Original Death (2 page)

“I fear for the bloodlines of both our clans,” he confessed to the bird. “If you find us worthy, I ask that you watch over them, the Nipmuc and the McCallum.” His own clan, like that of Conawago, had grown nearly extinct at the hands of the English.

Duncan stepped to the long feather, and when the bird did not react, he slowly bent to lift it, raising it up toward the sun before dipping it toward the water and then to the great bird. “
Tapadh leat
,” he said. I thank you, first in Gaelic and then in the tongue of the Mohawks. The eagle watched with interest as Duncan carefully stuffed the feather into the tight leg of his britches, then the huge creature abruptly swooped down, nearly touching Duncan's cheek with the tip of its massive wing before gliding over the water.

He watched the graceful flight and was about to turn away when the
eagle circled and swooped again, dragging its feet in the water a stone's throw from the island before pulling sharply upward. At first Duncan thought it had taken a fish, but then he saw its talons were empty. The bird cut a long arc in the sky, wheeling as if to see if Duncan watched, then glided down to precisely the same place where the water still rippled and touched it again before rising and returning to its nest. It turned to Duncan with the same expectant gaze.

The university-trained Scot within him knew better than to think the bird was communicating with him. But he had spent too long with Conawago to ignore such a sign. The tribes believed birds to be messengers of the gods, and he and Conawago were on a tribal quest. When he turned back to the water, he saw something floating a few feet away. He lifted the little swath of bear fur, thinking it was likely something that had adorned an Iroquois warrior, but then he saw the winding of thread that bound it to a little brass pin. It was a cockade, worn on the bonnet of Highland troops, and someone had fastened a small dried thistle into the fur.

He lowered himself into the lake and with quiet breaststrokes moved to the point where the eagle had touched, then dove.

No fish were to be seen. The patch of water was like a clearing in the forest where all the creatures had been frightened away. He pulled himself deeper, ten feet, twelve feet, and suddenly the death was upon him. He jerked backward, choking, and shot to the surface, coughing and spitting up water.

Duncan looked back at the eagle, who still watched, then gripped his fear, caught his breath, and dove again.

The man lay on the bottom as if resting, looking up at the thin blue sky. He was not much older than Duncan, with red hair tightly braided at the back. The military sash over his shoulder held a dirk but not the usual broadsword. His waist belt did not hold the regulation cartridge box, only a sporran, the front pouch worn over Highland kilts. The red and brown tartan he wore was pressed tight to his legs by the rope that bound him to the spokes of a heavy wheel. Another rope around his neck clamped his head against the iron rim of the wheel. Duncan could not bring himself to touch
the body, but he gripped the wheel to study it with the more deliberate gaze of the doctor he had trained to be. The man's face was badly bruised. His right calf had been savaged, probably by a musket ball shot at close range. There were no other wounds, no apparent deathblow. He had drowned.

The Highland soldier had been dead only a few hours at most. He had been disabled with the shot, then beaten and tied to the wheel before being dumped into the lake while still alive. Seeing a clan emblem on the dirk, Duncan grabbed it before drifting up to the surface.

When Duncan emerged from the water, Conawago was carving a small piece of wood, which he quickly hid. The Nipmuc hesitated, a strange foreboding in his eyes, then he brightened and nodded his gratitude as Duncan extended the feather. He accepted the treasure, holding it in both hands toward the eagle, still watching from its nest, then whispered in the words of his people.

There had been an unspoken vow between them not to speak of the war on their journey. This journey was more important than the battles between distant kings. They had become like pilgrims who spoke no unpure thought, lest they disturb their sacred quest. Duncan dared not break the magic by speaking of his own foreboding or of his grisly discovery in the lake. The man was a casualty of the blood-soaked war between the French and British, and they were removed from that war, worked their hardest to have nothing to do with it. But as they moved back up the trail that hugged the shoreline, the image of the dead Scot haunted him. The death had a slow, organized aspect to it, not the quick work of the raiders who hit supply convoys and outposts then fled, undermining the British while their main forces were in the North, preparing for the looming battle at Montreal. But, Duncan reminded himself, the French relied heavily on irregular troops, trappers and natives of the Huron and Abenaki tribes, some of who clung to the old ways of honoring a victory by the slow death of captives.

