Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Read online

  Shatto studied him critically. "You're lean enough, Blue. You'll come back fast."

  "I'm older, Rob."

  "But not much wiser to be trying this."

  Cummens ignored the barb. "By speaking Delaware and using hand signs I can re-sharpen speaking skills."

  "You ought to talk Onondaga. You'll be dealing with Blue Throat who, I'm told, is a war chief now."

  "And French, Seneca, Mohawk, Cayuga, and Tuscarora would be useful as well, Shatto. Well, a lot of it will come back, and more will be spoken in English. Joseph Brant is English literate. Queen Esther is an educated woman and . . . "

  "Esther is crazy as a loon, Blue."

  "Her thoughts are listened to among the Iroquois, Quehana."

  "Yeah, she and her sister Catherine are the only two Indian women with towns named after them that I know of. Anyway, watch out for Esther. She can be fine one minute and wild the next. Her lacings are not too tight."

  Cummens sat facing the fire, then turned directly facing his friend before leaning forward intently.

  Rob Shatto could feel the strength of James Cummens, and growing stronger within it, the persona of Blue Moccasin-the personality that Rob liked best.

  Even in the firelight, Cummens' blue eyes sparkled, almost belying the dark of Indian skin. When Cummens spoke he again used the Delaware because this would be talk between Quehana, the Arrowmaker and Blue Moccasin, the message carrier.

  "When Blue Moccasin speaks before the many Iroquois councils, his words will be warning. Though he reminds of past glories, he will paint no forthcoming victories bright with coups of honor.

  "But Blue Moccasin has always carried the words and thoughts of others. This time, all that he speaks will be his own. Blue Moccasin has killed no enemies. He has taken no trophies or marked coup in battle. Why then should chiefs and sachems value the counsel of Blue Moccasin?

  "Perhaps they will say, 'The Moccasin knows well the whites among whom he has lived,' or they may mutter, 'Blue Moccasin deserted his people and now returns only to tell those he deserted how they should live.'"

  Blue shook his head. "It could go either way, Quehana, and it may change with different councils."

  He fixed Rob with his eyes, and his lips pursed in silent amusement. With his voice speculative, Blue said, "But suppose that beside Blue Moccasin stood one of the old names? Suppose that The Warrior added his warning to that of The Moccasin?"

  Blue sighed, "Of course, that is impossible, The Warrior is with the Great Spirit."

  It was Rob's turn to smile, but his lips curled in cynicism because Blue's direction lay as clear as the Lancaster Pike.

  Blue popped his eyes as though in sudden realization. His mouth gaped idiotically, and his arms flipped sideward in pretended astonishment. Rob Shatto found it hard not to laugh aloud.

  Blue Moccasin said, "But what have I forgotten? Is not Quehana, named by The Warrior, known among the Iroquois? Did not a generation of Iroquois hunters journey to the Little Buffalo to trade for the metal arrowheads and lance points of Quehana? Is not Quehana such a mighty killer of enemies that his feats are still told among the six nations of the Iroquois League? How could I have forgotten?"

  Rob made his scorn clear. "Blue, that act would not fool a Quaker. You're as deceitful as wooden money." Disdainfully he added, "You've been leading up to this since I came off the ridge, haven't you?"

  Blue pretended insult. "Would a carrier of the forked stick deceive a friend?"

  Again serious, Blue continued in English. "Of course I have, Rob. With Quehana supporting my words, I will have three times the effect I would alone."

  Rob interrupted, "Wait a minute, Blue. Do you really figure that I will consider going among those red sticks while you argue with war chiefs?"

  Rob turned to Flat. "Did you hear him, Flat?" Blue has been smoking the long leaves." He looked at the squaw in pretended suspicion. "You didn't feed him something strange did you Flat?"

  Old Flat's shoulders jiggled in enjoyment, and her moon face beamed before she answered soberly.

  "Blue Moccasin is wise in two worlds-just as Quehana is. Blue Moccasin knows well his friend, Quehana. Blue Moccasin does not ask unless the reason is powerful."

  Flat nodded, as though confirming her own thoughts. "I will prepare traveling moccasins for Quehana as well."

  Blue thumped a thigh and laughed boyishly. "Wise is the counsel of Flat of the Delaware."

