Panther in the Sky

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  But it gave no message. Instead, as he blinked, it became mist again, was gone. The green leaves and mosses shimmered in the sunbeams, and the morning sounds returned in a rush: birds twittering, insects droning, the spring gurgling.

  To Tecumseh, this seemed very bad. Clearly the dove had been his Spirit Helper, but it had told him nothing and had gone abruptly. For a while Tecumseh sat in deep despair and thought of going home.

  No, he thought. I have four days. The dove showed itself to me the first morning. Good. Before the four days have passed, surely it will speak.

  And so he did not move from the place. The sun slowly rose high and a long time later began to descend. Small animals of every kind came to the spring during the afternoon, looking at him warily, then deciding he was no danger. They drank at the spring, preened themselves, went away. A raccoon came and washed a white piece of root in the spring, then ate it while watching Tecumseh with its glinting dark eyes in its black mask.

  I too have a black mask, Tecumseh thought toward the raccoon, and it seemed for a moment as if he and the raccoon were laughing together about that, though they made no sound.

  Tecumseh could have caught some of these unfrightened creatures with his hands and eaten them, but of course he did not, though his stomach hurt with hunger.

  At dusk he rose, his whole body stiff, and went away from the spot to relieve himself, then returned and sat again upon the moss and waited for the second night.

  In the night the bluish glow again came and hovered on the edge of his vision. This time it did not frighten him so much. But again it did not become the shape of a Bear Walker.

  After many hours of darkness the trees began to sigh. He saw flickerings of light beyond the treetops, then heard the faraway rumble of thunder.

  The storm came closer. Cyclone Person began to rush through the treetops. When the eyes of the Thunderbirds would flash their lightning, Tecumseh could see that the trees were waving violently. Twigs and leaves and butternuts began to shake loose from the treetops and tumble, pattering, down through the foliage. Somewhere behind him a great limb or whole tree fell with a loud rushing and crackling, then an impact that shook the ground. A blaze of lightning whitened the whole swaying forest, and immediately there followed a wingbeat of thunder so loud that the earth shook. Then there were more and more of these bolts of light and noise. The entire forest was in a wild dance with Cyclone Person, and bits of blown chaff and bark stung Tecumseh’s back and cheeks. At last there came a cold, wet breath of wind, and soon the rain came rushing through the woods, cold, driven rain that soaked his hair and streamed cold down over his naked skin.

  Sometimes it was the beating of the Thunderbirds’ wings and the falling of trees they knocked down that made the soaked earth seem to tremble. But once, after the flashing and thundering had moved away to the east and only the steady rainfall remained, Tecumseh seemed again to feel the earth shuddering, deep below where he sat on the wet moss.

  He was himself shuddering now, gasping and shivering in the hushing, dribbling darkness. He clutched the little wet deerskin bag that held his pa-waw-ka and prayed for the fire in his core not to be extinguished. He remembered the banked coals in the fire-ring at home, thought of Star Watcher and her warmth, thought of his faraway mother and her warmth. The wet moss chilled him where he sat on it. His hands were cold. It was not, of course, nearly as cold as when he had plunged into the icy river to find his totem; it was summer now. But he had been only moments in the wintry river and exerting himself. Now he had been wet and chilled for most of the night, immobile, and he had eaten or drunk nothing for two days. He was shuddering almost constantly. In his misery he was not aware anymore of the bluish glow, and the image of the white dove, when he thought of it at all, seemed to have been no more than a long-ago dream. Now the discomforts of his body were so great that he could hardly keep the purpose of his quest in mind. Over and over he would try to return to the vacant calm of the prayer, but he was too full of his misery. This made him fear that he was not strong enough in spirit to be all that the elders expected him to be. He felt unworthy, and feeling unworthy made him quake more in his cold and lonely pit of darkness. His mind kept taunting him, asking him why he had not caught something to eat yesterday, why he had not built a brush shelter to squat in, why he had not started a campfire by friction to light and warm the little shelter he should have made.

