“Freedom? Here is where you learn about freedom, McCallum. The only real chains you wear are those you put on yourself.”
The deep onk a lunk cry of a bittern rose out of the reeds.
“Why stay in this prison?”
“Here is where you learn about freedom,” Jaho repeated.
Something rippled the water between two islands of reeds. Jahoska made a gesture toward the water’s edge. “She leaves a basket for him sometimes. One of the kitchen maids whose tribe lived by a big river across the ocean.”
Duncan eased himself down the bank and discovered a wicker basket partially submerged in the water. It was half filled with clams, on top of which was a short knife with a thick blade. The disturbance in the water grew closer as Duncan put the blade to one of the clams.
“For your brother,” Jaho urged and somehow, with a tremor of his heart, Duncan understood. “Just crack it open,” his companion said, then erupted in a hoarse laugh.
On the bank, an arm’s length away, an otter had materialized. Water dripped from its sleek fur as it twisted its head, gazing first at the old man, who murmured comforting words in his ancient tongue, then at Duncan.
Ever so slowly Duncan extended the clam. The otter took a step closer and shifted to brace himself upright on his hind legs and tail, then took the clam with his front paws. With a soft sound like a purr it pushed open the loosened shell and consumed the sweet meat. When Duncan offered another it froze, then warily approached. Duncan sat like a statue as it pressed its nose against the totem pouch hanging over Duncan’s neck. It looked up with blazing eyes then with a single leap landed in Jaho’s lap, excitedly pushing its nose into his neck as the old man laughed. “I know, I know,” the Susquehannock chuckled, stroking the animal’s back. “It has taken a long time.”
Duncan felt a sudden and inexplicable joy. Something important had just happened, something he could not describe, something he could not ask about. He forgot about chains and the misery of the slaves, for in that moment Jaho had let him glimpse the other world he lived in. The otter played with the old man as if he were one of his own kind, curling around his body and emerging under his arms before leaping to Duncan and repeating the action. Duncan found himself joining in the laughter then, as the otter hovered like an excited pup, he opened the remaining clams, laying them in a row on the grass. The otter joyfully pounced on each one. When he had eaten them all he nudged his nose into Duncan’s neck then backed away into the water and slipped under the surface, performing a dolphin-like jump before disappearing.
In the silence that followed, Duncan heard a new sound, a heavy breathing behind him. He slowly turned then shrank back as he saw a large animal sitting on its haunches. It took him a moment to recognize that the great square head was that of a dog. The animal’s dark curly coat glistened with water. It seemed to be guarding Jahoska.
“Chuga used to be at the big house,” Jaho explained, “but he decided he liked it in the swamp better.”
Duncan extended a hand for the dog to sniff before leaning over to stroke its back. “In the swamp,” he said after a moment, “there must be islands.”
“Many islands.”
“And perhaps there are paths that connect the islands, that would take a man through?”
“Paths found by my people, yes. Dangerous paths. One false step and you can be in bottomless mud, the killing sands. But a man could get through if he knows the way.”
“And twenty-some men?”
Jaho was quiet for several breaths as he weighed the words. “If I helped you escape I could never come back.”
“You would be welcome among my people.”
The old Susquehannock did not reply, just rubbed the big dog behind the ears with a contemplative gaze.
“The moon will set soon,” he finally said. “We should go now.”
Duncan dutifully followed Jaho along the bank until they reached a drainage ditch that cut across the fields towards the ridge on the north side of the plantation. Chuga stayed at Jahoska’s side, matching his steady trot with long powerful strides, as watchful as a warrior. When they passed the sheds for the Africans, Duncan heard the sound of a lonely chant.
The mill and its outbuildings sat along a stream that emptied into the river, just as Larkin had drawn on the wall. Dinghies from the larger ships were tied to the small dock. The big water wheel was not turning. A soldier sat by a flaming brazier at the door of the mill, his musket leaning against the wall. Lights flickered in the windows of the long structure built into the back of the mill, confirming that it was used for sleeping quarters.
“How long have they been here?” Duncan asked.
Jaho ran his hand along Chuga’s back. “Nearly six moons. The miller disappeared and they moved in. Half a dozen of them usually, more when the bigger ships come in.”
“What do they do?” Duncan spied a second guard, sitting on a keg by the dock.
“They do what soldiers do. They make war.”
The improbable words tore at Duncan’s gut. They were the truth no one would speak. The Judas slaves were victims of a war, a silent, anonymous war. Now at last their foes would have faces.
The next morning he was shoved out of line as they headed to the fields. Two of the pharaohs, rough men with dull, cruel eyes, dropped a loop over his head and led him onto the perimeter road toward the manor compound. They answered each of his questions with a jerk of the neck strap, which they did not remove until they had shoved him into the smokehouse and thrust his shoulders through two loops tied to the center beam.
He was left hanging between two hams, steadied only by the balls of his feet on a low milk stool. Each movement brought spasms of pain to his shoulders. No runner had died in the smokehouse interrogations, Larkin had said. But Duncan was not a runner.
The two men were laughing as they entered. The bespectacled man Duncan now knew to be Lieutenant Hobart accepted a pinch of snuff from a little silver box offered by the taller of the two, a man of thin, refined features and icy eyes wearing a wig that was askew enough to reveal his blond hair. A shorter, darker man with the boxed braid of a seaman hanging over his neck followed them inside, shutting the door and dropping a leather bag on a barrel head.
“At last we meet our would-be nemesis,” the taller man said. It was, as Duncan expected, the peremptory voice he had heard calling down the stairs at Townsend’s inn.
“Lieutenant Kincaid I take it,” Duncan stated. “Did Townsend ever bring your tea?”
“Excellent. A civilized conversation! What a relief. So many of your companions want to start with crude suggestions. So refreshing to have an educated man with whom to transact business.” Kincaid paused to press snuff up his nostril, held out a palm, as if to ask Duncan’s indulgence, then released a formidable sneeze. He shook his head, smiling. “Much better. And you, Mr. McCallum. Are you perhaps an officer of some kind yourself?”
The question took Duncan by surprise. Then he recalled they had tried to kill Woolford, captain of rangers. “If I told you I was would you cut me down or cut my throat?”
His interrogators seemed amused. “Just another complication on the landscape,” Kincaid replied. “A good field officer always gets the lay of the land.” Kincaid bent so close Duncan could smell the tobacco and brandy on his breath. “Who the hell are you?”
“Just a tracker from the north. Asked to find some murderers. A tall blond man aided by an Irish giant named Teague. And the man who waited for them on the Susquehanna after they killed a young Scottish woman and an Oneida.”
“Asked by whom?”
“The army,” Duncan tried.
He did not miss the confused glance that passed between them. Kincaid shrugged, and picked up a slat of wood. He faced Hobart for a moment as if to converse, then with snakelike speed slapped the wood against Duncan’s cheek.