Eye of the Raven Read Online Free PDF Page B

his heart was mutilated. This was no random killing. This was a ritual performed for a broader audience."
    Worry flickered on Latchford's face. "Ridiculous."
    "Conawago is innocent.
    "A small army of witnesses will say otherwise."
    "All they saw was Conawago leaning over a dying man. He was trying to help him."
    The major offered another icy grin. "Witnesses will say otherwise," he repeated.
    Duncan put a hand on the back of the chair in front of him. "Who was he? The dead man?"
    "The captain? Winston Burke? Commander of the militia? Second son of the greatest landowner in the valley of the Shenandoah. His father is a member of the House of Burgesses. We will have a hanging and get on with the work of war," Latchford declared in a matter-of-fact tone. He aimed the pistol at Duncan and pulled the trigger, sneering as Duncan flinched at the spark of the empty weapon.
    Duncan worked at a quick, efficient pace among the sick and wounded. Van Grut followed him to assist the orderlies as he progressed along the cots and pallets, changing bandages on wounds and amputations, inquiring when sulfur had last been burned to fumigate the wards, chastising men over the need to keep their wounds clean, even sending an orderly out to gather moss and pine sap when he was told poultices were in short supply. He knew from experience that the fates of such patients were mostly sealed by the time they arrived. Those with flesh wounds would live, those with wounds in the abdomen would almost always die.
    He watched as Van Grut became engrossed explaining how to lance a boil, then quickly slipped through a door in a shadowy corner that seemed shunned by the others.
    On a table in the center of the narrow, windowless chamber Captain Winston Burke lay now in peaceful repose. By the light of a single candle at the head of the table, Duncan could see that the commander of the Virginia militia had been cleaned of the blood that had stained him, a small ornate dagger placed in the hands crossed over his belly. His long brown hair had been gathered at the back with a fresh blue ribbon. His light blue waistcoat, fastened over his chest, was faced with buff, the makeshift uniform he had seen on the other officers in the Virginians' camp. His brown woolen britches showed little wear, except for the long jagged tear along the right thigh, mottled with the darker brown of dried blood.
    He glanced around the chamber, which was used as a storeroom for the infirmary, the shelves on two walls bearing a few large jars of spirits and vinegar, smaller jars of dried rhubarb, powders of Algaroth and Peruvian bark, small crocks of ointments, and a few linens. He slipped a roll of linen bandages into his belt. Far outnumbering the stocks of medical supplies were rolls of canvas, beside spools of heavy naval thread. Duncan closed his eyes a moment, fighting dreadful memories of his voyage across the Atlantic, of the Scots he had sewn inside such shrouds, once joyful men who had slowly rotted away after being condemned to the king's prison ship, their primary offense being the Highland blood in their veins.
    His head jerked up as the sound of a deep, shuddering sigh raised gooseflesh along his spine. He turned with a wrench of his gut to the dead man, as if Burke were about to rise from his repose, then realized the sound came from the darkened rear of the chamber. Lifting the candle, he stepped toward the shadows. A middleaged man in a threadbare uniform of an infantryman was sprawled in a rocking chair, a bottle of rum in one hand, dead drunk.
    Duncan turned back to the corpse and paced around the table, touching an elbow, a knee, a wrist. Rigor mortis had begun. He worked quickly, stretching the torn cloth over the thigh wound to study the long ugly gash. The blade had been heavy and sharp, from a hand ax or tomahawk. Despite the Virginian's other wounds, this had been the one that killed him, this was where his lifeblood had drained away. Pressing the flesh back