What was there to say? All Lillian thought of was Thomas and his well-being. And that was the one subject Arthur refused to entertain.
And so, Lillian was made to suffer in silence.
****
Captain Samuel Jones found himself, yet again, face to face with Chief John Ross. The man was becoming a bit of nuisance. But Jones tried not to think of him that way. He was only concerned after his people and their welfare.
And things were not going well for them. Not at all. They lost more Indians each day. As much as he wished he could do something about it, he had his orders.
The chief approached him, and even from a distance, he saw that the man steamed. And why shouldn't he? There was everything in the world to be angry about and not too many things about which to be pleased.
“Why do we take such round about routes?” he demanded. “Don't think I haven't noticed! We are going out of our way to bypass villages and towns, making our trip that much longer!”
“Those are my orders, sir. Directly from the general.” Jones met Ross’s glare. If he could, he would duck his head in shame, but he dared not show such a display. No, he needed to stand his ground.
“Why? It doesn't make sense! Unless you're afraid the display of some poor Indians being mistreated will entreat the people to pity us.”
Jones did not reply. How could he? What response would not be a lie and yet not affirm Ross’s words?
“Can we at least pass closer?” Ross pleaded. “Anything to cut time off our journey. Can you not see my people are dying out here?”
Jones swallowed past a lump in his throat. But he dared not show what he felt to this man. “I am not blind to what happens under my purview, sir, but I have my orders. The routes have been laid out. I may not change them at will.”
“Stubborn man!” Ross threw up his arms. “I can't imagine why you are so afraid of the populace coming in contact with us. Do you think we will contaminate them with our Indian ways?”
This man deserved an explanation, but it was not Jones’s job to think. Dare he risk it? Just this once? After all, he was in command. Didn’t he have some leeway to make decisions? “There is the concern of spreading disease.”
“Spreading disease?” Ross’s words echoed his expression—incredulous. “You prolong my people's suffering to keep the townsfolk from catching a cold? While my people are dying from these infections for lack of treatment?”
“We're doing all we can,” Jones insisted, but he knew the military only provided fine words. That he was just spewing the same rhetoric. “We simply do not have the resources to provide care for this many people under these conditions.”
Ross looked at him through narrowing slits. “I wonder, sir, if that would be the case if this was a group of white settlers instead of a group of Indians.”
Jones had no response. Ross had spoken the truth, and there was nothing he could say to contradict it.
“If you have nothing further,” Jones broke the silence, finding refuge from Ross's gaze by looking at his papers.
“Oh, I have more to say,” Ross interjected. “But I fear it would fall on deaf ears.” With that, he turned and marched out of the tent.
Jones, now alone, laid his head in his hands.
What have I done?
****
Thomas cleared snow by the base of a tree, making a suitable place for him to sit. He plopped down, taking the weight of his body off his aching legs. They tired of carrying him day after day on this horrid trail. Rubbing life back into his cold feet, his mind went to where it did of late: where was God in all this?
His time for prayer and reflection had seemed scarce. Yet all they had was time as they walked. Perhaps the real truth of it was that he hadn't wanted to pray. Did he not want to talk to God? He didn’t like that thought, but he couldn’t deny that it resonated. Why? Why would he not want to turn his heart, full of questions, full of hurt, over to the One who could do something about it?
An emotion rose in him. But it couldn’t be. Not him.
Yet he didn’t wish to lie to himself. That would not serve him.
He tested the emotion, examined it… Yes, he was angry with God.
But to run from Him because of anger would not fix anything. He had to face it.
Was God truly, as they say, big enough to handle human anger?
Where are You? Have You abandoned us?
Silence.
Didn't You call me to witness to these people? How then could You allow such suffering? How can you expect them to believe in a God that allows this?
Silence.
He gazed up at the sky, as if that would bring an answer. Drawing his knees to his chest, he laid his arms across them and dropped his head. He’d best not expect an answer. Not after so much silence on his end.
There was a gentle whisper. Faint. Not audible really. But he heard it.
Remember the Israelites.
It came on the edge of his mind. Like a caress.
Thomas looked up and glanced around. Was someone nearby? Had someone spoken to him?
Those closest were still several feet away and were engaged in their own conversations, almost all in Iroquois.
Remember the Israelites in the desert.
No, the voice came from within. His eyes fixed heavenward, Yes, Lord, I remember.
I led them through the wilderness, through the desert. Cloud by day, fire by night.
Thomas nodded. Yes, Lord, I know. But I see no cloud, no fire to tell me You are here.
But, You can know I am with you… always. Even now. I am guiding you. I am moving in your midst. I am hemming you in behind and before.
Thomas remembered Psalm 139 — how it spoke of God’s enclosing His followers, laying his hand upon them. And Thomas’s favorite part—that there is nowhere God’s child can go where His presence is not.
You are great, Oh God, but I wonder… what of all this suffering?
Are not two sparrows sold for a cent? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from My knowing. Know that I am with them in their suffering.
