“John Eaton,” Frelinghuysen said flatly. What did Charlotte know? He had been careful not to speak of it at home. Best to protect her as much as he could.
“Terrible business, if you ask me. Shameful!”
Still, he knew of which she spoke. How could he not? The affair between a married woman and a man Andrew Jackson had appointed to his cabinet could not remain secret. The couple had insisted they were only friends until her husband’s death. But the two married much too soon for propriety’s sake following the man’s death.
“Then again, President Jackson's marriage was quite the scandal.” She picked up her thread and needle as she leaned back into the sofa.
Frelinghuysen remained silent. How had his wife become so well informed? Jackson's wife, Rachel, had married him before the divorce to her first husband was final. This, too, he supposed, was too much common knowledge for him to think Charlotte ignorant.
“The White House, I say, is full of scandal.”
He stood and moved to the window. His eyes searched the gardens beyond. The greenery of summer delighted him on most days, but not today.
At times, Charlotte walked the line of being a gossip. He wanted neither to encourage nor upset her by pointing it out.
“Theodore? Is everything all right?” The rustle of clothing told him she shifted behind him. He imagined she set her work aside once more.
“Yes,” he called back to her. “Everyone is just caught in this whirlwind—the banks, the President’s Cabinet, even his wife. I only wish there were more to be done for the Indians. Perhaps if more people were concerned…”
He didn't finish and she remained silent.
“It seems we've all moved on to the next issue, while they still suffer.”
“You can't make people care, Theodore.” She spoke in a soft voice. Did she even care?
“I know.” His gaze dropped toward the ground. Spent. “But I wish I could make people aware.”
****
Adsila made her way home after a long day at the school. It wasn't that the children wore on her, but something else weighed on her shoulders. Perhaps even on her heart.
Was it the reminders of Thomas scattered throughout the small building? Her thoughts were on him when she taught, when she cleaned, even as she walked to and from the schoolhouse. And at night, she did not have peace. She could not clear her mind of worry over how he fared.
She poured all her energy into Thomas’s students each day, giving the children everything she had. Just as Thomas would want her to. But she couldn’t talk to them about God. Not like Thomas had.
Often, she recalled what he had said about storms and rain. Was God growing her through some sort of trial? If only she saw His hand more clearly. Her heart ached. Why must she struggle so? Why must her people? Within the next few months or years perhaps, the Cherokee faced removal from their land. How would it come? By force? Would they resist?
And her friend, Thomas, was… somewhere. Maybe in pain. Suffering because he stood up for her people.
The familiar sights of her father’s farm and her own garden were now in plain view. How had she closed in on home without awareness?
Moments later, she opened the door and entered the small house.
She came face to face with Mother and Father, nearly smacking into them. Had they been waiting on her?
Her eyes scanned the large room behind them. Tsiyi was nowhere to be found.
“Adsila,” Father said in a low, solemn voice. “Please, sit.”
“Has something happened to Tsiyi?” Her heart raced. He had left the schoolhouse an hour or more before she had. There was little doubt he made it home before she did.
“No, Tsiyi is fine. Please, sit,” her father repeated, pulling out a dining chair.
Her pulse throbbed in her wrists. Something wasn’t right. Still, she stepped forward and slid into the chair across the table from where Mother now stood. The Cherokee Phoenix lay haphazardly on the table. Should she reach for it? Instead she sought her Father’s eyes.
“What is it?” She gulped. Could she swallow her fear? “What's happened?”
“It is Thomas Greyson.” Father’s gentle voice did little to soften the news.
Her heart sank. Tears pricked at her eyes. She looked to Mother. Would there be strength there? Hope?
The older woman’s face was downcast as well.
“The missionaries have been convicted and sentenced to four years of hard labor at the state penitentiary in Milledgeville.” Father’s gaze remained on Adsila, his words coming slowly.
All the warmth drained from her face. She pressed words forth, yet nothing but a whimper came. Her mouth was dry, but her eyes were full.
Mother laid a hand on Adsila’s arm.
“How?” Adsila squeaked out. Was that even her voice?
“It will be as the Great Spirit wills it,” Father said. His eyes reflected a kind of sadness she didn’t expect. Did he care so much about Thomas?
This couldn’t be right. How could the Great Spirit…or God will such a thing? Still, she knew what Thomas would say — she must have faith. She would only see God's hand if she had faith.
May it be as You will, God.
CHAPTER FOUR
Worcester v. Georgia
DEAREST MOTHER AND Father,
Do not be concerned about what you read in the papers. I know you may have seen Thomas's conviction and sentence. However, take heart, I have good news. The governor issued pardons to the men. Samuel Worcester, who seems to be the leader of this venture, urged nine of the men, including Thomas, to take the pardons. He and another of the missionaries wish to appeal to the Supreme Court.
But that is no matter for you to concern yourself with. Thomas will come home with me as soon as we clear up some legalities and can arrange train passage.
