by Ron Carter
“Eli, you be careful. You hear me? Be careful.”
“I will. I will. You get a chance, stop by and take a look at the place while I’m gone.”
“Every chance I get. You be careful.”
He slapped the reins on the rumps of the two horses and hauled hard to turn the wagon to the left, back around and down the trail to the winding dirt road leading back four miles to Vincennes. He turned once to nod a goodbye to Eli, who waved back to him, and he was gone.
For a time Eli stood quietly, mind working with the news delivered by Ned, studying the picture that was developing between the United States and the Indians, from the Great Lakes to the bayous and swamps of Louisiana. Tecumseh and his brother Tenskwatawa, The Prophet, dedicated to forming an alliance of all tribes to force the return of the lands taken from them by the whites; the muddled William Eustis, secretary of war in Washington, D.C., trying to contain the Indians; the belligerent, hard-headed Indiana territorial governor William Henry Harrison lusting for a chance—an excuse—to wipe the red men from the face of the earth.
Eli reached his conclusion. Harrison will find his chance, or he’ll force an excuse, and one side or the other will start the shooting. Maybe it can be avoided, maybe not. But someone has to try.
He walked back to the chopping block, jerked the ax free, set up the next rung of pine, and swung. The sun had set and dusk was closing in when he drove the ax back into the block and began the work of stacking the kindling against the wall. It was full darkness when he finished and went inside the cabin. He finished the stew, drank from the water dipper, and in the pale light of two lanterns picked his long Pennsylvania rifle from the pegs above the front door. Within twenty minutes he had his powder horn, shot pouch, patch pouch, tomahawk, and belt knife on the table, ready. With a lantern in hand he walked to the root cellar to return with a block of cheese, a sack of dried corn, hardtack, and dried apple slices. The three-quarter moon was up, shining through the filigree of tree branches, and frost was forming when he banked the fire, went to his bunk, turned the lamps out, and pulled the blankets to his chin.
The morning star was still high and bright when he rolled and tied his blanket and looped it and his other belongings over his shoulder, slipped his tomahawk through his weapons belt, picked up his rifle, and walked out the front door. He checked the root cellar, then the smokehouse, and paused for a moment to stop and listen for any interruption of the stillness of the dark, and there was none. He turned west down the winding trail to the main road with his breath forming vapors, walking stiffly at first, then, as warmth came and the reluctance left his joints, he swung into his usual free, open stride.
The eastern horizon was purple when he passed Vincennes, with lights glowing yellow in some of the windows of the scattered log homes. He continued north on the winding, rutted dirt road with the Wabash River on his left and the pristine forest on his right. The frosts of October had touched the leaves, and he gloried in the incomparable colors. He nooned next to the river on dried corn and cheese and clear, cold, sweet water, sat with his knees high and his back against a tree trunk for ten minutes, then continued on through country unspoiled by white men until the sun settled in the west to cast long shadows eastward, and then disappear to leave a dying afterglow in a cloudless sky. He took a fish from the river and roasted it on a spit over a low fire, ate more corn, drank, and went to his blankets with his rifle and tomahawk inside his blankets, to keep them from the frost.
Morning found him moving north again, following the river, holding his steady stride. He greeted and passed a solitary man and then two men driving a two-wheeled freight cart pulled by an ox. He slowed as he passed a clearing that had not been there before, with fresh wood chips scattered about many tree stumps, and a cabin half built with no one around. He wondered who had spent the summer swinging an ax and sweating, then abandoned their work. What, or who, had stopped them, and why? There was no answer, and he moved on, stopping occasionally to eat the wild berries that were fat for harvest, digging the roots that were heavy from summer growth, and broiling them for his supper.
