All True Not a Lie in It

by Alix Hawley

  He pushes out his belly and rubs at it. He says:

  —Bang.

  Kelly says:

  —Or they will get us with child? Oh Christ.

  Johnson says:

  —Bang bang. They are eating the gunpowder now. I thought it would be our horses next, but powder it is.

  Captain Will looks to me and says:

  —Meethelookee.

  He means shit, and sickness. My voice is rusted up again:

  —Elm bark loosens. Oak ooze stops you up. We have to eat them on long-hunts sometimes. You need both. They will help your bellies.

  The Captain offers some of each to me first and I take them. I find myself wishing it were a real poison. I try to control my throat and I get it all down. Most of the others follow, though Callaway holds out with a mutter about waiting instead to be murdered honourably by the British in Detroit. He says:

  —I am an American. This is our country. We are fighting you now. We are fighting everyone.

  Captain Will nods and waves bleakly as if to say: As you wish. He puts a hand to his ear. When he turns his head to go, I see that part of the ear’s rim has snapped straight off with the cold, it has left a gap in the loop.

  The slippery green taste of the bark and the bitter oak ooze are bad but they are enough to keep us from swelling with hunger. Enough to keep us moving through the deep sludge of wet snow when it softens as the days go on. When we reach the Ohio River, the Shawnee are too fatigued to rejoice much, but their skin looks less dried up over their bones. Black Fish has the warriors drag out a skin boat they have hidden off the river path. They cross with us in groups. The water crawls choppily in the gap between the icy grey edges. I dip my hand into the current and my skin no longer jumps at more cold.

  There is a deer at the edge of the trees on the other side. I see the movement of its turning head, the flick of its ears. I breathe in to speak, but of course I have no gun, no anything. A shot comes. One of the Shawnee has got it with no trouble. He runs to pull up its head and drag its body towards the bank, leaving a blood trail in the snow. It is a doe, its sides heavy with fawn. Its belly shifts and stirs for a few moments and then goes still.

  No whoop and no murmur from any of us. Silent, we watch the shooter begin the butchering. He gently removes the fawn and places it on the snow a little distance off, cloudy and curled up in its bag. Out come the entrails, and other men get the fire up and haul them over and put them into a pot to boil. Everyone’s eyes are on the carcass, the skinned meat of its sides and haunches, which the Shawnee man is cutting out so slow and careful that I am put in mind of a woman embroidering. An apron. A baby’s cap.

  —For God’s sake.

  Hill bursts out with this suddenly but then drops his head. The silence is as heavy as the fatigue. Both are hard to fight.

  We sit where we have been put and watch the chiefs queue up to take turns drinking from a dipper at the boiling pot. Little Johnson says:

  —Are they not even going to eat? Are they not going to let us watch them eat?

  —They are not like us. Torturers gain more pleasure from starving others than from eating.

  Callaway says this in his calm faraway tone. He has decided that they mean to make him eat and that he will not. Once he has made up his mind, there is no changing it. He is young, he is so sure of himself. I can hardly bear him at times. He is here and my boy is not.

  The warriors are next. And now the guards pull us up and take us up to the pot in our roped pairs. I see most of my men pause and drink, beyond caring what it is. Hill and I are last. By the time I am confronted with the remains of the sticky boiled liquid with its bland evil smell, I cannot help myself, I gag and heave. When I look up and clear my eyes, I can see my men and the Shawnee are all crouching or holding their bellies, opening their bowels everywhere. I see Black Fish crouched off in the trees in the same position, his back to us.

  —Poison.

  Hill mutters it almost with relief, his forehead all sweaty dots. Well if it is poison, they have poisoned themselves as well. Here is your chance, Death, we will all go together, all brothers, ha! I take the dipper and force down the warm thick liquid, it slops over my shirt. Tar and vinegar.

  Hardly have I swallowed before my guts begin to quiver and my legs collapse just where I am. I have not the time to remove my leggings. Those who have come through the first cramp and pains are sitting up looking at me, and some are laughing silent. Callaway is sitting up, keeping his eye on me and shaking his head. He did not drink. A pine shakes a clot of wet snow over me. I shudder.

