Let him show me a vision of my future
That I may prepare myself for what lies ahead.
He stopped and listened. A curious hush had fallen over the forest. The birds in the undergrowth had stopped chirping. There seemed to be a humming in the air, a sound that drew him toward it as if he were a fish on an invisible line. He pushed forward through the bushes.
Then he came upon the hollow.
It was shaped like a cup, and when he climbed down the side, he found warmth at the bottom, as if some of the sun’s heat had been trapped. Milkweed grew there. The grey pods were papery, for they had long since burst and the silk blown away. At the bottom of the hollow was a little pool. He knelt at the edge. When he turned over a stone, a crayfish scuttled off.
As he gazed at his reflection in the pool, a faint dizziness came over him. Sweat trickled down his skin under his leather shirt. His chest felt squeezed. Gasping for breath, he pulled air into his lungs. With the air came the smell of musk—that wonderful odour he had waited so long to smell again! He heard movement behind him, a rustling. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.
“Oki,” he said softly.
The wolverine approached, head lowered, jaws open to show its yellow teeth. It spoke to him in thoughts.
“You have proved yourself worthy. Your long journey has made you a man. Now you may see the vision of your life.”
Broken Trail shivered, afraid to interrupt lest his vision be lost a second time. A strange numbness filled his head. In his trance he saw a great waterfall with a rainbow shining in the mist, and he knew that this must be the waterfall at Niagara that he had heard about but never seen. The waterfall disappeared in a swirl of mist, which lifted to show a scene of armies clashing on a battlefield. In the mêlée, men in red uniforms and warriors in buckskin struggled with soldiers in blue. He saw a warrior with tomahawk upraised and knew that this was himself. The mist descended to blot out the battlefield, then lifted to reveal a town of many longhouses by a broad river. In front of one longhouse an old man sat on a log, with children clustered about his knees. And he knew that this old man was also himself.
“You will be a warrior,” said the oki, “but you will not die in battle. You will become a great leader, both in war and in peace. When at last you go to the Land without Trouble, all nations will mourn.”
The vision disappeared.
“Go now,” the wolverine said. “Return to your village. It is time.”
The wolverine loped away, vanished amid the milkweed stalks. Broken Trail looked about, wondering where it had gone. The strong, musky scent was the only evidence that it had been there at all.
Broken Trail climbed out of the hollow and turned back the way he had come. It was time to meet Elijah by the shore.
Chapter 20
AROUND HIM, THE little birds in the undergrowth began to chirp again. Broken Trail left behind him the pool and the hollow and the smell of wolverine, but the power of the spirits was still with him as he turned south and followed a narrow path to the river. He stood at the water’s edge.
There was a splashing noise right by his feet. A bullfrog had jumped into the water. Broken Trail watched as it swam away. Then he turned west toward the fort and followed the shoreline all the way back to the spot where he was to meet Elijah.
When he did not see his brother anywhere about, he sat down near the canoes to wait. He was glad to be alone to ponder what he had seen and heard. An immense gift had been given to him, so immense that he could not grasp its meaning all at once. He was to become a great leader, both in war and in peace. That was the Great Spirit’s plan for his life.
When he had prayed to see a vision of his future, he had not expected this, and yet he was not surprised. It seemed to be one of those things that he had known without knowing ever since his mission to Kings Mountain began.
Should he tell Elijah about his vision? One part of him wanted to share it with his brother; the other part advised him to wait until the path of his life became clear.
But where was Elijah? The sun was halfway down the sky. Elijah had had plenty of time to report to the officer in charge. Something must have happened to prevent him from meeting Broken Trail here, as they had planned.
Broken Trail wandered back through the Indian camp, thinking that there might have been a misunderstanding that caused his brother to look for him there. But there was no sign of Elijah.
If I want to find him, Broken Trail thought, I’ll have to enter the fort after all.
With a sinking heart he headed up the hill and walked through the open gate.
