by Janet Dailey
"But what of the rights of the Cherokees?" Temple demanded.
"When have the Americans ever been concerned with our rights," he retorted cynically and turned away from the crackling fire. Pushed by bitter anger, The Blade crossed to the drink cart and picked up a crystal decanter of whiskey.
"There are many who care," Temple insisted. "Father wrote in his letter that David Crockett from Tennessee has allied himself with our cause. Crockett introduced the delegation to others who have also pledged their support in Congress. Henry Clay has shown himself to be a friend of the Cherokees. There is talk that he will defeat Jackson in the coming election and become the next president. He would enforce the existing treaties that Jackson turns his back on."
Flames leapt high behind her. The glass of whiskey sat untouched on the tray as The Blade studied the determination in her proud stance. By all that was sacred, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Abruptly, The Blade picked up the glass and stared at its contents, but whiskey wasn't nearly as intoxicating to him as she was.
"I do not find it so easy to place my life in someone else's hands." He wasn't thinking of Clay or Crockett when he spoke.
"But that is not what we are doing." Temple walked toward him, the woolen material of her long skirt and the layers of petticoats beneath it swishing softly with each stride. "We are reaching out to join hands with others so we can be stronger. We are seeking out more voices so that our cry for justice will be heard."
"You sound like your father." He eyed her briefly, then tossed down some of the whiskey, welcoming the burn in his throat.
"Is that wrong?" she challenged, drawing herself up to her full height.
"No."
Temple held his gaze for a long second, then partly turned, angling her body away from him, the bodice of her dress lifting and falling with quick yet deep breaths. "My father is strong and loyal.. .unselfish in his commitment to the cause of justice for our people. A more generous man you could not find if you traveled throughout the whole of the Nation. That summer when there was no rain and so many of the Cherokees in the mountains lost their crops, he opened our larder to them, gave them corn from our cribs for their livestock, and the homespun from our looms. We had barely enough supplies left to last us through winter."
"I admire him too, Temple," he declared roughly. "My strength, my loyalty, my commitment run every bit as deep as his, but I am not like him. I never will be. If that is what you seek in a man—"
She turned on him. "Did I say it was?"
"No." The answer exploded from him, and The Blade sighed heavily, trying to expel the anger and tension that gripped him. He shoved the half-empty whiskey glass onto the tray and squared around to face her. "Temple, I don't want to argue with you ... not tonight." Reaching out, he hooked her waist with his hand and pulled her to him. "I didn't come here for that."
At first Temple resisted, turning her head to elude his kiss and pushing against the muscled arms that bound her. She couldn't forget so quickly his callous and cynical remarks or the skepticism they contained, as if he considered the fight for their rights hopeless. Her father would cut out his own tongue rather than speak such treasonous words.
Soon she found it difficult to ignore the persistent nuzzling of his mouth as it lipped the sensitive skin of her neck, ear, and cheek, then teased the corner of her mouth.
"I need you," The Blade whispered against her skin, a beautiful rawness in the sound.
For an instant she held herself still, listening to the ache in his voice, an ache that was not solely desire, an ache that spoke of pain. The Blade had always seemed detached and hardened, mocking in his observations and smooth in his comments. She sometimes forgot the strong emotions she had discovered behind his aloof and charming exterior. She wondered where the pain had come from. And the anger and bitterness he had expressed tonight— that wasn't like him either. What was wrong? Why was he upset? She breathed in sharply, suddenly remembering.
"You knew him, didn't you? When you were there digging for gold, you met George Corn Ta—"
His mouth covered her lips, not letting her say more. But Temple didn't fight the driving possession of his kiss or the enveloping crush of his arms. She wanted to take away his pain and remove the specter of death that, for him, had a face as well as a name.
