The White Oneida

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  He did not want to waste time. But still … he couldn’t just ignore it. He turned his steps in the direction of the crying.

  It did not take long before he came upon a small girl lying on the ground, her head buried in her arms. Beside her lay an overturned wooden bucket. Scattered on the dark leaves were a dozen eggs. Half of them were broken, their spilled yolks as bright as dandelions.

  For a short time, he stood looking at the little girl, wondering what to do. He certainly didn’t want to lose time taking care of a lost child. But now that he had found her, he couldn’t leave her there for wolves or a cougar to devour.

  He considered the best way to approach her. The sight of him might frighten her.

  “Hello,” he called softly. “Are you lost?”

  Her head lifted from her arms. She had pink cheeks and solemn grey eyes, with which she observed him carefully. Finally she said, “Yes.”

  “Then we must find your way home.”

  She sat up, rubbed her eyes. “Are you an Indian? Grandpa says I mustn’t speak to Indians.” She peered intently. “Your hair is funny. You have it cut like Indians do, but it’s the wrong colour, and it flops over instead of standing up like a shoe brush.”

  Broken Trail glowered. “Little girl, it doesn’t matter what I look like. You’re lost in the woods. Do you want me to help you or leave you here?”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “I want to go home.”

  “Fine. Do you know which way your home is?”

  “No.” She started to cry again. “I was taking some butter to Mrs. Whalley to trade for eggs. After I left her place, I thought I’d take a shortcut home. But I lost my way. Then I tripped and fell. The eggs rolled all over the ground.” She gave a sniffle. “Half of them broke.”

  “Be glad that half of them didn’t break,” he said as he gathered up the unbroken ones. When all were in the bucket, he said, “Come on. I saw a farm a ways back. We’ll go there. If it’s not yours, it will be a neighbour’s.”

  As he held out his hand to help her up, he recalled his own little sister. Her name was Hope. Ma had named her that at his suggestion. Hope had been born in the woods after the rebels torched his family’s home—his white family’s home—back in Canajoharie. That was before the Oneidas captured him. He had not seen Hope since she was a tiny infant.

  It made him feel big brotherly to be walking beside the little girl. Her hand felt very small within his grasp.

  They had not walked far when he heard a man’s voice calling, “Polly! Polly!”

  From a different direction came the voice of a boy. “Polly! Polly.”

  “Are you Polly?” Broken Trail asked her.

  She nodded.

  “You must answer them.”

  She shook her head. “They’ll be angry about the eggs.”

  So he called instead, “Polly’s over here.”

  In a short time, an old man came from one direction and a young boy from another, crashing through the undergrowth.

  The old man’s eyes were faded blue. Wrinkles covered his face.

  The boy was about ten, with cheeks just as pink as the girl’s.

  They both looked from Polly to Broken Trail and back again.

  “She was lost,” Broken Trail said. “I was taking her to one of the cabins I passed back along the trail.”

  The old man bent over to lift her in his arms. “There, there, Polly! It’s all right.”

  “You’re a naughty girl,” the boy said. “What were you doing, wandering off the path?”

  “Don’t scold her,” said the old man. “All that matters is, we got her back.” He turned to Broken Trail. “Much obliged to you for looking after Polly. Our place is just a bit further back. Come share a meal and stay the night.”

  “Be glad to, sir,” said Broken Trail. The day was nearly over. He liked the thought of sleeping with a roof over his head.

  “Then let’s get acquainted. I’m Owen Penrose.” Broken Trail shook the hand that he held out. Gnarled fingers. Palms rough from years of swinging an axe. “These are my grandchildren Paul and Polly.”

  “My name is Broken Trail.”

  Owen gave him a close look. “That’s an Indian name. You look white.”

  “I was born white. Oneida by adoption.”

  “Not Seneca? I’m glad you’re not Seneca.”

  The distance was not far. Owen’s cabin was one of those that Broken Trail had passed earlier. It was eight logs high, with a cedar shake roof. Attached to one side was a lean-to shed. A brown cow stood tethered outside the shed.

