The White Oneida

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  He sat down, thinking that when he had rested a little, he would follow the river wherever it led.

  He was sitting there, gazing out over the water with his arms wrapped around his knees, when the flatboat appeared. The strange-looking craft was coming downstream toward him. It was enormous—twice as long and four times as broad as the biggest freight canoe he had ever seen.

  Broken Trail blinked. For a moment he had the feeling of experiencing a vision. But no. This was a real boat, and Joe’s description had not been an exaggeration.

  At the bow end, a fire burned in a sandbox fireplace, where a woman stood stirring something in an iron pot over the flames. Near her, three little girls were skipping in a circle, playing some kind of game. In the middle of the boat there was a hut for shelter. On the hut’s roof rested a plough, an ox yoke and a spinning wheel. Behind these objects stood a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He was steering the boat by means of a long oar-like sweep. One end of the sweep, the end that the man was manoeuvering, was supported by a tall, sturdy pole. The other end of the sweep reached beyond the boat’s stern into the water. The rear part of the boat was taken up by a livestock pen that held two oxen, one cow and several pigs. At the stern, sitting on a crate full of chickens, was a boy of nine or ten, armed with a musket.

  So these were settlers. They had to be stopped. But nothing seemed to stand in their way. The flatboat was moving serenely down the river. Soon it was right in front of him, an arrow’s flight away.

  A strange feeling came over him as he watched. The woods seemed to be unusually quiet, as if waiting for something to begin. He was alone, yet did not feel alone. His skin prickled with the sensation that someone was observing him.

  There was nothing he could do but wait. No point reaching for his rifle, which lay nearby on the grass, or in pulling his knife from his belt. The silent watcher—if there was such a person—had all the advantage. His gun or his arrow might at this moment be pointed at him. Broken Trail laid his hand again on his amulet, trusting the assurance it gave him.

  He heard no sound—not so much as the rustling of a leaf—when the one watching him stepped from behind a tree and raised his arm in greeting. He was a young warrior no older than Broken Trail.

  His hair was curiously braided, two slender braids in front of his ears and two fatter braids behind. A black stripe ran from the outer corner of each eye over his cheekbones and ended at his chin. There were slashes of scarlet war paint on his cheeks. He wore silver earrings, and around his neck was a leather band from which hung a number of silver ornaments. He held a rifle against one shoulder. Everything about him suggested strength and confidence.

  Broken Trail stood up and returned his greeting.

  In a low voice the warrior uttered a few words in a language Broken Trail did not know. He shrugged to show that he did not understand, and said, “Any chance you speak English?”

  “Yes. I was asking who you are.”

  “I am Broken Trail of the Oneida nation.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Tecumseh.”

  “I am Tecumseh.”

  “Oh.” Broken Trail was surprised by his own lack of surprise. “I’ve come from the Grand River to talk with you.”

  “You’ve chosen a bad time.” Tecumseh pointed toward the river. “Do you see that boat? We’re going to sink it.”

  “We?” Broken Trail saw no one else about. But at that moment came a long, eerie cry from further along the riverbank. “Aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.”

  At that signal Tecumseh raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the man on the flatboat.

  “No!” Broken Trail shouted. Just as Tecumseh squeezed the trigger, he leapt forward and gave the long barrel a swat with the palm of his hand. The rifle cracked with a spurt of flame, sending the bullet harmlessly into the sky.

  The man dropped the sweep. He picked up a rifle that rested beside him on the hut’s roof. Before he could aim, another shot rang out. He dropped his gun, grabbed his right wrist with his other hand and stared about.

  Tecumseh glared at Broken Trail. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours.”

  “That’s a funny way to show it.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he raced to the water’s edge. Broken Trail watched, puzzled, as Tecumseh grabbed one end of a log lying on the riverbank and pulled it into the water.

  It was not a log; it was a dugout canoe. Another warrior leapt from the undergrowth to join him. With short, hard strokes they paddled toward the flatboat. Five other dugouts were heading from the riverbank, converging. The boy in the stern fired his musket but hit nothing.

