Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  Adsila, who was nearby, groaned.

  Thomas understood, she was likely none too excited about another form of transportation.

  “I know we've been traveling for a long time. This will be like the wagon. Then we can rest and be still for a while.”

  She looked at her parents and brother and spoke briefly in Iroquois. They looked at each other before nodding and following Thomas out of the train station.

  As they walked, he reached out and brushed his hand against Adsila’s.

  In most times, she would hook a finger with his for a moment. It was their way of communicating their attachment. Though, in that moment, she pulled her hand away.

  This was not going well.

  ****

  Atohi fumed as he stepped into his house, slamming the door.

  The baby startled at the sound and let out a cry.

  Yona stood, bouncing the small bundle lightly. She had been settled in her favorite nursing chair. Had he disturbed the baby’s meal?

  “What troubles you?” Her features cringed.

  “A man comes to each house in the village.” He dumped his things in a chair by the door.

  “What does he seek?” Her brows came together as she continued soothing the infant.

  “I do not know.” He moved about the cabin. Where was it? Had Yona put it away?

  “What is it?” She all but cried. Was she so exasperated? She had been a bit emotional since the young one’s birth.

  “My hunting knife.” Opening a cabinet and pulling out the cutlery tray, he moved his hands over the utensils, looking for his most prized weapon.

  “I put it in my trunk.” She moved past him to fetch it.

  When she returned, he pulled it from her hands and slid it into his belt. Then he pulled his shirt over the hilt and blade, hiding it from view.

  Her eyes widened. “What are you—?”

  He held up a hand.

  Hoof beats sounded in the distance. But they came closer.

  The man approached. Yona, the baby… they must not be found.

  “Go! Into the bedroom.” He maneuvered her in the direction of their partitioned off room. “And try to keep her quiet.”

  “Please,” she whispered. “Don't do anything mindless.”

  His eyes met hers. Could he communicate his love for her in a look? As he did when they were young and in love? If it were possible, he did so.

  Her gaze softened. There was a sadness there that tore at his heart.

  But they would get through this. Alive.

  Of that, he was determined.

  “Do this. For me.” He prodded her further with a wave of his hand into the only space she and the infant could be hidden from view. “Stay.”

  She nodded, moving into the curtained off area.

  The baby quieted.

  Whatever Yona did to calm the young one had worked.

  It wasn't long before a knock landed on the solid wooden door.

  He could not help the snarl that marred his features as he faced it. “Who is there?”

  “U.S. Army General John E. Wool. I must ask you to open the door, sir.”

  He paused but for a moment, looking back toward the bedroom. Then he proceeded with a hand hovering over the unseen hilt of the knife.

  The first thing Atohi noted was the man’s uniform. U.S. Army indeed. What could they want? Were they here to remove them? What would he do to stop them if that was the case? What would they do to him?

  “How may I help you?” Atohi kept as much confidence in his voice as he could muster.

  “We are here to round up the Cherokee for removal.”

  Atohi felt sick. He would defend his family, would defend their land. And he would for certain lose his life doing so. He reached for the hem of his tunic.

  “We have government provisions for all who are willing to go.”

  Willing to go? What was he saying? “My family not willing.”

  The man became quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. “I wish I could say you were the first and only. But nearly all have said the same.”

  This man sounded truly saddened by this. What was it to him?

  “We will not go.”

  There was silence again.

  General Wool nodded and turned.

  Atohi watched him walk away. Relief poured through him, thick like molasses. He would not fight this day. He would not die this day.

  Moving toward the partition that separated him from his wife, he sought the comfort only found in her.

  As he neared, Yona pushed the curtain aside and stepped out of the bedroom, rushing toward him.

  “What will happen to us?” The words fell from Yona's mouth.

  He placed his hands on her arms. “We will stay strong.”

  ****

  “Mother?” Thomas stepped into her rooms. The maid had summoned him, telling him only that his mother requested his presence on a matter of great import.

  “Come in, Thomas,” she called.

  Dare he venture further in? His parents’ rooms had been largely off limits to him for many years now. He couldn’t remember being in his mother’s chambers, but he had been told that as a boy, he would run through in the wee hours and wake her.

  Still, she called for him; he knew better than to not follow her direction.

  Taking another step, he noticed his father sat in the small, carefully arranged sitting area.

  “Father,” Thomas acknowledged him. “Mother, you asked for me?” He offered a smile despite the nervousness filling him, the twisting of his stomach that warned him to be cautious.

  Mother did not return the smile. “There is a matter we need to discuss.” Her eyes were hard, serious.

  He frowned as a wave of dread overcame him. Why should he feel this way? There was no sin in him. What could they possibly need to speak with him about?

  Mother motioned for him to sit across from Father, and he took the seat without hesitation. In that moment, it was as if he were a teenager, fearful of punishment from some rule violation.

  Except he wasn’t. He was a grown man. And he had done nothing wrong.

  He cleared his throat. “I wanted to say again just how grateful I am that you have provided sanctuary for my friends. It means a lot that you have taken them in.”

  “I suppose we should be thankful you didn't bring the whole tribe with you.” Father smirked.

