Trail 0f Fears (Native American Heritage)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  Adsila walked Mother to a nearby tree and helped her settle at the base.

  “Here,” she said, smoothing a hand over the hair she had admired as a child. “Rest. I'll let you know when the soldier is here with your rations. And you must eat mine, too.”

  “No—”

  “Yes,” Adsila said, her voice firm. “You are too thin.” She met Mother's eyes. How had Mother become so distant? Looking in her eyes disturbed Adsila greatly. Still, she could do nothing about that right now. Only day by day, she would help Mother regain her strength. Somehow.

  Where were Father and Tsiyi? They must have been walking farther ahead.

  It wasn't long before she spotted her father and brother a little ahead of where she and Mother had been as they walked. Thomas had already joined them.

  Adsila waved.

  They nodded at her and moved in her direction as people around them found places to sit for the short time they'd be allowed to stop.

  “Where is Mother?” Tsiyi bounded up to Adsila.

  “Over there.” Adsila nodded behind her. “But don’t bother her. She needs her rest.”

  “Shall we join her?” Thomas sounded tired, as tired as Adsila felt. They were the younger adults, the stronger and more capable of the small group. It was up to them to carry the weight of the family.

  Adsila nodded and led them to where Mother slept, leaning against the oak’s sturdy trunk.

  As they approached, Adsila signaled for everyone to be quiet.

  Poor Mother! How she suffered from the horrid weather and the never-ending journey.

  They stopped several feet short of Mother. No one wished to end her peaceful rest one minute sooner than necessary.

  “I wonder,” Father said as they sat. “Greyson, what your God says about this.”

  Adsila sighed. She couldn't even muster the energy to be shocked by Father anymore. But she did wish to be anywhere else. How had she found herself in a conversation about God yet again?

  Thomas nodded, slowly. “God's word tells us about His people, the Israelites. They went through great trials. They were enslaved for hundreds of years in Egypt. Many suffered, many died. They thought God did not hear them.

  “And one day, He delivered them from their oppressors. Not the way they wanted to be rescued. But the way they needed to be rescued.”

  Father grunted. “So happy ending?”

  Thomas frowned. “Unfortunately, not right away. They wandered in the wilderness for forty years. God led them, though they lacked faith many times along the journey.

  “There is a song in the Bible that talks of how God leads His people, how He encloses them in before and behind. Though it is difficult to believe, He is with us. We may never understand His ways, His plan, or why we must endure such hardship. But that is what faith is about. Trusting when it is difficult.”

  Father grunted again.

  Adsila looked down. This was a lot to think about. For each of them. What could Thomas expect them to think of a God that allowed this to befall their people?

  The soldiers neared, handing out rations.

  As much as Adsila hated to, it would be best to wake Mother so she could eat. She rose and walked to where Mother reclined.

  Crouching in front of her, Adsila shook her shoulder gently but there was no response. Adsila gripped her more firmly and shook harder. Something wasn’t right.

  The shoulder under her hand… there was no semblance of warmth coming from Mother’s body. She shook Mother harder, and shouted, “Mother!”

  Nothing.

  “Mother! Wake up! You have to wake up!”

  A hand fell on her back. She didn't have to turn to know it was Thomas. He reached around Adsila to Mother's neck. His hand remained there for several moments, adjusting position a few times, before falling.

  “No!” Adsila cried, shaking her head. “No! Mother!” She continued to shake her mother.

  Thomas grabbed for Adsila's arms. “Please, Adsila. Leave her be!”

  “No!” She fought against him. “No! Mother!”

  Thomas pulled her against his chest. “Adsila, she's gone.”

  She continued to fight him, but weakened and drained, she relented and fell against him. And when he wrapped his arms around her, his embrace was tighter than she could remember.

  Snow crunched.

  She looked up.

  Father stood over her mother's body.

  Before she could speak, he released a loud mourning cry that pierced the silence, echoing in the forest, bouncing off the trees, as he sank to his knees. His cry became a song of sadness that her father sang right there in the middle of the wilderness.

  ****

  Lillian stared at the back of Arthur's paper. It had become the norm between them. She on her chair, he on his. Apart. There might as well have been a gulf separating them. Where was their sense of camaraderie? It seemed to have followed Thomas out the door. Or had it been lost before then? Either way, the back of the paper had been her only companion these last weeks.

  Turning back to her cross-stitch, she attempted to work the thread, but the stitches blurred. The rustling of paper drew her gaze upward. Arthur turned another page.

  For a moment, she had hoped he might have noticed her tears and come to comfort her. Such a silly notion.

  He grunted at some tidbit of news.

  How much longer would they remain in this stalemate? Her heart was broken, and his heart had become hardened to the very thing that wounded hers.

  Yes, they were quite the pair.

  He chuckled. A throaty sound. Something in the article now amused him?

  Her palms stung. She looked down to find that her hands had balled into fists. How much more could she take? How much was she willing to take?

  No more.

  Without another thought, she rose. Her cross-stitch fell to the ground, but she made no move to catch it.

  Arthur glanced up from his paper. His brows rose. Did she, too, amuse him?

