Deerfoot's mouth hung like a cave entrance, and the Seneca youth recovered first. With a stricken sob he flung away his bow and arrow. An instant later, he rushed wildly away crashing through the forest like a blinded animal.
Questioning voices rose from other camps, and Blue Moccasin spoke to his companion.
"Call them in, oh Deerfoot." He motioned to his finger drum. "Tap a powerful rhythm and build the story as your mind recalls it. Add richness and flavor to what you remember, and use all of your skills of body and voice. Here young nephew is a tale to be your own. Let it be strong, fill it with mystery, make it a story to be spoken by tellers long after our spirits have risen to the Great Hunting Ground."
Before Deerfoot could call or tap his beginning note, Blue Moccasin added, "Speak not of the Seneca youth. Allow his soul to heal. His lesson has been learned, and he will be grateful that Deerfoot understands his honoring of the old ways."
Blue Moccasin looked for a moment at the collapsed body of the unknown white. As Deerfoot's drum began, Blue drew cleaning and reloading equipment from his pouch and began work on his pistol.
14 First Words
Great councils were often blessed by fine weather. Although a moon of mists and sodden rains might precede a long scheduled gathering and settle again following a meeting, almost invariably the days of council would be as bright as the season permitted. The Great Spirit was often thanked for his gifts of sun and warmth.
The Shequaga council was no exception. The sun rose into a sky without haze, and a slight breeze from the west quickly dried the nightly damps so that men could sit and beyond hearing children could frolic.
Before the sun was fairly seen, every camp, lodge, or house had emptied into the streets to see and comment on the foul killer who had attacked the honored Blue Moccasin and the runner, Deerfoot.
A warrior society had taken charge of the remains. The body had stiffened and was conveniently propped against a fence meant to confine cattle. Observers paraded past the deceased commenting on and fingering the fine musket and excellent knife.
The contents of the assassin's pouch were displayed as though it was important to discover what such a villain would own and carry. There were coins, both horns of powder, a smaller knife, linen cloth for patching, two extra flints, musket balls, and a roll of pemmican. A green blanket that had hung across the dead man's shoulder induced comment. There was already too much green in the woods and fields. Green was not a popular choice.
Amos Brink was recognized. Men recalled him from many places. Some remembered that he had stood close to Colonel John Butler. The warlike bristled at such a speculative association and pointed out that Brink did not wear the forest green uniform of Butler's rangers. They wished the blanket, too, had been another color.
None missed the telling by Deerfoot. Most agreed that the young carrier delivered a stirring description that held listeners and raised goose bumps.
When a group gathered round, Deerfoot tapped the drum of Blue Moccasin and retold the story.
"At the fire of Blue Moccasin, this speaker sat before his teacher and listened as wise students do. We spoke of great principles and dreamed of mighty deeds.
"Then," and Deerfoot's body coiled with tension, as his eyes darted and his head swiveled snake-like in searching, "the sounds of creeping reached the ears of Blue Moccasin. Like a woods rat a cowardly killer slipped closer. The nose of Blue Moccasin filled with the stench of the foolish white who believed he could steal upon one of The People."
In Deerfoot's description, Blue Moccasin allowed the killer within range and toyed with him using clever and humorous words. When the mortified white dared to aim his musket, Blue Moccasin shot with perfect aim, and the white died defeated and humiliated by skills certainly common among those who listened so avidly.
It was good telling that grew richer with repetition. Blue Moccasin evaded most questioners, referring them to Deerfoot, who, he said, had been a calm and objective observer.
A few remembered that Brink had been traveling with a young Seneca, but the companion had not appeared and was believed not to have been involved.
The killing of Brink raised anticipation of Blue Moccasin's appearance before the council. Few denied the obvious; someone had attempted to silence the speaker. The attempt was insult. The attack on a message carrier who displayed his forked stick and even flourished the stick in emphasis was despicable. Words that might have been dismissed would be listened to closely.
