River of Triumph

DENOUEMENT

CHAPTER I - THE OUTSET

The morning mist shrouded three birch-bark canoes, each manned by a young brave, as they glided upriver along the western bank, rafts in tow. Above the green-shaded mountains on the opposite shore, the sun rose. Piercing rays and a stiff breeze soon stripped the airy cocoon to expose them. Amidst full daylight, smooth crystal waters mirrored their passage with slight distortions. It was early June in the year of Our Lord 1768.

In the lead craft the oldest and brawniest vigorously set the pace. Again and again this tall, swarthy boy-man at 18 years old swung the long wooden blade from side to side, plying one arm, then the other as a driving force. Every paddle thrust in the river propelled the canoe forward in a surging motion.

His Algonquin name was Swift Fox, a testament to his athleticism and intelligence. Yet he had a Christian name, which matched the duality of his upbringing: Luke for the physician-disciple of the Christian Bible and Davidson, the adopted surname of an errant trapper who had once befriended his father. The two younger boys were a brother Little Hawk, or Matthew Davidson, and Young Wolf, the son of a favorite uncle. Unlike Swift Fox’s father, the uncle did not hold with English names or Christianity for that matter.

Always competing with Luke, though seldom a serious rival, Little Hawk strove to surpass him in his canoe. But because of the differences in size and strength, those efforts failed. Instead of putting pressure on the flotilla’s leader, he only frustrated their cousin, who lagged further behind despite struggles to keep up.

The young braves were returning from the Newburgh landing where they had delivered the tribe’s excess beaver, fox, and raccoon pelts. The pelts were sold in the colonies or shipped to England through Manhattan. Furs represented valuable and stylish commodities to the Europeans and white Americans, who considered them luxury items, fashionable to wear as hats or coats. The Native Americans saw them in a different light, as necessities of life to shield them from a cold climate.

In exchange for furs, the agent at the shipping terminal had given the braves trade goods. Haphazardly stacked on the rafts were muskets, gunpowder, knives, axes and tools, iron pots and copper pans, woolen blankets and broadcloth. Most were destined for their village in the Shawangunk Mountains.

As the canoes and rafts sliced upstream, they passed a flat, almost treeless spit. Once an arena for native rituals and war dances, the desolate site, now known as ‘Dans Kammer,’ a Dutch term, jutted out from the river’s western shore. Though ordinarily in good spirits, Swift Fox became somber when rounding this point. Years earlier, Indians had captured a married white couple in a boat on the river and slowly burned them at the stake there.

Long regarded by whites as an act of wanton cruelty, the incident greatly upset Swift Fox. How could his people have committed such an atrocity? As a member of both cultures, he remained highly sensitive to each one’s fears about the other. He tried to change the distorted notions of white friends about Indians. To his own people, he portrayed the European settlers in a humane and amicable light as he had come to know many of them.

Through the morning hours, the canoes proceeded upriver. Just before noon, Swift Fox spotted a whaleboat far ahead in its course south. Initially, he paid it little mind, but curiosity at last stirred. He ceased paddling, letting the canoe slip forward on its own momentum, then wiped the sweat off his brow. From the pocket of linen leggings, he pulled out a new spyglass, a gift the agent gave him that dawn, to focus on the whaleboat, two hundred yards north. The backs and partial profiles of two men rowing downstream grew visible. Seated nearer the bow, the younger one had red hair and a clean-shaven face while his companion sported a hat and bushy brown beard. Swift Fox resumed paddling and recalled the advice of Henri Keppler, his father’s business partner and a man wise in the ways of the world.

When transporting furs or trade goods, be wary. Indians will always be targets for scoundrels. Avoid strangers altogether and never give anyone an excuse to rob you.

The braves had been spared anything that foul, but this offered Swift Fox little comfort. Despite his trust of whites, his instincts told him to prepare for the worst. In the Algonquin tongue, he relayed his suspicions to his brother and cousin. They readied firearms but kept them out of sight.

As the rear guard, his cousin toted an English flintlock called the `Brown Bess’ that hit targets up to a hundred yards. Outfitted in brass fittings and a walnut stock, its smoothbore barrel stretched more than three feet. An iron ramrod drove the lead ball home. Having been trained by his father, Young Wolf handled this musket like an expert. From Little Hawk’s American rifle, a recent birthday gift, protruded a long, grooved barrel inserted into a dark maple stock. In his hands its lethal prowess reached over two hundred fifty yards.

Out of the horn draped over a shoulder, Swift Fox dribbled powder into the flintlock’s flash pan and down the barrel before loading it with lead from a leather pouch. The ash-framed canoe moving again upstream, he smiled faintly at the musket’s bizarre nature. Its flared muzzle possessed a larger bore than the other guns, yet it was shorter. The weapon’s name, the ‘Blunderbuss,’ sounded humorous, but the damage its scattering shot could do at close range should not be taken lightly. Angled upward beneath a woolen blanket in the bow, it stood poised for instant action. His brother and cousin signaled their readiness just as Swift Fox finished his own preparations. They hoped the approaching craft would pass sufficiently to starboard so not to pose any threat. As the whaleboat continued downstream, it angled toward them bit by bit, then more directly until the last thirty yards it blocked their path. Now, with no easy escape open, the boys felt trapped. Still they prayed the men in the boat would not be hostile. Twenty feet away the young braves stopped paddling and came to a halt.

