Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

Duncan’s hand trembled as he reached for the wool. He had never expected to see the plaid again.

“In the shards of the chest were small stockings and britches,” Jamie added in a brittle whisper. “Mother was saving it for him, for when he grew older.”

“Angus,” Duncan whispered back, a new pain rising in his heart. Angus, their younger brother, who had not survived the bloodbath after Culloden.

It was a long time before either spoke. They barely moved, Jamie standing with the truth-speaking wampum on his hand, Duncan with the tartan on his. Finally Duncan stretched the cloth in front of him. “I remember the looms,” he said, an unexpected calm entering his voice. “Out in the islands. The women washed the wool by the sea.”

“Sometimes grandfather piped as they worked. And you and I romped among the seals. He watched us close, because sometimes the seals would take children away for their own.”

With one firm stroke, Duncan tore the cloth in half. Jamie’s momentary chagrin turned to solemn acceptance as Duncan handed him his half. As Duncan set his piece in his pack, he paused, looked at his brother, and pulled out the pipes.

He played tunes from their youth, bringing faraway smiles to their faces, before switching to one used by their clan in battle, facing Edentown as he played. When he finished and turned back to the log, Jamie and his pack were gone.

When he finally emerged from the forest, the coach that had brought the Ramsey children was at the front of the house, its team hitched, baggage being loaded onto it. Duncan hurried to the house, reminding himself that he had not seen Sarah all day, remembering with a shudder Ramsey’s vow to dispatch her to the trepanning surgeon in Philadelphia.

His throat tightened as Sarah emerged from the house with a load of baggage. But she wore no travel clothes, and instead of returning into the house she began speaking with the bearded driver, who was nodding repeatedly, nervously, as if receiving directions from a new employer.

Duncan left his pack on the schoolhouse steps and eased himself onto the end of the porch of the great house, staying in the shadows, then settled into the one of the chairs near the door. He had no reason to believe she had noticed him until after she had retreated inside.

“Please fetch Mr. McCallum a mug of cold milk,” he heard her call through the open door as she hurried upstairs.

Duncan drained the milk when it was brought, then slipped inside, aware that Ramsey could explode out of his library at any moment. But then his eye caught movements in the sitting room, where still the curtains were drawn. Crispin was there, looking as frightened as Duncan had ever seen him. Ramsey was sitting on the day bed where Duncan had left him, mindlessly letting Crispin lift his limbs as the houseman dressed him.

Crispin’s fear spread to Duncan. He backed out onto the porch, but as he turned, he found himself face-to-face with Sarah. She offered a shy smile and seemed about to speak when her gaze abruptly shifted over his shoulder.

“There are blankets and pillows in the coach,” she announced in a flat voice.

“Are you traveling, daughter?” came a thin, unsteady voice from behind Duncan. Crispin had led Ramsey outside.

“When our business is complete, you are traveling, sir,” Sarah explained in a new, resolute tone, then pointed to a small table that had been placed on the porch beyond the door, with an inkpot, a quill, and several documents secured under a candlestick holder. She was wearing her mother’s ruby cross.

Duncan edged away, was about to step off the porch when Sarah touched his sleeve and pointed him to one of the chairs by the table.

“I don’t understand.” Though Ramsey had slept for hours, he seemed as weak as when Duncan had led him inside at dawn. Crispin appeared, carrying a cup of tea, which he set on the little table. The tea seemed to persuade Ramsey to sit. He lifted the porcelain cup, holding it in midair. He seemed to see something in his daughter he had not noticed before.

“You are leaving Edentown,” Sarah announced. “Go to New York town. Go back to England. Go to your southern plantations. Anywhere but here. I am staying here, with Jonathan and Virginia.”

Ramsey slowly lowered the cup. A spark flickered in his dull eyes. “You cannot just-”

“I have not finished.” Sarah seemed to have lost interest in his words. “Crispin stays with us.” It was indeed a new Sarah, wrought from the fire of the night before. “And you will sign these papers. The first withdraws your request for Mr. McCallum to be sent back to prison in Scotland. The second sets forth your finding as magistrate that Mr. Lister is innocent of all charges related to the murders. The third certifies over your name as magistrate that the deserter Captain James McCallum and his men are all dead, killed by Hurons. The fourth grants a power to me for the conduct of all affairs related to the Ramsey property at Edentown. The next states your decision to convert the Ramsey Company to a true commercial enterprise. One half will go to me, for the betterment of this settlement. One half will be shared among all the men of the Company, the proceeds to be held until the end of their indentures.”

Duncan tried in vain to read the papers from where he sat, but he could see that two different hands were used in their drafting. Crispin’s and Conawago’s.

“You go too far.” Ramsey’s voice was still weak, but now not entirely without venom. “I will not tolerate-”

“Mr. McCallum, would you please summarize the new report you and Captain Woolford will prepare for us to dispatch to the governor if Lord Ramsey does not comply?” Sarah did not look at Duncan as she spoke. He saw now that she was struggling to keep control. Crispin stepped closer, to her side. Another figure had appeared by the steps. Woolford was wearing his dress uniform again.

Duncan glanced at Ramsey, then chose to speak to the stack of papers. “There would be many pages dedicated to review of the evidence. But the conclusion will be straightforward. Agents in the employ of Lord Ramsey were the murderers of four men.”

“You’re nothing, McCallum!” Ramsey spat. “A convict, a damned Highland mongrel!”

“Lord Ramsey,” Duncan continued, “persuaded the royal court to create the Ramsey Company under false pretenses.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Ramsey snarled.

“Then Lord Ramsey further obtained a land charter from the king under false pretenses, knowing he could never meet his promise to the king without committing crimes against homesteaders and our Iroquois allies. In time of war, Lord Ramsey violated the governor’s orders against the taking of scalps. He joined with a traitor in the ranks of His Majesty’s army who had conspired with the French at Ticonderoga, who had murdered the king’s own rangers to hide the evidence of his treachery.”

“I never knew about Pike and the French!” Ramsey protested.

“It would not take a stretch of a barrister’s tongue to suggest that Lord Ramsey conspired against the king himself,” Duncan continued. He looked out over the town, his gaze sweeping across the bitter homesteaders and the former members of Ramsey’s militia. “We could obtain fifty, nay a hundred, signatures to vouchsafe every word.”

Ramsey threw his tea into Duncan’s face. As Duncan calmly wiped it off, the patron began signing the documents.

When he finished, Ramsey fixed Duncan with a poisonous glare. “You’re still a Ramsey slave for seven years,” he spat. “By order of an English judge. There is naught anyone here can do to change that.” Without another word, with no effort to bid good-bye to Jonathan and Virginia, who watched from the doorway, Ramsey mounted the coach and snapped orders to the driver.