Mary would come with Rob to the Little Buffalo. The Shattos had room; the Morgan's had little.
The horse was Mary's, but the cattle and milking cow would become part of Morgan's small herd. Rob could sense the settler's satisfaction with that.
Well, why not? Life was close to the bone. One's misfortune could be another's unexpected gain. If the Iroquois came down, the Morgans would last about as long as snowflakes in a campfire. Then, the animals would feed red stick warriors.
If the confederacy stayed peaceful, the Morgans would probably thrive, become many, and be justly proud of all of their accomplishments.
The game was old, but it was nearing its end. No matter how they acted, Indian power was dwindling at a remarkable rate. A decade more would surely end the red menace in the Endless Hills.
Until then, Rob Shatto would prowl the forests as mean and unforgiving as any killer sent against him.
+++
Three days after his arrival, Rob again lifted Mary to her horse's back. He felt good, considering it all. His rib slash showed its first signs of knitting, and the shoulder ache was settling out.
His weapons were cleaned and reloaded. His hunting shirt had been scrubbed and the slash sewn up. He had on his last pair of Flat's moccasins and still had all of the Seneca pemmican.
The Morgans saw him off, a field worker waved, but a guard was posted near the woods.
South of the Morgans he should be as safe as if in a fort, but Quehana's senses remain as alert as though enemies lurked.
If Rob Shatto had softened over the years of peace, that hint had been seared away by Quinaday's war party. Swift and final would be Quehana's answer to any attack, now or at the Little Buffalo.
19 Return
Rob was awake when he heard Blue Moccasin's call.
He often lay listening to the night, although with the shutters closed and most loopholes blocked the sounds he sought would be hard to detect.
In June heat, his family complained about the lockup. Although they shuddered at Rob's stories, their memories were short. They had not seen mutilated dead. For a cooling breeze, most of them would risk the scalping knife.
Let them grumble, Rob thought. He, Becky, and Flat didn't need them anyway. He noticed that none said, "To hell with it," and moved out. They had it too good where they were.
When Blue called, only Rob and Flat heard. As he slid into his moccasins, Rob heard Flat begin rattling pots. When hunters or warriors returned to the lodge, the women prepared food. Flat had learned in the lodge of E'shan and had never forgotten.
Becky roused with the noise. "What is it, Flat?"
"Blue Moccasin comes."
Rob grinned, leave it to Flat to know the calls and the voices.
Rob whistled Blue in, standing with a door barely open and his foot and knee braced against it. If enemy appeared, the door would slam and the bar would drop before they could enter.
Blue came, silent and swift out of the dark. Rob thunked the heavy bar home almost before Blue was clear.
Blue Moccasin stunk of sweat, and Rob judged he had traveled hard. Did a war party pound the trail close behind? He hoped not.
A fat lamp glowed, and then another. By their light, Rob could see fatigue in Blue Moccasin's face. The forked stick was not in evidence, and indeed, it would have meant nothing among whites. Blue spoke, "It is safe, Quehana. None follow."
Rob felt his nerves settle.
Flat was there with a gourd of cold water. Blue gulped greedily, and they sat to talk.
Others of the household appeared. Blue greeted each, but as he and Rob conversed in Delaware, they lost interest and returned to their beds.
Within moments, Blue sniffed at the aroma of meat beginning to fry in a larded skillet. He said, "A princess of the Delaware is Flat." The squaw of E'shan harrumphed in pretended disgust.
"Is it well with you, Blue?" Rob asked, his voice concerned.
The answer was tinged with regret. "I am well, Quehana. Swifter are my legs and stronger are my lungs, but sad is my heart, for as certain as I speak, the old ways are as dead as these planks."
Blue's fingers traced a deep gouge in the tabletop where Rob's tomahawk had long ago amputated three of an intruder's fingers.
"We knew it would happen, Blue."
"True, but only emptiness remains. The day of the Indian closes, Quehana."
