Original Death (45 page)

The chamber was bigger than he expected. The tattered carpet that covered its earthen floor showed faded hints of hunting scenes. On a field table sat a bright oil lamp. The robed monk looked up in surprise.

“Brother Xavier.” Duncan nodded to the Jesuit, who rose and solemnly returned his nod. “He was too weak to come by himself,” Xavier explained. “I wanted to be with him when . . .” his voice drifted away, and he shrugged, then left the chamber.

The man on the cot was noticeably weaker than when Duncan had left him in Montreal. His eyes had sunken even deeper. His hands seemed but skin and bone.

“Lord Graham,” Duncan offered in greeting, then he quickly stepped to the cot. He realized his question about the source of the banner was answered.

It seemed to cause Graham great effort to raise his hand and move it back and forth as though to correct Duncan. He was about to speak when another spasm of coughing seized him. Duncan sat by the bed and lifted the man's wrist. His pulse was light as a feather. Every breath was a wheezing struggle. The smell of death was settling around him.

“Cameron's a good lad, son,” Graham finally said. “He has been battered by his times.”

“Like the rest of us.”

Graham offered a weak smile. “Tribes and clans alike.”

Duncan pulled the blanket back and loosened the black robe over the man's chest, pausing as his effort exposed a fine linen shirt underneath. Hanging over it was an elegant golden chain, at the end of which was a heavy golden ring set with a seal. A ring had been sent from the prince.

“And royal families in Rome,” Duncan added. “There was never a conspiracy of the western tribes,” he said after a moment.

“Not at first. I decided—” Graham's words were cut off by a paroxysm of coughing. The linen cloth he held to his mouth came away bloody. “I decided the world was big enough to allow battered peoples a place of their own.”

“A noble idea,” Duncan agreed.

“If only I had lived to see the dream fulfilled. I'd give my right arm for a few more weeks. But in his infinite wisdom, God has decided to take me to the threshold and no further. You would have been one of the strong backs I would have leaned on. Cameron always wants to speak of castles. I am more interested in churches and schools and infirmaries. A factory to allow the tribes to process their own furs—now that would be something!”

Before Duncan could reply, Lord Graham reached with bony fingers to extract a piece of rich brown fur that had been entwined in the links of his gold chain. “It wasn't going to keep me alive forever,” he whispered. His breath came in short raspy gasps now. As he rubbed the fur, a small white patch appeared on it.

“King otter skin.” The words came from Duncan's tongue unbidden, as if a door had creaked open in the back of his mind.

Graham dropped the fur into Duncan's palm.

The old Highlanders from Duncan's youth had always insisted the king otter, the largest of the species, was impervious to death except by a wound to the tiny patch of white on his chest. Even a small scrap of its fur was said to protect the one who carried it from any danger. “I had an uncle who kept a piece close to his heart,” Duncan said. “It protected him for eighty years, but not from the English rope that took him in the end.”

“It saved me from English bullets at Culloden, from vengeful arrows on
the Ohio,” Graham explained. “Harpoons on the shore of Hudson's Bay, a rapier in Paris, even a stiletto in Rome. But it ne'er promised immortality.”

Graham coughed and pointed to the solitary bottle by his bed. There was only one medicine left for him. Duncan uncorked it and poured out a dram of whiskey.

“There had to be an emissary from the Vatican,” Duncan said as the laird drank. “There had to be a go-between with the Stewart prince. There was a Scottish trader who filled the boy named Regis with such bold ideas he became the Revelator. I just never thought they could be the same man.” Duncan had found the missing link in the chain, the man who tied everything together.

“Lord Andrew Graham. Father Andre,” the old man said in a whimsical tone. “And many years ago, the western tribes called me the Red Bear, for the red beard I wore as a trader. I have been rich in names and adventures, in wives and friends.”

“And ambitions.”

Graham motioned for more whiskey. “What I have done is for my people, all my people.”

