The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  Shawnee? That would be the most useful, for the Shawnees were a rising power. But there was no chance that Edward would want to teach him.

  Mohican, then? Abraham would likely agree. Broken Trail decided to ask him that very day.

  But he didn’t. It should not have been hard to ask. Yet the request felt oddly personal, as if he would be asking to share something unique and private—not just a lot of words.

  The rest of the day went by, and it was not until the next evening, when he was walking with Abraham from the cabin to the dining hall, that he said simply, “I want to learn Mohican. Will you teach me?”

  Abraham gave no response. They were halfway to the dining hall before he asked, “Why?”

  His tone was not encouraging. He frowned all the while Broken Trail explained his part in Thayendanegea’s plan and his need to know the languages of many nations.

  When Broken Trail finished, Abraham’s response was a harsh laugh. “Don’t bother with Mohican. We’ve already lost our lands. By the time Thayendanegea has his federation organized, there’ll be none of us left.”

  “That’s not true. When Thayendanegea rallies the nations, the Mohicans will rise again.”

  “Wuyoma,” Abraham said sharply.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Wuyoma means ‘Speak the truth.’”

  “I do speak the truth. The Mohicans are not finished.”

  Abraham shook his head. “If I thought you believed that, I would teach you my language.”

  “If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t ask you to.”

  Abraham said no more until they reached the dining hall. The door was open, so that their noses caught a delicious whiff of beef, potatoes and turnips simmered together.

  “Mitsutuk,” Abraham cuffed him on the shoulder as they went inside. “That’s how to say, ‘Let’s eat.’”

  Broken Trail repeated the words to himself: “Mitsutuk: Let’s eat. Wuyoma: Speak the truth.” Two expressions—one for the body and one for the soul. He couldn’t imagine a better way to begin.

  After that, Broken Trail learned a new Mohican word or expression every day. Before Thimbleberry Moon ended he knew how to say, “I’m sorry” (Nusiwotan), “Thank you” (Kutapatamush), “God”(Manto), “woman (sqa) and girl”(sqahsihs). He knew that he himself was a mukacuks (young man).

  He could not yet string the words into sentences, but every day he felt himself becoming more ready for the work that lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 17

  Broken Trail’s Strategic Plan

  BOTH TEAMS HAD been practising, sometimes all together in a formless melee and sometimes in opposing squads. It was all with an eye to the next lacrosse match, when the Algonkian Shooting Stars would seek to avenge their defeat in the previous game.

  Broken Trail practised with the others. He was not sure he wanted to play in the match. But if he decided to play, he wanted his skills to be sharp.

  As the day of the match drew near, a plan took shape in his mind. He was searching for ways to bring the tribes together. If he could persuade the Eagles to include some Algonkian players and the Shooting Stars some Haudenosaunee, then comradeship could flourish across tribal lines. Lacrosse could become a game of friendly rivalry rather than remain “the little brother of war.”

  Would anyone listen to him? He wasn’t sure. Broken Trail suspected that some boys did not fully accept the White Oneida. On the other hand, he was the player who had scored the Eagles’ winning goal in the previous match. So maybe they would listen.

  To improve his chance of success, he needed Mr. Johnson’s support. Not only did all the scholars, Algonkian and Haudenosaunee, respect him, but he was reputed to have been a first-rate lacrosse player in his day. Just as important, he had grown up native even though his father was white. Mr. Johnson was a reasonable man. Surely he would see the wisdom of Broken Trail’s plan!

  The day before the match, Broken Trail approached him as he was leaving the dining hall with Mr. Sinclair.

  Mr. Sinclair appeared much healthier than he had looked when Broken Trail first arrived at Sedgewick School. The dark shadows under his eyes had faded. His fair skin had lost its pallor and now was lightly tanned.

  When Broken Trail explained his plan, Mr. Sinclair said it was a splendid idea. Although Broken Trail was pleased to have his approval, it was Mr. Johnson’s that he needed. But Mr. Johnson frowned. “Your arguments reach my head but not my heart. I like the way we play the game.”

