“You’re saying,” Hadley suggested, “that he wants the Indians to understand they can live without the help of Europeans.”
“Just as Africans can have lives without Europeans,” Moses added.
Moses’ wife finally tried her English. “He . . . stop the rum,” she said. “He stop the guns.”
“He runs off the gun and rum traders whenever he finds them here,” Moses explained.
“Does he know Skanawati?”
Moses hesitated before responding, his expression troubled.
“Last autumn Skanawati called a gathering of chiefs. He arrived with war paint on. He demanded they eject a natural philosopher from Philadelphia who was—” Moses searched for words, “doing experiments with Indians. I think that’s when Rideaux met Skanawati, when they realized they both were striving for the same end, trying to wean the Iroquois off the ways of the Europeans.”
“It is why I too try to reach out to him,” a new voice broke in. Macklin was standing at the end of the table. “I tell the Frenchman what he and I are doing is not so very different. But he scorns me, asks why our converts wear European clothing, live in European houses, are given European tools. I explain that it is only Christian to provide for their comfort. But he laughs, says his Bible provides for the comfort of souls but says nothing of German forges and British tea. He says all I am doing is forcing them to bite at the forbidden fruit. He said we fail to grasp the miracles of the wilderness. He ejected me the last time I tried to speak with his Indians, months ago. I have seen him do great kindnesses. He has the touch of Saint Francis in communing with animals. But he also can have the touch of the rabid dog. He has perverted our technology to create an abomination in his house, a monster of gears and fur.”
“People are being killed along the boundary line,” Duncan announced, “with clock gears pounded into their hearts.”
Moses went very still. He translated in a hoarse voice for his wife. “They will look to Shamokin,” he said. Fear was heavy in his words.
His companions had grasped what was at stake faster than Duncan. There seemed little doubt now. If the European settlers knew about the gears in the hearts—word would soon come out—and the strange role of gears in Shamokin, they would not wait for soldiers or a magistrate, they would march on Shamokin in their own frantic fear, with guns and torches. Settlements of Indians had been burned for less.
“The first place they will go to is Rideaux’s compound,” observed Van Grut, who had joined the table. “Word was already spreading through the convoy when we left. Bythe’s murder may be the spark that ignites the powder keg.”
“Mokie!” Hadley cried out. “Do you have your gun, McCallum?” the Virginian asked.
Duncan looked up. “At the canoes with our gear.”
“We must get her out of there.”
Duncan had not forgotten Mokie but found himself dreading the prospect of returning to Rideaux’s compound. He lingered only long enough to make a quick inquiry of Moses, then led Van Grut and Hadley on a brief detour.
The two-story log cabin that served as a store appeared to be a prosperous establishment, with barrels and crates of goods stacked along its porch. Duncan did not hesitate when he spotted a stout European in an apron sweeping the end of the porch.
“It is a bold thing to be openly supplying runaway slaves,” he declared loudly, standing close as the man turned.
The man grabbed the broom like a staff as if to defend himself. “Surely I don’t know—”
Duncan seized the broom himself and used it to shove the merchant backward, pressing him against the wall. “I do not seek the slaves, but I will know who is paying for their supplies.”
“I am but a clerk, sir. If one of the blacks arrives the proprietor takes them in the back room, gives me a list of supplies to gather.” The clerk glanced uneasily at Hadley and Van Grut, who now flanked Duncan.
“Where do we find your proprietor?”
“Mr. Waller’s gone, sir. Left for Philadelphia. All of a sudden he said he had to leave, though last night he spoke of how he and I would scrub out the smoke house today.”
“Then I’ll see his books.”
The clerk took a deep breath and glanced in both directions to assure there were no eavesdroppers. “No need, sir. I have taken my own secret looks. There is naught but a credit shown. Runaways, it says, and when the account is low it is replenished from Philadelphia.”
“Tell me this,” Moses asked. “When exactly did Mr. Waller depart?”
“Not two hours ago.”
“Two hours,” Van Grut said as they walked away, “was when someone tried to kill you, Duncan.”
