France and England have a long, proud history of not getting along terribly well, and this came along with them to the new world. When their merchants, colonists, and soldiers came on their great tall ships they brought their diseases, rivalries, and way of life with them. This was pressed onto the new world, and has off and on led to conflict, skirmish, and occasionally outright war. But now, something large is brewing. There are murmurs of conflict in Europe, and the pace of skirmishes throughout the great lakes region has been picking up. Both sides have begun to raise regiments of volunteers, and have increased their attempts to seduce native nations to their banners.
Of course, before the colonists ever came this land was peopled. The Iroquois Confederacy, Seneca, Catawba, Lenape, Ojibwa, and Ottawa have long lived here, and long had their own struggles over this land. The arrival of the Europeans, their trade, their way of warfare, and their diseases have brought great changes to this. These native nations fight, negotiate, migrate and to hold onto their ancient lands and way of life. Now, faced with the looming war of these new powers, they plan and plot to pick the side which will be the most beneficial to them in the future, or perhaps the easiest to drive from their lands.
There is no question in the minds of many that the conflict will come. Forts across the lakes and New England are been expanded, and the all important trade of beaver furs and buffalo hides has begun to wind down as fears of conflict spread. What form the conflict will take has not yet been decided, nor has the outcome. It is unlikely that anyone can foresee the seven years of conflict on the horizon.
Fort Niagara is a great French Military hub located at the confluence of the Niagara river and Lake Ontario. A thousand french regulars hold the fort, and it is a primary command center for their forces in the region. In addition, a town extends around it, as is frequently true for forts around the region. What business that still exists is conducted here, and people flock to this perceived safety.
The counter balance to this is Fort Oswego, a less impressive, but still formidable, British fortification backed up by the strength of the city of Albany. This serves a very similar purpose to Fort Niagara, guarding the entrance of the Oswego River to the great lakes.
The year of 1755, and what is debated to this day as one of the most influential conflicts of the 18th century is poised to begin. In some places, it already has. Will you affect this, or simply try to survive it?
OOC: I have some things in this setting that I want to explore, and you are welcome to come along for some or all of that. You are also welcome to explore the setting in your own way. I will progress time occasionally as the conflict escalates, which will give you an opportunity to sort of fast forward through your affairs. I'm not terribly burdened about point by point historical accuracy, but would like at least a Hollywood level of believe-ability. If you have questions about that or about the setting as a whole feel free to touch base with me. You may also feel free to touch base about types of characters that exist in the setting, or anything really.
The south gate of Fort Niagara was known as the Gate of Five Nations, a nod from the administration of New France to the powerful and influential Iroquois nations. Their knowledge of the land and willingness to trade had made many rich back in France. The gate was a large stone edifice, wide enough for a large wagon to pass through unimpeded. For this wagon to pass so unimpeded, Strange was now pressing himself against the interior wall of the gate as it slowly squeaked past him. His pack pressed sharply into his back as the carter who rode at the front gave him a dirty look. But soon this ordeal was over, and Strange continued his uphill trek to the keep, a long rectangular building that was almost more like a manner house than a fortification. The swivel guns in the arched windows reminded one that while it did look nice, its true purpose was to prevent uninvited guests into New France.
Strange took a moment to take it in, and pulled the bright blue sock hat off his head, allowing the cool lake air to touch his sweaty brow. He had been travelling for several days to make it here, and now he questioned his purpose. He looked to the uniformed soldiers drilling in the yard, and asked himself internally if he really wanted to be one of them? The answer was no, but he was French, and would rather live in New France than bow to the British, so he steeled himself. He had only recently gotten square with his home nation, registering with the fur company as a voyageur. Before this, he had been a cour-des-bois, a runner of the woods, trading in fur for himself and no one else. He had been one of the last holdouts, and it had made a bit of stir when he had finally accepted the yoke.
Strange was a tall man with arms and legs that seemed a touch too long. His beard was scraggly, more an artifact of indifference than a fashion statement. His hair was sun bleached from a life spent outdoors. He was known as a successful trader to the people of the region, and spoke passably in several Algonquin and a few Ohioan tongues. Neither rich nor poor, neither over nor unequipped, he had known his place in the world ever since he had been sent away from France to the colonies. Now, he was going to upend that himself. He shook his head, and felt a tang of foolishness. Here he visibly resolved himself. Strange had a naturally dour face, looking almost permanently as if he had gotten bad news from his mutual fund. Now his brow hardened as he pulled his hat back on, and marched himself through the doors of the keep.
