The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  The clang of a bell interrupted his explanation.

  “Curfew,” she said.

  She quickened her pace. Now she was walking ahead of him. He liked the way she moved, so graceful in her long gown—a white woman’s gown—with her black braids—Oneida woman’s braids—hanging down her back.

  At the door to the maids’ quarters she turned to him. “I know what you mean about lacrosse. We shouldn’t be playing at war if our aim is to strengthen peace among us.”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  She nodded, went inside, and closed the door.

  He was still standing by the door when he saw the other boys walking in his direction, lacrosse racquets on their shoulders. He waited, thinking he’d join them.

  As soon as they reached him, Edward grabbed Broken Trail roughly by one arm.

  “What’s wrong?” exclaimed Broken Trail, taken completely off guard.

  “I saw that.” Edward snarled. He was so close that drops of his spittle landed on Broken Trail’s cheek.

  “Saw what?”

  “You and Margaret. Leave her alone.”

  “I was only talking to her.”

  “You white men treat our girls as if they existed for your pleasure. Even if the Oneidas did adopt you, they didn’t change your white heart.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  The others formed a circle around Broken Trail and Edward.

  Broken Trail took a step backwards. Edward advanced.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Broken Trail said. They moved in tandem, Broken Trail backwards, Edward forwards. “There’s nothing to fight about. I’d never hurt Margaret.”

  Edward made a fist. “I’ll see that you don’t.” Quick as lightning, he leapt forward and punched Broken Trail in the nose. The blood gushed.

  Broken Trail didn’t know what to do. If Edward hit him again, he would have to fight back. He couldn’t just stand there being punched.

  Then he saw the glint of metal, the quick flash as Edward pulled his blade from its sheath. What Broken Trail felt was fear, despair, and anger all mixed together. He drew his knife.

  Jacob stepped in, grabbed Edward’s right arm and held him fast.

  “Calm down, Edward. Moses did nothing wrong.”

  Edward, squirming in Jacob’s grasp, struggled in vain to break free. He shouted at Broken Trail, “Stay away from her or I’ll … I’ll …” He choked on his own fury. “I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

  “Come along,” said Jacob. “We’ll be in trouble if Webber hears about this.”

  Back at the cabin, Broken Trail found a rag to staunch the flow of blood. He sat on the edge of his bed, pressing the cloth to his nose and wondering what to do now.

  He had come to Sedgewick School as the first step on a mission to unite the native people. But here he was, mere days after his arrival, fighting with a Shawnee warrior.

  The other boys went to bed.

  It was dark in the cabin. Broken Trail heard Peter praying for peace to be restored. For a while Samuel and Abraham chatted with each other, Jacob sometimes putting in a word. Broken Trail did not hear Edward’s voice. Eventually all talking ceased.

  Was everyone asleep? Was Edward sleeping? Broken Trail did not think so.

  He could picture the young Shawnee, two beds over, keeping silent vigil, on guard to protect a girl who needed no defending from a boy who wished her no harm.

  At last Broken Trail lay down. For a long time sleep did not come.

  A wind arose. He listened to its moaning howl among the trees The sound taunted him. “You will never find your way,” warned the wind. “Never.”

  CHAPTER 10

  A Revelation

  BROKEN TRAIL WOKE long before the ringing of the Prayers Before Sunrise bell. Staring into the darkness, he pondered his first eight days at Sedgewick School. It was important for him to do well. But getting an education was not an end in itself. He was here to serve a larger purpose, and he was not off to a good start. All he had done so far was make an enemy of a young Shawnee warrior and take part in a lacrosse game that pitted Six Nations scholars against Algonkians. If he were searching for ways to increase hostility, he could hardly have found anything more effective.

  Broken Trail closed his eyes but could not clear his mind. When at last the bell rang, he rose, dressed, and left for the dining hall.

  He walked alone, his head lowered. Suddenly Jacob’s voice came out of the darkness.

  “About last night …”

  Broken Trail gave a small jump, startled. “What?”

  There was Jacob walking beside him. “You need to understand why Edward acts the way he does.”

  “I suppose this has something to do with Margaret?”

  “It has everything to do with Margaret.”

  “But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Yes, it does, because there’ll be trouble if you don’t stay away from her.”

  “Edward can’t give me orders what to do.”

  Jacob lowered his voice. “Just listen. There’s something wrong about Edward. Maybe an evil spirit possesses him. Maybe he has a sickness in his head. He’s an orphan. His whole family died. Smallpox killed nearly everyone in his village.”

  “He has those scars.”

  “It isn’t just his face that’s scarred. When smallpox struck his village, there was no one to bury the dead. No one to sing the sacred songs that would smooth their path to the Land without Trouble. For many days Edward sat in his family’s lodge with the rotting bodies of his mother and father and sister until someone ventured inside and found him there. He was only three winters old.”

  Broken Trail pictured the scene. He could imagine the small boy’s terror and despair. A person might never recover from an experience like that.

