The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  When they had left Mrs. Greene’s domain, the porter pointed to a cluster of log cabins near the back of the campus. “The scholars live there. In Cabin Five you’ll be with other boys sixteen to eighteen years old. Right now there aren’t many your age. Quite a few were recently sent home.”

  “Sent home?”

  “Expelled.”

  “Why?”

  The porter pursed his lips. “That’s not a matter for discussion.”

  Leaving Broken Trail curious as to what the expelled students’ offences had been, the porter went on to say, “You’ll be sharing the cabin with two Oneida boys, one Mohawk, one Shawnee, and one Mohican.”

  “Good. I want to know boys of other nations so I can learn their languages.”

  “English is the common language at Sedgewick School. But nothing stops you from learning other languages. In fact, President Webber encourages our graduates to go forth to preach the Gospel in many tongues.”

  Cabin Five had a stone fireplace and a plank floor. There were two rows of beds, five beds to a row. Each bed was merely a narrow platform of bare boards. Half of the beds appeared to be unused. On each of the others lay a stuffed sack like the one Mrs. Greene had provided, and on top of the sack a grey blanket.

  The porter indicated one of the unclaimed beds for Broken Trail to take and dropped the bundle of clothes at the foot. Broken Trail spread his mattress on the boards and laid his carrying basket on it.

  “Remember to shake your mattress every morning,” the porter said, “and punch it at night before you lie down. Mice like to nest in the straw.”

  Broken Trail looked around. “Where are the other boys?”

  “Practising lacrosse. They’ll be back soon.”

  The porter turned toward the door. “You may want to unpack and change your clothes while you wait. There’s a box under the bed to store your belongings.”

  After the porter had left, Broken Trail sat on the side of his bed. He was in no hurry to unpack or to change his clothes. He wanted his cabin mates to see him the way he was dressed, wearing his deerskin poncho and leggings with their bright beadwork and long fringes, and his headdress decorated with bristling elk hair, feathers, and beads.

  What would his cabin mates be like? He knew they would be young warriors who had left their homes in order to go to school. In that way, he was like them. But not exactly like them. He would be different from others in the school just as he had been different from others in his village. He was always different.

  He remembered the taunting he had endured when the Oneidas first adopted him. If his school mates rejected him, three years of misery lay ahead.

  This time, rejection would mean something worse than misery. It would mean failure. If the others refused to accept him, he would have no chance of winning their support in his mission to unite the tribes. And that was the whole reason for his being here.

  Voices were approaching. The door opened. Broken Trail stood up as five youths filed into the cabin. One was the tall, thin boy with the coiled snake tattooed on his cheek. They all stared at him. He knew what they saw: a white boy arrayed in the finery of a young chief.

  He raised his arm in greeting. “My name is Broken Trail. I am a warrior of the Oneida nation.”

  CHAPTER 3

  What’s in a Name?

  BROKEN TRAIL WAITED for somebody to say something. The silence lengthened while he kept his hand in the air, determined not to lower it until someone acknowledged his greeting. What if nobody did? Then he would have to stand there forever, like a figure carved from wood.

  His fingers were tingling and his shoulder was starting to ache before one boy slowly raised his arm in response. He looked to be the oldest of the group—about eighteen.

  “I’m Oneida, too. My name is Stone Child. They call me Jacob.”

  He lowered his arm, which allowed Broken Trail to do the same. Jacob’s expression conveyed several things at once: suspicion, curiosity, and a willingness to be friendly.

  “Where’s your village?” Jacob asked.

  “On the north shore of the St. Lawrence River.”

  “I never heard of Oneidas living there.”

  “It’s a small village. Three longhouses. My band has been there just five winters.”

  “Where did you live before that?”

  “Near Old Oneida. General Sullivan’s army burned our village.” Broken Trail paused. “Where are you from?”

  “Kanonwalohale.” He used the Oneida word for Head-on-a-Post, the Oneidas’ largest town.