  Rob snorted, "Like hell. I'm not getting near that bunch of painted war whoops. A man could get skinned and scalped up there. Are you crazy, Blue? Why on earth would I go north?" Rob rose and stomped into the dark.

  Flat spoke softly. "There is danger, Blue Moccasin."

  Blue replied, "Great danger for us both, but together we would be as many. Will he come, Flat?"

  "You will have to persuade him."

  "Perhaps the words of Blue Moccasin are no longer like the sun."

  Flat was plain with hers. "Then the Seneca or the Cayuga will raise hatchets against you, and I need not make moccasins for you will not return."

  Blue growled in annoyance. "Your thoughts could be brighter, Flat."

  Flat listened to the night. "Plan your words carefully, oh message carrier, Quehana returns."

  Rob had gone for a length of venison. He threaded the strip along a sharpened metal rod and held it above glowing coals. When he spoke, there was no genuine annoyance in his voice, and Cummens was heartened.

  "Look, Blue, beyond provisions, I've done nearly nothing to support this war. I've always been lukewarm about fighting our own country. I remember Braddock's men fighting and dying to keep the French and Indians off of us. Colonel Bouquet and his troops did the same. The British have stood by us more than once.

  "On the other hand, Parliament has been a curse, and King George the Third hasn't given a hoot in hell what went on over here. Sending Hessians to put us down was a foul thing, so I'm willing to pitch in and set up a country of our own.

  "Don't misunderstand me, though. If the eastern colonies get in charge, they will likely mess things worse than the English have, and they will neglect the borders worse than ever. How much help did the Philadelphia Quakers give during Pontiac's rising, when we were short of everything out here? I've no confidence that we'll be better off. I'm just saying it is probably time we made our own way, including our own blunders."

  Rob spent a moment turning his meat and making sure heat was not running along the metal rod too close to his hands.

  "The Indians are another matter. The British are trying to rouse 'em, and that is also foul. The tribes are close by, and people who don't recognize the danger need rump-kicking. The situation is bad, so I'm giving consideration to what you are planning."

  Rob had chosen meat with a strip of fat running through it. He rotated the rod so most of the fat drippings stayed on the leaner venison. Drops fell to the fire and popped and flared-their smell tempting nostrils.

  Rob went on. "What you are proposing is that we tour the Six Nations, acting like a pair of honored names, trying to persuade mean bucks like Gu-Cinge, the Seneca, or that Mohawk they call Captain John to stay neutral." Rob interrupted himself. "They'll never come over to our side, Blue. That can't even be a wild dream."

  Cummens nodded agreement. "That is clear, Rob. Too many British are up there talking and gift giving. The chiefs could never side with the people encroaching on what they've got left anyway."

  Cummens gestured to remind Rob to keep turning his meat. Then the half-Indian continued.

  "Don't forget, I am thinking of the tribes as well as the frontier whites. If they choose war, the Indians will lose anything they might have held through negotiation and treaty. If the Iroquois rise against us, our people will never forgive. The only good Indian will be a dead Indian-as many already claim."

  Rob sliced the crisped venison on a split fire- log. He impaled a bit on a splinter and handed it to Flat. Becky returned from a trip to the house and accepted a taste for hersel
f. Rob and Blue ate with their knives. The meat was rich with fat juice, and jaws worked contentedly before Rob again took up the talk.

  "Quehana and Blue Moccasin trot up the old trails. They appear in villages and ask to council. Chiefs agree because it will be exciting. While waiting, Blue Moccasin entertains the people with honored tales. Quehana stands remote and fearsome." Rob grinned, "Perhaps I could hand out a few iron arrow points, like in the old days."

  Blue answered seriously. "Do not scoff. Giving points would also remind of days now past, and the young would like to touch upon those times."

  Rob continued, "Your words at council would have to be powerful, Blue. In fact, they would need to be genuine mesmerizers. Sooner or later Thayendanegea, who we call Joseph Brant, would be there to answer. He will be tough to go up against, Blue."

  Cummens switched to Delaware and used hand-talk to support his words.

