Indian Captive (12 page)

Suddenly she hated the Indian women and the way they walked. She hated the Indian baby tied fast to a hard, flat board. She moved the burden-strap a trifle with her fingers as the tears filled her eyes. Then she saw Squirrel Woman stopping in the path ahead, waiting for her to come up. She bent her head forward and, stooping, hurried on.

In one of the fields corn was already up. The fresh green blades like slender grasses made a dotted pattern over the hummocks. A second field was ready for a later planting. The women were working busily, Red Bird, Shining Star and others, under the direction of Bear Woman, the matron and overseer.

Squirrel Woman took the baby off Molly’s back and hung the baby frame up on a limb of the nearest tree. There she left the Indian baby swinging in the breeze. Molly glanced up in astonishment, then turned quickly away. Why should she care what they did with their baby?

Squirrel Woman brought Molly over to the field which had not been plowed at all. Rich black earth was piled up in hills about two feet high, placed a “long step” apart. The hills were in rows and the women walked, each in a row, planting corn in the tops of the hills. They worked rapidly, making holes in the earth, dropping in grains of corn and closing the holes again.

Squirrel Woman handed Molly a short stick, to the end of which a piece of elk bone had been tied. She pointed to the row of corn hills and walked off.

How different it was from planting corn at home. Molly held her stick in her hand, not knowing what to do with it. Did the Indians know nothing of plows? Was her stick supposed to be a hoe? How could anybody plant corn with a stick? A vision of her father’s field, behind the zigzag rail fence, and the wooden plow lifting the soil in clean, even rows, came back to her. A vision of the field he had not plowed or planted to corn…because of the Indians.

Molly looked about and she saw Bear Woman, the overseer, standing at a distance, looking at her. She saw Squirrel Woman advancing rapidly in her direction. Molly’s eyes were dry now and her lips set in a tight line. She was afraid of neither of the women. Did they think they could make her plant corn—plant corn for Indians to eat? If they did, then they were sadly mistaken.

Down she threw her hoe that was only a stick of wood. Out of the field she ran. She stumbled over the loose earth hummocks, scattering the dirt with her feet; She kicked over a basket, spilling seed corn in all directions. Past the tree where the Indian baby hung swinging, she ran as fleet as the wind. The baby was crying now but she did not care. She would never look at an Indian baby, never touch him, never carry him again on her back.

She ran into the woods. She had only the woods to run to—there was no other place to go. When she heard someone coming swiftly behind her, she knew before she looked who it was. She had only one good friend, only one friend who cared what she did—Little Turtle.

The boy asked no explanation. Sensing that something had gone wrong, he tried to make her forget it. He led Molly down by the creek. They followed it upstream and into a shallow brook, where on sun warmed rocks mud turtles lay basking. Little Turtle lifted his bow and aimed under them. Each time the arrow hit the rock, the turtle flew several feet up in the air. Up they flew and down they fell. Before she knew it, Molly was laughing.

“Is that why—
you
—‘Little Turtle’?” she asked, venturing a few halting words in the Seneca language.

Little Turtle beamed. She had spoken at last. “Yes, Little Turtle, me! I shoot little turtles!” he answered, happily. “When I grow up I shall earn a new name for myself. I shall be a great hunter and a great warrior!” He puffed out his chest with pride.

Molly’s laugh pleased the Indian boy greatly. Her face shone like the sparkling sun when she was happy. Never must she be sad again. Close by in the woods the boy pulled a long strong grape-vine, climbed up a tree and tied it fast for a swing. Molly sat on it and soon she was swinging happily back and forth. Like the happy sound of falling waters, her rippling laughter rang through the forest and fell pleasantly on the boy’s ears.

When they came out of the woods Little Turtle led the way to a small lodge of logs that Molly had not noticed before. An old man was sitting inside the door carving a ladle of wood.

“This is Grandfather Shagbark!” said Little Turtle.

Then he stepped back in surprise, for the old man and the captive girl seemed to be already acquainted.

They looked at each other and smiled. Molly could scarce believe her eyes, for before her she saw the old Indian who had befriended her on the mountain journey. She had not seen him once since she came to the Indian village. The other Indians in the large canoe had sailed on down the River Ohio and she had supposed he had gone with them. Now she was glad he had stayed behind.

Shagbark began to talk about his work. He pointed out many things which he had made during the winter, before he left on the expedition to the Pennsylvania settlements—wooden bowls, ladles, dishes, spoons, snow-shoes, as well as stone and pottery pipes.

Little Turtle held out his bow proudly. “Shagbark made it for me,” he cried eagerly. “He is teaching me to be a great hunter. Soon he will make me a real man’s bow and arrows; won’t you, Grandfather?”

“Slowly, slowly,” said Shagbark, his placid face smiling. “First we must learn how to shoot. How does one learn?”

“I will tell you how he teaches me,” Little Turtle replied, turning to Molly.

