Original Death (40 page)

A great weight settled over Duncan's shoulders. He wanted to argue. “The wilderness is like a living thing,” he offered, gesturing toward the surrounding countryside. “It will endure, like its children.”

“Wilderness?” Sagatchie said. “I see British ships on the horizon. I see camps of soldiers in every direction and a river that has become a European highway.”

“But beyond that the deer runs free and the eagle flies high,” Duncan said. “To the West no man even knows how many hundreds of miles the wildness extends.”

Sagatchie seemed lost in his own thoughts. “A warrior's life is nothing unless it ends with honor,” he said, and he would speak no more.

As Duncan descended, the words echoed in his mind. A sacred belt said he was supposed to die for the tribal spirits, which at least would be a death with honor. But it was more likely he would die crushed in the European war machine.

When he stole into the darkened library vault, he thought a grey-haired monk had come to study the books. He was about to retreat, wary that the man bent by the candle might sound an alarm, but the monk straightened, yawning and stretching his arms. Duncan grinned and stepped into the light.

“It was the life they tried to push you to,” he said to Conawago, who had donned one of the monks' robes against the chill. “In a robe, in a cathedral.”

“If they had just left me alone with the books, I probably never would have left,” his friend said. “Look at these!” Conawago exclaimed. “The treatise of Linnaeus on plant classification! The poetry of Thomas Grey! I was just reading the one on the death of his favorite cat. Drowned in a tub of fish!” When Duncan did not react he shrugged, then closed the book before him. “They had other plans for me, Duncan.”

Duncan paced along the rows of books, and an unexpected thrill ran down his spine as he touched them. There were many religious tracts, but
also Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, Defoe, and Voltaire, books that would not be allowed in a formal church library. “It was you,” he said, turning with sudden realization, “you who jibed with the king of France.”

As the old Nipmuc folded his hands over the book, a faraway smile lit his features. “I liked that king,” Conawago said, gazing at the candle flame, “though not his courtesans. He was shorter than I expected. He asked about the skills of the forest, so I took him to his royal garden and showed him how to lay a snare. His sister wanted me beheaded when we caught one of her lap dogs, but he was laughing about it for days. He wanted me to stay with him, grow up with him at Versailles.” Conawago's smile grew melancholy. “I told him I had to return to America, because my mother was waiting for me.”

Duncan pulled a stool close and leaned toward his friend. “I want to hear it all. I want to know what a young Nipmuc thought of the grand palace, what you ate, and the color of the king's robes.”

Conawago's face lit with delight. He spoke with an energy Duncan had seldom heard in his voice, of the huge square-rigged ships in the convoy to France, of being terrified at seeing the endless ocean that first time as the convoy cleared the islands, of riding to Paris in a carriage with golden adornments. It was, Duncan realized, the salve they both needed, a carefree, intimate sharing like they knew at their mountain campfires. For brief moments the years seem to disappear, and Duncan could see the young adventurer in the old man's face. Duncan found a bottle of the monk's port, and they shared a cup as Conawago described the ridiculous fashions of the French women. At last, spent yet somehow refreshed, they drank another cup.

“Why are we here?” Duncan finally asked.

Conawago rose and dropped another log on the fire before answering. “They say if a Jesuit had been at the crucifixion he would have negotiated secret exile to some Roman isle for the son of God.” He turned and poked the fire with the iron rod by the chimney. “They've been out of favor with the Pope's court for years, but that suits them best. Lingering
in the shadows is more their way, manipulating events to their interests, quietly informing those in power.”

“Those they chose to inform,” Duncan added.

“They have always been the church's scholars.”

“Back in Rome sometimes they grow too zealous about their unorthodox ideas and their compulsion to alter the affairs of men. Some revert to quiet intrigue. Those who agitate too loudly are sometimes sent to the New World.”

“You're suggesting Brother Xavier is in exile?” Conawago asked.

“He spoke about an early life at missions, but he is writing letters in Italian. I wager he has also lived in Rome. I think he is a man who would turn exile into opportunity. Some men pull puppet strings just for the delight of it.”

“Or because it serves a cause they fervently believe in. Jesuits have been helping the Christian Mohawks for generations now.” Conawago stirred the embers. “But I am not certain bringing the allies of your enemy into your last fortress falls into that category. And for a hundred years our sanctimonious friends have not tried to stop the butchery of the raids into English territory.”

“So it is a trap? If the French were to take the elders of the Iroquois Council, they could keep the Iroquois from fighting. We are surrounded by French troops. Why are we here?” Duncan asked again.

“What was it that Delaware said to you of the crossed boy?”

“He always cheated.”

Conawago nodded. “They needed you to bear witness that their beloved renegade has cheated.” After Duncan had shocked him with the coin, Xavier had sat with his head in his hands listening to the details of the murders and theft.

“Before I came in here,” Conawago explained, “Xavier and Tatamy were arguing about something, raising their voices. When I eased the door open after a long silence, Xavier was on his knees at that table,” Conawago said, indicating a small, low table along the tapestry wall bearing a brass
cross and a small image in a simple wooden frame. “‘Forgive me father,' he kept saying, like the sinner in a confessional.”

“Monks pray for forgiveness like everyone else.”

“For a monk like Xavier, sins are more complicated.” Conawago reached into his shirt and extended a slip of paper bearing two words.

“Fortress Island,” Duncan read.

“He gave it to me. He's telling us where the half-king is, his camp on the river.”

“Why should we believe him?”

In reply Conawago pushed the candle toward Duncan. He lifted it and stepped to the little table. He assumed the framed image would be one of Christ, but it was instead an ink drawing of an older man with long curly hair, much like that of Xavier.
Father Francis
, read the caption on the bottom.