The older bewhiskered man standing near the stern addressed Swift Fox.

Where’re you lads going in such a hurry?

To New Paltz, sir.

We’re headed to the general store at Balmville, you know, where that big tree grows. How far’s it from here?

Quite a piece. About six miles downstream, sir, on the west bank.

The old man took in the contents of Swift Fox’s canoe.

Where’d you get all those trade goods? Did you steal ‘em?

No, sir, we swapped furs for them. We work for Mr. Keppler, the merchant from New Paltz. These are his goods. Swift Fox kept his voice steady, and gradually moved his left hand along the canoe’s bottom, under the blanket, until he grasped the Blunderbuss.

By Satan, it’d be most sensible if you boys swung those rafts over here. I am watching ya real close, so no tricks.

Yeah, and be quick about it, said the younger, freckled-faced oarsman. He spat a wad of tobacco into the water. I ain’t got all day.

The canoe’s bow shifted toward the whaleboat.

We want no trouble, Swift Fox said, but we cannot obey you. Mr. Keppler would scalp us if we did.

The bearded man raised the weapon to shoulder-level and took dead aim at Luke. Better do as I say, boy. Damn Injuns.

Swift Fox pointed the Blunderbuss at the two men and pulled its trigger. Shots exploded simultaneously. Just as the ball from the white man’s musket hurtled toward Luke, the force of the recoil, caused by the Blunderbuss, drove the canoe backward, and the lead fell short of the mark.

Buckshots from the Blunderbuss hit the younger man in the right bicep. Pellets struck the older man in the shoulder and upper chest, and he toppled into the river. The falling musket smacked the boat’s bottom with a thud, and a brimmed hat flew off to float on the watery surface. The suddenness of events stunned these travelers so randomly tossed together. Only cries of the injured white men shattered the silence. The redhead picked up an oar and awkwardly thrust it over the side to help his wounded friend.

After he grasped the oar, the older man pulled himself toward the boat. He reached up to grab the oarlock, then flung a leg onboard. Water dripped from head and beard. While the younger one steadied the boat, the man yanked himself upward and rolled into it, bloodied, battered and soaked.

The Algonquins watched silently, savoring their triumph. Swift Fox raised his right arm, motioning for his brother and cousin to paddle upstream. He stood guard with the reloaded Blunderbuss until the other canoes were safely out of musket range. Moments later he lowered the gun and hastily pushed on. From time to time he glanced back over his shoulder at the whites. The younger man was struggling with the oars, trying to maneuver the boat toward the shoreline. His friend slumped over the side. Both of their guns were out of sight.

The young men paused to eat roasted chicken prepared by the shipping agent’s wife, then pressed on. Hours passed without incident. The rhythmic paddling of the canoe that warm sunny afternoon began to mesmerize Swift Fox. He cultivated a special relationship with the river, a oneness that made him feel part of the gently flowing waters. To him it seemed eternal. The river had existed long before the Algonquins had settled in this valley and would continue long after they were gone. How much his people valued this lifeblood for their land. Abundant and ever constant, fleshy sturgeon, striped bass, herring and shad filled its waters, and succulent oysters lay in its shallows. Between the ocean and the great northern mountains, it stretched for more than two hundred fifty miles inland with no barriers to thwart man’s passage.

The Algonquins called it ‘Muhheakunnuk,’ which means always moving big waters or waters flowing two ways. For years Swift Fox had listened to the river’s many voices and its tributaries, roaring, rushing, streaming, coursing, splashing, chopping, gurgling, lapping. These voices, he realized, echoed the history of his people, the white man’s invasion and settlement, their wars and disputes, finally the Algonquins’ western migration. His tribe envisaged the river, whether salty, brackish or pristine-fresh, as a god to be esteemed if not worshiped.

Of all the Algonquins still in the Hudson Valley, Red Feather, the father of Swift Fox and Little Hawk, had adapted most readily to the white men’s ways. Because of his own father’s insistence, he had attended their school during youth where he had learned to read and write English as well as handle simple mathematics. Exposed to a large dosage of Christianity in the church at New Paltz, he had become a true believer. Not forsaking Lenape customs, he had learned to straddle these two cultures with the agility of a bobcat.

Once made chief or sachem on his father’s death, Red Feather used his knowledge of the white world to prepare his people for their changing circumstances. From a mountain village, he fashioned a critical partnership with Henri Keppler, an old schoolmate and good friend. The son of a French Huguenot mother and Dutch father, Keppler had inherited his parents’ general store in New Paltz and had extensive contacts for trade goods and furs with the merchants and shippers in New York City.

While Keppler nurtured white fur buyers, Red Feather created trading alliances with other Lenape clans further west and different tribes in Canada. In these fertile regions, Indians trapped or hunted bears, otters, foxes and beavers almost year round. Red Feather sent braves into the interior to swap trade goods for such precious skins.

Between them, Keppler and Davidson dominated fur-trading in the lower Hudson Valley. They never reached the business done further north by the Dutch merchants at Albany or Sir William Johnson along the Mohawk Valley, but their profits still made them rich.

