Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

Seminole War

  WALTER BUCKNER SAT on a bench outside the Capitol, he took another bite of the sandwich that had long since lost all flavor. But he didn’t mind. His attention had been on the notes splayed out to his side, causing him to turn that way, his body angled somewhat awkwardly.

  Frelinghuysen's proposed bill.

  He took in a breath and let it out. It had become difficult to focus on the words. Who cared about financial bills when this issue with the Indians was still so fresh?

  Yes, of course Frelinghuysen cared. What was it then? Had he been cornered? So politically cut off that no other options remained than for him to move on? No doubt he would leap at any opportunity to assist in the Indian crisis… but nothing had been forthcoming.

  So, Walter, like Frelinghuysen, must remember that the people still depended on him. He forced his mind back to the notes.

  A shadow darkened the papers.

  Who?

  Walter turned toward the intrusion.

  Henry Corbell. A smile spread across the entirety of his face. “Walter! Taking lunch outside?”

  “Yes, I have to get out of the office every now and again.” Sweeping the papers up, he shoved them into his bag.

  He started to rise, but Harry plopped into the now empty space on the bench.

  Walter could still go. He should, in fact. But he didn’t wish to be rude.

  “How are things with old Frelinghuysen?”

  Walter nodded, looking forward, keeping his gaze on a spot in the distance. “Fair to good.”

  Though he couldn’t see Harry’s face, he swore the man’s smirk was audible. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” Walter faced him.

  “At least he's given up on his grumbling after the Indian removals.” Harry leaned back and watched Walter.

  Was he playing Walter? Trying to trick him into revealing something? Walter turned toward the Capitol Building, away from Harry, and took another bite.

  The silence between them was too short. Shuffling sounds indicated that Harry shifted. Walter sensed that his friend had leaned forward.

  “You know the Cherokee are next.”

  Walter could not help himself. He spun a little too quickly, and Harry jerked back at the sudden movement.

  But Walter had not the presence of mind to enjoy the momentary lapse. He had to know of what Harry spoke. “What do you mean?”

  “President Jackson appointed Reverend John Schermerhorn as treaty commissioner to deal with the Cherokee problem. You must have heard that he's been authorized to offer $4.5 million for the Cherokee to remove themselves.”

  A cavern opened in Walter’s chest. $4.5 million seemed like so much money. But for the land they would be vacating… it was a farce. They wouldn’t accept it. Not willingly.

  “That's pitiful compensation for that land, and you know it.”

  “I hear talk that some of them are agreeable to leave.”

  Could it be true? Had the Indians decided to give up and go? Had they lost all fight? Or did they believe they were on their own? With no hope? No help? But Senator Frelinghuysen had done what he could. And all of it came to naught.

  Harry shrugged and leaned farther forward, his elbows on his knees and his eyes forward. “What choice do they have? They either agree to the terms, or President Jackson will strongly encourage them to agree.”

  Walter's gaze leveled on Harry. He ached to speak, to contradict Harry’s pronouncement of the Cherokee’s doom, but there were no words. Harry was right. Once Jackson set his sights on removing them, they would be next.

  ****

  “Charlotte!” Frelinghuysen rushed down the stairs. Where had the time gone? How could he have let himself lose all thought of the hour, pouring over maps. “Charlotte!”

  He reached the landing and turned. Where was she? Had she gone out on an errand? It couldn’t be. Tonight was too important.

  Charlotte stepped from the dining hall, rubbing her hands in a cloth. Had she been tending to the work herself? “The table is set, darling.”

  Frelinghuysen allowed himself a deep breath. “Good.” He moved toward the parlor. Yes, the maids had prepared everything according to his instructions. Casting a long glance at the front door, he fidgeted with his necktie and pulled at the hem of his jacket.

  These were not the typical dinner guests they expected. No, they were far more important. Their visit had not been long foretold, but it had been greatly anticipated.

