by Gen Bailey
A long corridor led from one end of the longhouse to the other; in the center were two hearths, evenly spaced apart. Glancing around, Sarah thought that the longhouse might have been forty feet long, twenty to thirty feet wide, and perhaps twenty feet high. On each side of the structure were compartments, where she supposed a guest might berth if he or she were staying the night. Attached to several posts hung corn cobs to dry, as well as gourds and other articles needed for cooking.
Both she and White Thunder had been seated only a few minutes when a woman entered, bearing a tray of food. As Sarah looked on, she saw corn cobs heaped upon several plates, corn cakes, ribs and a dish she learned was called succotash—a mixture of corn, beans and squash. To drink there were bowls of water and a sweetener that might have been maple or corn syrup. To a person from any culture—Indian, English or other—it looked like a feast.
Behind the woman followed another maid, who looked to be a younger version of the elder, and she was bearing furs to sit on, as well as a handful of clothes. Sarah saw that there were shirts, a belt, moccasins, a navy-colored breechcloth and leggings for White Thunder. There was also a simple, trade-cloth dress in a light blue color. It was intricately embroidered with designs of pink, white and blue flowers. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and fell down to just below elbow length. Accompanying the dress were leggings of the same color and embroidery work, as well as moccasins.
Hesitantly, the young girl placed the clothes beside Sarah. Sarah smiled at the girl, and said, “Thank you,” but the maid was shy, and outside of a brief nod, did no more than look away.
The two women left and White Thunder and Sarah were left alone with their meal.
“Are these clothes meant for us?”asked Sarah.
“They are.”
“But they’re beautiful. Are we to wear them only while we’re here?”
“No, they are ours now.”
“Ours? That’s incredible. Do they expect them to be returned at some future date?”
“Neh, no. It is all part of being hospitable. All strangers are given food, furs to sleep on if they are tired and in our case, clothes, because ours are obviously torn and in disrepair.”
“But there must be something required in exchange for this. Money, perhaps? Although I think it obvious that we are not a man and woman of wealth.”
“Nothing is expected in return,” he said, “except perhaps that you will remember that they treated you with kindness and respect when you were in need. It is the hope of the Six Nations and our belief that all people should honor each other in this manner. If it were so, wars would be less, I think.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “I believe you are right.”
Silently, Sarah and White Thunder applied themselves to the food, and once their appetite was satiated, they dressed themselves in their new clothing. What was amazing to Sarah’s mind was how well the dress fit her. Even the moccasins were neither too big nor too little.
They were now well dressed, well fed and comfortable, and soon the two old men and an elderly woman entered. A pipe was offered to White Thunder, which he accepted, and while smoking, the conversation began.
“We see that you are from the Turtle Clan of the Seneca,” said one of the elderly men in English. “Is this from whence you came?”
“Indeed, it is not,” said White Thunder, whereupon he relayed who he was, where they had come from and the circumstances surrounding Sarah’s rescue.
The conversation continued, and when asked why he had come to their village, he answered with the truth and with the information that they were seeking Black Eagle and his bride, Marisa, who was a friend of Sarah’s.
The old man nodded, and leaning over toward the elderly woman, he addressed her in their own language. The woman rose to her feet and left the house, while the old man turned back to White Thunder. He said, again in English, and probably for Sarah’s benefit, “We know of Black Eagle and his bride, whom we call Ahweyoh, Water Lily. Neither are here in the village at present, but I have sent for Black Eagle’s mother and Ahweyoh’s sister, that they can inform you where you might find them.”
“Nyah-wah, thank you,” replied White Thunder. “Do you know how long ago they were here?”
“It was only a moon ago and a day that Ahweyoh was captured—”
“Captured?” Sarah sat up and bent forward, but White Thunder placed a hand over hers, as if to caution her not to interrupt the speaker.
