The Iroquois rangers who had run the woods with the Highlanders joined in, and the song took on the cadence of a tribal chant. “Se mo caesar mear!” Raw flesh was exposed and ripped away. “Suan na se an ni.” Tanaqua sang even louder, twisting in his bindings to see the old man. Duncan shuddered with each stroke of the leathers. Jaho’s voice died away. His eyes were locked on Tanaqua’s now, and he was smiling even as the light steadily faded from them. Winters leapt forward to grab the whip and paid for it with a vicious lash to his face. Duncan took a step forward and found a bayonet point pressed against his belly. His heart withered in his chest. The old man was looking more like one of the anatomical specimens of Duncan’s medical college than a living human.
Kincaid would not stop. Jahoska had known he would not stop when he had taunted the officer with the medallion. The Jacobite song faded away and in the terrible silence they could hear small animal-like moans coming from the old man each time the lash struck. Finally Jaho clenched his jaw and took up a war chant of his own people, the words rushing out between grunts of pain. Kincaid, tiring of his gruesome work, handed the whip back to Gabriel, who took up the task with renewed energy, working the lashes down the old man’s spine until the bright ivory of bone could be seen. One of the marines turned away, retching. Gabriel’s arm rose up and down as the blood pooled on the ground. The superintendent cooed like a satisfied bird.
At last there seemed no point in continuing. The mutilated body on the post looked like those left on battlefields after cannonballs turned men inside out. No one spoke.
“You will die. You will die hard for this.”
It took Gabriel a moment to realize the vow had come from Tanaqua, still tethered in front of him. He raised his whip, then froze as an ungodly din rose from across the field.
The tribes from the far shore of the ocean had been watching. Just a stone’s throw away over a hundred Africans were in a line, pounding their tools against buckets, sticks, and slop bowls, ignoring the overseers who shouted and slapped their backs with their short whips. Ursa was at the center, banging his hoe against the blade of a shovel. The sound was shockingly loud, with a treacherous, determined quality to it. The Africans’ overseers backed away. When their tribe faced battle, Kuwali had explained to Duncan, pounding weapons on shields was a common way of terrifying an enemy, just as the Viking ancestors of the Scots had once done long ago.
Gabriel retreated several steps, calling for his pharaohs to surround him. Kincaid frantically ordered his men into a defensive formation and they too began retreating toward the road. No one stopped Winters as he stepped forward to cut Jaho’s bindings. He dropped to his knees beside the old man’s limp body.
Duncan took a step forward, then another. As Gabriel and his men reached the road, Duncan and the tribesmen rushed to the yard, releasing Tanaqua.
Duncan saw the bloodthirsty way Tanaqua eyed the superintendent but Murdo reached him first, gripping his shoulder. “This is not what he would want, my friend,” the big Scot said. “Do not throw your life away.”
“This is the hour of the half king’s death,” Tanaqua stated in an anguished voice.
Duncan’s throat tightened. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Aye, it is the hour of Jahoska’s death.”
“He did not go to Hobart last night. It was not Jaho who took the viper into that room.”
“But he was honored that you did, and that you placed the dead woman’s medallion in his unconscious hand. This was the day he was going to die, Tanaqua. He just chose the hour. Kincaid’s accusation of murder was his redemption, don’t you see? Hobart’s death was the beginning of the restoration of the lost god. The torture at the post was nothing compared to the torture of thinking the ancient Blooddancer would be gone forever, and all those deaths for naught. By being accused of the murder he knew what had happened, knew with certainty that the guardian of the god would not fail.” He knelt by the old man and felt for a pulse before giving a mournful shake of his head. “You gave him a great gift, Tanaqua.”
The Iroquois rangers formed a circle around Jahoska and began a mourning chant, one of the songs used to summon the spirits to greet a great soul. Tanaqua joined in for a moment but then his words choked away as Winters covered the dead Susquehannock with a blanket.
Duncan led him away to the water barrel.
The Mohawk dipped his face in the water, then gripped the sides of the barrel with his hands and stared at his reflection. “I would have taken him away had I known who he was earlier,” he said.
“He would not have gone,” Duncan replied.
“I do not understand,” the Mohawk said. “Jaho knew he would just feed Kincaid’s fury but he broke away to-” he searched for words, “perform that strange dance.”
“He knew death was close. It was going to be the last thing he did,” Duncan said, struggling himself to understand the last desperate movements of the half king.
“The blows to his head,” Tanaqua suggested. “His wits were scrambled.”
Duncan looked at the stable door and then at the patch where Jaho had halted, trying to reconstruct what he had seen. Jaho had stopped where he would be conspicuous to Duncan and his friends. The devout follower of the forest gods had offered a Christian prayer. He had made a pantomime with his hands to his head. He had offered a plant to the reviled English officer. Duncan nodded. “His wits were scrambled,” he echoed in an empty voice, though he was not entirely certain that what they had seen was the result of a concussion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The moon was behind the clouds as Duncan slipped out of the stable to follow the tracks of the mule in the damp soil. By the time he reached Winters, the young overseer was already climbing the hill. A spade was on his shoulder and the body on the mule was wrapped with what appeared to be a linen tablecloth.
It was several minutes before either spoke. “The Judas slaves are required to remain in their quarters at night,” Winters finally muttered.
“And you are supposed to be letting Gabriel stage a performance tomorrow,” Duncan replied, “to demonstrate what happens to those who won’t bend to his will.” The Judas slaves had already been told to expect an assembly after breakfast at the base of the knoll.
“Gabriel gave orders to hang Jaho from the new gibbet in the morning,” the overseer said in a brittle voice, then paused and looked at Duncan. “I could whistle right now and the dogs would come running. The pharaohs find great sport in turning a runaway into a meal for their hounds.”
Duncan ignored the half-hearted threat. “He was my friend too, Jamie. May I call you that? That’s how Alice calls you. Did she give you the linen?” Duncan rested a hand on the body. “If you hadn’t taken him away I would have, whatever the cost.” He reached out and Winters let him take the spade. The moon emerged from the clouds and Duncan saw that his face was streaked with tears.
“We’re not going to the cemetery,” Winters declared, then pulled on the lead rope and clucked for the mule to move faster.
They passed the flat clearing with the wooden grave markers and continued up the narrow path where old Jaho had disappeared the day they had buried Devon. After a quarter hour they reached a tall, steep bluff, the highest point for miles, that offered a broad view of not only the plantation but also the silvery ribbon of the river winding away to the east and the shadowy bulk of the Blue Ridge mountains in the opposite direction.