CHAPTER 1
April 1776
From atop Nundawao (Sacred Mountain), torrential rain obscured Otetiani's midnight view of the nine, bark-covered, communal, longhouses and other tribal structures along the shore of Canandaigua Lake. Kneeling beside the majestic basswood tree that had served for countless generations as the Tree of Peace That Pierced the Sky, the twenty-two year old Indian prayed aloud that the Great Spirit embrace the imminent arrival of his dying father, Tagashata, Chief of the Seneca tribe.
Oblivious to the fast-growing storm that began raging around him since he'd arrived, Otetiani pondered the weighty responsibility that would soon be his as the new tribal chief. He yearned that his father's success in dealing with myriad adversities would be a smooth transition from his soon-to-be lifeless, earthly, body to his own. Chief Tagashata had led the Seneca tribe and others in the Iroquois Confederation through decades of war and peace, and saved them from planned annihilation by varied encroaching and warring factions.
Winds whipped through the trees and lifted Otetiani's shouted chants into the ether, where he knew with absolute certainty the Great Spirit was listening. Deafening claps of thunder resounded, followed by jagged, horizon-filling, cobwebs of lightning, that turned the night sky into shadowy dusk.
A sudden queue of flashing bolts struck the ground in tandem. Branches from nearby trees crashed to the ground. Another queue followed. Otetiani felt searing heat beside his face and heard the sharp crackle of a lightning bolt. The massive tree trunk trembled and moved away from his body, as a sustained, screeching, sound of ripping wood occurred, accompanied by a shrill, human-like, moan. He threw himself flat onto the ground and turned his head to face the tree. Twenty feet of its length and half of its width had been torn from its side. Splintery shards remained in their place. The once-magnificent tree teetered for a long moment, as more of its girth fell away. Suddenly, like a snapping twig, it broke free from its mortally-wounded underpinning, and ignominiously crashed through smaller trees on its downward death spiral to the ground.
Otetiani lay still as debris and broken foliage fell about him. He dared not move. Through rain-soaked eyes, he squinted at a glowing sphere rolling tantalizingly toward him from the jagged stump, then stop inches from his face. No bigger than an plum, its colors pulsated and metamorphosed between jade blue and gleaming amber. He stared. It remained in place. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it with a single finger, quickly withdrew his hand, considered for a brief moment, touched it again with two fingers, then three, lingered a bit longer to feel its coolness, withdrew them, took a deep breath, then grasped the object with both hands, and held it close to his face, while still lying flat on the ground.
Carved from blue pipestone, its exterior was smooth, with indiscernible painted designs, and somewhat oval-shaped. Its bottom was virtually flat. Two grooved lines encircled it. As he turned it upside down, a compressed ball of decayed vegetation fell out, exposing a bowl-like indentation that rendered it hollow. The pulsating did not stop. A pea-sized hole penetrated it from one side. Otetiani used a twig to clear it out, and scrape crusted debris from inside the bowl.
The thunderstorm ceased, but drenching rain persisted. The soon-to-be new Seneca tribal chief stood up finally, held the glowing object high over his head, and chanted a prayer of thanks and adoration to the Great Spirit. Perhaps, he thought, this treasure was the long-lost, enchanted pipe bowl that he'd heard stories about. Could it have been hidden in the Tree of Peace by an ancient chieftain ancestor for safekeeping, awaiting for this moment of discovery?
* * *
One hour later
Humidity inside the communal longhouse was enhanced by torches and candles to provide light. Each of several family clans that occupied the structure huddled together in their own living spaces, chanting prayers to the Great Spirit for the eternal soul of their ailing leader. Other sounds emanated from bawling babies.
In his own family's living space at the East end of the building, Chief Tagashata lay dying atop a blanket that had been spread over a straw mat on the dirt floor. Seated beside him were his wife, Ahweyneyonh (Drooping Flower), and son, Otetiani, who'd just returned from Nundawao with his find, wrapped inside a garment. He quietly related his recent experience to her. All others remained at a discreet distance, including his wife, Aanjedek, his children, and the medicine man, at Otetiani's command. He knew that vigils were ongoing inside all the dwellings beside the shore of Lake Canandaigua. Drooping Flower lowered her head to within inches of Tagashata, wiped his brow with her hand, and waited until he opened his eyes.
"My time with you will soon be over," he whispered.
She sobbed in reply. He moved his hand to hers and held it.
"You have prepared Otetiani well," he said.
"He wishes to share with you a sublime experience," she replied.
Tagashata nodded, then turned his gaze on his son.
"The Great Spirit spoke to me tonight," Otetiani whispered. "He felled the Tree of Peace on Nundawao, as I prayed alone to Him under its boughs. The Great Spirit presented me with this ... from the broken trunk."
