Ironhawk (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series Book 6)

by Roy F. Chandler

  After soaking, they whipped themselves dry with the flat of their hands, and Quehana quickly dressed and began checking his rifle.

  He requested, "Hand me my tomahawk, Young-Son."

  The boy tried, but the blade had sunk deep, and despite bracing his feet against the tree, he could not free the weapon. To Young-Son's further admiration, Quehana's single jerk on the long handle freed the hatchet. Mighty was the arm of Quehana.

  Blue Moccasin placed a reassuring hand on the small shoulder. "Do not be dismayed, Young-Son. The arm of Quehana is as The Warrior's own. Sometimes, the two heroes become mixed in my mind for they are much alike."

  While the boy sought kindling from Rob's pile, Quehana asked, "How do you think we are doing, Blue?"

  "We plant seeds, Quehana. It is too soon to know how they will grow."

  Rob snickered, "That mind and brain stuff loosened him up a little, but I don't know what good it will do."

  Blue Moccasin looked down his nose. "Our task is to turn his thoughts, Quehana, not simply to make him believe that you are the incarnation of The Warrior."

  "It was you who said that you can't hardly tell us apart."

  Blue groaned. "Every tall tale I speak here cannot be held against me. You are about as much like The Warrior as I am."

  Quehana was smug. "I figure you meant that part, Blue." He ignored Blue Moccasin's snort of disbelief.

  Later The Warrior came again to their lips and minds, and the thoughts of the heroes were disturbing to Young-Son.

  Blue said, "The day of warriors is past, Young-Son. Who now can fighters dedicated to their people protect? The villages move and constantly mix, and all flee before even the slightest enemy threat. Whites will soon occupy this land and all of the land as far as men can travel."

  He chose a small stick and stood it upright near a small hay stack used for fire starting. He chose straws from the stack and flung them around the stick.

  "Strong stands The Warrior, and the tribes who fight him fall away as if they were these straws."

  Blue chose more straws. "Here are the whites who move into our lands, and The Warrior stands as an oak above them. But more whites will come," and Blue Moccasin strewed more straw at The Warrior's feet, "and they too will fall before the might of The Warrior."

  Then he sighed as if in resignation and certainty. "From across the salt lake the great canoes will arrive, and each will bring more whites until they are as many as this hay stack."

  Then he toppled the stack onto The Warrior stick and it was buried beneath the pile.

  "And so, even the mighty Warrior must fall before the white numbers. It is my hope that my friend, protector of many and killer of enemies does not return from wherever he has traveled.

  "If he returns he will fight, for he knows no other way, and there is no hope that he could win or that he could survive.

  "Within a few turnings of the seasons even the memory of The Warrior will be gone because the Indian way will also be lost and forgotten.

  "When the Delaware fought the Iroquois, the brave and noble Delaware won many battles, but after each combat they were fewer, and the Iroquois grew only stronger. The Delaware were a single tribe. The Iroquois of that time were five tribes united. Now they are six tribes and even stronger. The Delaware could not forever defeat the many.

  "The whites will soon outnumber even the powerful Iroquois, and in time, even the Iroquois will shatter before the uncountable white hordes."

  Quehana nodded agreement. "Most terrible to those of heart and courage is that there is no longer honor in battle. Warriors die and are forgotten. Even now, who can name more than a very few?"

  He turned both to Blue and Young-Son. The boy could name only The Warrior and Quehana, and Blue Moccasin added no names.

  Quehana grunted acceptance. "Yet, in the French War still fresh in our memories hands of warriors died in battles without names, without celebration, almost without notice."

  With his head shake Quehana's braids moved across his massive chest. "Gone are the days of warriors. Now the Delaware must look in other directions for leaders and men of wisdom to show new ways.

  "We who now speak of The Warrior will be among the few to long remember him. The people of a tribe may recall honored tales, but even those stories mean little in the confusions of living without place or purpose.

  "None who are wise will seek warrior paths because the guns of the whites and their many numbers will destroy any who come against them."

  Blue Moccasin chose to explain further.

  "To the Indian, each battle is a war. We return to our fires to feast, to dance and to honor those who fought well. We mourn and salute those who fell, and we comfort our wounded.

  "Whites do few of those things. To them, each battle is a step ahead, and though their wounds may be many, they inch forward as other whites arrive to replace those fallen, and more land of the Delaware, The Shawnee, even the Iroquois is forever lost."

  Quehana added thoughts to those already distressing the youth. He spoke in the formal third person voice used by speakers of import that granted majesty to words and thoughts.

  "Here Quehana lives as do the whites. His lodge is strong to withstand attack, and his food is grown in baskets so many that none can suffer hunger even in the cold months when the earth mother sleeps.

  "Here Quehana gathers valuable things. He has many pots and more warm furs than he needs. He has wood piled for burning, he has many guns and knives and tomahawks. He stores water within his lodge so that enemies cannot bar him from drinking.

  "In a cave against the hill Quehana stores ice taken from this water when the cold was bitter, and within the ice are frozen animals also taken during the frost father's time. These, too, can be thawed and eaten if game is difficult to find.