  “I was setting up to milk,” said Paul, “when Grandpa said we had to find Polly.” He picked up a pail from inside the cabin and went out to attend to the cow.

  Broken Trail entered the cabin and looked around. The only window was covered with oiled rawhide that admitted a soft, creamy light. The furnishings consisted of four chairs, one table and a churn. Beside the fireplace, a plank shelf pegged into the wall held earthenware jars, tin bowls, plates and cups, and a big wooden butter bowl. Along one wall, a bunk stretched from the front of the cabin to the back. The bunk was constructed of poles that had their ends wedged between the logs, with rush webbing between the poles. It reminded him of the sleeping platform in an Oneida longhouse.

  If the little girl was lucky that he had found her, he was lucky too. This cabin would be a good place to spend the night.

  CHAPTER 31

  Caught in the Middle Again

  BROKEN TRAIL, SITTING on one of the chairs, watched Owen Penrose carve the eyes out of a potato. When the operation was complete, he tossed the potato into a pot of water suspended over the fire and reached for another. Polly was perched on the bunk, playing with a corn-husk doll. On the far side of the wall shared with the shed, Paul was milking the cow. Through gaps between the logs came the squish, squish of milk into the metal pail.

  “When I first saw you with that Iroquois scalp lock, I didn’t know what to make of you,” said Owen. “Sure glad you’re not Seneca.”

  “This is the second time you’ve said that. You must have something against the Senecas.”

  Owen glanced in Polly’s direction and lowered his voice. “That’s God’s truth. I’ve been raising Paul and Polly since Senecas killed my daughter and her husband three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” What else was there to say?

  “Most of the time Polly don’t seem to remember.” Owen’s voice dropped still lower. “But sometimes at night she wakes up screaming.” He tossed another potato into the pot. “So that’s what I’ve got against Senecas.”

  Not for the first time, Broken Trail felt caught in the middle. The settlers wanted to make a home for their family. The Senecas wanted to keep their hunting grounds. Who was right? Who was wrong? He fell silent for several moments, and then he said, “There’s been too much bloodshed. We need to find a better way.”

  Owen snorted. “Faint hope of that.”

  “We have to keep looking.”

  “From the bottom of my heart, I hope you’ll find a better way. But if you’re looking for it here, you won’t find it.” He glanced up from the potato he was working on. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re an odd sort of traveller.”

  “I’m on my way to Brant’s Ford on the Grand River.”

  “The Grand River’s a popular destination. I hear Captain Brant has invited all the Six Nations to live there.”

  “That’s true.”

  “It makes sense. He’s a Mohawk, and the Mohawks are part of the Six Nations. But he’s also got Delawares, Mohicans, Nanticokes, and the Lord knows what else settling on that land.”

  “Yes. He wants to bring all the tribes together.”

  “He even has white Loyalists.”

  “White Loyalists!”

  “Yes, indeed. Captain Brant is making himself a fine little kingdom on the Grand River.”

  “I didn’t know about the white Loyalists.” Broken Trail scratched his head. What was going on?
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  After adding one more potato to the pot, Owen set down his knife. “That’s enough. Potatoes don’t make much of a supper, but it’s all we got.”

  “Potatoes are just fine,” said Broken Trail. “But I have meat to go with them.” He lifted the lid from his basket, unwrapped the meat, and held out a slab of half-smoked pork. “Pig meat.”

  “Toss it in.”

  When the pork was bubbling away with the potatoes, Owen said, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come by that meat?”

  “I shot a pig.”

  Owen frowned. “I had some pigs, but I kept losing them. They’d go off foraging in the woods and never come back. Wolves got some. And Senecas. Those damn Senecas think they have a right to kill our livestock.”

  Broken Trail did not answer. He remembered what he had been thinking when he shot the pig. It was not stealing, he had told himself, but merely collecting payment for the wild game that settlers had driven away.

  “Sir, it wasn’t your pig I shot. The brand mark was ‘WJ’.”

