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Chapter One
Prophetstown Saturday, November 2, 1811 Kshiwe |
Ken Leland
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Kshiwe woke at dawn. Threads of smoke rose slowly from the hearth to disappear into the sliver of grey light
atop the lodge. Kshiwe’s chest brushed against his companion’s back as he rose onto one elbow. He saw their
baby boy fussing in fevered sleep just beyond Nanokas’ outstretched arm. Their fifteen-year-old daughter lay
in a bed of furs beside the south wall, and their eight-year-old son slept quietly by the western door.
Nanokas began to cough. Kshiwe pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder, and spooned himself against
her back and legs. His right palm circled between her breasts to quiet the spasms. The baby stirred, but did not
wake.
Nanokas was exhausted. Kshiwe remembered her waking at least three times in the night to nurse and comfort tiny Mishomes, and twice more their daughter hastened to cradle her infant brother, offering the tip of her finger to suck. The little one was very sick. He could keep almost nothing of the milk his mother offered, and now Nanokas seemed to be falling ill as well. We need a Midewiwin, Kshiwe thought, but the traveling healers seem fewer every year.
Kshiwe gently rubbed his companion’s throat and chest until her coughing began to subside. In her sleep she
leaned back fondly as he kissed her ear and bare shoulder. He felt himself begin to stiffen against her hip, but after a moment he rolled away carefully. Kshiwe tucked the blankets close around her, and then rose from their bed. Nanokas would appreciate sleep more than love-making after such a night. Kshiwe dressed, then bundled their youngest warmly in rabbit fur. Carrying the infant in the crook of his left arm, he opened the eastern door to the cool autumn morning.
Early fog swirled over the lake, and the mist drifted ashore to rise a short way uphill. The oak branches, now
clothed in curled brown leaves, floated high above the fog. Kshiwe lifted the bit of fur from his son’s face, now so
pale, so pinched and wrinkled as if from long starvation. He walked the hundred paces up through the forest to the plateau above the lake. Here the late-rising sun struggled to burn through clouds, and no mist covered the village pasture. The brightening fields extended out to the east and west, empty now after harvest.
Kshiwe sat cross-legged in deep yellow grass and propped Mishomes inside one knee so that the son might watch his father. With closed eyes and bowed head, Kshiwe quieted his mind and heart. As always, he prayed thanks to the Master of Life that his family had lived to see another morning. There was much to be thankful for, even in these times of sickness and terror.
Fleeting pools of sunlight rolled across the fields, warming Kshiwe’s face, and then moved on to leave cool shadows. When he opened his eyes, Mishomes was awake. His son did not cry, only watched intently.
“Mishomes – Grandfather,” he said to the infant, “I’ve missed you for so very long. I don’t know if this tiny form that Nanokas and I have made can endure, but I am so very glad you have returned, if only for a little while.”
The baby boy pushed weakly with his legs, straining from side to side as if he might wail in anguish – but then, as Kshiwe began to sing a Morning Song, Mishomes settled back against his father’s knee to listen.
Kshiwe carried his son through the forest that skirted the village but did not visit any other lodges. With the coming of sickness, the People had scattered a little way apart. Kshiwe took the infant from place to place, naming for him each kind of tree, each kind of berry bush, and even his favourite horses in the village paddock. For a time Mishomes was diverted, but then he began to sob from hunger. Senisqua, Kshiwe’s daughter, followed the sounds of the baby’s howls.
“Mother is awake now,” Senisqua said to her father. “She pretends to be angry you left with Mishomes.”
Senisqua took the infant and tucked the finger she had coated in maple syrup into his mouth. The baby quieted.
“Thank you,” she said leaning her forehead against Kshiwe’s shoulder. “Thank you from both of us.”
Fishing was always poor from Turkey Moon until the ice hardened, but even so Kshiwe paddled to the north side of the small lake. At a likely spot, he wedged the canoe into a stand of cattails.
Shishibes Lake was long and narrow; through shallows choked with weeds, it was part of a chain of sparkling lakes. As he fished, he watched the tree-lined slope where his lodge stood. His heart sank as Mishomes’ thin, tortured cries floated across the water. A little later he saw Senisqua pacing with crossed arms along the path above the lodge, and then, as if in response to Nanokas’ unheard call, Senisqua sprinted back inside as her baby brother went quiet. Fearing the worst, Kshiwe took up his paddle to return.
At that moment he heard the warning yips of a messenger rider. The rider was painted in red and black, and he whipped his horse along the trail between the lakes. He splashed down into the shallows and then charged up the northern slope.
From across the lake he heard Shkote, his eight-year-old son, calling “Father!” As he paddled, Kshiwe’s face
streamed with tears. Surely, he thought, Mishomes has left us. As he neared shore, Shkote called again.
“Father, a tobacco rider has come. The People are gathering at Okama Menomni’s lodge.”
*****
The young messenger waited with ill-concealed impatience. The villagers were scattered and slow in gathering.