The inside of the stone keep was dark and sooty, but warm and well furnished. Fine wooden tables and chairs were present, along with paintings and wall hangings in a variety of styles. Strange's buckskin shirt trimmed with rough wool stood out like a sore thumb amongst the blue coats and silver trim of soldier within. They stared at Strange, and he stared back. Silence ruled for a long thirty seconds, and then a captain, silver scabbard hanging at his hip, spoke. His tone was polite, but needfully inquisitive.
"Ah, Strange. Nice of you to pay us a visit here in civilization, but normally one makes an appointment. What can we do for you today. "
Strange opened his mouth to speak, and gave a small cough. He then smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that, long walk up here. " His voice was light and tuneful, which was perpetually a surprise to everyone he met. "I've, well, I've come to enlist, captain!"
Several jaws dropped at this.
There was a small hushed conference amongst the the assembled army men. Strange wasn't the sort that would be expect to enlist in the regulars, nor was it thought that he would be suited for such a life. The officers hum'd and haw'd for a moment, before a verdict was pronounced.
"Strange, why don't you go up to the fort commander's office and await him there?" Spoke the aforementioned captain. "We will inform him of your offer, and he can consider it better than we can."
Well, Strange was in no position to argue with this, he had after all cast himself into the hands of the army, and could not remove himself from them without an unacceptable loss of face. He nodded, and allowed himself to be shown up a narrow flight of stairs and down a richly paneled hallway. A sliding oak door was opened, and Strange was ushered into a small office. The door was closed behind him, and he was left to his own devices.
He knew that one should stay standing until asked to sit, so he stood awkward next to a low wooden armchair. It sat opposite a heavy drafting desk from a slightly larger wooden armchair, presumably the commanders. Scattered across the desk were designs of battlements, some he recognized as Fort Niagara, and some which were unfamiliar. The wall opposite the door was a grand shelf of drafting tools, parchments, and books. Their titles were lost on Strange, as he was not a man of letters. His brief regret of this fact was cut short by the door opening. A wide man with a kindly, wrinkled face stepped in, and gave Strange a small bow, which Strange hurried to return with a certain amount of awkwardness.
"Ahh, Mr. Strange. So good of you to wait for me. "
"It was, uh, no problem at all, sir...?"
"Pouchot" The old man answered as he made for his chair. He sat down quickly with no pomp in the slightest, and stared at Strange for a moment. "Ahh, you think we must be more formal. Cast that from your mind, sit!"
And so, Strange sat.
Commander Pouchot regarded Strange for a moment then asked a powerful question. "Brandy?"
"Wouldn't mind one, Sir. " Strange answered, and the commander produced a large wicker wrapped bottle and two minuscule crystal cups. He poured a small drop of the rich brown liquid into each, and slid one to Strange.
"Now!" The commander said as he took a tiny sip from his tiny cup. "Let us not bandy with words or with our brandy Strange. What on earth are you doing here?"
This took Strange aback. It had not been asked unkindly, but the commander clearly did not mince his words. "The captain downstairs said they would tell you, I'm here to enlist. " Strange answered with a hint of confusion, as he accidentally drain his tiny cup in one sip.
"Yes, they told me that foolishness, but what do you really want Strange. " When Strange's face become a sort of angry confusion, the commander went on quickly. "I mean, is it the military pay? Are you tired of sleeping in a canoe? Do you truly want to serve mother France? I mean no disrespect Strange, I am simply confused. You are not a man for the regulars, with your skills it would be a waste, and with your temperament it would be short lived. "
Strange now understood. Commander Pouchot wanted to know if Strange was sincere, and what his goals were. This was unlike most military men Strange had interacted with. "I guess out of those options, it is to serve, sir. Mostly, just don't want to work under the British, and I guess there is a small patriotic component. "
The commander leaned back in his chair, and to Strange's shock it pivoted with him! A great luxury! "interesting, Strange, very interesting. Do you know what my profession is, Strange?
