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Authors: Gloria Whelan

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BOOK: Night of the Full Moon
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“Here is my other dress,” she said. “Here are a pair of moccasins. And here is my ribbon I said you could have.” Hastily I threw off my shift and slipped into Fawn’s dress and moccasins. Fawn braided my hair with the ribbon and hung a necklace of beads around my neck. I longed to see myself in a mirror, but there was no mirror in the wigwam. We looked for Fawn’s mama. Menisikwe was dressed in a bright calico shift
embroidered with beads and fringed leggings sewn with ribbons. When she saw me, she threw up her hands. “No
chimokman.
You Indian today,” she said, and laughed.

“What’s a
chimokman
?” I asked Fawn.

“That’s what we call people who are not Indians,” she said. “Come, it is time for the food.”

The women were putting out wooden bowls of cornmeal porridge swimming in maple syrup. There was fried fish and freshly roasted venison. There was some other meat. I hoped it was not dog.

The drums and dancing had stopped. “Where is your brother?” I asked Fawn.

“He is with my father and the other men from the clan.” She pointed to where the men and young boys were gathered in a circle. “They are giving him his name. He is to be called Megisi. That means ‘bald eagle.’ It is a fine name because we are of the Eagle clan. The bald eagle is the largest of all eagles.”

Suddenly, as though a great wind were blowing, the gathering of men and boys began to scatter. They ran first one way and then another. I thought it must be part of the ceremony until I heard Menisikwe and the other women cry out. Something in the
woods was frightening them. Then I saw what it was. Mounted soldiers. They were riding into the camp.

They began to shout at the Indians. One of the soldiers shot his rifle into the air. Some of the Indians ran toward the woods, but the soldiers rode after them to bring them back. They were like the shepherd dogs in Virginia that ran barking and snarling at the sheep to herd them together.

I grabbed Fawn’s hand. “What’s happening?” I whispered, too frightened to speak aloud.

“It is what your father warned us of. They have come to take us away.” Tears welled up in her eyes. That frightened me more than anything, for I had never seen Fawn cry. I began to cry, too. Desperately I looked around for Papa to help us. Then I realized how foolish I was. Papa was back home and didn’t even know I was here.

One of the soldiers spoke Potawatomi. He shouted orders to the Indians. “What is he saying?” I whispered.

Fawn’s voice trembled. “Our people will
be sent far away to live. They are taking us to join other clans of the People.” Fawn caught her breath. “He says we must go at once to our wigwams to gather up whatever we wish to take with us. The men will be allowed to ride their ponies. They have brought a wagon for the women and children.”

The sound of the women moaning and crying was terrible to hear. The men were shouting angry words at the soldiers. Fawn whispered, “Our men ask, ‘What will happen to our cornfields and our sacred burial place?’ ”

Suddenly one of the Indian men ran at a soldier. I saw the flash of a knife in his hand. At once two soldiers were on him, wrestling him to the ground and tying him up.

Seeing the man bound by the soldiers, the other Indians seemed to lose heart. One by one the families turned slowly toward their wigwams. In Fawn’s wigwam Menisikwe strapped Megisi to her back. She gathered up the baskets and the wooden bowls. She
took her most precious possession, an iron kettle. Sanatuwa took his bow and arrows and his fishhooks. He took his flints and tinder so that he could make a fire.

We were about to leave the wigwam when Sanatuwa looked up. For the first time he noticed me. When he recognized me, he groaned.

The next moment he was pulling me after him toward the soldiers. When we reached a soldier on horseback, Sanatuwa called to him in English, “This girl is not of our clan. She is a white girl. She belongs to settlers who live near us. You must return her to her mother and father.”

The soldier looked down at Sanatuwa. He seemed to be suspicious at finding an Indian who spoke English so well. He said, “If she’s a white girl, why is she dressed in Indian clothes? What is she doing here with you?”

“I’m
not
an Indian,” I insisted. I forgot how only an hour before I was longing to be one. “My name is Libby Mitchell.” The soldier was not paying attention. He was
watching two Indians who had rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Why won’t you listen?” I cried, grabbing his reins. “I’m not an Indian! I don’t want to be an Indian!” Suddenly I had an idea. “I’ll show you the dress and shoes I came in.”

“You probably stole them,” the soldier said. He snatched the reins out of my hands and rode off to take the rifles from the Indians.

I turned to Sanatuwa. I was shaking. It wasn’t just what was happening to me. It was what was happening to all of them: Fawn and her mother and father and all the members of her clan.

Sanatuwa shook his head. “I am sorry, but I can do no more now. I am the
okama,
the leader of my people. It is my duty to see to my clan, but I have not forgotten that when a sickness nearly took my daughter, your mother nursed her back to health. She saved my daughter’s life. I will not let her lose her daughter.” One of the Indians ran up to Sanatuwa to ask something. He nodded, taking a pouch from under his shirt. From
the pouch he drew something strange. It looked like the dried head and neck of a bald eagle.

