He stripped off his shirt then slowly climbed the chair, balancing precariously as he used the slats on the back like a ladder, pushing himself upward until he was in the confines of the chimney itself. Ignoring the pain from his still-healing injuries, he wedged himself into the narrow space, pushing with his hands, bracing with his back. To his surprise he found he could inch upward, pushing alternately with his arms and back. He was up a foot, then two, ignoring the painful scrapes on his bare skin when he slid back against the stone. Finally, his back screaming in pain, his arms cramping, he touched the outside rim of the chimney. With one final, frantic effort he snaked upward another few inches, grabbed the top of the chimney, and pulled himself up and out onto the roof.
Skanawati sat on the peak, looking calmly into the night sky. Duncan scanned the stars. It was perhaps two or three in the morning, and the town and adjoining camp lay in silent repose. There were no streetlights, only lanterns hung at the doors of the large Moravian residence halls. The Onondaga offered no greeting. Duncan leaned against the chimney, scanning the shadows around the jail. Surely the chief must be holding back on his escape because he had spotted some passing sentry.
“When my mother found that crack in the world,” Skanawati said abruptly, “she wept for hours. When she went back a week later, it was wider. She told me I must go on retreat for a month to speak with the spirits.”
“Which is where you were when you saw Conawago and me at the cave, why you couldn’t follow.”
In the moonlight Duncan saw the affirming nod. “She said if the old gods did not understand that we still embraced them in our hearts, then the crack would keep growing wider and drain the river dry.” Skanawati turned to Duncan, as if for an answer.
“It was gunpowder that made it,” Duncan said, though the words seemed empty. He felt small and inadequate before a man he had come to realize was one of the most spiritual beings he had ever met.
“When I first saw it,” Skanawati remembered, “it felt like a gash across my heart.”
They watched the stars in silence. There were no patrolling sentries, Duncan began to realize. A meteor soared overhead, so close they could see a trail of smoke behind it. When the chieftain raised his hand to point at it Duncan saw that his arm was wrapped in a snake skin.
“My nephew Johantty will have a difficult time in the world,” his companion suddenly said. “Conawago said the two of you know the old trail of the dawnchasers.”
“We walked along it, cleared away what debris we could.” Duncan recalled their three days on the trail, and his wonder over the treacherous drops down cliffs, the crossing of chasms on old logs, the swamps and rocky debris fields the ancient runners of the sacred trail had to endure.
“Johantty needs to complete that trail,” Skanawati said, “the people need to see one of the young ones with the tattoo of the old spirits.”
“We shall show both of you, Skanawati. If I am not mistaken it is near the site you chose for your new village. You will leave Bethlehem a free man, I swear it. You shall guide your nephew yourself.”
“I would like that, of all things,” the chief admitted, and he looked back at the stars. “Tell me about it, McCallum. In my mind, let me run that spirit trail.”
Duncan found a small, sad grin tugging at his mouth. He leaned on the roof beside the Onondaga. His heart expanded with the honor done him, and the responsibility. “There is a great cottonwood at the edge of the clearing where it starts,” he began, “so large that four men could not join their arms around it. An eagle sat in the tree the day we were there.”
Skanawati offered a murmur of approval, and Duncan continued, seeing in his mind’s eye the trail as he and Conawago had traveled on it, taking Skanawati up and down mountains, across rivers, along cliffs, past drawings of giant bears under sheltering ledges. When the chief asked if he had perhaps seen a bear by a particular mountain or a white otter at a river crossing, Duncan thought carefully and described as best he could the animals that had watched them that day. Skanawati listened for over an hour, once interrupting Duncan to point out another shooting star.
Each time Duncan paused, he looked for guards again, wondering when Skanawati would finally slide down the roof to freedom. The chief had freed himself from the little jail but was making no other effort to make good his escape. He had by his actions given Duncan his own freedom. When the hour came, it would now be the simplest of things for them to slide down the roof, onto the ground, and disappear into the night. Duncan made up his mind to stay with Skanawati when he finally slipped away, to do what he could to protect the chief.
