Jubal Sackett (1985) (6 page)

"You go beyond the Great River? It is a far way, often bloody. Some have gone from here. Some returned. Many were lost." He paused. "It was from there the white men came, the white men who wore iron shirts."

"White men in iron shirts? The Warriors of Fire?"

He shook his head. "It was later. When I was a young boy. With my own eyes I saw them.

"He came to eat in our village and he was much hungry. When he came to leave we gave him food and he went quickly away. I was a boy then, and curious. I followed."

We waited, and even the other Cherokees were curious, for the story seemed new even to them.

"He was weak, this white man. He had eaten, but still he was weak. Twice he fell down before he came to the fire where two others waited, so weak they could not stand. He gave them food."

"They wore iron shirts also?"

"They did. Two carried bows such as yours, and one carried a spear. All had long knives. They ate. They rested. They went away. I watched them as they went."

"Which way did they go?"

"Up the Great War Path. The Warrior's Path."

"You did not follow?"

"For a little way. They met with two other men, also with longbows and also with long knives, but only one had an iron shirt. This one had killed a deer. He had meat with him, and I watched them eat again. When they started on I went back to my village."

Five white men? Only the English used the longbow, and an Indian would remember the bows.

Who could they have been? The old man to whom I talked must be close to eighty, and it had been when he was a boy. Vaguely I recalled a story told by Jeremy Ring, my father's old friend, a story of some of Sir John Hawkins's men who had been left ashore in Mexico, and of how some of those men, not wishing to be imprisoned by the Spanish, had struck out to walk to the French settlements of which they had heard, not realizing how long a journey it would be. Yet three men had gotten through, walking to Nova Scotia in eleven months, from which place they were carried away to France and then to England. These could have been the men.

"You have come in peace," the old man said. "You will find peace here, and you shall leave in peace."

"With my friends the Cherokee I would have it no other way."

We were shown a lodge where we could sleep, but I knew that what had been said was spoken to me only. The Kickapoo would be left alone while in the village, but after that--

It was only then that I realized that the Cherokee who had wanted my guns had left the group before the old man had given us his permission to stay. That Cherokee would not be party to the old man's agreement. It was a thing to remember. Perhaps not intended that way, but who could be sure?

What of our canoe? Would it be safe? From the lodge to which we had been taken I judged the distance. Perhaps it would be well if we slipped away in the night, if that were possible. All we could do now was wait and see.

The village was larger than I had at first believed. There were many Indians about, and they had dogs, dozens of them, constantly moving around. Yet at night they would sleep. Or would they? Certainly they would be aware of us, and any movement at night might be considered unfriendly.

We would wait until day. We would eat, we would talk, and we would take our departure quietly, as guests should.

What happened after that was another thing, and we would be ready.

Keokotah seemed to sleep soundly, yet who could be sure? Long before daybreak I was up, my small pack prepared, my weapons ready. I expected no trouble within the village, but all did not like us here, nor had they all approved of the old man's welcome.

A voice from the door of our lodge spoke. "Sack-ett?"

"I am here."

"Come! It is time to go!"

Six warriors waited outside. We faced them, prepared for whatever would come. "We are friends." The speaker was a barrel-chested Indian of some forty years. "We have come to see you safely on your way. Sack-ett has been a friend to our people. We are friends to Sack-ett."

They formed on either side of us and walked with us to our canoe. Two men guarded it. Getting into two canoes they paddled beside us until we were well on our way. Finally, they backed water and let us go on ahead. The older Indian lifted his spear. "Go in peace!" he said, and we did.

Obviously they had feared we would be attacked and had come to see us on our way in safety. Would our Cherokee enemies pursue? I doubted it. The warrior faction had made their position known in no uncertain terms, and it was unlikely that a few malcontents would dare oppose them.

But we were wary, as it is wise to be, trusting to nothing and prepared for anything.

My father's reputation had preceded us. He had been known as a brave and honorable man, often settling disputes among the Indians. Often they brought their sick or wounded to us for treatment that seemed beyond what their own medicine men could do. The place on Shooting Creek had become known among not only the Cherokees but other tribes as well.

We moved on through sunlight and shadow, taking our time on the river, seeing no one. Nearly every day clouds of passenger pigeons flew over us, and we also began to see flights of parakeets, adding touches of brilliant color to the bare trees.

Many trees were leafing out and much of the brush along the streams as well. Once, glancing back, I thought I caught the flash of sunlight on a paddle blade, yet I did not see it again.

We put twenty miles behind us before we made camp at a cove near a small creek, drawing our canoe well up into the willows and out of sight. Making a small fire of dry wood that offered almost no smoke, we ate some of the buffalo meat and stretched out on the grassy slope to rest.

From where we lay we could see upstream for almost a mile, and by turning our heads and looking through the willows we could see downstream for a short distance. It was a quiet, lazy time, but a time I needed to think, to plan.

If I was to find Itchakomi I must seek sign of their passing. The old man of the Cherokees might have told me something but I had forgotten to mention her to them. The Natchee had been friendly to the Cherokees, I remembered, and they might well have stopped at Hiwasee.

We had tales of Spanish men being westward, beyond the plains. I believed this to be true, but we did not know. Too little was known in England of what the Spanish were doing, and we in the colonies knew even less. From time to time the Indians brought stories of Spanish men to the westward, but far, far away.