  "The voice of Blue Moccasin will ring like iron striking iron. His message will become song. His words and signs will tell what may be and what could be. At times, the iron will spark and loud will be the clashing. But also, the words will tinkle like ankle bells and ring with joyous acclaim. When the message is of war, the features of Blue Moccasin will darken. When the songs are of fields, of corn, and of happy children, light will shine and expressions open in contentment."

  As he spoke, Blue Moccasin's motions and features altered with his descriptions. The listeners could sense their emotions shift with the changes in telling.

  Cummens concluded more softly. "The song of Blue Moccasin shall be heard throughout the Iroquois Nations. Its message will be known, and it will be understood.

  "Will it succeed?" Almost despairingly then, "Who among us can foretell?

  5 Preparing

  Blue supposed Rob Shatto was about forty-five years of age. Most of those years had been rugged. Rob had hacked his place from raw wilderness. He had fought through a pair of wars and probably had spent as many nights hunched beneath a hemlock as in bed. Yet, here he was, his belt still in the same notch, his eye as quick as a hawk's, and his easy physical power almost frightening to behold.

  How like The Warrior Rob was. Perhaps six feet and four inches, he towered above an average man. Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, Rob's iron-muscled body stretched his hunting shirt. Finer, shapely-formed runner's legs moved him with pantherish grace. Large bones gave big hands and thick wrists. Shatto looked as though he could crush limestone rocks like sugar cones.

  Running the woods with Rob Shatto also reminded Blue Moccasin of his time with The Warrior. Both men moved swiftly, at a clip faster than most could tolerate. To them, the pace was comfortable. Once, Blue had also found it so. Traveling by horseback and years in the city had changed that. Now, Rob's normal stride was surely killing his softer friend.

  Along Middle Ridge, Blue Moccasin wheezed to a halt. Bent forward, hands fisted on hips, lungs straining for breath, he shook his head in discouragement.

  Rob eased to a stop and came back to his companion. Humor crinkled his features as he leaned a shoulder against a tree and studied Blue's wretched condition.

  "Blue, you're in awful shape. If a pack of Shawnee hopped out of the brush you'd have to surrender."

  The worst of his distress quickly fading, Blue Moccasin sucked in a few breaths before answering.

  "Merchants do not run ridges, Quehana. Whew, I can remember when this was pleasant." He slumped onto a log, his breath easing, but troubled by his weakness.

  Rob dropped into a squat, his longrifle balanced across his forearms. It was a warrior's way of resting. Your behind stayed dry, and you were not sticking up in the air like a flagpole.

  Once, Blue would have done the same. Perhaps he could again before this trip north was over. For now, Blue did not care if he sat on a copperhead. He was bushed, and he was not recovering very fast.

  Shatto said, "Well, we've come a pair of miles. You started too fast, and coming up the ridge is stiff. For out of shape like you are, you're doing good."

  Blue groaned. "You haven't raised a sweat, and your breathing is about as heavy as a deer's. My wind is gone, and my legs are like stumps." He thumped his thighs angrily. "They feel like they are on fire, but they are also numb. Isn't that something to be admitting?"

  Rob listened to the woods for a moment, and Blue realized with a certain satisfaction that he also searched for sounds. Perhaps old instincts were still in there.

  Quehana's expression was earnest, his words encouraging. "It'll come back, Blue. This is only our second day out. You'll pick up some here, and more will return on your way north." Without change of expression or visible effort, Shatto leaned in his squat until a foot was clear of the ground, and rose easily erect on the strength of one leg.

  Blue was between a snarl and a laugh.

  "Rub it in, Quehana. Walk upon my pride, ridicule my puny strengths, embarrass me before the old ones who watch from the other world." Then he grinned, spirits reviving as his wind returned.

  "Just remember, Shatto, that I am younger than you, and that small men live longer than big ones. Before many seasons pass you will be in a chair with a quilt over your knees, and I'll still be wheezing over these hills."

  Rob struck an easier pace, circling west to test Pleasant Valley before returning to the Little Buffalo. He listened to Blue Moccasin's breathing and judged his foot strike. Actually, Blue did well. Few whites could have clung to his heels those first miles.

  Not for the first time, Rob pondered the benefits of hard upbringing. It appeared to him that strengths and skills developed during youth hung on. They might grow rusty, but most came back swiftly. Blue Moccasin had trotted thousands of miles in his younger years. He had carried his forked stick from the Potomac clear to the north side of Lake Huron.

