Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  Emma had to catch her toppling teacup. When she righted it, she set it down. “Of course, God hears you. Why would He not?”

  Lillian sighed. Innocent, naïve child. “I prayed over Tommy. And this is God's answer, if it be God's work at all: your brother is in love with an Indian girl, he insists on walking this terrible path with those people, and he refuses to see reason. And now he's been banished from my home.”

  Emma leaned a little closer and peered at Lillian, almost as if she searched for something. Tears, perhaps?

  She would find none. They had been cried out.

  Clearing her throat, Emma placed her hands in her lap. “But, Mother, how can you know that these things are not God's will?”

  Lillian’s eyes widened. What was Emma saying? “How can they be the will of a loving God? A God who claims to love me? To love Tommy?”

  “Tommy wrote me.” Emma spoke slowly, as if measuring her words. “He knows Father did not mean whatever he said.”

  Lillian sighed. However, the relief she expected to come did not.

  “But more than that is what I know of God. Did you not teach us that there are things about God we may not necessarily like? Yet, that doesn't make them any less true or Him any less God?”

  Lillian met Emma's gaze. She saw how pained her daughter had become. Over her resistance?

  “Mother, could it be that your faith is being tested? That you are being refined by fire?” Emma spoke with gentleness. Her words so tender and loving that they snuck through the hardened exterior of Lillian’s heart.

  Lillian's gaze fell to the teacup in her lap. Were these not her own words? Her own truths learned over her years of walking with the Lord? How could she abandon them so quickly? And so completely? When faced with a test of faith. Was her trust not stronger than this?

  Emma held something out to her.

  Lillian looked in her direction.

  A handkerchief.

  Was she?

  Yes, there was moisture in her eyes.

  “I have missed Him, Emma. So much.”

  “Call on Him.” Emma scooted closer. “You know He cares as much about Tommy as you do. More even. And He cares just as much about you and your struggle. Let Him be your Rock. Your strength.”

  Lillian nodded. Bless me… this moment, this encounter. “Thank you for speaking truth into my life.”

  “I learned it from a great woman of faith.” Emma’s smile seemed to light up the room. “Can I pray for you?”

  “No,” Lillian said, pulling the handkerchief down.

  Emma’s brows came together. “But—”

  “We should pray… together.”

  ****

  Two weeks. They had been here two weeks! And that had not been the entirety of their imprisonment. That did not include the time spent in the internment camp near their village. Days after lingering there, they and thousands of other Cherokee had been marched here, to the Indian Agency near Cleveland, Tennessee. Here they were to remain in this internment camp for who knew how long.

  Thomas sighed and gazed out the barrier fence.

  The soldiers on the other side sneered at him. They seemed to have a special hatred for him and the handful of other white men imprisoned with the Cherokee.

  He could only imagine why.

  Crossing his arms, he was thankful he could do so without pain shooting through his torso. It had taken almost the entire two weeks for that pain in his midsection to subside. There was no way to know if internal damage had occurred. For certain, he'd had bruised ribs.

  Gawonii’s injuries had been worse. He continued to heal. And these soldiers did not provide any assistance though the Cherokee had nothing with which to nurse their wounded.

  Many of the men that survived the culling were injured in some way.

  Perhaps this was the one blessing of the internment camp — time for rest and whatever limited wound care could be provided.

  A hand pressed onto his back.

  He jerked his head around.

  A bump here and there was nothing in such crowded quarters, but a hand on his body was intentional.

  It was Adsila.

  He offered her a weak smile.

  She slid her hand from his back, down his arm, and into his hand.

  He pulled it to his chest.

  “How are you today?” Her voice sounded small. Too small.

  He hated the way this place was crushing her spirit.

  “Better,” he patted his ribs. “And you?”

  She shrugged. “Father is over the worst of it. He is luckier than most, I suppose. I just…”

  Turning her face away, she scanned the outskirts of the camp. Why? Or was she avoiding his eyes?

  He angled his body toward her and reached his free hand to her chin, nudging her face back until their eyes met. Tears welled in hers.

  “Adsila,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. He longed to kiss away her tears, to hold her and tell her everything would be all right.

  But he could do neither.

  Not only would that level of contact be unacceptable, he would not lie to her. Not even to placate her for a moment. He would not insult her with hollow platitudes.

  All he could do was pull her closer. “Talk to me.”

  She shook her head against his chest.

  “Know that I'm here.”

  She nodded, reaching her free hand up to cling to his shirt with a ferocity that surprised him.

  His gaze drifted back toward the soldiers; they started moving. Rations time.

  “Hey,” he shook her ever so gently. “We'd best get back to your family.”

  Her eyes sought his. She seemed sad. Did she think he didn’t want to hold her? He would do so forever if she would let him!

  Raising an arm, he pointed at the soldiers.

  She nodded. Pulling back, but keeping a firm grasp on his hand, she led him to the corner of the enclosure occupied by her family.

