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Authors: James Alexander Thom
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near him began lashing at him with their switches.
Then he suddenly sprinted away in a crouch, and he was coming up the line very fast, white legs pumping, white arms held up to fend off blows to his head. As he came, the sticks slashed out at him, hundreds of them, blurred and whistling. The people near Tecumseh were practically dancing with eagerness as hecame on; their hands strained with their grip on their sticks and switches. Tecumseh was trembling with the awful excitement.
The runner was coming so fast that many of the whips were missing him. He stumbled once, over a staff someone had thrust at his legs. His hands touched the ground, but he righted himself and came on, crouching and staggering, sometimes jerking his head aside in pain, but still coming fast.
At ten paces the bloody welts on his white skin were plain, and he seemed to be weakening. There was black hair on his groin. His face was a bloody grimace. Now his sprinting step had been beaten out of him, and he was merely weaving and plodding and trying to stay upright. He was coming so slowly now that everyone was hitting him, some more than once. His eyes were rolling wildly. Suddenly he sagged to his knees under the blow of a stout pole.
For an instant Tecumseh could see the blood-spattered white body falling to the dust right before him; then a mass of bare legs and skirts blocked his sight as the people moved in to surround the fallen figure. Then it was all dust and howling, the whistling and slashing of limber whips. It went on for a long while before Chiksika came back to Tecumseh from the center of it, and his sweaty face bent down to the child, happy and crazy-eyed. His hand grasped Tecumseh’s arm and pulled him. “Come! Use your stick! You must count a coup on the Long Knife!” He wedged a way in among the milling people and pushed Tecumseh forward. “Now hit him!”
The white body was curled up, on elbows and knees, still moving, struggling to rise. The strange white skin was crisscrossed with welts and bleeding cuts, smeared with blood and smudged with dust and dirt from the street. Switches were still slashing and smacking, making blood spray, and the body twitched with the blows. The white person’s head, its dark hair lank with sweat and blood and spotted with bits of chaff, turned slightly, and now Tecumseh saw the side of the face, very close. It was all red with blood, and only the teeth showed white now.
“Hit him, little brother!” Chiksika shouted in the child’s ear.
And now Tecumseh, all sick and frightened and confused inside, feeling as he had never felt before, did what his big brother told him to do. He raised his stick and whipped at the living thing before him. The Shawnees did not whip their children, so he did not know what whipping felt like; only in accidents at play had he ever felt pain. The turmoil rose and rose inside him, and he slashed again and again with his stick, the stick from the cacklingold grandmother’s fence. He got closer over the cringing, bloody body and whipped with all his might. He was not whipping a person now, he was lashing out against his own unbearable feelings. He was fighting against a terror. He loved and hated this poor struggling thing before him, and it was blurred by his tears.
Other people were still whipping at it, and Tecumseh was now so close over it that some of their sticks hit his own arms and back. One blow stung his ear so sharply that his nose began to run. But he kept whipping, even though now he knew that whips hurt terribly. Everything was red and yellow. Tecumseh sobbed and screeched and whipped and could not stop.
Finally it was Chiksika himself who took hold of Tecumseh’s arms and pulled him off. The battered body was flat on the ground now and no longer moving. The people were backing off, reforming their two lines.
“Eh! You are a fury!” Chiksika told the child. “The whitefaces had better be wary of Tecumseh! Ha, ha!”
But the child was too sick
Then he suddenly sprinted away in a crouch, and he was coming up the line very fast, white legs pumping, white arms held up to fend off blows to his head. As he came, the sticks slashed out at him, hundreds of them, blurred and whistling. The people near Tecumseh were practically dancing with eagerness as hecame on; their hands strained with their grip on their sticks and switches. Tecumseh was trembling with the awful excitement.
The runner was coming so fast that many of the whips were missing him. He stumbled once, over a staff someone had thrust at his legs. His hands touched the ground, but he righted himself and came on, crouching and staggering, sometimes jerking his head aside in pain, but still coming fast.
At ten paces the bloody welts on his white skin were plain, and he seemed to be weakening. There was black hair on his groin. His face was a bloody grimace. Now his sprinting step had been beaten out of him, and he was merely weaving and plodding and trying to stay upright. He was coming so slowly now that everyone was hitting him, some more than once. His eyes were rolling wildly. Suddenly he sagged to his knees under the blow of a stout pole.
For an instant Tecumseh could see the blood-spattered white body falling to the dust right before him; then a mass of bare legs and skirts blocked his sight as the people moved in to surround the fallen figure. Then it was all dust and howling, the whistling and slashing of limber whips. It went on for a long while before Chiksika came back to Tecumseh from the center of it, and his sweaty face bent down to the child, happy and crazy-eyed. His hand grasped Tecumseh’s arm and pulled him. “Come! Use your stick! You must count a coup on the Long Knife!” He wedged a way in among the milling people and pushed Tecumseh forward. “Now hit him!”
The white body was curled up, on elbows and knees, still moving, struggling to rise. The strange white skin was crisscrossed with welts and bleeding cuts, smeared with blood and smudged with dust and dirt from the street. Switches were still slashing and smacking, making blood spray, and the body twitched with the blows. The white person’s head, its dark hair lank with sweat and blood and spotted with bits of chaff, turned slightly, and now Tecumseh saw the side of the face, very close. It was all red with blood, and only the teeth showed white now.
“Hit him, little brother!” Chiksika shouted in the child’s ear.
And now Tecumseh, all sick and frightened and confused inside, feeling as he had never felt before, did what his big brother told him to do. He raised his stick and whipped at the living thing before him. The Shawnees did not whip their children, so he did not know what whipping felt like; only in accidents at play had he ever felt pain. The turmoil rose and rose inside him, and he slashed again and again with his stick, the stick from the cacklingold grandmother’s fence. He got closer over the cringing, bloody body and whipped with all his might. He was not whipping a person now, he was lashing out against his own unbearable feelings. He was fighting against a terror. He loved and hated this poor struggling thing before him, and it was blurred by his tears.
Other people were still whipping at it, and Tecumseh was now so close over it that some of their sticks hit his own arms and back. One blow stung his ear so sharply that his nose began to run. But he kept whipping, even though now he knew that whips hurt terribly. Everything was red and yellow. Tecumseh sobbed and screeched and whipped and could not stop.
Finally it was Chiksika himself who took hold of Tecumseh’s arms and pulled him off. The battered body was flat on the ground now and no longer moving. The people were backing off, reforming their two lines.
“Eh! You are a fury!” Chiksika told the child. “The whitefaces had better be wary of Tecumseh! Ha, ha!”
But the child was too sick
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