"If it cannot be as it was, it should end, Blue. Would we wish The People to continue without honor, without knowing the closeness of the Great Spirit, or without breathing deep the freedoms of the forest and river?"
"Perhaps not, Quehana."
"Some will flee to the west. It has always been so. There they may again live as the Sky Father intended."
Blue Moccasin stretched wearily. "Let us talk in the morning, Quehana. Then I must quickly become James Cummens." He paused, and then added, "I suspect I will not again travel as a message carrier among The People.
"You and I will speak Delaware because we are one with the language, but already we are frowned over by most around us."
"We do not care, Blue."
"We do not care, Quehana, but our talk will pleasure only ourselves. The tongues of The People will not long be heard in this land.
+++
Following Rob's morning scout, they sat in the sweat lodge. Flat had dripped water onto the stones and steam closed tightly around them.
When the good sweat ran, Rob handed his friend a thin wooden blade, and they scraped their skins, planing away surface dirt and older skin layers.
Blue said in English, "The Romans did this in their baths two thousand years ago."
Rob snorted, "Every time we scrape, you remind me of that."
Cummens chuckled, "Old men repeat their stories, Rob."
"We aren't old yet, Blue, although that fighting with Quinaday took a year or two out of me."
Blue said, "Word of the death of Quinaday's band reached the Iroquois, Rob. That John Butler sent them against your people was displeasing to many. That Quehana killed them all gave your name great respect and further worried some who already doubted the wisdom of war."
Rob smiled grimly. "Before this is over, they will hear more and know graver doubts."
Blue said, "Tell me how it happened. I know only the result. Even imagining fighting five warriors turns me cold. Yet, here you are, so it was done."
Rob told in detail, painting with voice and hands. Blue saw the new scar along his friend's ribs and judged for himself how close it had been.
When Rob finished, Blue spoke in the voice of The Warrior. "Mighty in battle is Quehana. The spirit of his brother is proud."
It was Blue Moccasin's turn, but he delayed until they had bathed in the creek, dressed in clean clothing, and sat on a bench in comfort.
Blue told of the attack by Amos Brink and his deadly shot with Rob's boy's pistol.
Rob whistled in respect. "I never really thought you'd have use for it, Blue." He whistled again. "A man never knows how a thing will go, does he."
Then, Blue got to the meat of his story, and Rob listened through to the end.
"I spoke at councils until my throat became raw. I reasoned with any who would listen. I employed Paint Pot to decorate trees with my song. I predicted the inevitable outcome of choosing sides in a white war. I drew comparisons between supporting the British or the patriots. I emphasized that, as certain as the sun rose, the British would, in time, board their ships and sail away, while the other side would just as surely remain. I asked them, "How will those who remain regard the Iroquois?
"At Onondaga, I spoke to three hundred chiefs representing all of the Iroquois. We met inside the great speakers' longhouse. Against me appeared Gu-Cinge, Joseph Brant, and a dozen lesser firebrands. The logic was mine, but the emotion was theirs.
"At Kanadasage, the Seneca council was stone. Only tradition allowed me to speak. There, no others bothered to counter my words. The Seneca see only the war trail."
Blue brighten
ed a trifle. "It is different among the Oneida. Red Jacket demands peace. Yet, the Oneida fear to break with the confederacy lest the five tribes turn on the one."
Blue straightened, stretching as though to throw aside burdens of responsibility.
"So, the song of Blue Moccasin has been heard by all wishing to listen. It has been repeated by a thousand talkers. What has it accomplished?"
Blue weighed his words. "I have had a trail of many days to consider. I find no satisfactions," Blue's voice was somber. "On the rock of war, the great Iroquois confederacy may split." He caught Rob's eyes and held them.
"I see the Seneca and the Cayuga as one, fierce in their paint, raging south on the warpaths. Beware, Rob, they could come this far.
"The Onondaga and the Tuscarora will look both ways. Divided, their councils will twist in the wind. Warriors will fight, perhaps on both sides. Bitter will be the drink of those tribes.
