The Blooding

by James McGee

  Tewanias’s head came up. He wafted tobacco smoke away from his face. “You know this, how?”

  “We were there. We have heard their words. We have seen their guns. They are gathering to attack the English, across the border in Canada. That is why they are at Senhahlone. That is why the Oneida were chasing us – not just because we killed the Yankee soldiers, but to stop us reaching the border. Now, Lawrence and I must warn the soldiers of the Great King that the Yankees are sending troops to attack them. We need your help.”

  “Our help?” Cageaga said, taking his pipe from his mouth. “Is this what Ayonhwathah foretold? That you would return to ask our help to warn the English? This seems a very strange reason. I do not think that is why you are here.”

  “I do not think that either,” Hawkwood said. “I think I am here to warn the Kanien’kehá:ka, too.”

  It was Tewanias’s turn to frown. “You said the Yan-kees were not seeking to attack us.”

  “I believe that to be true. But if the Yankees do cross the border and the English are defeated, then all Kanien’kehá:ka are in danger.”

  “How are we in danger?” Cageaga demanded. “It is not our war.”

  “Not yet. But it will become your war. The same way white men’s wars that have gone before became your wars.”

  “That is—” Cageaga began.

  Tewanias held up a hand. “Let him speak.”

  Hawkwood considered his words carefully. “It is the intention of the Yankees to drive the English out of Canada and from Anówarakowa Kawennote. If they succeed, all the villages of the Kanien’kehá:ka will disappear for ever, like the ashes from the great council fire. It will be as the last time when the Yankees defeated the soldiers of the Great King. A treaty will be signed and the Nations will be forgotten. The Yankees will say that land granted by the English is theirs by right of conquest. The Yankees’ government will make the Kanien’kehá:ka leave their villages and they will sell the land. They will tell the Kanien’kehá:ka that they must live where the Yankees decide.”

  “In … reservations,” Cageaga said dully, his pipe forgotten.

  “Ea, in reservations,” Hawkwood confirmed.

  “You believe this to be true?” Tewanias asked.

  “I do.”

  “The Kanien’kehá:ka could fight,” Cageaga said.

  “On their own, they would lose. The Yankees are greater in number than the Kanien’kehá:ka. You could not hold out against them. You know that.”

  “Perhaps the Yan-kees will sign their own treaty with the Kanien’kehá:ka?”

  Hawkwood could tell that the question was posed more in hope than expectation. “They did not honour the last treaty, why should they honour the next one?” he pointed out.

  Cageaga fell silent.

  Tewanias took a draw on his pipe. “If you warn the English, can they defeat the Yan-kees?”

  “Yes,” Hawkwood said. “The soldiers of the Great King have known many wars; more than the soldiers of the Yankees. They are better fighters. They will win.”

  Tewanias sat back. Lowering his pipe, he regarded Hawkwood for a long time. Finally, he spoke. “I will have my warriors show you the path.”

  “Niá:wen,” Hawkwood said, before reverting to English once more. “Do you know where the English soldiers are gathered? The nearest English garrison?”

  The expression on Tewanias’s face made it plain that he’d expected Hawkwood to have that information. There were two, he told them. One large and one small.

  “Where?” Hawkwood pressed.

  The main garrison was located on the Île aux Noix.

  Hawkwood and Lawrence exchanged glances.

  “And the other?” Hawkwood asked.

  “It is only a …” Tewanias searched for the word. He shook his head, looked to Cageaga for help and, when none was forthcoming, said helplessly and with some frustration, “… maison en bois?”

  A wooden house? Hawkwood thought. Lawrence appeared equally mystified. Then a thought struck.

  “A blockhouse?” Hawkwood ventured.

  Tewanias thought about it. “Ea! Blockhouse. Yes!”

  “Where?” Hawkwood asked.

  “There is a small village, lived in by whites. It has no name in the Kanien’kehá:ka tongue.”

  “What do the whites call it?”

  “Lacolle,” Tewanias said.