Thomas began to understand, as much as he could. This might very well be one of those things not intended for the finite mind of man. As he sat and continued to listen, he remembered in Romans 12 that the Lord spoke of His wrath. That vengeance was His, not Thomas’s, not the Cherokee’s.
Thank You, Lord, that You are with us, that you are enclosing us on this terrible journey. We need You, God, in a real way to be with us.
As he continued his prayer, a strange warmth filled him despite the cold temperatures. All remnants of the coolness left his body. It wasn't that he was not cold. Rather, he did not perceive it. Was this what it was like to feel the spirit move?
After some time, a touch on his shoulder shook him from his prayerful thoughts.
Looking up, he saw Adsila's concerned face.
“I was worried.” Her brows furrowed, mouth turned downward. “You have sat here so still for a long time.”
His features broke into a smile. “I was talking with the Lord.”
She balked, but recovered quickly. “Come, night is drawing closer. They are delivering rations.”
What was that reaction about? He wanted to ask her, but now was not the time. There would be another moment.
Rising, he took her hand and followed to where her family sat.
The warmth that had entered his body continued to surround his heart for the remainder of the evening and on into the night.
Even after it dissipated, he continued to hold God’s words close.
****
Walter pulled his coat more tightly around himself as the wind shot a chill through his body. Thankful for his coat and the short distance he would travel outside, he picked up his step. An image of the Indians traveling in this same cold, almost all without the aid of an overcoat or even warm clothing came into his mind unbidden.
He paused.
They would walk for miles… for weeks in the f
rigid air. And here he was, worried about the few feet between the Capitol and his apartment. He felt so small, belittled by his realization.
As much as he wanted to continue the few yards that would find him safe and comfy in his apartment, he didn't want to be alone with these thoughts.
When he did put one foot in front of the other, it was to carry him to a nearby bar that served a decent sandwich. It would be warm there, but not too warm.
Perhaps he could sit by the door.
Why did he feel the need to punish himself?
Walter neared the establishment. It didn’t look too crowded through the window. He caught the door as a man stumbled out, a little more inebriated than he would have expected for this early in the evening. Ignoring the man, he shuffled inside the sparsely decorated business and found a table in a corner where he could be left to himself.
A waitress came by soon after.
He ordered a sandwich and a beer. No sense being in a bar and not partaking. Perhaps a beer was just what he needed to dull this ache. There wasn't anything else he could do about it anyway. Senator Frelinghuysen had proved as much. That man had done everything humanly possible to stop the Cherokee's removal. And all to no avail.
The waitress returned with his beer and sandwich in due time.
He took a long swig of the brew, hoping the alcohol would dull his senses. His gaze rested on the foam trail formed when he tipped the glass.
The foam was not unlike snow.
Snow-covered sidewalks and snow-covered paths…
He was so lost in thought, he hadn't noticed Harry until the man stood over him, his voice booming and slurring.
“Well, if it isn't my pal, Walter! Hey, guys, look! It's Walter!”
Walter raised his glass to Harry. “In the flesh.” He took another long drink.
“It sure is nice to see you out in polite society, my friend.” Harry slapped a hand on Walter's table. “I figured you'd be off somewhere crying about those Indians.”
Walter gave Harry a harsh look. “You've had too much to drink, Harry.” He turned his attention back to his sandwich and the amber liquid before him.
“No, I mean it.” Harry nodded. “You've been moaning and groaning about those Indians like one of 'em was your own mother!” Harry leaned over Walter. A little too close. Walter smelled alcohol on Harry. Strongly. “Is that it, Walter? You really a red-skinned savage underneath all that?”
Rising, Walter threw some bills on the table to cover his order. “You've had too much to drink,” he repeated. “I'm going home.” He moved past Harry and toward the door.
“Aw,” Harry called after him. The word was drawn out, exaggerated. “Now, don't go away mad, Sassagawatcha.” He laughed at his own joke.
Walter stopped. “You don't know what you're saying.” Walter spoke more for his own benefit.
Harry put his hand over his mouth, moving it so as to make a sound like a put on Indian war call.
Walter turned.
Harry clumsily pulled an imaginary bow and arrow back to shoot Walter.
Walter marched up to Harry, stopping only when he was in Harry’s face. His voice was even, though his anger threatened to boil over. “You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying. Go home and sleep it off.”
Harry stood to his full height. “Or what? You can't do anything! You… you spout off about the Indians, and look where it got them. You're just as impotent in your politics as Senator Frelinghuysen.”
“You take that back,” Walter seethed.
If possible, Harry rose a half-inch higher. “Impotent,” he spat.
Walter threw a punch to his stomach; it found its home.
Harry's breath rushed out of him as he swung wildly at Walter.
But Walter evaded Harry's weak jabs at the air and landed another hit to the right side of Harry's jaw, knocking him to the floor.
There he crumpled and moaned.
Walter straightened, shaking his hand. “Now, go sleep it off.”
