Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

Brindle offered a lightless smile. "He read a romance about a Scottish highwayman. Perhaps it made him sympathetic to your plight. But now he can't be blamed for joining the ranks of those pursuing the bounty."

"What if he were working for Lord Ramsey?" Duncan asked abruptly.

Brindle's eyes went cold. "Impossible. If you are seeking to have me stop him I cannot. And I have not yet decided myself what to do with you."

"Do as you will with me, your honor," Duncan offered. "But after tomorrow. After we catch Red Hand. I am convinced he has the answers to all our questions."

"How do you propose to work that magic after he has eluded so many so long?"

"Call off the constables around the northern docks. Red Hand is, after all, just another mercenary. Tomorrow evening he shall find an irresistible target, an easy bounty for the taking. In the middle of our trap."

"No, Duncan!" Conawago protested. "He is a cold-blooded killer!"

Brindle glanced from Duncan to Conawago, then sighed as he understood. "You are suggesting the bait will be yourself?"

As he spoke Old Belt turned toward the shadows behind an overstuffed chair at the far end of the room.

"We will let word spread in the taverns near the Indian barn that I have been seen by the ships," Duncan explained, "as if I am trying to steal away on the evening tide. Some of the Iroquois guards can hide on the wharf to help me. It's the best we can do," he added in a determined tone.

"Not the best," a young, soft voice broke in. Mokie sprang up from behind the chair, where she had obviously been listening. "We know whom he seeks."

"Never, child!" Brindle gasped.

"Tomorrow at sunset!" Mokie declared defiantly as she inched toward the wall. "The north docks!"

An instant before Old Belt reached her, she leapt through the open window and was gone.

The Philadelphia waterfront was so alive with activity Duncan wore himself out watching it from the high east-facing window of Marston's attic. Ships and boats of all sizes and shapes were astir under a steady spring breeze. Fat shallops heaped with shad and oysters were delivering their loads to the kitchens of Philadelphia. Slow-moving barges stacked with lumber were poled into the city from upcountry. Stevedores swarmed over square-rigged merchantmen bound for Europe or the Indies.

Duncan watched as one of the big ships was towed to the center of the river and slipped away for the broad Atlantic. It would be such a simple thing, to dart out of the house and leap onto the deck of one loosening its moorings. Such far-ranging vessels were always in need of able-bodied sailors and would not press him for his real name. He could leave everything behind, make a new life. As a tutor perhaps. Maybe he could even establish himself as a doctor in a distant port town.

The sound of the thin plank door scraping on the floor broke him from his reverie.

Expecting Conawago with news of Mokie, Duncan did not turn right away, then heard a groan and spun about to see Conawago and Marston carrying Van Grut to the low bed at the wall. The right side of the Dutchman's face was bruised and swollen, his hair matted with blood. Duncan's quick examination showed four broken ribs-not cracks but clean breaks that would greatly pain Van Grut when he regained consciousness, long bruises on his forearms from fending off clubs, several slashing cuts on his scalp, and a stabbing wound in the thigh.

The Dutchman's eyes fluttered open and shut several times before he seemed to recognize Duncan. The guilt in his eyes was obvious even through his pain.

"Perhaps you understand now," Duncan said. "This was not someone trying to send a message. You're lucky to be alive."

Van Grut's words came out garbled, and he paused, confused, rubbing his cheek. Duncan pushed away his hand, studying the bone underneath. "They fractured your jaw as well as your ribs," he explained. "Not broken clean, but it will take some weeks of healing." He showed Van Grut how to press the jawbone in place to speak.

"At the Broken Jug I heard there was a lacrosse game, at a field north of town." The Dutchman's words were twisted and slurred, as if his tongue were swollen. "A dozen Indians, as many townsmen. I think they were after me in the game, trying to kill me like they killed Ohio George. I was tripped several times with the sticks. An Indian jumped on me, but an Englishman fell on top, then scolded the Indian for forgetting to take his knife off before playing."

Van Grut paused as Miss Townsend tipped a glass of water onto his lips. He winced as he swallowed. "I was so tired afterward I wasn't paying attention, just wandered toward town to find some ale. Four of them cornered me by that big barn where the Indians stay. One was that Shawnee who knew Ohio George. Red Hand. He kept shouting encouragement as they used their sticks on me. They were dragging me toward the barn, would have finished me, but some of the European players came by and assisted me, started yelling that the Indians shouldn't be bad sports because they got beaten, that if they wanted a fair match they shouldn't come to the game half-drunk."

Van Grut winced as he pulled on his watch chain, the only adornment left on his body. The device was smashed, its crystal shattered, the face and case dented. He stared at it forlornly. "My father's," was all he said.

"Half an inch to one side and the blade in your thigh would have slashed an artery. Like Burke."

Van Grut's eyes widened. "Red Hand! He stood back from the others, with a hammer and something else in his fingers. Christ in heaven!" he gasped. "They weren't taking me to the barn, just to the wall. He was going to nail me to the wall!"

"What did you expect?" Duncan's voice held little sympathy. If Van Grut had not held the truth back he would be days ahead in his search for answers.

Marston cast uneasy glances at the two men. "I will get more bandages," he said and retreated.

"You were gambling again," Conawago deduced. "You were at the Broken Jug."

It took a moment for Duncan to understand what his friend was saying. "My God, Van Grut, surely you weren't hoping for another offer of work?"

The Dutchman winced and pushed at his jaw again to speak. "I lost everything but my watch in a card game in Lancaster," he confessed with downcast eyes. "Burke had allies here. I thought if they saw I was not intimidated, that I was still willing and able to work in the Indian country, they would hire me. If need be I would step forward and declare myself to the Virginian delegation, saying they must honor the contract made by Captain Burke. Once the land claims are settled by the treaty they will need more surveyors than ever. The right men in the colony could get me a teaching position at the College of William and Mary." Van Grut seemed to see the anger in Duncan's eyes. "I would never do anything to hurt you, I swear it! It's just that … I must make my own way in the world, McCallum. What choice do I have?" he asked in a cracking voice.

Duncan looked out the window as he spoke. "You'll need rest, weeks of rest. I will impress upon Marston that you are a man of science. He is seeking a collaborator for writing up his experiments. He may be willing to let you stay here. But your jaw will need to be wrapped in place. It will be egg in milk for you, through a reed."

Van Grut did not try to speak again until Marston reappeared with strips of linen and a basin of steaming water. "I tried to help," he said in a pleading tone. "I discovered there is a glassmaker named Wistar who specializes in fine containers and instruments."

Duncan looked up. He had almost forgotten his request of Van Grut.

"His agent in Philadelphia recognized the little ball when I showed it to him, said it was unmistakably from the Wistar works. But the rest of his explanation made no sense."