William Tenn - Eastward Ho!

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Eastward Ho!

William Tenn

The New Jersey Turnpike had been hard on the horses. South of New Brunswick the potholes had

been so deep, the scattered boulders so plentiful, that the two men had been forced to move at a slow

trot, to avoid crippling their three precious animals. And, of course, this far south, farms were

nonexistent; they had been able to eat nothing but the dried provisions in the saddlebags, and last night

they had slept in a roadside service station, suspending their hammocks between the tilted, rusty gas

pumps.

But it was still the best, the most direct route, Jerry Franklin knew. The Turnpike was a government

road: its rubble was cleared semiannually. They had made excel-lent time and come through without even

developing a limp in the pack horse. As they swung out on the last lap, past the riven tree stump with the

words TRENTON EXIT carved on its side, Jerry relaxed a bit. His father, his father's colleagues,

would be proud of him. And he was proud of himself.

But the next moment, he was alert again. He roweled his horse, moved up along-side his

companion, a young man of his own age.

"Protocol," he reminded. "I'm the leader here. You know better than to ride ahead of me this close

to Trenton."

He hated to pull rank. But facts were facts, and if a subordinate got above himself he was asking to

be set down. After all, he was the son—and the oldest son, at that—of the Senator from Idaho; Sam

Rutherford's father was a mere Undersecretary of State and Sam's mother's family was pure post-office

clerk all the way back.

Sam nodded apologetically and reined his horse back the proper couple of feet. "Thought I saw

something odd," he explained. "Looked like an advance party on the side of the road—and I could have

sworn they were wearing buffalo robes."

"Seminole don't wear buffalo robes, Sammy. Don't you remember your sopho-more political

science?"

"I never had any political science, Mr. Franklin: I was an engineering major. Dig-ging around in ruins

has always been my dish. But from the little I know, I didn't think buffalo robes went with the Seminole.

That's why I was—"

"Concentrate on the pack horse," Jerry advised. "Negotiations are my job."

As he said this, he was unable to refrain from touching the pouch upon his breast with rippling

fingertips. Inside it was his commission, carefully typed on one of the last precious sheets of official

government stationery (and it was not one whit less official because the reverse side had been used years

ago as a scribbled interoffice memo) and signed by the President himself. In ink!

The existence of such documents was important to a man in later life. He would have to hand it over,

in all probability, during the conferences, but the commission to which it attested would be on file in the

capital up north.

And when his father died, and he took over one of the two hallowed Idaho seats, it would give him

enough stature to make an attempt at membership on the Appro-priations Committee. Or, for that

matter, why not go the whole hog—the Rules Committee itself? No Senator Franklin had ever been a

member of the Rules Committee...

The two envoys knew they were on the outskirts of Trenton when they passed the first gangs of

Jerseyites working to clear the road. Frightened faces glanced at them briefly, and quickly bent again to

work. The gangs were working without any visible supervision. Evidently the Seminole felt that simple

instructions were sufficient.

But as they rode into the blocks of neat ruins that were the city proper and still came across nobody

more important than white men, another explanation began to occur to Jerry Franklin. This all had the

look of a town still at war, but where were the combatants? Almost certainly on the other side of

Trenton, defending the Delaware River—that was the direction from which the new rulers of Trenton

might fear at-tack—not from the north where there was only the United States of America.

But if that were so, who in the world could they be defending against? Across the Delaware to the

south there was nothing but more Seminole. Was it possible—was it possible that the Seminole had at

last fallen to fighting among themselves?

Or was it possible that Sam Rutherford had been right? Fantastic. Buffalo robes in Trenton! There

should be no buffalo robes closer than a hundred miles westward, in Harrisburg.

But when they turned onto State Street, Jerry bit his lip in chagrin. Sam had seen correctly, which

made him one up.

Scattered over the wide lawn of the gutted state capitol were dozens of wigwams. And the tall, dark

men who sat impassively, or strode proudly among the wigwams, all wore buffalo robes. There was no

need even to associate the paint on their faces with a remembered lecture in political science: these were

Sioux.

So the information that had come drifting up to the government about the iden-tity of the invader was

totally inaccurate—as usual. Well, you couldn't expect com-munication miracles over this long a distance.

But that inaccuracy made things difficult. It might invalidate his commission, for one thing: his commission

was addressed directly to Osceola VII, Ruler of All the Seminoles. And if Sam Ruther-ford thought this

gave him a right to preen himself—

He looked back dangerously. No, Sam would give no trouble. Sam knew better than to dare an

I-told-you-so. At his leader's look, the son of the Undersecretary of State dropped his eyes

groundwards in immediate humility.

Satisfied, Jerry searched his memory for relevant data on recent political relation-ships with the

Sioux. He couldn't recall much—just the provisions of the last two or three treaties. It would have to do.

He drew up before an important-looking warrior and carefully dismounted. You might get away with

talking to a Seminole while mounted, but not the Sioux. The Sioux were very tender on matters of

protocol with white men.

"We come in peace," he said to the warrior standing as impassively straight as the spear he held, as

stiff and hard as the rifle on his back. "We come with a message of importance and many gifts to your

chief. We come from New York, the home of our chief." He thought a moment, then added: "You know,

the Great White Father?"

Immediately, he was sorry for the addition. The warrior chuckled briefly; his eyes lit up with a

lightning-stroke of mirth. Then his face was expressionless again, and serenely dignified as befitted a man

who had counted coup many times.

"Yes," he said. "I have heard of him. Who has not heard of the wealth and power and far dominions

of the Great White Father? Come. I will take you to our chief. Walk behind me, white man."

Jerry motioned Sam Rutherford to wait.

At the entrance to a large, expensively decorated tent, the Indian stood aside and casually indicated

that Jerry should enter.

It was dim inside, but the illumination was rich enough to take Jerry's breath away. Oil lamps! Three

of them! These people lived well.

A century ago, before the whole world had gone smash in the last big war, his people had owned

plenty of oil lamps themselves. Better than oil lamps, perhaps, if one could believe the stories the

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William Tenn - Eastward Ho!

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