He grinned wryly at himself. If enemy warriors came leaping across the fields he would probably stumble in the lodge entrance and be unable to find his tomahawk anyway.
He sighed in amiable resignation. The Iroquois Nation was strong. There was peace in all the villages. He could enjoy the day without keeping an ear cocked for the war whoop.
Kneeling Buffalo repacked his pipe and shifted with the sun. He opened his blanket, welcoming the warmth, and leaned against his tree bole to doze a little.
Chapter 2
The son of Kneeling Buffalo too was a thinker, but since Kneeling Buffalo had given over the lodge, Long Knife's burdens had been many, and he had little time to sit beneath trees following only where his thoughts led him. Long Knife chose campsites and hunting grounds. The survival of his people depended on his decisions. His was the final word in all lodge disputes.
Now in his powerful years, the Knife was a man of average height with an oak-like body beyond the quick agility of youth but matured with tireless strength and stamina. His hands were large and shapely. The Knife carried his body proudly erect. His broad chest arched above a lean abdomen supported by the smooth-muscled thighs of a mountain hunter.
Yet it was Long Knife's features that separated him from others and suggested special insights and knowledge. The Knife's head bordered on being too large for his frame. He wore his hair in a loose tangle that enhanced a high forehead that many believed ennobling. Eyes as jet as a crow's wing bracketed a prominent nose that hooked only slightly above a generously wide mouth and fine, even teeth.
The Great Spirit and Kneeling Buffalo had gifted Long Knife with a strong jaw line that bespoke confidence and determination. Enhanced by a few carefully applied chevrons of paint, The Knife exemplified the manhood of the Indian race. Only a fool, white or red, could fail to recognize in Long Knife a man of intellect and character.
Long Knife was a hunter. Only twice in his young time had he followed the war trail. He had counted no coups and found the whole matter uncomfortable and singularly unrewarding. If attacked, The Knife expected to fight with memorable and successful ferocity, but until then, he would leave the warpaths to those like the one called The Warrior.
Where the fighters thrived on the war trail, Long Knife's success lay in his hunting ability. Hunger rarely stalked the lodge of Long Knife, for if there was game in the woods, he could find it.
As a hunter among hunters, Long Knife's counsel was eagerly sought. Only honor stood more important than successful hunting. Courage, loyalty, and honor were expected of lodge leaders. Rare was the exception and harsh was the reprisal, for it was known that if honor was lost, the reason for living was lost. Long Knife honored the ancient codes; they were rules proven good to live by.
Though never entirely at peace with their neighbors, the Iroquois Longhouse [The Longhouse was a favored name applied to the Iroquois Confederacy, based on their communal dwellings holding up to forty families] had for two generations been without serious challenge. Old enemies were preoccupied with the encroachment of whites on their traditional lands or were too busy trading furs to the same white men to attempt the warpaths into the strongholds of the Six Nations. [The Iroquois Nations (Confederacy) was comprised of six separate tribes: Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, Seneca, and Tuscarora.] Those few that turned their hatchets and scalping knives against the Nations suffered shattering defeats or devastating reprisals from the warrior societies defending the Iroquois people and their lands.
Of course Long Knife, his forbearers or his descendents were not truly of the Iroquois. They were Delaware.
Many seasons past, about the time of the first white men, the noble Delaware had lived in peace and harmony from the Delaware River to the broad Susquehanna. Then, in terrible and prolonged battle, the Iroquois Nations had shattered the many smaller tribes and scattered them forever.
The tall Susquehannocs disappeared and other tribes of those times were forgotten. The Delaware, though stripped of place and power, lived on, for they were useful.
The Delaware were known for their many skills and wise counsel. Traditionally, the tribes of the Iroquois looked upon the Delaware as wise uncles whose advice or services were superior to others. The Delaware were allowed to raise their lodges on the lands of the Iroquois. They were respected and listened to, but they were not of the Iroquois Nations.
The Delaware were called by other names. To some, they were the Lenai Lenapai. Others knew them as "The Old Ones." The Delaware called themselves "The People."
As honored counselors, the Delaware roamed, hunted, and planted as freely as the Iroquois themselves. Delaware security lay in the strength of their protectors, and Delaware power rested on the worth of their counsel and the value of their services.
The Delaware tribe had many internal clans. The Turtle clan boasted the wisest of leaders. Kneeling Buffalo and E'shan, the point-maker, were elders of the Turtle clan. Their counsel had been good, and their names were bright with honor. The Knife inherited Kneeling Buffalo's place at council, but E'shan had outlived his sons, and Shikee, his only grandson, was yet a youth.
Lately, there had been powerful currents running within the Iroquois councils. Sides had been drawn and vital decisions were in the making. Long Knife's counsel had been heard with thoughtful consideration, but he stood with the few.
Of course, the discord within the Nations was due to the whites. Their presence, their trade, and their increasing numbers continually threatened traditional ways. Disagreement lay in what to do about them.
Few decisions by sachems or chiefs were binding on the people, who tended to do as their individual lodges saw fit. A chief was empowered only by the will of his followers. He had no armed band to enforce his decisions. His people observed his rulings to the degree they chose. Yet the councils were capable of choosing directions and tribal policies. Respect for leaders was ingrained, and the lodges, in general, followed the dictates of their leadership.
