“Surely you want to read the entry for Felton.”
Duncan shook his head. “No time. And what happened tonight is all the confirmation I need.”
Chapter Nineteen
MANACLES WERE PLACED on Duncan and Skanawati before they were escorted out of the jail the next morning. McGregor did not speak, and his men were equally grim as they flanked the doorway and motioned their prisoners forward. Skanawati took two steps and stopped so abruptly Duncan almost collided with him.
Duncan would never have guessed there were so many people in all of Bethlehem. They lined the pathway to the street on either side, they lined the street, past the new construction on the corner, lined the street all the way to the Gemeinhaus, scores of men, women, and children in the dark clothes of the Moravians. Mingled among them were nearly all of the teamsters of the convoy and several of Ramsey’s rough private guards, along with at least fifty Indians. What had Ramsey’s judge said? This was the day for king and empire.
To Duncan’s surprise the guards did not lead them up the broad stone steps of the Gemeinhaus but walked around it to a large grassy flat bordered by elms and oaks. At the far corner were the rows of graves, some already many years old, of God’s Acre. In the corner opposite the graves, in front of a long stone stable, was an Indian encampment. In the near corner was a long plank table, on which lay maps and papers, Indian pipes and pouches of tobacco, law books and prayer books.
There was no air of victory, no edge of success among the treaty delegations at the table. Brindle, at the center of the table opposite Duncan, was flanked by two somber Quakers with three nervous clerks behind them. The magistrate stared into his hands as if praying. Hadley, bruised and bandaged, sat at the west end of the table beside the elder Burke representative and the other Virginians. Only Old Belt, sitting a few feet from the Pennsylvania delegation, seemed at ease. The Iroquois chief was alone at the table, with only his warrior escort and Moses behind him. Duncan did not miss the solemn, yet somehow reassuring nod Old Belt exchanged with Skanawati, nor the deep worry that creased Moses’ countenance. On the table in front of Old Belt was a large hand-drawn map.
Behind the large table, chairs were arranged like a gallery. Two hundred feet away, closer to the cemetery, was another small grouping of seats facing a different direction. Duncan stared into the shadows they faced, seeing now that another, smaller table had been set up near the headstones. Justice Bradford sat there, wearing on his head one of the long curled periwigs favored in the courts, sifting through papers, casting expectant glances toward the treaty delegations. A throng of Moravians stood on the brick pathway at the edge of the broad square, watching from a distance, their group bisected by a richly dressed man on a bench whose presence seemed to repel bystanders. Lord Ramsey had a campaign table at his elbow, laden with personal refreshments as he conferred with another bewigged man in a blue waistcoat.
Magistrate Brindle stood as he noticed Duncan and Skanawati, gesturing them to sit in chairs opposite him before sitting himself. They were not going, as Duncan expected, to Bradford’s makeshift bench but to the treaty table.
“We commence this final day of negotiations for the glory of God and the mutual benefit of our peoples.” Brindle’s opening words had the sound of a well-rehearsed chorus. As he lifted a piece of paper Old Belt, now with Moses beside him, and the Virginians did the same, seeming to follow as the magistrate outlined the agreement thus far. Brindle reminded the parties as he did so that great parchments were already being inscribed in the Moravian school so the treaty could be properly signed after this final day of deliberation.
Brindle continued with a litany of the smaller matters that were the mortar that held agreements together. Pennsylvania had agreed that its settlers would not water their herds on the banks of the Conestoga River, which one of the Indian settlements relied upon for drinking water. Virginia trappers would not work the forests north of the Monongahela after the third month of the year. The tribes would grant safe passage to missionaries. Duncan watched the Virginians, saw how they cast suspicious glances at the Pennsylvanians, watched too as the man who had been conferring with Ramsey stepped behind Brindle and then conspicuously strained his neck to see the map Old Belt had apparently drawn. Duncan, too, studied it from his seat down the table. The map had lines drawn that divided much of the land west of the Susquehanna into three sections. Old Belt had accepted the inevitable and was ready to barter for Skanawati’s life.
