Even amongst the Six Nations. And I might’ve been more sure of the success of our mission were it not for the fact that the most distinguished Mohawk had not responded to the messengers with the wampum belts. No Seneca. Next to no Cayuga. Only a hundred Onondaga. Disappointed and alarmed, I said to my father, “They won’t even meet with us.”
Papa squeezed my hand. “There are nearly eight hundred, Betsy. It’ll be enough for word to get to the others.”
Finally, the ceremony commenced on the common; the Indians arranged themselves in a circle by nation and clan, sitting on the ground upon blankets and furs, men on one side, women on the other, chairs left for the commissioners, and for me.
In the center, a large pot of meat broth boiled away over a fire. And as a pledge of sincerity, three elderly chiefs delivered to Papa and Lafayette a belt of wampum much more intricate than any I’d seen before, curiously worked with porcupine quills, and handsomely painted.
When it was my father’s turn to speak, he didn’t dissemble. He merely explained that the King of England was an ocean away and would abandon his Iroquois allies when the Americans won this war. That if the Six Nations didn’t bury their war ax now, they’d soon find themselves facing a new American nation that would treat them as enemies.
I worried that he would press them too hard, but those who sat nearest to the fire—the Oneida and the Tuscarora—my father praised for maintaining the neutrality they’d once promised. And he pledged our friendship and protection.
That was all he was permitted to say for the time being. These tawny-skinned people of the longhouse abided by strict rules and rituals, and it was now time to dance.
An Oneida clan mother named Two Kettles Together approached me, bells in hand. “Are you not One-of-us?”
She was one of those who had adopted me into the Six Nations. And grinning that she’d remembered me after all these years, I readily fastened the bells on my ankles.
“I am so happy to see you,” I said, introducing her to Lafayette as a warrior in her own right, who had fought at Oriskany. Armed with two pistols, she’d reloaded her husband’s weapons when he—wounded—couldn’t do it for himself.
“Like Joan de Arc!” Lafayette exclaimed, in warm greeting. “A French warrior woman. I have an ancestor who fought beside her. Perhaps one day, you should fight beside me.”
“If you are lucky,” Two Kettles Together said with a shrewd little smile, before taking my hand and pulling me into the dance, where the Indians united by hands and jumped round the pot that hung over the fire, animated by the music of a small drum. One of the chiefs likewise took Lafayette by the hand and danced him round the circle, too. Another blackened Papa’s face with grease from a pot. Whether this was a trick to excite a laugh, or a part of their actual national ceremony, I didn’t know.
But my very dignified father did not like it.
And yet, Lafayette insisted he must also have his face greased!
Apparently charmed by his boisterous participation, the Iroquois adopted Lafayette, too, with a new name. Kayewla. Fearsome horseman.
I knew this was partly because they liked him and mostly because he was a representative of France. Too many of our fellow Americans dismissed the sons of the forest as simple savages, but we who lived so near to the Six Nations knew better. They were not to be trifled with or tricked. Other Indians lived in fear and dread of them. What the Six Nations wanted was a balance of power in the region. If they couldn’t have it with the King of England, they’d seek it with the King of France, with the Marquis de Lafayette as the conduit.
And because I was hopeful that peace between our peoples could be achieved, I stayed late with the women, who danced, ate soup, and drank rum. I was quiet, listening to those who didn’t realize I understood their language enough to overhear something not meant for my ears.
Two Onondaga women complained of going through the motions of this treaty convention. It was a sham, they said, meant only to raise our hopes. I pretended at fascination with the dance, softly clapping my hands. Only when it would draw no notice did I make ready to return to Papa’s side and warn him.
But when Two Kettles Together rose to walk with me, I feared she knew that I understood. And for a fleeting moment, I felt in the gravest danger of my life.
A feeling that lessened only a little when she whispered, “You know now that the Onondaga cannot be trusted. Tell your company to be on its guard. I’ve heard talk of a spy in the neighborhood who has eyes on your father and, especially, your Frenchman.”