Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

“Well… like you. Honest, good, noble.”

  “Prayer is for everyone, Mr. Buckner. Even for the sinner. Dare I say, especially for the sinner.” Frelinghuysen brought his hands together, mimicking praying hands. “Start by praying for the Indians. At least you can do that. Who knows? It may bring you some peace. It will for certain do them some good.”

  Walter nodded, leaned forward, rested his arms on his knees, and folded his hands together.

  Some moments of silence passed. Was Walter praying?

  Frelinghuysen closed his eyes and focused his thoughts heavenward.

  “I don't even know how to start.” Walter’s exasperated voice disrupted Frelinghuysen’s concentration.

  Opening his eyes, Frelinghuysen met Walter’s gaze. “Then I'll help you.”

  ****

  Adsila listened as Mother sang Tsiyi a soft lullaby. He had become far too old for lullabies, but these last several days it had not mattered. Mother found reason to sing him to sleep anyway.

  Closing her eyes, Adsila allowed the melody to take her back to her own childhood—a time when everything had been peaceful and good. There was no white man encroaching on their land. No Indian Removal Act looming, a dark cloud over them. And there wasn’t the complication of love.

  All that had existed was her and her people living in glorious freedom.

  Caught up in this daydream, she imagined the thin blanket she had slept on as a child, the only thing between her and the warm earth. A teepee, the only protection from the wind and rain, surrounded and enclosed her. The men didn't farm. They hunted. And they were strong warriors, not the worn men she now saw.

  Her people were a great nation. Proud. Noble. They did not deserve what was happening.

  As she opened her eyes, she touched the place on her cheek where she sensed movement. Moisture? Was she crying? Wiping at the tears, she wanted to hide them from her parents. But when she looked up, she met their stares.

  “Adsila?” Mother started.

  “It's nothing.” Adsila sniffled. “Just caught up in a memory.”

  Mother nodded. She understood. She always did.

  Adsila's gaze fell to Father's face. The lines there seemed all the more drawn tonight. Their family's fate rested in his hands. What a weight to bear!

  “Father,” Adsila began, her voice slow and quiet.

  His eyes caught hers.

  “Please, listen to me tell you again of Jesus.”

  He shook his head, sighing and grunting.

  “Father, He could lift this burden you carry.” Her words poured out like water tripping over stones in the stream. “He could make you whole.”

  “You say I am half a man?” His face was stern.

  “No, that is not what I mean. Each of us is missing something. There is a part inside of everyone that needs to be filled by our Creator.”

  “I have heard all of this from you.” He stood abruptly. “And I will hear it no more.”

  She bowed her head, gritting her teeth. “Yes, Father.”

  He stormed off to his and Mother’s partitioned off bedroom.

  Tears fell anew. Adsila wept for her parents’ unsaved souls and what may become of them. It terrified her more than anything else.

  Gentle hands pressed her shoulders.

  She jerked her head around and saw Mother's understanding smile.

  “Do not lose heart,” Mother said. “He hears more than you think.”

  Then Mother released Adsila and joined Father.

  Adsila stared after Mother. What was she to make of that?

  But she could not speak further of these things with Father. He had forbidden it.

  Lord, give me guidance. Show me Your path. I believe it is Your will that my parents come to know You. Help me.

  ****

  Chief John Ross prepared himself. Did he believe in the words he would deliver? He believed in his people, of that he was certain. And he did not think that more loss of life would further their cause. But was this the right course of action?

  The letter from Senator Frelinghuysen had reached a welcome ear in Ross. How could he not be moved by the man’s concern for the Cherokee? And so, the senator’s words penetrated the hard exterior around Ross's heart and found a soft place to land.

  Ross did care about the welfare of his people. Of course, he wanted them to survive. But at what cost? If they relented, were they merely sacrificing their land? Or would they lay down who they were as well?

  From his seat on the stage, he searched the faces of his National Council gathered to hear his speech. Their conversations seemed rather lively. Were they, even now, discussing matters of the Cherokee and their well being?

  Yet they looked to him for leadership. These men trusted him. To the end. Hadn’t they committed to follow him for the betterment of their people?

  The weight of their loyalty was an anchor, grounding him to reality. Did he choose the right path? More so than ever, he looked to the interest of his people above himself. If it were for him alone to consider, he would have them stand and fight.

  Until the last one of them fell.

  But his desire to do so did not make it the best decision for his people. Nothing would be gained. And all would be lost.

  Taking a deep breath, he gathered his papers and his wits. Rising, he then stepped forward and took his place before the men he held in such high regard. The men who had sacrificed countless hours for their people. And they would do what it took to follow their chief.

  “Council members,” he began then paused, raising a hand to his mouth.

  That wasn't quite right. These men weren't just councilmen. Not to him. They were so much more.

  Friends? That didn't capture it either.

  Men of noble cause? Hmm… that didn't fit this situation.

  Dropping his hand once more, he took a breath before holding up his right hand and continuing.

  “Cherokee warriors.”

  The eyes upon him gleamed.

  Even at such a distance, he saw a fire lit anew in their spirits. A fire he had not seen in some time.

