The Red Heart by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Colonel Thomas Proctor,” he said to Ruth Slocum, and she thought, hearing his accent, I was right. An Irishman.
“Good day, sir,” she said. “I trust thee’s come up to apologize for trampling our poor yard down to the bare dirt and cutting down everything that lives.”
The officer raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, and turned to look down the weedy, stumpy slope he had just climbed. “This is your yard, is it now! Well, ma’am, I’ve no apology to make, for I’m in charge o’ the boats, and none o’ my boys has set a foot on y’r lovely lawn. On behalf o’ General Sullivan, though …” He bowed and swept the ground with his hat. “… so sorry about y’r poor verdure. I shouldn’t think ye’d mind, since we’ve come all this way to save your scalps.”
“Oh, do I humble thy soldier’s pride? When I should be thanking thee for saving our poor scalps … Isaac, what?”
“What, laddie?” the officer said, bending to little Isaac, who had come up beside him to tug at his sleeve with one hand while holding up a palmful of yellow corn with the other.
“Thee’s no kernel! These are kernels!”
The officer threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, right y’are, m’ lad! I’m no colonel! Ha ha!”
Ruth Slocum half smiled. Military man or no, he was a cheery sort. “What can we do for thee, Mr. Proctor?” she inquired.
“Colonel Proctor, ma’am. I—”
“Excuse us our ways, Mr. Proctor. We don’t believe in titles.”
“Ah, you’re Quakers, then, I take it? Very well, then, you agree with the laddie that I’m no ‘kernel.’ So be it, then. I’m just Mister Proctor, a poor wayfarer who’s been overcome by curiosity as to why there’s a family o’ mostly boys and girls sitting out here in the open while what few menfolk haven’t fled the country are all crouched down safe in that so-called fort down yonder. So I said to meself, ‘Mister Proctor, why not just walk up an’ ask?’ And so here I am, asking.”
She nodded, still with that half smile, and indicated her busy brood with a sweep of the hand. “As thee sees, we’ve plenty to do keeping ourselves fed and functioning. No farming gets done in a fort.”
“Begging your pardon, though, ma’am, aren’t y’ afraid o’ the Indians?” He waved a hand vaguely upstream.
“Aye, we’ve learned to be afraid of the misguided ones, certainly. I don’t think there are so many of those that you need ten thousand soldiers to persuade their better nature.”
“Six thousand, ma’am, and, aye, we’ll need them all, with Cornplanter, and Brant, and Red Jacket and all up there, and Tory Butler, the bloody murderer, in charge of ’em all. Don’t ye think Tory Butler is … is … misguided? Is that what y’ said?”
“Of course a Tory’s misguided; he bows down to a king.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I’d wondered if ye were loyalists yourselves, havin’ so little fear of ’em.”
“No, Mr. Proctor. We’re Friends.” She looked down past the endless stream of soldiers and the endless succession of provision boats going upriver. Six thousand, she thought. All with guns. Dear Lord in Heaven, this beautiful river will be running blood. “Mr. Proctor,” she said, “forgive me my lack of hospitality. Would thee like a drink of fresh, cold water? And I should like to ask thee something.”
“I’ll take it, thanks, ma’am. And what’s the question?”
“Ben,” she said to the eight-year-old, “kindly fetch a pail of cold water from the spring, hm? This has gone warm.” She led the officer off a little from the youngsters, into a patch of shade given by a chestnut tree left standing when the house site had been cleared. He glanced back once at the riverbank where his long bateau nuzzled the bank where it was moored, eight rowers resting with their oars sticking straight up. Then she said to the colonel in a soft voice, so her children wouldn’t overhear, “I have a boy there, the big one, who would like to go up the river with thee. Would that be possible?”
The colonel looked surprised, glancing at Will, then back to Mrs. Slocum. “Being Quakers, you don’t mean as a soldier, eh?”