"I had assumed soldiering, sir. "
"Hardly, but also, yes. I am an engineer by trade Strange, a military engineer. I design forts and the machines to break them, and I have done so all over our empire. Now I am in command here, can you say why?" The commander's old eyes had a certain sparkle to them, it very nearly reflected in the brandy he swirled in front of his face.
"I believe it would be more accurate for you to tell me, sir. " Strange's eyes were as muddy brown as ever, and followed the movement of the swirling cup like a cat watching a bird.
"Indeed it would, you are smart enough to know guessing is for fools, that's good. I am here because the King Louis is not a fool. He knows we will soon fight the British, he knows we are outnumbered here, and he knows we will need strong forts. It is because we are so outnumbered that I accept your offer, and confer upon you the rank of Sergeant-Envoy. Congratulations."
Strange was not expecting to immediately be a junior officer, he did not know a thing about soldiering, and made motions to say so. "But uh, commander, I don't know how to drill, or march, or-"
"And I need you to do none of those things, Strange. You may consider yourself an irregular, if it helps you to sleep. " The commander finished his glass, and paused for a second. "Truthfully, Strange, irregulars and our native allies are our only hope. The British have more soldiers, ships. cannons, money, so on and so forth. That is why I need you to go to the Cherokee, and speak to them on our behalf. "
Strange's eye widened. "I can do that, sir, but it is well known that the Cherokee are currently friends of the British, I am not sure how it will go. "
"Nor am I Strange, that is why I am sending you. There are many of the peoples of this land on our side already, for the British are characteristically brutish and ill-mannered, but the Cherokee are a powerful force. If they will not join us, we should at least try to persuade them to not join the British. I know you know where to find them, and I know you can speak their language, so go do it. Collect whatever goods you need from the fort storehouse and be off with you. Report back to me regardless of the outcome, any time day or night."
And as if by magic, Strange found himself on the other side of the sliding door, now closed behind him. He held in his hands a silver neck gorget marked with a Fleur-de-lis, in the center, and a chevron on either side of it.
"What on earth have I done?" Strange muttered to himself, turning the bauble over in his fingers.
The quartermaster of fort Niagara was a supremely helpful man, and loaded strange down with trade goods. Beads, knives, a few yards of fine woolen cloth, a copper kettle, the standards of diplomacy. Meeting without gift giving was unspeakably rude, and it was unwise to be rude to any host that outnumbered you several times over. He had also insisted on supplying Strange with a silver chain for the gorget that showed his new rank and purpose, as well as a light blue wool overcoat. It was a nice coat, true, but it would also make him a fine target for any redcoats he came across. Some pemmican rounded out the kit, though it was early fall and Strange was not overly concerned about finding food on the route.
So loaded down, he left the fort, taking the long and winding street south. Amongst the settlement it was a path of smoothed cobblestones. On the edges it was unsmoothed. Past the houses it turned to dirt, and finally after that it became a series of small, snaky trails heading towards destinations far and wide. Some were wide enough for a cart, and others were not.
Hiking overland, despite the name, was not the ideal mode of travel for the cour-des-bois. Nor was a horse, and manuring one through the tight glades of the eastern woodlands was often a challenge. No, the ideal mode of travel for such men, and for nearly anyone wanting to go through the woodland, was by canoe. Strange was cursed on this mission, as the Cherokee bands typically inhabited the regions south east of Niagara, and he would have to walk for some ways before he would encounter a creek or river which would take him to their lands.
But he contented himself. The leaves were just starting to change on their tips, and it was a sunny day. The sun poured down through the mostly verdant canopy as through the stained glass in a church back in France. Strange often thought to himself that the forest at this time of year was God's cathedral, moreso than any tower of man could ever be.
It was unfortunate that such a fine season was followed by winter, the time of dying. He would need to find the Cherokee before this, or he may be forced to find somewhere to overwinter before he could return to Niagara. That would be unlucky of course, but Strange had known misfortune as a frequent companion, and did not doubt at all he would meet it again.
Thus, with these thoughts on his mind, he followed a small, winding trail southeast, moving onwards into less and less friendly lands.
