Xavier murmured prayers. Tatamy wiped his brow and spoke low comforting words in his native tongue. Duncan retreated to the cot under the stairs, where Hannah sat, looking uneasily in the direction of Graham. Duncan helped her settle for sleep as Ishmael curled up in a blanket by the foot of the cot. Tatamy appeared and bent over the girl to look at the stitches in her cheek.
“A Huron did that to the child,” the chieftain declared.
“Have the northern Mohawks grown particular about whom they maim?” Duncan shot back. A cruel, poorly timed jab, but he was tired of being a pawn and not understanding, weary of the casual cruelty that injured so many.
Tatamy sat beside him on the second stool. “It was a French colonel who spoke first to us about the half-king who called himself the Revelator. We have been allied with the French for nearly two hundred years, and Andrew explained that alliances between France and Scotland go back even further.” He shrugged. “We fight wars to win them.”
Duncan was confused by the regret in the man’s voice. “Those were your men at Bethel Church,” he said.
Tatamy nodded grimly. “Four of them were. My best warriors, who had made raids in the South before and knew the land along the lakes. We were told it was to be a daring raid on supply lines, deep into enemy territory, that much glory would come of it. They said the Indians who lived in the town had raided our own villages. But one of my men came to me when they returned. He had been having bad dreams. He said those who died had not fought, but had sung. They were not warriors, they were peacemakers. He showed me a cross he had taken from one of the dead.”
Tatamy looked up to Duncan with apology in his eyes. “The Revelator’s men made sure my men gave no trouble. Our Caughnawags held their tongues until they returned home and could speak to my face. All are having bad dreams. They know now there was no honor in what they did, that the dreams are telling them they must put things back in harmony, they must rectify things somehow. It is wrong to build a new world on the suffering of good people.”
Suddenly Duncan felt a glimmer of understanding. Xavier was a key lieutenant in the conspiracy, but only a lieutenant. “Father Xavier didn’t know it was also being built with stolen silver,” he suggested.
“The tale of the Revelator has built great hope among our people. He promises great things.” The chief stared at Duncan pointedly. “We do things for him others cannot.”
Duncan considered the words as he gazed at the sleeping girl. “The people of Bethel Church died, and the children were betrayed because of that treasure. Just some shiny metal.”
“The Revelator thinks he must have it for his cause to succeed.” The chieftain frowned. “Just some shiny metal, yes. He means to turn the world upside down with it. If something happened to it, the half-king would give much to get it back.”
Duncan hesitated, first wondering if he heard invitation in Tatamy’s voice then grasping the full weight of the chieftain’s words. “You mean he does not have the payroll in his hands yet.” He spoke slowly, responding to the mischievous gleam in the chieftain’s eyes. “You mean he would trade the children to someone who did have it. But the French surely must have the coins by now. They would not tolerate him interfering with their plans.”
“Their plans?” Tatamy asked. “Have you not listened today? The French have helped him, the French embraced the opportunity to wreak havoc in the British lines. But the plans were laid in that very chamber,” he said, gesturing toward Xavier’s vault, “not in some war room.”
Duncan’s mind raced as he gazed into the shadows where Graham laid. There had never been French generals behind the half-king’s scheme. It had been a broken Scottish laird and a Jesuit monk who had unleashed the Revelator and his poet of death. But like most wild animals, they had proven difficult to control. He looked back at the Mohawk chieftain. “You suggest someone else might obtain the treasure and buy back the children.”
“It is the greatest of his secrets. My men were with the raiders on the lake, were there when their bateau met another loaded with gunpowder kegs. Now the half-king calls for twenty of my men to be ready before dawn the day after tomorrow, at a cove on the far side of the river, to go to a field with rows of earthen mounds. We are to remove our crosses, be ready for a hard day’s march. He wants us to look like Mohawks from the South, arrived to carry loads for the army.”
“But if you don’t have the coins and he doesn’t have the coins. .” Duncan said slowly, and then a grin lit his face as he finally understood. The Revelator had indeed made a fool of King George. He had made the British army transport its own stolen payroll.
Chapter Fourteen
Tatamy’s men escorted them to the canoes an hour before dawn, stealing through a thick fog past work parties who hauled cannonballs onto the ramparts. Graham’s words echoed in Duncan’s mind. The greatest gathering of Highland military might since the uprising was approaching Montreal, and Highlanders had a long memory. There would be a new Scotland. Duncan would have a croft, a boat, a medical practice among his own people, Highland and tribal. He drifted into visions of that new world, of raising his own family, of Conawago at last finding fulfillment as he taught gleeful red-haired and black-haired children. Four thousand Highland soldiers would be liberated.
Duncan cocked his head at Conawago as the others boarded the canoes. The old Nipmuc had the wampum belt out and was staring at it. He felt Duncan’s gaze and looked at him, then turned the belt toward Duncan, as if he needed reminding. They had seen the price being extracted by the half-king for that world. The elders had understood when they had woven the belt. Tatamy had glimpsed it and decided he no longer wanted to be part of the bargain.
By daybreak the mist was breaking up and they were on the opposite bank of the wide river. At Tatamy’s direction the three canoes containing Duncan, Conawago, and the Iroquois were in the front, and as they passed a small fog-shrouded cove, Duncan realized they were alone. The northern Mohawks had disappeared into the mist.
Duncan guided them warily along the wooded shore until the coughing cry of a merganser broke the silence, and two canoes shot out from a bed of reeds. The first, holding Woolford and one of his tribal rangers, circled them, offering quiet greetings. The second, holding three more rangers, took up position at the rear of the procession as Woolford directed them toward a point of land half a mile away.
Custaloga gasped as they entered the bay beyond the point. It was overflowing with British soldiers. Longboats were ferrying troops off transport ships. Mortars and cannons were being lowered from yardarm cranes onto squat gunboats. On what had been the broad pasture of a farm, troops were parading in time to loud drumbeats. A band played a jaunty tune as longboats disgorged ranks of redcoats. Scores of white tents were arranged in orderly rows on the slope above the field.
To Duncan’s relief, Woolford turned toward the shore and directed their party into a grove of maples where half a dozen more rangers waited to guide them to a campfire for a hot breakfast. Woolford lingered by the canoes with Duncan, explaining the regimental flags arrayed along the waterfront.
The screech of a whistle, the double tones of a boatswain’s pipe, interrupted them. As Woolford spun about, the color drained from his face. Two long boats rowed by sailors, one filled with a squad of marines and the other with officers in brocaded finery, were rapidly approaching.
“The grand bastard himself,” Woolford declared in a worried voice, and he whistled sharply toward his camp. The rangers began herding their guests deeper into the forest.