The White Oneida

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  “You mean, wash and change my clothes?”

  “Exactly. I have a sweat lodge behind the house and a bathtub in the kitchen. You see, at Brant’s Ford we have the best of both worlds.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more than a sweat and a scrub. My good clothes are in my carrying basket. I wanted to wear them for my arrival, but I’m too dirty to put them on.”

  “My servants keep firestones heated. While they prepare the sweat lodge, we have time for a smudge.”

  “A smudge?”

  “Don’t you usually smudge before a sweat?”

  “But … Here?” He looked around at the portraits and the chandelier.

  “We’ll go to the library.”

  With his well-clad arm across Broken Trail’s dirty shoulders, Thayendanegea steered him down the hall and into a room lined with bookcases. A small fire burned in the fireplace.

  Thayendanegea rang a silver bell. The servant who promptly appeared was the same black man who had answered the front door.

  “Esau,” said Thayendanegea, “I want you to prepare the sweat lodge for my guest.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The man left the room.

  “Now,” said Thayendanegea, “you will see how we carry our ancient rites forward into our new life.”

  On the fireplace mantel stood a basket decorated with quillwork. From it Thayendanegea took a leather bag, a small bowl, and an eagle feather. He poured reddish-brown powder from the bag into the bowl.

  “This is a dust made of sage, cedar, sweet grass, and tobacco,” said Thayendanegea. He set it alight with a taper. When the flames died down, he walked all around Broken Trail, wafting the smoke of the four sacred medicines onto him with the eagle feather.

  It felt strange to be smudged by a gentleman in a frock coat while standing in a room lined with bookcases. Broken Trail’s last smudge had been in the forest, when the feather directing the smoke had been in Yellowbird’s hand. The ritual that Thayendanegea was performing seemed somehow unreal.

  “There,” he said when it was over. “My servant will take you to the sweat lodge and leave you for an hour. He’ll look after you. At dinner you’ll meet Catherine, my wife.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The Best of Both Worlds

  THE SWEAT LODGE looked like an overturned bowl clad with sheets of elm bark. A heavy leather drape served as a door. The servant in blue livery stood beside the entry, holding a blanket.

  Broken Trail undressed, and when he was stripped to his breechcloth, the servant lifted the drape. There was a single step down into the sweat lodge. The air inside felt hot enough to sear his lungs.

  The servant held the drape open just enough for Broken Trail to be able to see the stones heaped in the centre of the earth floor and the wooden water bucket and dipper placed nearby. The stones were so hot they glowed.

  Four times—once for each of the Four Directions—he filled the dipper with water and poured it over the stones. Steam rose with a sizzle and hiss. The leather curtain dropped.

  Broken Trail sat in total darkness while the steam opened his pores to release all the poisons from his body. The air was as wet as a fog, a fog so dense and hot that he could hardly breathe. Sweat rolled down his skin.

  He prayed first for guidance from the Great Spirit. Then he prayed for worthiness to accomplish the tasks that lay before him. Gradually, as he sat in the cleansing steam, he felt a great weight being lifted from him, and he prayed for nothing at all.

  His mind drifted. No worries. No cares. Was it like this, he idly wondered, for the spirit to leave the body? To float away like a fluffy cloud? He wanted this feeling to last forever, but his body would not let his spirit go.

  As the air in the sweat lodge grew thicker and hotter, his body cried, Enough! He began to feel a little sick, and he knew from past experience that he must leave without delay. Groggily he crawled to the entrance and pushed against the leather drape.

  The servant lifted it to let him out. Half fainting, Broken Trail gasped for fresh air. The servant wrapped the blanket around him and led him into the house.

  The bathtub in the kitchen was full of cold water. When he sat down in it, the shock jarred every nerve in his body. For a few moments he could not move. But as his strength returned, he seized the rough cloth that had been left on the edge of the tub. He scrubbed and scrubbed until every bit of loosened dirt was scoured from his skin.

