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Title:
Thunder From The Mountains
A Historical Novel of the Wabenaki Indian Nation
Author:
Dr. Edward Martin
Foreword by Terry Martin
Price: $29.95
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Chapter Samplers:
Chapter One - Arockameecook
Chapter Four - From Quabacook to Cushnoc
Chapter 11 - Jon Zenko
Synopsis
"THUNDER
FROM THE MOUNTAINS" is an Indian history of Maine in novel form as it might have
been written by an Androscoggin Wabenaki who lived in the territory called Mayne
in the late 17th and early 18th centuries; more specifically, the years 1650 to
1724. It examines in detail the culture and history of the Maine Wabenakis from
the time of its earliest discovery by the white man to the year 1724. The massacre
at Narantsouak on the Kennebec River in 1724 sounded the death knell of the Wabenaki
Nation and in retrospect all Indian nations whose territories make up present
day United States. By example, a precedent was set, a declaration of malice, by
which all men or red skin would be decimated as our nation raced westward. It
was an unfortunate paradox that saw western man, after centuries of oppression
beneath the yoke of despotic rulers, cast off their fetters only to lay them hard
upon the neck of the Red Man. Seeds of democracy had been sown in the vast wilderness,
which upon taking root, destroyed an entire race of men. To gain ones liberty
by the sacrifice of his brother is unacceptable by any moral standard and other
avenues were open had those in power desired to pursue a different course.
Chapter
One - Arockameecook
I was born in the village of Arockameecook,
main village of the Anasagunticook Wabenakis, on the Amoscoggin River in what
the governor of Boston called the Territory of Mayne. By what right he called
our land Mayne I never knew, but like so many of our dealings with the Bostonais,
we never understood their intentions until it was too late. Arockameecook of my
childhood was a thriving village of four thousand people and lay on a point of
land huddled close to the southern slope of a mountain range that enclosed the
valley all the way to the White Hills. The village grew hundreds of acres of the
finest corn found anywhere in the valley and, to my eyes of four winters, their
lofty stalks rose to the sky.
Wigwams, our summer homes, dotted the landscape
as far as we could see and winter cabins stood inland in the protection of the
hills. Our cabins were built with their doors facing south so the sun would warm
their entrances in winter when freezing winds blew off the mountains.
My
father was Katonis, Metouin of Arockameecook, and brother of Tarumkin, Sagamore
of the Anasagunticook Nation. He was admired by our people and served on the Wabenaki
Council.
In his fifteenth winter, Katonis was kidnapped by the English
down at Quabacook and carried by ship across the Great Lake to England. He was
kept there for five winters in the home of a kind nobleman who taught him to read
and write their language. In the sixth year of his captivity, he embarked for
the New World aboard a ship sent by the king to explore the coastline of our nation
and serve as interpreter and guide. When the ship anchored off Machigonne to replenish
its drinking water, he escaped and hid in the woods. After the landing party left,
he climbed the hill overlooking the harbor, and watched the sails of the White
Eyes disappear beyond the headland; then headed north to Arockameecook where our
people, who had given him up for dead, received him with great joy.
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Chapter
Four - From Quabacook to Cushnoc
The camp was astir with activity
before sunrise. Tarumkin and my father were down on the beach looking across the
river toward the fort.
Smoke hung heavy on the morning air above the palisade
that enclosed the fortification. Strange voices drifted across the water. A brightly
colored flag hung limply from a pole above a block house. Men in odd clothing
moved in and out through a large gate.
Hot coals from last night’s fire
were uncovered and a meal of smoked fish and dried corn was quickly prepared.
I broke off pieces of maple sugar, given to me by Nigewa before leaving Arockameecook.
Our village was well known for its maple sugar that we traded with the settlers.
Today I would see the trade goods of the English. I could hardly wait and helped
load canoes with anticipation. It was high tide and a light breeze disturbed the
surface of the river as we paddled across to the fort. A group of White Men had
gathered on the opposite shore. We landed below the fort where the banks slope
steeply down to the river. The welcoming party walked toward us. Tarumkin went
to meet them.
"Welcome Tarumkin of the Anasagunticooks. A runner brought
news of your coming. We have many fine trading goods for you and are honored by
your visit." They appeared friendly enough.
Tarumkin thanked them for their
welcome and we accompanied them to the fort and through the large gate that could
admit ten men walking abreast.
The timbers of the palisade were three warriors
high and enclosed four buildings with stone chimneys. Square towers protected
the corners of the fort where soldiers with guns paced back and forth. Cushnoc
was a strongly built fortification, but not strong enough to withstand an all
out assault.