+++
Because the weather was fine, the council met in the open. Many speakers preferred the closeness and dim mysteries of inside counseling, but attendance was large, and unlike Onondaga, Shequaga did not have a longhouse large enough to accommodate all who wished to listen.
The meeting began at mid-morning with imaginative introductions and appeals for the Great Spirit's help and interest.
Major figures occupied the medicine circle's front row. Because many were infirm, with stiffening or painful joints, low benches and logs had been provided for sitting. Behind them ranked lesser chiefs, wise counselors, and seers of recognized abilities. Others jostled for position, and a few secured vantage points in branches of nearby trees. The fire, transported from the Iroquois' eternal flame at Onondaga, raised only a tendril of ceremonial smoke. The day would be too warm for log burning.
Blue Moccasin chose a second-row seat opposite the Oneida delegation. If the Iroquois confederacy were to be split, the undecided Oneida would be the wedge. Blue wished to observe the responses of Red Jacket and his advisors.
The Tuscarora, too, appeared to vacillate between war on the British side and neutrality. Latecomers to the confederacy, the Tuscarora were rarely consulted by the five major tribes. The neglect rankled the sixth nation. Blue Moccasin intended to feed their discontent and perhaps further isolate the Tuscarora from the war hungry.
War was the council's subject. Following highly embellished courtesies, every speaker launched into impassioned listings of abuses by whites. Crimes and insults so ancient that grandfathers had spouted them were raised again. New atrocities, serious and petty, real or imagined, were heaped upon the old. Then, each speaker suggested what should be done about them.
No British agents lurked to bribe or cajole. No whites sat at the circle sucking in turn at the passing pipes, waiting to add their venom to the thickening brew. This council was entirely Indian.
Of course, white skins were present, but they were Indian. White children, captured in ancient raids, and grown to maturity among the tribes, were not uncommon. Half-bloods, like Blue Moccasin were many. Most preferred the richer skin tones of full blood, and many spoke of whites as half-baked or fish-bellied, but color held no universal onus. A hunter, tiller, or warrior was judged by his skills. If eyes were green or hair yellow or red, the differences identified, little more.
Seneca voices scorched listeners, and the Mohawk charred ears. The Cayuga roared like bears and screeched like panthers. As usual, the Onondaga, keepers of the sacred wampum and guardians of the eternal flame, spoke in moderation.
Responsibility lay heavily upon the Onondaga. As senior chief of that tribe, Blue Throat chose no side. Blue Moccasin was again encouraged.
Through the morning, passionate voices advocated war against white rebels. The council dissolved into informal groupings for noon eating, and the discussion drifted into campaigns and raids as though the matter of peace or war was already settled.
Later, bellies full, emotions temporarily satiated, the counselors resumed their places. Little had changed. Oneida lips poked sullenly, and Seneca rumps twitched impatiently. When the somnolence of eating began leaving the chiefs, and their attention again sharpened, Blue Moccasin judged the time right for his own presentation.
Through repetition, the ragings had lost their sting, and shifting uncertainties had been sneered and jeered into silence. Before the council tired of listening, Blue Moccasin would place his mark in the minds of the sachems, chiefs, and wise cou
nselors.
Blue Moccasin might speak again, even at the Seneca capital of Kanadasage, but these Shequaga words would be the heart of his message. This song of Blue Moccasin would be the one carried to a hundred fires and repeated a thousand times.
In Detroit, scalp buyer Hamilton would twist on the words. At Niagara, John Butler might ignore them, but his warriors would know their meaning. If the song held depth and truth, it could sway the undecided. If it sang with power and flooded souls, it might divert an entire nation. Could the song of Blue Moccasin split a confederacy strong for two hundred and fifty years?
+++
Since Quehana's departure, Blue's thoughts had fled with him along the trails. Could he have arrived in time, or did he now stalk the killers of his people?
