Duncan closed his eyes a moment, knowing Johnson had just answered the question that had been haunting him. “It is where Conawago is going.”
The words seemed to stab at Johnson. He sighed and lowered his pipe then stepped closer to the river. He raised his hand with what seemed great effort and released the little feather into the wind and watched it fly into the darkening sky before turning back to Duncan. “The half-king seeks its location so he can go there. He knows it lies near an abandoned Iroquois village, but there are dozens of those.”
Duncan’s throat went very dry. “If the half-king finds it and discovers Conawago there. .”
“The half-king will just see him as another Indian in European clothes. He reviles such men, says they are abominations, the means by which the poison that is killing the tribes spreads. He is said to have roasted one alive last month.”
“How would you know this?”
“I may have been born in County Meath, but I have become more Mohawk than Irish.”
“This is no time to speak in riddles, sir.”
“I have couriers who keep me connected with the Council at Onondaga Castle. The Council has ways of knowing all that happens in their lands. I have never seen the sachems of the Council more disturbed. The half-king seeks to force them into an alliance with him. He says the old spirits are angry at them, that if they do not join, the spirits will abandon them. Without the spirits he says the Iroquois will become hollow men and will be destroyed alongside their British friends.”
“Conawago thinks there has been a break in the path to the other side. He believes he has ways to patch such rifts,” Duncan offered uncertainly.
“The half-king,” Johnson said, “the Revelator. It is how he rallies so many of the lesser tribes, how he believes he will subjugate the Iroquois. He himself will cross over and fix the rift. When he finds the most ancient of shrines, he says he will have the power to vanquish the renegade European spirits. The tribes can then follow him into a glorious world of his making.”
Duncan had a hard time speaking. “This place. Conawago has kept its location a secret all these years.”
“The Nipmucs were the monks of the woodland tribes. The Nipmuc elders always knew.”
“The raiders at Bethel Church tortured a Nipmuc elder.”
Johnson’s eyes went wide. “A Nipmuc lived at Bethel Church?”
“He lived out of sight, with an English name. Conawago and I arrived to meet him, but he had been killed just hours before. He had sent a message to Conawago. This is how we first die, it said.”
Johnson seemed to stagger. He put a hand on a tree to steady himself. “My God. He was talking about the end of time for the tribes. When they lose the spirits on the other side, they will wither and die. The Nipmuc at Bethel Church was tortured for the location of the Lightning Lodge. Now the half-king knows where it is. The Council already sent some of its best warriors to protect it, Kass’s brother and father among them. It is the Council’s last desperate chance. But he will be unforgiving of any who interfere with him.”
Duncan’s mouth was dry as sand. “You’re saying Conawago. .”
“You know damned well what I am saying. Conawago and the half-king are racing to the same place, and when the half-king arrives he will shred Conawago’s flesh from his bones.”
Duncan did not know how long he sat gazing in anguish across the rolling landscape. Run, a voice inside shouted. Save Conawago. But he suspected having a European at his side would make things no better for the old Nipmuc.
When he looked back, Johnson was gone. Kass was standing there, as if she had been patiently waiting for him.
“There is someone from the war,” she announced. The role of demure hostess at Molly Brant’s side seemed be wearing on her. Her hair was loose. She had pinned a piece of sweetfern to her bodice, in the fashion of maids Duncan had seen in the Iroquois towns. Hanging from her neck was no longer her beaded necklace but a small pouch for the amulet of her protective spirit.
“You have a brother and father in the war,” Duncan observed.
Kass nodded. “They have been given a sacred duty, yes. The Council is used to solving its problems with words, but words will not be enough this time.”
She gestured him to follow her.
As they reached the blockhouse on the hill above the compound, Duncan hesitated. Two stern warriors stood guard at the door, and he now saw the iron bars on the windows of the squat building. The building was as much a prison as a defensive post.
Kass sensed his discomfort. With a small silent motion, she clapped a hand over her heart and then extended it, opening her palm toward him, in a sign that he could trust her. “Please,” was all she said. Duncan followed her inside, to the base of a steep ladder stair that led to the upper floor. She gestured upward and backed away. He climbed the steps warily, realizing how little he really knew of William Johnson. If Johnson truly answered to the commanders in Albany, he could be walking into a trap. Officers in Albany still wanted to hang him. He scanned the candlelit chamber at floor level when his head cleared the opening. Along each wall was a cot, with a table and chairs at the center. A man slept on the farthest cot. He ascended and approached the cot cautiously.
As a board creaked under Duncan’s foot, the sleeping man sprang to life, rolling off the bed and dropping into a fighting crouch.
“Sagatchie!” Duncan gasped.
The Mohawk ranger appeared to have come from a battlefield. His face was bruised, one cheek swollen, his hair matted from a wound bleeding on his crown. As he straightened, holding his belly, he was almost too weak to stand. He stepped to the table and dropped into one of the chairs.
When Duncan hastened to examine Sagatchie, the ranger held up a restraining hand. “A few blows, no more. No bullets touched me,” he said, and he touched his amulet as if in explanation.
“But why are you a prisoner?”
His question brought a bitter grin to the Mohawk’s face. “The guards do not keep me in, McCallum. They are to keep others out.”
A dozen questions leapt to Duncan’s mind. The Mohawk had been at Bethel Church the last time Duncan had seen him. He was supposed to be on patrol along the lakes, where the murderers had escaped. But his questions died on his tongue when Sagatchie spoke again.
“Hawley will seek you out,” the Mohawk declared. “Beware of every shadow.”
Duncan lowered himself into a chair. “He attacked me this very evening. Molly Brant persuaded him to leave.” He hesitated. “How would you know that? You were one of his men,” he said a moment later, as if answering his own question.
The Mohawk shook his head. “I was a guide. A watcher.”
“A watcher?” Duncan asked. “Watching for what, exactly?” Duncan saw Sagatchie’s stony expression and knew the ranger was a man who kept many secrets. “Watching him come for me?” he asked bitterly.
“I told you,” came a weary voice from behind Duncan. Patrick Woolford stood on the stairs, mud on his sleeves and grime on his face. “I was sending my best man to help you.” The ranger captain turned on the stairs, motioning to someone below. One of the guards followed him up, carrying a body on his shoulder, which he lowered onto the floor.
Sergeant Hawley would stalk Duncan no more.
Duncan found no sign of a wound on the sergeant until he rolled him over. The oozing gash in his back was over his heart. Duncan looked up at Sagatchie and Woolford.
“Rangers don’t stab other rangers in the back, Duncan,” Woolford said, sensing the suspicion in his gaze. “Not even one who deserves it.” He seemed about to explain further when he saw Sagatchie’s injuries and darted to the table.
The questions all came from Woolford now, in the Iroquois tongue, and so fast Duncan could not follow. After a few minutes of hushed exchange between the two rangers, Woolford looked up.