Eye of the Raven (9 page)

In a daze, Duncan allowed himself to be led to a bench at the rear of the makeshift courtroom. His friend was pushed into a chair flanked by two provost guards with bayonets fixed to their muskets. For the first time Duncan spotted the noose strung from a heavy limb of the big oak.

"He's innocent!" Duncan exclaimed. A sob escaped him.

"It's the wilderness, lad," McGregor said, as if it explained much. He tightened his grip on his charge's arm.

But Duncan no longer was in the wilderness. He was back in Scotland, and English brutes were killing his brother and sisters in the name of the king. He would stop it! He had to stop it! He wrenched his arm free and leapt up, but the burly Scottish sergeant grabbed him again, more forcefully, and pinned him against a tree with an arm across his chest. At that moment Latchford pounded the table with the butt of his pistol, commencing the proceedings.

The two judges moved with sober efficiency, quickly working through the first bench, packed with witnesses from the Virginia militia company. Latchford led the questioning.

"'Twas as cruel a heartbreak as a man could bear," declared Duncan's enemy, the bearded sergeant, the first to sit on the witness stool, "our poor captain's lifeblood spilling out as the damned heathen waited with his knife over him, ready for one more cut at his tormented body."

"A lie!" Duncan shouted out as McGregor tried to clamp a hand over his mouth. "What kind of justice is this, that-" but his words were lost as the shaft of a halberd slammed into his gut. He doubled over in pain, gasping for air.

When he recovered, he was propped against the tree, McGregor squatting at his side. "That was a foul blow," Duncan groused, rubbing his belly.

"'Tweren't me, 'twas the provost who came up behind. That Philadelphia man chided him for striking you, declaring you too would be given your fair time in the witness chair."

Duncan leaned forward and saw another witness now on the stool. Half the witness bench had been cleared. Brindle was taking notes, sometimes pausing to confer with his nephew Felton and his shorter, stockier companion.

"Five witnesses so far," McGregor explained as he recognized the query in Duncan's eyes, "All with the same tale, though some vow that they saw your friend fixing to scalp their officer." Latchford's resistance to Brindle had faded when he saw the list of names ready to condemn his prisoner.

Conawago himself appeared not to be listening to the proceedings. He was studying a red and black bird perched on a limb above him, a tanager, which seemed to be intently watching the men below. McGregor reached into his belt and extracted a scrap of paper. "Passed to the guard for you," he whispered as Duncan recognized the elegant handwriting of his friend.

I can see a hint of dawn between the bars, Conawago's note began. It will be a fine day to begin a journey. There is a formation of rocks like a chimney on the ridge south of the river. If you happen to be nearby in a year's time I will meet you there. I am Conawago, son of the Nipmuc. Listen to the wind and you shall hear my name.

Duncan's eyes welled with tears. The old Indian referred to his journey to the spirit world. Despite his training by the Jesuits, despite living in the European world for many years, he was steadfast in the beliefs of the woodland tribes. The journey to the other side took twelve full months to achieve, which is why rituals were held on the one-year anniversary close to the place of death.

Suddenly young Hadley was on the witness stool. Duncan stood up and leaned forward, as the young officer described how he had been at the front of the column and noticed the movement at the big beech tree. He described his horror at discovering the Indian bent over his captain.

Is it possible," Brindle asked, "that this Indian was ministering to the unfortunate Captain Burke?"

"He had his knife out."

"To cut a bandage perhaps?"

Duncan's heart flushed with hope. The magistrate would not be led by Latchford.

"I saw no bandage."

"It was a bandage!" Duncan shouted as he shot up again. "Conawago was tending the wounds!" Protests rose up from those around him.

Latchford pounded the table. A provost started toward Duncan, then McGregor pulled Duncan down.

Hadley hesitated, looking at Duncan.

"There was no bandage!" The low, insistent words came from the bearded sergeant at the front.

Hadley looked at the sergeant, then at the simmering men of his company, neighbors and comrades all from home, before looking down into his hands. "There was no bandage."

"Why would he nail Burke to the tree?" Duncan shouted. "He had no nails! He had no nails!"

Felton leaned over his uncle a moment, his whispered words bringing a shadow to Brindle's face.

"In the valley where you live," the magistrate asked Hadley, "was there not an incident involving the nailing of hands?"

Hadley's own face darkened. He looked to the bench of militia before speaking. "There was an incident, not many years ago. Some Iroquois were caught taking food. They were punished."

"Punished?" Latchford pressed.

Hadley choked for an instant. The bearded sergeant stood up. "We hanged 'em proper!" he barked. "Then nailed them to a barn by their war path. Now this old fool heathen thinks he takes his vengeance on us."

Duncan stared in disbelief, pushing down his roiling emotions so he could reason with himself. There had to be something he was missing, had to be a piece of evidence that would save the man who, more than any other, was like family to him. The boundary tree, the clock gear, the copper all meant something, but through his miasma of fear and fatigue he could not find the pattern uniting them.

Suddenly McGregor was pulling him up, steering him toward the judges' table. The Quaker magistrate stated Duncan's name in a loud, steady voice.

"Are you landed, Mr. McCallum?" Brindle asked as Duncan took the witness stool.

"Sir?"

"Are you a landholder in Pennsylvania province?"