Your loving son,
Phillip Greyson
****
Atohi listened as his wife sang to their infant daughter. He hoped the small girl would sleep soon. He longed for a few moments with Yona. Time with her seemed far too scarce these days. Hadn't they known it would be like this? But with Mohe already seven years of age, it had been some time since they'd had a new baby. Many things had been forgotten.
Yona stepped from their partitioned room and smiled at him.
“She sleeps,” Yona whispered. A smile for him upon her lips.
He, too, felt the corners of his mouth rise as a weight lifted. Yona crossed the room and sat beside him.
Her hand grazed his.
Flipping his over, he intertwined their fingers.
“What is happening?” She nodded toward the paper sitting on the table beside him.
He shook his head. “More politics. More trouble.” She didn’t need to know.
“And what of your friend Thomas Greyson?”
Turning away from her, his brows furrowed. She must not see the concern in his eyes. “He was convicted but accepted a pardon. He will be safe.”
“Will he return?”
He turned and faced her. Despite his efforts, there was sadness in the deep brown eyes that stared back at him. “I don't think he can. Not without a license. And I do not think the state will grant him that after he participated in the protest.”
“Too bad.” When Yona spoke, it was smooth and melodic. It sounded like a song to Atohi. He could not forget how this drew him to her in their younger years. “Mohe will really miss him.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. Did she bait him? Her gentle expression spoke affirmation.
“Mohe is not the only one.” He pressed her hand.
“He had become a dear friend.” She reached for his cheek with her free hand. “But you will manage.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved her off with his other hand. “But that is not of what I speak.”
“Then who?” A thin eyebrow rose.
Truly there was none more becoming than his Yona.
“Adsila.” He spoke in a hushed tone as if he shar
ed a great secret. Indeed, he did.
“Adsila? What concern could she possibly have for Thomas Greyson?”
“They have developed a… friendship.” He chose his words carefully.
“Are you certain that is all?” Her words were sharper than he had expected.
He thought for a moment, his mind flashing to conversations with Thomas and the looks passed between the missionary and Adsila. “I am not certain of anything.”
“It would be best if that was all.” The singsong quality of her voice had all but vanished.
She spoke truth. It would be better if nothing further developed. Adsila and Thomas were from two very different worlds. Two worlds that were quite at odds now.
But he could not deny the heat he had witnessed.
“Come,” his wife said as she stood. “Let us retire and sleep while we can.”
He could find no argument. And so, he allowed her to pull him to his feet and lead him to their bedroom.
****
The train chugged into the station and screeched to a stop. Thomas's body jerked, people all around him rose, but Phillip continued to look over his paper. Would they wait for the aisles to clear before gathering their things?
Thomas stretched out his arms and legs, releasing tension from his muscles. His limbs warmed as blood flow increased. Turning his attention out the window, he looked for his family. Who would have come to the station for him?
The crowd thinned, and Phillip put his paper away.
Thomas grabbed for his bag, and they got to their feet. His legs seemed almost spring-loaded, wanting to go faster than he was able. He stilled his shaking hands, running one across his chest as if that could calm his racing heart. Was his whole body filled with nervous energy? It had been so long since he had been home.
He followed Phillip through the dusty train car and down the stairs. His nerves eased once he set foot on solid ground. They continued on, moving about the platform. All manner of reunions carried on around them.
“Thomas!” His name was shouted from off to the right. He turned to see his mother rushing toward him.
She fell into him, pulling him into a fierce embrace.
“Mother, I'm here. I'm fine.” He squeezed her close then released her.
“I know, I know,” she said, handkerchief in hand, already dabbing her eyes, dotted with tears. “It's just that I've missed you so!”
She pulled him to her for another hug.
A hand clapped his back.
He flinched under the weight of Father’s greeting.
“Glad you're home, son. We've been praying for you.” Father’s voice was firm, but had an almost imperceptible shake to it.
“Thank you.” Thomas turned from his mother’s arms to face his father. “It's good to be home.”
A number of well-wishers pressed in.
Emma, his sister, was the next to catch his attention.
“And who is this little one?” He reached out a finger for the baby in her arms.
“This is our little Joseph,” she said, beaming.
“How are you, Joseph? Is Mommy getting any sleep?”
A tiny hand captured his finger.
“Some.” She smiled at her younger brother before throwing her free arm around his shoulders and drawing him near. “It is good to have you home. You've been missed.”
He hugged her back and whispered, “We must talk soon.” He could always talk to her. About anything. And he did have quite a few things to share.
Pulling away, he spoke to everyone, “I have so much to tell, so much to share of my adventures.”
“And share you shall, dear,” his mother said, stepping toward him again and hooking an arm in his. “Once we get home and get you settled.”
He couldn't deny that her plan sounded like a good one.
“Come, you are all invited to dine with us. Our Thomas has completed his mission to the Cherokee Indians and is home to stay.”
“Completed?” Thomas tucked a hand inside his jacket.
Mother continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Now, come along, Thomas. Let's not linger.”
With that, the entourage led Thomas to the waiting carriages.
