“Senator Frelinghuysen? It's Walter… uh… Mr. Buckner.” He could not get used to the way in which the senator addressed his staff so formally.
“Yes?” came the gruff response.
Was that an invitation? With nothing further forthcoming, he assumed it to be so. As he opened the door enough to slide halfway into the room, he noted that there were no lights illuminating this room.
The senator sat in his large chair, its back to the door so that the senator could face the grand window. Which was, as of yet, the only source of light.
A Bible sat opened on his desk.
“Sir, can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps…?” Walter's voice sounded strangled, even to him.
“No, Mr. Buckner. I'm quite all right.”
Was he as deep in thought as he appeared? “Very well, sir.” Walter pivoted, preparing to extricate himself from the inner office.
“Mr. Buckner?”
He heard the senator shift.
“Y-yes, sir?” Walter almost tripped over his own feet spinning back toward his boss.
“What do you think about this business with the Indians?” The senator inclined his face toward Walter, his features offering no clues as to what Walter should answer. Did he want Walter’s honest opinion?
He almost crumpled under the weight of such a question from his superior, the man who, in many ways, held the reins on his future. This man's opinion mattered to so many. Walter's opinion hadn't mattered much to anyone… ever. But this great man asked for it. Dare he give it? It may be his only opportunity.
“I think,” he started, clearing his throat. He must not draw out his answer, but his mind became a blank. What could he say now? There was nothing!
He looked to the senator. The man had not moved. Just sat. Waiting.
Drawing in a deep breath, the clouds around his thoughts parted. “That is, I believe they were told to assimilate and they would be fine. They did, and now everything is not fine.”
“Hmmm,” Frelinghuysen murmured. He made no further sounds.
Was this space for Walter to continue?
He swallowed hard. Could the senator hear it? Fighting the urge to wring his hands, he continued, “I do hope the Act is carried out in the way it was written… for everyone's sake.”
At that, Frelinghuysen turned his chair to face Walter. The senator’s eyes seemed to pierce Walter’s; face drawn and serious. “I will tell you this, Mr. Buckner. President Jackson has never been much on the letter of the law.”
****
Adsila laid her mother's deerskin dress in the heirloom trunk. She smoothed her hands over the fine hair. Would it be for the last time?
Mother and Father did not know about her jaunts in the wilderness. What would they think if they did? Would they be proud of her for keeping the spirit of their people alive? Or would they scold her for her inability to let go? Would they be afraid? For what would have happened if a white soldier found her instead of that missionary?
Still, she could not help but smile when she remembered the way the angles of his face played as he looked at her. He couldn't hide his thoughts. Were all white men so obvious?
Her smile fell. It was him, after all, and his people who were responsible for the wrong wrought upon hers. No, he didn't deserve any more consideration. Not one more thought.
Pulling her hair into a braid, she stood and moved out of her parents' partitioned off room.
Clanging pots sounded from the direction of the kitchen.
Mother was already hard at work.
Adsila had best help prepare dinner.
She finished with her hair and smoothed over the folds of her cotton dress before stepping into the main living area.
Her breath caught.
There he was.
The missionary.
At her family's dining table.
How?
“Adsila,” Mother said, interrupting her thoughts.
Her gaze met Mother's, who smiled a bit too broadly.
What was going on? Was something amiss?
“This is Tsiyi's teacher, Mr. Greyson. Tsiyi found him by creek and invite him to dinner.” In Iroquois, she said, “That brother of yours, I don't know what to do with him!”
“How nice.” Adsila felt the edges of her mouth creeping up.
Thomas had risen when Adsila entered the room. As she met his gaze, his eyebrows shot up.
“Nice dress.”
Was that all he could manage?
Mother gave them both a strange look—brows furrowed, mouth drawn.
“I mean, nice to meet you… Adsila.” Thomas’s cheeks turned as red as poppies.
“Where is Tsiyi?” She sidestepped Thomas.
“He out to field to get Father.” Mother stirred dinner, still smiling at Thomas. And in Iroquois, said, “Although what your father is going to say… I'll tell you what your father's going to say. He say, he's going to straighten out one young Cherokee brave, that's what your father say.”
Thomas smiled at Mother but he shifted. Was he uncomfortable with a language foreign to him flying around?
“Mother's English is not so good,” she explained. Then grimaced. Why should she care what he thought? Or how uncomfortable he was?
“Ah,” he muttered as he relaxed back into the chair.
The door opened, and her head jerked that way.
Father and Tsiyi entered the house.
Thomas stood once again.
“Hello, sir.” He extended his hand.
Again with that hand.
“Thomas. Thomas Greyson. I am honored that you would have me into your home to sup with your family.” His voice sounded sturdy. Much more so than she expected.
She watched Father as he met Thomas's eyes. Would he throw the man out? He would not let the white man stay after all the… the inhumanity brought about by his people!
Father raised his hand to grasp Thomas's.
