Remember the Morning

by Thomas Fleming

  “Don’t you think he’s redeemed himself?” Clara said.

  “I thought only Jesus could redeem people,” I said.

  “You know what I mean,” Clara said.

  I knew exactly what Clara meant. She was still in love with this blond behemoth. She had told me as much a dozen times. Why did it dismay me to hear it now?

  THREE

  OSWEGO AT LAST!

  It had been an exhausting journey up the Mohawk to the great portage, where we dragged the bateau and canoes on rollers to Wood Creek. On this narrow winding watercourse, a huge fallen tree blocked our passage. It had to be sawed up and hauled out of the water with backbreaking labor. Next we paddled across the lake of the Oneidas. They had a great palisaded castle on its shores. Their chiefs made no secret of their expectation of generous presents and we took pains to please them, not wanting to find ourselves on the wrong end of their hatchets. Finally we traversed the Oswego River to the British bastion on the shore of Lake Ontario.

  The bulky stone fort loomed against the skyline of the immense empty lake. From its ramparts a huge red British flag whipped and crackled in the cold March wind, a symbol of royal power and pride. The geometry of the jutting parapets and casements proclaimed order and dignity and strength. For the first time, I glimpsed the meaning of the word empire.

  Then I got a closer look at the world that surrounded the fort. Like pygmies at the feet of a giant, a clutter of wooden huts and tents and tepees created a veritable slum where fifty or sixty traders and several dozen Indians mingled in the mud. We had arrived an hour before sunset, a time, Malcolm Stapleton remarked, that was almost guaranteed to give the worst possible impression of the fur trade.

  Their business finished for the day, white men and Indians were getting drunk as fast as possible. While venison and fish broiled over open fires, card and dice games raged on all sides. As we watched one of the nearer dice games, an Indian lost his last beaver skin and bet his powder horn on the next roll of the dice—and lost that too.

  Clara was repelled by the scene. I tried to revel in it. “The drunker they get, the more they gamble, the less business they’ll do,” I said. “We’ll keep our heads clear and make a fortune.”

  I saw skepticism in Malcolm’s eyes—an opinion he had exhibited once or twice as we labored up the Mohawk—and I had rejected in my headstrong way. In private, Malcolm had told Clara he had made many trips to Oswego over the past year. He thought we would have a very difficult time buying furs. He grew even more emphatic when he discovered we had no rum in our baggage. Rum was the heart of the business, he told her.

  Leaving Adam Duycinck and the other men to guard the bateau and canoes, Clara and I and Malcolm hurried through the noisy chaos of the trading village to the gate of the fort. After Malcolm exchanged a few words with the sentry on duty, we were beckoned inside. In a few minutes we were meeting an unshaven slack-jawed man in a soiled red coat—Captain Henry Hartshorne—the commander of His Majesty’s Independent Company at Fort Oswego.

  Hartshorne listened to my complaint against de Groot and his henchmen with an air of weary resignation. He seemed almost annoyed at me for bothering him with such trifling crimes as theft and attempted murder. He was far more amazed to discover that I had come to Oswego to trade with the Indians.

  “Don’t you have parents, a guardian?” he asked. “Surely someone must have told you that any woman who spends a night here without a proper escort has lost her reputation forever.”

  “My parents are dead. I have no guardian I trust nor reputation to forfeit,” I said. “Mr. Stapleton will tell you why, if you’re truly interested.”

  “I’m acting as her escort, Captain,” Malcolm said. “I advised her against coming here. But she’s not inclined to take advice from anyone.”

  Hartshorne pointed to Clara and said: “This wench is much too pretty. You’ll have a hell of a time protecting her from the traders.”

  “She’s not a wench. Her name is Clara Flowers,” I said. “She’s my partner in this business.”

  “Is all this true, Stapleton?” Hartshorne asked, more and more astounded.

  Malcolm nodded. He gave him a somewhat labored explanation of when and where he first met me and Clara, stressing our years as Senecas. “Miss Van Vorst—and Miss Flowers—are worthy of whatever protection you can offer them, sir. They’ve withstood great misfortune with a resolution that speaks well of their characters.”