Each time he began to speak, Okama Menomni held up his hand and said, “We must wait for the rest.” The messenger fingered a red-painted tobacco leaf, folded until it fit into the palm of his hand. He showed it to each Neshnabe hunter, as the villagers arrived in twos and threes. They came from lodges and cabins along the chain of lakes, and from the banks of the Yellow River some hundreds of paces to the south. At the council fire, Kshiwe took his seat to Menomni’s right. Village Speaker arrived to sit on Menomni’s left. As elders joined the inner circle, young men found a place outside the ring, then women and children farther out still. Women’s Okama sat between Kshiwe and Menomni; Youth Leader found a place just behind the ring of elders. Maukekose and Ashkum, past leaders of their own villages, took places of honour beside Kshiwe.
When Calumet-Carrier formally entered the circle, the tobacco rider stood and shouted, “The Prophet calls everyone who is a man to war! Take up the scalping knife! Mount your horses and follow me to kill the Long Knives!”
The elders were clearly appalled at such an interruption. Ashkum and Maukekose hid smiles behind their hands. Kshiwe glanced toward Village Speaker, who simply shook his head and stared at the ground. Menomni and Women’s Okama sat stone-faced. One of the elders shouted, “Young man, who is this Prophet you speak of? The Black Robes’ Christer? Main Poche? Handsome Lake? Who?”
Youth Leader stood. “Who are you, Messenger? Why should we follow you anywhere?”
“Better you begin again,” Women’s Okama directed.
Messenger stomped his foot in frustration. Clearly these villagers were primitives. “I am Swago of the Wolf Clan. My message is from The Shawnee Prophet, Tenskwatawa. The white chief Harrison leads a thousand Long Knives to attack the Prophet’s town on the Wabash River. There is great danger! Please come quickly to help fight them off.”
“That is a little better,” Village Speaker pronounced, “but not much.” He motioned for Calumet-Carrier to come
forward to open the council. “We have no Midewiwin with us, so Calumet-Carrier will lead us in opening prayers.”
As the afternoon wore on, many elders spoke in favour of aiding The Prophet. “We are Bear Clan, defenders of
the People,” one old man avowed. “How can we not go to the aid of Tenskwatawa?”
“Perhaps, dear Brother, it is just because we are Bear Clan. We are sworn to protect the Neshnabek, not the
Shawnee," another venerable hunter replied.
“Red is red,” rejoined another.
“I will follow Kshiwe as War Leader,” Okama Menomni announced.
The old okamas, Ashkum and Maukekose, were quick to agree. There was a general murmur of approval from
many of the senior Neshnabe men. The Grandmothers nodded too.
“I will lead if any will follow,” Kshiwe agreed. He turned to Youth Leader. “If there are young men who have never gone to war, send them to me before morning. I will tell them what is expected if they wish to join.”
Wednesday, November 6, 1811
The Wagoner
Tom’s freight wagon was heavily laden with officers’ travel beds, tables, and camp chairs, and there were two
live steers hitched to the back gate. As he loosed the brake, ropes wrenched the animals’ necks, pulling them down the creek bank after the Conestoga wagon. Then, in midstream, Tom shouted and whipped the horses up the opposite slope. A dozen commissary wagons had already churned the water to a black, muddy stew. Tom was glad he was near the front of the baggage train; teamsters behind would find it harder and harder to cross. It was
dangerous for Tom, a slave clamped in leg irons, to jump down if the wagon was mired in a bog.
One of the cattle bawled as Tom slowed the horses to a walking pace. He glanced back to check for a broken leg. A maimed steer would be steak for supper.
Then he looked back again, at the left rear wheel.
The baggage train wound between oaks too massive to fell. Iron-rimmed, shoulder-high wheels cut into the blanket of brown leaves. Dry branches as thick as Tom’s wrist snapped like rifle shots beneath the grinding wheels. Far out to the left, through the bare autumn trees, was a long line of blue-coated regulars. Close in, dragoons guarded the supply column and to the right, toward the river, were companies of the Indiana Territorial Militia in brown homespun jackets and fur caps – a thousand soldiers, more or less. A man, even one with Tom’s well-deserved reputation as a runner, would find it hard to disappear in the midst of such an army on this bright November afternoon.
The army had marched for over a month, stopping only once to build a redoubt of wooden blockhouses. Planning for disaster, Territorial Governor William Henry Harrison thought, was prudent when fighting Indians – particularly when surprising the Indians was not possible. As they trekked north from Vincennes, Redskin spies glided furtively through the forest; and then, after his men forded the Wabash, they were shadowed by riders from prairie hilltops.
With Tecumseh away, fomenting trouble elsewhere, Governor Harrison was determined to seize this opportunity to clear away a batch of ungovernable savages. Watching their destruction approach slowly would make the heathens anxious, and anxiety would lead to mistakes by Tecumseh’s younger brother, Tenskwatawa, The Prophet. The Prophet was a reformed drunkard without military experience. Harrison thought Tecumseh’s absence could hardly be more propitious.
Harrison, with aides and gentlemen volunteers, rode at the head of the central column, just in front of the artillery and supply train. After an hour or two, the army emerged onto an expanse of prairie. There, on a rise at the northern horizon, was the usual cluster of mounted savages. But this time, one barbarian carried a towel-sized white cloth tied to a lance. At a little distance were several bare-chested youths with a lengthy string of ponies.
