I Am Regina (21 page)

“I will wear it always,” she tells me. “It will remind me of you.”

White Flower now rides behind her father on a large bay horse. She waves good-bye and I see this bracelet; a dark band against dark skin. White Flower is going home.

Quetit sleeps beside me in this wagon piled with bags of corn. We have been traveling for many days through woods and boggy bottomland. Sometimes we walk. Sometimes the soldiers allow us to ride in the wagon—those times when our legs are weary and our feet, blistered. Now we are but one day's ride from the white man's council house, the one he calls Fort Pitt.

Quetit has grown stronger on the white man's food. But sadness continues to haunt her, as it does me. Each morning I awaken hoping to feel Tummaa's cold nose nuzzling my face. I miss my large gray dog. I miss Woelfin, all the villagers I had grown to love.

White Flower's horse is just a bright spot in the trees. Now it, too, is gone.

I try to look ahead of me. But cattle, sheep, pack horses, soldiers and this endless forest block my view. A soldier cracks his whip and a stray cow lumbers ahead of him, then veers off to join the herd. I can count the bones beneath her hide. I don't think she'll survive this journey.

Captives freed by the white man walk beside our wagon. Some walk behind. They form a ragged line, hushed now, save for the occasional crying of a child. Many wear clothes the soldiers made. A few are still dressed like Indians. The air smells of dead leaves and horses.

There are over two hundred of us being taken to Fort Pitt White Flower's father was the one who counted us, who wrote down our names—Experience Wood, John Ice, Molly Mitch, Joseph Red Jacket, Quetit, Tskinnak ... One by one he asked us: “How many shirts do you own? Did the Indians give you leggings? Shoe packs? Blankets?” He drew marks upon a paper as we answered him. I do not. know why.

A woman shares this wagon with us now. Her head is bowed. She hides her head between her shoulders as a turtle hides within its shell. She was captured by the Delawares and shared their fires for many winters. A Delaware Chief is her husband. They have a son about eight winters old who rides a horse that is tethered to this wagon. The boy's hands are tied. His feet are hobbled. If the white man did not hobble him, he would run away.

“How can I enter my parents' dwelling?” this woman suddenly says, looking upward to the sky, as if the gray clouds held an answer. Her face is pinched and lined with worry. Her searching eyes alight on me. “I am married to an Indian Chief,” she says. “I bring home a son who hates the white man. Will my parents understand? Will they be kind to him? And my old companions. Will they associate with me?”

“I do not know,” I whisper.

She stares at the talisman she holds tightly in her hands—a small pipe with the bowl carved into the shape of a wolf's head, the totem of her husband's clan. She says no more.

Her silence troubles me as much as her anguished questions do. I bow my head and close my eyes. I listen to the creak of wagon wheels and try to sleep.

At night we camp beneath the stars. Soldiers talk as they stand guard. Wolves and owls make a great noise in the night. The horses are restless.

I wake early in the morning. The woman's son, sullen-faced and silent, sits tethered between two soldiers. His mother is gone.

The soldiers search, but they do not find her. I wish her a safe journey to her husband's side, but I feel empty when I see her son, bound and shackled as he rides the horse still tethered to the wagon. I know how he must feel—abandoned, with nothing to look forward to.

We slowly follow the course of the Ohio River. Quetit, nestled beside me in the wagon, holds up a loop of rawhide thread. “Tskinnak? Will you play with me?”

I place my hands inside the loop. I finger-weave a shape out of the thread. I feel the boy's eyes on me as Quetit slips this shape onto her hands. Her fingers fly as she weaves the outline of a cradle. I take the cradle and weave a ladder out of it. Back and forth we play the weaving game, until my fingers slip.

Quetit lays the empty loop upon her lap. She rests her head against my shoulder. “Tskinnak,” she says. “What is going to happen to us?”

I sigh, swallowing my impatience. Quetit has asked this question many times. I put my arm around her. “We will stay at Fort Pitt until the soldiers are disbanded.”

“And then?”

“Colonel Bouquet will try to find our families.”

