Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Eli swept up his rifle and Billy’s musket, and Billy heard the urgency in his voice as he hissed, “He’s finished! Let’s go!”

  Billy sprang to his feet as Eli tossed his musket to him and he caught it and they sprinted. All caution was thrown aside as they tore through the undergrowth, south, back the way they had come, leaping fallen trees, dodging among the trunks of those standing, hunched forward to avoid branches. The only sounds they heard were their footfalls and the gasping of their own breath as they plunged on—two hundred yards—three hundred—past a gigantic outcropping of worn granite boulders, over the remains of an ancient, decayed tree, then another, when Eli stopped abruptly, spun around, and dived onto his stomach behind the huge, rotting trunk of the fallen forest giant and uttered a single whispered word.

  “Load!”

  Billy grabbed a paper cartridge from the leather case on his hip, ripped the bottom open with his teeth, flipped the frizzen from the pan, sprinkled powder, slapped the frizzen shut, poured the remainder of the powder down the bore of his musket, jammed the paper with the ball into the muzzle, and tamped it down onto the powder with the ramrod. At the same time, Eli tapped powder from his powder horn into his pan, closed the frizzen, held the patch over the muzzle, seated the ball, and drove it down the barrel with the hickory ramrod.

  Weapons loaded, both men thrust the muzzles over the log, cocked the hammers, and waited. The twilight deepened before they heard the first faint sound of ferns brushing buckskin leggings somewhere in front of them. Eli tensed and held up one finger, then another, another, and finally four, with Billy counting. Without a sound Eli laid his tomahawk on the log next to his rifle, then tapped Billy’s arm and touched the handle of his belt knife. Silently Billy drew the knife and laid it on the log beside his musket, then settled, unmoving, battling to breathe silently as he peered into the darkness, waiting, every nerve singing tight. A deep ache throbbed through his shoulder as the sticky warmth spread on his left shoulder blade, down his left side, to his shirtfront. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he said nothing and remained motionless, waiting, forefinger lightly on the trigger of his musket, tense, ready, mouth dry.

  Time lost meaning. Billy licked dry lips as his thoughts ran, and he let them go. Brigitte—the hazel eyes and brown hair—will she ever know what happened—why we never returned—Mother and Trudy—Matthew, on the sea—who will tell them—who will find the letters—who will deliver them to Brigitte—she’ll never know—I wish somehow the letters could reach her—I wish she could know.

  Silently Eli held up three more fingers, and Billy counted.

  Seven—seven of them out there—they know where we are—how much time left?—five more minutes?—ten?—how long before they come at us all at one time?—we’ll get the first two and maybe the second two, but in this dark we can’t get all of them—how will Mother ever know—Matthew—I wish Brigitte could see the letters.

  A hint of sound reached them in the darkness and instantly Billy was focused, ready, waiting. Seconds became a minute, and then two minutes, and there was nothing—no movement, no sound, no dark shapes rising from the thick foliage with raised war clubs or tomahawks. The great muscle on Billy’s shoulder blade throbbed, and he flexed the fingers of his left hand then moved his left arm slightly to be certain he could control them. A three-quarter waxing moon rose in the west to cast deceptive silvery light on the crowns of trees so thick that only random shafts of pale light filtered through to cast small flecks on the forest floor.

  Minutes became half an hour, then an hour, while the moon climbed steadily above the mountains to the west. The hum of the mosquitoes quieted and gave way to the rhythmic, rasping chirp of crickets. From marshes and bogs near the streams came the steady belching croak of giant bullfrogs. Overhead, the night birds silently performed their nocturnal ballet as they took small, invisible flying insects. From a distance came the sharp, high bark of a fox.

  One hour became two, and then Eli silently worked his way closer to Billy and spoke in a whisper. “It’s over for now. They won’t come into this place to get us.”

  Billy’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “They won’t come here? Why?”

  “Indian burial ground.” Eli tilted his head back and pointed upward.

