from "Sarah Collins" (1749). Travel advisory. Foraging and fighting on the Shenandoah.
"The best thing you can do is go west, up the far shore of the Patowmack, and find Nemacolin's Trail. Sometimes white settlers, traders, and soldiers travel on it. It's dangerous in the daytime, with them around. But at night, you can use it pretty safely, because you can hide in the woods if any of them come along. And you can travel faster to get out of dangerous territory. The Shawnee have been leaving here and crossing the mountains on Nemacolin's Trail. It goes up over the big mountain pass at Caiuctucuc and down to where it meets the Monongahela at the Red Stone, Where the River's High Banks Fall Down. Some places around there are where you can find the Black Indians. Stay safe, huh?... brother."
The following evening, as Kweku found a trail down the left bank of the Shenandoah, he paused to forage for food. Nionne had traded a cake of cornbread to him in exchange for his labor of sharpening her knife. But he intended to make his provisions last, so he needed to live off the land. She had also shown him a cattail and advised him to look by creek beds for this plant, whose tuber-like rhizomes would be starchy by this time of year. And you can take the pollen from cattails, and the insides of the stems, and eat those too, she had said.
Some distance down the river, he thought he saw a canebrake at the waterside, and hoped there would be cattails, so he descended the bank. Then he saw an Indian there-not one dressed in white man's clothing, but in a breechclout, leather leggings, and a feather, his face painted.
Kweku thought he looked almost like African people dressed for communal and sacred rituals. It twanged his heartstrings to see someone who reminded him of home in a way he hadn't seen since he was shipped across the Middle Passage. He started to call out, "Good evening, my Indian brother, can you tell me where I might forage for food?"
The Indian looked startled but quickly nocked an arrow onto his bowstring and loosed it at Kweku. It thudded into the trunk of the weeping willow behind him, a couple inches from his neck, and hummed a little. The assailant reached for another arrow. Now it was Kweku's turn to be alarmed. He held up his hands and said "Don't shoot! I come in peace!"
The Indian demanded, "You Lenape? Minqua?"
"No. I am African."
"Huh?"
"I was born in a land… far across the wide seas. I am new to this country. But I want to be Indian."
The other man remained hunched in a combat pose and squinted. "Huh?!" His hand tensed on the arrow it held in the bow.
"I am not Indian. I am not white. I am not... Spanish. I know nothing of fights between Indians here. I am a friend to Indians. Friend. My name is Kweku. What is your name?
"Yawa’ktchie." He lowered his bow.
The man spoke very little English, but as they used a combination of words and gestures, it transpired that he was a warrior of the Catawba nation far to the South. The Catawba had been the mortal enemies of the distant Lenape since before his grandfather's grandfathers' time. Recently, bands of Lenape and Minqua had traveled all the way there to make war on them. Now the Catawba were on the warpath for revenge, pursuing them through the Shenandoah Valley, out to take more scalps from the enemy than had been taken from them. But some miles from there his war band had been ambushed by the Minqua and everyone's scalp taken but his. Now, having escaped with his life, Yawa’ktchie was so angry that instead of going home he was determined to keep taking enemy scalps singlehandedly or die trying. He could not return home as the only survivor of his band; it would be a permanent disgrace to have saved his own life while his comrades in arms perished.
It was another sad letdown for Kweku to learn that Indian fought Indian here. Still wary of the Catawba warrior, who was still wary of him, he did not overstay his welcome but immediately headed on his way. Soon after rising in the morning, he found a bed of cattails by the river and harvested enough food from them to keep him going for two days, tied up in a corner of his shirt.
The following afternoon, Kweku heard the waters of the Patowmack before he saw them. Walking out of the woods near the point where the two rivers flowed together, he looked in wonderment at the steep channel that the big river had cut right through the Blue Ridge mountains. He admired the river for its great power, and then he admired the mountains for still holding themselves up high, even while they gave the river a passage through. Those mountains were the wall that was now helping protect him. Across the Patowmack, where he was headed, he could see the land rising to further heights to the northwest, and trusted that he would cross more mountain chains on the way to his destination, each one adding to the barrier between him and his enemy.
As he headed out of the woods toward the river, he paused, looking and listening carefully, before setting out over open ground. Satisfied that no one was there, he went ahead and found the soil becoming sandy, the land grassy and in places marshy, with stands of trees here and there. Walking down the slope toward the riverbank, he suddenly felt something and paused. The only sounds were the rushing of the rivers, the rustling of the wind, and the songs of birds. He could not tell if the feeling was around him in the land or within his soul. It felt as though a great spiritual power were in this place. It moved him in the depths of his soul, and he said a prayer that the power in this place would one day free his people from slavery, as that power as if in response surged through his prayers, weaving them into the spiritual weft of the land where he stood.
He headed upstream a little way to where there were plenty of islands. Then he went down to the water and stepped in. He began to swim as his feet left the bottom, but was suddenly carried along by a more powerful current than he'd anticipated. Swimming with all his might, he made his way toward an island downstream, as the current swept him toward the rapids he could hear getting louder just ahead. Before he knew it, his feet touched bottom again and he struggled onto the flat stretch of cobbles. In this way, he crossed two more islands, and found the current in those channels more manageable, though it used up the last of his stamina to complete the crossing.
