IT WAS LATE EVENING WHEN Duncan woke in a chamber lit by a solitary candle. He looked around, trying to recall how he had gotten into the bed, then paused as he saw the woman perched in the window seat. Sarah Ramsey seemed to glow in the soft light. He pushed back the blanket and was about to speak; then, with a smile, he realized she was asleep herself, her head against the sash. Duncan rose up on an elbow, silently gazing at her. Sarah was not just the inspired leader of the Edentown settlement on the western slopes of the Catskills, she was also a vital ambassador between the woodland tribes and European settlers.
Washed in the golden light of the candle on one side and the silver beams of the moon on the other, it seemed indeed that she was a creature of two worlds. As a strand of hair fell across her face, he saw the skittish, wild girl who’d been raised by the Iroquois. Seized by the loathsome British aristocrat who was her natural father, she had first been terrified of the European world, then furious at it for what it was doing to the tribes, and finally reconciled to a new life on the frontier. It was there, at the remote edge of the European world, that he and Sarah both thrived, and he knew she ached to return to it as much as he did.
He slipped off the bed and advanced, as stealthy as a ranger, to place a kiss on the crown of her head. She was never conscious of her beauty, and she shunned with self-conscious laughs the rouges and powders that the women of Boston society pushed on her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she offered a groggy smile, then pulled him toward her, pressing her head against his chest.
“Someone took me captive and confined me in her bed,” he whispered.
Her low laugh was a salve to his battered spirit. “You were at the kitchen table waiting for some stew. But when I brought it, your head was on the table and you could not be revived.”
“The past two days have been an ordeal.”
“The three of us had a time getting you up the stairs.”
“Three?”
“Ishmael and your new friend Will Sterret, who sleeps down the hall now. Later I brought up food,” she explained, indicating a tray with a half a loaf, cheese, and a kitchen knife on the chest by the door, “but you would not be awakened.”
“Ishmael’s back?” Conawago’s nephew had come with Sarah from Eden-town but then promptly debarked for Nantucket to see its famed whaling fleet.
“He’s says his calendar shows that we leave for the Catskills in two days.” She gestured toward the candle. “He brought one box of the best spermaceti lights for the school, though I asked for half a dozen. He spent the rest of the money on a sea bear who apparently needed a home.”
“Sea bear?”
Sarah stretched and smiled again. “You will meet her soon enough,” she said, then looked up and fixed Duncan with a pointed gaze. “Two days, Duncan.”
He kissed her on the crown again. “I promise, mo chridhe,” he said. My heart. “Two days.”
She tightened her grip on his waist. “We’ll have more than a week on the road together,” she said in a hopeful, almost mischievous tone.
“With Conawago, Ishmael, and apparently a creature called a sea bear who doesn’t mind leaving the sea behind, and all the horses needing tending. We’ll need at least two wagons for the supplies.”
“Did I mention I bought a new clock for the school today, and several reams of good Dutch paper?”
“So maybe three wagons and a teamster to share the work. Just you and me on an idyllic stroll, with assorted human and four-legged companions.”
Sarah screwed her face in exaggerated displeasure. “We can plan the crops. Maybe we can pick up a new milk cow from those Dutch farmers on the other side of the Hudson.”
“And planting stock. We can buy apple trees in the Berkshires.”
Sarah gripped his arm with a faraway expression. “The orchards,” she said dreamily, and for a few heartbeats they were both lost in memories of walking hand in hand in groves thick with apple scent and the buzzing of bees. Sarah collected herself, then rose, fixing him now with a smile that had a surprising hint of melancholy. “We need you, Duncan,” she said, as if he had been arguing with her. “You’ve been away too long.”
“I promise,” he assured her, “two days—and back on the road to Eden-town.” He playfully rubbed the top of her head. “Now I must retreat down the stairs before one of those Boston matrons discovers me in your bedchamber.” He felt her stiffen and instantly regretted his words.
She released her grip on his arm and took a step backward. “You can’t be a warrior forever, Duncan McCallum.” They loved each other, but a piece of paper stood between them. Legally, Duncan was Sarah’s indentured servant, and he had made it clear years earlier that he would not smear her honor by taking to bed together. Either she would be accused of misusing a mere servant or he would be accused of using her affection to ease his bondage. The parchment imposing his seven-year bond lay fastened to the lintel of her bedroom door, angrily pinned there by Sarah years earlier with her Iroquois skinning blade. They had avoided speaking of it, or of the newer magistrate’s order that her father had imposed between them. Sarah had instead taken to reminding Duncan of the Iroquois warrior’s way, in which valued warriors were not expected to marry until they reached their thirtieth year, Duncan’s age. Duncan had stood alongside tribal warriors in struggles of many kinds, and when Sarah and he were alone on one of their private excursions into the mountains, she often called him her Celtic Mohawk. The ways of her beloved tribe signified much more to her than the vagaries of English magistrates.
Duncan broke off a piece of the bread and nibbled at it. “Did you mention stew?” he asked, forcing lightness into his voice.
She offered a half smile and motioned him toward the door. “I need to wash. I’ve been sitting here since—” She paused, as if not wanting to admit that she had been keeping vigil over him. “I need to wash,” she repeated, then pulled at the top hook of her dress with one hand and pushed Duncan toward the hallway with the other. Duncan planted a playful kiss on her forehead and retreated downstairs.
IN THE KITCHEN, HE SAT at the end of a long table that was so battered, he suspected it may have arrived with the original Puritans. A nearly empty bowl had been left on the other end. He assumed that Ishmael had eaten and gone to sleep in the small stable, which the young Nipmuc preferred. Mrs. Pope, the widowed landlady who rented her house out to sustain her daughter and herself, served him a steaming bowl from the pot hanging over the hearth, then turned to shelving the dishes that had been left out to dry.
“You were entertaining, I see,” Duncan observed between mouthfuls. He had seen a tea service waiting to be collected from the dining room table.
The compact, very round woman replied without pausing in her task. “Mr. Adams paid a visit.”
