Duncan sensed movement on either side. Hurons led by Scar closed in around them. He heard running feet, and suddenly Custaloga was at Conawago’s side, and Sagatchie and Kass flanked Duncan.
The half-king was adorned for a grand celebration. Over his tattooed chest was the open scarlet jacket, fringed with gold lace, of a British officer, and along the snake tattoo on his face were waving lines of war paint. A brass gorget hung around his throat. The long braids of his hair had colorful feathers woven into them. Over his doeskin leggings he wore the red, green, and brown kilt of the Montgomerys. Instead of a sporran pouch at the front, he had stuffed the full pelt of a lynx in his belt, with the wild cat’s dead eyes gazing out from his belly.
He eyed Duncan and Conawago with undisguised malice. “I thought the oracle would have surely crossed over by now,” he said to Conawago. “So many opportunities. It seems almost miserly for you not to oblige.”
The old Nipmuc stared at him defiantly. “I will be more than ready to face the gods once you return the children and the first mother of the Iroquois.”
The half-king studied Custaloga and Tushcona, then turned back to Conawago. “I am prepared to accept the Council’s petition for an alliance. The first mother has been. .” he searched for a word, “ambiguous in her representations of Iroquois support.”
“We bring the grandparents of the children.”
“We tremble at your mighty warriors!” he mocked. His men laughed. Scar spat at Conawago, then raised a knife and made a pantomime of slitting his throat. Conawago did not react. Paxto drew his war ax and tapped its handle against his hand as if making ready to swing it.
“You would be wise to tremble,” Duncan said.
“They will be responsible for the death of their gods,” the half-king snapped.
“No,” Duncan shot back, “what kills gods is lying and murdering in their name.”
Venom filled the half-king’s eyes. “I will kill you, McCallum,” he vowed. “I will kill you for five days. I will peel the skin from your face as you beg for death.”
“Not today,” Duncan shot back. “Not here. You won’t kill a Highlander in front of all these clans,” he said gesturing toward the Scots, several of whom had paused, showing interest in their exchange.
“You thought to just steal the children from us?”
“We thought we would buy them,” Duncan answered, and tossed a coin at the leader of the rebels.
The half-king’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the coin at his feet. “A pretty piece of silver means nothing.”
“Seven thousand five hundred thirty-two of them means a lot. We could have given them back to the British so they could calm their impatient troops. We will instead exchange them for your captives.”
The half-king’s eyes flared. He turned and fired angry questions at the men beside him, who clearly had no answers.
“Impossible!” he snarled as he turned back. “Do not presume to know our secrets, McCallum.”
“What secrets? How you built a second paywagon, how you switched it for the real one then transported it up the lake? Or perhaps how you transferred its coins into powder kegs?”
“I do not believe you!”
Duncan dropped to a knee and in the soil drew the Jacobite symbol from the kegs.
Worry flickered on the half-king’s face, but it was quickly replaced by fury. “Where?” he demanded.
“One keg is in the canoe at the far end of the beach,” Duncan said. The half-king barked a quick order, and two men sprinted away. “A token. You will get the remainder when we have the captives.”
The rebel leader spoke another word, and they were quickly surrounded by warriors. He said nothing until the keg was set at his feet and smashed open. As the half-king kicked the keg onto its side, scores of coins tumbled out amid the black powder.
His anger burned like a fire. “Where?” he shouted.
“Where are the children?” Duncan replied in a level voice. “Where is the first mother?”
The half-king fingered his own ornate war ax as if resisting the impulse to smash Duncan’s skull. Suddenly Scar leaned to whisper in his ear, and he turned his gaze to Tushcona. “We did not realize we had the Council’s own belt weaver!” he exclaimed. “You will have the captives for the coins and a simple belt.” He stepped up to the old woman, leaning close to her face. “You will weave a belt that declares the Iroquois alliance with us. We will parade it through all the villages. The tribes will shout for joy. The English will squirm in terror as they wait for our scalping knives.”
Tushcona replied with the impatience of a peeved mother. “You do not understand the making of a Council belt, child,” she chided. “My hands weave only the truth.”
“Your hands,” the half-king growled, “will feed my dogs.”
“Then I will learn to weave with my feet.”
Duncan took a step toward the woman, ready to take the blow.
“When the truth finally finds you, it will be your death,” Tushcona coolly declared.
Duncan saw the amused cruelty in the half-king’s eyes as he surveyed the scene. He was assessing the witnesses, thinking of killing the matriarch. Just as frightening was the certainty that Tushcona was willing to die.
“Kill the Council’s weaver, and you kill all hope of an alliance,” Duncan said.
The half-king gave an exaggerated grimace. “But you so make me feel the need to kill someone. You have not learned to take me seriously. Just a small death for now. One child.” He muttered a low command, and one of his guards handed him a pouch from his belt. The half-king upended the pouch, and black-and-white pebbles, gaming pieces, spilled onto the ground. With deliberate slowness he selected three white pebbles and one black, then pointed to a deep shadow under the rocky ridge that might have been a cave. Two warriors stood on either side of the shadow. The half-king dropped the four stones back into the empty pouch. “The one who draws the black dies. If my belt has not been started in an hour, we will play the game again. You-” he pointed to Tushcona, “will hold the pouch as they draw, so they will know it is you who kills them.” The half-king’s frigid grin faded as his gaze moved over Duncan’s shoulder.
“The colonel desires to honor our guests,” reported a stern voice. Duncan turned to see a grenadier sergeant, flanked by half a dozen fully armed men. “There is tea,” the solder said with a bow to the Iroquois.
The aristocratic officer stood ramrod straight at the entrance to a large tent beyond the Highland campfires. Beside him stood a field table on which an orderly was arranging a surprisingly elegant tea service. The colonel greeted each member of their party with a courteous nod and gestured them to the steaming tea.
The arrogance Duncan had seen before on Colonel Cameron’s face was gone, replaced with lines of worry. He offered no greeting to Duncan, only studied him with an uncertain expression until his shoulder was tapped by a grenadier. The colonel stepped several feet away and followed the man’s pointing arm to a newly arrived long boat from which casks of rum were being unloaded.
“Whose are they?” Cameron snapped. “I do not recognize them.”
“From Montgomerys,” the grenadier reported. “And they all wear the white cockade.”
Cameron gave a slow, reluctant nod. “But I said no spirits!” he snapped, then he cursed as a swarm of Highlanders and warriors alike descended on the casks.
“There’ll be no stopping it now, sir,” the grenadier declared.
Cameron grimaced, then dismissed the soldier and turned back to Duncan. “After our first encounter in the general’s quarters in Albany,” he declared, “he said you were a damned difficult person to understand. He said you spoke like a foe but acted like a friend.”