Chapter 10:

A Bloody Welcome

The gauntlet!
Instantly my blood froze.
I had heard of the gauntlet before. Indeed, everyone in the Colonies had heard stories of
the gauntlet, horrible stories of butchery and death. The gauntlet is the barbarous Indian custom
where they form two parallel lines and force their prisoner to run between them. Each savage
carries a stick, a tomahawk, a club or stone, and uses it to bash the person running the line. I had
heard that men often died of their injuries before they made it to the end of the line. Of those
who survived, many were then burned at the stake.
Now I knew the real reason why they had dressed me up. It was not to adopt me, but to
kill me.
Several young men rudely shoved me to a flat area near the river, where almost the whole
tribe – I guessed a hundred or so men, women, and children -- formed two long lines about six
feet apart. Most of them carried some sort of switch or stick; I even saw one or two brandishing
long heavy squashes or gourds. I saw no tomahawks or rocks, but that gave me small comfort.
When I appeared at the head of the line, one of the men ripped off my jacket and shirt, leaving
my upper body exposed. The whole tribe began a thunderous roar of hallooing and calls directed
at me. Never in my life have I felt such a wall of hate and animosity directed at me. I was
horrified. Near me stood the Indian who spoke some English. Over the roar of the crowd, I could
barely hear him when he said, “Run fast. No stop.”
Looking down the double lines of Indians, I saw the chieftess quietly waiting for me at
the far end. All the other Indians were also looking at me, but they were yelling in a most
hideous and uncivilized manner, beating their sticks up and down in the dirt, calling me to start
running. Their shouts thundered in my ears.
Could I make it the length of the line without being killed? I was petrified. I did not move
until one of the squaws finally gave a great shove on my back, nearly knocking me over.
I had no choice now. The nearest Indian took a swing with his stick and just barely
missed me. I stumbled, ducked, and began running as fast as I had ever run before in my life.
This time it was truly life or death. I ran without thinking, without looking up. All I could see
were two rows of feet and legs, and two rows of sticks swinging down all around me. The blows
rained down on my head and back. The pain felt like a million knives slicing through me. I kept
my head down to protect my face. I pumped my arms and tried to ward off the blows, but that
did not help.
I ran with but one thought: to survive.
 Somehow as I ran, the yelling faded away in my consciousness. I lost all awareness of the
pain; I was only aware of my tortured breathing. The lines of legs seemed to stretch out forever
in front of me. Many times a blow to my bare back or head would cause me to stumble, but each
time I would catch my balance and continue running. Blood poured from cuts above my eyes and
about my head and back, but I kept running.
After a time I could barely see through the blood, but still I drove myself forward. I was
still running at full speed when I burst past the end of the lines, ‘tho I did not know it until Tall
Feathers grabbed me from the side and stopped me in my tracks. I looked up, and only then did I
realize I had run the entire gauntlet.
The sound of the yelling changed. Now they were cheering me.
I was still alive!
Tall Feathers turned me around and pushed me brusquely toward the chieftess, who
seemed genuinely pleased that I had finished the gauntlet. She alone was smiling. She took hold
of my shoulder and walked me inside the council house, all the time stroking me and talking to
me and to the others gathering around us. One of the young maidens was already waiting for me
inside the house. She took a handful of wet moss and gently wiped the blood from my face, head,
and back. Together they removed my boots, britches, and under things. Now I stood before the
two women, naked and embarrassed, feeling very White indeed. Quietly the older women
dressed me in a new ruffled shirt, a pair of buckskin leggings decorated with ribbons and beads,
and moccasins and garters dressed with beads, porcupine quills, and red hair. Then she dipped
two fingers in a small bowl of gray paint and painted the top half of my face, in a line from the
bottom of each ear to the top of my nose. She tied back my hair with an amulet of beads, and
then tied a bunch of red feathers into the amulet. She did all these things with great tenderness,
not like the rough treatment I had experienced so far from these savages.
When I was sufficiently clean and cared for, she brought me outside again to stand on a
bear skin in front of the lodge, facing the elders. She launched into a long speech to the elders,
and everyone crowded around to listen. From the brave who could speak my language, I learned
she was telling them that I was now a member of their tribe and their clan. She paused, then
began again. She told everyone assembled there that my adoption was to replace her son Yellow
Snake, the very same Indian who my Father had killed when he tried to climb up on our boat!
