Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  After a decent spell, the Indians rose to depart. They had asked about the trails north, but the settler had little to offer. There was only one trail, and it was not what it had been-with the Indians not using it much anymore.

  Hornsock had never gone more than a few kilometers beyond his place. Woods were woods, and as far as he could see, were not much different here than in Baden Wortemburg.

  Hornsock was able to report that few groups had passed with no whites among them. He could not read satisfaction or regret in his visitors' dark countenances. Stone-faced, all of them.

  Easily balancing his rifle and the small child, the big Indian had risen with a silky power that caught Hornsock's eye. Himself a strong man, the settler felt suddenly smaller and whole lot weaker. The brave held the sleeping child to the mother, and without waking, it settled naturally into familiar arms.

  The Delaware left at a trot, the white family watching them go. The two ran with extraordinary ease, their bodies seeming to glide without the up and down chopping motion whites used. Knees rose a bit higher than usual, Hornsock observed. Probably to keep feet clear of forest obstacles. They ran as though there was a ceiling a few centimeters above their heads. The result was a smooth, effortless-appearing sort of slide that saved strength and allowed pouches, horns, or knives to ride easily.

  Impressive, the German thought, and for a time imagined how a column of painted warriors would slip silently across miles of forested valley to . . . he shook off the envisioning.

  Those only heard-about days were gone. Gone for good, Hornsock had been assured-even before leaving Philadelphia. Infrequent reports of massacre or uprisings on the western frontier were shrugged off as no more probable than drink crazed white men performing equally barbarous acts.

  Observing Indians closer to hand tended to be worrisome. If they chose to . . . Hornsock was more comfortable not thinking about it.

  +++

  A mile north, Blue Moccasin slowed to a walk, and Quehana came up beside him.

  "Well, they had no doubts we were genuine wild Indians."

  Rob spat aside, "What else would settlers believe, Blue? They've likely seen only a few of The People anyway. You notice that your forked stick meant nothing to them? Keep that in mind. Times have changed."

  They spoke in Delaware, as they had since leaving the Little Buffalo days before. The return of Blue Moccasin and Quehana to the tribes would be as complete as they could make it.

  Each bore a sleeping robe with a few items rolled within. The packs had been left in the forest before entering the settler's clearing.

  "Hornsock didn't have a weapon handy, Blue. Hell, he's halfway between Tioga and us and acts as if he was at Market and Broad in Philadelphia."

  "Most are like that, Quehana. They are why we travel north."

  "Well, we'll know more on our way back, and I intend scaring the lights out of everyone we can find. There won't be anyone else to warn 'em Blue, so we had better plan on doing it."

  "Tim Murphy has gone to the army, Quehana. Who is at his place?"

  "His father-in-law and the women and children. They're armed heavily and plan to defend one cabin, but we'll make a special point of talking serious to them on our way out."

  Blue shook his head in discouragement. "A war party would hardly slow in taking most of these scalps. A serious raid would slide south as easily as a hot ramrod through lard."

  Rob waited silently for a few strides. "You know, Blue, a point we-meaning you-ought to hammer home at the councils is that even if raids slaughter every last one of these settlers, others will be in within the year and a pack of people more besides."

  Blue agreed. "That should be plain because it has happened in every war for the last century, but hot minds reason little, Quehana. Few choose to remember. Old Wars are like ancient pain. The agony is somehow forgotten-until the next time.

  7 Esther's Town

  The Towanda trail had proven a trial. From where the West Branch of the Susquehanna truly turned westward, the ancient trail worried across ridges and through valleys ravaged by fire. Where forest had burned, young growth flourished, and travelers beat their way through barely penetrable thickets. In some hollows, giant winds had torn loose trees and tossed them like straws. Other blow-downs lay in windrows overgrown with sprouts that intertwined among green briars and thorn bushes.

  Heat again smote the pair, and Quehana claimed to believe that the Great Spirit continued to warn Blue Moccasin that his quest was pointless.

  Blue answered, "As I recall, Quehana, it was you who suggested the Towanda as a short cut. I would have followed the river and enjoyed a broad road and friendly white communities."

