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

by Roy F. Chandler

  "I doubt you'll change many, Blue. Still, your words may keep some from grasping the hatchet, and deeper in, the nations' thinking may be different."

  "We must go next to Thayendanega. His voice may be the best heard within the Iroquois league. If he can be swayed . . ."

  "Agreed, but let's call him Joseph Brant. Even his own Mohawk usually call him that."

  "We can speak English with Brant. We do not have the Mohawk tongue, and sign language is too often limited."

  Blue Moccasin considered for a moment. "Along our way we can build good will. As the cold and hard Quehana, you remind of war's dangers. Yet, today you showed your other side and drew the people to you. That was good Quehana."

  "I'm not wrestling every young buck that stamps his feet and snorts through his nose."

  Rob stretched arms and shoulders. "I'll likely get stiff from today. I'm not as young as I used to be."

  "It was good to see, Quehana. Your surprise at being jerked into the river was believable."

  "Perhaps, but you knew what I was going to do."

  "We have long been friends. I know your mind as you know mine."

  "If we are so much alike, Blue, how come you own half a hundred ships and a city full of buildings, while all I've got is a strong house in a big clearing on the edge of nowhere?"

  Cummens chuckled and left their favored Delaware to speak in English.

  "I said you understand me, Rob, not that you were as wise as I am."

  Blue snuggled into his robe listening to his friend's grumbling retorts.

  10 Oquaga

  There was only one path to Oquaga. Although it followed the river's general route, the trail did not include the Susquehanna's windings. The road headed as directly east as the land allowed.

  Between Tioga and Brant's village lay only Otsiningo. This was a traveling path created to allow long distance days; that was how Blue Moccasin and Quehana used it.

  Horses were available, but they were not spirited mounts and could have speeded their journey only a little. Men who knew how to run could light-foot their steady trot without stumbling and wallowing the way horses did on all but the best footing. Unless horses were pushed beyond reason, by day's end, runners were not far behind horsemen.

  Blue Moccasin desired the appearance of a traditional message carrier. Except for Rob's tiny pistol tucked within his pouch and a woven blanket, Blue bore nothing from the white world. His knife was chipped flint, a blade old and famous, whose story would be saved for special occasions. Traveling on foot, at the message carrier's tireless pace, would also enhance his entrances.

  Quehana's clothing was Delaware, but his tools were white. His iron tomahawk balanced the weight of pouch and powder horns. The two- barreled pistol lay in the small of his back. A steel hunting knife with a grip too thick for most hands was also looped to the pistol's belt. Where weight could have bothered many, it was unnoticed by Rob Shatto.

  Rob carried the rifle in either hand, barrel forward, parallel to the ground and hanging at arm's length-so that his bicep did not tire. Unlike most rifle or musket users, Rob fired easily from either shoulder. Quehana had no weaker side.

  It was true that their blankets were blue cloth, white men's cloth, but the blanket had been accepted by the tribes for many generations and was never perceived as unnatural. The Indian and his blanket had become one.

  In late afternoon, a rider passed them making certain their arrival in Otsiningo would be announced.

  Blue dropped to a walk. "My legs have turned to bread dough."

  "So, we will walk a while. Talk softly and watchers will believe we have slowed to share great secrets."

  "There are no watchers. Who would be watching and for what?"

  "That's your trouble, Blue. You don't listen for woods spirits and forest nymphs."

  Blue snorted. "Neither do you, Quehana."

  "We will stop at Otsiningo?"

  "They will expect it, and by then you may have to carry me. Whew, I grow older."

  Rob was short with his friend. "Blue, you've only been back at it a long month. We've already run further than most could, and you will manage the rest of the way. Why, in a few weeks you will fly through the woods, and I'll likely have to struggle to keep up."

  Blue groaned but was obviously pleased by Rob's support. "You never tire, Shatto. You and the Warrior-no other big men could really run."

  "The Warrior's Blackhawk could."

  Blue mused on it. "I would like to have known him, Quehana. The Warrior spoke of him as an equal, and only Blackhawk gained that recognition."