  14

  Of the two locations, Lacolle was the closest. It lay, Tewanias informed them, on the bank of a tributary of the Richelieu River, a little over two leagues to the south-west of Île aux Noix. Hawkwood hadn’t heard “league” used as a measure of distance for some time. Two leagues was, as near as he could recall, about seven miles.

  How many troops were billeted at Lacolle, Tewanias didn’t know. It didn’t matter; the number was immaterial. There were British soldiers manning the blockhouse and there had to be communication between the village and the main garrison. If they could make it to the former, they could then get word to the latter.

  “So when do we leave?” Lawrence asked.

  “You need rest,” Tewanias said, nodding towards Lawrence’s wounded side.

  “Dawn it is, then,” Hawkwood said.

  When he opened his eyes, it took a second or two to orient himself. Then he inhaled and it all came flooding back. There were certain odours that were an inevitable consequence of a significant number of people taking up occupancy in an enclosed space: stale air, woodsmoke, rendered animal fats, dirt and dogs and the sweet-sour miasma that arose whenever humans exercised their full range of bodily eructations. The longhouse reeked.

  Neither was it silent. Someone broke wind with gusto and it was as if a signal had been passed. In no time, the walls were vibrating before an onslaught of snores, grunts, groans, coughs, belches, snuffles and farts. Morning had definitely arrived.

  He had slept well, though and for that he was grateful. No headache, either.

  Through the smoke opening in the roof he could just make out a patch of grey sky. Below the opening, the fire was smouldering. Blanket-covered humps littered the floor where those most vulnerable to the cold, the children and the elderly, had spent the night on mats close to the hearth.

  Sensing movement to his left, Hawkwood turned and found he was not alone. A whiff of sweat and bear grease rose towards him; not too unpleasant when compared to the smell of the longhouse taken as a whole, but on the gamey side, nonetheless, especially when you weren’t used to it. As the sleeper’s arm moved, Hawkwood saw it was Cageaga, looking just as disgruntled with his eyes closed as he did when he was awake.

  The desire to empty his bladder was suddenly overwhelming. It was warm beneath the furs but he knew he’d have to go sooner or later and, as he was awake, it was probably best to get it over with. Dropping his feet to the ground, he fumbled into his boots, reached for his coat, and picked his way carefully around the slumbering bodies towards the entrance.

  The drop in temperature hit him as soon as he stepped outside. Snow had settled deeply throughout the village. The outer defences had provided some protection but with their dark, bark-constructed walls, the three longhouses nestling inside the log palisade looked like burnt loaves topped with white icing.

  He wasn’t the only one up and about. Several hunched figures were picking their way to or from the latrine pits. Heads down, tucked into their blankets and furs, no one appeared to notice that he was not one of their own, or if they did, they had more pressing matters on their mind. He wondered if there would be any familiar faces among them.

  “Damned tea,” Lawrence said from behind, cutting into his thoughts. “Goes right through you. Where’s a fellow go when he needs to piss?”

  Hawkwood turned. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m getting there,” Lawrence said, his breath fogging. “I saw you get up. Thought it best to follow. Didn’t want to go blundering about with my breeches unbuttoned.”

  “This way,” Hawkwood told him.

  Business ov
er, they re-emerged into the open and fastened their coats. It was a relief to be breathing clean air after the heavy smell of the longhouse and the latrine. Hawkwood was in no rush to go back inside.

  “I was told the Iroquois lived in log cabins like the whites,” Lawrence said, looking around him. “Not like this.”

  Following Lawrence’s gaze, Hawkwood saw how the village must look to an outsider.

  “Most do, probably, but traditional Iroquois houses were always built like this. It made it easier to abandon them when the tribe moved.”

  “Moved?”

  “Every twenty or thirty years, when the land stopped producing crops, the tribe would gather up their belongings and look for a new spot where the soil was fertile and the hunting good. Then they’d start all over again with what tools and materials were to hand. The forest would grow back over the old village and in time you’d never know they’d been there.”

  “Carrying their homes on their backs.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Does this mean Tewanias and his people don’t expect to be here for long?”