“Tskinnak.” Quetit's eyes look into mine. “I don't remember anything about my white man's family.”

“I know.”

“But you remember yours. You've told me about your mother. You said her arms were warm.” Quetit burrows herself between my arms, as if her warmth could bring back my memories. “You said your mother told stories and sang lullabies to you. How will we know this mother when we see her?”

“Little one. My mother may not be alive.”

“But if she is, how will we know her? What does she look like?”

Quetit knows the answer to this question too, for I have answered it before. All I recall of my mother is a dark mist and a wagon pulled by two strong oxen. But now, the burden of an endless journey overwhelms me.

“I have a dream,” I tell Quetit.

“Yes?” she says.

“In my dream, my mother's hair is the color of the hickory nut once its rind is peeled and her hands are like white willow leaves, pale and silky.” As I give voice to these words, they take on a reality I have never felt before. They must be true.

Quetit raises her head and smiles at me. “Does your mother have eyes like yours or mine?”

“Her eyes are green, like moss.”

“Does your mother have a long nose or a short one?” Quetit giggles.

I squeeze her gently. “Quetit. Your questions make my head ache.”

“Tskinnak. Can we pray that this mother will find us?”

“We can pray.” I search the sky. Somewhere above the clouds God listens to our prayers. God understands why we have to believe in dreams. He understands what I no longer want to say to myself or Quetit—

That the one clear memory that haunts me most is a scalp that used to hang inside our hut.

My father's scalp.

 

 

 

W
e follow the Ohio to where it meets the river the soldiers call the Allegheny. Across the Allegheny stands Fort Pitt. Like hills, its great walls rise above the water.

The soldiers “halloo” at the fort. They load their muskets and fire them at the sky.

From the far side of the Allegheny comes an answering “halloo.” Then a loud noise sounds, like the roar of an angry bear. Smoke fills the sky above Fort Pitt. Another roar and then another sounds.

“Tskinnak. These big guns frighten me. Why must the soldiers make such noise?” Quetit says, covering her ears.

“It is the white man's way,” I say, longing for the sound of a single Indian halloo. The white man's welcome makes my head ache.

Now a boat moves swiftly down the river. Two soldiers pole the craft toward the wooded bank where we are waiting. A large man dressed in deerskin wades into the water. He pulls the boat to shore.

The two soldiers talk to Colonel Bouquet. Colonel Bouquet gives his orders. We will make camp on the banks of the Allegheny. Tomorrow, many boats and rafts will come. They will take us to the fort.

The sun sets before our fires are lit. Quetit and I eat our supper cold. It is bread, dried beef and water.

Peg, the large dark woman the soldiers call “the mulatto,” crouches near us while we eat. She patiently roasts fresh venison over a fire that she has kindled. Her husband, a tall and handsome Mingo Indian, waits for her in the shadows just beyond our camp.

This Mingo has walked with Peg on the long journey to Fort Pitt. Each night, he has brought her fresh venison to eat. The soldiers have allowed him to bring her food. But they have warned the Mingo not to follow Peg when she is taken to her home in the land they call Virginia. The Mingo will be in danger there. Peg's family will shoot him.

“I would live in her sight or die in her presence,” I heard the Mingo reply, “for what pleasure shall the Mingo have if Peg is gone? Who will cook his venison? Who will thank him for soft fur?”

The venison is cooked. Peg carries the wooden spit that holds the hot and dripping meat over to her husband. I hear the soft murmur of their talk as they eat together. Quetit and I both hope the Mingo stays with Peg. They fit together like a well-made bow and arrow.

Clouds cover the moon. Soldiers crouch by fires and clean their muskets. They polish their long knives until they shine. Quetit and I bed down beneath the trees. We share one blanket, and we pray.

Early in the morning, the soldiers come with boats and rafts, and we cross the swiftly flowing river. The cold spray of water stings my cheeks.

We climb a steep and muddy bank and wait for the others who have yet to cross. Quetit's skin is the color of ashes. I rub her arms to warm her.

Once everyone is safe on shore, the soldiers line us up. They flank us on all sides. They march beside us down the path that leads around the fort.