  She met his gaze with an intensity all her own. “You can sit there and pretend, but I won't have it! I'm done!” The sharpness of her voice surprised even her.

  “Lillian!” Arthur jerked back as if she had slapped him. She had never spoken to him like this. “Whatever could you mean?”

  “What do I mean, Arthur?” Her hands opened and clenched at her sides. “I will no longer pretend that everything is well and good when our son” —her voice broke on the word, but she regained her strength and remembered her anger— “Our son is out there… somewhere… suffering, maybe dying. And you sit here with your paper, refusing to acknowledge his plight.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. His mouth moved ever so slightly. Was he trying to form words? Searching for the right ones?

  But nothing came forth.

  “If you so care, you will find me at Emma's house.” She turned and stomped out of the parlor.

  Nothing diverted her attention as she walked straight for the door, not the sense of what she had said, or the reality of what she was doing.

  She had her wrap on before the maid could reach her and was out the door before the butler could grab for the latch.

  ****

  Frelinghuysen entered the place he called home and closed the door behind himself, trying to keep as much of the winter weather out as possible. The dreariness need not invade his sanctuary. Today had been a tough one at the office. So many sad faces.

  “Home at last,” Charlotte said, coming down the stairs. A beautiful sight, lovely to his weary eyes.

  He welcomed her into his embrace before he shrugged out of his coat.

  “Let's get you in front of the fire with a hot cup of tea before you freeze.” She rubbed his arms.

  “I'm all right.” He placed hands on her shoulders. “Just a little chilled.”

  “I insist all the same.” She grabbed his hand and led him farther into the house.

  Soon after, she had him seated as close to the hearth as possible with a steaming cup
of his favorite tea. She took a seat nearby and watched as he sipped his body back to warmer temperatures.

  He couldn't help but admire how the firelight danced in her eyes and highlighted her features. Truly, he was a lucky man.

  “How did the staff receive the news?” She broke into his musings.

  Taking a long swig of tea, he delayed his answer for a moment. The faces of those who had worked with him, many for quite some time, were easy to recall. Their resigned expressions, their saddened faces… but was it more for him or themselves? For some, the fact that he would not run again for his senate seat, would be a setback in their political careers. “It was as expected.”

  “Hmmm,” she muttered, but said nothing further.

  “I think it came as no surprise for several. But still it was hard news.” He wrapped both of his large hands around the cup; they overlapped the delicate china.

  “Will you invite any to come along in your bid for mayor?” Her eyes shone even brighter.

  He had considered this very thing and thought on it anew as his gaze shifted to the fire. “There are those that would come along for the ride but only a few I would care to bring with me.”

  “Did any ask after your decision not to run?” Her voice had become soft, almost small.

  He sighed and set his now empty teacup aside. “I didn't give them a chance to ask questions.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose, and her mouth made a thin line.

  “I thought it best to tell the staff what I wanted them to know and leave it at that. It didn’t seem wise to open myself to topics I wasn't prepared to discuss.”

  Her features softened somewhat, and she nodded.

  He reached a long arm across the space between them.

  Her hand met his in the gap.

  “As long as we're a team we can weather any political storm.”

  She nodded. “But it's nice to have a supporter base.”

  Smiling, he nodded. He, too, remembered the early days when they first got into politics, when they had no one but themselves and their family and friends. It wouldn't be like that again. No, he had a constituent base now. A strong group of supporters back in New Jersey. They wouldn't be starting over again.

  “And, we have God on our side. With Him, all things are possible,” he said as he turned back toward the fire.

  Charlotte squeezed his hand. “He has never led us astray.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Crossing the River

  THOMAS HUDDLED WITH Adsila's now smaller family by the river. Steamers would carry them across to continue their journey on foot. The Cherokee standing at the banks gathered close for warmth, but it was no use. Everywhere he looked, the people shivered. Nothing, it seemed, could chase the chill from their bodies. Still, they crouched together in futility for what shared body heat existed and perhaps for sake of camaraderie.

  At last, the steamers finished their work for the day, carrying white passengers, and could avail themselves to the Cherokee.

  Thomas motioned to Adsila as he stepped toward Father and Tsiyi, offering a hand to each. Their grief had taken more energy from them than they perhaps could afford. But he tried to encourage them forward. The sooner they were on the steamer and then to the other side of the river, the sooner this nightmare would be over.

  But would it truly ever be over? Or would the journey echo in their minds? That was if they were to reach their destination. Or would they, too, die on this terrible trail of tears?

  Shaking his head, he attempted to loose the thoughts from his mind. He had to plant his trust firmly in God's hand and believe that God was with them, sustaining them. If he didn't, his faith would be lost. Yet another victim of this trial.

  Now on their feet, Thomas pressed Father and Tsiyi to move forward, shuffling them through the crowd.

  Adsila's presence was ever behind him, moving with him, albeit ever so slowly.

  The loss of her mother had done serious damage. Her spirit was completely broken. Indeed, a part of her had given up.

  And, for the first time on this journey, he sensed that she doubted they would reach their new land. Death had cut her deeply. More so than ever before. She became vulnerable, fearful perhaps.

