As an enlightened man, it appeared to Johnson that his Indians would better prosper if they spoke civilized English. Therefore he opened a school for Indian children. Unfortunately, despite handsome rewards, few attended and still fewer mastered white talk.
It was perhaps inevitable that William Johnson would encounter the boy Tear who regularly brought game for the brick mansion's larder. A few queries placed Tear as the son of the hunter called Charlie Pierre.
Johnson recognized that the boy was white. There were many such scattered among the villages. Taken as children, their heritages lost, only their lighter skin and in some cases blonder hair betrayed them. Unless the kidnapped child had been old enough to remember names and places, interfering in such adoptions was pointless. Even then, most were orphaned and would be strangers in a white world. As Indians they at least possessed family, tribe, and traditions. Mostly, Johnson avoided confrontation. He sought none when he called for Charlie Pierre's presence.
Because of his importance as Senior Indian Agent, William Johnson was often referred to as Governor, and Johnson enjoyed the unofficial title. The Governor's request was demand, and as directed, Pierre brought his youngest son, called Tear.
Johnson was not sure of the reason for his interest in Tear—because of white blood of course, but perhaps as much for the intriguing teardrop birthmark below the youth's eye. A Governor's curiosity was enough. The Indians stood in waiting.
The Governor's aide motioned the Indian hunter into sitting, and William Johnson positioned himself on a low stool, the best that his stiffer legs allowed. The aide, longest in the colonies, made appropriate greetings in Huron and presented small gifts of tobacco, a few musket balls and a coin. A pipe was passed, demonstrating the occasion's solemnity. Johnson did not enjoy the heavy tobacco mixtures favored by the Huron, but it too was a necessary diplomacy.
Although fluent in Iroquois languages, Johnson's Huron was limited. When discussion began he spoke through his interpreter and waited out Charlie Pierre's unhurried responses.
"That the Huron people can better speak with the great King's Governor, I have offered to the youth of the Huron schooling in the King's language." Johnson made his voice sad, and the interpreter matched it. "The Huron have done poorly in the school and most have fallen away."
Pierre smoked and nodded before speaking. "This I too have seen."
Johnson appeared to weigh Charlie Pierre's words. "It is not good that men cannot speak together. We who speak now are old and cannot easily learn new ways, but the young," Johnson aimed his pipe stem at the boy seated cross-legged at his father's shoulder, "can snatch at new learning with a snake's swiftness. We must find ways to make this happen."
Pierre nodded agreement to the interpreter’s words, and Johnson continued.
"It would be powerful for the lodge of Swift Wing and Charlie Pierre to have such a speaker in their son, Tear. Tear was of white blood before he became Huron. For him relearning a first language could be rapid."
A noncommittal grunt was Pierre's response.
"So, Pierre, I would like Tear to attend my school and remain until his teachers decide he is skilled in English and wise in ways valuable to both Huron and English."
Pierre said, "A school is not a place for a young hunter. The children of the Huron leave their white father's teaching because they sit until their bodies and spirits cry for the woods and fields of their people."
Johnson thought about it. Pierre's words were true. He had seen the twisting misery of pent up energy that almost inevitably exploded into flight from the teacher's disciplines. But how else could it be?
Charlie Pierre asked, "Why cannot Huron youth be taught to speak white words by white men, just as they learn from their fathers and uncles while performing useful tasks?"
The Governor heard approval in his aide's voice, which added. "A sort of apprenticeship, Sir William?"
"Hmm, yes. The idea has merit."
Pierre again led the thinking. "Tear is the son of a hunter. He should be taught by a hunter so that even as he learns English words, his skills will remain strong."
Sir William pulled his lip in thought. "If a strong hunter can be found to teach the youth called Tear, will Charlie Pierre require his son to remain in the white father's service until his white teacher believes he has learned enough?"
Pierre did not hesitate, "No. The spirit of the son of Charlie Pierre will not be chained like a trained bear, but if the son is willing, he will do his best, for he is a good son."
