By the Light of a Gibbous Moon

by Scott Jäeger

  The ink still wet on my diploma, I had first come to the New World hoping to practice Law. I had thought there to be much work to do with Indian treaties and in the forming of new laws for our Colonies in the Americas, an opinion formed from equal parts hearsay, promotional pamphlets, and groundless optimism. At the time I had little in the way of name or fortune, and in point of fact, still do not.

  After my first twelve-month in the port of Boston I have still only secured a handful of contracts. Due a facility with languages, these mostly involved treating with local Indian tribes on behalf of the merchant guilds. These contracts are seasonal however, and with Winter approaching and no prospect of regular work, I was considering crewing my passage back to London when a letter arrived from an old school mentor, one John Susskind.

  In previous years, Susskind had held the post of Proctor at Deerfield Township in the interior of Massachusetts. Having lately heard through mutual acquaintances in Britain of my difficulties in the Colonies, he had secured an invitation for me from the new Proctor of Deerfield, Richard Manley. Manley is a man of much influence whose name I myself have heard bruited about London whenever the Colonies were mentioned. Susskind opined that I was sure to find the work to my liking, providing, as he said, that I was not already set up as a merchant-lord in Boston. Since this was definitely not the case, I spent the last of my funds to buy passage with one of the infrequent goods trains into the interior.

  Deerfield is a bustling little community of trappers, foresters and adventurers, with a single brick street instead of a thoroughfare and board walkways in place of a promenade. The settlement had grown in expanding rings around its original fort and palisade, still maintained by a small garrison. The possibility of attack is of little concern, as there has been peace with both the French and the Indians for many years. The township is rough at the corners and rather underrepresented in the fair sex, but not entirely without charm.

  I found the Proctor a very genial host. After welcoming me with an avuncular hug, he, a bottle of French brandy, and I sat down to a long discussion of both my past and future, and the many opportunities this vast land offered. Finally, Proctor Manley broached a matter of grave importance.

  Due to the mismanagement of their previous Quartermaster, now dismissed, Deerfield is facing a crisis in food stocks for the coming Winter. As at this late date no contracts have been signed, Manley is left with two choices: pay extortionate prices to have supplies trucked in from Boston, or pay extortionate prices to the settlements’ Indian trade allies. These latter claim themselves hard pressed to feed their own people in the coming season. Pursuing either of these options will drive the settlement to penury. Fortunately, Manley has received messengers over the summer from the Manuxet tribe, indicating an eagerness to establish regular trade.

  The Manuxet, Manley explained, are a people shrouded in mystery, much respected and feared by their neighbours. Friendly Indians have on several occasions urged him to have no truck with them. However these same naysayers are reluctant to make plain their misgivings, suggesting perhaps it is competition, rather than double-dealing, that they fear. Whatever the case, it is Manley’s opinion, and I concur, that it would be foolish at this point to not give them a hearing.

  At last we came to the point: Someone is needed to treat with the Manuxet, a tribe geographically not so distant, but otherwise alien to the white man. I agreed to the proposal at once, determining to make myself useful at the earliest opportunity.

  24 September, 1720 – Deerfield, Massachusetts

  I share a room in the garrison with one other, a veteran of the frontier named Turvey, just returned from a sojourn in England. He is friendly and has an easygoing manner, important qualities in such close quarters. The floor is packed earth and the walls unfinished pine, but the smell is sweet and I am charged no rent, so cannot complain.

  After the first day, given to me to get my bearings and have a rest, I have spent the week in several meetings with the Proctor, Deerfield’s new Quartermaster Bradley, and Turvey. I will not include the tedious details, but the conclusion was that despite Turvey’s greater experience, I am to be given the final authority on Deerfield’s dealings with the Manuxet. A sensible decision, as Turvey is an old bird, mostly bone and sagging leathery hide, and my employer no doubt wants someone in charge who will last out the Winter. As Manley will be away to Providence Town for several weeks, I must trust to my wits and Our Lord God to guide me.