  “How am I supposed to protect them?” Hartshorne said. “You know my difficulties. I have a grand total of thirty-six men in this garrison, half of them sick on the miserable rations they get. They haven’t powder enough to fire more than one round a man. If I got in a quarrel with those trading brutes, they’d cut my throat quicker than any Indian.”

  “At the very least I hope you’ll arrest de Groot and his men if they come in here,” I said.

  Hartshorne shook his head. “My jurisdiction extends only to the trading area around the fort. If he behaves himself here, I have no right in law to lay a hand on him.”

  Back at the boats, Malcolm told us what he knew about Captain Hartshorne. His father had been a wealthy merchant in the West Indies sugar trade. A madness for gambling had beggared the son. He had fled to America to escape debtor’s prison and took the command at Oswego as an alternative to starvation.

  Malcolm was inclined to sympathize with Hartshorne. The captain had encouraged his ambition to be a soldier. “He’s convinced unless we show some talent in the military art, the French will destroy us,” Malcolm said. The penny-pinching New York legislature had reduced the funds for Oswego every year since Hartshorne arrived. Militarily speaking, the fort was a joke. The French could come down from Canada and take it anytime they chose.

  I listened impatiently to this tale of woe. I was thinking of how I could persuade Malcolm to protect us from de Groot and like-minded denizens of the frontier. “I can’t pay all your men the triple wages they’re getting while we try to do business here,” I said.

  “They wouldn’t take it if you could,” Malcolm said. “They want to be on their way home. No one but a fur trader or a fugitive from the law spends any time in this place if he can help it.”

  “Would you stay—for an honest wage?”

  “I’ll stay for Clara’s sake.”

  I realized it was time to suspend my animosity toward this man. “I want to apologize for the obnoxious things I said to you in Albany,” I said. “Your good conduct on the Mohawk—and several rebukes from Clara—have made me realize I was unjust.”

  Around us drifted the raucous voices of the fur traders and the Indians as their celebration grew more and more boisterous. An Indian woman, completely naked, burst out of one hut and fled into the woods, pursued by two white men in dirty red coats.

  “There goes some of the garrison to their sport,” Malcolm said. “It’s a wonder they have the strength to lift a gun.”

  Was he unwilling to accept my apology? I struggled to take my grandfather’s advice and bow down a little lower. I needed this young giant. But I vowed I would never bow down to him—or any other man—in my heart.

  “Will you stay?” I asked.

  “I told you I would,” Malcolm said.

  “Look!” Clara cried.

  From one of the trader’s huts had staggered an Indian we instantly recognized: Bold Antelope.

  Malcolm nodded. “I’ve seen him here once or twice. He’s changed his name. He calls himself Grey Owl. When he gets drunk he talks the damnedest stuff you’ve ever heard.”

  Clara called to him and Grey Owl—or Bold Antelope—approached us, blinking with disbelief. “What are you doing in this place?” Clara asked him in Seneca. “Why aren’t you back at our village, contented and happy, with a wife and young sons at your side?”

  “They laughed at me in Shining Creek after I let this white man take you away from me,” Grey Owl said, glaring at Malcolm. “Even the women said I was like a damp stick, all smoke and no flame. They
were right, too. I have seen a different destiny for my soul. I have the dreams to prove it.”

  “What is it?” Clara asked.

  “To preach the truth that all Indians are one people,” he said. “To urge them to cease to live as separate tribes and unite as a single nation. Otherwise the white man will devour us one by one.”

  “And your ondinnonk sees the day when the tribes will unite?” Clara said.

  “Yes. I have dreamt it many times. I see a great army of warriors as numerous as the leaves on the trees assembling to drive the white men back to the great ocean.”

  “Oh, my friend, I don’t think it is possible,” Clara said. “Remember what our sachem, Black Eagle, told us? It is the white men who are numerous as the leaves on the trees. I have seen them in their great cities and on their farms.”