When at last he dragged his mouth from hers and buried his face in the side of her neck, hugging her close, she felt the sigh that trembled through him. Then the nuzzling started all over again as he kissed and nibbled at her, murmuring her name between each delicious bite. Temple trembled now, conscious of the play of his hands over her back. This time she deliberately sought his kiss, turning until she found his mouth. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue and felt drunk herself, wonderfully so.
Eliza approached the family parlor. She looked up and saw the entwined couple and halted in shock. "What are you doing?" The instant the question was out of her mouth, Eliza reddened.
The passion of the kiss was still in their expressions when they turned to her. "Did you want something, Miss Hall?" Temple asked.
"It is a bit late to be receiving guests." Eliza looked pointedly at The Blade.
"Yes," The Blade unexpectedly agreed. "It is time I left."
"But—" Temple turned to him.
He staved off her protest. "Miss Hall is right. It's time I return to the warmth of my own fire."
Temple appeared on the verge of arguing with him, then changed her mind. "I will have Phoebe fetch your coat."
"That isn't necessary," he said.
Temple watched him go, then crossed to the fireplace and added another log from the wood box. Eliza continued to stand inside the room. She said nothing until she heard the front door close behind The Blade. "How can you behave so wantonly, Temple? After the talks we have had about—"
"Silence!" Temple spun around, something almost regal in the blaze of her dark eyes. "Talk, talk, talk. You always lecture me on the feelings a woman should guard against. You do not realize a man can find comfort in a woman's arms, a comfort that heals the pain he feels and reminds him he is alive. And to feel alive is wonderful. For a woman as well. But you want to deny it. You want to deny the very feelings that make you a woman."
Stunned, Eliza couldn't say a word. Temple's voice carried such a ring of authority that she was hesitant to challenge it.. . and more than a little subdued by the realization that she had suddenly become the student instead of the teacher.
Slowly, Temple turned to stare into the flames. "There is something else you should know. They executed George Corn Tassel. He is dead."
"What? How do you know?"
"The Blade brought word of it," she said, then went on to explain the circumstances, including Georgia's open defiance of the Supreme Court order and the claim of interference.
"Dear God. Your father," Eliza whispered. "What a terrible blow this will be to him."
"Yes."
The fire crackled in the background. Eliza tried to think of something encouraging to say. "All is not lost, Temple. You mustn't think it is. The attorneys are already preparing another case to take before the Supreme Court asking for an injunction that will prevent Georgia from extending her laws over the Cherokee Nation."
"I know." Temple nodded, unimpressed.
11
A cold rain drummed against the windows of the log school, its hard patter loud in the stillness of the classroom, now empty of its students. Eliza returned the last of the textbooks to its proper place on the shelf, then paused to gaze out the window at the gloomy gray and black world of heavy clouds and bare trees. Shivering from the damp chill in the room, she turned instinctively toward the fireplace, seeking the warmth of its blazing logs.
Nathan Cole sat before it, his shoulders hunched, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands clasped together. He had arrived unexpectedly, shortly before noon, drenched to the skin and spattered with mud. It hadn't taken much persuasion on Eliza's part to convince him to stay
the night rather than continue his journey to an outlying church in this storm.
"Weather like this makes me want to curl up in front of a fire with a good book," she declared, then smiled at her inadvertent pun. "By that, I didn't mean the Good Book."
"I beg your pardon. Did you say something?"
Eliza opened her mouth to repeat it, then observed his troubled expression and changed her mind. "I was remarking on the children and how much they seemed to enjoy your lesson today."
"Yes. Yes, they did." He nodded, his attention wandering from her again.
"Is something wrong, Nathan?"
"Wrong?" Again, there was that initially blank look, followed by a retreat into his thoughts. "No. Nothing."
"Nonsense. Something is bothering you. Now, what is it?" she demanded, unconsciously slipping into her crisp teacher's voice.
"I.. ." He rubbed his palms tightly together in a display of deep agitation. "I... can't burden you with my problems ... my dilemma."
"Why not?" Eliza pulled a chair close to the fire and sat down. "I thought I was your friend."
