Eliot Pattison - Original Death

He seemed fated for constant torment. There had been a few moments when he had glimpsed a Highland kingdom in America, but he would never give up the Iroquois children and the Iroquois League for it. Duncan had felt a glimmer of victory when he had finally freed the children. But then they had lost Sagatchie and Custaloga. Now he had helped seal the doom of dozens of Highlanders and betrayed his father. Voices rang in his head. Take a canoe and warn them, at whatever the cost , one shouted. No , another said, you will die. They will never believe you in any event. Light a warning fire on the shore. No, even if they were warned, Amherst’s intended victims still would have no way off the island . He doubted one man in fifty would be able to swim the treacherous river.

There was more movement beside him. Hetty and Tushcona were there now, kneeling by the fire, dropping tobacco and other aromatic leaves on it. The death rites would continue into the night.

“We must take a swift canoe to Amherst,” Duncan said to Woolford, “to explain why the rebels are no longer a threat, to plead for leniency.”

“Even if we reached him,” Woolford replied in a taut voice, “he would never agree to see us. He is probably drafting his report to London already, describing how he cleverly disposed of the Jacobite and Indian threat in one sweep. He has his eyes on a high title and estates from the king.”

“We have to try!” Duncan pleaded.

“Night is falling,” the ranger pointed out. “We would never make it in time. Those naval commanders love their fireworks at night. I wager they will start the bombardment within the hour.”

Several items had appeared on a flat rock beside the fire. A small soft doeskin pouch. A little object rolled up in fur. The hollow wooden tube in which Sagatchie had kept his paint. On the far side of the rock the hell dog sat, looking at Duncan expectantly.

Duncan realized his hand was clutching the scrap of otter fur given him by Graham. He gazed forlornly at the English ships, then paused and turned. Conawago, Ishmael, and Tushcona stared in anticipation at him.

“You know I mourn the lost ones,” he said uncertainly.

Conawago dropped more tobacco on the fire. The others retreated, leaving only the two of them in the aromatic smoke.

“This is not about Sagatchie, Duncan. This is about recognizing when the spirits are speaking to you. Could it be time for you to take your skin?”

Duncan grew very still. Conawago was talking about the most sacred of topics, more directly than Duncan would ever have expected. He was speaking of Duncan’s spirit protector.

“Surely this is not the time, my friend.”

“This is precisely the time. Why did it push itself to your heart? It is speaking to you. Listen.”

Duncan looked down in confusion to see he was unconsciously pressing the old otter fur against his chest. For a moment the world fell away. He became aware of nothing but the gaze of the wise old Nipmuc and an unfamiliar energy quickening deep inside. Conawago turned his back to Duncan, signaling that this last mystery was between Duncan and his spirit protector. The hell dog cocked his head at Duncan then lowered it, touching the bundle of fur on the rock with his muzzle.

Duncan found himself kneeling at the flat rock. With a tentative finger he probed the lump of fur. There was an exquisitely carved animal inside. He knew it was the carving Conawago had worked on for weeks, the carving he had kept secret from Duncan. Conawago had known just as his grandfather had known that Duncan, alone of his siblings, had needed to be baptized by the gales at the edge of the Scottish cliffs. Conawago had seen the connection long before Duncan. In his mind’s eye there was the sudden image of the same animal cavorting with him in the waters of his youth, of another following their canoe up the Mohawk River, even seeming to lead them. The dying laird could have given the precious token of fur to those closer to him, but something had compelled him to give it to Duncan.

With a trembling hand he touched the carving to his lips and recited a short Gaelic prayer, then an Iroquois prayer. He rolled the otter image up in the Scottish fur and inserted the bundle into the pouch. There should be a ceremony, he knew, but the benediction on Conawago’s face as he turned back to Duncan was blessing enough.

When he hung the amulet around his neck he felt a surge of strength. An unexpected serenity entered his heart. He looked up with fierce determination at the English ships and instantly knew what must be done. He heard movement and saw Conawago gesturing Ishmael, Kass, and Woolford forward.

“Sagatchie kept his tomahawk razor sharp,” Duncan said to Kass. “Did you find it?”

“His war ax was taken, but his tomahawk was in his hand.”

“Do you think he would let me borrow it?”

With a small sad smile, Kass nodded, then turned and darted away.

“You keep a pot of beargrease in your supplies,” he said to Woolford.

“To daub on wounds, yes.”

“I need it.”

Woolford suppressed the question that was in his eyes, stepped back, and trotted toward his camp.

Duncan lifted the container of paint and handed it to Tushcona, then peeled off his jerkin. “I want a pattern of the river on my body,” he said, “and the stripes of a warrior on my face.” The hell dog stepped to the cliff and sat, facing the river.

Tushcona looked at Duncan in confusion, then she followed the dog’s gaze and her face lit with understanding. She thrust her fingers into the pigment.

By the time Woolford returned, the sky was a deep red and Duncan’s body had been transformed. Tushcona had covered his torso with images of fish, snakes, and beavers. Sagatchie’s tomahawk was strapped tightly to his waist, his amulet to his chest. His hair had been knotted at the back of his neck. He wore no clothing but his britches.

Woolford still did not understand. Then Duncan took the grease and began applying it to his skin, and the ranger gasped.

“Suicide!” he gasped. “No man could work against that current!”

“There are only two anchor lines out,” Duncan calmly explained. “What do you think will happen when they are severed?”

“The boats will be swept miles downstream. But it is impossible! You mustn’t!”

“Do you speak as my friend or as a captain in the king’s army?”

“I lost one particular friend today, Duncan. I don’t want to lose my only other.”

“Most of the men on the island are nothing but pawns in a game set by others. Their only sin was false hope.”

Woolford stared at him for a few heartbeats then cursed and grabbed the grease. “I will look for you at first light,” he muttered, and he began applying the grease to Duncan’s back.

When he finished, first Conawago, then Woolford linked their forearms to Duncan’s in the warrior’s grip. Duncan touched the hell dog’s head, tousled Ishmael’s hair, then cupped his hands to push the aromatic smoke toward his heart. Without another word he touched his amulet and sprang toward the edge of the cliff, launching himself with a long arcing dive into the silver water.

Duncan awoke slowly, gazing groggily up at a gull that drifted in the cool breeze, listening to the rhythmic lapping of water on the side of his boat. He sat up in sudden apprehension. The boat was empty. He was adrift on the treacherous river.

His aching muscles protested as he pulled himself onto a seat, but the pain cleared his mind. He saw now the familiar bluff above him and the trail that led up from the beach of skulls.

Tucked into a notch in the sun-warmed rocks was Conawago, puffing on the little German pipe he used in relaxed moments. Duncan had not seen him use it for weeks. “You were still asleep when we arrived,” his friend declared. “I told them not to waken you, that your body is still recovering from its ordeal.”