Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

“I would not tamper with Lord Ramsey’s secret weapon.”

Duncan fought to keep his voice steady. “You mistake me, sir. I am but a bound servant.”

“Surely a man of your capacity cannot be so beguiled by coincidence.”

As he grappled with the words, Duncan looked not at the nameless general but at the bounty broadside lying on the table. Lord Ramsey would have known about his brother. Reverend Arnold and Woolford would have known when they traveled halfway across Scotland to retrieve Duncan, and only Duncan, from the prison in Edinburgh. Duncan found himself backing away as the general watched him with a narrow smile.

“We shall not decline your gratitude,” the general declared, “when you have reflected on what we have done for you today.” He made no effort to stop Duncan’s withdrawal toward an open door but lifted a hand and pointed to different door ten feet away.

Duncan hesitated then complied with the gesture. On the corridor wall opposite the door, a hand-drawn map had been pinned, marked at the top with two words that halted Duncan’s retreat. Stony Run.

September 1758, it said under the caption. A small, irregular shape near the center apparently represented a fortification along a river. Two rows of crudely drawn trees flanked it. To the southeast along the same meandering river was an open space marked German Flats. Below the map was written King Hendrick’s band. Seneca. Mohawk. Onondaga. Then a table that was headed Rangers Killed , with the names of half a dozen men and, finally, three ghostwalkers. Ghostwalkers. He read the words twice, in desperate confusion, then glanced back at the general. The officer had followed, was only six feet behind him, studying him with a dangerous smile.

No one confronted Duncan as he retreated down the hallway, looking for the door to the street. He had paid little attention when the soldiers had hauled him inside and dragged him to the office. Passing a room where three officers examined a map on a table, he paused, gazing at the man on the left. Over his chest was the red tunic of an officer, but below was a kilt. The officer turned and examined Duncan with a disdainful stare. He wore the plaid of a Scot but the steely countenance of a British officer.

Duncan headed for the pool of sunlight on the floor that must mean an open door, and was moving at a near trot when he rounded the corner and collided with a half-naked figure. In an instant Duncan forgot his furor at Pike, his pain over the news of Jamie. He reeled, stumbling backward, his heart pounding, his knuckles pressed to his mouth to stifle a cry of alarm.

The man’s rich, copper skin glistened as if oiled. He wore nothing above his waist but a folded brown blanket thrown over one shoulder and tied about his middle with a braided leather strap. His skull was shaven clean save for a small patch of black hair at his crown, from which hung several narrow, foot-long braids, with red and blue glass beads strung at the tips. Triangles of silver dangled from his pierced ears, a chain of bone and shell from his neck. Over the blanket hung a powder horn, in the leather strap of which hung two small knives. His leather leggings bore long fringes along the seams, as did the edge of the soft leather slippers on his feet. From the hair at his crown, down the man’s fierce countenance, ran evenly spread rivulets of blood. No, not blood, Duncan realized, but rust-colored paint applied so that the man appeared to have just emerged from battle.

Duncan’s jaw opened and shut as he stared at the savage, who did not move, did not change his proud, disdainful expression even as his eyes focused on Duncan, studying him as he might some animal he was about to butcher and consume. For a moment Duncan thought of shouting for the soldiers, then he recalled that it was not only the French who had aboriginal allies in the great war.

As Duncan inched toward the door, the Indian’s hard black eyes flickered, as if he recognized something about Duncan. He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue and was answered with a movement in the shadows of the corridor beyond. A second savage appeared, dressed much as the first, and studied Duncan with an intense curiosity, pointing to the blood that now dripped down Duncan’s face. With a stunningly quick motion his finger touched Duncan’s cheek, wiping blood onto his finger, gesturing with it toward the offices from which Duncan had come, his eyes lit with an intense emotion that seemed part amusement, part hunger. He muttered something to the first Indian, then drew a line with Duncan’s blood on his own cheek.

Something in Duncan wanted to protest, to fight back, but his tongue would not work. As the Indian touched his finger to his companion’s cheek, leaving a second stripe of his blood, Duncan summoned enough strength to back away several steps, then he bolted through the front door.

When a hand clamped around his arm as he reached the sunlight, Duncan lashed out, pounding the man’s wrist several times before he noticed the scarred brown knuckles.

“Crispin!” he gasped.

The big man reacted to neither Duncan’s blows nor his words, but silently led him forward, down the steps, past the stern sentries and onto the cobblestone street. They moved to a heavy open wagon pulled by two large grey horses, Crispin urgently motioning Duncan to the plank seat as he stepped to the team. The butler had traded his elegant clothes for plainer dress, covered with a brown greatcoat. Crispin checked the harness and then paused, speaking softly to each of the animals before joining Duncan on the seat and, with a tap of the reins, urging the team forward.

As Duncan turned to watch the army headquarters fade into the distance, he felt a dark, hollow thing growing inside. He did not hate Major Pike for his instinctive cruelty, nor for putting chains on him, nor even for striking him. He hated Pike for extinguishing the spark of hope that had kindled inside him since the day on the mast with Lister. He had begun to think that he could endure years of bondage, because afterward he and Jamie and Lister would build a future together, construct a farm, rebuild the clan. But now his brother was lost forever to him. Both Jamie and Lister, the sum total of those he was blood-bound to protect, were destined to become gallows ballast long before Duncan’s servitude was up, if an arrow did not take Lister first.

Between the pangs of hatred and hopelessness, the general’s words echoed. They had been important not only for what they had revealed-the reason why Duncan had been worth the trip to Edinburgh by Arnold and Woolford-but also for what they had not. The general had not been interested in Jamie, he had been interested in the Company. He recalled Arnold’s worry that the army would open its own investigation. The Company was competing with the general in some strange quest. And Duncan was Ramsey’s secret weapon.

“What did they desire from you?” Crispin asked.

“I do not know,” Duncan admitted after a moment’s reflection. “I am being played on a hook and I cannot see who holds the line. But I must get to Edentown,” he added in an urgent tone. “I need a horse. Just a horse and a map.”

Instead of answering, Crispin extended a rag to him.

“The blood,” the big man said.

Suddenly Duncan saw the stains on the front of his shirt. Blood was dripping from his jaw.

“We’ll put honey on that tonight,” Crispin said. “Ease the pain, help the healing.” He clucked at the horses to urge them around a man guiding a loaded oxcart.

“I cannot return to Ramsey House,” Duncan pressed. He found himself watching the trees, the rocks. With a mixture of shame and fear, he realized that he was watching for savages.