“Two hours, more precisely,” Moses observed, “was when someone failed to kill you.”
The faces of their little party were dark as they finally approached the palisade on the ridge, rifles at the ready. Van Grut’s eyes were round with wonder as he saw the carousel in the yard. Things were much as Duncan had seen before, with Indians cleaning skins and packing furs, but as the men in the yard saw Duncan they stopped, looking up in surprise, murmuring to each other. Reverend Macklin and Moses appeared out of the brush by the gate to step protectively to Duncan’s side. Conawago, though still withdrawn, accompanied them. The Indians, all appearing to be from the minor tribes, seemed to ignore the missionary but nodded uneasily at Moses. The looks the Christian Indian exchanged with them reminded Duncan of the complex relations within the tribes themselves. While the tension between them could simply be that between the baptized and the unconverted, it just as easily could be because Moses was Onondaga and they were of the tribes subjected by the Iroquois.
Rideaux seemed to be expecting them. He led them to his table, where a jug and cups awaited, then held a finger to his lips and pointed to the hearth, where two mounds of black fur again were arrayed in front of the coals. Curled up around them, her head on the back of the young bear, was Mokie, lost in slumber. As Macklin stepped inside the Frenchman hesitated, first fixing the missionary with a cool gaze, then frowning as he turned to Duncan.
“As you can see, there is no need for firearms,” Rideaux said in a near whisper.
Van Grut instantly set his fowling piece down, pulled out his sketch pad, and began drawing the sleeping figures.
Duncan did not give up his rifle. “The last time I visited someone tried to kill me.”
“The last time you were here I believe you frightened us more than we frightened you.”
Duncan returned Rideaux’s steady gaze, fighting an impulse to snatch away Mokie and flee from this unpredictable man. But suddenly a gasp of surprise came from Reverend Macklin. He was holding one of the slates Duncan had seen in the larger chamber. “You are devising an Iroquois alphabet?” he asked the Frenchman.
“We use the roman alphabet,” he replied with one of his unsettling grins, “just reduce the sounds to letters. So as not to handicap the Europeans.”
“We?”
Rideaux opened the door that led to the kitchen, revealing two Indian men busy with quills and paper at a large table, putting Duncan in mind of monks illuminating manuscripts. Moses rushed into the room, greeting the two men as old friends and leaning over the table to examine their work. Conawago looked on.
“When we are done,” Rideaux declared, “we will make a great library to memorialize the Iroquois civilization.”
“Civilization?” Macklin’s expression was skeptical.
The doubt in his tone brought color to Rideaux’s face. “You come to make them dream of the savior’s blood, but in the end you would put chains on them as real as those this poor girl’s family wears. In a hundred hundred ways the Europeans make them feel inferior, when it is we who should feel inferior to them for their uncorrupted souls.”
“The lambs of God enter his flock from many paths,” Macklin observed.
“I once gave last rites to an old Mohawk woman,” Rideaux shot back. “She said she knew she was going to hell. I asked why she would say such
a terrible thing, and she said white people always said so, and they were the ones who could read words, the ones who would know such things.”
The former priest paused, surveying his uneasy audience, then lifted a small wooden chest, a traditional Bible box, from the mantel over the fireplace. He produced a key from his pocket, opened it, and began to lay tattered papers on the table. “1705,” he said. “A letter from the governor of Pennsylvania assuring the Nanticoke tribe perpetual use of the lands along the Susquehanna below here. Today it becomes crowded with settlements. 1720,” he continued, lifting another paper. “A Quaker deed purporting to show that the Delawares ceded them a huge tract at the Forks of the Delaware, though the Delawares insist they never signed such a document.” He lifted one more sheet from the box. “Someone in Lancaster gave a Conestoga family this in exchange for half their corn crop, saying it would assure them safe passage through all European lands forever. It is nothing but a receipt for a wagonload of lumber, but they didn’t know. They treasured it, kept it protected, wrapped in a sacred wampum belt for twenty years. An old Iroquois once told me all the storms and wars of the past century cause but minor troubles compared to the devastation done by the pens of the colonists. By quill and ink we commit the sins that break the souls of these noble people. We share the same shapes, but the hearts of Europeans and Indians are as of different creatures.”
