Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  They were burning the house down?

  Adsila’s knees went weak. But Thomas's strong arm her held her upright.

  She couldn’t turn away as her family's home burned.

  Did the soldiers watch them? Did they gain some kind of sick pleasure from it?

  Before long, the soldiers forced them to move. Almost as if they allowed them to watch long enough to draw out a sense of hopelessness, but not long enough to give them closure. Could these evil men taste these emotions? Did they derive some enjoyment from them?

  Adsila forced her mouth to become a thin line and dried her tears. These men would get no more from her.

  The short trip to the next place, what she heard one of the men call ‘internment camp,’ was difficult for Father. His injuries and wounds were severe.

  Once they arrived at the place set up to detain the Indians, the men there were reluctant to imprison Thomas.

  But then Johnson told his version of what happened. And Thomas refused to be removed from Adsila and her family.

  They walked, spent, into the fenced in camp prepared for them. Already there were others. In all states of injury. And as they met Adsila’s eyes, she noted that some family members were not among them. These were the lucky ones who survived. Or were they?

  Such a sad ending. Then again, even that wasn't true.

  This, after all, was only the beginning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Internment Camps

  RICHARD CLEMENT ATE his rations in silence. The first round of Indian gatherings was complete. One village had been culled. The soldiers were now coming together for dinner, but it was quiet, too quiet for a camp of thousands of soldiers. But Richard didn’t have anything to say to anyone.

  Movement nearby drew his attention, and he looked up in time to see his friend George sit beside him. He nodded at George and got a nod back, but neither spoke.

  As Richard watched the fire, he couldn’t help but reflect on his actions of the last twenty-four hours. Why did his stomach turn as the images crossed through his mind? It had not started well. That first family he encountered had not eased him into the process. And Johnson had been so flippant about the whole thing. It didn't make things any better.

  Still, he couldn't deny the part he played in their suffering. How could he? Though he had not laid a hand on any member of that family, he had not made a stand for them either. No, he stood by and let it happen. The memory of it caused his stomach to now twist painfully. He looked at the hard tack bread in his hand and set it to the side. There wasn’t room for anything else.

  This place was too constricting. He needed space. Room to breathe. Distance from all these uniforms. His own collar was choking him.

  Pulling at the edge of the material around his neck and nodding at George again, he stood and walked into the night.

  Where should he go? Looking to the right and left, he saw many choices and few at the same time. One direction would bring him closer to the internment camp, the other a thick forest. Though he did not wish to be swallowed up by trunks and low hanging branches, the trees it was.

  He focused on the moon as he walked. The perfect round orb shone its light, illuminating the soldiers’ camp and the tree line.

  But if he were to look far left, he could make out the outline of Indians huddled together. How many were crammed into that enclosed area? He shivered despite the fact he was rather warm in his uniform jacket. Why must he think of them? Out in the open air with naught but the clothes that had been on their backs. Some soldiers had been kind enough to grant them a few of their possessions, but some were detained without even their shoes.

  None of it seemed right. But he was not here to think. And he wouldn’t. Not about them. Not anymore.

  As he approached the tree line, he heard a rustling in the bushes. He was immediately on alert.

  Had they missed one? Was someone about to jump out and attack him? Or was it some wild animal? He wished he had thought to grab his rifle.

  Stopping, he planted his feet and hunched over. The rustling became louder and the movement of the short branches drew closer to the surface. Whatever was in there, came closer. A moment later, a figure emerged.

  He let out a breath. It was one of the army men.

  The moonlight gave Richard a clear view of the man. He stood up and came out of the tree line, his hand against his mouth. Had the man been sick?

  The soldier noticed Richard and nodded as he stepped that way.

  Though he truly didn't want to, Richard felt compelled to ask after him. “You okay there…” He looked at the stripes on the man's uniform. “Private?”

  The man's head made slow bobs. “Just a little… overwhelmed… after today.”

  “Yeah.” Richard crossed his arms. “That was…” He hunted for the right word and came up short. “…something.”

  The man's eyes gazed into the distance. From the direction of his stare, Richard guessed he looked at the Indians’ camp. This private was young. He could almost have been Richard's son. Almost.

  Richard put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don't let it get you down. We were just following orders. That's what we're here for, remember?”

  The man nodded, eyes still on the people imprisoned beyond the army's camp. “Do you think when our children look back on this, they'll remember that?”

  Richard's head fell, examining his shoes. That was a good question. He thought of his own children sleeping at home. Would they understand? How he prayed they'd never know of his involvement in such as this! Couldn’t they go on in their innocent admiration of their father?

  “I don't know,” was his quiet reply to the private.

  “I saw things today… I did things today… that I… I…” He put the back of his hand against his mouth and his eyes watered.

  Richard put both hands on the slender shoulders and gave him a slight shake. “Calm yourself, private! Hang in there.”

  “I… I have to tell someone,” he finally managed.

  Richard was quite certain he didn't want to hear it. But he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded anyway.

  “I saw… General Scott forced four Cherokees to shoot their village’s chief and his children.” The private's eyes filled with moisture.

