by James McGee
Had Quade dispatched them? With the colonel indisposed, it was possible Quade had given the order, just as he had given the order to the burial detail. Had it not been for Cageaga’s intervention, the corpses lying in the snow would have been his and Lawrence’s. Hopefully, the Oneida having failed in their mission, they would be safe now.
Or would they? Hawkwood turned to Tewanias. “Why do you fear an attack?”
There was a long silence. Tewanias drew his cloak closer about him. Smoke from the fire drifted in front of his face. “The Yan-kees say this is their land. We say it is not. They will send their soldiers to take it from us.”
“They will try,” Cageaga murmured ominously, “and they will fail.”
Hawkwood waited.
“Much has changed since you left us, Mat-huwa,” Tewanias said. Small amber reflections of light glowed in the corners of the Mohawk chief’s dark eyes.
“Tell me.”
Tewanias turned his head away from the flames so that one side of his face was pooled in shadow.
“When you first came to us, I told you of the history of our people and how it was the Peacemaker’s vision of the tribes coming together as one under the Tree of Great Peace that gave breath to the Rotinonshón:ni.”
“I remember,” Hawkwood said.
“And how the sachems of the Six Nations would meet in friendship around the great fire at Onondaga?”
Hawkwood nodded.
Tewanias paused, gathering his thoughts. “During those times it was said that the land ruled by the Rotinonshón:ni was greater in measure than all the sky; from the banks of the Oiqué – what the whites called the Hud-son …”
“… to the river the People of the Cave Country call the Tanasi,” Hawkwood finished. “I have not forgotten.”
“And we told you how the whites came,” Cageaga muttered, his voice dripping with scorn, “with their guns and their one true God.”
“That, too,” Hawkwood said, wondering where the conversation was leading.
“And we thought that was good,” Cageaga growled. “The whites offered us trade: guns for furs. With guns, the Rotinonshón:ni could defeat their enemies, the Wendat and the Abenaki, so we welcomed these new friends. We let them build their houses and their farms. But with the passing of each winter more whites came, spreading their shadow across the land. The Rotinonshón:ni became fearful; some left their homeland and went west, to Ohíyo. Others went north, to Canada. The rest stayed. But soon, they learned that the whites had brought other things besides their one true God and their guns.”
Hawkwood waited.
“They brought sickness,” Cageaga hissed, “and they brought war. And we have been paying with our lives and our lands ever since.”
“First, it was the English fighting les français,” Tewanias said, drawing his cloak about him. “The Rotinonshón:ni were divided. Those Kanien’kehá:ka who had travelled north chose to fight on the side of les français. Those who remained fought for the Great King. Kanien’kehá:ka fought against Kanien’kehá:ka. But when the soldiers of the Great King defeated les français, a treaty was signed so that all men – the Rotinonshón:ni and the whites – could live in peace and the lands of the Rotinonshón:ni would remain free for all time.”
“And like fools we believed them,” Cageaga snorted. “For too long we have let ourselves be tricked by the white man’s promises.”
In a more moderate tone, Tewanias continued, “And war came again. This time it was the Yan-kees who fought the soldiers of the Great King. The people of the Rotinonshón:ni were made to choose sides. Many villages were burned. Many warriors crossed over to the sky world. The great council fire at Onondaga was allowed to die, never to be lit again. And when the war was over, a new treaty was agreed. This time, when the whites made their mark upon the paper, to share out the lands won and lost, the Rotinonshón:ni were ignored.”
“Did we not count?” Cageaga broke in, his mouth twisting with anger and disgust. “Were we not owed respect?”
“The Kanien’kehá:ka who fought for the English were afraid the Yan-kees would punish them,” Tewanias said. “Knowing this, the English offered them shelter in Canada. Many departed to join their brothers in Kahnawá:ke and Ahkwesáhsne. Others moved across Kaniatarowanénhne to new villages, to Ohswé:ken on the far side of Erie and to Kenhtè:ke.”
Kaniatarowanénhne, Hawkwood knew, was the St Lawrence River. “But not all?”
