the notes he had been taking, then nodded to Conawago. “Speak to me, my friend.”

  As the old Nipmuc began to relay the events of the past ten days, the log flared and Duncan stepped back, deeper into the darkness. His heart shot into his throat as someone touched his elbow. The stern woman who met them at the door had materialized beside him, gesturing him into a spacious kitchen with an immense stone fireplace, then lifted a glass of milk from the counter and handed it to him. Duncan was about to whisper his thanks when he saw a figure huddled on a stool by the remains of a small fire in the huge hearth.

  Duncan did not return Van Grut’s greeting when he rose from the stool, only grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close. “You lied to me!” he growled. “You were with Burke in Philadelphia! He’s the one who hired you!”

  The Dutchman sagged as Duncan released him. “It didn’t seem important. Not a lie exactly. I told you I was hired by the Virginia company. He was part of the company.”

  “You heard me puzzle over connections to Philadelphia and never said a word about how Burke was here, in Philadelphia. You knew the killers were trying to implicate Indians in Shamokin and never said a word.”

  Van Grut dropped back onto the stool. “Surely it was only happenstance that he was in Philadelphia. And there were Indians in Shamokin doing the killing . . .” The Dutchman paused, as if beginning to recognize there could be several reasons for Burke’s presence in Philadelphia, not all innocent.

  “Hired by someone else,” Duncan snapped. “If I had known of Burke’s connection to Philadelphia I would have looked here sooner, before so many bounty hunters were breathing down my spine.”

  “Surely his presence here had nothing to do with the killings. There were Indians,” Van Grut repeated.

  “Are you certain? You wager your life on that slender belief.”

  “Duncan, I never . . .” the Dutchman began, then Duncan’s words seemed to register. “My life? But the killers are on the survey line.”

  “Every instinct tells me otherwise. The treachery on the line is being orchestrated from Philadelphia. If someone in Philadelphia wanted all the Virginian surveyors dead, what do you suppose they will do when they find one walking the streets here?” There was a rustling of linen at the door. The taciturn maid had been listening, but now disappeared.

  For a moment, looking at the stricken Dutchman, Duncan almost felt sorry for him. He did not believe Van Grut was one of the plotters, only trying to keep open all his options for a livelihood. The odds that Duncan would ever get to the truth were slim, and Van Grut wanted to be able to take money from whichever land company emerged successful in the treaty negotiations.

  “No,” the Dutchman said woodenly. “This is Philadelphia,” he added, as if trying to convince himself. “The streets are safe. There are constables.” He looked up with new energy. “I will help you, Duncan, I swear it. Tell me what I can do.”

  Duncan frowned. “That merchant from Shamokin. Waller. See if you can locate him.” He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced the glass ball taken from Red Hand. “Two of the killers had these. Not beads. Not made by Indians. Not common even in towns.” He dropped the ball into the Dutchman’s hand. “If you want to help, tell me its story.”

  “Fine work,” Van Grut said with an uneasy glance at Duncan, as he rolled the ball between his fingers. “Flint glass, without a flaw. American made, I wager. Instrument makers here will recognize the work, know the fabricator.”

  Duncan left Van Grut staring at the glass ball and again stole within hearing distance of the three elders who conferred by the library fireplace. He watched as worry grew on Brindle’s face, marking how Conawago, and sometimes even Old Belt, cast wondering glances at the scores of books on Brindle’s shelves. Inching closer, he strained to catch the low voices.

  “Surely you do not suggest the governments of Virginia or Pennsylvania have been corrupted!” Brindle protested.

  “It is not the governments that benefit most directly from the land depositions,” Conawago pointed out. The words seemed to wound his host. When the magistrate pressed his point no further, Conawago relayed the final chapter of his tale, ending with the events in the barn an hour earlier.

  “Philadelphia is the lair for miscreants of all colors,” Brindle stated. “It means nothing that this man you seek fled to Philadelphia.”

  “That can be determined when he is caught. Meanwhile, as I explained, he means to slay the young girl in your custody.”

  “I shall alert the constables immediately.”

  “No. He is too clever to be caught by your constables.”

  “There is nothing more I can do.” Brindle studied the two Indians. “Surely you are not suggesting I become a player myself in this drama.”

  “You already are, as your brother-in-law was.”

  “Do not presume I will
bend the laws of my province!”

  Duncan stepped into the light. “Then Skanawati’s death will be on you.” They were harsh words, brutal words, but they seemed to tear at something in the magistrate as he turned to see who had spoken them.

  “You!” Brindle gasped. “How dare you, McCallum! A fugitive of the law in my household! You give me no choice but to send for the constables.”

  “It is the constables we must speak of.”

  Brindle’s face was a storm of emotion as he rose from his chair. “I am obligated to inform the courts of your appearance, to tell the one who swore out the warrant against you.”

  Old Belt stepped to Duncan’s side. “Answer me this, my friend. Until the treaty is concluded do you not have the Virginian runaways in your—” he turned and leaned toward Conawago with a whispered question.

  “—your custody?” Conawago finished the question.

  As if on cue the muffled cry of a hungry baby came from somewhere in a room above them. “I do.”

  “Then I shall keep McCallum in my custody,” replied the Mohawk chief.

  Brindle winced. “Mr. McCallum is answerable to a much more powerful authority.”

  “In the end of this affair,” came Conawago’s quiet voice, “that will be the conundrum, will it not?”

  Brindle’s brow wrinkled. “Sir?”

  “In the end there is an authority supreme even over the great houses of Philadelphia.”

  The Quaker dropped back into his chair and gazed into the flames of the fireplace.

  Duncan stepped close enough to read the documents on Brindle’s table. “The documentation for the Susquehanna Company,” he observed, studying the magistrate with new interest. Companies were only formed by act of the government. Brindle had removed the documents from the court records. “Why, amidst a crisis in the treaty negotiation, would the lead negotiator be investigating the ownership records of a Philadelphia land company?”