CHAPTER NINETEEN
The freshly mounded graves had been arranged in neat rows, the simple markers nearest him spelling the names of his friends. Murdo Ross, Tanaqua, Patrick Woolford, Elijah Webb. The last was Duncan’s own, still empty, waiting for him. From the dirt mound beside it a hand emerged, desperately reaching into the air, exposing the turtle tattoo on its wrist.
Duncan woke, his heart hammering. His first effort to move brought a paroxysm of pain. Teague’s fists had bruised more than just a few muscles. His ribs ached, his kidneys hurt, and the flesh over his heart, where the Irishman had concentrated his final blows, was a swollen, tender mass.
He sat up, fighting a wave of nausea, and moved unsteadily toward a line of light, thinking at first he was back in one of the slave wagons, then he fell onto a packed earth floor. His dizziness subsided, and as his eyes focused he discovered three steps leading up to a slanted double door of rough timber. In the dim light, shelves were visible on the walls of the chamber, most lined with what appeared to be empty wicker baskets and demijohns. He was in the root cellar behind the manor house, the holding cell for those going to torture.
Duncan pushed on the doors. They were barred from the outside. As he pounded on them a spill of light broke through in a knot. He dropped back to the floor, combing the darkness with his fingers until he found a stone, then began chipping away at the knot. In a few minutes he had knocked away the knot entirely, opening a hole as wide as his thumb.
Pressing his eye to the hole, he saw the manor lawn in repose, the only creatures in sight being the dozen sheep that kept the grass down, clustered near the big chestnut tree. Around the edge of the manor he glimpsed a stretch of the river that encompassed the Ardent at the dock and beyond it, anchored midstream, the captured sloop, the brigantine, and Ramsey’s yacht. He studied the ships with a critical eye, considering the architecture of the vessels then trying to remember the timing of the tides that reached up the wide river.
His concentration was broken as Titus appeared on the rear portico, carrying a basket to a worktable below the kitchen window. He upended oysters onto it, the big Chestertown hogs, and two of the scullery maids settled down to open the shells. From somewhere to his right came the distant sound of an African work chant.
Benjamin Rush appeared on the kitchen porch, and soon was deep in conversation with Titus. After a few minutes the two men descended the steps and drifted along the lawn, distracted in conversation. Halfway across the lawn Titus abruptly threw an oyster shell at the nearest ewe, which gave a sudden cry and bolted, starting the others, who reacted in confused jumps and short spurting runs. The maids sprang after them. Titus started shouting, adding to the confusion as Rush darted to the cellar door. “Duncan!” he called. “Wake! I am here!”
“I am not asleep, Benjamin.”
The sound of Duncan’s voice so close gave the young doctor a start, then he saw the knothole. “Quite clever. Excellent. Did you see that stately African?”
“His name is Titus.”
“From the noble Ashanti tribe! Have you noted the elongated jaw, and the huge ear lobes? He said I could measure his foot later.”
“Benjamin.”
“Oh. Sorry. I came to tell you that he is not going to . . .” Rush searched for words. “I mean I invoked the names of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Allen, the acting governor of Pennsylvania, and the Philosophical Society to get Lord Ramsey’s assurance. Your life is to be preserved at Galilee.”
Even in the darkness Duncan closed his eyes a moment, painfully aware of the truth that Rush’s naivete did not permit him to see. Ramsey meant for Duncan to have a long and painful death, far from Galilee. “There’s over twenty others he means to hang, Benjamin.”
“I’ve seen the gallows, Duncan. High on the hill on the open field, just where the weather is funneled between mountains and river. Ridiculous.”
Duncan struggled to keep his frustration in check. “I need to see Woolford.”
“Would that I had an almanac.”
“Do not trust the men from the mill. Agents of the Kraken.”
“An iron pot or tray perhaps.”
“Sarah Ramsey. Is she safe?” Duncan had to ask the question twice to break through Rush’s strange ramblings.
“In the charge of Mrs. Dawson, who provides her with all possible comforts, though an overseer stays close.”
“Woolford? Conawago?”
“Arrangements are being made. I must go, Duncan. That man Titus said he could introduce me to warriors from the wild tribes of the Niger!”
“Do you have loose coin, Benjamin?” he asked, then continued when he saw Rush’s nod. “There is an overseer named Trent. A bald man with thick shoulders, usually carrying what looks like a quarterstaff. I need you to find him. Say he needs to bring me water. Give him a shilling for the favor.”
Less than half an hour later the sullen overseer was at the cellar door, carrying a demijohn. He did not realize Duncan could see him, and Duncan watched as he paused to study the marines who were approaching the manor house along the brick path. He spat in their direction and opened the door.
Duncan did not accept the demijohn when Trent extended it. “Come inside,” he said, “and close the door behind you.”
Trent scowled but complied, and as Duncan sat on a low shelf he settled onto the stairs.
“I could beat you into a lump of meat and say I caught you escaping.” Trent said, as if for the record.
“Of course.” Duncan nodded. “But what do you think of that sloop anchored in the river? And don’t tell me you haven’t studied her.”
Trent hesitated, raising a brow at Duncan. “Cedar built, and spry as a thoroughbred. Sixty tons or thereabouts, and able to spread enough canvas for a vessel half again as big. Once her rigging is repaired she could cut through the water like a knife, though I don’t know why her captain ain’t added a third jib in the Bermuda style.” He extracted a plug of tobacco from a pocket and bit off a chew.
“The Penelope’s captain is dead. He was the owner. He has no heirs. And now with a lie the Virginia navy makes claim to her.”
“I ain’t no sea lawyer if that’s why you brought me.”
“An old privateer knows about changing the identity of ships,” Duncan suggested. “A clever master could alter the bowsprit, raise her rails, give her a new coat of paint. Maybe add that jib you mention. No one would recognize her. London’s taxes are making wealthy men of those who are bold enough to evade them. The days of the pirate may be fading but America is going to become a smuggler’s paradise. Of course you would need men to get her away. Say about twenty or so.”
Trent stared at Duncan a long time, his tongue working the inside of his cheek. His contempt faded into curiosity. He looked at the earthen walls in the direction of the river. “The brigantine took damage but the Ardent would give chase and blow the sloop out of the water.”
“She can sail much closer to the wind, and I hear the bay has much shoal water, too shallow for a ship as big as the Ardent. With a few hours lead the Penelope would be perfectly safe.”
“Except that she won’t have a few hours.”
Duncan fought another spasm of pain before speaking again. “I will see that she does,” he said. “The tide breaks about midnight. The sloop could ride the current out and by the time the Ardent can follow, the tide will be coming in, against her.”
Trent listened, slowly chewing. “More like an hour after midnight,” he observed, then spat juice and shook his head. “You’re daft. And desperate. Desperate men have a way of ignoring hard facts. Like the patrols along the bay and the night riders with their dogs.”