The White Oneida Page 12

  “Just an interpreter! You’re too modest.”

  She smiled, obviously pleased. “That isn’t all my news. You’ll never guess what else has happened.”

  “Then you’d better tell me.”

  “The Oneida nation is granting a tract of land to the Mohicans. Six miles by six miles. Two hundred and forty Mohicans will live there. They need a home; we need allies to strengthen us against settlers. So it’s good for us and for them.”

  “Does Abraham know about this?”

  “He will before long. The Mohican elders are sending a messenger to order his return from school. He’s the only one in their band who can read and write. They want him to look over the agreement before their chiefs make their mark. But don’t call him Abraham. His name is Lean Horse.”

  “Lean Horse. Yes. He told me that my first day at school. None of us liked the names they made us use, but he was the angriest of us all. So this is great news. Lean Horse has his name back, and the Mohicans have a home.”

  She stood up and held out her hand to him. “That’s all my news. Come, now. It’s time for you to meet my family and share our food.”

  She pushed aside the leather curtain covering the entrance to the Wolf Clan longhouse, and they went inside.

  He followed Yellowbird, skirting families seated on blankets while they ate around their cooking fires.

  Halfway to the end of the longhouse, Yellowbird stopped. “Here we are,” she said.

  Five pairs of dark eyes turned in Broken Trail’s direction as Yellowbird’s family had their first look at the warrior who had brought her home. She introduced him to her mother Sings in the Rain, to her stepfather Braided Snake, to her brother Running Deer, and then to two small boys who were her half-brothers.

  There were grunts and nods. Braided Snake moved over to make space on his blanket for Broken Trail to sit. “Join us,” he said. “Have some food.”

  Sings in the Rain filled a wooden bowl with stew and brought it to him. As she put it into his hands, she said, “Thank you for bringing my daughter home.” She gazed at him thoughtfully. He wondered whether there was enough light in the smoky longhouse for her to tell the colour of his eyes.

  Running Deer, sitting across from Broken Trail, also regarded him thoughtfully. He was a slender boy of about twelve winters. Not yet a warrior, he wore a beaded headband to hold his chin-length hair in place.

  “Your sister has spoken of you,” said Broken Trail. “She says you’re a good hunter.”

  Running Deer smiled. “My arrow provided the meat you are about to eat.”

  “I praise the skill of the hunter and the skill of the cook.” Although ravenous, Broken Trail ate as sedately as he could, for a display of hunger was impolite.

  By the time he finished eating, the Wolf Clan was settling down for the night. Yellowbird brought a spare bear pelt from the storage shelf above the family’s sleeping platform.

  The pelt was warm and cushiony. The air in the longhouse smelled comfortably of smoke, food, and the sweat of many people. Gradually the buzz of conversation faded to silence. But Broken Trail did not go to sleep for a long time.

  The talk about land troubled him. He remembered what Mr. Johnson had said about Thayendanegea selling land that belonged to the Six Nations. If this was true, then Thayendanegea was as bad as that white speculator John Harper. Worse. Because it would be land that belonged to his own people.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Parting

  IN THE MORNING Broken Trail awoke to a pleasant mixture of sensations. The feel of the bearskin. The sight of the snug, smoke-darkened roof overhead. The sound of children playing and grown-ups chatting. The smell of food cooking at a dozen fires.

  It was the last that drew him from his bed. Peering over the edge of the sleeping platform, he saw Sings in the Rain spreading scoops of pot bread—a cake-like pudding made from cornmeal and nut oil—onto a wooden platter.

  The journey ahead also called. The shortest way to Brant’s Ford was not through Old Oneida. By taking Yellowbird home, Broken Trail had added two days to his journey. Anxious to reach the Grand River before Thayendanegea left for England, he had no time to lose.

  Sings in the Rain was in no hurry to see him go. But when she saw that he was determined to leave, she gave him a pair of new moccasins that she had probably intended for her husband and prepared a small package of food.

