For a moment I believed he would attack, but my knife was inches from his belly, so he held his hand. It was well he did so, for I am a man of peace and would not have liked to send him crippled into the time after this.
We walked away then and left them staring, some with hope, some with hatred. For myself, although I liked Ni’kwana, I was pleased to be on my way. Keokotah, even more eager to be away, took the lead and soon broke into a trot. I followed, running easily and liking the path as it wound through the greenwood.
When we came to where the path divided, I took the easternmost. Keokotah hesitated. “The other is closer to the Great River,” he said.
“I have reason. We will take the right-hand path.”
He shrugged and motioned to indicate I should lead, which I did. We were nearing a river now and also the place where my canoe was hidden. The river we would follow also led toward Hiwasee, where there were Cherokees. It had been the home of other Indians before them and was a well-known place. So far as I knew none of these Cherokees had known us, but as I was beginning to learn, my father was known to them, and I myself, in a lesser way.
My canoe remained where it had been hidden, and Keokotah was much pleased. Birchbark canoes were not common. The Iroquois, for example, used only clumsy dugout canoes and were not skilled in working with birchbark. Mine was light and graceful, an easy canoe to be carried across portages by one man, but preferably two.
Beautiful was the morning when we went out upon the river, with the sunlight gathering diamonds from the ripples, and overhead a few idle clouds loitering over the blue meadows of the sky. We simply allowed the current to take us along, using the paddles only to maintain direction.
Once a great cloud of pigeons flew up, darkening the sky for a full two minutes as they swept by, a dusty brown screen between us and the sun. Further along we encountered three buffaloes swimming the river, but we had plenty of buffalo meat and had killed three wild turkeys earlier in the day.
This was my world and I was at ease with it—with the river, its waters still strong from melting snow, and with the dark, mysterious walls of the forest on either hand. I had never known the ease of cities or the trading and haggling of the marketplace. What I now had was what I wanted, to know the wilderness at first hand, to wander its lonely paths, to discover, to see, to feel, to search out the unknown and meet it face to face.
“You have been to the Far Seeing Lands?” I asked Keokotah.
“I have. Others of my people have. We Kickapoo are great wanderers.”
This he had said before and I acknowledged it, for so I had been told in the lodges of the Cherokees.
“No people lived there,” he said, “until now. A few came, then more, but they are very few even in this day.”
“Where do they come from?”
“North, they come from the north, always there are people coming down from the north. And some from the east. There are people like you who sell guns to Indians. The Indians who have guns make war against Indians who have none, and the Indians without guns come westward to escape. These Indians push against other Indians until finally some have had to go out into the Far Seeing Lands.”
It made sense. We had heard that the Dutch at Hudson’s River were trading guns to the Indians. One thing more I had learned: more than any other Indians the Kickapoos, because of their inclination to wander, knew most about other tribes.
The Indian did not own land. A tribe might claim an area for hunting and gathering, but a stronger tribe might push them out, or they themselves might move when game became scarce.
Other things I learned from the casual talk of Keokotah, and one of these was that only those Indians who were present when an agreement was made need abide by its terms. A chief was so by prestige alone, a prestige won by his greatness as a warrior, his success as a leader, or his wisdom in council.
That night we camped on the bank of a creek emptying into the Hiwasee. It was a grassy shore with forest all around, fuel enough, and a good place to hide our fire. We talked much, and as we talked Keokotah’s tongue loosened and words forgotten returned to him. His English friend had taught him well, obviously impressed by Keokotah’s quick intelligence.
Once during the night I caught a faint sound from the forest, not a sound of wind among the trees, not a sound of an animal moving, but of something else, someone or something. I lay wide-eyed, listening. Keokotah seemed asleep but with him one never knew.
Our fire was down to a few coals, our canoe bottom up on the shore, our weapons at hand. All was still, and I heard no further sounds, yet I had heardsomething.
Morning came and Keokotah said nothing. Had he heard the sound in the night? Did he not think it important? Or was it a sound he had expected? How could I know there were not other Kickapoos about? So I said nothing of what I had heard.
It was a lazy, easy, sun-filled morning. We watched the river for other Indians but saw none. Hiwasee could not be far away down the river, and many Indians would be there.
“What game is further west?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Like here.” There were deer of several kinds, one his English friend called wapiti. “I do not know what is wapiti. Much buffalo west. More than here. Bears, ver’ large bears. A bear with silver hair almost as large as a small buffalo.”
“A bear? As large as a buffalo?”
“Not so great. Nearly. He has a hump on his back and he is hard to kill. You see this bear you go away before he sees you. He ver’ fierce bear.”
He dipped his paddle and the canoe glided around a rock, and Keokotah added, “There is big animal, big as a bear, maybe much bigger. He is yellow, long hair, very long claws. He dig. Much dig.
“Then there is big animal, much meat. He have long nose, two spears.”
“Spears?An animal that carriesspears? “
Keokotah made a sign for a long nose and two curved spears. An elephant?Here?
I had never seen an elephant, although Sakim had drawn pictures of them, and my father had, I believed, seen one in England.
“No,” I shook my head. “Not here.”
