The chief turned to his companion soldier and handed him a rifle. “Won’t need this one now; thought you’d like to have it.” The soldier nodded and smiled as he took the gun from the hand of his Indian friend, whom he’d fought side-by-side with. Chief Paul was not the only Indian to fight with the Americans. His tribe went all out to help as much as they could. They looked up to Paul, a name given him by the Patriots, as a special man with special gifts.
The sun sat on the edge of the western sky, leaving an orange glow on the horizon. A cold, brisk wind blew across the fort, chilling the air all around the large structured cabin where many tired men lingered for the night. The chief had only once stayed so long at the fort, but now the big battle in Oriskany in August was over, and with it his long chore to help bring the tribes together. He finally would have time to relax. His thoughts on that cold fall night drifted to his departure in the morning to head back to his family, even though there were things still to be done. The past few days at the fort to secure things took him away from the war, the brutal flow of blood and ending of so many lives. Freedom was now at hand from another battle, but the fighting was far from over.
Short of food and supplies, his worry for the men took his mind off of his trip home while he lay down on a bearskin rug in front of the fire blazing in the large open fireplace. His visit back home would not last long, to his regret, but the war, even though they won the big battle, was waiting to be won. Brave warriors, General Washington and the like, had fought valiantly to push the Brits back and out of the territory. The retreat to the north by the British took with them most of the worst of the Indians who fought on their side. Chief Paul hadn’t seen his family for months. With little means of communication, he longed for a chance to go home. All of the small farms along the way would provide him with refuge as he traveled the long journey in the morning.
Five other soldiers and three Indian guides sat around the long table drinking rum and eating dried beef mixed with cured venison. A fire raged in the open fireplace while the wind outside whistled through the land, slapping at the sides of the large log cabin. The war had taken its toll on all of them as well, on all those who fought for their freedom, who came forth to discover a new way of life, a new way to live without the control of the majesty, without fear of anyone taking freedom away. The new world offered such a life and those who sought it had to fight for it. With the brave help of the native-born Indians, like Captain Brant, it looked like the newcomers to this land of plenty would have what they came for. The new America, a place to settle without fear, without control of the empire and a life willing to offer them the most they had ever dreamed of—fertile lands of fields dripping with soil that would grow the many needs of life; rivers and lakes to provide food and water, trees to make homes, furniture, and warmth; and most of all, freedom. Most of the Indian tribes helped the new settlers, such as the chief and Captain Brant along with his followers. Life was hard, but hard-working, hard-fighting settlers relished the idea of the future.
The vast oceans had parted them from their families, friends, and lives they were used to, but the desire for new lives prevailed. You could see it in the faces of those men who sat at the table with their comrades, the natural born citizens of this large wonderful land. The Indian didn’t need to speak fluent English to know what these men were all about; they knew in their hearts and minds that the settlers were ones to welcome and help. Many learned much of the language, but sign language was still used much of the time. Smiles, grins, shaking of the heads often translated to others something kind and warm.
At hand now, a time to reflect, to think of the future, to settle in and form a real government. News spread throughout the land of the victory, and hope grew among the settlers. Nearing the end of October meant a time approaching celebration, a time to feast, to love, to come together—even the six Indian tribes who looked forward to peace, and a time of great harvest rejoiced in the end of a war-torn summer with an outlook of faith in the future.
The men huddled around the fire, tin mugs of rum in hand along with heavy wool blankets over their legs. The whistling wind outside gave rhythm to the sounds of the owls and the distant night-howling of a wolf somewhere high up in the mountains. Oil lamps turned down to a dim glow lit the cabin enough for the night’s rest. The older man who stayed at the fort, who lived at the fort, sat in his rocking chair by the door, a colorful Indian blanket over him tucked up to his neck. His head nodded as the lids of his eyes dropped slowly, the pipe in the corner of his mouth fell to his chin and rested there. At the side of the high stone fireplace, a man laid back in a chair joined the sounds of the night with his loud snoring, while others curled up on the floor with the chief who now slept peacefully.
* * *
Morning brought with it a colder day, with flying snowflakes sailing through the air before landing on the ground. Dark clouds covered the rising sun in the east; letting only a few streaks of light penetrate the dawn. Sounds of the awakened horses in the barns announced the dawn of a new day. Wind blew over the land, catching the autumn leaves scattered around on the ground and sent them into flight once again before a final landing. A large hawk glided overhead in search of an early morning breakfast. The first day of November, the lead day into winter, a time to hunker down and wait for spring and warmer weather.
Hot tea in tin pots on the stove let out a spiral of steam that reached high above the stove. Some of the men sat at the table with cups in hand, talking about the day ahead of them, while others tended to the fire and equipment needed for their journey.
Chief Paul took his gear out to the barn to load up for his ride home. He shed his army uniform to dress in his native wear, of skins and wool poncho that hung down almost to his knees. With dark reddish skin, high cheek bones, and a long narrow nose, he stood six feet and some inches tall. His skin matched the leather hide of his pants—dry-looking and weathered, yet his eyes beamed with life and hope in a most mysterious way.
The other Indians with him followed, taking the gear to the horses outside and mounting everything on their backs. When they returned to the cabin to get the canteens of rum, a few dried venison pieces, slices of corn bread, and whatever small personal belongs they had, Chief Paul came with them. His purpose was to say good-bye to the soldiers he had spent the past few months with and to let them know he would be returning soon after the feast of his homecoming that he knew was planned for him, his family, and the other settlers nearby his homestead. He’d sent word by messenger he would be coming home by the end of the month.
The weather, now calm, still promised with clouds overhead there would be more snow. To get on their way was most important, the sooner the better. At least two days of travel, considering some downtime for the horses and time to eat and rest, lay ahead of them. Heavy blankets packed on the back of the horses would shield them from the bitter cold the dismal fall day brought. Winter had its seasonal face showing up now that the time of harvest was over. Chief Paul felt sure his wife and sons had taken care of everything at the farm while he was away. Whatever work left to be done, he would do when he arrived there. With two grown sons and a wife who could keep up with any man in the fields, he had nothing to worry about. The only thing to bother him was the fact that he had to be away from them so much, leaving his family with the heavy load of working the farm and taking care of the livestock. A sigh of relief came over him as he mounted his horse and led the way out from the fort, his companions right alongside of him