  “The idea has merit,” Mr. Sinclair protested.

  Mr. Johnson shrugged. “Do you think so? All right. I’ll give him a chance.” He turned to Broken Trail. “Tomorrow, before the game begins, I’ll announce that you have something to say. You won’t have a feather to hold while you speak. You may be interrupted. I’m warning you, your proposal will make you more enemies than friends.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” said Broken Trail.

  The weather was perfect on the day of the match. Only a few clouds drifted in the blue sky. All the players had assembled on the grassy field.

  Mr. Johnson was holding the lacrosse ball. Instead of throwing the ball aloft to start the game, he announced, “Before we begin, Moses has something to say.”

  The boys looked at each other. Broken Trail heard a couple of protests.

  “We don’t want to hear a speech.”

  “We just want to play.”

  Broken Trail raised his hand shoulder-high as he began, just as a chief would do before addressing the council of warriors.

  “Brothers, in the old days many of our nations were enemies. We took scalps. We raided villages. We stole corn. When the white men came, some tribes allied themselves with the French and others with the English because we thought these alliances would make us stronger. But they only made us weaker.”

  He heard encouraging grunts of agreement. “It is so.”

  “To make ourselves strong again, we must put aside the old hatreds and stand together. Our sachems and war chiefs have buried the tomahawk. It grieves me to see young warriors dig it up again, and that is what we do when we pit Haudenosaunee against Algonkian in lacrosse. I propose that we end this practice. Let there be players from both peoples on each side. I have spoken.”

  When he looked around, he saw a scowl on every face.

  Jacob spoke coldly. “We’ve never done that.”

  “And never will,” said Abraham.

  Broken Trail’s heart sank. These were his friends. If they would not consider his proposal, no one else was likely to.

  He looked around. “Will any of you try it?”

  Forty-five heads shook in unison.

  “Then I must take the lead and do it on my own. I’m going to play for the Shooting Stars … if they will have me.”

  “That’s not fair!” one boy shouted. He was a Seneca on the Eagles team. “They have Abraham back. If you play for the Shooting Stars, we have no chance.”

  Someone jeered. “You weren’t even born Oneida. You’ve changed sides once. It’s easy for you to do it again.”

  That hurt.

  Jacob said, “What’s the point of a contest if it isn’t us against them. Be sensible, Moses. The Eagles need you.”

  Broken Trail shook his head. “Unless I play for the Shooting Stars, I’m not going to play.”

  Then the chanting began from the Eagles’ side. “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!” When a few war whoops were thrown in, Broken Trail felt he had made a great mistake.

  “You can play for us,” called out John, the skinny Mississauga who was the Shooting Stars best scorer after Abraham.

  “Glad to have you with us, Moses,” added Henry, the foxy Ottawa.

  “So it’s just me? Am I the only one who’ll try it?”

  An Eagle shouted, “You’re the only one fool enough.”

  Mr. Johnson stepped forward. “Drop out of the match, Moses. This has gone too far.”

  Broken Trail shook his head. He had taken a stand. Too late to bac
k out now even if he wanted to—which he did not.

  Then Abraham’s voice rang out. “If Moses plays for the Shooting Stars, I’m going to play for the Eagles.”

  Broken Trail waited for hoots and war cries. Not a sound. The air felt charged, as it does before the first thunderclap of a violent storm.

  CHAPTER 18

  Rematch

  ABRAHAM MOVED out from the crowd of Algonkian players to join Broken Trail in the open space between the huddled teams. Without a word, he untied the red streamer from his stick. Copying his action, Broken Trail took off the black streamer from his. They traded streamers. Each tied the new colour to his racquet.

  Broken Trail raised his racquet high in the air. Abraham did the same. In a salute that needed no words, each struck the head of the other’s stick with the head of his own. There was an audible click that made the stillness more profound.