  Blue broke into a trot and called back over his shoulder. "You have rested long enough, Quehana. Try to keep up the rest of the way."

  Rob's answer was sardonic. "I will try, oh fleet of foot."

  Then, "I notice that you begin running on a long downhill. Clever is Blue Moccasin, windbag of the Delaware nation."

  +++

  They made camp outside the village, and Blue Moccasin prepared his entrance as carefully as though Otsiningo had been their real objective.

  "All must be treated with respect, Quehana. Who can tell which words will catch fire?"

  "I am not wrestling."

  "Be Quehana, the Arrowmaker, a man not to be messed with."

  "God, Blue, that isn't Indian talk at all."

  "That was for you. At the council I will sing of Quehana the killer of enemies and, of course, the conqueror of the mighty Buffalo."

  "Forget the last or there will be more young braves pawing the ground-and I am not wrestling."

  "I will save the story to amuse children."

  "Forget the story. It isn't interesting, anyway."

  "When I tell it, Quehana's part will tear a great flap from the Buffalo's back, and the power of Quehana will hurl the Buffalo to the center of the river. Then, Quehana will leap into the raging current to save Buffalo from drowning."

  "Nobody will believe that. I think I will stay in camp."

  "You are needed, oh killer. Don your face of death and add weight to my words."

  As they left their camp, Rob said, "You know, Blue, the more I consider your description of wrestling Buffalo, the more I believe you have it exactly right.

  "I'm for telling them that version."

  Blue did not reply.

  +++

  Again, the message of Blue Moccasin met unease and uncomfortable shuffling. Truly, the time was late. Minds had set.

  But Brant had been raised among whites and had attended white schools. Brant should understand. He surely could reason beyond the hot emotions to recognize the horrors that lay within the warpath.

  Before true dawn, the travelers took the path and ran swiftly the few miles to Oquaga.

  Oquaga was small, but it resembled a white village within the Bay colony. They were directed along a tree-lined street bordered by comfortable homes. Brant's house was boarded and shingled.

  Joseph Brant, the full-blooded Mohawk war chief, greeted his visitors with a white handshake and English words. No councils met, and Blue Moccasin had made no formal entrance.

  A smaller town, still being built, Oquaga was one of the Mohawks' southern villages. Driven from eastern holdings, powerful Mohawks chose to create villages in the English manner. They husbanded cattle and raised chickens, but the Mohawk heart burned with fury at never-ending insult and aggression by white neighbors.

  As the easternmost of the Iroquois tribes, the Mohawk had suffered longest from white insolence. Their rage sparked the fires that now scorched the souls of all six nations.

  Joseph Brant did not present an imposing figure. Of average stature and Caucasian-like features, his body appeared soft and ill conditioned. Yet, his handshake was strong and his words direct.

  "Let us sit on my porch and discuss plainly the things you wish to say. You come to a war chief of the Mohawk to speak of peace. Your task will be difficult, Blue Moccasin."

  Blue answered, "You are a war chief and a Mohawk, Joseph, but you und
erstand whites. You know their numbers, and you have experienced their determination to seek and settle on land. They will buy it, steal it, or simply squat on land until the true owner gives up in despair. Where one white plants, others will also. They are more numerous than lice, and new shiploads land daily.

  "You know these things, Joseph Brant. How can you counsel your people to fight them?"

  There was respect in Brant's voice. "Unlike many who prattle for peace, you are not a mincer of words, Blue Moccasin. I am sure that in council you speak in story and example. So do I. Here, I am pleased to avoid time wasters. So, let me also be direct.

  "The best of the Mohawk land has been taken. White farmers claim the earth where our fathers lie. To us they deny even the right to visit the graves on which they pasture their cattle. I can pass among whites for I speak the language and know the manners. For most of the Mohawk nation to encounter whites is to be cursed, reviled, and spat upon. Even I, a leader of Mohawks, cannot comfortably live among whites. I flee to this place as though my skin were a curse-to feel free and whole with pride and spirit.