  “I thought Sullivan’s army destroyed Kanonwalohale.”

  “They did. Burned it to the ground. But we Oneidas are returning, band by band, to what remains of our lands.”

  Another boy spoke up. “I’m from Kanonwalohale, too. My name is Peter.”

  “What’s your Oneida name?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I haven’t used it since I became a Christian. Peter is the only name I need.”

  “His Oneida name is Many Arrows,” Jacob offered. “He couldn’t use it here even if he wanted to.” With a jerk of his thumb, he indicated a round-faced boy standing beside him. “This is Walks at Night. He’s Mohawk. They’ve named him Samuel.”

  Samuel half raised his arm in a hesitant gesture indicating he was half ready to be friendly.

  Jacob continued, “The skinny one with the snake on his face is Lean Horse. He’s Mohican. We have to call him Abraham.”

  Broken Trail nodded. “I know the rules. You must call me Moses. I don’t see why we can’t use the names our people gave us.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” said Abraham. “The white men give us new names because we count for nothing until we’re just like them.” He paused. “You’re white. You should know.”

  “It’s true that my first family was white, but the Oneidas adopted me—”

  “So that’s who you are!” said Abraham. “The White Oneida.”

  “Some call me that.”

  A fifth boy spoke up. “I don’t care what they call you. You don’t belong here.” The speaker was thickset with heavy brows, his face disfigured by the deep pits of smallpox scars.

  Broken Trail kept his voice level. “Who are you to tell me I don’t belong?”

  “I am Black Spearman. That’s my Shawnee name. Here, I’m Edward.” He glared with such hostility that it took all of Broken Trail’s resolve not to look away.

  Jacob broke the tension. “We’ve all heard of the White Oneida. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome here. It’s said you follow our teachings and take part in the sacred ceremonies.”

  “That’s true. Are these ceremonies allowed at Sedgewick School?”

  Abraham snorted. “Of course not. It’s the same with ceremonies as with our names. If he could, Webber would take our minds and wash everything Indian right out of them.”

  “Most of us cooperate,” said Jacob. “If we want to stay here, we must. But we have a sweat lodge hidden in the forest. We sacrifice tobacco. We smudge.”

  “What if you’re caught?”

  “If we’re caught, we’ll be punished.” Jacob spoke stoically. “But we haven’t been caught yet.”

  “There’s always the danger that someone will report us,” said Abraham. “If anyone did…” He looked pointedly at Peter. “If anyone did, something unpleasant might happen to him.”

  “You don’t need to threaten me.” Peter gulped. “If you want to follow heathen practices, that’s your choice. I’ll still pray for your souls.”

  “Don’t waste your breath on mine,” said Abraham.

  “Or mine,” Edward added.

  Broken Trail tried to change the subject. “President Webber said nothing about sacred rites. He just warned me against frolics.”

  “Frolics!” Jacob exclaimed. “There are no frolics at Sedgewick School. You can’t have a frolic without girls.” He turned to Samuel. “But there’s always Wickham, isn’t there? Lots of girls in Wickham.” Jacob laughed. “Samuel lives up to
his name, ‘Walks at Night.’”

  Samuel gave an embarrassed grin. “I know a secret path to Wickham.”

  “Don’t tell Moses about your secret path,” said Jacob. “Do you want to get him expelled like the others?”

  “Those boys weren’t caught on my path,” Samuel protested. “It wasn’t my fault the constable’s men raided Wickham Inn.”

  “Raided the inn,” said Jacob, “rounded up the Sedgewick scholars, locked them overnight in Wickham Gaol and delivered them to Webber first thing in the morning. There was no way he could ignore it. He had to expel the whole lot.”

  “I escaped because I knew about the trap door in the kitchen floor.” Samuel looked pleased with himself. “I was the only one who got away.”

  “According to President Webber,” said Broken Trail, “the school’s purpose is to train missionaries. You don’t sound like you want to be a missionary.”