“Stop here,” Harrison ordered. Bugles sang out and the three columns lurched to a halt. "Lieutenant Fowler, take a sergeant and go find out what those bastards want.”
Harrison dismounted as regular army and militia officers clustered around the tall, finely-tailored Governor. They watched as Lt. Fowler rode out at a walking pace to parley.
“Bring up the furniture,” Harrison ordered. “It looks like we’ll be here for a while.”
Tom carried camp chairs in each arm as he limped with iron-measured strides. All around, orderlies and servants scurried to lay campfires, raise a canvas pavilion against the sun, close crop the prairie grass, and position a writing table between American and regimental flags. Colonels, majors, and captains, with swords dangling, gathered beneath the canvas. They formed an intimidating array behind the Governor’s chair. Lt. Fowler rode in slowly with half a dozen Redskins in tow, then more slowly still, until Fowler could see that all was ready at the Governor’s tent.
Harrison stepped forward to drape his right hand over a finely crafted, plush chair. His left fist gripped his sword pommel as he stood stiffly erect. “Stand over there, Hannibal,” Harrison said, nodding to a young black servant of about thirteen years. The youngster balanced a water pitcher and a single crystal drinking-glass on a silver tray. Gingerly the boy moved through the freshly mown grass to a spot beside the writing table. Tom, the wagoner, watched his son from behind the line of officers.
“Governor Harrison,” Lt. Fowler said, “This Shawnee Chief is called White Horse. He says he speaks for
Tenskwatawa.”
Harrison noticed that The Prophet’s ambassador was dressed as if white men had never touched North America. In place of the usual flowing cloth shirt and colourful head-wrap, he wore a buckskin vest over a bare, heavily tattooed chest. His head was shaved to a scalp-lock to which a feather was tied with a leather throng. Even his tomahawk was of stone instead of fur-trader’s iron. Clearly this man was a disciple.
“Tenskwatawa sends greeting to Governor Harrison,” the translator began for White Horse. “Though you come
with an army at your back, we offer you the hand of friendship and assure you...”
“Enough of that,” Harrison growled as he sat down. The line of officers behind him took their seats as well, leaving White Horse standing alone, a petitioner. “I have told every delegation from the Shawnee charlatan the same thing, but I will say it one last time. We want the murderers of the Illinois settlers, and the horses they stole. The Winnebago, the Kickapoo, and all strangers to this Territory must leave Prophetstown and return to their own villages. Turn the marauders over to us, tell the strangers to go home, and we will leave you in peace. We have come to remind you that murder has a price.”
The Prophet’s ambassador clenched his teeth but only pointed toward the ponies held by a handful of young
Shawnee men. “Here are twenty horses. Is that enough?”
Harrison ordered Lt. Fowler to inspect the herd, and then waved toward the young slave to bring him water.
Harrison sprawled back in the chair, swirling his drink in the sparkling glass. He said nothing, nor did he look at White Horse.
“No brands,” Lt. Fowler reported.
“So, these are not the horses that were stolen,” Harrison concluded. “But perhaps those men are the murders, eh?” he said, pointing to the Shawnee drovers. White Horse began to reply, but Harrison cut him off.
“No?” Harrison continued. “Always no. Perhaps you think I’m a fool.”
“Main Poche led the raiders who killed the settlers,” White Horse insisted. “Main Poche is not of our People. He is not here, nor are his warriors. He lives far to the north, in the Illinois country.”
“Stories for children,” Harrison spat. “Well, sometimes I discipline my children. Tomorrow the discipline will begin.”
“Wait. Tomorrow, Tenskwatawa will come to speak to you, Governor Harrison.”
“Be sure that he does. And be sure he brings the murdering cowards and the stolen horses. My patience is at
an end.”
*****
As Tom carried camp chairs back to the wagon, the young servant Hannibal hurried after him.
“Daddy,” Hannibal said, “I ain’t seen you for three days.”
“At night, now, they chain me to the wagon.”
“I’ll come see you.”
“No, I got an idea for tonight. You stay clear.”
“Daddy, if you run again, they’ll whip you.”
“Maybe I can get us some help.”
“Oh, Daddy. Who’s goin’ to help us way out here?”
*****
Rain clouds darkened the early autumn evening. Army guides found a wooded ten-acre plateau, surrounded on three sides by low prairie and a modest creek along the western edge. Harrison directed the artillery and baggage train into the woodlot’s centre. As the troops lit bonfires, servants emptied the wagons of tents and furniture. The foot-soldiers threw their backpacks into the wagons and then arranged themselves along the perimeter in a shortened, rectangular box. With Prophetstown less than two miles away, the troops prepared to sleep, fully-dressed, beside their weapons on firing lines. As thunder rumbled in the distance, Harrison did not order that trees be felled to form barricades. The inferior axes the civilian commissioners provided had broken daily since they left Vincennes, and there were hardly any left. The men would be uncomfortable enough in what promised to be a cold, wet evening without blistering their hands uselessly.