  Warriors swarmed over the sides of the flatboat, brandishing tomahawks and war clubs. Two grabbed the boy and flung him overboard. The woman, shouting and struggling to free herself, was next to go into the river, then two of the small children. Broken Trail did not see what happened to the man.

  A warrior picked up the youngest child, a tiny girl not older than three. He held her over his head and looked ready to pitch her into the water. Then he must have changed his mind, for he lowered her, screaming, into one of the dugouts.

  At the bow end of the flatboat, warriors were lighting torches, bundles of pitch-soaked reeds, from the flames in the sandbox fireplace. With them they spread fire to the hut, to the possessions piled on the roof, to every burnable object in sight.

  Other warriors were smashing the livestock pen. They forced the panicked beasts to leap from the boat. The oxen entered the water with a terrible splash. The chickens went overboard in their crate.

  The warriors’ final act was to chop holes in the floor of the flatboat.

  In the water, the woman was swimming, one arm towing a child. Another child clung to the chicken crate. The boy who had held the musket was dog-paddling for shore, along with the pigs, the oxen, and the cow. The little girl in the dugout kept screaming as two warriors paddled her to shore.

  Having abandoned the blazing, sinking flatboat, the warriors in two of the dugouts were paddling about in a practised manner, rounding up swimming animals and herding them to the riverbank.

  A warrior in a different canoe was towing the chicken crate, to which the little girl still clung. When he reached the riverbank, he pulled first his canoe and then the chicken crate from the water. The child who had been hanging on to the crate crawled up the muddy bank on her hands and knees.

  The boy dog-paddled to shore a few minutes later, followed by the woman towing the child.

  Surrounded by shouting warriors brandishing their tomahawks, the settler’s family stood shivering in their soaking clothes. A warrior placed the little girl from the dugout in the woman’s arms. The child, sobbing noisily, clung to her mother’s neck. The woman’s face was ashen. She stood there with one little girl in her arms, the other two clutching her skirt. The boy stood beside them, glaring fiercely at the warriors, clearly determined to show no fear.

  Standing in the middle of the hubbub of crying children, bawling oxen, squealing pigs, and cackling chickens, the woman turned her eyes toward the river, maybe for a last look at the blazing, sinking boat.

  She gave a sudden cry. Broken Trail turned his head to see what she was looking at.

  There was the man, hatless now, crawling out of the water. He stood up, saw her, and slowly walked toward his family, his left hand holding his wounded wrist. Blood flowed from between his fingers.

  The woman gasped, “Richard! Richard!” and gaped as if he had risen from the grave.

  Broken Trail reached into his pouch for the strip of soft leather he always carried for just such an emergency. The woman took it from him. The man held out his arm for her to bandage his wrist.

  When she had finished, an older warrior spoke in English to the family. “You are free to leave.” He pointed upriver. “Go back the way you came. You can reach Fort Pitt before dark if you start walking now. Tell your people what happens to those who steal our land.”
/>   A wave of relief swept over Broken Trail as the warriors returned their clubs and tomahawks to their belts. He had feared that the family would be slaughtered.

  Now the warriors were laughing and talking. Tecumseh was not with them. Broken Trail wondered where he had gone. And then he saw him, coming through the trees, leading the cow by a rope around its neck.

  “Keep your cow,” he said to the family. “You need it.” The oldest child, the boy, stepped forward and took the rope.

  With nothing more than the cow remaining of all their worldly goods, the family set off in the direction of Fort Pitt.

  Tecumseh approached Broken Trail. “Now you see how it’s done. Maybe if we sink enough of their boats, they’ll give up trying to take our land.” He paused. “It’s all about land.”

  Broken Trail nodded. He’d heard those words before.

  “Come with us to our village,” said Tecumseh. “We have an ox to eat.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Growing Up Shawnee

  THE OTHER OX, the one not going immediately to slaughter, stood confined in a pen made of brushwood and logs. The great beast could have broken out if it had tried. But it stood with its head lowered, apparently grieving for the loss of its yoke mate.

