Indian Captive

by Lois Lenski

  “Oh, thank you, Shining Star!” cried Molly. “Thank you for the beautiful name.”

  Through her mind came singing sweet words she had heard on her father’s lips: “The Injuns’ll never hurt you, Molly-child. Why, when they see your yaller hair a-shinin’ in the sun, they’ll think ’tis only a corn-stalk in tassel!”

  A corn-stalk in tassel! He must have known the Indians would treat her kindly. Corn Tassel—they had named her Corn Tassel because they loved the corn so much. How pleased her father would be if he knew! Where was he now? She had not thought of him for days. Molly’s eyes filled with sudden tears; then with the back of her hand, she brushed them away.

  “I like to work in the corn,” she said. “I always worked in the corn at home.”

  “It is time now you worked for Bear Woman,” replied Shining Star. They walked through the rows till they came to the overseer.

  “Is she ready to work?” Bear Woman glared at the white captive and her voice was gruff like a bear’s. “She ran away before.”

  “She works well now,” answered Shining Star. “She works like an Indian woman. She wants work to do in the corn-field.”

  The old woman’s face and figure bristled with fierceness and Molly trembled to see Shining Star go off and leave her. But Bear Woman’s voice, gruff though it was, held kindness as she talked to Molly about the corn.

  “The corn, the beans and the squashes are Three Sisters,” Bear Woman explained. “We call them Our Life, because it is they who sustain us.”

  She pointed to the south side of the corn-hills where the women had planted beans and squash seeds. The vines grew thick around the hills, the beans curling their tendrils about the corn-stalks, the squash plants a mass of broad green leaves spread out on the ground.

  “In the same hill the Three Sisters grow,” Bear Woman went on. “They take the same food from the earth; they drink the same moisture. They love each other so dearly that they grow better when planted together. They can never be separated without pain.”

  “Three Sisters!” cried Molly, her eyes shining. “Three Sisters always happy together!” She had never heard anything like this from the white people.

  “The corn has enemies, too,” continued Bear Woman. “First there are the weeds, rank and tall, who try to choke its roots. They must be pulled out and destroyed. After three weedings the corn is safe. Now that the ears are beginning to form, there are thieves who come to steal—birds, squirrels, field mice, crows, deer.”

  “Do the Indians have to fight to save their corn as the white people do?” asked Molly.

  “Yes,” said Bear Woman. “Long and hard they must fight for the precious corn.”

  She led Corn Tassel to a tall covered platform built of poles. When the girl climbed up the ladder and looked, she could see far out across the waving tassels. It was like looking over an ocean that ebbed and flowed with soft, gentle movements.

  “You will come here for part of each day,” said Bear Woman, “taking turns with the other children. The worst offender is Kah-Kah, the crow. Wave the blanket and shout, but throw no stones, lest you kill him. He is our friend, however mischievous. To frighten him off is enough. Long ago, Kah-Kah lived far away to the southwest. One day he took a grain of corn in his beak and brought it here to us. He brought us our first grain of corn for a gift. So to Kah-Kah we must ever be grateful.”

  Days passed, hot summer days, in which Molly pulled weeds with the Indian women and took turns with the children on the platforms, guarding the grain and frightening marauders away. In the corn-field she was happy and for her work won frequent praise from stern-faced Bear Woman.

  As the days came and went, bringing hot summer sunshine and cooling rains, Molly watched the beans bloom and the pods begin to form. She saw the squash plants open their great yellow blossoms, then drop their petals to grow their fruit. She saw the ears on the corn-stalks grow fuller day by day, watched over with constant care by sharp-eyed Bear Woman. Each day without fail, with Corn Tassel by her side, the woman looked to see how big the grains had grown. Each day she shook her head and said to the questioning Indians, “It is not ready.” The whole village waited, as eagerly as Molly, for the ripening of the corn.

  On a pleasant morning in mid-August, Bear Woman announced that the corn was ready. The ears, now grown to full size, were in the soft, milky state best for roasting. She called the Indians together to celebrate the Feast of the Green Corn. Always, she explained to Corn Tassel, the first fruit of the corn that was fit to use was made a feast offering by the Senecas.