  Mr. Johnson broke the silence. “When Moses told me his idea, I didn’t think much of it. But I’m starting to reconsider. If we make the change he wants, we’ll lose something. For me, it will be the excitement that comes from the old rivalry. But maybe we’ll gain more than we’ll lose. With mixed teams, we’ll feel more like brothers than rivals. And now that I think about it, that’s what we need if we’re ever going to stand shoulder to shoulder to defend our lands. I heard some of you taunting Moses and calling him a traitor. He’s no traitor. Moses is showing us a new kind of loyalty, because it’s loyalty to all the nations of our people.”

  Some of the players scowled. Others looked around, as if searching others’ faces for a clue as to what they were thinking.

  “All right,” said Mr. Johnson. “You know the rules. Let’s begin.”

  He threw the ball.

  Sticks clashed in the air. Abraham had the ball in his net, tossing it to an Eagle who was in the clear. The pack of Shooting Stars tore after him, brought the Eagle down. Broken Trail dove into the scrum. The ball vanished. It was somewhere on the ground. Boys shovelled with their sticks, trying to find it. Then a short, bowlegged Shooting Star spurted out from the scrum. He had the ball, and he was racing for the red target on the tree that was the Eagles’ goal.

  Abraham’s long strides caught up with him; he whacked the boy’s stick so that the ball flipped out from the netting, landing on the ground. Broken Trail scrambled for it as it rolled. So did the whole Shooting Stars team. John picked up the ball, flipped it to Broken Trail. He hurled it to Edward, but an Eagle caught it.

  Before the Eagle could take a step, Henry’s stick was between his legs. Broken Trail saw the foul. Others saw it too. In an instant, racquets became weapons. Players batted each other about the ears. Then Samuel broke free. He had the ball, and he was streaking across the field toward the Shooting Star goal. Broken Trail heard the sharp smack that meant the hard wooden ball had found its mark.

  One point for the Six Nations Eagles.

  Play began again. Abraham nabbed a ball that flew too high for anyone else, tossed it to Jacob. They lobbed it back and forth, advancing closer and closer to the Shooting Star’s goal tree. Broken Trail tried to get between them. Big William blocked his view. He whirled about, trying to locate the ball.

  Something slammed the back of his head. He staggered. Everything went black.

  The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back looking up at a small fluffy cloud. There was a raging pain in his skull.

  He heard shouting. Many voices shouting and cheering. He couldn’t remember which end of the field was which. It sounded as if the match was over. Either the Eagles or the Shooting Stars had won. It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was the way his head hurt. It was the worst pain he had ever felt. If he could get up, he would go to the cabin and rest. He closed his eyes.

  The next thing Broken Trail knew, he was lying on his bed. He blinked and looked around. There was Peter sitting on the side of his own bed, watching him.

  Broken Trail’s head seemed oddly heavy. When he reached up to touch it, he found a mass of bandages that had the same feel as a linsey-woolsey shirt.

  “How are you?” Peter asked.

  “My head hurts.”

  “The ball hit your head. It cracked your skull. You got in the way of a pass from Jacob to Abraham. You dropped like a stone.” He paused. “The Eagles won.”

  “Good.”

  “You were playing for the Shooting Stars.”

  “So I was. Who scored?”

  “First Samuel, for the Eagles.”

  “I saw that.”

  “Then John for the Shooting Stars. Abraham scored the winning goal for the Eagles.”

  “Was there any fighting?”

  “Only the brawl after Henry tripped the Eagle who had the ball.”

  “I mean, after the match.”

  “None at all. The Eagles lifted Abraham on their shoulders and carried him around the field while the Shooting Stars just stood there and looked sad. Then one of them helped me carry you here. Mr. Johnson said it was all right not to take you to the infirmary. He knows I can look after you. He told Mrs. Greene, and she gave us an old shirt to rip up for bandages. Margaret knows, too. She’s making you some willow-bark tea for pain.”

  “That’s good. My head hurts a lot.” He looked around the cabin again. “Where is everybody?”

  “Dining hall. Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Are you sure there was no fighting?”

  “There was no fighting.”

