The White Oneida Read online

  “Wait!” Broken Trail exclaimed. “Was it the Moore School? Was the founder the Reverend Eleazar Wheelock? Was Thayendanegea one of those young warriors?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes. How do you know that?”

  “Because Sedgewick School, where I’m a scholar, is modelled on the Moore School. Sedgewick’s founder, President Webber, is trying to carry on Wheelock’s work. We have classroom dictation from Wheelock’s speeches.”

  Thunder snorted. “I remember those speeches. They angered me at the time. But I give him credit. It was a good school.”

  The woman and children were now crouched at the fire, turning and turning the cooking sticks so that the meat skewered on them would cook evenly in the flames.

  “Let’s go into the shelter to talk,” said Thunder. “It’s too muddy out here to sit on the ground.”

  Broken Trail followed him inside the makeshift tent of canvas and poles. Thunder spread a mildewed bearskin for them to sit upon.

  “Talking about the Moore School brings back memories of the other scholars,” he began. “Joseph. Nathaniel. Caleb. Those were the names they gave us. I was John.”

  The little boy came into the shelter carrying two skewers of grilled meat. With a shy smile, he handed Broken Trail and Thunder their food and then left.

  Thunder ate slowly, not tearing into his food or showing any sign of hunger. When he finished, he thumped the ground with his right fist to give thanks. Then he said, “I was a student for three years, then stayed on as an assistant teacher for two more. After that, I became an interpreter for the Indian Agency.”

  “And then?”

  “You mean, how did I end up here?” He looked up at the sagging canvas of his shelter. “I’ll tell you. One summer I went back to my village, Tionderoga, to visit my family. I planned only a short stay, but one thing led to another. I saw that my father’s days as a hunter were coming to an end and that my parents needed help to provide food.

  “Willow Bough had been a child when I left to go to school. Now she was a beautiful young woman. I mentioned this to my mother, and almost before I knew it, our mothers had everything arranged. So I stayed in Tionderoga.”

  “For the next eight years I lived in the old way. But there wasn’t enough game left. Things were looking hopeless for me and my family until Thayendanegea tracked me down. He sent a message that he needs me at Brant’s Ford. The British government has given the Mohawks a schoolhouse.”

  “Will you be the teacher?”

  “That’s right. I’m on my way to take up my position.”

  “It’s strange how the Great Spirit works,” said Broken Trail. “I’m going to visit Thayendanegea. Maybe I can travel with you.”

  “I could use another paddler.”

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

  While they were speaking, Willow Bough entered the shelter and spread another bear pelt on the ground. She appeared to take it for granted that Broken Trail would stay the night.

  They all crowded together to sleep on the bearskins.

  Tomorrow, Broken Trail thought as he settled down, he would cross the Niagara River. Soon he would reach Brant’s Ford. His feelings about that balanced uneasily between curiosity and concern.

  CHAPTER 33

  Crossing the Line

  BROKEN TRAIL WALKED around the canoe. It was a big one, skilfully fashioned from sheets of birch bark and lined with split cedar.

  “I traded my rifle for this canoe,” said Thunder. “My rifle was the only thing of value that I owned. I told myself that my hunting days were over. A teacher doesn’t need a rifle, so I might as well let it go.” He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know what kind of food we’ll have to eat in Brant’s Ford. In his letter Thayendanegea says that the British have built a gristmill. A gristmill! Where’s the grain? I haven’t heard of any wheat being planted at Grand River. Not by Haudenosaunee, at any rate.”

  “It takes time,” said Broken Trail.

  As they were speaking, Willow Bough arrived, staggering under the weight of the bear pelts in her arms. The children followed, each lugging a storage basket.

  Willow Bough looked worried. After setting down her armful of pelts, she said a few words in Mohawk to her husband. He answered gruffly, with a shake of his head.

  Thunder said to Broken Trail, “She tells me my new son is ready to meet his father. I tell her he has to wait till we reach Brant’s Ford.”