  When Rob had been building his place, good Lord, that had been back in 1754, nearly twenty-five years ago, Blue had been flitting through the mountains like a deer fly. Even at this late date, those countless runs would pay. Blue Moccasin would again trot village-to-village carrying his stick and telling his stories.

  There was stumbling behind as Blue fought through a tangle, and Rob heard him mutter E'shan's old curse that in English sounded like, "A fat man's father!"

  Rob felt his spirit gladden. It was warming to be in the woods between the mountains with one of the real people.

  +++

  The proud Delaware called themselves Leni Lenape and believed themselves specially chosen by the Great Spirit.

  When the mighty Iroquois League had defeated the fewer Delaware in battle, they had granted the Leni Lenape status as women-a much honored position. Lineage followed the female line. Women owned the lodges, and their opinions bore weight. Katherine's Town and Esther's Town boasted female leaders, sisters who sat high in Iroquois councils.

  Scattered and thinned by war, the Delaware became honored uncles, sought as arbiters and judges. As reasoners and explainers, the Delaware excelled. Until white encroachment drove them west beyond the Allegheny River and then again even past the Shenango, the Delaware had been protected by the Iroquois confederacy. Now the once proud and powerful Leni Lenape lurked within the vastness of the little known Ohio country, mingling with the always-volatile Shawnee and at times raiding white outposts.

  Half Delaware, Blue Moccasin had lived and grown within the stable Indian societies. He had known Late Star, whose thought had been honored even to the Onondaga hearth. Blue had carried to the eastern Mohawk and west through the Seneca and the Wenro and north beyond the Niagara Falls to the Huron. And, Blue Moccasin had been as a brother to The Warrior, mightiest of the mighty, killer beyond measuring. Except for one called Blackhawk, mentioned often in tales of The Warrior, no other had stood beside the victor of a hundred combats as had Blue Moccasin.

  Until he had left the mountains, Blue had been one with the tribes. His appearance brought forth the people, to listen, laugh, and enjoy. None had been as welcome as Blue Moccasin.

  +++
/>   Outwardly, Rob strove to remain uncommitted to Blue Moccasin's venture. He spoke of it as spitting into wind, paddling up rapids, and dousing flame by waving at it, but he also noticed that Flat was making him extra moccasins, and Becky was mending his favorite hunting shirt. Rob guessed they sensed his hunger to go. The forests and the tribes had always drawn him like magnets attract iron.

  Men claimed he looked and smelled like an Indian. No one doubted that he thought like one. He knew that some believed he was at least part Indian. Rob took all of it as compliment.

  Of course, his son, George, agreed with all he said about wasting effort. George believed in letting sleeping dogs lie. To George, and most of the others, Tioga, the Iroquois' southern gate, was far across the world. Indian war held no reality for them. The tribes seemed only history. Like Braddock's massacre, the war whoop and the tomahawk were long in the past and not applicable to their lives.

  If the Iroquois came from the north like a summer storm, George and the rest could learn differently. That kind of learning could be brutally savage. Perhaps Blue Moccasin and Quehana could divert it.

  +++

  Jack Elan snorted in disgust. He glared at his wife, then at Becky, and finally at Rob.

  "Why don't you and Blue just walk on water, or maybe levitate yourselves like that Chippewa Cloud Watcher claimed to do? To convince the Iroquois of anything you'll have need of tricks at least that good."

  Recalling, Blue Moccasin said, "The Warrior slew Cloud Watcher and hung him by his hair."

  Elan touched his old black rifle as though for reassurance and took Blue's words as confirmation. "Uh huh, and that's what the Seneca or the Mohawk will likely do with you. Hell, Blue, once the medicine drums start thumping and braves get to dancing, there's no turning 'em aside." He finished with deeper exasperation tainting his voice.

  Jesting, Rob suggested, "Guess there's no use in inviting you to go along, Jack."

  Elan glared under lowered brows, and Blue smiled openly. Jack Elan had no good memories of Indians. He and his black rifle had killed Shawnee in vengeance. Although the last hostile had left Sherman's Valley fourteen years past, Elan was still seldom seen without the rifle he called Deathgiver. Jack Elan would stride on glowing coals before he would go among the tribes.