Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Tenskwatawa instantly became “The Prophet,” and the brothers became two of the most powerful Indians in the northeast. Governor William Harrison became an object of ridicule.

  Eli nodded. “I know of it.”

  Tecumseh sat down in his place among the council and gestured, and Eli sat down, cross-legged, facing them, waiting to be invited to speak.

  The flickering firelight reflected off the lines of the dark faces of the council members as Tecumseh opened the exchange.

  “You have come far. You carry a message from your white father in the east?”

  “I do.” Eli drew the written paper, wrapped in oilskin, from inside his shirt and offered it to Tecumseh. With dramatic patience he unwrapped it, unfolded the document, and for a time read the writing. Tecumseh spoke enough English to engage in conversation, but he did not like it, nor could he read it well enough to understand all that James Madison had written and Thomas Jefferson had signed. After staring without full comprehension at the document, he rewrapped it and handed it back to Eli. When he spoke again it was in Shawnee, and all too well did Eli grasp the significance of the shift in language. He was being told, not so subtly, that Tecumseh was distancing himself from Thomas Jefferson, the United States, and Eli Stroud.

  “Your white father has given you power to inquire for him. What do you wish to know?”

  Eli saw the flat, dead look in the black eyes of Tecumseh, and those seated around him, and he saw the set look in their craggy faces, and he felt their bitter loathing reach across to him.

  He came directly to it. “What is in the heart of Tecumseh? War, or peace, with the United States?”

  He saw a flicker of surprise in the eyes of those facing him. They had expected him to be indirect, to circle the core of his reason for finding Tecumseh. His bluntness had tipped them slightly off balance.

  Tecumseh considered his words before he replied. “It is in my heart to protect the land that has belonged to my people as far back as memory can go.”

  Instantly Eli realized Tecumseh was not going to give a direct answer to the question regarding war or peace. Eli remained silent, waiting, and Tecumseh went on.

  “White men came to our land in boats with wings nearly two hundred summers ago. We helped them live. We did not know they came to claim our land. We resisted them and they killed us. We treatied with them and they broke the treaties. We burned their villages and it did not matter. More came. Always more.”

  Tecumseh paused and for long moments stared into the firelight. There was a sadness beyond description in his face. “We could not stop them. They came with muskets and then with cannon. We could not fight their weapons. We retreated ever deeper into the forests but they came on. For many summers we tried to treaty with them but even while we were in council with them, they pushed us west. Ever west, into lands owned by other tribes. Finally they told us that it was now impossible to make the Ohio River the boundary between our lands and the United States. We were not willing to give them more land, and we met them in battle at the place called Fallen Timbers. That was fourteen summers ago.”

  Tecumseh stopped and locked eyes with Eli. “You were there. I was there. I know you tried to arrange a council in which we could settle our differences without war. I know you refused to bear arms against us. You acted with honor. If I did not know that, you would not be here. You would be dead.”

  Again he paused while the others shifted in their blankets. Then he went on.

  “The Americans killed us with their rifles and their muskets and their cannon. We lost many. We lost the battle. And we learned that we must give yet more of our land to the Americans if we were to survive. So we met with them at the place you call Greenville. That was thirteen summers ago. You and I were both there, and we both know that my people gave to yours most of what land remained in our hands. Almost the whole of what you call the Ohio Valley. Prime land. Choice land. With the great river running through.”

  Again Tecumseh stopped, and for a time he stared into the firelight, remembering. “Stroud. I know your history. Raised Iroquois from your second summer until your nineteenth summer. A great warrior. I know you have sorrow in your heart when you see what the Americans have done to the Iroquois and to all the Indian nations. I know you see two sides of the trouble that divides us, and I know you have risked much and given much to try to bring my people and the Americans together. I know that. My heart is heavy when I think of the burden you have tried to carry.”

  He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then went on.