  From Willow Bough’s anxious expression, Broken Trail thought she might refuse to get into the canoe. But she must have accepted her husband’s decision, for when the canoe was afloat, she took the hand he offered to help her climb in.

  It was the little girls who refused. They squirmed and bawled when their father picked them up. Ignoring their tears, he squeezed them into the canoe among the pelts and baskets.

  They looked and sounded terrified. But why? Mohawk children afraid to ride in a canoe! Their fear made no sense until he heard them cry out the name of Lela-wala, the Maid of the Mist. Then he understood.

  Everyone knew the legend of the chief’s daughter and the Water Spirit. Lela-wala’s own people had pushed her out into the Niagara River in a white canoe garlanded with flowers. The ravenous Water Spirit demanded such sacrifice. Never appeased, he was still there in his secret cave behind the great falls, hungry for more victims. The little girls’ wails made clear their terror that this time it would be them.

  The boy showed no fear. Either he did not believe the story or, being a boy, he felt safe in the knowledge that the Water Spirit ate only girls. Ignoring his weeping sisters, he took his place in the middle of the canoe and picked up a small paddle.

  Broken Trail knelt in the bow. From the first plunge of his paddle, he sensed the legend’s truth. Something was alive in the river, a mighty beast flexing its muscle.

  Thunder swung the canoe toward the far shore, aiming upriver from the fort to make allowance for the river’s pull. This would not be an easy crossing. Broken Trail doubted whether Thunder’s family could have made it to the other side without his help.

  All the way, the little girls’ wailing never stopped.

  Broken Trail was wet with sweat and spray by the time the canoe reached the far shore.

  He jumped out to pull the bow up onto the riverbank. For a few moments he looked back across the water to the American side. He was in a different country now. Somewhere in the middle of the river, the United States ended and British North America began. There had been no signal. No roll of thunder. No giant fish leaping. The water was equally wet on both sides of that invisible line.

  The little girls stopped crying as Thunder lifted them from the canoe, one under each arm, and set them down on dry land. Next he carried Willow Bough onto the shore. The boy had already leapt like a squirrel from the gunwale.

  Broken Trail looked up at the Union flag snapping in the breeze.

  “British,” said Thunder. “Much better for our people.”

  “Why have we stopped at the fort?” asked Broken Trail.

  “To ask for food. Then we head west along Lake Erie’s north shore. When we reach the mouth of the Grand River, we’ll camp for the night.”

  “Ask for food?” said Broken Trail. “I don’t want to beg.”

  “It’s not begging. It’s collecting rent for the land the fort occupies.”

  Broken Trail winced. Thunder’s reasoning was uncomfortably similar to the excuse he had given himself for shooting the pig.

  Thunder’s tone changed. “Do you think I like doing it? It hurts my pride. But what good is pride when my children’s bellies are empty?”

  Turning away, he strode up the slope, followed by his family. Broken Trail lagged behind.

  When they had passed through the fort’s open gate, Thunder led them to a square log building. Without knocking, he opened the door.

  A redcoat standing behind a wooden counter looked up when they entered.

  “We are on our way to the Grand River,” Thunder s
aid with a dignity that did not match his ragged appearance. “We have nothing to eat, and a long journey lies ahead.”

  “I’ll bring you some bread.”

  The redcoat returned with a basket of small loaves. “Take a loaf each. You’ll need them.”

  When they returned to the canoe, they stood in a circle eating the bread.

  “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Two Sky Thunder wiped the last crumbs from his mouth. “You’ll find you get used to it.”

  Broken Trail thought this over. Was begging a practice that a warrior should want to get used to? What would Yellowbird say about that?

  The taste of the bread remained in his mouth as they paddled away. It tasted of dependency. He had no appetite for this bread.

  They stayed close to the Lake Erie shore. On their right was dark forest, interrupted by clearings. In each clearing stood a log cabin. In some clearings, the land was tilled; in others the work of cutting down trees had barely begun.

  These were Loyalists’ homes. His white family had been Loyalist. His first mother and father, his little sister Hope, and his brothers Silas and Elijah might now be living in cabins like those he was passing. Maybe someday in the future he would find them again.