There were so many buildings! Some were of wood, and some of stone. The largest was a low, sprawling structure with a wing at each end. But it was the second largest, a square, two-storey stone building, that appeared to be the most important. People kept going in and out of it. There were women of all ages, some tugging little children by the hand. There were soldiers in uniform, and old men wearing regular clothes. That building must be the blockhouse, he thought. Elijah might be there.
Broken Trail considered looking inside, and then decided against it. With its stone walls, it looked like the kind of place where he might be locked up and forced to stay forever.
Farther off was an open square where redcoats were drilling. They marched with their muskets over their shoulders. On their heads were tricorn hats like the one he had picked up on the battlefield.
Beyond the square stood row upon row of white tents. Those must be where the Loyalists lived, the white colonists whom rebels had driven from their homes.
But where was Elijah?
Over by the large, sprawling building a soldier lounged outside a door. He looked idly about, as if waiting for someone. Perhaps he would know where to find Elijah. Broken Trail walked up to him.
“Good day,” he said, wanting to make a good impression, “I’m looking for Private Elijah Cobman.”
The soldier lifted his eyebrows.
“Who?”
“He’s a soldier who came here this morning. A canoe brought him and me across from the south shore.”
“Oh, him. He’s confined to barracks.”
“What does that mean?”
“He can’t leave barracks. He’s lucky not to be in the guardhouse. Truth to tell, he’s lucky not to be shot.”
For a few moments Broken Trail was too shocked to utter a word. At last he blurted, “I need to see him. Where are the barracks?”
The man gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Right here. This is the soldiers’ section. You’ll find Private Cobman inside.”
Broken Trail opened the door. Walking warily down a narrow hall, he peered into every room that he passed. The rooms were identical: two windows, twelve cots, and a trunk on the floor at the end of each cot. He saw no one in any of the first four rooms. The soldiers who lived in them must be the ones whom he had seen outside, marching around in the square.
In the fifth room, he found Elijah sitting on the edge of a cot, polishing a boot. He wore a clean uniform, but he did not look happy.
Chapter 21
ELIJAH WAS DABBING polish onto the leather of the boot he held in his hand when Broken Trail entered the room.
“So you found me!” Elijah said. “I thought you would, even though you had to enter the fort to look for me.”
“What happened to you?” Broken Trail asked. “I waited a long time on the shore.”
“I didn’t get the kind of welcome I hoped for.” Elijah spat on the boot, picked up a rag, and began rubbing the polish into the leather. “First, they threatened to shoot me as a deserter. Then somebody said that I must have been out of my mind, because only a madman would walk five hundred miles to Carleton Island instead of one hundred to Charleston.”
“Now that you’re here, do you reckon you’ll be staying?” Broken Trail sat on the edge of the next cot, facing Elijah.
“If they decide that I’ve recovered my wits,” said Elijah, “they may keep me. The garrison could use an extr
a man.” As he rubbed, the boot took on a burnished glow. “On the other hand, they may send me back down south and attach me to another regiment. With the left wing of Cornwallis’s army wiped out at Kings Mountain, the Southern Command needs reinforcements. At present, I’m confined to barracks while they make up their minds.”
“Do you want to go back down south?”
“I can’t say I look forward to a winter campaign in the Carolinas. Swamps full of snakes. Camps full of dysentery and yellow fever. But yes, I’m ready to go back. I’m a soldier. I’m prepared to do my duty.”
Elijah set the boot on the floor, picked up its mate, and rubbed a dab of polish into the leather. “I only wish it were over. The war’s lost. Another defeat, and General Cornwallis will have to see it, too. Why should more men die when it’s all for naught?”
“You didn’t talk like this when you were telling me about Major Ferguson picking you for his rifle company.”
Elijah took a brush to the leather. “If you think that I’m afraid to die—”
“No. I would never think that.”
“That soldier did, the one who paddled us across the channel.” Elijah spat on the boot. He rubbed with his rag for a minute, then raised his head and looked straight at Broken Trail.