As they paused, Duncan checked the flint of his long rifle and freshened the powder in the pan. Conawago watched him but said nothing. He too would not break the magic.

The old Nipmuc increased the pace, consuming the lakeside trail with the steady loping gait the people of the forest used to traverse long distances. Conawago was more than three times Duncan's age but never lagged, never was the first to call for a rest. Although he had traveled to both England and France, spoke several languages, and could articulate as well as any scholar Duncan had ever known, this was his home, here was where he was most comfortable, here was where he honored what the natives called his true skin. He was an aged sinewy stag who moved with graceful instinct through the forest.

That instinct had saved Duncan's life more than once, and he knew to respect it without hesitation. As Conawago abruptly halted and stepped behind the cover of a tree, Duncan dropped beside a boulder, raising his rifle as he followed the old Indian's gaze through the birches that lined the shore.

The boat they saw was broad in beam and shallow in draft, powered by four long oars on either side. It was surprisingly close to shore, no more than fifty yards away, in a channel between the shore and a long narrow island. Between the rowing benches, crates and barrels were stacked, covered by canvas.

“Army supplies,” Conawago declared with relief, and stepped away from the tree. The boat was clearly one of the squat supply bateaux that plied the water passage of the long lakes, bound for the forts at Ticonderoga or Crown Point, perhaps even the depot at the far northern end of Champlain that supported the regiments in Quebec.

The old Indian stepped toward the water onto a narrow pebbly beach and waved good-naturedly toward the men on the boat. A man at the bow instantly snapped up a musket and aimed at him.

“No!” Duncan cried, and sprang forward in a long desperate leap, pushing his friend away as the musket fired. Conawago's body jerked as it fell to the ground. Without conscious thought Duncan raised his own rifle, still in his hands, and aimed at a second man who was raising another musket at them. He shot an instant before the musket fired. The man spun about, his shot gone wild, dropping his gun to clutch at his upper arm.

Duncan pulled Conawago into a thick clump of cedars that obscured them from the water. To his relief the old Nipmuc began to stir. “I am a fool,” he groused as he clutched at his shoulder. “Of course they would think we were raiders. They saw those canoes.”

Duncan only half heard his words. He pulled away Conawago's fingers, soaked in blood. He ripped apart the linen where it had been torn by the ball, muttering a Gaelic curse as he saw the ugly gout of flesh. The ball had scraped along the top of the shoulder, breaking the skin along its passage before digging into the flesh at his back.

“It's still in there,” Duncan declared in an apologetic tone, “lodged between the skin and the shoulder blade.”

Conawago grimaced, then reached into his belt and handed Duncan his skinning knife before taking a stick in his mouth and leaning over to tightly grip a thick root with both his hands. Duncan had nearly completed the full course of medical studies in Edinburgh before being arrested and transported to America for harboring a Highland rebel, yet he often sensed Conawago had a better understanding of the ways of healing. He tore the shirt another few inches and bent over his friend's shoulder with the blade.

He sliced the skin quickly but had to press against the wound to force the ball out. He gritted his teeth as Conawago moaned, cursing the luck of the shot. He would have gladly taken the wound himself to keep the old Nipmuc out of harm's way.

As was often the case, Conawago seemed to read his mind. He spat the stick out when Duncan showed him the ball. “If you hadn't pushed me, my friend, it would have been in my chest.”

“But why?” Duncan asked as he wiped the bullet on his britches and dropped it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

“The Canadians grow desperate. Disrupting supplies means disrupting the British attacks in Canada.”