They brought us to the largest of the four buildings where
trading goods were kept. Tables and shelves were filled with blankets, colored
cloth, knives, coats, metal pots, hatchets, fish hooks, colored beads and much
more. Tarumkin asked to see guns, powder and shot but was told the governor in
Boston had forbidden their sale to Indians. He was displeased and told them the
French did not make such laws. "Soon", he said, "they would build trading posts
on our rivers and will supply us with guns."
They apologized. Said they
did not make the laws but had to obey them. One, who appeared to be their leader,
said he hoped the law would be repealed so they could sell us whatever we wanted.
Our
beaver pelts were weighed and trading goods exchanged. Katahnis traded his pelts
for a knife and hatchet. Metal tools and weapons were superior to those made of
stone. Their introduction made everything of stone obsolete. Tarumkin appeared
sullen and left the trading post without saying farewell to our hosts.
A
commotion was taking place down by the river. Children ran toward us shouting
that a white woman had drowned. Katonis repeated the message in our own tongue.
Katahnis and I dropped our packs and ran to the river. Without breaking stride,
we dove into the water and were quickly alongside the over turned canoe. I dove
deeply and with a few strong strokes was gliding along the river bottom. A flash
of white appeared through the clear water and I turned toward it. The body of
a young woman came into view. She was making feeble movements with her arms and
her long hair billowed upward like marsh grass. I grabbed her from behind and
with a strong push of my legs brought her to the surface.
A crowd had gathered
on shore and I carried her toward them. There was still life in her limp form.
Katonis took her from me and laying her face downward on the beach applied pressure
to her back in a rocking movement. Water and froth ran from her mouth and she
gasped, followed by spasms of coughing. Her blue lips turned pink, and her breathing
came easier. Her eyelids flickered; then opened. She began to cry. They wrapped
her in a blanket and carried her into the fort. Mr.Winslow embraced my father;
then Katahnis and me. He insisted we remain at Cushnoc longer and ordered a celebration
in our honor for saving his daughter's life.
Our leaders conferred on the
river’s edge and agreed to stay.
It was the finest meal I had ever seen.
My worries about war were gone, buried in the joy of food and festivities. It
was not the same for everyone, and suspicious looks from both sides, awakened
old fears and hatreds. When the feasting ended, Winslow arose from his place beside
Tarumkin and called for our attention. Smiling and speaking in a pleasing manner,
he addressed those present. The debt I owe you can never be repaid." He paused
and smiled at my father, Katahnis and me. "Because you came here, my daughter
lives. I will be in your debt as long as I live. There are rumors of war to the
south, but let not one drop of blood stain the soil of your country. Let the Wabenaki
and English live in peace as along as the river flows.
"May our people
grow old in their villages and never know the horrors of war. To show my gratitude
and high esteem for your people, I have gifts for all of you."
Boxes were
carried from the warehouse and opened. They contained silver broaches, knives
and hatchets, iron kettles, blankets and clothing. Winslow gave Katahnis and me
necklaces from which hung large silver medallions. He then raised his arm and
asked for our attention. A hush fell over the crowd. He turned to my father and
Tarumkin.
"To you, I give my guns with powder and shot as a token of the
respect and esteem I have for you. Our laws forbid the sale of such weapons but
say nothing about a gift from one friend to another. May they serve you well,
bring much meat to your table and never be raised in anger."
Winslow stepped
forward and presented the guns to my father and Tarumkin. They were pleased with
such unexpected gifts and grasped wrists with Winslow in the manner of our nation
when friends meet.
“May the Wabenaki and English always share a full table
and the friendship and respect that bind us today. I worry that soon the fires
of war will burn in the southern sky. Our nation, and yours, will never be the
same. I favor the path of peace and pray the Great Spirit will give wisdom to
the Bostonais so they too will sing a song of peace. The Red Man has been treated
badly by the English. The English consider themselves masters of our land. They
ridicule and despise us. How long can this go on? English justice is a mockery
and those who have felt its sting, flee before it. There is no justice for a Red
Man in a White Man's court.
The young woman I had rescued from the river
had recovered enough to attend the celebration. Her beauty captivated me. She
was in her fifteenth summer and looked as fresh as the flowers of the field. Her
golden hair hung in garlands on her shoulders and blue eyes peered out shyly from
a lovely face. Her voice was soft, like the song of a sparrow. An inner goodness
shone forth like the sun in summer. I would always remember her that way. She
was my angel of the morning. I still have her locket with a strand of golden hair
enclosed. It is as beautiful today as it was then but that's another story, I
must not get ahead of myself.
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Chapter
Eleven - Jon Zenko
The spring and early summer were spent in the usual
way. After the corn, beans and pumpkins had been planted, we left for Quabacook
and the seashore to fish, dig clams, catch lobsters and crabs and pick oysters.