Mokie appeared, carrying a tray of wineglasses to Ramsey. The patron was preparing for a victory celebration.
“Gentlemen of Virginia,” Brindle declared. “The Six Nations request you abandon your land claims in exchange for the return of the prisoners in the western lands, the details to be agreed by a special commission to sit at Fort Pitt. What say you?”
“Virginia,” the senior Burke announced, “will reluctantly—”
“No!” the angry cry that interrupted came from behind. Ramsey was on his feet now, raising his fist at a new group that had appeared on the opposite side of the square. It was Long Wolf, along with the rest of the western Indians, leading horses with empty pack saddles. They were leaving, leaving without a treaty, without their expected bounty. Duncan looked back at Old Belt, who did not react, did nothing to betray his involvement in the desertion of the western tribes.
His guards gathered around Ramsey, who now shoved several of them toward the retreating Indians. But the men, knowing they were powerless, halted after a few steps. As Long Wolf reached the corner of the cemetery he tossed his expensive fowling gun onto the ground. Every Indian behind him likewise dropped something onto the pile. They were not only leaving without treaty payments but they were also returning the advance tokens given to them by Ramsey. Whispered curses rose from the Virginians as they realized the significance of the departure. It meant there would be no participation by the western tribes, and without them no return of prisoners.
Brindle watched the departing Indians with a grave face, though by his worried glances toward Old Belt, Duncan knew he was just as disturbed by the Iroquois chief’s pointed disregard for the exodus. Conawago had done his work. Long Wolf and those who had taken gifts from Ramsey now were exposed, shamed in the eyes of the Grand Council. They were being cast out not by force but by the bonds of integrity that ran deep in the confederation. Skanawati watched the departing tribes without expression. One of the pillars of the treaty had just crumbled.
No one at the treaty table spoke, no one moved, until the last of the western Indians disappeared from sight. But Ramsey’s imprecations could be heard from two hundred feet away, as he paced back and forth. Duncan, shifting the chains on his wrists, watched as the patron finally strutted to Justice Bradford, bending over him with urgent words. Moments later a youth sitting in the shade of a tree nearby was summoned to the table and given a coin by Ramsey before he sped away.
The colonial delegations broke into anxious whispers, the Virginians glancing up at Brindle, the Pennsylvanians at the bewigged judge. Duncan looked at his friends, trying to understand. Moses had turned his back and was still watching the direction taken by the defecting westerners. Conawago had taken a seat at Old Belt’s side.
Duncan, still not certain why he and Skanawati had been summoned to the treaty table, watched in confusion as a number of the bystanders split away, moving toward the little shed that was being constructed on the main street, visible between a gap in the buildings. There seemed to be some sort of argument, with protests raised in German, as several of Ramsey’s men began helping the carpenters.
Suddenly the senior Burke, who had been arguing with Hadley, stood up to seize the initiative. “The Virginian delegation,” he announced, “is prepared to submit evidence that the murder of our brave Captain Burke was in direct retaliation by the Iroquois, who had been turned back by our citizens in the Shenandoah some years ago. There is the nailing of the hand. The nail itself. And a gear used to mutilate our noble officer, of a type hoard
ed by the Indians in Shamokin.”
Hadley looked up with anguish at Duncan then buried his head in his hands. His companions were using his chronicle of the murders.
“This is no court of law!” a deep voice called out. Duncan turned to see Reverend Macklin standing before a knot of other Moravians near the table.
Brindle glanced at McGregor, who sent two of his men to Macklin’s side. As he did so Duncan saw that another figure had joined the table. Justice Bradford had settled into a chair at the empty east end of the table, holding one of the polished squares of wood often used to pound courts into session. Macklin was wrong. The treaty negotiation was becoming a surrogate trial. The promise of returned prisoners had vanished with the western Indians. Now the delegates were competing to see who could pose the greatest threat to Skanawati’s life, and the winner would get the condolence prize, the land that the Iroquois would have to offer to save him. The integrity of the Iroquois had forced the western tribes out, and they were now forced to surrender vast lands.