No man is an island, Strange had often heard people say. It was a fair enough saying, he understood it and found it to be mostly true. Strange thought that if man was like any sort of landform, it was a pond. A pond cannot survive without an inflow, lest it dry, but it also cannot survive without an outflow, lest it breach its banks and become a marsh. He really meant it more socially or perhaps mentally, but now he was applying it physically, as he made to secure an inflow. Silently he rested the stock of his musket against a mossy log, drawing up the bead onto the flank of a scrounging feral hog. He understood from speaking with a Seneca elder a long time ago that such creatures were descended escaped pigs from the early settlers. Now they ran rampant through the woods doing what pigs to best, which is to survive.
Strange also understood something that brought him occasional shame. He far preferred English made firelocks to his own native french made ones. He liked the bore size, he liked the handling, he liked the tough browning that covered the barrel, he simply preferred them, and that is what he now aimed at the unsuspecting swine. He carried with him nearly everywhere a "Long land" first pattern brown Bess, which indeed bore the seal of a king not his own.
It was of course true that the musket cared little for what it was pointed at, only that it was pointed true and fed correctly. Strange squeezed the trigger and a piece of flint he had collected from a gravelly hillside and beaten into a wedge slammed it his musket's frizzen. There was a puff as the incandescent sparks lit up the priming powder. The pig turned its head, perhaps in time to hear the blast that followed, A thumb sized piece of lead cast the beast to the ground with a groan, and Strange stood up. He leaned the smoking implement against the trunk of a proud beech tree, and checked his kill. The boar had died quickly, and he looked up this favorably. His work had only begun though, as the hog would need immediate cleaning, and he would need to built a drying rack. He had learned from bitter experience how to prepare the thin and flaky wind dried strips of meat that sustained Ojibwa hunters on long expeditions.
He was now a week out from Fort Niagara, and still had a long way to go, taking a day or two to ensure he arrived in good health was not only smart, it was a requirement.
There was always something to do when your business was surviving and you had no one to help you. Tying together a drying rack utilizing thin strips of reed and green twigs of hickory took time. Building a small fire on either side of it to give it enough smoke to drive the flies away but not too much to affect the texture was another. Feeding those fires was a constant task. Hauling water to drink and wash his musket was another, followed by the necessary greasing of the firearm. Getting a lean-to of well developed pine and willow boughs took yet more time, but at least once this was done he could say his basic needs were met. He fried up the kidneys and liver of the hog with crushed cattail tubers. They were not in season, and as such bitter and stringy, but that was trumped by them being what he had.
Then came the most challenging task of all. He would soon need a canoe. He had two options, the first was to follow the stream until he found an abandoned one, and this wasn't as silly as it sounded. Everyone traveled by canoe, and not everyone had the time or inclination to portage them, but this was still leaving it to chance, and Strange was not a big fan of chance. Therefore, he set out on a laborious task, which was to make a canoe. First, he selected his tools. He produced a hatchet from his pack, as well as a heavy iron knife. He then selected two fallen hickory branches, the first was a knobbly burled branch which he would use as a cudgel, the second was a straight, round branch about four feet long. He chopped the end of this into a rough blade which he rounded on a stone to make a spud. Finally, he produced the copper kettle from his pack and hunted down a healthy pine tree. He cut a notch deep into the bark and the base of the tree, and drove a small twig into this. The kettle was placed below, top open, to catch the dripping sap.
This was the easy part.
The Intermediate part of this exercise was finding a healthy, straight paper birch. This took the better part of a morning, with constant trips back to his camp to feed the little fires all the while. When such a tree was found, Strange traced out a seven foot long, three foot wide rectangle on on the trunk with the tip of his knife, using a forked branch to reach the top. This was followed by placing the blade of his hatchet into the tiny groove created by this tracing, and giving the back of the hatchet a solid whack with the cudgel. This was done around the entire perimeter twice. As the sun threatened to set, Strange began the peeling, delicately wedging the rounded spud beneath the cambium and ever so gingerly persuading it off the tree with small levering movements. One rip and everything before this would have been wasted, and a new tree would need to be found. Strange fell to the ground, catching the bark as it fell from the tree, as the sun fell beneath the horizon. He carefully rolled the back, and scurried back to his camp.
