Duncan realized his hand was clutching the scrap of otter fur given him by Graham. He gazed forlornly at the English ships, then paused and turned. Conawago, Ishmael, and Tushcona stared in anticipation at him.
“You know I mourn the lost ones,” he said uncertainly.
Conawago dropped more tobacco on the fire. The others retreated, leaving only the two of them in the aromatic smoke.
“This is not about Sagatchie, Duncan. This is about recognizing when the spirits are speaking to you. Could it be time for you to take your skin?”
Duncan grew very still. Conawago was talking about the most sacred of topics, more directly than Duncan would ever have expected. He was speaking of Duncan’s spirit protector.
“Surely this is not the time, my friend.”
“This is precisely the time. Why did it push itself to your heart? It is speaking to you. Listen.”
Duncan looked down in confusion to see he was unconsciously pressing the old otter fur against his chest. For a moment the world fell away. He became aware of nothing but the gaze of the wise old Nipmuc and an unfamiliar energy quickening deep inside. Conawago turned his back to Duncan, signaling that this last mystery was between Duncan and his spirit protector. The hell dog cocked his head at Duncan then lowered it, touching the bundle of fur on the rock with his muzzle.
Duncan found himself kneeling at the flat rock. With a tentative finger he probed the lump of fur. There was an exquisitely carved animal inside. He knew it was the carving Conawago had worked on for weeks, the carving he had kept secret from Duncan. Conawago had known just as his grandfather had known that Duncan, alone of his siblings, had needed to be baptized by the gales at the edge of the Scottish cliffs. Conawago had seen the connection long before Duncan. In his mind’s eye there was the sudden image of the same animal cavorting with him in the waters of his youth, of another following their canoe up the Mohawk River, even seeming to lead them. The dying laird could have given the precious token of fur to those closer to him, but something had compelled him to give it to Duncan.
With a trembling hand he touched the carving to his lips and recited a short Gaelic prayer, then an Iroquois prayer. He rolled the otter image up in the Scottish fur and inserted the bundle into the pouch. There should be a ceremony, he knew, but the benediction on Conawago’s face as he turned back to Duncan was blessing enough.
When he hung the amulet around his neck he felt a surge of strength. An unexpected serenity entered his heart. He looked up with fierce determination at the English ships and instantly knew what must be done. He heard movement and saw Conawago gesturing Ishmael, Kass, and Woolford forward.
“Sagatchie kept his tomahawk razor sharp,” Duncan said to Kass. “Did you find it?”
“His war ax was taken, but his tomahawk was in his hand.”
“Do you think he would let me borrow it?”
With a small sad smile, Kass nodded, then turned and darted away.
“You keep a pot of beargrease in your supplies,” he said to Woolford.
“To daub on wounds, yes.”
“I need it.”
Woolford suppressed the question that was in his eyes, stepped back, and trotted toward his camp.
Duncan lifted the container of paint and handed it to Tushcona, then peeled off his jerkin. “I want a pattern of the river on my body,” he said, “and the stripes of a warrior on my face.” The hell dog stepped to the cliff and sat, facing the river.
Tushcona looked at Duncan in confusion, then she followed the dog’s gaze and her face lit with understanding. She thrust her fingers into the pigment.
By the time Woolford returned, the sky was a deep red and Duncan’s body had been transformed. Tushcona had covered his torso with images of fish, snakes, and beavers. Sagatchie’s tomahawk was strapped tightly to his waist, his amulet to his chest. His hair had been knotted at the back of his neck. He wore no clothing but his britches.
Woolford still did not understand. Then Duncan took the grease and began applying it to his skin, and the ranger gasped.
“Suicide!” he gasped. “No man could work against that current!”
“There are only two anchor lines out,” Duncan calmly explained. “What do you think will happen when they are severed?”
“The boats will be swept miles downstream. But it is impossible! You mustn’t!”
“Do you speak as my friend or as a captain in the king’s army?”
“I lost one particular friend today, Duncan. I don’t want to lose my only other.”
“Most of the men on the island are nothing but pawns in a game set by others. Their only sin was false hope.”
Woolford stared at him for a few heartbeats then cursed and grabbed the grease. “I will look for you at first light,” he muttered, and he began applying the grease to Duncan’s back.
When he finished, first Conawago, then Woolford linked their forearms to Duncan’s in the warrior’s grip. Duncan touched the hell dog’s head, tousled Ishmael’s hair, then cupped his hands to push the aromatic smoke toward his heart. Without another word he touched his amulet and sprang toward the edge of the cliff, launching himself with a long arcing dive into the silver water.
Chapter Sixteen
Duncan awoke slowly, gazing groggily up at a gull that drifted in the cool breeze, listening to the rhythmic lapping of water on the side of his boat. He sat up in sudden apprehension. The boat was empty. He was adrift on the treacherous river.
His aching muscles protested as he pulled himself onto a seat, but the pain cleared his mind. He saw now the familiar bluff above him and the trail that led up from the beach of skulls.
Tucked into a notch in the sun-warmed rocks was Conawago, puffing on the little German pipe he used in relaxed moments. Duncan had not seen him use it for weeks. “You were still asleep when we arrived,” his friend declared. “I told them not to waken you, that your body is still recovering from its ordeal.”
Duncan worked his tongue around his mouth, wondering about the hint of anise and mint on his tongue. “You gave me one of your potions,” he recalled.
Conawago grinned. “You did not protest when I offered the tea. We had to carry you to the boat. You deserved a long sleep for your efforts. Such a spectacle.”
It all seemed like a dream now. Reaching the first anchor line in the treacherous current and dying light had been far more difficult than Duncan had expected, but a grim determination had driven him, and when he had finally found the heavy anchor line, stretched tight as a fiddle string, Sagatchie’s tomahawk had made short work of it. The British sailors had frantically fired their guns as they felt their vessels slip, but their shells hit only the tip of the island and the river itself. By the time he found the second line, they had the sense to send rockets into the air to illuminate the darkened river, and marines had begun to aim at him from the frigates. The muskets had only spattered the water around him, and the glow had made Duncan’s work easier.
The flares came quicker and quicker, lighting Duncan’s struggle to the shore of the island, his arms and legs screaming against the final effort. Fleeting, staccato images of the British calamity came with the flashes when he finally crawled onto the rocky shore beneath the island’s cliff. The river grabbed the frigates much more violently than Duncan would have expected, spinning them about. In one flash the curving line of gunboats had begun to straighten. One of the boats kept firing, its shells hitting a rocky shoal near the island. Another rocket flash showed that its guns had shifted, tilting the boat. The next showed the guns sliding off, with the crew not far behind. In the next the crew was climbing onto the upturned hull. The retreating ships kept firing their rockets as they drifted downstream, desperately trying to avoid rocks and shoals. The remaining gunboat crews hacked away at the lines fixed to the drifting frigates until at last they were free of the threat of being capsized, only to drift even quicker than the frigates down the river.