“Canoes. You mentioned canoes.”

“Where the shore curves around ahead of us. In the shadows of a big sugar tree hanging over the water.”

From his pack Duncan pulled out the small copper pot they used for cooking. “I need to wash the wound,” he said, gesturing toward the lake.” Before stepping away he reloaded his gun and placed it within reach of Conawago.

The supply boat was disappearing behind the curve of the shore Conawago had described, beyond the huge maple. Not for the first time he marveled at his companion's eyesight. If he had not known what to look for, he would never have seen the four bark canoes. They had been pulled into low shrubs so that only their ends were visible.

When he returned, Conawago had his sewing kit in his lap, tying a piece of thread onto a needle. “We can still make it before dusk,” he said to Duncan.

“Nonsense. We're making camp here. You're in no shape.”

“It was not my leg that was shot. Of course we are going on.” He handed Duncan the needle and thread. “You can return the favor.”

Duncan's hand unconsciously went to the long scar along his hairline, where a raider had tried to scalp him the year before. Conawago had saved his life for the first time that day, then sewn up his wound. Duncan returned his friend's expectant gaze and grimaced, but found himself unable to argue. “This is going to hurt,” he warned.

A quarter hour later they were under the shadow of the massive maple, studying the canoes with new worry. They had not been pulled from the water for safekeeping. They had been disabled with several holes in their bottoms, then hidden.

“Why take an ax to a perfectly good canoe?” Duncan asked.

“Because you don't intend for it to be used again. That is not the real question. If you smash a canoe you no longer care about it, no longer need to travel on the water. But why does someone smash a canoe and then hide it?” Without waiting for a reply Conawago wrapped the deerhide strap of his pack around his uninjured shoulder, hitched the arm with the injured shoulder into his belt, and set off down the path. Duncan cast a worried gaze down the lake, where a young Scot had been killed that day, then followed.

Conawago's wound kept him from running, but he set a fast walking pace for the last miles to Bethel Church. Duncan saw the effort it took for the old Nipmuc to push back his pain, but he succeeded in doing so, murmuring once more the joyful songs of the woodland peoples reserved for reunions between long-separated family members. Half a century before, Conawago had returned to his clan's home after years of studying and travel with the Jesuits only to find his people gone, the little valley where they had lived decimated by farmers. He had never seen his people again, and all the emotion he had pushed down after losing his mother and siblings and failing to find any trace of them for so long was rising to the surface. There was weariness in his voice now, sometimes a hint of melancholy, but most of all there was joy.

When at last the little settlement came into view below the long ridge they descended, Conawago paused. “I almost forgot,” he declared, and Duncan watched in confusion as he settled onto a fallen log and extracted the eagle feather Duncan had retrieved. Then he saw the little jars and pouches Conawago produced from his pack, and he understood. The feather, meant as a gift to Conawago's long lost nephew, had to be blessed and adorned with the marks of their tribe. The old Nipmuc looked up for a moment with the smile of an excited boy. “Within this hour I will have embraced members of my tribe!” he exclaimed, then bent to his solemn task.

As Conawago offered the feather up to the four points of the compass and began a chant, Duncan turned toward the buildings in the distance. They questioned those they had met in their rapid passage from the Catskills, learning that Bethel Church was a community of Christian Iroquois constructed on the army's supply road between Albany and Ticonderoga, two miles from the lakeshore. The settlement had been built around a small church established by one of the Anglican missionaries who had started competing with the Jesuits and Moravians for the souls of the woodland tribes. The inhabitants of the mission had taken up farming and wagon building as a means of livelihood, and to Conawago's obvious pride a teamster near Albany had proclaimed Hickory John to be the best maker
of wheels in the Champlain Valley. It was a hard life for the natives who embraced their new faith so fervently. They were often treated as outcasts by their own people and never fully trusted by the Europeans, though often they were the most devout Christians Duncan had ever met.