Sagatchie looked into the shadows again, then moved to the entry of the barn. He stood in pale light, looking up as if consulting the moon, then stepped back and knelt by the post to which Duncan was tied.
“The boy came back,” the Mohawk declared, now in a hushed, hurried voice. “I saw him in the dusk. He climbed into the window at the back of the schoolhouse, then came out a few heartbeats later and darted into that house where Conawago was taken. He reappeared with a sack and rolled blanket before heading south.” Sagatchie looked into the shadows for a long moment then slowly nodded. “I will leave your rifle and pack in the shadows behind the barn,” he declared. “Be far from here by dawn.”
“Not the barn,” Duncan said. “The schoolhouse. At that window where you saw the boy. And I’ll need your lantern there.”
Sagatchie did not argue, only leaned behind Duncan for a moment, then rose, grabbed the lantern, and faded into the shadows. As he disappeared Duncan discovered his hands were free and his own knife was lying on his lap.
Minutes later Duncan inched around the corner of the schoolhouse. His pack and rifle leaned against the woodshed built along the back wall, the dim lantern on the ground beside them. He stooped to check the contents of his pack then quickly climbed into the window. He entered not the classroom but a small sparse chamber that served as quarters for the schoolmaster. A narrow cot with a straw pallet hugged the back wall. From a row of pegs hung a threadbare shirt, a bundle of turkey feathers, and a tattered green waistcoat. The boy could have just run after the wagon he had seen heading south but instead he had come back to the schoolhouse. He had been in the room for only a few heartbeats. He had known what he wanted, and where to find it.
A table was tucked into the corner at the far end of the chamber, on which lay books, slates, writing leads, two candles in pewter holders, and a wooden candle box. The sliding lid of the candle box was open, and it held not candles but letters, several of which were on the table beside it. Duncan slid up the baffle on the lantern and leaned over the table. They were all addressed to Henry Bedford, all in the same cramped hand, with the return address simply Eldridge, Forsey’s, Albany.
Duncan stuffed one of the letters into his shirt. He hesitated as he turned toward the window, cautiously pushing the latch of the door into the classroom. With an aching heart he walked along the crude desks. Two of the older students had died from a hammer to their heads, and Ishmael had escaped, but the others had been taken. The raiders, who existed to disrupt the British war effort, had killed Christian Indians, taken a wagon, and kidnapped five children and their teacher.
He paused at the papers pinned to the wall, drawings of animals, trees, and people in different hands, each with a verse and with a student’s name at the bottom. Lizzie Oaks was there, and Barnabas Wolf, the teenagers who had been buried behind the church. With a sudden impulse he pulled away a paper from each of the other students and pushed them inside his shirt beside the letter.
As he began to climb out a hand clenched his extended leg. His heart lurched, then he recognized the Mohawk ranger.
“You will need a writing stick,” Sagatchie whispered.
Duncan did not question the Mohawk, just darted to the table and retrieved one of the sticks of lead before climbing out.
“I need you to help remember them.”
Duncan still did not understand, but he knew he owed much to the quiet Mohawk and so followed him behind the church.
He glanced at the stars as they reached the burial yard. It was one or two hours past midnight. For any hope of evading Hawley’s rangers, he needed a several-hour head start. He should be away, running in the woods. But then he saw Sagatchie standing with the lantern at the first cross.
“Akenhakeh,” Sagatchie declared. Summer. Duncan looked up in surprise, returning the Mohawk’s solemn gaze for a moment before kneeling in front of the cross to write under the English name of Rebecca Halftree.
They moved from cross to cross, Sagatchie mouthing the tribal names of the dead and Duncan rendering the Iroquois words as best he could into English letters. Tigneni Ahta, Two Moccasins. Wayakwas, She Picks Berries. Yaweko Ogistok, Sweet Star. Skenadonah, Little Deer. Tehatkwayen, Red Wings. Odatschte, Quiver Bearer. Aionnesta, Stag.
When they finished, Duncan swung his pack onto his back. “You said Conawago went north?”
Sagatchie, staring forlornly at the graves, seemed not to hear. He had known these people, members of his tribe who had done more to coexist with the European world than any natives Duncan had ever known. He quietly repeated the question.
The Mohawk nodded. “It is three or four days to the French lines.”
“And two days to Albany, if I go straight as an arrow.”
“Albany is in the opposite direction. You have no hope of finding one wagon on a road filled with wagons. You must not go that way, McCallum. They will run you to the ground, and they will hang you. You must find the old Nipmuc. He has ways of keeping us joined to the spirits. He is needed more than ever.”
Duncan murmured his thanks and slipped into the shadows. Finding his way to a ledge above the settlement, he studied the landscape in the silver light, considering the battering events of the past two days. Conawago, shouldering a terrible grief and driven by a foreboding message, had rushed into the northern wilderness for a reason. The twelve-year-old who carried the last of the Nipmuc blood had shed his European clothes, put on the face of a savage, and gone south after taking something from his schoolmaster’s chamber. Two phantoms, joined by blood, fleeing in opposite directions. South was where a hanging rope awaited Duncan. He raised a hand in a silent prayer toward the phantom in the North and then set out toward Albany.
A mile below the settlement, Duncan emerged from the forest and set out at a steady trot along the packed earth of the military road. He knew the risk he took as a fugitive on a route frequented by the army, but he dared not run in the forest at night, for fear of a twisted ankle or worse. A few minutes later he slowed at the sight of a cabin set back from the road in the center of cleared fields. It was where the terrified boy had run after seeing his grandfather tortured and murdered. It was where the gentle Christian boy described by Madame Pritchard had transformed into a vengeful warrior.
He paused for a moment, staring at the tranquil homestead in the moonlight, a silver thread rising out of its chimney. Once, in another life, he had lived in such a place, and their seaside croft had echoed with the laughter of his family. That life was gone, and the hope of ever achieving it again was as remote as the stars. He pulled himself away, shamed for the envy he felt for the simple farmers who lived there.
The road steadily unfolded before him. Deer grazing at roadside tufts bolted at his sudden approach. Something large, a bear or catamount, growled and sped into the shadows. He rounded a curve and discovered with momentary alarm that he was passing a camp of teamsters with circled wagons, their only guard a barking dog. Duncan hesitated a moment, futilely studying the wagons. Sagatchie was right. He had no hope of finding the wagon. He had to find the world breaker.
As dawn seeped into the eastern sky, he slipped into the forest to the west of the road, slowing, probing the rising landscape until he found the expected game trail running along the ridge, parallel to the road. When he paused on a bare ledge an hour later to tighten his moccasins and chew on venison jerky, he had an unobstructed view of the lake’s shore, less than half a mile away.
He gazed at the lake absently, rubbing at the bruises left by Hawley’s rope, and did not realize he was staring at the island he had visited at Conawago’s request until an eagle crossed his vision. He knew it was there, not the settlement, where he should mark the beginning of their misery. There the eagle had shared with him its secret of death under the water, there in an unguarded instant when Conawago had revealed a dark foreboding in his eyes. With a terrible wrenching of his heart, Duncan realized that things might have gone very differently if he had not held back from his friend, had spoken of that first dead Scot. Conawago had a way of understanding things that extended beyond Duncan’s senses. What if Duncan had spoken of the death and Conawago had decided to rush straight to the village? They may have arrived in time to stop the massacre. They may have missed the men on the boat who had accidentally wounded the old Nipmuc. But then he recalled the strange writing on the back of the letter from Bethel Church. This is how we first die. It had been an urgent summons, more important even than the long-awaited reunion, and something Conawago had found at Bethel Church gave it a sudden desperation, even perhaps a destination.