  Gawonii leaned against the fence with his makeshift bandages. Adsila and Inola had sacrificed the hems of their skirts to make them.

  Inola sat to one side of him, retying a bandage. Had she just checked his wounds?

  But Tsiyi reclined to the other side of Inola, half leaning against his mother. That was unusual. He was almost always off with a friend making up some kind of fun.

  “What's wrong with Tsiyi?” Thomas asked Adsila under his breath as they neared.

  “I'm not sure.” She didn’t look confident in her answer. “He said he didn’t feel well this morning.”

  “Perhaps he's just tired,” Thomas offered. Though he didn’t believe it.

  Adsila nodded slowly.

  He would bet she didn’t believe him either. They were each trying to assuage the other.

  Disease had become rampant in the camp. This was not a good sign.

  Thomas crouched next to Tsiyi. “What's going on, young brave?”

  Tsiyi moaned. “I'm tired. And my head hurts.”

  Thomas put a hand to his forehead.

  Tsiyi burned with fever.

  Lifting his eyes to meet Adsila's, he could not hide his concern. His gaze followed Adsila's over to Inola and Gawonii.

  Were they as oblivious as they seemed to the potential seriousness of Tsiyi's condition? Perhaps they were unaware. Too focused on Gawonii’s improvement?

  Tsiyi coughed. Did his chest rattle as his body shook?

  Thomas stood and stepped closer to Adsila. “It could be something small.” He attempted to convince her. And himself. “Tsiyi is young. His body is strong. All we can do is watch and hope his body can fight it.”

  Despite standing in front of her parents, Thomas risked grasping Adsila's hand and squeezing it once more before releasing her.

  A great commotion erupted nearby.

  Turning, Thomas spotted soldiers coming through the camp.

  Rations.

  He'd best sit and prepare himself for his day's meal.

  ****

  Chief John
Ross was led by two soldiers. What did they fear from him? That he might run? Leave his wife and his people behind? Or did they think it would take two with rifles to subdue him? They need not concern themselves. He had no fight left in him.

  His people had depended on him, and he failed them. They were suffering. Some had died. And they were all looking to him for answers. He had none. But he was still chief. And he would do everything in his power to ease the remainder of their confinement and eventual move to their new home.

  The thought of it made him sick. This was their home.

  No, not any more. Their homes were gone… destroyed, burned to the ground. Their possessions strewn about the fields, pilfered, plundered, destroyed.

  The door to the general's office opened, drawing his attention forward.

  One of the soldiers all but shoved him into the room.

  The man he had never met, but had heard plenty about, sat behind the lone desk occupying the space—General Winfield Scott. This supposedly great military leader stared him down.

  The general glared at him smugly. As if he were the victor and Ross the loser.

  Did he regard Ross as his counterpart? The leader of the enemy army?

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  This had not been a battle. Innocent people ambushed in their homes… dragged out… women and children…

  And the treatment of his people… Ross doubted that the government treated even prisoners of war this way.

  But this had not been a war. The Cherokee were not the enemy. And he was not the military commander of some organized army.

  The two soldiers with Ross pulled him to the desk but did not untie the binds on his hands nor sit him in one of the chairs. They left him standing in front of the desk, facing the general.

  “My captain has said you wish to speak with me,” the general said, his crooked smile dropping. He turned his attention to other things on his desk. Was he so bored with the plight of the Cherokee? Had he better things to do than speak with the Cherokee Principal Chief?

  It was too much. Ross tasted bile and felt heat rising into his face. Many things about this situation angered him. The least of which was not the way his people were treated. But nothing would be gained by a display of such emotion.

  “Yes,” was his only response.

  “What can I do for you, chief.” General Scott fairly spit the word out and glanced up from his papers, but briefly.

  “I wish to negotiate the voluntary movement of my people to our new home.” It was difficult for Ross to speak it without his voice breaking, but he kept his tone strong and firm.

  “You wish to what?” Now he had the man’s attention. General Scott's voice seemed caught somewhere between shock and laughter. “After all of this, now you want to just go? Voluntarily?”

  Ross nodded. “Yes.”

  The general shook his head and slapped his knee. “Well, I never!” He laughed.

  “I think,” Ross continued. “It would be to your benefit for me to supervise the continuing removal process with, of course, military presence.”

  “And just why do I need you?” All hint of laughter was now erased from Scott’s face. Replaced by a dark expression. “We seem to be doing quite well on our own.”

  “My people are in fences right now. Do you think when you try to march them that they won't try to revolt?” Ross countered.

  “We gathered them from their homes rather… easily,” the general argued, leaning forward.

  “Do not take for granted what a band of Cherokee might do. Once together, we are stronger. And without that fence to protect your soldiers, I cannot guarantee what might happen.”

  The general became quiet. He watched Ross, studied him.

  Ross held his chin high. Now was not the time to show weakness or indecision.

  “What are you proposing? Not that I'm saying I believe you.”

  “Let me oversee the removal process, the movement of the Cherokee to the new land west of the Mississippi. Nothing will change except in the eyes of my people. They will see me leading them and not a military general. They will follow me and not make trouble.”

