Duncan considered McGregor's position, and his words. If he were worried about Huron raiders, he would be patrolling the edge of the forest. "Surely the camp of the magistrate is not in jeopardy."
"There was a wee fracas yesterday. The prisoner was walking behind his honor's wagon when he was set upon by the Virginians with clubs."
Duncan's jaw tightened and he found himself staring at Hadley, who looked with shame at the ground. "How does he fare?"
"The savages in the convoy came to the chiefs assistance. 'Twas not a moment for treaty negotiation, ye might say."
"Is he injured?"
When McGregor offered no reply, Duncan took a step toward the wagon.
"She won't let anyone near," the sergeant said to his back.
Not understanding, Duncan approached the rear gate of the huge wagon, one of the heavy ones made along the Conestoga River near Lancaster. Something flew past his head. Something else struck him in the cheek. The third projectile he caught. A stale biscuit, hard as rock.
"You be getting the pitchfork next if you come near the chieP." came a furious, high-pitched challenge. "The Philadelphia Quakers be here!" the voice added, as if it were the ultimate threat.
Hadley hurried to Duncan's side, holding the unconscious girl. "Becca, we have your Mokie," the Virginian said into the shadows. "The raiders attacked."
The wagon creaked, then Becca materialized out of its deep shadows. She moaned as she saw her daughter, then lifted the girl inside. Duncan and Hadley followed her into the wagon, down an aisle between sacks of flour and other supplies as she laid Mokie down beside Skanawati, asleep next to a large basket that held the infant boy. The baby named Penn was wide awake, gazing at the flame of a candle lantern.
Duncan lifted the lantern and studied the Indian's injuries as best he could without disturbing him. Cuts and bruises on his shoulders, scrapes from the manacles that cut into his ankles, nothing more. "The other Indians," he whispered to Becca, "why aren't they helping to guard him?"
"They did, all day. But when they came to camp tonight they stayed but a few minutes and left, looking like they had seen a ghost. A chief in a fox cap kept muttering something like a prayer, another aimed loud, angry words at the magistrate in the tribal tongue." Duncan saw now that Skanawati's hand was closed around the amulet that hung from his neck. He turned to leave and was restrained by a hand on his arm. "You're a medical man," the woman said beseechingly.
"She has a concussion," Duncan told her. "A bruising of the brain. Some say it means the flux between the inner and outer lobes has been blocked." He saw the pain in Becca's eyes. "Could be hours, Becca, could be days. Even if she were with the best doctors in Philadelphia there would be nothing more a medical man could do. The best thing for her is what only her mother can give her."
Becca choked back tears, then returned to her daughter, lifted her head on her lap, and began stroking her hair, a moment later beginning a soft, whispered song. As he turned to leave he saw that Skanawati was watching through half-opened eyes. The Iroquois prisoner, he suspected, had been awake the entire time.
Outside, Conawago stood near McGregor, surveying the campsite, slowly walking around the six-foot stump that was serving as his sentry post. Confused as to why his friend would not want to see Skanawati, Duncan approached and had opened his mouth with the question when three dark figures appeared by the campfire. Magistrate Brindle consulted briefly with McGregor, who pointed at Duncan, then the Quaker leader called for Duncan to join him at his campfire, which the two other men were feeding with fresh wood.
The magistrate, clearly distracted, quickly introduced his two companions, whom Duncan had seen at Ligonier. Felton, the lanky man who had hovered by Brindle in the major's office, guided the supply wagons that served the provincial sutler's post at Fort Pitt. He had the air of a Philadelphia gentleman, yet moved like a woodsman. Felton nodded at Duncan, then tossed him a piece of the jerked beef he pulled from his belt pouch. The stocky man was Brindle's brother-in-law Henry Bythe, the representative of the province at Pitt. At Brindle's request Duncan explained what he had found at the marker trees, then Hadley described the skirmish on the Monongahela. He was nearly done when Brindle looked up, as if just registering the Virginian's words.
"You say the savages stole Captain Burke's body?" he asked, visibly shaken.
"Taken by the Indians," Hadley confirmed. "I shudder to think to what end."
Brindle shook his head. "'Tis an ill wind that blows in these mountains," he said. "The Indians have all shifted their campfires tonight, as if our presence offended them."
"The raiders would never attack us with so many in our party, uncle," Felton observed. "Their way is to strike where they have the advantage in numbers then disappear into the forest."
Brindle fell silent, his face grave. It wasn't their safety that so worried him. He had one overriding concern on this journey, Duncan knew, and his mood meant he suspected that the treaty was already in jeopardy.
As Conawago sat beside them at the fire Brindle lifted a lantern and stepped to the wagon to investigate his charges. "The wolf shall dwell with the lamb," he observed as he returned, "the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and a little child shall lead them."
Duncan's gaze moved back to Conawago. His friend was upset about something, even deeply disturbed. It was not simply that he was convinced that Skanawati was innocent. Something else, unseen by Duncan, was out of balance. The men around the fire fell into a long silence, broken finally by Brindle's invocation of another Psalm. "Why do the heathen rage," he recited toward the flames, "and the people imagine a vain thing?"
"Now ask the beasts, and they shall teach thee, and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee," came a deep solemn voice in response.
The Quaker looked up with a sad smile. "You surprise me, McCallum."
"'Twas not I, sir," Duncan replied.
Brindle lifted his lantern, taking notice of Conawago for the first time. The shocked expression on his face was unmistakable. He looked back and forth from Duncan to the old Nipmuc as if they were working some trickery on him. "Sir?" he ventured.
Duncan recalled that Conawago had not spoken at his trial. He remembered his own first conversation with the Jesuit-trained Indian, when he had awakened after being snatched from certain death, his eyes covered by the bandage that wrapped a slash in his scalp. He had assumed from his voice that his rescuer had been a well-educated English gentleman.
"I too enjoy the Old Testament," Conawago said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you know the remainder of the verse?"
"It is job, is it not?" Brindle tossed more wood on the fire, as if he needed to see better.
The Indian nodded. "Speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee … "
Brindle, although clearly accustomed to teaching by means of the scriptures, seemed confused. "What is your meaning, sir?"
"He discovereth deep things out of darkness," Conawago continued, "and bringeth out to light the shadow of death."
It wasn't the attention Brindle was paying to Conawago that caused Duncan to consider the Quaker with new respect, but rather the sincerity with which he sought to understand the old Indian. "What is the particular light you offer, sir?"
"You must move this camp.'
Brindle turned for a moment to Duncan, then to his nephew Felton as if for help. "We will break camp at dawn, of course."
"No. Tonight, if you value the hearts of your allies."