  Mother shot him an icy look.

  Thomas frowned. Was there some truth behind his father’s joke?

  Mother turned back to him. “You know you are always welcome here. It is your home, after all.” She lowered her chin such that she peered at him as if he were a schoolboy. “And we are happy to accommodate your friends.”

  What could that mean? These were his friends. Except…

  Surely they couldn’t know about Adsila.

  Warmth drained from his face.

  His parents exchanged a look.

  “Let's get right to it,” Father said, sounding almost bored. “No need to beat around the bush, so to speak.”

  “Y-yes. Of course…” Thomas leaned forward. More from the pinching pain in his stomach than from an eagerness to get anything into the open.

  Another meaningful look passed between his parents. Were they gauging who should start?

  In the end, Mother turned to Thomas.

  His eyes met hers.

  There was no hint of kindness there.

  “I saw you.” Her words were sharp. Accusing.

  “S-saw me?” was all he could manage.

  “Yesterday. On the stairs. With that girl.” Mother’s lip had an almost unnoticeable curl to it.

  Where had that come from? Was this not the woman who had taught him about God’s love for everyone?

  “Well?” Father’s deep voice cut through Thomas’s thoughts.

  On the stairs… What could Mother have seen?

  Then he remembered. It had to have been this past evening when he and Adsila said goodnight. Thinki
ng they were alone, he had leaned in and pressed a light kiss to her lips.

  Why had his mother been watching? Had they been keeping an eye on them? A pang shot through his chest. Why? Did they not trust him to make good decisions? Did they not, in fact, believe that God created all man equal? He lashed out with the only defense that reached his tongue. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Of course not!” Mother jerked back, hand on her chest. “Can a woman not turn a corner and use her own eyes to see what's happening in her home?”

  Thomas looked toward the floor. His face warmed. But why should he feel embarrassed? So, their secret was out.

  But then there was the other thing…

  How long before Adsila's parents would know?

  “You must stop this at once.” Father’s voice rose.

  “What?” Thomas’s gaze moved over his parents. What were they saying? That he could not pursue Adsila? Why?

  “Thomas,” Mother said, her voice softer. “You must see that you cannot continue this relationship. It's just not right.” She paused and leaned forward. “It’s not kind.”

  “What are you implying?” Thomas stood.

  “Come to your senses, boy! She's an…” Father halted, turning. His features were red and hot. Fists pressed against his legs. The anger he held in check boiled so close to the surface.

  But Thomas would not back down. He couldn’t. He narrowed his eyes as he glared at them. “A what, Father? An Indian? Is that what you were going to say?” How had he never seen this prejudice in them? It was as if his eyes were opening for the first time.

  Silence fell. A thick, tense silence.

  His father would not look at him.

  Mother appeared stricken, but her mouth was drawn and she kept her chin up.

  “And just what does that have to do with anything?” Thomas ignored the warning signs, the choices he had to douse the fire lit in his spirit. He wanted answers.

  “Now, let's all calm down and talk about this rationally.” Mother stood and reached for Thomas’s arm.

  He jerked it away. “No, I want to know what you two are trying to say! I don't remember the Bible mentioning the words 'white men' anywhere. I remember that Jesus died once for all. Not for all white men.”

  Not even his mother would meet his gaze. He should stop. But he was a man possessed. “Or didn't you know, Mother, that Jesus wasn't white? That's right. Neither was Moses, or Abraham, or any of them! No, they were dark-skinned Semites.”

  Then he shifted his attention to his father, who now shook with fury. “And, you, Father… You cling to your precious ideals of the government and the republic. What about 'all men are created with inalienable rights’? What of that?”

  “Thomas, please!” Mother started to break down.

  “Please, what?” What did they want from him? A good boy that would follow their ideals?

  “Lower your voice and calm down.” Father’s words came through clenched teeth as he peered through narrowed eyes at Thomas.

  “I will not calm down! How can I when you dare speak this way of the woman that I love!”

  “The woman that you what?” Mother grasped for Father’s arm, allowing him to help her sit.

  “That's right! I love her. And I'm going to be with her as long as she'll have me.”

  “Thomas, you can't mean…” Mother seemed pale. Was she going to faint?

  Thomas could not withhold the truth from her regardless. “Yes, I'll stay by her side and stand with her come what may.”

  Mother swooned and wailed. For herself? Or for him? He could not be certain.

  “So, you've made your choice then?” Father’s voice cleared, but did not calm.

  “Yes. If that means we need to leave, we will.”

  Mother sat up. “Let's not do anything so rash. No one is going anywhere. We said you could stay, and we do not intend to ask anyone to leave.”

  Father looked away. Was he displeased with Mother’s pronouncement?

  “Please, Thomas! Please say you'll stay.” Her eyes watered as she begged.

  Thomas held his tongue. He wanted to blurt out that they would leave as soon as they could get packed. But that was not wise. They had nowhere safe to go, and it would only create a greater distance between him and his parents.

  “We will stay.”

  Mother let out a breath. “Thank God!”

  “But you would do well to remember that this is my life,” he said gently. “And if I am to make a mistake, it is mine to make.”