  Feeling totally clean, he climbed out of the tub. There was a couch in the kitchen, probably kept there for the very purpose he had in mind. Dripping water onto the wooden floor, he crossed to the couch and lay down. He pulled up to his chin the blanket that lay on the couch. Broken Trail closed his eyes.

  When he awoke, it was dark outside. The smell of roasting meat filled his nostrils. Turning his head, he watched as a black woman pulled a leg of pork from the spit over the fire and placed it on a platter.

  He sat up. Now he noticed that his carrying basket had been brought into the kitchen and set down beside the couch. His rifle lay beside it. Swinging his legs over the side of the couch, he leaned forward and picked up his rifle. The stock had been wiped clean and the barrel was free of any trace of mud. Next he looked inside his carrying basket. Despite the dent, everything looked the same as it had when he packed his best clothes for his journey. Not a hair of his beautiful headdress was damaged.

  The woman paid no attention as he dressed. When he had his headdress properly attached to his scalp lock, he inspected his reflection in the dark glass of the window. Liking what he saw, he preened a little, straightening the fringes of his shirt. Then he took from his pouch the report that President

  Webber had prepared for him to give to Thayendanegea.

  Broken Trail found his way to the library. The room was aglow with candle light. Thayendanegea looked up from the book he was reading. “Now you look like a prince of your people.”

  “I feel much better.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Before sitting, Broken Trail handed over the letter containing President Webber’s report. “This is confidential. For you.”

  Thayendanegea cracked the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read, he nodded approvingly. “Dr. Webber writes that your progress continues. You are now in the top half of your class.” He looked up from the report. “When I first met you, you told me you’d been at the bottom of your class as a young schoolboy.”

  “In those days, I hated school.”

  “But now you like it?”

  “Most of the time. It’s just that some things they teach us … how the native people are lazy and savage …”

  Thayendanegea shrugged his shoulders. “It was the same at the Moore School. Those views are offensive. But you master the subjects that you need. Just as important, there’s no better place for meeting youths who will someday be leaders of their people. Make many friends. Learn many languages.”

  “I plan to. I have a friend who’s teaching me Mohican.”

  “That’s good. What about Shawnee?”

  “Shawnee! No. I haven’t learned any Shawnee.”

  “Too bad. It would be useful. But we’ll talk about that later.”

  Thayendanegea placed the report on the table beside his chair. “I’m pleased you’re making friends. Friendships made at school are as important as the subjects you study. They last a lifetime.”

  “I know that,” said Broken Trail. “I met one of your school friends on my way here. I travelled for a day with him and his family. His name is Two Sky Thunder.”

  “Thunder! That’s the man I’ve hired as schoolmaster. But if you were travelling with him, why didn’t you arrive with him?”

  “I would have, but he had to stop for his wife to give birth. This morning I left Thunder and his family at the Cayuga settlement. He’s waiting to meet his new son.”

  “Mohawk women are tough. If she gives birth today, she’ll be ready to travel tomorrow. Thunder may still arrive before I have to leave. I hope so. I
want to talk to him about the new school.”

  Thayendanegea rose from his chair. “Now it’s time for dinner. Catherine will join us. She speaks no English, but she understands every word.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Continuing Education

  CATHERINE GAVE A graceful bow. She was, as Broken Trail had expected, the beautiful woman in the portrait. She was young, half Thayendanegea’s age. She wore a silk blanket bordered with lace over a silk petticoat. Her leggings were scarlet. Ribbons adorned her beaded moccasins.

  Dinner was served in the dining room on fine china. There was roast pork served with baked squash and wild parsnips. Instead of ladling food from a common pot, each diner waited for a servant to place a portion upon his plate. The meal finished with corn pudding sprinkled with maple sugar, and a pot of strong tea.

  Afterwards, Catherine entertained them in the library with music played on a curious instrument made of polished wood, brass, and ebony. Thayendanegea called it a barrel organ. The music came out of four ranks of pipes. Catherine played a march, a psalm, a dance tune, and finished with “God Save the King.”

