by Alix Hawley
A metal clicking, a small enough sound, like the sound of crickets rubbing their legs. I turn and I see two men standing outside the fort gates now, my brothers Squire and Ned come out to watch. I know it is Squire telling me he has cocked the hammer of his gun and made it ready, or ready enough. Just who he has it ready for I am not quite certain. He sets his gun butt upon the ground and holds a palm up to the men in the bastions. Wait. Now I hold up both hands in their direction and to Black Fish I say:
—You have given me much to think on. I must speak with the other head men. I am not the only chief here, I was gone so long.
My father says very cool:
—Have they taken you back, Sheltowee?
And what I can say to this, I do not know.
WHEN I REACH the gate, the back of my shirt is soaked through with sweat. Ned says in his easy fashion:
—All right Dan?
I say:
—All right.
Squire lifts his head and shouts to the guards, and we are let back in. Jemima has climbed down from the parapet. Her face and neck are still all angry blotches. She says:
—What did they call you?
The women are in their doorways keeping the smaller children behind their frayed skirts. They are listening, the guards on the walls are listening though they watch the Indians setting up camp in the meadow. I say:
—My Indian name. Sheltowee. Big Turtle.
Jemima frowns:
—Daddy, what did they give you?
—They gave us time. They gave us a choice.
—What kind of a choice, Mr. Turtle?
This from Hancock, leaning against the wall with the look of a dog waiting at a rat-hole. Dogs with another dog, so the Shawnee said my men thought of me, always watching to see what I have got in case they ought to have it. I do not look at him any longer. I hold out the shell belt looped in my fist. The brilliance of the colours makes Jemima suck in a breath. I look at it again also. We have grown unused to such beautiful things. I say:
—Well. We can go with them now or we can fight it out.
—Is that all? Surrender and die later, or die sooner? Quite a choice, Captain.
I look to Hancock’s shoes, I say:
—Those buckles of yours would make fine bullets. I hope you do not forget what the women here have given up to make ammunition.
The women nearby ruffle themselves but Hancock takes no notice, he only points to the bundle beneath my arm. He says:
—And they gave their favourite another gift, I see.
—Chief Black Fish has sent jerked buffalo tongues as a gift for the women.
From behind her ma Kezia Callaway shrieks:
—Poison! Poison!
She clamps her small bulldog jaw shut, she is quite satisfied with her pronouncement. The fort stirs, questions rise from everyone’s skin. Elizabeth Callaway is the first to ask one aloud:
—What makes them think we would eat them? What makes you think we would, Captain Boone?
I set down the bundle and I take out one of the dried tongues, I cut off a piece from the narrower end with my knife. I say:
—Not hungry? We have gone without dainties for a long time.
The meat and salt have a fine smoky taste. I chew and I hold out the rest of the long tongue. If it is poison I will die with a good flavour in my mouth. Elizabeth and Kezia would slam their door at the sight if they were not so deadly curious by nature. They watch as Jemima takes a piece. Ned’s young Sarah comes dragging London’s little Jacky by the hand as if he were her pull toy. Bold as brass she says:
—Give us big bits.
—Yes miss, as you like.
I give them each a long strip. Martha is looking but she does not stop me. As I am cutting more the shots begin outside. They are only a few, they pepper the air and stop again as fast. The gun hammers knock back, the riflemen in the bastions are so quick—
—Stop. Stop!
My voice tears my ears. And now no sound. Christ, a miracle. Nobody wishes to be first to shoot, but they stand ready and twitching. I call:
—They are not shooting at us. They are shooting cattle.
Jemima’s black eyes are huge. Hancock shapes his mouth to speak. Colonel Dick can no longer keep himself contained. Snapping at the others to keep a close watch, he climbs down from his place as fast as his thick legs will go. He wrenches the meat from my hand and hurls it across the fort, where it falls in the well, which is still a poor hole. The tongue will not have far to fall. His Kezia breaks from her ma and runs to him shrieking:
—Now the poison is in the water! You said they would poison it!
