“It sounds very hospitable. Indeed, after all of our adventures in the woods, I will be happy to accept their goodwill.”
“I think you will find it pleasant.”
In due time, two old men approached them. “Brother,” one of the men addressed White Thunder. “I see by your clothes and by the tattoo on your arm that you are my Seneca brother. I see also by the state of your clothing that you have traveled a distance to visit us and have perhaps encountered much hardship.”
“This is so.”
“Then, Brother, come let me escort you into our village, where I will take you to the Stranger’s House, while I alert the people that we have a guest.” He nodded toward Sarah. “Is the woman a captive?”
“She is not.”
The old man nodded once again. “Come, I will show you to the Stranger’s House.”
The view was spectacular. The village was positioned on a cliff overlooking Mohawk fields and the Mohawk River, which flowed and gurgled over rocks and boulders in an ever continuing cascade of white waves. In the distance, mountains and hills rose up both east and west of them. Set against a blue sky, the site for Andagoran was surrounded by breathtaking beauty.
The entrance to the town was unusual, as well, consisting of overlapping logs instead of a gate. At this entrance, she noted, was yet another outpost. Big, dangerous-looking men stood guard at the entry point. That each of them stared at her, not in greeting, but as though she were an enemy, was intimidating.
Sarah looked away, swallowing hard. She must have lagged behind, because as soon as she glanced forward, she noted that White Thunder was well in the lead. She hurried toward him, following on his heels. As she and White Thunder, along with the two older gentlemen, rounded the corner of the overlapping logs, the village at last came into view.
Like a scene gradually opening up before her, her first impression of the village was that of colors: the greens and browns of dried grasses; the browns of the trees and long-houses; the oranges, yellows and golds of produce set upon the ground; the multicolored prints of the people’s clothing, although there were only a few people in sight. The village, she decided, was not without beauty.
She heard male voices singing and a drumming noise in the background, but the sound was muffled, as though it were coming from within a building. The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, as well as the fragrances of farm-rich beans, squash and husks. And somewhere, someone—or perhaps many someones—was cooking food.
The flavors in the air were so numerous and delicious smelling that Sarah was reminded that her recent diet of dried meat and berries was not the only food to be had.
She and White Thunder were led to a longhouse, one that was called the Stranger’s House.
“Soon,” said one of the two elderly men, “one of us or another will return with food and clothing, as well as furs to sit on. Eat, be at your ease and make yourselves comfortable. After you are refreshed, we will smoke, and then we can begin conversation.”
The door to the longhouse remained open, and this was good, for the shelter smelled of dirt, bark and the charred remains of a fire. It was also dark in the interior of the structure, if only because there were no windows. The only light, it seemed, came from smoke holes in the ceiling, and from the open door.
A long corridor led from one end of the longhouse to the other; in the center were two hearths, evenly spaced apart. Glancing around, Sarah thought that the longhouse might have been forty feet long, twenty to thirty feet wide, and perhaps twenty feet high. On each side of the structure were compartments, where she supposed a guest might berth if he or she were staying the night. Attached to several posts hung corn cobs to dry, as well as gourds and other articles needed for cooking.
Both she and White Thunder had been seated only a few minutes when a woman entered, bearing a tray of food. As Sarah looked on, she saw corn cobs heaped upon several plates, corn cakes, ribs and a dish she learned was called succotash—a mixture of corn, beans and squash. To drink there were bowls of water and a sweetener that might have been maple or corn syrup. To a person from any culture—Indian, English or other—it looked like a feast.
Behind the woman followed another maid, who looked to be a younger version of the elder, and she was bearing furs to sit on, as well as a handful of clothes. Sarah saw that there were shirts, a belt, moccasins, a navy-colored breechcloth and leggings for White Thunder. There was also a simple, trade-cloth dress in a light blue color. It was intricately embroidered with designs of pink, white and blue flowers. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder and fell down to just below elbow length. Accompanying the dress were leggings of the same color and embroidery work, as well as moccasins.
Hesitantly, the young girl placed the clothes beside Sarah. Sarah smiled at the girl, and said, “Thank you,” but the maid was shy, and outside of a brief nod, did no more than look away.
The two women left and White Thunder and Sarah were left alone with their meal.
“Are these clothes meant for us?”asked Sarah.
“They are.”
“But they’re beautiful. Are we to wear them only while we’re here?”
“No, they are ours now.”
“Ours? That’s incredible. Do they expect them to be returned at some future date?”
“
Neh
, no. It is all part of being hospitable. All strangers are given food, furs to sleep on if they are tired and in our case, clothes, because ours are obviously torn and in disrepair.”
“But there must be something required in exchange for this. Money, perhaps? Although I think it obvious that we are not a man and woman of wealth.”
“Nothing is expected in return,” he said, “except perhaps that you will remember that they treated you with kindness and respect when you were in need. It is the hope of the Six Nations and our belief that all people should honor each other in this manner. If it were so, wars would be less, I think.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “I believe you are right.”
Silently, Sarah and White Thunder applied themselves to the food, and once their appetite was satiated, they dressed themselves in their new clothing. What was amazing to Sarah’s mind was how well the dress fit her. Even the moccasins were neither too big nor too little.
They were now well dressed, well fed and comfortable, and soon the two old men and an elderly woman entered. A pipe was offered to White Thunder, which he accepted, and while smoking, the conversation began.