  It was a good question.

  “I think they know they can’t hide for ever. Progress will come, whether they like it or not and they’ll have to make a decision. Stay or leave.”

  “If they leave, where will they go?”

  “Canada. There won’t be any other option.”

  “And if the Americans are victorious?” Lawrence said. “What happens if they take Canada?”

  “It’s up to us to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Despite the assurance he’d given to Tewanias, Hawkwood wondered whether that might be easier said than done.

  “You’re worried for them, aren’t you?” Lawrence regarded him closely.

  Hawkwood nodded. “You may think me unpatriotic or a bloody fool, but it strikes me Tewanias’s people have more right to this land than either King George or Congress. They’ve fought for it, tended it, built their villages, raised their families and yet it’s been stolen from them. What you see is all they have left – and if the Americans have their way, they’re not even going to have this. They’ve become exiles, Major; exiles in their own damned country.”

  For a long moment, Lawrence was silent. Then he said quietly, “I saw the way you and Tewanias talk to one another. This is not the first time you and he have met, is it?”

  “No.”

  Lawrence absorbed that, then said, “There was a word you used when you were speaking with him, when you asked for his help. Rag … rargay … something?”

  “Rake’niha,” Hawkwood said. “It means ‘my father’.”

  As the ramifications of that statement sank in, Lawrence let out a gasp.

  “It’s time we talked,” Hawkwood said.

  “You lived with them for how long?”

  “Eight years, nearly.”

  Lawrence stared back at him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Not what you were expecting?” Hawkwood said.

  Lawrence shook his head. “How could it be? I’ll be damned! It’s not often I’m at a loss, but this time … you actually lived as one of them!” Lawrence’s brow furrowed. “But why didn’t Tewanias deliver you safe home?”

  “He did. He took me to his home.”

  Lawrence spread his hands. “I meant to Canada, an English home.”

  “He was honouring the promise Gil Wyatt made to Will Archer: that he’d keep me safe. Wyatt placed me in Tewanias’s care. Tewanias saw it as his obligation to a friend. Besides, what English home would that have been? The Archers weren’t my blood relatives, but after my father, they were the only family I’d known. There was no one else. If I had been taken north, I’d have been placed in an orphanage or a workhouse and left there. Tewanias decided the best thing for me was to remain with him, and that’s what happened. I was adopted into his clan.”

  “There was no animosity towards you, being white?”

  “Adoption’s common practice among the Iroquois. Or it used to be. The Nations have always known that, if they’re to survive, the population has to be maintained. War, tribal disputes, disease, old age, they all have an effect. They’d adopt to replenish the blood, taking in prisoners captured in battle or refugees seeking sanctuary from other tribes. They don’t discriminate. Black, white, Indian – makes no difference.”

  “But what about …” Lawrence began helplessly, as if searching for something to ask, yet not knowing where to begin: “… schooling?”

  “I’d been to school. The Archers saw to that. Their farm was only an hour’s ride from town. There was a schoolhouse at the back of the church. I could read and write. I knew my numbers. The Archers had books. Will took me hunting, taught me to shoot. At that age, I didn’t need much else. It was Tewanias who gave me my first French words. He’d learnt the language from Huron captives taken during the war against the Frogs. I seemed to have the knack.”

  “You never wanted to return to your own world?”

  “My own world? The Archers were dead. I had nothing to go back to. In any case, where would I go? Not the farm. Too many bad memories. Besides, it would have been confiscated by then, or burnt down. No, I was safer with the clan.”

  Lawrence smiled.

  “What?” Hawkwood asked him.

  “You keep saying ‘clan’. I’m half Scots, remember? I know all about clans. My mother was a Macintyre.”

  “There you go, then. It’s not that different. The Scots have the Macintyres, McPhersons and the rest …” Hawkwood smiled “… and the Iroquois have the wolf, turtle, bear—”

  “Hawk?” Lawrence said.

  “There are hawk clans, among the Seneca, Onondaga and Cayuga. Not the Mohawk. They only have the three.”