He withdrew the pulsating pipe bowl from the garment, and held it close to his father's face. Tagashata gazed at it for a long moment, smiled, and placed his hands around his son's in a gesture of acknowledgment, comfort, and privacy, then quietly uttered the single word, "hide."
"No other eyes must see this, my son," Drooping Flower whispered.
Otetiani obeyed and wrapped the garment around it. Tagashata took on a serene expression, and closed his eyes. Drooping Flower wiped his brow and took hold of his hand. He squeezed hers tenderly. For several minutes no words were spoken. Chanting filled the air.
Tagashata stirred and mumbled faintly. Drooping Flower placed her ear close to his mouth, nodding from time-to-time, while she caressed his face and listened. Several minutes elapsed. Otetiani waited patiently, even during lengthy lapses. Drooping Flower signaled for him to move closer to hear her relate Tagashata's counsel. Hers was a soft, hushed, voice.
"You possess the long-lost enchanted pipe bowl that has been sought by generations of our people," she whispered. "Through it the Great Spirit imparts wisdom. Fit it with a suitable pipe stem. Fill it with common tobacco. Smoke it with no others in your own spiritual place, before you make important decisions. The Iroquois Confederation's future will be dependent on your wise use of it. There will be no room for disbelief. Great Spirit knows all."
Tagashata opened his eyes and tugged weakly on Drooping Flower's arm. She leant over him again, placed her ear close to his mouth, and nodded as before, while he spoke. Minutes passed during his halting recitation.
Motioning again for Otetiani to come close, she relayed his counsel.
"Your father is well-pleased with my description of his words, my son," she whispered. "There is more. You alone must possess the pipe bowl. Its very existence must be kept secret from tribal members, palefaces, other tribes. Chief Cornplanter, Chief Thayendanagea, and Chief Sayenqueraghtha do not consider alternative solutions to paleface thievery and encroachments onto our lands and hunting grounds. Their only remedies are waging war, intimidation, vengeance, and pillage. Great suffering for our people follows."
Tagashata motioned for Drooping Flower to hear more. She resumed her listening posture, and after several moments faced Otetiani.
"When the Tree of Peace fell beside you," she whispered, "the Great Spirit protected you from harm. There is not a single mark on you. That is how it should be. Always heed the Great Spirit ... have no trust in the palefaces, no matter what they promise. Every one of them evolved from Europeans. They had no protection on the other side of the ocean from the Great Spirit. None have ever revealed any knowledge about Him ... only cynical laughter and degradation."
Chief Tagashata peered at Otetiani as she spoke, then struggled to sit up, but fell back. Drooping Flower cradled his head in her arms, and put her ear next to his lips. The dying leader embraced her, as he murmured hesitantly. Tears ran down her face. For more than ten minutes she listened, then turned toward Otetiani.
"These are the final words from your father. You, my son, will be a strong and wise leader," she whispered. "Un-swayed by wrong-headed events, not of your doing. You have learned well. When the Great Spirit speaks to you after Tagashata is departed from this mortal world, know that your father will be near by. So will be his father, his grandfather, his great grandfather ... countless generations of Seneca Chiefs ... back to the first moment of creation. Tagashata looks forward with much joy to his journey. That is all he has to say."
* * *
Hundreds of Indians from the Iroquois Confederation attended Chief Tagashata's funeral and inauguration of Otetiani to replace him. Both events lasted several days. Due to the ritualistic nature of ceremonies, no colonists, British, Dutch, or non-believers were invited — not even nearby settlers they traded with and considered as friends. Many attempted, but were turned away.
Tagashata held a prominent position in the Iroquois Confederation, which consisted of the Mohawks, Cayugas, Onondagas, Oneidas, Tuscaroras, and Senecas. Not only was he the most senior tribal chief, but the most listened-to. He'd expanded fur trade with the Dutch for guns and manufactured items. Sixteen years earlier he planned and executed the tactics that vanquished the Munsee and Minnisink tribes, who were constantly belligerent and warring against the settlers. He saved the captives from certain death by assimilating them into the various, victorious tribes, thus disabling them from re-assembling themselves as a fighting force. Most of the Iroquois Confederation chiefs advocated slaughtering the captured warriors, but Tagashata prevailed.
Iroquois chiefs inherited their positions through their mother's clan. Tribal women owned all the property and not only held the power to appoint the Chief, but to replace a Chief for reasons of incompetence, dishonor, wrongdoing, and immorality. Drooping Flower, born into the Wolf clan of the Senecas, had for decades led the women's tribal council. Her son's promotion to Chief was immediate. Otetiani's newly-bestowed name became Chief Sagoyewatha (He-Keeps-Them-Awake), which derived from his already well-established expertise in public-speaking.
