Dear America: Standing in the Light

by Mary Pope Osborne

  Little Cloud and White Owl will broil venison, and I will make corncakes. After we have eaten, perhaps he will light a pipe and offer the smoke to the Great Spirit for his party’s safe return. Then perhaps he will speak Lenape to White Owl and Little Cloud, and kindly interpret each word for me and Thomas, and thus he will tell us all of the success of his journey and describe the birds and the wild animals and the weather.

  Then while all the others sleep, perhaps he will play his flute for me alone.

  I have waited all night and still Snow Hunter has not returned. It is dawn now. The sun shines on the leaves. They are turning even more brilliant colors. I long to share the autumn with him.

  The men did not come back yesterday, nor today. For three days, Thomas and Little Bear have climbed tall trees near the river to keep watch.

  This morning, White Owl burned red cedar to dispel bad spirits. She indicated that a dream has brought pain to her heart, but she would not say what that dream was.

  A windy, rainy day.

  Still the men do not return. Feeling a strange sort of dread, I lay in our hut, listening to the rain, and I pray for the skin over the doorway to be suddenly pulled aside and for Snow Hunter to appear, wet, safe, and well from his journey.

  A messenger from the Indian camp over the hill came today. He spoke first to White Owl and the others, and though I could not understand his words, I could see his news was bad, for everyone was clearly anguished.

  I begged him to explain to me and was grateful to learn that he could speak a little English. Thus I heard that a party of Indians was attacked some days ago on the river by English soldiers. He does not know if the Indians were our men or not.

  All of us gathered in the longhouse to pray and offer tobacco for the safe return of Snow Hunter and his party.

  Afterward women came to me in anxious search of answers. At first, they gestured with their hands, I could not interpret their meaning. But gradually I came to understand that they think I have special knowledge of this situation because the English are my people. Some even question whether or not Thomas and I should be sent out from the camp — they wonder if the soldiers are murdering on our behalf.

  Still our men have not returned. We are desperate for fresh news, fearing they may have been murdered by the hands of white men. A watch is kept night and day. To raise our courage, White Owl prays constantly and burns red cedar.

  Word arrived that bands of English soldiers are now scouring the forests for Indian camps. I think of the attack on the Conestogas in Lancaster and shudder with terror.

  Now all are lying quietly in their huts. I keep awake, listening for the drunken cries of a mob. My fear reminds me of when I lay in bed at home, waiting for the Indians to attack. All terror is alike.

  Today the women, children, and old men gathered whatever might be used as weapons — old knives, bows and arrows, even sticks and stones. We will take the weapons and pack our essential things, flee our camp, and hide in the yellow autumn woods.

  In the late afternoon, word came that the white men were only a few miles away. Panic set in. White Owl sought to calm everyone and urged us to pack very little and move quickly and quietly into the forest.

  Our footfall was noisy though, as we stepped over a crackling carpet of dead leaves. Finally, with relief, we arrived at a rock shelter that White Owl knows from her medicine hunts.

  Now at the approach of dark, we eat nuts, dried deer meat, berries, and cornmeal. We are about fifteen women, twenty children, and a few old men.

  As the cloak of chilly night falls over us, White Owl softly prays to the Great Spirit for protection. Little One whimpers. Little Cloud tries to console him, covering his small, round face with kisses.

  Clinging to Thomas, I am worn out with fear and pray for sleep.

  A wet, windy dawn. Leaves whirl wildly as we all huddle together. Earlier, Little Cloud crept close to me and with her hands asked me why the white men want to kill them. I told her that they do not understand that the same light of humanity that is in them is also in her people. I told her that God means her no harm, and I beseeched Him to hide us all under the shadow of His wing. Though Little Cloud does not know much English, I felt she understood my tone. She pressed my arm as if she were comforting me.

  The children are growing more fretful and restless by the hour. We do not have enough provisions, and many are shivering in the damp cold.

  Sunlight illuminates yellow and orange leaves. The day is filled with an autumn glow, raising all our hopes and spirits. We wonder if perhaps the soldiers have come and gone from our camp. Perhaps our men have returned and are searching for us. White Owl says we should return home.

  Such horror in sunlight. God mocking us. I shudder in the depths of my being. I have no words.

  Dear God, why did Thy terrors turn against us? Why did Thee bring the soldiers down upon us? Why did Thee harm White Owl?

  No one will tell me what has become of the Lenape. I cannot write. I have no heart and no faith.

  20th of Tenth Month, 1764

  For the first time in many months, I know the date. It is the twentieth day of Tenth Month. Thomas and I have re-entered time. And in this bitter world of time, everything seems rigid and unyielding.

  Three days we have been lodged in this fort and strictly guarded. We have been scrubbed clean by unloving hands and dressed in scratchy wool clothing. Thomas mutely watches out the window, while I sit alone, trying to fight off the memory that tears at my soul like a lion: White Owl’s red blood in the autumn light.