  "And you'd still be speaking English and sitting in a chair fifty miles south of here. This work will sweat the white stink out of you and loosen your strings so you can squat and sit like one of The People."

  "All Indians do not squat, Quehana. Many chiefs have attended white schools. Some are Christians and sing loudly from their pews."

  "More don't."

  "Joseph Brant is an educated man."

  "Brant is a Mohawk war chief. When no one is looking, he sits on his blanket with his legs crossed."

  Blue shifted his thoughts to Joseph Brant.

  "Thayendanegea will be hard to sway, Quehana. The Mohawk have been pushed from their land and insulted in a thousand ways. Brant is a fire-eater and would like nothing better than to scalp clear to the Hudson."

  "I hear Brant has a place over at Ocuaga on the Susquehanna's North Branch. You planning on trotting that way?"

  "Of course, the Mohawk are restless."

  "As sour as the Seneca? I haven't seen a smile on a Seneca in years. Their medicine men and shamans stir them constantly. They're probably aching to bust south from Tioga."

  Esther Montour's village is Seneca. We can judge their mood in Esther's town."

  Rob was doubtful. "Madam Montour may stand high in council, but she's butterfly-minded, Blue. Woman can't decide whether to stay Indian or go white. One season she runs out all the missionaries, the next she's preaching alongside of them. Wonder how she'll jump if real fighting starts?"

  "Esther will probably strip down, slap on paint, and be first down the war trail."

  "See, you think she's crazy, too, Blue."

  When the trail returned to the Susquehanna, traveling became the finest. A thousand generations of buffalo had beaten a passage wide enough for wagons, and in places the beaten-in path lay almost hip deep below the surrounding ground. The buffalo were gone, but their great path remained.

  Indian picture writing marked trees along the way. Some messages were brightly painted. Blue Moccasin chose to add his own.

  Blue selected a beech that caught the eye with its size. Using Rob's tomahawk, he hatcheted away a two foot square of bark by chopping an outline and peeling the bark free. The bark was discarded.

  "This isn't the season to leave a mark, Blue. Rob said, "Sap will run over your writing."

  "It will last for a year. After that it will not matter."

  Blue carved and painted in his designs. A line of blue moccasin prints led to a north star, showing who traveled where. A bird flew with a feather in its beak, an accepted peace sign. Broken arrows lay crushed beneath a blue moccasin, clinching the picture's message.

  Blue stood back to admire his work.

  Rob approved.

  "That's as clear as words, Blue. I'd not have done as well. Maybe you should stay out here and get known as the tree painter to hire."

  Then Rob said, "How come I'm not in the painting?"

  "I'll add you when your fighting record is close behind The Warrior's. By winter, Quehana's name will ring through the nations."

  "Quehana is not fighting, Moccasin, and he hangs around this woods only during this spring. Quehana lives on the Little Buffalo, and that's where he will be before the corn is hip high-and don't you forget it!"

  Queen Esther's town lay on the west side of the Susquehanna. The
land was flat with many nut trees. Fields surrounded the village, and all seemed planted. Corn was neatly rowed, and weeds were notable by their absence. In some fields, ranks of squaws and children tended the crops, plucking free everything undesirable.

  Rob said, "By damn, Blue, these farms make most white patches look abandoned."

  Blue Moccasin agreed.

  "Many hands work these crops. Ancestors planted here since before memory. Fish and animal remains are used to sweeten the soil. If a field produces weakly, rotted forest humus is spread and hoed in. Then the field lies fallow until it has rested and regained strength.

  "Few white settlers bother with any of that."

  "Yet, whites believe the Indian lives on deer and turkeys. Few will ever see the wealth of a permanent village."

  "I can remember when Aughwich looked like this. All gone now."

  "The same is true of Kittanning. Robert Robinson has always exclaimed that he had never seen the equal of the corn raised in those fields. The crops at Kittanning were destroyed, and the village never rose again."

  The travelers were noted, and a boy ran swiftly to announce their approach.

  Blue Moccasin turned aside at a small rivulet and prepared his entrance. He washed and donned fresh, brightly dyed moccasins with Flat's clever and delicate Delaware markings. From his paints, Blue chose colors, and Rob drew owl eyes on his friend's chest. The owl was wise, as would be the sign's wearer.