Rumors
of trouble to the south were heard in every village. Wanolancet and Paugus said
Metacommett had continued his crusade to inflame the tribes in a war with the
English. Although many agreed with him in spirit they were hesitant about going
to war. Regardless, the younger men considered the English an abomination and
were ready to lift their hatchets at a moments notice. All that was needed was
a spark to ignite the inevitable confrontation.
The Eastern Indians, as
we were called by the Bostonais, were undecided about joining Metacommett. Some
of the settlers were our friends. It was the political and religious leaders of
Boston we despised. New forts had been built on our lands and places, where we
fished and hunted only yesterday, were now closed to us. When confronted, the
settlers either showed us deeds they said gave them title to our lands or land
grants that took it outright. When we asked for a conference to negotiate the
disagreements, they ignored us and said negotiation was not an option.
These
reports worried our leaders. Regardless, they said peace was better than war and
as long as men of good will could talk, they need not fight. It was not a view
shared by everyone; especially, the younger men who continued to prepare for war.
Though they would honor the decisions of Tarumkin and our sachems, they were openly
hostile to the soldiers in the forts and those who ran the trading posts.
Before
the annual migration to the seashore, a person came into my life that changed
it forever. From the White Man's perspective, he was a man of little importance.
That made very clear the weakness of a system that judged a man by his pedigree
or social standing. Many a diamond lies hidden in the gravel, while lesser stones,
some little more than polished rocks, bask in the sun.
The man was Jon
Zenko of Kittery. Whatever I think of him, warmth like the summer sun comes over
me.
In early summer he arrived at our village accompanied by an Indian
companion and a large, black dog that looked like a wolf. He walked with a swagger,
toed in, wore a buckskin shin and pants decorated with beadwork and a belt made
of wampum. He carried a hatchet in his belt and a long knife in a sheath on his
legging. He was tall; broad shouldered and had the look of a man not to be taken
lightly. Curious children followed him up the path to the village. He went directly
to the council house. Tarumkin appeared in the doorway and greeted the tall stranger.
“Welcome
brother Zenko.” He said. It has been many moons since your last visit.” They embraced
like brothers slapping one another on the back. Zenko grinned. He was as happy
to see Tarumkin as Tarumkin was to see him.
“I have brought lots of goods
tah trade with my Red brothas: knives and hatchets, cooking pots, beads for the
women and much more.” He beckoned to his companion to bring in the trading goods.
Zenko’s
companion was not of our nation and I surmised by his long hair and clothing he
was from a bribe near Boston, perhaps a Natick, one of the praying Indians. They
had given up their religion and adopted the Jesus Christ religion of the Bostonais.
We looked down on them; held them in contempt. Didn’t trust them. We called them
red apples: red on the outside; white on the inside. You could excuse a White
Man for being what he was but not a Red Man for behaving in such a reprehensible
manner. I would change my mind about this after my stay with Thomas Coolidge.
You hated whomever your father hated and for the same reasons. I didn’t suppose
the White Man was any different.
“We can always use these honest, Jon,”
Tarumkin said. There were few White Men we called honest, but Jon had earned this
title through his honest dealings with our people. “But where are the guns, shot
and powder.”
Jon shook his head. “I hev brought you powdah and shot but
couldn’t bring guns. They’ve passed a law against selling guns to Indians. Damn
shame! You probably heerd what they did to Morton down at Merry Mount fer gun
traden. With rumors of war everywhere, they’d probably hang me if I sold you guns.”
“I
heah yah Tarumkin. It’s a shame it is, a damn shame and they ain’t got brains
enough to know it.” It wasn’t Jon’s fault. He would have sold us guns if he could.
I knew that. “I have known yah fer many wintahs Tarumkin. Her like mah own fathah.
Yer people are my people. We’re brothas,” Jon paused and raised his hand as if
to make everyone there understand how he felt.
“Wah’s the damndest thing.
Makes devils out of good men and bad ones even worse.”
“I’ll tell you true,
they want yer land and are goen to take it one way or anothat. The people do as
thar told. The king’s tah blame! Yes he be! He tells ‘em what to do and they have
to do it or be hung an quahtahed ! I may be a simple man, but I’m no fool.”
The
words of Trader Jon fell hard on Tarumkin. His jaw clenched and the wrinkles on
his forehead deepened. He looked at his people with downcast eyes then turned
to Jon in anger.
“Your words tear at my heart, Jon. I try to understand
why they do this and say to myself things will change and our hatchets will stay
buried. I leave it in the hands of the Great Spirit.
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