by Ian Roberts
“Atsan, you speak without knowledge. You speak without experience. You cannot imagine this warfare of guns until you have seen a thousand dead on a battlefield. Imagine all the Wendat and all the Iroquois combined, ten times that number died in the wars of Europe when I was young. My father fought in those wars in France. He died in those wars. Death for God. Death for Wendat honor. It makes no difference. Fight the Iroquois with guns once and you will know you must have one. My fear is that the guns will be the end of the Wendat, and the Iroquois.” Brulé nods at the three stripes of blood on Atsan’s arm. “This, this glorifying of valour and honour, with guns? That will destroy us.”
“Well then, what would you do?” Atsan scoffs. “I suppose you would just send a party of Wendat to smoke the peace pipe with the Iroquois. I suppose that is your solution.”
“In fact, that is my solution. That is what I am going to do,” answers Brulé.
Atsan jolts back in alarm, stunned at his father’s response. “To the Iroquois? You are going to make peace with our enemy? You think they will listen? To you!” He glares at Brulé in a fury of confusion. Brulé holds his son’s look, then lowers his head. “I don’t know, Atsan. Perhaps I put too much trust in what I have heard of Siskwa. He has done much to unite the Iroquois and create harmony among their tribes. Atironta is a great chief but he cannot yet see what harm, what damage, these guns will do. Who but me has seen it? I stand in the middle of all this and I must act, speak for the Wendat, whether I like it or not.”
Atsan stands, at a loss for words. Just then, Savignon enters the longhouse. Atsan, not wanting to deal with this any further in front of him, turns abruptly and leaves. Brulé watches his son depart and then turns to Savignon, “I have never seen a storm as black as the one coming to us now.”
“Well, while you speak of a black storm, I have just spoken with Marquette, the priest. He scares me that man. Because I am the only Wendat who he can communicate with, I feel he grips me with talons. His eyes burn into me when he speaks. But he wants to talk to you.”
“They have brought disease to our village and then they tell us they want to save us,” says Brulé. “You can tell them to go to hell.”
“I am sure they feel they arrived in hell a year ago when they first came here and have just been sinking deeper since. They reminded me, and asked me to tell you, that you promised to help them learn the Wendat language. You did say, you would help them when you got back this time. They wanted me to remind you, you said the same thing last time and you did not. Their point is they can do nothing if they cannot speak to the villagers and they want me to remind you again that they have been here a year.”
“But you have helped them learn Wendat.”
“I have tried. But they only focus on the words they need like kingdom, lord, saviour. I can’t find a Wendat word for it and need ten, and then they can’t begin to understand what I am getting at. They suspect it is my fault, that I am too simple-minded. They think you will explain it better.”
“They think the Wendat are stupid and simple. So they think the language of such a simple people must be simple. They hammer at it with their Jesuit reason and get nowhere.” He looks at Savignon a moment, forgetting about the priests, then asks. “You think my going is foolish don’t you?”
Savignon cocks his head to one side, “Etienne, I remember what came stumbling out of the forest the last time you visited the Iroquois.”
Brulé grimaces at the thought. He looks over at Kinta who has pulled the Chippawa boy onto her lap, holding him tight against her. Brulé strokes her hair. Their eyes lock, each knowing without words the other’s thoughts and feeling the direction destiny seems to be pulling each of them.
As Brulé leaves the longhouse with Savignon, they find Atsan lingering by the doorway. He joins them as they head through the village. Brulé can see his son is agitated and wanting to say something. Finally he blurts out, “What am I supposed to think? I am Wendat, raised to fight Iroquois. I have to constantly prove myself because you are white. They need to see if it is white beneath my skin. And now you want to go and talk to them and —”
Atsan suddenly falls silent as they approach the longhouse of Tonda, the Wendat war chief. Tonda is the last person Atsan wants to have witness his confusion. The chief sits on the ground sharpening a tomahawk. He has a formidable, aggressive presence. Atsan stops in front of him. Tonda looks up.
“Tonda, what do you think of this?” asks Atsan, “White Hawk feels we cannot fight against the guns of the Iroquois.”