  In the end, some of them are well enough to cook the strips of meat over the fire, and someone shoots another deer, so there is plenty. The smoky scent cuts through the sickness and I must say we all feel quite refreshed. We sit up like good children, paying no heed to the muck around us and looking only at the meat smoking on sticks. When Captain Will brings some over to us he says:

  —Now we can eat. The medicine first, or food would make you too sick.

  I chew my meat. Its taste is fine and familiar. I would eat the same thing at every meal for the rest of my life. I am living. My head bangs to tell me it is so. Through a mouthful Hill says:

  —You are our mother now?

  Captain Will manages a ghastly smile. He says:

  —You need a mother, maybe. You also, Wide Mouth.

  Ma, your poor face appears before me, I shut it out by chewing hard. I say:

  —People often tell me what I need. What I need is a meal.

  I feel the lump of chewed meat on its travels down my gullet. Captain Will says:

  —People want to get hold of you.

  —Ha. Like dogs with a rabbit.

  —Maybe so. Or dogs with another dog. They think you have something they do not.

  Hill interrupts with his mouth stuffed again:

  —You are one to talk of dogs. What would your dogs say to you now, if they still had powers of speech?

  Captain Will retains his smile and says:

  —You like hornets better, maybe. Wide Mouth told me your story.

  Hill goes on chewing and eventually laughs and says with his old good cheer:

  —The hornets have not had the better of me. I would eat hornets if I had to, I know that now, ha! And if I were a hornet I could not resist a taste of me. We are all living yet, at any rate. You are a character, I will put you in my book.

  Captain Will goes off. I do not blame him. I look up and see the black man stretched out in one of the remaining unsoiled places higher up the bank. He is smirking at us. He glances over towards Black Fish, whose mouth is set and who will not look in our direction.

  There is no further food. When we are marched up the last ridge to the Indians’ winter town of Old Chillicothe, we are all indeed alive, though we drag our feet pitifully. We have to drag all of Callaway, he has eaten nothing these two weeks and is near dead. But not quite dead. He manages a frozen hiss from between his teeth before his head drops back insensible.

  WE ARRIVE in the night. The Shawnee strip little Johnson bare and have him run screaming into the village to announce our presence. He has the look of a child’s ghost fleeing against the dark. I shut my eyes. He screams his loudest, my ears near shatter.

  When I look again, women and boys and small children are emerging from their houses to watch. I hear an old woman saying: Mechtacoosia. Whites. Then the warriors light torches. They sweep a path in the snow in one of the lanes. They line up my men and prepare them to run another gauntlet. I protest to Black Fish, but the black man refuses to interpret and says only:

  —We said we would not hurt your men there. We did not speak for our women.

  Black Fish retreats into his inscrutable regal stance and my appeals in Shawnee fly straight off him. And so I watch each of my men take his poor weak turn. The women and children have a good go at the runners. The little trade-silver bells on their shawls ring as the women strike. Young Sam Brooks does not run but tries to fight, and his arm
is broken by a club. A girl thumps Hill in the shins with a thorny stick, looking as if this is a disagreeable but necessary task. He almost falls, but he staggers on to the finish. Callaway staggers worse, he is like a corpse dug up and seeking its old home where there is now none. He manages to bash out at a woman who holds a club and gets a rain of blows to his head and shoulders, but he keeps slowly on and does not fall.

  They do not let me run this time and I am sorry for it. Black Fish keeps me near to watch the spectacle with him.

  Afterwards they take us into the big log house. Inside it is dim and smells of old meals. They tie us again and leave us alone. Sam Brooks groans all night with his pain. Sounds of celebration creep in through the openings below the roof but my body is so fatigued that I fall into a black sleep.

  Two keepers wake us with cold cornbread in the dull morning light. We are still here. We all blink and eat fiercely. Many of the men show lumps and bruises and dried bloody patches. The keepers stand at the door. Their posture is sluggish, but they look at us with interest. I suppose it is pleasant to have the kind thoughts of those who might kill us any minute. Hill gives us all a spraying of crumbs when he suddenly shouts at them:

  —How long do you intend to keep us bound up in here?

