The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  Margaret, lifting her chin, switched to English. “There’s no rule against people using their own language in a private conversation.”

  “Well, there ought to be. Move along anyway. We don’t allow loitering in the hall.”

  They drifted along the hall and out the rear door. Broken Trail walked beside her, listening intently to her words. He was vaguely aware that they were heading toward Mrs. Greene’s domain.

  “Everyone fled after the soldiers destroyed our village,” she said. “But now we’re returning. We’re building new longhouses.”

  “Jacob told me that Oneidas were returning to Kanonwalohale,” said Broken Trail. “Now you tell me they’re going back to Old Oneida as well. I heard it would be death if they returned.”

  “That’s what the Americans said at first. Then Congress changed its mind. The United States government doesn’t like us going north to Canada, the way your band did. They’re afraid that if there’s another war, we’ll fight on the British side.”

  “Whatever their motive, it’s good they’re allowing the Oneidas to return.”

  “It sounds good. But I don’t trust them. Whenever they seem to treat us better, they’re just softening us up so they can take more of our land. I think their plan is to push us onto little reservations surrounded by white settlements, so each band will be cut off from the rest. That way, we’ll lose our power to act as a single nation.”

  “You talk just like Thayendanegea, the Mohawk war chief. I suppose you’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course,” said Margaret. “And I think he’s right. We need a federation of all the tribes.”

  They had reached the far end of the building where Broken Trail had picked up his school clothes. Margaret put her hand on the door latch. “This is where I live.”

  “Before you go, tell me what name you have among your people.”

  “Yellowbird.”

  “That’s a good name. Did you earn it through your music? Last night I heard you play your flute. Your music is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I’m proud to have earned my name. But don’t call me Yellowbird around here or we’ll both be in trouble.”

  “I know the rules. Good-bye for now, Margaret. We’ll talk again.”

  That afternoon Mr. Dudgeon explained about weights and measures. Broken Trail paid close attention, trusting that this was something Thayendanegea expected him to learn.

  The monitors handed out copybooks, checking the names on the covers so that each boy received his own. When all the copybooks had been distributed, a monitor placed a brand new one in front of Broken Trail. It had a brown pasteboard cover the colour of oak leaves in the Moon of Falling leaves.

  He kept looking down at the book where it lay on his desk. The desk was scratched, and there was a gouge where someone’s knife had cut a line through the scuffed varnish into the wood.

  Sunshine slanting through the window above his shoulder lit the motes of chalk dust afloat in the air. The new copy-book rested in a pool of sunshine. For some reason he recalled the day he had been admitted into the society of warriors, and felt again the excitement he had felt as the ceremonial pipe was passed around the circle while he waited to taste its bitter smoke for the first time.

  He reached out his hand to touch the copybook. He stroked its smooth cover slowly with one finger. An unexpected feeling of anticipation came over him as he raised the cover. This book, with its clean, blank pages, was to record another step along the pathway of his life.

  He wrote his name carefully on the cover: Moses Cobman. That’s me, he thought. I’m Broken Trail and I’m Moses Cobman too. At one time he would never have admitted such a thing, insisting that the Oneidas had taken all the white out of him. Now he was glad to be both.

  He opened his copybook and wrote, as neatly as he could, the table that Mr. Dudgeon was setting out on the blackboard:

  2 Pints 1 Quart

  4 Quarts 1 Gallon

  2 Gallons 1 Peck

  4 Pecks 1 Bushel

  36 Bushels 2 Chaldron

  Yet it was a mystery how such knowledge could help him to fulfill his mission in life.

  CHAPTER 8

  Little Brother of War

  AFTER CLOSING PRAYERS, the school day ended. The scholars filed out of the classroom, leaving Abraham at his desk, huddled over a sheet of paper. His quill made scratching sounds as it moved across the page. Glancing back at him from the doorway, Broken Trail noticed that his face was as expressionless as a block of wood. Good warrior discipline. It showed that Abraham could control his temper if he tried.