  She even insisted on cutting his hair. When he protested, Sings in the Rain said, “You can’t arrive at Brant’s Ford with your hair in such a state. Looking like this, how can you present yourself as a warrior?”

  “She’s right,” said Yellowbird.

  He raised his hand to the top of his head. Since its last trim, his hair had grown long enough to be shaped into an acceptable scalp lock.

  When Sings in the Rain pointed to the blanket where he should sit for the operation, he obeyed.

  Her tool was a mussel shell honed to a razor’s edge. As she ran it lightly over his scalp, the hair fell away in clumps, leaving him bald except for the front-to-back crest that showed he was a Haudenosaunee warrior.

  Finally, she rubbed bear grease into his freshly shaved skin, making the top of his head tingle pleasurably. The pleasure was not merely physical. He remembered the depressed feeling he had had after putting on the clothes he was forced to wear at Sedgewick School. Then, he had felt that he was putting on a new identity, one less noble and less free.

  Now, wearing a proper scalp lock as well as deerskin clothes, he felt fully restored. His identity as a warrior had been returned to him.

  “You look like a young chief,” said Yellowbird.

  “I feel like one, too.”

  Yellowbird went with him to fetch his horse. As they walked along, she said, “My mother’s sorry she couldn’t give you more food for your journey, but we don’t have much.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll hunt if I need food.” He laid his hand upon the butt of the rifle slung over his shoulder. “This is Lean Horse’s rifle. He lent it to me. Finding my way to Brant’s Ford may be more of a problem than finding food. I’ve never been west of Oneida Lake.”

  “Keep heading west, and a little bit north. Soon you’ll come to Seneca land—to what is left of it. White settlements have broken up the hunting grounds, but there’s enough wilderness left for you to follow the old trails all the way to Buffalo Creek. At the trading post you can hire someone with a flat-bottom boat to ferry you and your horse over the Niagara River to Fort Erie on the British side. I hope you have some money.”

  “Thayendanegea gave more than enough.”

  “He’s been generous.”

  “Too generous.” An uneasy feeling stirred in Broken Trail’s mind. What if he could not repay the obligation? He pushed the thought away. “How far is it from Fort Erie to Brant’s Ford?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’ve heard that when you reach Fort Erie, your journey’s half done.”

  At the horse pen, she turned to him, “Now I’ll say goodbye. I must go back to prepare for my own journey. The delegation leaves tomorrow.” She rummaged in her pouch. “I have something to give you.”

  From the pouch she pulled out a small leather bag. “In this bag are sage, sweet grass, cedar, and tobacco.”

  “These are the things you brought to the smudge,” he said. “I can’t take them from you.”

  “I’ll gather more.”

  He took the bag and thanked her. They stood facing each other. He did not move. She did not move. He swallowed a lump that somehow lodged in his throat.

  “Good-bye,” he said. “I’ll come back to visit you when all this is over.”

  He waited for her to say that she would miss him. But she did not say it.

  With Broken Trail’s help, the old man who guarded the horses cleared a passage just wide enough for Dark Cloud to leave the pen.

  “That’s a fine stallion,” the guard said. “So let me give you some advice. Don’t let him wander at night. Wherever you li
e down to sleep, keep him tethered close by.”

  “He won’t like that. I always use a hobble so he can move around.”

  “If you’re going to Brant’s Ford, you’ll pass through Buffalo Creek on your way.”

  “Yes. Buffalo Creek is where I cross the Niagara River.”

  “Heed my warning. From all directions, hundreds of desperate people are heading for Buffalo Creek. They’re not just our own people. Some are white men, outlaws on their way west. If I had a horse like yours, I’d keep my eyes open and my rifle handy.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” Broken Trail swung himself onto Dark Cloud’s back.

  “Travel safely,” said the guard.

  CHAPTER 29

  Into Seneca Lands

  WHEN THE SUN WAS halfway up the sky, Broken Trail passed an abandoned village, the poles of its broken palisade scattered on the ground. Weeds and saplings grew among the rectangles of ashes marking the places where longhouses had once stood. Who had lived here in days gone by? There was no one to tell him.

