They quickly examined the others, one of which was a letter from a judge to a nephew in the College of William and Mary, another a complaint from a merchant in Boston named John Hancock to a banker in New York. Duncan paused over the last of the papers, signed by William Johnson at Johnson Hall. It was a list sent to an Albany merchant for trunnel nails, pots of glue, six cones of sugar, a box of ginger, and four copper teapots, a favorite of the Iroquois.
“Why would the Krakens care about such trivialities?” Murdo asked. “Why pay coin for them?”
“They make no sense,” Duncan agreed, but then recalled his exchange in the smokehouse. “Except that Kincaid said Sir William will die for trunnel nails and teapots.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Judas slaves baked under the sweltering July sun, the hot wind churning dust that coated their sweating backs and parched throats. Insects worked at their eyes and ears. Impatient overseers worked at their backs. When whistles blew to call in the slave crews from the fields, Duncan and his friends were grateful for the unexpected midmorning break. But by the time they had lined up along the perimeter road behind the stable he could hear the drumbeat. A different group of overseers was coming.
The marines from the Ardent were being displayed in full scarlet plumage, marching in ranks of four to the beat of the drum, led by two mounted officers and followed by Gabriel and several of his dark riders. Duncan glanced in alarm toward the river. The cutter that had taken Kincaid and Hobart away had returned. Their soldiers paraded by the manor in front of the assembled servants and compound workers, then turned onto the northern perimeter track to pace along the assembled files of Africans.
Gabriel’s pharaohs arrived to assist Trent and Winters, slapping the Judas slaves with batons to straighten their line. The company stood in silence, sweat dripping down their faces, flies buzzing around their heads, until finally the parade arrived. Kincaid and Hobart dismounted from their thoroughbreds for closer inspection.
As he paced along the line Kincaid randomly slapped men with his riding crop, snickering when they showed signs of pain. Hobart for some reason drew his sword, resting it on his shoulder as he languidly followed Kincaid, who halted to chastise one of the Pennsylvania men for his slovenly appearance, then Ononyot for his unwashed stink. Murdo, standing beside Duncan, tightened as Kincaid approached.
Kincaid wheeled to face Duncan. He brushed his crop against Duncan’s cheeks, staring at him intensely. “How many brands will it take, McCallum? How many body parts can you spare?” he sneered, then stepped aside for Hobart, who slapped his drawn sword onto Duncan’s shoulder. “You caused us a lot of trouble that day at Townsend’s.”
“You caused us a lot of trouble that day,” Duncan shot back.
Hobart’s eyes flared. He slid the blade across Duncan’s shoulder until the cold steel rested against his neck. “Why is it always the neck for traitors, James?” He was addressing Kincaid now, who had stopped at the end of the row to use his snuffbox. “Stretch it or squeeze it or slice through it. Damned uninspired, when you think of all the other possibilities. The savages at least have this one thing right. They take a week or two to kill a captive then eat his heart.” He twisted the blade and Duncan felt a trickle of blood on his neck.
“Delaware work,” came a soft voice. Old Jaho was standing in line a few feet away.
Hobart, looked up, surprised, as he felt the Susquehannock’s gaze. “You speak to me?” he asked in an oily tone.
“I was admiring the quillwork of your medallion,” Jaho declared. “The Delaware always were the best at it.” When Duncan had told him of the murders of Peter Rohrbach and his pregnant Delaware bride, a sorrowful, faraway look had settled over the old man’s face and he had retreated to his altar.
Hobart glared at the old man. Duncan now saw that under his brass gorget he indeed wore a thin strip of painted doeskin holding a medallion, its finely worked quillwork woven into the image of a fish. The lieutenant lowered his sword. “I am rather fond of it,” he replied, his voice dripping with contempt. “Trophy of war.”
“The work of a Delaware maid,” Jahoska said. The Susquehannock tilted his head for a moment, and Duncan realized he was listening to a rustling sound in the swamp reeds below the road.
Hobart and Kincaid exchanged an amused glance. “Is that what she was?” Hobart said. “A pity she was not fit for any sport. But then we had so little time.”
Jaho’s face tightened, and Duncan braced himself in case the old man tried to move toward the officer. Kincaid assumed a businesslike air. He stood in front of the company as an officer might on inspection, then drew his own sword and moved to the end of the line with a deliberate air. The first thrust of his sword came so fast Duncan would have missed it if Burns had not cried out. Duncan did not fully understand until Kincaid struck again, at Frazier this time. He was stabbing the tip of his sword into their feet. “Stand at attention, you sniveling worm!” the lieutenant growled when Hughes sank onto a knee as his foot was cut. The men beside him helped the ranger to his feet as Kincaid walked briskly along the line, drawing more groans as he quickly pierced the feet of Larkin and Joshua Townsend before wiping his blade on the britches of Morris, at the end of the line.
His business completed, Kincaid mounted. “All done, Robert. Let us go find refreshment.”
As Hobart turned, Jaho spoke in a low voice, in his native tongue. A gasp escaped Winters, and the overseer took a hesitant step toward the old man.
Hobart halted in front of the Susquehannock. “What the hell did you say, you ancient bag of bones?”
Jaho spoke the words again, this time in precise English. “If you steal a god, the god will steal you back.”
As Hobart slapped him, Chuga erupted from the reeds, snarling, spooking Kincaid’s horse. The lieutenant reined in his mount and rode off laughing.
Jaho stared at Hobart without blinking. As Hobart hit him again the dog lunged at the lieutenant, baring its fangs. Hobart dodged the animal and drew his pistol.
“No!” Duncan cried as the lieutenant aimed at the dog, and was about to leap between Hobart and Chuga when Murdo’s hand clamped his arm like a vise.
As Winters hastened toward them, Jaho shouted at the dog, who quieted and stepped backward toward the water, but Hobart still cocked the gun. Jaho leapt just as Hobart pulled the trigger, hitting the lieutenant’s arm. The dog disappeared into the reeds and Jaho collapsed onto the bank, blood oozing from his skull.
“Good riddance!” Hobart spat. “Meddling old fool.” He viciously kicked Jahoska’s limp body, once in the ribs and once on the shoulder, before taking his horse’s reins from a soldier and trotting toward the manor, the marines following in close order.
Instantly Duncan and Tanaqua were at Jaho’s side, protected by Winters, who hovered over them, warning away the pharaohs, who laughed and rode away.
The bullet had gouged the flesh along the old man’s left temple but had not entered his skull. Duncan pulled open his shirt, torn by Hobart’s boot, touching his ribs, then asking Tanaqua to help remove the shirt so he could examine the shoulder.
A surprised gasp escaped Tanaqua’s throat.
“He is just unconscious,” Duncan assured the Mohawk. He paused, confused. Tanaqua was suddenly tracing the tattoos on the old man’s body. Tanaqua excitedly pushed aside the tattered shirt and cried out for the other Iroquois, who dropped on their knees around the old man, wonder in their eyes.
Duncan stared at Tanaqua. Never had he seen such emotion on a tribesman’s face. Never had he seen such an expression of both joy and anguish on any man’s face. Finally he looked down and saw the tattoos clearly for the first time. An oak tree covered the old man’s chest. Each shoulder was enveloped in an intricate tattoo of a bear skull.