“You tell me. The Company seems overflowing with secrets.”
“Secrets worth dying for?”
“Secrets worth killing for.”
Duncan stood and stepped to the desk, his hand trembling as he lifted the arrow, running his finger along its smooth shaft, putting a finger to its sleek flint point, then suddenly looked out the window, up the river. “If they thought Evering held a secret that was vital to them,” he said, the thought bursting on him like a cannon shell, “then learned he was murdered, they would assume his killer had it, too.”
The general said nothing, but offered another cool smile.
Lister. The old man, marked as Evering’s murderer, faced the same danger from the savages as Duncan, and he was headed toward the frontier, which teemed with natives. There had been horses outside, mounts for dragoons. If he stole one, how quickly could the army pursue?
“The tutor is part of the Ramsey Company,” the general said in a more insistent voice. “If the tutor must die, it is because of the Company. Something the Company did or is going to do.”
“I am hardly privy to Company secrets, General.”
“You are not trying hard enough, McCallum.”
Duncan looked back at the door where Pike had disappeared. Pike had wanted Duncan because of his brother. The general wanted him for something else. “Are you trying to stop the Company?”
“The Company has been authorized by the king himself,” the general replied. “Surely I would be powerless to stop it.”
The two men stared warily at each other.
“Who was Adam Munroe?” Duncan abruptly asked.
The general gave a nod of grudging respect. “A militia officer. A former prisoner whose terror drove him across the Atlantic when he was released.”
“Prisoner of the French?”
The general sighed. “I am certain we can work this out like gentlemen.”
He was offering some kind of bargain, and Duncan did not even know what was being negotiated. “Are you suggesting the army does not want Evering’s killer identified?”
“In war, the victor is the one who always keeps his eyes on the flame.”
The man was speaking in some code Duncan could not decipher. Duncan stepped to the window. In the distance he could see the square earthen slopes of batteries along the river. “If you believe the death is connected to the war,” he asked, “why not conduct your own investigation?”
“I would not tamper with Lord Ramsey’s secret weapon.”
Duncan fought to keep his voice steady. “You mistake me, sir. I am but a bound servant.”
“Surely a man of your capacity cannot be so beguiled by coincidence.”
As he grappled with the words, Duncan looked not at the nameless general but at the bounty broadside lying on the table. Lord Ramsey would have known about his brother. Reverend Arnold and Woolford would have known when they traveled halfway across Scotland to retrieve Duncan, and only Duncan, from the prison in Edinburgh. Duncan found himself backing away as the general watched him with a narrow smile.
“We shall not decline your gratitude,” the general declared, “when you have reflected on what we have done for you today.” He made no effort to stop Duncan’s withdrawal toward an open door but lifted a hand and pointed to different door ten feet away.
Duncan hesitated then complied with the gesture. On the corridor wall opposite the door, a hand-drawn map had been pinned, marked at the top with two words that halted Duncan’s retreat. Stony Run.
September 1758, it said under the caption. A small, irregular shape near the center apparently represented a fortification along a river. Two rows of crudely drawn trees flanked it. To the southeast along the same meandering river was an open space marked German Flats. Below the map was written King Hendrick’s band. Seneca. Mohawk. Onondaga. Then a table that was headed Rangers Killed, with the names of half a dozen men and, finally, three ghostwalkers. Ghostwalkers. He read the words twice, in desperate confusion, then glanced back at the general. The officer had followed, was only six feet behind him, studying him with a dangerous smile.
No one confronted Duncan as he retreated down the hallway, looking for the door to the street. He had paid little attention when the soldiers had hauled him inside and dragged him to the office. Passing a room where three officers examined a map on a table, he paused, gazing at the man on the left. Over his chest was the red tunic of an officer, but below was a kilt. The officer turned and examined Duncan with a disdainful stare. He wore the plaid of a Scot but the steely countenance of a British officer.
Duncan headed for the pool of sunlight on the floor that must mean an open door, and was moving at a near trot when he rounded the corner and collided with a half-naked figure. In an instant Duncan forgot his furor at Pike, his pain over the news of Jamie. He reeled, stumbling backward, his heart pounding, his knuckles pressed to his mouth to stifle a cry of alarm.
The man’s rich, copper skin glistened as if oiled. He wore nothing above his waist but a folded brown blanket thrown over one shoulder and tied about his middle with a braided leather strap. His skull was shaven clean save for a small patch of black hair at his crown, from which hung several narrow, foot-long braids, with red and blue glass beads strung at the tips. Triangles of silver dangled from his pierced ears, a chain of bone and shell from his neck. Over the blanket hung a powder horn, in the leather strap of which hung two small knives. His leather leggings bore long fringes along the seams, as did the edge of the soft leather slippers on his feet. From the hair at his crown, down the man’s fierce countenance, ran evenly spread rivulets of blood. No, not blood, Duncan realized, but rust-colored paint applied so that the man appeared to have just emerged from battle.
Duncan’s jaw opened and shut as he stared at the savage, who did not move, did not change his proud, disdainful expression even as his eyes focused on Duncan, studying him as he might some animal he was about to butcher and consume. For a moment Duncan thought of shouting for the soldiers, then he recalled that it was not only the French who had aboriginal allies in the great war.
As Duncan inched toward the door, the Indian’s hard black eyes flickered, as if he recognized something about Duncan. He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue and was answered with a movement in the shadows of the corridor beyond. A second savage appeared, dressed much as the first, and studied Duncan with an intense curiosity, pointing to the blood that now dripped down Duncan’s face. With a stunningly quick motion his finger touched Duncan’s cheek, wiping blood onto his finger, gesturing with it toward the offices from which Duncan had come, his eyes lit with an intense emotion that seemed part amusement, part hunger. He muttered something to the first Indian, then drew a line with Duncan’s blood on his own cheek.
Something in Duncan wanted to protest, to fight back, but his tongue would not work. As the Indian touched his finger to his companion’s cheek, leaving a second stripe of his blood, Duncan summoned enough strength to back away several steps, then he bolted through the front door.
When a hand clamped around his arm as he reached the sunlight, Duncan lashed out, pounding the man’s wrist several times before he noticed the scarred brown knuckles.
“Crispin!” he gasped.
The big man reacted to neither Duncan’s blows nor his words, but silently led him forward, down the steps, past the stern sentries and onto the cobblestone street. They moved to a heavy open wagon pulled by two large grey horses, Crispin urgently motioning Duncan to the plank seat as he stepped to the team. The butler had traded his elegant clothes for plainer dress, covered with a brown greatcoat. Crispin checked the harness and then paused, speaking softly to each of the animals before joining Duncan on the seat and, with a tap of the reins, urging the team forward.