The Iroquois chief waited until the Indians with him had surrounded Conawago, as if to protect him. "I have come to tell you it was I, Skanawati, who killed the Virginian captain."
At first Duncan did not understand Latchford's furious response to the confession by the Iroquois chieftain, did not entirely grasp the change in the atmosphere. Brindle closed his Bible and clasped his hands as if praying. Then Duncan saw the reluctant nod by Latchford that sent the provosts to remove the manacles from Conawago and place them on Skanawati.
"Blood of Christ!" McGregor muttered. "There's a foot in the kettle."
"I'm sorry?"
"Thank God y'er friend is safe. But the major knows that without the treaty the army will never get Iroquois help in subduing the western tribes. The Six Nations won't even get to the negotiating table if the army hangs their lead negotiator at Ligonier."
"But he confessed," Duncan said uncertainly, looking at Skanawati and the Indians, still not entirely grasping what was unfolding.
"Lose the Iroquois or lose the Virginians. Not even the esteemed and sanctified magistrate will take that decision. 'Twill be for the governor and general to decide how to get the noose on him. Unless the Burke company charges forward," the sergeant added.
Duncan followed McGregor's gaze toward the knot of Virginian soldiers who now surrounded Latchford, their lieutenant haranguing him, angrily pointing at the stone-faced Skanawati, who stood between his new guards.
"Now!" the Virginian officer barked. "While the rope is fresh!" His men would not be denied their justice, or at least their vengeance. The magistrate and governor might be slow in meting out punishment, but Latchford was clearly considering a swifter resolution. Duncan could see the cool calculation in the major's eyes. He was desperate to keep the Virginians in his garrison.
Duncan's mind raced as Latchford announced to the Quaker that the army would have to take custody of the confessed murderer, then Duncan found himself pushing through the crowd toward the judges' table. His words were drowned out by the loud protests of the Virginians, some of whom were now pointing to the noose, eyeing the provosts as if about to rush them. He spoke only to Brindle, his eyes only on the powerful Quaker, then when he realized he was not penetrating the din around him, he placed his palm over the dog-eared Bible in front of the magistrate.
Brindle saw the hand first and followed his arm upward to meet Duncan's gaze, then raised his own hand for silence.
"Mr. McCallum, you were saying?"
"I was saying, sir, that with so many hostiles in the region the garrison has no time to deal with such difficult legal matters. Matters that are, after all, the business of the province."
"I was aware of only one matter," Brindle observed in his level, refined voice.
"Far be it for me to tell your honor his business," Duncan replied. "I was thinking of the crime against the Virginian, of course. Then there is the matter of respecting Iroquois justice if an Iroquois is to be charged while the province negotiates a treaty with them. I suppose it is possible that Pennsylvania may decide the army is responsible for relations with the tribes," he observed, well aware of the constant tension between the Quakers and the military. "But there are still the interesting issues around the new citizen of the province."
The din began to fade as the major, then more and more of the company stopped to listen to Duncan's words. "New citizen?" Brindle asked.
As if on cue the small party transporting Burke's body back to Virginia could be seen by the guardhouse, shoving the escaped slaves toward the gate. As Hadley had warned, the returning soldiers could not resist the reward they knew awaited those who returned Colonel Burke's property.
"Born last night, on these very grounds."
Latchford, who finally seemed to grasp Duncan's direction, lifted his pistol and hammered its butt on the table. "Did you not hear me, McCallum? This court is adjourned!"
Duncan, ignoring the major, leaned toward Brindle. "Born in provincial territory."
The bearded Virginian sergeant, who had been arguing with Latchford, looked at Duncan as if he had spoken sacrilege. "Property of the company proprietor!" he roared. "The law clearly states that the child of a slave belongs to the mother's master! Lieutenant Burke will tell you!" he urged, pushing the new commander of the militia forward.
"So says the law of Virginia," Duncan said, looking only at Brindle. "But Pennsylvania law would say someone born in the province is a citizen of the province."
Brindle followed Duncan's gaze back to where Becca was bravely shielding her infant as one of the Virginians herded her along with a switch. For the first time Duncan saw emotion flare on the magistrate's face. The Quakers were particularly fervent in their views on slavery. Brindle turned and spoke to the Pennsylvania sergeant who had escorted him, who then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Duncan shrugged. "An interesting philosophical question for the leading province of America. Even if Pennsylvania were to determine this infant is free, his mother is a slave. Yet the boy cannot survive without his mother."
Lieutenant Burke, a pampered-looking man who seemed a reluctant participant, found his voice again. "You go too far, sir!" he shouted as he pushed through the throng. "Do not presume to interfere with Virginia chattels!"
"Pennsylvania has no say over the affairs of our soldiers!" Latchford barked. He seemed to be coiling for a lunge at Duncan.
Brindle stared for a moment at Latchford, without expression, then looked up as the Pennsylvania soldier reappeared, herding Mokie, Becca, and the newborn toward him. For a long moment the Quaker looked at the baby boy, who seemed to return his gaze with a question in his small black eyes, then he asked Duncan, "Does this infant have a name?"
Duncan struggled not to grin as he recognized the shrewdness of the mulatto woman. "His mother has called him Penn."
The announcement seemed to seal Brindle's decision. He stood and turned to the remainder of the squad of militia who escorted him, all of them Pennsylvania men. "After you escort the Iroquois prisoner to my tent," the magistrate said in a loud voice, "you will secure the infant in question, along with his mother. They will all be traveling with us to Lancaster."
His sergeant grinned, summoning his soldiers to his side, square-built men who looked as if they were made of oak.
Latchford glared angrily at the brawny, determined Pennsylvania men, then muttered a command. His own soldiers retreated. But the major lingered, glaring not at Brindle but at Duncan. "You did this, McCallum!" From his pocket he produced a brown envelope. With a chill Duncan recognized it, the letter to army headquarters that would turn him into a fugitive again. The Quakers who ran Pennsylvania might have no appetite to prosecute runaway slaves, but they would zealously enforce Lord Ramsey's property rights in Duncan.
Conawago winced every time his horse's hooves hit the earth. His friend's ribs were badly bruised, his wounds not yet healed, and Duncan had begged him to make camp and wait for them near the fort. The old Indian had readily accompanied him to a bed of moss under a hemlock to rest, but when Duncan had gone back with food an hour later he had found him packing his meager belongings.
"You are in no condition to travel," Duncan protested.
"I do not dare to tarry," his friend said stubbornly.
Nowithstanding that Conawago had been freed, Duncan was still filled with foreboding. "And where, my uncle, will you be bound?"
"Skanawati told us where the troubles start. At the bloody water."
"Surely it is just some kind of symbol, an Iroquois allegory."