“His sins are as complicated as his schemes,” Duncan said as he returned to Conawago. “There is something more. Something he is not telling us.” He shook his head in frustration. “I don't want to die in a French prison.”

“Since we accepted our mission from the Council we have had one foot on the other side, Duncan. The French will let the half-king play out his hand. And we know what he intends. If we don't give him the alliance he wants then he will demand you, me, and the elders. Five of us for the children. It saves the children and gives him an even stronger hold on the Council.”

“I could not bear to see the elders tied to the half-king's posts.”

“Do you possibly think we would let the half-king use us against the League?”

Duncan studied Conawago uneasily.

“Don't lie to yourself, my friend. You and I are on that belt. When you hold a belt you must speak the truth. When you are woven into a belt you must live the truth.” Conawago stood and fixed Duncan with an intense stare. “That first night when the elders arrived at our camp, Custaloga asked if I had a good sharp knife, and he showed me his. He
said they would never be pawns to the French or the Hurons, that to do so would disgrace the League. He said they had all agreed.”

Duncan did not speak for several heartbeats. “I don't understand.” He did understand, but he could not admit the terrible truth.

“The warrior's duty, Duncan. If the French or the half-king try to take us prisoner, Custaloga will cut Tushcona's throat, and then I am to kill him. He made me promise. Then, he said, when you and I come across our army would be waiting.”

HIS LAST BIT of hope seemed to die with the embers Duncan stared at. If they fled toward the British, or simply fled into the wilderness, they would have failed the Iroquois and would carry the dishonor for as long as they lived. If they stayed with the Jesuits and the Caughnawags, they would become two more puppets of the half-king. The elders might choose a quick death at the hand of a friend, but the half-king had promised Duncan a death of five days.

He looked to see that Conawago had retired, then rose and walked along the books again. He had at least expected Xavier to parlay to keep the tribes from destroying each other. Instead he had just brought them to see an injured Mohawk girl. Duncan looked toward the chamber where Hannah lay. Xavier had left the girl in their care for the night, and the Jesuits did nothing by chance. Had he wanted them to have an opportunity to speak with her in the quiet hours?

He paused at the end of the tapestry then pushed open the door. Ishmael sat on the stool beside the cot, speaking in hushed tones with the Iroquois girl. Duncan advanced slowly, making sure they heard his footsteps.

“I wanted to check your wound,” he said to Hannah, glancing at Ishmael, who looked into the shadows as if to avoid Duncan's gaze. He bent to feel the girl's pulse before lightly touching the flesh around the wound on her cheek then turning to the bucket to freshen the cloth on her forehead. When he turned back to her, she was staring at him.

“My mother used to say I was the prettiest girl in the village.” The girl's voice was surprisingly strong. “No more.”

Duncan put the moist cloth on her head. “One side of your face will captivate all those who see you, the other will humble. The tribes of the forest wear their battle scars with great pride.”

The girl's smile was hollow. “The rose loses its flower but never its thorn.” She cast an expectant glance toward Ishmael, who nodded his encouragement. “Ishmael says I should tell you something because you understand the secret ways of Europeans.” The girl lifted her blanket and produced a slip of paper on which an image had been drawn, a series of curves and lines running together.

“The kilted men who went north with us, wherever they went they made this symbol. Carved it on trees. Used charred sticks to mark rocks with it.”

Duncan turned the paper this way and that, trying to make sense of it, then went still as recognition finally reached him. He asked for her writing lead and drew it again, very carefully, first a letter J and a letter R with a space between, then he joined the letters by nestling a figure 8 between them.

“Yes!” the girl said, nodding, “that is it.”

Duncan had not seen the sign for years. Jacobus Rex, the cipher meant, or more particularly King James the Eighth, the last Scottish King. Although forgotten by many, it had always been a secret sign of Jacobites, a sign that got men arrested, and worse, during the last uprising.

Duncan saw now how both Hannah and Ishmael looked uneasily into the shadows past the big wine barrels. He lifted one of the candles and ventured toward them. In a small alcove beyond them he discovered another cot, on which an aged man lay propped against the stone wall. He appeared to be asleep but roused as Duncan approached with the light. A smile lit his craggy face.

“
Ciamar a tha sibh?
”

The face, and the Gaelic greeting, stopped Duncan. For a moment he
was transported to another place, another time. He did not know the man, but he certainly knew his features and his accent. He had known a hundred such men in his boyhood, the old ones who bridged the generations, who piped and danced and led joyful gatherings on misty isles.

The man's voice was hoarse, as if he had not used it in a long time. “I am Clan Graham,” he explained, “and you are Clan McCallum. An age ago I danced with McCallum lasses. I was no weakling but it was difficult to keep up with them,” he said with a wheezing laugh.

Duncan lowered himself onto a stool and set the candle on the upturned crate by the man's bed. On the crate were several bleeding cups beside small bottles with familiar labels. Laudanum, the tincture of opium used for severe pain. Powder of Algaroth, used as an emetic. Peruvian bark, for fevers.

“Strong children those two,” the stranger said, nodding toward Ishmael and Hannah. “Bodes well for America, wouldn't you say?” With visible effort he swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, bringing his face out of the shadows.

The man's hands trembled. His deep, intelligent eyes looked out from a worn, wrinkled face.

“May I?” Duncan asked Graham, reaching for his withered wrist. “I studied for some years at the medical college in Edinburgh.”

The old Scot did not resist when Duncan gently took his arm. His pulse was weak and irregular. “The great college! I entertained many of its professors at my Edinburgh home. Buchanan, Oglesby, even McPhee, before he had that bother over the corpses in his classroom.”