Original Death (44 page)

He eyed Duncan and Conawago with undisguised malice. “I thought the oracle would have surely crossed over by now,” he said to Conawago. “So many opportunities. It seems almost miserly for you not to oblige.”

The old Nipmuc stared at him defiantly. “I will be more than ready to face the gods once you return the children and the first mother of the Iroquois.”

The half-king studied Custaloga and Tushcona, then turned back to Conawago. “I am prepared to accept the Council's petition for an alliance. The first mother has been . . .” he searched for a word, “ambiguous in her representations of Iroquois support.”

“We bring the grandparents of the children.”

“We tremble at your mighty warriors!” he mocked. His men laughed. Scar spat at Conawago, then raised a knife and made a pantomime of
slitting his throat. Conawago did not react. Paxto drew his war ax and tapped its handle against his hand as if making ready to swing it.

“You would be wise to tremble,” Duncan said.

“They will be responsible for the death of their gods,” the half-king snapped.

“No,” Duncan shot back, “what kills gods is lying and murdering in their name.”

Venom filled the half-king's eyes. “I will kill you, McCallum,” he vowed. “I will kill you for five days. I will peel the skin from your face as you beg for death.”

“Not today,” Duncan shot back. “Not here. You won't kill a Highlander in front of all these clans,” he said gesturing toward the Scots, several of whom had paused, showing interest in their exchange.

“You thought to just steal the children from us?”

“We thought we would buy them,” Duncan answered, and tossed a coin at the leader of the rebels.

The half-king's eyes narrowed as he stared at the coin at his feet. “A pretty piece of silver means nothing.”

“Seven thousand five hundred thirty-two of them means a lot. We could have given them back to the British so they could calm their impatient troops. We will instead exchange them for your captives.”

The half-king's eyes flared. He turned and fired angry questions at the men beside him, who clearly had no answers.

“Impossible!” he snarled as he turned back. “Do not presume to know our secrets, McCallum.”

“What secrets? How you built a second paywagon, how you switched it for the real one then transported it up the lake? Or perhaps how you transferred its coins into powder kegs?”

“I do not believe you!”

Duncan dropped to a knee and in the soil drew the Jacobite symbol from the kegs.

Worry flickered on the half-king's face, but it was quickly replaced by fury. “Where?” he demanded.

“One keg is in the canoe at the far end of the beach,” Duncan said. The half-king barked a quick order, and two men sprinted away. “A token. You will get the remainder when we have the captives.”

The rebel leader spoke another word, and they were quickly surrounded by warriors. He said nothing until the keg was set at his feet and smashed open. As the half-king kicked the keg onto its side, scores of coins tumbled out amid the black powder.

His anger burned like a fire. “Where?” he shouted.

“Where are the children?” Duncan replied in a level voice. “Where is the first mother?”

The half-king fingered his own ornate war ax as if resisting the impulse to smash Duncan's skull. Suddenly Scar leaned to whisper in his ear, and he turned his gaze to Tushcona. “We did not realize we had the Council's own belt weaver!” he exclaimed. “You will have the captives for the coins and a simple belt.” He stepped up to the old woman, leaning close to her face. “You will weave a belt that declares the Iroquois alliance with us. We will parade it through all the villages. The tribes will shout for joy. The English will squirm in terror as they wait for our scalping knives.”

Tushcona replied with the impatience of a peeved mother. “You do not understand the making of a Council belt, child,” she chided. “My hands weave only the truth.”

“Your hands,” the half-king growled, “will feed my dogs.”

“Then I will learn to weave with my feet.”

Duncan took a step toward the woman, ready to take the blow.

“When the truth finally finds you, it will be your death,” Tushcona coolly declared.

Duncan saw the amused cruelty in the half-king's eyes as he surveyed the scene. He was assessing the witnesses, thinking of killing the matriarch. Just as frightening was the certainty that Tushcona was willing to die.

“Kill the Council's weaver, and you kill all hope of an alliance,” Duncan said.

The half-king gave an exaggerated grimace. “But you so make me feel the need to kill someone. You have not learned to take me seriously. Just a small death for now. One child.” He muttered a low command, and one of his guards handed him a pouch from his belt. The half-king upended the pouch, and black-and-white pebbles, gaming pieces, spilled onto the ground. With deliberate slowness he selected three white pebbles and one black, then pointed to a deep shadow under the rocky ridge that might have been a cave. Two warriors stood on either side of the shadow. The half-king dropped the four stones back into the empty pouch. “The one who draws the black dies. If my belt has not been started in an hour, we will play the game again. You—” he pointed to Tushcona, “will hold the pouch as they draw, so they will know it is you who kills them.” The half-king's frigid grin faded as his gaze moved over Duncan's shoulder.

“The colonel desires to honor our guests,” reported a stern voice. Duncan turned to see a grenadier sergeant, flanked by half a dozen fully armed men. “There is tea,” the solder said with a bow to the Iroquois.

THE ARISTOCRATIC OFFICER stood ramrod straight at the entrance to a large tent beyond the Highland campfires. Beside him stood a field table on which an orderly was arranging a surprisingly elegant tea service. The colonel greeted each member of their party with a courteous nod and gestured them to the steaming tea.

The arrogance Duncan had seen before on Colonel Cameron's face was gone, replaced with lines of worry. He offered no greeting to Duncan, only studied him with an uncertain expression until his shoulder was tapped by a grenadier. The colonel stepped several feet away and followed the man's pointing arm to a newly arrived long boat from which casks of rum were being unloaded.

“Whose are they?” Cameron snapped. “I do not recognize them.”

“From Montgomerys,” the grenadier reported. “And they all wear the white cockade.”