“Oh, no. Just to be escorted, not to carry arms.”
“Well, I must say, ma’am, I’d have to be smarter than I am to see why I should take another appetite on board, if he doesn’t intend to fight. Now, if there was any good reason for him to go up, perhaps I might put him on the oars, and free up a man to fight. What such a reason might he have?”
Her eyes had begun welling up with emotion. “To look for somebody. His sister.”
“And why should his sister be up that way, may I ask?”
“Indians took her away, Mr. Proctor. Carried her off last fall.”
“Oh, my! Misguided ones, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr. Proctor, misguided ones. She’s still alive, I’m sure.”
He cleared his throat. “How old is the girl?”
“Five. No, six now.”
“Butler’s Iroquois, no doubt?”
“No. They were Delawares.”
“You know the difference, do you?”
“Of course. The Delawares were our friends. They thought most highly of my husband.”
“Did they now! Where is your husband, by the way? At the fort?”
“No, he … he was killed. In January.”
“Ah, ma’am, I am sorry. Thought most highly of him, did they? Excuse me, ma’am. I am truly sorry.”
She swallowed and blinked and clenched her teeth until she could talk without quavering. “Listen,” she said. “My husband was intending to go ask after her and try to bring her back. After he was … after his passing, Will there decided to go, but that didn’t work out.”
“They meant to go up by themselves?”
“Yes. But with thy army coming, the Indians would be in too much a passion. He’d not have been safe.”
“Permit me to say, ma’am, that even in this army going up into that country, he won’t be safe.”
“We are aware of that, Mr. Proctor.”
“I would consider taking him as an oarsman. I don’t think he’d care for it much.…”
“He can do the work of two grown men, Mr. Proctor.”
“I mean he’d not care for being with us as we do what we’re to do. We’re to lay waste to every Indian town from Wyalusing to Niagara. To leave nothing standing, not so much as a cornstalk. There will be deeds done that I doubt a Quaker boy would care to look upon. If he likes Indians, he won’t like us. And the chances of finding a little girl in such a donnybrook, m’ lady …” He shook his head, looking to the ground. “Well,” he said then, putting his hat on and cocking a fist at his waist, “I’ll have that drink o’ water and get back to m’ fleet. I’ll take the lad if he can be set to leave in three minutes.”
“Will,” she called. “Has thee packed a kit?”
“It’s packed, Ma.”
“Then fetch it. Thee’s going traveling with this gent!”
And as Colonel Proctor’s boat pulled from the bank to rejoin the flotilla of supply boats inching up the river, she kept her eye on Will’s red head, until the vessel was out of sight beyond the willows. Then she stood watching the rattling, jingling, scuffing, muttering files of bluecoats trudging up the hot, dusty road, thinking, I’ve seen thousands go by and they’re still going by, and they’re all going to kill and plunder where my little girl is! Dear Lord God, I’ve never understood why Thee puts the innocent in the way of the misguided!
But at least she had got Will headed up the river without Giles going, or interfering. Giles was away on a sojourn to New York, and by the time he returned, Will would be well away.
“Come inside now,” she said to all her offspring, who were teary-eyed and worried after Will’s departure. “We’ll do better to pray for him and Frannie up there than to keep watching that prodigious and mortal folly march up the road.”
They were in the house, seated all about in silent prayer, trying to shut out the steady din of the passing army, when Ruth Slo
“We are in prayer,” she told the man. “Please go away.”
“I’ll be damned,” the soldier said to somebody outside. “There’s folks in here.”
“What does thee want?” she said, getting up with that uneasy feeling that interrupted prayer always gave her. Her youngsters were all looking at the big man in the doorway. It was very hot in the house, though not as hot as out in the sun. Ruth Slocum’s dress was soaked with sweat and stuck to her skin everywhere. If it had not been for this army overrunning the valley, she and her family would have been making trips down to the willow thickets now and then to immerse themselves in the river and refresh themselves.