“Before Kings Mountain, I was ready to fight it out to the last, do or die.”
“Like Red Sun Rising.”
“Not exactly. The Cherokees have no choice. The rebels back the settlers, and the settlers won’t be satisfied until every Cherokee is dead. They might as well fight till they die, because they’re going to die anyway. Honour is the only thing no one can take from them.
“But it’s different for the British and the Loyalists. Sooner or later, General Cornwallis will surrender. He’ll hand over his sword to General Washington and everybody will go home… except those that are dead and those that no longer have a home.” He paused. “Ever since we said goodbye to Red Sun Rising, I’ve been thinking about this. I no longer believe that dying for a lost cause is in any way worthwhile.” He set down the second boot beside the other. “That’s enough talk about me. What about you? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“What I was looking for?” For a moment Broken Trail thought that Elijah must mean his vision.
“A ride over to the mainland,” Elijah prompted.
“Oh. Yes. There’s a warrior going to Cataraqui first thing in the morning. He’ll take me.”
“I’m glad that’s settled, though I’m not happy to see you go.”
Suddenly Broken Trail felt very lonely. This was goodbye, and he was not ready for goodbye. He wondered when he would see Elijah again. I must tell him about my vision, he thought. There may never be another chance. Tongue-tied, he searched for English words.
“What is it?” Elijah asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Far from it. My oki came back.”
“The wolverine? Did it show you the vision you were waiting for?”
“Yes. I saw the vision.” Broken Trail took a deep breath. “It showed me many things, but explained nothing. I will become a great leader… my oki said that. A great leader, both in war and in peace. But it didn’t say how. And when I die, all nations will mourn. But it didn’t say why.”
“All nations will mourn.” Elijah was silent for a minute, apparently thinking it over. “White nations, too?”
“I’m not sure. But why not? We have an Oneida word: Mitakuye Oyasin. It means, ‘We are all related.’ It doesn’t leave out anybody.”
Elijah lifted his hand and laid it for a moment upon his chest, directly over the spot where the Mohawk medicine bag hung under his red coat. Broken Trail noticed the gesture.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Elijah said, “to learn that you will be a great leader. I saw something of this when I was wounded and ready to die, but you wouldn’t let me give up. You half-carried me for sixteen miles to a safe hiding place. While you were taking care of my wound, I sensed a power in you. It was the kind of power that helps a person to discover his own strength.
“Major Ferguson had that power, too. He inspired his troops, turned ordinary men and boys into heroes.” He raised his eyes to the window, looking out as if searching for something far away. “Yes, he had that power, though in him it was mixed with faults that cost us a whole army. But we’ll not speak of that, speak ill of the dead.”
Elijah’s eyes met Broken Trail’s. “So now you’re leaving. I know you’re eager to be home. When you reach your village, your uncle will explain the meaning of your vision.”
“He’s a wise man. He’ll help me to see the path that lies ahead.” Broken Trail stood. “I have an idea that someday you will walk with me on that same path. It isn’t every white soldier that wears a medicine bag under his uniform.”
Again Elijah touched his fingers to the place where the medicine bag lay. “Who knows? I’d like to go on another long trail with you. But whatever happens, remember that we’re brothers, whatever else we may be.” He paused. “What was that word, again?”
“Mitakuye Oyasin.”
“I won’t forget.” Elijah stood up. He grabbed Broken Trail and gave him a hug. Broken Trail gulped hard to force down the lump in his throat as he turned toward the door.
Darkness fell quickly. A cold wind was blowing from the west when Broken Trail reached the shore. He crawled under a canoe for shelter. He probably could have found a more comfortable place to sleep, he thought, but he did not want to take any chance of Two Trees leaving without him in the morning. When the sun rose above the trees, he wanted to be ready.