Water dripped from the pavilion’s edge as Hannibal circled Harrison’s crowded supper table. The boy poured
Madeira as the officers tucked into a supper of roast prairie chicken.
“A happy change from pork and steak,” a Kentucky major laughed.
“Catfish last week was a treat,” said the Fourth Regiment’s Commander. A score of officers fell to as the courtly Virginian, Governor William Henry Harrison, presided.
Later, over cigars, there came a break in the conviviality. The newly joined commander of mounted riflemen
remarked, “Your Excellency, Chief White Horse is probably right about Main Poche leading the killers.”
“Oh, almost surely he is,” Harrison agreed.
An awkward silence descended.
The young commander marshalled his courage. “What then, Sir, do you expect The Prophet to say tomorrow?”
“What will he say? Oh, my dear Sir, it hardly matters.”
Barks of laughter sprang from both sides of the supper table.
Harrison chuckled. “Commander, you don’t imagine we’ve gathered all these men, came all this way, just to go
home again?”
“Kill the bloody bastards!” was the drunken call from the table’s end.
“Oh, yes indeed, we most certainly will,” Harrison smiled.
Hannibal leaned in to refresh the Governor’s coffee. Thunder crashed like a man’s full-throated roar. Hannibal
stared out through the torrent, toward the wagon park.
“Damnation, boy! Watch what you’re doing!” Harrison shouted. Hannibal ran for a towel to sop the stained table cloth.
Earlier that evening, as Tom drove into the bivouac, another teamster cursed him when he whipped his team
toward a particularly level patch of ground. The Quartermaster Sergeant slapped a crop against his blue striped
trousers. “What you think you’re doin’? Get back in line!”
“These are the Governor’s things, Mr. Sergeant. He’ll want ’em directly.”
When the Quartermaster turned away, Tom scanned the ground for flat rocks. Moving as fast as the shackles
allowed, he stopped the Conestoga’s wheels with square wooden blocks, then unhitched the team and led them to the horse-lines. Rain began to fall as he emptied the wagon of chairs, tables and straw-padded boxes of Madeira. He dared not speak to Hannibal as he carried the supplies into Harrison’s tent.
An hour later, the Quartermaster returned with an iron lock and a short length of chain.
“Too wet to run tonight, Tom," he said. "All them Injuns out there – those nappy curls would make a helluva scalp for somebody.”
“Evenin’, Sir,” was all Tom said from his dry spot beneath the wagon. The Quartermaster reached down as if to chain his leg irons to the left rear wheel.
“Please, Sir,” Tom asked in a panic. “Please do like last night and use the axle. That way I’ll be drier.”
“Aaaah,” the Quartermaster groaned as he crouched lower to reach the wooden pole that ran between the two
back wheels. “You’re just a goddamned nuisance. Maybe I’ll feed you to the Redskins. Bet they’d like black meat for a change.” He draped the chain over the axle and locked Tom’s leg-irons into the loop. Then he groaned again as he rolled out from beneath the wagon, back into the pouring rain.
Injuns don’t eat people, Tom thought. Do they? Then he realised he would be counting on them for a lot more than that.
Later, the Quartermaster brought Tom a plate of pork and beans, floating in rainwater. After supper, the army’s soldiers sought shelter beneath canvas tarps at the firing lines, leaving the baggage park unguarded in the storm. The ground under the wagon was still mostly dry as Tom pretended to sleep. In the early evening, thunder began to crash and Tom glanced all around. He stretched to grab the flat stone wedged behind the right front wheel, and then he crawled over to retrieve the second rock. The back wheels were stopped by solid wooden blocks. Tom slid his shackles to the very end of the axle beside the rear left wheel. Then he positioned the stones and one wooden slab, atop them, beneath the middle of the axle. He braced his back awkwardly to lift the mostly empty wagon bed, just enough to slide the second wooden block onto the stack. Now the wheel was a finger’s width off the ground, supported by the blocks. Tom bent double to reach around it, out into the rain to grasp the metal ring holding the wheel’s hub to the axle.
Last night, after being twisted with all his strength, the ring had turned a fraction of an inch. In desperation, Tom almost loosened the wheel entirely before realising that the unsupported wagon would crash onto his legs if the wheel fell free. Tonight Tom was prepared. The wagon bed stood supported on level ground. All he needed was to unscrew the ring, push off the wheel, and slide the chain from the axle. Tom twisted the ring, but his right hand slipped on the rain-slick metal. He thrust his hand into the drier soil beneath the wagon and tried again. This time the whole wheel rotated. Tom gripped a spoke with his left hand, fearful now, that he might roll the wagon off the supporting blocks. Again he twisted with all his might, grit tearing his palm on the ring. Nothing. With a gasp, Tom collapsed back onto the sodden ground. Rain washed his face as lightning streaked overhead. My son will die a slave if I can’t do this, Tom thought. He breathed deeply, and again dug his hand into the dirt. Please, Lord. Help me.
The muscles in Tom’s right arm strained to bursting. He screamed as thunder rolled through the glen.
The ring moved.