“I speak clear.” Keokotah was suddenly very dignified. “I see only one time. Long time. I know old man who hunt him many times. He is big, ver’ big animal. Much hair.”
That was wrong. I knew about elephants and they did not have much hair. Only short, stiff bristles sometimes. “There is such an animal, but he does not live here.”
That was a mistake. “He lives,” Keokotah spoke stiffly. “I see him.”
He did not speak again for many hours and I knew I had seriously offended him.
The idea was preposterous, yet how could he have even known of such an animal? His English friend, perhaps? But why would Keokotah lie?
Twice we sighted Indians on the shore, and once a canoe tried to overtake us, but it was no such canoe as ours and we left them far behind.
Suddenly Keokotah pointed. A land mass seemed to block the river. “Hiwasee!” he said.
As if commanded by the sound of his voice, two canoes shot into the main stream, each propelled by four paddlers. Dipping their paddles deep, they overtook us, one on either side.
“Cherokees,” I spoke to Keokotah. “Hold your hand!”
Chapter Five.
They were beside us, weapons ready. To attempt escape was to die. If we fought, the odds were against us, but I had friends among the Cherokees over the mountains. Even here I might find friends.
We had traded with Cherokees at Shooting Creek, and we had carried trade goods to Cherokee towns to the south and east of us.
Of Barnabas they must surely know. His name had become legend. Kin had often gone to their villages and had many friends among them, but of these Over Hill Cherokees we knew too little and that only by hearsay.
Kin and Yance had hunted with the Cherokee, and had been on war parties with them. Yance, I had heard, was especially loved by them, my wild, rowdy, and reckless brother of great strength and an unfai
ling sense of humor.
How could they know of me, the Quiet One? He who walked in the shadows among the laurel sticks and stood alone on the balds when the sun was rising?
“Hold your hand,” I warned the Kickapoo.
“They are enemies! I fear none of them!”
“I know you do not fear and they know it as well, but if you would live, hold your hand and be guided by me. I am not their enemy and they shall know it.”
“Is it that you fear?”
“If you walk beside me you shall see if I fear, but if they will permit I shall be a man of peace. I have no feud with the Cherokee.”
“They need no feud. A scalp is a scalp.”
My friend the Kickapoo was no fool, but we had no choice. The friendship of the red man was based upon different considerations than with us, although there were places where our trails of belief crossed. It behooves one to be wary when among strangers and not to trust too much.
To the shore we were guided, and when we drew our canoes up on the land one of my captors reached for my bow. Their village was close-by.
Drawing it away from him I stared into his eyes and said, “I am a friend. I am Sackett.”
The warrior’s hand fell away.“Sackett!” he exclaimed.
“He is Sackett,” another said. “He has the face of Sackett.”
“I do not know him,” another said. “I do not see him.”
“We come as friends, to smoke with the Cherokee. Then we go to the Great River, and beyond.”
A Cherokee pointed at Keokotah. “He is Kickapoo. What do you with our enemy?”
“When he is with me he is no enemy to the Cherokee. He is a great wanderer. Together we go beyond the Great River. Perhaps we shall cross the Far Seeing Lands.”
“The land is dead. There is no water. The grass is brown and old, and the rivers do not run.”
“I shall find water. My medicine is strong. For me the land will not be empty.”
The brave who said I had the Sackett face now spoke. “I know him. It is he of the great medicine.”
They stood a little away from me. What they knew of me I had no idea, but it was no time for questions. “I would walk in your village. I would smoke with your chiefs. I would sit down with your medicine man. When I am with you my medicine is your medicine.”
People had come out from the village and they stood back from us as we were escorted into the gate. The village, surrounded by a strong palisade, was a number of lodges roofed with bark. Outside one of the huts an old man sat cross-legged on a buffalo robe.
He looked up at me and then gestured that we be seated.
We sat opposite him and he took a pipe and smoked and then passed the pipe to me. I puffed and then passed it to the Kickapoo, who hesitated ever so slightly and then smoked and returned the pipe.
It seemed to me there was sly amusement in the old man’s eyes. “You are Sackett?”
“I am.”
The old man studied my clothing and then my longbow. Then his eyes went to the scabbards at my waist. “What?” he asked.
“The voices of thunder,” I said, “the voice that kills at a distance.”
The first Cherokee extended a hand. “I will see.”
“They are medicine. I give them to no man.”
His eyes were hard. “Perhaps we take?” he suggested.
“Many would die.”
“You would die!”
“Man was born to die. It is our promise at birth.” I looked at him coolly and tried to make it no threat. “Do not hasten the time.”
The old man appeared to take no notice of what had been said. “We of the Cherokee hear much of He Who Tells of Tomorrow. We hear of your great medicine.”
A fire blazed between us, just a small, flickering blaze.
“There is a magic on the wind, and there are spirits that wait in the shadows. They belong to no man but they sometimes favor we of the great medicine.” My hand moved over the fire, opening in a smooth gesture above the flame, but the fire suddenly turned blue and green.
The Cherokees drew back, muttering, but the old man did not move. “Ah? I have heard of he who makes the fire change.”