Sitting and resting on the rocky beach on the north side of the Patowmack, Kweku looked up at the clearing ahead, which was widest at the beach and narrowed up the flank of the river valley, into the woods above, until it disappeared between the trees. When he walked up there, he found the trail bending upstream, around a hill. Kweku spoke aloud to the woodland beings: "I will reach freedom, across the mountains to the northwest, or die trying. So help me Yowa!"
The following evening, as Kweku found a trail down the left bank of the Shenandoah, he paused to forage for food. Nionne had traded a cake of cornbread to him in exchange for his labor of sharpening her knife. But he intended to make his provisions last, so he needed to live off the land. She had also shown him a cattail and advised him to look by creek beds for this plant, whose tuber-like rhizomes would be starchy by this time of year. And you can take the pollen from cattails, and the insides of the stems, and eat those too, she had said.
Some distance down the river, he thought he saw a canebrake at the waterside, and hoped there would be cattails, so he descended the bank. Then he saw an Indian there-not one dressed in white man's clothing, but in a breechclout, leather leggings, and a feather, his face painted.
Kweku thought he looked almost like African people dressed for communal and sacred rituals. It twanged his heartstrings to see someone who reminded him of home in a way he hadn't seen since he was shipped across the Middle Passage. He started to call out, "Good evening, my Indian brother, can you tell me where I might forage for food?"
The Indian looked startled but quickly nocked an arrow onto his bowstring and loosed it at Kweku. It thudded into the trunk of the weeping willow behind him, a couple inches from his neck, and hummed a little. The assailant reached for another arrow. Now it was Kweku's turn to be alarmed. He held up his hands and said "Don't shoot! I come in peace!"
The Indian demanded, "You Lenape? Minqua?"
"No. I am African."
"Huh?"
"I was born in a land… far across the wide seas. I am new to this country. But I want to be Indian."
The other man remained hunched in a combat pose and squinted. "Huh?!" His hand tensed on the arrow it held in the bow.
"I am not Indian. I am not white. I am not... Spanish. I know nothing of fights between Indians here. I am a friend to Indians. Friend. My name is Kweku. What is your name?
"Yawa’ktchie." He lowered his bow.
The man spoke very little English, but as they used a combination of words and gestures, it transpired that he was a warrior of the Catawba nation far to the South. The Catawba had been the mortal enemies of the distant Lenape since before his grandfather's grandfathers' time. Recently, bands of Lenape and Minqua had traveled all the way there to make war on them. Now the Catawba were on the warpath for revenge, pursuing them through the Shenandoah Valley, out to take more scalps from the enemy than had been taken from them. But some miles from there his war band had been ambushed by the Minqua and everyone's scalp taken but his. Now, having escaped with his life, Yawa’ktchie was so angry that instead of going home he was determined to keep taking enemy scalps singlehandedly or die trying. He could not return home as the only survivor of his band; it would be a permanent disgrace to have saved his own life while his comrades in arms perished.
It was another sad letdown for Kweku to learn that Indian fought Indian here. Still wary of the Catawba warrior, who was still wary of him, he did not overstay his welcome but immediately headed on his way. Soon after rising in the morning, he found a bed of cattails by the river and harvested enough food from them to keep him going for two days, tied up in a corner of his shirt.
The following afternoon, Kweku heard the waters of the Patowmack before he saw them. Walking out of the woods near the point where the two rivers flowed together, he looked in wonderment at the steep channel that the big river had cut right through the Blue Ridge mountains. He admired the river for its great power, and then he admired the mountains for still holding themselves up high, even while they gave the river a passage through. Those mountains were the wall that was now helping protect him. Across the Patowmack, where he was headed, he could see the land rising to further heights to the northwest, and trusted that he would cross more mountain chains on the way to his destination, each one adding to the barrier between him and his enemy.
As he headed out of the woods toward the river, he paused, looking and listening carefully, before setting out over open ground. Satisfied that no one was there, he went ahead and found the soil becoming sandy, the land grassy and in places marshy, with stands of trees here and there. Walking down the slope toward the riverbank, he suddenly felt something and paused. The only sounds were the rushing of the rivers, the rustling of the wind, and the songs of birds. He could not tell if the feeling was around him in the land or within his soul. It felt as though a great spiritual power were in this place. It moved him in the depths of his soul, and he said a prayer that the power in this place would one day free his people from slavery, as that power as if in response surged through his prayers, weaving them into the spiritual weft of the land where he stood.
He headed upstream a little way to where there were plenty of islands. Then he went down to the water and stepped in. He began to swim as his feet left the bottom, but was suddenly carried along by a more powerful current than he'd anticipated. Swimming with all his might, he made his way toward an island downstream, as the current swept him toward the rapids he could hear getting louder just ahead. Before he knew it, his feet touched bottom again and he struggled onto the flat stretch of cobbles. In this way, he crossed two more islands, and found the current in those channels more manageable, though it used up the last of his stamina to complete the crossing.
Sitting and resting on the rocky beach on the north side of the Patowmack, Kweku looked up at the clearing ahead, which was widest at the beach and narrowed up the flank of the river valley, into the woods above, until it disappeared between the trees. When he walked up there, he found the trail bending upstream, around a hill. Kweku spoke aloud to the woodland beings: "I will reach freedom, across the mountains to the northwest, or die trying. So help me Yowa!"