"You are," he said forcefully, then sighed. "I am troubled by the new Georgian law. What do you think will come of it?"
"Nothing will come of it. It is a lot of humbug, if you ask me. Georgia cannot possibly believe it will get away with this bit of chicanery. The very idea of ordering a survey to be made of land that belongs to the Cherokees for the sole purpose of dividing it into lots—lots that will supposedly be given away to native Georgians in a lottery—is a ruse and nothing more. Georgia cannot give away land that doesn't belong to it." The mere thought made her angry. "Their true purpose is to raise a hue and cry from the people against the Cherokees by appealing to their greed. They will never go through with it." She looked at him askance. "Surely you don't think they will."
"I do not know. I wasn't thinking about that," Nathan admitted.
"Then what?" Eliza frowned.
"I was referring to the law that goes into effect the first of March, the one that requires all white men living in the Cherokee territory to obtain a license from the Georgia government. Before one is granted, an oath of allegiance must be sworn to Georgia." Again Nathan twisted his hands together in agitation. "I know you have no need to be concerned with it. The law doesn't apply to women. But it applies to me. And frankly, I am not sure what to do."
"About what?" She didn't see where the problem lay.
"The oath. Do I take it and 'render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's'? Morally, I believe the actions Georgia is taking to force the Cherokees from the land is wrong. But I am a missionary. I am here to bring them the Word of God—not to become involved politically in their struggle."
Eliza stared at him in open consternation. "How can you consider taking the oath?" she protested. "You and the other missionaries are spiritual teachers to the Cherokees. All this time you have instructed them in the faith and urged them to keep it, no matter how difficult the times become or how harsh the oppression they face. If you swear allegiance to Georgia, are you not, in effect, surrendering and saying to the Cherokee people that their enemy is too strong, too powerful to fight, even for you?"
"I suppose it could look that way." Nathan released a sigh of despair and confusion. "Yet to defy Georgia's order means certain imprisonment. Of what help will we missionaries be to the Cherokees if we are locked away? Already the Moravians are moving out of Georgia and leaving their wives in charge of their missions." He combed long fingers through his hair, increasing its disarray, then clasped them together again in a tight, prayerful pose. He looked at Eliza, his eyes haunted by the dilemma that paralyzed him. "What would you do in my place?"
She hesitated, not out of indecision but from the stunning discovery of how much this place, this family, had come to mean to her. All of them ... the beautiful Temple, who was like a younger sister; the arrogant Kipp, with his prejudices and sharp intelligence; the slow and shy Xandra, forever paling before her sister's beauty and her brother's intellect. And the baby, Johnny, whom she had watched take his first step; the slaves Phoebe and Shadrach, their eager faces drinking in every bit of knowledge she offered; fragile Victoria Gordon, a model of motherly devotion and sacrifice; and Will Gordon, the head of the family, a man she had grown to respect so deeply.
"I could not leave here," she said simply. "But our situations are not the same, Nathan. Surely the board in Boston has made some recommendations to you."
"They feel we should remain at our posts and see what happens. But it is only a recommendation. We are not bound by it."
"I think it is a wise suggestion. According to Mr. Gordon, the Supreme Court will be hearing the Cherokee case soon. If they grant an injunction, then you will not have to worry about this registration order. Georgia will not have the authority to enforce it."
"What if I am arrested before the Court hears the case, or what if the Court fails to issue an injunction? Do I take the oath or go to prison? I don't know what is right." He shook his head, agonizing over the decision. "My place is among the Cherokee people, not locked away in a cell. But if I take the oath, will I lose their trust and respect? It is my duty to serve their needs and give them the hope and faith that can be found in the Almighty God. How can I best do that?"
Eliza grew impatient with him. To her, the solution was clear. "If the Georgia Guard tries to arrest you, you should tell them that you consider yourself to be a Cherokee. It is what I would do," she declared.
"Eliza. You make it sound so simple." He smiled at her gently and sadly.