One of the old men nodded, then gave my wonderful knife to a maiden who bent over
and strapped it to my new leggings. I was so surprised and so happy. Then the elder opened his
other hand; in it he held my Hannah doll. He looked at the doll, then at me, with a questioning
look on his face. He handed me the doll; I nearly cried as I took it from him and stuck in my
waistband.
The one who spoke English stepped between me and the chieftess. He said something in
Indian to the rest of the tribe, and then said to me in English, “You run fast. Good.” At this the
tribe erupted into a kind of festive dance, with much shouting and merriment, not at all like the
blood-curdling screams I had just passed through.
I collapsed from pain, weariness, and relief.
Vaguely I become aware of people carrying me into a longhouse and putting me down on
a soft fur. I was aware of no more than that until the next morning. I do not know how long I
slept, but I know how mightily I hurt when I finally woke up. Every muscle, every joint ached.
My backside felt as though it were on fire. I sat up and a great pain pounded in my head. With
both hands I felt around my head. I had so many bumps and gashes. I fell back onto the furs and
lay there with my eyes closed but now fully awake.
What strange situation had I now fallen into?
I did not trust these savages. Yes, they were caring for me now, and dressing me, and
seeing to my wounds, yet these were the same savages who murdered my Father, brothers, and
cousin, and nearly murdered me during the gauntlet. What style of person can do both those
things, I wondered. Why would they kill part of my family then propose to adopt me as part of
their family? And why me?
I looked down at myself. I very much liked my handsome new buckskin clothing, with
the beads and the fringe. I was grateful to have my knife and my Hannah doll back, most of all. I
suppose I looked like an Indian, except for my very white skin and my auburn hair. But I
certainly did not feel like an Indian. Mostly I just felt pain.
With great effort I sat up and studied my surroundings in the dim light. The longhouse
appeared to be made of large sheets of bark, tied over a pole frame. It was about 40 paces long. I
was sitting on a bearskin fur along one side, one of many beds running down both sides of the
structure. Smoke holes at the top let out the smoke from three small fires inside. A door at each
end and one in the middle let in some daylight. A few Indians were in the longhouse now, but
they paid little attention to me. Two or three were sleeping; others appeared to be mending
clothing. One woman suckled a baby while another fed a few sticks to the fires. Dried foodstuffs
hung from many rafters, and shelves above the beds held a great number of folded blankets,
baskets, rough tools, and clothing. Clearly 20 or 30 people must share this space, I thought as I
lay back down.
Soon I heard a movement near me and opened one eye. The English-speaking Indian boy
sat down next to me, along with one of the maidens who had washed me the day before. Slowly,
ever so stiffly, I sat up. She had a large bowl of fruits and nuts which she fed to me. I was
grateful for the food, and ate enthusiastically. The brave watched me curiously, and I him. He
seemed to me about the size and age of my cousin Balthus. That would make him 16.
Finally the brave said something that sounded like “Shay-cone”, and then said “Hel-lo” in
English. He pointed to himself and said “Enita-Oneka.” He repeated it, so I guessed it was his
name. He said it again, and pointed to himself again. Obviously he wanted me to say it, too, so I
did. Then he said in English, “Water Moon”, and pointed first at the sky then at himself.
I realized he was the very first Indian to ever introduce himself to me. For that I was
grateful.
“Benjamin,” I said and pointed to myself. “Benjamin.”
Water Moon said my name a few times, tentatively at first. It appeared he had trouble
with the ‘J’ sound in my name. It sounded more like “Ben-men.”
“Does just one family live in this house?” I asked.
He looked puzzled at this. Perhaps he did not speak much English. I tried again. I held up
one finger and said “One family?” then pointing around the longhouse.
 He repeated the word “Family,” pointed around the longhouse, and then said, “Kah-wa-tsi-re.
Kah-wa-tsi-re. Family. Yes, family.”
I understood. I asked him, “Are you part of my family?”
Again he looked blank, so I pointed at both of us and said, “Brothers?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Brothers. Rak-tsi-‘a.”
I said this word over and over. Rak-tsi-‘a. Brothers. He was my new older brother. I was not at all
sure I liked this idea. I terribly missed my own brothers William and Abraham and my half brothers Isaac
and Jacob (‘tho Abraham was but a few months old at this time).
I pointed to him and said, “Mingo?”
“No,” he replied fiercely. “Lenni-Len-apè. Original People. White man says Del-a-ware. Bad
name. We are Munsee. Wolf People. Mother is Calling Owl. Father is . . . is . . . [he fumbled for the
English words] . . . Racer of the Mountain Path. Kist-al-wa.
