Latchford fixed Duncan with an icy stare. "You think you can wander into my garrison without a by your leave?" he asked in a cool, well-educated voice. "Use our water, watch my troops like some spy, provoke our bereaved comrades in arms?" Latchford, Duncan realized, had had him under observation from the moment he had passed under the gate.
"If I am not mistaken, Major, I was brought into your establishment by soldiers under your command." He saw the gleam in Latchford's eyes and instantly regretted the words. A man like Latchford delighted in impudence, for all punishments were at his beck and call.
The officer lifted a quill and made a note in the journal. "You have not honored us with your name."
"McCallum. Duncan McCallum."
"I'll know, McCallum, why your friend killed this particular Virginian on this particular day."
Duncan weighed Latchford's words carefully. There was something more to the murder in the forest than he had understood. "My friend killed no one. You should look to the enemy. Last night we observed a Huron raiding party not twenty miles from here."
Latchford lifted a small bronze medallion etched with a tree on one side, a crude W on the other. The strap that until that morning had fastened it to Duncan's neck had been snapped apart. "Observed?" He dangled the disc toward Duncan. "For Woolford's rangers?"
"Nearly twenty men, including two or three French."
"I have had no reports of hostiles."
"The entire point of secret raiding parties, Major, is to operate secretly." Duncan clenched his jaw, chiding himself. Sometimes it seemed impossible not to lash out at such officers. It was privileged and powdered men like Latchford who had hanged his father for a rebel, skewered his younger brother with a saber, and raped his mother and sisters before bayoneting them.
The major's face flashed with anger. He slammed the medallion onto his desk and leapt up. Duncan braced himself, certain the officer meant to strike him, but Latchford moved to a side door, stepped halfway into the hall to bark out orders for a reconnaissance patrol. Through the rear window Duncan could see parties setting up a large campaign tent. The fortress was expecting visitors, ones important enough to worry the commanding officer. Duncan could not afford to linger if senior officers were coming, officers who might have experience in the New York theater.
When he looked back Latchford was at his desk again, lifting an elegant pistol with a metal butt from the desktop. He toyed with it a moment, sighting along the barrel. "Woolford's men are operating along the Saint Lawrence, the last I heard. And you do not have the look of a ranger, McCallum. We have reports of a solitary warrior and a European woodsman making mischief, always evading our patrols."
Duncan shrugged. "I am no woodsman. And Conawago is no warrior, just an old man looking for traces of his family."
The major extended the pistol, raising and lowering it as if practicing for a duel. "It is easy for a man to pretend a new identity so far from civilization. I have orders to deal harshly with deserters and spies."
"Wounds need to be cleansed every day to keep the filth from entering the blood," Duncan said abruptly.
Latchford's brow knitted. "I'm sorry?"
It was a desperate wager Duncan was making, based on the passing remark of the militia sergeant. "Your infirmary is without a doctor. But you have wounded. I attended medical college in Edinburgh."
"You are awonder, sir," Latchford sneered. "Ranger. Woodsman. Doctor. Murderer perhaps."
Duncan would not let himself be badgered. "Men with wounds can die without daily care. You have amputees. A man who has given a limb for his king does not deserve to die from neglect."
Latchford put the gun on the desk and leaned toward Duncan with a new, intense scrutiny. "If you lie to me," he hissed, "I shall use you for practice with my new pistol." Duncan silently returned his stare for a moment, then the major looked down. "We have half a dozen wounded from skirmishes, another five or six laid up with pox. Our surgeon was summoned to help with an outbreak at Fort Pitt. Our senior orderly is too fond of his rum."
Duncan resisted the urge to press for an explanation. "I can attend your patients in the infirmary."
"What proof do you offer of your competence?"
"Your arm," Duncan said. "Extend your arm."
Latchford smirked but humored his request, resting his free hand on the pistol.
Duncan began by pointing to a fingertip then worked his way up the arm. "Distal phalanx, phalange, metacarpal, carpal, radius, ulna, humerus." When he passed the elbow Latchford held up his hand to concede the point.
"The man with the freshest wounds lies in your brig," Duncan observed.
"You, McCallum, are a hair's breadth from being thrown in with him!" Latchford snapped. "If he dies it shall save us the nuisance of a trial."
"I need to see him."
"You are hardly in a position to make demands."
"Surely you understand, Major, that the entire balance of power in the war depends on maintaining relations with the tribes."
Latchford leaned back in his chair. His hand curled around the butt of the pistol again, as if he were reconsidering whether to shoot Duncan. "His majesty's troops have won the war in North America," he rejoined.
"His majesty's troops won the last season of battles," Duncan countered, "after losing so many before. They are now spread thin over a thousand miles of frontier, mostly along the border of French Canada. Any fool who can read a map knows the real prize of this struggle is the western lands. All the army has done so far is win the right for the king to compete for them. Lose the Iroquois and you'll spend the next five years fighting in the New York and Pennsylvania colonies with no chance of winning the Ohio territory."
"You speak of matters far removed from our little outpost."
"When Lord Amherst hears the news," Duncan said, referring to Britain's military commander on the continent, "your little outpost will be the center of his attention."
"News?"
"Trying a prominent leader of the allied tribes for murder could destroy the alliance. Instead of a buffer of Iroquois warriors protecting the settlements we would have an army of the best fighters in America turned against us. You won't be able to march a hundred paces past your gate without fear of a tomahawk in your skull."
"This man in the brig is an Iroquois chieftain?"
"Conawago has visited Europe, has medals from the king, is a valued intermediary among all the tribes of the eastern forest. He is the most highly educated Indian you will ever meet. Trained by Jesuits. At home in European courts."
"But he is no chieftain." The major sipped his tea, studying Duncan with new resentment. "Is he even an Iroquois?"
Duncan glanced out the window again, trying to control his emotions.
"I am ordered to have that militia in the field," Latchford declared, casually swinging the pistol about, pausing for a moment as the barrel faced Duncan. "And I always obey orders. You and your friend have strained relations between Pennsylvania and Virginia to the breaking point. Someone is going to hang. Someone is going to hang in the next twenty-four hours."
"And what will your commanding officer think when the truth comes out later?"
Latchford pursed his mouth in annoyance. "The truth?"
"I was at the dead man's side minutes after he was attacked. He was not shot. He was nailed to a tree, his heart was mutilated. This was no random killing. This was a ritual performed for a broader audience."
Worry flickered on Latchford's face. "Ridiculous."
"Conawago is innocent.
"A small army of witnesses will say otherwise."
"All they saw was Conawago leaning over a dying man. He was trying to help him."
The major offered another icy grin. "Witnesses will say otherwise," he repeated.