Looking for the barkeep, he spotted the man several feet away, watching them. “Sorry, sir. I'll pay for any inconvenience.”
The barkeep waved him away.
Walter understood—the man just wanted one of them out of the establishment.
He had no problem obliging.
****
Chief Ross walked along the trail with his head down, hands in his coat pockets. He had struggled over and over many times about his coat. Why should he have it? So many of his people barely escaped their houses—no, were driven from their homes—with naught but the clothes on their backs. There were many without shoes. It wasn't right.
He had offered his coat to many only to be turned down. Each person insisted that he needed to remain in good health, strong to fight for them.
Why must they be moved in this bitter cold? He blamed it for the loss of so many lives. His people were not so weak. In better weather, their bodies would be more resilient.
He watched the movements of those around him. Family units, staying close together, almost huddling as they walked… anything to fight this bitter cold.
Where was Quatie? He preferred his wife to stay close. But she frequently wandered among the people, ensuring what comforts she could provide.
There, she had gotten several paces ahead.
“Quatie,” he called.
She looked over her shoulder. Smiling at him, she paused and let him catch up to her. “Yes, John?”
He took her hand. “You know I like to walk beside you.”
She squeezed his hand. Her fingers were like ice.
“Put your hands in your pockets for a while. You will…” He glanced at her.
She frowned. “Do not be angry.”
“What happened to your coat?”
She coughed. It didn't sound good. “There was a child a mile back. She cried because she was so cold. I just… I had to give it to her.”
Ross drew his mouth into a thin line. Yes, Quatie would do whatever she could for their people, but at what cost? Her own comfort? Her own life even?
“Come here.” He waved her closer.
She moved toward him.
He wrapped an arm around her. Could he shield her from the worst of it?
But as they walked along, they bumped into each other. Their steps became more laborious.
This is nonsense! He stopped.
She caught his eyes as she paused, too.
“You need this.” He stretched his arms back and wrestled with the coat, sliding out of the arms.
“No!” She placed a hand on his arm, pulling at the opening of the jacket to keep him from making any more progress. “You can't!”
“Why not? You're my wife. I must see to your well-being.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Above all, you are my chief. And your life is valuable. Much more so than you think. You need to be a voice for our people.”
Yes, he’d heard all this before. And he refused to hear it again. Opening his mouth, he caught her eyes and saw something there in those depths. Something he had only seen but few times in their many years of marriage. And he knew. It would be pointless to argue.
He groaned and shrugged the coat back on. Still, he drew her to his side again, encircling her as best he could.
“I may be your chief,” he said for her ears only, “but you are my strength.”
She snuggled as close as she could. “I'm sorry,” she said after a moment.
“For what?” He was surprised at her apology.
“I know you are not happy with me for giving up my coat.”
“You misunderstand.” He looked ahead at those in front of them. “I am not happy with our circumstances.”
She nodded.
“How could I fault your sacrifice? Your kind heart? Some of the things I love most about you.”
Quatie was quiet.
Would things ever be normal for them? What would life be like once they reached their new land? They would be a different people, for c
ertain, having endured this trek. But would they be stronger for it?
If more of them were like his Quatie, he was certain they would be just fine.
****
Adsila continued to trudge through the snow. The days melted together. How long had they been on this trail? Weeks? Months? She couldn't remember what summer felt like. Gazing up at the sun, she silently cursed it for its lack of warmth. Even nature had failed her people in these hard days.
Mother heaved beside her.
It drew Adsila's attention.
“Mother, are you well?” Adsila moved closer.
Mother shivered uncontrollably.
She had noticed the older woman had become thinner of late. Was it because she had given so much of her rations to Tsiyi while he was sick and recovering? While it was true they had all thinned from less food and excess of exercise, Adsila worried after the severe lack of anything on Mother's body. What was there to keep her warm? As she came closer, she heard Mother’s teeth chattering.
“I… am… just… like… everyone… else. Cold.” Mother’s sentence may have been broken, but her voice was firm.
Adsila wanted to argue, but there was little point in it.
“Adsila…” Mother started, her voice low and quiet.
Drawing closer again, Adsila inclined her ear.
“I… want… you… to… know… that… I… listen… when… you… talk… of… Jesus,” she said between chatters.
Adsila drew an eyebrow upward. Talk of Jesus did not help her heart. Rather it twisted an already pained place. Jesus was not a subject she wished to visit right now. She was not happy with Him. How could he let His creations suffer like this? How dare He claim to love them and then allow this!
“I… think… about… it… about… Ye… oh… waa… come… down… to… earth,” Mother continued.
“Don't try to talk,” Adsila mumbled. “Conserve your strength.”
“You… need… to… know… that… I… believe. I… believe… in… Jesus.”
Adsila nodded but she didn't know what to say. Too much pain filled her heart for her to be excited about her mother's faith. She wasn't even sure where her own was.
Just then, the soldiers called for a break in the trip.
Good. Rations would come. Maybe that would give Mother some warmth. Maybe.
Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage) Page 21