Unlike Keppler, Red Feather reserved little money for himself or family, but conferred his share on the tribe to foster new opportunities. He applied European know-how, tools and training, enabling his people to operate grist and saw mills, a forge yielding skilled metal work, and a freight business. So great were Red Feather’s powers of persuasion that he convinced the tribe to construct a new schoolhouse in their village and hire a white schoolmistress. In the past, just a few Indian children benefited from a formal education since the ten miles to the schoolhouse in New Paltz remained too far for daily travel, and room and board with the white families in town were scarce.

Like his father before him, Swift Fox went to the white man’s school. Though Red Feather had merely obtained rudimentary learning, his son progressed further and excelled. Always the brightest and most accomplished of students – white or Indian – Swift Fox became a source of pride in both communities where everyone expected him to attend college.

By the time the young Indians neared their destination, the sun was already sinking. For a while, it glowed like a brilliant ball of red fire against a yellowish aura before retreating behind the greenery of the distant mountain ridge. Bathed in the dwindling light, the canoes slid steadily toward a low-slung dock in a small cove on the river’s western bank. On the dock stood a plainly-dressed white man, who waved enthusiastically, as if awaiting their arrival. His name was Carter Daniel and he was one of Keppler’s employees. The boys’ deft paddling brought the canoes and cargo to a graceful stop at the jetty’s edge. Receptive hands carefully guided them along the wharf’s length into an open boathouse.

Once inside the boys slipped out of the canoes onto the landing’s solid floor. They exchanged friendly greetings with Carter, detached the rafts, then carried the canoes to the far end of the boathouse. A lit torch, angling out from the wall, shed barely enough light. Once belongings had been removed, they placed the boats in a series of racks that protruded from the back wall. Carter tied the rafts to the landing and transferred the trade goods to a secure corner of the boathouse.

The Keppler mansion rose from a bluff above the dock. After trudging up the steep path, the young men ate a hearty meal in the kitchen, then wandered off to different parts of the house. In a bedroom on the second floor, the two younger boys, exhausted from the day’s exertion, soon slept soundly, but Swift Fox went to join Mr. and Mrs. Keppler in the library where they had retired sometime earlier after dinner.

Among his tribe, he was known as Swift Fox. But here, in this place, he was called Luke. The Kepplers had become his second family. As his Christian godparents, Henri and Marie, had virtually adopted him. During the school term, he boarded with them in the smaller stone house amid the growing village of New Paltz and was a frequent guest at their river mansion. While Henri kept abreast of Luke’s progress in school, Marie made sure he was well fed and clothed, tutoring him and her own children together in French.

Paneled in a glossy light walnut and embroidered with elaborate molding, the library ascended to two stories. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves embraced thousands of leather-bound books. Gold-framed oil paintings of land and seascapes hung in the few bare areas of wall space. An ornate green marble fireplace dominated the room, lit by candles in rounded chandeliers that dangled from the ceiling. Fluffy sofas, high-back armchairs and finely-crafted tables combined to create a comfortable opulence.

The Kepplers were conversing there when Luke strolled in. Standing before the fireplace, Henri, a thin, sandy-haired man of average height, smoked a briar pipe. Azure-eyed Marie, a buxom woman with long limbs and ash-colored hair, was ensconced in an armchair. Renee, their blond daughter, was curled up on the pink sofa next to her brother, Paul.

Mr. and Mrs. Keppler had always fascinated Luke. Henri concentrated much too much on business, and in spare moments he preferred to be alone, reading books in the library, sailing his gaffed rigged boat and swimming in the river. More outgoing, Marie, in need of people around her, often enlivened family and social gatherings with her penetrating wit. Despite their differences, they blended well to support and care for each other.

Luke greeted all and handed Henri the bills of lading from the agent at the Newburgh landing. Henri browsed through them and smiled with satisfaction.

You did very well, my boy. Safe and efficient delivery of the furs and return of trade goods in the right amounts, excellent.

Thank you, sir, but …, Luke paused, the fact is there’s something else.

Henri looked up and saw Luke’s expression. Upon my soul, what’s troubling you, lad?

Yes, tell us about your trip, Renee inquired.

Luke reported the details of the clash with the white men that afternoon. He saw Renee’s eyes widen with amazement.

Not to worry, Henri said. I’ll speak to the local constable about those rogues. We’ll catch them and put them in jail for a while. That’ll teach them!

You were wonderful, Luke, Marie said. We’re all very proud of you. Those men certainly got more than they bargained for.

Whites still take advantage of Indians, Henri declared. They drove them from their land. That should’ve been enough. Now, stealing their possessions! He shook his head in disgust. His face reddened with anger.

You always see these incidents in terms of Indians versus whites, Marie observed. But let’s be savvy. Here were two evil men preying on seemingly weaker people. It would’ve been the same if three white boys paddled those canoes, except – she winked, for the outcome. She gave Luke a warm smile and instructed her husband, Dear, in honor of Luke’s feat, please serve some refreshments.

Yes indeed, Henri exclaimed. It’s something to celebrate.

He went to a small serving table in the corner and poured Madeira into crystal glasses for Marie and himself, and sweet apple cider into pewter mugs for the youngsters. Henri raised his glass to propose a toast, but his blond son, big-boned and still sprouting, spoke first.

To my good friend Luke, Paul offered. His bravery and valor were clearly evident today in defense of our property. For this we are very thankful. Clever and resourceful, he proved, above all else, that no one can outfox … Swift Fox.

They laughed and drank.