  Broken Trail walked alone down the hall and out the front door onto the grassy field where boys had been playing lacrosse the previous day. He noticed that the scholars were gathering into two separate groups. From one group he heard angry voices. “It’s just like Dudgeon.” “Not fair!” “He’s not just punishing Abraham, he’s punishing the whole team.” Edward was part of this group.

  The boys in the other group sounded much happier. They looked excited and tense, but not angry. Broken Trail spotted Jacob and Peter among them. When he saw Samuel going toward them, he caught up with him.

  “What’s going on?” Broken Trail asked.

  “We’re playing lacrosse this afternoon.”

  “I saw boys playing yesterday.”

  “That was practice. This is the real match. Six Nations Eagles against the Algonkian Shooting Stars. The Shooting Stars are angry. Dudgeon knows that Abraham’s their best scorer. He could let him serve his detention tomorrow. But not Dudgeon.” Samuel looked at Broken Trail appraisingly.

  “You’re Oneida. You can play for the Eagles … if you want to.” His tone held a hint of doubt, as if he didn’t expect that Broken Trail would be much of an asset to the team.

  Broken Trail’s back stiffened. “Find me a racquet.”

  “That’s easy. One of the scholars that Webber expelled after the last frolic left his stick behind when he was sent home.”

  Jacob was speaking when Broken Trail and Samuel reached the group. “We should put off the game until tomorrow,” Jacob said. “There’s no glory in beating the Algonkians when their best player is missing.”

  Some boys nodded. Others shook their heads.

  “Who says we’ll beat them?” said one of the boys. “Even without Abraham they have a good team.”

  Samuel pushed into the middle of the group, dragging Broken Trail with him. “We have another player for our side.” He raised Broken Trail’s hand high in the air.

  Every head turned to look at Broken Trail, who read the question in their eyes: Is he any good?

  “We can use you,” Jacob said. “I still think we should put off the game. But if we’re going to play, we need to get ready. Let’s fetch our sticks.”

  The Eagles dispersed to the various cabins. The Shooting Stars also dispersed.

  “They’ve beat us Eagles the last four matches in a row,” Jacob explained to Broken Trail as they walked to the cabin. “Our players want revenge.”

  “But you were right,” said Broken Trail. “It won’t be much of a victory if the Shooting Stars are missing their best player.”

  “Some of our team don’t care about that. They want to win, fair or foul.”

  “It shouldn’t be that important. It’s just a game.”

  “No, it’s not. Algonkian and Six Nations scholars get along just fine most of the time. We’re all friends in the cabins, in the dining hall, and whenever we sneak away for a smudge or a frolic. But as soon as we meet on the playing field, it’s as if both sides picked up their war clubs. We remember the villages burned and scalps taken in the days of our grandfathers’ grandfathers.”

  At that moment there came from the huddle of Shooting Stars a long, wavering war cry. “Aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.”

  It sent shivers coursing down Broken Trail’s back, reminding him that lacrosse was called “the little brother of war.”

  Should he be playing in this match? Broken
Trail was having second thoughts. He wanted a chance to show his skill. He loved lacrosse. All the native people loved lacrosse. This great sport should bring the nations together in friendship. Instead, it was doing the opposite by keeping alive the conflicts of a bygone age. That being the case, he was not so sure he wanted to take part.

  But, second thoughts or not, he knew that he could not back out of today’s match. To do so would make him look foolish and cowardly. If he was ever to become a leader, he must earn the respect of those whom he wanted to lead. And so he must not only play, he must play well.

  “How do I tell their players from ours?” he asked. “Without scalp locks or face paint, I can’t tell one of us from one of them.”

  “We tie a black streamer to our racquets,” said Jacob. “Their streamers are red.”

  They reached the cabin. While they were getting their racquets from under their beds, Edward came in. He was a Shawnee, an Algonkian like Abraham. Without a word to any of the others, Edward picked up his racquet with its red streamer tied just below the pocket, and left.

