Preacher

by William W. Johnstone

  “You saved my life, my brother,” Art said. “You are the bravest warrior I know.”

  “Yes, and now your life belongs to me,” Tolian replied. “I must watch out for you for all time. You will become my burden. Perhaps it would have been better to let the Osage have your scalp.” Tolian laughed, and ran his hand through Art’s hair.

  It was being on the war council that brought to an end Art’s idyllic sojourn with the Indians. Keytano called all the warriors together to hear a redcoat warrior chief.

  Since Art and Tolian were very new warriors, as well as the youngest, their seats on the council were on the very last circle. This was good, because Art was far enough from the center of the circle that their visitor, a major in His Majesty’s Army, did not realize that Art was white.

  “To Keytano, Chief of the mighty Shawnee, I, Major Sir John Loxley, bring greetings from General Sir Edward Parkenham, on behalf of His Royal Britannic Majesty,” the red-coated officer said.

  Keytano translated the words for his warriors.

  “As you may know,” Major Loxley continued, “His Royal Highness is presently at war with the United States. The Shawnee nation, aware of His Majesty’s high regard for your people, and equally aware of the mistreatment you have received at the hands of the Americans, have been wise enough to form an alliance with England.

  “I am here to call upon that alliance now, and ask that you make war against all Americans who are west of the Mississippi River. If we are successful in inflicting serious damage to this distant frontier of the United States, we shall, when we sue for peace, inherit all of the Louisiana Territory. Such territory, to be called British Louisiana, will then be closed to any further colonization, and will be preserved as a permanent sanctuary for our Shawnee friends.”

  As Keytano translated the last paragraph, the Indians whooped their appreciation.

  “Ask the English officer what he would have us do,” Techanka said.

  “New Madrid, Cape Girardeau, Sainte Genevieve, and St. Louis are important towns along the river,” the major replied after the question was translated for him.

  “But, of those towns, St. Louis is too large, and Sainte Genevieve is nearly as large and is also quite far. That leaves Cape Girardeau or New Madrid as possible targets, and after some consideration, we have decided that you can be most effective by striking at Cape Girardeau. It is a river town of no more than five hundred, though it is becoming a river port of increasing importance.”

  “Are there soldiers at Cape Girardeau?” someone asked.

  “Only two or three,” Loxley answered. “And that makes it an even more attractive target, for New Madrid has been well fortified. Now, in return for your attacking the Americans at Cape Girardeau, we are prepared to furnish you with one hundred rifles and ten thousand rounds of ammunition.”

  In the entire village there were only two rifles. One of the rifles belonged to Keytano, the other to Techanka. At the British officer’s offer of one hundred rifles and ten thousand rounds of ammunition, the Indians began to shout and whoop in excitement. No longer able to stay quiet in the camp, they leaped up and began dancing around, making signs as if they were already holding a rifle.

  “Eeeeeyaaaa!” Tolian shouted, his excitement as great as that of anyone else.

  “Understand, I cannot give you those weapons until after you have proven your loyalty to the Crown. You must make your first attack with whatever weapons you now possess. But after you have proven yourselves, I will return with the promised weapons,” Loxley said. “My friends, I wish you success in your battle against our common enemy, the Americans.”

  After Loxley left, the Shawnee conducted war dances and sang their war chants. Then they broke up to apply their own medicine to the weapons at hand, and to invoke the blessing of Moneto on their endeavor.

  Art participated as fully as any of the others in all of the war preparations, to include dancing, whooping, singing, and painting his face and body with the special symbols that gave him his personal medicine. After the ceremonies, it was time to feast. Everyone ate well, for though Loxley had held back the rifles, he had brought two pigs and three goats. When all went to bed that night, the air was redolent with the aroma of the evening’s banquet.

  * * *

  Art lay in his blankets inside the wigwam, listening to the measured breathing and quiet snores of Tolian and his sister, Sasheen, as well as Techanka and his wife. The wigwam was warm and comfortable because of the heat that radiated from the stones that encircled the still-glowing coals. A burning ember popped, sending up a brief shower of sparks.