She is looking wild-eyed at me as she says it, she clutches her daddy’s leg. Locking her in his arms he cries:
—You let them kill our stock. You are as good as murdering all of us on the spot, you goddamned madman!
—I told them they could have the rest of the crops also.
At this Miss Kezia sets up wailing, her daddy covers her ears with his hands, he says:
—That letter they brought from Detroit—it shows clear as day that Boone is a traitor. Major Smith, all of you, I ask you, can we not hang him now? Shoot him? I will do it myself.
His face is a plate of disgust. Someone on the ramparts curses under his breath. Ned’s girl and little Jacky are chewing and watching hard. Billy Smith puts himself between us. With his eyes not quite on mine he says:
—Captain Boone, what is your answer to this?
—Major Smith and all of you, everything I have done has been to save you and this place. They would have taken some of the stock and crops regardless. They mean what they say, only you have to listen close to their words. Listen to mine. I am keeping peace.
Colonel Dick starts in:
—Major Smith, where are the men captured by the Indians through this man’s Indian-loving insanity? We ought to ask them if they feel saved.
I say:
—They may be with the Shawnee army. I do not think so but I do not know. They will not have killed them all.
It is a weak point, I know it is. But I go on loud:
—The army outside our walls is no small one. They will not go back with nothing. The redcoats may have brought cannon, I do not know. I will tell you there is no certainty of beating them but we may have the chance for peace now, if you will listen.
—We ought to vote on it.
This from Hancock with one heel tipped up so his shoe buckle catches the light. He knows as well as I do how votes go. He was there when we all near lost our scalps to the Shawnee vote at the Blue Licks. But Major Billy nods. Here is something to catch hold of. He announces:
—We will vote, that is if we have your approval, Captain Boone.
—You have it. I will accept what the greater number wishes to do. Who votes to surrender now and go with the army to Fort Detroit and be British again?
—I will shoot the first one who does.
This from Colonel Dick, he has lifted his gun with one arm. Kezia bawls harder, a mess running from her nose. He hushes her again and keeps her close. No one speaks. I say:
—Major Smith—Billy, what do you think?
He shakes his head, his face is troubled as he thinks. He says:
—We ought to defend ourselves. And the Virginia troops ought to be on their way to us now.
—I would rather die here than move.
This from Squire, he speaks uncommonly loud. Ned at his side raises his chin. Keep-home Neddy, who has loved home since we were boys in Daddy’s house in Pennsylvania. But Squire’s passion is a surprise. Until I recall his wife Jane in childbed with no child, his baby’s grave outside the walls, dug while I was gone and did not know of it.
The men’s talk boils up, the women keep to their doorways and speak low, I see Hancock’s wife Molly weeping and twisting her hands and Old Dick’s pretty girl Fanny coming out to get Kezia. Jemima’s Flanders is looking down at me from the wall just above, he opens his mouth as though waiting for a beakful
, working himself up to ask what I will do.
What will you do now?
And so I say:
—Well well, I will tell them what you have decided. And die with the rest.
* * *
In his best hat with its ragged plume and his old red army coat, Billy stands in my door stiff and waiting. I say:
—The British lot will feel quite at home when they see you in that.
I have nothing so grand to wear. I keep to the shirt and breeches Jemima took from Flanders. She wraps one of his cloths round my neck. It has gone quite yellow and thin but I know it is the best Flanders has left. He passes behind Billy and gives us a tight nod. To my girl I say:
—Your husband wants his clothing back. Perhaps I ought to go out bare as the day I was born.
Jemima ties the cloth tight and says:
—You are fit to be looked at. Will Uncle Squire and Uncle Neddy go with you?
Uncle Neddy. Jemima’s eyes are clear as a lake. Ought I to tell you here and now before all is finished, would you like to have all the answers?