The third day a six-hundred-pound brown sow bear waddled across the trail ahead of him, fat, winter hair long and heavy, face smeared with juice from the berries she had been taking for the past three weeks. She scented him and paused to rear up on her hind legs, weak eyes probing for what she could not see while her superior nose told her everything she needed to know. It was the scent of the two-legged creatures, not native to the forest, who were little more than a nuisance. She dropped back to all fours and disappeared into the forest to gorge once again on the rich berries that would fatten her for her long sleep through the winter snows that were coming. Later that day Eli took a rabbit in a snare and roasted it with some roots for his supper.
Each day he saw sign on the road, and on the river, and in the clearings, of a large body of men moving north, and understood the tracks had been left by Harrison and his army three weeks earlier. On the fifth day the river made its turn to the northeast, and he followed it. It was late on the eighth day that he crested the familiar hill at the southwest rim of a valley and stopped. In the cup of the valley, far in the distance, was the village called Prophetstown, home of Tenskwatawa and his Shawnee followers. Beyond, coming from the north, was a faint, meandering line in the forest that was the Tippecanoe River, flowing to converge with the Wabash not far from the settlement.
Eli had arrived, but there was something strange, different, about the village he had seen so many times before. For several seconds he stood still, eyes narrowed as he studied it, and suddenly he understood. There were too many buildings. It had grown. Carefully he counted the buildings and made his calculation. There were more than two thousand Indians. His breathing slowed as he realized the gathering of warriors from other tribes had begun. He was looking at a force preparing for war.
He raised his eyes to study the distant Tippecanoe River, and in time he saw the many thin wisps of smoke rising dimly from the treetops.
Evening—campfires—Harrison’s army—two miles from Prophetstown—too close—Tecumseh’s not there—there’s going to be trouble.
He shouldered his rifle and began the descent into the valley. In full darkness he stopped to make camp for the night, his thoughts running with questions he could not answer.
What’s Tenskwatawa’s mind—will he parley with Harrison?—will he have the sense to avoid a fight?—and what of Harrison?—will his lust for the Wabash Valley push him to war?—or will he follow his written orders from the Department of War?
He shook his head, heaped dirt on the coals of his cookfire, and went to his bed with his rifle and tomahawk under the blankets with him. His last clear thought before sleep was—Tomorrow will tell.
Sunrise found Eli half a mile from Prophetstown, walking steadily on frosty ground, in the open, watching everything, both right and left. He saw the movement in the trees and raised his rifle high above his head with both hands as the Shawnee scouts angled in to within ten yards on either side of him and kept pace with him, silent, muskets at the ready, watching his every move. He walked directly into the village and watched the children run to their mothers, who hid them behind their deerskin skirts and turned hate-filled eyes toward a white man. He reached the center of the village, where the longhouse stood, and stopped, rifle still above his head, and waited. Half a minute later an aged Indian with a blanket wrapped about his shoulders came from the darkness inside the long building and stopped six feet from Eli. There was a look of contempt in his face as he spoke in the Shawnee dialect.
“You are Stroud. What is your purpose in coming?”
“I come in peace. I wish to counsel with Tenskwatawa. It is important. I do not mean to cause trouble.”
When Eli spoke in their dialect, surprise flashed on the faces of every Indian near enough to hear.
The old Indian continued. “Do you come from the white man’s camp to the north? The army that has come to destroy us?”<
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“I do not come from the camp. I come from Vincennes, to the south. I have not been in the camp of the white army. It is my wish to talk with Tenskwatawa about the camp.”
Open murmuring was heard among the gathered Indians. It quickly died, but the dark expressions on their faces were changing to curiosity.
“Who sent you?”
Eli shook his head. “No one sent me. I came when I was told many days ago that Harrison was bringing his army. I fear for the Shawnee. I do not wish to see blood shed. Either Shawnee or white.”
The watery old eyes bored into Eli. “Why should I believe you?”
“I am here. It speaks for itself. I would be thankful if you would tell Tenskwatawa I am here and wish to council with him. I have sat with him and with Tecumseh many times before. He will receive me.”
Eli lowered his rifle and set the butt on the ground.
Without a word the old Indian disappeared back into the dim light inside the longhouse and returned in one minute.
