Dickinson raised a hand. “One final thing. Mr. Moon has reminded us that there is an old treaty with the tribes. Never abrogated after all these years. It promised comity, meaning each side would respect the enforcement of the laws of the other. There was an example, right in the text, that a murderer of a tribal member would answer for his crime under tribal law, and it is the policy of Pennsylvania that if any such fugitive from Iroquois justice sought refuge within our borders, we would turn him over. The murder of an aged Susquehannock would be a matter of tribal law, of course.”
One by one Hyanka and the other Iroquois rangers who had been in Galilee filed into the chamber. Gabriel stood stricken, wide-eyed, and unable to speak, then suddenly reached into his waistcoat and extracted a small pepperbox pistol that he swung toward the Iroquois. Tanaqua pushed the barrel upward as it discharged, loosening its load into the ceiling.
No one spoke. Tanaqua pried the pistol out of his hand. As he set it on the table Gabriel gave a terrified squeal. Ononyot had slipped a prisoner’s strap over his neck.
It was late afternoon when they finally left the tavern, having seen Ramsey off with his escort of Philadelphia dragoons. Governor Allen had to leave soon himself, but Adams, Mrs. Franklin, Washington, and Dickinson insisted on hosting a banquet that night for Duncan and his companions.
“In faith, McCallum,” the governor exclaimed, “we are truly and deeply indebted to you. If there is ever anything I could do for you-”
Duncan smiled. He had prayed for the invitation. “We would not have succeeded without the Iroquois,” he replied. “There is a merchant here named Hawley,” he added, then explained what he had in mind.
“My God, McCallum. You presume much, sir.”
Duncan silently returned his stare, until the governor looked away.
Half an hour later Duncan and the governor entered Hawley’s establishment, followed by Dickinson, Conawago, and Tanaqua.
“Mr. Hawley,” Conawago said to the man behind the counter. “Might I present his excellency Mr. Allen, the acting governor of the colony, and Magistrate Dickinson?”
The storemaster’s jaw dropped open. He hastily removed his apron and offered a bow. “Honored I’m sure.”
“I understand,” Allen began, “that you hold a commission as paymaster of bounties on-” he cast an uneasy glance at Conawago and Tanaqua. “On hair,” he concluded.
“Aye, sir. An active trade for our establishment, the most active commission in the colony by all accounts.”
“Might I see it?”
Hawley frowned then excused himself as he hurried into a back office. When he returned, the governor unrolled the parchment on the counter. “Have you ink and a pen?” he inquired. As he waited again he read the words and his face clouded. “Not the proudest act of a Christian government,” he whispered, as if to himself. When the ink arrived he lifted the pen and with a flourish wrote the word Terminated across the face of the commission and signed it. “You are done, Hawley. It’s all done.” He rolled up the commission and handed it to Tanaqua. “This colony is no longer in the hair business.”
EPILOGUE
"Child!” Conawago growled to Analie. “The king will fall to the deserved victor if you would but stop showering me with Franklin’s sparks! I swear I am going to write the great doctor in London and let him know the French are perverting his science!”
Analie giggled, then drew another spark from Conawago’s fingers with the glass rod sent by Deborah Franklin in Philadelphia and skipped away, raising a deep laugh from their genteel host on the other side of the chessboard.
“I’ve begun to suspect you have bribed the girl to distract me, Sir William,” the old Nipmuc said to his chess partner.
William Johnson, baronet and Superintendent of Indian Affairs, looked up from his troubles on the board. “What an inspired suggestion!” he exclaimed, and tossed a sweet biscuit to the girl before refilling the china teacups on their folding campaign table. She broke it in half to share with Kuwali, who sat on the carpet with Sarah looking at a small slate where Sarah was teaching him the sounds of Iroquois words. Duncan looked up over the gazette he was reading, relieved to see the smile on Johnson’s face. The pain of his son’s betrayal had been easing since joining his friends but the scar inflicted by Francis, now gone across the Atlantic, would mark him forever. Analie grabbed Duncan’s hand and pulled him up from his reading. He handed his paper to Woolford and let her lead him outside.
In his advanced years Sir William liked to carry his comforts with him when he traveled. Duncan and Analie stepped out of the pavilion tent’s European world into a Haudensaunee town of bark-wrapped lodges. The castle of Onondaga, capital of the Iroquois nation, was a beehive of activity. Kettles of maize and venison stew hung over slow-burning fires. Dogs ran playfully with laughing children. Baskets of apples lined the front of one lodge, stacked pumpkins another. Duncan offered respectful greetings to matrons and chieftains as Analie pulled him toward the knoll behind the lodge of the Great Council.
The girl sobered as they reached the cairns of stones that flanked the path up the hill, and the warrior assigned as sentry gave them a stern inspection. She glanced down to make sure her bead necklace was not askew over her doeskin shift, then straightened like a nervous soldier. It was highly unusual for a child to be permitted up the knoll but, as the sentry well knew, she had been given special dispensation. The guard was Ononyot, and though a smile was in his eyes, their Mohawk friend gave the girl a strict examination, solemnly lifting and studying her beads before nodding his approval and gesturing them forward.
A slow, muffled drumbeat could be heard from the lodge at the crest of the hill. They passed the cedar-scented lodge where the sacred masks were kept and continued to the smaller, ivy-covered lodge behind it.
The grandmother of the Haudensaunee still lived. Adanahoe was weak but she was not the frail, fading creature to whom Duncan had given a vow months earlier. Her wrinkled face lifted with a smile as she saw her visitors and Tanaqua, so often now at her side, shifted to make room for Analie to sit beside the old woman. The celebration in the town was in honor of the tall Mohawk, for he was to be elevated to the Great Council that night, but he spent most of his time in solitude with Adanahoe. Duncan had seen despair on her face in the spring, and had known it was due not just to the stolen mask and death of her grandson, but also because she had been convinced she was dying and had not completed passing on the ancient ways to the next generation.
The Iroquois elder had insisted on hearing every detail of their experiences with Jahoska, and now had asked Duncan to come to relate what he had learned about the remarkable life of the half king of the south. She chatted amiably about the autumn harvest of pumpkins, the cherished gift of a teapot from Sarah, even the rumors of a white stag in the forest, until the cloth at the entry stirred and a young woman entered, carrying a small piece of skin stretched on a willow frame. As she settled in the shadows and extracted a charcoal stick from her cartouche, Duncan recognized her as one of the inscribers of the Iroquois records, an artist who produced the large pictorial chronicles on deer skins to memorialize people and events for the tribes. Adanahoe was making sure Jahoska was not forgotten.
For the rest of the afternoon they spoke of the half king and his long eventful life, with the Iroquois chronicler sketching notes as they spoke. By the time they finished, more drums were beating, and joyful chanting could be heard in anticipation of the approaching ceremony. Tanaqua seemed reluctant to leave the old woman, even when she struggled to her feet and pulled his hand to urge him to rise. Duncan did not understand the sadness on his face when he finally stood, nor the tear in Adanahoe’s eye.