  For tonight, the chief of the Cherokee Nation, John Ross and another Cherokee representative, John Ridge, would visit Frelinghuysen’s home. His fingers trembled slightly as he pushed them through his hair, smoothing back the thick waves. What would come of their time in Washington, D.C.?

  As Frelinghuysen understood, this man, John Ridge, did not quite see eye-to-eye with Chief Ross. In fact, the man led a sort of dissension, a group in favor of making a treaty with the U.S. Government.

  A split in the Cherokee Nation. How had tensions within affected their ability to mediate and negotiate beyond their borders? With the U.S. Government?

  They had rejected the first treaty attempt at Red Clay. How had that impacted the rift between the so-called Treaty Party and the rest of the Cherokee Nation? It certainly hadn’t resolved the split.

  Was the internal outcome of that treaty failure the reason Chief Ross had brought John Ridge? Some attempt to bridge the gap between the two groups?

  The purpose of their travels to Washington, D.C. was to open new negotiations. They had already met with President Jackson earlier that day, and Frelinghuysen could hardly contain his eagerness to learn the details of that interchange.

  Just then, the doorbell chimed. Moving to the entry, there was a rustling of clothing behind him.

  He turned.

  Charlotte came alongside him.

  A smile pulled at his lips. It warmed him to have her by his side. He grasped her hand briefly.

  The butler stepped in front of them and opened the door.

  Two haggard men, both with gruff expressions filed into the house.

  As the first man entered, Frelinghuysen attempted to decipher who was who. This man was shorter, had a smaller face with a rounded nose and kind eyes. Was this the chief? Ross’s father had been of Scottish descent. So this man did seem the more likely of the two to be the chief.

  John Ridge, however, tall with angled features, had all the markings of a full-blooded Cherokee. And he was younger than Frelinghuysen had expected. He couldn’t be more than thirty.

  “Come in, Chief Ross, Mr. Ridge. You are most welcome in my home.” Frelinghuysen extended his hand.

  Chief Ross shook it. “Senator, please, call me John.” Then he glanced at the man nearby. “Perhaps ‘chief’ will lend itself to less confusion.”

  Frelinghuysen smiled. “Chief.” The man was warm and open. But he seemed displeased. His countenance dropped, except when he conversed directly with Frelinghuysen.

  John Ridge stepped forward and offered his hand as well. “John Ridge. ‘John.’”

  Frelinghuysen shook his hand with equal fervency. But the man hesitated. Why? He was pleasant enough in his address, but there was an abruptness to his character.

  “Please, call me Theodore. And this is my lovely bride, Charlotte.”

  “It is good to meet you.” She put forth her own hand to exchange greetings.

  The footman and butler helped the two men out of their overcoats.

  “Let us adjourn to the parlor.” Frelinghuysen offered his arm to Charlotte and turned toward the far hall. They would have more privacy there. Not as many ears listening.

  Once they were all seated and had assured the maid they were no longer in need of anything, Frelinghuysen could hold his tongue no longer. But he forced himself to pace his words.

  “How was your meeting with President Jackson?”

  The men exchanged a look.

  Ross’s gaze turned back toward Frelinghuysen, his eyes darkened and his brows furrowed. “Then you do no
t know.”

  “Pardon?” Frelinghuysen fought the urge to lean forward.

  “The president refused to see us.” Ross maintained his posture, but his hands wound into fists. “I thought you would have heard…”

  “I'm not privy to all that makes its way around the Capitol,” Frelinghuysen grumbled. Perhaps he had been left unaware because of the grudge many carried. Why did so many find him difficult? Because of the strong stand he took on certain matters? Shouldn’t they all take a side and stand strong? For the sake of those who relied on them? Who voted for them? But his peers seemed to think he was committing political suicide. Thus they did not wish to be associated with him.

  “We were turned away and told to deal with Schermerhorn.” Ridge’s words were partly ground out. “Which is what we should have done in the first place.”