“Tenskwatawa will see you.”
Eli followed him through the entrance into the dim light. The traditional fire burned in the pit in the center of the floor with the smoke rising through the hole in the roof and bright sunshine coming in. There were no windows. Tenskwatawa was seated to one side with but one other Indian beside him. He did not rise. Eli handed his rifle to a younger man standing beside the door, followed by his black tomahawk.
Tenskwatawa opened the talk. “Stroud. You have come to council with us. You may sit.” He gestured, and Eli took his place on the thick bearskin eight feet in front of the seated Indians. Their faces were a mask that covered their inner thoughts. Eli held his silence according to Indian custom, waiting until Tenskwatawa invited him to speak, and Tenskwatawa wasted no time.
“You are here to council about the white army two miles north? Where the Wabash and Tippecanoe rivers meet?”
“I am.”
“You have not been to the white man’s camp?”
“I have not.”
“You were not sent here?”
Eli took a deep breath and spoke the plain truth as he knew it. “I was not. I learned that Harrison marched from Vincennes to this place with twelve hundred soldiers. I believe Harrison wishes to have the land bordering the Wabash River. I do not know if he is here to claim it. If he is, I believe he is wrong. I wish to tell him. Before I do, I need to know the mind of Tenskwatawa. I know Tecumseh is far to the south. You are the leader here. May I ask you of your mind?”
“What is your question?”
“Do you wish war with Harrison?”
The three Indians exchanged brief glances, startled by the directness of Eli’s question. Then came the answer.
“I sent my message to him some time ago, before the frosts began. I asked him to parley. He did not answer.”
Eli nodded. “I know that. That is behind us. Do you wish war with Harrison now?”
There was a long pause in which Eli brought every sense to a focus on the Indian, watching every muscle twitch of his face, the flat look in his eyes, the angle of his head, the timbre of his voice, the spirit that came from him.
The answer came firm. “I do not.”
It flashed in Eli’s mind—dishonest—saying what he wants me to hear—hiding his intentions—trying to deceive.
Eli did not change his expression as he continued. “Do I have your permission to carry that message to Harrison? Now? Today?”
“You intend holding council with Harrison today?”
“I do.”
The Indian’s eyes narrowed. “Have you come here to count my warriors? See if we are prepared for war? To tell Harrison what you have seen?”
“No. I have not. Stroud has counseled with Tenskwatawa and Tecumseh before. Stroud has never lied. Never deceived. You know that. I am insulted that you would accuse me of deceit now.”
All three Indians gaped for a moment at the shock of a white man accusing Tenskwatawa of insulting him. They settled, and Tenskwatawa replied, “I meant no insult. I trust Stroud. I do not trust Harrison. I do not trust white men. You ask if you may carry my words to Harrison. Yes. I ask only that you return to me today with the words of Harrison after you have spoken. Do I have your promise?”
Eli’s answer was instant. “You do. Do I have your permission to leave your camp now, and to return with the words of Harrison before the sun dies?”
“You may go. You have my protection until your return.”
Eli rose and bowed to the three Indians. “I thank you. I will return.”
He walked away from them and took his rifle and tomahawk at the door and walked through the camp, northeast, following the Wabash to its junction with the Tippecanoe. The smell of the morning cookfires from Harrison’s camp filled the crisp, cool air, and he trotted the last quarter mile. A picket challenged; Eli answered and raised his rifle above his head and waited while the picket walked toward him, musket cocked, at his shoulder, and aimed at the center of Eli’s beaded buckskin shirt. Eli saw the puzzled look cross the picket’s face at the sight of a man who was obviously white, dressed in buckskins that were obviously Indian.
“Who are you?”
“Eli Stroud. Here to see Governor Harrison.”
The picket gaped. “A white man? Dressed like that? To see Harrison?”
“I don’t have time to waste. Is he here?”
“Well, yes, right down there in his tent, but I don’t know . . .”