  Our party is to consist of myself, Turvey, and our jack-of-all-trades Hanson as my bodyguard. Hanson is large and physically intimidating, but as he is also a deaf-mute he will be of no use during negotiations. It is a small enough group to send out into the wilds, but help is scarce with many men out on trap lines, trading missions of their own, or preparing camp for the season ahead.

  30 September, 1720–wilderness, three days from Deerfield

  My appointment –or whatever you may call a meeting with people who observe no calendar but the naked moon– is to be with one named Misquamacus, a difficult mangle of syllables I take pains to memorize. The morning of our departure Turvey was laid low with a bowel complaint. There is no time to delay this important meeting, so I must make do with just Hanson and a pair of Manuxet braves for guides.

  My escort is a strange and taciturn pair, one with terrible scarring down the left side of his visage, which I took for some sort of burn wound, until I marked similar markings on the right side of his companion’s face. The twin disfigurements brought a horrible image to mind: two heads joined jowl to jowl and forcefully torn apart. If the tribal scarring is meant to be frightful, it does its job admirably. They are lean but sinewy like their kind, and I was soon to be impressed by their great stamina. They were inexhaustible paddlers and late on our first day signaled Hanson not to spell them at all any more as he could not keep up the stroke.

  The braves are as silent as my bodyguard and, if anything, worse company. The surly fellows force us to duplicate much work each night by making a camp of their own many yards distant, though in light of their queer habits it is perhaps for the best. At odd times of the night they rise and perform a ritual, kneeling, praying and mumbling in some guttural tongue I cannot associate with any Indian language I have heard. I at first supposed it to coincide with moon-rise, but on my second night of disturbed sleep was disabused of this notion. Was it the stars in the sky to which they prayed? There was certainly nothing else to see in that blackest night, with even our fires reduced to embers.

  3 October, 1720 –Camp of the Manuxet

  Thanks both to the favourable current and the vitality of my escort, the journey was a mere five days by canoe. Other than the mid-night prayers, it was uneventful. It was night when we finally arrived, and I was both exhausted and hungry, but our unflagging guides harried us on until we waited stoop-shouldered before the great man’s tent. I had never known Indians to conduct important business so late at night, but I wished to be a gracious guest and I was too tired to protest in any case.

  The camp was utterly silent beneath the starry sky. I used the moments available to make a few observations.

  The Manuxet favoured wigwams for their homes and these were scattered about like seed cast to the wind.

  Unlike his kin, our host chose for his abode a seven-sided hide tent of prodigious height. It was located on the edge of the camp rather than the center, as would be customary with a chief. More odd was the cresset without, a bowl of black stone in which burned a bright and steady green flame, which despite its unusual colour gave off no smoke. It was a colourful bit of hocus-pocus that no doubt impressed his less sophisticated guests.

  At last one of our guides appeared and waved me forward. Towards Hanson he held a flat palm in an obvious signal denying him entry. I nodded my head to him and he remained outside. My bodyguard was too stoic to show either displeasure or relief at this rejection.

  I had supposed this Misquamacus fellow to be the chief, but he is in fact the medicine man, who I ha
ve come to understand is the administrator of day-to-day affairs of the tribe, while the chief is called upon only in matters of warfare.

  Finding myself in the man’s presence, I was quick to understand why he inspired tall tales, and fear, and now I suspect most of all, jealousy. He stands a head taller than the tallest of his fellows. He seems about middle-age, but lean and hard as any warrior I have seen. His face was likely quite handsome before it was disfigured with the scarring common to his people. More unusual than his appearance is his speech. His English is almost without accent and his vocabulary quite as good as any lawyer of the King’s Bench. The voice itself is of remarkable timber, deep and pleasing to the ear. One wonders where he learned such refined speech with his tribe supposedly isolated from both white men and their fellow Indians.

  The tent was spacious and comfortable. Misquamacus, four of his advisors, and I sat ranged ourselves on luxurious hide rugs and I started with the generally accepted practice of praising my host and his people and stating my confidence that the spirits would bless our future commerce. I spoke of the land from which the white people had come and their gratitude to the Indian for sharing his bounty, and a few like platitudes. But for one of the others smirking when I mentioned the spirits, all this met no reaction but stony silence. I cleared my throat. Plainly these Indians were not given to ceremony.

