Bone Rattler (18 page)

Duncan found Crispin outside in the kitchen garden, pulling weeds from a bed of bean plants. “How did her mother die?” he asked as he knelt and began to help. “Their mother.”

The walnut-skinned man took a long time to answer. “She was the one who hired me, when the other houses in town closed their doors to a freed black. Lady Ramsey was the only one who could
soothe Mr. Ramsey’s anger, the only one other than Sarah who could reach his heart. Two years ago Lady Ramsey was on a ship home, the navy mail packet, to visit her family and show them her new baby, a second son. A French frigate attacked as they entered the English Channel. No one survived.”

They worked in silence for another few minutes before Crispin spoke again. “Mr. Ramsey, he disliked the French before, but since they killed his wife and son, his hatred has burned like a fire. He lives to ruin the French, to destroy their soldiers and those who help them.” The late morning sun beat down on their backs and they fell into a languid rhythm as they worked. A scullery maid settled onto a back step and began peeling potatoes.

“Did she know him well?” Duncan asked suddenly. “Adam Munroe.”

“He was here just the one time,” Crispin said, then looked up in alarm.

“Jonathan revealed that he had visited,” Duncan assured him. Not only had Adam visited Sarah, Crispin’s expression told him it had been in secret. “I counted him as a particular friend. When was it, his visit?”

“Seven months ago,” Crispin replied in a whisper, glancing at the maid.

“You mean just before Sarah fled.” Sarah had gone to Scotland with the mysterious Greek, Socrates Moon. But shortly before that, Adam must have gone to Scotland, to his birthplace in Argyll. It must mean Sarah had followed him, after he had stopped at the Ramsey house to give her secret directions.

Crispin sighed and leaned toward Duncan. “You’ll have to help me, McCallum. It’s more than one man will be able to do, protecting the girl.”

Duncan remembered little Jonathan, holding the letter opener at his sister’s side. “Protect Sarah? From what?” Duncan’s query was drowned out suddenly by the beat of a drum.

A child cried out in excitement, and Jonathan appeared at the
side of the house, calling for Crispin, motioning them toward the street. As they reached the front of the house, Virginia emerged from the front door, pulling Sarah by the hand.

“Soldiers!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Our brave redcoats!”

“A patrol,” Crispin explained. “Sometimes the general sends patrols out to make the people feel safe. There are terrible reports from the frontier.”

“The Forty-second Regiment?” Duncan asked, suddenly very interested in the tight ranks of redcoats that appeared around the corner, five ranks of four men each, muskets on their shoulders, followed by a drummer and an officer on horseback. Across the street, men stopped and raised their hats in salute to the stern infantrymen.

“Hurry!” Jonathan cried, pulling Sarah toward the street. She seemed reluctant to approach the soldiers. “We’ll miss them!”

But the patrol halted in front of Ramsey House. A sergeant in the front rank glanced back at the mounted officer, who nodded. To his surprise, Duncan recognized the man on horseback. But Lieutenant Woolford, stiff in a red brocaded jacket, gave no acknowledgment.

The glee of the children abruptly changed to fear as the drum stopped and four soldiers wheeled, then sternly marched through the gate, directly up the brick walk, halting beside Crispin and Duncan. The children retreated, trying to pull Sarah with them again, though now Sarah seemed to want to stay, even seemed about to say something to the soldiers. The sergeant looked at Woolford again, then nodded at the four men, two of whom lifted manacles from their belts. As Duncan saw anger enter Sarah’s eyes, he stepped toward her, worried about what she might do. But as he did so, strong hands clamped around his upper arms on each side. Before he could utter a word, the manacles were on his feet and hands. He struggled a moment, about to lash out with his elbows, then saw the fear in the children’s eyes and relented.

“Crispin!” Sarah cried. “Stop them! They have no right!” She grabbed Duncan’s arm and pulled as the soldiers began to lead him
down the brick path, holding him so tightly she was dragged several feet, her shoes scraping on the bricks as the soldiers led him by the chains.

“Patrick! Do not do this thing!” she shouted. It took a moment for Duncan to realize her plea was addressed to Woolford, who only stared straight ahead.

Crispin was suddenly at her side, prying Sarah’s fingers from Duncan’s arm, wrapping his thick arms around her from the back to restrain her. Tears welled in her eyes.

As the soldiers pulled him through the gate, Duncan turned for a last glimpse of Sarah. Jonathan stood in front of her now, his arms locked around his sister’s legs, pushing as if to keep her from the soldiers. Amid his confusion he remembered his vow to Lister. He had given the New World a chance, and he had lasted four hours.

T
HE SUPREME ADVANTAGE OF BEING at war, Mr. McCallum,” declared the tall, well-fed man in the scarlet coat, “is that our beloved King George entrusts his soldiers with such vast discretion in reducing our enemies.” The officer, who had been addressed as Major Pike by several nervous subordinates, paused to play absently with a loose thread in the gold brocade of his cuff, then looked up at Duncan across the ornate table that served as his desk. “There is no greater thrill than standing in command of a battery and knowing the king desires you to eviscerate the vile creatures before you with good English lead.” He reached to pour himself a cup of tea. “Feel free,” he mocked, pointing to the tray that held the teapot and a plate of scones.

Duncan sat six feet in front of the desk, manacled tightly to the chair. They were in a sprawling house that had been converted to army offices, apparently the military headquarters of the city.

“I have done you no harm,” Duncan protested for the fourth time, twisting, futilely straining to see the faces of the men who sometimes paused in the shadows beyond one of the room’s open doors to stare at him. They had left him alone in the chamber for at least thirty minutes after chaining him to the chair. In the quarter hour since Pike had arrived, the officer had stated no charges, given no indication why Duncan had been dragged through the streets to
the headquarters. He seemed to be waiting for Duncan to confess something.