  Art was troubled. Although he had participated in the war dance, and had painted his body with the symbols of his own personal medicine, he did not want to go to war against the men, women, and children of Cape Girardeau. That would be like going to war against his relatives, friends, and neighbors back in Ohio, for they were not only white, as he was, they were also American.

  He could refuse to join the war party when they left the next morning, but to do so would open him up to the charge of cowardice. Metacoma especially would point out to the others that Art had no stomach for war. And though Tolian would be more generous in his treatment, his private assessment of the situation wouldn’t be that different.

  Another popping ember from the burning wood caused Art to look back at the fire.

  He gasped.

  “Grandfather!” he said. “How did you . . . ?”

  Keytano held up his hand, as if cautioning Art to be quiet. Keytano’s deerskin breeches and shirt were bleached nearly white. The shirt was decorated with an eagle, made from colored beads. He was wearing a vest, like the one that had been the prize in the coming-of-age games. Art knew Keytano had won the vest nearly fifty years ago. Keytano was carrying a feathered staff, also a personal totem from his past.

  Art had never seen Keytano dressed in such a fashion, and he wondered why he was wearing such clothes now. These weren’t the clothes of someone about to go to war. This was ceremonial dress of the highest order.

  “You are troubled,” Keytano said. “You do not want to go to war against the Americans because you are American.”

  “I am ... Shawnee,” Art replied.

  “Yes, you are Shawnee,” Keytano agreed. “And though you told us you were English, I know that you are American. Now you are a warrior with two hearts. Both hearts are strong and both hearts should be obeyed. Your American heart tells you not to go to war against Americans and so you should not.”

  “But my Shawnee heart?”

  “Someday you will leave the Shawnee and return to your own people,” Keytano said. “Even though you will be with your own people, you will still have a Shawnee heart. If the Americans go to war against the Shawnee, then you must listen to your Shawnee heart.”

  “I could never make war against the Shawnee,” Art said. He looked down at his hands, then held them up to examine them, as if contemplating the white skin. “Just as I cannot make war against Americans. I am pleased that you are wise and can under . . .” Art looked up, then gasped again. Keytano was gone.

  “Keytano?”

  “Aiiiieeeee! Aiiieeeee! Techanka! Techanka!” a woman’s voice cried from outside the wigwam. Her voice was loud and piercing and it awakened everyone inside. They were just sitting up as the woman stuck her head in through the opening. It was Techanka’s mother, Keytano’s wife.

  “Mother, what is it?” Techanka asked. “Why are you crying so?”

  “It is Keytano,” she said. “He is dead.”

  Art jumped up from his blankets. Keytano must have fallen dead just outside. He hurried outside, but there was no Keytano to be seen.

  “Where is he?” Art asked, looking around.

  “He is here,” Keytano’s wife said, pointing to her wigwam.

  By now several of the others had gathered, attracted by the wailing and the commotion. Art followed Techanka into the wigwam.

  Keytano was lying on a bed of fur and blanke
ts. His eyes were open but unseeing. Techanka dropped to his knees beside his father, then reached down to close his eyes. While still touching him, Techanka began to chant the Shawnee funeral song. The funeral song expressed grief over the loss, confidence in Keytano’s entering the Spirit World, and thanks to Moneto for allowing others to share in Keytano’s life.

  As Techanka sang, his wife and Keytano’s widow began making preparations for the purification. Part of the purification called for the dressing of Keytano in his funereal clothes. Techanka’s mother unwrapped a parcel, made of deer hide. This was Keytano’s personal totem bundle, and inside were his clothes, clothes that were as secret and private to the individual as the contents of a medicine bag. Although the feathered staff and the vest had been seen by others, until this moment, nobody but Keytano and his wife had ever seen the breeches and shirt.

  Except Art.

  Art had seen it all, just a few minutes earlier, when Keytano came to visit him.