Duncan looked up in surprise. “Samuel was here while I slept?” He did not miss her hesitation before speaking.
“Not Samuel,” the landlady said, speaking over her shoulder. “His younger cousin from Braintree. Not as well fed. Not as talkative. But genteel enough and quite intelligent. He and Miss Sarah had a most congenial discussion.”
“And why would she—” His question was cut off by a terrified scream from upstairs, followed by what sounded like a body hitting the floor. Duncan bolted out of his chair and was up the stairs in seconds. The young Miss Pope lay in a faint on the hallway floor, folded linens scattered about her. Duncan slowed at Sarah’s door and reached for his knife, only to find it was not at his waist.
His heart lurched as he inched into the doorway and discovered Sarah in her shift, bent, her legs apart in the stance of a warrior in close combat. The kitchen knife from the tray left in the room was in her hand. The swarthy man before her was bent in a similar posture, a deadly, much longer blade in his own hand, amusement on his face as he pushed back a long braid of black hair that had fallen from under his tricorn hat.
Sarah’s shift had a slice in it along the ribs, and Duncan saw small spots of crimson seeping through the linen. As he darted forward, she snapped an angry Mohawk word at him, a command for Duncan to back away, like a warrior claiming a prize. Her assailant’s grin widened. He was obviously pleased to have his prey served up one at a time. Duncan eased along the wall, looking for something to use as a weapon, until Sarah growled at him to stop. She touched the patch of blood on her shift, then with the blood-tipped finger hastily drew two stripes on each cheek. “Come meet my blade!” she taunted her opponent in the Mohawk tongue. “Don’t come sneaking in the shadows against my people unless you are ready to bleed!” she hissed.
When the man hesitated, Duncan assumed it was because he did not understand the words, but then he saw the intruder’s treacherous grin and realized it was just his surprise that she was challenging him in the Iroquois tongue and had adorned herself with a warrior’s stripes. Duncan stared in confusion; then, as the man pulled off his hat, tossing it out the window, he saw the tattooed fish on the stranger’s neck at the end of a long, slanting scar that crossed his forehead and continued down a cheek, a wound from a sword. Despite his European clothing, the man was an Indian. Then Duncan saw that his tattered brown waistcoat wasn’t worn over britches, but over deerskin leggings, and on his feet were moccasins. A piece of fur dangled from his belt.
As Duncan grabbed a heavy pewter candlestick and perched on the balls of his feet, ready to spring, the warrior lunged at her. Sarah avoided his blade with an effortless twist of her body. She taunted him with a Mohawk curse about his mother in her afterlife then, as she spoke, made a surprisingly high leap and came down at the stranger’s side. The Indian smiled again, then hesitated and touched his shoulder. His hand came away bloody. She had nicked his arm.
Duncan had not seen this savage side of Sarah for years. Captured at an early age, she had been raised by an Iroquois sachem, a spirit chieftain who was revered and feared throughout the tribes. He had bestowed his love and wisdom on her but also his bearlike ferocity, which she had amply displayed when struggling with the Europeans who tried to keep her from her beloved tribes.
“Duncan, get back!” Sarah snapped as she inched sideways.
The intruder paused, looking at Duncan for a heartbeat; then Sarah waved her knife in the man’s face. The stranger lunged again, but feinted, twisting and thrusting his blade at Duncan’s belly. As quick as a cat, reacting faster than Duncan, Sarah kicked the man’s hand away and delivered a downward blow, cutting into the man’s upper arm deeply enough to bring a surprised gasp.
The stranger straightened. There was still amusement in his face as he studied Sarah, but also a new respect. His gaze drifted to the amulet that hung from her neck, now spilled out from her shift, and he froze. His eyes went round. The amulet, whose contents not even Duncan knew, was decorated with ornate quill-work depicting a human eye flanked by a serpent and a bear, fastened at the top with the talons of an eagle. It had been worn by Sarah’s Iroquois father, Tashgua.
The intruder retreated a step, whispering what sounded like a prayer in a tongue Duncan did not recognize; then he lowered his blade. He cast a long, disappointed glance at Duncan and in a flash of movement disappeared out the window. Duncan closed and locked it behind him.
Sarah dropped the knife to the floor and accepted Duncan’s embrace.
“Mussh, nighean, mussh,” he whispered in Gaelic as a silent sob racked her body. Hush, lass, hush. They stayed locked in each other’s arms for several long breaths.
“There!” Sarah said as she pushed away and straightened her shift, not realizing she was leaving bloodstains with every touch. “I’m finished with Boston!” she declared. “I need the forest around me. Too many people,” she added, as if the Indian intruder were no more a concern than being splashed by a passing wagon.
“How did you discover him?”
“I had opened the window for the cool breeze and was drying myself after using the washbasin. I heard the creak of a floorboard, and when I turned, he was there.”
“What exactly was he doing? Looking to attack you or get past you?”
Sarah ignored the question. “We’re packing tonight,” she said in an insistent voice.
“But the preparations are for dawn the day after tomorrow.”
“Tonight. This is the last night I spend in this city.”
“You know he wasn’t from Boston, Sarah. What did he want?”
She shrugged. “The city attracts his type. Thieves, pickpockets, beggars, people who take advantage of open windows. He didn’t expect to feel the sting of a Mohawk,” she declared with a proud glint. Suddenly her head snapped toward the hallway. “Margaret! I heard Margaret scream!”
“She fainted,” Duncan explained. He heard Mrs. Pope’s comforting voice in the hallway. “Her mother has her.” As he spoke, the voice in the hall paused, then grew louder and closer. They looked up to see a fearful Will Sterret in the doorway, with Mrs. Pope placing a hand on his shoulder. Duncan had forgotten the boy had been sleeping in the extra bed down the hall.
“There, there,” the matron said to Will, patting his back. “Nothing for a wee one here.” The boy, who had seen so much death that week, stared round-eyed at the blood on Sarah as Mrs. Pope led him away.