Fawn saw me staring at it. She whispered, “It is the sacred bundle, the
pitchkosan,
which holds the power of our clan.”

A wagon rolled up to the camp. One by one the moaning women and weeping children climbed in with their baskets. Fawn and Menisikwe, carrying Megisi, got in. I thought, If I climb into that wagon I will never see Mama and Papa again.

I began to run toward the woods and the path that would take me home. A soldier came cantering after me. I could hear him calling, but I kept running. A moment later he swept me up onto his horse. The horse reared and he squashed me against him to keep me from falling.

I tried to tell him I was Libby Mitchell. “I don’t care what your name is,” he said. “An Indian is an Indian.” I hit him with my fists. He only laughed at me. I was furious that he didn’t believe me. I bit his hand, and he dropped me onto the ground. When he saw
me start toward the woods again he pointed his rifle at me. “Get into the wagon!” he shouted.

I climbed into the wagon with the women and the other children, and the little procession pulled away, led by two soldiers. Next came the Indian men on their ponies and then our wagon. The rest of the soldiers followed. I looked over my shoulder. Everything familiar was disappearing. I clung to the hope that by dinner Papa would miss me. But it was a long time till then. Besides, I had told him I would be in the opposite direction—across the pond. He would believe I got lost picking berries. He would never think of looking for me at the Indian camp. Even when he heard what happened to the Indians he would have no reason to think I was with them. Soon I would be miles and miles away from Papa and Mama.

The wagon jogged along a trail so narrow that the tree branches scraped its sides. Ahead of us the Indian men were silent. They rode with closed, angry faces. I was praying we would go by way of Saginaw. I was sure I would see someone there who knew me and could tell the soldiers who I really was. But Fawn said, “We are going toward the sun, away from Saginaw.”

We looked at each other, but neither of us said anything. When you are close to someone, words are slippery things that slide away from what you want to say. My hand stole into Fawn’s hand as we sat there hanging on tightly to each other for comfort.

All afternoon the sun beat down on the wagon. It was hot and dusty. The wagon was so crowded that some of the children tried to climb over the sides, thinking to walk. The soldiers made them climb back in. The women were quiet now. Only the
frightened way they clasped their baskets tightly to them showed what they were feeling. One of the soldiers, an older man with a long red beard, handed his water canteen to us. “Let the children drink from it,” he said. His voice was gruff, but his eyes looked sad.

We were all tired and thirsty and relieved when the soldiers finally stopped and told us to make camp. The Indians had brought ground corn. Sanatuwa made a fire, getting sparks from his flint for the tinder, then fanning the tiny flame with a hawk’s wing. The porridge was cooked in Menisikwe’s iron kettle and shared out into wooden bowls, but we were too low-spirited to eat much.

There were about forty of us gathered around the fire. The men spoke in whispers. Even if I could have heard them, I wouldn’t have understood what they were saying. Fawn explained, “It is a council.”

Across the camping ground from us the soldiers were having their own dinner. They were talking loudly and laughing. Some of
them were drinking out of bottles. Once or twice I thought again of trying to tell them who I was. But I was afraid, for there was a sentry on duty. Every time one of the Indians moved even a little way from our circle, the soldier pointed his rifle at him. The sentry kept watch long after we had wrapped ourselves in blankets and lain down.

I was ashamed to cry when the Indians could see me, but when I thought everyone was asleep, I couldn’t hold back my tears. Fawn heard me. She whispered, “I know my father. He will not let a man tell him where he must go.”

“What can he do?” I whispered back.

“He will find the right time,” she said, and drew her blanket over her.

I lay there unable to sleep. Above us the full moon was so bright in the sky I couldn’t see the stars that Papa used to name for me. I would have liked to have had them for comfort. At last I fell asleep. When I awoke the campfires had been lighted to cook our morning meal.

5

F
OR TWO
long, dreary days we traveled. On the third day we were told we would not stop until dark, that we were on our way to join up with another group of Potawatomi. Every mile we rode away from home stole more of my hope until there was little left. How could I have hope when all around me were the sad faces of the Indians? Like me, they were leaving behind everything they cared for. Only one thing kept me from despairing altogether. Sanatuwa had taken me aside and said, “I have not forgotten you.
Now my duty is to my clan. When we find a leader I can trust, I will give my clan’s care over to him. Then I will return you to your people.” I wanted to believe him, but I could not see how he would succeed.

It grew dark. When we thought we could travel no farther we saw ahead of us the light of campfires. They flickered like fire-flies through the trees. We came upon a clearing with many Indians and soldiers. As we drew closer, the camp looked peaceful. The Indians and the soldiers were each gathered about their own campfires. But we knew the Indians were there against their will, for soldiers were patrolling the camp with their rifles at the ready.

As we climbed from the wagon several of the Indians ran up to us. Fawn said they were asking “What is your clan?” and “Where do you come from?”

BOOK: Night of the Full Moon
6.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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