The White Oneida
OTHER BOOKS BY
JEAN RAE BAXTER
Respectable Appearance (2013)
Freedom Bound (2012)
Broken Trail (2011)
Scattered Light (2011)
Looking for Cardenio (2008)
The Way Lies North (2007)
A Twist of Malice (2005)
THE WHITE ONEIDA
Copyright © 2014 Jean Rae Baxter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).
RONSDALE PRESS
3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V6S 1G7
www.ronsdalepress.com
Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16
Cover Art & Design: Nancy de Brouwer, Massive Graphic Design
Map: Veronica Hatch & Julie Cochrane
Paper: Ancient Forest Friendly “Silva” (FSC)—100% post-consumer waste, totally chlorine-free and acid-free
Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Baxter, Jean Rae, 1932–, author
The white Oneida / Jean Rae Baxter.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55380-332-4 (print)
ISBN 978-1-55380-334-8 (ebook) / ISBN 978-1-55380-333-1 (pdf)
I. Title.
PS8603.A935W55 2014 jC813'.6 C2014-901077-X C2014-901078-8
At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy (formerly Markets Initiative) and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.
Printed in Canada by Marquis Printing, Quebec
for Jackie and Jim Simpson
Contents
CHAPTER 1: 1785
CHAPTER 2: Mrs. Greene’s Domain
CHAPTER 3: What’s in a Name?
CHAPTER 4: A Game of Chance
CHAPTER 5: A Curious Mistake
CHAPTER 6: The Sinful State of Boys
CHAPTER 7: A New Book, A New Page
CHAPTER 8: Little Brother of War
CHAPTER 9: Discord
CHAPTER 10: A Revelation
CHAPTER 11: He Places Two Bets
CHAPTER 12: Double Initiation
CHAPTER 13: Afterwards
CHAPTER 14: The President’s Decree
CHAPTER 15: Smudge
CHAPTER 16: More Lessons
CHAPTER 17: Broken Trail’s Strategic Plan
CHAPTER 18: Rematch
CHAPTER 19: Summons to Brant’s Ford
CHAPTER 20: Dark Deeds
CHAPTER 21: A Problem of Some Magnitude
CHAPTER 22: The Rest of the Day
CHAPTER 23: On the Trail
CHAPTER 24: Song to Mother Moon
CHAPTER 25: Becoming Yellowbird
CHAPTER 26: Old Oneida
CHAPTER 27: Everything’s About Land
CHAPTER 28: The Parting
CHAPTER 29: Into Seneca Lands
CHAPTER 30: The Pig
CHAPTER 31: Caught in the Middle Again
CHAPTER 32: Buffalo Creek
CHAPTER 33: Crossing the Line
CHAPTER 34: Brant’s Ford
CHAPTER 35: The Best of Both Worlds
CHAPTER 36: Continuing Education
CHAPTER 37: The Trading Post
CHAPTER 38: Shelter from the Storm
CHAPTER 39: Panther in the Sky
CHAPTER 40: Growing Up Shawnee
CHAPTER 41: An Old Friend Met Again
CHAPTER 42: Changes
CHAPTER 43: The Turn in the Trail
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
1785
IT DIDN’T LOOK like a school.
The only school that Broken Trail had ever seen before was a small wooden building with a belfry perched on its roof. In no way did that little schoolhouse in Canajoharie resemble the large stone building facing him now, with its tall white pillars and massive double doors.
Above it flew the flag of the new United States of America—a field of stripes with a circle of stars in the canton. The building was set back from the road. In front of it was a grassy field. Behind it were lesser buildings, built of wood. In the distance rose Vermont’s dark and rolling hills.
He would not have known it was a school if he had not seen the boys, a mob of youths with coppery skin and cropped black hair. They were racing over the grassy field in front of the big building, lacrosse racquets upraised, hurling the ball from one to another, shouting war cries as they ran.
As he sat astride his horse, looking at the school, Broken Trail for the first time felt a little afraid. Those lacrosse players would be his schoolmates for the next three years. He hoped that they would be his friends. Not just friends, but fellow warriors, comrades in the great mission that lay ahead. They would be the builders of a nation. That was the dream that Thayendanegea, the great Mohawk chief, had shared with him.
A difficult task lay ahead. How could he possibly achieve either Thayendanegea’s goals or his own? “Oki! Help me,” he whispered.
He pressed his hand against his chest and felt the shape of the amulet he wore under his deerskin poncho. His amulet was a small leather bag packed with the hair and one fang of a wolverine, his oki, the spirit guardian who would keep him safe from all dangers of war and of the hunt. As he felt its shape, his confidence returned. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him at Sedgewick School, but he would be ready for whatever challenge lay before him.
Now he must find President Webber and tell him that he had arrived. He turned his horse’s head onto the path across the grassy field. When he had ridden halfway to the building, the swarm of boys changed direction. They appeared to be charging straight at him and his horse.