The wheel was loose now. Tom waited for the next deafening flash and then pushed the wheel free. It fell unnoticed in the returning darkness. Tom slipped the chain from the axle and began to crawl through the camp toward the picket line.
atop the lodge. Kshiwe’s chest brushed against his companion’s back as he rose onto one elbow. He saw their
baby boy fussing in fevered sleep just beyond Nanokas’ outstretched arm. Their fifteen-year-old daughter lay
in a bed of furs beside the south wall, and their eight-year-old son slept quietly by the western door.
Nanokas began to cough. Kshiwe pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder, and spooned himself against
her back and legs. His right palm circled between her breasts to quiet the spasms. The baby stirred, but did not
wake.
Nanokas was exhausted. Kshiwe remembered her waking at least three times in the night to nurse and comfort tiny Mishomes, and twice more their daughter hastened to cradle her infant brother, offering the tip of her finger to suck. The little one was very sick. He could keep almost nothing of the milk his mother offered, and now Nanokas seemed to be falling ill as well. We need a Midewiwin, Kshiwe thought, but the traveling healers seem fewer every year.
Kshiwe gently rubbed his companion’s throat and chest until her coughing began to subside. In her sleep she
leaned back fondly as he kissed her ear and bare shoulder. He felt himself begin to stiffen against her hip, but after a moment he rolled away carefully. Kshiwe tucked the blankets close around her, and then rose from their bed. Nanokas would appreciate sleep more than love-making after such a night. Kshiwe dressed, then bundled their youngest warmly in rabbit fur. Carrying the infant in the crook of his left arm, he opened the eastern door to the cool autumn morning.
Early fog swirled over the lake, and the mist drifted ashore to rise a short way uphill. The oak branches, now
clothed in curled brown leaves, floated high above the fog. Kshiwe lifted the bit of fur from his son’s face, now so
pale, so pinched and wrinkled as if from long starvation. He walked the hundred paces up through the forest to the plateau above the lake. Here the late-rising sun struggled to burn through clouds, and no mist covered the village pasture. The brightening fields extended out to the east and west, empty now after harvest.
Kshiwe sat cross-legged in deep yellow grass and propped Mishomes inside one knee so that the son might watch his father. With closed eyes and bowed head, Kshiwe quieted his mind and heart. As always, he prayed thanks to the Master of Life that his family had lived to see another morning. There was much to be thankful for, even in these times of sickness and terror.
Fleeting pools of sunlight rolled across the fields, warming Kshiwe’s face, and then moved on to leave cool shadows. When he opened his eyes, Mishomes was awake. His son did not cry, only watched intently.
“Mishomes – Grandfather,” he said to the infant, “I’ve missed you for so very long. I don’t know if this tiny form that Nanokas and I have made can endure, but I am so very glad you have returned, if only for a little while.”
The baby boy pushed weakly with his legs, straining from side to side as if he might wail in anguish – but then, as Kshiwe began to sing a Morning Song, Mishomes settled back against his father’s knee to listen.
Kshiwe carried his son through the forest that skirted the village but did not visit any other lodges. With the coming of sickness, the People had scattered a little way apart. Kshiwe took the infant from place to place, naming for him each kind of tree, each kind of berry bush, and even his favourite horses in the village paddock. For a time Mishomes was diverted, but then he began to sob from hunger. Senisqua, Kshiwe’s daughter, followed the sounds of the baby’s howls.
“Mother is awake now,” Senisqua said to her father. “She pretends to be angry you left with Mishomes.”
Senisqua took the infant and tucked the finger she had coated in maple syrup into his mouth. The baby quieted.
“Thank you,” she said leaning her forehead against Kshiwe’s shoulder. “Thank you from both of us.”
Fishing was always poor from Turkey Moon until the ice hardened, but even so Kshiwe paddled to the north side of the small lake. At a likely spot, he wedged the canoe into a stand of cattails.
Shishibes Lake was long and narrow; through shallows choked with weeds, it was part of a chain of sparkling lakes. As he fished, he watched the tree-lined slope where his lodge stood. His heart sank as Mishomes’ thin, tortured cries floated across the water. A little later he saw Senisqua pacing with crossed arms along the path above the lodge, and then, as if in response to Nanokas’ unheard call, Senisqua sprinted back inside as her baby brother went quiet. Fearing the worst, Kshiwe took up his paddle to return.
At that moment he heard the warning yips of a messenger rider. The rider was painted in red and black, and he whipped his horse along the trail between the lakes. He splashed down into the shallows and then charged up the northern slope.
From across the lake he heard Shkote, his eight-year-old son, calling “Father!” As he paddled, Kshiwe’s face
streamed with tears. Surely, he thought, Mishomes has left us. As he neared shore, Shkote called again.
“Father, a tobacco rider has come. The People are gathering at Okama Menomni’s lodge.”
*****
The young messenger waited with ill-concealed impatience. The villagers were scattered and slow in gathering.