"The Mohawk will swarm through New York and to the east. Many will the warriors of Joseph Brant kill.
"Finally, there is the Oneida. Are they the splitting wedge? I believe they are. The Oneida have listened and reasoned. They will not fight with the British."
James Cummens sat silent, and Rob entered a thought.
"One neutral tribe won't split the Iroquois, Blue."
"It could help because the hostiles will see the Oneida at peace and they will envy. Perhaps they will fight less certainly and give it up more easily.
"Iroquois raids will not drive whites into the sea. We know that. But, the raids will raise white determination to be rid of Indian uprisings once and for all. Despite his difficulties, Washington will have no choice. He will march his army against the Iroquois.
"United, the Iroquois could present a formidable enemy, that might somehow force conciliation. Divided, they will be ripped apart.
"I give the Iroquois League a pair of years. Then it will be only a footnote in history."
It was Rob's turn for silence. He broke it finally, saying, "Hard to believe, Blue. The Iroquois have always been here. It would be like the forest without birds or deer."
Blue said again, "The day of the Indian is gone, Quehana. Two summers from now, your rifle will rust in a corner. No longer will you wear a pistol, nor will you scout for hostiles."
Cummens' sigh came from the soul. "Blue Moccasin will be only a fading memory. Never again will I carry the forked stick or speak at great councils.
"I will miss it, Rob" He shook his head in sorrow. "The songs have been sung, and their echoes die.
"I miss them already."
Epilogue
On June 30th, Lieutenant Colonel John Butler led four hundred British and Tory rangers supported by eight hundred Seneca and Cayuga warriors south from Tioga.
They struck the rich Wyoming Valley along the Susquehanna River without warning.
Nearly one thousand men from the valley were absent, serving with Washington's army. Almost unopposed, the Iroquois slaughtered.
Four stockades protected the eight Wyoming townships, Jenkins Fort, Forty Fort, Pittston Fort, and Wilkes-Barre Fort. Each fell or was quickly abandoned.
A settler force of four hundred men and boys was assembled and marched against Butler. They were ambushed and cut down. Three hundred of the four hundred died on the spot. Of his British ranger force, Butler lost . . . none.
If Butler attempted to restrain his warriors, there is no trace of it. The massacre was complete. Only a few wretched survivors fled into the Great Swamp east of the Susquehanna. The area was known as the Shades of Death, but the lost lands afforded hiding. Unfortunately whites could not long survive there.
The beloved son of Queen Esther was killed during the first skirmishes. Maddened by her loss, Esther thereafter fought as a warrior. At one point, she clubbed to death at least a dozen bound and helpless white prisoners.
Gu-Cinge was prominent in the fighting, and his name was remembered.
If John Butler intended to drive south into the white heartland, his goal was thwarted by his Indian allies insistence on returning to their villages to celebrate and display their loot.
Joseph Brant led his Mohawks east and massacred as far as momentum carried. Then he, too, was forced to withdraw his warriors because they were, for the moment, tired of battle.
Death lay over the frontier as thickly as the flies on the hundreds of bodies. Yet, the Oneida had not joined and, as James Cummens had predicted, the Onondaga and the Tuscarora were half-hearted in their participation.
The Iroquois thrusts halted and dribbled into isolated raids important only to those who died or suffered in them.
Whites absorbed the attacks as water slows bullet or arrow, but many colonial whites barely considered the miseries inflicted on the distant frontiers.
General George Washington heeded the atrocities at his back and prepared to do something about them.
Among the general's advisors was listed James Cummens, Philadelphia merchant.
In January 1779, only six months following Butler's raid, Iroquois clustered about Niagara seeking supplies to substitute for the fall hunts and harvests lost while warriors raided and fields were neglected. The winter was severe and many died.
At an Onondaga council, Red Jacket of the Oneida predicted bad times; Big Tree agreed.
From January through March, settlers were attacked to the south-to the very houses of Sunbury. Many of the Susquehanna raids were led by Gu-Cinge of the Seneca.
