The White Oneida Page 19

  She frowned. “It was complicated.”

  “Did you succeed? Do the Oneidas still own that land on the Susquehanna?”

  “The illegal deed was set aside. But we’re no further ahead. We told Governor Clinton that we wanted to keep our land and lease part of it to settlers. Governor Clinton called the idea ‘highly disagreeable.’ He thinks we’re too primitive to be landlords. By the time the negotiations ended, the New York State Government had managed to buy even more land than our chiefs had agreed to sell to the speculators, and for a price just as low.”

  “Don’t give up,” said Broken Trail.

  “I won’t. Next time we’ll do better.”

  “Broken Trail,” Lean Horse asked, “what do you think is the best way forward?”

  “I still don’t know. But something you said gives me more hope than anything I heard from Thayendanegea or from Tecumseh.”

  “Something I said? What was that?”

  “You said, ‘We rise like a field of corn.’ It was the way you said it, as if your people had been reborn to something new.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’re going to be farmers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nobody forced it on you.”

  “No. We made our decision the old way, by talking and talking until all were agreed.”

  “That’s the secret,” said Broken Trail. “Nobody can force people to change. You have to want it yourself. That’s where Thayendanegea is wrong.”

  He fell silent. He had said what he believed. He would say the same to Thayendanegea next time they met. Others could learn from the Mohicans’ example. There was much to think about while he waited for Thayendanegea’s return.

  “I have an idea,” said Yellowbird, breaking the silence, “Let’s go into the forest for a smudge.”

  “Why go into the forest?” asked Broken Trail. “A smudge is a good idea, but we don’t need to hide.”

  “In the forest we’ll feel closer to that other time, when Jacob and Samuel were with us.”

  She rose. From the storage shelf above the sleeping platform she took a number of objects and stuffed them into her pouch.

  The sun was shining when they left the longhouse. They walked into the woods on a path that was springy with moss. After a short distance, they stopped at a fallen tree. Its bare trunk made a good bench where they could sit.

  It was Broken Trail who lit the fire, and Lean Horse who carried the blazing brand to Yellowbird. With its flame she ignited the crushed, dried leaves in the tiny smudge bowl. Sage for cleansing. Sweet grass for bringing quiet to the mind. Cedar for the body’s health. Tobacco to carry prayers to the Great Spirit.

  In unison they chanted their thanks for the four medicines that helped them in each of the Four Directions. After Yellowbird had guided the smoke to the eyes, the nose, and the throat of each, they sat quietly until no more smoke rose from the ashes in the smudge bowl.

  Then they kept on sitting while the fire burned out. In the drowsy aftermath of the smudge, Broken Trail did not want to move. The ritual had created a feeling of closeness that he would like to hold onto.

  Lean Horse was the first to rise. “The path here has brought me halfway home. There’s work to do, and so I’m on my way.”

  Broken Trail heaved himself to his feet. Yellowbird rose too. After they had exchanged farewells and Lean Horse had left them, Yellowbird sat down again on the tree trunk. Broken Trail joined her.

  “I made something for you.” She reached into her pouch and pulled out a flute. “Try it.”

  Lifting it to his lips, he blew gently. The result was a shrill peep.

  “Good,” she said.

  It was not good; she was being kind. He did not say this but merely smiled. “When I learn to play it, I’ll make a song for you.”

  “There is beautiful music in a flute. You must learn to set it free.”

  “Play for me now. I’ll watch to see which holes you block to make each sound.”

  She played him a friendship song and then the song to Mother Moon, which was the first music she had ever played for him. The notes fell gently into the silence between them.

  When she set down the flute in her lap, he said, “I can hear your thoughts when you play.”

  “Can you?” She handed the flute to him. “You must learn to play so that I can hear your thoughts.”

  He put the flute into his pouch. As they walked back to Old Oneida, they looked at the sky, at the trees, at each other. He wanted to take her hand. He thought about it all the way. But when they reached the village, he still had not done anything about it.

  Broken Trail spent the night in the Wolf Clan longhouse. In the morning he prepared to resume his journey. Yellowbird’s mother Sings in the Rain gave him pemmican, dried fish, a pair of fur arm muffs, and tall winter moccasins that reached to the thigh.

  When he was ready to leave, Yellowbird said, “I’ll go with you to the horse pen.”

  They walked side by side, close but not touching. Not speaking, either. When they reached the horse pen, she stopped, “I’ll leave you here.”