  Then they untie him, but only to take him away. I must say that I am somewhat relieved to lose his noise and his presence, but I am not easy. Johnson begins to murmur about there being peace at last but Callaway is sitting up as lively as Lazarus after deigning to eat some of the bread. He says into the upper air:

  —We are not safe here. There is no safety here. Remember that.

  —Mr. Boone said we would be safe enough now.

  Young Will Brooks, sitting next to his injured brother, says this. He has a black eye in his round and hopeful face. His look puts me in mind of Stewart, also of Jesse. I will not think of my lost boy. In Brooks I see how easy it is to begin to feel at home somewhere. This is what he is hoping for. I am hollowed out inside but I manage to say:

  —They have promised we will be all right. And that is all I know.

  —Aha. Well, if they promised.

  —It could have been worse. No one killed, and not a drop of blood spilled at the surrender, Callaway.

  —Here is one.

  Callaway splits open a crusted cut on his face, blood slips down from it. He is still speaking to the rafters, and a few of the others squint up as though hoping to see a message there in hammered golden letters. The rest are looking at me.

  They come for us soon enough. They walk us along a street sloping slightly downward. The sun is struggling in the cold white sky. We are still slow and shuffling, but the keepers have purpose and we have grown accustomed to following. For the first time I see the town properly. There are some two hundred wigwams, like sleeping creatures curled up at the centre of the cleared snowy fields, and some log cabins without windows round the edges. The big house is at the centre, built of notched logs. It puts me in mind of Exeter in Pennsylvania and our old Meeting House. Is it still there? It seems to me it must all have crumbled away to dust by now, so far behind me is it.

  There is no one about as we walk through the town. The quiet is strange. This is a strange place.

  We go down the ridge to the water, and at the riverbank is a fire trench. And here are all the people in a row as if they have been waiting for some time. The women are quite dressed up in beaded calico shirts and hide skirts, with silver brooches in their clothing and scarves wrapped round their heads against the cold. The warriors have on good hunting shirts and quillwork moccasins, their blankets tossed over one shoulder. They look prepared to be entertained. Some nod as we pass by, many squint and stare. The faces are not quite friendly but not unkind. The people appear not to want to touch us or have their own clothing brush against ours. One small boy muffled up with a cloth about his face throws a snowball, which strikes Johnson’s knee. Johnson pretends to fall down, smashed to pieces. The boy’s eyes flash.

  Will Brooks says:

  —Are they going to burn us?

  But there is a shout. Hill is already here at the water’s edge. They have cracked the ice and shoved it aside to make a great hole. He is naked, and a woman stands to each side of him with her skirts tucked up in her leggings, holding his arms. Hill has his legs apart, grinning and showing other signs of pleasure despite the cold. Perhaps we are all caught in one of Hill’s dreams.

  He is strong but, like me, not such a tall man. As he waves, the women take him by surprise and drag him into the cold water. He goes in face first and comes up with a great raw gasp. The river level is up to the women’s knees, they bend to hold him under again. One takes hold of his hair and pulls up his head to let him breathe. The crowd of watchers enjoys it, some are calling and pointing, the children are running back and forth.

  Hill roars and flips over like a fish and rolls the woman with him, pinning her below the surface. She thrashes beneath him, white drops shower the air and the bank. I am put in mind of ducks coupling, the same surprise and violence. He holds her down and his lips pull back from his teeth in a frozen grin as he looks to us through the splashing. Four women come running to pull him off. They do not drown him, though well they might. They drag him away up the riverbank, I do not see where they take him, though I hear him yipping as if he is being pinched by one of his whores.

  The soaked woman stands shivering, her clothing clings to her. She crosses her arms over her breast with a terribly sad countenance. An old grandmother covers her with a blanket and speaks into her ear, but her face does not change.

  Is this to be the way we all go? Young Brooks behind me says in confusion:

  —I did not know them for Baptists.