“These noble people,” Hadley asserted in a near whisper, “have slaughtered thousands of settlers. Witnesses have seen them cut out the hearts of living men and eat them.”
“The ways of the forest are absolute. You may as well condemn the bear for his claw or the lion for his fang. They may draw the blood of a few of us, but we draw the words that deny their entire race their future. Is this what eighteen centuries of Christ has meant? That the country with more power has the sacred right to destroy the lesser?” Rideaux leveled his gaze at Duncan. “McCallum is a Highland name. Where is your clan today?” he asked pointedly.
Duncan shook his head. “There is no man here who is an enemy of the tribes.”
“Then stop interfering.”
“With what?” Duncan demanded. “Your secret protection of runaway slaves? Your efforts to keep Europeans from aiding the Indians? Murder of innocent men on the Warriors Path? The unnecessary hanging of a chief desperately needed by his people? Those behind the murders are seeking to make it appear Shamokin Indians are behind them. Your Indians in fact, for the killers are using the slaves you give shelter to, leaving clock gears behind. You would have us not interfere with the mob that will surely come looking to spill Indian blood? They will start here, I tell you. They will annihilate this settlement. And your compound will be the spark that ignites the flame.”
“You understand nothing.”
“I understand your notions of societies and civilization in the great frame of history are more important to you than the deaths of innocents here and now.”
Rideaux’s eyes flared again. “In that case, Scotsman, you do begin to understand me.” As he spoke the Frenchman looked toward the window, sudden worry on his face.
The sound outside had been growing steadily louder, nagging at Duncan’s subconscious, until suddenly it broke through. Conawago cocked his head then darted outside with Rideaux. Duncan was a step behind. The Frenchman cursed as he saw the yard had been emptied, and he cursed louder as he seemed to recognize the din rising from the other side of the ridge. Reverend Macklin and Moses pushed past, running toward town. The screaming, the musket shots, the frenzied whooping were unmistakable. The battle Duncan had dreaded had already arrived.
Rideaux darted back into the house, fear shining in his eyes now. “Tewaarathon!” he shouted at the Indians still inside. “Make ready!”
Chapter Nine
DUNCAN RAN BEHIND the men from Rideaux’s compound, watching with horror as they stripped off unnecessary clothing, pulling knives and war axes from their belts. It had begun. There would be no treaty, no saving Skanawati. The Frenchman sprinted past, carrying bandages, murmuring what could have been a frantic prayer. The men ahead of them reached a low rise above one of the wide fields, and with a collective cry the Indians leapt to the fray. Tewaarathon! Rideaux had shouted. War!
Duncan checked the powder in his frizzen pan, saw Hadley and Van Grut do the same as they arrived panting at his side, then looked to the field in confusion. The Indians who had been with him were not charging into the melee below but instead were running toward a group of women and children at one end of the long rectangular field. Duncan hesitated. Tewaarathon. It meant more than war. Brother and war. Not just brother, but younger brother.
The Indians threw down their weapons onto a blanket already stacked high with other weapons. In exchange each grabbed a long crooked stick with netting woven from the tip of the crook to a point nearly halfway down the shaft. Every man on the field held such a stick, and at the center of the battle, they fought over a small leather ball.
“It is for good reason the Iroquois call it Little Brother of War,” Macklin said as he reached Duncan, carrying more bandages. “There are full battles with fewer casualties.”
“Tewaarathon is a game?” Duncan asked incredulously.
“That is the Mohawk name for it. The Onondaga say dehuntshigwa’es, which translates as man hitting a round thing. Fortunately this is just an impromptu practice. Later in the year, especially after the crops come in, there will be lacrosse games—that is the French name—played all day, or even over several days.” As he spoke a dozen men leapt onto the man with the ball. When the knot cleared two men lay moaning on the ground.
