He pushed the last button through the hole and grabbed his firearm. As he stepped outside, another of his militia buddies, George, walked past his tent.
He nodded.
Richard took up step with him, and they walked to line up together.
“So, what do you think of New Echota so far?” George’s accent was thick. Much more so than most.
Richard frowned, glancing around. “Nice scenery. Wish I was home, though.”
George nodded. “Every time we get called up, it gets harder and harder to remember why I joined,” George said almost under his breath.
Richard afforded him a short laugh.
They walked the rest of the distance in silence.
The captain was upon them all too soon, walking the line, looking for any soldier who might be out of place. Finding none, he seemed disappointed. “At ease, soldiers!”
A loud shuffle sounded as the soldiers adjusted their postures in unison.
“I would like to introduce you to your new commanding officer. You will join the U.S. Army troops recently arrived under the command of General Winfield Scott. He will take command of this unit.”
If they had been free to speak, there would have been much to say about this. But they were not, so the captain's assertions were met with silence.
Richard searched the area and spotted a man standing off to the side. He looked older than Richard, or was it the years of battle experience weighing upon him that just made him seem so? Everything about the man appeared hard—his jaw, his stance, his chiseled features.
The captain stepped to the side and saluted the general as the man stepped into the center.
“Men, I will tell you what you are here to do. You are here to follow my orders. And follow them to the best of your ability. You are here to defend your country and your lives second only to my orders.
“Now, let me tell you what you are not here to do. You are not here to think. You are not here to question. You are not here to have discussions about what we should or should not be doing. You are here to do.
“But you are also not here to mistreat Indians. If that is why you are here, you can pack your bags and go home. I will not tolerate it. We are going to treat them with kindness and humanity. Those are my orders.”
As the general finished his speech, the captain appeared out of nowhere. “Your commanding officer just gave you orders!” he yelled at them.
“Sir, yes, sir!” they said in unison.
“Attention!” the captain said.
Another shuffle rippled down the line as the soldiers shifted posture again, this time to salute.
What to make of the general’s words? Richard wasn’t sure. Of course he was to follow orders and not think. That was not news. But he got mixed messages about the Indians. Weren’t they here to forcibly relocate them? How were they to do that and treat them with kindness? What if they refused to go? Was he to say, please?
He didn't understand.
But it wasn't his job to think after all.
****
Atohi watched as Yona laid their infant daughter down. There were far too few of these moments. Right now, everything in the world seemed right, at peace. And such moments would become fewer and fewer as the time of their relocation drew nearer. President Jackson had given them a deadline by which to voluntarily relocate.
The pro-treaty faction of the Cherokee people had taken the government up on their offer for assistance. And they had been the only ones. Precious few had gone.
Yes, most had decided to stay and fight.
For whatever that was worth.
He gazed at his wife and daughter. How would he protect them and their home? What was to become of them? Did they truly have a chance?
No.
That was the whole of it.
They would fight. And they would lose.
A knock at the door drew his attention.
Yona’s eyes sought his.
He could guess what she thought—would it be another soldier?
He reached for his waistband and touched the handle of the knife resting there. Since the earlier unexpected visit, he had continued carrying his hunting blade.
Nodding to her, he moved toward the oak frame of the door, and she dropped the cloth partition to conceal herself and their infant.
Mohe had gone out with friends. Atohi was both relieved and concerned. While his son would be out of this potential danger, what trouble might he be in? If soldiers invaded the village, could he reach Mohe in time?
With a hand on the knife’s hilt, Atohi opened the door and found himself face to face with Thomas Greyson.
He sighed, relaxing his posture and moving his hand to offer it to his friend. “Ah, pretty-pretty face, you have returned. I heard you had come back.”
“I, um, yes.” Thomas seemed unsure, hesitant in his movements. He glanced around Atohi and into the house. What for? Did he concern himself with an audience?
Atohi stepped back. “Would you come in?”
“Are you alone?” Thomas asked, still attempting to see into the recesses of the cabin.
“No,” Atohi said, eyebrows coming together. “Yona is in the bedroom.”
As if she had been summoned, she stepped from the partitioned off bedroom and nodded to Thomas.
“Good day, Thomas Greyson. I'm glad you are well.” She lifted a hand.
Thomas nodded. “And you.”
Atohi indicated the dining table. “Please, come in. We have coffee.”
“I, uh, that is, I was hoping, er, wondering if I might speak with you alone.” Thomas's gaze met Atohi's. He seemed out of sorts.
Atohi looked at his wife. “I think Mr. Greyson and I will take a walk.”
She nodded, moving toward the kitchen.
Atohi stepped out of the small house, closing the door. Then he turned to his friend. “Now we are alone.”
“Shall we walk?” Thomas jerked his head in the direction of the creek.
“All right,” Atohi said; his curiosity grew by the second.
They strode down the path that led to the creek, walking several paces in silence.