“No. Even though they had defeated the English, the Yan-kees promised that the lands of the Rotinonshón:ni would remain free to any who wanted to stay. We took them at their word and some of us stayed.
“In the beginning, the Yan-kees’ word was true, but as time passed they broke their promise. They allowed more of their people to enter the lands of the Rotinonshón:ni. Their farms became villages and their villages became towns. The whites thought if there were more whites than Rotinonshón:ni, the Rotinonshón:ni would forget their old ways and live as the whites lived and we would let them take the rest of our lands.”
“And they were right,” Cageaga growled. “The Stone People and the People of the Marsh and the Great Mountain all took money from the Yan-kees in exchange for land, while their warriors adopted the white men’s ways, turning to drink and wickedness. They had no right to sell land they did not own! The Great Spirit did not sell the land to the Rotinonshón:ni! He gave it to the Nations for safekeeping. In return, the land gives us shelter, the food in our bellies, the clothes upon our backs. When we of the Kanien’kehá:ka look upon the mountains and the forests, we see the power of the Great Spirit. But when the white man looks upon the land he sees only profit. Now the whites are too great in number and we are too few. Though we have tried to protect the land from them, we have failed.”
“Before you came to us the first time, Mat-huwa,” Tewanias said, “our prophets warned us that we would have to leave the home of our ancestors and find another place far from the reach of the Yan-kees. So we left our village for a new home, in Atirú:taks, the hunting grounds of the Kanien’kehá:ka, where we knew the whites would be afraid to enter, where you lived with us. We were happy there, but when the war between the whites ended, when we learned that our leaders had sold the last of the Kanien’kehá:ka land to the Yan-kees, we knew the Nations were broken beyond mending.”
“That was when the Yan-kees told all Kanien’kehá:ka that those who did not want to join our brothers in Canada could remain, but it had to be in a place of the Yan-kees’ choosing. I have seen such places,” Cageaga said bitterly, his face twisting. “The whites call them …” he paused, trying to fold his tongue around the word he was searching for “… reservations. I did not know that word, but I saw what it means. The Kanien’kehá:ka cannot live in such places. So we came here, to the last stronghold of our people. If the Yan-kees want to take this land, they will have to fight us for it. We will defend it against them and they will know our anger.”
Here. Hawkwood realized he had no idea where “here” was.
“The Kanien’kehá:ka know it as Kanièn:keh,” Tewanias said, reading his confusion. “After the homeland of our fathers.”
Land of the Flint. Hawkwood understood then.
“This village is named Gaanundata.”
Flattened Mountain. As he pondered upon the significance of that name, Hawkwood’s wound began to throb again. It felt as if a small mallet was beating time against the inside of his skull. The smoke wasn’t helping, either. It was catching at the back of his throat, though it could also have been the after-effects of the bark tea. He heard a low grunt from behind him. Tewanias and Cageaga looked towards the sound. Hawkwood turned.
Lawrence was on his feet.
Hawkwood rose quickly. “How are you feeling?”
The major gazed about him, frowning at the strange artefacts strung around the walls, wrinkling his nose at the combination of smells contained within the longhouse’s dim-lit interior. “What is this place? Where are we?”
“
Safe,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence considered that. “How did we get here?”
“By a miracle,” Hawkwood said, as he wasn’t sure in his own mind about the exact sequence of events that had taken place following the bloody run-in with the Oneida.
He had thought that Lawrence might have remained conscious throughout and been in a position to fill the gaps for him, but it sounded as though the major must have succumbed to the pain of his own wound. Presumably Cageaga and his warriors had fashioned travois stretchers out of coats or blankets, and transported the two of them through the snow to this safe haven. Action that had undoubtedly saved their lives, for without it, Hawkwood knew, neither of them would have survived a night in the open.
Lawrence put a hand to his side and let go another half-stifled grunt. Lifting his shirt, he stared dolefully at the unsightly wad of vegetable matter clinging to his flesh. Touching the mess he raised his fingertips to his nose and sniffed. “What in the name of …?”
“Don’t worry,” Hawkwood said. “It won’t kill you. You’re in good hands.”
