Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Leaders, too, were stirred. Since memory, their lives had been twisted by white encroachment. The moment appeared ripe for vengeance and the reestablishment of Iroquois power. The English promised much, and at some councils would sit Colonel John Butler, who would lead English rangers in war against New York and Pennsylvania. Eagerly the chiefs awaited the plans of the English war chief.

  Now runners had brought word of another voice to be heard at the fire council. Blue Moccasin. The name rose as a vision of the past. Chiefs who had sent The Warrior among the Huron recalled the youthful message carrier who had lurked at the fighter's shoulder. Others recalled the power of the Moccasin's storytelling and his ability to clear the muddiest of discussions.

  Some said that Blue Moccasin had sat at the feet of Late Star the Delaware seer and possessed Star's ability to predict happenings. That Blue Moccasin would propose neutrality was not a small thing. All sides should be heard, and those favoring peace had recently become scarce.

  Quehana, too, stood with Blue Moccasin. Quehana was also a name from a pride-filled past. In younger years, some among those gathered had visited the Arrowmaker to trade for his iron points that flew so truly.

  That the killer of Shawnee and executioner of Two Nose should recommend neutrality demanded consideration.

  Powerful would be the voices at this council. High would flare opinions hot with emotion. But, in the end? Few doubted that the drums would pound and hair would be roached. Painted features would rear in firelight, and the glint of polished weapons would challenge the fireflies of summer.

  Too many hearts yearned for battle. Too many spirits hungered to savor the oft-repeated glories of war. Even the best-reasoned positions rarely stood before hot emotions. Within the souls of the Iroquois, the usual soft and distant tapping of war drums now pounded in breasts swelling with the strengths of war. Too late would be peace talk, too few the peacemakers. Quehana's arrowpoints were set aside, replaced by English muskets and powder. Blue Moccasin's words of reason would swirl-only to fade unheeded.

  +++

  Colonel John Butler listened with annoyance to the runner's enthusiastic reporting. The carrier was young, and his self-important enthusiasm intruded on his messages.

  If he had not noted his Seneca's' quickened interest, Butler would have ignored the messenger's babblings. Important to the British Colonel was the organization of hundreds of red stick warriors to support his own hundreds of rangers now filing south and east from Niagara.

  Butler had hurried ahead, gathering in fighters long promised by chiefs now squatting at fires in Shequaga. What did it matter if a pair of known figures came to prattle peace? They were Delaware, Butler gathered, not even of the Iroquois.

  But his Iroquois companions were alerted, and the ranger had learned to pay attention to such responses.

  Blue Moccasin and Quehana? Butler had never heard the names, but he would ask, and if any action was required, he would move without hesitation. The weight of his small army of fighters, moving swiftly closer, pressed him, and a pair of speechmakers would not long divert Butler's attention.

  Colonel John Butler had been decades in the colonies. His grown son was held prisoner by the rebels somewhere in the south, near Philadelphia he believed. The action he now began would not endear him to those rebels, so a clever and secret plan was underway to manage the boy's escape before word of the rangers' raids could spread.

  As a British Officer, John Butler would have preferred companies of disciplined regulars. He could both trust and control his white rangers, but about his red cohorts he had doubts. Furies raged within Iroquois breasts, and although war leaders promised obedience and restraint, historical example almost guaranteed otherwise.

  In every war, once loosed, the Indians had slaughtered like mink among chickens. Killing fevers swept the red warriors into savageries unimaginable. In Indian war, there were no innocents. Blood lust smothered mercies, and tragedies too gruesome to long contemplate were repeated and built upon.

  That part, Butler disliked, but the colonials had chosen their war, and what befell them would be their own doing.

  It was, in fact, Colonel John Butler's task to inflict the utmost devastation and suffering on the frontier populace. With diligence, he and his Iroquois allies might draw away a major portion of George Washington's rebel pack. If the British armies could not then grind the rebellious farmers, artisans, and shopkeepers into submission . . . perhaps the English military should all take ship and sail away.