  It was too soon, the wound too fresh, her faith too young, for him to wager a guess as to how things would fall for her. Would she cling to God? Or turn from Him?

  Drawing closer to the steamer, Adsila paused.

  He turned. What could be so important that she would risk herself?

  Then he heard it.

  The distant cries of a small child.

  Scanning in the direction of the cries, he found the source of the wails. But the scene surrounding the sorrowful mourning sounds caused his heart to sink.

  A young girl pressed against her father. The man was motionless.

  And Thomas knew.

  He saw in the man’s body what he had seen in Adsila's mother two days prior. The father was dead.

  Adsila took a step in that direction.

  Thomas reached out and grabbed her arm. He ached for the child, but he needed to get them on the boat. This family had endured too much. They couldn’t take another loss.

  “We must go!”

  Adsila met his eyes. A deep sorrow flashed back at him.

  The grief for her mother shone through, but he knew her. Regardless of what had happened, she would not leave this child to die in the cold.

  With little effort, she pulled her arm from his grip and rushed in the opposite direction.

  What was he to do? Should he follow her? Or ensure the safety of her father and Tsiyi?

  Gawonii laid a hand a hand on his shoulder. The man took Tsiyi's hand in his and nodded. Something unspoken passed between him and Thomas. Gawonii would be well. And would ensure Tsiyi’s safety.

  Without a word, Thomas turned and pushed through the crowd, following the path Adsila had taken. When he reached her, she already knelt in front of the small child, encouraging her to release her father’s arms.

  The child refused, clinging to the lapels of the man’s shirt, crying and pleading in Iroquois.

  Thomas checked the man's pulse, shaking his head, but Adsila showed no surprise at his confirmation. Working together, they carefully disentangled the small child's limbs from her father's body.

  Adsila gathered the flailing girl into her arms and spoke gently in Iroquois. Thomas did not need to know their language to guess that she asked after the child's mother.

  The girl cried harder, now turning and holding onto Adsila, and spoke only a few words.

  Adsila frowned.

  And Thomas knew—the mother no longer lived either.

  His heart softened toward the girl. Only just old enough to go to school and already an orphan. But there would be time to commiserate on that later. Their prospects here were not good.

  He looked at Adsila. “We must get to the steamer!” It was their only hope of escaping this man's fate.

  Adsila rose, trying to lift the squirming child, but she couldn’t seem to raise the child more than a few inches off the ground. Had her body become so weakened from days of malnutrition and the intense cold?

  Without a word, Thomas reached for the small girl, taking her from Adsila and gathering her close. He then grabbed Adsila's hand, tugging her to her feet, and moved toward the steamer.

  He pulled at Adsila, but they could not seem to move fast enough.

  They had to make it! Their odds of survival would decline drastically if they were forced to remain here any longer.

  But as they neared the boat, he heard the unmistakable sounds of the steamer revving up. His heart sank. All they could do was stand at the bank and watch as the steamer pulled away.

  What were they going to do? Remain huddled here? Face the same fate as this child's father? He couldn’t let that happen.

  He just…

  Looking toward the sky, he thought, Aren’t you done testing me yet?

  ****

  Chief Joh
n Ross looked across the Arkansas River. His people’s suffering weighed heavily on him. How many had they lost in the last week? As the days passed, the number grew, and he had a difficult time keeping count. They were into the thousands.

  At some point, the reality of that growing number lost its bite. Had the dead become a faceless mass? Perhaps for a moment… for these next hours he would allow himself to be numb to the grief of those around him and he would be naught but ‘John Ross,’ the man who loved his wife.

  For his Quatie had become ill.

  A doctor had been found and was examining her even now.

  Ross fought to keep his eyes open, exhausted from too many nights sitting up with her. He should sleep, but nothing could keep him from his constant vigil. Not then, not now.

  A coughing fit racked her body. Everything in her seemed to vibrate.

  The doctor glanced at Ross, slowly lowered his gaze, and shook his head.

  Ross nodded, but his attempt to grasp the truth of it was akin to gripping water in hand—it continued to slip through.

  How? Why? Had he not done all he could? Why then should his wife be taken? Stripped from him? The one thing… the one thing he held to himself in this life.

  The ship rocked them gently as they continued down the river, but nothing could soothe the gaping wound in his chest.

  He wished the doctor would leave so he might let loose some of this emotion.

  “John…” The tender word was soft, raspy.

  Looking at the one who was dearest to him in the world, now in his arms, he clenched his jaw. Would that stave off the tears?

  Weak hands pulled at his jacket.

  Did she fear he would not listen? She was his world. Had he given her reason to doubt that?

  He gazed into the kind face of his wife.

  “John,” she repeated, the effort of talking brought on another coughing fit.

  When it subsided, she opened her mouth.

  He found his voice, “Quatie, save your strength.”

  She shook her head. “I need you to know…”

  He cupped her face with a shaking hand. “I do know.” A tear escaped his well-guarded exterior.

  “You must be strong. For our people.” Her voice was not much more than a whisper, her breaths ragged and raspy.