  * * *

  Art sneaked out of the village before light the next morning, a few hours before the attack was to take place. He’d planned to take one of the horses from the village, but changed his mind at the last minute, deciding that if he took one he would be branded a thief. He didn’t know if he would ever return to the Shawnee, but if he did decide to come back, he wanted to be welcomed. He had arrived at the Shawnee village without a horse, and he would leave without one. Except for the clothes he was wearing, and the knife at his waist, Art took nothing away that he hadn’t brought to the village.

  His had gone about five miles when he saw a campfire. Curious as to who it might be, he approached it cautiously, until he saw that it was Major Loxley and two other British soldiers. Sneaking up as close to them as he could, he listened in on their conversation.

  “Sir John, you aren’t really going to give those Indians firearms, are you?” one of the men asked.

  “Heavens, no,” Loxley replied. “Once our victory is complete, I am to be governor of this wretched area. Do you actually think I would want a bunch of armed savages to contend with?”

  “But without guns, their attack against Cape Girardeau will surely fail,” one of the soldiers said. “True, there are no American soldiers there to defend the town, but nearly all of the citizens of the town are armed, and they have blockhouses to retreat to in the event of an attack.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The attack on Cape Girardeau is but a ruse. I fully expect the Indians to fail, and no doubt with a substantial loss of life.”

  “Loss of whose life?”

  Loxley laughed. “Indian, American, it’s all the same to us. The more of the blighters who are killed, the easier it will be for us to control the situation after we take over.” Using a burning ember, Loxley lit his pipe. “Now, you two get back to Leftenant Whitman. Tell him to move the men into the boats so that we may proceed to Commerce. But make certain that he understands he is not to launch the attack until I am there to take command. With the Indians providing a diversion at Cape Girardeau, Commerce will fall into our hands like a ripe plum.”

  Both men saluted, then mounted their horses and rode off. Loxley moved over to a tree where, undoing his pants, he began to urinate. Taking advantage of Loxley’s distraction, Art sneaked into the camp. The skills he had learned with the Shawnee were particularly helpful now, for he was able to pick up Loxley’s rifle and pull back the hammer before Loxley even knew he was there.

  When he heard the hammer being cocked, Loxley froze. “My dear sir,” he said calmly, and without turning around. “You seem to have caught me in a most awkward position.”

  “I reckon I have,” Art said.

  “May I turn, sir?”

  “You can turn.”

  Slowly, Loxley turned to face Art. “Blimey, you’re but a boy,” he said.

  “I’m a boy that’s holding a gun on you,” Art replied.

  “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you before,” Loxley said, staring closely at Art. He raised his hand and pointed. “Yes, now I know. You were at the Shawnee War Council yesterday, weren’t you? But you’re not Shawnee, are you?”

  “I’m an American,” Art said.

  “An American, you say? Well, it would appear, then, that we have a rather taxing situation here, don’t we?”

  Art didn’t answer.

  “Yes, indeed,” Loxley said. He took a couple of puffs from his pipe and studied Art through the cloud of smoke that his action generated. “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Art said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you familiar with the game of chess, young man?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, it’s too bad. You really should take up the game sometime. It’s a wonderful game. But there is a saying we have in chess. The saying is, it is your move.”

  “My move?”

  “Yes, dear boy. That means that whatever happens now is up to you. So, what now?”

  Art hadn’t really given the situation any thought beyond this moment. He wasn’t sure what he should do, but somehow he knew that he had to stop the attacks on Cape Girardeau by the Indians, and on Commerce by the British.

  “We’re going back to the Indian village,” he said. “You’re going to tell them that you lied to them about the guns and ammunition you said you would give them.”

  “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”

  “Because I’m holding a gun on you,” Art said.

  “Indeed you are,” Loxley said. He smiled. “Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for you, the pan in the rifle you are holding isn’t primed. Whereas, the pan in this pistol is.” He pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at Art.