  When Jacob, Peter, Samuel, and Broken Trail returned to the playing field, the Shooting Stars were gathering in their huddle: Mississaugas, Shawnees, Potawatomis, Ottawas—but not the lone Mohican who was their best player.

  On the Eagles team were Oneidas, Mohawks, Senecas, Cayugas—all from the Six Nations, all with black streamers tied to their sticks.

  “I’ll tell you who to watch out for,” said Samuel. “See that big Shooting Star with the wild hair? That’s William. If he flattens you, you may never get up.”

  “What nation?”

  “Potawatomi. And see the one beside him with the long nose and pointy chin? That’s Henry. He’s an Ottawa.”

  “Looks like a fox.”

  “That’s right, and just as sly. His skill is sticking his racquet between your legs to trip you while you’re running.”

  “Who’s the skinny one jumping up and down?”

  “John. He’s a Mississauga—the Shooting Stars’ best scorer after Abraham. Those three—William, Henry, and John—are the ones you have to watch.”

  A small crowd had gathered. All the Cabin One boys were there, lads of ten and eleven winters who were too small to play a warriors’ game. Standing nearby were Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Johnson.

  “Sinclair and Johnson come to every match,” said Samuel.

  “Johnson was raised in the village I come from, Tionderoga, in the Mohawk Valley. Most likely he can play better than any of us.”

  “What about Mr. Sinclair?” asked Broken Trail.

  “He just watches. The last big match, he tried to place bets with the other teachers. President Webber got wind of it. I’ve heard Sinclair has been warned not to do that again.”

  While listening to Samuel, Broken Trail practised his grip on the racquet that the expelled student had left behind. He swung it few times. The shaft was a little longer than his arm—the perfect length. The wood was hickory, the head of the shaft bent to a semi-circle to form the pocket. The pocket’s sinew webbing was tight enough for him to be able to fling the ball, but loose enough for him to catch and carry it.

  “Where are the goals?” asked Broken Trail.

  “We play the whole length of the field.” Samuel pointed to a pine tree at one end, and then to another pine tree at the other. “Those trees are the goals. Each has a big splash of red paint on its trunk.”

  Broken Trail squinted. “I see the red. Didn’t President Webber object to your painting the trees?”

  “We didn’t paint them. Webber had a servant prepare the goals for us. He encourages lacrosse … so long as there’s no betting. He says lacrosse is the only good thing Indians ever invented. It keeps us healthy and out of trouble.”

  Now both teams were ready.

  Mr. Johnson walked onto the field. “The first team to score two goals takes the match,” he announced. “Any player who touches the ball with his hand will be thrown out of the game.”

  Johnson hurled the ball straight up in the air, and then hustled off to the side while both teams charged.

  The game was on.

  Jacob made a swipe at the ball but missed. John, the skinny Mississauga, caught it and then lobbed it to a team mate. Broken Trail knocked him down. The ball bounced from the pocket of the Shooting Star’s stick, landed, and rolled. Broken Trail scooped it up and hurled it to Jacob, who caught it this time. The big Potawatomi, William, collided with Jacob. The ball sprang free.

  Possession changed three times as the action moved up and down the field. Then Henry, the sly Ottawa, tripped the Eagle carrying the ball. A fight broke out, players attacking each other with fists and racquets.

  The Shooting Stars emerged from the fight with the ball. They appeared about to score when Jacob leapt high to intercept a pass. He raced for the goal tree, pursued by a mob of Shooting Stars. Broken Trail stayed in the clear, ready to assist. His help wasn’t needed. Jacob scored the first goal.

  Then the Shooting Stars took over the ball. John tried a forward pass. Broken Trail almost intercepted, but the ball clipped the edge of his stick. He didn’t see where it went, because suddenly somebody knocked him down from behind. There he was on the ground, where all he could see were legs and ankles. Suddenly the ball was there too, on the ground, and a hand had grabbed it. Broken Trail didn’t know whose hand, but he knew it shouldn’t be holding the ball. He seized the cheater’s wrist and squeezed with all his might. The hand dropped the ball.

