awonder, sir," Latchford sneered. "Ranger. Woodsman. Doctor. Murderer perhaps."
Duncan would not let himself be badgered. "Men with wounds can die without daily care. You have amputees. A man who has given a limb for his king does not deserve to die from neglect."
Latchford put the gun on the desk and leaned toward Duncan with a new, intense scrutiny. "If you lie to me," he hissed, "I shall use you for practice with my new pistol." Duncan silently returned his stare for a moment, then the major looked down. "We have half a dozen wounded from skirmishes, another five or six laid up with pox. Our surgeon was summoned to help with an outbreak at Fort Pitt. Our senior orderly is too fond of his rum."
Duncan resisted the urge to press for an explanation. "I can attend your patients in the infirmary."
"What proof do you offer of your competence?"
"Your arm," Duncan said. "Extend your arm."
Latchford smirked but humored his request, resting his free hand on the pistol.
Duncan began by pointing to a fingertip then worked his way up the arm. "Distal phalanx, phalange, metacarpal, carpal, radius, ulna, humerus." When he passed the elbow Latchford held up his hand to concede the point.
"The man with the freshest wounds lies in your brig," Duncan observed.
"You, McCallum, are a hair's breadth from being thrown in with him!" Latchford snapped. "If he dies it shall save us the nuisance of a trial."
"I need to see him."
"You are hardly in a position to make demands."
"Surely you understand, Major, that the entire balance of power in the war depends on maintaining relations with the tribes."
Latchford leaned back in his chair. His hand curled around the butt of the pistol again, as if he were reconsidering whether to shoot Duncan. "His majesty's troops have won the war in North America," he rejoined.
"His majesty's troops won the last season of battles," Duncan countered, "after losing so many before. They are now spread thin over a thousand miles of frontier, mostly along the border of French Canada. Any fool who can read a map knows the real prize of this struggle is the western lands. All the army has done so far is win the right for the king to compete for them. Lose the Iroquois and you'll spend the next five years fighting in the New York and Pennsylvania colonies with no chance of winning the Ohio territory."
"You speak of matters far removed from our little outpost."
"When Lord Amherst hears the news," Duncan said, referring to Britain's military commander on the continent, "your little outpost will be the center of his attention."
"News?"
"Trying a prominent leader of the allied tribes for murder could destroy the alliance. Instead of a buffer of Iroquois warriors protecting the settlements we would have an army of the best fighters in America turned against us. You won't be able to march a hundred paces past your gate without fear of a tomahawk in your skull."
"This man in the brig is an Iroquois chieftain?"
"Conawago has visited Europe, has medals from the king, is a valued intermediary among all the tribes of the eastern forest. He is the most highly educated Indian you will ever meet. Trained by Jesuits. At home in European courts."
"But he is no chieftain." The major sipped his tea, studying Duncan with new resentment. "Is he even an Iroquois?"
Duncan glanced out the window again, trying to control his emotions.
"I am ordered to have that militia in the field," Latchford declared, casually swinging the pistol about, pausing for a moment as the barrel faced Duncan. "And I always obey orders. You and your friend have strained relations between Pennsylvania and Virginia to the breaking point. Someone is going to hang. Someone is going to hang in the next twenty-four hours."
"And what will your commanding officer think when the truth comes out later?"
Latchford pursed his mouth in annoyance. "The truth?"
"I was at the dead man's side minutes after he was attacked. He was not shot. He was nailed to a tree,
Duncan would not let himself be badgered. "Men with wounds can die without daily care. You have amputees. A man who has given a limb for his king does not deserve to die from neglect."
Latchford put the gun on the desk and leaned toward Duncan with a new, intense scrutiny. "If you lie to me," he hissed, "I shall use you for practice with my new pistol." Duncan silently returned his stare for a moment, then the major looked down. "We have half a dozen wounded from skirmishes, another five or six laid up with pox. Our surgeon was summoned to help with an outbreak at Fort Pitt. Our senior orderly is too fond of his rum."
Duncan resisted the urge to press for an explanation. "I can attend your patients in the infirmary."
"What proof do you offer of your competence?"
"Your arm," Duncan said. "Extend your arm."
Latchford smirked but humored his request, resting his free hand on the pistol.
Duncan began by pointing to a fingertip then worked his way up the arm. "Distal phalanx, phalange, metacarpal, carpal, radius, ulna, humerus." When he passed the elbow Latchford held up his hand to concede the point.
"The man with the freshest wounds lies in your brig," Duncan observed.
"You, McCallum, are a hair's breadth from being thrown in with him!" Latchford snapped. "If he dies it shall save us the nuisance of a trial."
"I need to see him."
"You are hardly in a position to make demands."
"Surely you understand, Major, that the entire balance of power in the war depends on maintaining relations with the tribes."
Latchford leaned back in his chair. His hand curled around the butt of the pistol again, as if he were reconsidering whether to shoot Duncan. "His majesty's troops have won the war in North America," he rejoined.
"His majesty's troops won the last season of battles," Duncan countered, "after losing so many before. They are now spread thin over a thousand miles of frontier, mostly along the border of French Canada. Any fool who can read a map knows the real prize of this struggle is the western lands. All the army has done so far is win the right for the king to compete for them. Lose the Iroquois and you'll spend the next five years fighting in the New York and Pennsylvania colonies with no chance of winning the Ohio territory."
"You speak of matters far removed from our little outpost."
"When Lord Amherst hears the news," Duncan said, referring to Britain's military commander on the continent, "your little outpost will be the center of his attention."
"News?"
"Trying a prominent leader of the allied tribes for murder could destroy the alliance. Instead of a buffer of Iroquois warriors protecting the settlements we would have an army of the best fighters in America turned against us. You won't be able to march a hundred paces past your gate without fear of a tomahawk in your skull."
"This man in the brig is an Iroquois chieftain?"
"Conawago has visited Europe, has medals from the king, is a valued intermediary among all the tribes of the eastern forest. He is the most highly educated Indian you will ever meet. Trained by Jesuits. At home in European courts."
"But he is no chieftain." The major sipped his tea, studying Duncan with new resentment. "Is he even an Iroquois?"
Duncan glanced out the window again, trying to control his emotions.
"I am ordered to have that militia in the field," Latchford declared, casually swinging the pistol about, pausing for a moment as the barrel faced Duncan. "And I always obey orders. You and your friend have strained relations between Pennsylvania and Virginia to the breaking point. Someone is going to hang. Someone is going to hang in the next twenty-four hours."
"And what will your commanding officer think when the truth comes out later?"
Latchford pursed his mouth in annoyance. "The truth?"
"I was at the dead man's side minutes after he was attacked. He was not shot. He was nailed to a tree,
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