The horse shied. Broken Trail slid sideways. As he regained his balance, one of the players turned his head, still running, and looked at him. He was a tall, thin boy with the tattoo of a snake on his left cheek.
His eyes met Broken Trail’s just for an instant. Then the swarm changed direction again and surged away.
Broken Trail’s horse crossed the rest of the green at a canter. At a tug on the cord looped around his lower jaw, the horse stopped in front of the main doors.
“I didn’t know it would be so big,” Broken Tail mused, sharing his thoughts with Dark Cloud. The black stallion flicked his ears, which was his usual response.
After dismounting and tying his horse to a hitching post, Broken Trail stood looking up at the great heavy doors, doors that seemed intended not to admit him but to shut him out. Then, taking a deep breath, he strode forward, grasped the door handle, and stepped inside.
He had entered a lobby panelled in dark wood. Directly ahead, the lobby led into a hall with doors on both sides. On his left, a staircase ascended to the second storey. On his right, an elderly man wearing a black frock coat was seated at a table beside a closed door. He had a narrow face, a long pointed nose, and grey hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
On the wall behind him hung a life-size portrait of a stout gentleman, also dressed in black, wearing a snow-white wig. The gentleman in the painting stared accusingly at Broken Trail.
The elderly man at the table looked along the length of his pointed nose at Broken Trail in his deerskin clothes and bristling headdress.
“I presume you are the new scholar? President Webber is expecting you.” Placing both hands on the table, he pushed himself up from his chair. “Please remind me of your name.”
“Broken Trail.”
“Goodness gracious! That will never do.”
What would never do?
Without explaining his meaning, the elderly man rapped on the closed door.
“Enter!” came a deep voice from within.
The man opened the door and lifted his hand in a gesture directing Broken Trail to advance. As soon as he had entered the room, the door closed quietly behind him.
Seated behind a desk of dark polished wood was the stout gentleman who a moment before had stared at him from the painting in the lobby.
Broken Trail raised his hand, palm forward in a warrior’s salute.
President Webber stood up, came around from behind the desk, and thrust his right hand under Broken Trail’s nose.
“So you are Moses Cobman! Lesson number one. We shake hands. That’s how civilized men greet each other.”
Broken Trail didn’t like the word “civilized,” at least not the way President Webber said it. But since he wanted to be off to a good start, he grasped the proffered hand and shook it firmly.
“We’ll shape you up quickly enough,” Webber assured him. “It’s not as if you’re really an Indian.”
Broken Trail caught his breath, then realized there would be no point in trying to explain.
“Captain Brant has written to me about you,” Webber said. “He enclosed a letter with your fees.” Webber returned to his desk, sat down, and took a folded sheet of paper from a drawer. Pointing to a chair placed in front of his desk, he indicated that Broken Trail should take a seat.
Broken Trail shrugged his carrying basket from his shoulders, set it on the carpet, and sat down.
Webber glanced at the letter. “Captain Brant believes you have the potential to be a fine scholar. ‘Diamond in the rough’ is what he calls you. He wants you to have a gentleman’s education that will prepare you to assist him in negotiations with white diplomats as well as with his plans to make a better future for the native people. Well, Sedgewick School is the best place to make that happen.”
He laid the letter on his desk. “Your background is highly unusual. Loyalist family. Father and two brothers fought for King George. Oneida Indians captured you when you were ten years old, adopted you, brought you up to be a warrior. I can see why Captain Brant chose you. You have a foot in both camps, just as he does.”
He returned the letter to the drawer.
“Now, Moses, we’ll begin by discussing your studies here.”
“Sir, don’t call me Moses. My name is Broken Trail.”
“Against the rules. No Indian names allowed. If you didn’t have a Christian name, we’d give you one.” He gave Broken Trail a close look. “You have been baptized, I trust?”
Broken Trail remembered the chapel with the hard wooden pews where long ago he had spent so many hours listening to sermons.
“Yes, sir. I’m sure I’ve been baptized.”
“Good. Good. Most of our scholars are heathens when they arrive. At Sedgewick School, conversion and education go hand in hand.” He leaned back in his chair. “Our main purpose is to train young Indians to serve as missionaries to their own people. However, we admit a few, like yourself, who have other worthy goals. For those capable of higher education, we have a college as well as a school.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Broken Trail.
“The school teaches mainly the basics: reading, writing, and arithmetic. It prepares students to enter the college. At present we have fifty-eight students in the school but only three in the college. Few Indians see the value of Latin and Greek.
“What are Latin and Greek?”
“They are the classical languages spoken by people who lived two thousand years ago.”
“Who speaks them now?”
“No one. Not any longer.”
“I don’t see any point in learning languages that nobody speaks.”
“Those words reveal your ignorance. If a man is to mingle with the leaders of nations, he must be their equal in education. Your patron Captain Brant understands this.”