The Philadelphia delegate in the blue waistcoat stood, raising the bid. “We have a signed statement that Skanawati murdered the surveyor Townsend.” He flourished a piece of paper in the air. Duncan suddenly recalled that Red Hand had taunted them by saying he signed such a paper. “We have the oath of the commander of Fort Ligonier that Skanawati was the murderer of Captain Burke!
“We have statements from teamsters in the convoy swearing they saw Skanawati send one of his warriors to kill Bythe!” the Philadelphia delegate continued. Brindle lowered his head, gripping his prayer book now. The speaker looked questioningly at Old Belt. As if to punctuate his words a sharp command rose from the construction on the street. A team of oxen, hooked to a hauling chain, was being urged forward. The delegates paused and turned as the animals strained in their yoke, lifting a timber frame. With a shudder Duncan recognized the structure. They were assembling a gallows, calculated to be in the sight of the Indian delegation.
“And how many statements were filed saying Bythe died by accident?” the angry words leapt from Duncan’s throat unbidden. “No doubt your honor will wish to compare them to see how many of the same drunken teamsters signed both sets!”
“Those first statements are in Philadelphia with another judge,” Bradford rebuffed him. “I am not able to recognize them here.”
Brindle spoke, looking severe. “Not entirely true,” he said as he extracted several folded sheets from an inside pocket.
The Philadelphia judge went rigid for a moment, glaring at the magistrate. He glanced at Ramsey before answering. “Those, then, represent a different inquest in a different Philadelphia court,” he parlayed. “I have jurisdiction over all the Penn colony and set the rules in my proceedings as I see fit.”
“The killing of Townsend was a misfortune of war,” Duncan broke in again. “And the officer at Ligonier would accuse his own mother of murder if it offered a prospect of promotion! The nails and the clock gears were but ruses, so fingers would be pointed to Shamokin. The murders were done by several men,” he concluded, “but all orchestrated out of Philadelphia.”
Several angry gasps rose from the Virginian delegation. Brindle stood up. “If this treaty hinges on the killings, then let the truth of these killings be told!”
This then, was why Brindle had brought the prisoners to the treaty table. He had known that the western Indians were leaving, and he meant to end the game that had overtaken the negotiations. As the magistrate turned his head toward him, Duncan saw the anguish in his eyes, along with a new melancholy determination. He had finally glimpsed the current of deceit and murder beneath the surface of the negotiations. Brindle nodded for Duncan to continue. But as Duncan opened his mouth to speak, a deep, steady voice cut through the silence.
“It was Skanawati who killed the surveyor Townsend. It was Skanawati who killed Captain Burke.” The Iroquois chief spoke of himself in the third person.
A sharp crack of wood turned every eye to the powdered judge at the end of the table. He was pounding the table with his polished block, exhorting his court to order.
“Surely there must be proof!” Brindle insisted.
The judge offered a petulant frown. “Are you this man’s lawyer now, Brother Brindle?”
“If need be, yes!” Brindle shot back. “Injustice in this matter works injustice in the treaty.”
“Any injustice here,” Bradford corrected, “could always be remedied by a properly negotiated treaty.”
“We do not play with lives, or the law, for personal greed!” Brindle barked.
The judge replied with a frigid stare.
“This man knows no details of the deaths,” Brindle said. “How could a murderer not have the details of his work?”
“It was a midsummer day at a huge sugar tree,” Skanawati suddenly declared. “That is where I killed Townsend. A blow to his head with a war ax was all it took. Nailing him to the tree was to remind his Virginian employers of their treachery in the Shenandoah.”
“The killer carved symbols into the trees,” Brindle interjected.
“A code that spoke the name of the dead to the Virginians, taught me by the Jesuits.”
It was a lie. Duncan knew it was a lie. He glanced frantically at Conawago, who only looked into his folded hands.
