Original Death (48 page)

Chapter Sixteen

D
uncan awoke slowly, gazing groggily up at a gull that drifted in the cool breeze, listening to the rhythmic lapping of water on the side of his boat. He sat up in sudden apprehension. The boat was empty. He was adrift on the treacherous river.

His aching muscles protested as he pulled himself onto a seat, but the pain cleared his mind. He saw now the familiar bluff above him and the trail that led up from the beach of skulls.

Tucked into a notch in the sun-warmed rocks was Conawago, puffing on the little German pipe he used in relaxed moments. Duncan had not seen him use it for weeks. “You were still asleep when we arrived,” his friend declared. “I told them not to waken you, that your body is still recovering from its ordeal.”

Duncan worked his tongue around his mouth, wondering about the hint of anise and mint on his tongue. “You gave me one of your potions,” he recalled.

Conawago grinned. “You did not protest when I offered the tea. We had to carry you to the boat. You deserved a long sleep for your efforts. Such a spectacle.”

It all seemed like a dream now. Reaching the first anchor line in
the treacherous current and dying light had been far more difficult than Duncan had expected, but a grim determination had driven him, and when he had finally found the heavy anchor line, stretched tight as a fiddle string, Sagatchie's tomahawk had made short work of it. The British sailors had frantically fired their guns as they felt their vessels slip, but their shells hit only the tip of the island and the river itself. By the time he found the second line, they had the sense to send rockets into the air to illuminate the darkened river, and marines had begun to aim at him from the frigates. The muskets had only spattered the water around him, and the glow had made Duncan's work easier.

The flares came quicker and quicker, lighting Duncan's struggle to the shore of the island, his arms and legs screaming against the final effort. Fleeting, staccato images of the British calamity came with the flashes when he finally crawled onto the rocky shore beneath the island's cliff. The river grabbed the frigates much more violently than Duncan would have expected, spinning them about. In one flash the curving line of gunboats had begun to straighten. One of the boats kept firing, its shells hitting a rocky shoal near the island. Another rocket flash showed that its guns had shifted, tilting the boat. The next showed the guns sliding off, with the crew not far behind. In the next the crew was climbing onto the upturned hull. The retreating ships kept firing their rockets as they drifted downstream, desperately trying to avoid rocks and shoals. The remaining gunboat crews hacked away at the lines fixed to the drifting frigates until at last they were free of the threat of being capsized, only to drift even quicker than the frigates down the river.

Duncan had found himself laughing until, his body too spent for the return swim, he collapsed against a boulder.

When Woolford's canoe finally came into sight, the sky had lightened to a dull grey. The ranger captain spoke in utter astonishment of the night's work, then presented him with a breakfast of bread, cheese, and brandy. As Duncan ate, Woolford had produced two folded papers from his jerkin and spoke in low, urgent tones.

They had climbed up the bluff warily, half expecting to be fired upon, and the surly Highland sergeant they met on the top seemed inclined to do so. Duncan calmed him with a Gaelic greeting, and he had quickly agreed to bring Colonel Cameron.

The Scottish officer seemed to have aged twenty years overnight. He walked up the slope with difficulty, and his two grenadier escorts hovered close as if they expected him to fall. Cameron's face was desolate, but as he studied the half-naked Duncan, still adorned with paint and grease, curiosity seemed to overtake him, followed by something like awe. “One of my men said he saw a blond Indian by the light of those damned rockets, doing battle with an anchor rope. Surely . . .” Cameron lowered himself onto a nearby log. “My God, McCallum, my God.” He gazed down the river, where the two surviving gunboats could be seen, grounded on distant shoals.

“Laird Graham breathed his last after you left,” the colonel finally said. “We hadn't the heart to tell him we had been tricked out of our treasure. Everyone was condemning you as a traitor. But then last night you saved us from a horrid death.” Cameron's gaze drifted toward the southern bank of the river. “You swam from the far shore?” he asked, as if still not believing Duncan's feat.