Johnson absorbed the translation without expression. Most would have inwardly sneered at an Indian's expression of a principled morality greater than that observed in civilized nations, nations that, unfortunately, practiced slavery and indenturing of servants, a system nearly as oppressive as slavery itself.
Sir William Johnson had been able to see beyond the feathered ferocity of his charges, to become aware that in a world without writing or permanent record, all honor, trust, and action lay entirely within the spoken word. To lie, to evade, to omit were not unknown, but more than among his own people, Johnson found the word of an Indian dependable.
Curious. Tear was a white orphan, torn perhaps from his mother's scalped and murdered clasp, possibly by the very hunter who now claimed him (and loved him) as a true son. Yet except in blood, Tear was a Huron, and within that often-savage society skin color could be less important than a choice of hair length.
Time had passed as the Governor considered, but the Huron waited with seemingly endless patience. Time rarely lay heavily on Indian minds so Johnson let his thoughts run on. Unless the boy came of his own accord, he would probably resist and fail as most did. Charlie Pierre had the better of that argument.
An apprenticeship as a hunter while learning to live as a white and speak the English tongue, to William Johnson's memory the concept had never been tried. Indians, mostly women and girls, had been trained at looms and as housekeepers. Boys had been worked as farmers and grooms. The females performed adequately; the boys poorly. Indian children had also been sent abroad and raised as English. That system produced results, but it was ponderously slow, and expensive. Also many Indians died when separated from their native lands. They fell often to seasonal plagues that only sickened or irritated their English companions.
A white Indian, such as Tear, might respond well to the guidance of a woodsy teacher of a . . . who? The Governor pondered his limited options. Few English woods runners could provide the language sophistication William Johnson found important to his proposal.
Caraway? The answer leaped to the mind of William Johnson. Caraway, the displaced Bay colonist, educated and well bred, hunter/scout extraordinary, who was also a wanted criminal whose deadly activities in the recent French war still tinged his reputation. Caraway, a strange figure unable to mix within the society to which he was raised, who spoke the finest of King's English and had, on the hallowed soil of England itself, once tutored children of knighted families and wealthy landowners.
It could work, and the challenge of rebuilding the white side of the Huron boy began to pique Sir William's interest.
Charlie Pierre still waited. Beside him, Tear practiced a similar ability to exhibit patience. Johnson's lip quirked. Among his Indian students that studied reserve had usually failed. When exacting responses were prompted by a teacher's laid on hickory rod, stoicism buckled, but unlike English youth who bowed to the blows, the Huron boys fled to the woods. Few ever returned.
"Pierre, Do you know the hunter called Caraway?"
The Indian's eyes flared. He knew.
Using many gestures to add power to his spoken words, the red hunter answered with interest, and the interpreter was forced to hurry his translations.
"Caraway is a name known among warriors of the French war. The gun of Caraway took many enemy. Many were Huron, and in his anger Caraway burned the bodies and scalps of some."
Inwardly Johnson winced. Caraway had fought the French tooth and nail, and as pr
imary French supporters, the Huron had absorbed the brunt of the killing.
Pierre added, "It is known that Caraway sent hands of strong fighters to their grandfathers. It is known that the gun of Caraway rarely misses."
The Indian paused to gather words for more difficult thought. "Those dark times have gone. The Huron are now known to the English King and are his children. The French have faded into memory.
"Caraway now hunts among us. He is a spirit without fear who appears at the fires of sons and fathers of those he killed. Caraway is respected for his heart and his skills. He is also feared, for Caraway is not as other men."
Johnson interrupted. "What does he mean by 'not as other men?'"
The interpreter and the Huron worked at an answer. "Pierre means that Caraway is crazy. Only an insane person would uncaringly present his back to an enemy. Caraway, Pierre says, laughs at and makes sport of Hurons long sworn to kill him. Some of those warriors took Caraway's trail and were found dead, their bodies both scalped and burned."