She let out a breath she didn't realize she held. What was that? Had she been worried for the missionary? For what reason?
“I am called Gawonii. Wife is Inola. Please,” Father said in a pleasant voice. “Sit. Wife is good cook.”
Thomas smiled, taking his seat again. “I don't get the pleasure very often.”
Father nodded and sat across from Thomas. “Wife cooking great pleasure.”
Mother blushed as she placed the venison stew in the middle of the table. In Iroquois, she told Tsiyi to wash for dinner.
Adsila grabbed bowls and spoons from the cabinet, setting them around the table before sliding into her seat. Not long after, all were seated and eating.
A few moments of awkward silence followed. Were her parents expecting her to play host to this man, relying on her English? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Why wouldn’t Father say something? She kept her eyes on her dinner, not chancing an unspoken command from her parents.
At last, Father’s deep voice filled the emptiness. “It is good you teach young ones about water.” Father’s eyes met Thomas's. “Not so good you teach about God.”
She almost choked on her bite of vegetables, swallowing hard. Such a heavy comment so early in the meal.
To his credit, Thomas seemed unmoved. “It is my calling to teach about God. He told me to preach the good news.”
“Remember what chief said. You respect. Keep heart open. Learn.” Father's voice remained pleasant though his eyes were serious.
She hoped the missionary would take note of the precipice he walked.
Thomas nodded. “Then tell me.” He leaned forward. “What would you have me know?”
“I would tell of Great Spirit.” Father's eyes were bright.
Now, here we go. She took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“The children have mentioned the Great Spirit.” Thomas smiled at Tsiyi. “But I'm not sure I understand.”
Father looked to Adsila. She squared her shoulders under his scrutiny.
Of course, hi
s English would not suffice. So, he spoke in Iroquois.
She translated, meeting Thomas's gaze.
“Unetlanvhi is the Great Spirit. The Great Spirit lives above and presides over all things. The Great Spirit is all knowing, He is everywhere, and is all powerful. And He is Creator.”
“That sounds like the God of the Bible.” Thomas nodded.
Father continued, as did she. “Signs, visions, dreams, and powers are gifts of the spirit. Our world is intertwined with the spirit world.
“Hmmm...” Thomas mumbled. There was more silence as he stared at the surface of the table.
What was he doing? Thinking on what he had heard?
At last, he looked up. He jerked a little. Was he taken aback that they all stared at him? If so, he recovered well.
“Thank you,” he said to Father. Then he looked to her. “And thank you. You have both given me much to think about.”
The dinner bowls were quite empty now, and Mother stood to gather the dishes.
“It was a wonderful meal.” Thomas nodded to Mother.
She smiled.
“I tell you, Greyson,” Father said. “Wife cooking…” He made a motion with his hand over his tummy.
They all laughed. It was easy to get caught up in the warmth of the moment, but Adsila did not forget for one second who Thomas was—a white man. And the white man meant greed and untrustworthiness.
****
Lillian sat on a sofa in the parlor, her most beloved book raised to just below her face. Her brows came together. How many times had she read this same passage? Did Emma truly disappoint Mr. Knightly again? Not her favorite part. Then why had she reread it no less than five times in the last half hour?
Enough!
Grunting, she turned the page. A bit harsher than necessary.
She looked to the binding. If she weren’t more careful, she might tear the page.
“Darling?” a voice broke through the silence.
She startled, eyes cutting toward the intrusion as she dropped the book into her lap, a hand flying to her chest.
All was well. Only her husband.
“Arthur!” Sucking in a breath, she let it out over several seconds. “You surprised me.”
“As it would seem.” His mouth was drawn, but his eyes danced. Was he concerned? Or amused?
Still heaving, Lillian leaned forward and retrieved her book from where it had slid onto the floor. Once it was settled once more on her lap, she met his eyes.
His lips curled into a smile. “I have something for you.”
“Oh?” Should she hang on to her anger? But as she looked at his smile, she could not help but press her own lips into a smile as well. Perhaps it was only for his sake. Still, it was a smile.
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced an envelope. “This came today.”
A letter! She had watched and waited for days. “From Thomas?”
“Yes. From Thomas.” He reached forth and handed the coveted post to her.
“Have you read it?” The words leapt from her mouth before she could stop them.
“It is still sealed.”
She turned it over. How had she not noticed?
“I thought we could read it together.”
How could she stand it? Would she be able to read it? Or even open it? Her hands shook as she maneuvered the envelope. And, try as she might, she could not work the slicer.
He put out a hand, and she slid the letter into it. “You read it out loud.”
He took a seat next to her then opened the envelope easily and pulled out the paper within.
She leaned into his shoulder, fingers stretching forth to touch the writing. If she could, would it somehow connect her to Thomas?
Arthur watched her, his face drawn.
Was she so pitiful? No, she was a mother. A mother who missed her child.
After a few more moments, he cleared his throat and turned to the words scrawled on the parchment.