  “Not me!” Samuel grinned. “When I graduate, I’m going to work for the government. The Indian Department has good positions for educated Mohawks. It’s a comfortable life.”

  “Not many of us intend to be missionaries,” said Jacob. “My ambition is to run a trading post. What I learn here will help me do business.”

  “Well, I do want to be a missionary,” Peter raised his voice, “even if nobody else does.”

  Abraham threw down his lacrosse stick. “You’re nothing but a bunch of women! Not one of you wants to fight to defend our lands.” He stormed from the cabin and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Game of Chance

  “FIGHTING’S NOT the only way,” Broken Trail said quietly.

  No response. He did not expect one. Without another word, he knelt down to pull out from under his bed the storage box which the porter had told him was there.

  Peter, propping himself on one elbow on his bed, began to read a dog-eared Bible.

  While Broken Trail took off his headdress and deerskin clothing, the other boys stood watching, as if observing a snake shed its skin. The one thing he left in place was the amulet bag around his neck.

  Broken Trail dressed himself in the breeches and stockings that Mrs. Greene had given him. He put on an itchy linsey-woolsey shirt, his unaccustomed fingers fumbling as he did up the buttons. He squeezed his feet into hard-soled boots.

  When finished dressing, he put his deerskin clothes and his headdress into the box and shoved it under the bed along with his carrying basket. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at his long, stretched-out legs in their tight breeches and black stockings and at his feet encased in boots.

  These clothes weren’t just physically irksome. Wearing them, he felt as though part of himself had been misplaced. He had put on a new identity, one less noble and less free.

  Well, that’s done, he thought. What next?

  He had passed his first test, which was to meet his cabin mates. It could have gone worse. Jacob, Samuel and Peter seemed willing to accept him, although Abraham and Edward made no secret of their hostility.

  What were those two doing here anyway? If they wanted nothing to do with the white man’s world, why waste their time going to school? Hunters and warriors didn’t need reading, writing and arithmetic.

  “Want to play dice?” Samuel’s voice broke into Broken Trail’s thoughts.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  “You know our sacred rites. What about our games?” Samuel’s words sounded as much a challenge as an invitation.

  He held a flat-bottomed bowl in one hand, jiggling it so that the six dice in the bowl bounced up and down. They were shaped like miniature clams, with one side painted black and the other side left in its natural wood colour.

  “Your games are my games, too,” said Broken Trail. “How do you score it?”

  “Ten points for all six dice landing the same colour face-up,” said Samuel. “Five points for five out of six. Two points for four out of six.”

  “Fine. That’s the scoring I’m used to.”

  Broken Trail joined Samuel, Jacob and Edward, squatting on the floor between the two rows of beds.

  Edward gave him a mean look, but it wasn’t mean enough to spoil Broken Trail’s pleasure at being in the game.

  Peter, his nose buried in his Bible, kept on reading.

  The first turn went to Samuel. He gave the bowl a vigorous shake and brought it down on the floorboards with a whack.

  Five of the six dice landed with the natural wood colour facing up. This gave Samuel five points. A good start.

  Next came Jacob’s turn. Four dice landed with the black side up, two with the natural colour up. Two points for Jacob.

  Then the bowl was passed to Edward. When he shook the bowl and slammed it down, all six dice landed natural side up. Ten points.

  Edward smirked as he handed the bowl to Broken Trail. “You can’t beat that!”

  Broken Trail picked up the bowl. Since there was no way to beat a perfect toss, the best he could hope for was a tie. But before he could give the dice a throw, he was startled by the clang of a bell.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mealtime,” said Samuel. “We’re ruled by bells.”

  “Can we finish the game first?”

  “Not if we want to eat.” Samuel took the bowl and scooped the dice into a small leather bag. “If we’re late, they won’t let us into the dining hall.”