  “I come to you with humility. In truth, I must admit that I have been thinking more of myself than the tribe. My stance on the decision to fight removal is selfish. As you know, brothers, if it were for only me, ” —he looked down at his papers, unable to meet their eyes— “I would have us fight until the last Cherokee death. But I see that this would not further our cause.

  “And so, I have a new message to the tribes: we will not risk our lives without reason. We shall not fight the removals. Stand your ground, yes. But only until your lives are threatened. Then we are to comply.

  “How can we fight with knives and rifles against thousands of soldiers? We would only watch our wives and children suffer and perish. This is a war we cannot win.”

  Some of the men nodded along, but some were glaring at Ross. Perhaps part of the council still favored fighting. He could only hope that, in time, they would see reason as he had.

  “My friends,” he softened his voice, now certain this word was fitting. “This may be the last time we convene.”

  All was silent. No one moved. Every eye remained on Ross.

  “Go home. Be with your families. Spread the words I have spoken. And let us ever look to the survival of our people and our culture. That is more important than some foolish idea of teaching the U.S. Government a lesson. Let it not be about them — it is only about us. I implore you—let that guide your actions.”

  With that, he stepped down and moved from the room, seeking privacy.

  Murmurs filled the space behind him.

  What did they say?

  The papers fell from his hands. He dropped to a knee to collect them, but his fingers shook too much for him to grip the slender parchment. He stood. The papers would wait. For now, he had to find room to breathe.

  There would be many questions that needed answers. He would have to return. But for now, for this moment, he needed a few minutes to himself.
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  ****

  Thomas walked up the familiar path. How long ago had he journeyed this way for the first time? It seemed only weeks ago, not months. That first meeting, dinner with Adsila’s family, still brought a smile to his face. The two of them had made quite the turn around.

  But one thing had not changed: even after all this time, his heart thumped quicker just thinking about her. Though they knew not what the next days or weeks would bring, with the removal deadline fast approaching, he was a man in love. Everything seemed new to him, and he felt more alive. The birds’ songs were sweeter, the grass was greener, even the sky boasted a fresh shade of blue.

  And the whirlwind of emotions that stirred within him in her presence—excitement, nervousness, joy… it overwhelmed him! But… did she feel the same?

  He neared the house, unable to keep his smile from spreading across his face.

  The door on the small cabin opened and a figure stepped out.

  He paused. Who was that? A man… too tall to be Tsiyi, too short to be Gawonii.

  Squinting in the dimness, he tried to make out anything that would mark the man’s identity.

  The door closed and the figure walked in his direction. It didn’t take long before the man’s angular features gave him away—Atohi.

  Thomas raised a hand. “Atohi!”

  Atohi offered nothing more than a head bob.

  Thomas picked up his pace and closed the distance. “I didn't expect to see you.” He smiled and stuck out a hand for his friend.

  Atohi did not smile back or acknowledge the proffered shake.

  Was Atohi bothered that Thomas had not spent much time with him? That didn’t seem likely. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have been through the village, trying to speak sense to my Cherokee brothers. But they will not listen.” His voice was gruff and his focus was on something in the distance.

  “What is your message to them?”

  Atohi caught Thomas’s gaze. The Cherokee man’s dark eyes were hard. “It is craziness to stay and fight. We cannot fight like braves and protect our families. Not in our own homes.

  “If we could ride out and meet them…” His eyes drifted to the horizon again. “That would be different. But we cannot. All will lead to death. For everyone.

  “We must go to the mountains in the east. Perhaps we can avoid the worst there. If the Great Spirit is with us, we might escape it all.”

  Thomas's eyebrows shot up. “Run to the east? You mean sneak off in the middle of the night?”

  Atohi nodded. How could he not care that Thomas alluded to the cowardice of such an action?

  “I… I don't know what to say.” Thomas’s eyes shot toward the house. Adsila's house. Would her father decide to take flight as well?

  As if Atohi could read his mind, he said, “They will not go.” He grunted. “They wish to stay and face their fate like the brave Cherokee they are.” Atohi spoke as if he were mimicking Adsila's father.

  Thomas could not deny the relief that rushed through him. But why? Which would be worse — facing the soldiers? Or being on the run in the mountains? He was unsure, but something deep within him did not want to sneak off in the night.

  Turning toward his friend, he caught Atohi’s gaze. “I have no words for you, friend. Except to wish you good journey and safe passage.”

  “Will you not come? Help convince others? Surely you must see I am right.”

  Thomas bowed his head. The words were difficult to find. When he raised his eyes to meet Atohi's gaze, he hoped he exuded more confidence than he felt. “I cannot. My path is intertwined with hers.”

  Atohi nodded. Had he guessed as much? He reached out his arm and took Thomas's forearm. “May the spirits be with you.”

  “And may God watch over you.” Thomas shook Atohi's arm.

  Atohi jerked his head once and slid free of Thomas's grasp. Then he turned and walked in the direction of the next house.

  Thomas had a feeling he would never see his friend again.