  “We thought the British would become our ally. They brought muskets for us and taught us to use them. They promised to join with us in pushing the Americans from our lands. We treatied with them, and we signed their papers, and we prepared for the war that would give us back our lands.”

  He drew and exhaled a tired breath before he continued. “But they did not keep their promises. After the battle at Fallen Timbers, they did not come. When we gave away our lands at Greenville, they did not come. Instead they abandoned their forts at Detroit, and at Michilimackinac, and at Niagara, and at Oswego up near the great inland sea that you call Lake Ontario, and they left us to face the Americans alone. It was then, only then, that we understood that we could not trust white men. Americans or British. What they said, what they promised, what they signed, meant nothing to them. They only wanted to use us for their own purposes, not for ours. We were nothing to them. If we wanted our lands, we would have to regain them alone.”

  For a moment Eli lowered his eyes to stare into the fire, knowing that Tecumseh had spoken the truth. Feelings of sorrow rose strong in his breast. He raised his eyes and waited for Tecumseh to continue.

  “Do you know I have counseled this summer with the British at Amherstburg near the Detroit River at the west end of Lake Erie?”

  Eli spoke softly. “I know.”

  “Do you know I told the British that if their king should be in earnest and appear in sufficient force, then our warriors of many tribes would hold fast with the British?”

  “I was told. That is part of the reason I have come to counsel with you.”

  “And do you know the British agreed that if we would show restraint until the right moment, they would join with us to push the Americans back to the east? Retake the land that is rightfully ours?”

  “I know of it.”

  Tecumseh continued in Shawnee, and his hands were working with signs as he spoke. “I have spent the remainder of this summer visiting Indian nations here and far to the south. It is my intention to continue to do so until I can bind them together in a confederacy strong enough to defeat the Americans, with or without the British.”

  Eli answered, “I learned of this on my way here. I visited the leaders of some of the other nations.”

  Tecumseh leaned forward and his voice raised. “It was them that sent messengers to me that you were coming. Wyandots, Ojibwa, Ottawa, Potawatomi, Miami, Delaware—others. They told me of your inquiries.”

  Eli nodded. “And they told me that you had come to them. Some—perhaps many—are in agreement with you.”

  Tecumseh raised a hand in gesture. “I know of them.” His voice raised. “And I will continue to visit them until we are all united—until we are strong enough to reclaim our lands from the Americans!”

  A low, guttural murmur arose from those seated beside Tecumseh. Eli sat in silence while it faded and the spirit of angry rebellion dwindled and was gone. Then Eli spoke.

  “I know of the broken promises. I know of the taking of your land. I believe it was wrong. I can only say that the United States is a young country. The people have not yet learned the lessons necessary to take their place among nations. They have made mistakes and they will make more mistakes while they learn. I have come to seek your understanding. To ask you to overlook their errors. Find it in your hearts to come one more time to council with them. I am commissioned of our father in the east to arrange such a council. Here, if you wish. H
e seeks a peaceful solution to the problems now dividing us.”

  Eli stopped, and for a time the only sounds were those of the Indian village outside. Then he continued. “I do not believe Tecumseh wishes to have war. I believe Tecumseh sees the wisdom of a peace council. I ask permission to take the message back to the father in the east that Tecumseh will attend such a council if the hearts of the Americans are in favor of peace. Do I have permission to do so?”

  Eli fell silent, and minutes passed while Tecumseh pondered his words.

  Slowly he spoke. “My thoughts are troubled. I cannot force them to come clear and straight. I must counsel with my people, and I must seek the guidance of the Master of Life. I ask that you remain here for one night, and I will answer your question tomorrow in the morning. You will be under my protection while you are here.”

  Eli bowed his head. “I am honored that you will consider my request. I will remain here for the night. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  The old man with the pocked face stood, and Eli followed him to the door where the man who had taken his weapons returned them. He was led to a small dwelling less than ten yards from the central building. Inside was a bear skin to sleep on, and the stomach of a goat filled with water hanging on one wall. He laid his weapons down on the thick bear skin as the old man turned and disappeared, and then sat down beside them. For a long time he sat still with memories and scenes of the battle at Fallen Timbers passing before him, and the gathering at Greenville one year later in which he watched the Shawnee and other tribes sign away the rich beauty of the Ohio Valley, where they had lived free for as far back as memory and legend existed.