  “Now, John,” Ross warned. “This is neither the time nor the place for another of these discussions.”

  Ridge bowed his head and said nothing further.

  Another of these discussions? Had the two men dabbled often in such discourse? What did they argue about?

  The room fell silent.

  “You alone have opened your home to us.” Ross’s tone was even.

  Frelinghuysen could not disguise his surprise. His features morphed to display his thoughts. Had the president not made accommodations for them?

  “I suppose we must find some inn or—” Ridge started.

  “Of course not. You will stay here.”

  Charlotte made a small sound. Was she worried after the preparations not made? The reaction was understandable and, thankfully, nearly imperceptible.

  “Senator, that is most gracious. But we cannot impose.” The lines on Ross’s face softened. “It is not a hardship for us to stay in one of the many hotels—”

  “I will not hear of it!” The force of his voice surprised even him. Frelinghuysen took a breath and calmed himself. “You are diplomats from an allied nation. I insist you be treated thusly. Allow me to offer my home as a poor substitute for the fine accommodations you should have received.”

  Ross smiled, and even Ridge's lips turned upward.

  “We thank you for your hospitality.” Ross leaned forward. “It will not be forgotten.”

  ****

  Thomas rubbed his arms as he waited for Adsila. He stood at the very spot he had been when he first noticed her playing in the creek. This would be their place. They could meet here, far enough from the prying eyes of their students and the villagers. And, most importantly, in secret from Adsila's parents. Not that he enjoyed being secretive, but he understood the need to be quiet about their relationship. For now.

  “Have you waited long?” A gentle voice spoke from behind.

  He turned.

  Adsila stood only steps away. How did she do that? Come so near without making a sound?

  “No.” He reached for her, his arms enveloping her.

  The warmth of her body melted any lingering cold in his.

  “But I would wait forever.”

  She rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

  After several seconds, he prudently pulled back.

  “Adsila,” he whispered and pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. If she would let him, he would hold her like this forever.

  It was several moments before he felt her body begin to shake. Leaning back, he examined her features. Tears filled her eyes.

  “What is it?” His eyebrows knit together, and his heart ached. Had he done something wrong?

  “I worry about my people. And my family.” She looked down. To hide the depth of her emotion? Did she still not trust him?

  He pulled her to himself again, trying to soothe her with soft words. What had made her so concerned? Why had she become overwhelmed so?

  “Please, tell me what's happened.” He rubbed a hand across her shoulders.

  She turned her face toward his. “There's been a treaty.”

  “A treaty?” He jerked back.

  She stiffened.

  This was no time for him to give into his own emotions. He needed to have a care for hers. Moving hands over her arms, he softened his voice. “But I thought the Cherokee had decided to stay and fight.”

  “That man… Schermerhorn, only invited the pro-removal council members and had twenty-one proponents of Cherokee removal sign the treaty.” Her eyes were deep in that moment. And sad.

  His forehead creased. “Then it can't be legal.” How could it?

  “I don't trust the whit—” She stopped herself and leaned into his chest, hiding her face.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Say what you mean to say.”

  She gripped the front of his shirt. “I don't trust some white men—the ones sitting in the Capitol, making decisions least of all.”

  “Even of those men, Adsila,” he said, careful with his words. “I guarantee not all support what the majority are doing.”

  Nothing. No sound. No movement.

  Nothing.

  Did she doubt him?

  “Not all white men, as you very well know, want your people gone or forcibly removed. I have to believe that there are at least one or two good men in Washington that seek your betterment.”

  “If you say it is so…” Even as she spoke, there was hesitation in her voice. “I will trust you.” Her final words seemed only somewhat more resolved. But she leaned into him again. “Even so, the majority is what matters. So, what are we to do when this treaty goes before Congress and they call for our removal?”

  What indeed? The prospects were grim. He swallowed hard and stroked her hair. “We will deal with that when it happens.”