  Billy turned on his right elbow to peer into the overhead canopy of trees, and in the sparse moonlight he saw it. Suspended in the lower branches of the trees were platforms of poles tied together with rawhide, and he understood that on the platforms were the wrapped, decaying bodies of the dead. A strange, eerie sensation that he and Eli were not alone crept over him as he stared. “How did you know?” he whispered.

  “Saw it at sunset, when we were going north.”

  “They won’t come in here to fight?”

  “No. Respect for their ancestors. They believe their spirits are free to roam and come to this place often. Might be here now.”

  Billy’s breathing slowed at the thought, and for a time he remained motionless, silent, somehow expecting a sound or a manifestation from the dead, but there was nothing. He licked dry lips and asked, “What happens at daylight?”

  “Nothing. Daylight or dark, they won’t attack here. By morning I think they’ll be gone. They don’t have much patience. They made their try and lost four or five men. Sometime tonight they’ll take their wounded and dead and go back to wherever they came from. They’ll tell how they attacked an enemy party and killed many. They’ll say they didn’t have time to take scalps. Just before dawn, I’ll go see if they’re gone.”

  Billy moved his left arm, and Eli heard the sharp intake of breath.

  “You hurt?” he hissed.

  “My back. Left shoulder. That third one, with the tomahawk.”

  Eli reached for Billy’s left hand and laid two fingers in the palm. “Squeeze hard.”

  Billy bore down, and Eli noted the raw power of Billy’s grip. “Grip seems all right. Can you raise your arm above your head?”

  Billy winced but raised his arm high, feeling the crusted blood crack and the warm, sticky flow begin again.

  There was relief in Eli’s voice as he spoke. “I think it struck with the grain of the great muscle—not cross-grain. How bad? Can you tell?”

  “I think pretty deep.”

  “Let me feel.”

  “There’s blood.”

  “No matter.” Gently Eli worked his fingertips over Billy’s shoulder blade. He found the place where the sodden shirt had been cut through and gently parted the cloth to tenderly probe the sticky cloth, while Billy gritted his teeth.

  “Deep. Nearly an inch.” He fell silent for a moment. “We’ll have to close it somehow. You walk with it that way, you’ll keep it open. It won’t heal.”

  “Close it now?”

  “No. Can’t strike a light. They won’t attack us here, but they might shoot at a light. We’ll have to wait for daylight. Can you stand it that long?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Don’t move that arm again. Lay on your right side while I go get some spider web.”

  “Spider web?”

  “To stop the bleeding.”

  Eli disappeared to return after several minutes with the fine web of great catspiders dangling from his hand. Carefully he raised the edges of the cut in Billy’s shirt and packed the sticky web into the gaping wound.

  “That should do it. Get some rest. I’ll watch.”

  Eli helped Billy slip out of the straps of his canteen, cartridge case, utensils pouch, and blanket roll, and Billy folded the blanket beneath his head and curled up on his right side. Eli pulled the musket over next to his rifle, then Billy’s knife beside his tomahawk, and settled beside Billy to watch and listen.

  The moon reached its apex, then began to dip back toward the skyline. The chirping of the crickets droned on, punctuated by the incessant croaking of the frogs. At two o’clock, a chill breeze from the Hudson River stirred the leaves for a time, and Billy groaned in his sleep and awakened. Eli
unrolled his own blanket and spread it over him, then resumed his vigil. The distant, haunting call of an owl came floating, and Eli froze for a moment, waiting, while Billy held his breath. A nearby owl answered, and Eli relaxed. “Authentic,” he whispered, and Billy began breathing again.

  A little after three o’clock, Billy cried out and jerked awake. Instantly Eli reached to steady him, so that he wouldn’t roll over onto his wounded shoulder. Billy flinched at his touch and stared upward in the dark while his mind came back to reality.

  “What happened,” he asked.

  “You fell asleep. Cried out. Must have dreamed.”

