Beside the forged letter from the baronet were three more, each signed by one of the governors whose handwriting appeared on the wall. They were instructions to the chief officers of their legislatures, ordering that no members of the colonial legislature were permitted to travel outside the colony without their governor’s permission. The Krakens were getting desperate in their efforts to block the feared congress.
When he finally looked back, Bowen gave him a bitter smile. “As you see, they keep me alive for my art. Using the stolen handwriting samples I have mastered fourteen different hands at last count. I could hang for even one. I have fourteen nooses waiting. After the first it didn’t seem to matter.”
“Not if you have been compelled against your will, sir.”
Bowen hesitated, his brow creased with inquiry. “Why would you burn my mill?”
“To escape. We have a ship waiting. You no longer work for the Commodore.”
Bowen’s reaction was one of alarm, not relief. He shrank back as Tanaqua approached, but did not resist as the Mohawk bent over his manacle, taking out one of the pins they used to pop open such restraints. “No! No! He vowed to crush my hands if I tried to escape!”
“Do what we say, Mr. Bowen, and your hands will remain intact.”
As Tanaqua worked, Duncan studied the room. The lamps had been positioned to illuminate the easel near Bowen’s stool. A drop of chestnut-colored paint fell into a pool of a similar color at the foot of the easel. Bowen had not been working on another forgery when they disturbed him. As Tanaqua tapped at the pin with the hilt of his knife, Duncan pulled away the muslin cover.
His heart leapt into his throat. Although the portrait was not yet complete, the fiercely determined eyes, the high cheeks, the auburn hair, and soft yet firm chin were unmistakable.
“Where is she?” he demanded of Bowen. “Where is Sarah Ramsey? Where did you see her?”
“They didn’t tell me her name. I-I didn’t ask permission, sir, beg pardon. But she was so striking. Sometimes-” he gestured toward the table. “After all this sometimes I just want to paint a thing of beauty. I only saw her but a few minutes when she arrived, while I was in the kitchen, then again at noon today. I was showing the lieutenant some letters upstairs. She was asleep on a chaise by the window, with the sunlight playing on her hair. I didn’t mean to . . .” his words faded into a stammer. He looked down nervously as Tanaqua pried open the manacle. “Please, sir. You misunderstand. I can’t go up without his permission. Without my hands my life is for naught.”
“Kincaid?”
“Not the lieutenant. The Irish giant. A gentleman named Teague.”
A hungry, angry sound rose from Tanaqua’s throat.
They had to practically drag Bowen up the stairs but he did not protest as they led him out the door to the print shop. They assured him he would be safe as they lowered him down with Prindle, who was snoring again.
From the house they finally heard movement. Shapes dropped from the lower windows into the boxwood and rhododendron around the house. The Seneca guards were positioning for battle.
Suddenly it was quiet. The boisterous men in the cobbled street had disappeared. An owl hooted from the stable across from the house. A whippoorwill answered from somewhere near the church, and urgent whispers rose from the Seneca hiding among the plantings. They recognized the Iroquois calls. An eerie drumming began from the loft of the stable. Hughes had found a drum in the church.
The owl called again, and the baffles of two lanterns fell away, one in the church steeple and one in the open door of the stable loft. Frightened gasps came from the shadows around the house.
A ghostly figure appeared in the light of the steeple. Bones dangled from the huge, angular, white body beneath a hideous, twisted face. It was an Iroquois spirit, or the closest effigy the rangers could manage in the short time they had to prepare. In the stable, the skull of a horse, found hanging on a peg at the back of the stable, had been adorned with horns of braided straw. Hung from a rope, it appeared to eerily hover over the lantern.
“Is this the night you pay the gods?” the figure by the steeple called out in the Iroquois tongue.
More whispers, some frantic, could be heard from the shadows, then quieted as Tanaqua spoke from behind a tree, only thirty feet from the house. “Brothers, come with us to the north. We will give you venison and warm robes for the winter. There is no honor in dying for these men.”
The tall Seneca who had confronted them at the cellar door appeared in the moonlight. Five others joined him, including one with a musket who had been hiding only ten feet from Tanaqua.
Muskets roared from second-floor windows, aimed at the spirit figures. One ball hit the bell, raising a clear, solitary peal that lingered over the silent town. Angry voices rose from inside the house. A familiar figure leaned out as he saw the Senecas fleeing down the street.
“Damned cowards!” Teague boomed from the window. “I’ll harvest every one of y’er scalps, damned ye to hell!” He fired a musket and one of the Senecas cried out in pain, holding his shoulder. His companions grabbed him and quickly pulled him into an alley.
The men in the house were prepared for a battle, but the rangers and Iroquois did not fight battles, they fought skirmishes with short, stealthy attacks. More second-story windows opened, and more muskets appeared, accompanied by angry curses as marines discovered their flints were missing. A rifle cracked from the stable, another from a tree, each wounding a man in the windows, who were angrily pushed aside as more of Teague’s men returned the fire. Duncan was not worried, for his companions were trained to always move after firing a shot.
One of Teague’s men darted out of the front door and was instantly rendered unconscious by Ononyot, who materialized out of the shadows by the door. Another man made the mistake of leaning out a first-floor window and was instantly pulled out, headfirst, by Hyanka.
Duncan, Murdo, and three rangers entered through the kitchen and warily approached the central hallway, where two of Teague’s ruffians stood with muskets aimed at the front door. A shadow darted past Duncan, and Kuwali slammed a broom onto the back of the nearest man then disappeared into the darkened dining room.
“Goddamned little piece of manure!” the man spat and leapt after the boy. The broom handle shot out, tripping him, and Duncan heard the ring of an iron skillet on his skull. Analie appeared, victoriously waving her weapon from the kitchen. Kuwali and the girl had refused to stay on the sloop. The man remaining by the stairway backed into the pistol held by Trent. “Nice and gently now,” the former overseer said in a whimsical voice as he reached for the musket. “The party’s almost over and it’d be a pity to leave blood on the floor for folks to slip on.”
The man yielded, and was led away to be bound with the other captives. Duncan and Tanaqua cautiously ascended the stairs. The chamber at the top, apparently used as a small ballroom, echoed with the retort of another musket aimed out the window.
Duncan spoke to the man who had just fired. “Sergeant, there are a dozen men out there who would rejoice at the chance of balancing their score with you. Surrender now and you will survive.”
The sergeant spun about and reached into his cartridge box but his hand came out empty. “Fix bayonets!” he screeched.