Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

Van Grut cast an uneasy glance at Duncan, as if to suggest it had not been a blade or ball but a malfunctioning gear in the man's chest that had killed him.

Twenty minutes later Duncan leaned against a tree in the shadows by the Virginians' camp as they finished their evening meal and began to make ready for the night. Burke's cousin had not been difficult to identify, a young man with russet hair tied at the back who uneasily sat on a log apart from the others, a quill in his hand, gazing forlornly at a half-written letter.

"So what is the tally of heathen bodies heaped about your captain?" Duncan asked, coming near.

The confusion on the Virginian's countenance quickly changed to rancor as he recognized Duncan.

"I once saw an officer tear up a letter being sent by a subordinate treating the loss of a recruit who drank himself to death," Duncan explained. "He explained that those back home must always believe the dead died as heroes, for king and country. He wrote a new letter reporting that the soldier died protecting a family of Episcopal missionaries, with six dead Indians piled at his feet."

The Virginian, barely out of his teens, gestured to the sheet of paper in his lap. "He died at the hand of a savage while scouting safe passage for his troops. That will make him hero enough."

Duncan studied the dead man's cousin. Was there a note of bitterness mixed with his remorse? "What senior officer leaves his troops behind to make a solitary scout?"

"Do you not know who we are?"

"Militia from Virginia."

"We are, sir, Burke's Shenandoah Company. The senior Burke makes the rules."

"And are you now the senior Burke?" Duncan watched the knot of men around the cook fire as he spoke, well aware that the brawny sergeant there had unfinished business with him.

"Far from it, thank God. I do not even bear the name. My mother is a Burke. I am Hadley, Thomas Hadley. There're two other cousins here, both older than me."

"But you are the one who cleaned the body, the one who is writing the difficult letter."

"I had the misfortune of being home from my studies at the College of William and Mary when the company was being raised. My uncle offered a few extra shillings if I would be company clerk. In the past all the militia did was hold parades and ox roasts."

"But here you are."

"I protested when my uncle suddenly ordered us north. I resigned. I packed my books and was on my mule headed back toward Williamsburg when they rode to fetch me," Hadley explained in a hollow voice.

"My uncle reminded me that we keep Virginia safe by fighting Indians in Pennsylvania and the Ohio country. He said my sacred duty was to chronicle the glory of the Burke expeditionary force. That's the way he speaks of us, like we are builders of empire instead of farmers and students. Following in the footsteps of Colonel Washington and General Braddock, who both led scores of Virginians to the glory of early graves in Penn's woods." Hadley's resentment was undisguised as he spoke of the first skirmish of the war, led by Washington, and the first battle, the bloody massacre on the Monongahela that had become the shame of the British army. "Making history on the military and political fields, my uncle reminded me as we left."

"Political?"

Hadley cast a confused glance at Duncan. "My cousin. Surely you knew. He was also to be senior treaty negotiator from the Virginia province."

The words caused Duncan to pause and sit on the log beside Hadley. This particular Virginian on this particular day, Latchford had stated. "Tell me, Hadley, where did your cousin keep that little silver dagger?"

"He had a loop sewn into the inside of his waistcoat, whereby to hang the sheath. Why?"

"Because I think whoever killed him knew where to find it. It was that little dagger that killed him, by slicing deeper into the artery, through the wound made by the tomahawk. Did your captain not have any weapons?" Duncan kept the surly sergeant in sight.

"A pistol, and an elegant rifle, a gift from his father, with his initials carved into the stock."

"Where are they?"

"The pistol was found in the bushes nearby. The rifle was gone.

"We arrived minutes after the attack. We would have heard any shots. Captain Burke let his killer get close, without challenge."

Hadley bit his lip.

"I told you my friend didn't kill him. We were trying to help him."

"It means nothing. The killer could have found the dagger by chance."

"How will you feel, having reported to your family that Conawago was hanged for the murder of your cousin, when we later find that the real murderer was someone who knew him?"

Hadley gazed up in confusion. His jaw opened and shut, but no words came out.

The bearded sergeant was looking directly at Duncan now, his eyes flaring. Duncan bent to the young Virginian's shoulder. "Go to the guardhouse at midnight," he hurriedly instructed. "Tell your man there you are relieving him."

The sergeant shoved his way through the throng of men, grabbed a piece of firewood for a club, and was halfway to Hadley's log by the time Duncan disappeared into the shadows.

The sentry argued with Hadley only a few moments before shouldering his musket and marching off into the moonlight. The company clerk was probably the youngest of the Virginian troop, and his every movement betrayed his lack of seasoning. But he was of the Burke clan, and the guard was of the Burke company. Duncan watched from the shadows for five minutes before approaching the earthen ramp, his eyes not on Hadley but on the sleeping provost guard slumped on a stool against the wall at the jail entrance. Duncan put his fingers to his lips as he reached the Virginian, who grimaced but lifted the solitary lantern from a peg on the wall and followed. They paused when they reached another peg near the strap iron door that held a single large key.

"Tell me why I am doing this?" Hadley asked in an anxious whisper.

"Because, like me, you seek the truth."

"All I seek," came Hadley's sullen reply as he lifted the key and opened the door, "is a quick return to Virginia."

Inside there were no more doors, only several low vaulted chambers carved out of rock and earth. The first two held empty gunpowder kegs. Duncan almost passed over the pile of rags at the rear of the third chamber but then glimpsed the familiar pattern of red beads along the edge of a piece of soiled linen.

A despairing cry escaped his lips as he turned his friend over. Conawago's right eye was nearly swollen shut, the whole right side of his face an ugly mass of bruises and cuts. Duncan unbuttoned Conawago's shirt to reveal more contusions and a swollen, oozing lump over the left side of his rib cage. Duncan's probing brought a gasp of agony from Conawago. His good eye fluttered open. It seemed to take great effort for him to focus on Duncan. "That Onondaga was right," he said in a hoarse whisper. "The gods are not happy with me."

Duncan fought against a surge of emotion. The ribs under the swollen lump were badly bruised, if not cracked. Conawago's leggings were torn, the gaps revealing more bloody abrasions. His right hand was clenched. Conawago groaned as Duncan raised it. The little finger hung at an unnatural angle.

"They tried to take the other one after they destroyed the first," the Indian said, wincing with each exhalation. "But I was disinclined to release her. She's old and worn like me, but one day she may speak to the other gods for me." He had let his assailants break his finger, Duncan realized, rather than release the little clay deity.

But now his friend opened his hand and extended the figure to Duncan. "She needs to go outside. Do you have my things? The pouch of ochre?"

Duncan nodded, then lifted a ladle of water left on a stool beside Conawago and pressed it to his lips.