  "These things you, Blue Moccasin, and you, Quehana, know to be true."

  Before he continued, Brant rose, then stepped from the porch so that his eyes remained level with those of his seated guests.

  "Again whites fight each other. Once French fought English. Now English fight among themselves. We must choose a side. To remain neutral would leave us accused by the winner. 'Why,' they would ask, 'did the Iroquois not help?' Their mercy or understanding would be no more than if we had fought them.

  "But, if we can win back our beloved land and be one with the victors. Then, Blue Moccasin, our claims will be strong.

  "We now know much about whites that we did not understand before. We, too, can bargain, threaten, and enact laws. This time, we will be wiser, and we can win."

  Before Blue Moccasin could speak, Quehana joined the discussion.

  "Your reasoning is deep, Joseph. The scenes that you paint stir the soul. In them appear attainable goals with results worth battle and death.

  "Unfortunately, your vision is flawed, and I will describe the errors.

  "If war parties attack whites, they will win victories because most whites are farmers and poor warriors. Your raids will press the whites back upon other whites until their numbers present a wall-against which your raiders will be forced to fling themselves. No longer will there be the concealment of the forest, nor will the isolated cabin bring easy victory.

  "Instead, warriors will die in increasing numbers, for whites will fight desperately, as will all cornered animals-to their deaths.

  "The fighting months will pass, and winter will force the war parties back to their villages. There will be no peace offerings from the whites because their fury will be great and their planning will become long.

  "During the cold months, the whites will organize, and trained soldiers will march in the spring. Soldiers, too, will die from your ambushes, but if you face them in open battle, your losses will be severe. More whites will replenish their armies, but the Iroquois have no endless reserves.

  "By harvest, the white armies will be among your villages. Your families will flee, and your crops and cattle will feed soldiers. The Iroquois will starve in the winter and many will die. If you come again in the spring, the white armies will march on all that you have left. There will be no Iroquois villages left standing.

  "That will not be the end, Thayendanegea. White soldiers will have seen the richness of your fields, and they will know the paths and valleys to reach them. Their hunger for such land will bring them back, and settlers will swarm like termites in the rotting log of the once great Iroquois nation."

  Brant's eyes were cold, his jaw tight with controlled anger. Yet his voice remained calm, and his argument strong.

  "If we fight, we will choose the English king. The king will provide our guns and our powder. If we grow hungry, his grain will be given to us.

  "You have neglected the most important point Quehana. Remember that the Iroquois will march beside the armies of the king. White soldiers will fight other whites. The Iroquois will be as wolves chewing the hamstrings of our enemies."

  For a moment, Brant stalked stiff-legged, anger raised by Rob's predictions still rankling.

  "I, too, understand whites, Quehana. Those being attacked will beg for peace. Those beyond our reach will be only annoyed by their people's screechings and demands. Those who are safe will not risk their lives or fortunes. No monies will be collected, and no rebel forces will organize to invade us. Washington's army barely exists. He has no gun factories. His soldiers are untrained rabble. He has no supplies and no gold to purchase what he already needs.

  "Perhaps two summers will be needed to discourage our enemies. Then, the sides will talk. We will demand that the old boundaries be observed and that Iroquois law remain the only law on our lands. The whites will agree. Why would they not? It is a just request, and they will gain the peace they so value."

  Blue Moccasin had listened closely, holding his thoughts, attempting to weigh the forces that closed Joseph Brant's mind to understanding.

  He asked, "Is your hatred so strong, Joseph, that you would see your people suffer and die-risk even their complete destruction?"

  Again Brant bristled angrily. "My hatred is for theft, murder, and insult, all of which we suffer. Since my grandfather's time, the Mohawk have been puked upon. This is our opportunity. It may be our only chance to seal our borders against the whites."

  Blue Moccasin answered sharply. "You speak of diplomacy and great missions for your people, Joseph, but I sense in you a hunger to finger the hatchet. Vengeance is in your voice, Thayendanagea, and it twists your reasoning.