For two generations the eastern and southern borders of the lands claimed by the Iroquois Nations had been defended by a policy of emptiness. No large villages existed close to the borders, and except for a few fishing sites, only hunters roamed the borderlands.
The empty land acted as a buffer between the Six Nations and their neighbors. A profitable raid into Iroquois country meant a lengthy march within enemy controlled territory to reach a worthwhile target. Detection by Iroquois hunters was highly likely, and entrapment by a quickly raised war party was probable.
The Nations could assemble undetected within their empty land to launch swift, punitive strikes into an enemy heartland.
The empty land policy had worked well until whites arrived. The white men were confusingly different, and the chiefs were at odds on how to confront those differences.
Despite all agreements and treaties with the white fathers, tribal borders were regularly violated. Compensation from the white fathers was rarely forthcoming. White perpetrators disappeared into white villages and were never found. Indian complaints were received with serious faces, but only words followed, and border infringements increased.
Now whites crept across the Susquehanna and up the creeks between Kittatinny and Tuscarora Mountains. Whites were raising cabins and planting fields along Sherman's Creek, and the thunder of their muskets was heard too often throughout the valleys.
The Knife had thought long. He had climbed Kittatinny at night and watched the distant lights of white cabins and villages. He had descended the mountain and walked among the white men in the place they called Carlisle. He saw their dirt, their clumsiness, and their ignorance, but he also saw their muskets, their numbers, and the hungry eyes turned toward the mountains. His words to the councils had been powerful. They had struck through the stolidity of old men gathered to argue. The words had sizzled and, on occasion, they had caused eyes to glitter with excitement, but more often, the eyes had turned aside heavy with distress.
Long Knife had risen in the circle
and held forth his long pipe in respect to those assembled. He had not stepped forward lest his back face some listeners. When Long Knife spoke, few dozed or dreamed. Even the ancients roused to hear his counsel. He spoke in solemn tones befitting a discussion of great weight. His voice carried strongly across the circle so that even the oldest could clearly hear. He used hands and arms and gleaming eyes to emphasize and punctuate his message. His words were ordered and without waste. They rang with logic and conviction.
"The sun must rise high to see above the mountain called Kittatinny. Yet the white men stand ever closer to that border, and where their cabins rise, the land is closed to all others. Never again can the Iroquois, the Delaware, or any other tribe known live or hunt on those lands.
"The whites are as many as the ants.
"They gather in villages that daily grow larger.
"They search for new valleys where they will kill the game, destroy the forests, and plant the meadows so that no others may use the land.
"Their eyes turn only toward the setting sun. The white men wish to claim our lands. It is their intent to do so.
"Through every pass and by every creek whites creep into our empty land. They scowl when we come among them and grumble as if we were the intruders. They hold the nations of the Iroquois Longhouse in disdain."
The Knife paused as though reflecting upon his words. The council waited, recognizing that only the beginning had been said.
Allowing his eyes to roam the circle, The Knife drew them into participation. Each felt that Long Knife spoke directly for his ears. Then he continued.
"Whites do not come as war parties or hunters that will soon withdraw. They come to stay. They come to claim our land forever. If there is an empty meadow, a white will claim it. If driven away, he will at first chance come again. If he is killed, another will take his place.
"If there is a trail, a white will follow it past the furthest cabin and claim that place as his alone.
"If there is a stream, a white will push his canoe upstream until he has passed all other whites. There he will build his own cabin.
"Behind every white follows another, even across the lake of salt. There is no end of them.
"If a barrier halts their travel, whites multiply against it until they are enough to pass the barrier. Who among us has not seen this? "There is but one way to halt the white intrusions, but even now our time grows short."
Long Knife's pause was pregnant, and the council waited his words, for this was the heart of his message. Still The Knife tempted their patience, before building his case.
"If a Chippewa placed his lodge on our lands, warriors would send his spirit to his ancestors, and other Chippewas would tremble. But we hesitate to raise our hatchets against the whites for their ways are different. Great killing would follow and valuable trade would cease. Other Indian nations would receive guns, powder, and iron knives, and soon their power would be felt against us.
"So whites appear in our valleys. They smile and offer gifts. They are allowed to stay while messages are sent to the white fathers asking that their people be removed from our lands. While we wait, more whites come with smiles and gifts.
"Many are the cabins on Sherman's Creek. Whites crowd Fishing Creek, Tuscarora, Buffalo, and the Little Juniata. The empty land will soon be white land."
The Knife paused as if to gather strength.
"Hear now the plan of Long Knife.
"No longer may the borders lay empty. Now we must fill the valleys with villages of corn planters and squash growers.
"Fishing villages must line the creeks and special trading places must be raised hard against the white lands.
"When a white crosses the mountain, he must encounter our hunters who will say, 'You have come too far, this land is Iroquois.'
"When a white canoe crosses the Susquehanna, it must find no place to land, for everywhere will stand the lodges of our people.
"The eyes of the border villages must be like those of the fish-never closing. All must be seen, that none may pass claiming, 'The land was empty and unused, so I took it for my own.'