  Mr. Johnson must not have noticed the foul, for the action continued with no interruption.

  Broken Trail was still on the ground when somebody stepped on his arm. Then somebody else tripped over his shin as the action moved away.

  For a moment he lay gasping, completely out of breath. He got to his feet in time to see the Shooting Stars score. The game was tied.

  The next goal was the one that mattered.

  Now both teams played cautiously, neither making much progress. Finally John nabbed the ball, hurled it in the direction of a teammate roving outside the pack. An Eagle intercepted, passed the ball to Peter, who was running down the field with the ball when William jumped on him. The impact propelled the ball from Peter’s racquet. Broken Trail saw it soaring toward him in a perfect arc.

  A friendly spirit seemed to guide its course. All he had to do was lift his stick for the ball to fall into the netting. With Samuel blocking, Broken Trail raced down the field and whacked the ball straight at the red paint on the tree. The game was over.

  Eagles surrounded Broken Trail, pounding his back and shouting that the White Oneida was a true warrior.

  He took their praises calmly. He had scored an important victory, and he knew it. But he didn’t feel like celebrating. Too much about the game troubled him. Why did it have to be Six Nations against Algonkians? Just because it had always been that way? Lacrosse should bring them together, not widen the gulf between them. Broken Trail resolved to do something about that.

  CHAPTER 9

  Discord

  THE DINING HALL was quiet. Six Nations and Algonkian scholars did not mingle but sat apart, eating their meat and potatoes with downcast eyes. Afterwards, a fight broke out between a Cayuga and a Mississauga, in which the Mississauga gave the Cayuga a black eye.

  It took three days before peace was fully restored and the former enemies could again live together as friends—until the next lacrosse match.

  Abraham seemed subdued. Broken Trail thought that he might be ashamed that his mutterings in class had led, albeit indirectly, to his team’s defeat. Edward also looked glum, but that was not unusual.

  When lacrosse practice resumed, Broken Trail did not participate. He used Dark Cloud as an excuse. His horse, he said, needed exercise. Although this was true, it was not the entire truth. He could have found time for both. But he needed to think.

  The more he thought about the lacrosse match, the more he realized that the nature of the contest must change. Margaret shared his
belief that the tribes must join together. He decided to ask her what she thought.

  The following evening, after he had returned from his ride, he heard flute music as he was leaving the stable. The music drew him to the pine trees at the back of the campus. It was dusk, a time of shadowy light. The sound of her flute mingled with the evening song of birds.

  Broken Trail came upon Margaret sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. Not alarmed by his presence, she finished the song she was playing before greeting him.

  “Se-go-li. Did you come looking for me?”

  “Yes. I want to talk about the lacrosse game a few days ago.”

  “I don’t have anything to say about it. I wasn’t there. That afternoon Mrs. Greene was teaching me to spin.” She stood up and put her flute in the leather pouch she wore slung across her body. “It will soon be curfew. We can talk as we walk back.”

  “Why are you learning to spin?” Broken Trail fell into step beside her. “An Oneida woman doesn’t need to know how to spin.”

  “Not now. But what about tomorrow? When the forests are gone, there’ll be no more deerskins. If the Oneida woman can’t spin, how will she clothe her family?”

  “Are you so sure that day is coming?”

  “Remember the dictation Mr. Dudgeon gave us on your first day at school? God wants the land cultivated. The wild beasts must go. Hunters must become farmers.”

  “So you’re learning skills you need to be a farmer’s wife. Is that what you want?”

  “Does it matter what any of us want? What about you? Aren’t you at school to prepare yourself for the white man’s world?”

  “Not exactly. I’m trying to prepare myself for a new kind of world.”

  “And what will that world be like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you prepare yourself for it if you don’t know what it will be like?”

  “I reckon I’m not making much sense.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “I’ll try to explain. In the world I wish for, all the tribes and nations will come together. That’s why I wanted to talk with you about lacrosse. The way it’s played at Sedgewick School keeps us—”