Henri announced. Tomorrow, Paul, Renee and I will take you to your village. It’s been too long since I last saw your father. We’ve much to discuss now that he is back from the west.

I am glad you are finally paying us a visit, Luke said. But why isn’t Mrs. Keppler coming too?

Because there are heaps of chores to do around here, she explained. But please convey my sincerest regards to your parents. I can just see myself on a horse clambering up that steep mountain trail. I would probably fall off or the animal would collapse under my weight.

Nonsense, mother, Renee said. You’ll do just fine.

Luke chuckled. But Mrs. Keppler, we have these beautiful mountains for you to paint. Such worthy subjects for your talents.

Ah, now you want me to lug all my paints, brushes and easel. That poor horse will die of fright even before the trip begins when it sees the total load.

The news of the trip invigorated Luke. He had always wanted to offer the Kepplers Indian hospitality. Over the years they had been so generous. He looked forward to the chance to show Paul and Renee his favorite haunts. Besides, a visit by Mr. Keppler would surely please his father. They enjoyed each others’ company but, because of the miles separating their homes, rarely got together.

Later, Paul and Luke sat on the front porch, smoking cigars, as they enjoyed the night’s fresh breezes. From the encircling woods and meadows, they listened to an orchestra of crickets and katydids, then the syncopated croaks of a bullfrog.

I’m anxious to see your village, Paul said. And what you do there.

I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.

It won’t, I’m sure. Can we do some hunting there or on the way?

If you want to. Are you still going to London in the fall?

Most definitely, Paul tapped his cigar. I’ve always wanted to see England. We’re all Englishmen, he added, oblivious to his friend’s and his own ancestry. I expect to be admitted to Oxford. He glanced at Luke. What are you going to do, now that we’ve finished at the schoolhouse?

I don’t know.

The question made him uncomfortable. Something in his nature stubbornly resisted any suggestion of leaving home. Yet, in reality, that had been the point of his schooling, hadn’t it? To prepare him to do what no one else in his tribe had done. Sometimes, he felt weary. Much too much was expected of him as the oldest son. His father was urging him to make the most of talents and opportunities, not for his own sake, but for that of his people. As the chief’s eldest son, he had to lead, to put others’ concerns before his own. At times that meant doing something he wouldn’t have ordinarily.

They all want me to go away to college, he said with exasperation.

And you don’t want to go? Secretly, Paul hoped he would not.

No, I don’t, but it’s not that simple. Luke had never disappointed his father before. He shuffled his feet, a sign of indecision.

Why not? Perhaps if Luke refused to attend college, thought Paul, he would surpass him, and Henri Keppler would esteem his real son more. Envy lingered within Paul or was it merely a rivalry for a father’s affection and praise?

Luke shrugged. I want to stay with my people and with my friends, I love this land. I see no reason to leave. Red Feather envisaged his eldest son donning the mantle as chief and running the tribe’s businesses. Higher education, he believed, would enable his son to deal better with both White and Indian worlds. Luke could not let him down. Yet in dreams the boy vaguely pictured himself in another role, even teaching at the new Indian schoolhouse. Torn between the clearness of a father’s vision for him and uncrystalized, personal ambitions, he hesitated, bewildered as to which path to take.

But you must be curious about other places?

I can read about them in books, Luke tentatively offered, aware he might soon be forced to leave this comfortable terrain.

It’s not the same as going. Restlessness seeped into Paul’s words. I must see cities, foreign countries and the people who live there. We’ve stayed in the same place all our lives, he complained, puffing on the cigar and blowing smoke rings between the large white columns into the ebony mixture of stillness and insect chirps.

After mid-night the door to Luke’s upstairs bedroom creaked open. His body tensed as he instantly awoke. A ray of light greeted half-closed eyes. With a lit candlestick in one hand, the shapely figure of a young woman floated nearby. Tresses of golden hair loosely tumbled down the back of her white night dress.

Beside the bed, she towered over him and now at sixteen had grown taller than her mother.

Are you awake, Luke? It’s Renee, she whispered. A blend of honeysuckles and roses freshened the air.

Slowly he sat upright rubbing his eyes. What are you doing here, Renee? It’s improper for a young woman to be in a man’s room alone, especially so late at night. Your parents will be furious at us both.

Stop being so fastidious. I’m a grown woman, and will do what I please, came her firm reply. Anyway, you’re more a brother, not like the other boys.

Always confident and outspoken, Renee acted nothing like the Indian girls in the village or the White girls at school. Luke had known her and Paul since they were small. After so many years in the same school and household, he regarded her as his friend and sister. Though on occasions like tonight, this girl’s natural radiating beauty and softness sparked a concealed desire within him.

Still Renee’s changeable moods confused Luke. Sometimes headstrong and stubborn, then yielding and alluring, next aloof and standoffish, she traveled up and down the emotional scales with the practiced dexterity of a skilled musician. Was she a spiteful tease or was this a complicated courtship ritual far beyond the feeble grasp of an inexperienced Indian boy? Immobilized, he had never physically touched the girl nor admitted true feelings to her or himself.

On the edge of the bed, she sat, glad for precious moments alone with him, to ask about the day’s confrontation on the river. Were you scared? She loved to pry.

It happened so quickly. There was no time to think or feel. I just reacted, he stammered. A fierce aggressiveness had always burned inside him. Taught to suppress this instinct save for hunting wild animals, he had willingly succumbed to its urgings. The speed of events contributed little to his violence.