  The sun was casting long shadows when a woman appeared in the doorway with a clay bowl of venison stew and a sweet potato roasted in the ground. He finished his supper, set the bowl beside the door, drank long from the skin of water, and resumed his seat on the thick bear hide, lost in thought, unable to judge whether Tecumseh would consent to one more meeting with a commission authorized by President Thomas Jefferson. The owls were talking when he stretched out full length and drifted into a troubled sleep.

  The morning star was still bright when he walked silently to the lake to wash his face and work his hair, and he was aware that two warriors were in the shadows, following him. He returned to his dwelling and buckled on his weapons belt and waited to be summoned. The sun was half risen when the same woman brought the clay bowl filled with yellow corn mush and goat’s milk and honey. He finished his breakfast and set the bowl by the door and sat back down, waiting.

  More than an hour passed before the old man appeared in the doorway and led him back to the central building. Inside he was invited to sit, once again facing the council. This time Tecumseh did not rise, but remained seated to speak.

  “The council talked far into the night. I sought the spirit of the Master of Life. My thoughts have cleared and my heart and mind are straight.”

  Eli’s breathing slowed.

  Tecumseh’s words came slow and measured. “I cannot think of a white man that I can trust, except you. You have never spoken an untruth that I know of. You have risked much to seek peace many times. I know of no promise you have ever made that you did not keep. I believe you expect me to tell you the truth no matter the consequences. I believe you are a man of honor. It is for these reasons that I give you my answer true.”

  It ran through Eli’s mind like a chant—war—war—war—war.

  “It is my plan to bring my people to a confederacy that is strong enough to push the whites from our land. British or American, it is all the same to us. I will travel as far as I must, and I will talk to my people as long as I must to accomplish this. I will not meet with the Americans because I and others have met with them for nineteen summers that I know of and at no time have they ever kept their word or honored their own treaties. If the British care to join with us to drive out the Americans, then so be it.”

  Tecumseh stopped to take a deep breath and select his final words.

  “If this means war between my people and the Americans, then we will go to war. That will be decided by the Americans. All we want is the return of our land.”

  Again Tecumseh stopped and ordered his thoughts.

  “Stroud. I have given you the truth that is in my heart because I honor and respect you. You will always be under my protection in my camp, but I cannot protect you from others. Be careful. It would sadden me if others caught you and killed you. You are welcome to remain here for a time if you wish, but I advise you to return to your people now. Today. Do you understand?”

  Eli looked him steadily in the eye. “I understand. I will carry your message to the father in the east. I thank Tecumseh for his words and for the honesty of his thoughts. I thank you for your protection. I will leave today, now.”

  Tecumseh stood, and Eli stood to face him as Tecumseh spoke. “So be it. Two of my warriors will accompany you to the limits of the land that belongs to the Shawnee. Is that agreeable?”

  “It is agreeable. I thank you.”

  Eli stopped at the small dwelling in which he had slept and collected his blanket and his weapons before he walked back out into the sunlight, south, away from the lake, back into the woods. He saw the two warriors, each twenty yards away on either side, move into the woods with him as the sounds of the Indian village faded and were gone.

  Notes

  The description of the Shawnee Indian chief and leader, Tecumseh, is accurate. See Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 72–74; p. 92; and see the painting, p. 73.

  The British had in fact armed the American Indians and were stirring them to rise up against the Americans. See Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 14–20; Tecumseh sought guidance from his God, whom he called “The Master of Life,” p. 19.