A large ditch that is filled with water stops our march. Like the great walls that rise like hills, this ditch surrounds Fort Pitt. A soldier shouts and a gate is lowered to form a bridge.

I hold Quetit's hand. Soldiers march on either side as we cross the bridge and walk the long dark passage which leads through the walls and into the fort. We enter a wide, flat plain surrounded by stone walls. Bands of soldiers march upon the plain. They carry sticks holding brightly colored cloths. They beat on drums and blow on pipes that make a wailing sound.

I bow my head and watch my feet. I place one foot before the other. Mud cakes my moccasins. All around me I hear the soldiers march, their voices raised in triumph.

 

Drumbeats mark our days. Drumbeats and the sounds of marching. But soon the beat of drums will cease and the soldiers will disband.

One band of soldiers has already left Fort Pitt. They march to Virginia. They take some captives with them. Peg is gone. I hope the Mingo follows her. I heard that Colonel Bouquet talked to him. That he gave the Mingo a handsome present to make him stay behind. Mary was the one who told me. She is a thin woman with a long and hungry face. “The Mingo is a heathen,” Mary said. “Peg is better off without him.”

Quetit and I think that Mary is a silly goose. No one is better suited to Peg than the Mingo. I pray they are together now.

I sit on my narrow bed in the long gray house the soldiers call the barracks. Quetit squats on the floor in front of me while I comb lice from her hair. I want to make Quetit pretty for when she goes to Carlisle. The soldiers are to take us there. We leave tomorrow.

They will take more than one hundred of us to this white man's town. It is a ten days' march from here. Colonel Bouquet has already sent messengers ahead. They post signs all through the white man's land. The signs say that those who lost friends and family in the war are to come to Carlisle and that we will meet them there.

I will be glad to leave Fort Pitt. The soldiers have crammed us into these dark barracks like minnows in a net. We have nothing to do here and so we talk. At times our talk is friendly. At times our talk grows loud and angry.

Today a soldier named Matthew brought us leggings.

There were not enough for each of us to have a pair and so we fought over them.

Sour Plums, a large fat woman who lived with the Seneca, brought out colored stones from her deerskin pouch. “We will throw dice for the leggings,” she said, separating the women into groups.

I wear my leggings now. They are unlike any I have ever worn. They are thick and rough. They itch like straw. But they cover the scars that mark my legs and feet and they are new.

The soldier Matthew said the leggings are called “stockings.” I will wear my “stockings” when I go to Carlisle.

Sour Plums is snoring. She sleeps by herself in a bed that is next to the one I share with Quetit. Sour Plums wears three necklaces. They are made of brightly colored beads.

I wish that I could have a necklace, too.

Through the barrack's door, I see the flat ground where the soldiers march. Snow now falls upon the ground. The flakes are like white flowers.

If I could, I would bead the flakes. I would make a necklace out of them.

In my mind, I wear the necklace now and I am in Carlisle. I walk toward a woman. Her hair is the color of the hickory nut. Her skin is pale. She holds out her arms to me.

In my new stockings and my necklace, I am as beautiful as snow.

 

 

 

I
t is dusk. A light snow falls and three men dressed in hunting frocks greet us with their lanterns as we enter Carlisle. Colonel Bouquet talks to these men and I stare at the log buildings, the large fort that forms one side of the center square. I do not remember this white man's town. I don't think I've ever been here.

Now Colonel Bouquet speaks to us all. He says the soldiers will divide us up in groups. Some of us will be sheltered in the fort. Others will share the white man's homes. In the morning, we will meet together in this square. Our families come tomorrow.

I grip Quetit's hand as one of the men in the hunting frocks leads us down a snow-covered path. His hands are large and gentle as he ushers us into a home that smells of baking bread. The white man's wife greets us at the door. She is short and plump. Three small children hide behind her skirts.

“Tskinnak. Look! They have a dog like Tummaa!” Quetit points to a big gray dog who now bounds through the open door. He shakes himself from nose to tail, spraying all of us with snow. I offer him my outstretched hands.