What did they look like, these two awful men? Her blue eyes caressed him.

Big and ugly, I dare say. He tried to make light of it despite the gravity.

She giggled and fell silent for a long moment. Delving into a titillating unknown, her curiosity persisted. Mercy me, how does it feel to almost kill a man?

I had never seen him before, and he was trying to kill me. Luke faltered in groping for an explanation. I’m not sorry for what occurred. You do what has to be done, then and there. Yet on a conscious level he had baited these men all along. Having suspected their intent far in advance, Luke could hardly plead self-defense. Subconsciously, he sought this clash as a legitimate excuse to unleash caged hostilities.

I admire you so! I know if I were ever in danger, you will always protect me, my brave Indian, she exclaimed, then blushed. In that instant she imagined him a hero, ready to do battle for both her honor and life.

Unexpectedly, Renee clasped Luke’s face with a free hand and kissed him hard on the lips — not the usual sisterly peck on the cheek. Absorbing her body’s natural fragrances, he pulled the tempting goddess toward him. Before he could embrace her, she pushed him away and bolted from the bedroom to vanish in the night air Her conduct baffled many, contradictions cascading in whirlpools – come-hither glances and yielding femininity clashing with a stony coolness, welcoming smiles one minute dismissive scowls the next, effusive generosity pitted against a self-centered reticence.

Hard to reconcile, these extremes defied explanation. Still her parents had given this damsel almost everything she had ever desired. Her beauty triggered fawning from male peers and subtle envy from friendly females. Her personality, when at its amenable best, drew people to her, too willing to do her bidding and forgive any slights. Overindulged, she knew few disappointments nor any bounds or restraints, whim and impulse guiding her, accountability dissolved in a sea of admiration, maturity never truly attained.

Staring at the ceiling, eyes blinking, Luke stayed rigid. Buffeted between frustration and excitement, bewilderment and hope, he still delighted in their flirtatious encounter no matter how brief. Elated, he floated amidst conflicting crosscurrents, her magical aura and grace inflating his spirit. For the rest of that night, he wrestled with emotions that whipped him back and forth from despair to rapture, passions flooded then subsided within a contorted vortex. In his sleepiness, he could only wonder—was this a perplexing dream or another twisted piece of reality?

CHAPTER II - TWO VILLAGES

After breakfast the next morning, the Indians and Carter rigged a team of horses to a large wagon and loaded it with the trade goods from the Newburgh landing. Ten minutes later Mr. Keppler and his children joined them in the barn. While Luke, Paul and Carter each saddled a horse, Mr. Keppler squeezed one large leather valise and a covered food basket into the overladen wagon. The two younger braves rode with Mr. Keppler on the buckboard. Atop a pair of roan mares, Paul and Luke flanked the wagon on each side.

Ahead of the convoy Renee galloped off on a sleek white stallion. Earlier that morning Luke had tried to speak with her, but she had ignored him. She seemed to lapse back into one of her haughty moods. Yet thoughts of their midnight encounter persisted in her head and stirred renewed excitement and some shame.

Billowy, white cumulus clouds interspersed sunny skies, giving them pleasant weather at their journey’s start. But, far to the west, dark, ominous clouds rolled toward them. Not quite five miles, the trip to New Paltz, their first stop, would take just less than three hours at the pace they were traveling. At times Luke and Paul would dutifully ride alongside the wagon, but every so often they would dash off to chase a rabbit or challenge the other to a short sprint. To the north, rode the solitary figure of the self-absorbed, blond daughter as if her fellow travelers did not exist. In its meandering, the horse alternated between a prancing gait and a faster trot.

Almost simultaneously, Paul and Luke spotted a large buck with partially grown antlers still in velvet, nibbling on leaves of a grey birch tree. When the deer spied them, it froze for an instant before sprinting far ahead across their path through an open field. Both riders gave chase. Paul pointed a loaded musket while Luke readied a bow and arrow. With a reverberating sound, Paul shot first but missed the buck.

As he roughly calculated the distance, angle and effects of a northwest breeze, Luke took careful aim. The release of the bowstring propelled the arrow toward the moving target. The triangular head of chiseled chert smacked into the deer, the feathered shaft vibrating in the buck’s skin. Although hobbled, the stag kept running, wounded only in the upper-right flank.

The sound of another weapon, an American rifle, echoed across the expanse of fields, and the deer dropped in its tracks. Erect on the Keppler wagon, Little Hawk lowered a gun. In salute to his younger brother, Luke raised a fist and shouted in his dialect. Matthew grinned and nodded, breast puffing with pride. Yet Paul grimaced at his failed shot, as Henri slapped Matthew’s back to laud him on the kill.

Speeding to the downed animal, Luke leapt from his steed and landed squarely on both feet next to it. A sharp knife unsheathed, he pounced on the carcass to slit the underbelly, for the sooner he degutted and let its blood, the better tasting the venison would be. Within twenty minutes Luke hung the stag from the wagon’s rear so the remaining blood would drain before the journey’s end.

