“Thanks.” He made great effort to not look, but continued working on his current correspondence.
“If you ask me… I think you’re taking all of this a little too…”
Walter looked up, his predicament forgotten. What was he trying to say? “A little too—?”
Mason jerked back. “I don't know. Seriously?”
“Seriously?” Walter’s voice rose.
“I know this is a stepping stone for your career. So, you have to take it seriously. But you've taken this whole Indian thing too far.”
He stood. “That’s because it's a serious issue.”
Mason glanced around. Were others watching? Walter didn’t care.
“Isn't it enough that it weighs the senator down?” Mason shrugged. “Do you have to carry such a burden, too?”
“I think that not enough people are taking it seriously.” Walter turned to grab his jacket.
“What do you mean?”
Walter wasn’t having it. Spinning back toward Mason, he let the heat of his anger burn in his voice. “People are dying. By the hundreds. And here we sit in our comfy offices, sipping coffee, worrying that we might be taking things too seriously.”
Mason held up his hands. “I was just trying to help.”
Walter’s volume dropped, and his voice calmed. “I know. I just think we all need a good dose of reality. It's not enough and too much all at the same time, you know?”
Mason looked up at him, his blue glassy eyes so completely devoid of any deeper thoughts on the matter. “No. I don't.”
He grunted. “Maybe it's just me.”
“Maybe it is.” Mason shrugged again before moving off toward his desk. “Maybe you need a day or two off. The stress is getting to you.”
“Maybe.” He was done trying to convince him.
****
Thomas gazed at the men in the room around him. Many of them knew each other. Being new to his placement, he had yet to become acquainted with the other missionaries in this field. But he took comfort in the knowledge that they were here for the same reason. One shared purpose.
As he continued to sweep the area with his eyes, a man approached him. The man’s long nose was not fit for every face, but with his dark eyes set deeper into his features, and wide, thin mouth, it seemed right. When the man neared Thomas, he stretched out his hand.
“Welcome to New Echota. I don’t believe we’ve met.” The wide mouth broadened into a smile.
“I don’t believe we have. I’m Thomas Greyson.” Thomas slid his hand into the man’s firm grip.
“Samuel Worcester.” The man gave his hand a hearty shake. “I’ve heard good things about you, Thomas. You showed a lot of promise at Andover.”
Ah, Andover. The finest Theological Seminary in the United States. At least in Thomas’s opinion.
“Thank you, Mr. Worcester. It is an honor to meet you. I’ve heard plenty about you as well.”
“Please, call me Samuel.”
Worcester seemed friendly enough, but his dark eyes were rather intense.
“How are you finding your field?” Worcester broke the moment of silence between them.
That’s interesting. Jumping right to the meat of it. “I am adjusting well, I think.” How much should he share with the man? They were brothers in their mission, after all. Perhaps Worcester could give him some advice. “I have found the Cherokee rather resistant to anything resembling new religion.”
Worcester nodded. “I encountered similar challenges early on.”
Then the man could help him! “How did you overcome them?”
The man shrugged and offered Thomas a small smile. “You have to be patient. And prayerful. Remember, it is God Who works on the heart. You simply bear the message.”
Thomas nodded. Worcester was right. “I have had an interesting conversation or two with one of the maidens in the village. She enlightened me to some of the Cherokee beliefs. About Ye ho waah? Is there any possibility that the God they worship and our God is one and the same?”
Worcester’s brows met. Was he thoughtful? Or concerned?
“I have wondered the same thing. Unfortunately, I have no answer. Either way, it is best they come to a correct understanding of Christ.” Worcester’s eyes lingered on him. They seemed to peer into his very soul.
“I understand,” Thomas said, his words measured. But he couldn’t help but continue. “This maiden, Adsila, seems to be slowly coming to that understanding. I cannot be certain, but I believe something is happening in her heart.”
Worcester’s gaze remained hard and after some moments, softened. “I should caution you against any entanglements with the maidens in the village. It may be best that you work with the men and children. Then let them spread the message to the young women.”
Thomas’s brows furrowed. “I don’t—”
“Just a thought.” Worcester lifted a hand and laid it on Thomas’s shoulder. “Now, someone had best call this meeting to order. And I suppose that would be me. It was good to meet you, Thomas. May God continue to bless your work.”
With that, Worcester stepped around Thomas and moved toward the front of the room.
He took to the raised platform and, speaking in a loud voice, called for everyone’s attention.
But Thomas could not focus. He was deep in thought about Worcester’s words. Was he getting too close to Adsila? There had been looks, glances, touches… but nothing sinful. He had to admit there was a stirring within himself. But was it wrong, as Worcester suggested? He and Adsila were both unattached. Or did Worcester refer to the fact that she was Cherokee and he was white? Surely not.
Shifting his attention, he tried to take in what Worcester was saying. The man spoke of the plight of the Cherokee, of which they were all aware. And of the recent law. Then he opened the floor for suggestions.
“I think we should protest in the capitol!” one man shouted.
“But what kind of message would that send?” another responded.
