The eleven young warriors rode single file and in complete silence. Even the birds and the beasts made no sound. It was as though every living thing was in awe of the men, or perhaps the gods, who had made these immense structures. For the last five miles they had traveled among them, at least one always within sight. And now they were in a lane between two of the most impressive mounds.
The one to the north was largest, perhaps as much as seven hundred yards long and at least one hundred feet tall. None had climbed any of the mounds save Chiksika, the only among them who had been here before. He told them the tops were completely flat. The sides of each sloped up at forty-five degree angles, their perfect symmetry interrupted only by a road wide enough for four men to ride abreast and angling laterally from bottom to top along one side of each of these mysterious and epic monuments. But monuments to what? Who the ancients were that built them, even legend did not say, nor how great the population of these ancients must have been to construct them. Nor why.
Tecumseh could not help but ponder their origin. If all seven thousand Shawnee, the entire population of the nation, attempted this and were free of defending or feeding themselves, they could not build even one in a lifetime. But here, near the edge of the Mississippi, there were dozens of them. And to what purpose? Did they live up there to avoid the spring floods along the river? Perhaps. Was each a temple to their gods? Who could know for sure?
What man could have conceived them? And whoever he was, he could not have built them alone. He would have had to convince thousands of people to join him in accomplishing his vision. Is it possible that anything a man can conceive he is also capable of accomplishing if he is just able to lead others to share both the vision and the work?
After they passed the last mound, the ground opened into prairie with spring grasses not yet up to the horse’s knees. In the distance, a small structure was silhouetted against the skyline. Even from here it could be seen that it wasn’t a log house but rather a structure made of hewed planks set not on the ground but raised on a stone foundation. The roof extended over the front wall and offered shade from a porch.
“That building is in no small part responsible for fate bringing me to travel with you,” Chaubenee announced loud enough for all the company to hear.
His remark was astounding enough to cause Tecumseh to stop and turn toward him, as did all the others.
“What do you mean?” one asked.
“That trading post will be Baynton, Wharton & Morgan. It has been there since before I was born,” Chaubenee stated.
“How can you know that? You’ve never been here.” They stared at him with incredulity.
“I know,” announced Chaubenee, “because this place is very important in Potawatomi history. It is here that Pini assassinated Pontiac.” He smiled and reached forward to touch Chiksika’s war club. “Like you, Chiksika, his favorite weapon was a war club.
“Pontiac and a few Ottawa warriors, including both his sons, visited the Illini after the war between the French and the British. Pini came to idolize Pontiac and attached himself to his company. Pontiac, like many of us”—Tecumseh saw Chaubenee’s glance cast his way—“liked whiskey a bit too much. At this very post Pini offered to buy him a drink. As the rest of the party rode on, Pini offered Pontiac whiskey from a flask. And when Pontiac raised the flask and tilted his head, Pini caved in the back of his skull with the club.”
“Why did he do it, Chaubenee?” Tecumseh asked. “I’ve never understood.”
“Who does? But perhaps it is just this, we are talking about him. He’s been dead almost twenty years, and we still mention his name. What other Illini warrior can any of us even name? Or perhaps he was a tool of his people. Perhaps their weakness and Pontiac’s power caused them to fear just what came about, that they would lose their land, their heritage, to his power. They have been swept from history. Or perhaps Pini was a tool of the British. They certainly had cause to hate and fear Pontiac. And Baynton, Wharton & Morgan were, and are, British traders. Who is to say Pini’s reason? No one truly knows.
“But for whatever reason he did it, Pontiac’s sons avenged themselves on his entire nation. And when the Illini were gone, we moved onto their land. And here we are, companions because twenty years ago a turtle slid off a rock into a pond and made a ripple that swept all before it.”
They turned again to continue toward the building that was their goal. As they approached, Chiksika beckoned Tecumseh to him. “They will not be used to Shawnee and perhaps unfamiliar with our tongue. Your English is better than anyone else’s here—better than almost any Indian’s anywhere—you will speak for us. But commit to nothing until I agree.”