Sarah’s gaze fell to the hand that had held the knife. It was shaking.
“Sit,” Duncan said as he pushed her down on the bed. “You’re bleeding.”
“I will just wash up and join you as you eat.”
Duncan retrieved the towel she had left by the basin and rubbed at her cheek. “Perhaps before you go to the kitchen, we should remove your war paint.” He had cleaned the first cheek when he paused. “I didn’t understand his words,” he said.
“The coward. If he had tried that in the north, a war party would be chasing him already. Some hatreds never die.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“He was from the Canada country, Duncan. An Abenaki.”
THE APPEARANCE OF AN ABENAKI so soon after one had scalped a ranger from the Arcturus was simply a coincidence, Sarah tried to convince him, but Duncan’s instincts screamed otherwise. Loading one of the new pistols they had bought the week before and returning his knife to his belt, he slipped outside, first going to the stable, where he was disappointed to find no sign of Ishmael, then circuiting the house twice, pausing each time to study the sturdy ivy-covered trellis that rose up to the edge of the roof, past Sarah’s window. It could be no coincidence, yet it seemed impossible that the Abenaki killer would seek them out or even know how to find them. The Abenaki had seemed to recognize Duncan, or at least his name, but he had no connection to the killer, except, he reminded himself, through Hancock and Livingston. Gooseflesh rose along his spine as he recalled how the Abenaki had cut out part of Oliver’s heart. He circled the block, his hand on the pistol tucked in his belt, before returning to Mrs. Pope’s kitchen, where Sarah and the shaken proprietress waited with a fresh bowl of stew and bread.
His nerves had settled enough for him to eat, and censuring glances from Sarah made it clear that he was not to contradict her explanation that a drunken reveler had climbed the trellis looking for a free bed for the night. Duncan kept quiet, focusing on his meal, and Mrs. Pope soon retired upstairs to her own bedroom, carrying a rolling pin against future intruders. Sarah was filling their cups from a crock of water when a sharp, urgent rap on the door broke the stillness.
Henry Knox let himself in without waiting for an answer. “I wouldn’t trouble your household so late, Miss Ramsey, but I saw the light and—oh, Duncan!” said the youth as he spied Duncan behind Sarah. He dropped three books onto the table, bound by a leather strap. “I had to search in every store, Miss, and they came dear. Three shillings eight pence, I fear.”
Duncan grabbed the strap to pull the books closer, but Sarah self-consciously pulled them away, though not before he glimpsed the titles of the buckram-bound volumes. Pamela by Samuel Richardson, The History of Tom Jones by Henry Fielding, and Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Famous books about a servant, a rogue, and a hermit.
“For the school,” Sarah explained with a blush, then pulled down a pouch from the mantel over the hearth and extracted a handful of coins. As she counted out his payment, Knox took a seat at the table and accepted a slice of the bread from the plate Duncan nudged toward him.
“Is it true that you have trees in your wilderness that two men can’t span with their arms spread wide?” the youth asked as he chewed.
“Oh, aye,” Duncan replied with a grin. “On the Monongahela I camped once beneath a giant sycamore that took six of us to span.”
Knox’s eyes went wide, then he offered a solemn nod. “Someday I will cross the Hudson myself,” he boldly vowed, as if the great river marked the edge of the civilized world.
“If you can work up such bravery, Henry,” Sarah offered, her eyes sparkling, “then you must come visit us in Edentown. We can show you wonders of the forest that you have never even imagined,”
Before Knox could answer, a crash came from outside the door as someone missed his footing, falling on the step, and then Ishmael stumbled inside. The young Nipmuc seemed to see only Duncan. Like his great uncle, Ishmael seldom betrayed his emotions, but now his eyes were lit with alarm. “Mr. Hancock says come quickly!” Ishmael declared breathlessly. “He says the killers have breached the stronghold!” The young tribesman paused, wrinkling his brow, then gulped a breath and continued in a more tentative voice. “And a banshee has trapped Reverend Occom in the cellar!” He aimed his confused expression at Duncan, as if hoping for an explanation.
Henry Knox shot up in excitement, only to be pushed down by Sarah. She fixed Duncan with a gaze full of warning, which Duncan returned without expression. “Go,” she said in a peeved whisper; then, more loudly, “Henry will keep me safe.”
“The day after tomorrow,” Duncan replied, as if in apology. “Start your packing, mo leannan. One more day, and we leave all this behind.”
THE WAREHOUSE THAT DUNCAN NOW knew to be a secret meetinghouse for the Sons of Liberty did indeed look like a fallen fortress. Outside the side door, the big Jamaican had collapsed against the stone wall and was pressing a bloody rag to his temple. The heavy door beside him hung open.
Duncan placed his hand on his knife as he followed Ishmael inside, cursing himself for forgetting the pistol in his haste. Two more of Hancock’s men were at the end of the corridor, wearing the stunned, empty expressions Duncan had last seen on men in the aftermath of battle. One was bandaging the arm of the other, who used his good appendage to point down the cellar stairs.
As they descended into the cellar, an ungodly screech rose up from the shadows in the far corner. “Duncan, the banshee!” Ishmael moaned, clamping a hand around the amulet that hung from his neck.
“McCallum! Praise God!” Hancock called, rushing out of his secret meeting room. “Munro discovered your wretched heathen”—he paused with a guilty glance toward Ishmael—“the Indian intruder, and then fought him to a standoff at the chamber door. God knows what other casualties may been inflicted elsewise.” He wiped at his brow with a linen handkerchief, then touched the butt of a large pistol he had shoved into his belt. “I was just behind the door! But for Munro, I too would have been at the devil’s mercy.”
Duncan saw now the figure slumped unconscious against a barrel. “Enoch!” he cried as he darted to his friend’s side. Munro had a lump on his temple and did not respond as Duncan lifted an eyelid. His pulse, though, was strong and steady.