  The battle of Fallen Timbers, referenced in this chapter, was fought August 20, 1794, on the Maumee River, near present-day Toledo, Ohio, at a place where a violent storm had uprooted trees. The Indian army consisted of Shawnees led by Blue Jacket, Delawares led by Buckongahela, and Miamis led by Little Turtle, as well as Wyandots, Ojibwas, Ottawas, Potawatomis, and Mingos. The Indians were outflanked and retreated to Fort Miamis where the British commander, who was not authorized to start a war with America, refused to open the gates to the Indians. See Sudgen, Blue Jacket: Warrior of the Shawnees; Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 18–20.

  The Indian defeat at Fallen Timbers led to the Treaty of Greenville the following year, August 3, 1795, at a village called Greenville, in the territory of the United States northwest of the Ohio River. Fifteen Indian tribes signed the treaty, which gave to the United States much, if not most of the great Ohio Valley land, which had belonged to the Indians from time beyond memory.

  See Indian Affairs: Laws and Treaties, Volume II (Treaties), compiled and edited by Charles J. Kappler, LL. M., clerk to the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, Washington, D.C., Government Printing Office, 1904; Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 18–20.

  The remarkable event wherein the wastrel brother of Tecumseh, Tenskwatawa, mended his derelict ways and was trained by Tecumseh to meet the challenge of Ohio Territory governor William Henry Harrison, who greatly feared Tecumseh, by causing the sun to darken, is accurately described. Few people knew that the loss of the sun was actually a predicted eclipse. Among the few who knew of the date the eclipse would occur was Tecumseh. Thus, on June 16, 1806, when Tenskwatawa ordered the sun to disappear, and it did, and then reappeared on his command, Tenskwatawa was immediately elevated to the position of one of superhuman powers and became The Prophet. See Drake, Life of Tecumseh and of His Brother The Prophet.

  Eastport, Maine

  March 1809

  CHAPTER V

  * * *

  There was ice in her sails as the ancient American merchantman Mona turned southwest into the channel between Deer Island and Campobello Island in the Canadian waters of New Brunswick, not far south of the forty-eighth parallel that separated the British Dominion from the United States. Under lead-colo
red morning skies, a strong, freezing, northerly March wind held the stiff canvas sheets tight, while the seamen, bundled in woolens and oil-skins, worked the ice-slick ropes with hands that were raw and teeth that chattered. The morning wore on with the heavy, blunt-nosed, graceless ship, riding heavy and low, slowly plowing on through gray-black waters that were laced with two-ton chunks of ice, while the seaman in the crow’s nest seventy feet up the mainmast hunched his back against the wind and kept his eyes moving, searching for the harbor of the small village of Eastport on the east coast of tiny Moose Island.

  The crew had finished their midday meal of hot mutton stew and hardtack down in the relative warmth of the small galley, and were wiping at their dripping red noses as they reluctantly made their way to the steep stairs leading up to the slick deck, when the shout came down from the crow’s nest, “Landfall. Eastport! Dead ahead.”

  It was midafternoon when the pilot boat left the Mona and she furled her sails and dropped anchor in Eastport Bay, and settled, rocking in the choppy water with the wind whistling in her rigging, to wait her turn among the gather of ships bobbing in the harbor. Dusk was falling when she thumped against the massive black timbers, and her crew cast the heavy hawsers to waiting hands on the nearly deserted wharf.

  Captain Aubrey Tillotson, stocky, swarthy, square-jawed, impatient, waited while his crew lowered the gangplank. He marched down to the dock with the wind blowing his cape and whipping the vapor from his breath and continued directly to the old, unpainted, weathered line of buildings that formed the waterfront, to a small, unpainted one with a single grimy window and a battered sign above the door, BRISTOL LINES, and pushed through the front door. Inside, in the dull yellow light and misshapen shadows cast by two lanterns, a lone man seated at a desk raised his head. He was tall, slender, with a small wooden sign on his desk that read “Philip Driscoll.” He stood and walked past the black, pot-bellied stove that showed dull red and fronted Tillotson. There was no greeting between the two men.