Eliot Pattison - Original Death

Duncan worked his tongue around his mouth, wondering about the hint of anise and mint on his tongue. “You gave me one of your potions,” he recalled.

Conawago grinned. “You did not protest when I offered the tea. We had to carry you to the boat. You deserved a long sleep for your efforts. Such a spectacle.”

It all seemed like a dream now. Reaching the first anchor line in the treacherous current and dying light had been far more difficult than Duncan had expected, but a grim determination had driven him, and when he had finally found the heavy anchor line, stretched tight as a fiddle string, Sagatchie’s tomahawk had made short work of it. The British sailors had frantically fired their guns as they felt their vessels slip, but their shells hit only the tip of the island and the river itself. By the time he found the second line, they had the sense to send rockets into the air to illuminate the darkened river, and marines had begun to aim at him from the frigates. The muskets had only spattered the water around him, and the glow had made Duncan’s work easier.

The flares came quicker and quicker, lighting Duncan’s struggle to the shore of the island, his arms and legs screaming against the final effort. Fleeting, staccato images of the British calamity came with the flashes when he finally crawled onto the rocky shore beneath the island’s cliff. The river grabbed the frigates much more violently than Duncan would have expected, spinning them about. In one flash the curving line of gunboats had begun to straighten. One of the boats kept firing, its shells hitting a rocky shoal near the island. Another rocket flash showed that its guns had shifted, tilting the boat. The next showed the guns sliding off, with the crew not far behind. In the next the crew was climbing onto the upturned hull. The retreating ships kept firing their rockets as they drifted downstream, desperately trying to avoid rocks and shoals. The remaining gunboat crews hacked away at the lines fixed to the drifting frigates until at last they were free of the threat of being capsized, only to drift even quicker than the frigates down the river.

Duncan had found himself laughing until, his body too spent for the return swim, he collapsed against a boulder.

When Woolford’s canoe finally came into sight, the sky had lightened to a dull grey. The ranger captain spoke in utter astonishment of the night’s work, then presented him with a breakfast of bread, cheese, and brandy. As Duncan ate, Woolford had produced two folded papers from his jerkin and spoke in low, urgent tones.

They had climbed up the bluff warily, half expecting to be fired upon, and the surly Highland sergeant they met on the top seemed inclined to do so. Duncan calmed him with a Gaelic greeting, and he had quickly agreed to bring Colonel Cameron.

The Scottish officer seemed to have aged twenty years overnight. He walked up the slope with difficulty, and his two grenadier escorts hovered close as if they expected him to fall. Cameron’s face was desolate, but as he studied the half-naked Duncan, still adorned with paint and grease, curiosity seemed to overtake him, followed by something like awe. “One of my men said he saw a blond Indian by the light of those damned rockets, doing battle with an anchor rope. Surely. .” Cameron lowered himself onto a nearby log. “My God, McCallum, my God.” He gazed down the river, where the two surviving gunboats could be seen, grounded on distant shoals.

“Laird Graham breathed his last after you left,” the colonel finally said. “We hadn’t the heart to tell him we had been tricked out of our treasure. Everyone was condemning you as a traitor. But then last night you saved us from a horrid death.” Cameron’s gaze drifted toward the southern bank of the river. “You swam from the far shore?” he asked, as if still not believing Duncan’s feat.

“I was raised in the western isles, sir,” Duncan reminded him.

“If this were the western isles,” Cameron said with a sad smile, “they’d be singing ballads of your exploit already, and for the next hundred years. You saved us. At least for another day,” he said, gazing pointedly at Woolford, who wore the king’s uniform.

The ranger captain sat beside Cameron. “You know that General Amherst thinks little of my native rangers,” he began, “but I am under orders to General Calder. And Calder gave me instructions to probe the enemy defenses and gather intelligence wherever possible. I have had men inside Montreal this past week. Three days ago I wrote a report to General Calder but copied General Amherst since the news was so important. My men confirmed that the bank in the city has substantial quantities of gold and coin. Over ten thousand pounds’ worth at least. I congratulated the generals since they would now be able to pay the Highland troops as soon as Montreal falls. I copied you as well, Colonel Cameron, as the ranking Scottish officer.”

Cameron took the first paper offered by Woolford and read it, then read it again. He studied the ranger captain as if seeing him for the first time. “A daring stroke, Captain,” he said at last with the hint of a smile. “Amherst will be unable to conceal the treasure in the bank once he takes Montreal. At least some will come out of this wretched episode with satisfaction.”

Woolford extended the second paper. “Along a battlefront, communications can get confused. General Amherst was somewhere downriver, not possible to reach.”

Cameron nodded uncertainly. “He said he went downstream to meet the navy and the troops coming up from Champlain. But. .” he gestured toward the wrecked boats, “we know what he was doing.”

“This is another report, dated yesterday. It recounts how I had discovered the whereabouts of the infamous rebel leader called the Revelator, the one who stands in the way of our victory. I sent secret word to you as the nearest senior officer, and you deployed to Fortress Island in force, as secretly as possible so as not to scare the enemy. You remonstrated with the Revelator. You explained to him that by your persuasion the Caughnawags were standing down. Without them, you explained, his cause is lost.”

“A noble touch, Woolford, but it will not be credited when the Caughnawags begin attacking us.” Cameron paused, returning Woolford’s steady stare for a moment. “Surely you are not suggesting-”

“They were wavering already since so many have relatives among the southern Iroquois who came north with Johnson. Their discovery of the half-king’s treachery at Bethel Church sealed their decision. But Amherst does not know it yet. You will deliver the news, Colonel. They will not attack the British forces. The half-king will soon be in retreat.”

“But the navy. The attack intended for last night. It was based on intelligence about the mutiny of the Highlanders.”

“You will say you had to let the rumors of mutiny circulate in order to build false confidence in the half-king, to lure him closer. You will tell General Amherst that you had no knowledge of his bold plan of bombardment, and because of his disappearance you had no way to inform him that you had been successful in your efforts. The navy will be deeply shamed by what happened to them last night. They will never let it be known that one man defeated a squadron. They can pretend that they successfully frightened the half-king away, and we can all bemoan the little tempest that apparently caused some minor havoc among their vessels.”

Cameron stared at Woolford with new confidence. “It’s bold, Captain.” He read the report again in silence. “It’s a gamble,” he said with a small smile. “But why? Why would you do this?”

“Because the Scots on this island are good men. Because this war will be soon over, and I have it on good authority they will be offered the chance to remain in America as their units are reduced. I am not returning to England. McCallum is not returning to Scotland. We want such men at our sides, men who are friends with the tribes.”