  “I had my barrel organ imported from England,” Thayendanegea announced.

  Broken Trail wondered what Yellowbird would think of this fantastic instrument. He remembered the simple flute she had made from a willow branch.

  When Catherine had finished playing, she left Broken Trail and Thayendanegea settled in front of the library fire.

  “I suppose you wonder why I’m going to England,” Thayendanegea began.

  “I did wonder. It must be a bad time of year to cross the ocean.”

  “The worst possible time. But I can’t put it off any longer.” He rose, crossed to a table where delicate glasses and a selection of bottles rested on a silver tray. He poured himself a small brandy.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “None for me, thank you.”

  Thayendanegea returned to his chair. “I’m losing patience with Governor Haldimand. Whenever I raise the subject of British support for an Indian confederacy, he becomes evasive. In London I will speak to the King’s ministers myself. Those are the men with the real power.” He swirled his brandy glass, watched the amber liquid catch the light. After a moment he said, “It’s all politics.”

  “I don’t know anything about politics.”

  “Then you must learn. It’s politics that gets things done. Here’s an example. Why do you think Britain granted the Haldimand Tract to the Six Nations?”

  “Why, to repay their loyalty.”

  “I wish that were true. The fact is, as soon as the fighting ended, England cared no more about her native allies than you would care about a spent bullet. When the British government granted independence to the United States, it let the new border cut us off from all our lands. When I saw that Britain was ready to leave us stranded and homeless, I told Governor Haldimand that there would be a bloodbath like the Pontiac Uprising of 1763 if England didn’t treat the native people fairly. It wasn’t necessary to say more. Haldimand passed on my warning to the government in London, which then provided money to buy land from the Mississaugas. This is the true story behind the Haldimand Tract.” He paused. “What does this teach you?”

  “That you can’t trust the British?”

  “No. The lesson is that loyalty counts for nothing.” He gave a slight smile. “Everybody says I’m loyal to King George. The fact is, I would transfer my support from Britain to the United States without a qualm if I thought it would serve the interests of my people. In politics, loyalty can be bought and sold.”

  “I don’t like to believe that.”

  “You’re young. You still have plenty to learn.” Thayendanegea took a sip of brandy. “Now, have you any questions?”

  Broken Trail hesitated. He had plenty of questions. Mr. Johnson, Owen Penrose, and Two Sky Thunder had all raised troubling issues. If he was to work with Thayendanegea, he needed answers.

  “Some people say,” he began, “that you are selling and leasing land to settlers and speculators. If it’s true, this is something I don’t understand.”

  “It’s true, and it’s simple. The Haldimand Tract is both too small and too large.”

  “How can it be too small and too large at the same time?”

  “It’s too small for the Six Nations to live in the old way by hunting and trapping. But it’s more than we require for farms. So why not sell land that we don’t need in order to raise money for the things we do?”

  “That makes sense.” Broken Trail heard the lack of conviction in his voice.

  “Now,” said Thayendanegea, “I’ll tell you what I want you to do while I’m away.”

  “Don’t you want me to go back to school?”

  “Yes. But first I have a mission for you. I’m sending you west to the Ohio River to find a Shawnee warrior named Tecumseh who’s been rallying the tribes. They say that people come from many villages to hear him. If this is true, he’s somebody I need to know.”

  “For politics?”

  “Aha! You begin to understand. I want you to find Tecumseh. Win his friendship. Then go back to school. When I return from England, you will give me a report.”

  The fire had burned down to embers. Thayendanegea rose from his chair. “In the morning I’ll see that you have everything you need. I want to see you on your way before I leave for England. It won’t be an easy journey for you. There’s open warfare between Shawnees and settlers all along the Ohio River.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Broken Trail. “I’ve had some experience of war.”

  That night Broken Trail slept in a feather bed with velvet hangings. Its comfort surpassed anything he had ever experienced before. Yet he stayed awake for a long time.