“Nyoh, yes, she was captured by her own people, the English,” said the old man. “She did not wish to go and there was some trouble, for the English assaulted Ahweyoh’s sister, that they might steal Ahweyoh. Her husband, Black Eagle, was away on the hunt, but he has since returned and has gone to save her. But where that place is that he has gone, I know not. However, his mother might have knowledge of this, or if not, Ahweyoh’s sister might know, thus I have asked for them both to come here.”
Soon the two women arrived. However, neither of them spoke English and Sarah had to wait to learn through White Thunder’s translation that both women believed the English had taken Miss Marisa to Albany. Although they couldn’t be certain, Black Eagle had said this was where he would go to find her.
As soon as Sarah understood what had been said, she murmured to White Thunder, “It is as I feared. She went to Albany. We must go there at once.”
White Thunder nodded. He thanked them all for their hospitality, for their kindness and for their information. But, he told them, both he and Sarah would need to leave as quickly as possible, since they possessed urgent information for Black Eagle and his bride.
“And where be your destination?” asked the older gentleman.
“Albany,” replied White Thunder. “We go to Albany at once.”
Twenty-four
They left the Mohawk village of Andagoran in haste. Evening shadows were already falling upon the forest when Sarah and White Thunder quit the relative safety of the Mohawk village to again travel through the woods.
Their pace was that of a light run; it was fast, lively and quick, which kept Sarah warm, though the air temperature was cold and turning ever colder as evening crept in around them. Again, White Thunder took the lead and for now, perhaps because they were still close to the Mohawk village, they traveled on the well-worn Iroquois Trail.
Because the trail was kept clean and clear of debris, Sarah’s trek through the woods was easier, if only because she didn’t have to worry about catching her dress on the brambles and burrs of the trees and bushes.
“Aren’t you concerned about war parties?” Sarah had asked White Thunder as they had slowed their pace to a fast walk.
“Indeed, I am,” he returned, “but not this close to the Mohawk village, which is still patrolled by the warriors and sentries. Tomorrow, we will have to resume our more usual trek through the unkempt places in the woods, those paths where no one travels. But I think we are safe here for now.”
“How long will it take us to arrive at Albany?”
“A day and a bit,” he answered. “Perhaps more, depending on the state of the lesser-used paths.”
“Have you ever considered utilizing the river instead of the trails through the woods? Couldn’t we simply paddle a canoe to Albany? It would be faster.”
“It would be faster if this land were not at war and we were not in danger of being exposed to all eyes on the water, friend or foe. Neh, no, better it is that we travel in the woods, concealed.”
“Yes, I see. Of course.”
They pushed onward through the evening and late into the night, not stopping until dawn was a dim light on the horizon. Only then did White Thunder quit and begin to set up camp.
“Will we arrive in Albany tomorrow?” Sarah asked as she and White Thunder sat beside one another in their temporary shelter, enjoying a meal of dried meat, corn cakes and berries.
“We will.”
“I suppose we’ll first need to visit the Rathburn estate to determine if Marisa is there and sa
fe. But if not, I assume we’ll have to discover where she might have gone and why she left.”
White Thunder nodded. “It is a good plan. You forgot one important detail, though. We will go there only in the evening, when there are shadows that might hide us.”
Sarah frowned. “Must we? I understand your concern and need for stealth, Mr. Thunder. I, too, am anxious about Marisa’s safety. But to have to wait until the evening . . . I lived there for fifteen years, and it seems to me that I might go there and make inquiries without having to sneak about.”
“There is every reason to conceal ourselves and wait until evening,” White Thunder rebutted. “If we go there and confront Rathburn, and he sees you, he will keep you there as his servant.”
“Yes, he could. He has that right by law.”
“He does not have that right,” protested White Thunder. “Not by any law. No man has the ‘right’ to own and control another human being for his own profit. And if, as you say, there is a ‘law’ that states he does, then that ‘law’ is against the tenets of the Creator, thereby making it no law at all, but rather a crime.”