  “Despite the name?”

  “Mine or theirs?”

  Lawrence smiled.

  “The name has nothing to do with the bird. Mohawk’s not even a Mohawk word. It’s what the whites call them. Kanien’kehá:ka is how they refer to themselves. It means ‘People of the Place of the Flint’. Supposedly, it refers to the tribe’s ancient sites along the Mohawk River. The place was a good source of the stuff. They used it to make arrowheads and tools.”

  “So why Mohawk? Because of the river?”

  “The river took its name from the tribe, and it’s only the whites that call it that. Mohawk’s a much older word. It’s from the Abenaki. They’re ancient enemies of the Kanien’kehá:ka. It’s what they called them.”

  “Does it have a meaning?”

  “It does,” Hawkwood said.

  Intrigued by the change of tone, Lawrence frowned. “What is it?”

  “Man-eater.”

  Lawrence paled.

  “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure it was venison in the stew. And no, Douglas; I’ve not tasted human flesh. If they did consume their enemies, it was long before the Nations came together and the Rotinonshón:ni was formed.”

  “They still scalp their enemies, though.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “If you’re afraid of the answer, Major, don’t ask the question. Best let it lie.”

  “You’re right. My apologies. Even if I thought I should ask, I’m not sure I really want to know. Was that when you learned to fight?”

  Hawkwood nodded. “The Iroquois teach their sons how to hunt and how to use weapons, how to stalk, track, ambush and survive in the wilderness. Most boys have been on their first hunt by the time they’re ten. I was considered a late starter, though I did know how to shoot.

  “Even their games are a form of training. There’s one they play, with sticks and a ball. They set up a gate at opposite ends of the field; it could be a tree stump, a couple of poles set in the ground, anything. The object is to drive the ball through your opponents’ gate only using the sticks. There’s no limit to the number of players or the size of the field. In the old days, there’d be hundreds of players and the goals could be a coup
le of miles apart. Some games went on for days.”

  “Like a battle,” Lawrence said.

  “Exactly. And there’s no quarter given. Players often end up with split skulls or broken arms and legs. A few even die. It’s called Tewaarathon – the Little Brother of War. Gives the young bloods a chance to test their mettle. Swinging a stick in a mêlée’s good training for swinging a club or a tomahawk.”

  “Is that how you learned?”

  “Yes. Cageaga was the one who taught me. Showed me how to throw a tomahawk, too. I’ve seen him hit a corn husk at sixty feet.”

  Lawrence smiled. “Well, from what I’ve seen, it’s stood you in damned good stead. But how did you get from there to taking the King’s shilling?”

  The question was met with silence. Sensing a mood change, Lawrence frowned and looked up, to discover that their walk had taken them out of the village and beyond the palisade. Fifty yards of open ground separated them from the edge of the forest. They weren’t alone. A couple of the village dogs had latched on to them and were loping back and forth across the snow, tongues lolling.

  “There was a girl,” Hawkwood said.

  “Ah.” Lawrence allowed himself a knowing smile. “There usually is.”

  Then he saw the look on Hawkwood’s face and the smile slid away.

  Hawkwood stared off towards the woods. “Her name was Ehrita.”

  Lawrence waited. Instinct told him the best thing was to remain silent.

  Hawkwood turned. “It means ‘Moon’ in Kanien’kehá:ka. She was Cageaga’s sister. He’d taken me under his wing. At that time, she was as thin as a stick, annoying, always getting in the way. As we grew older, I started to realize she wasn’t as annoying as I’d first thought.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen, seventeen, maybe. Old enough to have noticed how she was changing. How we all were. It’s strange, looking back. I could throw an axe, shoot a bow, hunt, skin and gut a deer, and yet women were a mystery. Still are, if I’m honest.” The mention of her name had conjured her image in his mind’s eye: “She had the longest hair, right down to her waist. I can see it now. Hair so black it seemed to turn blue when the light hit it, dark as ravens’ feathers. I thought she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.”