  Over and over again, I am tortured by one thought: If I had told Snow Hunter my dream of the white bears attacking us, would we all be safe now? Would he have moved us all to safety, far away from the horror that stalked us?

  21st of Tenth Month, 1764

  I must record the sorrowful events of that sunny day.

  When we returned to the still and quiet of our camp, everything was the same as we had left it. Within moments, we all resumed our daily activities in innocent hope that our fears of the white soldiers were unfounded.

  Thomas and I began gathering corn. As we lost ourselves amidst the swaying, dusty stalks, they came. One English soldier, then another, then another, crashed through the tall stalks, their guns raised.

  I grabbed Thomas and we ran to our hut. I whispered madly to him that whatever happened we must not reveal our true identity. Thus, we concealed ourselves under a bearskin and peered out from the shadowy entrance as the others were rounded up in the bright sunshine.

  The soldiers began to bully White Owl, for she stood between them and the rest like a fierce guardian. When one bloated soldier called her an old witch and pushed her aside, she slipped and fell. Their party laughed. Little Cloud rushed to her mother’s side with Little One in her arms — they mocked her and one of the soldiers spat on her.

  I have never felt such rage before. It filled every cell of my being, every hair, bone, and bit of blood. I trembled, but I could not move, could not open my mouth, nor run forward, for I thought White Owl would fare even more miserably for such a revelation.

  Thomas, however, could not silently bear the cruelty of it. The Holy Spirit found pure expression in him as he ran screaming from our hut into the party of men and pummeled them with his little fists and bit them, and when they held him at bay, laughing, they heard his words: “Leave them alone!”

  They knew at once he was English. They seized him, kicking and screaming, and then I was forced to come forward, to reveal myself and betray my friends. Lurching into the cruel sunshine, I cried for them to let him go. “He means no harm to thee! None of them means harm to thee!” I cried.

  White Owl tried to crawl to me, but one man hit her with the butt of his rifle, and she fell on her face, bleeding. Then others grabbed me and tied my hands.

  They forced Thomas and me to come with them. As we left, we heard screaming behind us, but could not see what happened. Then we smelled smoke and saw flames leaping above the trees.r />
  In the hours of darkness that followed that hideous scene, I have imagined the worst and eat my heart in anguish, thinking my existence on Earth has brought pain and torment to those I have come to love as friends. I cannot stop the memory of White Owl’s blood on the leaves in the bright sunshine. How the sunshine betrayed us.

  22nd of Tenth Month, 1764

  This morning Thomas and I were rousted from our beds and ushered out into a damp, gray day. Our captors have assigned us to several traders heading to the Moravian mission near Bethlehem. I asked the traders if they knew what had become of the Lenape camp, but they seemed not to know what I meant.

  I still cannot forgive myself for bringing harm upon my friends.

  23rd of Tenth Month, 1764

  We are camped on a rise above the water. The traders seem oblivious to Thomas and myself. We have nothing to say to them. We simply do as they tell us. Now Thomas sleeps fitfully while I write.

  24th of Tenth Month, 1764

  We journeyed all day downriver, taking perhaps the very path taken by Snow Hunter and his party. When he came this way, did he hear the same birds singing? Did he see the same fish gliding beneath the surface of the water? Is his flesh now rotting somewhere in the scrub near this river?

  25th of Tenth Month, 1764

  Perhaps Snow Hunter escaped danger and made his way home on foot and has now returned to the camp and found White Owl recovered from her wounds. And perhaps the two of them have bundled all to safety beyond these dark forests.

  26th of Tenth Month, 1764

  Last night a dream told me that Snow Hunter has departed this life. In the dream, a poisonous green snake slithered through the summer forest, attacked him, then moved on to murder White Owl.

  27th of Tenth Month, 1764

  Bells chime from the mission bell house. We arrived here today. Neither of us had the strength to return the warmth extended to us by the Moravians. Reverend Beckwell’s wife kindly led us to a clean room so that we could rest alone. Then a girl brought us warm soup and bread, but we have eaten little, for we are too weary and feel poorly.

  Thomas lies on his cot shivering with fever. I must stop writing and comfort him.

  28th of Tenth Month, 1764

  Thomas and I both have fever.

  29th of Tenth Month, 1764

  Papa sat up all night with us and now sleeps in a chair between my bed and Thomas’s bed. He arrived last night, after our candle was out. He came into the room with a lantern to look upon us. When I saw his bright face by the flame, I thought I was dreaming, and I began to tremble and said that we needed his help, we all desperately needed his help. Then I saw that he did not fade away, and I felt myself jolted back into my old world, and we grabbed one another, and a sleepy Thomas piled on Papa’s back, and we all clung together as one great giant.

  Now Papa sleeps, with one hand on Thomas’s bed and one hand on mine. His palms are up and his head is dropped back, as if he were thanking God Almighty.

