Dancing upon a warm breeze, a bald eagle with a wingspan the size of a man flew effortlessly high above a placid blue lake. Hunting for fish the eagle seemed to sleep, wing wide and silent seen.
On the lake below, a small birch canoe with a curved prow fore and aft glided to a halt. As the rower rested his paddle across the gunnels, he watched the regal bird instinctively quest the water. The man, dressed in fringed buckskins, with long flowing auburn hair, held one hand above his eyes to shade them from the brightness.
In front of the man, in the bottom of the boat, were a stack of animal pelts, his traveling pack and a long rifle. In front of this lump, at the bow, a dog sat on its rump watching the same scene with its head cocked in a curious twist.
“Our Indian friends use eagle feathers on their war shields,” the man said to his dog. “If I kill that bird, he would be worth many skins.”
At that instant, the eagle’s wings awakened and he swooped down upon the lake with outstretched talons, snatching up a fish in his claws. The fish was big and squirmy, but the eagle’s grasp was firm and his wings powerful. Within a few seconds, the white headed eagle rested in a nearby treetop, ripping the flesh from his fare.
“Nay, King,” he said to the dog again. “That’s a wretched idea. I won’t kill him today or morrow. He be too majestic. Be a sin for him to be a feather within some Indian lodge.”
With a whistle on his lips, the mountain man took the paddle in hand again and began gliding the canoe across the tranquil water. Each deliberate pull from the young man’s lean and muscular body slid the boat forward, while his keen blue eyes searched the shoreline for landmarks, game or trouble. The prow of his birch canoe was painted with a human handprint, a symbol that marked the boat as being a Seneca canoe. The Seneca Indians were one of six nations living in western New York State in 1809. Frenchie, the man who ran the local trading post, had traded a rifle for the pirogue, a few years back. Now it was used by Dutch Blackwell for his trading travels up and down Lake Ontario.
Dutch, a twenty year old trapper and trader, was born in a Tillamook Indian village on the coast of the Pacific Northwest. His mother had been a Tolowa Indian slave, his father a Boston man, Joe Blackwell, who arrived at the Tillamook village with Captain Robert Gray on a ship, the Lady Washington, in 1788. During a skirmish with the Indians, the ship had made a hasty departure, leaving Dutch’s father marooned with the Tillamooks. A year later, Dutch was born and for seventeen years was raised by his family in the Pacific Northwest wilderness. From his lineage and swarthy complexion, he knew himself to be a breed, but he bristled when anyone used that word. He was in fact, a fearless trader and trapper who knew the Indian cultures well, and he had an ear for their many different tongues. Between signing and talking, he could powwow with almost any tribe.
“There be our river,” Dutch shouted to his dog, while turning the canoe into a small cove. “Be drinking whiskey and eating Frenchie’s gruel before the sun is gone.”
Dutch had made his mournful journey to Boston after the tragic death of his family out on the Pacific. His purpose had been to find his Grandfather and an uncle named Fredric. But, when he arrived at Boston Harbor in July of 1807, he found that his grandfather had died and his uncle had gone west in search of his brother. Dutch was without a family again, and this fact weighed heavily on his soul.
When a man from New York read in the Boston newspaper of his adventures out west, he offered Dutch a two year contract to trade and trap for his fur company. John Astor was to pay Dutch $400 for this contract, and now that period had expired.
The two years he had spent working with the Six Nation Tribes had been an arduous adventure. In the bitter cold winters, he had trapped; in the hot humid summers he had traded. He had grown to dislike Astor’s policy of trading arms and whiskey to the Indians. With the contract now complete, he was returning to the trading post to collect his wages and then, somehow, take his heart back to the Pacific Northwest. An old Tillamook squaw had once told him, “The past is the best road to the future.” Dutch had a restless desire to return to the Columbia River and his only remaining family, the Northwest Coastal Indians.
After turning the boat into the cove, he maneuvered around some rocks and entered a small, lazy green estuary that flowed from the east.
“Less water than we had a few weeks ago. Keep an eye out for rocks.”
The dog in the front turned his head back to Dutch, his nose twitching.
“Okay, then, I’ll watch out for the rocks. You tell me if there be any Indians about.”
King, the dog, was a curious animal, with a shiny black short-hair coat and a light tan belly. His two front legs ended in white paws, while his powerful haunches were as black as burnt wood. He weighed about forty pounds, with bright, clear eyes, small pointed ears, a short brown shiny snoot, and teeth as sharp as lightning. His disposition was both bitter and sweet; vicious if surprised, submissive when trusting. The dog was surely a native cur and, Dutch suspected, had been poorly treated. He had found him wandering a trail outside a Cayuga village. The dog was skittish, underfed and standoffish to his first approach. But when he turned away to return to his canoe, the mutt tagged along. Dutch figured he was the first white man the dog had ever smelt. He must have liked the scent, as they bonded quickly, and the two had been together ever since. When needed, the dog hunted his own fare and found his own bed. They made good companions, as both were as independent as the breeze. But King didn’t much care for Indians and could smell them half a mile off. Dutch liked that; the dog’s nose was his sharp blade against any approaching trouble.
His name had come about in an unusual way. During the Revolutionary War, the tribes of the Six Nations had sided with King George. After the British defeat, however, the Crown deserted the tribes. Many years later, the Indians were still blabbing about being forsaken by King George. Dutch figured that the dog had abandoned them, as well, so why not name him King George? It seemed only fitting.
The way up the small river was much slower going than on the lake. It was late in the season, and the water depth and flow were slight. After a few miles, the stream cut through a small gully with trees on each side. It was the middle of September, and the forest was in the midst of changing colors. Long gone were the wonders of summer, replaced with cool crisp nights, and short warm days. The journey up this twisting river was like riding inside a fire pit, with the walls of the canyon ablaze with crimson, yellow and orange foliage. Dutch marveled at the spectacular beauty of Mother Nature’s palette.
Moments later he came to his first obstacle, a small waterfall that blocked his way. Here he pulled ashore. Three times more, the boat and all the pelts had to be portaged around various water hazards, making for a slow passage.
It was late afternoon when they reached the confluence of three rivers. Here Dutch turned east once again. An hour later, the canoe slipped onto a large inland lagoon that the natives called Oneida. The lake was about twenty five miles long and five miles wide. With the sun low in the sky, the tranquil blue water glistened with a thousand winks of light.
