Indian Captive Page 5

  They seemed to be pleased. But the thing that pleased them most was Molly’s hair—her pale yellow, shining hair, the color of ripened corn. They took it in their hands; they blew upon it and tried to braid it; they let it rest like corn-silk soft upon their palms. They looked at it as if they had never seen such hair before.

  After a while they went out, returning again in a moment. This time Molly’s Indian masters entered with them. The morning sun made a streak of light down through the hatchway door—a bright patch in the darkness. The air was filled with words, soft, deep-throated Indian words, spoken with care and deliberation. When the old Indian, Molly’s friend on the journey, spoke, the others listened with respect. Were they making a bargain? What were they talking about?

  Soon it was over. Then they all went up the steps and out once more to sunshine. They walked out from the fort enclosure. But before the great log gate swung to behind them, Molly caught one glimpse of the blossoming peach tree, the tree that had bloomed for her. She saw it standing not where it really was, but close beside the door at home.

  Then she was out on the river banks and she saw two bark canoes drawn up close to shore. Her former masters, the old Indian with them, took their places in the larger canoe; the two women and Molly in the smaller. Not till then did the girl realize that she had changed masters. It had been a bargain. She belonged no more to the men who had brought her over the mountain, but to the women in whose canoe she rode.

  The paddles made soft, gentle sounds as they were lifted up and down, the small canoe following in the wake of the larger. Behind, the gray, cold stockade walls of Fort Duquesne grew smaller and smaller, till the fort was only a dark spot in the distance and that, too, faded away. Ahead lay the wide expanse of shining water, the great River Ohio, the River Beautiful.

  Where were they taking her?

  Molly sat up straight and tense. She grasped the sides of the canoe with her hands. She lifted her chin and looked ahead. For, through her terror, she heard her mother’s voice, saying: “Have courage, Molly, my child, be brave! It don’t matter what happens if you’re only strong and have great courage.”

  4

  Seneca Town

  THE RIVER OHIO WAS fair to look upon that day. So fine and broad it was, so quiet and peaceful, it gave no hint of storm or perilous wave. Molly’s eyes saw it, but her mind took nothing of it in.

  From the heavily wooded banks great sycamore trees, ghostly white, stretched giant arms across the water. Beneath, dimmed by flickering shadows, the tall, straight trunks of hickory, oak and walnut rose to touch the sky, topped by a canopy of twisting vine and pointed leaf—the wild fox grape. Long, thin branches of pale yellow willows drooped to the waters along the shore. Over all lay a heavy solitude, untouched by signs of human life.

  Once at the mouth of a river branch, smoke from an Indian village a short distance inland could be seen; but nothing more, except now and then the cry or movement of creatures of the wild. Sometimes a slippery muskrat swam out of the hole in a floating log and sat up to look at the passers-by. Sometimes a green-frog croaked. Once a blue jay darted out from the leafy shore, a flying flash of sharpest blue, and passed so close that Molly might have touched it. But she did not see it for her pain.

  The course was crooked and winding for the stream had many bends and at various points, tributaries poured in. Now and then a green island rose up in the middle to cut the broad river in two. The current was strong and a contrary wind blew up, but the Indians with careful paddling kept their canoes in the course.

  After a time Molly raised her eyes and looked at the Indian women as their strong arms rose and fell. They were both young and sturdy, and were dressed in deerskin garments, richly embroidered. They looked enough alike to be sisters and yet there was a great difference between them. Molly sensed it at once. One was plain, the other beautiful to look upon. One was cross, the other kind.

  They both wore strings of beads about their necks, silver ear-rings in their ears and silver bracelets on their arms. Their hair was dressed alike, parted in the middle with a streak of bright red painted on the part, and fastened behind in single braids, doubled back upon themselves and tied. The kind sister had a smooth, soft face. Her cheeks glowed like blushing apples, with a redness that obviously came from a smooth stain of red paint. The plain sister’s face had more lines in it, lines either of age or ill nature.

  At midday, the plain sister brought food from her pack.

