The Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  August 14, 1875

  Gentlemen and Esteemed Brothers,

  I have reached the “Land of Promise” after a difficult and arduous journey. We had many obstacles to overcome. Twice we were capsized in the river rapids. One canoe of supplies was totally lost to a band of marauders. Severe dysentery kept us confined to our camp for ten days. Swarms of mosquitoes and blackflies threatened to overtake us. We nearly lost one of our fellow travelers by drowning. But God was good and we are now safely on the plains.

  I have been welcomed at the fort manned by the North West Mounted Police. They do not claim to share my religious concern for the Indian nation but have been kind and courteous nonetheless. I have been advised that I may stay and rest and recuperate until such time as I feel fit to move on.

  My first endeavor will be to scout out the area and discover just what will be the most advantageous approach in reaching out to the people. I will also begin to learn the language of the Blackfoot tribe. I covet your prayers as I seek the direction of Almighty God.

  I will report again as soon as I have further news.

  Yours in His service,

  Martin D. Forbes,

  Minister of the Gospel

  A collective sigh followed the reading of the letter. Then heads bowed as the chairman of the Missions Board led the group in prayer for the young man out on the western plains.

  Even Running Fawn felt the excitement as the straggling little band came in sight of the large camp. The tents of the Blackfoot tribe stretched along the banks of the Bow River at the place known as Blackfoot Crossing. Many had arrived there before them. Such meetings of the whole nation were always charged with energy, filled with days of feasting, games, and dancing—all interlaced with lengthy discussions by chiefs, great and small, and liberally sprinkled with solemn religious ceremonies.

  Running Fawn knew the younger ones would be invited to share in only a few of the major events, but she still would hear scatterings of talk and sense the pulse of her people. She and the others her age would be allowed to feast and to dance and to watch some of the ceremonies as the leaders performed the religious rites. That was exciting. And she would be able to become reacquainted with young girls from the other bands.

  Even though their numbers had been depleted by the smallpox epidemic that had swept through the land before she was born, the size and strength of the nation filled her with awe and pride. The Blackfoot were a great people, just as her father and mother were constantly reminding her.

  Yet it was a bit frightening, too. There were so many she did not know, so many important elders. For a shy six-year-old from a small band it was almost overwhelming. She was tempted to bury her face in her mother’s long skirts and cling to her for safety and assurance.

  Little Brook did not seem to share her concern. Already Running Fawn’s sister was dashing ahead with a group of older girls, shouting to a welcoming committee of girls their age who were running to meet them. Running Fawn did not even recognize any of the faces.

  She cast a glance around for reassurance that her mother was not far away and gradually retreated from the little group with whom she walked. Slowly, so as not to be conspicuous, she eased into her mother’s circle of chattering women.

  Her friends did not seem to miss her as they hurried on to mix with children from the other bands.

  Running Fawn fell into step just behind her mother. She longed to reach out and grab a handful of the shawl’s fringe that fluttered softly in the prairie wind, but she held back. She was no longer an infant, even though she was the youngest member of the family. At least for the present. Her mother was with child again and excited over the fact. Running Fawn was uncertain as to her own feelings. She knew that her mother had already lost four children and had three that lived. It was not a bad average for a mother in the band. But this new child could even the tally. That would be better than average. Moon Over Trees fervently hoped to make her husband proud by bearing him four living children, and Running Fawn knew her mother longed for the new baby to be a son. Watching her mother grow big with child caused fear to gnaw away at the insides of the small girl. Once the new baby was born, what would be her place, her position, in the family circle? She had the feeling that she would never be able to reach for her mother again. The thought made a strange coldness in her chest, even though the noonday sun was hot in the prairie sky.

  The days of feasting and merrymaking began each morning soon after the rising of the sun and carried on until long after the moon had risen at night. There was much talking and visiting from lodge to lodge. Frequent gatherings around a neighbor’s fire. Many contests to test the young braves’ skills, while onlookers noisily expressed opinions over the outcome. There were a few squabbles and evidence of long-carried grudges, when chiefs had to intervene and settle down hotheaded young men. But for the most part the days passed without major incidents. Running Fawn was even beginning to feel that she could fit in with this large mass of people.

  She was assigned her usual duty of water carrier and spent many hours on the dusty trail that led to the riverbank.

  But this trail was not good for dreaming. It was always busy with other young girls, water buckets in hand, as they too provided water for their families. Chattering boys crowded the pathway as they made their way to the river for an afternoon swim, and womenfolk or older girls, laundry bundles in hand, also shared the trail. There was no time for Running Fawn to stop and feel the gentleness of the quiet. The air was filled with noise and motion and the smoke of many fires. Running Fawn often longed for the quiet and peace of their mountain camp where she could feel at one with the openness, the solitude, the vastness of the sweeping hills around her.