In the later seventeenth century, as the Dutch hegemony in New York ended and the British became the governing power, twelve settlers or patentees, all French Huguenots, related by kinship, had made a tripartite bargain to purchase a large tract of fertile ground along the banks of the Wallkill River. One party to this arrangement, the new royal governor of New York Colony, granted these settlers lands totaling forty thousand acres. The other party, the Munsees residing on this vast parcel, in the exchange were given two horses and trade goods such as axes, textiles, kettles, knives, blankets, needles, gunpowder, lead, awls and tobacco.

The village, founded on this land grant, was appropriately called New Paltz, after the German province where the Huguenots had lived when they fled France because of religious persecutions. The original stone houses of its first Huguenot pioneers still stood, neatly tucked along the Wallkill’s eastern bank. They were constructed of a dark aggregate joined by wide layers of white mortar and clustered along a single street. Having doubled as a redoubt, one dwelling featured small round loopholes for its defenders’ muskets. An imposing stone church stood on the same street. The descendents of the original patentees inhabited these houses. No longer just an enclave for French Huguenots, New Paltz had prospered with the influx of a large contingent of Dutch, English, Scotch and Irish homesteaders and farmers.

As the dark clouds engulfed the village from the west, the braves and the Kepplers arrived at Henri’s store along a side street. Hurriedly, they pulled the wagon and horses into the barn behind the store next to one stone house just before torrents of rain fell, and thunder and lightning violently shook the skies. Henri Keppler decided their trip to the Indian village would have to wait until the weather cleared.

Luke skinned the deer and hung the carcass in the barn. After washing up, he hastened off to see George Cartwright, his former schoolmaster. Drenched by the rain, he was relieved to find Cartwright and his wife, Sarah, at home. Inside the couple heartily welcomed him, gave him a towel to dry off and showed him into their warm study.

For more than ten years, George Cartwright had taught a mixed brood of Indian and European children, ages six to eighteen, in the local one-room schoolhouse. A gifted teacher who enjoyed delivering daily lessons in stentorian tones, he loved knowledge for its own sake, always striving to enlarge his intellectual grasp.

From Luke’s first school days, having recognized the boy’s intelligence and determination, Cartwright prodded him to higher and higher levels. Under his active guidance, Luke far outdistanced even the older students in school. A younger partner in the quest for knowledge, he shared Cartwright’s intellectual pursuits. By Luke’s eighteenth birthday, he had already read Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, Moll Flanders, Don Quixote and Pilgrim’s Progress, and had mastered arithmetic, penmanship, English grammar, elementary Latin and geography.

Compared to the average man, George Cartwright seemed eccentric by any account. After all their years together, Luke still could not tell if George acted oddly to fool people or was just naturally strange. Even his appearance and movements——tall, lanky, often awkward much in the mode of a praying mantis—-reinforced that impression.

Once in the study, Luke asked, how have you been, sir?

Alive, shot back this fifty five year old, but only barely, a bizarre answer in light of apparent good health.

After smiling and shaking his head, the Indian reported the details of the Newburgh trip and the return to New Paltz, but Cartwright appeared lost in thought. For a few moments an uncomfortable silence separated them.

I received a letter yesterday, from those officials in Connecticut about you, George blurted out at last. Remember.

Oh really, sir. Luke shrugged, then uncomfortably shifted to another topic. How many pupils will you have next year in the schoolhouse? Usually, their relationship was direct and responsive, but on the touchy subject in the letter these two played cat-and-mouse with one another.

Cartwright explained in subdued tones, Apparently, the reverend Pritcher from Danbury thought highly of your conjugation of Latin verbs and your translation of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Even your grasp of the Old Testament impressed him. They want you to enter the college next fall.

That’s good, I suppose. Luke glanced out the window to avoid having to decide.

You seem befuddled. For God’s sakes, you are going to accept and attend, George urged. He did not understand Luke’s hesitancy.

I don’t rightly know. I’ll have to think about it and talk to my father and … perhaps Mr. Keppler. Delay, delay, he stressed to himself.

What’s there to think about or even to discuss? Are you weak in the head? Cartwright raised his voice. You will accept and go. Tis a great opportunity for you, lad. I only wish I could have studied at a college of this stature.

But I truly don’t want to leave my home, family and friends … or you, sir.

You won’t be leaving anybody here permanently. The schoolmaster calmed himself and at the same time tried to placate the boy. You’ll be back soon enough during vacations, holidays, and certainly after graduation.

I suppose you are right, Luke conceded evasively. He was not ready for this.

One of Sir William Johnson’s Indian sons will attend the new Dartmouth College, said Cartwright reluctantly, fearing he might dissuade him further from what he envisioned as his best course. Would you like being with the Indian students there? You’ll be the sole Indian at Yale.

No, that is not my concern, the young man countered. With all due respect, I hardly need other Indians around to make me feel good. He took umbrage.

News of the college acceptance had confused and upset Luke. Leaving the schoolmaster’s home to return to the Kepplers’ house, he put it out of his mind. Despite occasional lulls, the rain persisted. Luke found Henri and Paul in the parlor.

Looks like we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to continue our journey, said Henri.

That’s if the weather improves, Paul added. Which it better. I’m impatient to get goin’. My father doesn’t care about the delay.

It doesn’t bother me, replied Luke.

How is my friend George Cartwright? asked Henri.

Nothing has changed with him, answered Luke. He’s his usual self.

I never liked that man, Paul remarked. He mocked me in school and always made me feel stupid. Sometimes I wish he would leave this town.