* * * *
The Englishman who stepped off the porch and toward them was tall, with a spare body and thin hair. His boots were polished and his tweed vest clean, matching his trousers.
“We don’t see many Shawnee here, and you are most welcome. If you have English, it will be easier. If not, perhaps Kickapoo.”
Tecumseh moved his horse half a length in front of the others and slid down slowly, his hands remaining on its withers. He took a stride forward, somewhat haltingly, making certain his balance was firm on his right leg before stepping fully onto it.
“My name is Tecumseh. And you’re right, we are Shawnee save one Potawatomi”—he nodded toward Chaubenee—“We arrive with winter pelts to trade. Are you Mr. Baynton, Mr. Wharton, or Mr. Morgan?”
“My God, young man, your English is perfect. Wherever did you learn it?” He stepped forward and extended his hand, a smile on his thin face. “I’m Morgan. Forget the mister.”
Tecumseh gave a very slight smile and stepped forward again, ensuring his right leg would support his weight. “Shawnee are the first Indians you whites meet coming down the Spaylaywitheepi. We’ve had much practice.”
Morgan, well aware of the Shawnee’s almost constant warfare with traffic from Fort Pitt down the Ohio River, was uncertain if the answer to his question displayed any threat. But trade was trade, and that was why he was here.
“You’ll find water and shade for your horses around back. If you’d like to unpack the furs now and leave them on the porch, we can conduct business when you return.”
* * * *
At their camp south of St. Louis, the fire roared and its colors twinkled on the Mississippi, mingling with those same colors cast on the water by the setting sun. Everything they owned was soaked from the drenching it got in crossing the river—everything, that is, except the lead casks of gunpowder for which they had traded the furs.
They were naked. All of their clothes were suspended on poles and quickly assembled racks to dry by the fire. Tecumseh was holding his war club at what he deemed the perfect distance from the fire.
“Tecumseh, how is it all the sons of Pucksinwah so revere their war clubs?” Chaubenee asked.
Tecumseh gave a warm smile as he slowly twisted the club before the fire. “Oh, Blue Jacket is quite fond of his musket and brace of pistols. But I love this best because it never has to be reloaded, and unlike a tomahawk or knife it doesn’t have the unfortunate habit of remaining stuck in its victim. I like to move very fast in battle. And you’re right. I do revere it. It was a gift from Chiksika, you know. From the buffalo that almost ended me. He insisted the tail be left on when it was skinned. It was he who cut the tail away from the hide, leaving the right amount of leather from the rump attached.”
Tecumseh extended the head of the club toward Chaubenee, displaying the leather wrapped around a rock head larger than a fist, the lethal end of the club.
“Then he found the perfect round rock and wrapped the leather from the rump around it. He stitched the leather back around the rock, soaked the hide, and then allowed it to dry, shrinking so tight the rock could not be dislodged. The tail stiffened hard into a handle but left a flexible head, which strikes with crushing force.” He extended the weapon to Chaubenee. “Here, try it.”
Chaubenee accepted the club and swung it forcefully. The whip of the head made a small swishing noise as it passed through the air. “It’s a bit too limber to be accurate, isn’t it?”
“Yes, its one drawback is that when it gets wet it is a bit limber. But I will dry it slowly. Tomorrow the tail portion of the handle will be stiff again.”
Tecumseh saw his brother standing naked by the river, pondering what, he could not tell. “Forgive me, Chaubenee, but I would talk to my brother for a moment.”
He rose slowly and walked, still showing a tentativeness in his stride, to stand by Chiksika. Neither said a thing, seemingly entranced by the mystery of anything so powerful as that which flowed past them. Perhaps being naked made them feel vulnerable and magnified the power of the thing. Perhaps this river was awesome no matter the glory of the man.
Tecumseh reached to his neck and touched the one thing he still wore, his opawaka. It hung around his neck, suspended on a leather cord. The small leather bag attached to the cord was filled with little things evocative of the mysteries and powers that were the sum of his life. He never took it off. Touching it seemed to bring him back, away from the powers of things outside himself.