  Jacob continued, “When Edward had eight winters, somebody dropped him off here, probably because his band was short of food. For the next four years he didn’t have a single friend. Then a girl named Helen arrived, and that’s when the rest of Edward’s troubles began. Helen was sixteen. She became like a big sister to him.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Yes. There were about ten girl students at that time. She went to classes in the mornings and learned housewifery from Mrs. Greene in the afternoons.”

  “Like Margaret.”

  “Just like Margaret. In fact, Margaret looks a lot like Helen. After Helen had learned to spin and weave and make soap and candles, Mrs. Greene helped her find part-time work in the village as a mother’s helper.

  “One day, as she was leaving her work to come back to the school, three white men came out from Wickham Inn and offered her a drink of rum if she’d go with them. There were people around who heard her say No. They saw Helen start down the road back to the school.

  “But she never arrived. The next day, some Wickham children berry-picking in the woods found her half-naked body.”

  Broken Trail stopped walking. “What happened then?”

  “Nothing. We scholars had been told about white man’s justice. We expected the constable to make an arrest. It didn’t happen.”

  “Go on.”

  “Edward didn’t speak for days. He hardly ate. If he’d had any home to return to, I’m sure he would have left.”

  “What did President Webber do?”

  “He told us to pray for Helen’s soul. We saw that he was upset. But we also saw that what disturbed him most wasn’t Helen’s death. It was the harm that a student’s murder could do to the school’s reputation. He almost seemed to blame Helen for being murdered. He did his best to keep everything quiet. After a couple of years, Sedgewick School stopped admitting girls.

  “When Margaret showed up, Edward seemed to awaken from a trance. He acted as if the Great Spirit had sent her to take Helen’s place. Margaret wasn’t interested in being anyone’s big sister, but that didn’t stop Edward. I’m not sure how his mind works. He hates all white men. He blames them for the small
pox. He blames them for Helen’s death.” Jacob paused. “In his eyes, you are a white man.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s made himself Margaret’s guardian so what happened to Helen won’t happen to her.”

  “Look,” said Broken Trail. “Margaret’s not just my friend; she’s somebody I need to work with. We both have the same goal, to make a better future for the native people. So I’m not going to avoid her just because it bothers Edward.”

  At that moment President Webber appeared, his snow-white wig gleaming through the gloom. As he entered the dining hall, he directed a quick glance at Broken Trail and Jacob.

  Jacob shrugged. “I just want you to understand.”

  CHAPTER 11

  He Places Two Bets

  AFTER PRAYERS CAME cabin cleanup, then breakfast. At nine o’clock the school day began.

  Today’s dictation, taken straight from the Bible, was on the subject of mankind’s wickedness—Mr. Dudgeon’s favourite subject. This time it was universal, not confined to the native people:

  And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.

  And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.

  But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord.

  Broken Trail’s quill behaved well, throwing off only two splatters. He remembered that Noah was the man who built a boat big enough to carry two of every single creature in the world.

  At the midday break, Broken Trail went outdoors to enjoy the sunshine. A tall oak tree grew close to the dining hall door. From branch to branch, two squirrels were chasing each other with death-defying leaps. He was wondering what kind of snare Noah used to catch the squirrels for his boat, when Mr. Johnson walked up to him.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, sir.” Broken Trail’s surprise lasted only a moment. Like himself, Mr. Johnson was a man of two worlds. Maybe they did have things to talk about.

  “It’s about Thayendanegea—Captain Brant, as President Webber insists we call him. I’ve heard that Brant paid your fees. That’s interesting, because many years ago Sir William Johnson paid his way so he could go to school.”

  Broken Trail was not sure why this was supposed to be interesting. “I knew that Captain Brant went to school. I didn’t know who paid for it.”

  “Sir William was my father, did you know that?”

  “I did hear … I mean … yes.”

  “My father paid for Brant, and now Brant is paying for you. I suppose that establishes a connection between us.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Mr. Johnson gave a twisted smile. “If you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know why you’re here. Joseph Brant never does anything without a reason. Maybe a couple of reasons. Do you know the meaning of his Mohawk name?”

  “Thayendanegea means, ‘He places two bets.’”

  “Exactly. He gambled to become a fine gentleman in the white man’s world and a war chief in ours. He won both bets. Six miles both sides of the Grand River for its whole length! That’s quite a reward for helping Britain during the Revolution. Its sheer size puts Sir William’s estate to shame. Sir William amassed 50,000 acres. The Haldimand Tract is 950,000.”

  Broken Trail blinked. “The Haldimand Tract doesn’t belong to Captain Brant. It belongs to the people of the Six Nations.”

  “Does Brant know that?” Mr. Johnson snorted derisively. “We’ll see how things work out. Whatever he’s up to, it’s clear that you are part of his plans.”

  Broken Trail clenched his fists. “Sir, he’s not ‘up to’ anything. His goal is to unite all the native people so that we stand shoulder to shoulder as one great nation.”

  Mr. Johnson laid his hand on Broken Trail’s forearm. “Don’t be angry! There are many rumours. I may be wrong.”

  That ended the conversation.

  Broken Trail felt shaken by the things Mr. Johnson had said. He must have been listening to Thayendanegea’s enemies. A great chief was bound to have enemies, men jealous of his success. That must be the answer.