Each time he began to speak, Okama Menomni held up his hand and said, “We must wait for the rest.” The messenger fingered a red-painted tobacco leaf, folded until it fit into the palm of his hand. He showed it to each Neshnabe hunter, as the villagers arrived in twos and threes. They came from lodges and cabins along the chain of lakes, and from the banks of the Yellow River some hundreds of paces to the south. At the council fire, Kshiwe took his seat to Menomni’s right. Village Speaker arrived to sit on Menomni’s left. As elders joined the inner circle, young men found a place outside the ring, then women and children farther out still. Women’s Okama sat between Kshiwe and Menomni; Youth Leader found a place just behind the ring of elders. Maukekose and Ashkum, past leaders of their own villages, took places of honour beside Kshiwe.
When Calumet-Carrier formally entered the circle, the tobacco rider stood and shouted, “The Prophet calls everyone who is a man to war! Take up the scalping knife! Mount your horses and follow me to kill the Long Knives!”
The elders were clearly appalled at such an interruption. Ashkum and Maukekose hid smiles behind their hands. Kshiwe glanced toward Village Speaker, who simply shook his head and stared at the ground. Menomni and Women’s Okama sat stone-faced. One of the elders shouted, “Young man, who is this Prophet you speak of? The Black Robes’ Christer? Main Poche? Handsome Lake? Who?”
Youth Leader stood. “Who are you, Messenger? Why should we follow you anywhere?”
“Better you begin again,” Women’s Okama directed.
Messenger stomped his foot in frustration. Clearly these villagers were primitives. “I am Swago of the Wolf Clan. My message is from The Shawnee Prophet, Tenskwatawa. The white chief Harrison leads a thousand Long Knives to attack the Prophet’s town on the Wabash River. There is great danger! Please come quickly to help fight them off.”
“That is a little better,” Village Speaker pronounced, “but not much.” He motioned for Calumet-Carrier to come
forward to open the council. “We have no Midewiwin with us, so Calumet-Carrier will lead us in opening prayers.”
As the afternoon wore on, many elders spoke in favour of aiding The Prophet. “We are Bear Clan, defenders of
the People,” one old man avowed. “How can we not go to the aid of Tenskwatawa?”
“Perhaps, dear Brother, it is just because we are Bear Clan. We are sworn to protect the Neshnabek, not the
Shawnee," another venerable hunter replied.
“Red is red,” rejoined another.
“I will follow Kshiwe as War Leader,” Okama Menomni announced.
The old okamas, Ashkum and Maukekose, were quick to agree. There was a general murmur of approval from
many of the senior Neshnabe men. The Grandmothers nodded too.
“I will lead if any will follow,” Kshiwe agreed. He turned to Youth Leader. “If there are young men who have never gone to war, send them to me before morning. I will tell them what is expected if they wish to join.”
Wednesday, November 6, 1811
The Wagoner
Tom’s freight wagon was heavily laden with officers’ travel beds, tables, and camp chairs, and there were two
live steers hitched to the back gate. As he loosed the brake, ropes wrenched the animals’ necks, pulling them down the creek bank after the Conestoga wagon. Then, in midstream, Tom shouted and whipped the horses up the opposite slope. A dozen commissary wagons had already churned the water to a black, muddy stew. Tom was glad he was near the front of the baggage train; teamsters behind would find it harder and harder to cross. It was
dangerous for Tom, a slave clamped in leg irons, to jump down if the wagon was mired in a bog.
One of the cattle bawled as Tom slowed the horses to a walking pace. He glanced back to check for a broken leg. A maimed steer would be steak for supper.
Then he looked back again, at the left rear wheel.
The baggage train wound between oaks too massive to fell. Iron-rimmed, shoulder-high wheels cut into the blanket of brown leaves. Dry branches as thick as Tom’s wrist snapped like rifle shots beneath the grinding wheels. Far out to the left, through the bare autumn trees, was a long line of blue-coated regulars. Close in, dragoons guarded the supply column and to the right, toward the river, were companies of the Indiana Territorial Militia in brown homespun jackets and fur caps – a thousand soldiers, more or less. A man, even one with Tom’s well-deserved reputation as a runner, would find it hard to disappear in the midst of such an army on this bright November afternoon.
The army had marched for over a month, stopping only once to build a redoubt of wooden blockhouses. Planning for disaster, Territorial Governor William Henry Harrison thought, was prudent when fighting Indians – particularly when surprising the Indians was not possible. As they trekked north from Vincennes, Redskin spies glided furtively through the forest; and then, after his men forded the Wabash, they were shadowed by riders from prairie hilltops.
With Tecumseh away, fomenting trouble elsewhere, Governor Harrison was determined to seize this opportunity to clear away a batch of ungovernable savages. Watching their destruction approach slowly would make the heathens anxious, and anxiety would lead to mistakes by Tecumseh’s younger brother, Tenskwatawa, The Prophet. The Prophet was a reformed drunkard without military experience. Harrison thought Tecumseh’s absence could hardly be more propitious.
Harrison, with aides and gentlemen volunteers, rode at the head of the central column, just in front of the artillery and supply train. After an hour or two, the army emerged onto an expanse of prairie. There, on a rise at the northern horizon, was the usual cluster of mounted savages. But this time, one barbarian carried a towel-sized white cloth tied to a lance. At a little distance were several bare-chested youths with a lengthy string of ponies.