  "These are white ways, and they are wise and can fill lives with comfort. Because whites choose these ways they are very difficult to drive away. Whites claim the land as their own and allow no others to use it. Because of such claims, many are the white wars, and constant is their combat."

  Quehana paused and then gestured toward the still figure of Blue Moccasin.

  "Yet, there is a more important secret that allows the whites to succeed against the people of this land. This secret has made whites masters of all they choose to claim.

  "Because his words are as honey and float like butterflies, the noble Blue Moccasin will speak the white secret to the ears of Young-Son."

  Because the secret of was such moment, Blue Moccasin appeared to ponder. He tugged gently at his upper lip, and his eyes became distant as he searched for words.

  "The mind of The Warrior holds great knowledge. Only he knows how his battles really turned. Only his mind knows the tests and trials he mastered to become The Warrior. Yet, all but a few words of that knowledge must remain forever only The Warrior's, for we have no way to hold them beyond speaking to each other what little he has told us.

  "So it is with all knowledge possessed by Indians who now live or who have lived before. We can know only what others have remembered to tell us.

  "The whites have learned a better way. Their great secret is called writing." Blue Moccasin scratched in the earth with a stick.

  "Here, Young-Son of the Delaware, is writing. Through these marks Quehana or other whites can know the thoughts of Blue Moccasin.

  "Suppose that using writing The Warrior marked on deer hides all that he knows. Those hides could be passed through children to grandchildren, and hands of generations and everyone could know all that The Warrior knew."

  Young-Son was dazzled. Why did the Delaware not have writing?

  Quehana leaned across Blue Moccasin's writing that to Young-Son looked like childish scratching.

  Quehana's voice was certain, and his finger traced across the scratchings as if guiding his words.

  "Blue Moccasin has written that Young-son and Quehana should visit the sweat lodge while he discusses white things with the mother of Quehana's childre
n."

  Blue again spoke. "Whites have learned to write their knowledge in books." He reached within his clothing and produced a small packet that appeared to be leaves somehow bound together. Marvelous were the ways of the whites.

  "Within special lodges in great white villages are stored many books. The books are stacked higher than a man's head and in rows thicker than the corn of Quehana's fields. In those books is kept the wisdom of men dead through a hundred fathers. Everything that has ever been known can be found in those books, and the whites add to their store each sun's turnings. When the whites wish to know how a thing was done, or what a great warrior thought, they find the correct book and learn all that is needed."

  Blue appeared saddened, "Yet, it must be said that there are many whites who cannot use writing for it too is a thing to be learned, and many whites are lazy and would rather fish or hunt deer."

  Then Blue Moccasin brightened. "Imagine the strength in knowing all that anyone has ever known. Imagine if the Delaware had such books and could read them. Imagine how the noble Delaware would prosper and again grow strong if they could read the white's writing, and if they learned the ways of the whites."

  Quehana added, "It is true, Young-Son, that knowledge is strength. Knowing your enemy is powerful in battle, just as knowing your friend binds him closer. This season, Quehana will write how he grew corn to such size, and the writing will remind him in future plantings, and his sons will turn to the writing so that they will know, and their sons' sons will also read the words of Quehana, although they never knew him. Powerful is the secret of writing for it can make all things better."

  Doubtful of sleeping within the lodge among white smells and strangers, Young-Son chose to spread his blanket beneath a nearby hemlock. Sleep came swiftly for he had traveled far and heard much, but tomorrow—tomorrow he would visit the sweat lodge with the mighty Quehana. Only once before had he sweat within a special lodge, for they were now few and were reserved for elders of importance.

  The single experience had occurred when Young-Son and a companion had entered after the elders had departed. The heat had popped sweat on his body until it had dripped from his fingers. The experience had not been pleasant, but he had undoubtedly missed that which had meaning.

  Tomorrow he would hear more wisdom from the heroes, and he wriggled in anticipation of all that he would repeat to his father.

  Young-Son slept on the thought that it would be better if he had writing to remind him of all that he had seen and heard.

  Chapter Seven

  Young-Son woke with the light, but he was already too late. Quehana was long into his morning scout. Blue Moccasin sorrowed that Young-Son had slept through an opportunity to accompany the killer of Shawnee and see for himself the skills of the Delaware fighter.

  Instead, Young-Son sat with the message carrier, ate prodigiously of food strange to his tongue, and listened to tales of prowess and adventure. Through the words of Blue Moccasin he learned many things.

  Exciting were the stories of Quehana's battles during the French War when the English had been attacked by mixed bands of hostile Shawnee and even Delaware.

  The boy was shown a deep slash in the eating place of Quehana where he had chopped away fingers of a stranger who had claimed Quehana's lodge. Young-Son thrilled to touch the worn gouge and visualize the thieving white's fear when his fingers fell from his hand.

  The stories of Blue Moccasin ranged widely, and in one he mentioned that upon rare occasions Quehana was also a seer of visions, one who saw what was to be or suddenly knew a long hidden fact of importance.

  That story reminded Young-Son of an occasion that had meant little to him, but that his father, Tree Shadow, considered of vast import. In truth, the boy recalled little more than names, but he mentioned them in hopes that they might have meaning to Blue Moccasin.