  "I also know whites, far closer and better than either you or Quehana, who live only at the edges of the white world. I say your plan cannot succeed. We argue numbers and describe campaigns, but in the end, the Iroquois will suffer by joining the fighting.

  "My message is simple, Joseph. Keep your people free of this war. Use the time to develop border villages. Plant every field and clearing, and stock every pasture tight against the whites. Offer the palm to soothe the fears of whites. Make them trust the Iroquois. Have them know the Iroquois as they really are, not as a black cloud continually threatening devastation by tomahawk and lance."

  As quickly as he had angered, Brant seemed to cool. He again sat on his porch and this time leaned comfortably, clasping his hands around a bent knee. He examined his visitors almost quizzically and turned the discussion.

  "There is strangeness here that intrigues me. I am Thayendanegea, a full Mohawk, who prefers his white name.

  "Here is Blue Moccasin, half white, of the Delaware, not even an Iroquois. Among whites he is called James Cummens and is wealthy even by English standards.

  "Then, there is Quehana, famed for arrowpoints and named by The Warrior. At this moment, I cannot recall your English name, and I do not know your tribe."

  Rob responded easily. "My name is Rob Shatto. I am mixture of Scotch, German, and English-I think. My adopted tribe is also the Delaware."

  Brant was further amused. "So, Quehana, who looks more Indian than either of us, is all white. Blue Moccasin with blue eyes, seeks to advise as a counselor for both his Delaware and his white sides. While I, the full blood, sit on the porch of a white man's house and speak of military campaigns and European-type diplomacy.

  "We speak in English because it is our only common tongue. We seek the best for our people, and we are sincere in our opinions. I believe these things to be true."

  His listeners nodded agreement.

  Brant leaned forward intently. "How the nations will choose we cannot say, but soon it will be decided. Sir William Johnson at Niagara promises many things. Colonel John Butler's rangers may already be marching.

  "I have no fear of the song of Blue Moccasin. His thoughts are not mine, but they are honest and should be heard.

  "To be heard, they
must be spoken at the greater councils. Among the Mohawk, my voice will drown the music of Blue Moccasin. Perhaps Blue Moccasin will do better among the Tuscarora, but the Cayuga and the Seneca already soften their paint and shave their scalp locks.

  "This moon, great chiefs gather at Shequaga. There, at our sacred fire, the words of Blue Moccasin can reach all. I will not attend, for I have another task. If you have honey to drip, do it then, Blue Moccasin. That council may decide important things.

  "Those are the words of Thayendanegea.

  "I suggest that you travel swiftly, for the flames you hope to dampen are spreading quickly."

  Brant paused before addressing a final point. "If the nations choose to fight, Blue Moccasin, with which half of yourself will you stand?"

  "And you, Quehana, will you choose Iroquois or white?

  "Not only Joseph Brant must face difficult decisions."

  11 Butler

  Like a pointer, the Seneca Lake thrust southward providing swift canoe passage and a natural trading route. Along the lake lay three villages. Kanadasaga, the most northern was the home of Seneca chiefs. Cashong was south along the western shore, and Shequaga protected the southern tip of the finger-shaped water.

  Conveniently reached from many points, Shequaga had been chosen for spring rallying of Iroquois leadership. At council, handsome speeches on many subjects would be presented. Difficulties between tribes or clans would be smoothed, opinion would be exchanged on small issues, and debates over great principles and directions would be chewed until thoroughly digested.

  This season, war talk would dominate. The English pressed for their Iroquois brothers to raise hatchets against those who rebelled against the king. Many of the rebellious were frontier settlers who agitated along the Iroquois borders. Therefore, dealing harshly with such annoyance held special appeal.

  The Iroquois had been long without war. Among the young braves, battles were only tales, never experienced, always to be envied. Within the young, blood ran hot; indeed, only respect for the elders reined them. New warrior societies formed to dance, flourish weapons, and boast of mighty coup only moons away.