  “It will happen, nevertheless. The white men cannot fight the Indians in the forest. We will draw a line on the ground and tell them to come no farther. When that happens, they will lose heart and begin to quarrel with each other over the way they have divided this land. Then we will play them against each other as they have so long played us.”

  “It would be better if you went back to Shining Creek and made peace with your family and friends,” Clara said. “Forget me and what happened at the great council. I’m only a woman. Other women will make you happy again someday.”

  “Never!” Grey Owl said. “I cannot forget Bold Antelope. He died on that day of shame and rose again as Grey Owl. He lives to revenge his warrior ancestor.”

  Clara almost wept. “I’ll pray to the Manitou for you. I will ask him to give you peace.”

  “You may do what you please. You cannot change my fate now.”

  Grey Owl drifted back into the cluster of huts. “How does he live?” Clara asked Malcolm.

  “Many Indians consider him a prophet,” Malcolm said. “They give him clothing and food. He comes here to make converts of the warriors who drink too much rum and get cheated out of their furs.”

  Smiling drunkenly, the two soldiers who had run into the woods returned with the Indian woman. They gave her some coins and she went back into a nearby hut. Clara and I were appalled: Indian women becoming prostitutes!

  We set up tents on the outskirts of Oswego’s trading town and tried to get some sleep. The drunken shouts and laughter continued far into the night. The noise was not much worse than we had encountered in New York, where parties of drunken sailors or roistering apprentices regularly clashed with the Night Watch. But what it signified made sleep elusive.

  Clara told me what Malcolm had said about the importance of rum. “Now that I’ve seen this place, I fear he may be right,” she said.

  “I’ll go bankrupt before I sell rum,” I said. “On that point I’m still a Seneca.”

  The next day, Malcolm’s recruits headed back to Albany in one of the canoes, each with triple wages of eleven pounds clinking in their pockets. Before they departed, they lugged our trading goods from the bateau to the tents and opened the boxes and bales. Malcolm bought a bottle of rum from one of the traders and went down to the river with Adam Duycinck to see them off.

  As Clara and I unpacked our goods, word of our presence swirled through the huts and tepees. A semicircle of traders and Indians soon surrounded us. The white men rubbed their unshaven faces and scratched their unwashed armpits and all but smacked their lips with anticipation as they contemplated us.

  “How much?” asked one of them. He was a big-bellied tub of a man with a loud, authoritative voice.

  “These goods are not for sale. I’m here to trade for furs,” I said. I added in Seneca to the Indians: “You will get honest prices from me. I’m a daughter of the Turtle Clan. My friend Clara is of the Bear Clan.”

  “I mean how much for her?” the questioner said, pointing at Clara.

  “She’s not for sale. She’s as free as I am,” I snapped.

  “You mean you’re going to give it away?” the big-bellied questioner asked.

  Roars of laughter. I stubbornly tried to ignore what they were talking about. “What’s your game? Do you aim to be queen of Oswego?” another man asked.

  “We’re here to trade for furs—and nothing else!” I said.

  Incredulity on every face. “If you aim at bargaining, here’s the going rate,” the fat man said. “A squaw charges a shilling or a bottle of rum. Assuming you’re both free of the pox, we’ll pay three, maybe four, shillings for your Negro friend—and five for you. No one’s seen a white woman here in years.”

  “I’ll go double that!” shouted another man, a wiry, hook-nosed fellow with a cleft lip. He threw his arm around my waist and leered into my face. “When you’re this ugly you’ve got to pay extra!”

  The next sound was the crack of my open hand against his cheek. As he stumbled back, astonished, I snatched my pistol out of one of the boxes of strouds. “I know how to use this. Anyone who thinks he can abuse me or my friend Clara had better wear chain armor on his balls—”

  I was talking like a Seneca—but it only convinced the traders that we were prostitutes. The hook-nosed suitor clutched his burning cheek and burst out laughing. “Why, hell, she’s got enough spit and fire to keep a seventy-four-gun man-of-war busy. I’ll double my double offer. Who would think the devil would bring such a piece to Oswego! It’s enough to make me believe in divine providence all over again!”