I already knew that White men had given these people the name Delaware. Now I knew
they did not like the name much. I also knew that the Munsee, whose totem was the wolf, were
the most warlike of the Lenape. This was the tribe which had attacked my family at Dansbury
several years earlier. Oh, I had heard about them alright. They had killed our neighbors back
then, and killed my Father and cousins a few days ago, and now . . . they were adopting me?
It was just too confusing. My heart felt numb.
Now I looked closely at Water Moon, maybe for the first time. His long black hair hung
down beyond his shoulders, and his brown eyes seemed to hide a secret. He was skinnier than
many of the young people, with long, slender fingers and toes. For some reason this Indian did
not frighten me as much as the others. I was drawn to him, perhaps because he spoke
rudimentary English. In some strange way he felt like an ally.
Water Moon rose and motioned me to follow. We went outside into a bright sunny
morning, especially so after being in the dim light of the longhouse all night. Off to the left, my
attention was drawn to a noisy group of boys playing a game I had never seen before. In the
same place where I had run the gauntlet the day before, a dozen boys were now chasing a small
ball of some sort, using three-foot-long sticks that ended with webbing that formed a sort of
pocket. It appeared to be a team sport, and the young people played with obvious energy,
excitement, even ruthlessness. The play was rough. Many times the boys slammed into each
other almost to the point of injury. One particular young man drew my attention, a young man
who was tall and angular and very dark skinned. He appeared to have a limp, and seemed to be a
bit older than Water Moon, for he had already shaved his head to leave just a topknot.
“What is this game?” I asked Water Moon.
“Te-hon-tsi-kwaks-eks,” he replied, and laughed at my obvious confusion. It was, I learned
much later, the game that the French call LaCrosse.
Here, dear reader, I should tell you a bit about the Lenape language. In the beginning I
knew no Indian words. I could not even tell what was a word nor could I discern the difference
between a syllable and a sentence. Water Moon was a great help to me, for he knew a few simple
English words, just enough to help match my English with his Lenape. As far as I could tell at
this time, no others in the tribe spoke any English at all. At first I learned his language by
comparing it to mine. I suppose I was translating at the time. Eventually, though, I no longer
thought or spoke in English, or French. I began learning the Lenape language the way an Indian
baby does from his parents, naming objects by pointing at them, then progressing to speaking
simple sentences. In this way I learned that the Indians speak in a very different manner than my
own languages. I learned Indian words for which I could think of no English or French
equivalent. For example, ake'nistenha means ‘my mother’, but another word entirely means
‘your mother’ and another means ‘a mother’. So as I write these remembrances, I will use mostly
the English words, because even to this day I do not know how to spell many of the Lenni
Lenape words, though I still speak them fluently.
At any rate, Water Moon led me over to where sat my new adopted parents. The old man
was the one who gave me back my favorite knife, and the woman was the one who had dressed
me the day before. Water Moon spoke to them for a moment, then kind of pushed me forward.
They both looked pleased to see me.
The old man spoke first. I can not tell you what he said even though he spoke slowly, but
he seemed to be describing my new family, or my place in it. He pointed to Water Moon (and
here I recognized his Lenape name, Enita-Oneka), then to the longhouse, and made a sweeping
gesture to take in the entire village. Water Moon tried to translate for me, but the old man held
up one finger, which I understood to mean ‘No’. After a bit more, the old one became silent.
Then the old woman put her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and began rocking slowly
back and forth. She seemed to be in a trance. Finally she opened her eyes and looked directly at
me. She spoke to me for some time, but I was still dumb to her meaning. Then she pointed to me
and said, “Ka-tesk-aw-tin,” twice, and nodded and pointed to me. She looked at me expectantly.
I was confused. Obviously she was talking to me, or about me, but I could not think the
meaning of it all. Water Moon gently prodded me, repeated “Ka-tesk-aw-tin”, and pointed to
me.
Was she giving me a new name? I pointed to myself and said “Ka-tesk-aw-tin?” She
smiled and nodded and said it again. Those gathered nearby began to repeat it to themselves, as
if trying out the sound of it.
Ka-tesk-aw-tin. It did appear I had a new name, ‘tho I had always been quite happy with
the name my Father gave me, Benjamin. Now, apparently, I was Ka-tesk-aw-tin
I turned and asked my new brother, “What means Ka-tesk-aw-tin?”
Water Moon thought hard for several moments, wrinkling his face as he did so, and then
smiled, nodded, and said forcefully, “Racer.”