Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

The Shawnee mocked him as Duncan lashed out futilely with his own blade. "Your god is waiting for you," Red Hand called out.

"McCallum!" came the gruff tones of Sergeant McGregor from below.

"McGregor!" Duncan called back.

Red Hand, knowing he would be an easy target for the soldiers' guns once he was spotted, cursed, then slashed one of the stays and swung away. The Indian was, Duncan suddenly realized, retracing his path in the rigging, bound not for the river but the city. "McGregor!" Duncan shouted again. "The girl!"

Mokie still stood by the mound of rope, watching the pursuers as if it were a grand entertainment. There was still no sign of constables, but McGregor's entire squad had appeared and was trotting with their long muskets at the ready.

Red Hand descended to the deck as Duncan swung across the gap between ships, then leapt onto the long bowsprit that extended over the wharf near Mokie. Duncan recklessly shoved off with another rope in hand, shouting Mokie's name as he swung. The girl wandered a few steps down the wharf, looking up in confusion as through the shadows a new band of men emerged. Seeking protection, she ran to the side of the lampman who had been filling the lanterns and was still looking down the long pier when Red Hand landed a few feet away. Duncan dropped down a backstay, burning his hands on the rope, landed on the deck, and vaulted over the rail.

As the Indian ran toward the girl the lampman fled, abandoning his keg and ladder. From the opposite direction came a solitary figure, charging at Red Hand. Hadley had no weapon but his fists. Red Hand took a step backward as Hadley reached him, and with a stroke of his tomahawk knocked the Virginian to the ground. The sound caused Mokie to turn. She screamed but was paralyzed with fright.

Duncan was seconds away when he saw one of the men from the street wrestle with a soldier, pulling away his musket. He froze. The soldier was down, being pummeled by three ruffians, and beside them Felton was aiming the gun directly at Duncan as more of his companions fanned out to surround Duncan. The men from the street had come not to help the girl but to help Felton trap Duncan. Red Hand, seeming to understand, grinned, then saw the soldiers approaching from the wharf, McGregor in the lead.

With a lurch of his gut Duncan heard Felton pull the hammer back, saw the fiery discharge. The bullet hit not Duncan, not Red Hand, but the keg of whale oil that Red Hand stood beside. As Mokie darted away the keg exploded into white flame, propelling its contents upward. An instant later, the volatile oil soaking him, Red Hand burst into flame. The tomahawk fell from his hands as the Indian desperately, futilely, tried to rub the flames out. His loincloth and leggings ignited, his lock of hair ignited, his very skin caught fire as with a terrible bloodcurdling groan he staggered toward Duncan, his oil-soaked body now completely in flames.

"Mother of God!" McGregor moaned. The smell of charred flesh bit into their nostrils. The sergeant grabbed a musket from one of his men and fired. Red Hand jerked backward then dropped to his knees, raising his burning arms to the sky as a second soldier fired. He collapsed in a ball of fire to the planks of the pier.

Duncan lingered for a breathless moment then leapt to the wharfs edge and dove into the black waters below.

Duncan swam underwater with the long, sweeping strokes he had learned as a boy, keeping overhead the lighter shadow that marked the gap between the ships, swam until his lungs screamed, then surfaced to gulp fresh air and submerged again. With every stroke he was moving closer to the way of the outlaws, defying the entire city now, with every stroke the prospect of freedom and a new life tugged more strongly at his aching heart. He could climb up onto any of the great ships coursing out into the spring tide and leave his misery behind. Surfacing, he held on to the anchor rope of a dory left beyond the moored ships, watching as more and more torches were lit, as more and more men ran up and down the wharfs. Some searchers were being lowered on ropes to scan for him under the docks. A woman screamed, then another, as a crowd gathered around the charred remains of Red Hand.

Releasing the rope, he let himself be pushed by the current down the broad river, past another wharf, then another, letting several ranks of the big ships pass, until suddenly a large vessel loomed over him. He let the merchantman pass, then without thinking grabbed a trailing manline. For a moment, as he climbed up the rope enough to rest against the great black hull, he was free, for a moment he was on the way to the Indies. With an instant's effort he could pull himself onto the deck and all would be behind him. The lights of Philadelphia passed alongside, and as they began to fade he looked up with longing at the ship's rail and dropped away. Minutes later he found an algae-covered ladder built into a pier and climbed back into the world.

The guard had been doubled by the time Duncan arrived at the tribe's compound a quarter hour later. He watched from behind the trunk of a great elm, then slipped into the shadows under the high brick wall, worried now that the militia may have started patrols around the government house, worried too that the new fortune on his head might mean bounty hunters seeking him at all hours. He had no refuge left. His link to Marston was too thinly concealed for the scientist's house to be safe now. Barns and outbuildings would be searched. By now, for all he knew, his gun and kit had been found and confiscated. If by Ramsey's men, the lord would order his pipes be burned, as he had tried to do the year before. Duncan braced himself against a tree, fighting what seemed an overpowering weakness. He was cold and wet and bone weary, and hope seemed forever beyond his reach.

Breathing deeply, refusing to succumb to despair, he suddenly sniffed the sweet, acrid scent of the tobacco used by the tribes and was buoyed for a moment by the memory of sitting in a sweat lodge with Conawago. He edged along the ivy-covered wall, discovering a small door, which he tried and found locked. Then hearing footsteps coming down the street, he launched himself into an awkward, desperate ascent, using the thick vines for support. He reached the top and rolled over, dropping onto the soft, moist earth of the garden.

The Indian camp was quiet, its occupants all asleep save for the two men who were replenishing the small fire in the herb garden.

Conawago said nothing, just reached out and embraced Duncan when he approached. "Still playing the fish," he observed, his voice cracking with emotion.

Old Belt threw more wood on the fire, then gazed at the lighted window of the kitchen. "I believe," the Iroquois chief declared with whimsy, "we shall ask our servants to make us some English tea."

Mokie had been escorted to Brindle's house by McGregor and his men, the Indians reported, while the charred remains of Red Hand had been wrapped in a sailcloth and taken to the pauper's cemetery.

"Felton will have drinks bought for him for a month," Conawago remarked. "The Quaker hero saves an innocent girl, kills a fugitive murderer."

Duncan leaned over the fire, soaking up its warmth. "When the Shawnee died the truth died with him," he stated.

"With the Shawnee gone," Conawago rejoined, "you can concentrate on making yourself safe."

Duncan did not have the strength to argue. He hovered over the fire in silence, pushing the river chill out of his bones, then watched with amusement as Old Belt led a small parade of the house staff out the kitchen door, the English servants carrying a tray with a teapot and fine china cups, chairs, and a small table. They watched in silence as the table was set for them by the fire and grinned as one of the women delicately poured out the tea and sliced a fresh loaf she had brought with it. Finding himself famished, Duncan quickly covered his bread with butter and chewed as Old Belt described the day's futile treaty deliberations.