“Stop here,” Harrison ordered. Bugles sang out and the three columns lurched to a halt. "Lieutenant Fowler, take a sergeant and go find out what those bastards want.”
Harrison dismounted as regular army and militia officers clustered around the tall, finely-tailored Governor. They watched as Lt. Fowler rode out at a walking pace to parley.
“Bring up the furniture,” Harrison ordered. “It looks like we’ll be here for a while.”
Tom carried camp chairs in each arm as he limped with iron-measured strides. All around, orderlies and servants scurried to lay campfires, raise a canvas pavilion against the sun, close crop the prairie grass, and position a writing table between American and regimental flags. Colonels, majors, and captains, with swords dangling, gathered beneath the canvas. They formed an intimidating array behind the Governor’s chair. Lt. Fowler rode in slowly with half a dozen Redskins in tow, then more slowly still, until Fowler could see that all was ready at the Governor’s tent.
Harrison stepped forward to drape his right hand over a finely crafted, plush chair. His left fist gripped his sword pommel as he stood stiffly erect. “Stand over there, Hannibal,” Harrison said, nodding to a young black servant of about thirteen years. The youngster balanced a water pitcher and a single crystal drinking-glass on a silver tray. Gingerly the boy moved through the freshly mown grass to a spot beside the writing table. Tom, the wagoner, watched his son from behind the line of officers.
“Governor Harrison,” Lt. Fowler said, “This Shawnee Chief is called White Horse. He says he speaks for
Tenskwatawa.”
Harrison noticed that The Prophet’s ambassador was dressed as if white men had never touched North America. In place of the usual flowing cloth shirt and colourful head-wrap, he wore a buckskin vest over a bare, heavily tattooed chest. His head was shaved to a scalp-lock to which a feather was tied with a leather throng. Even his tomahawk was of stone instead of fur-trader’s iron. Clearly this man was a disciple.
“Tenskwatawa sends greeting to Governor Harrison,” the translator began for White Horse. “Though you come
with an army at your back, we offer you the hand of friendship and assure you...”
“Enough of that,” Harrison growled as he sat down. The line of officers behind him took their seats as well, leaving White Horse standing alone, a petitioner. “I have told every delegation from the Shawnee charlatan the same thing, but I will say it one last time. We want the murderers of the Illinois settlers, and the horses they stole. The Winnebago, the Kickapoo, and all strangers to this Territory must leave Prophetstown and return to their own villages. Turn the marauders over to us, tell the strangers to go home, and we will leave you in peace. We have come to remind you that murder has a price.”
The Prophet’s ambassador clenched his teeth but only pointed toward the ponies held by a handful of young
Shawnee men. “Here are twenty horses. Is that enough?”
Harrison ordered Lt. Fowler to inspect the herd, and then waved toward the young slave to bring him water.
Harrison sprawled back in the chair, swirling his drink in the sparkling glass. He said nothing, nor did he look at White Horse.
“No brands,” Lt. Fowler reported.
“So, these are not the horses that were stolen,” Harrison concluded. “But perhaps those men are the murders, eh?” he said, pointing to the Shawnee drovers. White Horse began to reply, but Harrison cut him off.
“No?” Harrison continued. “Always no. Perhaps you think I’m a fool.”
“Main Poche led the raiders who killed the settlers,” White Horse insisted. “Main Poche is not of our People. He is not here, nor are his warriors. He lives far to the north, in the Illinois country.”
“Stories for children,” Harrison spat. “Well, sometimes I discipline my children. Tomorrow the discipline will begin.”
“Wait. Tomorrow, Tenskwatawa will come to speak to you, Governor Harrison.”
“Be sure that he does. And be sure he brings the murdering cowards and the stolen horses. My patience is at
an end.”
*****
As Tom carried camp chairs back to the wagon, the young servant Hannibal hurried after him.
“Daddy,” Hannibal said, “I ain’t seen you for three days.”
“At night, now, they chain me to the wagon.”
“I’ll come see you.”
“No, I got an idea for tonight. You stay clear.”
“Daddy, if you run again, they’ll whip you.”
“Maybe I can get us some help.”
“Oh, Daddy. Who’s goin’ to help us way out here?”
*****
Rain clouds darkened the early autumn evening. Army guides found a wooded ten-acre plateau, surrounded on three sides by low prairie and a modest creek along the western edge. Harrison directed the artillery and baggage train into the woodlot’s centre. As the troops lit bonfires, servants emptied the wagons of tents and furniture. The foot-soldiers threw their backpacks into the wagons and then arranged themselves along the perimeter in a shortened, rectangular box. With Prophetstown less than two miles away, the troops prepared to sleep, fully-dressed, beside their weapons on firing lines. As thunder rumbled in the distance, Harrison did not order that trees be felled to form barricades. The inferior axes the civilian commissioners provided had broken daily since they left Vincennes, and there were hardly any left. The men would be uncomfortable enough in what promised to be a cold, wet evening without blistering their hands uselessly.
Water dripped from the pavilion’s edge as Hannibal circled Harrison’s crowded supper table. The boy poured
Madeira as the officers tucked into a supper of roast prairie chicken.