"Whites wishing to trade among us may be passed and protected, but no white cabins or clearings can be allowed for they increase as secretly and as swiftly as deer maggots.
"Whites found already living within the Iroquois Nations must be returned unharmed to the white fathers. All must be removed lest others join them.
"This is the counsel of Long Knife, advisor to the Iroquois Longhouse."
Many nodded approval, but questions were raised. From a Shawnee visitor, "Close your borders with hatchet and scalping knife. A single warrior can drive whites like rabbits back into their villages."
There was some acceptance by those who knew little of white ways.
A noted warrior of the Oneida answered the Shawnee, "And one warrior can drive away a hundred mosquitoes and kill a hundred more, but a thousand others continue to bite. A warrior cannot be replaced. A white destroyed allows two others to stand in his place."
An older Cayuga said, "Penn, the Philadelphia white father, offers to buy the border lands, even to the Seven Mountains."
The Knife again spoke, "Then the whites would push against the new border, for they are never satisfied. Would the Iroquois then trade more land until even the Endless Hills are gone?
"Never will the Six Nations be stronger. If the whites enter the mountains in numbers, only the war arrow will drive them forth, but they will come again and again. They know no other way."
An ancient sachem asked petulantly, "Why must every council bicker about the white eyes? Let us speak of good things." His gray braids shook with his head and his rheumy eyes stared somberly into the fire embers. "Are the old ways to be put aside and forgotten? Are there no questions of honor or rights to be weighed?" Again his braids moved in discontent, "It was not like this in other times."
The councils met, and Long Knife among others spoke again and again. Nothing was decided, but talk of selling Sherman's Valley and other borderlands gained acceptance, for it seemed the easiest and most profitable solution.
The lodge of Long Knife camped at the Bear Ponds, at the Deer Spring, and at the Warm Springs. It fished at Wildcat Creek and the Buffalo Creeks. Cocolamus and the Mahontonga were often visited. The Knife looked upon their land and found it satisfying. The bones of his people lay in the valleys. Their voices were in the winds, and their trails crossed the ridges.
He prayed to the Great Corn Planter that the councils would act wisely and act soon.
Chapter 3
E'shan was old. He was as old as Kneeling Buffalo. There was no measure for age; a man recalled the years by their names, but there was no count. E'shan could recall the year of the battle. That year was named following mighty combat on the island where the Juniata and the Susquehanna became one. That was many years past. He could even remember the year of the fires when the Great Spirit held back the rains and the forest almost died. Lightning had started fires, and barely in time, rains had fallen to save the Endless Hills from devastation, but he had been very young then.
Now age had withered his limbs and shrunken his body until his skin hung in wrinkles and pouches. His knuckles and joints were stiff and painful knobs, yet E'shan stood as straight as a pine. Even sitting at his endless chipping of arrow points, his back rarely bowed.
Pride in self, in family, and in tribe rose above discomforts, and how better could an elder's pride and sense of honor be measured than in standing tall with sharpened eyes? Still, it became harder each season, and there were times when he wondered if anyone other than himself noticed.
Of late his trade in arrowheads, awls, and cutting flints had fallen away. The valleys between the mountains grew ever more empty. The hunters were few, and warriors were turning more often to guns. E'shan's jaws knotted at the thought; guns surely would destroy his people. From their powerful stink and thunderous noise to their ability to kill even in the hands of the poorest hunter or warrior th
ey were an abomination. He could see no good in them.
From his usual place beneath the great oak, E'shan saw a small party enter the meadows of the Little Buffalo. They came from the west with the morning sun in their eyes, passing close to the hill his new grandson called Castle Rock. He hooted a warning to his people, and Flat came to the lodge entrance to look. Fat peered over her shoulder, and they chattered together deciding who approached. E'shan thought squaws made excessive noise, but their young eyes were quite useful. Flat said, "Kneeling Buffalo" and disappeared to prepare a proper welcome.
E'shan felt his heart gladden. It had been long since his friend had visited. He watched the party's slow approach. It rested twice within his view, and he thought Kneeling Buffalo, must be in worse condition than he was, but perhaps they had come far.
Eventually The Buffalo was seated close, and E'shan could feel the good humor rising within him. It would be the same with his friend. They had been companions since their naked days. They had hunted and taken the war trails together. Their understanding was full, reducing much of their talk to razored jibes that from another would have drawn knife and hatchet.
E'shan carefully placed a finished point in a basket of similar points and thoughtfully examined his friend. "Perhaps one as ancient and bowed should lean against the tree, Old Buffalo."
Kneeling Buffalo gazed regally down his nose studying E'shan as he might a strange bug.
"One who resembles rabbit bones in a moose scrotum should guard his words, oh Squaw's Voice."
They snickered together, careful that their noises did not reach the lodge where Long Knife's women gabbled loudly with Flat and Fat.
E'shan asked, "You are well, old friend?" It was plain that Kneeling Buffalo was not.
"E'shan. Is a man well who has no teeth with which to chew, who has eyes over which clouds have formed, and whose every movement causes crackings that scare the game and light fires in his joints?
Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 3