“Dearest Mother and Father,
“Your letter finds me in good health and well-encouraged by your prayers and words. I am in a small farm village of some eighteen families. I have contact with nearly all through my students. There are twenty-two students in my class. All seem eager to learn about Science, Math, English… every subject but religion. It is difficult. I incorporate God in all of my lessons, but getting through to them… that is different.
“Their religion may be the last piece of their culture they are holding to, and they are keeping a firm hold! They believe in a Great Spirit that created all things and presides over all things. It doesn't seem as if the Great Spirit and our God are dissimilar. I have my suspicions that the Cherokee may, in fact, be serving our God, but calling Him by another name.
“Perhaps you might write Andover Theological Seminary or the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and ask if they have any information on this topic. Or on the religion of the Cherokee.
“It is not as easy as I anticipated to form relationships with the people of this village. They are not trusting. But I believe if I am persistent, God will bless my efforts. I have one friend—my guide, Atohi, and have recently made a new acquaintance with the family of one of my students.
“Thank you for the news of Phillip and Emma and their families. I know Mother will be glad for the new arrival this Christmas! Hopefully, I can come home before the year is out. Until then, you are in my prayers. Keep me in yours.
“Sincerely, Thomas.”
Silence stretched across the space as the last word seemed to echo. Arthur’s eyes remained on the paper. Could she keep the reality of her tears from him? That was not likely.
A fresh flood of emotion overcame her.
“He sounds lonely.” She dabbed at her eyes.
Arthur looked at her. “He sounds as if he's doing well. Perhaps having some adjustment pains.”
Adjustment pains? Her son needed to be cared for. Loved. Not ostracized.
She sighed and pulled out her handkerchief. Were these the beginning tears of the torrent yet to come?
He put his arm around her. “Rest assured, all is well. Thomas has a good head on his shoulders. And the Lord goes with him. What was it you would tell the children? The Lord hems them in behind and before. He has never failed them. He will not fail our son now.”
She burst into tears, pressing the handkerchief over her face, covering her shame. “I fear my faith is not that strong!” How could she be so weak? “I am a hypocrite. A Pharisee. I say those words, but don't live life believing that.”
“There, there.” He pulled her into his embrace. “That is not so. You have the strongest faith of any woman I know. We have weathered many storms together, and you will find that your faith will persevere through this one.” Was Arthur speaking truth? Was her faith so strong through his eyes?
“I wish I could believe you.” She laid her head against his shoulder.
“You don't have to. Believe God.”
****
Senator Theodore Frelinghuysen climbed the stairs that led to his home. What a day it had been. What a month it had been. How was he ever to sleep with such a weighted conscience?
His wife would be waiting within. Sweet Charlotte. She shouldn’t have to see him like this. In this melancholy over the goings on with his work. If only he were one such that could leave it at the office.
He paused and looked upon the door. Inside was the warmth of a secure home. His home. A place he could rely on. No one threatened to take it from him. Or would, in all likelihood.
Shaking his head, he continued up the steps. The burden was heavy. And he should bear it. He hadn’t done enough.
As he reached the latch, he opened the door. Footsteps in the hall alerted him to his wife’s faithful presence.
Sure enough, she rushed into the foyer. “My darling, you are home!” She grasped for his arms before he'd had a chance to even pull his jacket off.
Leaning down, he kissed the side of her face. Stil
l, his body did not relax, could not. What right had he when others suffered? Others who had relied on him.
As she drew back, he saw a sadness in her eyes. She knew he held something back. With slower movements, she motioned down the hall from whence she had come. “Sit with me for a while.”
He shrugged off his jacket. Most days, he went to his office and remained there until dinner.
But not today. The way she held to his forearm, the way she glanced back at him… he saw how desperately she longed for his “yes.”
And he would give it to her. What a little thing to give the woman who would give him anything.
He nodded and moved to follow her.
She slipped an arm through his elbow and led him to the parlor.
As they entered the grand room, she called for tea. Curious. Teatime had come and gone. Then why did she call for it?
Dinner would be a couple hours coming. Perhaps she wished for something to wet his palate?
As she released his arm, he stepped across the room and deflated into his favorite chair, sighing deeply as he all but melted into the piece of furniture.
She sat on the settee nearby.
Should he avoid all talk of his troubles? Or would she rather speak of them? No, he must not burden her.
She broke the silence. “What concerns you so?” Her voice was soft.
He met her gaze.
Would he speak of it? Or could he dismiss her question? That may be the same as dismissing her. She was his partner. The wife of a senator.
“It is this Indian Removal Act.” He measured his words.
Her features did not register any hint of surprise. Did she already know how it troubled him?
“It should never have happened.” He rubbed a hand down his face. Would that he could wipe all worries away so easily. But he did not truly wish it. For as long as the Indians were in peril, he would bear the burden.
“You are not responsible for that. Can you not see that you did everything you could? To the very extent of what was even possible?” Her voice rose.
His eyes met hers. Was she so impassioned?
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 3