“Foragers, ma’am,” the soldier in the doorway said.
“What does that mean?” She was afraid she already knew.
The soldier chuckled. “Ma’am, it means we’re here to relieve you o’ whatever you have too much of.”
“My good man, I’m sorry to say we hardly have enough of anything.”
“Well, ma’am, you’ll find that we can skim pretty thin.” Then the soldier shouted to someone outside, “Abe! Scout that cattle path that goes up yonder! And look in that smokehouse.” Ruth Slocum bit her lower lip and laced her fingers tightly together to brace herself for unpleasantness.
“We’ve no beef cattle now,” she said. “And I must insist thee leave our milker alone. We’ve tots and tads to feed.”
“Then I’ll wager you’ve got cheese in the springhouse.” He turned away from the threshold and went lumbering toward the spring. Ruth stepped to the door, her lips drawn fine, and looked out. There were soldiers chasing down squawking chickens and putting them in a big wicker crate on their wagon. Others were rummaging in the smokehouse. The big soldier came stooping out of the springhouse with a crock under each arm. He put them on the wagon and came back to the door. “Y’have any flour in there? Any meal?”
“Precious little. Not a smidgen compared with what thee has in those boats.”
“Let me be judge o’ that,” he said, pushing past her into the room. “This is a big army to feed, and from here on up I reckon we’ll find nothing but Indian food.” His eyes adjusting to the dimness, the soldier whistled. “All these your youngsters, ma’am?”
“Yes, not counting three that’s gone. Just about too many for the little victuals we’ve got.”
“Lot of young ones,” he said, sweeping along the mantel shelf for meal, coffee, and sweetener bags.
“Yes, lots,” she replied. “That’s why I’m asking thee, leave us a little something.”
The soldier paused, and his searching eye fell on Judith. He winked at her. Judith lowered her eyes and flushed.
“She’s married,” Ruth Slocum said in a flat voice. “Leave her be.”
“Well well. Where’s her fellow?”
“He’s away in the militia.”
“Militia!” the man snorted.
All the children’s eyes were on the soldier, not hostile, but curious, and he began to look uneasy. “Hm,” he grunted, starting for the door. “Lots o’ mouths to feed. But m’ army’s got lots more. Thank’ee for your generosity, ma’am. Before we go, I hope you don’t mind if we harvest a bit o’ your fresh roastin’ corn there.”
She stepped quickly in front of him and barred the door with a stiff arm. “I must beg thee, stay out of our corn. Leave us that, or I shall have to report thee to Mister … to Colonel Proctor.” She was improvising, to stop this plunder.
“And who, pray, is Colonel Proctor?”
“A friend of ours. The man in charge of those army boats. Don’t pretend thee doesn’t know Colonel Proctor.”
He brought his elbow down on her arm and shouldered past her and down off the stoop. “It’s a mighty big army, ma’am. ’Fraid I don’t know everybody’s names yet. Abe! Take the wagon up to that cornfield and load up!”
“What is thy name, soldier?”
“Uh, damned if I know, ma’am. Like I said, it’s a mighty big army, and I don’t know everybody yet! Ha ha!”
Wyalusing Town
Neepah picked Good Face up in an embrace and held her for a long time, their hearts beating together, then lifted her up to the skinny old lehpawcheek storyteller, Owl. He set her on the saddle in front of him. Good Face looked down at Neepah and remembered the day ten moons ago when she had been handed down by a man in a saddle into Neepah’s arms, that first day she had seen her, that very cold day. Now it was hot and everything was the opposite. Neepah stood looking up, chin quivering, and warned, “Don’t go to sleep and let her fall off the saddle, Owl.”
He laughed. “I have heard this one talk. She will keep me awake!”
Neepah reached up and held Good Face’s knee and said, “Your muxumsah and huma are waiting at Great Falling Water. They will feed you and teach you as I have done. You tell her you need a good dress, not wapsi cloth. In that roll behind the saddle is the deerskin I tanned for it. I was going to make the dress for you in time for Green Corn Ceremony, but because the soldiers come she will have to make it.”