  Molly went into the corn-fields with the women. The new splint basket, which she carried strapped upon her back, she filled with ears of corn for roasting. She took them to the fires where the Indians danced and sang in honor of the ripening harvest.

  The festival lasted four days—a season of general thanksgiving to the Great Spirit, of feasting and rejoicing among the Indians themselves. Important men of the tribe made speeches and burned ceremonial tobacco. There were games and dances for men, women, and children in the great open space in front of the lodges and each day at twilight, a feast.

  Huge kettles were hung over great smoking fires and everyone ate his fill of the bounteous, delicious food. In addition to boiled beans and squash, green corn was cooked in a variety of ways. It was both boiled and roasted in the ear; some was cut from the cob and cooked with beans to make succotash; some was made into a special kind of green corn bread, used only on this occasion.

  At first, Molly watched the strange proceedings, wide-eyed and curious. The muffled beat of the drums, the shaking of the rattles and the shuffling movement of the dances filled her with a strange excitement. Then, suddenly, she felt out of place. The music beat on her ear with an alien note. She was not an Indian like the others—she was still a white girl. She was the only white person in the whole village.

  She hurried away to the corn-field. There she worked diligently, pulling off ears of corn as fast as she could until her splint basket was full to the brim. Then she carried it back to the fires. Always more corn was needed. The amount that the Indians were able to eat was astonishing. Back and forth she hurried, emptying the corn from her basket onto the ground beside the boiling kettles.

  Up and down the corn-rows she walked, pulling ears off one by one. Her arms grew tired, her back began to ache, but still she worked. Work—that was what she needed. Work, to fill her mind and heart. Work, to make her forget the sorrow that lay only covered—not dead. Work, to make her forget…

  But, oh, she must not forget! How near she had come to forgetting! For the first time in days, her mother’s voice came back to her, saying: “Don’t forget your own name or your father’s and mother’s. Don’t forget to speak in English. Say your prayers and catechism to yourself each day…Say them again and again…don’t forget, oh, don’t forget…

  She must not forget. She would never let herself forget. She dared not speak English in the presence of the Indians. She must contrive to be alone more often. She must not forget the English words she knew. What if one day a white person should come to the Indian village to take her home again?

  Slowly she walked down through the corn-rows, where all was silent, and slowly she said the names over: “Thomas Jemison, Jane Jemison, John, Thomas, Betsey, Mary, Matthew and baby Robert.” Her prayers and her catechism came next, then the names again: “Thomas Jemison, my father; Jane Jemison, my mother; John and Thomas, Betsey and Mary, little Matthew and baby Robert, of Marsh Creek Hollow in Penn…syl…va…nia…”

  The rustling leaves whispered familiar memories in her ears and took her back in spirit to Marsh Creek Hollow. Sheltered by the huge green stalks of corn, she could almost believe she was there. Perhaps at the edge of the field when she came out, she would find a zigzag rail fence to climb over …

  Slowly she walked along as darkness fell. “Thomas Jemison, my father; Jane Jemison, my mother…” The names made a sing-song rhythm on her tongue.

  She ha
d not guessed that anyone was near, so absorbed had she become in the sound of the English words and the pleasing picture of a loved one called up by each. Unconsciously she paused. Then, like a thunder-storm breaking the still beauty of a summer day, disaster fell. Squirrel Woman, running softly and swiftly up behind, heard sounds that were not Seneca words, sounds of English that enraged her.

  “So you come alone to the corn-field,” she cried, hot with anger, “to say aloud to yourself words of the pale-face!”

  She took the girl by the arm and began to shake her. She shook her till her teeth chattered in her head. She shook her till, limp and exhausted, she fell upon the ground. Only then did she let go her hold.

  After a moment Molly staggered to her feet and looked up at the Indian woman, but there were no tears in her eyes. Like an Indian, she was learning to bear her pain. She looked at Squirrel Woman, but she saw in her place a neighbor from Marsh Creek Hollow—a woman whom everyone knew as a scold. She had seen her shake her children in just the same way.

