Eliot Pattison - Original Death

As dawn seeped into the eastern sky, he slipped into the forest to the west of the road, slowing, probing the rising landscape until he found the expected game trail running along the ridge, parallel to the road. When he paused on a bare ledge an hour later to tighten his moccasins and chew on venison jerky, he had an unobstructed view of the lake’s shore, less than half a mile away.

He gazed at the lake absently, rubbing at the bruises left by Hawley’s rope, and did not realize he was staring at the island he had visited at Conawago’s request until an eagle crossed his vision. He knew it was there, not the settlement, where he should mark the beginning of their misery. There the eagle had shared with him its secret of death under the water, there in an unguarded instant when Conawago had revealed a dark foreboding in his eyes. With a terrible wrenching of his heart, Duncan realized that things might have gone very differently if he had not held back from his friend, had spoken of that first dead Scot. Conawago had a way of understanding things that extended beyond Duncan’s senses. What if Duncan had spoken of the death and Conawago had decided to rush straight to the village? They may have arrived in time to stop the massacre. They may have missed the men on the boat who had accidentally wounded the old Nipmuc. But then he recalled the strange writing on the back of the letter from Bethel Church. This is how we first die . It had been an urgent summons, more important even than the long-awaited reunion, and something Conawago had found at Bethel Church gave it a sudden desperation, even perhaps a destination.

Duncan recalled how Conawago had prepared for his reunion with Hickory John. There had been joy on his face, but also reverence. Although his friend never spoke of it, Duncan had learned from others how the Nipmucs had been one of the most spiritual of all the woodland tribes, how their small tribe had evolved into keepers of sacred secrets, like the guardians of secret temples in ancient lore. If Conawago was such a guardian, then Hickory John must have been as well.

Duncan followed the shoreline with his eyes, noting the little coves, seeing now a solitary man rowing a boat in the open water a mile below the eagle’s aerie, coming out from the shore near where a narrow track left the main road.

He descended to the road, then lingered to listen and watch. A northbound dispatch rider galloped by, then Duncan crossed the little intersection and followed the rutted track to the lake.

The pier of rough-hewn logs at the end of the track had been designed to accommodate wagons. Split logs laid lengthwise along the pier were splintered and torn where heavy wheels had rolled over them. Wagons were loaded here onto the bateaux used by the army for hauling supplies. The string of forts along the lakes had their own piers, but where he stood was in the longest gap between forts, a likely place to take on loads of supplies from the nearby farms and timber camps. He cast a nervous glance toward the main road then backed into the shadows. It was also a place where patrols might be off-loaded, or where they might rendezvous. He crouched beside a large boulder, watching the still waters for a moment, studying the little isles that speckled the lake, some of them barren mounds of rock, others sprouting pines and cedars. Around the bend in the northern shoreline was the isle of the eagle and the dead soldier. Around the bend after that was where the crew of the bateau had shot Conawago. Once again he struggled with the impulse to reverse direction, to run north to find the old Nipmuc. But he knew that Conawago cared about the boy more than life itself. The youth they had never met kept the blood of his people alive. Duncan could never face his friend if after all their struggles he had let the boy’s trail grow cold.

Duncan dropped to a knee as a twig snapped and brush began shaking in the thicket nearby. He cocked his rifle and began inching toward the sound.

The riderless horse, a powerful bay wearing a light saddle, had snagged its reins in an alder. Its eyes grew wild as its efforts entangled the reins further. Duncan rose and moved slowly toward the animal, speaking in low, reassuring tones.

When he had freed the horse, he led it out onto the open track. The well-polished brass and leather of its tack marked it as army property as clearly as the broad arrow brand on its rear flank. He studied the animal as it grazed. Its legs were not built for hauling wagons or caissons, nor for carrying an officer into battle. It was built for speed. He found himself looking back to the north shoreline, toward the eagle’s isle. The drowned soldier had been traveling light, with neither sword on his shoulder belt nor cartridge box at his waist. He walked around the animal and saw now the stiff leather cylinder tied to the saddle, sealed with a waxed string. The man had been a dispatch rider. He had been forced onto the lake from this very dock, and his horse was still waiting for him, not knowing he would never return.

Duncan’s hand lingered on the dispatch box for a moment, but he resisted the temptation to open it. The man had not been killed for his dispatches, but for challenging something suspicious. Duncan tied his rifle and pack on the saddle and eased himself up. Taking a government horse was a hanging offense, but they could only hang him once, and with a mount he could be certain to leave the pursuing rangers behind.

The horse seemed to relish the open road and quickly settled into the long loping gait used by military messengers. As he emerged from each curve and crested each hill Duncan half expected to see the boy, but by late morning his hopes began to fade, and he realized Ishmael himself could have found a horse, or a ride on some carriage or wagon.

His strength, and that of the horse, began to flag by early afternoon, and as he approached the southern end of Lake George, he dismounted and led the horse off the road and up the ridge that ran parallel to it. He found a small high clearing overlooking the lake then removed the saddle and rubbed down the horse with dried grass before turning it loose to graze. He ate a meal of jerked meat and lay at the edge of a stream, filling his canteen before dipping his face in the cool water, then leaned back on a paper birch, listening to the songs of the thrushes, the hammering of woodpeckers, the screech of a hawk high overhead. He extracted the letter he had taken from the schoolhouse and read the return address once more. Eldridge, Forsey’s, Albany . It had the sound of a commercial establishment. He unfolded the paper and for the first time read the message inside.

My dearest S , the crude, uneven handwriting began. The salutation was followed by a prosaic description of affairs in Albany.

The boatyard has been busier than ever making transports for the army. The hammers keep me awake long into the evening. An Oneida brought in the pelt of a snow-white catamount and declared it had magic healing powers. A Dutchman bought it for his sick infant. You would have laughed to see the moose that walked into the open door of the Reformed Church during services. There has been no word from New York town .

The letter was signed with a simple M. Duncan hesitated and looked at the address again. Henry Bedford, it said, though the letter was directed to someone whose name began with an S.

He withdrew the papers he had taken from the wall of the classroom. The first had the drawing of a cat on it, followed by the simple verse

Great A, B, C and tumbledown D .

The Cat’s a blind bluff. She cannot see .

Below it was the name Hannah Redfern. Under the drawing of a man with a fishing pole was the verse

The artful Angler baits his Hook

and throws it gently in the Brook .