“I will tell her.” Good Face was trying not to cry because Neepah had told her not to. Neepah had assured her over and over that she would be happy with the old people and safe from the army, and that they would see each other before long, after the army was chased back out. Good Face tried to be brave and believe all that, but it scared her to be leaving Neepah. Minnow waved at her with a sad face from a little distance. Minnow was to stay here with Neepah and other young, strong women and girls and help harvest corn until the army got too close. Good Face was almost, perhaps really was, jealous of her for getting to stay longer with Neepah. She sat on the saddle and tried not to look at Neepah’s eyes too long or they both would start crying; she knew it.
Neepah said to the gray-hair, “I hate those soldiers for coming before Green Corn. At Green Corn the adopting medicine would have been spoken.”
“Indeed so,” said the old man. “But if you hurry and rub out the wapsituk, then at the fall ceremony the adopting can be said then.”
“E heh, lehpawcheek. Yes yes. I will yank off the young soldiers’ seed nuts and give them to you, then you can marry another young wife.” They both laughed, sharp, cackling little laughs, and so did Minnow. Good Face did not quite understand what they were talking about, but she could tell they were laughing so they would not seem sad. She had noticed that these Lenapeh often laughed when she knew they were actually upset.
“The others wait for you to lead out, lehpawcheek,” Neepah said, looking toward the palisade gate. “You go now. May your path be smooth.”
“E heh. May Nanapush the Creator’s Helper stand by you until we next see you.”
Good Face’s eyes were blurry with tears but she had promised not to cry, and so as she rode toward the gate in front of the old man, she clamped her throat and bit her lip to keep from sobbing. This made a moan in her throat.
The old man was the leader of these who were leaving. As he rode toward the front, Good Face noticed that Wareham Kingsley was one of the people on foot. On a horse was a woman who looked like a wapsini, whom Good Face had seen in the village but never talked to. As Neepah had said, the wapsi people in the town were being sent away so the army wouldn’t see them and get even madder at the Lenapeh.
Old Owl was an important old man, not just a storyteller. Neepah had said he was a Midewiwin lehpawcheek, who had much spirit help and was connected with elder Midewiwin in other tribes. Neepah had not tried to explain it further. Good Face understood only that it was a kind of good force that would help Owl have safe passage wherever he went.
She gazed over her shoulder at that field where she had first helped Neepah plant the Sacred Three Sisters, the corn and squash and finally the beans, and where she had run and made a racket with the children to keep awa
Good Face looked longingly over the lush field, hearing the voices of people, and perhaps of spirits too, twining through the crops. Boys with bows rested on pole scaffolds above the corn, watching all around for the furry raiders of the crops. Some boys she had defeated at snow snake waved to her, and she waved at them. This was sad, to leave the crops behind. Good Face herself had become like a part of that field, of those Three Sacred Sisters, and often dreamed in her sleep of picking and eating the food she had helped grow there. In her sleep dreams she had even seen Kahesana Xaskwim, a green, beautiful woman with yellow corn-silk hair and kernels for nipples, beautiful and young, not the ancient, severe Mother Corn of the old story.
That afternoon, as they rode along the riverbank beside the Susquehanna Sipu, going ever farther away from the home of her first family, the lehpawcheek told her that story, talking quietly over her shoulder as she leaned back against him. “This,” he said in a voice whispery and raspy as corn husks, “is the most important of all the Lenapeh stories for you to remember. It is the reason why we have the Green Corn time:
“Kulesta!” Listen! “This was long, long ago, long before the coming of the wapsituk, when the Lenapeh lived close to the Sunrise Water.…
“Some young people were trying to make each other laugh, so they began mocking sacred things. They said they did not believe in Mother Corn because they had never seen her.