In truth, he didn’t. Luke laughed. It was just his odd manner. He meant little by it.

He’s an arrogant dreamer, Paul declared. A most impractical man—-and those quirks of his! Papa, did you know he talks to himself out loud and constantly scratches his body parts?

Aren’t you being too critical, son? Henri tactfully observed.

No, not at all. Paul’s voice resounded. You didn’t have to stomach him like I did.

Academically, you owe him much, Luke reminded his friend. He taught you practically all you know. The Indian grinned. And he did amuse us with those funny stories. Remember the way he would doze off in class when seated at his desk.

Yeah, it just shows how right I am about that man. He’s a strange duck.

Early the next morning under clearing skies, the travelers headed west to the Wallkill River. Since no bridge spanned it, they would have to ford the waterway or take the ferry across. Henri drove the loaded wagon to the ferry, flicking a whip over the horses. There he counted on help from Luke’s brother and cousin. At the crossing, still mid-stream, the ferry man struggled toward them, a pole clenched in both hands, his face contorted.

I know a shallow section downstream, we could ford, Luke said. Who will join me?

You two go with Luke, Henri told Paul and Renee.

They needed no prodding to charge off on a separate path. With Luke in the lead, all three riders cantered along the riverbank for about a mile. Next to a large weeping willow whose branches touched the water’s surface, Luke reined in his horse and waited for his companions. That morning, as if she were an entirely different person, Renee acted gregarious and sociable.

Luke pointed to the shallows. Paul, you cross the river first, then Renee, and I’ll bring up the rear.

The Wallkill flowed north. Along this stretch it normally spread one hundred fifty feet wide and ran smoothly. Yesterday’s storm drove it wider and at a higher level. The current sped up as well. Gingerly, Paul’s roan stepped into the swollen water. Renee trailed on the frisky white stallion. Reins in his left hand, Luke coaxed the horse forward with pats on its flank, descending the bank just behind Renee. That morning, her blond hair piled neatly on her head, she looked taller and more prim than usual.

Despite the faster current plus greater depth and width, no obstacles appeared to hinder the crossing. At the Wallkill’s midpoint, Renee’s horse stumbled and almost fell off the shoals they were traversing into deeper waters. Since it hastily righted itself to wade on, rider and horse would ordinarily have advanced without mishap. But Renee had not been concentrating. Instead she was admiring two blue jays perched in a hickory tree on the opposite bank. A loose grip on the reins and the stallion’s abrupt, unexpected movement pitched her into the river. The horse merely kept sloshing onward without a rider.

As he glanced back at his younger sister’s plight, neck deep in the water, bobbing up and down, Paul broke out laughing. I’ve warned you about how you ride, he said, grinning. You never pay attention, and you got what you deserved. Anyway, girls can’t ride stallions.

Renee was infuriated. She safely treaded water in the spot where she had fallen, but the rapid current soon pushed her north. Luke leaned out over his horse and plucked her out. Drenched and trembling, she clung to him, head against his chest. For the rest of the crossing she wrapped her arms tightly around him, hands grasping the small of his back.

High on the sloping shore, Paul leaned out over the saddle and grinned at the pair atop the single horse. As they started their ascent from the waters, he shouted to Luke, She’s nothing but trouble. Let her down so she can fend for herself.

Luke gazed up at him. If I do, she’ll just get another bath.

Renee’s scolding voice shot back, How on earth could you jest about your own sister in such distress?

It was mighty easy. You looked so silly. There you were, the very image of a wet goose.

You could’ve at least cast me as a swan. A flash of militant pride, then lady-like indignation echoed in her tone. Truth is only Luke cared enough to save me while my own flesh and blood was too busy heehawing like a jackass. Renee turned to Luke. Thank you, my dear friend. She kissed him on the cheek.

Paul retrieved Renee’s stallion, which was trotting toward the ferry. Still together on his horse along the riverbank, Luke enjoyed their closeness. Renee only loosened her hold on him when they neared her father’s wagon. By then Paul had reported his sister’s troubled crossing.

Henri could not bear to castigate the children for any of their misdeeds. These unpleasant tasks he always left to his prickly-tongued wife to handle. Had he spoiled Renee? There was no question of guilt on that charge, and no amount of rationalization could alter the verdict. Running true to form, upon her arrival, he neglected to mention the incident and merely suggested she change into a dry set of clothes. For once, she took her father’s advice without argument, fetched another dress from the valise in the wagon, and changed in the nearby woods.

In the distance a lofty wall of light gray stone soon loomed against the western sky, foliage draped from upper and lower cliffs. Each revolution of the wagon’s wheels brought the prominent ridge, part of the Shawangunk Mountains, closer and closer.

Paul and Renee took the lead. Riding alone next to the wagon, Luke sought Henri’s advice. I’ve been accepted at Yale for the next term, but I remain undecided about my future path. What would you recommend?

Yale is surely a superb school. You should attend. It presents a rare opportunity. Indeed, you will learn much and become truly educated.

Mr. Cartwright has told me that many times. But I still feel reluctant to go. I would have to leave all I know and love here.

With your intelligence and education, you’ll be unhappy living in your village for much longer. You will end up in a white man’s town. And how will you earn a living and support a family? Of course, you could be a merchant like me or a trader like your father without going to college. But you are capable of so much more: law, medicine, or the ministry. These are higher callings, professions. And what about all the new friends you’ll make.