  Billy nodded and reached to wipe the sweat from his face. “I was back at the fight. That tomahawk.” He waited for a time while the vivid images of painted men with weapons in their hands, leaping at him from hidden places, faded and vanished. Then he turned his face to Eli.

  “Who were they? What tribe?”

  “Mohawk.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Their hair. Paint. Leggings. The way they came at us.”

  “War party?”

  “Not likely. Probably Joseph Brant’s scouts, with the British.” Eli’s voice intensified. “If they were Brant’s scouts, it means they were sent out to find someone, or something. Most likely to find out where the American army’s gathering. If that was what they were doing, it means the British army’s on its way down here.”

  Seconds passed while Billy reflected, and Eli sensed his need to talk, to pass the hard hours of waiting in the dark of night. He waited, and Billy finally spoke.

  “If Brant’s a Mohawk, how did he get the name Joseph Brant?”

  “That’s his baptized Christian name. Got it from a man he lived with for a while. His Mohawk name is Thayendangea. His older sister’s Christian name is Mary Brant, but her Mohawk name is Gonwatsijayenni. She has much power among the Mohawks.”

  Billy’s eyes widened. “A woman?”

  Eli nodded. “The women have strong standing in their villages—sometimes more than the men.”

  “How powerful is Joseph Brant?”

  “Probably the most powerful Mohawk living. Speaks all six Iroquois languages, as well as French and English. Been to England and met the king. They made him a Freemason. He’s translating the white man’s Bible into Mohawk. Been a warrior since he was thirteen. He’s the one who led the British when they came through the Jamaica Pass. Nearly ended the Revolution.”

  “The Iroquois have six languages?”

  “Five main ones. Six if you count the Tuscaroras. There’s some other smaller tribes, too. A couple of hundred years ago, the main ones got together and formed a sort of league or a confederation, to unite for peace.”

  “Who were the five?”

  “Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, Seneca.”

  Confused, Billy asked, “There was no tribe named Iroquois?”

  “No. Together they’re called the Iroquois confederation.”

  “Who formed the confederation?”

  “A Huron named Deganawida and a Onondaga named Hiawatha got the other tribes to bury the hatchet. Deganawida was not a good speaker, so he got Hiawatha to do the talking. Uniting the tribes had never been attempted before.”

  “Bury the hatchet?”

  “Stop fighting. You take up the hatchet when you declare war, and when you stop fighting, you bury it beneath a tree.”

  “Did Hiawatha have a white name?”

  “No.”

  “What does Hiawatha mean in English?”

  For a moment Eli pondered. “It would translate, ‘He was awake.’”

  For a moment they fell silent, each aware of an odd, unexpected feeling that had come over them. Billy lying injured in an Indian burial ground in the black hours after midnight, Mohawk Indians somewhere near in a primeval forest waiting to kill them. And yet, Billy wanted to know, and Eli needed to tell, of the life and customs of the people who had murdered most of Eli’s family eighteen years earlier and then raised Eli as one of their own.

  “What tribe were you with?”

  “In the beginning, Seneca. Then with the Onondaga.”

  “Where?”

  Eli lowered his face while he gathered his thoughts. “Six or seven miles north of Albany, the Mohawk River empties into the Hudson from the west. About seventy miles up the Mohawk River is a settlement called Oriskany, and about five miles past that, Fort Stanwix. West of there is Lake Oneida, and beyond that is Fort Brewerton, located on the Oswego River. South of Fort Brewerton is Lake Onondaga, and the village of Onondaga is on the tip of the lake. West of there is the Seneca River with three lakes—Skaneateles, Owasco, and Cayuga—all draining from the south into Seneca River. Northwest, the village of Oswego is right where the Oswego River drains into Lake Ontario. Northeast is Lake George and Lake Champlain, which drain into the Richelieu River, and it runs north into the St. Lawrence.”