****
Walter Buckner could not help the skip in his step as he took the steps up to the Capitol building two at a time. Even if someone pinched him, he would hold firmly to the dream as reality.
For when the Supreme Court met yesterday, they had finally made a decision on the Indian issue. How would the decision be looked upon throughout the years to come? For certain, it would be seen as justice come forth. What would it mean for him? For his descendants? How could he know? But what it meant for the Indians today was life altering.
Moving down the familiar hallways, he approached Senator Frelinghuysen's section of the massive structure. And, without pause, Walter went straight to the senator's private office. His feet did a sort of jig as he knocked on the door. Would he be able to contain himself? No matter the implications of this decision, he must not present himself in an unprofessional manner.
“Come in.” Frelinghuysen's confident voice filled the space. Was it quieted at all by the barrier the door presented?
Walter shrugged and entered the smaller space.
The senator looked up from the papers on his desk and offered Walter a small smile. Or rather what he interpreted as a smile. There was a slight upturn to one corner of the man’s mouth and a tilt, though almost imperceptible, of the eyebrow on the same side of his face. Was he amused?
“Good morning, Mr. Buckner.” He motioned toward one of the seats across his desk.
Walter sat but soon shifted, playing with his hands. Could he not be still? It seemed as if some manner of tiny bug crawled about through his limbs. They did not itch. No. Rather, they teemed with energy.
Frelinghuysen just stared. The smile, or rather semblance of a smile, had vanished. In its place was an expression that betrayed his barely contained annoyance. Had something vexed the man? Had Walter intruded?
“Did you need something?”
“It’s just that I was… um… see, I heard that…” This was not going well. He drew in a breath. “I was terribly excited, overcome to tell the truth, about the Supreme Court's decision yesterday.”
“Oh?” Frelinghuysen’s brows furrowed, and there was a slight lilt in his voice. “Worcester v. Georgia?” Did he speak in question?
“Yes! Imagine what it will mean for the Indians!” Walter leaned forward. Surely that would spark something in the senator.
The man’s silence prompted Walter to lean farther. So much so, he almost lost his balance and his seat.
Frelinghuysen either did not notice or pretended not to. “It’s difficult to say.”
“Difficult to say?” Walter shot straight up, his back as stiff as a rod. “Why wouldn’t it mean good things? After all, Judge Marshall even stated that the Indian Nations are to be treated like, well, nations. That they should be dealt with as nations deal with other nations. Doesn’t that mean the states no longer have power over Indian territory?”
“I suppose that is true.” Frelinghuysen words lingered.
“And won't the president's hands be tied? He'll have to make treaties with the tribes just as the Indian Removal Act says.” He made abstract gestures with his hands as if to emphasize his points.
Frelinghuysen met Walter’s eyes. There was nothing fatherly or kind in the man’s gaze now. “Have you not learned, yet?” The senator leaned over his desk, lowering his voice.
What did he say? Walter moved forward once more. Did he imagine it, or was there something darker in the man’s voice?
“The president's hands are never tied.” The senator’s voice, edged with seriousness and heavy with warning, caught Walter.
A moment later, he sucked in a breath. Had he forgotten to breathe? The situation couldn’t be as the senator said. It couldn’t be. “But… we have a system of checks and balances…”
There was no cha
nge in Frelinghuysen’s expression. His brows lay low and his eyes pierced Walter’s outer defenses. What could he see?
At last, he spoke. “The Supreme Court, young sir, doesn't have an army.”
****
Thomas leaned back in his father’s leather chair. The material was smooth, but he did not favor the texture. Yet he had been drawn to this high-backed chair almost every day since his return. Why? While the library continued to invite him in, there were other places to sit, others covered with thick cloths. Why then would he choose to persist with the treated animal skin?
He did not consider himself so offended by the use of animals. Though perhaps it did feed his aversion to the chair. Had not God put creatures great and small on the earth for man’s use? But not man’s abuse. Man could be wasteful. Then again, the Cherokee used the whole animal. They had a purpose for every part. And they showed respect even as they took from the creature.
Maybe…
Was that it?
Did the leather remind him of the Cherokee?
Of Adsila?
Her face appeared in his mind—her features soft, wistful.
What was he doing?
He must not allow himself to daydream in this direction. Nothing existed between them. Nor would there be.
No?
“Thomas!”
Who called for him?
“Thomas?” The masculine voice became louder.
Phillip.
No doubt he neared the library. He must have guessed where Thomas would be. There had been a period of no less than three years during which Thomas earned the nickname “Bookie” from his older brother. It had been well deserved.
Glancing around, Thomas noted there were three books open around him and one in his lap. Had he pulled so many to read at once? He hadn’t changed.
A shadow fell across the opening in the doorway, and Phillip’s head appeared around the large oak frame. “There you are.”
“I didn't realize I was hiding.” The corners of Thomas’s mouth rose. He caught his brother’s gaze.
Though Phillip didn’t return the smile, there was a sparkle in his eye as he stepped farther into the room. “Hide, you might have tried. Hidden well, not at all, Bookie.”
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 9