  Callaway says:

  —I hope you have had the dunking call from the Lord. But no matter if not, they will take you regardless.

  It seems a time-eating way to kill some twenty-seven men. Each man is taken down into the river in turn. The women strip them of their clothes and then scrub and knock and bang them as they struggle for their breath in the water, but nobody fights hard now, even poor Sam Brooks with his broken arm. Afterwards they are sent in blankets to the fire trench, where they sit looking stunned and brainless, even colder than before. Waiting for what is next.

  I am the last. The old woman approaches me with a younger one, their wet leggings frozen and cracking. I raise my arms so that they might pull my shirt from me. I let them take down my leggings and remove my moccasins. The cold and their eyes whip my skin.

  If I speak to them, perhaps they will not kill us today. It is a tiresome thought and I am very fatigued. But I take a breath and I say:

  —You are experts, ladies.

  The water numbs me quickly and now my heart does rip along as if I have been given a dose of something. Perhaps it will stop now, perhaps the cold water will be my last bed.

  But they start on a hard washing such as Rebecca would give to a sheet from a sickbed. I am spared laundering poles. Instead their fists and feet strike me all over, their knuckles scrape up and down my ribs. The one still unhealed sends up a screech. A hand knocks my side and my head, my muscles ball up. The rocks on the riverbed gnaw into my backside, but I am pushed down so hard that I do not try to move. The old woman grimly takes up my feet in turn and drags a rock back and forth over the soles of them, bending my toes back. The younger one has hold of my knotted up plait and works my hair loose. She takes my head in her two hands and lowers it into the icy water. My lungs suck in and my old hurt ankle aches to the marrow. My heart beats beats beats. I keep my eyes open and I can see her face, which looks half melted like the rest of the world.

  When she lets me up I am alive. I gasp:

  —I am only a man. Have pity.

  But my attempts at Shawnee only make them duck me again. My loose hair wraps around my neck and face like weeds. Here I will drown surely. I am going. I open my mouth. A rock thumps my breastbone, a rough cloth scours my belly and my lower parts. The old
woman at her work shows no interest in these that I can see. Her mouth is still and her arms scrub away.

  My cold brain wanders back to Pennsylvania when some girls caught me swimming bare and threw a bucket at me. I stood and showed them my arse and I said: Remember this, tell your grandchildren one day.

  The younger woman pulls me up from the water again, I cough and spit and shake. I see her face with its round brown eyes and small nose. Now she is still, waiting for me to speak this time, it appears. Some of the other women are chattering, running into the water up to their knees and then back to the fire. A couple of my men still have the spirit to catcall from the bank.

  I stand straight so they can see all of me and I say:

  —White men need the most washing, I see.

  I force my voice into a brief hoot. The women give a short silvery breath of laughter at once as I stand turning to ice, all bare and all pitiful. But I do not die. Through my rattling teeth I say:

  —Clean enough for you now?

  They drag me out and bundle me firm into a woollen blanket like the others. I remain standing on the bank. My teeth rattle on, my skin stings and itches and my wet hair sticks to me as if afraid. Indeed it might be afraid if it could know its fate.

  The sky is heaped up with heavy clouds. I watch them slowly roll past.

  The women busy themselves at the end of the fire trench, pulling off their leggings and wrapping blankets about their waists. Then they come for me again, their arms out and beckoning.

  The younger of my laundresses pushes me down and rubs at my head with another blanket. She smells of wood smoke, as I notice, being so unusually clean of smell myself. When she has finished, she wraps one of my hairs tightly around her finger and tugs sharp.

  I see the hair come away and stick to her arm, making a crooked S there.

  She pulls out another and another, then a few at once. Then a fistful.

  The pain rings through my scalp and worms down into my neck and arms and fingers. The roots of my hair seem to run all through me. Rip rip rip. I try not to shudder as her hands take hold of the next hank. I keep my face flat, I stare at her bare legs through the opening in her blanket. At once I know how wolves must feel at night, with howls bursting to get out of them. No. I will not think of wolves. Around me my black scrawls of hair in the snow look like a cipher.