Duncan nodded to Ursa, who disappeared into the shadows. Then Duncan led Woolford and Conawago down the path toward the manor, pausing as the harbor came into view. The cutter and the brigantine were both gone.
A shadow waited at the edge of the lilacs hedge. Trent tossed a coil of rope and an iron bar, shaped to an edge at one end by the African blacksmith, at Duncan’s feet. “You’re insane, McCallum.”
“You were insane enough to join us,” Duncan rejoined as he began unbuttoning his shirt. He slipped out of his shoes. “The rest is ready?” he asked Trent.
The overseer nodded. “At dusk two demijohns of rum appeared on board, below decks, while firewood was being delivered by slaves to the galley. But the marines on duty will never touch it.”
“The off-duty seamen will,” Duncan said. “The brawls will soon start below decks.”
“And the marines will need to bring order below,” Trent concluded, then helped loop the rope over Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan lifted the bar in one hand and took a step into the water. Conawago held him back, placing one hand on Duncan’s totem pouch, whispering a prayer to Duncan’s protective spirit. He enclosed Duncan’s own hand around the pouch, within his own, and repeated the words. Duncan felt the power of the sleek water creature rise within him as he slipped into the river.
By the time Duncan returned to the Judas Slave Stable, the air was what his grandfather would have called “weather heavy.” A slow rhythmic drumming had risen from the African quarters. The old barn that housed the overseers and night riders showed many lamps through its windows. They were awake, as if expecting trouble. But there were no guards outside the stable door. Watching from behind the big oak in the yard, Duncan soon saw why. A squad of marines, bayonets fixed on their long Brown Bess muskets, was patrolling the edge of the field.
He slipped inside and paced down the row of waiting prisoners. Most had pouches slung from their shoulders, packed with their meager belongings. Those too weak or injured to move with haste lay on stretchers improvised from sleeping pallets.
“The men are scared,” Webb confided. “Some say better the quick death of the noose than being torn apart by the dogs.” Duncan eyed the men sitting on either side of the aisle in their assigned groups of five and six. At the end of one row Tanaqua stood, ever ready, one of the kitchen knives on a strap around his chest, holding his improvised war club. Every eye was on Duncan.
“This night is why old Jaho died,” he declared to the worried faces. “He had lost his people but he found you, found us. He said it was men like us who would keep this land free. He believed in us and I will not betray his trust. Do this for your wives and children. I am doing this for an old Susquehannock who recognized something in us that we didn’t see ourselves. Freedom is in the wild, he would say. Freedom is the wild, in this land we came to. You can’t love this land without loving freedom-he made me see that.”
He paused, pulling away Jaho’s blanket to expose the escape hatch, and let the rhythmic drumming fill the silence. “The Africans beat their drums for us. They know they will not find freedom tonight. But they know we must. They say they will bring the weather we need. Three of their warriors are carrying meat into the woods, provided by the kitchen slaves, leaving a trail of blood. The meat is laced with laudanum. The dogs will find it and run no more tonight. But if those men are caught, if the kitchen slaves are caught helping, they will pay dearly for it. Do they believe in liberty more than we do?”
Hughes rose, pounding his fist into his chest, followed by Larkin and Frazier. One by one every man gave the old sign of the warrior.
As a gust of wind rattled the roof Duncan gestured the first squad outside, toward the bank along the swamp. As they moved out the door an explosion in the sky lit the fields. A lightning bolt threaded its way down and touched at the end of the field. Duncan, worried it would frighten the company, tried to ignore it, then saw the astonished looks on those beside him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Murdo gasped, and crossed himself.
The gallows had been struck. Its top beams had burst apart, and flames were spreading down the upright posts.
“Go!” Webb shouted.
Suddenly the bizarre words of Rush echoed in Duncan’s head. Rush had spoken of the geography of the place, of the way the hills and river served as a weather funnel, had yearned for an almanac. Rush, the student of Dr. Franklin, had arranged for Ursa to affix nails and a metal tray to the top of the gallows, to lure the lightning. Ursa had said he would climb to attract the gods. And the gods had responded.
As Duncan watched, the marine patrol appeared in the light of the flames, frantically running about the burning structure, but powerless to stop the destruction. On the far side of the fields the Africans had started a chant, a weird ululation that seemed in syncopation with the gusts and rumbles of the clouds.
By the time the full company was outside, lying on the bank, the clouds overhead were roaring, the thunder echoing off the hill. More bolts of lightning were striking the hills. He looked one last time over the fields and in a violent flash saw Ursa standing in the field by the flaming gallows, hands raised toward the sky, laughing, as huge drops of rain began to fall.
Duncan led the men toward the washing cove, where Winters and Trent had beached the fishing skiffs. He nodded to Webb, who waited in the shadows with the other men, then with Tanaqua and the other Iroquois he ran to the closest boat. Duncan halted with a shudder as a figure rose up from its shadow.
“Surely you didn’t think I would let you have all the fun,” Woolford said.
“Patrick, you are an officer in the king’s army. If they recognized you . . .”
Woolford stepped closer. His face was smeared with mud, his long black hair hung in braids, and two feathers dangled from a fur headband. “Tonight,” he declared, “I am a Mohawk.”
As he spoke the mill exploded.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The clouds bellowed as the shadows slipped over the railing of the Penelope. Only one marine was on deck, staring in the direction of the conflagration at the mill, whose flames now silhouetted the ridge beyond the manor house. He froze at the sight of the Iroquois warriors who materialized at his side, dropping his gun and not resisting as they gagged and bound him. Two of the marines below were playing cards as the third, their corporal, dozed in a hammock. One of the men sprang up, flinging his cards in Tanaqua’s face and paid for it with a tap of the Mohawk’s club that dropped him to the deck. The other soldier clamped his hands over his crown as if expecting to be scalped, and managed a strangled cry to his corporal, who tumbled out of his hammock and was pinned to the deck with Ononyot’s moccasined foot.
They quickly searched the ship, distributing the weapons of the marines and others they found in a locker, then signaled for the other boats to approach. Tanaqua emerged from below with half a dozen weary sailors who were clearly terrified of the Iroquois.
“We be no enemy of yours,” a wiry middle-aged man in a red cap ventured in a shaking voice, as he eyed his captors. “Whosoever ye be.”
Duncan pushed Tanaqua’s club down.
“You serve on the sloop?” he asked the man.
“Aye. First mate,” the man said with a thumb to his own chest, and pointed to the man at the end of the line, then the others. “Bosun, the rest able-bodied seamen all.”
“The Penelope is ours,” Duncan declared. “If you’re so inclined we could use your help. If not you can join the others,” he said, motioning toward the marines, who were being gagged and tied like the sentry.