  Richard's stomach lurched. He knew the man spoke the truth but it was unimaginable. Hadn't General Scott told them… no, commanded them to treat the Indians with respect and kindness? One of his hands went to his chin, rubbing his beard.

  “Private—” Richard started.

  “Burnett,” the man offered. “My name is John Burnett.”

  “John,” Richard started again. “I regret that you saw things today that disturbed you. But I daresay, it will not be the last. There will be more removals. We must gird ourselves for what is to come. Above all, do not forget, we are just following the orders of our superiors.”

  Burnett nodded, taking in a deep breath.

  Richard clapped the man on the back. “Now, let's get some sleep. There's not much a good night's sleep can't improve.”

  But Richard knew… this would not be one of them.

  ****

  Walter moved through the halls of the Capitol, making his way to Senator Frelinghuysen's office. He passed other aides along the way, including Harry. But his friend barely acknowledged him as they moved along in the corridor.

  That was what their friendship had become. And Walter couldn't blame him. There was much tension between them. It would be short-lived though, once Walter's decision was made public.

  Walter had wrestled with this decision. He'd even tried praying about it. There was no peace to be found, but still, he was certain he made the right choice.

  This whole business with the Indian Removal Act and the atrocities committed against them… it was all too much. Still, he'd been helpless to stop it. Frelinghuysen with all his status had been equally helpless. And the senator had done everything in his power—filibustering, being vocal in the senate cham
bers, bringing forth legislation. What good was a career in politics if you couldn't change anything?

  As he drew near to the senator’s offices, Walter sucked in a long breath through his teeth. What did he owe the senator? Could he realistically just write his resignation out or did the man deserve a face-to-face?

  There was no question about it.

  The man had been good to him. He deserved more than a hand-written notice.

  Walter owed him an explanation.

  Only moments later, he entered the main office.

  He was not the first person in the office. Mason sat at his desk sorting through papers, and a couple aides worked quietly in the corner.

  Walter strode to his own desk and sat. Shuffling papers, he attempted to lose himself in his work, but it was not to be. His mind was on his resignation and the conversation he was due to have with Frelinghuysen. Glancing at the door to Frelinghuysen's inner office, he swallowed. How was he even to begin such an exchange?

  No matter what it would look like, it might be best he get it over with. He had rehearsed an opening statement in his head. Perhaps now was the time. Now… or later. It had to happen.

  Standing, he moved toward the senator's inner office.

  As he neared the door, he glanced at Mason. “Is the senator busy?”

  He cleared his throat. “There’s nothing on his schedule until 9:30.”

  Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes. That would give him plenty of time, but push him to stay concise. Yes, this would be best.

  Stepping up to the door, he knocked.

  “Come in,” the senator called.

  Walter closed his eyes and turned the latch. Moments later, he was looking at the senator behind his massive desk.

  “Can I do something for you, Mr. Buckner?” Frelinghuysen said, brow arched.

  “I felt… rather, I thought that I should… that is,” Walter flustered. Oh, I'm going about this all wrong!

  He worked to gather his words. Why would he become tongue-tied now of all times?

  “I need to turn in my letter of resignation.” He produced a folded paper and laid it in front of Frelinghuysen.

  “Resignation?” Frelinghuysen said, the shock evident in his voice. “But why?”

  Sweat beaded on Walter's forehead. He fought the urge to wipe at it. “I've given this a lot of thought. I don't believe politics are for me.”

  “If I might be so bold.” Frelinghuysen leaned forward. “I disagree.”

  Walter stared. He respected the man's opinion, and it was true that he expected no less out of this confrontation, but his decision was firm.

  Or was it?

  “You see, sir, I got into politics to make a difference, to be a voice for those who needed one. And I've watched the voice of the Indians become silenced. Even here in Washington, D.C. Despite the fact that there are those, like yourself, who have tried to speak for them. And if you can't make a difference, I don't see how I can.”

  “Please, sit.” Frelinghuysen indicated a seat in front of his desk. “While it is true that my actions and voice may not have changed the outcome, I refuse to believe that I did not give them a voice or that their voice, my voice, has been silenced.

  “How can I say who has been affected by the things I've said? Or who has become more aware of the plight of the Indians by the things I have done? Maybe other politicians will think twice before supporting legislation like this in the future. Perhaps constituents will change their votes after they are made more aware of what the Indians are being forced to endure.

  “But I cannot and will not, while I have breath, be silenced.”

  Walter nodded, looking at the floor. He had insulted the man. “I apologize for my words, senator. You are right.”

  “And that's why it is so important that the Mr. Buckners… the Walters of the world stay in the race! Do you think your friend Harry Corbell will be a voice for the disenfranchised? Too many politicians are in the game for themselves, for the fame, for the money. We need you to stand up and be a voice for the people! Even if you stand alone.”

  The senator's words were a salve to Walter's wounded heart. Frelinghuysen made sense. Maybe he needed to rethink his decision.

  While the senator’s belief in him was a high compliment and his speech inspiring, the future he painted was not exactly pleasant, but fraught with difficulty.

