The first was simply a folded sheet bearing the simple word “evidence” and Hobart’s signature on the outside, and as he lifted it, a single tax stamp fell out, one of those, Duncan suspected, that he had distributed to the company earlier in the summer. The next was a list of peculiar supplies, also in what appeared to be Hobart’s hand. Burnt bone dust, gum water, badger hair, prussian green, linen, lampblack, carmine. They studied the strange list, futilely trying to connect its contents to some purpose of the Krakens, then moved to the third paper, which was in a different hand. Larkin, oldster with black and grey beard, it said at the top. Then, Burns, red hair and scar above left eye, Frazier, powder scar on his cheek, Hughes, brown hair and bent nose, Townsend, youngster with blond hair tied at nape. It was a list of the men whose feet had been maimed. Duncan handed the paper to Webb.
The major read it and went still, closing his eyes. When he recovered he pulled out a writing lead, took the first list, turning it over to its blank side, and rose. “Sergeant Morris,” he called out, gesturing the sergeant forward. “I need a list of the men whose feet were pierced, ranked according to their ability to still walk.”
Morris frowned, but took the paper and paced along the company before sitting on the platform and writing names. As he reported back to Webb he took no notice of Murdo and Tanaqua as they followed him. Webb studied the paper Morris handed him, then with a grave expression offered it to Duncan, who quickly scanned it before looking up at the sergeant.
“A well-trained spy would have concealed the handwriting,” Duncan observed to Morris in a casual tone. “But then you never would have expected that I would be invited into Hobart’s quarters to examine his body.”
As Duncan extended the list of men from Hobart’s chamber, Sergeant Morris took a step backward, only to have Murdo and Tanaqua each seize an arm. His face drained of color. Duncan read the names and descriptions he had taken from Hobart’s room. “What was your price?” Duncan asked. “Six hundred forty acres? No,” he decided. “More. You didn’t just spy. Maybe two whole sections of Ohio bottomland? Was that your price for killing Devon and reporting on all that happens here? And no doubt setting the traps that snared all the Virginian rangers.”
“You’re going to hang, the lot of ye!” Morris spat. “Betraying the king!”
Duncan ignored him. “You didn’t want to give up that cheroot made from the tax commission. You were going to take it as evidence. All you could do was give them a single stamp, the one I gave you.” Duncan lifted the stamp. “You were most interested when Devon mentioned that Major Webb knew all the runner marks, but you cut him off when he wanted to speak about the water route.” He dropped the stamp. Morris watched it flutter to the floor. When he looked up Hughes was holding his knife inches from Morris’s neck. “Then you pounded a planting stick down his throat.”
“I was lashed that day with the rest of you!”
“Of course. How else to keep your secret safe? And two days later Major Webb is brought in as a prisoner.”
The sergeant frantically pushed back against Murdo and Tanaqua. Duncan put his hand on Hughes’s arm.
“He must die!” Hughes growled.
“What is it about the water route we’re not supposed to know?” Duncan pressed, still restraining Hughes’s hand. “Where do the ships go when they leave here?” He let the blade inch closer to Morris.
“I don’t know!” Morris groaned. “They call it the counting house, that’s all I know. They take the boats to the counting house!” The blade touched his throat. “They would never trust me. I am just another commoner, one of their servants!”
Duncan knew he was right, and knew also that if they inflicted the punishment Morris so richly deserved, Gabriel’s reaction would interfere with their escape.
They heard the sound of the bar being lifted in the early dawn, then the gasp of surprise and the thud of the bar on the ground. Murdo kicked open the door but no one stepped outside. Trent began blowing his horn.
Framed in the open doorway they could see Morris, gagged and bound, suspended from the big oak by a rope looped under his arms. His body was badly bruised from the beating he had taken, and from the pebbles Sinclair had shot at him with his sling as he was suspended. Blood dripped down his face. His Virginia men had sewn the tax stamp into the skin of his forehead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Duncan did not understand the grin on Gabriel’s face when he arrived to watch Morris be cut down. The pharaohs too had seemed amused as they laid the unconscious sergeant over a horse and led him away to the overseers’ barn. An hour later, when the sun was burning their skin in the fields, they heard the groan of heavy axles and saw a crew of Africans hauling the cut timbers on oxcarts toward the knoll at the bottom of the fields. The Africans had been told they were cutting timbers for a new shed but Duncan knew better.
Workers in the manor compound stood on the lawn and watched as the slaves fitted the joints together, hammering in pins and positioning the joined pieces under the direction of some of the overseers. As the lunch cart began its slow journey into the fields, the ox teams began pulling, raising the frames as the men levered them into holes. The lunch had been served out by the time the company began to recognize the structure. Many stopped eating and just stared. By the end of the day the gallows would be ready, and beside it the gibbet for displaying their bodies.
“There is no time left. We must leave this place,” Duncan said to Webb, who seemed unable to take his eyes off the knoll. “When Ramsey arrives with his tame magistrate he will be impatient to begin putting it to work.”
The major spoke without turning. “Not with our best men crippled, and another eight or nine who couldn’t run a quarter mile without collapsing. Barely half a dozen strong enough to resist if we are followed. Not to mention no one to guide us through the swamp. My God,” he moaned, as the Africans levered up the first posts of the gibbet and dropped it into its holes. The major’s hand went to his neck. “This is the end.”
Duncan shook Webb’s shoulder, pulling him around to face him. “Tomorrow night,” Duncan pressed. “If Jahoska has not regained enough strength, I will carry him on my back so he can guide us. It has to be tomorrow night. Those who haven’t enough strength will have to be helped by those who do.”
They both looked back at their quarters. They had left Jahoska still unconscious, his pulse but a faint tremor. Trent had ordered all of them out, leaving no one to tend to the Susquehannock, whose aged body had no strength to recover from his injuries. Even Chuga was gone, for in that second night of his coma Jaho had awakened and, his arm draped over the mournful dog, had whispered for long minutes near his ear, then asked Duncan to take him back to the swamp before slipping back into unconsciousness. The big retriever had stayed dutifully on the bank, staring at the slave barracks.
Duncan had not seen Webb so despondent in all the long weeks of their imprisonment. The major cast a glance toward the young overseer. “Young Winters has a Christian heart. Maybe he will bring paper and ink if I ask. The men will want to write their families.”
When Murdo straightened an hour later Duncan thought he had seen the water cart coming. “Sweet Mother Mary!” the big Scot gasped.
Duncan followed his eyes toward the far end of the field, where a horse stood, bareback, a stone’s throw from the forest. “It’s my Joanie, Duncan! It’s little Joan of Arc!”
Duncan cupped his hand above his eyes to look at the chestnut horse. “Surely not, Murdo. It’s too far away for us to know. She could never have-”
“But I know her!” Murdo insisted. “My Jess’s favorite. Fearsgar math!” he shouted.
The horse’s head snapped up at the Gaelic greeting and she trotted fifty feet closer. The Pennsylvania men were all watching now, confused grins lifting their despairing faces. Then something behind her caught the mare’s attention. She snorted and wheeled about, kicking up her feet as she disappeared up the forested slope.