  Broken Trail remembered every detail of his meeting with Thayendanegea. It had happened that spring, in Sucker Moon, after the ice had broken up on the St. Lawrence River. Thayendanegea had arrived in Broken Trail’s village with a small delegation of war chiefs and sachems. They had sat with the Oneida council, passing the pipe around and around the circle, not saying much until the tobacco had burned out. Then Thayendanegea had spoken.

  “Word has reached our ears that one of your young warriors, known among the nations as the White Oneida, helped bring an end to your war with the Mississaugas.”

  Broken Trail had shuddered, for at that time he still hated being called the White Oneida.

  “You’re talking about Broken Trail,” said Black Elk, one of the Oneida elders.

  At once, all eyes had turned in Broken Trail’s direction. Black Elk placed the feather in his hand so that no one would interrupt as long as he spoke.

  But all that he could think of saying was, “I didn’t do much. I don’t speak Mississauga. The elders took me with them, but all I did was watch.” He had passed the feather to Thayendanegea.

  “I have heard otherwise,” the great Mohawk had said. “There would have been no peace talks if you had not convinced your band elders of the necessity. Now I would like you to use your powers of persuasion upon the councils of other nations. I have been looking for a deputy, someone to train in diplomacy and negotiations. Someone who can study the terms of treaties and make them serve our interests, not just the interests of white people.”

  He means me, Broken Trail had thought, and his heart raced with excitement. When he was just thirteen the Great Spirit had revealed to him in a dream that he was destined to become a leader, “both in war and in peace.” For four years he had known that some great challenge lay ahead. Now it caught him unprepared.

  “I speak only English and Oneida,” he had said. “As for studying and making treaties, I can barely read and write. Back in Canajoharie, before the Oneidas adopted me, I had only three years of schooling, and I was always at the bottom of the class.”

  “Then you must go back to school to receive a better education. You must also learn the languages of other nations: the Mohawks, Onondagas, Cayugas, Senecas, Tuscaroras, Shawnees, Mohicans—those and many others.”

  For a little while no one spoke. It was Broken Trail who broke the silence.

  “You say I need to have a better education, but there’s no school near my village.”

  “You will go to Sedgewick School in Vermont. It’s near a small town called Wickham. I shall pay your fees.”

  And that, Broken Trail recalled, was how he became a student at Sedgewick School.

  All day, Mr. Johnson’s words remained in Broken Trail’s mind. It was true that Thayendanegea had earned his Mohawk name. By placing two bets he had become a leader with power and influence in both worlds. But was he “up to something” beyond trying to bring the native people together? Broken Trail did not believe it … did not want to believe it.

  Mr. Johnson must be one of those who were jealous of Thayendanegea’s success. He seemed to be a bitter man. Broken Trail wondered why.

  CHAPTER 12

  Double Initiation

  BROKEN TRAIL WAS eating his second bowl of porridge on a morning that seemed no different from any other, when Mr. Dudgeon suddenly tapped his spoon against his water glass and then, with a clap of his hands, rose to his feet.

  “When breakfast is finished,” he announced, “all scholars will return to their cabins and remain there until the porter summons you here.”

  Broken Trail raised his eyebrows. “What’s going on?” he asked Samuel, who sat facing him across the table.

  Samuel said, “It’s haircut day.”

  Jacob, sitting next to Brok
en Trail, explained. “On the last school day of every month, they bring us to the dining hall, cabin by cabin, for a trim.”

  Broken Trail ran his fingers through his hair. The last time his scalp had been plucked and shaved was the day before he left home to come to Sedgewick School. That felt like a long time ago. Flower Moon—May—was nearly over. He had been at school for four weeks. Stubble covered the area of his scalp that should be bare. The hair that should be standing in a bristling crest from front to back now flopped limply in all directions.

  “The maids cut it,” said Jacob. “They sit you on a stool, put an overturned bowl on your head and chop off everything below the rim.”

  “They won’t have to cut my hair,” said Broken Trail. “None of it hangs down far enough.”

  “They’ll shorten your scalp lock to make your hair all the same length. That’s what they do with new boys.”

  When everyone had returned to the cabin, Samuel got out his dice and bowl. “While we’re waiting, there’s time for a game.”

  “Do we have the morning free?” Broken Trail asked as he settled on his haunches with the others. Only Peter stayed aloof.

  “Not a chance,” said Samuel, passing the bowl and dice to Abraham to take the first turn. “We go to our classrooms as soon as the haircut is finished.”

  They finished their game, which Jacob won, and had begun another when they heard a knock on the door. Samuel hastily shoved the bowl and dice under the nearest bed while Jacob answered the door.

  There stood the porter, peering at them along the length of his long nose. If he wondered why the boys were squatting in a circle on the floor, he did not say so. “Hurry along,” he said. “Mustn’t keep people waiting.”

  By the time they reached the dining hall, the boys from Cabin Four were leaving, all seven with the same haircut, a black cap that half covered their ears.

  Jet black clippings lay strewn on the floor all around the two stools that had been placed just inside the door.