Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

The supreme advantage of being at war, Mr. McCallum,” declared the tall, well-fed man in the scarlet coat, “is that our beloved King George entrusts his soldiers with such vast discretion in reducing our enemies.” The officer, who had been addressed as Major Pike by several nervous subordinates, paused to play absently with a loose thread in the gold brocade of his cuff, then looked up at Duncan across the ornate table that served as his desk. “There is no greater thrill than standing in command of a battery and knowing the king desires you to eviscerate the vile creatures before you with good English lead.” He reached to pour himself a cup of tea. “Feel free,” he mocked, pointing to the tray that held the teapot and a plate of scones.

Duncan sat six feet in front of the desk, manacled tightly to the chair. They were in a sprawling house that had been converted to army offices, apparently the military headquarters of the city.

“I have done you no harm,” Duncan protested for the fourth time, twisting, futilely straining to see the faces of the men who sometimes paused in the shadows beyond one of the room’s open doors to stare at him. They had left him alone in the chamber for at least thirty minutes after chaining him to the chair. In the quarter hour since Pike had arrived, the officer had stated no charges, given no indication why Duncan had been dragged through the streets to the headquarters. He seemed to be waiting for Duncan to confess something.

“I believe, McCallum, that some men act as the hand of God,” the major said, his eyes like soiled ice. “I believe in the propensity of all other men to conspire and lie and cheat. I believe that although a sheep may be shorn, it will always grow the same wool.”

“And I believe you must be more specific,” Duncan replied evenly, returning Pike’s glare.

Pike rose, lowering his teacup to the desk, and slowly walked to the corner, where he retrieved a well-worn horse crop. He bent it in his hand as if testing it, then approached Duncan, tapping the end in his palm. “I am a senior officer in His Majesty’s army,” he declared with smug anticipation. “Flaunt me and you flaunt the king.”

When Duncan remained silent, Pike extracted an envelope from an inner pocket and dropped it on the front of the table, then stepped to the window and stared toward the Hudson, a hundred yards away. As Duncan’s gaze shifted from the riding crop, still in the officer’s hand, to the envelope, his mouth went bone dry. It was his letter to Jamie, the one he had left on his hammock the day of the storm, the one he had last seen in Cameron’s hand.

“I am enamored of this bold, new land, McCallum,” Pike said, speaking toward the window. “I will not let it be subverted by the likes of you.”

“You speak in riddles, sir,” Duncan said. Anger was beginning to burn through his fear. Here, personified before him, were all the men who had strung up his father and killed his mother, sisters, and young brother.

When Pike turned toward him, his eyes were cold slits, his mouth curled into something like a snarl. Duncan did not actually see the man move, just was suddenly aware of the officer looming over him and the crop slashing the air. The slap of the loose leather tip against Duncan’s cheek was like a hot blade.

Pike’s eyes were wild, his jaw open like that of an eager predator as Duncan reeled back and the officer raised his arm again. Then suddenly his gaze shifted to something behind Duncan, and the fire left his face. He straightened, lowering the crop to his side, and retreated a step.

“I understand he is bound to Lord Ramsey,” a dry voice stated, in a casual, almost whimsical tone.

Duncan twisted to try to see who spoke. The man stood directly behind his chair.

“Surely that can be no excuse, sir,” Pike muttered. He glanced at the crop in his hand, then tossed it into the shadows.

“Were you aware, Major,” the refined voice continued, “that Lord Ramsey never visits London but that he lunches with the king? A few drops of common blood, they say.” The speaker walked past Duncan to stand where Pike had been, facing the window. He was years older than the major, though his powdered wig and the fact that he did not show his full face made it difficult to be certain. The officer held his short, compact frame ramrod straight, the habit of a career soldier. “Let there be no misunderstanding.” he said, still facing the window. “Enlighten our guest.”

“General, surely it cannot be necessary. Obviously-” Pike began, but then the hand held behind the general’s back tightened into a fist. Pike glared at Duncan, stepped to the table, and extracted a paper from a stack near the chair.

Duncan studied the man at the window, vaguely aware of something warm dripping down his cheek. The general seemed to bear a profound weight. He was studying the river, watching upstream as if expecting something from the north, where the bitter war with the French was being waged.

Suddenly Pike was hovering over Duncan again, extending a large paper, a broadside, dropping it into Duncan’s lap. It was a bounty poster. An officer was wanted for desertion and sedition. A hundred pounds sterling was offered for the man or proof of his death-a princely sum, one that could buy a man a large farm.

As Duncan stared at the name, a fog seemed to form behind his eyes. He felt shrunken, and cold, and helpless.

“The name of the Forty-second Regiment of Foot is spoken with reverence among our troops.” Pike’s voice seemed to come from far away as Duncan still stared at the broadside. “The Black Watch, they call it, and to the French they are the black face of death. In battle there is no task they cannot be trusted with. If there is a hole in the bloodiest part of the line, the Black Watch goes to fill it. No need to order them. They will demand the privilege.” A fierce and angry pride had entered the major’s words. “They are the granite upon which our army stands.”

It took a long time for the major’s words to register. Duncan could not take his eyes from the name printed twice the size of the font on the rest of the poster. Captain James McCallum. The army was seeking his brother Jamie, so they could hang him.

“In July of last year,” Pike continued. “Nothing was preventing us from marching straight to Quebec but four thousand French soldiers at the fortress we call Ticonderoga. We outnumbered them four to one. We sent in the rangers, we sent in troops of infantry. The great guns of the French made short work of them. Then we unleashed the Forty-second. The brave lads were chewed up but kept advancing over the bodies of their own dead. We would have taken the breastworks and sent General Montcalm fleeing home to King Louie, except a Black Watch officer deliberately disobeyed orders. By the time we knew of Captain McCallum’s treachery it was too late. The bastard cost us the battle, then fled like a coward. We now believe he works in the aid of the enemy, was probably doing so that very day.”

Duncan did not know how long he stared at the broadside. But when he finally looked up, Pike was pacing around his chair. “When were you going to meet him?” the officer demanded, Duncan’s letter in his fist. “Where is the traitor?”

“I knew nothing of this.” Duncan’s voice cracked as he spoke.

Pike’s eyes flared again. He glanced in the direction he had thrown the crop, then charged at Duncan’s chair with an open hand raised. Three feet away he halted with a look of surprise and stared spitefully over Duncan’s shoulder.

“I thought we had established that he is with the Ramsey Company,” a new voice interjected. Duncan became aware of someone bending toward the manacles, then recognized the voice. Woolford.