Eli ignored the confused young man and trotted past him, rifle held loosely in his right hand.
“Hold on there,” the picket shouted. “I’ll take you in.” He ran to catch up with Eli and pointed. “Over there. I’ll announce you.”
Five minutes later Eli was seated inside a huge white canvas tent, facing an impatient, grumpy Harrison seated behind a battered table. Harrison, tunic open at the throat, unshaved, hair rumpled, dour expression, eyed Eli head to toe.
“You’re Eli Stroud? I’ve heard about you, but I didn’t expect you here, dressed like an Indian.”
Eli ignored it. “I just left Prophetstown. I’ve talked with Tenskwatawa. There are things you need to know.”
Harrison’s eyes narrowed in question. “He send you here?”
“No. I came here—”
Harrison waved a hand irritably. “Wait a minute. Who did send you here? Why have you come? Do you have orders for me from Eustis? Or President Madison?”
“No. I came—”
Again Harrison waved his hand broadly. “If you don’t have written orders for me from someone in Washington, you’re wasting my time. Nice to see you, Mister Stroud, but I don’t need advice from—”
The palm of Eli’s hand smacked the tabletop, and the scatter of papers jumped as Eli half rose, leaned forward, face not two feet from Harrison’s. Harrison recoiled as though he had been struck. Eli’s eyes pinioned him to his chair and his voice purred quietly.
“You’re sitting on a powder keg and don’t seem to have the brains to know it. You mishandle things here, and the probabilities are that sooner or later, one way or another, there’ll be a war. There’ll be blood from here to Canada and Louisiana. And you’ll be responsible. If that’s what you want, you tell me that in plain terms and I’ll be gone in one minute. I’ll carry that message back to Washington, D.C., and you can deal with the consequences.”
Eli stopped, and Harrison fought to regain some sense of composure. Eli went on.
“One more thing. Three years ago, I’m the one Madison sent into this country to counsel with Tecumseh. He had to know what the Shawnee thought about the battle at Fallen Timbers and about the Greenville Treaty. I talked with Tecumseh, and I took my report back to Madison. He was secretary of state then, but he’s president now. He’s the man I go to with this report. I think he’ll listen.”
Eli settled back into his chair and brought himself under control. “You have about one minute to decide. Are you going to talk sense, or do I get up and walk out of
here?”
For half a minute Harrison gaped and stammered and tried to bring his shattered mind under control. His voice was high, cracking, insecure.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t know what . . .” Finally he stood and walked to one corner of the tent, and Eli watched him battling to bring himself under control.
He turned back and sat down.
“What do you want to know?”
“Is it your intent to attack the Shawnee? Prophetstown?”
Harrison shook his head. “I don’t know how the land lays between here and there. I don’t know how many fighting men they have. Until I know that it would be foolish to make an attack.” He stopped for a moment and raised one eyebrow. “How many fighting men does he have over there?”
Eli shook his head. “That’s not the question. Do you intend an attack on the village? Yes or no?”
“Not right now.”
Eli clenched his jaw for a moment, and the quiet purr came back into his voice. “One more chance. Yes or no. Do you intend an attack?”
Harrison fought to retain control. “I do not intend an attack. What happens depends on them. If they provoke it, I will defend myself. Tecumseh’s not there. I can’t trust that brother of his. How do I know what they’re going to do? I came here to keep the peace.” He raised an arm to point accusingly at Eli. “But I’ll tell you this. Sooner or later, those Indians have got to go. We’re going to have the Wabash Valley. One way or another.”
Eli sat back in his chair. “By whose orders?”
Harrison blustered. “Madison. The secretary of war. It doesn’t matter. It’s going to happen.”
“Not here. Not now. You say you do not intend an attack. I’m carrying that back to Tenskawatawa. He may want to counsel with you.”
Harrison waved a finger. “You’re not carrying that back to him. If he needs to hear it, he can hear it from me. Maybe it’s time he did.”
Startled, Eli leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll go there?”