  “Enough bullshit,” said the big-bellied man. He had an odd way of talking. The words seemed to come out through some kind of horn in his nose. His accent was strange. We later learned he was from Connecticut. It was our first encounter with a Yankee. “Set your price and we’ll guarantee you protection against the fort and anyone else. But we’re not about to let you sell this stuff to the Indians. It makes our goods look too cheap—which they are. We’ll take it off your hands for a fair price—”

  A half dozen traders began pawing the strouds and examining the jewelry. They all agreed the stuff was too expensive for profitable trading.

  “Who the hell sent you here with these goods? Someone who wants to run us out of business?” one asked. He had buck teeth that gave his mouth a mean, sly expression.

  “Get your hands off our goods!” I cried, shoving them away from the boxes and bales.

  “Listen, bitch—” the big-bellied man said, rapidly losing patience.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Malcolm Stapleton had returned from his farewell party with his men. He loomed over the circle of traders like a frontier Hercules.

  “It’s none of your affair, Stapleton,” the big-bellied man said.

  “I’m afraid it is, Stannard. I’ve made myself responsible for the safety of these two women,” Malcolm said. “They’re paying me eighteen shillings a day. I would take it seriously amiss if they were disturbed in any way.”

  “You must be crazy,” Stannard said. “What Indian will trade with a woman?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Malcolm said.

  “That we will, my friend,” Stannard said. “Let’s go back to business, men.”

  The traders drifted back to their huts. Clara and I conferred with Malcolm on where to find customers. He recommended patrolling the shore of Lake Ontario. Many Senecas from villages along the lake arrived by canoe.

  I took his advice and soon had my first prospect, a burly brave with a great pack of beaver skins on his back. “Greetings, Brother,” I said. “I’m a daughter of the Seneca. I spent twelve years in the village known as Shining Creek on the shore of this lake. I want to pay you a fair price for your skins. I have cloth and jewelry that your wife and daughters will like very much.”

  The man was so amazed to hear a white woman speaking his language, he willingly accompanied me to our tents, where Clara further amazed him by also speaking Seneca and offering him a selection of our strouds and jewelry. His name was Leaping Deer, he said, and his wife had in fact told him to come back with strouds like these.

  I began counting
his pelts. “We’re paying a fair price, not like the rest of the thieves in this place,” I said.

  Leaping Deer told us he had been robbed here once before. Last year he had gone to the French fort at the other side of the lake, called Frontenac. But their cloth was no good and neither was their jewelry. His wife had made his life miserable for the rest of the year, complaining about them. So here he was, risking robbery again. He was glad he had found two honest women.

  Out of the clutter of huts strode the Yankee trader with a bottle of rum in his hand. “Leaping Deer!” he called. “Remember me? Your friend Stannard? What a fine time we had on your last visit. Have a drink of this.”

  Stannard spoke very bad Seneca, mingling words from other Indian languages in his well-rehearsed speech. “It’s the best rum in the world. From an island in the ocean far to the south. My father is a ship captain. No one else in America gets rum this good.”

  “Ho!” said Leaping Deer. “I remember you, Stannard. But I don’t remember you as my friend. When I left here I had no skins and no money.”

  “We played at dice. A fair game. One of your own people won your skins. Come on, have a drink. This year maybe your luck will change—if you want to play with the dice. If you don’t, I’ll pay you the best price in the fort for your pelts.”

  He thrust a tankard into Leaping Deer’s hand and filled it with rum. Clara and I could only watch in dismay as our customer stared at the brown fluid.

  “Don’t!” Clara said. But Leaping Deer drank it down in one long swallow.

  “Ho!” he said. “That is good rum.”

  “The best in the world,” chortled Stannard.

  “Listen, Brother!” I said. “We have a man here who will repair your gun if it needs it, and show you how to keep it working well.”

  “What do women know about guns?” Stannard said. “Do business with them and they’ll soon treat you like a husband, complaining and whining at you. Worst of all, they have no rum. They don’t think Indians should drink rum. Doesn’t that sound like your wife?”