  "When I was small my father took me to an evening council with a seer of great age. The ancient one spoke of a warrior, who though long on the Great Spirit's trail, is often remembered. The voice was so low that I could not hear well, but the warrior was called Friend Seeker, and the seer was . . ."

  Blue Moccasin provided the name. "The seer was Late Star."

  The spirit of Young-Son thrilled because he had touched the memory of Blue Moccasin. He waited eagerly for the message carrier to continue.

  "Wise is Tree Shadow, for he has given his son a memory to be savored as if it were marrow. The story of Late Star, wisest of Delawares, and Friend Seeker, teacher of The Warrior, is among the most honored of all tales. I, too, have sat at the fire of Late Star, and I will enjoy speaking long about the heroes of that time."

  Blue pondered before continuing. "We will wait for those stories until evening when Quehana will join us at this fire. We will taste tender meat cooked upon sticks, and we will sprinkle each bit with salt from Quehana's pot. Then, with the shadows reaching and the flames leaping we will bring life to the memories, and you, Young-Son, must burn them deep into your breast for they are the soul of our Delaware people."

  Before Quehana returned, Young-Son visited the place of iron where Quehana made his magic arrowheads. A fire smoldered within a stone-looking box around which mysterious leather bags were hung. The iron bars and rods that Young-Son studied promised countless blades and arrowheads, and he wondered how the whites had learned the secrets of the iron that enabled them to have guns and knives that cut as no flint edge could. Perhaps the discovery had been passed father to son using the writing about which Blue Moccasin had spoken.

  They had wandered into the corn field to examine the growing harvest when Quehana appeared soundlessly at Young-Son's side. The youth had not heard his approach even though corn stalks rustled at each movement.

  If he had scouted hard, Quehana showed no weariness. He led their march back to the great lodge, and this time Quehana insisted that his guest visit each marvel within. Young-Son discovered that the place of iron making was as nothing if compared to Quehana's lodge.

  Within the lodge of Tree Shadow, each had a blanket and there were many furs, but the people of Quehana had blankets of many colors, and each sleeping place held more than three thick and handsome blankets. Quehana's furs were more than Young-Son had ever seen, and many were pegged to the walls to help keep out winter cold.

  Most astonishing to the mind of Young-Son were the many rooms within the lodge. Each in the family of Quehana seemed to have his own place for sleeping and storage of personal goods. Some of the children did share a room, but never had Young-Son seen sleeping places where even inner-walls were as thick as the sides of an Iroquois fort. In the lodge of Young-Son's father, all slept together, and the thought of privacy was new to the boy's mind.

  Quehana had guns of many kinds. Most were placed in special holders standing with their muzzles down, but others hung on pegs above doors and small wall openings that Blue Moccasin called windows.

  The fire of Quehana lay in a special place against a wall, and the smoke rose upward through stones without circulating or drifting annoyingly within the lodge. Flat explained to the awed youth how great plates of iron could be fitted across the fire's open side so that sparks could not endanger sleepers. Recalling the many times family members in his father's lodge had leaped to extinguish small blazes or to soothe a burn on their own person caused by exploding pitch pine, Young-Son saw the value in the marvelous ideas of Quehana.

  As the sun began its long descent, Quehana allowed Young-Son to accompany him on a short run to the west. As he became sure his legs could carry him no further, the Arrowmaker had stopped to describe all that could be viewed from their high place.

  The lands of Quehana's lodge were greater than those of most Delaware villages, and Young-Son could see fields that he had not discovered. Horses and the animals called cows were separated from the grain by felled trees that had been laid end to end to create barriers, and there were hay stacks left from the previous winter that he judged were still large enough to feed the animals through
another cold season. Wise was the planning of Quehana. Again, the thought of writing so that all could know flashed through the mind of Young-Son.

  Quehana explained. "In the Indian way, all lands belong to the Great Spirit and are only used by the people who camp or move across them. Yet, the Iroquois nations claim many valleys as their own, as do most other tribes.

  "The white way is different. Although most whites admit that the Great Spirit is owner of all things, each white attempts to gather and claim as his own all that he can defend. When whites enter a land, claim is laid to every valley, ridge, swamp or pond. Often whites do not allow other whites upon their lands, and only rarely do whites recognize an Indian's right to even pass across the lands they see as their own.

  "Unlike Indians, who move with the seasons or with the game, whites build strong lodges and plant fields. They plan never to move, and if they do choose a new lodge site it is only because the new is larger than the old.

  "Whites judge other whites by the richness of their possessions, the size of their lodges, and the lengths of their fields. If a white has little, he is not often respected, no matter how wise his council. A white could be a warrior of great skill with many victories, but unless he has possessions for others to admire, he is little noticed."

  Quehana faced the youth to drive home his meanings. "I tell you this, Young-Son because the star of the whites is rising, even as the sky of the Indian darkens.

  "I have chosen to live much as do the whites because it is not wise to swim always against the current. The Delaware ways are honorable and desirable, but they are quickly dying and will be gone before you are tall.

  "As it is not clever to sit on the smoky side of a fire, so it is unrewarding to push against the whites. They are too many, and they have writing to guide them.