  Was Walter ready to take it on?

  ****

  Lillian took careful steps through the hallway of her house. The very halls that haunted her. Mocked her. With memories of life before. With how life should be.

  If only.

  If only Arthur wasn’t so hard headed. If only her Tommy wasn’t so stubborn. It would have been better if he were dead and she could mourn him properly, instead of all this worrying.

  She stepped into the parlor and held a hand up against the light. The maids had opened the curtains. Whatever for? Hadn’t she given instructions to the contrary?

  There was no sense in it.

  Turning, she opened her mouth to call for one of the maids. Then she remembered. Today was different. That’s why they had gotten her dressed and done her hair.

  For Emma.

  Emma would come for tea.

  Bless it all. Why had she agreed to this?

  Oh yes…so that Emma could be assured that her mother was just fine.

  If she hadn’t decided to drop in unannounced last week, there would be no need for this charade. When Emma had come, Lillian was having one of her days. Doesn’t everyone? So, she was still abed. And Arthur, how he does exaggerate… claiming she kept to her room and her bed most days of the week! Had she ever wanted to raise her voice to that man so much?

  Yes. The day he banned Tommy from his home. But she had been weak. Trusting. Next time…

  Oh, what was the use?

  She dragged herself to a chair and awaited her daughter’s arrival. How much of this joyful, merriment would she have to play? Would a plastered-on smile do it? Well-contrived chitchat? A practice well kept by the lady of this house.

  Looking around the room, she mused at the colors. It may be time to redecorate. When had she thought such bright colors a good idea?

  The bell rang, and voices down the hall confirmed that Emma had arrived.

  Straightening her shoulders, Lillian pressed her lips into the best, most realistic smile she could manage. There. That would do it.

  But it hurt. Her muscles ached. Were they so strained?

  It would not hold.

  She lifted a hand to her face as the simple expression fell.

  This would not do. Should she try again? Perhaps not. She certainly didn’t care. Why should Emma?

  Lillian’s gaze caught on the chair Thomas sat in the last time she saw him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, shutting out the memory. Emma would have to understand.

  What was there to smile about anyway?

  “Good afternoon, Mother.” Emma bustled into the room, making straight for her. Her face was lit, a larger-than-life smile filling her features. “You are looking well.”

  Lillian glanced toward her hands. It became difficult to look at Emma. Was she truly so happy? “It is all an appearance, I assure you.” Lillian neither cared about nor peered up to see Emma’s reaction.

  Silence fell in the room. Did Emma expect her to elaborate?

  After a moment, Emma sat on the settee next to Lillian’s chair. “The children send their love.” Emma leaned closer to Lillian. Was she attempting to engage her mother more deeply?

  “That's nice.”

  Two maids came in with trays—one bearing tea, one biscuits.

  “Thank you,” Emma said. Even her voice held a smile. How had Lillian never noticed this side of her daughter before? It seemed exhausting.

  When Lillian did lift her gaze, Emma opened her mouth to speak further. She frequently inquired after the servants’ wellness, habits, and whatnot.

  “That will be all,” Lillian interrupted.<
br />
  Not even that disrupted Emma’s smile.

  After the maids left, Emma turned to Lillian, folding her hands in her lap. Lillian picked up her teacup.

  Emma’s brows furrowed. “Shall we pray?”

  Lillian lowered her cup. “Oh, I'd rather not.”

  “Rather not?” Emma spoke with slow, careful words as if she hadn’t actually heard her mother. “Perhaps it would be best if we… see, I just…”

  Was Emma flustered? She wasn’t smiling anymore.

  Emma met Lillian’s eyes. “I think we should.”

  Lillian shrugged, setting her cup on the tray. “Go ahead.”

  Emma bowed. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this lovely summer day and for your many blessings upon us.”

  Lillian could not help the snort that came from her. Blessings. What blessings?

  Emma paused. Her features contorted slightly. But she continued. “We thank you for this time. We also pray for Tommy.”

  Lillian lifted her head. She would not bow. Would not close her eyes. She could not participate in this prayer. She just couldn’t.

  The prayer flowed from Emma’s lips. “Keep Your mighty hand on him and bring him safely home when his job is done. May that be soon. In Jesus name I pray, Amen.”

  Emma lifted her head and caught Lillian’s eyes. Her expression became one of confusion.

  Lillian cared not. She did not seek Emma’s permission or approval. Shifting her focus out the window, she said, “The garden is lovely this season.”

  Emma turned then nodded.

  The garden… That’s where the Indian girl spent most of her time. She had some kind of fascination with it. A sharp burn in her chest threatened to color Lillian’s features.

  “Shall we have our tea before it gets cold?” Emma reached for her cup.

  Lillian nodded, picking up her own.

  Silence fell between them, lingering for several moments.

  Did Emma have something to say? What kept her from doing so? Was she fearful?

  Lillian sighed. Bless it all.

  “Mother,” Emma began, hesitation in her voice. “Why do you not wish to pray?”

  “I am no longer convinced there is anyone to hear.” There was little emotion in her response. Why should there be? It was a fact, was it not?