Johnson's brows shot in astonishment. "Can that be true? Have you heard of this before?"
The aide shifted uncomfortably. "I have heard no such tales, Sir William, but as you know the Huron speak little about their tribal affairs." Again the aide adjusted himself. "I must add that to my mind Caraway could perform such acts . . . and I suspect Pierre is near the mark when he describes Caraway as 'unlike other men.'"
The Governor was coldly disbelieving. "I converse often with Caraway, weekly at least. I find him gentlemanly—if a trifle distant. I see no madness."
The aide's duty was to advise and assist. He held his ground. In this matter he had more to say.
"Sir William, of all the fighters employed during our late war, not another killed as Caraway did. The man may have enjoyed it. Consider why he is among us. In England he murdered, and in the Bay Colony he killed so brutally that his society dispatched him."
Johnson grumbled, "There were extenuating circumstances in both instances."
"True, Sir William, but could there not be a pattern? Could either of us name another with such a past?" The aide hesitated an instant. "Pierre is right that Caraway did scalp and burn during the French fighting. Should we so quickly disclaim his other information?"
Sir William pulled at a lip. "Undoubtedly gross exaggerations. Everything is retold on this frontier until a spanked bottom becomes a village massacre."
He turned again to the patient Indian hunter.
"Would you, Charlie Pierre, trust your son, Tear, to the teachings of the hunter Caraway? To us, Caraway is not only a most skilled killer of game; he is also a bright speaker of our language. Once, Caraway taught the young of the White Fathers. He is said to have done well."
Pierre chose to nod understanding and was ready with his own answer.
"It is known to the Huron that the Great Spirit has twisted the mind of the hunter Caraway. The turning has granted clever forest skills and a heart that knows no fear. Those so touched by the Great Spirit are to be respected and allowed to live their lives. The Huron therefore permit Caraway to move among them.
"It is also true that Caraway has shown his knife only to those who sought to kill him. That those enemies who challenged died in fighting has honor for all. Caraway scalps and burns and that is not the way of the Huron, but it is part of the Great Spirit's twisting. By his burning, Caraway has made new enemies, but he has also discouraged many who might have tried. Who can be sure which path has taken fewer lives? Caraway breaks no laws of our nation, and he is known to be fair in his dealings.
"Charlie Pierre is not among those who hate or fear Caraway. If the white chief Johnson chooses Caraway as the teacher of his son, and if the son accepts the hunter Caraway as his teacher, the father of Tear will not stand in the path."
Sir William's favorite window opened across the square of the parade ground. From it he could observe not only the daily military flourishing, but the informal goings and comings of much of his community. Men paused to speak or huddled together in small clots of common interest. Much could be ascertained by who sought out who as well as who avoided or raised a chin to another.
Caraway appeared and cut directly across, heading for his appointment. In light of his intentions to employ the hunter as a tutor, Johnson gave special attention.
Of course Caraway carried his rifle. Perhaps he slept with it as well. One would be surprised to see the man without his weapon.
The rifle was of Pennsylvania design. Nearly chin high to a man, the rifled bore hurled its heavy ball with baffling accuracy. In demonstration Caraway broke head-sized objects at two hundred yards. The rifle seemed but to touch his shoulder before the gun bucked in recoil.
The common soldiers were most awed by Caraway's accuracy. Their thick and clumsy muskets were unlikely to hit a man-sized target at seventy-five yards. Because his mind was curious, Sir William had discussed the use of rifles with the military command. His questioning raised a common sneer.
"Of little use Sir William, slow to reload and unfit for the bayonet. Stocks break at the grip and crack or split along the barrels. Military use is hard use, and the meager pins holding iron to wood bend and separate."
"But they shoot so accurately."
"Wars are not fought by soldiers aiming at individual enemy, Sir William. Volley fire with massed ranks of leveled muskets is the way. Decimates the enemy. None can stand against disciplined volleys. Big bullets, Sir William, plowing through as a wall of lead. Then the bayonet, infantry shoulder-to-shoulder, driving into and over what is left of the enemy. Muskets and discipline win battles.