  A feather was hung from an arm of the message carrier's forked stick to show peace. On Blue's right shoulder blade, Rob drew an oval with a hair roach. One half the oval was painted black, the other white. A pair of slits denoted eyes and there, on the body of Blue Moccasin, glowed the cruel visage of The Warrior, most powerful of Iroquois killers, friend and confidante of this message carrier.

  When he had finished, Quehana carefully examined his charge. He grunted satisfaction. "All right, Blue. Except for your braids being a mite short, you are ready."

  Rob hesitated before again nodding in approval. "I've got to admit that I'm going to enjoy sitting in council and hearing the brave stories. It's been a long time, and I've missed it."

  Rob cleared his throat roughly, "I'll tell you, whether we convince anyone or change a single mind, the doing's been finest up to now and promises to be getting better. I am glad I came, Blue."

  James Cummens, merchant, known also as Blue Moccasin, Delaware message carrier, smiled an easy appreciation. He could feel the old excitement building. His pulse raced, and his eyes sparkled. Haughtily, his chin rose, and he sighted down his nose.

  "That is good, Quehana. Carry our packs and attempt to look powerful and certain. Do not crowd my footsteps, but do not lag."

  Rob desired to spit.

  Blue Moccasin turned toward the village of Madam Esther Montour and squared his shoulders. He leaned into an easy run, a hand tapping lightly the small finger drum secured at his waist. His right fist gripped the forked stick, holding it high, like a talisman of the gods.

  +++

  Esther's Town had changed since Rob Shatto had first seen it long years past. Once the village had been only bark or skin lodges, positioned about a small longhouse of Onondaga styling. There were still lodges and the single longhouse, but now solid wooden homes lined a street, and the counseling place before the longhouse was ringed by log cabins.

  Esther's home boasted a broad puncheon porch with a split-shingle roof. Esther also had a glass window, and her door swung on iron hinges.

  In earlier times, an immense maple had shaded the fire circle. The tree was gone, but its stump, a full four feet across, had been adzed flat to provide a permanent seat, table, or speaker's platform. There the village assembled to listen to the news brought by the carrier, Blue Moccasin.

  Stick held high, Blue Moccasin passed through a lane of villagers that immediately closed behind him. Men crowded the inner-circle, while behind them, women jostled for closer positions.

  Rob fell aside to drop their packs on Queen Esther's porch. Then, he stood quietly. This was Blue Moccasin's moment, and he could add little to it.

  Rob placed the brass butt plate of his longrifle between his feet and stood tall, settling his features into implacable lines. Stern must be Quehana, that all would accept the importance of his presence.

  +++

  Blue presented himself to Esther Montour with his most courtly English leg. Queen Esther accepted his homage before extending a hand for shaking in the more American manner. She pumped Blue Moccasin's arm with manly vigor, including an open smile of welcome that announced her pleasure in the famed message carrier's visit.

  With Esther's example, other severe faces cracked and women's voices began their inevitable chatter. Old acquaintances stepped forward to greet the messenger so long absent many had suspected him dead.

  Blue Moccasin's memory for names absolutely dumbfounded, Rob Shatto. Not only names but instances of insignificance were recalled as though they were only days past. Men bobbed heads and slapped their ribs in remembering happenings even they had not considered in years. Squaws clucked in excitement, and older children tried to digest what was happening, for clearly this arrival was special.

  When he could, Blue bounded onto the flat maple stump so that he could be seen and heard more clearly. His teeth shown in open merriment, and his eyes crinkled in pleased amusement.

  Watching from beyond the gathering, Rob Shatto could sense his friend's oneness with The People. Truly, whites had nothing like this. Without writing, the spoken word was the Indians' lifeblood.

  Word and hand motions passed along the incidents of life. Only the messenger could make-real the momentous happenings. Even the histories were recorded only by the livings' voices and memories. In recent times, with continual unrest, and breaking of ancient traditions, few message carriers touched prominence, and most were only runners from one village to the next.

