She looked toward the floor. “You did what you could.” Her voice had dropped to more reasonable level.
“Yes,” he said, leaning forward. “But that doesn't change the fact that while I rest comfortably in my home, safe, that thousands of Indians go to sleep, not knowing what the next days will bring.” He dropped his gaze to the ground. Why must his heart be so in his politics? Because that’s the kind man he was. He knew no other way to be.
“I thought you said this whole thing would be done peaceably. That there will be treaties, exchanges of land…” Her eyebrows moved together.
He met her eyes again. “I wish I could believe that is what will happen. But I do not have faith in our president's respect for the law.” His brows rose.
“But President Jackson is bound by the law. He can't just willy-nilly go and do whatever he wants.” She kept her hands in her lap.
He held her eyes but said nothing. Her faith in the presidency was endearing.
As he watched, her mouth twitched. Perhaps her belief was not as firm as she would have him think. The wife of a politician did not survive if she remained uneducated about the political machine. And he ached all the more for the loss of that bit of innocence. For as much as he wished he could promise her the American dream of checks and balances the forefathers provided, his hands were tied.
CHAPTER TWO
Choctaw Trail of Tears
ADSILA PACED IN her home's main living space. The bedrooms, partitioned off to the sides, were only big enough to hold their pallets. This larger area gave her more floor to pace. And pace she did.
Much had happened these last weeks. Too much to process. The Choctaw signed a treaty with the U.S. Government, and they would be removed from their land.
Tears stung her eyes. How could this be? What would become of her people?
Her little family had been helpless to do anything but read about it in the Cherokee Phoenix. Their world had changed. It was no longer safe. Even now, Father was at another council meeting. She could only imagine they discussed the ramifications of what all these happenings would mean for the Cherokee.
Knock, knock, knock!
The sound at the front door pulled at her.
Moving to open it, she wiped at stray tears.
She pulled the latch up and swung the door wide and found herself looking into the blue-gray eyes of Mr. Thomas Greyson.
Her heartbeat quickened, and her face heated. Her body wound tight as a spring, all too ready to strike at the closest target.
And he seemed to fit the need. Without a thought, her mouth coiled, perhaps into a scowl.
The man stood, breaths coming in gasps. His brows furrowed. What was his trouble?
Only then did she notice that he carried Tsiyi.
Her focus shifted toward her brother.
Tsiyi’s face twisted.
She reached forth her fingers to touch his face. “Tsiyi!” Was he in pain? What had happened?
Moving a step back, she allowed Thomas to enter.
“He hurt his ankle playing with the other boys. I do not think it is broken.” Thomas’s words came in a calm, even tone.
A fire flared in her. Where did it come from? “I did not realize you were a doctor, too.” Folding her arms, she planted her feet as Thomas passed her.
As soon as they left her lips, she wanted to take her words back. They were so harsh. But the bigger part of her wanted to offend him.
He paused.
Because of her words?
“I'm not. But I've seen enough of these kinds of injuries. If you'd like, I can go for the healer,” he said, a bit abruptly.
She glared at him. How dare he speak to her like that!
Thomas stared back, his eyes like steel.
Tsiyi moaned.
Thomas broke their eye contact and looked at the boy in his arms. “I think Tsiyi may be more comfortable in his bed.” He spoke with more gentleness, but there was still a slight edge to his voice.
She nodded then led Thomas farther into the house to Tsiyi's pallet. The cushioned surface was not much, but it was where her brother laid his head each night.
Thomas stepped past her, brushing her shoulder.
She jerked away. Why? He had not hurt her. But she behaved as if stung.
He laid Tsiyi on the blanketed surface with great care, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You are very brave, young warrior.”
She watched the exchange and fought the urge to let go of her anger.
His demeanor toward her brother was so gentle, so kind, so understanding.
But it wasn't enough. It didn't change the fact that his people lay in wait, watching, coveting her tribe’s homeland. Ready to take what was not theirs.
Thomas stood then turned to face her.
“Shall I go for the village healer? Or for a doctor?” He lowered his voice, standing closer than she liked. It made her… uncomfortable.
All her nerve endings seemed to be firing at once. Still, she couldn't make herself step away.
“I can take care of my brother,” she shot back, seething through her teeth. Her head swam. Why was she behaving this way? Did her anger truly burn this hot?
She thought of the Choctaw again. Yes, she had every right to be as angry as she pleased.
He grasped her arm and led her away from Tsiyi.
As they moved into the great room, she jerked away as if his touch burned. In truth, her flesh had heated several degrees, even through the fabric of her sleeve.
“What do you think you are doing?” she fumed, stomping her foot. How dare he touch her!
“Taking this away from Tsiyi.” His breathing was ragged, but his voice remained calm. “I don't know what I have done to you, but this is a bit much.”
“Then perhaps you should leave.” She crossed her arms over her chest—as much to protect herself as to appear stern.
He threw his hands into the air. “As you wish.” Without anything further, he made his way to the door, flung it open, and slammed it.
