The White Oneida

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  Tecumseh placed a couple of beaver pelts on the ground close to the fire pit in the centre of the lodge. He and Broken Trail sat down.

  “Let’s continue our talk,” said Tecumseh. “Today I was hiding in the bushes when I saw you come out of the forest. You sat on the bank and watched the flatboat come down the river. I wondered, ‘Who is this young warrior, with his brown hair in a Haudenosaunee scalp lock?’

  “I asked you what you were doing there, and you said, ‘Looking for Tecumseh.’ Then the thought came into my mind, ‘He has come to help us.’”

  Broken Trail nodded. “That’s why I came.”

  “But the next thing you did was knock my rifle out of the way to spoil my shot. Why did you do that?”

  “There was no need to kill that man. Sinking the flatboat would be good enough.”

  “Our warriors stopped that family without killing anyone. But next spring there’ll be thousands more coming in their flatboats. Guns speak the only language settlers understand.”

  “So you think fighting is the only way?”

  “I didn’t say that. But if the enemy refuses to negotiate or if negotiations fail, we have to fight. The important thing is this: whatever we do, we must act together.”

  “That’s what Thayendanegea says.”

  “My dream is the same as his. I want a federation of all the tribes and a country of our own, a country that will reach from the Ohio River to the Great Lakes.”

  “That is a powerful dream. What else do you see? Will our people live there in the old way?”

  “Of course not. We haven’t lived in the old way for many years. Today, what hunter would give up his rifle for a bow and arrow? Who would go back to making snares out of sticks and vines when he can buy a steel trap? What woman wants to flatten porcupine quills with her teeth when there are glass beads in eight different colours? We’ll keep on changing. Thayendanegea’s problem is that he’s in too much of a hurry.”

  That wasn’t his only problem, Broken Trail thought, but he left it at that.

  CHAPTER 41

  An Old Friend Met Again

  BROKEN TRAIL STAYED for two days with the Shawnees. It did not take him long to learn what he needed for his report to Thayendanegea. During that time, no more flatboats came down the Ohio River. Tecumseh said that the season for sinking flatboats was nearly over. Soon winter would arrive, bringing blizzards and deep snow. The next wave of flatboats would not arrive until spring.

  While the brief warm weather lasted, the Shawnees must concentrate on hunting and fishing to store up food for the winter.

  Broken Trail, too, was concerned about the weather. He wanted to be back at Sedgewick School before the end of Freezing Moon.

  He left the Shawnee village well provisioned for his journey. There was pemmican in his pouch, as well as the fine cornmeal mixed with maple sugar that was so good on a long trail.

  On the first day, he travelled from dawn to dusk. At the approach of darkness, he set up his tarpaulin and made camp. Sitting by his fire, he listened to the wind in the trees and thought about all sorts of things.

  He thought about Tecumseh. He would like to work with him someday. There would even be a part, he suspected, for Tecumseh’s peculiar little brother to play.

  He thought about Thayendanegea, too. As a war chief and as a diplomat, he had done much for his people. But something had gone wrong. Too much fame? Too much power? Maybe the lessons of his youth were to blame. Too much time spent at Johnson Hall, where his sister dwelled in fine style as the wife of Sir William Johnson. Now that Thayendanegea’s fighting days were over, he seemed to be copying that way of life, living like a white landowner and not like a Mohawk chief. Yet Thayendanegea still believed in the idea of a federation and a country of their own for the native people. Whatever else had changed, he had not abandoned that goal.

  His fire died to embers. As the moon rose above the trees, Broken Trail thought about Yellowbird. In his mind’s eye he saw her playing her flute, and he almost managed to hear the music. Before many days passed, to hear and see her would be a reality, not just a dream.

  Broken Trail rolled himself in his blanket. His last thoughts before sleep were of Dark Cloud. On his way to Old Oneida he would pass the Seneca village where the two warriors had watched him ride by. That was one whole moon ago. By now the thieves would be off their guard, no longer concerned lest the horse’s true owner return to steal him back.