Though Tonda admires Brulé — the white man has proven himself many times in battle — he feels compelled to dismiss his concern. “I do not fear Iroquois. With guns or without guns.”
Atsan continues, “He says we must go and talk with them.” At this, Tonda looks sharply up at Brulé. “He says the guns will destroy us all. He goes to talk with the Iroquois, with Siskwa. Will you go with him?”
As Atsan speaks these words, despite himself, a shadow of fear passes over Tonda’s powerful face. “I have spoken with Iroquois. I have spoken with Siskwa. But always we had something they wanted. You cannot go like this, with an empty basket.” His fear quickly turns to anger. “I know how to fight Iroquois,” he says, “This is no time for talk.” With these words, he returns to sharpening his tomahawk and ignores them.
Atsan stares down at Tonda for a moment and then turns and continues walking. Tonda watches them leave, annoyed and unsettled by their conversation. As they arrive at the village gate Atsan suddenly stops and turns to his father. “I will come with you,” he says, in a tone that betrays both his fear and his conviction.
Brulé stops, surprised and taken aback. Atsan explains, “Tonda is our war chief. He leads us when we fight. He carries us with his fearlessness. Just now I saw two things. He is afraid to take this trip with you. And he does not understand what you say about guns. He cannot lead us against this enemy if he does not understand.”
Brulé stares at his son, impressed by his insight. Atsan continues, “This trip is not what I want. I want to fight. But I see it is the right path. Foolish maybe, but for some reason the right path. I am coming.” Brulé can hear the determination in his son’s words. He looks at him, and then at Savignon. “I am proud of you, Atsan,” he says, “But I cannot have you come.”
“I am Wendat and your son.”
Unconsciously touching the scars on his neck, Brulé shakes his head.
“What would you have me do then, make stew? Sew moccasins while you are gone?” Atsan pleads, “ Take me, this time. Please.”
It hurts Brulé to look at his son, so vital and healthy, and imagine what could happen on this trip. He turns to Savignon, who, holding his gaze, says what Brulé knows is true, “ He is a man now, Etienne. It is time.”
Brulé wraps his arm around Atsan’s shoulder and pulls him tightly to his chest. It is decided.
The Marquis de Clemont splashes steaming water on his face from a bowl held steady in the hands of his obliging footman. He reaches for a towel and pats his face dry. As he finishes, he suddenly notices how filthy the towel is and throws it in disgust towards the footman. “Why is this so foul? Hurry up, pour me some wine,” he orders impatiently as he walks away.
The camp hums with activity as it readies itself yet again for the night. Everything proceeds routinely and efficiently — building the palisade, erecting the tents, preparing meals.
De Clemont lazes at his table, watching the scene unfold as the footman pours him wine. He notices de Valery talking with Petashwa and calls to him, but de Valery doesn’t hear, or chooses not to. De Clemont fidgets. He feels lost out here in this empty wilderness and needs someone to whom he can complain and vent his frustrations. He orders the footman to go over and fetch de Valery. The footman returns announcing that the Count is on his way. But still de Valery continues talking, as de Clemont fumes impatiently. Finally de Valery joins him.
“What can you possibly find so interesting talking with that sava
ge?”
De Valery wants to say that at least the savage isn’t constantly and incessantly complaining about his discomforts, but he holds his tongue, all too aware he’d live to regret such an outburst of honesty. He finds being with de Clemont increasingly oppressive. It is true that he does find life in the wilderness hard. Miserable, really. But after repeating it a hundred times, the statement becomes meaningless. De Valery senses that his friend feels increasingly adrift, and bereft without all the etiquette, privilege, intrigue and alliances of their former court life. De Clement clings to him as a kind of anchor. De Valery is also annoyed that everyone else is busy, engaged, and utterly ignores them. And thus he finds himself watching Petashwa, becoming more and more intrigued with the “savage”. Someone he had at first dismissed as barely capable of thought or certainly intelligence, he now realizes leads the entire expedition. Officially, of course, du Barre is in command. It is du Barre who utters pronouncements and declares objectives. But it is clear to everyone, except du Barre, that Petashwa orchestrates all the day-to-day practicalities of the expedition. He confers with Champlain often but Champlain clearly has withdrawn from offering any overt leadership. The one or two times he has asserted himself, du Barre has, in front of everyone, so thoroughly crushed the initiative, he has simply retreated to his maps and drawings and journals.