Then, just as if Molly understood every word, he explained how Shagbark first hung a coon’s foot high at the smoke-hole for him to aim at. Then the coon’s foot was thrown to the top of a high tree and Little Turtle learned to hit it there. Down to the creek to practice on mud-turtles came next, and there the boy had earned his name. After that, in the woods he had taken his first squirrel.

Molly followed his words closely. The boy spoke slowly and made meaningful gestures. Suddenly, to her great surprise, she realized that she
understood every word that he was saying!
She smiled to herself. As Little Turtle’s and Shagbark’s words flowed back and forth, she listened quietly.

“So now, Grandfather,” asked Little Turtle, “may I have a man’s bow, and arrows with flintheads?”

“Slowly, slowly, my son!” replied Shagbark. He paused and looked critically at the wooden ladle in his hand. He held up the unfinished handle for the children to see. “What will it be?” he asked.

“A bear!” cried Little Turtle.

“A turtle!” suggested Molly, at which they all laughed.

The old man kept on shaving off tiny chips of wood, shaping the handle carefully, without speaking.

“When may I have my new bow and arrows, Grandfather?” asked Little Turtle again.

“Oh ho!” answered Shagbark, laughing. “This boy never forgets. Well, my son, a real hunter’s bow and arrows are not easily made. First, the flint must be quarried and carefully selected for the arrow-heads. Then the blanks must be made and the finished points chipped. But that is not all, oh no. The arrow-shafts must be cut from red willow withes and dried under weight to prevent warping. And still that is not all, oh no. A bow should be split from tough hickory saplings or red cedar. The wood must be buried for so many moons to season it. Then it must be given the right shape…Oh, the making of a bow is no easy task.

“But most important of all, an Indian boy must learn to shoot, so he can bring home game to help his mother. At first wooden arrow-heads are best because he loses so many. Then bone or antler when he is sure he can find each one…”

“I found one for Little Turtle,” cried Molly.

“Yes, Grandfather, Corn Tassel found one for me…”

“You did not see where it went yourself?” asked Shagbark, his face grown suddenly sober.

“No, Grandfather. I did not see where it went.” Little Turtle hung down his head.

“Then you are not ready for arrow-heads of flint!” said Shagbark, with a note of sadness in his voice.

“You are right, Grandfather,” said the boy. “I will be patient.”

The old man held up the ladle he had been working on. The carved ornament on the handle was complete. “What is it now?” he asked.

“A bird!” cried Molly, clapping her hands.

“A singing bird,” added Little Turtle shyly, “to keep Corn Tassel always happy!”

For the boy already knew that Shagbark had made the ladle for the white girl captive. He knew that his grandfather wanted her to be happy as he did himself. So he was not surprised when he saw Corn Tassel holding the pretty ladle with the bird on the handle between her two white hands. She had a ladle of her own now to keep. The bird on the handle was the sign for all to see and know that the ladle belonged to Corn Tassel.

“A singing bird—to keep Corn Tassel—always—happy!” Softly, haltingly, Molly repeated the words in the Seneca language.

“She speaks! She understands!” cried Little Turtle, in great excitement.

It was true. All the time they had been talking, Molly had understood what they were saying. Due to Little Turtle’s helpful teaching, she had gradually learned some of the important words and phrases of the Seneca language. All through the long journey and all through the long weeks of her stay in the village, her ears had been growing accustomed to the strange sounds and now, suddenly, she could understand. How strange it was—a new world opening.

Molly looked at Little Turtle and Shagbark and smiled. They understood. What good friends they were!

The time had passed so happily that she had forgotten to be sad. It had passed so happily that she had forgotten the unpleasantness of the morning. It was when she was on her way back to the lodge of the Indian women that she remembered. Her unwillingness, her disobedience, her running off to the woods—all these came back to her. What would they do to her now that she had been away all day? She looked down at the ladle in her hand and the feel of the soft wood gave her courage, as she thought of the old Indian who had made it.

She hurried into the lodge, suddenly hungry. She had not eaten since morning. They were all gathered about the fire. The baby hung from the bunk pole as usual. The family was larger tonight. The husbands of the two sisters, now returned from the hunting trip, were there. Red Bird, the mother, and Swift Water, the father—they were all there.

Molly stood in the doorway and watched. She saw Red Bird dip the ladle into the big clay pot, fill a bowl and hand it to one of the men.

“The succotash is good tonight,” the woman said. “When one has worked hard and is hungry, the succotash lies well on the tongue.”

The words fell on Molly’s ear as clearly as if they had been spoken in English. Words that had before been only a jumble of queer sounds suddenly took on meaning: “The succotash is good tonight… when one has worked hard and is hungry…”

Molly stepped forward, picked up a wooden bowl and walked over to Red Bird. She reached out her hand, displaying the new ladle proudly. All eyes round the circle turned to look, not at the ladle but at Molly.

“Grandfather Shagbark made it for me,” she said in the Seneca language. “A singing bird to keep Corn Tassel happy.”

It was the first time she had spoken to them in Seneca. But no one appeared to notice. In silence, Molly handed out her bowl to be filled with succotash—hot, steaming succotash, made of corn and beans cooked together.