Indian Captive (15 page)

A dreadful thing had happened, a thing that overwhelmed her. Her rudeness to Squirrel Woman was wrong, she knew, but that was not the thing that gave her pain. A more dreadful thing than that had taken place. She ran to her bed and, filled with shame, hid her face in the blankets.

A dreadful truth like a burning fire consumed her. Molly Jemison had begun to think like an Indian, to see white people from the Indian point of view. Molly Jemison was turning into an Indian. What could she do—oh, what could she do!

A
S
M
OLLY STOOD IN
the doorway, she knew they were talking about her. She had heard the sound of her name. She had heard the word
journey.
She looked at them in confusion as their voices died away. Two strange men stood by the fire with the others; one of them looked at her and frowned. Where were they planning to take her?

Nothing more was said. For days, she lived in the shadow of a dark secret; then Shagbark called her to his lodge and had a long talk with her.

“The real home of the Senecas,” the old Indian explained, “is not here, but far away to the northeast, in Genishau or Genesee Town, by the Great Falling Waters. The Senecas are of the
Ho-di-no-sau-nee,
the People of the Long House. The Five Nations are the Senecas, the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Oneidas and the Mohawks. These tribes look upon each other as brothers and in time of war fight side by side.

“They are like families living together in one great Long House, with a door at each end. The Mohawks are the Keepers of “the Eastern Door and the Senecas are the Keepers of the Western Door. The Oneidas and the Cayugas are our younger brothers; while in the center, the Onondagas keep the council fire always burning.

“The Senecas have the power of swift feet. They can outrun any animal in the forest. And so, beside their camp-fires they are never content to remain. Far and wide over the face of the earth they roam, protecting their people, putting down their enemies, and searching always for good hunting-grounds.

“The Senecas have built villages by the River Ohio because here the soil is black and rich. In the winter they sometimes go as far south as the mouth of the River Scioto to hunt, because there the hunting is good. Always there are Senecas making the long journey from Genesee Town to the River Ohio and back again.”

“Is it a long journey over the mountains?” asked Molly, remembering.

“It is long and hard,” answered Shagbark kindly, reading the girl’s thoughts, “but not over the mountains to the eastward. It is in a northeasterly direction. Part is taken by canoe and part on foot. All is through the trackless wilderness, so it is well that the men know the way. They have traveled it many times going to and returning from the Cherokee wars.

“The two strange men who have come to your lodge are Red Bird’s sons, Shining Star’s brothers. Good Hunter and Gray Wolf go and return every season. They have wives and children at Genesee Town. The Senecas who live on the Ohio are often urged, by those at Genesee to come and live with them. It is this way—Genesee Town is
home
to all the Senecas. Good Hunter has come again to ask his mother and her family to go home with him. But Red Bird and her daughters have once more refused. They do not wish to go. They are contented here. The corn grows tall in Seneca Town by the River Ohio.”

“But why, then, do they make preparations for a journey?” asked Molly. “They have pounded parched corn and mixed it with maple sugar. They have put meal into a bag…”

“Shining Star’s two brothers are soon to make the return journey to the village by the Falling Waters,” replied Shagbark. “Others in Seneca Town are going home as soon as the corn is harvested. Shining Star and Squirrel Woman will accompany their brothers as far as Fort Duquesne, there to buy needed supplies and return. If Shining Star wished to take her pale-faced sister along, would you care to go?”

“To Fort Duquesne?” asked Molly, in amazement. “To be given away to a Frenchman?”

“Ohé!”
cried Shagbark, laughing. “What gave the child such a notion? Do you not know that you have been adopted into a powerful tribe of the Senecas? Do you not realize that no pale-face, not even a Frenchman, can take you away from the stronghearted Senecas? No—you go to Fort Duquesne and after two suns, you come back again to Seneca Town with the women.”

Fort Duquesne! Davy Wheelock and Nicholas Porter! If only they would be there, if only she could talk to them again! Molly’s face saddened. There would be no one she knew at Fort Duquesne, only Indians and blue-coated Frenchmen.

“If it is the will of Shining Star to take me,” she said, dropping her eyes, “I am ready to go.”

“You have spoken well, my daughter,” said Old Shagbark. “Your Indian sister will be pleased when she hears.”

The voyage was taken as before; the men in the large canoe leading the way, the two women in a smaller one following with Molly. Only one thing was different. Blue Jay went along, strapped to his baby frame, lying safely on the bottom of the canoe. There, with his eyes shaded by the covered hoop, he talked to himself or slept peacefully.

The forests on the hillsides were touched with patches of gay autumn color. Already the brilliant green of summer had begun to fade. Molly rested contentedly. The women did not ask her help with the paddling. For the first time in many long weeks she sat with her hands folded in her lap, idle. The sun beat down upon her golden head with pleasant warmth. After a time, she curled up on the floor of the canoe and like Blue Jay fell fast asleep.

The Indians beached their canoes on the shore opposite the fort and camped there for the night. Early the next morning they paddled across the river.

Fort Duquesne looked just the same. It had not changed at all. It looked just as it had looked five long months before in April. Molly’s heart began to pound as she stared at the hard, gray stockade walls. Then she thought of all that had happened to herself. She who had said she would never be an Indian, had been living the life of an Indian girl. The fort was just the same—it was she who had changed.

