Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

“We need you here.”

“There is no one else who can do it.”

“Do what? Wander off to some unknown place to face God knows what to save men you have never met? You don’t know what to look for. You don’t even know their names.” Her voice was swollen with emotion. “Death Speaker is a playactor. You are not the Death Speaker, you are my . . .” she buried her head into her hands.

“There is yet time to save them, or Woolford would not have been running south.”

Sarah took a long time to reply. “Virginia, Duncan. Does it mean nothing to you? My father has plantations there. If he caught scent of you I would never see you again.” Sarah’s father had more than once vowed to take his vengeance on Duncan for interfering with his plans for his daughter and his scheme for carving a private kingdom out of the New York wilderness.

“Lord Ramsey will never know to look for me. I will stay away from his lands.”

“No!” He had never heard her speak so forcibly. “I forbid it!” The words came in an anguished voice and she turned away, back toward the slate. “I forbid it,” she said more steadily, invoking for the first time in all the years he had known her the harsh tone of the bond master. “You are indentured to me and I forbid it. If you run, Duncan, I swear I will send bounty hunters to drag you home.”

Duncan stared at her back for several silent breaths, then turned and left the building.

He returned to the smithy and sat again by the dead man, now in a shroud. He owed something to Red Jacob and he would not be able to pay it. He reached for the dead man’s pouch again and held the little broken die in his hand. Something about dice gnawed at the back of his mind.

As he reentered the house a pale figure was sitting halfway down the stairway, clutching the rails with white knuckles.

“Patrick!” Duncan leapt to his friend’s side. “You’ll kill yourself!”

“Just a stroll . . .” Woolford offered with a weak smile, “to clear my head.”

Fresh blood oozed from the bandage around his chest. “We will carry you back,” Duncan said.

“Nonsense. I heard frolicking on the porch. I am quite fond of frolics.”

Duncan cocked his head toward the front door, which had been left open to freshen the house. Jessica Ross ran by on the lawn, followed by Analie, laughing with abandon.

When Woolford reached for the railing Duncan pushed his hand down. “Patrick, you underestimate your injuries. You suffered a terrible concussion. It took thirty stitches to close your scalp.”

“A badge of honor for an Indian fighter.”

“It was an Indian then?”

Woolford shrugged. “They shot from the rocks. I dropped on my knee when the first shot hit my leg, then the shot in my ribs knocked me unconscious. They weren’t interested in me. When I came to, face down, I heard them rummaging in my pack. Two men, speaking English. Just as I started to raise my head, one shouted ‘I see the bastard!’ and ran down the slope. The other used his ax to quiet me.” Woolford made fists, tightening his knuckles against the pain. “They meant Red Jacob, didn’t they?”

“He’s dead.”

The ranger captain closed his eyes and for a moment Duncan thought he was sinking back into his coma. “His wife is a northern Mohawk, a Christian,” Woolford said. “She insisted I be the godfather to their son. What do I tell him? His father survived untold acts of heroism in the wars only to die in an ambush on some lonely trail in his own land?”

Woolford’s hands starting shaking. Duncan realized his friend could pass out at any moment. “Patrick, you spoke to me of nineteen men who were going to die.”

The ranger’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “Fear not until Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane,” he whispered. His mind was sinking again. “That’s the bard’s word. But Sir William said they die when the castle comes to the wood. What could that mean? He wouldn’t confuse Macbeth by accident.”

Duncan cocked his head. Woolford was speaking of the nineteen after all. “You came from Johnson Hall? Why would Sir William know men were going to die in the south?”

Woolford leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he continued in a choked voice. “We sat in his library. He said he had received a devastating letter from Franklin.”

“Franklin? Benjamin Franklin?”

“Then his son Francis came in. He had just arrived from London and there was a dinner to celebrate his safe return. Halfway through the meal, Sir William’s hands began to shake and he excused himself. He insisted Molly help him back into the library instead of to his bed,” he explained, referring to Johnson’s Mohawk wife Molly Brant. “When she returned she told me this was happening every few weeks, a seizure of violent tremors that left him weak as a babe. But this was worse. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t keep his balance.” Woolford opened his eyes and stared absently at the door. “When Red Jacob and I went into the library he was waiting for us, said we had to run, that very hour, that nineteen men will die if we don’t get there in time.”

“Twelve rangers and seven Pennsylvania men,” Duncan inserted. “In a place called Galilee?”

“The rangers went missing over the past three months. Corporal Larkin, Frazier, Hughes, Robson, and the others. The best of men, with me for years. Don’t know about the Pennsylvanians but that makes the nineteen. Johnson handed Red Jacob a map, said he must memorize it, that they must not find it on him.”

“He inked it on his arm.”

Woolford winced as he tried another nod. “Then Sir William struggled to his feet and staggered to the cabinet where he keeps his tribal treasures. ‘They die when Dunsinane comes to Birnam,’ he said, and threw the oaken armor at me, saying I would need it. Very old, with an ancient protective charm, goes the legend.”

“It deflected the bullet and saved your life,” Duncan observed. “Charmed enough. Now let me help you back to your room.”

Laughter rose outside again. Woolford seemed to revive. “Not yet,” he said, gesturing toward the front door. “It’s a poor heart that never rejoices.” He began rocking forward, as if to launch himself down the stairs. Duncan extended a reluctant hand.

On the expanse of grass outside, close-cropped by sheep, Jessica played with Analie, tossing a leather lacrosse ball pinned with trailing red ribbons. From the porch Sarah cast an uneasy glance at Duncan and then called out joyful encouragement as she filled a mug of cider for Conawago. Her laugh was shallow but sincere. She worked so hard to keep the evils of the world away. Analie at least had found a place where she would be safe.

“Long Runner!” Analie ran to hug Woolford as Duncan helped him into a chair. “A strong arm, Miss Ross,” Woolford called out with surprising vigor.

“Comes from pitching Pennsylvania hay,” the Scottish girl quipped as she climbed onto the porch. “A more honest labor than prancing around the woods with a rifle all day,” she chided good-naturedly, and poured some cider for Woolford.

“When I recover,” Woolford vowed, “I’ll teach you two how to play a real game of lacrosse.”

“I eagerly await the occasion,” Jessica cheerfully replied.

Woolford, ever the devotee of Shakespeare, tipped his mug to her, then gestured with it toward all his friends. “Those friends thou hast, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of-”

His words were cut off by a sharp crack of a rifle from the trees, instantly followed by a second shot. Conawago jerked backward and Jess seemed to sag against the wall as Duncan darted to protect Sarah. She pushed him aside and leapt to Conawago, whose shirt sprouted a bright bloom of crimson. The Nipmuc ignored her, instead bending to lift Jess.