  Smoke rose from many fires. Instead of living in longhouses where a whole clan dwelt under one roof, each Shawnee family had its own lodge constructed of bent poles covered with slabs of bark. In front of each lodge was a cooking fire. Over every fire, people were grilling slabs of ox meat.

  Broken Trail sat with Tecumseh, his older brother Chiksika, and his younger brother Lolawauchika. Tecumseh’s sister Tecumapease brought them their food. As well as meat, there was a soup made of corn and fish. After she had served the others, Tecumapease joined them. They sat on blankets around the fire.

  Chiksika and Tecumapease appeared to be in their early twenties. Judging by Lolawauchika’s size, Broken Trail thought he had about eight winters. He was scrawny and narrow-chested, and he had a nervous habit of constantly twitching and scratching.

  Physically, Lolawauchika had been cheated, for his brothers were tall and handsome, and his sister was slender and graceful with lovely smooth skin. Some young warrior should have snapped her up before now, yet she seemed content to be waiting upon her brothers. Not merely content, Tecumapease gave the impression of being happy.

  “The four of us are a family,” she explained to Broken Trail while they ate. “We have kept together through difficult times. Our father Puckeshinwa was killed a month before Lolawauchika was born. Our mother Methoataske left us six winters ago.” Tecumapease’s mouth tightened. “She abandoned us. She was a Creek, from the south. We knew she was unhappy after our father died. Then one day she left and went back to her people. We could not understand why a mother would do that, leave her children. I think there was some sickness in her head.”

  “Everyone in the band wanted to help us,” said Chiksika. “But I was already a warrior and Tecumapease had had her ceremony of maidenhood. So when we said we could look after ourselves, there was agreement that this was so.”

  “I had no uncle to teach me to hunt or to prepare me for my dream vision,” said Tecumseh. “Chiksika taught me everything. Now that I too am a warrior, there are three of us to bring up Lolawauchika.”

  “Or try to,” said Chiksika.

  The sarcasm in his voice startled Broken Trail. Glancing at Lolawauchika, he noticed how the boy lowered his head as if he did not want to show his face.

  “Little brother,” said Tecumapease, “I see women getting out the fishing nets. They need help to net the fish.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Lolawauchika. “The water’s too cold.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Tecumseh. “A warrior doesn’t notice the cold.”

  “Well, I notice it.” He looked toward the river, where women were dragging big nets down to the water. Already a throng of boys and girls had joined them. “Do I have to help them?”

  “Yes,” said Tecumseh.

  Lolawauchika slowly stood up. Dragging his feet, he headed down to the riverbank.

  “That boy will never be a hunter or a warrior,” said Chiksika. “He’s soft and clumsy. The other boys don’t like to hunt with him. I don’t blame them. If anyone is going to frighten off game by stepping on a dry branch, it will be Lolawauchika.”

  “Let’s not talk of this,” said Tecumseh. “Our guest travelled many days to see us.”

  “To see you,” Chiksika said pointedly. “You’re the panther blazing across the sky.”

  “Only Tecumseh’s name has reached Thayendanegea,” said Broken Trail. “Yet he has need of everyone to carry out his great plan. We all should talk about it—you too, Tecumapease. Women are important in our councils.”

  “That is so,” Chiksika and Tecumseh agreed.

  Tecumapease looked pleased to be included. She leaned closer.

  “We know about Thayendanegea’s plan for a confederacy,” said Chiksika. “I was at the meeting in Sandusky when he rallied the chiefs. He said we must never make separate treaties but negotiate together. I like his words. But words must be backed by action. Is it true Thayendanegea has thrown down his tomahawk?”

  “It’s true,” said Broken Trail. “He believes we can achieve more through diplomacy than from war.”

  Chiksika scowled. “The great Mohawk has become a fat dog that struts about with its tail curled on its back. When danger comes, it puts its tail between its legs and runs away.”

  “No!” Broken Trail protested. “To be tired of war doesn’t make him a coward.”