“There was a man named Regis who became rich in names and ambitions,” Duncan said as he filled the glass again. Here before him, he knew, was the man who had laid the seeds of rebellion within the Revelator, who had cajoled the Jacobite prince into considering the possibility of starting fresh in the New World. Here too was the man who meant to beat down the English at last by using Indians as cannon fodder, who set wheels in motion that had caused untold deaths already, including those at Bethel Church. Duncan should hate him, should wish him dead. Andrew Graham had been larger than life, a war hero, an explorer, a spy, a diplomat, a man who would make kings. In another age he would have carved out his own kingdom. But the creature before him was a shrunken caricature of that man, another broken laird, the dying old Highlander who had made everything possible, given an honored place in the half-king's camp.

Another piece suddenly slid into place. “The half-king is your son,” Duncan declared.

Graham drank deeply of his whiskey. When he spoke his voice was thin as a leaf. “I've had several sons,” he said, “but only Regis survives. His mother was a beautiful Mingo maid who lived among the French, and she had him baptized by them. Regis Thistle, so he would not forget his Scottish blood. When he was eight I left a bundle of furs with a Jesuit monk on the Ohio and told him to educate the boy.”

“You should have made it two or three bundles.”

Graham gave a bitter grin, and when he spoke his voice was steadier. “I find that one's education adapts to one's world,” he said. “This world needed to be shaken. He has become my flaming spear.” He began a raspy, whispered song, the Highland lament that had become the Jacobite anthem.

Duncan waited until he quieted to speak again. “For years I could not hear the name of the British king without hate boiling up inside me. It was in his name that my mother and sisters and young brother were tormented and killed.”

Graham cocked his head, not fully understanding.

“Children of the Iroquois Council were taken,” Duncan said. “The Revelator threatens to enslave them, or worse.”

Graham drank again. The whiskey strengthened his voice. “The ways of the savage are ever hard, lad. Tooth and claw have ruled the forest since before time.”

“I was thinking more of your ways, the ways of the holy Jacobite cause and a virtuous prince who waits in the Vatican. Yet nine gentle souls were slaughtered at Bethel Church in the name of the half-king.”

Graham's face clouded. “I know of no such thing. There was no need for bloodshed at the settlement. The robbery was to be by subterfuge, never violence.”

“It was there the children of the Iroquois Council were captured. If the half-king has his way, those children will die, all in the name of his
vision. But a father's last request cannot be ignored,” Duncan added. “It could be a gift, a tribute to the prince who waits in Rome. We just want to leave with the children.”

A crooked smile grew on the dying Scot's face. “Colonel Cameron!” he called in the voice of the laird he once had been. “Bring me Regis!”

THE FOUR KILTED grenadiers escorting them marched in silent formation, their military discipline as tight as on any parade ground. They passed the last of the military tents and kept marching, toward the cave beyond the camp where two sullen warriors stood guard. The soldiers flanked the guards, and the lead grenadier pointed into the cave.

A short figure appeared, huddled under a blanket. As Duncan approached, the blanket dropped to reveal an Indian boy of perhaps ten. His arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

“Jacob,” Duncan said in a soft voice as Conawago reached his side, “it is time to go home.”

The boy looked at Duncan uncertainly, then turned to a larger figure who hobbled into the light, supported by a young girl. Adanahoe's face was bruised, with one eye swollen shut.

“I knew people who looked like you,” the old matriarch grinned, “but they would have to be dead by now.”

There was no time for response, for the children broke into joyful cries as they saw the elders and Ishmael emerging from behind the soldiers.

Embraces and tears quickly followed, but Duncan would not allow the reunion to be lengthy. He desperately wanted to be out of the half-king's reach. He spoke urgently to the elders, who quickly quieted the children. They must circle the camp, he explained, staying on the fringe all the way to the canoes.

They were less than a minute from the landing when a dozen warriors ran to block them.

