limb above him, a tanager, which seemed to be intently watching the men below. McGregor reached into his belt and extracted a scrap of paper. "Passed to the guard for you," he whispered as Duncan recognized the elegant handwriting of his friend.
I can see a hint of dawn between the bars, Conawago's note began. It will be a fine day to begin a journey. There is a formation of rocks like a chimney on the ridge south of the river. If you happen to be nearby in a year's time I will meet you there. I am Conawago, son of the Nipmuc. Listen to the wind and you shall hear my name.
Duncan's eyes welled with tears. The old Indian referred to his journey to the spirit world. Despite his training by the Jesuits, despite living in the European world for many years, he was steadfast in the beliefs of the woodland tribes. The journey to the other side took twelve full months to achieve, which is why rituals were held on the one-year anniversary close to the place of death.
Suddenly young Hadley was on the witness stool. Duncan stood up and leaned forward, as the young officer described how he had been at the front of the column and noticed the movement at the big beech tree. He described his horror at discovering the Indian bent over his captain.
Is it possible," Brindle asked, "that this Indian was ministering to the unfortunate Captain Burke?"
"He had his knife out."
"To cut a bandage perhaps?"
Duncan's heart flushed with hope. The magistrate would not be led by Latchford.
"I saw no bandage."
"It was a bandage!" Duncan shouted as he shot up again. "Conawago was tending the wounds!" Protests rose up from those around him.
Latchford pounded the table. A provost started toward Duncan, then McGregor pulled Duncan down.
Hadley hesitated, looking at Duncan.
"There was no bandage!" The low, insistent words came from the bearded sergeant at the front.
Hadley looked at the sergeant, then at the simmering men of his company, neighbors and comrades all from home, before looking down into his hands. "There was no bandage."
"Why would he nail Burke to the tree?" Duncan shouted. "He had no nails! He had no nails!"
Felton leaned over his uncle a moment, his whispered words bringing a shadow to Brindle's face.
"In the valley where you live," the magistrate asked Hadley, "was there not an incident involving the nailing of hands?"
Hadley's own face darkened. He looked to the bench of militia before speaking. "There was an incident, not many years ago. Some Iroquois were caught taking food. They were punished."
"Punished?" Latchford pressed.
Hadley choked for an instant. The bearded sergeant stood up. "We hanged 'em proper!" he barked. "Then nailed them to a barn by their war path. Now this old fool heathen thinks he takes his vengeance on us."
Duncan stared in disbelief, pushing down his roiling emotions so he could reason with himself. There had to be something he was missing, had to be a piece of evidence that would save the man who, more than any other, was like family to him. The boundary tree, the clock gear, the copper all meant something, but through his miasma of fear and fatigue he could not find the pattern uniting them.
Suddenly McGregor was pulling him up, steering him toward the judges' table. The Quaker magistrate stated Duncan's name in a loud, steady voice.
"Are you landed, Mr. McCallum?" Brindle asked as Duncan took the witness stool.
"Sir?"
"Are you a landholder in Pennsylvania province?"
"I am not." Duncan's mind raced. He could ill afford to have the judge probe his background. If they knew the truth, that he was technically indentured to the family of Lord Ramsey in New York, they would never let him testify, and they would probably order him put in irons. "I am but recently arrived from Scotland," he ventured.
McGregor, standing at the side of the makeshift courtroom, loudly cleared his throat. "Men who volunteer to scout against the enemy heathen, your lordship, be of great service to the province." He was
I can see a hint of dawn between the bars, Conawago's note began. It will be a fine day to begin a journey. There is a formation of rocks like a chimney on the ridge south of the river. If you happen to be nearby in a year's time I will meet you there. I am Conawago, son of the Nipmuc. Listen to the wind and you shall hear my name.
Duncan's eyes welled with tears. The old Indian referred to his journey to the spirit world. Despite his training by the Jesuits, despite living in the European world for many years, he was steadfast in the beliefs of the woodland tribes. The journey to the other side took twelve full months to achieve, which is why rituals were held on the one-year anniversary close to the place of death.
Suddenly young Hadley was on the witness stool. Duncan stood up and leaned forward, as the young officer described how he had been at the front of the column and noticed the movement at the big beech tree. He described his horror at discovering the Indian bent over his captain.
Is it possible," Brindle asked, "that this Indian was ministering to the unfortunate Captain Burke?"
"He had his knife out."
"To cut a bandage perhaps?"
Duncan's heart flushed with hope. The magistrate would not be led by Latchford.
"I saw no bandage."
"It was a bandage!" Duncan shouted as he shot up again. "Conawago was tending the wounds!" Protests rose up from those around him.
Latchford pounded the table. A provost started toward Duncan, then McGregor pulled Duncan down.
Hadley hesitated, looking at Duncan.
"There was no bandage!" The low, insistent words came from the bearded sergeant at the front.
Hadley looked at the sergeant, then at the simmering men of his company, neighbors and comrades all from home, before looking down into his hands. "There was no bandage."
"Why would he nail Burke to the tree?" Duncan shouted. "He had no nails! He had no nails!"
Felton leaned over his uncle a moment, his whispered words bringing a shadow to Brindle's face.
"In the valley where you live," the magistrate asked Hadley, "was there not an incident involving the nailing of hands?"
Hadley's own face darkened. He looked to the bench of militia before speaking. "There was an incident, not many years ago. Some Iroquois were caught taking food. They were punished."
"Punished?" Latchford pressed.
Hadley choked for an instant. The bearded sergeant stood up. "We hanged 'em proper!" he barked. "Then nailed them to a barn by their war path. Now this old fool heathen thinks he takes his vengeance on us."
Duncan stared in disbelief, pushing down his roiling emotions so he could reason with himself. There had to be something he was missing, had to be a piece of evidence that would save the man who, more than any other, was like family to him. The boundary tree, the clock gear, the copper all meant something, but through his miasma of fear and fatigue he could not find the pattern uniting them.
Suddenly McGregor was pulling him up, steering him toward the judges' table. The Quaker magistrate stated Duncan's name in a loud, steady voice.
"Are you landed, Mr. McCallum?" Brindle asked as Duncan took the witness stool.
"Sir?"
"Are you a landholder in Pennsylvania province?"
"I am not." Duncan's mind raced. He could ill afford to have the judge probe his background. If they knew the truth, that he was technically indentured to the family of Lord Ramsey in New York, they would never let him testify, and they would probably order him put in irons. "I am but recently arrived from Scotland," he ventured.
McGregor, standing at the side of the makeshift courtroom, loudly cleared his throat. "Men who volunteer to scout against the enemy heathen, your lordship, be of great service to the province." He was