  “I think I’ll get some sleep.”

  “That’s the best cure.”

  Broken Trail closed his eyes. After a few moments he heard a page turn. Peter must be reading his Bible.

  Then there was a knock at the door. Peter’s footsteps crossed the plank floor. The door opened and closed. Another set of footsteps joined Peter’s.

  Broken Trail opened his eyes. There was Margaret holding a pitcher in one hand and a tin cup in the other.

  “Se-go-li,” she said. “I’m sorry you were hurt. I’ve been talking to Jacob. He didn’t mean his shot to hit your head, even if you were playing for the Algonkians.”

  With Peter’s help, Broken Trail hoisted himself onto one elbow. Margaret filled the cup and held it so his lips. He drank it slowly.

  “Thank you.” He lay back down and closed his eyes. “When I was thirteen, my oki came to me in a vision. It told me I was going to be a leader.”

  “Shush. Don’t talk. You need to rest.”

  He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. “But I want you to understand. Today was my first attempt to be a leader. I was trying to heal old wounds, but all I got for it was a cracked skull.”

  “It will heal.”

  “But I failed.”

  “No, you didn’t. Everybody’s talking about you. They’re saying it’s a brave thing you did today.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now, have some more willow tea. You’ll feel better.”

  Margaret left when the rest of his cabin mates returned from the dining hall. Soon Broken Trail fell asleep, feeling happier than anyone with a cracked skull had a right to feel.

  CHAPTER 19

  Summons to Brant’s Ford

  THE NEXT DAY Mr. Sinclair paid a visit. He rapped on the door, and when Broken Trail called, “Come in!” he entered cautiously, looking around as if unsure what he was doing there. No one else was in the cabin.

  Broken Trail sat up slowly, surprised by the teacher’s presence and uncertain how to greet him.

  “How are you feeling?” Mr. Sinclair asked.

  “Much better.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Broken Trail lifted his hand to indicate Peter’s bed, which was next to his.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Sinclair sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. “Would you like a molasses candy? My mother sends them to me from New Haven.”

  Broken Trail thanked him, acce
pted the candy, and popped it into his mouth.

  Mr. Sinclair looked as if he had something he wanted to say but did not know how to start. Finally he began. “You and I have both taken a beating. Mine did me some good. I should have thanked you sooner for rescuing me. You and Abraham.”

  “No thanks needed.”

  “It took something like that to wake me up. I nearly lost my position. President Webber could have dismissed me. The last thing he needs is a teacher addicted to gambling.” He put the bag of candies back in his pocket. “The wealthy man who provides most of the money for running Sedgewick School is addicted to righteousness.” He paused. “Addicted may not be the right word, but it’s close enough. Mr. Theophilus Richter. He lives in Boston. If a whiff of scandal reached him, he’d never spend another penny on this school.”

  “I see.” Broken Trail stared at Mr. Sinclair, suddenly alert with the thought that he had learned something important.

  Mr. Sinclair stood up. “I won’t stay any longer. You need to rest. I wanted to thank you, and I wanted to say that you showed real leadership yesterday.”

  He walked to the door, and when he had his hand on the latch, he turned. “As for me, I had to hit rock bottom before I could bounce back up. Rock bottom was the beating I took on my way back from Wickham. That was the last time I’ll ever play cards.”

  “Can’t you play cards without playing for money?”

  “Some can. I’m not sure I’m one of them. Anyway, I’ve signed a pledge never again to enter the door of Wickham Inn.”

  When Mr. Sinclair had gone, Broken Trail lay back down. He should not have been sitting up for so long, for now his head hurt badly. It was hard to think with such pain. But it did not stop him from mulling over what he had just learned. About President Webber. About the school.

  Peter was an excellent doctor. Margaret came each afternoon with freshly steeped willow-bark tea. Jacob took Dark Cloud for a gallop every day. Samuel brought food. Broken Trail showed such progress in learning Mohican that Abraham tripled the number of words for him to learn each day. Only Edward gave mean looks.