Where would Itchakomi go? She was to seek out a new land for the Natchee, and such a land must be far enough away to provide escape from their enemies. There were fierce tribes to the north, such as the Seneca, so it was unlikely they would go far in that direction. The plains had to be where they would go, but would they stop there? What would invite them? Only that the plains were empty.

I spoke of this to Keokotah. "Where would you go?"

He had been lying on the grass and he sat up suddenly. "To the mountains," he said. "I would go where mountains are, where water is, where game can be. I would find a place hidden from eyes."

"And to get there?"

"I would follow a river, but not too close. Where water is, enemies can be. I would walk far from streams and come to them only at night, or before night."

We talked of this and of many things. Keokotah was learning more English from me, and he had a quick intelligence as well as a gift for mimicry that helped him to learn.

"You English--" he said.

"English? I do not know that I am English," I said. "My father was English, but I have never seen England. I know only America. I think I am American."

"Why you American?"

"Because I was born here. I live here. All my memories are of here."

"So it is with me, but I am Kickapoo."

"You are Kickapoo, but you are also American," I explained.

"You are American. You say I am American. What of Cherokee? What of Seneca?"

"They are Americans, too."

He shook his head. "No Seneca is American. Seneca is Seneca and my enemy."

"Far away in Boston there are people called Puritans. They are English by birth. They do not think as I do, but they are Americans, too."

"They are not your tribe?"

"No."

"Spanish men your tribe?"

"No."

"Spanish men live in Florida. That is America?"

"Of course."

"Then Spanish men are Americans?"

"Well--"

"You say Seneca are American. I say Spanish men are American."

"It would be better if we forgot who is Seneca and who is Spanish and just remembered we are all Americans."

Keokotah was silent. The idea was new to him and he was not prepared to accept it. But was I prepared to accept the Spanish, our traditional enemies, as Americans?

Keokotah spoke slyly. "Next time we meet Seneca, you tell him we all Americans. No need fight. You put down your bow. Put down your knife. You walk up to him and say 'we all Americans.' "

"And--?"

"Your American scalp will hang in a Seneca lodge."

"What if a Seneca came to you and said, 'We no fight'?"

"I would take his scalp, cut off his hands and his genitals."

"Cut off his hands?" This, I knew, was often done as well as other mutilation. It was a custom, and a barbarous one. "Why?"

He stared at me as if my words were those of a child. "If he has no hands he cannot attack me in the time after this. If he has no genitals he cannot breed sons to hunt me down. What else is there to do?"

I started to tell him white men did not do such things and then amended it. "It is not our custom."

He shrugged. "You will have enemies waiting in the time after this, but I shall rest in peace."

"But why not have peace here? Now? Would you not like it if you could walk in the forest without danger?"

"No. Soon Keokotah lazy, fat, useless. Indians cannot live without war. Until an Indian has taken a scalp he is nothing. He cannot get a woman, he cannot speak in council."

"That, too, can change. In England most of the titled lords won their titles because of their ability at killing. A man was knighted because of his skill with weapons. Now often enough a man is given a title or knighted who would faint at the sight of blood."

"The Kickapoo are strong because of our enemies. Deny us our enemies and we would grow weak. The Englishman taught me to pray to your Christian god," he added suddenly.

"And you do?"

"Why not? All gods are useful. Who am I to say yours is not? The Englishman prayed, and he was strong in death. The Seneca who killed him sing songs of his courage."

After a moment, Keokotah added, "If I make one last prayer I ask that your god grant me an enemy. If I have an enemy, even one enemy, I can be strong."

"It need not be an enemy," I protested, "any obstacle can do the same. Anything that makes one struggle to be stronger, to be better."

"You have obstacle. I will have enemy. You grow strong in your way, I in mine."

He was a most stubborn man, but a strong one. Yet as I protested I had to remember that England became great at sea at least in part because Spain built an armada.

Chapter
Six.

We hid our canoe when the morning was bright on the water, and started inland. My father had put it upon me to find a new home for us and to spy out the land. For this I could not remain upon the water, but must explore. Besides, it was a strong craving in me to know what lay about me, and Keokotah felt as I did.

Rich were the grasses underfoot, and tall the trees when we came to them. There were numerous springs, yet not so many running streams, for this was limestone country, a place of many caves where the streams ran deep within them. Yet I began to see a reluctance in Keokotah, a hanging back at times, and he looked upon the hills with awe and seemed to wish to avoid the caves.

"The spirits of the dead are here," he said, when I asked him the why of it. "They are all about. And there are caves where they sleep, not dead, yet not alive."

"You have seen this?"

"I have."

"Will you take me to them?"

"I will not."

"I will make strong medicine," I said, "medicine that will protect us from evil."

That he had respect for my magic I knew, and I must keep him respecting it, but to do that it must be used sparingly and with care.

"I have much to learn," I said, "and mayhap those who once lived here were of my people." I did not know this was true, but knew the story of Prince Madoc of Wales, and suspected a connection.

Night was coming on when we spoke of this, and we made a small camp near a spring in a nest of rocks and trees. It was a hidden place and such as we needed, for we must make fresh moccasins from skins we carried. Moccasins did not last like English boots, but we were skilled at cutting out the patterns and shaping them to our feet.

What had Keokotah meant when he had said "they lived yet did not live"?