“Chiksika, I am glad the buffalo broke me so it took a full winter to heal.” He said no more.
Chiksika continued to look at the water. “What has it given you that is so valuable you gladly gave up half a year’s freedom for it?”
“It is not what it has given, Brother. It is what it has taken. It has taken away shame you would have felt for me had we gone to the Sac. It saved me from that.”
Now Chiksika turned to look at him.
Tecumseh could see that, so far as the darkness would allow, his brother was trying to read the meaning of his face.
“What do you think you would have done to cause me shame among our friends?” he finally asked.
“I would not have fought the Osage. They, and perhaps you, would have felt me a coward.”
There was a guffaw in the dark before Chiksika responded. “I know far better than that, Brother. But I do not know what your reason would have been.”
“It is not the Osage who killed our father; it is not the Osage who steal our land; it is not the Osage who burn our homes. The Osage are not my enemy. It is Shemanese who are my enemy. They are your enemy, too. They are the enemy of every Indian. Pontiac was right. We can only win if we all fight them together. No Indian will be my enemy. Only Shemanese. They will be my enemy until they have been removed from Indian lands and to the other side of the mountains or until I die, whichever comes first.”
The magical silence of the night was eventually broken by the croaking of a nearby bullfrog. It seemed to bring them back to life.
“Chiksika, when I was broken and told you I wanted to learn of leadership, the only wisdom you gave me was, ‘Watch me, Tecumseh. Watch the things I do. Ponder why.’ I have done that and one thing I observe is that you never ask any of us to do a thing that you yourself are not willing to do. Things that we see you do. As leader, are you not above that?”
“Tecumseh, as leader of this party I will one day be forced to ask you, or some other member of this party, to do a thing that will have danger to you, may get you killed,” Chiksika told his brother. “And I will not always have time to explain why I am asking it. Courage, Tecumseh, is not found in lack of fear. Lack of fear is madness. Courage is recognizing your fear and then doing what is required despite it. Only a fool gladly rushes to danger. None of my friends are fools. So when I tell them to do something that must be done, I ask nothing of them I would not ask of myself. If they know that, only then will they instantly do as I ask.”
Tecumseh saw the firelight reflected in his brother’s eyes. They told him his words were true.
Chiksika finally gave a small, knowing smile. “You are doing as I ask so I will reward you. I will give you the most fundamental rule of leading men in combat. You must know three things. You must know your own strengths and you must know your enemies’ weaknesses.”
Again the long silence was only broken by the sounds of bullfrogs looking for mates and challenging rivals.
“Chiksika, you said a leader must know three things. You have only given two.”
This time the older brother’s smile was so big his teeth reflected the distant fire. “You do ponder. Good. Knowing those two things is useless unless the leader can find a way to pit his strength against his enemies’ weakness.”
* * * *
They had been following the trail that ran south along the river for two days. The bottom trail was too boggy from annual flooding for easy or comfortable riding, so they used the ancient trail that ran along the ridgeline west of the river. Normally, even in times of peace, a party of young warriors would consider a ridge trail too exposed for comfort, but this one was lined with oaks so massive as to cover their passage from all but the nearest observers. The farther south they rode, the more the limbs of trees were blanketed in a lovely, but somewhat eerie, long, grey and dull green moss. Spanish moss, Chiksika had told them it was called, and Spanish territory this was.
It was the Spaniards who had invited the Shawnee eight years ago and offered them a tract twenty-five miles square on the west side of the Mississippi just where the river stopped its eastward drift and turned back due south. Cape Girardeau it was called.
“My friend, Tecumseh, educate an ignorant Potawatomi.” Chaubenee’s goodwill beamed through in his self-deprecating humor. “Why have we crossed the mighty Mississippi to visit your mother and other Shawnee? Shawnee live north of the Spaylaywitheepi and between the Wabash and the Scioto, not in places where trees have beards.”
“My friend wants a history lesson of the Shawnee, does he?” Tecumseh replied. “Well, we have time.”