  How he longed for a little campfire! From almost the Beginning, his ancestors had spent their nights gazing into campfires; they had considered their gods and worked out everything they now lived by while talking around fires. To spend a night with no fire was like being in that frightening time before the Creator had provided fire. To sit in the dark without a fire was contrary. How good the smoke of a cookfire would smell now, instead of the dank smell of soaked humus and wet leaves! How good to be in the dry, warm wigewa, spooning steamy hominy or squirrel broth out of a kettle, with his sister’s smiling face telling him, “Take more, dear brother! You never eat enough!”

  The rain stopped near dawn, but for a long time as the forest grew gray and then dull green, the woods were full of dripping, and whenever a part of his skin would become nearly dry, another cold dribble or shower of rainwater would come down from the leaves above and spatter him with a hundred more chills. With daylight came breezes that shook still more cold drops down on him. He hoped the sun would come out and warm the world, but the day was clouded, gloomy, chilly. The woods were full of fog.

  At last it was light enough to find the way home. Home was far to the south, and he doubted that he had enough strength to go there. Perhaps he could make it to Piqua and eat there, then go home.…

  Then he remembered the blackness on his face. Probably it was gone now, after these days and nights, after the rainwater that had washed him for hours and hours. He raised his hand to rub his cheek, gazing dumbly at an oak limb a few paces in front of him.

  Coo-ah, coo, coo, coo.

  There, around the call, the mist again formed the shape of the dove, and everything suddenly was silent again.

  The dove sat on the oak limb, its one dark eye seeming to look at him as it had before. The dove did not call again, but from it was coming, instead of sound, something else, something like a pressure in the air. When this enveloped him, Tecumseh suddenly felt warm, and his despair was gone. Then he could open himself again to receive the messages.

  They did not come as words or as thoughts or even as images. But they came and filled him with understandings. First, that this was indeed his Spirit Helper. And that it would return at proper times. That it was to aid him with the needs of the People. That it would guide him, that it would alert him to signs, that it would cause him to have dreams in which would lie answers. That he was for the People, and that the white dove was for him. That someday, when the People’s needs were most dire, the way would be made clear.

  All this comprehension diffused into Tecumseh during the time he sat looking at the dove. He did not know how long that was. It seemed like only a moment or like always. When the dove finally dissolved into mist again, Tecumseh was refreshed and strong. He sat, remembering, in the wet woods. At last he rose to his feet, went to the spring, cupped his hands full of clear water, and drank it from between his wrists. He washed his hands, face, and body in the cold water. And then, grateful but humbled, feeling as weightless as a spirit, he set off down a path for the trail toward Chillicothe, toward food, to the embrace of his tribe and his family.

  13

  CHILLICOTHE TOWN

  Summer 1780

  ONE DAY IN THE RASPBERRY MOON, TECUMSEH, THICK Water, and Chiksika stood together at the riverside south of the town, with most of the residents of Chillicothe, watching the British soldiers bustle around their rolling-gun and waiting for the promised excitement. It was a mild, beautiful morning. The bottomland was full of tiny flowers. The cannon was pointed toward a pile of logs and brush on the riverbank. Four of the Redcoats worked with pails and st
range-shaped poles, putting black powder in the muzzle. Their captain, named Byrd, a large, elegant, pink-faced man, shouted words to them.

  “So much powder!” Chiksika said. “It is as much as I have used in my life, and they are going to shoot once with so much!”

  The people were standing close in bunches of friends and relatives, most holding hands or unconsciously touching. They had never seen a rolling-gun, though they had been promised to them for years, and so now the British captain would show them the power it would have against Long Knife forts, by shooting the woodpile on the riverbank. He had been showing off the cannon in town after town as he moved south from Canada toward Kain-tuck-ee. The power of the cannon had influenced six hundred warriors to join Captain Byrd so far—Ottawas, Delawares, Wyandots, and Potawatomies as well as Shawnees from the upper towns.