But Skanawati just kept watching the stars. When at last he stood, stretching, there was a faint, gray hint of dawn in the east. Instead of sliding down the roof shakes he stepped back to the chimney and lowered himself inside. Duncan watched in disbelief. In his mind’s eye he was already running, free, over the laurel ridges beyond the town. With painful effort he inched toward the chimney, casting one more longing glance toward the forest, then followed the Iroquois back into their jail.
The rattle of the timber bar the next morning brought Duncan to his feet instantly. He was halfway to the door when something in the window caught his eye. He halted with a shudder. A small squirrel hung dead. A piece of twine had been tied in a noose, suspending it. He touched it. It was still warm. It was one of the nocturnal flying squirrels, considered by some in the tribes to be a messenger from the spirit world.
He untied the twine, letting the creature fall to the ground outside, just as Macklin stepped through the door, closely followed by Mokie carrying a covered tray. As the girl uncovered bowls of cooked oats, fresh bread, and tea, she turned to Duncan with a determined glint. “He will be fine, Mr. McCallum, Mama and I will see to it.”
Duncan lowered the spoon in his hand. “Who is going to be fine, Mokie?”
“Mr. Hadley. They came for us last night again, when I was returning to Mama’s room. He wouldn’t let them take us.”
Macklin touched Duncan’s arm. “The Virginians insist that Hadley sit with them as part of the treaty delegation. He is part of the Burke family, they remind him. He has taken notes from his travels with you, and they insisted on seeing them. Then the Virginians made Hadley go with them to the women’s quarters, but when he realized what they were about, he resisted. They gave him a good thrashing, nothing too serious because he is family. There is a doctor here,” Macklin added quickly. “No broken bones. Mokie nursed him most of the night.”
Duncan now saw that the girl glowed. “What else, Mokie?”
“Sometime in the night, when he told me I should get some sleep, I told him it was right I tended him, after the way you and he helped deliver our precious Penn. That’s when he said it.”
“Said what?”
“He had me lean over him so he could whisper.” The girl grew very serious, her eyes wide. “He told me I was his sister. He told me no matter what it cost him, Mama and me were done being slaves.”
Duncan grinned. At least some justice was being found along the tortured path of the treaty convoy.
Macklin pointed Duncan to a corner as Mokie, to the chief’s obvious amusement, presented Skanawati his breakfast with a curtsy. “I sat into the night reviewing the journal books in the Gemeinhaus, the main administrative building. Then later I found one of the teachers debating European politics at the Sun Inn down the street.
“There were four youths returned from tribal captivity that year. Sister Leinbach worked with all of them. Two eventually went on to Philadelphia, two were adopted by farm families. The names were Mueller, Rohrbach, Gottlieb, and Smith.”
“No Felton?”
“I was as disappointed as you at first. No Felton at all for the past five years. But the teacher explained that those who were captured very young often forget their names. When that happens those who seem to remember some German get German names, those who seem English, English names. One of the boys, the one named Smith, was quite difficult. Re
bellious, even violently so. The teacher recalls once Sister Leinbach gave him extra prayers to read as discipline, but,” Macklin said in a tight voice, “the prayers were found the next morning impaled on an arrow, shot into the statue of the Holy Mother in our chapel. Still she was very patient with him, made him her special project that year. Improved his English tremendously, nurtured his soul, used the rod when she had to. Smith showed up at a Christmas service with stripes painted on his face.
“He had been brought back under duress from a Huron village by some trappers who thought a bounty would be paid for him. But no one knew who his family was, and they just left him here. It was only when Smith finally began to enjoy some of the pleasures of European life that he began to speak of memories as a small boy on a farm near Tulpehocken. They started to piece together the truth, although that took months. The elders came close to ejecting him many times. He would mock the Christian Indians, saying they had all been neutered by magic words out of a black book, he stole things from the kitchens. But Sister Leinbach persevered, as if the boy had become a spiritual test for her. Small mutilated animals would be found at her doorstep, once even in her bed. He seemed to nurture a particular hatred for her.