  +++

  Butler's escorts were few. His aide, a sergeant, as black as fire soot and half again normal size stood always by his side. The giant dwarfed his colonel's average height but gave brutal presence to Butler's guarantees of British strength and support. When the raids began, the rangers would be there, and John Butler, with his sergeant, would lead.

  Butler also used a white corporal. Wizened by time but grown to the woods, the white ranger could be relied on for tasks unsuitable for regular soldiers. His name was Amos Brink.

  Brink was Indian-like in most ways. He spoke fluent Seneca and was comfortable among the red brethren. On occasion, resistance would appear, and the colonel would nod for Brink to act. The corporal had never failed. Within reasonable time, the obstacle disappeared and was never seen again. Amos Brink had killed for his colonel and would unhesitatingly do so again.

  The Seneca, too, were represented within Butler's permanent entourage. First among equals was Quinaday, a fighter without mercy, a killer without remorse. Quinaday had slaughtered in earlier wars. Butler knew the Seneca had come from along the Susquehanna, and Quinaday's knowledge of that river and its valleys could prove useful. Quinaday's hatred of white farmers could cloud his reason, but once unleashed the same bitter and unreasoning rage vaulted the Seneca into the fighting's forefront.

  The deeds of Quinaday could sour the souls of even the blackest-painted fighters. Who else ate enemy parts or wore necklaces of stinking human guts? Quinaday's tobacco pouch was a white scrotum; his tinder was stored in a draw-stringed female breast. In peace, Quinaday was a menace; in war he could be invaluable.

  +++

  Butler asked, "Who is Blue Moccasin?" He addressed an ancient at the Newtown fire circle.

  The aged Seneca cackled knowingly and answered as much with his hands as with words.

  "Blue Moccasin is the voice of old ones. He is the speaker of thoughts that glitter like stars. His are the messages of great thinkers and common hunters. To hear the tellings of Blue Moccasin is to know the senders, to see through their eyes, to feel with their hearts."

  The old man's mind seemed to drift, as though visions once savored rose again for tasting. "It will be good to listen again to Blue Moccasin. I had thought him also gone to the Great Spirit.

  "Once, he sang the thoughts of Late Star, who knew secret things. I saw him with The Warrior, and even beside that presence of death, Blue Moccasin glowed.

  "Will Blue Moccasin tell of those times? I would journey far to hear them again." The old one shifted painfully, as though searching for strengths long gone.

  He continued. "It is whispered that Blue Moccasin calls for peace. His words will carry weight, for the wisdom of honored ones will stand beside him. Some believe that Blue Moccasin speaks with spirits long on the final trail, for his voice can be as any of them.

  "Once, a Delaware defended the Iroquois southern gate. He was Friendseeker, and he was killed by treachery. In times past I have heard him speak from the mouth of Blue Moccasin. I knew well the voice and thoughts of Friendseeker, and I know that he truly did speak through Blue Moccasin.

  "Powerful is the spirit of the Moccasin." The aged one nodded in self-agreement. "The words of Blue Moccasin will be listened to."

  Butler allowed silence to float while he judged the information. Within the Newtown circle other heads nodded confirmation, and a few pursed lips in serious consideration.

  A pipe passed before Butler spoke again.

  "And what
of Quehana? He, too, is strange to me." The colonel's lip curled. "Is he also a seer of mysteries whose words turn men's minds?"

  A cold-eyed elder whose body bore scars of battle chose to respond, and he minced no words.

  "Quehana has strange powers. Once he made arrowpoints of iron that killed as no others could. He was named by The Warrior in The Warrior's secret language, and surely you know of that honored hero."

  Butler knew, and he wondered if the tales held even a particle of truth. As told, they were too impossible to accept.

  The scarred Seneca continued. "But that was long ago. Quehana lives beyond the Juniata in a house of stone." The fighter marveled. "Even the roof is of hardened clay, like a pot is baked for cooking.