Tecumseh began. “Where to start? Since we have time, I suppose the beginning. Ten winters ago the Virginian, George Rogers Clark, led an expedition of Kentuckians into the portions of the British Province of Quebec south of the Great Lakes and destroyed British forts there. This is the same Clark who fought with the British five years earlier at the Battle of Point Pleasant—the battle where my father predicted his death and met it. The battle that was Chiksika’s first.
“After Clark’s victories over the English, many Shawnee began to doubt that we would ever hold the Americans back if they won their war with their British fathers. And it looked like they would win. For all our disregard of the British, we knew it was not they who wanted our land. The British wanted furs and would trade wonderful things to get them. But their American children wanted land—our land. And no matter how many we killed, and the Shawnee killed many, they kept coming.
“There are five septs of the Shawnee nation. Among them, the Thawegila harbored the gravest concern on this issue. A great counsel was held to decide whether to stay in our home of the last one hundred years or accept the Spanish offer of land well west of the Thirteen Fires. As has happened periodically in the history of the Shawnee, we could not agree. The Thawegila could not be convinced to stay. In the end their chief raised a wampum belt representing the five septs. He held it against the center log pole of the conference lodge and drove his tomahawk through the middle of the belt, releasing the beads to fall to the floor in separate pieces. We were no longer one. The Thawegila were going.
“But then, an even more unexpected thing happened. My ancestral sept is Kispoko, traditionally the most warlike of the five septs. The chief of the Kispoko is the war chief of the entire nation. My father had been such and led the Kispoko in peace and all the Shawnee in war. And the Kispoko, without my father’s courage to lead them, decided to go, too. Chiksika, my older sister, and her unborn son and I had been adopted into the Chalahgawtha when our father died. The Chalahgawtha stayed, and we with them. Blue Jacket was married. He went to his wife’s people—the Maykujay. My mother, Methotasa, went with the Kispoko, her adopted people. In all more than half the Shawnee moved behind the protective barrier of the great river.”
Chaubenee rode silently for a few moments, then asked, “You said your mother went with her ‘adopted’ people. Why adopted?”
Tecumseh angled his horse close enough to Chaubenee’s to put an arm around those big shoulders. “I must remember to choose my words with care, as you appear to listen to them. There is more. But I will tell it later.”
On the fourth day, their trail turned west from the river. As they followed it, the terrain rolled ever more through the forest. But the soil got thinner and the trees smaller as they continued. Frequently the hills they passed over and around created lakes in the low spots between them. So, even though the dense forest became more of a broken forest with many open areas of grassland, it remained a beautiful ride. In midafternoon, the trail crested a low pass between two tall hills and as it did, one of the largest villages any of them had ever seen opened up below them. They stopped to let their eyes take in a village of over three hundred houses. Half of them were wegiwas, and quite a few, but not all the rest, were cabins.
“What are those strange pointed structures three or four times as tall as a man?” Chaubenee asked of no one in particular as he gestured toward the west side of the village before them.
“Those, my young friend, are the houses all the buffalo hunting tribes make and live in,” Chiksika answered. Tecumseh recognized his brother’s tone as one generally saved for instructing children. “They use buffalo hides. Wrap them around tall, thin, straight pines. They can be taken down and moved in an hour. Tribes who follow the buffalo, move often. They’re called tepees. Besides being mobile, they’re warmer than wegiwas in the winter. The insides can be heated. See the smoke coming out of the top?”
“It appears some of the Plains tribes have moved in with our Shawnee brothers,” Wasegoboah observed.
They were still too far from the village to hear anything except the sharpest cries, but they could see the dust rise on the trail that led from the village as a party of a dozen horsemen raced toward them. They waited patiently to be received.
Their escort led them into the Kispoko village amid happy chatter of old friends catching up. Two riders had raced back before them to share the news of their arrival, and as they rode through the village, friends and acquaintances of almost a decade ago rushed to greet the entering Shawnee. None recognized Tecumseh, for he had been but a slip of a boy when they saw him last. None knew Chaubenee. All the others of their party were mobbed.
