They were bold words, terrifying words, for they portended not only much death but a rift between the English and the tribes. If the Iroquois left their traditional alliance the British army would likely seek their destruction, for fear they would aid the French.
"And are the ghosts speaking with you?" Conawago asked.
A chill ran down Duncan's back as Skanawati nodded. "I have looked into the crack in the world," he declared. "There are terrible things to behold. Death walks this trail. Man becomes tree. Man becomes machine. The ghosts call out challenges to me in the night."
Conawago and Duncan exchanged an uneasy glance.
"We are not ghosts," Conawago observed.
Skanawati seemed to consider the point, then solemnly nodded, glancing again at Duncan. "I have heard tales of a crazy old Nipmuc wandering in the mountains with a yellow hair." The Iroquois' gaze drifted back toward Conawago's tattoo. "You must leave this trail. Go deeper into the mountains, stay away from the forts, stay away from the bloody water, or you may fall into the crack in the world. Hide. Not even the children will be safe when the covenant chain breaks," he said, referring to the century-old metaphor for the bond between the British and Iroquois. "More ghosts are coming." He scooped up the painted turtle shell as he spoke.
"Yet you roam the forest without fear," Conawago pointed out.
"I am the answer to the ghosts," the Iroquois replied.
Then without another word he slipped into the shadows.
I have looked into the crack in the world. The lives of men are being stolen. More ghosts are coming. The Onondaga's words preyed on Duncan as he and Conawago journeyed on at the slow, steady trot used by the tribes in the wilderness. Stolen lives meant lives taken without honor. Skanawati had been speaking of murders that threatened the covenant chain. If that chain were broken, the Pennsylvania and New York colonies would become bloody abattoirs. With new foreboding Duncan recalled the sentry in the enemy camp, felled by what had seemed like a ghost.
He was so distracted by the haunting words of the Iroquois chief he nearly collided with Conawago when his friend abruptly stopped. They were almost at a junction with the east-west Forbes Road, the flat bed of which could be seen through the trees. A desperate moaning sound, that of a small mammal in its death throes, rose from the forest near the trail. Conawago surveyed the heavily wooded slope for a moment then sprinted toward a large beech near the trail, Duncan at his heels.
A brown-haired man, a European of perhaps thirty years, sat against the tree, the crimson on his chest glowing in the early morning light. The fresh blood was spreading across the front of his shirt and britches, his left arm was strangely raised along the tree trunk. His eyes were wild and pleading, his breathing labored, and though he kept opening his mouth as if to speak, only moans came out.
"Save your strength," Duncan instructed as he knelt beside him, his medical training in Scotland quickly taking over as he surveyed the wounds. An abrasion to the right temple where the blood was dried and clotted. A deep gash in the thigh, from which blood was pooling on the ground. A wound in his chest, from which blood oozed through his shirt. Duncan raised his canteen to the man's chin, letting the water trickle over his lips. The man coughed, then seemed to quiet as he recognized that help had arrived. Conawago cut a vine and began tying it around the man's thigh. If they did not act quickly the man would bleed to death. More ghosts were coming, Skanawati had warned.
"We must lower him," he told Conawago. But as he gently pulled on the stranger's shoulder the left arm, resting up on the trunk, resisted. He pulled the arm to no avail, pulled so hard it uncurled the fingers that had covered the palm. "God's breath!" he exclaimed. The man's hand was nailed to the tree.
Duncan shut his eyes, collecting himself, then quickly probed the shirt, looking for the entry wound. He found a long tear in the fabric over the center of the bloodstain, then lunged back as he opened the shirt.
"His heart!" he gasped and stared in disbelief. He had heard of men having their hearts cut out by the savage Hurons. But somehow what Duncan saw seemed even more hideous. Pressed into the man's breastbone, pounded into the flesh so that its teeth were embedded in the tissue, was a large clockwork gear. Blood oozed from between the teeth of the gear. Man becomes tree, Skanawati had said. Man becomes machine.
"There was moss on the bank by the road," Conawago told him, "and spiderwebs on the alder bushes," referring to the tribes' most common treatments for staunching wounds. He opened one of the pouches he kept on his belt, pulling out a bundle of herbs.
Duncan set his rifle and pack on a rock and darted back up the trail.
He was on his knees, pulling moss from the spongy bank, when he suddenly froze. Men were moving along the road nearby. Cursing himself for leaving his rifle with Conawago, he lowered himself into the bracken then watched as two men appeared, not on the road but its northern flank, approaching the old Indian trail. Moments later two more appeared on the south side. They were too stiff, too clean, too uncertain to be rangers, but they had been trained by rangers, who always deployed scouts to parallel the path of their parties. He sensed through the earth, as Conawago had taught him, the drumming of many feet on the forest floor a moment before he actually saw the marching soldiers. More than two dozen men came into view, marching single file, most with short military muskets slung on their shoulders, several carrying the long rifles the French feared so much. There were no regular army uniforms among them, though half a dozen wore identical blue and buff coats and all wore a patch of red cloth pinned to their tricorned hats or the collars of their heavy waistcoats. Militia. Duncan let them pass then slowly rose, and he was about to call out in greeting when an anguished cry split the still air.
"Murder!" shrieked a young, terrified voice. "God protect us! It's the captain! The savages!"
Duncan threw down the moss and ran. He had passed half the men in the column before they could react with more than surprised cries, but several of those who were already running toward the bloody tree spun about, lowering their weapons at Duncan as he sprinted toward them. He wove in and out of the column, ducking a gunstock swung at his head, rising up to drive his shoulder into another as the soldier lifted a tomahawk from his belt. Two muskets discharged, the balls slashing the air near his ear, and someone cursed at the fools who fired so close to the column. He could see Conawago now, saw the confused look on the old Indian's face as the first of the strangers reached him, landing a glancing blow with a gunstock on his shoulder.
The next man charged with a tomahawk aimed for Conawago's skull. Duncan roared with anger and launched himself through the air, grabbing the upraised arm at the height of its deadly arc, his momentum pulling the soldier down. Duncan rolled as he hit the ground, rose, and sprang into the knot of men who hovered over Conawago.
"You mistake us! We are no enemies!" he shouted as he threw one, then another of the men to the ground. Then suddenly a cold blade materialized at his throat. He felt a handful of his long blond hair seized and his head jerked backward.
"If ye be part of this vile work we'll have y'er scalp too," his assailant snarled. Duncan twisted, threw a hand over his shoulder, and grabbed a handful of beard. Then the blade pressed tightly against Duncan's jugular, forcing him to drop his hand.
"We scout for Woolford's rangers!" Duncan gasped, watching in horror as more men joined in the beating of Conawago, kicking him, pounding him with gun butts. "You must stop!" he pleaded. "We are no enemy, I tell you!"
The beating eased as the men looked up, not at Duncan but at the man holding the blade behind him. One of the soldiers put a finger to the neck of the bloody man at the tree. "He's gone, sergeant.