I do not ask. I pinch her chin and I say:
—No, duck. Best to keep the party small. We would not wish to frighten them with our strength, would we Billy?
Major Billy holds himself stiff beneath his hat though its feather drifts like a sail in the smallest wind. Jemima laughs, which frightens the cat. It runs in a circle but finds no escape and so darts beneath the bed. The laugh frightens me also, it has a helplessness under it. Well Tibby, we will see if you live another day.
The sun is still hot though dropping now. A course of sweat douses these fresh clothes as I walk to the gate with Billy. One of the horses in the paddock coughs as we pass, and a cow sets to complaining. The air inside the walls feels as though it had been cut from a thick block and set there. Outside it is not much better. We stand a moment, we wait.
We do not wait long. The boys with their peach-bough fans lead. Behind them is Black Fish still in his scarlet blanket and silver brooches, old Moluntha and other chiefs in their finery filing slow after him with some twenty warriors at their backs. The warriors tread the ground in the same easy rhythm. The chiefs glide along footless with their blankets and robes trailing. Hamilton’s men have kept to their separate camp and so Billy is the only red-coated one about after all.
They stop where we sat before. Billy and I walk to meet them. Two more boys come now, rolling a log which they set out. And Pompey appears holding a skin in his arms. It is a panther skin, it shines as though he has brushed and brushed it. He lays it on the log with the animal’s empty face drooping from one end. Now he holds out his arms and bows to show me we are to sit here, and so we do.
Seeing our hands are empty, the warriors set down their guns and clubs though they keep a sharp eye on us and the fort. A lump on the log digs into me, but I will not move now. Billy looks at me sidelong as the chiefs come past. Each in turn gives us his hand as Pompey goes on bowing and announcing their names. Black Hoof, a great Shawnee, the rims of his ears stretched thin with the largest loops I have seen. Black Beard, an older Shawnee man with a calm wide face and light gold eyes. A few Wyandot with only half their heads shaved, the hair running sleek as oil down their left sides. And Cherokee with bunches of brown and gold feathers spiked up like quills round their warrior locks.
Cherokee. As the first one shakes my hand, I grip it tight and my eyes rush over them. I do not see the face, the long bony face I know. At once I am shot through with my old recklessness, I could raise a hand and have lead spewed from the fort walls, bodies flung broken all over the ground. This ground is why we have come here, it is why they killed my boy, and why should I mind making it darker and bloodier? Perhaps it is what the place wants of me, perhaps it is what I have been meant to do all this time.
Do not think.
The chiefs sit now on blankets and skins. My hands have clenched after all the shaking. I loose them and it pains my wrists to do it. Pompey lays out another beautiful skin and Black Fish stands upon it. His eyes do not quite reach mine, they settle instead on the air before my face. In Shawnee he says:
—Now you have had time to consider the belt and the letter from Detroit. What are your thoughts?
Pompey repeats this in English, very pious and more booming than Black Fish, just as though he were a preacher. Major Billy leans forward and says:
—Thank you for bringing the offer, but we cannot take our families so far.
Before Pompey can begin booming again, Black Fish says:
—We have made everything easy. I have brought forty horses just for your wives and children and old women to ride.
Billy looks to me as Pompey speaks it in English. In Shawnee I say:
—You are good to us. We will need time to talk it over.
A flock of chickadees scatters overhead like tossed seeds. For a moment I think of throwing my club and seeing how many of the birds I can bring down. In English Black Fish says:
—One day.
His face is set and cool as pewter. Pompey holds up a finger and says:
—Chief Black Fish gives you one day to talk among your people.
—I know what he said.
This seems to amuse Pompey. His mouth curves and he folds his hands in front of him before he booms out my words in Shawnee. Before I can say more he is ordering the boys to get out the pipes so we can seal our one-day peace with a smoke. Then he is passing a pipe between Major Billy and Black Fish and interpreting as they stand together setting out rules for the day we have been given. No shooting, keep well back from each other, the women can go out for water. Again they shake hands.