  I unrolled the document scribed by Proctor Manley outlining the proposed trade terms, and with no preamble proffered it to the medicine man. By the way in which his eyes slid smoothly over the paper I saw at once he had no understanding of written words. I record his comments verbatim:

  You have many little symbols on your paper. They mean nothing, like the scratching of mice in the dust. I too have symbols, not so many as you perhaps, but my symbol Becomes! It has power. When I speak, all listen, not only Man but the bird and the rat and the stag. And others, unseen by the white men.

  His voice boomed with conviction, and I was glad my work was not that of the Missionary, who would have to reply to this nonsensical boasting. It would be hard work for some fellow to bring this man to Christ.

  He then gestured to one of his lackeys, who brought in food and wooden bowls of water. We enjoyed the usual seasonal fare of corn, squash, nuts, and a strangely chewy meat I could not identify but supposed to be that of some rodent. I made note that the Manuxet did not apparently partake of whiskey or fire-water.

  I was grateful for the repast, which revived some of my strength and confidence. I spent an hour outlining the particulars of the trade agreement as plainly as I might. Not once did the shaman’s gaze shift from my eyes, nor did he make any sign or question. This impassivity quickly worked a great wrack on my nerves and I began to worry lest some insult had been inferred by my host. I have a conviction that insults are not easily forgiven by the Manuxet shaman. When I had finished my declaiming, my throat was as raw if I had been screaming from the fiercest torture. Silence reigned for a minute that seemed stretched to the point of breaking.

  Then for the first time, the medicine man smiled, revealing teeth improbably white and straight, and simply acquiesced, asking only for a bit of tobacco to seal our trade. My hand shook as I un-stoppered my little inkpot –such good fortune!– and shewed him where to make his mark. Rare is the Indian who will not try his advantage against a trader in bad straits, as we of Deerfield most assuredly were.

  There is one last curiosity I will mention: as I dug around in my pouch for my clay pipe, I felt something brush my queue and looked up to see one of the shaman’s fellows proffer a lock of mine own hair. Misquamacus took this bizarre tribute and tucked it in his belt. I was curious about this custom, but when I opened my mouth I found that nothing sensible would come forth.

  The whole encounter was most fascinating and left me with a new, calm confidence in my decision to come to the Colonies. I must be careful. A man so clearly blessed by God must be wary of vanity.

  8 October, 1720 – Deerfield, Massachusetts

  Since Proctor Manley will be away for some time yet, I was keen to relate the details of my trade mission to Turvey. Finding him mostly recovered, I told of what I have written here. The old man nodded along half a-doze, until I offhandedly mentioned the incident of the hair clipping. At this, Turvey sat up so swiftly he upset our lamp, and cried out a single word: Witchcraft! I jumped at his exclamation and choked my startled laugh into a cough as he began to babble like a deranged child. He stated that I had given up considerable advantage to the Indian by letting him have that bit of hair. He rambled on then about legends he had heard, rumours about camp, and other codswallop that I would sooner have expected from no-account camp hangers-on and drunks.

  Knowing not what else to do, I nodded my head as if in serious consideration of his words, and assured him we would speak more of the matter next day. He was placated, and eventually collapsed back onto his bunk and slept.

  20 October, 1720 – Deerfield, Massachusetts

  Last night Misquamacus and his retinue came to Deerfield for the first trade exchange writ in our agreement, arriving several hours past sundown. I had not expected them until the following noon. Evening was a strange time to conduct business but, I thought, strange custom was small enough price to pay for our survival in the season ahead. Turvey and I met with them in the empty mess hall and none but the posted guard witnessed their arrival.