  Art pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped forward. There was a spark from the flintlock mechanism, but no flash in the pan and no discharge. Loxley was telling the truth.

  Art looked down at the inert rifle, then out of the corner of his eye, saw that Loxley was about to pull the trigger on his pistol. Art jumped to one side just as Loxley fired. The pistol ball missed, though it came so close that he could feel the wind of its passing.

  Tossing his pistol aside, Loxley pulled his sword, then smiling confidently, advanced slowly toward Art.

  “It is almost heresy to put you to sword,” he said as he made tiny circles with the sword point. “Only those whose names are recognized by the peerage are entitled to the blade. And you, sir, have no name.” He laughed. “I know, I shall give you a name of the peerage. I will give you the name of an old archenemy of mine. I dub thee Sir Gregory of Windom Shire.”

  With three quick slashes of his sword, Loxley brought blood from Art’s left shoulder, his forehead, then his right shoulder. When he stepped back, Art could see his own blood on the blade of the sword, and he could feel the sting of the cuts the blade had inflicted. He put his hand his forehead, touched the wound, then brought it back down to see the blood on the tips of his fingers.

  “Sting a little, did it, Sir Gregory?” Now Loxley was standing sideways with his left hand on his hip, his right side and the extended sword toward Art.

  “You say this fella Gregory is an enemy of yours?”

  “Oh, yes, an enemy of quite long standing,” Loxley said. He did a sudden thrust, which almost caught Art. Only his lightning-quick reflexes enabled him to avoid being skewered.

  “Well, if Gregory is your enemy, then that’s a good enough name for me,” Art said.

  Loxley danced toward Art, still presenting only his right side as a target. Art had drawn his knife, but it was totally inadequate against the sword. But though he couldn’t counterattack, he was quick enough and dexterous enough to avoid every thrust.

  Then disaster struck. While avoiding one of Loxley’s increasingly closer thrusts, Art tripped and fell flat on his back. In a heartbeat Loxley was on him, with the point of his sword just over Art’s chest.

  “It’s over, lad,” Loxley said, panting from the effort of chasing Art about. “You’ve been quite a pest. My onl
y regret is that you are going to die too quickly.”

  Loxley was just about to make the final death lunge when an arrow whistled over Art and buried itself in Loxley’s chest. Loxley dropped his sword and reached up to grab the arrow. Even as he wrapped his fingers around it, however, the light faded from his eyes and he collapsed across Art’s legs.

  Quickly, Art scrambled out from under Loxley’s body, then stood up to see Techanka and Tolian coming toward him. Behind them were at least three dozen others from the village.

  “So, my brother,” Tolian said. “Again I have killed another to save your life.”

  “Yes,” Art replied.

  “You left early,” Techanka said. “Did you plan to attack the Americans without us?”

  Art drew a deep breath, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I did not plan to attack the Americans at all.”

  “This I knew,” Techanka said. “It came to me in a dream last night. It is good that you did not lie.”

  “This too is not a lie,” Art said. “The red soldiers will not give you guns and ammunition. I heard them talking. They want you to attack the town of Cape Girardeau so that they may attack another town, Commerce.”

  “Yes, that is a good plan. We attack one place while the red soldiers attack another,” Techanka said.

  “Wait a minute, you aren’t still planning to attack Cape Girardeau, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? Don’t you understand what I told you? The British want your attack to fail. They want many Indians and many Americans to be killed.”

  “We must attack. Keytano gave his word,” Techanka said. “It is not for me to break the word of Keytano.”

  “But many of you will be killed.”

  “We are not like you,” Metacoma said. “We are not cowards who fear death.”

  Techanka held up his hand to still Metacoma. Then he looked at Art. “Go, now,” he said. “You are no longer my son. You are no longer the brother of Tolian. You are no longer Shawnee.”

  “I am not the enemy of the Shawnee,” Art said.

  “Today, you are not the enemy of the Shawnee. But if we meet again, and if my people are at war with your people, we will be enemies.”