“What Indian?” Duncan asked. Men from a score of tribes, most just wanderers in need of work, could be found working on the waterfront on any particular day. “Why here?” His questions were overwhelmed by another ungodly screech from the far side of the cellar.
“I fear the reverend is . . .” The ever-loquacious Hancock was at a loss for words. “Pinned by a demon,” he finally offered, though through the fear on his face Duncan thought he saw a flicker of amusement.
Duncan straightened, drew his blade, and stole into the shadows, Ishmael a step behind him.
The sound came more frequently now, varying between a high-pitched scolding cry and the nerve-rattling shriek Duncan had first heard. It was unlike anything he had ever heard in his life, and he could not push the memory of Highland tales of flesh-eating banshees from his mind. They were small but could devour humans, a great-uncle once told him, because their shrieks robbed men of their senses, and the old man had never gone out in the night without holding a nail, a horseshoe, or another piece of protective iron in his hand, the traditional charm against evil. Ishmael fearfully clutched his totem but kept pace with Duncan. They advanced stealthily down an aisle between stacked casks toward the awful racket until, in the dim light of a cellar lantern, he discovered the besieged Reverence Occom.
The pastor did indeed seem paralyzed, sprawled as he was against the wall and staring up in mute horror at the pile of upturned crates from which the shrieks originated. Duncan saw movement to his right and discovered that Conawago had arrived and was staring at the reverend with undisguised mirth. With a quick glance, Duncan understood instantly what the old Nipmuc was thinking. The surface of the self-righteous tribal seminarian had been scratched, and the superstitions of the forest had left him cowering in the corner.
The banshee, seeming to react to Duncan’s arrival, quieted.
“Surely such a formidable man of the faith is not frightened of a petite capuchin,” Conawago observed to Occom, whose fear was quickly being replaced with resentment after Conawago’s appearance.
“A monk?” Duncan asked in disbelief. The Order of the Friars Capuchin, he knew from his early days in Holland, were an offshoot of the Franciscans. He had never seen one of the barefooted, hooded ascetics in Massachusetts or anywhere else in the New World.
Before Conawago could answer, Occom attempted to move, triggering a new round of the awful screeching. As Duncan tightened his grip on his blade and advanced another step, a stranger in a dark cloak darted past him to stand before the crates, facing Occom. “Suficiente de tu canto, me querida,” he called over his shoulder, toward the crates.
Instantly the noise ceased. Duncan had the impression that he may have just witnessed an act of the dark arts. Then the Spanish words registered. Enough of your singing, my dear.
The sorcerer threw off his cloak and bent solicitously over the fallen Occom. “A thousand pardons, sir! This is most uncharacteristic, I assure you. She is out of sorts over the violence. Perhaps Sadie misunderstood when you knocked me down with that bottle.” As the stranger grabbed Occom’s hand and hauled the confused minister to his feet, Duncan saw a bloody bruise on his forehead.
The samaritan was a lean man, almost as tall as Duncan, with long black hair and a short beard of the same color. His eyes were bright, his countenance warm. He bent to lift a book from the floor and handed it to the minister.
As Occom collected himself, he flushed with embarrassment. “It is possible I overreacted, sir. When I first saw you with that intruder, I thought perhaps you were in alliance with him, and then that . . . that creature gave me a start.”
Hancock appeared, rushing to Occom’s side with anxious apologies. The merchant nodded to the dark stranger and turned to Duncan and Conawago with a peeved expression. “The reverend is an esteemed leader of the faithful,” he chided, as if they had not shown him proper respect, then led Occom back toward the meeting room.
The stranger lowered himself onto a crate and gave a short whistle. A gasp rose from behind Duncan, and he turned to see Ishmael pointing in astonishment. A small head with dark brown hair on its crown had appeared over the edge of a crate. Its pink face put Duncan in mind of a newborn human, though its active, inquisitive eyes gave it an air of conspicuous intelligence. It inched over the box, revealing rich golden fur on its jowls, shoulders, and upper arms. The man on the crate spread his arms, and with a single leap the animal sprang several feet into his embrace. The stranger cradled the creature with obvious affection, whispering words of comfort into its tiny ears before extending it to examine its body. As he did so, the animal’s tail, as long as its twelve-inch body, wrapped tightly around his arm.
Satisfied that the animal had suffered no injury, the man shifted it onto his shoulder. “Excuse our rudeness,” he said with a bow of his head to Duncan and the two Nipmucs. “My name is Solomon Hayes, and this is Princess Salome Alexis Bergerac, though her friends call her Sadie.”
Ishmael took an uncertain step forward, his eyes filled with wonder. “She’s a . . .” he began, obviously having trouble fitting the creature with the fauna he knew from his native forests. “Part squirrel, part weasel,” he tried, “like the gods assembled her from leftover parts.” Ishmael paused and his eyes grew still rounder. “A jogah!” he exclaimed, referring to an impish spirit of nature in Iroquois legend.
“A monkey,” Duncan explained, and bowed his own head. “Honored to make your acquaintances.”
Hayes grinned and returned the bow. “Cabus capucinus, to be more precise. A capuchin, so named because the Spaniards who first encountered the creatures likened them to the old hooded monks of their homeland. Born on the shores of the Caribbean, where she mischievously decided to stow away on a New England merchantman. Sadie,” he added with a gesture toward their new friends, “where are your manners?”
As Conawago gave a long, wheezing laugh, Duncan stepped past a still-uncertain Ishmael and extended his hand, introducing himself. The capuchin grasped his fingers and bent her head to touch it to them. Ishmael gave a cry of delight and pushed forward for her to repeat the gesture. “Princess Salome,” the youth said with a deep bow. “I’ve never met royalty before.” Conawago likewise presented himself, still chuckling. The capuchin had made a staunch ally in him by shaming Occom.
“A profound pleasure,” Duncan said, question in his voice, “but I was summoned because of an attack by a human.”
“The northern warrior,” Hayes confirmed. “I had to leave Sadie to run after him, but then I lost him in one of those political marches.”