  “Oh! I’m so hungry!” cried Molly. Her tongue found words for the first time. Impulsively she put out her hand.

  The plain sister frowned, divided the food with her sister, but offered none to Molly. The kind sister took pity and handed the girl a piece of meat, only to have the cross one strike out with heir fist and knock it from Molly’s hand. Over the side of the canoe it fell with a splash and went floating down the stream. With a burst of words the kind sister scolded, then gave Molly a better piece.

  Soon after midday Molly curled up and dozed, soothed by the gentle motion and the grateful warmth of the afternoon sun. She was vaguely conscious that the cross sister was scowling and would have wakened her, had not the kind sister kept close watch. At last she fell asleep and forgot them both. She slept on undisturbed—the sleep of fatigue and exhaustion—and when she awoke, felt refreshed.

  It was late afternoon when the Indians beached their canoes on the north shore at the mouth of a small creek. The hills, so close before, had now receded inland, and on either side of the creek’s mouth the land lay low and un-wooded, river bottoms covered with rich, black soil. The Indians, the six men and two women, made fast their canoes at once. They tried to explain something by word and gesture, then quickly made their way inland.

  Molly was left alone, still sitting on the floor of the canoe. The place was very quiet—only the gentle lapping of water over stones could be heard; in a tree close by, the twitter of birds and in the creek’s shallow water, a chorus of noisy spring peepers. Molly saw smoke rising from beyond the low bushes and she wondered if they had come to an Indian village. An Indian village! A white girl captive in an Indian village! Would she have to live as the Indians lived?

  The two women soon returned, chuckling under their breath, the kind one smiling broadly. Over her arm she carried a girls suit of deerskin clothing, soft, clean and new. The skirt was made in an oblong piece, to be folded round the waist, lapped over and belted in. The tunic slipped over the head, had fringes down the sides and a pattern of porcupine quill embroidery round the neck. Ankle-length leggings and a pair of new moccasins completed the outfit.

  Molly looked at the new clothes as the women held them out. Her blue jeans gown, whole and good when she had started on her long journey, was torn now to rags. There was scarcely enough of it left to cover her. She must have something to wear.

  The women laid a fire and put water on to heat in an earthen pot which they had brought along. When the water was warm, they threw in a handful of herbs and stirred it well. Then they undressed Molly and gave her a good scrubbing. The touch of the warm water felt soothing and pleasant. It was good to be clean again.

  First the leggings were pulled on over the poor scratched legs. Then a twist of the deerskin about her waist and the skirt hung down over her knees. A thrust of her head through the slit in the tunic and the Indian clothes were on. They were on before she knew it—before she was ready to put them on. At her feet she saw the little pile of homespun clothing which she had worn on the journey, the clothes her mother had spun for her and woven and sewed. They were only a pile of rags now, but they were all that was left to her of home. As she looked, the cross Indian woman picked them up and trotted off, walking briskly toward the river’s edge.

  “Don’t! Oh, don’t!” cried Molly, dashing after her. “Oh, don’t throw away my clothes!”

  She knew now what they were doing. They were taking away her homespun clothing and putting deerskin upon her. They were making an Indian out of a white girl. She made up
her mind she would never, never let them. Her feet ran fast, but not fast enough. For when they reached the shore, the little pile of ragged clothing was floating down the stream. The last thing, the only tie that bound her to her home, was gone. She had nothing now to wear but Indian clothing. She fell down upon the ground and sobbed as if her heart would break.

  The cross Indian woman pulled a switch from a tree, but the kind sister snatched it from her and broke it to bits. The two women stood at a distance and watched, but did not try to stop the girl’s wild crying. Waiting till the sobs came fainter, they picked again. They combed her yellow hair, braiding it in two long braids, then beckoned her to come.

  The cross sister, clumsy and stout, walked first; the kind one, slender and graceful, next. They started off on a deep-worn trail through the thick, brambly bushes beside the creek. Molly saw that they meant for her to follow. She walked behind them, dressed in soft deerskin clothing like an Indian—she who was no Indian—down the deep-worn trail. What could she do but follow on with them?

