“I did not stop to think. The words my friends spoke sounded right to me at that time. None of us realized what a liar Jackson would prove to be and that his promises of friendship to our people meant nothing. And back then, even before he became a village chief, my cousin Agili was very good at persuading people to do things.
“‘My friends,’ I said, ‘I will go with you.’
“Why did I do this? There were many reasons, I suppose. I wanted to help my friends. Any man who has been to war will tell you that it is more about staying by the side of your friends than it is about trying to win great battles. You do not fight and die for your leaders, but for your brothers, the men beside you. I suppose it is also true that I wanted to prove myself. I might have been lame, but I was as good as any man with two good legs.
“But there was, to be honest, another reason. All I had been able to think about for so long was finding a way to write our language. Perhaps, if I went to this war, I would somehow find the answer in my mind to that question which kept me awake at night, that question of how to make shapes that would talk in Tsalagi. Perhaps, too, a part of me thought that going to war might help me escape from my obsession. It might free my mind from the confusion that had settled around me like a cloud.
“I remember how your mother watched me as I did so. She had been listening to my conversation with Agili and Turtle and knew what was happening. There was a resigned look on her face. She did not ask me to stay or encourage me to go. She just said nothing. In truth, I think she was just as glad to see me go. I had not been a good husband. My drinking and strange ways had been hard on her. Although your mother told me that our marriage was over after I returned, I think she had already made that decision on the day I left for the war.
“I remember, too, how you behaved that day I left. You did not cry, but you held on to me so hard that it was difficult to make you let go.”
My father reaches out his left hand, the one closest to his heart, and rests his palm for a moment on my chest. I feel a lump in my throat and swallow hard.
“Maybe you have heard stories about war, about bravery and great deeds. Those tales do not tell you what war is really like. They do not talk about the smell of battle, what it is like to see a man you know trying to keep his intestines from coming out of a great wound in his belly. Those stories do not tell you how terrible it is to cause the death of an enemy, a person who is just as much a human being as you are.
“My friends and I agreed to serve in that army for only three months. That may not seem long. It is only a little more than the time it takes to plant your corn and bring in the crop from the fields. But those three months were long and hard. And the harvest we brought in was death and destruction.
“The Red Stick Creeks were brave fighters. In battle they would never surrender but fight to the last man. They were so fearless in battle that they frightened the white men. Many of Jackson’s white soldiers ran away. In one battle his whole Tennessee Militia ran all the way back to the Coosa River as we Indians fought to cover the retreat. If it had not been for our regiment, the Mounted and Foot Cherokees, Sharp Knife would have lost his own life. By the end of that year, nearly all of Sharp Knife Jackson’s white soldiers had deserted or served out their terms and gone home.
“When our own term of enlistment ended, we, too, could have gone home. But we did as almost every other Indian did. We re-enlisted. Sharp Knife brought in new white recruits. Our army grew in size. Soon, counting our five hundred Cherokees, it numbered more than two thousand.
“And that was our strength in March of 1814 when we came to Tohopeka, the place the white men call Horseshoe Bend.”
CHAPTER 16
Horseshoe Bend
My father levers himself up from his chair. He shakes his lame leg and stomps it twice on the floor before putting his weight onto it. Then he walks toward the steps.
“Come,” he says, his hand brushing my knee.
And though Wesa protests as I gently push him out of my lap, I stand up, too. I follow my father as he makes his way down the steps, walks around the front of the cabin, and starts across the backyard.
He does not go far. A stone’s throw from the cabin are two stumps next to each other. In front of those stumps is a patch of clear ground where the loose, sandy soil is as smooth and unmarked as a baby’s face. And next to each stump is a small, thin pole with the bark peeled from it. I am not sure what those poles are for. But they look as well used as ball sticks or farm tools.
My father limps over to sit on one of those stumps. He pats the one next to it and I take a seat there. He carefully picks up the smooth stick closest to him and holds it between his thumb and his first two fingers the way I have seen the missionary hold a pen.
“Here,” he says. He begins to scratch shapes in the smooth soil with the tip of the stick.
For a moment I think he is making more of those symbols that stand for sounds. But then I realize that what he is drawing is something other than that. It is a map.
