Broken Trail (16 page)

“Do you want to go back down south?”

“I can't say I look forward to a winter campaign in the Carolinas. Swamps full of snakes. Camps full of dysentery and yellow fever. But yes, I'm ready to go back. I'm a soldier. I'm prepared to do my duty.”

Elijah set the boot on the floor, picked up its mate, and rubbed a dab of polish into the leather. “I only wish it were over. The war's lost. Another defeat, and General Cornwallis will have to see it, too. Why should more men die when it's all for naught?”

“You didn't talk like this when you were telling me about Major Ferguson picking you for his rifle company.”

Elijah took a brush to the leather. “If you think that I'm afraid to die—”

“No. I would never think that.”

“That soldier did, the one who paddled us across the channel.” Elijah spat on the boot. He rubbed with his rag for a minute, then raised his head and looked straight at Broken Trail.

“Before Kings Mountain, I was ready to fight it out to the last, do or die.”

“Like Red Sun Rising.”

“Not exactly. The Cherokees have no choice. The rebels back the settlers, and the settlers won't be satisfied until every Cherokee is dead. They might as well fight till they die, because they're going to die anyway. Honour is the only thing no one can take from them.

“But it's different for the British and the Loyalists. Sooner or later, General Cornwallis will surrender. He'll hand over his sword to General Washington and everybody will go home… except those that are dead and those that no longer have a home.” He paused. “Ever since we said goodbye to Red Sun Rising, I've been thinking about this. I no longer believe that dying for a lost cause is in any way worthwhile.” He set down the second boot beside the other. “That's enough talk about me. What about you? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“What I was looking for?” For a moment Broken Trail thought that Elijah must mean his vision.

“A ride over to the mainland,” Elijah prompted.

“Oh. Yes. There's a warrior going to Cataraqui first thing in the morning. He'll take me.”

“I'm glad that's settled, though I'm not happy to see you go.”

Suddenly Broken Trail felt very lonely. This was goodbye, and he was not ready for goodbye. He wondered when he would see Elijah again. I must tell him about my vision, he thought. There may never be another chance. Tongue-tied, he searched for English words.

“What is it?” Elijah asked. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. Far from it. My
oki
came back.”

“The wolverine? Did it show you the vision you were waiting for?”

“Yes. I saw the vision.” Broken Trail took a deep breath. “It showed me many things, but explained nothing. I will become a great leader… my
oki
said that. A great leader, both in war and in peace. But it didn't say how. And when I die, all nations will mourn. But it didn't say why.”

“All nations will mourn.” Elijah was silent for a minute, apparently thinking it over. “White nations, too?”

“I'm not sure. But why not? We have an Oneida word:
Mitakuye Oyasin.
It means, ‘We are all related.' It doesn't leave out anybody.”

Elijah lifted his hand and laid it for a moment upon his chest, directly over the spot where the Mohawk medicine bag hung under his red coat. Broken Trail noticed the gesture.

“It doesn't surprise me,” Elijah said, “to learn that you will be a great leader. I saw something of this when I was
wounded and ready to die, but you wouldn't let me give up. You half-carried me for sixteen miles to a safe hiding place. While you were taking care of my wound, I sensed a power in you. It was the kind of power that helps a person to discover his own strength.

“Major Ferguson had that power, too. He inspired his troops, turned ordinary men and boys into heroes.” He raised his eyes to the window, looking out as if searching for something far away. “Yes, he had that power, though in him it was mixed with faults that cost us a whole army. But we'll not speak of that, speak ill of the dead.”

Elijah's eyes met Broken Trail's. “So now you're leaving. I know you're eager to be home. When you reach your village, your uncle will explain the meaning of your vision.”

“He's a wise man. He'll help me to see the path that lies ahead.” Broken Trail stood. “I have an idea that someday you will walk with me on that same path. It isn't every white soldier that wears a medicine bag under his uniform.”

Again Elijah touched his fingers to the place where the medicine bag lay. “Who knows? I'd like to go on another long trail with you. But whatever happens, remember that we're brothers, whatever else we may be.” He paused. “What was that word, again?”

“Mitakuye Oyasin.”

“I won't forget.” Elijah stood up. He grabbed Broken Trail and gave him a hug. Broken Trail gulped hard to force down the lump in his throat as he turned toward the door.

Darkness fell quickly. A cold wind was blowing from the west when Broken Trail reached the shore. He crawled under a canoe for shelter. He probably could have found a more comfortable place to sleep, he thought, but he did not want to take any chance of Two Trees leaving without him in the morning. When the sun rose above the trees, he wanted to be ready.

IT WAS A COLD MORNING
, with spirals of white mist rising from the dark water. Broken Trail stood shivering by the shore. He was stamping his feet to shake the cold out of them when he saw Two Trees approach from the Indian camp.

“So you come. Give me tomahawk. Then we leave.” The wormlike scar down the side of his face wriggled as he spoke.

Broken Trail pulled his tomahawk from his belt and surrendered it to Two Trees. This was not a good bargain. But what choice did he have, in his eagerness to reach home?

Two Trees handed him a paddle. They eased the canoe
into the water. Broken Trail knelt in the bow, glad to have the warming exercise of paddling.

After rounding Carleton Island's western tip, they entered the channel that lay between Carleton Island and Wolfe Island, its larger neighbour. This was where Lake Ontario ended and the St. Lawrence River began. By the time they passed the eastern end of Wolfe Island, the mist had lifted. To the north, on the mainland, Broken Trail saw a slim column of smoke rise above the trees.

“Cataraqui?” Broken Trail called over his shoulder.

“Yes. Smoke come from trader's lodge.”