She gripped for anything solid. The top of a dining chair saved her. Sliding into its firm seat gave her the support she needed to let out a long, rough breath. There was a chill all of a sudden. Her hands moved over her upper arms, rubbing warmth into her limbs. Why did the room feel so empty?
Her eyes fixed on the door. Would he reappear? Come back to finish the argument? To further his point?
Nothing. The door remained as it was, slightly ajar after being slammed.
Running a hand over her hair, she attempted to clear her thoughts before checking on her brother. Yes, that’s what she needed to focus on—Tsiyi. Not this white man who had come as a bad omen into their lives.
****
Walter Buckner sat in Senator Frelinghuysen's office, paper in hand. His current task—to take notes for the senator. He found himself in the senator's office more frequently of late. And it was Frelinghuysen who requested his presence. All in all, a good sign.
But something had nagged at him since that day Frelinghuysen had asked for his opinion.
He had tried to garner the courage to ask the senator about it, but never could.
What was he thinking? Frelinghuysen would probably tell him to mind his own business.
Frelinghuysen reached for his coffee. Had he finished his dictation?
It could be now. Or never. Perhaps. Maybe.
“Sir,” Walter said, he wished his voice wasn’t shaking. Had he actually done it?
Frelinghuysen arched a brow.
Dare he go on? Yes. “If I may, there is something I wanted to ask.”
The senator sipped the warm beverage and then set the cup down. “Continue.”
Walter looked behind himself. The door was indeed closed. They were alone. No one else would bear witness to what was probably an inappropriate question.
“You said before… um, last week… that you did not trust President Jackson to follow the letter of the law. I just wondered… that is, I thought… wha
t did you mean?”
Frelinghuysen gave him a long look then took another sip of coffee.
“I meant exactly what I said. As you well know, the Indian Removal Act allows for treaties and agreements with the Indians regarding their land and their removal. We hope to exchange land west of the Mississippi River for their land. But I do not believe that is how things will proceed.”
“Won't President Jackson have to abide by what Congress has passed?”
“Do you not remember what happened to the Creek Indians during President Adams' Administration?” Frelinghuysen set his cup down and steepled his fingers.
Walter nodded. “There was some kind of treaty dispute, and they were removed because they wouldn't leave.” But it was a treaty dispute — surely the senator wasn’t suggesting that President Jackson would forego the treaties and…
“The original treaty had been nullified, and a new treaty took its place that allowed the Creek to stay. The governor ignored the new treaty and had them removed anyway.” Frelinghuysen’s eyes seemed deeper in that moment, more serious. They held Walter's.
“Then why didn't the President send in the army to enforce the treaty?” The simple question came with a shrug of his shoulders. It seemed clear.
“He started to. But President Adams decided not to intervene because he feared a civil war. And, as he put it, 'the Indians are not worth going to war over.' If you've spent much time around President Jackson, you'll have heard the same kind of sentiment.” The disdain was evident in the senator’s voice.
“But you don't agree?” Walter said more than asked, eyebrows lowered ever so slightly.
“Do you?”
****
Thomas flung the door behind himself. It clapped and bounced shut. He was fuming! What was that woman's problem? Had he not been the good guy?
He brought Tsiyi home and offered assistance. What more could they ask?
And the way she spoke to him…
The flash in her eyes…
Those eyes...
He shook his head. Don't start that!
Glancing about his cabin for sanctuary… a safe haven for his mind, he landed on the bookshelf. Perhaps he could plan his next day's lessons?
Moving to his makeshift desk, he picked up the English textbook. He worked out sentences for the children to practice. They could write sentences about the fruits of the spirit.
Joy is being happy when life is hard. Peace is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of tranquility. Faithfulness is being firmly devoted to God. Love is an intense feeling of deep affection.
Intense feeling. He couldn't escape that phrase. What he felt around Adsila was certainly intense. Although 'affection' may not be the term he would use to describe his feelings. What word would he use?
Her features appeared in his mind’s eye. Soon enough, he found himself dwelling on the contours of her face.
Shaking his head, he shoved the papers away. He stood and paced in the small space, hands hooked behind his neck, pulling his head forward. How could he clear this thing from his mind?
His satchel lay on the bed. He paused. Perhaps he could work on his latest piece. Yes, that would distract him.
Sitting on the mattress, he reached in and pulled out his whittling knife. Then he grabbed his most recent project—a bird. He had already roughed out the form.
He settled with his back against the wall and grabbed a basket to catch the shavings. Then he began to work his knife against the wood, and he soon immersed himself in the experience. The grain of the wood, slightly rough in his hands, was real and raw. As he breathed in the smell of the hewn strips, he remembered leaning against a tree, smelling the bark as his breath quickened.
He went back to that day when he watched the young Indian maiden in the stream. Adsila, her long, lustrous hair flowing as she moved, playing as if no one watched her.
Jerking himself out of his vision, he chided himself for letting his thoughts run rampant. He refocused on the wood block. And paused.