  A little way beyond the deserted village was ahomesteader’s farm, and after that the trail led back into the forest.

  He knew that by now he was in Seneca lands.

  The next day he came to another village—one longhouse and a sprawl of log cabins beside a creek. This village bustled with life. Everything about it had the look of newness. The cut ends of the logs of the cabins had the whiteness of freshly hewn wood. A group of warriors was hard at work digging postholes and setting up the sharply pointed poles that before long would fence some kind of enclosure within the village.

  Women were cooking at outdoor fires. Children and yapping dogs ran about everywhere. Everyone in the village looked active and busy, except for two young warriors who slouched against the wall of the longhouse. They were lean and tall. They had their arms folded, and only their heads moved as with narrowed eyes they watched the horse and rider go by.

  Broken Trail rode until the sun went down before choosing a spot a few steps off the trail to spend the night. He did not light a fire. When it was time to sleep, he tethered Dark Cloud to a sapling. The horse raised no objection. He was used to being tied for a short time while Broken Trail was busy with one thing or another.

  Broken Trail rolled himself in his blanket and lay down with his loaded rifle at his side.

  He dozed off. But before long he was wakened by his horse’s snorts and the stamping of his hooves. It must have dawned on Dark Cloud that his master intended him to remain tethered all night. His protest was loud and clear.

  Broken Trail called, “It’s all right! Go to sleep!”

  Faint hope of that.

  The horse whinnied, stamped his hooves and kicked. With a sigh, Broken Trail got up. He approached Dark Cloud, scratched the favourite spot between his eyes, stroked his neck, and blew in his nostrils.

  “My friend, you must bear this. Be patient.”

  Dark Cloud snorted softly. He seemed to understand.

  Broken Trail lay down and went to sleep again. At some point he wakened briefly, half opened his eyes, saw the outline of his horse’s head lowered in sleep.

  In the morning, Dark Cloud was gone.

  One neat cut had severed the cord that tied him to the sapling.

  Although there was no hope, he called Dark Cloud’s name. He called it again and again. He walked in widening circles, carrying his rifle at the ready, searching for any sign of his horse. All he found were the moccasin prints of two men.

  How had this happened? He had no doubt that the two warriors who had watched him ride by were the two who had left the moccasin prints. They must have been trailing him. He imagined two shadowy forms slipping from tree to tree, like wolves stalking their prey.

  Broken Trail returned to the spot where his blanket and his carrying basket lay on the ground. He sat on his blanket and held his face in his hands.

  Now he would have to walk the rest of the way to the Grand River. On his arrival at Brant’s Ford, he would not be riding into town on a handsome stallion. He would be trudging wearily on foot.

  And what about Dark Cloud? His horse was his comrade. Would the thieves who stole him treat him kindly? Take him to water when he was thirsty? Graze him where the grass was thick and green? He pictured Dark Cloud beaten and hungry.

  But what could he do about it? If he returned to their village, the thieves would be watching for him. It might be days before he found an opportunity to steal his horse back, and he had no time to spare. He had been travelling for six days. The rest of the journey might take twice that long.

  He lifted his face from his hands. The sun was rising above the trees. It was a cool, crisp day. The feel of the air called for action. I’m alive, he thought. I have a rifle. I have a mission. I have my guardian spirit watching over me. He put his hand upon the amulet he wore under his shirt. “Oki,” he said aloud, “what should I do?”

  He did not have to wait for any answer; he already knew what he had to do. He must complete his journey. He must visit Thayendanegea as planned. Then, on his way back to Sedgewick School, he must steal his horse back.

  He knew how to take a horse. Four years ago, when he was thirteen, he had gone on a long trail with his friend Red Sun Rising, a Cherokee. Their destination had been Kings Mountain in South Carolina, and it was urgent to reach it in two days. On foot, they could not possibly get there on time. And so they had stolen horses from a homesteader’s farm.