  In the morning, he travelled on. The trail he followed was unfamiliar, for it lay further south than the one he had taken to Brant’s Ford and then on to the Ohio River.

  Five days after leaving the Shawnee village, he recognized landmarks he had passed before, and he knew that he was in Seneca territory again.

  He did not know exactly where he was until he passed the spot where his horse had been stolen. Then he knew that he was less than one day’s ride—two days’ walk—from the Seneca village. From that point on, he paid extra attention to hoof prints on the trail.

  The hoof prints were made by several horses. Given a clear impression to examine, Broken Trail knew how to tell the weight and build of the animal that made it. Among the prints he saw ones that might have been Dark Cloud’s. Maybe he was just imagining. It could have been some other horse. But he had a feeling that those prints had been made by his horse and none other.

  The time had come for caution. He must not be seen by other travellers going to or from the Seneca village.

  Broken Trail withdrew into the bushes. Now his progress was slow, for it was not easy to move through dense forest while encumbered by a rifle, a bedroll, and a carrying basket. Every few paces he stopped to listen to all that was going on in the woods around him. He kept the trail within sight.

  Two hunters went by, dragging a dead stag. They were talking and laughing. Some Seneca family was going to have a good meal that night.

  When he saw smoke rising above the trees just ahead, he went even more cautiously, watching out for women who might be gathering firewood in the forest. He approached the village as closely as he could.

  There was now a paddock at the spot where warriors had been digging postholes and setting up poles. Above the top of the paddock he saw the heads of many horses. One of those heads was black. Dark Cloud. Broken Trail smiled. Now, how could he get him out of there?

  He studied the paddock. The Senecas had taken a lot of trouble over it. Sharply pointed poles. A narrow opening just wide enough for one horse at a time to enter or leave.

  The posts flanking the opening had been trimmed in such a way that stubs of branches remained to support the two horizontal poles that blocked the entrance. They were the only barrier to hold the horses in.

  It would not be difficult to lift off the poles. The difficulty was to do it without being seen.

  That was not the only problem. How could he leap upon his horse while encumbered by a bedroll, a carrying basket, and a rifle? Before rescuing Dark Cloud, he needed to find a hiding place for his gear—one that he could find in the dark, from horseback, along the trail that would take him back to Old Oneida.

  Remaining in deep brush, Broken Trail took a wide half-circle around the village. He did not return to the trail until he was a safe distance beyond the village.

  In no hurry, he kept walking until he came to a grove of willows growing beside a shallow stream that flowed right across the trail. This was the perfect spot. The glint of water would be easy to see in the dark. Even if his eyes missed it, he would hear the splashing of Dark Cloud’s hooves.

  He concealed his bedroll, basket, and rifle in the willows and then returned to the Seneca village through the woods. Darkness was falling by the time he reached it

  Broken Trail waited in hiding all through the night, dozing off and on until the eastern sky turned from black to grey. Back at Sedgewick School it was time for Prayers Before Sunrise. At this moment, the sleepy scholars might be stumbling in the direction of the dining hall. If only they could see him now! />
  He had hoped that the Senecas would leave their horses unguarded, trusting the paddock to keep them safe. That hope vanished as soon as it was light enough for him to see the warrior who sat cross-legged outside one of the cabins. His back was straight, his head was up, and he held a rifle across his lap. Between the guard and the paddock entrance lay an open space of beaten earth. From where he sat, the guard could see the paddock’s entrance, but not its back.

  Broken Trail laid his hand upon amulet hanging under his shirt. He prayed for his oki to protect him and for the spirits to lend their aid. Then he squeezed through the bushes, dashed across the open space, and lay down, his body pressed against the logs of the paddock wall where the guard could not see him. He wasn’t sure what to do next.

  Suddenly an owl hooted. The guard started, raised his gun.

  Broken Trail knew what he must be thinking: was that an owl or a signal?

  A second owl hooted from further away. Were two owls calling to each other? Or was there an enemy raiding party lurking in the woods?