The Indian men walked first, then the women with heavy packs of furs upon their backs. Molly followed at their heels carrying Blue Jay. Behind her head she could hear him chattering contentedly.

Soon they came to the Indian trading-house. It was built of hewn logs of great size, with heavy puncheons for the roof. It was a store and fort combined for the safety of the trader and the protection of his furs and goods.

Molly walked into the cabin at the end of the little procession. She saw the Indians pick out places on the plank floor and sit down. A Frenchman appeared who spoke some words in Indian. He presented each of the Indian men with tobacco. Pipes were lighted and the bits of tobacco left over were stowed safely away inside the men’s tobacco pouches. The Indian men smoked and talked a great while among themselves. The women who had dropped their packs stood behind waiting patiently.

Arranged on shelves against the wall Molly saw a fine array of merchandise—blankets, store cloth, guns, tomahawks, and knives. Before her on the counter a pile of trinkets was displayed—balls, rings, bells of brass, brooches of silver, and piles of small glass beads in brilliant colors. She walked up closer, staring. She had never seen such things before.

“Go outside!” snapped Squirrel Woman, stepping up behind her. These goods and baubles were made by white men. To look upon them might be harmful to a white girl captive. “Go outside!” the woman cried. “A trading-house is no place for such as you.”

Blue Jay began to cry. The men looked up in surprise to see a crying baby there.

“Go outside!” Shining Star joined words with Squirrel Woman. “Let Blue Jay watch the birds. Then will he be content. Keep watch near by, within sight of the door. When the trading is over, we will come to you.”

Obediently Molly went out the door. She walked along the path, jogging Blue Jay up and down to quiet him. There were no trees at hand, no flying birds to show him. Molly walked along the path, passing by the few scattered bark houses for Indians and soldiers which made up the village.

She stared at the great fort whose walls loomed high above her. Once they had held out hope—a false hope which brought no freedom. Here she walked, a white girl, carrying an Indian baby for a burden. She looked down at her hands and arms. They were as brown as Little Turtle’s. She knew her face must be the same.

Closer and closer she came to the fort entrance. Blue Jay’s cries had died away. He was sleeping now upon her shoulder. She would go up to the entrance—the gate stood open wide—the gate through which Davy Wheelock and Nicholas Porter had walked, never to return. She would take one look inside. No one need know. Sleeping Blue Jay would not betray her. In a moment she would return before the Indians had finished their trading, before they had a chance to miss her.

Yes, it looked just the same within the fort enclosure. There stood the bake-oven, the well-sweeps, the log houses with their doors open wide. There stood the barn in the corner, but no cows were looking out. There was the garden—a few cabbages had not been pulled—and there the peach tree. Long ago its blossoms had wilted, covering the ground with petals of pink. Long ago, tiny pale green tips had turned into long green peach leaves, curling and browning now in the late summer sun.

Had the pink blossoms borne fruit? Had there been time for the hard green ball of a peach to turn into red-cheeked softness? Time enough for a white girl to turn into a brown one. Time enough for a girl to forget the family she loved. Was it time enough to grow a peach?

Before she knew it, Molly had crossed the drawbridge and entered the fort yard. The tree, like a magnet, drew her on. She could not go away till she knew. With her head pressing forward to ease the burden-strap, taking short quick steps, she ran. The leaves hung thick and heavy, curling and burning in the midday sun. She pushed them aside with trembling hands to look. The sight of a ripe, red peach against the blue sky—only that could bring her comfort…

She was all alone in the fort yard. Even if anyone should see her, they would think it was only an Indian girl with a baby. They would turn and pass her by. But a voice broke through the stillness. As the first sound struck her ear, she crept under the shadowy branches.

“Why, hello!” the voice said. “What are you doing here, little girl?”

The words echoed through Molly’s excited mind and it took a moment or two before she realized they were English—before she sensed their meaning and the friendly tone. Still she cowered beneath the branches.

Then she remembered Blue Jay. They must not see him—they must not see an Indian baby on a white girl’s back. She wheeled about quickly, to give Blue Jay a covering of green branches.

Then she looked up.

She saw a white man, dressed in blue, with lace ruffles at his sleeves. His coat was a bright, deep blue like the blue of the sky in summer. It was edged with rich gold lace and had a row of shining buttons down one side. Four Frenchmen in blue—four Frenchmen with hard, cold faces had made Molly a captive. Was this one of them? She looked up into his face to see. No, he was a stranger. His face was not hard and cold. It was kind.

“Who are you, child?” the man asked, smiling. “Why don’t you speak?”

He was not French at all. He was English. In spite of the blue Frenchman’s clothes, he could speak in English.

Molly tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but she couldn’t. She tried to find English words to say, but they refused to come. The man took her out from under the peach tree and, holding her by the hand, walked across the yard. The next thing she knew, she was in a room in one of the houses and a group of white women, dressed in gowns that sparkled in many colors, smooth like shining silver, were crowding round and looking.

“What lovely hair!” the women cried.

They touched her yellow braids—her pale yellow hair that had grown still paler, bleached by so many days spent in the burning summer sun. Molly had forgotten that her hair would tell the truth about her. The women did not think her an Indian at all.