  They came to the Indian village, Seneca Town. A group of scattered lodges stood in an open meadow, but Molly took no notice of them. The women entered a long house and she followed close behind. They bade her be seated in the middle of the hard dirt floor, so down she sat. She hated the sight of the deerskin clothing. She closed her eyes so she would not have to see it.

  Time passed. Then suddenly she was aware that the room was filled with women—Indian women, young and old, fat and thin, sour-looking and pleasant—and all were looking at her. They had come in so quietly, she had not heard them and it was a shock to find them there. They crowded close, pointing with their fingers, patting her on the back and making queer sounds in their teeth.

  Then they turned away from her and began to wring their hands and weep. One woman, larger and more commanding than the others, recited chanting words at length, half-speaking, half-singing, while the rest gave strict attention. Whatever she was saying, her words brought forth tears of sadness and gestures of deepest grief.

  Molly sat on the floor motionless. She could not move for terror, expecting at any moment that punishment would fall. She must be guilty of some wrong, but of what she knew not—only the wrong of being a white girl, white among the Indians. The women waved their arms more wildly, made stranger and more queer sounds. Molly sank down close to the floor, praying each moment for strength, awaiting the blows that never came.

  Not till long after did she understand what they were doing, did she know that the occasion had been a ceremony. She learned that they were mourning the loss of a young Indian, their son and brother, who had been killed on the Pennsylvania frontier. It was because of his death which had occurred during the year previous, that the two women had gone up to Fort Duquesne to receive there either a live prisoner or an enemy’s scalp. It was the ancient custom of the tribe, a religious duty to fill the place of the one who was lost, and it was Molly Jemison’s lot to be brought back for this purpose.

  After a time their grief subsided and they rejoiced to remember that their brother had gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds above the sky. And so they turned to Molly, to welcome her in his place. They gave every expression of joy as they adopted this new sister into the Seneca tribe of the Iroquois. In Indian words they chanted:

  “Our sister has come—

  Then let us receive her with joy!

  She is handsome and pleasant—

  Our sister—gladly we welcome her here.

  In the place of our brother she stands in our

  tribe,

  With care, we will guard her from trouble;

  Oh, may she be happy

  Till her spirit shall leave us!”

  As they sang, all traces of sadness disappeared. Tears were dried and smiles bloomed on every face. The women crowded round the white girl, rejoicing over her as over a lost child found again. They touched her white skin, they stared into her blue eyes, they caressed her soft, silky hair. It was her hair that pleased them most. It made them think of blooming corn-stalks, of soft, fresh corn-silk, of pale yellow ripened corn—the dearest things in life. So when they gave her a name, there was only one that they could think of. They called her Corn Tassel that day and for many a long day thereafter.

  But Molly did not know. She did not know the meaning of the ceremony, their kindness of intention or the name that they had given. All she knew was that the time of frightening terror had somehow passed and now for reasons that she did not understand, the women once more were friendly. Could their friendliness be trusted or should she be on guard? She thought again of all the things that white people said of the Indians—the hated, wicked, dangerous Indians—she trembled to think she was alone and helpless in their hands. She covered her eyes and shivered. Their too-friendly smiles were like grimaces and made her feel the more distrustful.

  The crowd of women went away and Molly was left alone with the two sisters who had brought her there. After a time they went out the door of the long house and started across the meadow. Unbidden, she followed in their tracks. She had learned that where they went she must follow, for now she belonged to them. As she walked across the meadow, her curiosity was stirred. She had never been in an Indian village before, so she looked to see what it was like.

  The village sat on the banks of the small creek, and bark canoes were lined up on the shore. It sprawled at the edge of the forest, for, like soldiers guarding, tall trees of maple, ash, poplar and beech loomed up behind. Between the village and the great river were fields of rich black earth, cleared of underbrush, all worked and ready for planting.

