Seneca Surrender (4 page)

“
Wah-ha
, young beauty,
sleep well into the night.
The Creator shall take pity
so fear thee not.
Wah-ha
, young beauty,
sleep well into the night.
The Creator shall take pity
so fear thee not.”

“Always they want something,” his grandmother Evening Song had said to the council of sachems. White Thunder had been present, listening. “Always they ask for Seneca boys and men to fight their wars. ‘Come and die for us,’ they say. ‘Come and die for us and we will ensure you keep the land you have always owned.’ Beware, I say. He who gives a man what is already his is not to be trusted.”

Silence had followed her speech.

At last a chief of the third party of the sachems rose up to speak. He said, “Your words are wise, Grandmother. Have you said all that you wish to say?”

Evening Song had nodded.

“Oyendere, good. But I will say this. Do you forget that a council was held on this matter and that the outcome has already been decided? We of the Seneca Nation objected to siding with the English in this fight, but as is the law of the Confederate Council, the matter was referred to the Firekeepers, the Onondagas. As you well know, their decision is fi nal.

“Let me repeat in my own words their resolution: Long it is that we have been tied to the English, even before William Johnson, who represents them, came to be a member of our Nation. As you might well know at the time of the Firekeepers’ decision, the Mohawk were already fighting the war alongside William Johnson, and as we have been cautioned by the Peacemaker, if we of the League are to remain strong, we must be united. Besides, when have either the English or the League broken the Covenant Chain, a silver chain that was forged long ago, and which binds us to the English? Never have they broken that chain. Never have we. It ties us to them, and they to us.

“Has not William Johnson shown us how the English will debate and discuss our problems as though they were their own? And if he is our brother, are we to ignore him in his time of need?”

There was silence in the hall as the wise sachems listened and nodded their approval.

Yet Evening Song rose up again to address the council, and she said, “Have you spoken all that you wish to say?”

“I have.”

“Oyendere, very good. Your words are true. William Johnson has done much for the Mohawk. But beware. He is English though he presents himself as Mohawk. And now he attempts to speak for all the people of the Six Nations, and place himself as one of our wisest sachems. But William Johnson is not Seneca. He does not know our sons and daughters, and thus, not knowing, how can he provide for their needs?

“But do not think, because I say this about William Johnson, that the French are any better. Have you not noticed that whenever the French trader Joncaire, comes to our country, that he talks a crooked talk? And the English are no better. With their talk, they each try to incite our people to hatred for one or the other of them. Do you not recall how last summer Joncaire spread stories of fear and hatred of the English? Did he not say that the English desired to kill us and take our lands? That both the French and the English were planning to attack the Six Nations and drive us from the face of this land, Turtle Island? Yet, we found these tales to be lies.

“Save for William Johnson, have not the English done the same? Overstating a half-truth so as to incite our men and women to hatred of the French? And what is it that they want, that they all say? ‘Fight for us,’ ‘Send your best into battle for us.’ I ask this about that: What is wrong with the English and the French that they cannot fi ght their own wars?

“Harken, ye wise sachems. He who would once lie to you about a thing will do so again. As a lion cannot change his ways of stealth, so, too, this sort of man cannot change habits. Have not our wise fathers told us that he who lies even once will always in the end revert to telling false truths? I say to you, by the truth or not of his words, we can know him, and so knowing, can disgrace him for the rest of his life.

“This is how it should be. Are we then to send our sons and husbands to fight the wars of liars? I say ‘no,’ I am against this.”

White Thunder knelt next to Wild Mint, his wife. Her breathing was strained, coming in short gasps. Tears streamed down White Thunder’s face as he watched her, felt for her, wished it were he, not she, who had been in the village to confront the enemy. He had faced death many times—it was an expected trait of a Seneca warrior—but never had he thought he would bear witness to Wild Mint’s death, even before his own. Picking up her bloodied hand and bringing it to his face, he cried into it.

“Who did this to you?” he asked. White Thunder had been away from the village when the raid had happened. He had been hunting.

“An evil man.” She coughed, the action bringing up blood, which spilled down over her chin. Gently, he wiped it from her face.

She was dying. He knew it. She knew it. Worse, there was nothing to be done. Their baby had been cut from her body, leaving their child, in its eighth month, dead, and his wife dying.

Who would do a thing so wicked?

It was not that he was unaware of torture. Many tribes—his own included—persecuted prisoners who had been caught in war.

But this rarely extended to women, and never to an unborn child. Most tribes prized the gift of a woman prisoner, and particularly one with child. Didn’t they desire the prisoners as replacements for those loved ones lost in war? Didn’t his people usually treat the prisoners well, making them part of the tribe?

“Find him,” Wild Mint managed to say. “Do not spare him.”

“I will fi nd him and I will kill him” said White Thunder. It was a promise. If need be, he would spend his life fulfi lling that oath.

“I cannot rest ’til it is done,” she choked out. “My blood, the blood of our child is on his hands. Find him. Seek revenge, but kill no other in his place. He alone must pay. I will wait …” She coughed again, took a deep breath, which rattled deeply in her throat. In an instant, she was gone.

“I will kill him,” said White Thunder. “I will.”

Tears fell down White Thunder’s face as he cried openly, unashamed of the emotion. He loved Wild Mint, had loved her since they were children. In truth, it seemed as though he had loved her all his life and always would. He would fi nd this man who had done this to her and to his unborn child. He would fi nd him and he would exact his revenge.