Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

"Captain Burke," Skanawati continued in a level voice, "was at an old beech tree when I fell upon him, an hour after dawn. The blow to his head was not enough to kill but made him senseless enough for me to drive the nail into his hand." The Iroquois looked to the Virginians now as he spoke. "As any soldier of the Shenandoah deserved for the massacre of our warriors."

Most of the Virginians leapt to their feet, shouting and raising fists, giving every appearance of intending to snatch Skanawati away. McGregor's soldiers moved to the prisoner's side.

The judge slammed his wooden block repeatedly on the table. When the assembly had quieted, he surveyed the faces, glanced at Ramsey, and finally turned to Skanawati, motioning him to rise. "This court, having duly considered the confession and the evidence," he pronounced smugly, "does hereby sentence the defendant to be hanged by the neck until dead. Sentence to be carried out this day, at four hours after noon." He pounded once more, then turned to accept Ramsey's smile of triumph.

The silence among the spectators was stunned. But at the treaty table it was merely expectant. The deck had been played exactly as Ramsey had intended. All eyes turned to Old Belt. The revered chief had come hoping to return with a historic treaty and all the treasure it implied. Yet he had changed somehow since Duncan had first met him. Old Belt had always had a noble demeanor, but now there was something more, a deeper light in his eyes, a determined glint that was mirrored in Skanawati's own.

Fear rose inside Duncan, like a physical thing, pushing his heart into his throat, as he realized they had reached the end. The two Iroquois were not there for any of the reasons that kept the others at the treaty table. They acted on a different stage altogether. Duncan watched as Old Belt gazed into the sky a moment, as if he too knew about the ancient raven that kept watch on behalf of the spirits. The Iroquois chief stood and lifted the map in front of him, eliciting more smug smiles from Ramsey and his judge. At last Old Belt was ready to offer the great condolence gift to save Skanawati. He stared for a long moment at Skanawati then tore up the map, ripping it into small pieces and dropping them onto the table. As he walked away the hammering at the gallows echoed across the square. When Conawago rose to follow he had gathered the shreds of the map on the table and on the pile left three of the little glass balls.

Ramsey was speechless as he stared first at the balls then at Old Belt and the small procession of Iroquois who followed him. But he soon found his voice. "He'll die, you old fool! You don't think we will hang him?" the patron shouted toward the Indians. "Do not toy with us!" Ramsey cast a quick, uneasy glance toward Skanawati. The chief stared at him without expression.

"Just another scheming fur trader, you'll see," Ramsey said to Justice Bradford with a forced laugh as Old Belt disappeared. "We shall wait a couple hours, Brindle, then I shall show you how affairs of state are handled."

But no one else laughed, no one else believed Old Belt had any intention of reopening discussions. Brindle wrapped his hands around his prayer book, gripping it until his knuckles were white. All watched wordlessly as Ramsey hovered over Judge Bradford, directing him to a piece of parchment crowded with writing. Skanawati looked on with a curious expression as the Philadelphia judge signed his death warrant.

It was not soldiers who escorted Skanawati from the jail to the gallows but the remaining Iroquois. Duncan had been returned with the Onondaga after the death sentence had been decreed, but had been in the jail only a few minutes before McGregor permitted Old Belt to take Duncan's place in the little stone structure. Now Old Belt led Skanawati from the jail with his Mohawk guard at his sides. McGregor followed a few steps behind, carrying the shackles that he had removed from his prisoner.

Skanawati, seeming to know Duncan was to be removed, had solemnly addressed his cellmate. "You must not grieve, McCallum. Know this," he said, draping his strand of sacred beads over his own wrist. "On the night after I first met you and Conawago on the trail by Ligonier, I had a dream. In my dream I was being hanged as a murderer, and afterward my people returned to the old ways." Duncan could only stare at the beads forlornly. There had never been any hope, he knew now. The spirits had spoken to Skanawati, and dreams had to be obeyed.

The crowd by the gibbet had been gathering for hours, one group of Moravians reciting prayers in low voices, alternating with another group that sang somber hymns. Duncan had been in the custody of two of the Scottish soldiers much of the afternoon, but had been allowed to sit and talk with Hadley and Conawago, conferring in low, urgent tones as Ramsey paced along the street, futilely waiting for the chieftains to confer with him. They had seen the hangman, a thin scarecrow of a man, ascend the gallows, and they had watched, tormented, as the executioner had tested the rope and trap door with sacks of grain. Duncan had also seen the man's worried, troubled expression, seen how he fidgeted with his rope before descending to kneel in front of Reverend Macklin as the missionary offered a prayer for him.

The crowd's murmurs and prayers subsided as Skanawati approached, and the onlookers opened a wide corridor to give him passage. Duncan watched as Skanawati gestured for his escort to halt by the Scottish guards who kept the crowd back, twenty feet from the scaffold. He turned and went from man to man among the Iroquois, a hand on each warrior's shoulder in turn as, his face open and peaceful, he spoke a few words to each. Conawago was there, and Moses, and when the chief finished speaking with them he paused, searching the silent faces. Stepping to Duncan, he grasped his hand in both of his own, rattling the chains that bound the Scot.

"Remember this, McCallum," Skanawati said in a clear, untroubled voice, "the spirits intended that your clan and mine meet. I will seek out your old uncle on the other side and have him sing me some of those songs he died for."

Duncan, unable to speak past the swelling in his throat, nodded and offered a forced, anguished smile.

Last came Old Belt, who paused and pulled one of the eagle feathers from his braid and placed it in Skanawati's own hair. The two chieftains stared at each other for a long, silent moment, then Skanawati solemnly nodded and broke away. As he stepped out in the pool of sunlight that bathed the gallows, head held high, his body glistened with fresh oil that highlighted his many spirit tattoos.

"Good riddance to murderers!" One of the Philadelphia men called out, then threw an egg that broke against the chiefs knee. McGregor materialized before the man, hammered a fist into his belly, and the heckler crumpled to the ground. Someone raised a furious, high-pitched protest at the back of the crowd. Ramsey was trying to approach the gibbet, but the Moravians and Indians pressed together whenever he tried to enter, blocking his passage. One of the aristocrat's men loudly cursed and tried to shove through. A kilted soldier swung a truncheon, dropping him senseless to the ground.

Several of the Moravian women began to sob as Skanawati climbed the stairs. Mokie, crying uncontrollably, buried her head in Hadley's chest. Conawago began a low chant.

It was all impossible, all unreal. For the past weeks Duncan had been driven by the certainty that he would save the innocent man in the end, that justice would intervene at the last moment. But now the hour of death had arrived and Duncan was helpless. The magistrate, tormented though he may be, was equally powerless. Now there were only Skanawati and the German hangman, who nodded awkwardly at the Onondaga chief, before glancing at Reverend Macklin below. With a stricken expression he regarded the noose in his hand as Skanawati lifted his hands and held them, open, over the German's heart a moment. Speaking a final prayer, he placed the noose over his own head.