“You were not there when Townsend died!” Brindle insisted. The chief reached inside his sleeveless waistcoat and pulled out a familiar wooden box, inscribed with a turtle. “I am chief of the turtle clan. The chief of the turtle clan was there.” Skanawati slid the box down the table, to Judge Bradford, who picked it up with an uncertain glance at Ramsey, then turned it over to read Townsend’s name. Duncan had handed the box over to Old Belt to be sure it would not be used by Ramsey.
Ramsey, satisfied, nodded to the judge.
The judge smiled. “Just as you have described,” he said to Brindle, lifting a folded paper. With a sinking heart Duncan saw it was Brindle’s notes, from the night in Philadelphia when he’d spoken to Duncan and Conawago about the murders.
Brindle was stricken, the color slowly draining from his face.
Duncan struggled to get words out. “He does not know . . .” he began in an anguished voice, then realized to his horror Skanawati did know, everything. More than once he had sat silently, feigning disinterest, as Duncan had explained the evidence to his companions. Duncan saw the steady, determined gaze between the two Iroquois chiefs as Skanawati revealed every detail Duncan had collected, and his heart lurched. At last he saw the truth that drove the two warriors, that had driven them from the start. The future was plain to see for two such men, in the settlements, in the rum that corroded their young, in the streets of Philadelphia. They knew the tribes were slowly being strangled, and they had determined to do what they could to save them for at least one more generation.
“Captain Burke,” Skanawati continued in a level voice, “was at an old beech tree when I fell upon him, an hour after dawn. The blow to his head was not enough to kill but made him senseless enough for me to drive the nail into his hand.” The Iroquois looked to the Virginians now as he spoke. “As any soldier of the Shenandoah deserved for the massacre of our warriors.”
Most of the Virginians leapt to their feet, shouting and raising fists, giving every appearance of intending to snatch Skanawati away. McGregor’s soldiers moved to the prisoner’s side.
The judge slammed his wooden block repeatedly on the table. When the assembly had quieted, he surveyed the faces, glanced at Ramsey, and finally turned to Skanawati, motioning him to rise. “This court, having duly considered the confession and the evidence,” he pronounced smugly, “does hereby sentence the defendant to be hanged by the neck until dead. Sentence to be carried out this day, at four hours after noon.” He pounded once more, then turned to accept Ramsey’s smile of triumph.
The silence among the spectators was stunned. But at the treaty table it was merely expectant. The deck had been played exactly as Ramsey had intended. All ey
es turned to Old Belt. The revered chief had come hoping to return with a historic treaty and all the treasure it implied. Yet he had changed somehow since Duncan had first met him. Old Belt had always had a noble demeanor, but now there was something more, a deeper light in his eyes, a determined glint that was mirrored in Skanawati’s own.
Fear rose inside Duncan, like a physical thing, pushing his heart into his throat, as he realized they had reached the end. The two Iroquois were not there for any of the reasons that kept the others at the treaty table. They acted on a different stage altogether. Duncan watched as Old Belt gazed into the sky a moment, as if he too knew about the ancient raven that kept watch on behalf of the spirits. The Iroquois chief stood and lifted the map in front of him, eliciting more smug smiles from Ramsey and his judge. At last Old Belt was ready to offer the great condolence gift to save Skanawati. He stared for a long moment at Skanawati then tore up the map, ripping it into small pieces and dropping them onto the table. As he walked away the hammering at the gallows echoed across the square. When Conawago rose to follow he had gathered the shreds of the map on the table and on the pile left three of the little glass balls.
Ramsey was speechless as he stared first at the balls then at Old Belt and the small procession of Iroquois who followed him. But he soon found his voice. “He’ll die, you old fool! You don’t think we will hang him?” the patron shouted toward the Indians. “Do not toy with us!” Ramsey cast a quick, uneasy glance toward Skanawati. The chief stared at him without expression.
“Just another scheming fur trader, you’ll see,” Ramsey said to Justice Bradford with a forced laugh as Old Belt disappeared. “We shall wait a couple hours, Brindle, then I shall show you how affairs of state are handled.”
Eye of the Raven Page 33
