Not for the first time Duncan wondered about Winters, who often seemed uncomfortable with his duties. Even Trent was different somehow from the other overseers, for the glint in his eyes was often that of a deep-seated anger at something rather than the casual cruelty displayed by the others. Now, accompanying the burial detail, he had lost his usual surliness. “Mend y’er lines, ye lubbers,” he mildly chastised when Burns stumbled and lost his grip on the carrying rope, letting the corpse touch the ground. “Level y’er ballast, damn ye,” he added, though it came out as more of a dutiful reprimand.
Through the mist came a new sound. Old Jaho, almost invisible now, was speaking. Duncan knew none of the Susquehannock words, but he recognized the tone. It was a burial chant, a request for a gate to open into the next world. The words grew louder as they began to climb, and Duncan realized they must be nearing the burial plot on the side of the hill. Small white crosses materialized out of the gloom, then suddenly the air stirred and they found themselves in a pool of sunlight, surrounded by graves. A changed world opened before them. The fields were still covered in the ground fog, a grey quilt that obscured all but the highest roofs, the tallest trees, and the masts of three ships on the river.
Jahoska’s chant faded away and he pointed to a patch of open ground. Winters distributed the tools and outlined the grave with his heel in the soft earth. They had dug nearly two feet into the moist soil when Duncan realized the old Susquehannock was nowhere to be seen. Trent, sitting on a boulder, was strangely reserved, just frowning at Winters, who gazed toward the top of the hill. As Trent stood and handed around a water gourd, Murdo shoved the stub of the commission-paper cheroot into Devon’s shroud. The Scot had paused in front of Sergeant Morris as they had left the stable yard, extending his palm. Morris had mumbled an apology, saying he had forgotten, and dropped the remains of the cheroot into Murdo’s hand.
When they had nearly finished digging, Duncan wandered toward Trent, whose gaze, not for the first time that day, had drifted toward the river. He recognized the look of a stranded sailor. “The first I make to be a brig,” Duncan offered, “and the second, with the tall mast rigged fore and aft with the pennant at top, has the look of a fast cutter. But the third, the short one, I can make no sense of.”
“Just one of those squat snows that ply up and down the bay. Come fall when the crop is dried and loaded into hogsheads the snows and luggers will be swarming the river.” Trent caught himself and cast a peeved frown at Duncan, as if Duncan had tricked him somehow.
“I crewed my grandfather’s ketch as a boy,” Duncan said, “in and out of the western isles of Scotland. If we were anchored he would dive off and swim right under the keel each morning. The first time it happened I thought he had drowned for certain. I was leaning over the rail, desperately calling his name, when the old fool put his wet hand on my neck. Scared the hell out of me. He had climbed up the other side and was standing behind me the whole time I was calling him.”
For the briefest of instants there was a glint in Trent’s eye, then his face hardened. “That hole ain’t digging itself,” he barked, and with his quarterstaff pushed Duncan back toward their task.
By the time they lowered Devon into his grave, the fog had burned entirely away, exposing the wide fields below. Old Jaho had reappeared, carrying a bundle of willow bark, and patiently listened while Winters berated him halfheartedly as slovenly and irresponsible, telling the old man he had forgotten he was a slave. But when Jaho set a twig of oak on the head of the shrouded corpse the young overseer nodded.
“Agnus Dei,” Winters declared. Before Duncan could grasp that he was speaking Latin, he continued, “qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.” Lamb of God, he had said, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
In the silence Jahoska whispered, “Appointeth the moon.”
Duncan saw Winters nod.
“He appointeth the moon for seasons,” the young overseer went on, “the sun knoweth his going down. Thou makest darkness, and it is night, wherein all the beasts of the forests do creep forth. The young lions roar after their prey and seek their meat from God. The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in dens.” When he had finished Winters saw that all but Jaho stared at him. “It is a Psalm,” he said as if apologizing. “One hundred seven.”
Duncan saw a tiny, inscrutable smile on Jahoska’s face. It may indeed have come from the Christian Bible, but it could have just as easily come from an elder at a tribal hearth.
“My father was a pastor,” Winters added.
“There should be memories offered,” Murdo suggested. “Ain’t a proper funeral without mention of his life.” No one spoke.
“I never heard him curse,” Frazier volunteered.
“A good man with a hoe,” Burns offered.
Duncan dropped a handful of dirt into the grave. “I marked his carefree nature. He was one of the few who kept hope in his eyes, as if he didn’t believe”-Duncan glanced at the overseers-“his predicament would last.”
Winters cleared his throat and spoke toward the grave. “Gates. His full name was Devon Gates, from a family of famous sharpshooters in the Shenandoah country. Corporal Gates was the youngest member of the Virginia rangers in the late Indian war. When his father was elected to the House of Burgesses, Devon would often travel with him to Williamsburg.”
“You knew his family?” Duncan interrupted.
Winters shook his head. “But we were of an age. He was one of the first white slaves brought to the stable. In the early weeks we would talk at the water barrel sometimes, until Mr. Gabriel put an end to it. Slaves are beasts of burden, he said, and it was demeaning for a man to speak with his mule. He said if I needed intercourse with a slave so badly then he would give me one of the African girls they bring to the overseers’ barn on Saturday nights.
“He saw me speaking with Devon in the field last week. Don’t treat with dead men, he said, and laughed that high-pitched laugh of his. The hyena, the Africans call Gabriel, whatever that means.”
“Someone should send word to his parents,” Murdo suggested.
“His mother died birthing a sister two years ago. His father may be in flight himself now.”
“Flight?”
“The Resolves. His father helped Mr. Henry work on the Resolves.”
Duncan struggled to understand. “You mean a law from the Burgesses?”
“Something about who has the right to tax free Virginians, stating that London had no right to tax us, only the assembly duly elected by Virginians. There was talk of an arrest warrant against Mr. Henry. At a dinner in his palace the night the Resolves were passed, the governor said Henry and every man who joined him in the vote should be shipped in chains back to London to apologize to the king.”
“Enough palaver about London and governors!” Trent growled. “We ain’t taking ease in some tavern. And ye don’t want Gabriel to hear about more of y’er chatter with mules, do ye?”
“The boy stood with the oak,” Old Jaho said suddenly, then lifted a shovel and began covering the body.
“Yes, well,” Winters muttered, then straightened and collected himself. “Put your backs into it!” he ordered in the voice of the overseer.
When they had finished their melancholy work, Trent led them back to the company in time to share a lunch of beans mashed with lard. Winters took Jaho back to the stable, where he left the willow bark he had collected.