“I was raised in the western isles, sir,” Duncan reminded him.

“If this were the western isles,” Cameron said with a sad smile, “they'd be singing ballads of your exploit already, and for the next hundred years. You saved us. At least for another day,” he said, gazing pointedly at Woolford, who wore the king's uniform.

The ranger captain sat beside Cameron. “You know that General Amherst thinks little of my native rangers,” he began, “but I am under orders to General Calder. And Calder gave me instructions to probe the enemy defenses and gather intelligence wherever possible. I have had men inside Montreal this past week. Three days ago I wrote a report to General Calder but copied General Amherst since the news was so important. My men confirmed that the bank in the city has substantial quantities of gold
and coin. Over ten thousand pounds' worth at least. I congratulated the generals since they would now be able to pay the Highland troops as soon as Montreal falls. I copied you as well, Colonel Cameron, as the ranking Scottish officer.”

Cameron took the first paper offered by Woolford and read it, then read it again. He studied the ranger captain as if seeing him for the first time. “A daring stroke, Captain,” he said at last with the hint of a smile. “Amherst will be unable to conceal the treasure in the bank once he takes Montreal. At least some will come out of this wretched episode with satisfaction.”

Woolford extended the second paper. “Along a battlefront, communications can get confused. General Amherst was somewhere downriver, not possible to reach.”

Cameron nodded uncertainly. “He said he went downstream to meet the navy and the troops coming up from Champlain. But . . .” he gestured toward the wrecked boats, “we know what he was doing.”

“This is another report, dated yesterday. It recounts how I had discovered the whereabouts of the infamous rebel leader called the Revelator, the one who stands in the way of our victory. I sent secret word to you as the nearest senior officer, and you deployed to Fortress Island in force, as secretly as possible so as not to scare the enemy. You remonstrated with the Revelator. You explained to him that by your persuasion the Caughnawags were standing down. Without them, you explained, his cause is lost.”

“A noble touch, Woolford, but it will not be credited when the Caughnawags begin attacking us.” Cameron paused, returning Woolford's steady stare for a moment. “Surely you are not suggesting—”

“They were wavering already since so many have relatives among the southern Iroquois who came north with Johnson. Their discovery of the half-king's treachery at Bethel Church sealed their decision. But Amherst does not know it yet. You will deliver the news, Colonel. They will not attack the British forces. The half-king will soon be in retreat.”

“But the navy. The attack intended for last night. It was based on intelligence about the mutiny of the Highlanders.”

“You will say you had to let the rumors of mutiny circulate in order to build false confidence in the half-king, to lure him closer. You will tell General Amherst that you had no knowledge of his bold plan of bombardment, and because of his disappearance you had no way to inform him that you had been successful in your efforts. The navy will be deeply shamed by what happened to them last night. They will never let it be known that one man defeated a squadron. They can pretend that they successfully frightened the half-king away, and we can all bemoan the little tempest that apparently caused some minor havoc among their vessels.”

Cameron stared at Woolford with new confidence. “It's bold, Captain.” He read the report again in silence. “It's a gamble,” he said with a small smile. “But why? Why would you do this?”

“Because the Scots on this island are good men. Because this war will be soon over, and I have it on good authority they will be offered the chance to remain in America as their units are reduced. I am not returning to England. McCallum is not returning to Scotland. We want such men at our sides, men who are friends with the tribes.”

Cameron waved the paper toward Woolford. “Still a gamble, lad.”

“We will see that the Revelator has enough canoes to begin a conspicuous retreat, proving your tale. And the ultimate prize you give Amherst will eclipse his doubts and his sentiments about the Highlanders.”

“The prize?”

“The French know they have no chance without the northern tribes or the half-king at their side. Amherst has his own spies, who will confirm that the Caughnawags have withdrawn. The French will sue for peace. You will have made possible the near-bloodless fall of Montreal. Amherst's mind will be filled with coming knighthoods and banquets with the king. He will never blemish his victory with the court-martial of his adjutant.”

