Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

Ramsey extended the quill to Duncan as Mokie filled his glass. The barb on his arm bit deeper. He looked dully at the pot of ink, gestured for it. As Ramsey pushed the pot to the side of the parchment, Duncan upended it onto the paper.

The little barbs digging into his flesh felt like a dozen knives. He groaned, closing his eyes against the new pain, hearing only Ramsey's furious curses at first, then a hammering like the drums of battle. Boots. Soldiers' boots. He heard a protest behind him, the sound of a quick blow, and a groan as one of the deputies doubled over. Suddenly McGregor was at his side, his face clenched in fury. He grabbed the chain on Duncan's arm and loosened it, throwing it to the floor, stomping on the curved plate. The barbed ball that rolled away was covered in blood. A moment later Magistrate Brindle stepped into the room.

"This man," he declared, "is remanded for assistance in concluding the treaty." Duncan glanced at Mokie. She had been running. Brindle's chambers were a quarter mile away.

"We conduct a purely private contract matter here," Ramsey observed in a level voice. "We do not require your assistance, Brindle." As he spoke the judge beside him dabbed at the parchment, trying to salvage it.

"The governor has directed that the treaty is the paramount purpose of our mission to Bethlehem." Brindle paused, looking at the blood dripping to the floor from Duncan's fingertips.

"Of course. And a grand celebration shall there be when you return with the signed treaty in your hands. I understand," Ramsey added in a pointed tone, "you are being considered for chief justice in the lower courts of Philadelphia. You are no doubt familiar with Justice Bradford, who sits on the Supreme Judicial Court for the entire colony."

Brindle would not be baited. "Should either of you wish to dispute me, you may send a petition to the governor in Philadelphia. In the meantime I shall conduct treaty business as I see fit."

The older judge finally found his voice. "The matter of the murders rests with me, Brother Brindle," he intoned in warning. His voice had the crisp, refined tones of London. He was, Duncan suspected, only recently arrived from England.

"A somber responsibility, your honor." Brindle returned the justice's stare. "I have no doubt you are consulting with God and your conscience to assure justice is served."

"These matters will not be settled in a storm of lightning and brimstone," the lace-collared judge put in, raising a snigger from Ramsey. "We are ordained to do the justice of men, not that of the Old Testament." Not all the leaders of the colony, Duncan reminded himself, were Quakers. "My authority derives from the proprietor of the Penn colony," Bradford continued, "not the proprietor of heaven. And we shall see whose authority prevails tomorrow. With the dawn comes the time for king and empire."

Duncan saw the magistrate's fists tighten, the color rise on his face. McGregor gestured a soldier to Duncan's side before steering the Quaker away from the table.

"What did he mean?" Duncan asked the Highland sergeant as they left the building. "About tomorrow being a day for empire?"

"'Tis the last day," McGregor explained. "The governor and the general have decreed it, in a message from Philadelphia. Plans for the new western forts are finished. Construction must begin. Brindle has been charged with sending the treaty to Philadelphia with a fast rider by dusk tomorrow. They say they know the Indians will sign, provided a firm hand is taken."

Only when the jail door had been finally barred behind him and Duncan was once again the cellmate of Skanawati did he realize McGregor had stuffed a note into his belt as they had left the Gemeinhaus. It was from Reverend Macklin. I have discovered that there is a book somewhere in the Gemeinhaus, Duncan read, that records the true names of the adoptees after their families stepped forward.

The Gemeinhaus an hour before midnight had the air of an old German castle. Conawago had listened attentively at the side of the jail that evening, then dismissed Duncan's suggestion that they meet under the high moon behind the huge log building. But when Duncan had pressed, insisting that they first hide one of the long Moravian coats and a black hat for him under a nearby oak then be ready with Moses, he had acquiesced. Still he had seemed surprised to find Duncan walking freely down the path in Moravian garb and had pushed the coat back to reveal the soot from the chimney. Even now as Moses led them by candlelight down the long hall of the building Conawago kept looking back. From his expression, however, Duncan could see that his real disbelief was that Duncan would leave the jail and choose to delve into the secret vaults of the Moravians rather than fleeing.

Reverend Macklin had been willing to explain the nature of the journals they sought, and even offered to join them, but they would not risk his being caught by the elders. There were two offices at the eastern end of the second floor holding cabinets of books, the keys for which were secreted on the top corner of each cabinet. Moses led them through the heavy door at the entrance, into a large central hall that smelled of pine and beeswax. The two Indians moved with instinctive stealth past the huge case clock at the rear of the hall then into the eastern corridor, staying in the darkest shadow, pausing at a sudden sound, continuing as they realized it was but a twig scraping against a window in the spring breeze.

They made their way up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor, into an office that overlooked the street. Conawago watched the hall, Duncan the street as Moses opened a cabinet and searched its shelves of ledgers and journals. After a few minutes Duncan joined him, starting with the top shelf. Foodstuff for Single Brethren House 1755 read the title page of the first volume he opened, Linens and Sundries for the Sisters House 1758 on the next, then Supplies for Missions 1757, and Inhabitants of God's Acre. The Moravians were a fastidious people.

"God's Acre?" Duncan asked.

"The cemetery," Moses explained.

He quickly leafed through it. "Indians are buried there?"

"Those who wish it," Moses said absently as he surveyed another book. "There is an old yard of Indian burial scaffolds two miles up the river trail." He raised the journal in his hand. "Rolls of the Returned Souls," he read from the title page. "It's what the early teachers called those returning from the tribes." He laid the book on the table in the center of the room and pushed the candle closer. The list grew longer each year, the names after the first two years acquiring narrative descriptions under each. "1757," he recited and ran his finger along the list. "Rohrbach," he read, "Mueller, Gottlieb." His finger stopped at the last name. "Smith."

The first entry for the boy returned from the Hurons was brief, in a feminine hand. Moses translated from the German as he read. Estimated age 17, it read, returned by trappers on the Ohio. Very little English, no German. Apparently taken at an early age. After first bath, found in kitchens covering skin with bacon grease. Refuses to sleep in a bed. It required the efforts of four brothers to restrain him when we cut off his long blond braids. I am convinced there is a deep soul trying to come out if we can only reach it. The entry was signed S. Leinbach.

There were more entries describing the classes, the program for the Returned Souls. Smith was noted for remarkable progress, but was also pulled from a hayloft while trying to fornicate with one of the Moravian Indian girls and was repeatedly cited by Sister Leinbach for missing prayer services, ripping pages from Bibles, even releasing a snake in Sunday chapel.

"His adoption," Duncan said in an urgent tone. "We need the adoption records."