  ****

  Captain Samuel Jones stood outside General Winfield Scott's tent. He took a deep breath. His men were ready; he was sure of it. They would serve the general well. Some of them did have trepidations about what lay before them. And, he could not lie, what they had to do would not be easy. But he was certain they would perform their duty.

  Clearing his throat, he attempted to alert the general to his presence.

  Nothing.

  “General Scott?” he called. Would his prodding be welcome?

  “Come in.” The general's rather gruff voice came from inside the tent.

  Lifting the flap of the tent, Jones stepped inside.

  The general hovered over his makeshift desk.

  Jones moved closer, glancing at the map pressed out upon the surface. Some areas had been marked. Were these the places they would cover in the days to come?

  A lump filled his throat, rising unbidden. And he did what he could to swallow it. To be sure—he was no Indian lover. Yet… he had no quarrel with them, either. Deep down, in those places he tried to keep separate from his actions on the field, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps what they were doing wasn't right.

  He straightened his posture and shot a glance at the general. Could the man read his thoughts? It would be best if he remembered that, like his men, he was not here to think, but to follow orders. Besides, General Scott had said they would treat the Indians with respect.

  Jones waited while the general finished talking with his second in command. He tried not to listen, busying his mind with other things—like home. His wife was due in a month. Would he be home to see his baby enter the world? Not likely. This mission would keep him away for several weeks, perhaps months. The worst part was the uncertainty.

  “Captain Jones.” The general's voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Yes, sir.” He stood at attention.

  “At ease.” The general waved.

  Jones adjusted his posture, keeping his chin up and back straight while awaiting his commanding officer's next words.

  “I received word from President Van Buren.”

  Jones held his questions. It was not for him to ask anything. His job was to await orders.

  “Tomorrow marks the deadline for the Cherokee to voluntarily remove themselves. The president made it clear that he does not intend to give them any additional days. We march tomorrow.”

  Jones clenched his jaw to keep his mouth shut and kept his eyes forward. “Yes, sir. I shall have my men ready to march out before dawn.”

  “Good man.” The general nodded. “We'll show those savages that they cannot challenge the authority of the United States and get away with it.”

  Though he held a stoic posture and kept his face a mask, Jones’s confusion risked breaking the surface of his features. Had the general not, just a few days ago, spoken words of respect and kindness toward the Indians? Pushing his own opinions on the general's slur to the side, Jones minded his duty. What the man thought and what his policies were could be two different things.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We will march east and take this village first.” General Scott pointed it out on the map.

  The village closest to their position would be their target.

  “The Indians will be rounded up at gunpoint, if necessary. And, believe me when I say, it will be necessary. We will set up an internment camp here.” The general made an X on the map in the middle of an open field.

  “Yes, sir,” Jones replied. He didn't trust himself to say anything else.

  “Good. You are dismissed.”

  Jones shifted to stand at attention again and saluted. Then, turning on his heels, he marched out. Once the tent flap fell into place behind him, he took another deep breath.

  He wiped a hand across his forehead, pulling it back at the moisture there. Sweating? He had been sweating? Did the general see? Whatever was bothering him needed to be put to rest. A unit of militia looked to him, and a general rel
ied on him to carry out orders without question.

  Weakness would not be tolerated.

  ****

  The day had come. Dreadful day that it was. Black clouds hung over the capitol and rain poured upon the earth.

  Suitable, Frelinghuysen thought. For this day was indeed a dark day.

  May 26, 1838.

  Would it be written into history books, as it would forever be etched in his memory? He hoped so. He hoped that history would remember this day as the dark day it was.

  What would become of his friend, Chief John Ross? Would he be removed with the rest of the Indians or would they find some reason to kill him?

  He was unsure. But he did not trust the military when given free reign.

  Why had he even come to the office today? It would have been better for him to have stayed home with Charlotte. She would bring him comfort on this sad day.

  Yet here he stood, by the great window in his small office, watching the rain come down. Were these the tears not to be shed by the Indians?

  Yes, these were a proud people. Even when removed from their homes, or with the atrocities committed against them, it was doubtful they would let the soldiers see them cry.

  What kind of difference could he make in this mindset? Gloomy as he was?

  Yes, he needed to go home.

  Still, he couldn't force himself to move from the spot where his feet had planted.

  And there he remained, gazing out into the black sky, allowing the sadness of the moment to pervade his spirit.

  ****

  Thomas woke to an eerie silence.

  No sound was discernable. Not even the chirping of birds nearby. Nothing. It was strange.

  Opening his eyes, he scanned the cabin.

  Everything looked the same. His things were all in their places. But something was terribly wrong.

  The feeling overwhelmed him, threatened to suffocate him.

  He rushed through getting dressed, glancing out the window when he was decent.

  Again, nothing appeared the least bit out of order. Blue skies and a bright day greeted him.

  Why, then, was everything in his spirit screaming out to him? Warning him? But about what? Perhaps it was the remnant of a bad dream?

  Shrugging it off, he went to the creek for water. His walk was uneventful. And, as he dipped water from the stream, the fish swam by as if nothing were extraordinary.