In the spring of the same year, Brigadier General John Sullivan of the Continental Army began the whites' revenge.
Sullivan led an army of Washington's men through the Shades of Death and into the devastation of the Wyoming Valley.
Sullivan found few survivors. He located the hundreds of dead, identified them as best he could, and buried them decently. Then Sullivan started north.
Sullivan's primary mission was not to bury the dead or punish the Iroquois. His task was to remove forever the threat of the Iroquois Confederacy. If he could kill Indians in satisfying his duty, Sullivan was willing, but his real objectives were the crops, cattle, and villages of the Indian nations.
Sullivan intended to turn the Iroquois into paupers and roll them into the laps of the English. British supplies and British efforts would be wasted on homeless Indian allies broken in spirit and reduced to begging handouts.
Sullivan entered the lands of the Iroquois through Tioga. Along the way, he reduced Esther's Town to ashes.
Occasionally, warriors attacked the column of white soldiers. In each skirmish, whites were killed with few if any Indian casualties. Yet, the army slogged on. Crops burned and Tioga fell to the torch.
From the north and east, a second column of the rebel army fought its way through Mohawk country to join Sullivan's force. En route, it burned numerous Indian towns including Joseph Brant's Oquaga. Although regularly attacked and never winning a skirmish, that column, too, marched on.
United with his second column, Sullivan marched for the Iroquois heartland.
In late July 1779, his massive command approached Newtown. The village of Chemung fell and became a base for Sullivan's five hundred wagons, eight hundred cattle, and five hundred horses. The general with his three thousand soldiers was ready to attack Newtown.
Desperate to halt the stubborn column, the Iroquois, supported by British rangers, prepared a great trap into which Sullivan would march.
At Newtown, the Iroquois would fall upon Sullivan, and in pitched battle the red warriors planned to slaughter the white invaders.
Trenches were dug and flanking attacks planned, but the Iroquois dream was not to be. Tim Murphy, scouting for Sullivan's army detected the ambush. The white army flanked the trenches and attacked from two directions. Fighting was ferocious, but Iroquois courage could not deflect white musket balls.
In the Indian way, leaders were first into battle. Gu-Cinge died, and the insane Queen Esther was killed. The chiefs, Rozinokghyta of the Onondaga, Kkaykingwaurto of the Seneca,
and Captain John of the Mohawk were killed almost within reach of each other.
The Iroquois fled the field. British rangers led the retreat. Never again did the Iroquois seriously challenge Sullivan's army.
Fighting with Sullivan were the Oneida and some Tuscarora. The confederacy had been split.
At Onondaga, the sacred fire that had burned for two hundred and fifty years was quenched and scattered forever. With the death of the eternal fire, the will of the Iroquois dissolved.
At a final great council at Kanadasage, the war chief Joseph Brant sought to rouse fighting spirit by calling the assembled hundreds mice and cowards-to, no avail.
Red jacket declared the Oneida neutral and Grahta, the smoke carrier, called the Six Nations dead and said he was leaving.
The Iroquois were broken. They did not fight again.
Before winter, the coldest on record, General Sullivan removed his army. He had leveled more than fifty Iroquois towns. His army had destroyed 200,000 bushels of corn and 10,000 fruit trees. No fields were left untrammeled. All cattle were taken for the white army. No lodges were allowed to stand.
Every Indian grave discovered was pillaged and the remains scattered.
By the spring of the second year, the Iroquois were beggars without clan or tribe.
Proven true was the song of Blue Moccasin.
+++
More than a year after the Wyoming Valley raid, Lieutenant Colonel John Butler received a package that had been long in finding him.
Delivered by a Mingo carrier, the leather- wrapped parcel was shapeless and travel stained. Its origin had been lost through repeated transfers. No one knew its contents.
With a long hunting knife, Butler slit the rawhide bindings. He drew forth a scalp, still uncleaned and blood stained.
Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 16