But good as the warmth of rekindled friendship was, the bad news came to them almost instantly.
“Your mother is not here. She left as soon as the weather warmed to go south to visit her family.”
All conversation stopped and both Chiksika and Tecumseh instantly turned to face the speaker.
“But how? She is old and must be frail by now,” Chiksika responded in disbelief.
The whole of it came out over dinner. Methotasa had had a very bad winter. She had been weak and not always in control of her mind. The village thought she would die before the winter ended. But she did not, and with the first warmth of spring her mind and her vigor returned. And she said she wanted to visit her family one last time. Not her children and Shawnee family. She wanted to go south to her Cherokee home one last time.
* * * *
Tecumseh and Chaubenee rode to the lake east of the village. Their companions had many old friends here. Friends to catch up with, to have a drink with, and with whom to fill in the stories of their lives during these eight years of separation. The lake was easy to find, the rising moon having given light to their trail. The brilliance still hung low in the eastern sky, painting a long, shimmering path leading across the lake before them.
“It almost makes you believe you could walk over, doesn’t it?” Chaubenee asked.
Tecumseh said nothing but got down from his horse, pulled a pipe and tobacco from his pouch, squatted with his back to a rock, and stared at Chaubenee’s magical path. He gathered such moss as was within arm’s reach, added a few small, dry sticks on top, and used steel and flint to fire the dried moss. He stuffed the pipe and used one of the small twigs from the fire to light it, then took a very long draw on the pipe.
“That’s just what we’re doing, you know,” Tecumseh said, small puffs of smoke evaporating into the darkness as he spoke.
“Walking across the lake?”
Tecumseh continued to exhale a long, slow stream of smoke. “This journey we are on follows a wavering, unpredictable, and mysterious path.” He passed the pipe to Chaubenee, who pulled longingly at the stem.
Eventually Tecumseh continued, “But we do know where the path leads. It leads to our futures.”
Chaubenee passed the pipe back, and Tecumseh said nothing as he again pulled sweet, aromatic peace into his lungs.
It was Chaubenee who spoke again. “Two days ago, you said you would tell me more of your mother ‘later.’ Is now ‘later’?”
Tecumseh exhaled fully, passed the pipe back, and without looking at Chaubenee, told the story. “My mother was born Cherokee. You heard that when we arrived. When my father was twenty-one, he led a raiding party of young Shawnee warriors into Cherokee country. During the raid they attacked and took a small village. The Cherokee are great warriors and, in fact, will claim to be the best in the world. I don’t think it is true, but you will soon hear them offer the claim.” He looked at his friend with a smile that was visible in the moonlight. “The Cherokee fought hard, and when it was over, only three warriors were left alive, as well as fifteen-year-old Methotasa. My father was taken with her, and knowing what was coming next and wishing to protect her from it, took her several miles away, tied her to a tree, and slept there for the night. When they returned in the morning, all that was left of the three Cherokee was their charred remains.
“Pucksinwah wanted her, so they ended the raid and took loot and scalps they had collected, and along with the young maiden, headed home. Methotasa was adopted into the Shawnee and married my father. She had six children by him. Chiksika is the eldest. I also have a sister, Tecumapese, who is ten years older than me. And finally, my mother did something that no woman in the Shawnee nation had accomplished in four generations. She had triplets. All boys. That was three years after I was born, so they are about your age.
“My mother and father grew to love each other very much. I was six when my father was killed. One of the other warriors killed that day was Chaqui, my sister’s husband. He never saw their son. I think it was too much for my mother. When I was young, Methotasa was full of life, love, and energy. But after her husband and son-in-law died, she died a little as well. Each year it showed more. By the time the Shawnee split, there was nothing left of her. Certainly nothing left to fight Shemanese. We all knew she had to come here, where it was quiet and safe, so she could be still until she died. I’m surprised she has lived this long. I doubt she has much time now.
“After our companions have seen all of their friends and family and the horses have rested, I’m sure Chiksika will say it is time to go.”