As they drew nearer, the ruins of a fort came into view. Within the tumbled walls, he saw the bark-covered lodge from which the smoke was rising. Although he had never been to Cataraqui before, he knew that this must be the lodge of the fur trader, Louis Tremblay, son of a Huron mother and a
coureur de bois
father, to whom hunters and trappers of many nations brought furs to exchange for rifles, axes, blankets, beads and other goods. Broken Trail would have liked to return home with a present for Catches the Rainbow. He could imagine her smiles at receiving a brooch with coloured glass stones or a necklace of shiny beads. But he had nothing to trade for such a treasure.

When the canoe reached shore, Broken Trail stepped into the shallow water and pulled up the bow. He had no desire for a parting conversation with Two Trees, nor had the Mohawk any words to spare for him. After the briefest of farewells, each went his separate way, Two Trees to the trading
post and Broken Trail along the path that would take him home.

On his left were granite cliffs and tree-clad hills where only a few withered leaves still clung to the branches. On his right, off shore, were many islands, some large and wooded, but others little more than a rock boasting a single gnarled tree. He scarcely glanced either to the left or to the right, for his mind was filled with thoughts of home.

Carries a Quiver would rejoice to see him alive and to learn about his vision. Catches the Rainbow would smile in her quiet way and comment on the sad state of his moccasins. His friend Young Bear would listen to his story and be happy for him that his
oki
had appeared, and then they would make plans to hunt deer together, as they had done many times before. Most important of all, he was ready to prove his readiness to be a warrior.

That evening, after lighting a small fire and preparing a bed of spruce boughs, he ate the last of the sweetened corn powder. As he ate, he thought of the two warriors who had given it to him. He would never know who they were. But they had been the first persons whom he met on his long trail. When he finished eating, he remembered to strike the ground with his right fist and give his thanks to the Great Spirit.

His thoughts turned to Elijah. Many evenings on their journey together they had sat and talked beside a campfire like this one. Looking into the flames, Broken Trail summoned
up the image of his brother in his mud-smeared red coat, the coat that concealed a Mohawk medicine bag hanging from a thong around his neck.

To Broken Trail, this medicine bag was the token of a special bond that was beyond the natural bond of brotherhood. The unseen spirits that watched over Broken Trail also protected Elijah, although he was not a native either by birth or by adoption. The more Broken Trail thought about this, the more he came to feel that the Great Spirit's plan for him included his brother. Why else had the Great Spirit sent him to Kings Mountain to find him?

As the flames died, the image of Elijah faded. Broken Trail lay down on his spruce-bough bed. He was cold, having no blanket to wrap around him. But tomorrow night would be different, for he would be sleeping on a warm, cushiony bearskin in the longhouse, with family and friends nearby.

The following morning, having nothing left to eat, he set out hungry. He could have caught a fish, for the St. Lawrence teemed with many kinds, but his greatest hunger was the hunger to be home.

He walked all day. As his shadow stretched longer and longer in front of him, he walked faster and faster. And then in the golden light of early evening, he saw a blur of smoke above the trees. A little after that, the palisade of pointed poles came into view, and above the palisade, the roofs of the three longhouses, one for each of the Oneida clans: Wolf, Turtle and Bear.

At the entry to the palisade he paused. His heart beat quickly, and he was breathing heavily. He must compose himself, he thought. It was important to look confident, as if there were nothing unusual in taking two moons to accomplish what should have been achieved in ten days. Squaring his shoulders, he strode forward, neither fast nor slow, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

The first persons to notice him were two small boys walking side by side across the empty dancing circle. They glanced at him, halted, and then looked at one another. No smiles. If anything, they looked alarmed. That did not matter, he told himself. He did not care whether children welcomed him, or not.

More important were the three warriors he now noticed strolling toward the longhouses. These were men of high standing in council: Hunting Hawk, Black Elk and Swift Fox. They were his uncle's friends, although not of his clan.

Broken Trail walked up to them and raised his hand in greeting.

“I have returned,” he said, as naturally as possible. “My
oki
has appeared to me, and I have seen a vision of my life.”

They stopped walking. Swift Fox was the first to raise his hand in greeting. The others followed, lifting their arms slowly and with hesitation.

Turning to the two small boys, who had moved closer in their curiosity to see what was happening, Swift Fox commanded, “Go to the Bear longhouse. Find Carries a Quiver. Tell him that his nephew has returned.”

The boys raced away to deliver their message.

Swift Fox turned to Broken Trail. “No one expected to see you again.”

When Broken Trail entered the longhouse, it looked the same as when he had left it two moons ago. Warriors lounged about, talking. Little girls, busy with their beadwork, sat on the edges of the sleeping platforms with their legs dangling over the side. On one platform five young boys huddled in a circle, intent on a game of dice. One tossed the dice in a flat-bottomed bowl, and all leaned forward to see how they had landed.

In a row down the centre of the longhouse, between the sleeping platforms, the six cooking fires burned brightly. Broken Trail looked for Catches the Rainbow at the third fire, and there she was, standing with a long-handled ladle in her hand while she chatted with the woman whose family slept on the opposite platform and shared the same fire.

Catches the Rainbow, too, looked the same as the last time he had seen her. A woman of medium height, she had a broad, pleasant face more accustomed to smile than to frown.

A moment passed before anyone noticed him. And then it seemed that all eyes turned at once, as when one deer in a grazing herd spots danger and all lift their heads. Broken Trail heard a collective gasp. Wide-eyed children drew closer to their mothers. No one smiled. For a moment there was silence, and then a murmur rose, sounding alarmingly like
a low growl. Many who had been his friends looked at him as if he were a stranger.