  “What recourse will be left to us but to fight or be removed?”

  Neither seemed like good options. What would he do? As he held her, he looked at the horizon.

  “You and your family could escape.” He looked down as if to look at her.

  “Escape?” She jerked back. “Where would we go?”

  “We could go to Charlotte. My parents would give us safe haven until we could figure something out.”

  “That's crazy,” she said, making a sound that was between a laugh and a cry.

  He rubbed her arms. It seemed clear to him. This was the only way. How could he convince her? “No, it's quite reasonable. But it's not something we have to decide now. Just keep it in your mind.” He pushed a stray hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. “In case we need a plan.”

  “All right.” When she leaned into him again, he enveloped her in his embrace.

  “I will always take care of you.” Why had he said that? It seemed a big commitment to make. Especially now. Considering…

  But as he held her and ran the words over in his mind, he knew he had meant it. He would do whatever he could for her.

  Always.

  ****

  Senator Frelinghuysen chatted with Chief Ross and John Ridge as they neared the Capitol. Another treaty had been drawn up for the two men to review. Frelinghuysen volunteered his office for the potential signing. There was one interesting point: several Cherokee had already signed it. How had this happened? Weren’t Ross and Ridge here to do the negotiating?

  Frelinghuysen tried to hold back his skepticism, but he could not help the darkening of his mood. Still, something about the whole thing intrigued him. If the Cherokee would be peaceably removed, that may just be for the best.

  Removal loomed. It would come. That was inevitable. The choice remained whether they stood and fought or relented and signed a treaty.

  And, as much as he hated to side with Ridge in this, Frelinghuysen began to see his side of things. A treaty might be in their best interest. It could well be their only option at this point. Staying and fighting would only bring great loss.

  Everyone in Washington, D.C., and in the whole of the United States, had become all the more leery of the Indians since the Dade Massacre. It did not paint them in the best light. The Seminoles had ambushed an army co
mpany of 180, leaving only three alive.

  Yes, it intimated the army.

  Yes, it made them nervous.

  No, it did not help matters here in the political scene.

  The ride to the Capitol was quicker than usual, as they proceeded with all due haste. Stepping from the carriage, they made their way into the massive structure. Frelinghuysen did not have to scan the area to know that many curious gazes were upon the small group as he led them toward his office. At least some of these glances were simply that—curious. Some, however, were darker, more menacing. Either way, he wasted no time getting the two men to the more secure space.

  Frelinghuysen made quick introductions between his staff and the two men. He then requested coffee be brought in as they awaited the arrival of the treaty. At last, he ushered them into his private office where they were freer to converse.

  Several moments passed, in which they talked of things of little consequence, before a knock sounded on the door.

  Frelinghuysen swallowed. Was this the treaty? Would it bring hope? Or devastation?

  “Come.” His voice seemed weaker to him. Did the others notice?

  Ross and Ridge turned their attention to the door. Perhaps they had not.

  Mr. Buckner slid through the narrow opening in the door.

  Frelinghuysen straightened in his seat. Best to present all business. “Mr. Buckner, what can I do for you?”

  The young man looked at the two Cherokee men but averted his eyes quickly. Was he intimidated? Or, like others in the courtyard—condescending? But when he spoke, his manner was respectful, and he seemed almost hesitant. “Mr. Parsons, one of Reverend Schermerhorn's staff, is here with the treaty.”

  “Send him in.” Frelinghuysen stood.

  Ross and Ridge also rose.

  A man, lanky and bespectacled, came in with a rolled document. He paid little mind to the inhabitants of the room, granting them little more than a cursory glance as he cut through the room to the desk. Leaning over the flat surface, he unrolled the awaited papers. Again, without so much as a greeting.

  “Thank you, Mr. Buckner.” Frelinghuysen smiled at the young aide. This man, who had for months now taken a particular interest in the Indian issue, perhaps earned a closer seat. “Feel free to stay.”