Sarah sighed. “’Tis so logical sounding when you say it to me. However, that is not how the courts look upon it. And I am subject to those courts.”
“You are subject to no one.”
“You are if you’re a woman.”
“Because you are a woman? What does your gender have to do with being subject to someone?”
“Because,” she answered, “a woman is always subordinate to her husband or to her father or to some other male relative.”
“This is English law?”
“It is.”
“It is a bad law. Is a woman a life form different from man that she should do nothing but serve him? Does she not hold the welfare of the tribe and its prosperity in her hand? Without woman, man is nothing but a pitiful creature. Therefore, she deserves a place of honor, not a position of servitude. You come live with me with the Iroquois,” he went on to say. “The women in our tribe hold the balance of power of the tribe and they are no man’s subject.”
“Truly? ’Tis much about your society that we could learn, I think. But whether we agree or not, ’tis not the manner in which English law is conducted.”
“Law or no law, subject or no subject, do you forget that this is the same man whom you suspect killed your parents? ”
“Yes, I have not forgotten, and perhaps if I had the finances necessary, I could fight him in the courts and win my freedom, although I still think those courts will favor a man of influence.”
“Or you could stay here. Instead of putting yourself in a bad situation, I will go and learn what I can of your friend and then return to you here. Once we discover what has happened to her, or if she requires our help, we can either assist her, follow her or go into the west, where we will still find freedom and a people who will not judge our marriage because of who we are.”
“It sounds so good, sir. But do you forget your duty to Wild Mint?”
“I do not,” he said.
“Then what is your plan as regards her?”
“I might have to return to Mohawk Territory from time to time to search for her killer, but I will no longer make this the reason that I live. There is another now who is important to me . . . you. I would live in truth. I would be alive. And if I can, I would live with you.”
Sarah glanced away from him. Oh, yes, it sounded so perfect. Except for one thing. She said, “I fear, sir, that it wouldn’t work. Eventually, you would begin to dislike me because I influenced you to turn your back on a pledge you made to another. And as for me, I would always be looking behind my back to see if someone were coming for me to take me back into servitude. Better it is that we confront our obligations here and now, rather than drag them with us elsewhere.”
He sighed, and was silent for so long that Sarah began to wonder if he had drifted off to sleep. At last, he said, “You are right. You are wise. We will both go to Albany, but, as I said before, we will use stealth, and we will go in the evening, when the staring eyes of the English villagers will have a difficult time seeing us together. And if you are to go back there, you must first visit these ‘courts’ that you talk of and tell them the truth of John Rathburn. Only then might I feel that you will be safe. Only then will I take you.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes. You’re right, and I will. You have been seeking to help me and I appreciate your concern. Please bear with me, however, for first I must see about Marisa and discover if she is safe or not. Then, with my mind at ease, I’ll do as you say and visit the constable in Albany, where I will tell him what I suspect of John Rathburn.”
“Can you not visit this constable first?”
“Aye, I could,” she said. “Is this what you wish?”
“It is.”
She sighed. “Then so be it.”
They had camped in the wooden grove of trees on the north side the Rathburn estate. White Thunder had discovered a tree that would make a good base while they were in Albany. It was a tree that looked much like the one that Marisa had once described, Perhaps it was the same, for it was a solid oak that looked as though it had been hollowed out by a lightning strike. Here, in the hollowed-out section of the tree, they left their food, extra moccasins and a few other bags. And though Sarah would rather not have to sneak into a village where she had lived for so many years, she could readily understand White Thunder’s hesitation. Besides, there would be no harm in visiting the constable before she had, of necessity, to confront John Rathburn.
With this explicit purpose in mind, she and White Thunder had visited the offices of Constable Phelps, only to discover that he was gone. They had even traveled to his home, but when that still produced no result, Sarah had insisted it was now time to find Marisa.