  “Nobody around here has those initials. All the same, we’re going to call it venison. Sounds better.”

  When the food was ready, Owen filled four tin bowls with boiled potatoes and pork. He called the meat venison.

  Paul took a bite. “Tastes like pork to me.”

  “If it’s boiled enough,” Owen said, “it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  In this case, Broken Trail had to agree. Owen’s skill as a cook was not impressive.

  After supper, Paul and Polly lay down at opposite ends of the bunk, each resting on a lumpy-looking burlap sack. Owen spread a blanket over Paul and then one over Polly, his gnarled hands tenderly tucking the edge of the blanket under her chin. Then he crossed the cabin and lifted a stoneware jar from the shelf.

  “Care for a little rum?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s a fine drink.”

  “I’ve seen the harm it can do.”

  “Can’t deny that.” Owen poured a small amount into a tin cup. “I like it, but I never drink enough to make myself stupid.” Carrying his cup, he sat down by the fire. “So you’re on your way to the Grand River. Tomorrow you’ll reach Buffalo Creek. Have you been there before?”

  “Never. I don’t know anything about it, and I’m curious how it got that name. There aren’t any buffalo in this part of the world.”

  “Never were and never will be.” Owen took a sip of rum. “I don’t know how it got the name. It’s not a real town. More like a camp that sprang up where Buffalo Creek flows into the Niagara River. Across the Niagara, you can see Fort Erie on the British side.

  “Buffalo Creek is a miserable place. More than two thousand homeless Indians are camped there. Half of them plan to stay put, hoping someday they can return to their old homes. The other half is on the move, eager to take up Captain Brant’s offer.”

  He took another sip of rum. “I have a suggestion. When you reach Buffalo Creek, hang around the shore. Wait till you see a family with little children loading their canoe, then step up and ask if they can use another good paddler. Like as not, they’ll say yes. The current is powerful even though Buffalo Creek is sixteen miles above Niagara Falls. Tell them you’ll lend your strong arm in return for a lift to the Grand River.”

  Broken Trail nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. I had a horse when I started out. I thought I’d have to hire a boatman. But thieves stole my horse while I was sleeping.”

  “Bad luck. But look on the bright side. Now you won’t need to hire a boat.”

  Owen finished his drink, corked the rum jar, and pulled two stuffed burlap sacks from under the bunk. “These are for you and me. We sleep on the floor.”

  “I’ve slept on worse.”

  Owen sat on his sack and pulled off his boots. There was a hole in the toe of one stocking.

  Broken Trail settled down on the sack that Owen had given him. It was hard and lumpy. Corn husks. He wriggled and squirmed before finally scrunching himself into a comfortable position. From time to time, the wind moaned in the chimney, making him feel fortunate to have shelter for the night.

  Tomorrow he would reach Buffalo Creek. Then he would cross the Niagara River to Fort Erie on the British side. Not the end of his journey, but the beginning of the end.

  CHAPTER 32

  Buffalo Creek

  BROKEN TRAIL SET out for Buffalo Creek under a low and heavy sky. By midday a cold rain was falling. It soaked his leather clothes and flattened his scalp lock. With every step his feet squelched on the muddy path.

  When he reached Buffalo Creek, the sight that greeted him was one of misery and squalor. Shacks and huts constructed of canvas, hides, bark and poles were littered randomly, a jumble of flimsy shelters that looked hastily thrown together by people who had expected to depart the next day, but never did.

  His shoulders hunched against the rain, he wandered about, feeling lost. In a white settlement, there would be streets. In a native village, there would be a dancing circle where all could congregate around a council fire. Here he saw no plan or order of any kind.

  While he was walking about, the rain stopped. The clouds overhead moved apart, exposing a patch of blue.

  Families emerged from their shelters. There were many children, but none was playing or running around. They were thin, their legs like sticks and their bellies swollen.

  He knew the signs of hunger. After General Sullivan’s army had driven his band from their village near Old Oneida, the people had lived for many days on boiled roots and dog meat. He looked around. There were no dogs in Buffalo Creek. Nothing spoke more clearly of hunger than the absence of dogs.

