Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

He awoke to shouts from above, sounds of celebration floating down from the main deck. An hour later his cell door opened and a dark bundle was tossed inside. His servant’s clothes. Duncan glanced up to see Cameron’s tall figure retreating toward the ladder.

“It’s New York,” Duncan said to Flora after he had dressed, awkwardly squared the tutor’s cap on his head, and shouldered his bag. Her cell was as silent as death. Something moved inside. It could have been the despairing woman. It could have been a rat.

“I wish you good fortune, Flora,” he whispered into the hatch of her locked door, then paused, knowing that luck had long ago abandoned the woman. In another time, another life, he would have tried to help her. But in this life he was powerless. He pushed his arm through the hatch, fingers extended, but she did not respond. “I wish you peace,” he said in a cracking voice, then turned away.

He climbed warily into the sunlight, pausing with his head just over the rim of the deck-uncertain why he was not escorted, half expecting to be seized and chained again-then slowly approached the rail. The ship, docked at a wide timber wharf, was busily disgorging its cargo, human and otherwise. Cameron stood like a sentinel at the bottom of the gangway, forty feet from an elegant carriage attended by a broad-shouldered man whose skin was a rich chocolate brown, his waistcoat and britches a larger version of those worn by Duncan. Beyond the carriage were several heavy wagons with benches along their sides, guarded by the keepers and several brutish, thickset men armed with clubs and spontoons-the broadheaded spears sometimes used by the army-watching as the prisoners, wide-eyed, filed off the ship and climbed onto the wagon benches.

“Benign Providence continues to watch over you,” an austere voice said at Duncan’s side. Reverend Arnold was in his merchant’s attire again and clutched a thin leather case, the kind Duncan knew was often used for military dispatches. “A short report now, and you will be done. There is a grand sermon here, about the pitfalls of forgiveness.”

Duncan’s mouth went dry. He searched the deck for an explanation, then studied the Company wagons again. In the first wagon two men with clubs sat behind the driver’s seat, a crumpled shape on the floor between them. “What have you done?” he demanded.

“He was seen lurking about Evering’s cabin last night, against our express command. As a keeper he had the run of the ship the night Evering died. He has condemned himself with his own traitorous ways. When we caught him he pulled a paper from his shirt and stuffed it into his mouth, obviously to destroy evidence against himself. The captain brought out the cat again, to loosen his tongue. He began pouring out curses in the Highland tongue, invoking the Jacobite prince. Lying from the start, betraying our trust in him as a keeper.”

Duncan did not recall running down the gangway, did not remember touching the wharf, his first step in the New World. He was suddenly at the wagon’s side, nearly retching from what he saw.

The pile of bloody rags was breathing, though only just. He leapt onto the wagon, parrying a keeper’s raised club with a venomous glare. The old man’s shirt was in ribbons, revealing crosshatches of raw flesh where the cat had done its work, partly healed and now reopened. His manacled hands were bloody and swollen, his battered face barely recognizable. Lister was not unconscious, but he did not seem to recognize Duncan.

“He wouldn’t stay down, the old fool,” Cameron said over Duncan’s shoulder. “’Twere the sailors, with the captain urging them on. Lying about his Highland blood, to some it’s as good as confessing a murder.”

“Remove him, Mr. Cameron. He is in need of care.”

“I cannot,” the keeper said with a glance toward the ship.

As Duncan followed his gaze toward the captain, who now stood beside Arnold, a haze seemed to fall over his eyes. Cameron was not quick enough to stop him as he darted back up the gangway.

“He must have a doctor!” Duncan demanded. “You have no right!”

The captain seemed to take great pleasure in Duncan’s protest. He signaled to someone behind him, and with a flurry of movement two sailors appeared, one tapping a belaying pin on his palm. “One more insult,” the captain snarled, “and I shall appropriate you from the Company. There be no keepers on board to protect you now!”

“He did nothing last night but-”

The sailors seized Duncan, one on each arm, pressing him against the rail as they gazed expectantly at the captain, who stepped forward with a cold grin. The open hand that slapped Duncan felt like an oak plank.

“Reverend Arnold,” the captain said in a satisfied tone, “I forego my demand for indemnity. I am taking this mongrel to-”

The captain finished his sentence with a terrified moan. With a strange hissing of air, a long, feathered shaft materialized in his upper arm.

Arnold uttered a panicked cry and dropped to the deck. The captain stood as if paralyzed, staring at the blood that flowed down his shirtsleeve, his ruddy face draining of color. Duncan’s assailants released him and dragged their captain toward the cabins as the ship’s bell began to ring frantically. Duncan slowly turned, not understanding, as a second arrow appeared, quivering in the wood of the rail directly below his heart.

The deck and the wharf burst into a chaos of fleeing figures, barking dogs, shouting sailors, and stevedores. Makeshift weapons appeared in the sailors’ hands, and the captain, clutching his wound, barked orders as if preparing for boarders. But no more arrows came, no enemy charged the ship. The wharf gave no clue of attackers, no sign of a bowman. The panic seemed to affect all but a gang of boys perched excitedly on a pile of bales and an old man who hobbled away on a long stick. The arrows could have come from a dozen hiding places, from the shadows between the warehouses on the far side of the dock or perhaps from among the stacks of cargo on the wharf itself.

As Duncan slipped down the gangway, whips cracked and the Company wagons heaved forward, the teams urged to a trot by their panicked drivers. He stood at the bottom of the ramp watching helplessly as they disappeared. Lister, who had promised to dance a jig and pick a flower, had begun his new life in America.

After a moment Duncan felt a tug on his arm, and he turned to see the tall African, one hand on Duncan’s bag. When Duncan refused to release it, the big man shrugged and stood aside to let Duncan set it inside the coach.

“I am Crispin,” the big man announced in a deep baritone. “I will see you settled at Ramsey House. It is but a short ride from here.” He cast a worried glance toward the shadows by the warehouses, then gestured Duncan inside.

“But the Company proceeds to the frontier,” Duncan protested.

“The children’s tutor must be with the children,” Arnold said in a rushed, nervous voice over his shoulder. The vicar was guarded by two sailors. “The children reside here in the city except in the warm months. We will join the Company in two weeks’ time.”

Duncan was about to argue when he realized the big man meant they were going to the house where Evering’s journal had been sent.

As Crispin gestured Duncan into the carriage, Arnold cast a worried glance up and down the wharf, then darted into a second, more ornate coach that waited behind a stack of tobacco bales. Crispin climbed into Duncan’s coach, perching by a small wooden crate on the opposite seat as the driver called out to the team of matching chestnuts, and the carriage lurched forward. As he gazed at the Anna Rose, where muskets now bristled from the rail, Duncan fought a sinking feeling that somewhere on board he had missed the answers to the mysteries that beset the Company. But then he realized that here, in America, was where the Company was intended to be, here was where the unknowing players in this tragedy were finally entering their stage.