“A happy change from pork and steak,” a Kentucky major laughed.
“Catfish last week was a treat,” said the Fourth Regiment’s Commander. A score of officers fell to as the courtly Virginian, Governor William Henry Harrison, presided.
Later, over cigars, there came a break in the conviviality. The newly joined commander of mounted riflemen
remarked, “Your Excellency, Chief White Horse is probably right about Main Poche leading the killers.”
“Oh, almost surely he is,” Harrison agreed.
An awkward silence descended.
The young commander marshalled his courage. “What then, Sir, do you expect The Prophet to say tomorrow?”
“What will he say? Oh, my dear Sir, it hardly matters.”
Barks of laughter sprang from both sides of the supper table.
Harrison chuckled. “Commander, you don’t imagine we’ve gathered all these men, came all this way, just to go
home again?”
“Kill the bloody bastards!” was the drunken call from the table’s end.
“Oh, yes indeed, we most certainly will,” Harrison smiled.
Hannibal leaned in to refresh the Governor’s coffee. Thunder crashed like a man’s full-throated roar. Hannibal
stared out through the torrent, toward the wagon park.
“Damnation, boy! Watch what you’re doing!” Harrison shouted. Hannibal ran for a towel to sop the stained table cloth.
Earlier that evening, as Tom drove into the bivouac, another teamster cursed him when he whipped his team
toward a particularly level patch of ground. The Quartermaster Sergeant slapped a crop against his blue striped
trousers. “What you think you’re doin’? Get back in line!”
“These are the Governor’s things, Mr. Sergeant. He’ll want ’em directly.”
When the Quartermaster turned away, Tom scanned the ground for flat rocks. Moving as fast as the shackles
allowed, he stopped the Conestoga’s wheels with square wooden blocks, then unhitched the team and led them to the horse-lines. Rain began to fall as he emptied the wagon of chairs, tables and straw-padded boxes of Madeira. He dared not speak to Hannibal as he carried the supplies into Harrison’s tent.
An hour later, the Quartermaster returned with an iron lock and a short length of chain.
“Too wet to run tonight, Tom," he said. "All them Injuns out there – those nappy curls would make a helluva scalp for somebody.”
“Evenin’, Sir,” was all Tom said from his dry spot beneath the wagon. The Quartermaster reached down as if to chain his leg irons to the left rear wheel.
“Please, Sir,” Tom asked in a panic. “Please do like last night and use the axle. That way I’ll be drier.”
“Aaaah,” the Quartermaster groaned as he crouched lower to reach the wooden pole that ran between the two
back wheels. “You’re just a goddamned nuisance. Maybe I’ll feed you to the Redskins. Bet they’d like black meat for a change.” He draped the chain over the axle and locked Tom’s leg-irons into the loop. Then he groaned again as he rolled out from beneath the wagon, back into the pouring rain.
Injuns don’t eat people, Tom thought. Do they? Then he realised he would be counting on them for a lot more than that.
Later, the Quartermaster brought Tom a plate of pork and beans, floating in rainwater. After supper, the army’s soldiers sought shelter beneath canvas tarps at the firing lines, leaving the baggage park unguarded in the storm. The ground under the wagon was still mostly dry as Tom pretended to sleep. In the early evening, thunder began to crash and Tom glanced all around. He stretched to grab the flat stone wedged behind the right front wheel, and then he crawled over to retrieve the second rock. The back wheels were stopped by solid wooden blocks. Tom slid his shackles to the very end of the axle beside the rear left wheel. Then he positioned the stones and one wooden slab, atop them, beneath the middle of the axle. He braced his back awkwardly to lift the mostly empty wagon bed, just enough to slide the second wooden block onto the stack. Now the wheel was a finger’s width off the ground, supported by the blocks. Tom bent double to reach around it, out into the rain to grasp the metal ring holding the wheel’s hub to the axle.
Last night, after being twisted with all his strength, the ring had turned a fraction of an inch. In desperation, Tom almost loosened the wheel entirely before realising that the unsupported wagon would crash onto his legs if the wheel fell free. Tonight Tom was prepared. The wagon bed stood supported on level ground. All he needed was to unscrew the ring, push off the wheel, and slide the chain from the axle. Tom twisted the ring, but his right hand slipped on the rain-slick metal. He thrust his hand into the drier soil beneath the wagon and tried again. This time the whole wheel rotated. Tom gripped a spoke with his left hand, fearful now, that he might roll the wagon off the supporting blocks. Again he twisted with all his might, grit tearing his palm on the ring. Nothing. With a gasp, Tom collapsed back onto the sodden ground. Rain washed his face as lightning streaked overhead. My son will die a slave if I can’t do this, Tom thought. He breathed deeply, and again dug his hand into the dirt. Please, Lord. Help me.
The muscles in Tom’s right arm strained to bursting. He screamed as thunder rolled through the glen.
The ring moved.
The wheel was loose now. Tom waited for the next deafening flash and then pushed the wheel free. It fell unnoticed in the returning darkness. Tom slipped the chain from the axle and began to crawl through the camp toward the picket line.