In his mind, Blue Moccasin measured the progress of his friend. By now, the first horse would have been abandoned. At this time, Rob would be at Tioga, Esther's Town, passing Sunbury. Exhausted, would be the great body, dead would be his senses, but Quehana would cross the Juniata as though it were a rivulet and storm his way up the Little Buffalo path to . . . Blue considered a dozen possibilities. Few held satisfaction. Five Seneca killers could wreak death and destruction on Rob Shatto's people.
Blue hungered to be there, but he could not have kept up. Trotting with his friend was one thing, but in his fear and fury, Quehana would slash through the forest like a rifle bullet. Blue Moccasin could only wait and pray for Rob's success.
Other thoughts swept the mind of Blue Moccasin. The shooting of Amos Brink touched often.
Never before had Blue killed. The presence of the forked stick had always sheltered him. In killing Brink, James Cummens suffered no qualms, and there had been no choice. If his aim had faltered, if the tiny ball had flown wild or penetrated poorly, his body, and Deerfoot's as well, would be ready for burial.
If he had to kill, the timing was fortuitous. Brink's death had added luster to Blue Moccasin's presence.
Blue forced the memories away. He organized his materials and waited his moments at the speaker's place.
A fiery Cayuga, who had dashed about flaring his nostrils and spitting his words, eventually succumbed. Blue Moccasin stepped to the circle's edge. He stood firmly erect, sweeping an unchallenging gaze across the assembly until he was sure no others contested for speaking privilege.
For the occasion, Blue wore only a loincloth supported by a belt of many pouches. His Delaware moccasins were bright with color, his center-parted hair lay in twin braids against his chest. Each braid was weighted by a blue stone to still the braids during vigorous motion.
Blue's paint was only a soot line high on each cheekbone. By simple head movements, the lines could appear proud markings or sorrowing eye hollows.
Blue Moccasin carried only an obviously heavy earthen bowl. He did not wear the small finger drum he often used in storytelling. The message carrier appeared serious, as though intending to avoid the trickeries frequently employed by skilled speakers. Clearly, Blue Moccasin desired that his words hold attention.
Before the greater chiefs, Blue Moccasin placed himself. Setting aside his bowl, he faced his audience, feet together, body held proudly, chin high. Slowly his arms rose and extended upward, perhaps to grasp the secrets of the heavens and the spirits dwelling there.
The eyes of Blue Moccasin sought the clouds and unseen stars, as if he might draw from them special powers for this momentous occasion.
Slowly the arms fell and spread at shoulder height, as though to hold within them all of those gathered to listen. Then, Blue Moccasin began.
"In his wisdom, the Great Spirit created The People. He gave us skins of great beauty, and he created a land of rivers and forests for us to fill.
"Among The People were many tongues. The Sky Father wished his children to struggle and gain strengths, first as families, later as clans and tribes, and finally as great federations whose power could make life rich for their people.
"The tribes are as many as night stars. They cover the earth from the salt sea to beyond the farthest mountains. From these many rose a mighty league, a federation of five powerful tribes who would sweep before them any who resisted.
"More than two hundred and fifty winters have turned since the Iroquois flame first burned. In time, the five nations became six and grew even stronger through wise counseling, caring for their people, and honorable battle to protect that which was Iroquois."
Blue Moccasin drew from his waist six red stones. He held each aloft, announcing its name before placing it at his feet close beside the others. His voice demonstrated pride in each, but he wasted no time on empty descriptions.
"The Onondaga, the Mohawk, the Oneida, the Cayuga, the Seneca-then, the Tuscarora." Blue studied the six stones as though in admiration before saying, "Mighty are the Iroquois. May the light of the Great Spirit shine upon them."
Then Blue Moccasin paused, as though thinking deeply. From a waist pouch he produced stones that remained hidden in his hand.
"But, in his wisdom, the Great Spirit created other tribes. Not of The People, these tribes possessed lands so distant that none knew of them. Each of the strange tribes was different in appearance." Blue held up a stone.
"Fewest are the whites, about whom we know. Next are the browns. The browns number more than the whites." Each of those colored stones, Blue Moccasin set aside.