Chapter 22
IT WAS A COLD MORNING, with spirals of white mist rising from the dark water. Broken Trail stood shivering by the shore. He was stamping his feet to shake the cold out of them when he saw Two Trees approach from the Indian camp.
“So you come. Give me tomahawk. Then we leave.” The wormlike scar down the side of his face wriggled as he spoke.
Broken Trail pulled his tomahawk from his belt and surrendered it to Two Trees. This was not a good bargain. But what choice did he have, in his eagerness to reach home?
Two Trees handed him a paddle. They eased the canoe into the water. Broken Trail knelt in the bow, glad to have the warming exercise of paddling.
After rounding Carleton Island’s western tip, they entered the channel that lay between Carleton Island and Wolfe Island, its larger neighbour. This was where Lake Ontario ended and the St. Lawrence River began. By the time they passed the eastern end of Wolfe Island, the mist had lifted. To the north, on the mainland, Broken Trail saw a slim column of smoke rise above the trees.
“Cataraqui?” Broken Trail called over his shoulder.
“Yes. Smoke come from trader’s lodge.”
As they drew nearer, the ruins of a fort came into view. Within the tumbled walls, he saw the bark-covered lodge from which the smoke was rising. Although he had never been to Cataraqui before, he knew that this must be the lodge of the fur trader, Louis Tremblay, son of a Huron mother and a coureur de bois father, to whom hunters and trappers of many nations brought furs to exchange for rifles, axes, blankets, beads and other goods. Broken Trail would have liked to return home with a present for Catches the Rainbow. He could imagine her smiles at receiving a brooch with coloured glass stones or a necklace of shiny beads. But he had nothing to trade for such a treasure.
When the canoe reached shore, Broken Trail stepped into the shallow water and pulled up the bow. He had no desire for a parting conversation with Two Trees, nor had the Mohawk any words to spare for him. After the briefest of farewells, each went his separate way, Two Trees to the trading post and Broken Trail along the path that would take him home.
On his left were granite cliffs and tree-clad hills where only a few withered leaves still clung to the branches. On his right, off shore, were many islands, some large and wooded, but others little more than a rock boasting a single gnarled tree. He scarcely glanced either to the left or to th
e right, for his mind was filled with thoughts of home.
Carries a Quiver would rejoice to see him alive and to learn about his vision. Catches the Rainbow would smile in her quiet way and comment on the sad state of his moccasins. His friend Young Bear would listen to his story and be happy for him that his oki had appeared, and then they would make plans to hunt deer together, as they had done many times before. Most important of all, he was ready to prove his readiness to be a warrior.
That evening, after lighting a small fire and preparing a bed of spruce boughs, he ate the last of the sweetened corn powder. As he ate, he thought of the two warriors who had given it to him. He would never know who they were. But they had been the first persons whom he met on his long trail. When he finished eating, he remembered to strike the ground with his right fist and give his thanks to the Great Spirit.
His thoughts turned to Elijah. Many evenings on their journey together they had sat and talked beside a campfire like this one. Looking into the flames, Broken Trail summoned up the image of his brother in his mud-smeared red coat, the coat that concealed a Mohawk medicine bag hanging from a thong around his neck.
To Broken Trail, this medicine bag was the token of a special bond that was beyond the natural bond of brotherhood. The unseen spirits that watched over Broken Trail also protected Elijah, although he was not a native either by birth or by adoption. The more Broken Trail thought about this, the more he came to feel that the Great Spirit’s plan for him included his brother. Why else had the Great Spirit sent him to Kings Mountain to find him?
As the flames died, the image of Elijah faded. Broken Trail lay down on his spruce-bough bed. He was cold, having no blanket to wrap around him. But tomorrow night would be different, for he would be sleeping on a warm, cushiony bearskin in the longhouse, with family and friends nearby.
The following morning, having nothing left to eat, he set out hungry. He could have caught a fish, for the St. Lawrence teemed with many kinds, but his greatest hunger was the hunger to be home.
Broken Trail Page 11