  But Blue Moccasin-his presence floated among the names of figures legendary beyond comparing with those who now lead, fought, or hunted. Now he, perhaps the last of the great carriers, stood before their village and prepared to speak.

  The gathering quieted, and even the dogs appeared to cock heads expectantly.

  Atop his stump, Blue Moccasin experienced a surge of love for his people. He felt again a youth, bright with his own importance, liquid of tongue, thoughts darting and flowing-more thoughts than he could use.

  He could mesmerize as he once had. He could bend and sway opinions as he had a thousand times before. He could amuse and entertain, inform and teach. He knew he could.

  A sense of power, a hundred times greater than that of ship and warehouse owner ballooned in the soul of Blue Moccasin. Blue Moccasin, Delaware of the Turtle Clan, companion of The Warrior, friend of Quehana, knower of a thousand secrets and a hundred thousand tales.

  Through the Iroquois nations his words would resound. They would drown the rush of streams and make small the roar of the bear. Like the mightiest of storms, the song of Blue Moccasin would thunder from Tioga to Kanadasaga, where Seneca chiefs glowered, and to Oquaga to grip the mind of Joseph Brant, war chief of the Mohawk.

  Today, Blue Moccasin would begin. He would touch lightly and stroke gently. Later, the powerful blows would fall and rock the schemes of Iroquois hotheads who would lead their people to death and destruction.

  Blue Moccasin began.

  +++

  Blue Moccasin saw Tugger, first wife of Bees Busy, a hunter known to all. Blue's eyes danced, and his voice rose gleefully as he recognized the woman. He told then how, when still a maiden, Tugger had been chosen by The Warrior to shave his scalp and renew his paint. How the maiden's hands had trembled in fear of error. Yet, The Warrior had found her work good, and the killer of a thousand gave to the maiden, Tugger, a gift of a bound stone for her medicine bag. Did the squaw remember?

  Joyous with memory and proud with recognition, Tugger held aloft her necklace from which a small medicine pouch dangled. Holding meaningful treasures
, the bag helped ward off evil spirits that might lurk too near.

  The words of Blue Moccasin would be remembered in the lodge of Bees Busy by the woman with the strongest influence.

  Blue spoke to others directly. He noted an ancient's proud carriage and expected aloud that the old one's wisdom should be cherished and learned from. The old, Blue was aware, rarely advocated war. It could be hoped that the counsel of elders might sway younger men more violent in attitudes.

  In time, Blue spoke of the whites warring among themselves. He joked that whites always fought, if not with each other, then with neighbors. Without war, Blue speculated, whites might sicken. He supposed that whites disliked themselves so completely that if they did not continually vent their hatred they would devour their own innards.

  The village nodded appreciation of the strangeness of whites. Blue Moccasin advised avoiding involvement in white wrangling, which held no honor and only cheap rewards.

  The messenger's words made thoughts roam, and he spoke of the security and the pleasures of peace without the loss of young men in battles without meaning.

  Some knew Quehana, named by The Warrior, who slew enemies with Quehana's magical arrowpoints. All, however, recognized the name and the stories.

  Stronger than an oak, as large as a great bear, Quehana watched unmoving from eyes colder than winter ice.

  Even when Blue Moccasin spoke of four Shawnee killed and hung from a tree as warning of Quehana's wrath, no change came to the face of the Arrowmaker.

  Women gripped elbows in tension, and men found their jaws tightened. Here stood a killer perhaps as deadly as The Warrior himself. Villages could admire the skills and respect the honor of such giants, but their presence created unease and ruffled the usual village calm.

  When Blue Moccasin had concluded, women went again about their duties. Older men chose Queen Esther's porch. Pipes were lighted, and bodies were allowed to lean comfortably.

  Quehana, too, had softened his spirit and set aside his weapons. He removed pouch and powder horns and placed his long-handled tomahawk across them. As though the tools of battle had contained the harshness of soul, Quehana stretched in comfort and relief, and to the amazement of watching youths, he leaped upward and grasped the edge of Queen Esther's porch roof. He hung straight-armed for a moment, then levered his powerful body in a series of chins that raised his head above the roofline.