“We ought to go about this peaceably,” a tall red-haired man said.
“Jesus wasn’t too peaceable about running the merchants out of the temple!” the first man replied.
“I don’t think we should encourage any level of violent protest,” the second man inserted.
“What’s violent about standing at the capitol stairs with signs?” the first man spoke out again.
“You know those types of protests aren’t apt to stay calm. They aren’t viewed with high regard,” the man with the red hair argued. “What about a petition or a resolution?”
Several voices spoke at once then, many in agreement.
“What’s to say the governor won’t just throw it in the trash?” the first man brought up.
“What’s to say he won’t?” the man with the red hair shot back.
Things became more heated, and Worcester raised his arms. “Gentlemen,” he called.
Everyone quieted.
“It seems we have two choices: a verbal protest at the capitol or a written protest in the form of a resolution. And I think we should put it to a vote.”
Mumbles surrounded Thomas, but a general state of agreement rose above the din.
Worcester called for those in favor of the verbal, physical protest.
Only four raised their hands.
He asked for those who supported the resolution on paper.
The remaining seven raised their hands, including Thomas. He in no way supported anything that could be misconstrued as violent.
And so, it was done.
Worcester drew up the resolution and all penned their names to it. They then prayed over the petition and were dismissed.
****
Governor George Rockingham Gilmer sat at his desk. A handful of his staff assembled around him, prepared to do his bidding. On his desk sat a resolution, signed by twelve Cherokee missionaries. It enraged him. His face burned hot. How dare they oppose him!
“Sir,” his chief of staff spoke up. “Sha
ll we take the resolution before the Senate?”
“I think it needs to go before the House,” another staff member said.
“Or maybe forward it on to the president,” someone piped in. “Let him take the political nose dive for it.”
“No,” Gilmer said, his voice growing louder. “No, no, no, no, no. This is the law and they will abide by my laws! If they won't get a license, arrest them. Arrest them all.”
****
Thomas waved an arm over Adsila's plants. “Thank you for teaching us more about your plants.” He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his features as he gazed in Adsila’s direction. Did he imagine it, or did her cheeks color when her eyes met his?
The children clapped.
He didn’t wish to disengage from their interaction just yet. “And thank you for teaching us so many things these last several days.”
Adsila turned toward the class and bowed. Then she stepped to the side, creating distance between them where there had been little.
His heart dropped. Did it show? Perhaps it was best he focus on his students. They had gathered at the front of the room where they had a better view of the plants. “Where does the plant get water?”
“The rain,” one student replied.
“That's right. Does rain always fall calmly from the sky?” He stretched his arms out and looked toward the ceiling.
“Sometimes there’s a storm,” another, older student replied.
“Does the plant still need that rain?” Thomas ran his fingers over the leaves, grazing the foliage.
“Yes,” several students said together.
“Does the plant understand what a storm is?”
The class fell silent.
His gaze wandered over the faces of his pupils. Their curious eyes watched him with interest. He glanced in Adsila’s direction as she, too, quirked a brow. Was she just as eager to know his point?
“No,” one student shouted.
“What about us?” He shifted his focus to the younger boy who had spoken. “When God sends a storm… a difficult time perhaps, do we always understand?”
There was silence.
“No. We won’t. But He will also send rain, or blessings we need for growth, in the midst of that storm. And we must endure the storm to receive the needed rain. Just like the plant.”
Dark eyes glared at him. Dare he continue? He must.
“We can know two things in this—” He lifted two fingers into the air. “God is with us through the storm, and He has a plan to grow us.”
Blank faces stared back.
A sigh escaped his lips. Was he getting through to them? Would he ever? He pressed his lips into a smile. “That may be enough for today. Let's return to our seats and gather our things.”
The children turned and made their way to the rows of desks as instructed.
He looked across the open space separating him from Adsila. What was that in her gaze? Pity? Understanding? Her thoughts, as usual, were difficult to discern.
Whack!
The door to the schoolhouse flew open, and a handful of soldiers filed in.
Thomas stepped in front of Adsila.
The Cherokee children moved toward the outer walls of the schoolhouse, huddling there together as far from the intruders as possible.
“Gentlemen,” Thomas said. Did his voice betray his uneasiness? “You have entered a schoolhouse. Full of children. This is no place to conduct your business.”
The men moved down the center of the room, marching in line, intent on their purpose. What was that exactly?
Thomas held his arms out and stepped forward. Could he distract these men from doing harm to his students? Adsila?
“Trust me, Mr. Greyson,” one of the men said as he stepped out of the group and toward Thomas. “We have no interest in the Indian children. Just you.”
“Me?” Thomas dropped his arms. At least Adsila and the children would be safe.
“You are in violation of Georgia law, and we are here to arrest you,” the man said in a gruff voice, stopping just short of where Thomas and Adsila stood.
Adsila’s arm wrapped around one of his.
Why would she make such a bold move? Was it possible she cared?
Another soldier came forward and took Thomas's other arm.
“Adsila.” Thomas turned and looked at her. “Please, take the children away from here.”