  At once I saw that Turvey’s mental upset runs deeper than mere superstition, for when he set eyes on the man, he blanched whiter than bone, and was most embarrassingly struck dumb. I made do with pleasantries and produced a small gift of beads to our host, which gift he cast aside as worthless. From my colleague’s deathly aspect, I saw that I must excuse him posthaste. I said he was taken with an ague and that the drafty log structure of the mess hall did not agree with him.

  Leaving Turvey sitting blank-faced in our room, I returned to find the Indian braves unloading their wagon outside the mess hall. I quickly glanced over the sacks and crates and found grain, salted meat, skins, leather and other sundries to be in order.

  Without waiting any comment or signal from me, Misquamacus was already making with his men to the storehouse to claim his goods. He strode about the camp with an air not only of superiority but of outright possession, as if he visited his own demesne, and found his serfs’ efforts wanting. But rather than feel irritated at his presumption I found myself admitting that in the wilds beyond the white man’s ken, Misquamacus is a King. I made a feeble effort to ask about their voyage to Deerfield and their own preparations for Winter, but stopped myself before offering any actual hospitality. It could hardly matter –to the medicine man I was of no more consequence than a shadow. With their usual swift and implacable efficiency, his people loaded the six heavy crates I had set aside into their wagon and made to leave.

  At last he turned. His eyes met mine and held them as surely as if they rested snug in his fist. There were black depths to them which could drown a weaker man. When I finally broke from that bottomless gaze I realized he had seized my hand with his own as hard as horn, and secured my forearm with his other hand, as if to prevent me from pulling away. When he released his iron grip, my limb was returned to me in as good a condition as ever and I thought no more of it, as just then came a cry:

  Halt there, Indian! Halt I say! The Manuxet did not stay their course nor even look about, but the musketeers at the palisade gate stood with their weapons to block the way.

  It was Bradley the Quartermaster, still tying the cord for his trousers as he hobbled from the bunkhouse, his hair all awry and his wool tunic back to front. He had been awoken by one of his minions, who just then minced along behind with two fellows.

  Bradley pointed and said, What goes on here in the dark? We admit no one to the fort after night-fall.

  From his obvious agitation I feared he might be drunk and asked him to recall that the Manuxet were our trade partners. He gritted his teeth as if annoyed and said it was past mid-night and a wicked time to be doin
g business. I retorted that Misquamacus had received a message that he was urgently needed by his tribe and could not dally about waiting for dawn. I do not know now why I told this lie, but once it was out it sounded perfectly reasonable, at least to me. I did not see why I should make any explanation at all.

  Bradley strode straight to the wagon, pulled back the rawhide covering, and studied the heavy pine crates within. Two of them were branded with the unmistakable double-X warning of black powder. One of his henchman pried open the first, a case of twelve new muskets. They were lately arrived from the forge at Kingsport and had never yet been fired. Beside this, there was another like case of muskets, four sacks of black powder and two cases of lead shot.

  He pointed at his find and said –fairly shouted, really- what any man could see with his own eyes: that the wagon held a load of twenty-four muskets, and no mean quantity of powder, shot and a few other accoutrements for the maintenance of firearms. There was a crowd watching now, including more than a few of our own soldiers, those not too drunk to be roused.

  Among the medicine man’s party, hands moved to bows, knives and hatchets, and the rising tension seemed to audibly tick in the night like the surface of a hot stove.

  Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, one of Misquamacus’s men unfurled their copy of the trade agreement and thrust it in Bradley’s face.

  The clerk hastily scanned the document. I could see his eyes look from the words to the settlement’s seal, –accompanied by my own and Proctor Manley’s signatures– and back again three times. Finally, he turned to me with a comical look of incredulity, which I took to indicate he would not even utter the question aloud.

  I told him, trying to summon some of the same bluster with which he went about his duties, that I had indeed authorized the withdrawal from the Armoury, and reminded him of Proctor Manley’s great trust in me. With that, our disagreement was finished, but rather than show contrition in any measure, the man turned from me in a huff and stalked back towards the barracks. Just before disappearing within, he –he– turned and gestured the guards to make way, clinging to his last scrap of authority unto the end. The musketeers parted and the incident was thankfully past.