Duncan’s confusion was obvious. Hayes shrugged. “Perhaps we’d best collect our colleagues.”
Minutes later the strange crew had assembled in the meeting room. Occom, his bulk settled into a chair that seemed too small for him, glared alternately at Hayes and Conawago. Hancock and Livingston sat at the end of the table, exchanging worried whispers until they saw Duncan. Enoch Munro, apparently none the worse for his injury, had revived and now produced a dusty bottle with a wax seal, which he was prying off with his knife. Ishmael lingered on a barrel outside the door, mesmerized by Sadie as she swung from rafter to rafter.
Duncan broke the silence. “I warned you yesterday about the warrior.”
“You said he wouldn’t come into the city,” Hancock rejoined. “Take a seat, Duncan, please.”
“What I said,” Duncan corrected, “was that those who destroyed the Arcturus did not need him as a guide to come to Boston. So why,” he asked, aiming an accusatory gaze toward Hancock, “did he suddenly need to come here?”
Hancock and Livingston glanced at each other.
“Why?” Duncan pressed. “Why did he seek out Sarah Ramsey in her bedroom an hour ago?”
Hancock went pale. “Not Sarah!” he moaned. “Is she safe?” He still offered no answer.
“Then let the deaths be on you,” Duncan growled. “I am finished in Boston.”
“There was another secret here in this warehouse,” Hancock said to his back. “But it was expertly hidden away. This building was secure and guarded at every entrance.”
Duncan slowly turned toward him.
Livingston nodded his vigorous confirmation. “They could never have known about it,” he asserted. “It was between John and me, no one else. We took precautions.”
Duncan paced along the table, studying the two merchants. “Until two nights ago it was between the two of you,” he suggested. “Before that ledger was stolen and thirty-eight died.”
“The boy survived,” Livingston corrected.
“Thirty-seven, then!” Duncan snapped. “You owe them the truth! What did those men find in that ledger that made them come to Boston?”
Hancock sighed. “When I was last in Halifax, I left a note with my agent there to give to Pine when the Arcturus called, because I didn’t know when I would see Robert. But it was in code. It would be meaningless to anyone else, let alone some savage.”
Duncan glared at the merchant, who cast a guilty glance at Conawago. “Some savage like me and my wilderness friends?” Duncan snapped in the Mohawk tongue.
Hancock gaped at him in confusion, then seemed to grasp his intent and flushed with color. For the first time, Duncan saw a hint of a smile on Reverend Occom’s face. He had understood Duncan’s words.
“Besides,” Hancock continued, “no one could get into the building. No one did get into the building. He just appeared inside, as if through some dark conjuring. He injured the guards only when leaving.”
“Ishmael,” Duncan said to the young Nipmuc, who now listened from the doorway. “How would you get into the building if the street doors were locked?”
Ishmael grinned. “The stone walls are high but rough, with deep mortar points. The back wall has ivy growing nearly to the roof. The second and top floors have windows with wide sills and lintels. Practically like a ladder. There’s a watcher’s walk on the roof to survey the harbor, which means there is a hatch into the building.”
“But there were guards,” Livingston argued.
“Who were watching the street,” Duncan stated. “They would not be looking up. A quick diversion would pull them away long enough for the few seconds needed to gain the top floor.”
“A pile of straw burst into flame at the stable next door,” Munro recalled as he pulled on the cork of his bottle. “Everyone runs to a fire.”
“But the guard at the door was injured,” Hancock pointed out.
“Oh, aye,” Munro confirmed. “The brute accosted all of us on the way out. By then the surprise was gone, no need to climb back down from the roof. But his blows were like lightning, aimed only to disable us. And it weren’t us who made him flee, t’was the monkey, who started shrieking at him ’cause he hit her master when he tried to interfere. She followed him, up on the rafters, raising that racket of hers all the way. When he finally saw her, he lowered his knife and fled.”
“You had a good glimpse of him?” Duncan asked.
“For a quick breath, aye. Wore a brown waistcoat and leggings.”
“Duncan flattened his hand and slanted it across his face. “A saber scar.”
“Aye, an ugly beast with eyes like a catamount, the kind of cool, cunning eyes that size ye up for its next meal. Wearing a stinking wee dead thing at his belt.”
Duncan drew up a chair and sat. “He was at Mrs. Pope’s house, attacking Sarah.”
“Surely that is impossible!” Hancock protested; then his voice faltered as he saw the fire in Duncan’s eyes. “Duncan, please know we never intended . . .”
“He was the one who killed that ranger?” Livingston asked.
Duncan nodded. He recalled seeing the patch of fur hanging at the Abenaki’s waist. “The wee dead thing was Daniel Oliver’s scalp.”
In the stunned silence Munro extracted the cork from his dusty bottle and hastily drank.
“Munro!” Hancock protested. “The governor’s whiskey!”
“And won’t he jist have to hear from ye about the lamentable breakage that occurs at sea.” The Scot extended the bottle to Duncan, but Hancock interrupted, raising his hand in surrender before retrieving several small pewter cups from the sideboard.
As Hancock poured, Livingston retrieved a tricorn hat from a corner chair. “He lost this in the scuffle with Mr. Munro,” he explained, handing it to Duncan.
As Duncan examined it, Conawago bent over his shoulder. “Ever the dressers, the ’Naki,” the Nipmuc declared. The Abenaki were fond of bright cloth and decoration and during the war were known for stripping off the scarlet uniforms of soldiers they had killed and adapting them to their own use. Although badly tattered now, the hat was of finely made felt, probably a war trophy taken from a colonial militia officer. Duncan recognized its stained blue rosette as one favored by Hudson Valley companies. Pinned inside the hat was another trophy, a tarnished brass badge that consisted of the numerals 42.
Duncan let Conawago take the hat as he exchanged a pointed glance with Munro. It was a badge of the Black Watch, the 42nd Regiment of Foot, which had first brought Munro to America. Abenaki had fought alongside the French on that terrible July day ten years earlier, when, obeying the orders of a mindless British general, more than half the 42nd had been slaughtered before the ramparts of Fort Ticonderoga. The Abenaki had scalped and plundered the casualties, not all of whom had been dead when the scalping blade was put to work.