At the base of the imposing ridge the travelers started to ascend a winding mountain trail. After a long, strenuous climb, they reached the outskirts of Luke’s village and passed through a grove of pines. A high stockade suffering from neglect and old age surrounded the settlement. As they approached the wooden palisades, they saw two groups of Algonquin boys, mostly in their teens, playing a game with sticks having curved ends and a ball. The travelers paused to watch. Devised by Indians, the game was called La Crosse by the French because the rackets resembled a Catholic Bishop’s crosier.

Before the visitors rode into the village, they saw farm fields, vegetable gardens and apple orchards intermingled. Some women were weeding patches of beans and squash with wooden hoes; others were planting planted corn on adjacent plots.

Our women, Luke explained, are traditionally the farmers. The men do the hunting and fishing, except for the planting and harvesting of tobacco. Since that is held sacred, they alone cultivate it.

I’ll remember that when Papa asks me to fill his pipe, Renee said.

Inside the stockade, people waved and nodded to them. At the front of the compound, women shaped pottery and wove baskets. Beyond men made birch-bark canoes and fishing nets. By the side of one Indian lodge, deer hides soaked in a huge iron kettle filled with a reddish liquid.

The kettle holds boiling water and hemlock bark to treat animal skins, Luke said. We also utilize the brains of deer, the spinal cords of eels, or a mixture of eggs and cornmeal as tanning tonics.

How terrible they all sound! Renee shuddered. How do you tolerate it?

Luke laughed. That shouldn’t disturb you.

As their first visit, Paul and Renee swelled with curiosity. All eyes and ears, they wanted to learn so much. Stories about this village, told by their father, had conditioned them. Reins in hand, they strolled among the Algonquins and scrutinized the activities as if they were hovering over a treasure chest filled with precious stones and metals. Luke explained every craft and gave them a tour of the tribe’s forge and cider mill.

By this time word of their arrival had filtered back to the lodge of Luke’s family, and Red Feather came to welcome them. The two senior members of the Keppler and Davidson clans embraced each other and smiled. Red Feather was tall and lean, slightly stooped, with a craggy face. He stood back and took a good, long look at Henri.

You are well, my friend, I see, Red Feather said.

Yes, and you?

Very fine indeed, though the years have made me slower. My bones creak and body aches.

Nonsense, you look as agile as ever, but it has been a good six months since we last met.

It has, I regret to say.

Red Feather had just returned from a visit to the Delawares, Senecas and Hurons in the western territories to solidify alliances. He turned to Paul and Renee. You are no longer children but all grown up. He shook Paul’s hand and patted Renee on the head.

We are delighted to be here, Renee smiled. Even though that hemlock stew seems so ghastly.

We surely are, Paul said. I’ve always wondered what this village would be like. Now I have a good notion.

Red Feather ordered two of his men to take care of his guests’ horses and carry their goods in the wagon into the storehouse.

Come, my friend, he beckoned to Henri, let’s go to my lodge and celebrate your visit. I’ve brewed applejack more potent than that Dutch beer of yours. It will put fire in your belly and leave your brain addled. Meanwhile, our children will find ways to amuse themselves.

A splendid idea. I am anxious to try it.

I’ve much to tell you about my trip.

Matthew and Young Wolf soon wandered off together, trailing the two older men. Just beyond the wagon, a dark-haired Indian girl of sixteen watched Luke intently and smiled. That spring they had begun their courtship. Though catching a glimpse of the girl, he chose to ignore her. Frowning, she turned away as he led his guests to a line of cliffs at the far end of the village.

A mountain lake gleamed below them, surrounded by high, gray rock terraces that descended to the shoreline. Hemlocks, pines and oaks, in concert with bell-shaped mountain laurel in pink and white, adorned the top of the cliffs and the water’s edge. Across the lake, a waterfall spilled into an upper basis, then cascaded in a long graceful stream into a lower pool, encircled by huge, flat rocks.

It’s so wonderful to behold. Renee sighed. The beauty simply captivates me. Why would anyone ever want to leave?

You’re the fortunate one, Luke, Paul said, to have this entire waterhole to play in. Keppler hooked a thumb in his belt, expanded his chest and gazed out over this wonderland.

You were so right, Luke. Mother would absolutely love to paint here, Renee said.

She could have brought the land and water to life on her canvas, Luke said.

The village comprised about a hundred wigwams. These round shelters, constructed of wooden poles, animal skins and bark, were large enough to house two-families. Each wigwam had an opening at the top to allow the smoke to escape from rough stone fireplaces, used for cooking, heat and light.

The dwellings were laid out along pathways and lanes in an organized fashion. In the center two larger structures dominated the village. Originated by the Iroquois further north, these longhouses sheltered up to twenty families. Rectangular in shape, they were constructed of logs, bark and wooden poles. Light filtered through large doorways on either end and smoke holes in peaked roof. Inside, twelve stone fireplaces each served two families.

Why did your tribe pick this place to settle in? Renee asked Luke as they meandered back to his family’s lodge.

That is a long story.

I would like to hear it, she gazed intently at him.

So would I, Paul said. You’ve always been so close-mouthed about your tribe and its history. And please show me your father’s collection of bows, spears and tomahawks before we depart.

"My people, the Munsees of the Lenapes, once held all the land in