At present, both she and White Thunder were safely hidden by the bushes and trees of the woods that surrounded the Rathburn estate. Their plan was simple: Sarah would try to solicit the cook’s help. If anyone would know what had happened to Marisa, it might likely be Mrs. Stanton, the cook. Not only was her heart good, she had always held sympathy for the girl that Marisa had once been and the young lady she had become.
White Thunder seemed unusually alert, as though his attention were not only here but scattered over the entirety of the estate, watching for trouble. At last, he indicated that they should approach the kitchen door.
They crept up to it. Sarah knocked. White Thunder stepped to the side, out of the light.
No one answered. Sarah knocked again.
This time, they were in luck. A kitchen maid answered.
Immediately Sarah asked, “May I see Mrs. Stanton, please?”
The maid gave Sarah a confused, searching glance, most likely trying to discern exactly who Sarah was.
To ease the kitchen maid’s unspoken questions, Sarah said, “Cook knows me, for I used to work here, too. My name is Sarah. Please, would you find Mrs. Stanton and tell her that Miss Sarah Strong is here to see her?”
The maid nodded, closed the door and turned away. Sarah waited, trying to frame in her mind what she would say.
Without delay, Mrs. Stanton stepped to the door. Sarah watched as the cook opened the door a crack, and peeped out, saying, “Miss Sarah? Be it true that ye are here?”
“’Tis I, Mrs. Stanton. And I have had quite the adventure getting here.”
“Why, Miss Sarah, it is ye. Enter, please.” She opened the door wide.
“I have someone with me, Mrs. Stanton—an Indian. May we both come in?”
“Aye, child. I could’ve gathered from yer dress that ye’ve been rescued by the Indians. Miss Marisa was the same.”
“Miss Marisa? Is she here, then?”
“Nay, Miss Sarah, she is not.” Cook’s glance skipped off of her to stare at something at Sarah’s back, and Sarah assumed that White Thunder had stepped out of the shadows to stand behind her. “But,” Cook continued, “she was here fer a time. Locked in her room, she was, while
that evil man tried ta marry her off to an ugly old good-fer-nothin’. Now get ye in here. Would ye like some stew? I’ve only jest made it.”
“We would be delighted. But what happened?” asked Sarah. “Did Marisa marry the man her uncle had selected for her and then leave?”
“I daresay not. She escaped, and in doin’ so, she forced that evil man John Rathburn to write out his own confession. He did it, too, had little option.”
“He had little option? Why? What happened?”
“He tried to kill her.”
Sarah gasped and almost swooned. For a moment, she could hardly speak. “Miss Marisa?”
Cook nodded.
Eyes wide, Sarah asked, “But he didn’t accomplish it?”
“Indeed not.”
Sarah let out her breath. Gingerly, she laid a hand on Mrs. Stanton’s arm, then asked, “How did it happen?”
“Him and that giant Thompson tried to kill her—happened in his study, it did. That Indian lad of hers saved her—kilt Thompson dead.”
“Thompson is dead? Can’t say that I’m sorry. But, Mrs. Stanton, what did Mr. Rathburn confess to?”
“I wouldn’t be knowing that exactly, but rumor has it that he had business with a Dutch settlement, and he destroyed it and the murdered of all those people, and—”
Sarah had sat down all at once, looking for all the world as if she might faint.
“Miss Sarah, are ye all right?”
“Aye, I am fine. I think. But please, don’t stop. Please continue with your story, Mrs. Stanton.”
“Are ye certain?”
Sarah nodded.
“Though it happened long ago, long before ye came to live here, Miss Sarah, Miss Marisa forced John Rathburn’s hand at a confession of that Dutch settlement.”
“Then he truly was responsible for my parents’ . . .” Sarah placed her hand over her heart.
“What was that, Miss Sarah?”
“It was nothing, Mrs. Stanton. Please do continue.”
“I be thinkin’ that if he done it once, he done it many times. But I guess all we’ll ever know about is that poor Dutch colony.”