The next morning, he began the hard part. Using thin strips of hoghide and an iron awl, he began to sew the bark into a canoe. First he brought the fore and the aft together, forming the nosed points he had been taught to many years ago. Next, spars were run between the two lips of the hull, and wooden spacers, which had to be more or less whittled to shape, gave the craft a wide, rounded bottom. The kettle of sap was placed over the fire, and cooked down. A frayed green branch was used to apply a thin layer of the pine tar around the outside, the stitching, the folds, and patching the inevitable small cracks which always came when one was working too fast. Strange was skipping steps and getting an inferior craft because of it. but that was life.
It took Strange three day of constant effort, and at the end he was rewarded with a mediocre canoe. He rejoiced, and no one but the birds heard him do so.
Strange's canoe sort of sloshed through the water. It was not ineffective, but it certainly wasn't smooth either. He knew not what river he was on, but he knew it was shallow and had a sand bottom. He had cut a straight birch sapling into a ten foot pole, and was now poling his way upriver. The crude oar he had shaped from oak sat unused at the bottom of the canoe, and his musket lay atop the spacers before him.
Strange may not know what river he was on, if it even had a European name, but he knew two things. he was going roughly southeast, and he was going uphill. Both of these were good thing for finding the Cherokee. He occasionally wondered if he would ever find a Cherokee band, and if they would even speak to him if he did find them. He wasn't the most known quantity to them, and he knew the British had been extensively trading with them for whitetail hides for years.
Well, it could not be helped. He was clearly the best, only, or perhaps most convenient choice that commander Pouchot had avail to him. Strange could quibble over particulars, or he could do his job, and he was certainly a do-er. He crunched away at wind dried pork that shattered against his teeth like peanut brittle. It was an acquired taste, he mused to himself, but he would take it over going hungry.
Strange poled past an overhanging oak of great age that extended out over the river. he studied it as best he could while forceing his way against the gentle current. Into the bark was etched the design of a deer leaping over a great flower. Strange gave himself a sort of satisfied grin. He was going the right way, with all of the risks and rewards that came along with that accomplishment.
Sure enough, another mile upstream he spotted something, a bare, gently sloped patch of bank. A canoe landing. From this he could see a narrow path winding into the trees. He was certainly on the right track, but there were no canoes or fish traps at the landing. No one was home, so he pressed on.
Strange poled into the next canoe scrape, hopped from his little craft onto the muddy shore and hurried to drag it up and away from the grip of the current. The craft was light enough that it was easy to get it up from the bank slope and wedge it against a basswood tree. He dropped the pole into the hull, such as it was, and collected his musket. The forest was dense and quiet here, and he looked around into the trunks, and then up into the foliage above him. Where the river cut a path through the verdant boughs he could see the stars, but otherwise he could see not but the underside of the leaves. He let out a low whistle. He knew, about, where he was. Roughly. Sort of.
This canoe-slick had looked more recently used than the others, and it did indeed lead to a defined trail. He had a good feeling, well, a feeling that this trail would lead him where he needed to be. He was operating entirely on gut instinct for the simple reason that he didn't have many other options. Besides, your gut is smarter than most people give it credit for being.
His thoughts were interrupted by a cold wind blowing, and he pulled his blue coat tighter around his shoulders. He figured that he'd better get moving, if for no other reason than to keep warm. He set out down the path at a measure pace, his eyes flicking nervously to any swinging branch or falling leaf near him.
He had the unshakable and dreadful theory that he was being watched. The trail was winding, and generally seemed to work its way uphill, cutting a path through the foothills that rarely saw a french boot. The trail eventually summited a small hill that overlooked a wide creek valley. Coming up through the trees he could see the wisps of smoke that invariably meant people, and it was at this moment he heard a sound that invariably meant trouble. The lock of a flintlock is powered by a large flat spring, and when the hammer is pulled back that spring pops noisily into a slot on the sear. This familiar clack he now heard behind him.
He raised his hands slowly, and spoke "Cherokee?"
He heard a snort behind him. "You'd already be dead frenchman. The Cherokee have signed on with the British, everyone knows this. "
Strange recognized the tongue, Mohawk. He slowly turned around and answered in passable Mohawk. "I consider myself lucky to be in your hands then. " Before him stood a tall man with a cocked musket pointed at the ground, wearing a grand coat of elk hide. He gave Strange a broad smile, and uncocked the firelock.