"It is. This entire situation is." She pushed herself to her feet and swung around to face the fire, trying to contain the anger she felt. "Everyone claims this is a dispute over who rightfully owns the land. But the Cherokees were here first, so how can there be any question? I am a woman, but even I can see that this whole thing is a conspiracy between the State of Georgia and the Jackson administration. With tyrannical acts, common thievery, and whiskey peddlers, Georgia hopes to make life so miserable for the Cherokees that they will sign a new treaty and give up their lands. I would not blame the Cherokees if they took up arms against their oppressors."
"You don't know what you are saying. An armed resistance by the Indians would provide Georgia an excuse to send in troops. The situation would be worse."
"You are right." Frustrated and discouraged, she stared into the fire, watching the small tongues of flame dart over the glowing embers, slowly devouring the log, and listening to the relentless rain hammer at the school windows. She wondered if Georgia would eventually succeed in eroding away the determination of the Cherokee people. "Nathan, do you think Will Gordon and the other delegates will sign a treaty giving up their lands?" Even to her own ears, the question had a treasonous ring.
Snapping his head back, Nathan frowned at her in sharp disbelief. "No. It would mean their death."
His answer came so quickly, so filled with conviction, that Eliza was taken aback. "Their death? But why?"
"Because ... it would be a violation of their Blood Law," he replied almost grudgingly.
"Blood Law? What's that?"
Again, Nathan appeared to be reluctant to respond. "It is a sacred law that calls for the death of any Cherokee who signs away any portion of the national lands without special permission from the council."
"I have never heard of this."
"I know of only one case where the law was applied, and that was back in 1807. A chieftain named Doublehead signed a treaty with the federal government agreeing to vast land cessions that included the Cumberland plateau and parts of what is now Kentucky. Bribery was involved. For this betrayal, a party of men was sent out to execute him."
"Did they?" Although she thought she knew the answer, something compelled Eliza to ask.
"Yes." When Nathan paused, she sensed that he did not altogether approve of such a severe penalty. "Two years ago, the National Council passed the Blood Law, making it officially a part of the Cherokee laws. Oddly enough—
or perhaps appropriately— the Blood Law in its written form was framed by John Ridge, the son of Major Ridge, who was one of the men in the execution party. I have heard that Major Ridge himself proposed the legislation as a deterrent to those who might be tempted to treat for their own profit." Sitting back in his chair, Nathan released a heavy sigh. "It has been reported that both the Choctaws and the Chickasaws have negotiated a new treaty, exchanging their lands for territory in the West. I cannot imagine the Cherokees ever voluntarily agreeing to live there, considering their superstition about the West."
"What superstition?"
"When I was making my circuit through the backwoods last summer, visiting the mountain Cherokees, I talked to an old man who still clung to the pagan beliefs of his ancestors. He had no conception of heaven, or a hereafter. According to him, the lost souls of the dead wandered until they came to the 'darkening land' in the west. There they became extinct."
12
Temple overlapped the heavy drapes to shut out the morning sunlight, then turned and glanced at her mother, at last sleeping restfully in the big feather bed. Her lank black hair was loose about her face, accenting its thinness and pallor. Even though Black Cassie regularly bled her, her mother seemed to get weaker instead of better.
Maybe this time it would be different, Temple thought, and tiptoed to the door. She closed it quietly behind her and moved toward the staircase.
"Miz Temple. Miz Temple!" Black Cassie called anxiously to her from below, alarm in her voice.
"Quiet," Temple hissed, impatient with the Negro woman's thoughtlessness. "You will wake Mama."
"Miz Temple, you best come quick."
"What is it now?" she asked with undisguised irritation. Since she had been forced to take over the household duties because of her mother's illness, there seemed no end to the number of crises demanding her attention that occurred in the kitchen.
"They be riders comin', Miz Temple," Black Cassie declared, her voice filled with apprehension. "And they looks like they be Georgians."