* * * *
“The last word on her lips was ‘Pucksinwah.’” The old woman’s face was brown and wrinkled, but in the golden glow of the firelight it reflected a beauty that must have been unmistakable in her youth. “Odd, is it not, that the man who stole her from me thirty-five years ago is the one she loved to her last breath?”
Tecumseh and Chiksika hunkered by the hearth of the small cabin, warmed against the cool of the late spring evening. They had ridden here as rapidly as their party could travel, but they had still been too late. Neither spoke, having nothing to say and wanting to hear all their grandmother had to tell.
“At first we thought she was dead. We found the bodies of the others but not hers, so there was hope. Over the years, news came to us that the young warrior who led the raid had become war chief of our old enemies, the wandering Shawnee. And then we heard he had married a Cherokee captive and we thought it might be Methotasa. It will be easier to die knowing my baby found a good life and had two marvelous boys who now sit here before me.”
Tecumseh looked up from the fire and into the old face filled not with hate for what was taken from her but joy at what she had been given. “Grandmother, it was not two; it was six.” He could not help but smile when he said it.
The old woman’s face rose and changed in such surprise that all the wrinkles momentarily disappeared. “Six? Tell me of the others.”
Chiksika’s stern face showed far more love and compassion than Tecumseh normally saw there. “Tecumseh and I have a sister, Tecumapese. She is two years younger than me and ten years older than Tecumseh. She is a widow and has a son, Spemica Lawba. He is fourteen now and truly a fine young man. In fact, he already has fame not only among the Shawnee but the Shemanese as well.
“Two years past Kentuckians under General Benjamin Logan brought a small and fast army north to wipe out Mackachack village, our home. When Logan struck, almost all our warriors were away. But our ancient and beloved chief, Moluntha, was there. Tecumapese screamed for her son and ran into the cane behind the village. Moluntha gave himself up, but one of the Kentuckians struck him from behind with a tomahawk. Spemica Lawba, seeing this, ran to defend the body from mutilation. At twelve, armed with only a scalping knife and tomahawk, he stood over the body, defending it with his life against a dozen soldiers. While the Kentuckians laughed and taunted him, Logan rode up, got off his horse, and without drawing a weapon approached Spemica Lawba, speaking gently. Logan told him Moluntha’s body would be left safe from predation of animals or weather and for proper reverence and ceremony by the Shawnee. He also promised that Spemica Lawba would not be killed or tortured. Logan himself would see to his safety.
“Spemica Lawba believed the general and gave up his weapons. Not only did Logan look out for his safety but took him into his home and treated him as a son. We got him back only last year when our adopted and older brother, Blue Jacket, negotiated a peace with the Kentuckians that included a prisoner exchange.”
The old lady’s face beamed, the joy of being regaled at the glories of one of her progeny momentarily overcoming the loss of another. “What a courageous young man my great-grandson turns out to be.” And then with an even broader smile, she said, “But it’s not a surprise. After all, he is one-quarter Cherokee.”
“Grandmother, there is even more to tell that will make you proud.” Tecumseh continued, “Three years after I was born, Methotasa did something no Shawnee woman had done in four generations. She gave birth to triplets. All boys.”
By now the old woman was all smiles. “That’s because she’s all Cherokee. We do extraordinary things, you know?” Slowly her face drained of its humor. The pain of loss did not return to her face, but wisdom and thoughtfulness did. “You two have suffered one of the most grievous pains any person, man or woman, can suffer. She who gave you life is gone. When it happens, a little of you dies as well. It is a small death but it is a death, and no one, especially a warrior, can accept the pain without lashing back at life. But warriors have a way to deal with the pain that women do not. You do not have to lash out at life; you may lash out at your enemies.
“There are eleven of you. We don’t have as many Shemanese coming at us as the Spaylaywitheepi brings to you. But we have enough. And they want just what yours want—land. Our land. And the Cherokee, like the Shawnee, will not, do not, give in to theft of anything lightly. We fight to maintain that portion which Moneto gave us. It is the same fight as yours.
“Join us; join our young warriors for a while. Take out your pain on your enemies, not your friends. Let me take you to our war chief.”