  Ten days into the festivities a meeting of chiefs and important elders was held in the Sweat Lodge. Running Fawn had taken no particular interest in the meeting. The men of the tribe were always holding powwows that seemed to have little bearing on her life. But she could not help but hear the talk as the women chatted about the open fires. There was something different about this meeting. Something stirring the blood of everyone in the camp. Running Fawn, curious and a little frightened, found herself easing toward the group of women rather than running to play with the other girls her age.

  Over and over the discussion made reference to the white man. Running Fawn found herself shivering every time the words were mentioned.

  “Too many. Too many have come,” said an elderly woman as she stirred a large pot of venison stew.

  “Some are good.” The comment came from Moon Over Trees, Running Fawn’s mother.

  “Some are bad,” said an old woman with a seamed, weathered face. She spat in the dust to accentuate her words. “Bring death. Sickness. Whiskey. Bring death.” She spat again.

  “Too many,” reiterated the first speaker. “Too many. Take too many buffalo.”

  Moon Over Trees nodded. It was true. The buffalo were getting more scarce. But, still, there were many of the large beasts feeding on the grassy plains. She was not worried.

  “Some good,” she said again. “The Red Coat are good.”

  There were many nods about the fire. One young maiden dropped her eyes and even blushed at the mention of the North West Mounted Police in their scarlet coats. Running Fawn puzzled over the flushed cheeks.

  “I like their trade,” said a smaller woman whom Running Fawn did not know. “They like beadwork. They pay good.”

  Many nodded. It was true. Their life had become much easier since the trading fort had been established.

  “Too many,” insisted the first woman. “Too many have come. They never stop. They come and come. You will see.”

  It was an ominous thought. Running Fawn shivered again and drew back into the shadows. She did not wish to hear any more.

  The second report arrived a short two weeks after the first had been received.

  Dear Christian Brothers,

  After several trips out into the country round about, I still am uncertain
as to where I am to begin my work. The Indian people are, for the most part, quite open and accepting. I have felt no hostility. In fact they have been courteous and hospitable. On several occasions I have been invited to share a meal and even a tent. For this I thank the Lord, and I thank you for your prayers.

  There are some concerns. As you know, the whiskey traders caused much trouble in the area a few years back. Thank God, due to the North West Mounted Police, that problem has now been dealt with. But the aftereffects have remained. Many of the Indian people have discovered strong drink to be to their liking and seek ways to get the bootleg whiskey from other sources. This is of great concern to the North West Mounted Police force, as it is to us all. Many have succumbed to the ill effects of the illegal liquor. In one winter alone, seventy members of the noble Bloods, a division of the Blackfoots, were killed in drunken quarrels at just one of the posts. Others, poisoned by the evil brew, were frozen to death while intoxicated or shot over altercations caused by the evil trade.

  Although the trading centers that promoted the transactions in illegal whiskey have been cleaned up, I fear that the effects will be with the people for years to come.

  There is also much concern regarding diseases that have come to the area with the white man. In 1837–38, two thirds of the Blackfoot Nation was wiped out in a smallpox epidemic. Since that time many others have died from various diseases, though never to that great extent again. But each year more lives are lost. We have no way to bring medicines or treatment to the people. It causes me much grief to hear of the great losses. It is little wonder that some of the chiefs are concerned regarding the great influx of settlers and trades people. Please pray that the door will not be closed even before we have a chance to influence them for Christ. Already rumblings are reaching us from south of the border, and we feel that the Canadian tribes might be greatly influenced by the unrest.

  I do covet your earnest prayers.

  In His service,

  Martin D. Forbes,

  Minister of Christ

  Running Fawn awoke to the beating of the drums. There was something different about the rhythm. Something strange about the intensity. Something challenging in the tone of the voices that offered the chants. She shivered in her blankets, even though the night was still warm. She stirred and moved to crowd closer to Little Brook. But the shared pallet was empty of her sister. She was alone. She called out softly in the darkness, seeking some assurance from her mother. There was no answer to her cry.

  Frightened, she pushed the blanket aside and crawled across the hard dirt floor on all fours. She felt her mother’s bed. There was no one there. Heart pounding, she crawled the rest of the way to the opening of the tent and pushed back the heavy flap. In the sky she could see the reflection of the fire. It was larger than a cooking fire would be. Even brighter than the usual communal fire. She could hear the drums plainly now, and the earth beneath her reverberated with the beating of many feet against the hard-packed ground. The voices rose and fell with a strange eeriness that made her spine tingle and her hair pull at the base of her neck. She wanted to crawl back into her blankets and bury her head, but she could not bear to be alone.

  She ran the short distance toward the fire, her heart pounding even harder within her chest. An enormous group of people spilled out over the prairie. She had never seen such a large gathering all in one place. Even the women, sitting on the sidelines with blankets wrapped around their shoulders, sang and swayed as the drums beat and the men danced and the feet continued to thump thump thump against the trembling ground.

  Running Fawn looked around the gathering with wild eyes. She would never find her mother in such a press of people.

  And then she spotted Little Brook and some of the fear left her. At least her sister was there. Her sister would know where their mother was.

