“The children will be brought here,” he said to Tushcona.
“If they survive, yes. They are in the hands of the Huron, who adhere to the old ways. There are those among them who would pay much to see my granddaughter’s life spilled out on the ground here.”
“But that is not why the half-king took them.”
“He took them to force us to his cause. If he is not successful he will give them to the Huron.” Tushcona walked with him now, though she seemed reluctant to step too close to the posts.
“How?” Duncan asked. “How could the half-king have known the children were from the elders? The secret must have been known by so few.” Secrecy had been their protection, their shield.
Tushcona seemed not to hear. “Sometimes those who came from the North liked to buy a slave and leave it tied to a post to starve.” The old woman pointed a finger toward the second line of posts. “There were two such men dying, an Oneida and a Nipmuc, when I arrived. No food, no water. They would make songs for rain because then they could open their mouths and live another day. At night when it rains I still hear their songs.”
Duncan began to understand the island. “It’s why they built the abbey here,” he said. “The monks wanted the cruelty stopped.”
Tuschcona nodded. “They tried. They would sometimes walk among the prisoners, saying their prayers, offering food and water when it was permitted. When no one bought me, the Hurons decided to starve me too. They kept the monks away and nearly killed one when he secretly brought me a crust to eat in the night. But a French trader came, and the monks got him to trade a cask of rum for me.”
“How long did you stay with the monks?”
“A few months. Some of those Christian Mohawks of the French decided to take me to Onondaga Castle. The old castle. A warrior there took me for a wife. We had a fine son. But they both died when the Wolverines came.”
Hetty stepped to their side, as if she did not wish to be alone. Duncan noticed now the haunted way the Welsh woman stared at the little valley. “You knew the posts too?”
She put a hand up on a post as if she needed support. “The abbey was destroyed by then,” she said. “The western tribes would bring furs to trade. I was eighteen years old. I was so scared. The ghosts were here then too. The ones who had died of starvation were the worst. They would howl for food in the night, but I was the only one who could hear them. I wanted to help them but never knew how.”
A chill ran down Duncan’s spine.
She touched the scars that circled her wrists. “I struggled so much I wore away the skin and flesh, almost to the bone.”
Duncan stared at the Welsh woman, not understanding but somehow believing her. He turned to look up at the rocks with the loaves. “So tonight you finally feed them.”
As she spoke, new shapes emerged from the shadows. The other elders, with Ishmael and Conawago, appeared over the crest, carrying the axes brought from the brig.
Tushcona stepped before Conawago. “The posts still bind those who died at them. I watched a Nipmuc warrior die at the second post on the north side.”
Conawago hesitated. “Surely those of the Council should-”
“No. You are the chosen ones.” She handed an ax to Duncan. “You two shall release the first ghosts to the other side. They will let the old ones there know you have arrived to make good on your word, tell them you are coming to stop the killing of the gods.”
The posts were thick, but the old wood was brittle and their blades sank deep. As Conawago and Duncan alternated their swings, the old Nipmuc chanted, with a phrase on each stroke. “We are coming,” he said with the first swing, then, “do not die,” with the second. “Do not forget us,” he said with the third, then he repeated the words, over and over, his determination growing fiercer with each bite of the ax. Whether he was speaking to the lost children or the fading spirits Duncan was not certain. He joined in the chant.
They had the first post down in minutes. When they had leveled four posts, the elders lit a fire at the center of the slaveyard and rolled the posts into it. After each of the elders had helped cut down a post, they took up positions at the fire, throwing tobacco in it and singing the songs that called for the spirits to take notice. They had taken down nearly half the posts when Woolford appeared, taking an ax from a weary Conawago.
Duncan had the sense that his ax was growing lighter as they leveled the posts. Ishmael exclaimed with joy as a meteor shot overhead. He became aware that all of them, including Woolford as he swung the heavy blade, were singing a new chant, a spirit chant used by warriors. Not for the first time on their strange journey Duncan felt as if he were caught inside some ancient myth of the tribes. He paused and looked at Hetty and Tushcona at the fire, sparks flying around their heads, then Conawago, who swung his ax again, looking more like a fighter than the gentle philosopher Duncan knew him to be. This was how the old tribesmen fought their wars.
They were only done, Tushcona insisted, when every post was cut and burned. It was arduous work, and by the time they were finished Duncan felt as if he had felled an entire forest. He collapsed beside Conawago by the fire. The soaring flames and singsong chant were hypnotic.
He was not certain if he dozed off, but Conawago’s touch on his knee brought him back to full consciousness. The sky had lightened to a dull grey, enough to illuminate the crest of the low ridge. As he followed Conawago’s gaze, his heart leapt into his throat. For a moment he was certain he was looking at a line of ghosts staring down at them from the ridge. But then the figures began to descend the slope in a line of attack, shoving a frightened Kassawaya before them. They were vengeful warriors and were ready for battle.
Chapter Thirteen
Woolford grabbed his rifle. “Stay with Conawago!” he desperately whispered before darting into the shadows. Duncan reached for his own rifle.
“No!” came Conawago’s quick command. “Caughnawags.”
The warning did little to dispel Duncan’s fear. The Caughnawags were the northern Mohawks, who had been converted by French Jesuits in the prior century then exiled to Canada when the Iroquois fell into the British sphere of influence. They prayed to one God but gave homage to their war axes as well. They were the most numerous of France’s allies on the northern frontier and second only to the Hurons in their reputation for ferocity. They did not consider themselves part of the Iroquois League, for they were French Indians, and those of the League were British Indians. For decades they had led raids deep into British territory, including the infamous massacre at Deerfield, in the Massachusetts colony.
Duncan struggled against his impulse to grab his weapon as the enemy closed around them. Each warrior carried a musket, though they kept the barrels down as they surrounded those at the fire.
“They spoke to me in Mohawk,” Kass groused, glancing at Sagatchie. She was obviously shamed by her capture.
“Because they are Mohawk,” said Custaloga, his eyes on a stern middle-aged warrior wearing a sash of skunk pelts. “Because the same blood flows in their veins and ours.”
The warrior with the fur sash stepped forward. “You have made good use of the wood here,” he declared in a deep slow voice.
Duncan realized the man was offering support for their night’s work, although his sober expression gave no hint of friendship.
Custaloga offered a tentative smile. “Our northern relatives sometimes recover captives and bring them back to us,” he said to Duncan, though loudly enough for all to hear.
The chieftain in the black-and-white fur shrugged. “The Hurons and Abenaki will be furious.”
Custaloga shrugged back. “Chief Tatamy, you and I know that Mohawks do not wage war on women and children.”
The stranger called Tatamy stared at Custaloga with a stony expression, as if to rebuke him. His gaze shifted to Ishmael as the boy stepped in front of Conawago, holding a stick like a club, and a weary smile flickered on his weathered face. “Mohawks do not wage war on women and children,” he agreed.