“Thayendanegea didn’t mention Latin and Greek. He wants me to learn the languages of other—”
“Moses, I insist that you refer to him as Captain Brant.”
Broken Trail resisted the temptation to argue. It would not serve his purpose to start off on the wrong foot.
He wished he knew more about the content of the letter, for President Webber did not seem to know anything about Thayendanegea’s real goal, nothing about forming a federation of all the tribes to create a country of their own. Broken Trail lowered his face and studied the beadwork on the toes of his moccasins.
If Thayendanegea had not told President Webber about the federation, then he wouldn’t either. His uncle Carries a Quiver, the wisest man he knew, had taught him that a young warrior should keep his ears open and his mouth shut.
“Let me explain the organization of the school,” said Webber. “Our scholars range in age from ten to twenty. They are lodged according to their age in six cabins, the youngest in Cabin One and the oldest in Cabin Six. Since you are seventeen years old, you’ll be in Cabin Five.
“As for academic placement, level of achievement, not age, determines whether a student is in Lower School, Middle School, Upper School, or College.” He paused for a moment. “You will be in Middle School.”
“Not Lower School?”
“No, no. That’s for those who barely speak English and have no knowledge of reading and writing. It’s Middle School for you.
“Now let me tell you what to expect. Each morning begins with Prayers Before Sunrise. We also pray at breakfast and when the school day begins at nine. Classes break at noon, resume at one, and end with prayers at four. And of course there are prayers at dinner time.”
“That’s a lot of prayers.”
“No more than needed.” He gave Broken Trail a piercing look. “Let me warn you now, before you stray from the straight and narrow path: prayers are mandatory and frolics are forbidden.”
“What’s a frolic?”
“It is a gathering with spirituous liquor, lewd dancing, and rude conduct late into the night.”
“You need not worry about me. I shall never betray Thayen … Captain Brant’s trust.”
“Then that’s understood.” Webber picked up a small bell and rang it briskly. In a moment the elderly man reappeared.
“Porter,” said President Webber, “after you have seen that Moses is issued proper clothes, take him to Cabin Five.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Broken Trail stood up and hoisted his carrying basket onto his back. “What about my horse?”
“There is a stable,” said President Webber. “Captain Brant has made provision for your horse.”
CHAPTER 2
Mrs. Greene’s Domain
“DON’T WORRY,” Broken Trail told Dark Cloud as he led him to the stable. “You won’t be free the way you’ve always been, but you’ll have shelter when it rains. And I’ll take you for a gallop every day.”
They stopped at the stable door and looked inside. Broken Trail laid his hand reassuringly upon the stallion’s neck, expecting him to set his hooves in protest and refuse to enter.
But Dark Cloud had already noticed the chestnut mare in the box stall next to the one vacant stall. He snorted his approval. The mare tossed her head. Arching his neck, Dark Cloud whinnied his pleasure at meeting her. The mare whinnied that it was her pleasure, too.
Dark Cloud stepped eagerly into his stall and didn’t even notice when Broken Trail left the stable.
“Now we’ll visit Mrs. Greene,” said the porter. “She looks after the scholars’ clothes.”
Mrs. Greene’s domain was one half of a rambling white frame building a short walk from the stable.
Broken Trail followed him into a large room with a wide counter. There was a fireplace against the back wall, and a spinning wheel in a corner. The walls were lined with shelves containing stacks of black or grey clothing.
A woman and a girl sat on stools by the empty fireplace, darning stockings. Each wore a white apron over her grey gown.
Under the woman’s ruffled mobcap was a calm, motherly face. But it was the girl that Broken Trail noticed. She was remarkably good looking, with coppery skin, finely sculpted cheekbones, and glossy braids black as a raven’s wing.
The woman stood up and approached the counter. “So you’re the new scholar,” she said to Broken Trail. “I’m Mrs. Greene.” She half-turned toward the girl. “And this is Margaret, who sometimes helps me in the afternoons.”
Margaret nodded, her dark eyes regarding him gravely. Then she returned to weaving the black yarn back and forth over the hole in the stocking.
Mrs. Greene looked him over. “You’re tall. Almost six feet. I’ll see what we have that will fit.”
From the shelves she pulled down all manner of garments, including shirts, breeches, nightshirts, buckled shoes, stockings, and a black frock coat. The coarse linsey-woolsey shirts looked like the ones Broken Trail had worn as a small boy. The very thought of wearing them made his skin itch.
Mrs. Greene wrapped everything in a grey blanket. “Bring your clothes here for washing or mending,” she said. “The maids will look after it.” Then she pointed to a pile of lumpy sacks that appeared to be stuffed with straw. “You need a mattress, too.” She looked askance at Broken Trail, who already had a carrying basket on his back. “Can you manage everything?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll help him,” said the porter.
The girl, Margaret, glanced up briefly as Broken Trail adjusted the mattress across his shoulders so that it was partly resting on the lid of his carrying basket. The porter picked up the bundle of clothes.