She opened her mouth. Her eyes glistened in the simple light rays coming in through the window. So full of life. But she soon sealed her lips and released his arm.
As she stepped around him and spoke in Iroquois, he wished for the words she almost said.
But she was lost to him as she moved toward the door and the children scrambled to follow her, surrounding her as they did so.
The soldiers, for their part, barely afforded them a glance.
“Thank you,” Thomas said to the militia's leader, once Adsila and the children were out of the schoolhouse. “For waiting. I will come with you willingly.”
“Yes, Mr. Greyson, you will,” the man said, a gleam in his eye.
****
Lillian Greyson loved the interchange between Emma and Mr. Knightley. He scolded her quite thoroughly. But even so, he cared for her. So deeply. How could she not see it?
Someone drew in a deep breath over her.
She jerked back. Had someone trespassed on her silence?
Arthur stood no more than three feet away, staring down upon her.
Hand over her thumping heart, she had half a mind to scold him. But she took a few breaths and tried to calm herself. Then it occurred to her how strange it was that he was not in his office. He never came to the parlor unsummoned. Never. Had something happened? “What brings you to the parlor at this hour?”
He sat beside her and lifted the book from her hands. Laying it aside, he grasped her hands.
Something had happened. Her pulse raced, and her head swam. The room spun.
Dear God.
But there was no way to know what had happened.
Still, it must be serious.
“What…” Her voice came weakly. She swallowed. “What is it?”
“Lillian, it's Thomas.” His words were measured, his tone calm, yet it did nothing to soothe her.
“Oh, dearest Lord, it cannot be! Not my Thomas!” Her hands flew to her mouth. How could God let it be? That He would allow harm to befall her child? She swayed to the side.
Arthur gripped her shoulders and held her upright. “Calm yourself, Lillian! Let me finish. He is well.”
The words penetrated the fog surrounding her brain.
“He is well?” She met Arthur’s eyes once more.
He nodded. “Yes. No harm has come to him.”
“Then what…?” Her mouth now dry, she couldn’t make herself swallow. The words became lost.
Arthur studied her then drew in a slow breath. “He has been arrested.”
“Arrested?” One hand rose to her chest.
Her husband’s hands on her shoulders tightened once more. Was he fearful she might faint?
She gripped for the lapels of his jacket. “Tell me.”
He quirked a brow. A moment of indecision?
“Please, I must know.” She forced her features to remain set and stiffened her spine.
Loosening his hold, he rubbed her upper arms. “The state of Georgia passed a law about white men living on Indian land. Apparently, he refused to acquire the proper license.”
Her shoulders slackened, and her body became weak.
Arthur’s eyes widened.
She firmed her posture and cleared her throat. “W-why?”
“I don't know the details. Phillip has made plans to go to Georgia and do whatever he can to assist in Thomas’s defense.”
Phillip? Yes, that was the best plan. Phillip would make things right.
“I'm going, too.” The statement came out stronger than she’d expected.
Arthur tipped his chin down. W
as he so disbelieving of her abilities? Perhaps her near-faint earlier was not the best way to recommend herself. “Come now, you must see that is impossible. The best thing we can do for Thomas is stay here and pray. He doesn't need us distracting him right now.”
“I wouldn’t be a distraction. He needs his mother.” Her voice rose, and her fingers gripped at his shirt.
He pulled her hands loose. “Lillian, I won't allow it. We will not speak of it anymore.” His tone became harsh and biting.
She quieted but she could not stop the tears that betrayed her.
He spoke, this time his voice gentler as he wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. “I know this is hard for you, darling. It's difficult for me, too. But we have to trust Phillip. We have to trust God.”
****
Theodore Frelinghuysen laid the newspaper in his lap, the coarse material of his pants grazing the backs of his fingers. Incredible.
“More tea, dear?” Charlotte’s voice broke his concentration. She sat across the parlor, eyes raised from her sewing.
“No, thank you.” He drew the paper up once more.
How was it that Jackson's re-election campaign came into full swing? Even more so, he touted himself as a hero? The Republicans, on the other hand, painted him as a self-appointed king—a man who knew no boundaries to his power. And respected no limits.
Was this truly what disturbed Frelinghuysen? Or perhaps it was the emphasis of the campaign and the focus of everyone's attention these last few weeks: the banks. Absurd.
“Something troubles you?” Charlotte’s needlepoint now lay by her side.
He jerked the barrier between them aside. “This presidential campaign.”
“You mean to say Jackson’s campaign.” Her brow rose. How had she guessed him so well?
Nodding, he set the papers on the table next to him and lifted his teacup.
“I noticed an interesting cartoon the other day. What was it? Something about a hickory stick.” Her brows knit across her forehead causing wrinkles that did not disappear completely when she calmed her features. “Oh, I wish I could remember.”
“Hmmm.” Sipping the now-cold tea, he wished he had requested a fresh pour.
“Do you think the people will re-elect him? Even after his cabinet members resigned over Mr. John… oh, what's his name?”
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 8