  The guard stood, looked about, and then walked into the cabin. He probably wanted to alert whoever was sleeping inside.

  This was as good a chance as Broken Trail was likely to have. He crawled on his belly to the paddock entrance and squirmed under the lower pole of the barrier.

  A horse lifted its head and snorted. Broken Trail gave a soothing cluck with his tongue. The head drooped. He stood up, but not erect. Staying bent over in order not to be seen above the paddock wall, he moved slowly among the horses, clucking softly.

  After taking a thong from his pouch, he approached Dark Cloud and rested his hand on the sleeping horse’s neck. “My friend,” he whispered, “I have come to take you away.”

  Dark Cloud awoke. His large eyes were luminous in the dark. He knew his master and knew his scent. Broken Trail slipped the thong around his lower jaw and led him without a sound to the opening.

  He looked about. The guard and a second man now stood side by side, looking toward the forest, both apparently intent on what might be concealed there.

  Silently Broken Trail lifted and moved aside the lower pole of the barrier, and then the upper one.

  “Are you ready?” he whispered. Placing both hands on Dark Cloud’s withers, he jumped and threw his leg over. It took him a moment to gain his balance, and then he was riding, his head low against the horse’s neck, riding like the wind.

  He heard one rifle shot, but the light was poor and he was moving too fast to hit.

  Broken Trail’s spirit soared with the thrill of victory and the joy of being on Dark Cloud’s back again.

  They stopped at the willow grove where he had hidden his gear. Galloping hooves drummed in the distance, but there was little to fear. Dark Cloud could outrun any other horse that Broken Trail had ever known. All the same, he lost no time grabbing his possessions. In a moment horse and rider were on their way again.

  The next time they stopped was at a small stream. The sun had risen. Broken Trail heard no sounds of pursuit. He let Dark Cloud recover his wind and have a drink. Before remounting, he rubbed his velvety nose. “Foolish horse,” he said gently, “to let strangers take you away. We must never let that happen again.”

  He rode at a walk all that day. When night came, Broken Trail made camp but did not light a fire. Still anxious about horse thieves, he tethered Dark Cloud. This time the horse made no objection. The following day, they reached Old Oneida.

  CHAPTER 42

  Changes

  BROKEN TRAIL SAT astride his horse at the edge of the dancing circle. On the opposite side was the longhouse with the snarling wolf painted above its entrance. He was wondering how he should greet Yellowbird. Would she be surprised to see him? Would she be glad? He raised his hand to his chest. As he felt the shape of the amulet under his shirt, he also felt the thumping of his heart.

  A warrior emerged from the Wolf Clan longhouse. He glanced in Broken Trail’s direction, took two steps, and looked again. The warrior was young, tall, and thin. His hair was in two braids. No scalp lock. Not Oneida. Yet he looked familiar.

  Still walking toward Broken Trail, the young warrior raised his arm in greeting. Slowly Broken Trail returned the salute, still puzzled as to who this person might be.

  A moment later he was near enough for Broken Trail to see the snake tattoo on his cheek. Diamond-backed. Coiled. Ready to strike.

  “Abraham!” Broken Trail jumped from his horse.

  “Lean Horse greets his friend.”

  The young warrior’s voice was formal although his eyes danced with laughter. Then they were pounding each other on the back.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” said Broken Trail.

  “What are you doing here?” Lean Horse asked. “I thought you were visiting Thayendanegea at the Grand River.”

  “I’ve been to the Grand River, and to the Ohio. I’ve met Tecumseh. Now I’ve come to see Yellowbird before I go back to school. I forgot you might be here. I can give you back your rifle.” He lifted it from his shoulder.

  “I’m glad to have it.” Lean Horse took the rifle from him. He looked it over. “I need it. But not for war. We’ll fight no more.”

  “Yellowbird told me the Mohicans will soon have a village near Old Oneida.”

  “It’s happened. We’ve already built ten lodges.”

  “So my prediction has come true! The Mohicans rise again.”