  Something about the way the British soldiers moved and handled things, something about the shiny brass muzzle poking out from between the tall, spoked wheels, made Tecumseh conscious of the power of it even before it was shot. Most of the people had never seen anything on wheels before, and from the moment yesterday when the big horses had pulled the gun rumbling and rattling through the town, escorted by red-coated British soldiers and Canadian rangers in green, the Shawnees had sensed the awful, waiting force of this white man’s object. Obviously it had great importance. But bad spirit seemed to hover around it. It had stood mute all night near the grand council lodge, gleaming in firelight, and people had come around for hours to look at it and speculate. It was said that Captain Byrd had five other cannons in his flotilla over on the Great Miami-se-pe, and that he had nearly a hundred more of these Redcoats and fifty more Greencoats. The cannons, and such numbers of troops, for the first time made the Shawnees really aware of the war between the British white men and the American white men and that they themselves were being made a part of it. It made them feel a little less hopeless about the presence of the Long Knife Chief Clark out west. It was said that Captain Byrd was going to take his cannons down to the Great Falls of the O-hi-o, where Clark had built a fort, and attack him there.

  Through the night, the British soldiers had guarded their cannon against anyone’s touch. Even though this Captain Byrd said he had brought the cannon for the Indians, they were not allowed to touch it. Tecumseh did not want to touch it anyway because of its spirit. So the people had looked at it in the firelight and talked about what they had heard of the power and noise of such guns. The triplets had kept everyone awake late into the night with their restlessness.

  Now on the riverbank no one was talking, except Captain Byrd. Near Captain Byrd stood Black Hoof, the dignified, handsome, graying Chalagawtha who had succeeded Black Fish as principal chief. The bringing of this rolling-gun had been promised and promised during the time of Black Fish, but it had at last come only under the time of Black Hoof, and he, with this great responsibility, was perhaps as nervous as all the rest of the residents put together, though he stood steady and tall and resolute. Near Black Hoof and Captain Byrd stood the wiry, black-haired white man named Simon Girty, who was their interpreter.

  Now a soldier put a heavy iron ball in the muzzle, and another pushed it in with a pole. This was familiar to all the Indian men, who knew it was like loading a musket. But each man was thinking of the size of that ball and of the amount of black powder that had been put in before it. They all knew what a ball the size of a hazelnut would do; now here was one the size of a squash! Another soldier stood near the back end of the gun with a small stick of something that smoldered and gave off wisps of smoke.

  Captain Byrd said something, which Girty then translated to Black Hoof, and then Black Hoof announced to his people:

  “This gun will make a big noise when it is shot. If this noise makes you shut your eyes, you might not see the ball hit that wood down there. He wants you to see it hit the wood because that will show you what it can do to the gates of the Long Knife forts. This is what our friend and ally Captain Byrd has just said to me.” Then Black Hoof looked at Girty, who nodded.

  Captain Byrd’s pink face looked all around now. He made a motion with his hand to some boys who had moved too far forward. Then he looked at the soldier who held the smoldering stick and shouted at him. Everyone was absolutely still. A mockingbird was making its silly songs down by a large tree that stood in the middle of the marsh.

  The soldier lowered the burning stick toward the top of the cannon, and Tecumseh could see from the flinching tension in his face that this was the moment. He glanced at Thick Water and saw him blinking, blinking.

  The Indians lived in a quiet world, a world of wind, water, and stealthy animals. Aside from the crack of a musket or the thunder of a storm, seldom did a sound louder than the shout of a voice come to their ears.

  The cannon bucked and issued a cracking roar so loud, it hurt Tecumseh’s head and made him jump and gasp. He felt the shock pass through the soft earth under his feet. A tongue of orange flame and a huge plume of blue smoke shot out thirty feet in front of the cannon. The shock of the blast was so overwhelming to him that he hardly remembered to look at the target.