“Not so fast, McCallum!” the half-king shouted. He had not disputed
Lord Graham's command, though Duncan suspected it had not been so much due to the respect of a son as the judgment that he could not argue with the venerated old clan chief in front of so many Highlanders. But there were only tribal warriors around them now.

“You heard Lord Graham give us permission,” Duncan declared. “We are leaving.” He glanced toward the main camp. Most of its occupants were gathered around a table where the casks of rum were being served out.

“Of course you are. Once the price has been paid.”

“The other kegs are in a boat tied to the little island past the landing.”

The half-king spoke an urgent command, and half a dozen warriors broke away. “One more minor payment,” he said to Duncan.

“Payment?”

The half-king's smile was cold as ice. “A quick walk down the aisle, then you may go. Our generous Lord Graham would not refuse us a little entertainment.”

The warriors surrounding the Revelator stepped back to reveal two score Hurons, each brandishing a weapon, facing each other to form a narrow alley. It was a gauntlet, the line of torment down which prisoners were sometimes thrust. The warriors would not step out of line, but the blows they aimed at the miserable creature who ran between them could be, and often were, fatal.

Paxto, chief of the Wolverine clan, stood at the head of one line, the bones woven into his hair rattling as he swung his war ax. Scar stood at the other, holding a heavy club. “Wolverines!” Custaloga hissed. The warriors in the lines were all of the hated clan. They would be certain to draw as much blood as possible.

The half-king seemed to take great pleasure in the frightened silence of the Iroquois. “One of you must reach the end. If the first falls, another must try, and another, until the end is reached. You can decide who runs.” He lifted the long braid of Abigail, oldest of the children. “The quiet maiden?” He stepped to Tushcona and made a sewing motion with his hand. “The weaver of Iroquois fate?” He stopped before Custaloga and
stooped, bending his shoulders to mock the old man. “Custaloga, the warrior who became a woman?” The Hurons began to hoot and call in derision at the Iroquois. Duncan inched toward Scar. “Perhaps Sagatchie, who shamed his people by putting on the king's uniform?”

He was still speaking when a figure shot out of the shadows toward the gauntlet, a lean man in tattered clothing whose hands were tied behind his back. The half-king casually extended a leg and the stranger tripped, sprawling on the ground. “A noble gesture, Bedford,” the halfking said with another thin laugh as Jacob darted forward to defiantly stand over the man. They had at last met the valiant schoolteacher of Bethel Church. The half-king pushed the boy aside, lifting Bedford by the collar and shoving him toward Hetty.

“Perhaps you would step into our line,” he said to the Welsh woman. “Nothing to fear for you, mother of so many names. One who can make snakes fly. You can turn all their axes to feathers.” When Hetty only glared in response, he turned back to the Iroquois. “Ah,” he said, as he reached the tallest of the women, “the beautiful Kassawaya. Just a graceful waltz with the Wolverines and you'll—”

Duncan leapt in a blur of motion. He had seen the act performed in medical school, and he knew he had but one chance to repeat it now. With all his strength he slammed the edge of his hand into Scar's neck, abruptly pressing his artery against his windpipe. As the warrior began to collapse, Duncan ducked and caught him on his shoulders, one arm over a leg, the other over an arm, draping the stunned body over his shoulders. With a war screech, he darted into the mouth of the beast.

The blows fell hard on the Huron's back. Duncan twisted, slamming the man's feet into the jaw of one warrior, twisting violently to hit another on the opposite side. A club bounced against Duncan's ear. He knocked down the ball of a war ax with the limp arm. A stick bounced against Scar's skull and onto his own, and for moment he was sure he would fall. More sticks sought to trip him, more clubs slammed onto the Huron as he twisted the unconscious man to block the blows, though
several glanced off his own head. Blood was in his eyes. He staggered, off balance, then recovered, shouting out a Gaelic curse, and spun in a full circle, using Scar's appendages to strike his assailants. His arm jerked as a club drew blood from his forearm, his ankle screamed in pain as another pounded its bones.