“Dear God, woman, did I not tell you your father wanted you beaten if you played the savage again?”
“My claws are long,” she continued in the Iroquois tongue. “Feel my strength.”
Kincaid smiled as she stepped forward, extending her arms as if she wanted to embrace him. “What a wildcat! What a voyage we will have!”
“Enjeyeweyendane!” Sarah cried again and, stepping closer, flung her arms at him.
The thin smile on Kincaid’s face froze for a moment, then he looked down in confusion at the bone-handled knife in his abdomen. Duncan recognized the blade as Tanaqua’s. An instant later the Mohawk lifted the window and stepped in from the roof.
“You silly bitch!” Kincaid gasped, and swung the pistol toward Sarah. Duncan grabbed the barrel, resting his hand over the hammer, and pulled it from the lieutenant’s weakening grip. Kincaid stepped backward, leaning against the wall, and with great effort reached for his sword. Tanaqua pulled the knife out of his belly then helped him pull his sword from the scabbard. He made sure Kincaid had a firm grip, then took a step back to give the officer room to swing the blade.
“Stupid heathen bastard!” With surprising swiftness Kincaid sliced his blade at the Mohawk.
Tanaqua brushed the sword aside with his war ax and plunged his knife into Kincaid’s heart.
Sarah watched as the lieutenant’s body slid down the wall to settle into a sitting position, his face locked in a puzzled expression, then stepped to the cabinet built into the corner and opened its door. The Blooddancer’s crooked smile greeted them.
They worked quickly, collecting all the correspondence and records they could find and dispatching the men back to Crabtown in the wide flatbottomed ferry that plied between the town and the floating sheds. Duncan and Woolford found the frightened soldiers huddled in the barn, where they explained that Lieutenant Kincaid, whose body had been taken by the rangers to be weighted and dumped in the river, had fled and they should not expect him back. They introduced the remaining Virginia rangers and stated that the marines had to stay in Chestertown for ten days, under the guard of the rangers. After ten days they would all return to Virginia, where the rangers would attest that they had all been attacked by bay pirates and that Kincaid had valiantly died in the struggle.
Analie was in the kitchen with Prindle and Bowen, who had nodded off in a chair. In her hand she studied a little piece of jewelry, which she held out for Duncan to see. It was a watch fob, made of a little disc of polished oyster shell chased in silver. Something about it nudged at Duncan’s memory.
“Mr. Prindle says they make them here in town, the only jeweler anywhere who does so.” Analie looked up, searching Duncan’s eyes. “I told you. Francis Johnson had one just like this when he visited Johnson Hall.”
By midnight they had all reached the floating docks OF Crabtown, from which skiffs were shuttling men out to the Penelope, still hidden in the little cove beyond the point where she lay anchored.
As Duncan, Sarah, and Woolford watched one of the last of the skiffs shove off, Ononyot, at the stern, cried out in warning. They turned to see a massive figure standing in a punt coasting toward them out of the darkness, holding a treacherous pointed fishing gaff in each hand. With a roar Teague launched one of the gaffs at Duncan.
Duncan had no time to avoid the spear. With an explosion of pain it ripped into his thigh, embedding in the muscle. He staggered then collapsed halfway off the dock, one arm and the wounded leg in the water, the weight of the heavy spear dragging him down. Sarah screamed and grabbed him, jerking out the spear and pulling him onto the dock. He clutched at his wound with one hand and tried to push her away with the other.
“Look at ye now,” Teague laughed as he stepped onto the platform. “Christ knows I should have finished you both that day at Edentown. But Kincaid was in a hurry to get to the Susquehanna. Don’t start a job unless y’er going to finish it, I always say.” He balanced the remaining gaff in his outstretched arm as he approached them. Sarah threw herself over Duncan.
“Y’er such a wee thing,” Teague said to her. “I wager I can skewer ye both with one thrust,” he hissed. Through his fog of pain Duncan raised his hand, dripping with blood, to shove Sarah away, but she only rose enough to kneel beside him. As she reached for the bloody spear that had impaled Duncan a figure hurled past her with a furious Gaelic cry. Murdo hit Teague like an angry bull, knocking the spear from his grip and flattening him on the planks. He pounded the Irishman three times on the jaw before Teague could react. With a furious bellow Teague arched his back and threw Ross off.
“Ye murdered my little girl!” Ross shouted as he recovered, facing Teague with clenched fists.
The words caused Teague to hesitate. He grinned. “And such a sweet morsel she was. I only wish I had had the time to linger over her. I told Kincaid we should take her to the river with us but he said we had no time for sport.”
Sarah thrust the spear into Murdo’s hands. The big Scot made a feint toward Teague then threw it. It lodged in Teague’s side. With a howl of rage the Irishman tore the spear from his flesh and tossed it into the river.
“A darlin’ bud of a girl,” Teague continued as he inched forward. “When she tied on her petticoat that morn she never guessed she’d be gone by noon.”
“Don’t let him get close!” Duncan warned as he saw the cudgel in Teague’s hand.
But Murdo’s rage blinded him. He charged. The Irishman sidestepped and slammed the cudgel behind his ear. Murdo dropped with a groan then looked up, dazed, as Teague kicked him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him. The Irishman lifted Murdo’s torso into a sitting position and, holding him up with one hand, began pummeling him with the other. Duncan struggled to his knees and began crawling toward his friend but Sarah pushed him down and began dragging him away.
Murdo began to recover, landing weak blows on Teague’s shoulders, but the Irishman only gave a hideous laugh and hit him harder.
With a wild screech Analie burst out of a fish shed and launched herself at Teague’s feet. The Irishman was so intent on battering Murdo that he seemed not to notice at first, then aimed a kick that glanced off her shoulder. As the girl retreated, crablike on the wet boards, the Irishman paused, then let Murdo fall to the dock.
The girl had tied a rope to Teague’s knee. “Damned little banshee!” he hissed, then was about to turn back to Murdo when Tanaqua stepped out of the shadows. He was holding a heavy anchor stone. Teague hesitated, then cursed as he realized it was tied to the rope.
“You stole my god!” the Mohawk declared loud enough for the spirits to hear.
Teague frantically grabbed at the knot on his knee.
“You killed my brothers! Let the blackness take your soul,” Tanaqua declared, then tossed the anchor in a long arc into the deep river.
The rope tightened and Teague was jerked through the air. There was no chance for him to struggle, no time for him to free the knot that bound him to the anchor. With a surprisingly small splash the big Irishman entered the water and was gone.
The Penelope slipped through the night, throwing white foam off her bow. Duncan, his jagged wound washed and bound, sat on a barrel watching the stars, the lantern at his side extinguished now that he had finished reading the letters taken from Chestertown. He sensed someone behind him but did not turn.
“It made no sense,” he said, “that the name of Socrates Moon was on the forger’s wall, with an example of the old gentleman’s handwriting. Right up there with the leaders of the committees, with Samuel Adams and Benjamin Franklin. You knew all about the murders. You knew what was going on in Philadelphia and Boston and Williamsburg. You helped Patrick in his secret tasks and used Edentown, Conawago. I couldn’t understand that day in Edentown when Jessica Ross kept looking at you when she spoke of the missing men from Pennsylvania. You invited her there to establish a station in the network.”