  When he looked, nothing had happened to the wood. But beyond it he saw a spurt of water in the river, no more than that of a big fish jumping.

  Tecumseh’s ears were ringing. He looked at Black Hoof. Black Hoof looked at Captain Byrd. Captain Byrd’s pink face had gone red. His cannon had missed the pile of wood.

  Someone in the crowd had recovered enough from the pain of the noise to laugh. It was a young man called Copper Hair, who lived at Piqua Town and had come over with warriors from there to see the cannon. Copper Hair was a white captive who had been adopted into the tribe four or five years ago. Chiksika knew him. When the people heard Copper Hair laugh, they realized that what they thought had happened really had, and they laughed. Now Captain Byrd was almost as scarlet as his coat. He said something to Girty, who was trying not to smile. Girty said something to Black Hoof, who then raised his hand to hush the tittering and said:

  “Our friend and ally Captain Byrd explains that he now has tested his gunpowder, and finds that it did not get wet in the recent rains. Now that he knows the gunpowder is good, he will shoot at the pile of wood that we made for him beside the river.”

  Tecumseh felt Chiksika’s hand touch his shoulder and looked up at him, and Chiksika said with a smirk: “Even if they are our allies, the white man cannot say the truth to us.”

  This time when the soldiers had the cannon ready and had re-aimed it, the people put their palms over their ears. The soldier touched it with the burning stick, and it bucked and flashed and smoked again.

  And almost at the same time, the big pile of wood down by the river flew into pieces. The people’s faces were full of amazement. Logs and branches and bark and splinters twirled in the air and splashed in the river. The people cried out. Captain Byrd said something, Girty spoke, and Black Hoof announced:

  “Now our friend and ally Captain Byrd tells us we have seen that no fort in Kain-tuck-ee can stand against the power of this cannon. As for myself, I can see that if they can hit the forts, this will be very useful to us.”

  And it seemed that in this, at least, was truth.

  After the demonstration, when all the people were milling around talking to each other, Tecumseh asked Chiksika to take him to the youth named Copper Hair, the one who had first laughed when the cannon missed.

  This young man was very agreeable to look at. His face was red brown like a red man’s, but his hair was also dark red, and his eyes were blue. It made him strange to look at. But he was a Shawnee now. Chiksika said to him, taking his hand, “Copper Hair, welcome, if your ears can still hear me. Here is my brother Tecumseh. I have told you of him.”

  The red-haired one had a pleasant smile, and when he took Tecumseh’s hand, Tecumseh saw that his hand had little golden hairs on it. “I have heard much of Tecumseh. They say you were born under a star. Maybe you are going to be a savior.”


  “I am expected to do something sometime, it is said. But now may I ask you a question, brother?”

  “I will answer if I can.”

  “When you lived with the white men …” Tecumseh began. One never said to such an adopted one, when you were a white man. “When you lived with them, did you know how to understand the black language on the white rag leaves?”

  Chiksika laughed. “I could have guessed that’s why you wanted to talk to Copper Hair! You two talk of that, then. I am more interested in this cannon.” He and Thick Water went to join some young warriors who were near the rolling-gun.

  Copper Hair looked puzzled. “What did you say?” he asked Tecumseh. “Black language?”

  “In the livres.”

  “Leaves?”

  Tecumseh shook his head and grimaced, frustrated. Then he held his left palm open and made over it a motion of turning pages, as he had seen French priests do.

  “Ah! Ah, I see! Books!”

  Tecumseh tried to repeat the strange word. “Pooks.”

  “Books. Yes, I could understand books. I could …” He said another strange word, having no Shawnee word for it. “I could read books.”

  “Read.”

  “Read. That means, to look in a book and see what all the words mean. My father had many books. I could read very well. Even my sisters could read.”

  “Sisters could read?”

  “Yes. We were a rich family. My father was a great builder. He made big houses. Council houses. And bridges.”

  “British? Your father built British?”