  Eli stopped for a moment to arrange his thoughts. “The five big lakes are west of Oswego. I was raised mostly by the Onondaga, in the country between the Hudson River and those five big lakes. The Onondaga are the keepers of the records for the whole Iroquois confederation. When I was thirteen, I left to fight my first battle against the French and the Huron. They had joined to fight the British. It was in one of those battles that I met Joseph Brant.”

  “The Onondaga keep records? What records?”

  “Not like whites. They keep wampum belts, or sometimes strings of wampum beads, one belt or string for each thing they want to remember. Treaties, visions, councils, loss of great chiefs, sachems, battles—all the things that mean something to them.”

  “Sachems?”

  “Medicine men—the spiritual leaders.”

  “Are there a lot of these wampum belts at Onondaga?”

  “Thousands. They have men whose duty is to remember what each one means. Put them all together, and there’s a pretty good record of the history of the Iroquois, going back a long way.”

  “I thought wampum was Indian money.”

  Eli shook his head. “Not money. Iroquois history.”

  “You served with the British?”

  “Right. After that first battle, I lived wherever I was sent, to help the British drive out the French. That’s when I first heard of George Washington. I heard what that old chief said about him, and I heard other things. I spent some time with the Jesuits, too, and learned English and French and read their Bible twice. The second time I went into the forest alone for over sixty days and studied it. Something happened inside of me. I had a desire to know more about Jesus and the whites and George Washington. I purified myself, and my thoughts settled, and I knew I had to leave the Iroquois and find out those things for myself.”

  “What to do you mean ‘Purified yourself’?”

  “Built a sweat lodge. Fasted and sweated and prayed for three days. Then the answer came.”

  “A revelation?”

  “Not like a vision or an angel or a voice in the night. A feeling in my heart that I knew was right.”

  “From God?”

  “It was Him I prayed to. I’ve never questioned it.”

  “What’s His name? You told me once, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “In Iroquois, Taronhiawagon.”

  “What does that mean in English?”

  Eli paused for a moment, searching for words. “‘He who bears the heavens on his shoulders.’ There are lesser Gods. He is the one who is over all others.”

  “He gives revelations then?”

  “He can. Dreams, visions—about what will happen in the future. He knows all.”

  “When did the Iroquois side with the French against the British?”

  Eli shrugged. “Maybe thirty years ago. An Englishman named William Johnson took Indian wives and learned Indian ways. One of his wives was Mary Brant, Joseph Brant’s older sister. Johnson became the spokesman for the British and helped drive out the French, and then when the Americans rebelled he tried to put them down. He’s dea
d, but his son Guy Johnson took his place. It was Guy Johnson who traveled to England with Joseph Brant and met the king. Now his son John Johnson has taken over.”

  Eli paused, and Billy watched him peer over the log, into the darkness for a time before he spoke again. “A second white missionary named Samuel Kirkland has tried to keep the Indians friendly to the Americans. With Johnson pulling them to the British, and Kirkland pulling them to the Americans, things have become pretty mixed up among the Iroquois tribes. It seems like white men only use the Indians for what they want, and never see what they’re doing to the Indians. The conflict is pulling the Confederacy apart. If it keeps up, everything Deganawida and Hiawatha did will be gone.”

  “Why is Joseph Brant against Americans?”

  “When the British first came, they promised to protect the Mohawk if they would let them come onto their lands. Later on, when the French came to trap furs, the British kept their promise and drove them out. No one ever thought some of the British would call themselves Americans and turn on their own mother country, and when they did, the Mohawk didn’t know what else to do but join with the British again, against the Americans.”

  Eli stopped for a moment, and then his voice became intense. “Indians don’t like to lose. They stayed with the British because they figured the French would lose. Now they think the Americans will lose, so they’re still with the British. The day they see the British losing, I expect they’ll walk away and be gone.”

  Billy shifted to ease set muscles, and suddenly Eli raised a warning hand. He closed his eyes and turned his head and neither moved nor spoke in his deep concentration. A full minute passed before he whispered to Billy.

  “Did you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The frogs. They quieted over to the right, toward the river.”