  Thayendanegea’s words would not leave his mind: “So why not sell land that we don’t need to raise money for the things we do?” If that meant money for ploughshares and oxen, cattle and seed, that was fine. But where had the money come from to buy this bed? And the barrel organ? The answer made him sad.

  In the morning he awoke to the smell of frying bacon. He rose from bed, dunked his face in the wash basin, and put on his everyday deerskin clothes. They were clean now. During the night a servant had seen to that.

  Thayendanegea was already at the breakfast table, drinking tea. Catherine, he explained, had not yet risen. Thayendanegea and Broken Trail ate bacon and eggs and bannock. The bannock was buttered and spread with strawberry jam.

  After breakfast, Broken Trail was ready to leave. His carrying basket held extra moccasins and a small frying pan, as well as his best clothes.. He had a bedroll made up of a thick wool blanket wrapped in a tarpaulin. In his pouch were bread, cheese and pemmican.

  “Take one of my canoes as far as Buffalo Creek,” said Thayendanegea. “You’ll travel many times faster than on foot. Leave it at the trading post. Tell the trader that one of my servants will fetch it in a few days.”

  They walked down to the river. Thayendanegea pointed to a small canoe lying turned over on the bank. “Borrow that one. It’s a nimble craft.”

  After they had lifted the canoe into the river, Broken Trail placed his rifle, carrying basket and bedroll in the bottom. Then he climbed in and paddled from shore. When he reached the middle of the river, he turned and lifted his paddle in farewell, knowing that many moons would pass before he and Thayendanegea met again.

  High and light, the canoe skimmed over the water as Broken Trail headed downstream. He was passing the Nellis settlement when he saw a larger canoe coming toward him. Two Sky Thunder was in the stern. In the bow, the boy was leaning over the side, his small paddle barely reaching the water. The heads of the two little girls peeked above the gunwales. In the middle sat Willow Bough, holding a bundle in her arms.

  Broken Trail steered close. With a swish of paddles, both canoes came to a stop.

  “Thayendanegea is leaving for England later today,” Broken Trail called to Thunder. “You’ll reach Brant’s Ford ju
st in time to catch him.”

  “He can show me the school, and I’ll show him my family.” Thunder laughed. “I have a new daughter.”

  Broken Trail wished them good health.

  “Ska-noh!” The Mohawk family returned the wish and continued on their way.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Trading Post

  AFTER CARRYING BROKEN TRAIL smoothly all the way down the Grand River, the current changed from friend to foe as soon as he reached the Niagara River. What he wanted to do was paddle across from Fort Erie to Buffalo Creek. What the river—or the Water Spirit who dwelt in the river—wanted to do was sweep him sixteen miles downstream and over the brink of the great falls.

  It began to rain. A cold rain that trickled under his deer-skin shirt. Not even his struggle against the powerful current was enough to keep him warm. He was chilled to the bone by the time he reached the riverbank behind the Buffalo Creek trading post. After turning over the canoe and tucking the paddle underneath, he hoisted his carrying basket and bed-roll onto his back, picked up his rifle, and hurried to the solid square building.

  He stepped into the warmth. His nose was dripping, and when he sniffed he inhaled the most interesting mixture of odours. Wood smoke. Molasses. Gunpowder. Animal pelts. Rum.

  A brisk fire blazed in the stone fireplace. There was a wide plank counter. Behind the counter were shelves holding all manner of trade goods: blankets, frying pans, kettles, and rolls of cloth. Hanging on nails driven into the log walls were metal pails, traps, axes, steel-headed tomahawks, and rifles.

  Behind the counter stood the trader, a man of middle years. He wore his brown hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. He had a narrow face and a receding chin, and his nose was hooked like an eagle’s beak. His appearance reminded Broken Trail of a bird of prey.

  Standing in front of the counter was a warrior with beaver pelts to trade. He wore a patched leather poncho and ragged cloth breeches. The furs he had brought were piled in a stack on the counter. Lying on the plank floor was the tarpaulin in which they had been wrapped.