  Late in the day they reached the mouth of the Grand River and made camp.

  “These waters are filled with fish,” said Thunder. “This is Six Nations land—the whole length of the Grand River and six miles on each side.”

  When the canoe was unloaded, Broken Trail took his fishing line and a hook from his pouch. For bait he found salamanders in the fallen leaves. It seemed that as soon as his hook hit the water, there were fish eager to grab the bait. Whitefish. Pike. Pickerel.

  Better food than unearned bread.

  In the morning they stuffed themselves with leftover fish from the night before. Only Willow Bough ate nothing. When it was time to leave, she held out both hands for her husband to help her rise. She whispered something. He nodded and then turned to Broken Trail, “She’s afraid we aren’t going to reach Brant’s Ford in time.”

  “How far is it?”

  Thunder looked at the sun, which was barely above the trees that grew on the eastern riverbank. “It’s about thirty miles upriver. There’s not enough current on the Grand to slow us. We can reach Brant’s Ford by the time the sun is directly overhead.”

  Broken Trail said nothing. It was not his part to give an opinion on such a subject to a man who was already the father of three children.

  They paddled fast, Broken Trail putting all his strength into every stroke. Nobody spoke. Only the splash of their paddles broke the silence. Then Willow Bough gave a sudden cry.

  In an instant, Thunder changed course. He brought the canoe ashore in front of a log cabin where a woman wearing scarlet leggings and a doeskin tunic was arranging fish on a rack over a fire. She looked up.

  Broken Trail and the children stayed in the canoe while Willow Bough, leaning on Thunder’s arm, walked slowly toward the woman at the fire.

  Thunder gestured with his hands. The woman nodded, and then she took Willow Bough’s arm and led her into the cabin. The door shut, leaving Thunder outside.

  He walked back to the canoe. “These people are Cayugas—Haudenosaunee, like us. I’m glad my son will be born here. There’s a white settlement only a little way ahead. It would be uncomfortable for a Mohawk woman to give birth in such a place.”

  “I’ve heard about a white settlement on the Grand River,” said Broken Trail. “How can that be? This is Six Nations land.”

  “I know.” Thunder gave a sour look. “It’s called the Nellis settlement. The Nellis family is Loyalist. Thayendanegea sold them land at a very low price.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Can he? Others ask the same question.” He looked anxiously toward the cabin. “This isn’t the right time to talk about such matters. Soon you will see for yourself. If you go ahead on your own, you’ll reach Brant’s Ford more quickly than if you wait for us.”

  “If you don’t need me …”

  “You have helped us greatly. For the rest of the way we can manage without an extra paddler.”

  He lifted the smaller girl out of the canoe. The other children climbed out on their own. Broken Trail followed.

  “The trail follows the river,” Thunder said. “After the Nellis Settlement come the villages of the Onondagas, Senecas, Tuscaroras and Oneidas, in that order. Brant’s Ford, where the Mohawks live, is the furthest up the river.”

  Leaving Thunder and his children waiting outside the Cayuga woman’s cabin, Broken Trail set out on foot.

  Before long he heard the whack, whack of an axe, and he smelled fire on the air. Reaching the edge of the forest, he saw before him a wide stretch of cleared land. Near the river stood a log cabin. The smoke he had smelled came from a huge pile of burning brush. Flames towered into the sky.

  More cabins were ranged all along the riverfront. Behind them lay ploughed fields, where furrows curved around tree stumps still rooted in the earth. In one field a white man was at work, his horse pulling a plough while he walked behind to guide the ploughshare. Further along, a group of men was building a log barn.

  No one paid any attention to Broken Trail. Strangers passing through on their way to Brant’s Ford must have been a common sight.

  Leaving the Nellis settlement, he jogged through another stretch of forest. Next came the village which, according to Thunder, was the home of an Onondaga band. There was not a plough in sight, but in front of every cabin a fire burned. Over every fire, fish were drying on a rack. Thousands of fish.