Petashwa interacts smoothly with the Algonquin, the French aides, French soldiers and with du Barre. He calms disagreements between the groups and smooths negotiations. At first he had even made an effort to ensure de Valery and de Clemont were comfortable, at least until de Clemont’s nasty abuse. From that point on, Petashwa has kept his distance, which only served to fuel the noble’s anger. After one such temperamental outburst, de Valery had approached Petashwa to apologize on behalf of his friend. Yet despite the harsh verbal abuse, Petashwa seemed unaffected. He smiled and thanked him for his kind words. In that moment he met de Valery’s eyes and held them, perhaps for a few seconds. And de Valery knew then, he trusted this man, that he certainly wasn’t a savage and if he needed someone to talk to he could talk to Petashwa. He had, in fact, an ally.
Some days later, he had gone to talk with Petashwa again. Even though Petashwa spoke decent French, his words reflected an understanding of the land completely alien to de Valery. He had described the rapids that lay ahead of them and the power of the “spirit” they would feel in the rushing waters. De Valery had dismissed the idea but Petashwa was patient. He suggested, when they were there, not to think of spirit as a god, but as a power or a presence. Although skeptical de Valery had to admit, despite himself, he was anticipating the experience, actually looking forward to it.
But now, as he sat down next to de Clemont he knew he could share none of this. De Clemont pressed him about their conversation. “In two days we come to some enormous rapids and we must walk around them,” was the only thing he could think to say.
“I would much prefer walking than sitting in that canoe all day. Here, play cards with me.”
De Clemont deals the cards, picks up his hand and pushes his chair back so he can cross his legs. He notices a tear in his silk stocking. “Damn, another pair.” Throwing his cards down, he stares out with abject hopelessness at the camp and out across the river. “What a god-forsaken place. What can we possibly tell Richelieu? ‘Oh, it is charming, Your Eminence. It looks just like France. And the brutes are lining up to know God.’”
“That, I think, nicely sums up what he wants to hear.”
They notice du Barre crossing the camp towards them. Both de Valery and de Clemont make the slightest effort to rise as he approaches them, then offer him a glass of wine but the priest waves it off.
Before du Barre can utter a word de Valery says, “Champlain told me that Brulé’s father was the Commander de Coligny. Did you know that?”
“What? Coligny’s son. The Protestant. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I remember the stories of Coligny from when I was a boy. He was the greatest field commander of his day.”
“New France is Catholic. There will be no Protestants here,” fumes du Barre.
“I suggested the same thing,” de Valery continued, “but Champlain said he doubted there was much Christianity of any sort in Brulé now.”
“I cannot imagine how black that soul of his must be.” Then he turns on de Valery, “Just so the record is clear, the Crown sent a Catholic army, defeated Coligny and hung his body from a spike on the city wall.”
De Valery senses his baiting of du Barre hits its mark and presses on. “So I heard. I was told we outnumbered him four to one, but by the end of the battle our losses were so heavy we abandoned the campaign. Hobbled home, as it were. What was left of us.”
Du Barre eyes him now with rage and hisses, “What is your point?”
De Valery leans back and smiles, and offers a final prod, “I do not really have one. It was over thirty years ago. It’s just that I’ve always admired the stories of his exploits. Someone so brave, capable…regardless of what side he was on.”
Du Barre seethes, knowing he’s been made to look a fool, but manages to regain his pious air. “I came over,” he now states with an exaggerated affect of contentment, “hoping you would join me for Mass. It is the day of the Transformation of our Lord.”
They realize they have no escape. “Yes, Father, we would be delighted,” says de Clemont. And then under his breath to de Valery, but spoken just loud enough to ensure the priest can hear, “That was well done.”
