Chapter Nineteen
The freshly mounded graves had been arranged in neat rows, the simple markers nearest him spelling the names of his friends. Murdo Ross, Tanaqua, Patrick Woolford, Elijah Webb. The last was Duncan’s own, still empty, waiting for him. From the dirt mound beside it a hand emerged, desperately reaching into the air, exposing the turtle tattoo on its wrist.
Duncan woke, his heart hammering. His first effort to move brought a paroxysm of pain. Teague’s fists had bruised more than just a few muscles. His ribs ached, his kidneys hurt, and the flesh over his heart, where the Irishman had concentrated his final blows, was a swollen, tender mass.
He sat up, fighting a wave of nausea, and moved unsteadily toward a line of light, thinking at first he was back in one of the slave wa