“Finally it was decided that all his immediate family had been massacred, so other relations had to be tracked down. When his Philadelphia relatives finally came he saw they were all somber Quakers and at first declined to see them. One of the brothers who was in the school says he thinks he dropped his objections to them when he saw they were wealthy, although others insist he finally came to be bathed in their Christian love.”
A chill had descended over Duncan as Macklin had spoken. “Did he take his leave for Philadelphia before the departure of Sister Leinbach?”
“Two days after her departure.”
Duncan stared at the piece of bread in his hand. He had lost his appetite. “And she was never seen again? Surely she had an escort.”
“Sister Leinbach was a strong-willed woman, with a very particular vision of God’s calling for her. Her only escorts were the mule she rode and a pack pony. She insisted on traveling alone to Shamokin for the first stage of her journey, to talk with God and build her spiritual strength for the challenges ahead. She meant to travel far into the Ohio country.”
“Surely there was a search for her?”
“The road from here to Shamokin can be difficult because of the river crossings. There had been heavy rains. Sometimes in such weather our people will be taken in by a settler’s family and shelter for a week or two. I waited a month before I decided to send a query asking when we could expect her. Many searchers were sent to look for her, but by then the trail was long cold, and the Huron raiders were getting active again.”
Duncan watched Skanawati speaking with Mokie, smiling patiently as the girl traced with her finger the complex tattoos on his arm. When she was done he reached into his blanket and pulled out a little doll fashioned of straw from his pallet, expertly woven and pinched to give it shape. Duncan remembered seeing a similar one, made of corn husks, at the chief’s village. The girl’s eyes lit with excitement, and Skanawati glanced with embarrassment at Duncan as the girl hugged him.
“The treaty negotiators are at the end of their patience,” Macklin declared. “There will be further conferring today. Magistrate Brindle has clerks in the Gemeinhaus preparing terms on parchment for signature. The trial may be tomorrow.” Macklin looked uneasily at a group of men who were erecting a wooden structure near a corner of the main street. “Lord Ramsey has contributed a large sum for the expansion of the chapel here. That man in the lace collar who always sits with Ramsey isn’t just his lawyer, Duncan, he is a judge. The one who has all the other witness statements. The one who is now to determine Skanawati’s fate.”
With those words the door was flung open. One of the kilted guards stood with an expectant gaze, waving the visitors out. Mokie solemnly shook hands with Skanawati, then Duncan. “Mr. Hadley says I must stay in my service for now, until it is over.”
“Service?”
“With the great lord from Philadelphia. Lord Ramsey thinks he will buy us when this is over.” The words were spoken not with foreboding but mischief as Mokie offered an exaggerated curtsy and skipped away.
McGregor soon appeared, the hobbles in his hand, gesturing Duncan and Skanawati outside once again for fresh air.
“Sergeant, have you heard of any other Indians camped in this valley?”
“The treaty followers have been drifting away. The villages need them for spring planting.”
“I mean a small band, trying to be inconspicuous. Perhaps some from that barn in Philadelphia.”
“I’ll ask. That Moses seems to know everyone, German and Indian alike.”
As McGregor moved purposefully toward the huge Single Brethren house where Moravian visitors stayed, Duncan stretched and caught a scent of spring in the air, of apple blossoms and fresh tilled earth. He wandered around the corner of the building, testing the length of his chain, and he was glancing back toward Skanawati when something slammed into his back. As he staggered forward his hobble was pulled out from under him, knocking him to the ground. It took only a moment for him to come to his senses, but by then Felton had seized his collar and had dragged him to the rear wall, slamming his back against it.