“I believe, McCallum, that some men act as the hand of God,” the major said, his eyes like soiled ice. “I believe in the propensity of all other men to conspire and lie and cheat. I believe that although a sheep may be shorn, it will always grow the same wool.”

“And
I
believe you must be more specific,” Duncan replied evenly, returning Pike’s glare.

Pike rose, lowering his teacup to the desk, and slowly walked to the corner, where he retrieved a well-worn horse crop. He bent it in his hand as if testing it, then approached Duncan, tapping the end in his palm. “I am a senior officer in His Majesty’s army,” he declared with smug anticipation. “Flaunt me and you flaunt the king.”

When Duncan remained silent, Pike extracted an envelope from an inner pocket and dropped it on the front of the table, then stepped to the window and stared toward the Hudson, a hundred yards away. As Duncan’s gaze shifted from the riding crop, still in the officer’s hand, to the envelope, his mouth went bone dry. It was his letter to Jamie, the one he had left on his hammock the day of the storm, the one he had last seen in Cameron’s hand.

“I am enamored of this bold, new land, McCallum,” Pike said, speaking toward the window. “I will not let it be subverted by the likes of you.”

“You speak in riddles, sir,” Duncan said. Anger was beginning to burn through his fear. Here, personified before him, were all the men who had strung up his father and killed his mother, sisters, and young brother.

When Pike turned toward him, his eyes were cold slits, his mouth curled into something like a snarl. Duncan did not actually see the man move, just was suddenly aware of the officer looming over him and the crop slashing the air. The slap of the loose leather tip against Duncan’s cheek was like a hot blade.

Pike’s eyes were wild, his jaw open like that of an eager predator as Duncan reeled back and the officer raised his arm again. Then
suddenly his gaze shifted to something behind Duncan, and the fire left his face. He straightened, lowering the crop to his side, and retreated a step.

“I understand he is bound to Lord Ramsey,” a dry voice stated, in a casual, almost whimsical tone.

Duncan twisted to try to see who spoke. The man stood directly behind his chair.

“Surely that can be no excuse, sir,” Pike muttered. He glanced at the crop in his hand, then tossed it into the shadows.

“Were you aware, Major,” the refined voice continued, “that Lord Ramsey never visits London but that he lunches with the king? A few drops of common blood, they say.” The speaker walked past Duncan to stand where Pike had been, facing the window. He was years older than the major, though his powdered wig and the fact that he did not show his full face made it difficult to be certain. The officer held his short, compact frame ramrod straight, the habit of a career soldier. “Let there be no misunderstanding.” he said, still facing the window. “Enlighten our guest.”

“General, surely it cannot be necessary. Obviously—” Pike began, but then the hand held behind the general’s back tightened into a fist. Pike glared at Duncan, stepped to the table, and extracted a paper from a stack near the chair.

Duncan studied the man at the window, vaguely aware of something warm dripping down his cheek. The general seemed to bear a profound weight. He was studying the river, watching upstream as if expecting something from the north, where the bitter war with the French was being waged.

Suddenly Pike was hovering over Duncan again, extending a large paper, a broadside, dropping it into Duncan’s lap. It was a bounty poster. An officer was wanted for desertion and sedition. A hundred pounds sterling was offered for the man or proof of his death—a princely sum, one that could buy a man a large farm.

As Duncan stared at the name, a fog seemed to form behind his eyes. He felt shrunken, and cold, and helpless.

“The name of the Forty-second Regiment of Foot is spoken with reverence among our troops.” Pike’s voice seemed to come from far away as Duncan still stared at the broadside. “The Black Watch, they call it, and to the French they are the black face of death. In battle there is no task they cannot be trusted with. If there is a hole in the bloodiest part of the line, the Black Watch goes to fill it. No need to order them. They will demand the privilege.” A fierce and angry pride had entered the major’s words. “They are the granite upon which our army stands.”

It took a long time for the major’s words to register. Duncan could not take his eyes from the name printed twice the size of the font on the rest of the poster.
Captain James McCallum.
The army was seeking his brother Jamie, so they could hang him.

“In July of last year,” Pike continued. “Nothing was preventing us from marching straight to Quebec but four thousand French soldiers at the fortress we call Ticonderoga. We outnumbered them four to one. We sent in the rangers, we sent in troops of infantry. The great guns of the French made short work of them. Then we unleashed the Forty-second. The brave lads were chewed up but kept advancing over the bodies of their own dead. We would have taken the breastworks and sent General Montcalm fleeing home to King Louie, except a Black Watch officer deliberately disobeyed orders. By the time we knew of Captain McCallum’s treachery it was too late. The bastard cost us the battle, then fled like a coward. We now believe he works in the aid of the enemy, was probably doing so that very day.”

Duncan did not know how long he stared at the broadside. But when he finally looked up, Pike was pacing around his chair. “When were you going to meet him?” the officer demanded, Duncan’s letter in his fist. “Where is the traitor?”

“I knew nothing of this.” Duncan’s voice cracked as he spoke.

Pike’s eyes flared again. He glanced in the direction he had thrown the crop, then charged at Duncan’s chair with an open hand raised. Three feet away he halted with a look of surprise and stared spitefully over Duncan’s shoulder.

“I thought we had established that he is with the Ramsey Company,” a new voice interjected. Duncan became aware of someone bending toward the manacles, then recognized the voice. Woolford.

“Then damn the Ramsey Company,” Pike shot back. “He is the source of our problem, and therefore the cause of our defeat.”

“As I have explained, Major, this particular McCallum has never been in the colonies until a few hours ago,” Woolford said in a cautious tone. The general, still at the window, shifted his head slightly to the side, but otherwise did nothing.