Lawrence grimaced. “I’ll take your word for it.” He indicated the bloody graze and the salve on Hawkwood’s scalp. “And you?”
“I’ll live.”
A faint smile played across Lawrence’s lips which slid away as his focus shifted past Hawkwood’s shoulder to the two warriors watching them silently from the fire. His eyes narrowed.
“Who are they?”
“Kanien’kehá:ka,” Hawkwood said. “Mohawk.”
“Mohawk?” Lawrence switched his gaze back to Hawkwood. His expression changed. He frowned. “I heard you talking. You were speaking their language.”
Hawkwood wondered if he was imagining the suspicious tone in Lawrence’s voice. “It’s been a while. I’m a little rusty.”
Lawrence stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
“You remember that long story I mentioned?”
“How could I forget?”
“Same story, different chapter.” Hawkwood smiled.
Lawrence’s eyes continued to rake Hawkwood’s face. Then his chin came up. “Dammit, I knew you were holding something back! I had a feeling you knew more about this country than you could’ve picked up from a stolen map. Am I right?” Giving Hawkwood no opportunity to respond, Lawrence went on: “That Indian back at the encampment – I had my doubts then. You knew his tribe and his clan. And now we have these fellows, with whom you’ve been conversing like a native. What the devil—”
Suddenly Lawrence broke off. He seemed to sag, as if retracting into himself. Finally, he let go a sigh. “Forgive me. The last thing I want is for there to be distrust between us. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be rotting in a prison cell, or worse. I can only assume you’ve had your own reasons for keeping things to yourself. But look at it from my point of view. If nothing else, being kept in the dark’s bloody annoying! You have to give me something, even if it’s to prevent me from going mad!” He threw Hawkwood a beseeching look.
Placing a hand on Lawrence’s shoulder, Hawkwood said, “My apologies, Douglas. You’re right, you deserve an explanation. And you’ll have it – in the morning. Will you settle for that?”
“I don’t suppose I’ve any bloody choice, have I? Very well, morning it is. But by God I will hold you to it, see if I don’t!” He jutted his chin towards the two figures waiting behind Hawkwood’s shoulder. “Are you going to introduce me? I take it these fellows do have names I can pronounce?”
“That they do,” Hawkwood said, relieved to be back on firmer ground.
“Excellent! In that case, I’m most anxious to make their acquaintance.”
Hawkwood led Lawrence to the fire.
“Major, meet Broken Twig, war chief of the Turtle Clan and Dogs Round the Fire, war chief of the Wolf Clan. Though you might find it easier if you address them as Tewanias and Cageaga. It was Cageaga who came to our aid.”
Turning to the two warriors, Hawkwood said, “Ontiaten:ro’ ne ki – Roren.” This is my friend – Lawrence.
Lawrence held out his hand. “I thank you both, gentlemen. Chief Tewanias, Chief Cageaga, it’s an honour to meet you. We are for ever in your debt.” He looked at Hawkwood. “Er, how do you say—”
“Niá:wen,” Hawkwood said, pre-empting him.
“Niá:wen,” Lawrence said, bowing formally. He glanced sideways. “Though it don’t do justice after what they’ve done for us. Do they speak English?”
“When it suits them,” Hawkwood said, earning himself a reproving look from Tewanias.
Both warriors took Lawrence’s proffered hand, but their faces remained impassive.
“Roren,” Tewanias said.
“Roren?” Lawrence looked to Hawkwood again.
“It’s how they say Lawrence.”
“Is it indeed? Well, I’ve been called worse. What do they call you?”
“We’re on first-name terms. It should be Watio, but I’ve managed to get them as far as Mat-huwa.”
Tewanias, with great formality, showed Lawrence to a space by the fire, poured some bark tea from the pot resting on the hearthstones into a wooden bowl and held it out.
Lawrence eased himself down carefully, accepted the bowl with both hands and took a cautious sip. Running his tongue along his lips, his brow furrowed. “Interesting.”
“Three sips are considered polite,” Hawkwood said.
Lawrence took three swallows under watchful eyes. Placing the bowl down, he picked a tiny piece of bark from between his teeth. “It has medicinal properties, I take it?”