  “He’s an old man,” said Chiksika “We who are young must pick up the tomahawk he threw down.”

  Now Tecumapease spoke. “Is it true that Thayendanegea wants to turn warriors into farmers? Few Shawnee men will agree to that. The women won’t like it either. We women are very good farmers. We take pride in growing our corn, squash and beans. Tell him we don’t want men taking over our work.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Broken Trail. “He respects women. His own sister is one of the most powerful people in the Mohawk nation. He’ll pay attention to what you say.”

  From the shore came shouting and splashing. “Let’s go down to the river,” Tecumseh said to Broken Trail. “You and I can talk while we watch the fishing.”

  When they reached the bank, the sun was setting, bathing the river with pink and golden light. Broken Trail and Tecumseh sat on a low bluff where they had a clear view. Standing in thigh-deep water, women gripped the nets while children splashed and yelled to frighten the fish into the knotted mesh.

  “I like to keep an eye on Lolawauchika,” said Tecumseh. “Chiksika is right. He is clumsy. What’s worse, he doesn’t try to improve.”

  Lolawauchika was splashing about in a dispirited way, not shouting like the other children. As they watched, he bumped into a girl. The bump looked unintentional, but the girl retaliated with a shove that knocked him over backwards. His head was under the surface only for a moment before he came up, shaking water from his streaming hair. He waded to the riverbank and stood there hugging himself and shivering.

  “You see how it is,” said Tecumseh. “He will never be a warrior.”

  Broken Trail didn’t know what to say. No boy should allow himself to be seen shaking with cold.

  Before speaking, he searched for diplomatic words. “Not every man is suited to be a hunter or a warrior. There are many gifts. To one the Great Spirit has given the gift of healing, to another the gift of prophecy.”

  “Chiksika doesn’t think Lolawauchika has any gifts at all,” said Tecumseh. “But I’m not so sure. He’s different from other boys. His gift may lie in that difference. Other boys look only at the world around them. Not Lolawauchika. He looks inward, seeing things invisible to others. Someday he may be a prophet, but he’ll never be a warrior.”

  “Does he want to be a warrior?”

  “I don’t think he does. But he still feels like a failure
.”

  “I know that feeling. When I was small, I went to school, as most white children do. I was at the bottom of my class. I had no gift for that kind of learning. My family lost their home during the Revolution. It was during our flight through the wilderness that Oneida warriors found me lost in the woods. An Oneida family adopted me. All of a sudden, my education changed. I was learning to hunt, set traps, and follow a trail. For the first time in my life, I was doing what was right for me.”

  Tecumseh nodded. “What is right for Lolawauchika? I need to believe that the Great Spirit has some purpose for him. He has ten winters.”

  “He doesn’t look that old,” said Broken Trail.

  “He is. I’m doing my best to prepare him for whatever path lies ahead. I wish I knew what it will be. Chiksika has given up. He thinks our little brother will be fit only to dig the village garbage holes.”

  The small, lonely figure plodding back to his family’s lodge reminded Broken Trail of himself at the same age, trudging home from school, carrying in his satchel yet another report card that would make his mother weep.

  Lolawauchika was crouched against the wall when Tecumseh and Broken Trail entered the lodge. Without making a sound, he stood up, put his arms around his brother’s waist, and placed his cheek against his chest. Tecumseh patted his head.

  “When you feel cold or pain,” said Tecumseh, “send it away. Say to it, ‘Be gone! I banish you!’ Drive it from your body. Fling it away. Do not tell me you can’t do this, because you can and you must.”

  He kept on patting Lolawauchika’s head and let the small boy cling to him until his arms relaxed and he let go.

  “Are you all right now?” Tecumseh asked.

  “Yes. The cold is gone. I threw it away.”

  “Good. Then go outside and bring in some firewood before it’s too dark.”

  It struck Broken Trail that there was more than the usual bond between these brothers. Tecumseh was also uncle, teacher and protector of the younger boy. More than that, Broken Trail foresaw that whatever they achieved in life, they would achieve it together.