  Mother nodded, biting her lip.

  But his father looked away, his gaze stony.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Creek War of 1836

  ARTHUR GREYSON SETTLED into his chair in the parlor and reached for his pipe. As he did so, he looked into a dark corner of the room. A place where a shadow fell. Did he notice the lone figure there? The one who had been in the parlor when he came in?

  The elder Greyson jumped up. His face paled as if he feared a ghost lurked beyond his vision. “Good Lord, who are you?”

  “It is I.” Gawonii stepped forward.

  Arthur squinted his eyes in the dimness. Could he then make out the shape of the Cherokee warrior’s face?

  “Oh. You scared me!” Arthur placed a hand over his heart.

  Yes, it should be that he and his people were in fear. Not the other way around. Instead, Gawonii offered a slight smile. “Did not mean to. Only like to look out window.”

  “That is one of my wife's favorite views as well.” Arthur settled back into his chair.

  The wife… Lillian… had a good eye. This view of the flowers was beautiful. Adsila planted mostly foodstuffs—things they could use. Not many flowering plants. “Garden is nice.”

  “Thank you. I'll pass your compliments along to the gardener.” Arthur pulled out the morning paper and opened it.

  Gawonii grunted. Gardener. They did not work their own land. How curious. He came to sit on the large, rather wide seat near Arthur's chair. “News?”

  Arthur lowered the paper. “Yes, this paper has the current news of the day. Do you have a paper in your village?” The man smirked. Was he doubtful? Thought the Cherokee so uncivilized?

  “Yes. Cherokee Phoenix. Good paper. Miss it.”

  “Oh.” Arthur’s features betrayed his surprise.

  Gawonii enjoyed the moment.

  “If you'd like,” Arthur offered, opening the paper wider, “I can read to you. Fill you in on the news, as they say.”

  Gawonii allowed an eyebrow to rise. Would this paper be different? How so? “Yes. Thank you. Would like very much.”

  Arthur cleared his throat. He looked over the paper for several moments. Then he turned a page. Did he think Gawonii incapable of understanding some things? Just as the Cherokee was about to reconsider the man’s offer, Arthur began to read.

  “Secretary of War Lewis Cass has dispatched General Winfield Scott to end the violence in Alabama by relocating the remaining Creek Indians to west of the Mississippi River. Cass feels that…”

  End the violence by relocating the Creek. It read as if the violence had been caused by the Creek. Gawonii grunted.

  “Did you have something to add?” Arthur asked, already seeming a little guarded.

  What to share? What to keep for his own consideration? Did any of it matter? Could he change even this one man’s opinion? He sighed. “They go to force Creek to relocate. Creek not go willingly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Did the man not see it? “Creek fight for land. They not wish to go.”

  Arthur tilted his head and seemed to consider it for a moment.

  Could he not see the truth of Gawonii’s words? The Creek fought for their land. Only as white speculators and squatters moved in on their land, had there been violence. Only as the Creeks had enough of the white man encroaching on their land had they risen up.

  The elder Greyson looked back at Gawonii. “But was that the best course of action? Bands of Creeks on t
he warpath burning homes and farms? Good Lord, they even burned a whole town to the ground.”

  Gawonii shook his head. “Creek asked for peace. Asked president for peace. For help. No help. Must do things how they know.” How could he make this man understand? It may not be right. But it was the only way they knew.

  “By displacing families?”

  Gawonii bristled at the comment. “Creek families displaced by squatters.” And they would separate Gawonii’s family, too. The government’s intervening had already caused him to be separated from his village, his people, all he had ever known.

  Arthur nodded. “I wonder why President Jackson wouldn’t intervene. Wait. The paper had given some reason… what was it? Ah, here it is… too close to election time to be taking sides.” The man’s words started with such confidence, but trailed off. Almost as if even he saw how hollow the reasoning was. Did he?

  “I just want an end to the fighting.” Arthur sighed, meeting Gawonii’s eyes.

  “I, too. Cherokee want peace. Creek wanted peace. But peace maybe not come… for either.”

  Arthur gazed at him for a long time.

  Could it be that the man and he came to an understanding?

  When Arthur spoke, his words were quiet. “I hope you find that peace.”

  ****

  Adsila strolled among the flowering gardens of the Greysons’ home. Her hands itched to dig in the dirt and bring forth life from the earth. But these were not her gardens. These were not her plants. And the owner of this garden did not even take the pleasure of creating in it. No, a laborer tended to this garden. Absurd!

  Looking over the blooms, Adsila wondered about the practicality of such a garden. Truly it was beautiful to behold, but only for a short season in this climate. What of the herbs? The plants that would season the dishes coming from the kitchen or assist in soothing wounds?

  A crunching sound came from around the corner ahead. Footsteps falling on grass.

  Who was intruding on her solitude? She looked toward that side of the grand house.

  Thomas appeared.

  Offering him a smile, her stomach fluttered. Thomas returned her gesture, taking the steps to close the distance between them.

  “I knew I would find you in the gardens.”

  “Yes, they are lovely.” She hesitated. Why? This was not for her to judge.