Three hours later Murdo gave a low whistle and nodded toward the stable. A new prisoner was being deposited there, supported by two men at his shoulders under the angry direction of Gabriel. The man appeared more dead than alive, but as they reached the door, he struggled, knocking off his powdered wig, and earning a knob on the skull from Gabriel. He was thrown inside and the door barred.
At the end of the day the door to the Judas slaves’ stable was still barred and Trent stood guard. Duncan ate his meager supper quickly then approached the door. Trent glanced at the setting sun and offered no challenge as Duncan lifted the bar and entered.
The man lying on the platform jerked awake at Duncan’s touch, pulling away and thrusting an arm over his face. He was perhaps forty years of age, and though his clothes were torn and soiled, they were obviously those of a gentleman. The blood on the back of his shirt showed that he had received his welcoming lashes.
“Your tormenters are gone,” Duncan said. “I would tend your wounds.” As he spoke he became aware of movement behind him, and saw Jaho filling a mug from a crock beside his makeshift altar.
“The willow bark,” Duncan guessed as the Susquenhannock extended the mug to the new prisoner.
The old man nodded. “I would have preferred to dry it and grind it, but this will do.”
Duncan took the heavily chipped mug and held it up to the man’s lips. “All of it, to ease the pain.”
The stranger sipped and winced at the bitterness before downing the contents of the mug. “There’s been some ghastly mixup!” he blurted out. “You must take me back to the manor house. These are slave quarters. By God, I will have strong words with that damned overseer!” He paused, considering Duncan and Jaho. “You work for him?”
“We are chattels of the estate,” Duncan replied. “If you were to rank the population of this plantation, there would be the unseen owner, then the aristocrats of the manor and the superintendent, after that there is the house staff, the field overseers, the Africans, the horses, the pigs, and finally those of us who inhabit this stable. Although Superintendent Gabriel might suggest the dung piles rank higher as well.”
The man’s anger waned, replaced by confusion. “But you sir-look at you. You are-” he searched for a word.
“Scottish,” Duncan suggested.
“Yes, well. Scottish,” he said with a nod, then cast an uncertain glance at Jaho. He took in his surroundings, and tried to rise, triggering a clang of metal. The color drained from his face as he discovered the manacles on his ankles, and for a moment Duncan saw despair in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, rose from the platform, and began to brush his clothes. “These must be quarters for the Africans.”
“The Africans are treated better. They are allowed their own gardens, and many live with their families. The only men we have ever seen in manacles are those of this building.” Duncan put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You were not mistakingly sent here.”
“I will summon a magistrate! They do not know who I am!”
“Our confinement is secret. You will not be permitted to send a message. I doubt anyone knows you are here.”
“I was taken in the night,” the stranger explained. “I heard a noise in my stable, went out to investigate, and was hit on the head. Secret? What can you mean, sir?”
“Secret punishment for the secret committees of correspondence. They call us the Judas slaves. Most of us were runners for the committees.”
Duncan’s words struck the man like a physical blow. He sank back down onto the platform. “Dear God . . .” he gasped. “They wouldn’t dare . . .” He sagged and Duncan took his arm and lowered him onto the platform. He buried his head in his hands. “Not now, surely not now of all times!”
“There is food outside,” Duncan said. “If you don’t eat before dusk there will be nothing until tomorrow. Eat, then we will clean your wounds.”
The stranger did not respond. They left him still holding his head, stricken, muttering “no, no, no” to himself.
Minutes later the new slave stepped outside. He seemed drained, so weak he clutched at the door frame. Sturgis, one of the Virginians, ran to him, helping him to a seat on the nearest log before bringing him a slab of bread and a piece of dried fish.
Duncan gave him a few minutes to eat before approaching.
“It’s Major Webb, sir!” the Virginia runner explained to Duncan.
He studied the weary man. Atticus had been the only one to know all the runner marks, except Webb, Devon had declared in front of the company the night he died. It could be no coincidence that Webb was now a prisoner.
“Not anymore, Private,” the gentleman said with a sigh, then looked up and extended his hand to Duncan. “Just Elijah Webb, farmer and owner of a dry goods store in Louisa County now. I have been remiss in my manners, Mr.-”
“McCallum. Duncan McCallum.”
“The major was our senior officer in the militia,” Sturgis explained. “When we came back after whomping the Shawnee above the Shendandoah, didn’t Colonel Washington say he prayed he could find ten more just like you?”
“The war’s over, son.”
“Then why are good soldiers in a prison camp, sir? Perhaps a new war is beginning.”
Sturgis’s words seemed to shake Webb. The intense, worried stare he aimed at his former ranger was broken by Sergeant Morris, who, finally recognizing the officer, gave a sharp whistle. Moments later six men stood in a line before Morris, including young Townsend, who saluted Webb with a knuckle to his forehead. They were a ragged, battered company but each was clearly heartened to see their former officer.
Webb struggled to his feet, declining help from Duncan, and shuffled along the line, ignoring the rattle of his chains, greeting each man by name. “Braford, is that young boy of yours up on two feet yet?”
“Prancing like a young buck, sir.”
“Sturgis, still have that fast thoroughbred?”
“Swift as a Chesapeake eagle.”
“Preston, did you ever find that lost hound?”
It was the first time Duncan had seen the tall, scarred man smile. “Just went into the woods to have young ones. Came back with eight whelps on her heels.”
Webb studied the file of weary men, who were struggling to remain erect like good soldiers. “All of you were runners?”
Braford nodded vigorously. “Liberty and Wilkes, sir.”
“How long have you been here? What is your sentence?”
Braford swallowed hard. “Death by hanging, says Mr. McCallum. Let him have a look at your wounds, sir. He’s a medical gentleman-.”
Webb stared at Duncan in disbelief. “Death? Ridiculous. Why would you put such a horrid notion in their heads?”
“The men behind this rolled up all the runners,” Duncan explained. “Several of them are already dead, murdered and mutilated, the rest imprisoned here.” Webb shuddered, and held his belly again. “Please sit, sir. We should wash your wounds while we still have light.” Webb complied, and Duncan explained his journey from Edentown as he and Jaho tended the torn flesh on the major’s back.
“But who would do such a thing?”
“The ones you warned Philadelphia about,” Duncan replied. “What caused you to send the warning?”
“A letter from London reported that several supporters of Mr. Wilkes disappeared mysteriously. One of the lost men reached a merchant ship owned by a friend that was docked in Jamaica, his back riddled with pitiful scars and burning with fever. Said he had been knocked on the head in London and awakened in chains on the high seas, then taken to a slave plantation in Jamaica. He seemed raving mad, but used his last breath to say Wilkes had to warn his American correspondents about the Kraken Club.”
“The Krakens use the runner marks for deception,” Duncan observed. “Devon said you knew them all.”