"Just wanted to see what sort of man you are. You have things to trade?" He gestured to Strange's pack, and Strange gave a shrug. "Some, but I mostly need information. "
Strange ate from a wooden bowl, using the tip of his knife to spear pieces of racoon and transfer them into his waiting jaws. The racoon was served in a chunky, flavorful sauce of corn, whortleberries, and the many, many edible mushrooms which were everywhere if one knew how to differentiate them from the poisonous ones. He spoke, mouth half-full, muted voice like a thin trumpet in the warm wigwam. There were five other men in the hemispherical structure, and all were in good spirits.
"You know, this is some of the best racoon I've ever had. " Strange said earnestly. An old man on his left nodded. Strange had apparently traded with him before, though Strange could not remember him. Strange knew one of his flaws was a terrible memory for people, and with a tinge of shame he knew it was worse for natives.
"It is my wife's cooking." The old man said. "She is from far south of here, where there are many, many of the washbears. She tells me her people eat them nearly every day. "
Strange nodded approvingly. "Well, if they were always served like this, I don't think I would complain. My own cooking" Strange made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Not so good at all. My racoon is tough and greasy. "
"You should get a wife then. " Chimed in the man on his right, the broad-smiler who had caught him at the camp edge. He again broadly smiled as Strange visibly blanched at the suggestion. "You woodsmen are all alike, brave enough to hunt wolves and mountain lions, to cowardly to take a wife!"
The wigwam as a group laughed at this. Strange gave a blushing shrug and said "You've got me figured out. "
They had been carrying on like this for an hour or two know. At first things had been a little stiff, but Strange had done a little trading, taken a few intentionally bad deals, they had smoked, and soon were into the comfortable rhythm of flowing conversation. Strange knew he would be the butt of a few jokes, but that didn't bother him much, he was often the butt of his own jokes. But, he was here on business, and while the food was good, he did not know where he was going. He waited for the a laughter to be replaced with chewing, and spoke.
"I still need to know if any of your band's hunters have seen the Cherokee around these hills." He stated plainly. A few looks were exchanged, and the old man spoke, also plainly. "Yes. We do not want to tell you. "
Strange frowned. "Why?" He demanded.
"We have no wish to send you to you death. " This was stated as a fact. Strange considered it for a moment, and then tapped at the silver gorget he wore around his neck.
"I have sworn to my king that I will try. If you have seen them, I beg that you tell me. "
The old man gave strange a worried look, looked at the ground, then back at the woodsman.
"No man can be denied his death, if he so wishes to grasp it. There is a Cherokee band not more than three day from here. I will explain to you where."
Strange's canoe had seemed so light when he first built it. It was ungainly, sure, but it had glided across the water pleasantly enough. But now that he was carrying it on his shoulder, uphill, in the woods, it seemed to weigh more than a full cart of buffalo blankets. He puffed his way up to the crest of the hill, and immediately slumped the canoe off his shoulder, and caught himself against a basswood tree. There he focused on nothing more than breathing for a moment, and allowed the breeze to carry the sweat away from him.
He chuckled to himself between gasps. He suspected now that what was a three day trip to the old Mohawk hunter, would be rather longer than three days for him. He took a drink from his pewter canteen, then let it flop back down to his side.
The hill he had climbed was a tall one, and from the lofty spot he could see his objective. A stream valley cut a path through the yellowing boughs in the distance. According to the Mohawks, canoeing down this stream for a day with his eyes on the left bank would lead him to the Cherokee. They had not expressed how much of a bastard it would be to get to that stream, which brought Strange much chagrin now. He suspected they knew a better way. He wished he was hunting elk over on the banks of the big lakes, not trekking through this jungle.
But, that was the job. Having had a moment to collect himself, he hefted the canoe again, and began picking his way down a switchbacking game trail which lead down the unweven slope. It was on one of these switchbacks that he spotted something peculiar. A clearing in the trees, offset to the west from his objective, but it was as large clearing. It did not look swampy, nor was there any sign of smoke.
Very unusual. Intolerably unusual in this country. Strange reflected that veering from his course to satisfy his idle curiosity was stupid. He had a job to do. This mental defense was soon breached, and Strange's boots began falling in the direction of the clearing.