  “Everything will be the same?” the general asked, eyebrow quirked.

  “I'd like it if your men were treating my people with a bit more respect.” Ross’s voice was level.

  “Those are my orders. Any man not following my orders will have to answer to me,” General Scott said, dismissing Ross's concerns. “We are agreed then?”

  Ross had heard stories about atrocities that had occurred under the general's direct orders. He did not truly believe the man. But this may be the best he would get. So, he nodded.

  “Good. We shall move out in a week's time.

  Had he heard the general right? One week? They had been in this internment camp for almost a month, and he declares they shall leave in one week as if it means nothing to him!

  Ross opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off as the general motioned for the two soldiers to take the chief back to the enclosure.

  That was the last the chief was to hear on this matter.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Trail of Tears

  ADSILA STARED UP at the barren branches reaching down as if to snatch her out of the crowd moving along the trail. The earth had become cold and dead. Snow crunched under her feet. How long had it been since she felt warm? She couldn't remember. All she knew was this chill that pervaded her body. But she kept moving. There was no other option. So, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and then again.

  They moved in silence. No one wished to expend the energy for conversation. Even if they did, what was there to say?

  How are you today?

  I'm cold.

  Me, too.

  Any of your family members die this week? Friends?

  Survival was all that was relevant. And the prospect of continuing this journey for days, weeks, perhaps months on end made death look like a sweet release.

  Still, she was comforted that her loved ones were still by her side. Tsiyi's illness had taken him far into the depths, but he was now well on his way to recovery.

  She suspected Mother gave him her rations, but said nothing. Who would it hurt? Perhaps it was the extra nourishment that strengthened his body.

  And Thomas was with them. She couldn’t quite understand that. Why would he continue on this hard road with them?

  Every day, she prepared herself that at any moment he would admit he'd had enough, that she wasn't worth the sacrifice.

  But still he endured.

  The depth of his consideration for her must be great. Indeed, he must love her.

  She stole a glance at him.

  He walked alongside her, arms crossed over his chest just as everyone else’s, a feeble attempt to conserve heat.

  His gaze turned to her. Did he feel her eyes on him? The weak smile she had become accustomed to broke across his features. And those eyes, which would have lit up under normal circumstances, remained serious.

  Why shouldn't they? What they faced was serious.

  The small smile he afforded her was all anyone could give under a weight such as they bore.

  Her foot caught a tree branch, and she stumbled.

  But Thomas's hands were on her—one around her waist and one gripping her arm. Of course, he would not let her fall.

  Looking up at him, she nodded her thanks. But in this bitter cold, she could not even force a half smile.

  He nodded and, as she regained her balance, he withdrew his hands.

  She regretted the loss of contact immediately. It seemed his hands, his eyes were all that could bring warmth into her body.

  At night, when they bedded down on the cold earth, the family units would huddle together for shared warmth. Thomas’s spot was next to Tsiyi on the opposite side of her parents from where she lay.

  How she longed for the private moments with him that had once been so easy! If only they could steal away for even a few
minutes.

  But that was not to be. Not in this crowd.

  How long it would remain a crowd was uncertain. There were deaths every day. Her people suffered from disease and cold. It was the worst nightmare she could imagine.

  Worse yet, they had lost all hope.

  All around her, she saw a people, once strong. Now all that remained was a crushed spirit. This once proud, great nation had been summarily defeated, pushed down, and broken.

  ****

  There had been no news from Thomas for weeks and Lillian feared the worst. More than that, she knew. Deep down, she knew what had happened to her Tommy.

  He joined the Cherokee people… joined her in their forced relocation.

  Tears came anew, and Lillian did little to fight them.

  What would become of her Tommy? Who could survive such a trek in this weather? Would the soldiers treat him with kindness because he was a white man? Or would they single him out with cruelty because he had chosen to side with the Indians? While she could not be certain, she feared the latter.

  The front door opened. Was it Arthur? No one else was expected. He had come home rather late.

  She wiped her eyes; there would be little tolerance for tears in Arthur’s presence. He had a hard approach to Thomas's choices. Something about ‘reap what you sow.’

  The dinner hour would be here soon. No use having tears at the table.

  Arthur's footsteps fell heavy on the floor as he came down the hall toward the parlor.

  Lillian lifted her eyes to meet his gaze as he appeared in the doorway.

  He looked into the room, his eyes searching. For her?

  “For goodness sake's, Lillian, have the maid light a lamp! I can barely see anything in there.”

  Lillian stood. “I am well enough, dear.” Clearing her throat. “But I will call for one of the maids as soon as we finish with dinner. I'll have her light as many lamps as we need to chase away the darkness.”

  He smiled. Or she thought it was a smile.

  She did see him extend his arm. Rising, she went to him.

  “I can't tell you how hungry I am. Shall we then?”

  She nodded, wrapping her arm around his.

  They walked the short distance to the dining room in silence.