  It was the same in the new settlements of the Senecas, Tuscaroras, and Oneidas. No longhouses. Dozens of log cabins. Thousands of drying fish.

  A way of life was changing, mixing old and new.

  CHAPTER 34

  Brant’s Ford

  THIS WASN’T THE WAY he had thought it would be. Broken Trail had pictured himself riding into Brant’s Ford on a black stallion. But now he had no horse. His leather clothes were caked with mud. His scalp lock hung limp and dirty. In no way did he feel or look like a young chief.

  As he walked unnoticed into the town, he saw the gristmill that, according to Two Sky Thunder, had yet to grind its first bushel of wheat. He saw a schoolhouse and a church. He saw dozens of simple log cabins, and, rising above them, a white, two-storey house enclosed by a picket fence.

  Who lived in that house? It might be a wealthy trader. Or it might be … Broken Trail remembered the words of Owen Penrose. “Captain Brant’s making himself a fine little kingdom on the Grand River.”

  Broken Trail walked up to the nearest log cabin and rapped on the door. The woman who opened it wore a deerskin tunic, and her grey-streaked hair was plaited in a single braid. Looking past her shoulder, Broken Trail saw that there was no furniture. Sitting on blankets on the dirt floor, five or six men and women were tossing dice in a shallow bowl.

  “Will you show me where Thayendanegea lives?” He spoke to her in English, hoping she understood.

  She did not answer, but stepped outside and pointed to the beautiful white house.

  “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Broken Trail wished that his suspicions had not been correct. No Haudenosaunee chief should raise himself so high above his people.

  His heart thumping, he went to the gate in the picket fence, unlatched it, and approached the front door.

  At his knock, a black man wearing blue velvet breeches and jacket and a white ruffled shirt came to the door. His eyes widened as he looked at Broken Trail standing at the threshold in his muddy deerskin clothes.

  Broken Trail’s surprise matched that of the black man. Four years ago, while on his long trail to South Carolina, he had seen black slaves. Was this man a slave? Did Thayendanegea own slaves?

  “You go ’round to the back door,” the man said.

  Broken Trail lifted his chin. He might look scruffy, but to go to the back door was beneath his dignity
.

  “I would like to speak with Captain Brant.”

  “Master’s not home.”

  “Tell him that Broken Trail is here.”

  The man glanced about as if looking for help. Maybe it was against his orders to admit someone so shabby. On the other hand, he might get in trouble for insulting his master’s friend. After a few moments, he opened the door wider.

  “I’ll see if he’s here.”

  Broken Trail stepped inside. The servant turned and disappeared.

  While waiting, Broken Trail looked around. The room where he was standing had painted floorboards and a woven carpet. Hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier with twelve candles. On facing walls were two portraits in gilded frames.

  One was of Thayendanegea. He was portrayed wearing the most elaborate headdress Broken Trail had ever seen. Rising from a black headband was an array of plumes in brilliant colours. At his throat hung a silver gorget. His neckerchief matched the black trim of his scarlet robe.

  The other portrait was of a beautiful woman. Although her braided hair was black and her eyes were dark, the lightness of her complexion showed a mixed heritage. She wore a blue gown with silken fringes.

  While he was studying the portrait of the lady, Broken Trail heard a door close at the back of the house. Footsteps came nearer. Thayendanegea entered the room.

  He was wearing a fitted frock coat. Draped over it was a crimson blanket lined with black and trimmed with golden fringe.

  “Welcome to Brant’s Ford.” After raising his arm in salute, as a warrior should, Thayendanegea deftly shifted the gesture and held out his hand. He and Broken Trail shook hands like “civilized” men. President Webber would have approved.

  “I expected you before now,” said Thayendanegea.

  “My horse was stolen along the way. Coming on foot took longer.”

  “You almost missed me. I leave for England tomorrow.” He looked Broken Trail up and down. “I see from the state of your clothes that you travelled hard. Before we talk, you may wish to repair the ravages.”