  30th of Tenth Month, 1764

  We are well enough to travel. Today we will climb into Papa’s wagon to journey back to our farm. He warned us that Mother, Eliza, and Baby Will might be nervous and emotional, and told us to forgive them. He said that neighbors might come by to stare at us, and they might ask painful questions, and we should forgive them also. I believe he is warning us thus because neither of us has spoken much, trapped as we are in our numb and weary silence.

  31st of Tenth Month, 1764

  Wrapped in a blanket, Thomas slept most of the journey while I stared at the maple trees. Their last yellow leaves made the day seem sunny, though it was not. Papa, unlike himself, hummed a tune.

  When we arrived at our house, everything looked familiar, yet distant. When Mother tearfully embraced Thomas, he began to cry also; but when she embraced me, I was stiff and cold. Eliza looked at us shyly, as if we were strangers, and Baby Will, too. In a way, I feel they are right — I am a stranger now.

  At dinner, Thomas sat in Mother’s lap and she fed him as if he were a baby. I stared at my plate without appetite, and Papa recommended that I go up to bed and rest.

  Now, in the loft, I stare out the window at the twilight. Dear God, will I ever come home?

  2nd of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Today Lucy, Molly, and Jess Owen all came together to visit me. When I first laid eyes on Jess, I felt nothing, not even nervousness. Beside Snow Hunter, he seems very dull and youthful. I had nothing to say to any of them — not from shyness, but from despair. Finally they conversed only with one another as if I were not present.

  3rd of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Thomas and I went to our first Meeting today since we have been back. Papa was right. While we all sat in silence, I glimpsed many Friends staring at us as if we had returned from the dead. Afterwards, the children circled around us, craving knowledge of our terrible experiences.

  6th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Neighbors still come by and inquire anxiously after us. They want to know what happened to us when the savages captured us, but I find it impossible to explain. How do I tell them that we went into the lions’ den — and found tenderness and mercy? When I turn away, Papa tells them I do not wish to talk about it.

  Thomas also feels disinclined to share our experience with others. I think he does not have the language to reflect upon its confusions, while I have not the heart.

  7th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Wet, windy day. All the leaves are gone. I sit by the window, watching the rain. I am not of the mind to return to school. A terrible bitterness oppresses me, and often I must sit so as not to faint.

  Mother keeps a constant, watchful eye on me and Thomas. She and Papa seem to think that I was tortured by the Indians and am not in my right mind.

  I long to explain the truth to them. But I fear they would never understand.

  8th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Tonight in the early evening, I heard Thomas playing the aphikon. He played the song Snow Hunter played for me.

  I could not bear the agony of it, so I ran from the house into the dark woods and cursed God for the grief I had seen, the blood in the sunlight, the violence and rumor of slaughter.

  By the time Papa found me, collapsed on the cold ground, night had fallen.

  In the dark, he assured me that I was home, I was safe. He would not allow harm to come to me again. I could only lean against him, mute and trembling, unable to declare my true thoughts.

  After he led me back to the house, I came up to the loft to write.

  I have made a decision. I must give my diary to Papa. Long ago, in desperation, I began writing it for him. But then, to my amazement, a greater truth revealed itself to me and I began to write it for myself.

  Now I fear that if I cannot share that self with him, I will never come home.

  9th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Papa read my diary last night. He returned it this morning while I slept, leaving it beside my bed. He did not wake me to speak to me.

  I fear he is ashamed to death that I am his daughter. He may want nothing more to do with me, for now he knows that I was willing to forsake my old life to marry and live forever with the Lenape.

  10th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Papa went into the fields before daylight and has not returned all day. I imagine that he is overwhelmed by his wrath and thus is afraid to speak to me.

  11th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Papa spent the day alone in the fields again. But before my candle was out, he returned. Now I wait anxiously for him to come and talk to me, but he has not. I hear him climb into his bed. His candle goes out. I feel dreadfully alone.

  12th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Papa gone all day again. Finally, after dark, he returned. He did not look at me all through supper, though I scarcely ever took my eyes off him.

  After the little ones had been put to bed, he asked me to follow him outside. When we stepped out into the evening, he said that he had spent all
day in silence, asking for God’s guidance.

  In a low voice, he told me that my diary had taught him that I had stood in the light. But this is all he said! And when I waited for more, it was not forthcoming. He went back inside, and with a confused heart, I followed, then came upstairs.

  13th of Eleventh Month, 1764

  Tonight I talked to Papa and Mother about our way of life in the Lenape camp. I recalled tender moments with Snow Hunter, White Owl, and Little Cloud.

  Thomas heard me and came down from the loft and told about how we danced the Doll Dance and how we fished and how the Great Turtle made the world.

  I fear Mother was a bit horrified, for she spoke very little and finally declared she had a headache and must retire. Papa kept a steady, concentrated gaze upon us, as if he were listening to us and praying for guidance at the same time.

  I long for Papa and Mother to understand the truths I have learned. But perhaps I must always carry them by myself. As I write this, my heart beats anxiously at the thought of such loneliness.