  As he wandered, he overheard fragments of conversation. Some people were speaking Oneida. He recognized scraps of Mohican. He also heard words of languages that he did not know at all.

  Down by the river stood a solid, square log building that looked like a palace compared to the rickety shacks. It had two windows with real glass, and a plank door with long, cast-iron hinges. This must be the trading post that Yellowbird had mentioned.

  He walked around to the back of the building. On the riverbank lay an array of overturned canoes. There was also a flat-bottom boat big enough to carry a horse. Broken Trail eyed it glumly, remembering Dark Cloud.

  The Niagara River was not so wide as the St. Lawrence, but its current ran faster. A floating branch caught his eye as it bobbed and turned, caught in the river’s tug. Owen had made a good suggestion. With many people on the move, it should not be hard to find a family that needed the help of a strong paddler.

  On the far shore stood a big fort, with a red, white and blue Union flag flying above the ramparts. His heart gave a jolt at the sight of soldiers in red coats, looking as small as ants in the distance. His brother Elijah was a redcoat, a sharpshooter in the King’s Royal Regiment of New York. Four years ago, he and Elijah had made a long trail together. Then they went their separate ways, Elijah to continue his life as a soldier, and Broken Trail to return to his Oneida village. It troubled him not to know where his brother was or what had become of him. He stared fixedly at the fort, as though by willing it he could make Elijah appear.

  The need for shelter forced him back to reality. Turning away from the river, he started to retrace his steps. Earlier he had heard people speaking Oneida. His best bet was to seek shelter among them.

  He was crossing a field of mud, sidestepping the flow of filthy water running through the camp, when suddenly his feet flew out from under him. With a drenching splash, he landed in a puddle, sprawled on his back with his carrying basket underneath him

  Slowly he got to his feet. He was covered in mud. He shrugged his carrying basket from his back. It was dented but not crushed. He checked his rifle. Dirty water ran from the mouth of the barrel.

  A man called out in a language he did not understand. Broken Trail did not look in his direction.

  The man called again. This time Broken Trail looked. The man was becko
ning to him. He was a middle-aged warrior—about the same age as Thayendanegea. His buckskin shirt was missing half its fringes. Three wet feathers trailed from his scalp lock. He was standing beside a blazing fire. With him were a woman and three small children, a boy and two girls.

  Broken Trail shook his head to show he didn’t understand what the warrior was saying.

  The warrior spoke again. “Any chance you speak English?”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t understand Mohawk, so I thought I’d try English. I asked if you want to warm yourself at our fire.” The speaker’s Mohawk accent was so slight that Broken Trail hardly noticed that he had one. “My name’s Two Sky Thunder. Call me Thunder. This is my wife Willow Bough, and these are my children.”

  “Thank you. My name is Broken Trail. I’m Oneida.”

  Broken Trail stepped closer to the fire and held his hands over the flames. The warmth was welcoming. The woman’s friendly face was welcoming, too. Taking a closer look, he saw that she was soon to become a mother again. The boy had about seven winters; his sisters were even younger. If this family planned to cross the river, an extra paddler was exactly what they needed.

  “I have meat to share,” he told them. Not waiting for an answer, he opened the lid of his carrying basket. The woman and children crowded close to have a look. The basket’s black ash splints were so tightly woven that not a drop of water had come through. He unfolded the pigskin that held the meat.

  “Ah!” they sighed with one common breath.

  Here was enough for the whole family, all ready to grill over their fire.

  The woman bustled into the shelter, returning with a handful of peeled sticks that she obviously kept ready, just in case …

  “My wife and children speak only Mohawk,” Thunder explained. “If you speak to them, it must be through me.”

  “Your English is excellent.”

  “It should be. I went to a school in Lebanon, Connecticut, when I was your age. My home village was near Fort Hunter in the Mohawk Valley. The local landowner Sir William Johnson sent a group of us young warriors to get a white man’s education.”