Was Thomas waiting on him to make small talk? He would not. Whatever concerned Thomas, he must begin. Atohi would not make it easier. Though what disturbed the missionary was rather curious.
“Fine weather,” Thomas said at last.
Atohi shot Thomas a stern look that he hoped told of his displeasure. Small talk did not suit him.
Thomas swallowed so hard Atohi heard it.
After several moments of silence, Atohi began to doubt his friend would ever speak to him again. Then, Thomas looked at him and said, “What will happen to the Cherokee that won't go?”
“The army will force us to go.” He spoke so matter-of-factly that Atohi couldn't believe it came from his own mouth.
“And what of the ones who won't go? Those who choose to stay and fight?”
Atohi gave Thomas a long look. Thomas knew the answers to these questions. Perhaps more so than Atohi. He knew how his government worked.
A part of him wanted to walk away or to chastise Thomas. But something deeper softened his approach. “They will use whatever means they can to move us. Weapons, physical force, beatings… That is all I know.”
Thomas hung his head.
“Let me ask you something.” Atohi’s voice was serious but he allowed the edge that came into it. “What will you do when that time comes?”
Thomas remained quiet for a moment. When he spoke, it was with conviction. “Anything I can to stop them.”
When Thomas’s eyes met Atohi’s, they glistened. And Atohi knew.
“For her.” It was not a question.
Thomas's gaze shifted, trained on something in the distance. Several heartbeats later, he responded. “Yes. For her.”
“It is dangerous.” Atohi’s words came slowly. “For you and Adsila. You will not find more acceptance among the people in this village than you did your own. Some will understand, others will
not.”
“It doesn't matter what other people think,” Thomas said, his voice sharp and short.
“But it will matter.” Atohi attempted to keep his voice soft. “No man lives alone, unaffected by those around him. We need each other. And all the more for such times as these.”
Thomas nodded but did not look at Atohi. “I hear you, my friend. And I don't have that answer right now. Perhaps that is something I must deal with when the time comes.”
Atohi watched Thomas’s eyes as they flicked back to him. And he understood then a couple of things about his missionary friend: first, he was in love and, second, he did not understand the true nature of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cherokee Removal
IT SEEMED TO Lillian Greyson that she would never stop crying. Until there were just no more tears. Her heart remained but a remnant of what it had once been, but no more tears would come. Had she cried herself out? Or merely become apathetic?
No, her heart still ached for her Tommy, no longer free to return to his home. She seethed under the surface toward her husband. How could he be so flippant? So brash? Was it nothing to him? What if Tommy never returned? If she never saw him again?
Her hands balled, scrunching her skirt at her knees. That future would not settle in her mind. Or her heart.
And prayer—the very thing that Thomas would have her do—was the last thing she wanted. No, she would not prostrate herself before God. Not after He had allowed these things to happen. What faith… what trust… could survive that?
She had trusted Him with her son, and He betrayed her. Now Thomas had gone away, chasing after a lost cause, placing himself in the middle of danger. Hadn’t he already been arrested and imprisoned? Wasn’t that enough to make him think twice? Of course not! Then he had taken up with an Indian girl.
It was too much.
No, she could not… would not trust God again with anything so near and dear to her heart.
A soft knock on the parlor door brought her solitude to an end.
“Come in.” Her voice was almost caustic. She didn’t care. Who would disturb her at a time like this?
A maidservant slipped into the room. All of her limbs were pulled in tightly as if fearful her mistress may bite at anything not well guarded.
Perhaps she would.
The young woman stopped several feet away. “Pardon, ma'am, a post came for you.” She stretched the letter forth, but it would not reach.
Lillian’s eyes narrowed. She had not the patience to suffer such nonsense.
The smooth hand trembled, but the girl’s eyes remained on it. Perhaps, then, she was unaware of how her behavior had risen to a level of vexing her mistress.
Shuffling her feet forward, the maidservant brought the letter into comfortable reach.
Lillian still stared at the girl.
But her eyes were set upon the letter. Was there sweat upon her forehead?
Raising a hand, Lillian grasped the envelope.
An audible exhale drew her attention once more to the maid’s face, but the girl turned too quickly for Lillian to discern anything more. And she tested propriety with the speed at which she quit the room.
Only after the door closed did Lillian peer at the missive.
The penmanship caught her eye.
Could it be…?
Yes—Thomas’s hand!
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned the envelope over. But something gave her pause. Should she wait for Arthur? Perhaps that would be best.
But what if he refused to hear from Thomas and took the letter from her and she did not get to read it?
Then again, he may be angered that she did not give him the respect of delaying.
The thunder of her heartbeat grew louder.
Which was right? What was riskier? To face Arthur’s wrath or the possibility of not knowing?
She ripped at the seal and revealed the letter within.
Dearest Mother and Father,
I am saddened by the circumstances of our last parting. And I cannot say enough how I wish it would have gone differently. Please know I love you both. So much. Yet I must be free to chart my life as God leads. I cannot let anyone stand in the way of God's will for me. You taught me that, Mother. Didn't you live that out, Father?