His highly-intelligent mother's influence on him was apparent throughout the Iroquois Confederation tribes. Her teaching regimen for him started at an early age. Drooping Flower taught him principles of argument and logic, persuasion, oratory, win-win strategies, compromise, and presentation persona. To advocate important issues, he learned to provide at least five more supporting reasons than the opposition provided against, thus drowning opposition with logic and common sense. Moreover, she assured his fluency in the English, French, and Dutch languages. She'd been immersed in all three from an early age.
Iroquois loved eloquence. Since the age of fourteen, Otetiano demonstrated his mastery of oratory, extemporaneous speaking, and public debate at frequent Iroquois Confederation, ceremonial, and paleface gatherings, as the oft-chosen representative of the Senecas.
CHAPTER 2
Six days later
Mohawk Chief Thayendanagea (aka Joseph Brant) peered inside the shed beside the Mohawk River, that his tribe erected for storing fur pelts products of a full season of trapping. It had been emptied out by robbers.
Having just returned to the Province of New York and his Canajoharie settlement on horseback from the Seneca funeral and inauguration with three dozen of his warriors, he'd planned to transport the pelts on mule-drawn wagons to English and Dutch traders in Canada within the week. Each Iroquois Confederation tribe had similar trading arrangements for more than a century.
"White Swan was bathing in the river before sunrise on this day," Rose Blossom told him. "Maury Felker, with six known palefaces from Warrensbush, filled three wagons high with our furs. She watched, but stayed hidden in the reeds ... could not warn us before they fled ... feared being seen and killed. Two cows and a piglet, too, are gone. My dog lies beheaded inside the pen."
Rose Blossom shared duties with several tribal women, caring for the tribe's livestock.
"Those settler swines," Thayendanagea shouted. "Felker vowed to stop ... his own people told us so the last time we caught him stealing from us. Paleface promises mean nothing. Felker and his lying band of thieves must return our pelts and animals ... suffer Mohawk retribution ... so shall it be ... before the sun rises above the mountain tomorrow."
* * *
Just before dusk, Thayendanagea and his accompanying warriors, in battle dress and markings, tracked Felker to his overnight bivouac, fifteen miles North of the river, in a heavily-forested area. The Chief surmised that the thieves were headed to Canadian traders with the pelts. Smoke floated through the trees, along with the scent of roasting pork.
Thayendanagea divided the thirty-six warriors into six squads of six. Each squad was to target the nearest one of Felker's palefaces at the campsite for instant death, if so signaled by him. He ordered them to surround the targeted area, crawl closer to within sight and hearing distance, remain silent and unseen amongst the trees, then await his visual signal to kill, or simply stride into view simultaneously — weapons at the ready.
"Maury Felker will be my target," he said.
To initiate action, he planned to walk into the campsite alone, confront Felker, and demand the return of the stolen property. All would survive if they acquiesced.
Minutes later the squads reached their positions, then emitted bird calls to signal each other. Boisterous talk emanated from around the campfire. Tethered horses, mules, and the two rustled cows grazed alongside three fully-loaded wagons. Roped-down canvas covered their treasure trove of pelts. Maury Felker sat with six others around the campfire, roasting the slaughtered piglet on a spit. One was cleaning his rifle; another picked at his threadbare socks. All wore holstered guns. They took turns swigging whiskey from two bottles.
Like an apparition, Thayendanagea appeared from the darkness of the trees. Without hesitating, he strode toward Maury Felker and towered over him. Nobody moved. The drunken thieves could only stare, transfixed, at the fierce-looking warrior.
"You carry Mohawk furs in your wagons," Thayendanagea said. "Pay me for them now, or I will take them."
Felker gazed around at the surrounding trees, saw no other Indians, then took a prolonged swig from the whiskey bottle.
"I can kill you where you stand," Felker said, then smirked at him.
Some of the others snickered, although all wore shocked expressions.
"What horse do you ride, Maury Felker?" Thayendanagea demanded.
"Did you hear what I said?" Felker asked. "I can kill you where you stand."
"What horse do you ride, Maury Felker?"
Felker sneered, swigged from the bottle, and leered at the others. "Did you hear that, men? I tell this crazy Indian I can kill him ... and he asks me about my horse?" He gazed up at Thayendanagea. "Is that how you meet your Great Spirit? ... on horseback? Ha ha ha. What is he ... a blacksmith? Ha ha ha. What horse do I ride, you ask? Well, I'm going to grant you your wish because it is so stupid ... it'll be your last one if you don't leave us alone ... I'm going to tell you ... yes siree, I'm going to tell you ... it's that roan ... right over there!" He pointed drunkenly at it.