  "Once a war party came against Quehana. Alone, Quehana killed them all. Later a warrior band led by Two Nose, a Shawnee, attacked Quehana. Again Quehana killed as though he were a wolf among rabbits. Quehana kills with his hands or with his hatchet. His gun has never missed. He runs as few can, and his strengths . . ." The Indian paused before jerking a thumb at the giant sergeant. "The strength of Quehana would break the back of the black one."

  Butler wished to laugh. Another living legend had appeared. Instead, he smiled knowingly. "Many have tried the back of my sergeant. None still walk erect."

  The Indian nodded acceptance, but his voice remained certain. "Quehana would crack him like a dead branch."

  In the lodge given them for sleeping, John Butler found himself inexplicably irritable and uncertain. He understood the Indian proclivity for exaggeration. Still, there was special, unswerving confidence in these fire circle declarations. For a time, Butler strove to put the thoughts aside, but two figures remained fixed in his mind.

  Could there be so silvered a tongue that the Iroquois would falter? Ridiculous, they had come too far.

  Was there a fighter so powerful, so honored that many might listen? Preaching peace? Perhaps he should send his sergeant to prove Quehana only mortal.

  The thought held appeal, but Colonel Butler had no time to duel breezes. There were other ways.

  First, Butler called the killer, Quinaday. The Seneca squatted rather than taking the usual cross-legged sitting. The warrior's way, Butler thought. It kept the loincloth dry and left only moccasin prints.

  Quinaday waited with outward patience, but Butler felt the banked rages simmering deeply within-perhaps not too deeply at that. The colonel shivered slightly. Closeness to savage insanity was uncomfortable.

  "I have a task, Quinaday. The travel will be long. You will take four warriors. When you return there will be rewards of guns and powder."

  The Seneca's eyes did not change. The damned animal cares nothing about rewards, the Colonel thought. He only wishes to slaughter.

  "Quehana lives to the south. He must return there. Find his lodge and destroy it. Leave the mark of Quinaday so it will be known. In three days, Quehana will be told that Quinaday has marched. Quehana will come. You will be waiting."

  Butler always found it hard to say the final word. He preferred terms like, leaving marks, or perhaps, complete victory. This time, he spoke clearly. "When Quehana comes, kill him. Return with his scalp at your belt."

  Quinaday did not bother to respond. He rose and was gone. This time, Butler allowed the shudder. He avoided thinking about the slaughter he had ordered at Quehana's stone house.

  He wondered if it really had a clay tile roof. That fit the old Indian's description. More Indian foolishness, he supposed. Butler had not seen a tile roof anywhere on the frontier-and he had traveled most of it.

  Next was Corporal Amos Brink. The corporal, too, squatted, which the colonel found interesting. Unlike the Seneca, Brink stunk of ancient sweats and less definable musks. Butler avoided wrinkling his nose. He had grown accustomed to far worse stenches.

  "Brink, can you find this Blue Moccasin?"

  "The runner will know pretty close, Colonel."

  "You will draw near. When this Quehana is gone, remove Blue Moccasin. I do not wish to hear of him again."

  "I'd like an Injun along for company, Colonel. I'll need sleep off and on, and a lookout could be needed."

  Butler nodded tiredly. "Take one I won't need. Promise him a blanket or a horn of powder. When I see you again, I will know it is done."

  Not really caring, Brink chose a young warrior who appeared poor. His knife was a rusted relic, and his tomahawk had a stone head. The youth would do. All Brink needed were other eyes.

  Unlike Quinaday, the corporal took his time and moved leisurely. He did not know when Quehana would leave Blue Moccasin, but Colonel Butler seemed sure that he would.

  The runner who had brought word described Blue Moccasin as older, physically small, and practically unarmed.

  Brink would find Blue Moccasin. He would look his victim in the face and then shoot him. If he could take it, the scalp would bring gold money from hair buyer Hamilton in Detroit.

  Brink liked to think about that. Once he had divided a scalp, and by cutting, he had disguised the half and had been paid for two scalps.

  It was a trick worth trying again. By leaving meat on the scalp the stink could be enough to limit close inspection. Problem with that was getting a scalp in before the smell went out. Brink doubted he could trade that quickly.