The Scot’s eyes flared as he saw the badge, and he grabbed the hat from Conawago.
The old Nipmuc saved Munro from mouthing the sentiment he clearly felt. “They were indeed savages that day,” Conawago stated.
“He killed that ranger,” Munro observed, fixing Hancock with an accusatory stare. “He wears the badge of dead enemies. Like I said, he’s still fighting the war.”
“Enoch, steady, old man,” the merchant chided.
“Steady? Steady! I’ll give ye steady, ye spoiled pup!” The former soldier tore off the cap he always wore and pulled back the long, gray-streaked hair that lay over the crown of his head. Hancock jerked back in revulsion. Livingston choked on his whiskey. The top of Munro’s head was nothing but a mass of jagged scar tissue.
“I lay there for hours, shot in the leg, knowing if I moved ’afore those French muskets, I’d be the dead man they took me for. My best friend, Archibald Brodie, lay half on top of me, a bullet through one beautiful blue eye, the other staring at me from his death all those hours. Then the 42nd pulled back, those who could walk, and the ’Nakis came for our hair, hooting and hollering. If I had cried out, they would have slashed my throat quick as that. T’was the devil’s own butcher’s shop. Steady be damned! Ye let one of those devils in here!”
“I didn’t . . .” Hancock muttered. “We couldn’t have known, surely you see that. Christ on the cross, Enoch! I did not ask for this!”
The Scot seemed not to hear Hancock. He had dropped into a chair and was staring, stricken, at the hat. It too could have been taken from the battlefield at Ticonderoga, or in any of the bloody north-country raids the Abenaki had been famous for.
Duncan studied each man as he tried to make sense of the night’s events. The mysterious Solomon Hayes, the only man who had given chase to the warrior, had said nothing, listening with intense interest. Reverend Occom, whose presence Duncan could not explain, had also remained silent, apparently nursing his injured pride. Duncan spoke slowly, insistently. “Why was he here, John?”
“I told you, Duncan. He came for a secret we had concealed here. The ledger was of interest because of the Sons. But this had nothing to do with the Sons. He must have misunderstood something.”
“Where?”
Hancock glanced uncertainly at Livingston. “The code simply described where the secret cache was. But surely he could not have understood it—”
“If you recall,” Duncan interrupted, working hard to contain his temper, “he was not alone. The saboteurs of the Arcturus are with him, walking the streets of Boston! They were watching Mrs. Pope’s house! Show me the code.”
Hancock looked stricken. His voice took on a whining tone. “Duncan, surely you understand I can’t just . . .”
“Thirty-seven men died in the harbor. A butcher is loosed on Boston, and you will fuss over a secret between merchants? Show me, or we can go meet with the governor,” he stated, raising a worried look between Hancock and Livingston. “Just give me the coded message, that’s all. I would see it as the killer and his companions saw it.”
Livingston leaned back in his chair, as if retreating from Duncan’s heat, then nervously nodded at Hancock. The Boston merchant opened a drawer in the sideboard, produced a piece of foolscap, and leaned over it with a writing lead. When he finally looked up, Duncan lifted the paper from between his hands. “The best I can do, from memory,” Hancock said in a tight voice.
Duncan shook his head in angry surprise and stretched the paper out for Conawago to see. The old Nipmuc muttered under his breath.
“You invited them here,” Duncan stated. “You made it so easy they could not resist.”
“Of course not, Duncan. We took great precautions by using this code,” Hancock argued.
“It’s a damned pigpen code! The military has used it for years! I could give this to young Henry Knox and he would crack it in minutes!” With undisguised impatience he took another sheet of paper and drew two sets of two vertical parallel lines, each intersected by two horizontal lines. Below these he drew two large Xs. He filled the top row of the first large hatch mark with A, B, C; continued down the squares; and wrote J through R in the second set. He positioned dots along the edge of each box of that set, then finished the alphabet by placing letters in each triangle formed by the Xs, adding dots to the last four.
“Each letter is outlined by a unique shape, distinctive to it alone,” he explained. He drew a backward L with a dot in it, a U turned on its right side with a dot in it, an upside-down U, and a four-sided square with a dot. “That says ‘John.’ ”
Hancock downed a shot of whiskey and poured another. The bottle shook in his hand. “An old bookseller in New York told us about it, said it was a secret of the Roman generals. He accepted a handsome fee to guarantee he would not share it with anyone else.”
“I’m sure he did,” was Duncan’s only reply, knowing how Hancock and Livingston fancied themselves as Caesars of the New World. He flattened the coded paper inscribed by Hancock and began deciphering the angular shapes.
He had barely finished the first word when Conawago bent over his shoulder and slowly dictated, pointing to each group of symbols in succession. “South wall, center top rack. Portuguese XX,” he recited, then looked to the much-diminished Hancock. “A cask of brandy? Or is it port?” Conawago asked the brooding merchant, then spun about and left the room.
Duncan followed the old Nipmuc out the door and toward the deeper shadows along the back wall, grabbing a lantern off its wall hook. “Smells like brandy,” Conawago observed as they approached the south wall. The cask stood upright on the floor, sitting in a pool of the pungent liquor. On its side a double X had been marked in chalk. Duncan knelt to examine the cask and the shards of wood beside it. A heavy blade, probably a tomahawk, had shattered the top, exposing a shallow watertight compartment that had been cleverly built into the end of the cask, allowing a storage space three inches deep. Duncan fixed Hancock with a disappointed gaze as the merchant appeared.
“More good men nearly died tonight,” Duncan declared, “for a parcel poorly hidden in a cask of brandy.”
Hancock looked like a frightened boy whose mischief had just been discovered. “I had given orders to ship the entire cask to Robert if something happened to me.” His voice cracked. “You have to get it back, Duncan!”