  She turned to Squirrel Woman and spoke calmly: “Like a rushing tornado, like the wind through the trees in winter, you come running up behind me. Like a white woman, you shake a defenseless child. Till her teeth rattle and fall out, you keep on shaking!” She paused to draw breath, then went on: “Squirrel Woman acts like a white woman, an angry white woman, a torment, a scold. Squirrel Woman is the only Indian in the village who, like a pale-face, gives loud expression to hot anger!”

  The Indian woman stirred uneasily, staring. But Molly had more words to say: “If you speak to me in reason, I will listen to your words. Shining Star speaks words of wisdom, Red Bird does the same, and so do all the others. I listen when they speak. I try to heed their words.”

  Squirrel Woman’s arms dropped, with a sudden movement, to her sides. At Corn Tassel, this new Corn Tassel, she stared in open-mouthed surprise. Perhaps the truth of the accusation reached and hurt her. Perhaps it would help her to mend her ways.

  Then suddenly Molly saw Red Bird there, standing beside her daughter. Had she seen and heard all?

  “As it is wrong to punish a child with a rod or a whip,” said Red Bird to her daughter, “so it is wrong to use any sort of violence. Water only is necessary and it is sufficient. If Corn Tassel has disobeyed, plunge her under. Whenever she promises to do better, the punishment must cease at once.”

  The quiet words were unexpected. Molly turned, still expecting a shower of blows to rain down upon her head. She stood still a moment, waiting. But none came. She waited a moment longer, then ran fast, out of the cornfield, back to the lodge.

  A dreadful thing had happened, a thing that overwhelmed her. Her rudeness to Squirrel Woman was wrong, she knew, but that was not the thing that gave her pain. A more dreadful thing than that had taken place. She ran to her bed and, filled with shame, hid her face in the blankets.

  A dreadful truth like a burning fire consumed her. Molly Jemison had begun to think like an Indian, to see white people from the Indian point of view. Molly Jemison was turning into an Indian. What could she do—oh, what could she do!

  8

  A Second Captivity

  AS MOLLY STOOD IN the doorway, she knew they were talking about her. She had heard the sound of her name. She had heard the word journey. She looked at them in confusion as their voices died away. Two strange men stood by the fire with the others; one of them looked at her and frowned. Where were they planning to take her?

  Nothing more was said. For days, she lived in the shadow of a dark secret; then Shagbark called her to his lodge and had a long talk with her.

  “The real home of the Senecas,” the old Indian explained, “is not here, but far away to the northeast, in Genishau or Genesee Town, by the Great Falling Waters. The Senecas are of the Ho-di-no-sau-nee, the People of the Long House. The Five Nations are the Senecas, the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Oneidas and the Mohawks. These tribes look upon each other as brothers and in time of war fight side by side.

  “They are like families living together in one great Long House, with a door at each end. The Mohawks are the Keepers of “the Eastern Door and the Senecas are the Keepers of the Western Door. The Oneidas and the Cayugas are our younger brothers; while in the center, the Onondagas keep the council fire always burning.

  “The Senecas have the power of swift feet. They can outrun any animal in the forest. And so, beside their camp-fires they are never content to remain. Far and wide over the face of the earth they roam, protecting their people, putting down their enemies, and searching always for good hunting-grounds.

  “The Senecas have built villages by the River Ohio because here the soil is black and rich. In the winter they sometimes go as far south as the mouth of the River Scioto to hunt, because there the hunting is good. Always there are Senecas making the long journey from Genesee Town to the River Ohio and back again.”

  “Is it a long journey over the mountains?” asked Molly, remembering.

  “It is long and hard,” answered Shagbark kindly, reading the girl’s thoughts, “but not over the mountains to the eastward. It is in a northeasterly direction. Part is taken by canoe and part on foot. All is through the trackless wilderness, so it is well that the men know the way. They have traveled it many times going to and returning from the Cherokee wars.