"Rifles? A few could be useful among scouts, perhaps, but recall that in all of the colonies the forests are so thick that it is difficult to find a fifty yard field of fire. At close ranges the smooth-bore musket is accurate enough, and a musket can be reloaded in half the time a rifle requires."
Perhaps his officers were right, but if his rifle was so delicate and inappropriate for forest work, why did Caraway choose it both in war and peace? How many French and Indians had Caraway really killed? Some claimed one hundred or more. Of course, that subject no longer surfaced. The French were gone, whipped to a standstill, and the best killers, like Caraway, were unremarked in times of peace.
Peace? With wild tribesmen still outnumbering whites? And, of course, the French always returned. The Caraways would undoubtedly be needed again.
Caraway's walk was erect but loose and lengthy in stride. At the moment, the deadly rifle swung in one hand parallel to the ground, easily balanced to its bearer's rhythm. Usually, the rifle lay across Caraway's body, fisted at the grip and supported by a forearm. Indoors, the gun stood upright, almost like a pike, but Johnson noted that Caraway never placed his hands over the muzzle or allowed his head to align with the barrel. Gunpowder could discharge itself. Careful men stayed clear. Despite Charlie Pierre's belief that Caraway feared nothing, it was clear that the man also avoided careless actions.
Sir William did not keep his visitor waiting. His interest in the boy's tutoring continued to sharpen. The experiment could in fact be worth a column in the London paper, a new method of civilizing the American savage perhaps. Motivation would be the article's key. Interest the student in what he was doing and learning would quicken. Everyone already knew that, but using the endless American forests and an outcast English tutor as tools appeared to be unplowed territory.
Caraway stood easily, rifle butt alongside his right foot. If he had wished, Johnson could have requested the weapon remain with the clerk, but the thought did not really intrude. The hunter and his rifle were as one.
Caraway was a thin man, so lean it would be easy to doubt his fibrous strength. That would be a mistake. Like a Spanish rapier, Caraway would bend and spring back without damage. His slenderness allowed a whippet-like quickness few could approach, and The Governor could recall how that ability had contributed to Caraway's presence among them.
John Caraway, a younger son of a successful
merchant, educated and tutored in many of a higher class's pretensions, was sent to the continent to absorb the seldom questioned social graces of the French. Among the challenges the young Caraway had applied himself to was fencing with foil, epee, and saber.
The English youth proved adept, and with almost predictable certainty became embroiled in a duel over a mademoiselle of no measurable worth. Such combats were not uncommon and usually resulted in a pinking or, if fortunate, a classic (dashingly enhancing) wound about the cheek. John Caraway, however, slid his rapier completely through his youthful opponent's guts so that inches of blade stuck out the back—then, as if it were the thing to do, he recovered to the guard position and sunk his sword a second time into the collapsing opponent's chest. Death was immediate.
Uncivilized! Before the morning was gone, Caraway faced an older brother of the deceased, an experienced duelist who intended to immediately place the English killer where he belonged. As the challenged party, John Caraway chose sabers. A more efficient weapon than the pointed rapier, the saber both stabbed and slashed. The choice particularly pleased the brother who possessed a powerful wrist and arm.
Caraway sliced that strong arm, and as the Frenchman's sword fell from nerve-cut fingers the Englishman's saber came over the top to nearly separate the brother's neck and shoulder.
Even as a dozen deadly challenges were hurled against him, Caraway was summarily escorted aboard a departing vessel. The Englishman, it was clearly seen, was far too eager to accept challenges one after the other. Dueling was construed as a way for gentlemen to polish honor. A touch of danger added spice, but men like the Englishman, Caraway, and there were others, could turn it into a slaughterhouse, decimating the ranks of French nobility.
Tim Murphy, Rifleman Page 3