Original Death (14 page)

A nervous prayer left Macaulay's lips.

“Ishmael?” Duncan said. When no response came, he repeated the boy's name and shook his shoulder.

The boy's response came out like a moan. “The blackness,” he said, and nothing more.

“We're going to sit here and be blind men for a few hours,” Duncan explained, working hard to keep his own fear out of his voice. “A small price for our freedom.” But as soon as he stopped speaking, the fear rose up, gripping his belly. He pulled the boy closer, and they settled onto the floor of the cave, backs against the wall.

“It was a fearless thing you did, Ishmael,” Duncan said, trying to keep the boy from thinking of the darkness, “to visit the witch who frightened grown men.”

“Mr. Bedford had a rhyme on his wall. ‘For the little bent squaw laughter he makes. Until she begins to throw off her snakes.' I asked him
about it, said it was different from all the others. He said it was a reminder for us to keep people surprised, so we won't be taken for granted. He said his mother used to carry snakes in her pockets and would throw them at people who irritated her. I thought it was some kind of joke. But when I saw that hut I knew it was no joke. Snakes are servants of the gods, and someone who throws them would be . . .” he paused, searching for a word.

“A witch, to some,” Duncan offered.

“If there is such a thing as a witch,” Ishmael said, “then wouldn't she be a servant of the gods too?”

The question hung in the black silence. He sensed motion nearby and knew Macaulay was crossing himself.

He had no notion of how much time had passed before he heard the murmur. Macaulay was singing, his words barely audible at first, but soon the tune grew louder. “Who will take the cow to grass?” the Scot sang. “And who will fill the kettle?”

“It's a ballad from Scotland,” Duncan explained to the boy, “about a fisherman lost in a storm.” Soon he joined in the familiar song, keeping his arm linked through the boy's as he sang.

They sang one ballad after another, sang for what seemed hours, until their voices were only hoarse, fading whispers.

The vestiges of Duncan's remaining strength seemed to be sucked out by the cold rock at his back. Although he could not remember ever feeling so weary, sleep would not come. Images as black as the cave swirled about him. Conawago was being tortured, singing his death song. The dead of Bethel Church stood around him, pointing accusing fingers. A noose was being tightened around his neck by a mocking Colonel Cameron. He became aware of Ishmael squeezing his arm. The boy made a low clucking sound with his tongue, the kind of sound woodland hunters made to acknowledge each other's presence. Duncan realized that he had been moaning and, like Conawago, the boy was trying to stir him from his nightmares.

The silence seemed to endure forever, a palpable thing that ebbed and flowed, interrupted by the occasional rustling of clothing. It bore down on
Duncan like a dark ocean, nearly drowning him, sometimes making him struggle even to breathe. He knew his companions felt the same. He could tell by the big man's irregular breathing that Macaulay was not sleeping. A new, desperate murmuring came through the blackness. The big Scot was whispering the Hail Mary.

When the sounds of movement overhead finally came, they were like distant leaves rustling in the wind. Then came a tiny peeping, and another, starting above them before quickly fading down the tunnel. The winged mice were returning. Waiting for the light seemed almost unbearable now. Duncan found himself holding his breath for long moments. If the blackness did not abate, they would surely die.

At last came the barest hint of greyness above darker shadow. Minutes later he could distinguish nearby boulders, then the shape of Ishmael beside him. A small patch in the ceiling began to glow.

“God, no!” Macaulay cried as he leapt up, his arms extended in desperation. The hole, rapidly filling with light now, was at the end of a narrow slanting ten-foot long chimney that started several feet over their heads. Even if they could reach the hole it looked too small for the two grown men.

Macaulay cursed, again and again. Ishmael attempted to scramble up the rough slanting wall toward the chimney, again and again, but he fell back each time.

Duncan paced around the chamber, studying the walls and the chimney. “If I am not mistaken that is a
feileadh mor
you wear, Macaulay,” he said at last. The army had begun to issue short field kilts, worn like skirts, but many of the Highland soldiers still wore the traditional long kilt, which was nothing but a swath of wool several yards long carefully folded and pinned around the body.

“Aye,” Macaulay replied with an uncertain gaze, but he slowly grinned as Duncan explained his plan. The big Scot began to unwrap his plaid.

After several awkward efforts, Ishmael finally succeeded in climbing up the human ladder made by Duncan sitting on Macaulay's broad
shoulders. The length of wool wrapped around the boy's waist made his passage up the chimney more difficult, but gradually he levered himself up, back against one side, feet pressed against the other.

“It's morning here!” the boy cried out as he climbed through the opening into the daylight.

Duncan grinned, then reminded Ishmael to tie one end of the cloth around a sturdy tree before tossing the other end back down the chimney. He let it slide past him, the end stopping at Macaulay's waist, then gripped it tightly and began climbing.

Ishmael was already prying stones from the edge of the opening when Duncan's hand reached out into the daylight. His shoulders would not fit through, but the stone at the surface was brittle shale, and as he pushed and Ishmael pulled they broke enough away for him to slide out.

He found himself gulping the fresh air, the drowning man pulled from the black sea, then he saw the cloth pull tight and he rolled to the side. With a string of Gaelic curses Macaulay began to climb. The big man, clad only in the long shirt worn under his kilt, had trouble finding purchase in the chimney. “Heave up ye slaggards!” he shouted. Duncan and the boy grinned at each other then began hauling up the brawny Scot. He had to wait, braced in the chimney, as they pried more stone from the hole, but soon he was out. Minutes later they knelt at a stream, sluicing water over their filthy arms and faces.