  Broken Trail followed the others. From all six cabins, boys were heading toward a door that stood open at the rear of the school’s main building. From it came the delicious aroma of pork and beans. Of all the food Broken Trail remembered from his early childhood, pork and beans was his favourite.

  The dining hall was a plain room with whitewashed walls. There were four long trestle tables. Each table had benches along the sides and a chair at its head. On every table stood a heap of spoons, a pile of tin bowls, and two large serving dishes full of pork and beans, one at each end.

  Abraham was already seated at one of the tables. He looked away when his cabin mates came in. Apparently he was still angry, but not angry enough to miss supper.

  All the boys wore identical breeches and shirts. Each had his hair cropped the same way, as if somebody had placed a bowl over his head and cut off every hair visible below the rim.

  Jacob led the way to a table. “You can sit beside me,” he told Broken Trail.

  Broken Trail accepted gratefully. Jacob’s friendliness gave him the confidence that he needed. Following the example of the others, he grabbed a bowl and spoon.

  All around the dining hall, boys seated at the tables stared at him. He overheard their whispers.

  “That’s the White Oneida.”

  “He doesn’t look Oneida.”

  “At least he’s got a scalp lock, which is more than we have.”

  The mutterings ended when four men in dusty frock coats filed into the room.

  “Those are the teachers,” Jacob whispered.

  The first to enter was pudgy and middle-aged, with a red nose and pink scalp. From both sides of his bald head sprang a fuzz of ginger hair.

  The second teacher had black hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His tawny skin, dark eyes, and bold cheekbones told of a heritage that blended white and native. Broken Trail wondered who and what he was.

  The third was an elderly man with a stoop. He wore a matted white wig that looked as if moths would fly out of it if you gave it a whack. His black frock coat sagged from his shoulders, suggesting that he had shrunk considerably since the tailor made it for him many years ago.

  The fourth teacher was young, scarcely older than some of the scholars. He had fair hair, a pallid complexion, and dark shadows under his eyes.

  Each teacher took his place at the head of a table. The pale young man sat down at Broken Trail’s table. When he noticed Broken Trail, he gave a friendly nod in his direction. That was the only acknowledgement he had time to give before the pudgy teacher with the ginger fuzz noisily cleared hi
s throat.

  The throat-clearing served as a signal for every boy to bow his head. Broken Trail knew what was coming. Before every meal, his white mother used to recite a list of blessings for which the Cobman family should be truly thankful.

  He kept his head lowered while the teacher reminded the boys to be grateful for the food they were about to receive. Then he took some time to point out their unworthiness of the good life they enjoyed at Sedgewick School and to pray that they would strive to become more worthy.

  Broken Trail prayed that the teacher would finish before the pork and beans got cold.

  As soon as the Amen was pronounced, the teacher at Broken Trail’s table raised his head. “I’m Mr. Sinclair. You, I believe, are Moses Cobman?”

  “Yes, sir.” Broken Trail felt his cheeks redden as every boy at his table gawked at him. But their attention strayed when the big serving dishes began to make their way down the table.

  After devouring two helpings of pork and beans, Broken Trail quietly, not wanting to be conspicuous, thumped the bench beside him with his right fist, speaking Oneida words of thanks to the Great Spirit. He noticed that Jacob did the same. It was probably against the rules to give thanks the Oneida way. Grace before a meal was all very well, but to wait until your belly was full seemed more sensible.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Curious Mistake

  WHEN THE FOOD was gone, the dining hall emptied just as quickly as it had filled. Boys dispersed in every direction. It was a balmy early summer evening, the light only starting to fade as Broken Trail and Jacob walked toward the cabin.

  “Tell me about the teachers,” Broken Trail said. “I like Mr. Sinclair. He seems younger than I thought any of them would be.”

  “Sinclair is young. He graduated from a college called Yale just last year. He teaches the Lower School boys. This is the first time they’ve ever been away from home. He seems to understand what it’s like to be lonely and scared. He’s a great teacher for those boys.”