  Running Fawn pushed through the cluster of young girls until she was able to reach out and tug at Little Brook’s long shawl.

  “Where is Mother?” she questioned loudly. The thundering of the drums made it hard to be heard.

  Little Brook turned. Her eyes widened as they acknowledged her younger sister, but it was clear she had not heard the girl’s words.

  “Where is Mother?” Running Fawn shouted again, fear making her voice break.

  Little Brook just gave a careless shrug of her shoulders and waved a hand toward a large group of women.

  Running Fawn’s heart again thudded with fear. She would never find her. Never. Not in the tangle of swaying bodies and waving shawls. With a look of despair she pushed herself forward until she was close to Little Brook’s side and stubbornly took her position. She reached out one small hand and gathered folds of Little Brook’s shawl in a tightened fist, determined to hang on despite whatever came. She would not find herself alone again.

  “What happened?” she asked Little Brook, with a sharp tug at the shawl.

  Little Brook’s eyes were shining with excitement, reflected by the bright full moon overhead.

  “The chiefs have spoken,” she said hoarsely.

  “What? What have they spoken?”

  “They are going to the White Fort. They are in agreement. They wish to stop the many white men from coming to our land.”

  Running Fawn let the breath ease from her body. Some of the tension began to seep away from her. Her small shoulders drooped in relieved acceptance. There was nothing wrong. The chiefs were taking care of the people. They were restoring their world to what it had always been. From now on she would not need to feel terror at the change any longer.

  Chapter Four

  1876–1877

  Running Fawn was feeling impatient. It seemed long past time for the large camp to break up and for the bands to go their separate ways. But the people appeared reluctant to leave the massive campsite. Night after night the drums beat out their song of unity, yet with its underlying note of discord. Daily the talk around the campfire centered on the interests of the people. The delegation had been dispatched to speak with the Great White Fathers, who gave them audience and expressed some appreciation for their concerns. But no real solution was evident.

  “The Great White Mother, the Queen of England, cares for her people,” the delegation was assured. The words were brought back to the camp to be deliberated and measured and debated. Some found comfort, others doubted.

  Around the campfires and in the Sweat Lodges, the word “treaty” was often heard. Running Fawn had no idea what the word meant. She did know that it brought various responses. Her father spoke against the idea. After all, the brothers across the border had signed a treaty in 1855. The white man had not honored the treaty but had broken it over and over again. What good would a treaty do the people?

  Their own band’s chief, Calls Through The Night, was also against the idea of signing a treaty. It would only bring more white settlers to the area and more renegade Indians who would infringe upon their hunting grounds, further deplete the buffalo, and make raids on their herds of horses.

  But the great chief of the whole Blackfoot tribe, Chief Crowfoot, was not ready to condemn the idea of signing. He had visited the great fort on the open plains and had seen firsthand the large contingent of white soldiers, all carrying weapons of war. He knew that his people would never be able to stand against them. Wisdom of years and experience told him that it would be better to sign than to condemn his people to certain death.

  Running Fawn felt confused and unsettled by the talk. The uncertainty. She longed to return to the safety of their own hills.

  Eventually small bands began to separate themselves from the main body and ride off to make their own camps where the hunting grounds would not need to be shared with such a large body of people.

  But when the time came that Calls Through The Night decided his little band would leave the gathering, they did not head for the familiar hills closer to the mountains. He had decided to stay in a sheltered valley along the Bow River not many miles upstream from the large camp. Run
ning Fawn was disappointed and frightened by this decision. Why did he wish to remain on the open plain? Why had they not moved back toward the western hills and her favorite place in the whole world? Surely there was some mistake.

  But her small voice would not be heard against the loud voices of the elders, she knew that. So she buried her thoughts and fears and stayed as close to her mother’s campfire as she was able.

  They had not been at the new camp for long when they had a visitor. The man was a member of the Blood tribe, a part of the Blackfoot Nation. Running Fawn watched him arrive and be properly received by Chief Calls Through The Night. The two disappeared into the chief’s tent, and soon other elders were gathering around the chief’s fire.

  Word drifted from the very folds of the tent skins and was soon being whispered around campfires by women bending over their cooking pots.

  There was to be an uprising. The great Chief Sitting Bull to the south was tired of the broken promises and the intrusion of settlers and soldiers. He was going to settle the issue of land once and for all and was asking his brothers north of the border to join him. The invitation had been delivered to Chief Crowfoot. He was to make a decision. How many chiefs would join him if he chose to go?

  Long into the night the council fires burned. In the early morning light many of the elders mounted their horses and followed Chief Calls Through The Night out of the camp in the company of the Blood warrior.

  Running Fawn had never felt so frightened. Among the men who rode off at the first light of dawn was her father. She knew little of uprisings, nothing of treaties, but she did know of wars and raids. There were always horses that returned with no riders. There was always much weeping and wailing within the camp as the women mourned their dead, and there was always loud beating of the drums and display of weapons and bravado as the braves voiced their intent for revenge.