  12 Deerfoot

  The runner who had told John Butler of Blue Moccasin and Quehana received a carefully considered message. The runner was directed to again find the camp of the two powerful speakers and, on the third day, inform Quehana that a war party had gone to burn and destroy on the Little Buffalo Creek. The messenger was to speak the story truly and answer with honesty all of Quehana's questions.

  The message was a gift, a warning from Grata called Smoke Carrier, the most influential and revered of all Seneca. The English colonel of rangers was not mentioned.

  Young, eager, excited by newly acquired prominence, the runner sped from the Newtown council toward Shequaga with an enthusiasm his sender would not have appreciated.

  Proud of his responsibility, the messenger resolved to complete his task even quicker than its sender had ordered. Did not the honored Grata seek to warn Quehana? Then the carrier too would help with quickness beyond the abilities of most who hurried along the trails.

  Quehana had been on the path from Oquaga where he had counseled with Joseph Brant. Quehana and Blue Moccasin would be close to Shequaga preparing for the great council. The runner would ask, and many would know where their fire burned. If he were lucky, the speakers might be in the village talking and meeting, allowing their words to spread so that the counselors would be ready with support or counter argument.

  Until it grew too dark, the messenger ran. Then he walked, chewing at the distance as a beaver did a tree. Each step was a proud effort, bearing a message of utmost importance to a name bright with recognition.

  In later years, when his legs had slowed and his breath grumbled in his chest, the runner could tell of his great message between old ones-who by then would be part of the honored tales. Perhaps his name could be mentioned. The dreaming drove the youth through the night, making his weariness small and his strength unending.

  +++

  Earlier in the day, Blue Moccasin had met with Red Jacket, a chief of the Oneida. Red Jacket had listened closely and agreed at the right times. The Oneida were believed to be reluctant to join the British, and Red Jacket's irritation at Joseph Brant's almost open endorsement of war was plain. Blue Moccasin was encouraged.

  Quehana, too, had been busy. Acquaintances of old appeared in numbers. Many Rob could not remember, but they had come to his forge on the Little Buffalo to trade. They had been treated with respect and dealt with fairly. Quehana's was a face to be welcomed.

  Rob's acquaintances had been young men when they had crossed the Juniata to trade. Despite the many seasons passed, they remembered and spoke of the richness of earth and the thickness of game. Hunters recalled the chestnut and walnut groves alive with squirrels. Some swore the
Juniata was mother to more shad and eels than any other water.

  Quehana's great lodge of stone and earth was not forgotten and, as Indians were wont, many recalled it larger than a longhouse and suited for many families.

  The memories were rich, and Rob had to force his thoughts onto the purpose of his visit. He spoke of whites ever thicker along streams and valleys. He described white armies with soldiers ranked to horizons. Quehana sneered at the foolishness of whites killing whites. He wondered why some Iroquois firebrands wished to leap between bears mauling each other.

  Some defended the idea of punishing whites, like wolves nipping at flanks. Others repeated the scheme of driving back white settlers before offering the palm of peace.

  Quehana disagreed with reasonings difficult to answer, but wise argument did not often quench hunger to strike blows and inflict wounds. The excitements of the warpath rushed like currents among braves, chiefs, and sachems. The Iroquois, it appeared, hungered for fighting.

  +++

  The fire of Quehana and Blue Moccasin lay along the stream, merely a sprint past the further lodges of Shequaga. Only a few had risen to greet the morning when the young runner asked directions. Exhausted almost to the point of collapse, the messenger walked swiftly the final strides to allow his breathing to calm and some strength to return. He wasted no time on adornment. Quehana needed to hear the message burned into the mind of the youthful runner.

  Rob was watching Blue Moccasin cook a fish on the flat of a heated stone. Rob said, "Add more salt. A fish without salt is tasteless."

  "It is salted enough. I wish I had pepper."

  "Try a little gun powder. George Croghan used it on about everything." Rob pondered, "I wonder where Croghan is? Probably dead by now."