The colonel stared for a long moment at Woolford. “If you took credit for this, Captain, you would be a major in a fortnight.”

A small grin rose on the ranger's face. “Which would take me back across the sea to the next wretched war. I am staying in America.”

Cameron stood and folded the papers into his pocket then looked out over the river. He spoke with a solemn, cracking voice. “Each of you has saved my life, and that of many good Highlanders.” He shook each of their hands.

“It will mean no castle,” Duncan said.

Cameron forced a weary smile. “It will mean my neck will not be stretched by the king's rope.” He sighed and gazed on the ruined gunboats downstream. “My aspirations were born of the Old World. I see now a man has to have new dreams in this land. I will look for an early opportunity to leave the king's service for a new life here. My clan took its strength from the soil for centuries. A croft in America may be as good as a castle back home.”

WHEN THEY REACHED the top of the trail, the old abbey and its grounds were empty. But Duncan spied a thread of smoke above the chimney.

Tushcona was tending a pot of stew over a small fire in the kitchen hearth. Upstairs the children were in the monks' cells, tended by the elders. Duncan paused by each cot, checking the health of the children and encouraging them to sleep.

He heard movement above and saw that the door to the narrow winding stairway to the top floor was open. Stealthily climbing the stairs, he followed the sound to the little makeshift chapel. The great brown dog was on its haunches, staring out the low window.

It took Duncan only a few minutes to find what he was looking for among the wooden boxes that lined the wall. The writing on the pasted lable was faded but still readable.
Father Francis
, it said,
1673
. Strangely, it had two dates for his demise. The inked inscription indicated he had died in 1722, but above it someone had used a lead to inscribe
1734
.

Inside the box was a worn rosary, a small carved bird, a braid of long black hair tied with a red ribbon, and two cheap copper rings, the kind bartered by traders, bound together with a strip of white fur.

No one among our missions showed more courage and faith than Father
Francis when he ventured as the first of us among the Mingoes
, began the note at the bottom of the box. It went on to explain that Francis was a natural leader who soon attracted a settlement of natives around his little chapel on the banks of the Ohio and then opened the first school in the western lands. But he had gone too far in adopting the native ways, and in 1722, when his abbot discovered he had sired a son with a Mingo maid, they had taken his robe away. Francis did not stop his mission work, however, and was famous for preaching about the purity of the savage soul. He insisted on keeping European technology from his flock and fervently condemned those who tried to introduce European currency, saying gold and silver represented false wealth. It was the scourge of Europe and would corrupt the souls of his people. He had buried his beloved wife in an epidemic and a year later had been killed by drunken warriors trying to burn his chapel. His son Xavier continued the mission work and was consecrated as a monk at an early age.

Duncan closed the box and reverently replaced it, recalling how Xavier had begged his father's forgiveness when he had discovered the half-king had committed murder for an army payroll. The Jesuit's passion for the natives had made him a perfect lieutenant for Graham but in the end he too had become a pawn. Duncan gazed out over the broad river and the chain of islands that extended to the horizon. They could have been Scottish islands, and he could have built himself a croft, even a boat, and taught the old ways to a new generation. But the price had been too high.

A movement on the field below caught his eye. Conawago was walking toward two long bundles lying by the rock-strewn bluff. He had almost forgotten the last of their sacred duties.

They worked in silence, Ishmael and Duncan cutting and trimming sturdy maple saplings while Conawago and Kass erected the two scaffolds. When they unwrapped the blankets around the bodies, Duncan insisted on binding the many gaping wounds. Kass washed the bodies with water and sweetfern while he knelt with needle and thread. The elders arrived to light a small spirit fire. With cupped hands Conawago directed the fragrant
smoke over the bodies, reciting a low gravelly chant that the others soon joined in. Duncan did not bother to wipe the moisture in his eyes.