“Only if you’ve run out of leeches,” Hawkwood said. He thought he saw the corner of Cageaga’s mouth twitch, but decided it must have been a trick of the firelight.
Tewanias spoke. “Roren, satonhkária’ks ken?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—” Lawrence began.
“He asks if you’re hungry.” To Tewanias, Hawkwood said, “Tiohrhen:sa sata:ti.” Speak in English.
“My God, when was our last meal?” Lawrence shook his head. “Damned if I can recall. I could eat a bloody horse.” His eyes shot to his hosts and a mortified look crossed his face. “Er, I didn’t mean—”
Hawkwood smiled. “It’s all right, Major. I doubt that’s on the menu.”
Tewanias beckoned. A figure appeared. It was the old woman from before. Tewanias spoke to her softly. As she left, Tewanias turned back.
There was an awkward pause, as though each was waiting for one of the others to speak, a silence broken eventually by Lawrence, who enquired of Hawkwood, “How much have you told them?”
“Some of it. They know we’ve been trying to get to the border and why the Oneida wanted us dead.”
“The invasion?”
“Not that part, not yet.”
The old woman reappeared with a young girl by her side, slender and pretty, her eyes cast shyly down. Both carried wooden bowls and spoons, which they handed out wordlessly before slipping away as silently as they had arrived.
“Tesatská:hon, Roren.” Tewanias indicated the bowl in Lawrence’s hand and switched to English: “Eat. It is deer. The Kanien’kehá:ka do not eat horse.”
Lawrence reddened.
“Unless all the deer have been eaten,” Cageaga murmured under his breath.
But by then, neither Lawrence nor Hawkwood were listening.
Venison, horse or squirrel, Hawkwood wouldn’t have cared. He’d eaten all three at one time or another during his military service, as had Lawrence. Soldiers on the march weren’t particular when it came to foraging. If it could be skinned, spitted or stuffed in a pot, they’d eat it.
What mattered was that it was food and it was hot and quite possibly the best meal Hawkwood had eaten since stepping off Larkspur’s gang plank. The fact that it helped disguise the lingering taste of the tea didn’t hurt, either, while the rounded cornbread rolls served with each bowl proved a useful tool for mopping up the last drops of juice from the meat.
“By God, if
I only had my pipe to hand, I’d die a happy man,” Lawrence said, as he set down his empty bowl. “My compliments, Chief Tewanias. That was as fine a stew as I’ve tasted.”
Hawkwood was about to tell Lawrence that he could dispense with Tewanias’s title when, to his amazement, Tewanias, after rummaging inside the pouch he carried beneath his cloak, produced two small clay pipes, each around six inches in length. With great solemnity he placed one of them in Lawrence’s palm.
Lawrence stared at the object in astonishment. “I’ll be damned!” He beamed as Tewanias handed over his tobacco pouch. “Sir, you are a gentleman after my own heart!”
Cageaga took out his own pipe and helped himself to a fill of tobacco. Lighting up, he passed the pipe to Hawkwood. Hawkwood had never taken to the habit, but accepted the pipe as it would have been discourteous to decline. Steeling himself, he took a puff, circulated the smoke inside his mouth for what he considered an appropriate amount of time, and exhaled, trying not to let his eyes water, then returned the pipe to Cageaga.
As he watched the other three puffing contentedly, he found it hard not to compare the unlikely scene before him with a tableau from any of the London clubs lining Pall Mall, where pillars of the aristocracy would round off their dinners in a fug of tobacco smoke, a glass of port within convenient reach. The only constituents missing here, he decided, were the port, the armchairs and evening wear. Though he knew that while Lawrence was enjoying his pipe as a complement to the stew, Tewanias and Cageaga were engaged in a much older ritual. Tobacco was considered to be a gift from the Creator. The exhaled smoke carried one’s thoughts and prayers to heaven. More significantly, no man was without his pipe when important matters were to be discussed.
Timing was everything.
“We must talk.” For Lawrence’s benefit, Hawkwood spoke in English. He addressed Tewanias. “The Yankees are not seeking to attack the Kanien’kehá:ka.”