“The spirits are kind,” I said, modestly. “It is nothing.”
The old man was amused. “My spirits are sometimes kind,” he said, “although not in the same way.”
“I have no doubt,” I said. “Beyond the blue mountains your name is known.”
“You go beyond the Great River? It is a far way, often bloody. Some have gone from here. Some returned. Many were lost.” He paused. “It was from there the white men came, the white men who wore iron shirts.”
“White men in iron shirts? The Warriors of Fire?”
He shook his head. “It was later. When I was a young boy. With my own eyes I saw them.
“He came to eat in our village and he was much hungry. When he came to leave we gave him food and he went quickly away. I was a boy then, and curious. I followed.”
We waited, and even the other Cherokees were curious, for the story seemed new even to them.
“He was weak, this white man. He had eaten, but still he was weak. Twice he fell down before he came to the fire where two others waited, so weak they could not stand. He gave them food.”
“They wore iron shirts also?”
“They did. Two carried bows such as yours, and one carried a spear. All had long knives. They ate. They rested. They went away. I watched them as they went.”
“Which way did they go?”
“Up the Great War Path. The Warrior’s Path.”
“You did not follow?”
“For a little way. They met with two other men, also with longbows and also with long knives, but only one had an iron shirt. This one had killed a deer. He had meat with him, and I watched them eat again. When they started on I went back to my village.”
Five white men? Only the English used the longbow, and an Indian would remember the bows.
Who could they have been? The old man to whom I talked must be close to eighty, and it had been when he was a boy. Vaguely I recalled a story told by Jeremy Ring, my father’s old friend, a story of some of Sir John Hawkins’s men who had been left ashore in Mexico, and of how some of those men, not wishing to be imprisoned by the Spanish, had struck out to walk to the French settlements of which they had heard, not realizing how long a journey it would be. Yet three men had gotten through, walking to Nova Scotia in eleven months, from which place they were carried away to France and then to England. These could have been the men.
“You have come in peace,” the old man said. “You will find peace here, and you shall leave in peace.”
“With my friends the Cherokee I would have it no other way.”
We were shown a lodge where we could sleep, but I knew that what had been said was spoken to me only. The Kickapoo would be left alone while in the village, but after that—
It was only then that I realized that the Cherokee who had wanted my guns had left the group before the old man had given us his permission to stay. That Cherokee would not be party to the old man’s agreement. It was a thing to remember. Perhaps not intended that way, but who could be sure?
What of our canoe? Would it be safe? From the lodge to which we had been taken I judged the distance. Perhaps it would be well if we slipped away in the night, if that were possible. All we could do now was wait and see.
The village was larger than I had at first believed. There were many Indians about, and they had dogs, dozens of them, constantly moving around. Yet at night they would sleep. Or would they? Certainly they would be aware of us, and any movement at night might be considered unfriendly.
We would wait until day. We would eat, we would talk, and we would take our departure quietly, as guests should.
What happened after that was another thing, and we would be ready.
Keokotah seemed to sleep soundly, yet who could be sure? Long before daybreak I was up, my small pack prepared, my weap
ons ready. I expected no trouble within the village, but all did not like us here, nor had they all approved of the old man’s welcome.
A voice from the door of our lodge spoke. “Sackett?”
“I am here.”
“Come! It is time to go!”
Six warriors waited outside. We faced them, prepared for whatever would come. “We are friends.” The speaker was a barrel-chested Indian of some forty years. “We have come to see you safely on your way. Sackett has been a friend to our people. We are friends to Sackett.”
They formed on either side of us and walked with us to our canoe. Two men guarded it. Getting into two canoes they paddled beside us until we were well on our way. Finally, they backed water and let us go on ahead. The older Indian lifted his spear. “Go in peace!” he said, and we did.
Obviously they had feared we would be attacked and had come to see us on our way in safety. Would our Cherokee enemies pursue? I doubted it. The warrior faction had made their position known in no uncertain terms, and it was unlikely that a few malcontents would dare oppose them.
But we were wary, as it is wise to be, trusting to nothing and prepared for anything.
My father’s reputation had preceded us. He had been known as a brave and honorable man, often settling disputes among the Indians. Often they brought their sick or wounded to us for treatment that seemed beyond what their own medicine men could do. The place on Shooting Creek had become known among not only the Cherokees but other tribes as well.
We moved on through sunlight and shadow, taking our time on the river, seeing no one. Nearly every day clouds of passenger pigeons flew over us, and we also began to see flights of parakeets, adding touches of brilliant color to the bare trees.
Many trees were leafing out and much of the brush along the streams as well. Once, glancing back, I thought I caught the flash of sunlight on a paddle blade, yet I did not see it again.
We put twenty miles behind us before we made camp at a cove near a small creek, drawing our canoe well up into the willows and out of sight. Making a small fire of dry wood that offered almost no smoke, we ate some of the buffalo meat and stretched out on the grassy slope to rest.
From where we lay we could see upstream for almost a mile, and by turning our heads and looking through the willows we could see downstream for a short distance. It was a quiet, lazy time, but a time I needed to think, to plan.
Jubal Sackett (1985) Page 4
