Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

"You know this place, Catherine?" Marston registered disbelief.

The woman seemed to summon up her dignity. "Acting as a housekeeper puts me in the market with many serving types. Tongues can wag."

"And this is a place where a fugitive might shelter? Do you hear of specific warriors? Red Hand? Ohio George?" Duncan asked.

Her eyes now grew wide. "Ohio George? You seek Ohio George?"

"Surely you did not know the man?"

"There was an entertainment staged months ago. Real warriors demonstrating their savage ways, war whoops, arrow shooting, dancing about a fire in a big iron pot," Miss Townsend blushed. "Some of the ones who spoke English told of attacks on other tribes. This Ohio George told of fighting fifty Hurons, of being captured and taken to a great western ocean where he fought terrible sea monsters. He pranced back and forth in his nakedness, with naught but a cloth over his loins!"

All of which meant that Ohio George had made himself known in Philadelphia as a violent, English-speaking Iroquois, one not above engaging in deception if it put money in his pocket.

"This place," Duncan asked, "the lair of the tribal castaways, can you tell us where it is?"

"A great barn in the fields above the northern docks, used for a dairy herd before they were moved farther from the city."

"You're not going into that nest!" Conawago protested. "If they wanted you dead in Shamokin they have even more reason now."

"Red Hand has all the answers," Duncan shot back. "I will not be a coward with Skanawati about to be hanged. We will return to the stable for our weapons. The night is yet young."

After a moment Conawago spoke in a slower, more contemplative voice. He looked with new query at Marston. "No. We need no weapon if our shield is strong enough."

The Constables would not be looking for a family strolling back from an evening engagement, so Marston and Catherine Townsend had put on more elegant attire to join them as they walked along the Market Street cobblestones. With a tricorn hat and full waistcoat borrowed from Marston, Duncan played his part, even responding to Marston's banter about the celebrated Dr. Franklin as they passed the compact, comfortablelooking house where the great man lived when in Philadelphia. As they approached the brick wall that surrounded the large structure that was their destination, Conawago slipped into the shadows and shed his waistcoat, letting his braids down over his shoulder, affixing a feather to one of them, even lifting his ever-present amulet from underneath his shirt. By the time they reached the squad of militia that sleepily guarded the gate, Marston and Miss Townsend had faded into the shadows and Conawago and Duncan were engaged in a lively, loud discussion in the Iroquois tongue.

"Have we seen you in the treaty delegation?" inquired the soldier who appeared to be in command. He lifted his musket across his chest and blocked the gate.

"God's blood, corporal," another guard guffawed, "they all look the same to me."

Conawago shot back an impatient torrent in Iroquois words, using Brindle's name twice.

"You're no red man, sir," the corporal pressed Duncan.

"The tribal delegation is permitted advisers, corporal," Duncan replied in an impatient tone. "It would be indeed unfortunate if we had to summon Magistrate Brindle."

The soldier hesitated, then stepped aside.

The government house that had been set aside for the tribal delegation was a commodious two-story brick house, sparsely furnished but large enough to accommodate a dozen visitors. Conawago seemed to know his way around the building, leading Duncan straight through a large sitting room, then a dining room, and through a kitchen where four members of the house staff sat playing whist in a candlelit corner. They looked up but said nothing as Conawago led Duncan out the rear door.

As Duncan should have guessed, the Indians had no use for the house. Blanket canopies had been erected against the brick wall of the rear courtyard, under which several mattresses had been dragged from the house, most of them occupied by sleeping members of the delegation. But those they sought were awake and sitting at a fire that had been lit in the center of the kitchen garden.

Duncan waited as Conawago approached the chiefs and spoke in low, respectful tones. After several minutes Old Belt himself turned and gestured Duncan into their circle. He lowered himself onto a fragrant bed of sprouting chamomile and listened as Conawago completed the traditional exchange between travelers meeting after a long journey. Duncan studied the revered tribal leaders, saw that new lines of worry had been etched into their faces. At last Old Belt sighed. He raised an intricately carved red stone pipe, filled it from a pouch, then lifted an ember with two green sticks to light the tobacco. He drew deeply, letting the aromatic smoke waft over the little circle, before extending the pipe to Duncan.

"Denighroghkwayen," he offered in solemn invitation. Let us smoke together.

"You have made hard travel since last we met," Old Belt said when the pipe had been shared by all in the circle.

"There is a great deal to learn and little time to do it," Duncan replied.

"You worry much about people who have been summoned by the spirits," Long Wolf broke in. It was, Duncan knew, his way of reminding the Scotsman that questioning deaths was little different than questioning the gods.

"In my clan," Duncan said after taking another draught of the pipe, "my sisters, my brother, my mother, in all over fifty children and helpless women, were killed by the bullets and blades of my people's enemy. They were not invited by the spirits to cross over, they were shoved into the next life without preparation, by men with evil in their hearts. Because no one stood up to stop that evil my people were destroyed. Ever since, when evil crosses my path, I resist. The spirits of my people require me to do so."

Long Wolf seemed to consider his words, then offered a slow, approving nod.

"That is a heavy burden," Old Belt observed.

Duncan looked up at the stars before replying. "It is heavier some times than others," was all he could say.

"Is it true," Old Belt asked after a long puff on the pipe, "that Stone Blossom took you to the sacred island?"

"It is true."

Long Wolf reached into a pouch and solemnly laid a short belt of white beads over Duncan's wrist. "We are willing to hear what you would speak about your journey."

Duncan rested his arm on his knee and extended his wrist so that the belt was plainly visible to all. It seemed to glow in the moonlight. With the wampum on his arm he could not tell a lie.

"I have looked into the crack in the world," he began, "and I have followed the trail of blood that flows from it."

More than an hour passed as Duncan and Conawago explained what they had found in the north. They answered the chiefs' many questions, listening as Conawago asked them, too, of their own progress, listening to the account of great disruption as the delegation made camp at the army barracks in Lancaster only to break it a day later when summoned by the governor to Philadelphia. When some of the tribal delegation had complained about Skanawati's imprisonment, the Virginians had appeased them with demijohns of rum. Old Belt had ordered the drunken Indians home.

There was no hesitation when Duncan explained what he needed. They left the compound with Old Belt and four of his Iroquois guards, attired and equipped as if for a predawn raid.

The huge stone-and-timber barn had once been a magnificent structure but was now in disrepair. There were still horses, but the odor from the pile of manure in the corner of the paddock made it clear that most of the barn's occupants were human. Through the open entry way wafted the smoke of cheap tobacco, snippets of bawdy ballads in English, and slurred, drunken shouts in more than one tribal language. In the stall nearest the entry six men, four Indians and two Europeans, sat on bundles of hay covered with flour sacks, playing cards on a plank. One of the Europeans stood up, swaying as he stepped toward them.