And I cannot deny my own heart. I understand your concerns. I do. But Adsila is part of my life, and I can no more disown her than I can renounce my own heart its right to beat. Please understand. I pray you can. Someday.
For now, know that no matter what happens, I will always be your son. And I will always love you. That will not change. Nor will my determination after God.
Sincerely, Your Tommy
Lillian crushed the letter to her chest and heaved shallow breaths. More tears came. Fresh tears that stung her eyes. How was it that his words could both placate her heart and wound her? The more he strove to assure her of his love, the clearer the line between them became.
That was not what she wanted.
But was this about what she wanted? Or about what was right for Tommy?
How would she know if she wouldn’t pray?
But that was the one thing she would not do.
****
It had long since been time for the Senate and Capitol, as a whole, to settle in to a new president. Van Buren had taken the White House. Without much chance of anyone catching him, too. Jackson handpicked his successor, and the American people had agreed to it.
And just why did he choose Van Buren, who was first his secretary of state and then his vice president? Because the man would further Jackson’s policies and continue his work.
There would be little hope of things changing where the Indians were concerned.
Frelinghuysen had read the poll results come in much the same as the previous election. His stomach sinking with each state counted.
But that was long past. He could not dwell on that now. No, he had to focus. What, if anything, could be done for the Indians? For the people who were being dehumanized, brutalized, cheated, and so much more?
Many days, it seemed as if his voice was only one. But he spoke for many. And he would not be silenced.
Knock, knock, knock.
He turned his chair toward the door, giving up the view beyond the window. “Come in.”
“It's Walter,” Mr. Buckner said as he cracked the door just enough to slide his head in.
“Do come in, Mr. Buckner,” Frelinghuysen repeated. The young man had become a more frequent visitor to Frelinghuysen’s private office. Not that he minded. He saw much of himself in the younger man—the idealism, the loyalty, the charm and charisma. How he hoped Mr. Buckner would use those things for the good of others and not only for his own gain.
Walter stepped into the office, his hand full of papers. “Pardon my intrusion. But I, um, have a few of these constituent letters that need your personal touch.” He stepped closer to the desk, setting the papers down.
Frelinghuysen eyed the perhaps younger version of himself. Walter was probably his best supporter and perhaps the most reasonable man on his staff. But closer inspection revealed cracks in his exterior.
There were shadows under his eyes. Light as they were, they existed. The sides of his face as well had begun to hollow. Was the man not taking proper care of himself? Working long hours?
Reaching for the letters, Frelinghuysen cleared his throat. “Are we working you too hard, Mr. Buckner?”
“What? Of course not, sir.” Walter moved a hand across his face.
“If I may,” Frelinghuysen indicated the seat across his desk.
Walter sat, slowly. His strained features fixed in a somewhat confused expression.
“You don’t quite seem your… energetic self. Are you sleeping well?” Frelinghuysen did not make it his business to inquire after the well being of his staff. If they weren't well, he expected they would stay home. But this was different.
“Yes, sir. I just… it's…” Walter’s gaze bounced around
the room as if the answer would be written, hidden in a corner somewhere. What was his struggle?
“Yes?” Frelinghuysen tried to catch Walter’s eyes.
Walter dropped his head, gaze to the ground. “It's nothing, sir. Sorry to bother you.”
Frelinghuysen leaned forward in his chair. “You are an important member of my staff, and I can see that something is weighing on you. If you do not wish to share it with me, that is your business, but I want you to know that you can.”
Walter fidgeted with the arms of the chair. “There is something, sir.”
Frelinghuysen arched a brow, but remained quiet.
Walter ran a hand through his hair. “It's the Indian issue.”
Opening his mouth to speak, Frelinghuysen was cut off before he could form the first word.
“I know you're going to say that it's a settled matter, and I should let it go. There's nothing to be done. But still… I can't sleep. I almost can't eat. It just won't settle with me.”
Was Walter finished? Frelinghuysen sensed it was important for him to. But Walter became silent. His eyes closed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Frelinghuysen folded his hands on the desk. “I would not tell you any of those things, Mr. Buckner. In fact, I share your concerns.”
Walter met his gaze. The sadness and grief was naked in his eyes.
“The burden is still heavy on me as well. I only wish there were some way I could prevent more removals from going forward.”
The young man nodded and bit at his lip.
“I tell myself ‘If only we could stand strong enough, if only our convictions were enough.’”
Walter’s eyes did not shift. Did he think that Frelinghuysen had the key? Some grand unknown potion?
“The reality is that our ideals and strength are not enough. They're just not.”
Jerking back as if stricken, Walter’s brows furrowed.
Still, Frelinghuysen did not flinch. “All we can do is pray for the safety of the Indians that are yet to be removed. And I mean pray like we mean it.”
Walter shook his head. “I'm not sure praying is for me, sir. I'm not that kind of person.”
“What kind of person do you have to be to pray?” Frelinghuysen leaned back.
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