“You interfere with the affairs of your betters!” the young Quaker hissed. His eyes were wild. For the first time, Duncan saw a line of thin oval scars that ran around his neck like a necklace, an adornment used by some of the western tribes.
Duncan cast a desperate, searching glance for the sentry who was supposed be guarding the rear of the jail. The man lay in a heap against a stack of firewood.
“Not for a slave to decide anything!” Felton growled. He nodded at Duncan’s hobble. “Now run.”
The heavy leather of the hobble had been sliced apart.
“I’m supposed to trust you?” Duncan asked. “How many do you have waiting for me? I saw how you roasted your friend Red Hand alive.”
“I shall wear those laurels for months,” Felton boasted.
“Only among those who believe your ruse. I saw the calculation in your eyes that night. You could have shot me or Mokie. But Ramsey had claimed me, and you couldn’t murder the girl with so many witnesses. Red Hand, on the other hand, was about to be captured and would have spilled his guts for a pot of rum. I wager you told your Indian friends the soldiers killed the Shawnee. But they will hear the truth soon enough. Watch your back.”
“You have not a shred of evidence, Scotsman. And even if you did, a lowly slave of a great house will not be permitted to speak in the new court.”
Duncan swallowed hard, realizing now that Ramsey had bought and paid for his new judge.
“Now run,” Felton repeated.
“As you say, I am in bond.”
“But here is an opportunity to stretch your legs, to have a taste of freedom for an hour or two before we track you. It’s a handsome offer. A chance to soak up the light before being sealed into your rat hole for a few years.”
It was a tempting offer indeed, and Duncan would relish a chance to meet Felton on his own terms in the forest. But Felton would not be alone, he would be with his pack of wolves. And the offer was meant to assure Duncan would have no role in the final act of the drama about to unfold in Bethlehem.
“I am in bond to Skanawati.”
“Then you are in bond to a dead man!” Felton slammed the end of the log in his hand into Duncan’s belly. As he doubled over in pain Felton seized him again, shoving him against the stone wall. “It’s a dilemma, McCallum. Ramsey offers a fine price to keep you alive, but I begin to think you are worth more to me dead. I have a place I could put your body, McCallum, a place no one will ever dare look.” As he swung the log again Duncan jerked forward, ramming his shoulder into the scout, pushing him off balance a moment. Aiming a kick at Felton’s belly, he used the inertia of the kick to drop and roll past the corner of the building.
Instantly the sentry at the front called out in alarm.
When Duncan looked back Felton was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
LORD RAMSEY WAS a man who lived with one foot squarely planted in another century. As Duncan was escorted, his hands tightly shackled, into the first-floor chambers of the Gemeinhaus now relinquished to Ramsey, he recalled his first visit to the patron’s mansion in New York. The dominant portrait had been one of old King James. Here he saw that Ramsey had not just borrowed the room from the Germans, he had transformed it into a peculiarly English shrine. Two small oil paintings in gilt frames leaned against the wall on a sideboard, one of a castle, no doubt an ancestral seat, the other a likeness of William and Mary. On the sideboard stood ornate glass wine goblets and a pair of intricately brocaded gloves that once might have been worn by the dandy Inigo Jones in the court of a hundred years earlier. A fine lace cloth had been thrown over the plain German table, with an extravagant gold candlestick looming over maps and papers. It was these documents Ramsey and another elegant gentleman now perused.
Duncan did not resist when one of his escorts, all Ramsey men but for a single kilted soldier, jerked his manacles, propelling him to the edge of the table. He glanced over his shoulder at the Scottish guard, hoping for the sound of boots in the corridor. Another soldier had been dispatched to find McGregor when Ramsey’s deputies had come for Duncan in the jail. He felt a new pressure on his arm. The man nearest him had put a leash on his arm, a metal plate that curved halfway around his bicep, tightened with a length of chain.
“Ah, McCallum,” Ramsey said coolly. “At last we can chat in more relaxed circumstances. No more savage chaperones, eh?”
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