“We see that you are from the Turtle Clan of the Seneca,” said one of the elderly men in English. “Is this from whence you came?”
“Indeed, it is not,” said White Thunder, whereupon he relayed who he was, where they had come from and the circumstances surrounding Sarah’s rescue.
The conversation continued, and when asked why he had come to their village, he answered with the truth and with the information that they were seeking Black Eagle and his bride, Marisa, who was a friend of Sarah’s.
The old man nodded, and leaning over toward the elderly woman, he addressed her in their own language. The woman rose to her feet and left the house, while the old man turned back to White Thunder. He said, again in English, and probably for Sarah’s benefit, “We know of Black Eagle and his bride, whom we call
Ahweyoh
, Water Lily. Neither are here in the village at present, but I have sent for Black Eagle’s mother and
Ahweyoh
’s sister, that they can inform you where you might find them.”
“
Nyah-wah
, thank you,” replied White Thunder. “Do you know how long ago they were here?”
“It was only a moon ago and a day that
Ahweyoh
was captured—”
“Captured?” Sarah sat up and bent forward, but White Thunder placed a hand over hers, as if to caution her not to interrupt the speaker.
“
Nyoh
, yes, she was captured by her own people, the English,” said the old man. “She did not wish to go and there was some trouble, for the English assaulted
Ahweyoh
’s sister, that they might steal
Ahweyoh
. Her husband, Black Eagle, was away on the hunt, but he has since returned and has gone to save her. But where that place is that he has gone, I know not. However, his mother might have knowledge of this, or if not,
Ahweyoh
’s sister might know, thus I have asked for them both to come here.”
Soon the two women arrived. However, neither of them spoke English and Sarah had to wait to learn through White Thunder’s translation that both women believed the English had taken Miss Marisa to Albany. Although they couldn’t be certain, Black Eagle had said this was where he would go to find her.
As soon as Sarah understood what had been said, she murmured to White Thunder, “It is as I feared. She went to Albany. We must go there at once.”
White Thunder nodded. He thanked them all for their hospitality, for their kindness and for their information. But, he told them, both he and Sarah would need to leave as quickly as possible, since they possessed urgent information for Black Eagle and his bride.
“And where be your destination?” asked the older gentleman.
“Albany,” replied White Thunder. “We go to Albany at once.”
Twenty-four
They left the Mohawk village of Andagoran in haste. Evening shadows were already falling upon the forest when Sarah and White Thunder quit the relative safety of the Mohawk village to again travel through the woods.
Their pace was that of a light run; it was fast, lively and quick, which kept Sarah warm, though the air temperature was cold and turning ever colder as evening crept in around them. Again, White Thunder took the lead and for now, perhaps because they were still close to the Mohawk village, they traveled on the well-worn Iroquois Trail.
Because the trail was kept clean and clear of debris, Sarah’s trek through the woods was easier, if only because she didn’t have to worry about catching her dress on the brambles and burrs of the trees and bushes.
“Aren’t you concerned about war parties?” Sarah had asked White Thunder as they had slowed their pace to a fast walk.
“Indeed, I am,” he returned, “but not this close to the Mohawk village, which is still patrolled by the warriors and sentries. Tomorrow, we will have to resume our more usual trek through the unkempt places in the woods, those paths where no one travels. But I think we are safe here for now.”
“How long will it take us to arrive at Albany?”
“A day and a bit,” he answered. “Perhaps more, depending on the state of the lesser-used paths.”
“Have you ever considered utilizing the river instead of the trails through the woods? Couldn’t we simply paddle a canoe to Albany? It would be faster.”
“It would be faster if this land were not at war and we were not in danger of being exposed to all eyes on the water, friend or foe.
Neh
, no, better it is that we travel in the woods, concealed.”
“Yes, I see. Of course.”
They pushed onward through the evening and late into the night, not stopping until dawn was a dim light on the horizon. Only then did White Thunder quit and begin to set up camp.
“Will we arrive in Albany tomorrow?” Sarah asked as she and White Thunder sat beside one another in their temporary shelter, enjoying a meal of dried meat, corn cakes and berries.
“We will.”
“I suppose we’ll first need to visit the Rathburn estate to determine if Marisa is there and safe. But if not, I assume we’ll have to discover where she might have gone and why she left.”
White Thunder nodded. “It is a good plan. You forgot one important detail, though. We will go there only in the evening, when there are shadows that might hide us.”
Sarah frowned. “Must we? I understand your concern and need for stealth, Mr. Thunder. I, too, am anxious about Marisa’s safety. But to have to wait until the evening … I lived there for fifteen years, and it seems to me that I might go there and make inquiries without having to sneak about.”
“There is every reason to conceal ourselves and wait until evening,” White Thunder rebutted. “If we go there and confront Rathburn, and he sees you, he will keep you there as his servant.”
“Yes, he could. He has that right by law.”
“He does not have that right,” protested White Thunder. “Not by any law. No man has the ‘right’ to own and control another human being for his own profit. And if, as you say, there is a ‘law’ that states he does, then that ‘law’ is against the tenets of the Creator, thereby making it no law at all, but rather a crime.”
Sarah sighed. “’Tis so logical sounding when you say it to me. However, that is not how the courts look upon it. And I am subject to those courts.”
“You are subject to no one.”
“You are if you’re a woman.”
“Because you are a woman? What does your gender have to do with being subject to someone?”
“Because,” she answered, “a woman is always subordinate to her husband or to her father or to some other male relative.”