“What are the rules?” Hadley asked, the confusion on his face replaced by a budding excitement.
“Few enough,” Macklin said. “The opposing team must get the ball to your goal to score. The goals today are those old stumps—” the Moravian pointed to two large stumps at either end of the field, more than a hundred yards apart. “They may never hold the ball. They scoop it and carry it in the racquet or with their legs and feet, and the other side tries to stop them using only their bodies or their racquets.”
“There’re Europeans!” Van Grut exclaimed, pointing to a score of pale-skinned men with their shirts off at the far end of the field.
“Nearly every able-bodied man beneath the age of forty plays. Today it looks like the Iroquois against the smaller tribes and the Europeans.”
“Those men on the ground,” Duncan said, indicating the two victims of the last pile-on. “They need help.”
“Not likely. Mostly the only thing that stops a player is a broken bone.” Macklin cast a worried eye toward the tavern. “Afterward the ale will flow for hours.” As if on cue the two men on the ground, one pale with red hair, staggered up and set off a slow, limping trot toward the mob that surrounded the ball. More men went down, some leveled by vicious blows to the knees or ribs with opposing racquets, others downed by deliberate collisions that would fell a horse. Still, Duncan could see no rancor on the players’ faces, only a spirited joy.
The first player with a broken bone was carried off the field, by two Shawnee who spotted Rideaux and left the victim in the Frenchman’s care. The man’s shaven temples and short braid at the rear combined with his dark skin to assure Duncan he was of the tribes, until he pressed a splint against the man’s arm.
“God’s wounds, man!” the patient spat in a thick Welsh accent. “Leave the bone, and take my stick! Ye can’t let those Mingoes hoard the ball like that!”
Duncan replied with a low laugh, but then saw the anticipation in Hadley’s eyes. He picked up the man’s racquet and tossed it to the Virginian, who caught it with a wide smile then began stripping off his shirt.
Duncan found himself focusing on the little deerhide ball, marveling at the skill of the Indians who deftly juggled it as they ran, cheering when a colonist wove through a line of Iroquois defenders to score. As a Swede was brought in with broken fingers, Van Grut too pulled off his shirt and launched hims
elf into the melee with an uncertain but joyful cry.
An hour later, battered and smiling, the players staggered off the field as bells starting calling them to chores and supper. The Iroquois had won, though only by one goal. Three men still lay on the field, and he now ran to join Rideaux and Macklin as they examined them. Two had cracked ribs. The third, a Delaware, lay motionless on his side. Duncan heard Macklin’s mournful cry before he reached the young warrior and knew there was no hope as soon as he saw the purple color of the man’s face.
“His windpipe was crushed,” Duncan declared, pointing to the deep, ragged bruise at the front of the throat.
“It’s meant to be a game,” Macklin sighed, then murmured a quiet prayer.
“Whoever did this played no game,” Duncan replied.
Rideaux stared at Duncan. “Surely it was an accident.”
“Trust me. I have attended many corpses in medical school. This required a deliberately aimed blow with tremendous force behind it.”
“Just bad luck, surely,” Rideaux said.
Then a hand reached out to push the dead man over onto his belly, revealing a large tattoo of concentric circles on his shoulder. “I saw this pattern today, at the river bank. He died in the way he meant for you,” Conawago declared. “Choking for air.”
Duncan looked at the dead man, then remembered how the Indian boy had sketched such circles on his slate, trying to tell Duncan something about his would-be murderer. Lenni-Lenape, the boy had said, the tribes’ term for the Delawares. The Indian who had attempted to kill Duncan hours earlier had just been murdered on the lacrosse field.
“He failed to kill you,” Conawago ventured, “so he had to die.” He untied a familiar doeskin pouch from the dead man’s belt and handed it to Duncan, who dumped its contents onto the packed earth of the playing field. Out fell the two nails from the boundary trees, the buttons he had collected, his own flint and steel. Nothing seemed to be missing. Rideaux reached with a tentative hand, rolling the nails in his fingers so he could see their heads, then picked up one of the buttons with the fish worked in the metal.
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