  “We rise like a field of corn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Necessity has turned us into farmers. The Oneidas made us a land grant of six miles by six miles. We’re grateful. But two hundred and forty people cannot live in the old way on thirty-six square miles of land.”

  Broken Trail laughed. “You calculate like a white man.”

  “That’s the result of two years at Sedgewick School. I can also tell you that five thousand two hundred and eighty feet equal one mile.”

  “Can you tell me how many trees must you chop down to turn thirty-six square miles of forest into farms?”

  Lean Horse stopped smiling. “I cannot bear to make that calculation. But there will be trees. We’re planting an apple orchard.”

  “What about your women? Don’t they object to warriors doing their work?”

  “Some did. The talking went on for a long time until all were convinced. Now the women are teaching us to tend the three sisters. We work side by side, preparing the mounds for planting corn, squash, and beans in the spring.”

  “Everything changes,” said Broken Trail. “Especially you. In the clothes we wore at school, you were a warrior who looked like a farmer. Now you’re a farmer who looks like a warrior.”

  “I’m still a warrior. We Mohicans have learned the hard way that we must adapt in order to survive. So I’ve been chopping and digging like any homesteader. But today I gave myself a holiday and came to visit Yellowbird. I was about to go home when I saw you.”

  “Don’t leave yet. Come along while I take Dark Cloud to the horse pen. Then we’ll find Yellowbird.” Broken Trail led Dark Cloud by a cord around his neck. As they walked, he asked, “What happened at school after I left.”

  “Big changes. A new teacher, of course. Much better than Dudgeon.”

  “Could anyone be worse?”

  Lean Horse laughed. “You’ll like Mr. Newman. Instead of Wheelock’s sermons, you’ll have dictation from Poor Richard’s Almanac.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a book by an American named Benjamin Franklin. Full of science and stories and wise sayings. It’s hard to describe. When you’re back at school, you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Is Mr. Sinclair still at Sedgewick?”

  “He is, and still teaching the Lower School.”

  “How is Mr. Johnson?”

  “He’s completely won over to your ideas about lacrosse. So are more of the scholars, but not all.”

  “It takes time. What news about the scholars in our cabin?”

  “Jac
ob’s the same as ever. Samuel’s been expelled. He was caught at a frolic. Peter still prays for our perishing souls. And there are two new scholars—Wyandots—in Cabin Five.”

  “You haven’t mentioned Edward.”

  “He left Sedgewick as soon as he learned that Yellowbird had returned to Old Oneida. With her gone, he had no reason to stay.”

  “Where did he go? I just came back from Shawnee lands. While I was there, I heard no word of him.”

  “That’s not where he went. He told us he was leaving for a far-off place in the western mountains where streams of boiling water shoot into the sky and you can swim in pools of hot water in the middle of winter. It’s a place of healing.”

  “That’s what Edward needs. I hope he arrives safely.” Broken Trail paused, and then added. “He’s had a hard life.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The Turn in the Trail

  WHEN THEY REACHED the horse pen and pushed the barrier of brush aside, Broken Trail led Dark Cloud inside to join the other horses. The guard looked him over. “Too thin. You ought to take better care of a fine horse like this one.”

  “I will,” said Broken Trail. “Much better care.”

  Lean Horse and Broken Trail walked side by side to Wolf Clan longhouse. Lean Horse lifted the leather apron over the entry and they went in.

  Peering into the smoky haze, Broken Trail saw Yellowbird right away. She was sitting on the edge of her family’s sleeping platform, sewing beads onto a moccasin lying on her lap.

  She gasped when she saw him. Whether it was a gasp of surprise or a gasp of joy, he could not tell. She jumped up, spilling a lapful of beads, and laughed while all three of them scrambled around picking up fallen beads. Then her look turned solemn.

  “I knew I’d see you again, Broken Trail, but not that it would be so soon.” She pointed to her family’s sleeping platform. “Let’s sit there, so we can talk.”

  They sat on a couple of bear skins and relaxed while Broken Trail described everything that had happened to him. Then he asked about the delegation she had accompanied to negotiate with Governor Clinton.