“What I have to do, John, is to go back across the Hudson with my—” He started over. “I have to return to Edentown. I told you. The intrigues of wine merchants are no concern of mine.”
His words seemed to sadden Hancock. “I don’t know how to—” the merchant began, looking back and forth from Duncan to Conawago. “I mean, Sam Adams may be right. Who can do this if not the two of you? I need you to hear me out. I have been a fool. Men have died, and I am devastated by the loss.” His voice choked with emotion and faded away. “This is something of your world, not of mine,” he added after a few heartbeats.
“Samuel is right about what?” Duncan demanded. He was about to gesture Ishmael back up to the street when a new figure appeared on the stairs, his large frame silhouetted by the lantern behind him. Before the door outside was pulled shut, the angry voice of an infantry officer could be heard over the marching boots of soldiers. “Surely, Duncan, you can linger for a final dram,” Samuel Adams said in a despondent voice, “on a night when the soul of liberty is being crushed.”
The sound of the boots seemed to be a cue for Hayes, who bent to Hancock’s ear, then quickly disappeared up the stairway, his capuchin in a pouch slung under his shoulder. As they reentered the meeting room, Duncan became aware of sounds from the chamber where Pine’s body had laid. Impatient with the secrecy of his companions, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. A bright whale oil lamp burned at the end of the workbench. Reverend Occom sat there as he had the night before, but now he was bent over a small stack of papers.
The native pastor, much recovered from his fright, cocked his head and returned Duncan’s cool stare, then gestured to the empty place where Pine’s body had lain the night before. “We surrendered him to Abraham’s embrace at dusk,” Occom announced. “I have left funds for a stone to be carved.” He seemed to think he owed something to Duncan. “I asked that an eel be carved on his stone, with arrows pointing to the heavens.”
“At the Old North Church?” Duncan asked.
Occom nodded.
“So the wandering, courageous Seneca is laid to rest among the Puritans,” Duncan observed. He was beginning to understand Conawago’s resentment of Occom, whose pious, superior expression seemed almost permanently etched on his countenance.
Occom bristled. “Laid to rest among his fellow lovers of Christ.”
“The only member of his eel clan in the Old North yard, I wager.”
Disapproval clouded Occom’s face. “Who were his people, McCallum?” The question had a bitter tone.
Duncan heard chairs being pulled out at the table in the chamber behind him, but he did not turn. “Why are you here, Reverend?”
“I had an emissary on the Arcturus,” Occom confided in a forlorn tone. “We are building a college on the Connecticut River for all the tribes. I arrived only last week after two years in England, for which Mr. Hancock paid the passage. My man was bringing the final drafts from our donors.”
“You mean someone other than Pine.”
Occom nodded. “The captain’s steward.”
“And he died. I am sorry.”
“He kept the drafts in a sealskin pouch on his person.” Occom gestured to the papers in front of him. “We recovered them from his body as it lay on the beach. All funds are now accounted for. Over twelve thousand pounds in total.”
Duncan gazed in disbelief. The Arcturus had been overburdened with secrets. The sum was beyond extraordinary, enough to build a substantial institution and operate it for years. “And I thought you had gone to that beach to bless the dead,” Duncan said, not trying to conceal the bitterness in his voice. “Men would kill for such money—even destroy a ship.”
“The drafts are just for the final installment, as it were, and made out to me, to be deposited here in Boston.”
“Which for now makes you very valuable and very vulnerable.”
“Surely not.”
“Someone could capture you and force you to sign them over. Someone could steal them and impersonate you.”
“No one knows about them.”
Duncan rolled his eyes. “Surely you understand that knowledge hidden in this house is about as secret as tonight’s quarter moon.” The reverent way Occom treated the drafts disturbed him. Some pastors were men of faith, some men of learning, others men of money. Duncan was learning which one Occom was.
“Why the Arcturus?” he asked. “Why put the ledger and the funds on board the same ship?”
Occom winced. “The captain and his steward were devout men who had been helping us for years. It seemed the safest route.”
“They wrote letters,” Hancock said over Duncan’s shoulder.
Occom took the cue. “Letters in the sealskin. The last one from ten days ago. The ship called in Halifax. When it embarked, two new passengers were on board.”
Duncan recalled Will’s report, that the men who accompanied Oliver to shore had been passengers from Halifax. “Who?”
It was Hancock who answered. “Two men, very well dressed, their clothing a bit too fancy, suggestive of Paris, though they spoke perfect English. Midthirties, both of them, calling themselves Hughes and Montgomery, though the steward suspected those were but names of convenience. The letter says”—here Hancock seemed embarrassed—“they wore conspicuous fragrance, lavender scent.”
Occom took up the tale. “The passengers, as is customary, dined with the officers, and they told a tale of being scholars from Oxford coming to visit colleagues at Harvard College, but they evaded all questions about Harvard and Oxford. That was all. The rest of the letter was about Scripture, suggestions for a sermon we might preach together when we returned to our congregation in Connecticut.”
Another round of the smoky Scotch was being poured when Duncan stepped back into the meeting room. All eyes were trained on Samuel Adams, who sat at the head of the table as if presiding over one of his Sons of Liberty gatherings. As Duncan sat, Livingston pushed a dram toward him. Duncan quickly drained it, and Livingston poured him another.
“The governor says he is done being patient,” Adams declared in a heavy voice. “He has begun a more aggressive campaign, giving orders this afternoon for Mr. Hancock’s ship the Liberty to be towed out into the harbor and put under naval jurisdiction until a formal inspection of her books can be completed. There was some resistance when the navy arrived. Some heads were broken, and customs officials were accosted. The crowd chased them into the streets.” Adams wrung his hands in worry. “We prayed to avoid the presence of more troops on our streets. But now marines from the ships have been called out. When word reaches General Gage in New York, he may well summon infantry from Halifax.”