  Each studied the other’s face. At last she said, “It’s not easy to let you go.”

  “It’s not easy to leave.”

  She lifted her face. He thought he should kiss her. While he was still thinking about it, she put both hands behind his neck and pulled his head toward her. Her lips were warm and soft. She stepped back before he had time to put his arms around her.

  “When will you be back?” she asked.

  “Strawberry Moon.”

  “I’ll expect you. When you come, you must play your flute for me.”

  He watched her until she reached the edge of the village, where she turned to wave goodbye.

  “I’ll practise every day,” he shouted.

  Broken Trail brought Dark Cloud from the pen. He felt light-headed as he mounted him and turned his head eastward. His path was clear all the way to Sedgewick School. He foresaw that his path back to Old Oneida would be clear as well. Beyond that, he knew that he would have to find his own way, one step at a time. He might be searching for the rest of his life.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I owe my largest debt of gratitude to Ronald Hatch for his guidance and his unfailing patience as we laboured through successive drafts. Another debt is owed to Veronica Hatch, who provided a valued measure of sober second thought. I am grateful to my friends Alexandra Gall, Trudi Down, Linda Helson, Barbara Ledger, Susan Evans Shaw, and Debbie Welland of the Creative Writing Group, Hamilton Branch, Canadian Federation of University Women. Every chapter I brought to meetings was made better as the result of their suggestions. For reading the first draft of this book, I would like to thank my daughter Alison Baxter Lean, who provided advice as well as encouragement at a stage when my book needed both a surgeon and a champion.

  Sedgewick School is a fictitious place. I have based it on the Moore School in Lebanon, Connecticut, which Joseph Brant (Thayendanegea) attended from 1761 to 1763. This remarkable institution, founded with the purpose of preparing young native men and women to serve as missionaries to their own people, is doubly distinguished, first, by being the last American institution to receive a Royal Charter from King George III and, second, because of its remarkable evolution to become Dartmouth College. My main source for information about the Moore School is Colin C. Calloway’s The Indian History of an American Institution (Dartmouth College Press, 2010) I am also indebted to Alan Taylor’s The Divided Ground: Indians, Settlers, and the Northern Borderland of the American Revolution (Alfred A. Knopf, 2003) for his detailed study of social and political issues.

  The only historical figures who appear in this novel are Joseph Brant, Catherine Brant, and Tecumseh. The Reverend Eleazor Wheelock, Sir William Johnson, and Molly Brant, who have a background role, are also historical figures. The other characters in this book are all fictitious creations.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jean Rae Baxter is the descen
dant of settlers who arrived in New France in the 17th century, Loyalists who came here in the 1780s, and immigrants from Germany in the 19th century. Growing up hearing their stories, she gained a lifelong interest in Canada’s past and in the people—both native and white—who made it. She has many strands in the history of Canada’s past to unravel.

  This novel, The White Oneida, examines one of those strands, focusing on the years following the American Revolution. The setting is a school for native youth that offers an education whose declared purpose is to destroy the heritage of its students. Coming from tribes that have been hereditary foes for centuries, these young people join together in a common cause to fight for values that they share. The White Oneida is Jean Rae Baxter’s fourth young adult historical novel. It follows her trilogy that dealt with the struggle of people caught up in the conflict of the American Revolution. In The Way Lies North she wrote about Loyalists driven from the Mohawk Valley. In Broken Trail she explored the crisis faced by the native people. In Freedom Bound she told the story of the Black Loyalists’ escape from slavery.

  Jean Rae Baxter’s historical fiction has won recognition in both Canada and the United States. Her previous novels for young readers have been Canadian Children’s Book Centre “Best Books for Kids & Teens.” In the United States, she has won both the Gold as well as the Bronze Moonbeam Awards. In her own home town, she has received the Hamilton Arts Council Award for Young Adult Literature as well as a City of Hamilton Heritage Award for her writing. Her books have been shortlisted for the Ontario Library Association’s Red Maple Award and British Columbia’s Stellar Award, and she has received an Honourable Mention at Boston’s New England Book Festival

  In preparation for writing, she likes to travel to the places where her novels are set. These include South Carolina’s alligator-infested black-water swamps, the hills of Vermont, New York State’s Mohawk Valley, and the Six Nations lands along Ontario’s Grand River. If you would like to contact the author, her email address is jeanraebaxter@sympatico.ca. You may reach her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ JeanRaeBaxterBooks.