  The Indian long houses were built on pole frameworks, with sides and roofs covered with great sheets of elm bark. Some were of great length, with rows of holes in the roof, from which streams of smoke poured forth. Here and there were smaller houses built of squared-up logs. All the buildings stood about haphazard around a central open space. Open platforms for storing hides and meat loomed up close by; and piles of firewood lay before the doorways. The whole scene had a bleak and cheerless aspect and Molly’s heart grew faint.

  The two women came to a lodge at the edge of the village. Over the door hung the carved head of a deer, to show that all within belonged to the Deer clan.

  The women pushed aside the deerskin flap and went in. Close at their heels followed Molly and at once the flap fell down behind her.

  It was dark inside and for a moment she could not see. The room was filled with smoke, for the wind was blowing it down through the hole in the roof. Molly coughed and rubbed her smarting eyes.

  Then she looked up and saw a woman, an older woman, poking at the fire, stirring it up to give it a better draught and make it burn more brightly. She saw that the fire was built in the middle of the floor and not in a fireplace. It was built on the hard dirt floor and the hole in the roof overhead was the chimney. She had never seen such a funny way of building a fire before and it almost made her laugh. No wonder the room was full of smoke! Had the Indians never heard of a chimney made out of sticks and mud?

  The woman took a great wooden spoon with a curved handle and dipped something from an earthen pot that sat by the fire. With a broad smile on her face, she dipped it out all steaming and piping hot and put it in a dish. Molly stared as she did it. No, it was not a pewter dish, not a wooden trencher—it was a round-bottomed wooden bowl.

  The smell of the food that was cooking made Molly feel suddenly faint. She remembered the piece of meat on the river voyage, but that was long ago. She pressed her hand on her stomach, to ease the pain of her hunger. Then, somehow, she was sitting on the floor—there were no stools to sit on, no benches even, no crooked puncheon boards. There was no place to sit but on the hard dirt floor, on a piece of skin stretched out.

  The woman placed the bowl of food in Molly’s lap. Molly touched the side of it with her hand and comfortingly warm it felt. She picked up the wooden spoon and dipped it. What was it, corn or meat, or both? Slowly she sipped and sl
owly began to taste. She held the spoon in the air for a minute while she swallowed. Then carefully back in the bowl she placed it and did not lift it again. The food, whatever it was, was queer and tasteless. Was it only because her mother had not cooked it? Would nothing ever taste good again?

  She set the bowl down on the ground at her side, hoping no one would notice. She must not hurt the woman’s feelings, the woman who had smiled so broadly while she filled up the bowl. Then Molly saw that the room was full of people and all were looking at her. But she could not eat. She covered her face with her hands.

  The cross sister, whom she had not seen since they entered, snatched up the wooden bowl hastily, and as she did so, spilled its contents on the ground. Several dogs came running and quickly ate it up. Taking no notice, the older woman, who seemed to be the mother of the two sisters, went back to the pot and, smiling as before, filled another bowl to the brim. She handed it out to Molly, but Molly could only shake her head. She wasn’t hungry any more.

  She looked at the other Indians standing about the room. She saw the kind sister talking to a tall, older man, perhaps her father. She saw women, two or three with babies strapped to their backs, and children crowding round. A young boy pushed out from behind, an Indian boy of eight or nine, about the size of Davy Wheelock. They all stared at her and though there were smiles on their faces, her heart began to beat in fear.

  They talked in noisy tones and while they talked, she looked at the curious room. It was a long, open hallway, with gabled roof above and a double row of bunks lining the sides. The hallway was divided into compartments and a fire was burning in the middle of the floor of each. Did all the crowding people live in the rooms beyond? Molly looked at the bunks on the sides—the lower but two feet off the floor, the upper high under the roof. Bark barrels stood on the upper platforms and hanging about were bundles of herbs, dried pumpkins and squashes and hanks of dried tobacco. But, most important of all, Molly saw endless rows of corn hung along the roof-poles above—long rows of pale yellow corn braided together and hung up to dry. Up there, under the darkened roof, the corn glowed like warm sunshine, and she could not help but remember. Along the beams at home, above the fireplace, Pa hung his corn to dry. Oh, would she ever again help him to hang it there?