In the silence that followed, Adams fixed an expectant gaze on Hancock and Livingston. But Duncan spoke first. “Halifax,” he said. “What, Mr. Livingston, was it about your ship that caused that cutter to follow it from Halifax? I thought it was following the ledger, but is it possible they were following those two passengers?”
“Is there a meaningful difference? Different hounds on the scent of the same fox,” Livingston replied, then shrugged. “The captain is beyond our reach,” he reminded Duncan. “And the ship’s books are on the bottom with him. We will never know more.”
“Two men got off before the ship exploded, helped by Mr. Oliver, who was likely deceived by them and then murdered for his trouble,” Duncan replied. “I think they boarded in Halifax to intercept your secret ledger and then Lieutenant Beck pursued them, as if he had been watching them, with the cutter at his disposal. And if they were coordinating with the Abenaki assassin, they were planning this for weeks, if not months.”
“Impossible!” Livingston protested.
“They knew Oliver was on your ship, and they knew he was a ranger. How would they know that?”
Livingston had no answer.
“They knew an Abenaki warrior who would do anything to kill a ranger from St. Francis, even knew where to place him and when, over a period of days, he might expect the Arcturus.”
“My ships are punctual,” Livingston said in a sulking tone.
Duncan ignored him. “They had help, in the north and probably in New York, where the records for the Livingston ships are maintained, as well as here in Boston. Agents provocateurs, we called them in the war.” He met Munro’s gaze. The war isn’t over, the old soldier had said, although Duncan was beginning to wonder if they were witnessing the birth of a new war.
Hancock stared intensely at his dram, then abruptly looked up. “You must find the ledger, Duncan. I beg you.”
“We have already had this conversation,” Duncan shot back. “I cannot. I will not. These are Boston troubles, not mine. And even if I were to consider helping, I would never do so while you withhold the full truth from me.”
Hancock threw up his hands in frustration. “Enough! The package stolen from the cask had a list and a small parcel given us by the widow of a ranger who recently died in Quincy. The list is of names we are compiling, only ten or twelve thus far, ‘Spartans of the cause,’ we call them. Leaders with military experience in towns of New England and New York who we think will not shirk the cause of liberty when it arrives at their doorsteps.”
“Who would want a list of your Spartans?” Duncan asked.
“Our enemies,” Livingston said in a curt, dismissive voice.
“Then by all means you should try to recover it,” Duncan said with a chill in his voice. “For a few shillings Reverend Occom will no doubt pray for its recovery. And if you want everyone in the colonies to know of your quest, just explain it in one of your schoolboy codes.” Duncan drained his glass and stood. If he hurried, Sarah might still be awake.
“Duncan, you misunderstand,” Adams protested, then leaned toward Livingston, urgently explaining something.
“What, may I ask, was in the package from the ranger?” Conawago asked.
“We’re not sure exactly,” Hancock said, “though the widow considered it very important, very secret, and said she didn’t know who else to trust. Her husband was a Sergeant Branscomb, who served as a ranger in the war with Major Rogers. There was an old gold coin in the packet, and a note that sounded almost like orders to report to duty, written very vaguely, very flowery. In purple ink, I recall, because I thought how very odd. Destiny will call, it said, and keep your powder dry, I remember that. And it said this coin is a reminder.”
“And the coin itself?” Conawago asked.
“French, one of those old gold louis you used to see in French Canada. Quite valuable. Of course, we intended to give it back to her, as belonging to her husband.”
“But who sent it? When?”
“Three or four months ago. From whom, we don’t know. No signature on the note, just a word at the closing. Saguenay.”
A question flickered on Conawago’s face and was quickly gone.
“I will see you at Mrs. Pope’s,” Duncan said to his friend, and took a step toward the door.
“Duncan, no!” It was, surprisingly, Livingston who spoke. His face was suddenly dark with worry.
“You misunderstand, Duncan,” Adams said again.
“You keep saying that. Fine. I misunderstand everything but my need to leave.”
“You misunderstand even that,” Adams said. His voice had an odd hint of apology.
“I’m sorry?”
“You must leave, but to find these French saboteurs and the missing journal. You must clear yourself, Duncan. The navy won’t act against us openly, but you made a quick enemy of that man Beck yesterday. He has convinced the governor that you stole the ledger, saying it was the property of the king.”
“The governor will forget the lies of some overwrought lieutenant when I am gone.”
“No, he won’t, and Beck is not just some lieutenant. That uniform was a costume he put on for the cutter’s crew,” Livingston said as Duncan took another step toward the door, then quieted as Adams raised a hand. Livingston whispered into Hancock’s ear. His words drained the color from Hancock’s face.
“I am sorry, Duncan,” said Adams. “There is a warrant for your arrest.”
Duncan stared at the portly man. “Surely I did not hear correctly.”
“You heard me. A warrant has been issued, signed by the governor.”
Conawago and Ishmael moved to Duncan’s side, as if to defend him. Duncan pushed down the anger rising within. Soon he would be rid of this city and its troubles. “A misunderstanding among local officials. You are in the legislature. No doubt you can correct the mistake.” He paused, seeing now the shocked expression that lingered on Hancock’s face.
“Duncan,” Hancock said in a tight voice. “I’m so sorry. You have to go and find those responsible. To save yourself. Samuel thinks he can delay distribution of the warrant until midday tomorrow, but no longer. If Beck and the governor think the ledger is still in Boston, they will rip the city apart to find it. Soldiers will be sent to search houses, churches—anywhere there is a suspected Son of Liberty. They have to be convinced the chase lies elsewhere, that the ledger is with a fugitive fleeing Boston. For the good of the Sons, you understand. For the good of Boston.”
“I am no fugitive.”
The pleading in Hancock’s eyes changed to despair. “Prithee, Duncan, understand that I did not know until this minute. That man Beck works for the minister of war, for important men close to the king. The governor is cowed by him. Beck thinks you have what he so desperately seeks. He swore out an affidavit. The charge is treason, and thirty-seven counts of murder. At noon tomorrow you will be the most wanted man in all the colony.”