"Blacks are more than browns, but most numerous are the yellows. More than all of the birds of this land are the yellows. Countless are the yellow men who live so far away that few know of them.
"These strange tribes are also children of the Sky Father and Earth Mother, for only they can give life."
Now Blue chose to stalk about stiff-legged, as though in mounting irritation. In a sweep he took up his heavy bowl, and he again addressed his listeners in a voice approaching a growl,
"From across the salt sea have come the whites. At first, they were few and the Iroquois welcomed them as brothers. With them, the honorable Iroquois shared the goodness of their lands." From his bowl, Blue Moccasin scattered a few tiny white stones among the six red stones.
"But the whites grew many and crowded upon the Iroquois. Justly, the Mohawk punished them." Blue's foot ground a border of white chips so that they disappeared into the earth.
"For a time, the whites were chastened, but more whites came to the lands of The People. They again pushed against the Mohawk and the Tuscarora, even to the Iroquois western gate, guarded well by the Seneca." Blue surrounded the red stones with a thickened circle of white chips. Then he set aside his bowl. He stepped away, as though to shift attention from his picturing.
"Much of this is known, even to the older children of the Iroquois. We council here to speak of what is to be done about it."
Blue Moccasin moved closer, as though to impart secrets to his listeners, but his voice held high for good hearing.
"It is known to many that I, too, have a white name. It is a name known to whites, browns, blacks, and even yellows. Unlike others at this council, I have counseled at the fires of these tribes. I have heard their honored tales, and I know the taste of their foods. Their wishes and their plans have been told to me. Their ways hold no secrets unknown to Blue Moccasin. Where their sticks are pointed is clear to this speaker. Blue Moccasin knows their villages and their numbers. Their leaders approach Blue Moccasin in their lands to trade and make treaties. Blue Moccasin can read their papers and can think as they do."
Challengingly, Blue swept his gaze across the assembly. "Can another at this council claim even a small part of such knowledge? Can anyone stand and say, 'I, too, council with white and black chiefs and trade with yellow men?'" No one rose.
Nodding satisfaction, Blue Moccasin's voice barked in almost demanding tones. "Then, chiefs, counselors, and warriors, put side your many rages, your memories of wrongs beyond grandfathers, and your hungers for vengeance. For these moments, ignore your dreams of mighty victories and listen with open minds to the words of Blue Mocc
asin.
"Only Blue Moccasin will tell you honestly of what lies before the Iroquois. Hot words from angry spirits do not always speak truth. English voices that promise with honeyed words reward only the English. Remembering ancient triumphs against different enemies will not protect the Iroquois people.
"No gods speak to Blue Moccasin. Strange visions do not appear in the night. Old ones, scarred from battle or wearing many feathers do not appear in the smoke of Blue Moccasin's fire.
"The words of Blue Moccasin come from what his eyes have seen. His thought has grown through a lifetime shared among The People and the whites.
"But the heart of Blue Moccasin lies with his people of these woods and valleys. These are the lands of the Iroquois. Here live the souls of The People. The spirit of Blue Moccasin is one with them.
"Heed, oh, leaders of the Iroquois, for the future of the Iroquois confederacy, even the lives of those who here counsel, will live only as you trust and believe in the words of Blue Moccasin."
Gu-Cinge and Madam Esther Montour appeared carved in stone. Forgotten, Blue Throat's pipe had lost its smoke. Red Jacket's eyes sparked with excitement, and Blue Moccasin felt the burn of their attention.
The magic of Blue Moccasin worked. For the moment, he held their minds.
But, could he convince them.
15 The Song of Blue Moccasin
Sun heat had dwindled, but a soft breeze still warmed the gathering. Leaders from seventy-five Iroquois villages hunched in listening. Medicine men and clan chieftains awaited the words of Blue Moccasin. Heads of warrior societies also waited impassively, most prepared to disagree but honoring the speaker's right to be heard.
Blue Moccasin continued.
Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 12