"I am not." Duncan's mind raced. He could ill afford to have the judge probe his background. If they knew the truth, that he was technically indentured to the family of Lord Ramsey in New York, they would never let him testify, and they would probably order him put in irons. "I am but recently arrived from Scotland," he ventured.

McGregor, standing at the side of the makeshift courtroom, loudly cleared his throat. "Men who volunteer to scout against the enemy heathen, your lordship, be of great service to the province." He was looking not at his major but at the magistrate. Latchford's eyes blazed at the insubordination. The Quaker's brows rose in surprise. But the nod he cast at Duncan was approving. "You were at the scene of violence as well, I take it?" he asked.

Movement at the rear of the assembly caught Duncan's eye for a moment. The young Iroquois he had seen making arrows in the yard was now there, in front of nearly a score of other Indians, watching intently.

"Conawago and I found Captain Burke together. He had already been set upon, only minutes before. We tried to help him."

"But you were not at Burke's side when he died?"

"I ran to retrieve a dressing for his wound, to staunch the flow of blood. The militia arrived as I was gathering it."

Latchford leaned forward, clearly resenting the Quaker's domination of the questioning. "Was Captain Burke dead when you left his side, McCallum?"

"He was not."

"Then how, McCallum, can you testify it was not your friend who delivered the death blow?"

"I examined Burke. The fatal wounds were already inflicted when we arrived. Conawago is no murderer. Someone with a tomahawk inflicted them. He carries no tomahawk."

"Do not practice your sophistry on us, sir!" Latchford lashed out. "In fact you are no witness at all. You did not see the murder. We have had a dozen good men say without hesitation they saw it, and your friend committed it."

"They served the dead man. They hate Indians."

Latchford ignored his protest. "Were you able to see your friend at all times or not?" he demanded. "As he was alone with Captain Burke?"

Duncan's despair was a black, living thing inside him, rising up, gripping his heart, choking him. He turned toward Conawago. His friend's face was open and serene. He offered Duncan the gentle smile that had touched his heart so many times. Duncan looked to the ground. "I did not," he murmured.

Magistrate Brindle gave a chagrined shrug. Latchford leaned back and offered a smug nod to the officer of his provosts.

Duncan did not realize he had been dismissed at first. He stumbled away as if in some terrible dream, barely hearing the pistol butt that hammered the table to close the testimony. He only vaguely noticed that the Indians gathered at the rear were moving about now, whispering, distracted by something behind them.

It was Van Grut who intercepted him and guided him back toward the tree where Sergeant McGregor waited. Brindle and Latchford conferred in whispers for less than a minute. Duncan had already resented Latchford, now he knew he would forever despise the major for directing a provost to make ready the noose before the verdict was spoken.

Brindle asked for Conawago to stand.

"Having dispatched its solemn duty," Brindle began, "this court has no choice but to-" his words died away, replaced by an eerie, high-pitched sound, like the drawn-out attack screech of a hawk. All eyes shot upward in confusion, some men ducking for cover as the sound grew louder. Then abruptly the source of the screech landed in the grass, not three feet from the judge's table. It was a projectile tipped with bone carved into a whistle, an Iroquois signal arrow.

The Indians ran forward, then stopped as abruptly as the arrow when they reached the open space between the judges and the benches. A figure had materialized in the space, a bronze statue of a man wearing leggings, breechcloth, and a sleeveless waistcoat. His skin glistened with oil and fresh paint in the pattern often worn by Iroquois war parties. The young warrior who had been in the fort the day before stood at his side, a bow in his hand, his countenance filled with pain. Duncan saw the way the Indians revered the painted man, then as he stepped closer recognized the tattoo of the turtle on his cheek.

"I am called Skanawati of the Onondaga," the man declared in a voice that would carry miles, his English words slow and carefully pronounced. "I am a member of the Grand Council, keeper of the hearthfire of the Iroquois nations, chief of the turtle clan." Duncan saw that a smear of red paint had been added to the tip of the blade that hung over his chest, and to the blade of a tomahawk in his belt.

Latchford's face twisted into a snarl. His provosts hovered beside him, waiting for an order to clear the disturbance. "What is the meaning of this interruption?" he demanded.

The Iroquois chief waited until the Indians with him had surrounded Conawago, as if to protect him. "I have come to tell you it was I, Skanawati, who killed the Virginian captain."

T FIRST DUNCAN did not understand Latchford's furious response to the confession by the Iroquois chieftain, did not entirely grasp the change in the atmosphere. Brindle closed his Bible and clasped his hands as if praying. Then Duncan saw the reluctant nod by Latchford that sent the provosts to remove the manacles from Conawago and place them on Skanawati.

"Blood of Christ!" McGregor muttered. "There's a foot in the kettle."

"I'm sorry?"

"Thank God y'er friend is safe. But the major knows that without the treaty the army will never get Iroquois help in subduing the western tribes. The Six Nations won't even get to the negotiating table if the army hangs their lead negotiator at Ligonier."

"But he confessed," Duncan said uncertainly, looking at Skanawati and the Indians, still not entirely grasping what was unfolding.

"Lose the Iroquois or lose the Virginians. Not even the esteemed and sanctified magistrate will take that decision. 'Twill be for the governor and general to decide how to get the noose on him. Unless the Burke company charges forward," the sergeant added.

Duncan followed McGregor's gaze toward the knot of Virginian soldiers who now surrounded Latchford, their lieutenant haranguing him, angrily pointing at the stone-faced Skanawati, who stood between his new guards.