Duncan’s mug stopped in midair. “Seneca?”
“One of the six tribes of the Iroquois federation. The western-most. You got to be careful with those Seneca. Too many married into the French.”
It had been one more thing he had not understood about Evering’s cryptic message, because he had not understood the New World. Impossibly, Evering had not been referring to the ancient Roman but to one of the Indian tribes, when, just as impossibly, he had described an obscure American battle despite having never set foot in the colonies. “The ferryman seemed confused about why Old Jacob was arrested,” Duncan observed.
The Dutchman shot a glance over his shoulder as if to see who was listening. “Old Jacob is just a hermit. His people are almost all dead. Goes for days without speaking. But always smiling. He would carve little wooden creatures for the children. Every time an animal was born here, he would come and say a prayer over it. The great lord left him in the custody of the local militia. Old Jacob was dispatched by their captain.”
“Killed?” Duncan asked in sudden alarm.
“Sent into the mountains where he can trap and call fish in the lakes the rest of his days. Lord Ramsey didn’t know that Jacob the Fish had once saved the captain’s daughter from drowning, or that folks around here thought of him as an old uncle to all the little ones.” The man looked at Duncan with a twinkle in his eye. “This isn’t the old country. Great lords may know they are gods in the Old World. But here we know they are not.”
Spoken in the Old World, Duncan told himself, the words would have been sedition.
The Dutchman waved toward an ox-drawn cart bearing a man and half a dozen children that approached on the road along the river’s western shore. As the innkeeper jogged toward the cart, the man at the cart called to him with a single word in greeting. Captain.
Duncan settled onto a small stack of hay along the stable wall and drained the mug as he watched the ferry, now a speck near the far side of the Hudson. As he studied the evening sky, his thoughts returned to Jamie. There were places like Holland where Scottish fugitives congregated, helping one another. But no matter where he fled, Pike would eventually find him, Duncan knew. And once again Duncan would likely learn about the death of another family member, the last of them, by reading it in a newspaper. Damn the army, damn the meddling Woolford. At least he would not have to see the officer again.
Duncan yawned, threw his arm over his eyes, and fell into a deep slumber, broken by a vision of a witch holding his grandfather over a cliff. “Black snake wind!” she cackled toward the sea, as if calling in a storm.
A shadow fell over him and he shot upright, looking into Crispin’s broad countenance. The sun was gone, its last rays streaking through the trees of the dense forest beyond the inn. A group of men sat on the porch, holding mugs out as the innkeeper filled them from a pitcher.
“You made a hasty crossing,” Duncan observed as he rose and began helping Crispin with the horses of the second team.
“Two riders arrived. We all helped with the sweeps,” Crispin said, a hint of foreboding in his voice. “Miss Sarah had one of her spells. Jonathan sat with her in the coach, singing to her. She’s better now, with the children inside taking supper.”
“And we’ll be at Edentown tomorrow?”
“Three or four days at least. Depends on the roads. Depends on the rivers. Depends on the war.” Crispin sketched a rough map in the dirt, explaining how they would be skirting the highest of the Catskill Mountains to a point beyond, to a land drained by the headwaters of mighty rivers called the Delaware and Susquehanna, after the names of two native tribes.
By the time they finished with the animals, the first stars were blinking in a deep purple sky and the men on the porch had retreated into the front chamber that was used as the inn’s public room, lit with candles arrayed on an iron wheel suspended from a ceiling beam. The innkeeper stood behind a long wooden bar cabinet filling more mugs, glancing frequently into the adjoining room where his wife sang out instructions in German to several girls serving hot meals.
Duncan and Crispin lingered in the open doorway for several minutes, enjoying the fine spring evening. Then, as most of the room’s occupants began filing toward dining tables, Crispin excused himself to join Sarah and the children in the dining room. Duncan, fighting a powerful thirst, stepped toward the innkeeper. The only two men left in the room leaned against the bar-a compact man with shaggy, graying hair and a much taller, younger one, both dressed in identical long, dark green waistcoats over brown britches tucked into high brown stockings. The attire had the appearance of a uniform, though like none Duncan had ever seen. Hanging from the leather belt each man wore over his jacket were a large knife and a cartridge pouch.
Though the men kept their backs to him as Duncan approached, the moment the taller of the two spoke, Duncan froze. With a burst of speed he reached the man’s side, spun him about, and slammed a fist into his jaw.
Lieutenant Woolford staggered backward, landing in a sprawl by the fireplace. Duncan did not wait for him to rise, launching himself through the air to land on the officer. But as he raised his fist again, a blade materialized at his neck, its edge pricking his throat, strong fingers seizing the locks at the back of Duncan’s head.
“Excuse my manners,” Woolford said in a steady voice, not moving. “You have not been introduced to Sergeant Fitch. His appearance of age has fooled many men no longer breathing today. He is the very best at what he does.” As his assailant relaxed his grip, Duncan twisted to meet the gaze of Woolford’s sinewy companion. A treacherous grin split the man’s grizzled, leathery face.
Woolford rubbed his jaw as he stood, then surveyed the room. The innkeeper was studiously ignoring them. “If you had done that with a roomful of witnesses, McCallum, I would have been forced to arrest you.”
“Again,” Duncan shot back.
Woolford frowned, then shrugged as if conceding a point and rubbed his jaw again. “I deserved this one perhaps. Just the one, mind.”
Fitch offered an amused snort and belted his knife.
“You stole my private correspondence to my brother,” Duncan growled. “You had me dragged through the streets in chains.”
“If you search your dim memory, McCallum, you will find that you yourself were the cause of your trouble. You may recall how you told the world about your connection to the infamous Captain McCallum of the Forty-second. You gave me no choice but to send official word. I know nothing about your letter. And as for the arrest, that was an order from Major Pike. If I had not gone to the house, there would have been only his bullies to fetch you. For many in the army, your brother is more reviled than the French.”
Duncan’s anger began to ebb. “I never knew about Jamie,” he said in a hollow voice.
“No,” Woolford agreed. “That was clear to me on the ship, and clear to General Calder when you saw that broadside. Pike wronged you.” He studied the wound on Duncan’s cheek, which had broken open again and was weeping blood. “For that I am-I am sorry,” he said, seeming surprised at his own words. “And I shall buy us all a round of that excellent applejack,” he hastened with more cheer. “I am fair parched from our journey.”