The bird's eyes had become eyebrows, the beak a slope of a nose, human eyes took shape, and the feathers became roughed out hair.
His hands shook. What was he going to do? How was he to get her out of his head?
He threw the block of wood against the opposite wall.
Pulling his feet onto the bed, he propped his knees up and rested his elbows on them, letting his head fall into his hands.
And he prayed.
****
Winter came. The air was much cooler and the wind brisker. Lillian Greyson bemoaned her son’s sad situation—the poor conditions he lived in, and how he must be suffering in the cold.
Often, Arthur turned to his paper, raising it over his face to trick her into believing he was otherwise engaged and to leave him be.
She was not so easily fooled, but she let him be all the same. It would be best to leave him to his paper and her to her sewing and keep the peace.
On this particular day, however, it was from behind his paper, that Arthur sought out her attention.
“Look, my dear,” he said, pulling the stack of papers to the side.
Still, he did not lower it. Not even an inch. What was that supposed to communicate?
“There’s an article about the Indians.”
“Oh?” Could it be about Thomas’s Indians? “The Cherokee?”
“No, the…” He looked over the article again. “Choctaw.”
“Oh.” Not Thomas’s Indians. She dropped her gaze to her sewing once again. When would she hear something? His letters had become less frequent. Was something wrong?
“It tells of how the president went about getting them to their new land. The columnist reports of how the Choctaws were migrated from their lands in Mississippi to new lands. The government, in accordance with the treaty, spared no expense to aide them. Five steamboats and forty government wagons along with food rations were only part of what Jackson's administration did to ensure the safety of the Choctaw Indians as they made their way to their new home. And though there was some amount of death due to sickness and old age along the way, thousands now enjoy the bounty of their promised land.”
Why did he bother reading it? Could he not sense that she wasn’t interested? He certainly wasn’t concerned after anything to do with the Indians. Even as he read, he sounded bored. There was just the hint of forced enthusiasm you give for a child’s bedtime story.
“Sounds all well and good, my dear. Seems as if the government has this thing under control.” He raised his voice, speaking with confidence. As if that would reassure her. Still, this did not speak of Thomas’s Indians. She cared very little.
“That's good, dear.” She looked up from her work and offered him and small smile.
“If all the removals are this quick and easy, perhaps Thomas will be home before you know it.”
Her eyebrows went up. She hadn't thought of that. That made sense.
“Either way, it's fine news.” He pulled the paper back over his face.
Now? Just when she had become interested? She had no choice but to go back to her cross-stitch.
****
Gawonii picked up the most recent copy of the Cherokee Phoenix. He was not anxious for it. Some of the council members had already stopped by his farm and reported to him what they had read.
But he needed to see it for himself.
Holding the paper carefully, reverently, he made his way home. He would read this with his wife.
They would face whatever it said together.
As he entered his home, Inola stood near the door, awaiting his return.
A solemn look met his eyes as she greeted him.
She moved toward the dining table where two steaming cups of coffee sat in front of their dining chairs.
Gawonii settled into his chair and set the paper in front of himself. He reached for Inola, and her hand slid into his.
Then he began to read.
The whole edition discussed the removal of the
Choctaw to lands west of the Mississippi.
“We were split into two groups. One to Memphis and one to Vicksburg. I was in the group that traveled to Memphis. We were to be transported by wagon from there to our new home, but flash floods made this impossible. The plan was then that five steamboats would ferry us to river-based destinations. But the rivers were clogged with ice for weeks. So, we remained in Memphis.
“Food ran low and there would be no travel for weeks. Sleet and snow covered us. Our daily ration consisted of a handful of boiled corn, one turnip, and two cups of heated water. Eventually, forty government wagons were sent to transport us to our new home. Nearly 4,000 of our number died on this journey from our ancestor's land to the new land promised to us. Our chief called it a trail of tears and death. Truly it was. The group into Vicksburg has still not arrived. We pray for their safety each day.”
Gawonii finished reading and looked up.
Tears streamed down Inola’s face, but she reached over and wiped at his cheeks.
Then he realized… he cried, too.
****
Thomas walked to the creek. He needed fresh water for cooking dinner and for his washbowl. A puritan book of prayers kept him company. The simple faith of the puritans refreshed him every time he opened the volume.
The movement of the stream alerted him that he drew closer, but he resisted looking up from the particularly entrancing passage.
He hit something solid, and cold liquid ran down his leg.
A woman's harsh admonishment filled his senses. “Watch where you're going!”
He all but dropped his book, apologizing as he tried to collect himself.
As close to the stream's edge as he was, the young woman must have turned just as he walked up. Had he caused her to lose control of her bucket? His gaze landed on her soaked skirt.
That must have been what happened.
Now having taken in the situation, he looked up to meet the eyes of the young woman he had intruded upon.
And met the deep brown eyes of Adsila.
“Do you always walk about with your nose in a book?” she asked with a sharp tone, shaking her skirt.
“N-no,” he stammered. “I… I’m sorry. Let me refill your bucket.” He stuck his hand out to reach for it.
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 4