Cameron gave a slow, reluctant nod. “But I said no spirits!” he snapped, then he cursed as a swarm of Highlanders and warriors alike descended on the casks.

“There'll be no stopping it now, sir,” the grenadier declared.

Cameron grimaced, then dismissed the soldier and turned back to Duncan. “After our first encounter in the general's quarters in Albany,” he declared, “he said you were a damned difficult person to understand. He said you spoke like a foe but acted like a friend.”

“In contrast to one who but talks like a friend.'

Color rose into Cameron's face. “When I have committed to a mission, I do not shy from its consequences, however uncomfortable they may be. I have stood with my troops in many a battle, beside the British colors.”

“When I lived in Edinburgh, Colonel, I made a point of reading everything I could about the uprising of '46. Camerons held huge estates in the Highlands. At Culloden, there were Camerons on the western flank, not far from the McCallums. Scores lay dead of English lead and steel at the end of the day. But soon you offered to raise more troops for the king that had killed them.”

The words clearly stung the man. He motioned Duncan inside his tent and stepped to another field table, then poured a glass of sherry and downed it before answering. “It was a time for hard choices. I had friends in Edinburgh who had already taken the king's colors, who begged me to help my people. Estates that had been held by our clan for centuries were about to be seized, every male about to be put to the butcher's blade or rope, their women and children subject to unthinkable horrors. Scores of men, hundreds of women and children. If it was in your power to stop that horror, what would you have done, McCallum? Hard bargains had to be struck. It took more than mere begging for mercy to win the reprieve.” Cameron stared at the little glass as he rolled the stem in his fingers. “I
drank myself to sleep every night for a year. By then the army had reduced the Highlands to rubble. There was nothing to go back to even if I wanted. But my people were allowed to leave, marched past bonfires into which the army threw their pipes and every article of clothing made of plaid.” He stepped to a narrow, tattered banner that hung from a tent rope and lifted it. “You can read Latin, McCallum?”

The cloth took Duncan's breath away. He stared at it without speaking, stepping closer to read the words over the image of a pelican feeding its young. “
Virescit vulnere virtus
,” he recited. “Courage grows strong at a wound.” The pelican was sometimes called the Jesus Bird, for it was thought to prick its own breast to feed its blood to its young. It was a powerful and sacred image, well known in the Highlands.

“When this was first brought to me in secret, I thought it had to be a craven joke. A banner from Rome, the crest of the royal Stewart himself. Impossible, I thought. It was beyond my wildest dreams that the cause of the white cockade could be resurrected. But the banner was real, bearing bloodstains from Culloden. From the moment that spark of hope presented itself, I was duty bound to keep it alive,” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Duncan stared at the solemn Scot. “Who? Who brought the banner?”

“It wasn't only the banner. There was a letter from Rome, the affirmation that the one true prince is willing to take to sea, vouchsafed by the prince's own royal ring.” Cameron spoke the words with the religious fervor of the old Jacobites, and as he spoke he touched the white cockade pinned to his lapel, much as one of the elders would touch his amulet. He leaned closer to Duncan. “Did you bring the Iroquois Council?”

“I brought enough of the Council to make a difference,” Duncan stated.

Cameron nodded, as if taking Duncan's word as an affirmation, then pointed to the large chart on his table. It showed a section of the broad river with recent pencil marks depicting the new British batteries.

“Amherst has no appreciation of our coppery friends,” Cameron said in a conspiratorial tone, “and his plans overly depend on artillery. He is
quite right that these batteries will prevent French access to miles of river on either side of Montreal. What he does not expect, what he has not protected against, is two hundred savages rushing each battery from the rear. We will take them so fast they will never be able to spike the guns, without even time for messengers to raise the alarm to Amherst. We will let the transport ships stretch out in front of us before opening fire. With no room to maneuver, they will have no chance.”

The colonel's words sank in with slow, sickening realization. “That's five thousand men at least, sir.” Duncan's voice was almost a whisper.

Cameron's voice was as cold as ice. “Five for each Highlander slaughtered by British guns at Culloden. The wound we inflict will make them cower in London. They will know they have wakened the Jacobite beast, and they will not venture down this river again, not for many years.”

From behind the curtain panel came a rough, dry coughing. Cameron pulled Duncan's arm to stop him from investigating. “Here, lad,” he said, rolling up the chart to reveal another underneath. “We'll not forget your part.”

“My part?”

Cameron quickly stepped to a trunk then extended a small dirk to Duncan. “You should have this,” he said as Duncan accepted the knife. It was the finely worked Highland dirk he had taken from the dead dispatch rider. “You kept the general confused over the theft. You slowed his western advance. You bought us time with the Iroquois League. The half-king reached the Saint Lawrence without any attempt to stop him. We need good men, educated men. Five hundred acres at least.”

“Sir?”

“You'll always be an outcast among the English.” Cameron gestured to the chart. “Take a look.”

The chart contained a larger view of the entire river valley, stretching for dozens of miles on either side of Montreal. Cameron pointed to large plot penciled in along the vast lake beyond the river. “I will have twenty thousand acres and will build the biggest castle in the New World. You can take five
hundred alongside, or one of the large islands if you prefer. Find a maiden. Start your clan anew.” Cameron turned to Duncan, expecting gratitude.

Duncan stared in disbelief. This new life kept presenting itself, as if it was his destiny. It was not a dream in the night, but here and now. He could point to the map, and an estate would be his. “You are betting with hundreds of lives,” he said. “Who brought you the prince's banner?” he asked again.

The coughing started again. Cameron made no effort this time to stop Duncan as he lifted the hanging canvas that walled off the back of the large tent.