  “The two strange men who have come to your lodge are Red Bird’s sons, Shining Star’s brothers. Good Hunter and Gray Wolf go and return every season. They have wives and children at Genesee Town. The Senecas who live on the Ohio are often urged, by those at Genesee to come and live with them. It is this way—Genesee Town is home to all the Senecas. Good Hunter has come again to ask his mother and her family to go home with him. But Red Bird and her daughters have once more refused. They do not wish to go. They are contented here. The corn grows tall in Seneca Town by the River Ohio.”

  “But why, then, do they make preparations for a journey?” asked Molly. “They have pounded parched corn and mixed it with maple sugar. They have put meal into a bag…”

  “Shining Star’s two brothers are soon to make the return journey to the village by the Falling Waters,” replied Shagbark. “Others in Seneca Town are going home as soon as the corn is harvested. Shining Star and Squirrel Woman will accompany their brothers as far as Fort Duquesne, there to buy needed supplies and return. If Shining Star wished to take her pale-faced sister along, would you care to go?”

  “To Fort Duquesne?” asked Molly, in amazement. “To be given away to a Frenchman?”

  “Ohé!” cried Shagbark, laughing. “What gave the child such a notion? Do you not know that you have been adopted into a powerful tribe of the Senecas? Do you not realize that no pale-face, not even a Frenchman, can take you away from the stronghearted Senecas? No—you go to Fort Duquesne and after two suns, you come back again to Seneca Town with the women.”

  Fort Duquesne! Davy Wheelock and Nicholas Porter! If only they would be there, if only she could talk to them again! Molly’s face saddened. There would be no one she knew at Fort Duquesne, only Indians and blue-coated Frenchmen.

  “If it is the will of Shining Star to take me,” she said, dropping her eyes, “I am ready to go.”

  “You have spoken well, my daughter,” said Old Shagbark. “Your Indian sister will be pleased when she hears.”

  The voyage was taken as before; the men in the large canoe leading the way, the two women in a smaller one following with Molly. Only one thing was different. Blue Jay went along, strapped to his baby frame, lying safely on the bottom of the canoe. There, with his eyes shaded by the covered hoop, he talked to himself or slept peacefully.

  The forests on the hillsides were touched with patches of gay autumn color. Already the brilliant green of summer had begun to fade. Molly rested contentedly. The women did not ask her help with the paddling. For the first time in many long weeks she sat with her hands folded in her lap, idle. The sun beat down upon her golden head with pleasant warmth. After a time, she curled up on the floor of
the canoe and like Blue Jay fell fast asleep.

  The Indians beached their canoes on the shore opposite the fort and camped there for the night. Early the next morning they paddled across the river.

  Fort Duquesne looked just the same. It had not changed at all. It looked just as it had looked five long months before in April. Molly’s heart began to pound as she stared at the hard, gray stockade walls. Then she thought of all that had happened to herself. She who had said she would never be an Indian, had been living the life of an Indian girl. The fort was just the same—it was she who had changed.

  The Indian men walked first, then the women with heavy packs of furs upon their backs. Molly followed at their heels carrying Blue Jay. Behind her head she could hear him chattering contentedly.

  Soon they came to the Indian trading-house. It was built of hewn logs of great size, with heavy puncheons for the roof. It was a store and fort combined for the safety of the trader and the protection of his furs and goods.

  Molly walked into the cabin at the end of the little procession. She saw the Indians pick out places on the plank floor and sit down. A Frenchman appeared who spoke some words in Indian. He presented each of the Indian men with tobacco. Pipes were lighted and the bits of tobacco left over were stowed safely away inside the men’s tobacco pouches. The Indian men smoked and talked a great while among themselves. The women who had dropped their packs stood behind waiting patiently.

  Arranged on shelves against the wall Molly saw a fine array of merchandise—blankets, store cloth, guns, tomahawks, and knives. Before her on the counter a pile of trinkets was displayed—balls, rings, bells of brass, brooches of silver, and piles of small glass beads in brilliant colors. She walked up closer, staring. She had never seen such things before.

  “Go outside!” snapped Squirrel Woman, stepping up behind her. These goods and baubles were made by white men. To look upon them might be harmful to a white girl captive. “Go outside!” the woman cried. “A trading-house is no place for such as you.”