  For a warrior to steal a horse from strangers was a coup to be proud of; the deed brought honour to him and to his tribe. That was the way Red Sun Rising saw it. But not Broken Trail. On his way home from Kings Mountain, he had wished that he could give back the horse he had taken, but he no longer had it.

  Since then, he had never stolen a horse. When the warriors of his band raided other villages, he had not gone along. By that time he knew that his mission was to bring the tribes together. He also knew that horse stealing was one of the reasons old hostilities remained alive.

  There were no such qualms to stop him from taking back what was rightfully his.

  Broken Trail rolled up his blanket, hoisted his carrying basket on his back, shouldered his rifle, and began to walk.

  The exercise made him feel better. As he walked, he constantly looked about for game, hoping to shoot a rabbit or a grouse that he could hang from his belt, ready to cook when he stopped for the night. No rabbits or grouse presented themselves.

  At dusk he made camp by a small lake. Bulrushes grew in the shallows, their straight stalks topped by fat puffs of exploded flower spikes. Mussel shells littered the muddy shore, evidence that the local muskrats enjoyed many a good meal.

  He waded into the shallow water to gather mussels for himself. He could have a fire tonight. No longer any need to worry about somebody stealing his horse.

  Far from cheering him, this thought made his heart heavy again. But he mustn’t let himself become discouraged. He must keep up his spirits. And so he added wood to his fire to make a good warm blaze. He steamed the mussels in wet leaves just as Yellowbird had done one night while they were on the trail together.

  But they didn’t taste nearly as good. Maybe this was because he had no wild garlic to season them. Or maybe it was because he didn’t have a friend to share the meal.

  During the night the weather turned cold. A sharp wind blew. He slept as close to the fire as he could. He missed Yellowbird. He missed his horse. Nothing was more miserable than being alone on a long trail.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Pig

  IF HE STILL HAD a horse, he would have reached Buffalo Creek by now. He had been walking for five days. Two days of sunshine. Three days of wind and rain. Hungry most of the time. There was little game; settlers had driven most of the wild animals away.

  On the sixth day he saw the pig. It was snuffling and rooting about in the fallen leaves under an oak tree. It was a small pig, hardly more than a piglet. It was pink with a curly tail, and a brand mark on one
flank: WJ.

  Broken Trail knew that homesteaders let their swine run free to forage, relying on a brand mark to show which animal belonged to which farm.

  This pig must be one that had wandered off. With its pink skin and curly tail, it looked wrong in the forest. It was an interloper; it had no business being here. Broken Trail’s conscience gave only the smallest twinge when he shot it. He was taking it in payment, he told himself, for the game that rightfully belonged here and that the homesteaders had driven away.

  When he looked at the pig lying lifeless on the leaves, he did not know what to say to it. If it were a deer, he would ask forgiveness for its death and give thanks for the food thus provided.

  But a deer was free. A deer belonged to itself, as a man belonged to himself. This pig belonged to a settler. Did that mean its spirit was not its own?

  This question mystified Broken Trail. Not wanting to take any chances, he took a few flakes of tobacco from the pouch that Yellowbird had given him and sprinkled them as a sacrifice. Then he gutted the pig to lighten its weight and set off carrying the carcass over his shoulders.

  At nightfall he made camp beside a creek where cedars gave shelter from the wind. After skinning the pig, he stripped the flesh off in sheets, just as if the animal had been a deer, and built a rack on which to smoke the meat over the fire. A single night over the embers was not enough to cure meat properly, but even partial drying would make it less heavy to carry.

  He grilled some of the meat for his supper. After he had eaten, Broken Trail felt more cheerful. Although food was no cure for loneliness, it was comforting to think that he had enough for the rest of his journey. He scraped the skin of the pig to make a wrapper for the meat.

  The next day he walked through forest cut by a network of trails, some wide and some narrow. The widest ones were scored by wagon tracks and branched off to settlers’ farms.

  He had just passed by a scattering of homesteads when he heard a child crying. He stopped to listen, wondering if he could be mistaken. Maybe an animal was making the sound. But no. The sobbing was that of a human child.