“Dear Lord!” Macaulay called up to the sky, “may ye strike me down if ever I think an unkind thought about a bat again!”

Ishmael laughed then laughed again as he watched Macaulay go through the ungainly process of lying on the ground to wrap his kilt around him. Duncan tied his hair back and began brushing the grime from his clothes. When he finished he pointed to an overhang of rocks half hidden behind alder bushes. “I will be back. We have to find Conawago,” he said to the boy. “And we have to find the children. You can hide in there until I return. Get some sleep.”

“Late for an appointment are ye?” Macaulay quipped.

“I won't put Albany behind me without my kit.”

“Ye mean ye need yer gun.”

“I mean I need what was handed down to me by my father and his father before him. I'll be back before noon,” he promised Ishmael, then he eyed the big Scot uncertainly. “You're not bound to stay.”

“The second I left that hole I broke with the army,” Macaulay pointed out. He gestured toward the North. “A new life beckons.”

Duncan lifted the boy's hand and gripped it tightly before leaving, but Ishmael only fixed Duncan with a reproachful gaze and clutched the medallion and protective amulet around his neck. The boy had been abandoned too many times in his short life.

Chapter Six

W
oolford entered his room above the tavern in a great hurry, quickly closing the door and locking the latch as though he were worried about being followed. The ranger captain pressed his head against the door then splashed water on his face from the basin on the nightstand. As he reached for a towel he froze, at last spying Duncan's rifle on his bed.

“His majesty's army has misplaced a payroll,” Duncan declared from the shadows.

Woolford forced a small smile of greeting. “There are those who would kill you just for knowing that. Personally I am inclined to praise God that you still live. Your pack is under the bed.”

Duncan rose to retrieve his kit. “I kept wondering what might distract the general from hanging a hated murderer. But then I began counting all the Scots in the iron hole. They give the impression that their biggest crime was complaining about not being paid for months. They were promised hard coin last month, then again this month. A dangerous thing, not to pay the units that anchor your line of battle. It's what you meant when you said the army's victories are built on sand. The army itself is about to collapse.”

“The last units of the Highlanders are heading north soon,” Woolford
replied in a worried voice. “General Amherst has promised them great glory in Canada. And their pay.”

“But now all his coins are gone. What are you doing in Albany without your men?” he asked when Woolford did not reply.

With careful disinterest the ranger wiped his brow.

“Seven thousand five hundred thirty-two was the number the general's nephew recited. I thought it was supplies of some kind. Cartridges perhaps.”

“I am sorry Duncan. For hitting you. If I hadn't the provosts would have used their halberds on you.”

Duncan ignored him. “But it was pounds sterling. A veritable fortune. Enough to finance the war for months.”

Woolford stepped to the smoldering fireplace and eyed Duncan in silence. “It would be irresponsible to speculate on such matters. Traitorous even.”

“It's remarkable how easily speculation comes when your neck is to be stretched.” Duncan knelt and pulled his pack from under the bed. “Especially when so many seem so hell-bent on hiding the truth. Maybe that is my real crime, being the only one outside the general's circle who knew enough to sense the disaster about to strike. Do you have a map?” he asked.

“Not here.”

Duncan glanced at the table by the window, where a quill lay by a pewter inkpot. “Paper then.” When Woolford gestured toward a drawer, Duncan extracted a sheet of paper, dipped the quill, and began drawing. “About ten miles below Bethel Church is a dock where bateaux call. Off this point of land,” he explained as he kept drawing, “is this small island with an aerie, just a few trees and rocks. The eagle is still on the nest.” He placed an X to the southeast of it.

“Get a swimmer. The bottom is about fifteen feet. Another soldier was killed there. Tied to a wheel and dumped into the water while still alive. Bring up the body. He was a dispatch rider. He confronted the thieves as they used that dock and paid for it with his life. Conawago and I saw a
bateau going north above that dock. They shot at us. I think they were the ones who beat the rider and dropped him in the water.”

Woolford's eyes narrowed. “One of the thoroughbreds reserved for dispatches showed up at the stables without her rider two days ago.” It was Duncan's turn to stay silent. “It was you. You rode her here.”

“The raiders at Bethel Church stole the payroll and escaped in that bateau.”

The ranger captain slowly shook his head. “Impossible. If they had tried to open the strongbox there would have been evidence of it. It had not been tampered with. It was only that . . .” he frowned, then lowered his voice. “The keys to its two locks did not work. They had to chisel the box open, then found it empty. The provosts were heard to speak of magic being used.”

“Is that the official explanation? Sorcery? The provosts don't deal well with subtlety.”

“The money was loaded into that wagon in Albany. Thousands of coins. Shillings, crowns, guineas, though most of it Spanish dollars with the army's broad arrow mark stamped on them. The wagon was not disturbed en route. But there was not a coin left when it arrived in Quebec.”

“Arrived without all its escort.”

Woolford cocked his head at Duncan. “A Scot was missing. At the time he was treated as another deserter.”

“Jock MacLeod. The escorts were participants in the theft, except for him. He confronted them in the barn at Bethel Church, and they killed him.”

“Impossible. None of them knew anything about the treasure. They were assigned to the escort only an hour before its departure from Albany. And this morning Colonel Cameron ordered you brought back for interrogation. He is better with subtlety. They have indeed realized the man you are accused of killing was with the missing payroll. Right now you are more important to the Colonel and General Calder than any number of French raiders.”