It took the better part of the day, but the clearing was reached in spite of the forest's best efforts to prevent his access. At first, the clearing seemed to contain nothing at all. A few gently rolling hills in a nearly park like setting. Strange put the canoe down, and scratched his head. He strode forward with the slow gait of a man who is powerfully confused. He took himself to the top of the hills, and shuffled around trying to get a clue through to his brain.
It took some pacing, but eventually he got the angle right and it all clicked. It snapped into focus and he could not believe that he had not seen it to start with. It was all there, the hump, the hooves, the tail, the hill was earth, a massive amount of earth shaped into the forum of a running buffalo. It was at least seventy feet long and half as tall. Strange picked his jaw up from the floor. He had seen mounds dotted along the shore of the great lakes, and heard of massive earthen pyramids farther west. He had never seen a figurative one before. Casting his eyes around the clearing, the others were now clear to him. A deer, a woman lying on her back, a bear. He shook his head. One never knew too much to be surprised.
Then, with the sudden air of a child who has farted in church, Strange scampered down from the top of the mound. He did not know exactly what this place was, but he suspected that some would not take kindly to his shoes on their ancestor's graves. He was not a superstitious man, but he was alone in the woods often enough that he didn't want to take the risk.
The mounds required pondering, and ponder them Strange did. He paced to and fro between them, noticeably never cresting any. After an hour of this Strange came to a sort of realization and he spoke it aloud into the world.
"I don't believe I will ever understand this." He said only to himself. These words seem to hang in the air for a moment, muffled by the trees and grass. Then came the reply in a sort of serviceable french. "Do you find it much different from your own church?"
The reply made Strange hop into the air, turning to face the voice. He had a knife in his hands before he could think, There was no malice in the voice, but Strange was jumpy. Finding out you were not alone when you are quite sure that you are could do that to anyone. Now standing before him was a lanky native man in a heavy robe, idly carrying a bow. There was a powerful moment of awkwardness as the two sized each other up. Strange returned the knife to his belt, and held up a hand in a greeting. "I feel the same sense here that I do in a church, you are right. I am Strange, whom are you?"
Strange felt the deep brown eyes drilling into his own forehead as he was analyzed. The response came with a measured caution. "I am called Standing Turkey. What are you doing in these lands, Frenchman?"
"I have come to treat with the Cherokee on the orders of my king. I believe I have now found them. " Strange said in a measured tone of his own. He actually knew the name Standing Turkey. He was the nephew of the Most Beloved Man of the Cherokee. The most beloved man was an elected diplomatic position amongst several Cherokee bands. This gave Standing Turkey no actual authority of his own, but was likely someone with some influence. Strange considered himself lucky except for the gnawing fear he was about to be killed.
Standing Turkey shook his head. "Then go back to your king, and tell him you have treated. "
Strange was taken aback by this a little. "I cannot say that I have succeeded when all have done is share a few words. "
"Time has made you a failure, Frenchman. " Standing Turkey said with some force. "We are fighting alongside the English further east from here as we speak. If you have come to persuade us, well, it cannot be done. Words have been given that will not be easily taken back. "
Strange frowned and looked to the ground for a moment, then returned to eye contact. "The English have no love for your people. They will take your land as they have done to every tribe along the coast. "
Now it was Standing Turkey's turn to frown. "They will likely try, but it has already been decided. For now we fight with them, later we fight for the Cherokee. " Standing Turkey softened his features some. "I have spoken the words you speak now to my betters, and they did not listen. Why do you think you currently sport no arrows, Frenchman?"
Strange thought on this, and gave a small nod of thanks for his life. The air of awkwardness again returned, and Strange felt compelled to pose a question. He gestured to the mound around him. "Could you tell me of this place? I have never seen anything like it?"
Standing turkey cast his eyes around the mounds, then back to Strange. There was a sort of pity in them. "I could tell you the names of all of them, what which spirit or story the form represents. It would not mean enough to you to make it worthwhile. Go north now, Frenchman. Go back to your friends around the lakes and tell them to ready themselves. Tell them you have failed, but that you never had any hope to start with. Go before my people find you."
Strange gave a disappointed nod. He raised a hand in farewell and did as he was bidden. He collected his canoe and headed north through the brush and brambles, feeling the eyes of Standing Turkey on his neck the whole way.