Brulé and Atsan have paddled hard for three days east along the north shore of Lake Ontario — the Lake of Shining Water, as the Wendat call it — to the first place they can risk crossing the wide open water to the south shore. The crossing takes a full day and both the weather and waves cooperate. On reaching the far side, they hide their canoe deep in the bushes that line the shore and continue on foot. They move quickly, silently. Brulé’s learned from the Wendat warriors how to hold an awareness of everything happening around him. Not in his mind, not thinking, but a feeling of moving in a flow of change and then noticing any unusual shifts, of bird song, or smells, or pull of attention. If something breaks the pattern, he stops and waits until that sense of flow around him reasserts itself before he continues.
The Iroquois travel mainly by river to their villages. But Brulé knows that out here they could meet a hunting or scouting party anywhere and anytime. They continue until the last light fades and they can no longer see the ground clearly. The sound of a careless footfall on a large stick could be fatal. They pull themselves beneath some dense juniper bushes for shelter, eat a piece of pemmican, then close their eyes and in no time, they sleep.
A huge bonfire burns in the Iroquois village. Dozens of warriors scream and dance, shimmering in the red-orange heat of the flames. Totiri, the Iroquois war chief, approaches, a menacing smile spread across his face. He holds in front of him a red-hot axe head. Closer. Closer.
Brulé wakes with a start from the nightmare, his face covered in sweat. His abrupt move wakes Atsan. He has seen his father awakened like this before. He gently places his hand on Brulé’s shoulder until he feels his breathing return to normal. Brulé regains his sense of where he is and pats Atsan’s hand to let him know he has recovered. But they are awake now; the first light of morning has arrived. They crawl out from beneath the bushes. Just then a swooping whistle of wind and a large white hawk flaps once, twice and alights on a branch above them. Brulé raises his hand to the bird and smiles, “My brother, Atsan. He will look after us.”
The father and son travel all that day. Sporadically, they cross Iroquois hunting trails, or sometimes clear and well-worn deer trails that look inviting to follow but lead nowhere. Once they are forced to drop low as an Iroquois hunting party, carrying two deer back to their village, passes dangerously close. Finally, by the afternoon of the third day they lay at the edge of the forest surveying the huge clearing in front of the imposing palisade of Siskwa’s village. Sentries stand atop
the high palisade wall.
“What do we do now?” asks Atsan.
“Not much I can do but standup and start walking. You wait here.”
“No, I am coming.” And with that Atsan stands up and walks into the clearing. Brulé curses and catches up. Immediately the sentries give warning. The men and women bending over their squash and bean plants in the fields stand and stare. Children whoop and yell and run towards them until a harsh call beckons them back.
The hawk circles silently above.
By the time they arrive at the village a crowd of warriors has gathered and awaits them.
“Whatever happens, do not flinch,” warns Brulé as he walks directly into the mass of warriors in front of him. The Iroquois push and punch them. Some swing their clubs and axes but stop just before striking. The two men push through, taking every hit and punch, revealing no hint of either pain or fear. At last, they push through the narrow gate and find themselves free of the warriors. But immediately in the open clearing of the village they spot another group turning to face them.
Brulé holds up his hand in a gesture of peace, “We come in peace. We have come to help the Iroquois. I have come to speak with Siskwa.”
Warriors approach from behind through the gate just as the warriors in front suddenly part ranks, and Totiri emerges. Half his face is painted black, the other half decorated with three vertical red stripes. The Iroquois war chief steps towards them, his threatening demeanor on full display and his menace palpable.
The presence of Totiri suddenly here, right in front of him, catches Brulé off-guard. He feels his knees give and he grabs Atsan’s arm.
“So White Trader. You come back. With your boy it seems. It is my luck to travel to this village today so I can meet you again,” jeers Totiri.
Brulé, recovered now, stands impassive but curses himself for revealing his fear to Totiri. Any warrior, whether Iroquois or Wendat, looks for weakness at moments like this. The war chief studies them, judging their strength and weakness. “Is it more pain you seek? Or perhaps you wish to test whether your boy is a man.”