The sun is low now, falling behind the trees. Chief Moluntha comes to sit beside me on my log as the others talk and smoke. It is just as though we were on a Philadelphia street idly looking at people walking about. After a time he says to me:
—You killed my son the other day.
He is not looking at me, he is watching the rest as easy as ever. I say:
—I killed no one.
—You and your men did, over the Ohio River.
I grip the panther skin between us and the fur rucks under my fingers. It has the feel of a scalp. I see Kenton holding out the fresh one near the empty town. I say:
—We were not there.
He runs his creased hand back and forth over the fur. As he does it he says:
—It was you. I know who you are—everyone knows. I tracked you to this place. Some of your men are still away there, ha?
Kenton and Montgomery. My blood is flying through me, I know Moluntha’s blood is doing the same though he keeps himself still in his wine-coloured jacket. I watch his heavy brow as he takes his hand away from the panther skin and says it is time he took his pull on the pipe. I say:
—What did you do to them?
He says nothing. He only stands and walks back to the chiefs who are wrapped in a fog of smoke from the sweet leafy Indian tobacco. The smell pierces me through. It was my dead brother Israel’s smell, he is now so many years dead. It was the evening smell of my Shawnee father’s house. It blows into my eyes now but I keep them open.
—SSS.
—Nasty.
—Dirty.
—Dirty.
The women hiss into the morning. After the men and I have marched out to guard them as they do the milking in the fields, we give them our clothes, that is to say whatever spare clothes we have, and these are not many. Some put on the Sunday breeches and Sunday shirts, and some others put on our long coats with nothing but their ragged shifts and stockings beneath. It is the best we can do.
Martha comes out in Ned’s coat, her feet bare. She takes a short turn back and forth before the door. I see the white arches of her feet and the rounds of her heels. Nat Hart’s black women, Silva and Ratta, shake hats fierce out the windows as though to rid them of fleas. Old Dick’s Doll refuses to put any such thing on her head, as she says loud enough for all outside to hear. They and the rest stew all the time
they are dressing. So we will go to our graves like this, filthy and stinking.
Or to Detroit.
Jemima yells:
—You stop! My daddy knows what we have to do!
Here is my girl defending me when I know nothing. It strikes me how stupid loyalty is, like an old hound following someone about for the sake of their smell only.
We do not have enough working guns for all these false men and so Squire gives some of them old barrels and other things he digs up in his shop and the forge. Some of the smaller girls are equipped with broomsticks. Ned teaches them to walk like men before we send them up the ramparts and onto the cabin roofs. From the parapet I hear him telling them what to do:
—Spread your feet more. Put the gun against your shoulder, not across your bosom. Do not swing so much. There, there, you have it.
For Neddy they laugh soft and do their best. They pull up their backs and push their hips forward and march all about with their faces serious. Darling Neddy.
The children run about within the walls as though it were a holiday. The smaller girls go out with pails and bowls to the spring, and I send Uncle Monk and London to guard them. I say:
—Girls, any cow or pig you see, give it something to eat so it will follow you back, and we will shut it in here.
Monk nods. Ned’s Sarah says:
—What will we give them?
—Take a corncob each. Tickle their noses with your hair, they will like that. They like yellow, did you know it?
She laughs and little Jacky laughs with her, I am glad to hear it though the sound is a strange one at this time. I climb up to a rampart and I watch them go.
Soon enough Pompey rides up from the camp on a pony. Sweet Apples, his shaggy little mount, she took him singing all the way to Detroit when Black Fish marched us there. I near laugh too when I see her swaying under his weight, still living, her sides puffing in and out. Pompey sits watching the little girls in his princely manner. He gives a long nod to Jacky who has stopped to stare at a black man in Indian clothes. Monk and London look a long moment also, and turn their heads to keep looking as they walk behind the girls. When an old cow shows its face at the edge of the corn, Sarah shrieks.