“North,” my father says, tapping the top of his drawing. “South,” placing his stick down near the bottom. “The Tallapoosa River,” he continues, following a line he’s made that comes curving down from the northeast, then takes a sharp bend up, down, and around. Its shape is that of a horseshoe.
He leans back, takes a breath. Then he leans forward again and holds his drawing stick above that peninsula of land formed by the river. “This is where the Red Sticks made their final stand,” he says. “They had a thousand warriors there at Tohopeka within a hundred acres of land.”
With the point of the stick he draws lines across the neck of the peninsula.
“They built walls of logs across the entrance. They were taller than a man, and so thick that even cannon fire could not break them down. They slanted in so that anyone coming close could be shot at from two sides. The Red Sticks behind that wall all had muskets and plenty of powder and balls, as well as bows and quivers full of arrows.”
He taps his stick behind the wall. “Their houses were back here. Their women and children were there. Three hundred of them. So, of course, their men fought harder to protect them.”
He moves the stick to the bottom of the peninsula. “And here is where they had placed their canoes along the river, so they could use them to escape if necessary.”
My father begins making shapes like small crosses along the opposite banks of the river surrounding that peninsula. “This is where we were, the mounted white men and almost all the Indians. We surrounded them before the fight started.”
He draws two circles in front of the neck of Tohopeka. “And this is where Sharp Knife Jackson was with his cannons.”
A little smile comes to my father’s face.
“Do you know who was with Sharp Knife that day? My white friend, Big Drunk, drinking from the jug he had in his pack.”
That brings a smile to my face, too. Of all the white men who have spent time among the Tsalagi, Big Drunk is our favorite. He’s a tall, broad man, generous and kind. Our people adopted him when he was a boy, and gave him the name of Golanu, the Raven. His one weakness is his constant drinking and the source of his nickname Big Drunk. We hardly ever call him by his Aniyonega name of Sam Houston.
My father’s face grows serious once more. “When the battle started that wall of logs held. The fire from inside the barricade was so fierce that every time the militia men tried charging the wall they were driven back—with musket bullets flattened on their bayonets.”
He points to the right side of the river across from the lower part of Tohopeka.
“I was here. We were firing across the river at the Red Sticks defending its banks. Word came down to us that the fight was not going well. Perhaps the white troops would give up and run from the battle as they had done before. That was when we Indians knew we had to take our fight to the other side of the river.
“‘There are plenty of boats,’ I said. ‘There on the other side. Follow me.’ Then I walked into the river.
“I cannot run fast with this leg, but I have always been a good swimmer and so I was not afraid of the water. The current was not strong there and in some places there were sandbars we could walk upon. It was easy to reach that other side—aside from all the bullets that were striking the water around me and the other men who followed me. We held our rifles and our powder above the water. So, when we got to the other side, we started shooting back at the Red Sticks guarding the riverbank. Others of us took the Red Stick canoes and paddled them over to ferry back more men.
“It was hard fighting, but we pushed the Creek warriors back toward the wall. We got there just as Sharp Knife ordered all of his men to charge from the other side. I reached the wall in time to see that one of the first to climb over the barricade was my friend Big Drunk. He looked very angry. One of the Red Stick musket balls had broken his whiskey jug.”
Once again that little smile lights up my father’s face, but it vanishes just as quickly as the sun disappearing when a dark cloud crosses over it.
“Many things happened fast then,” my father says. His voice is strangely calm. “You’d think it would be hard for me to remember it all.”
He shakes his head. “But it is the other way around. I do not think I will ever forget any of it. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I am back there again. People are screaming and shouting, I hear the whistling of arrows past my head, the sound of bullets thudding into bodies. And I smell the thick stench of guts and blood—like hogs being butchered.
“It was hard for me to stand. That was not because of my bad leg. The earth was slick under my feet with the blood of men, most of them Red Sticks. They lay everywhere around me, piled like cornstalks flattened by a great wind. Some called for water or spoke the names of their loved ones with their last breaths. I can hear them even now.”
My father lifts up the stick with which he was drawing out the lines of battle.
“Not one Red Stick surrendered. When it was done and the bodies were counted, there were exactly five hundred and fifty-five dead Red Stick warriors there inside their fort. Some managed to reach the river, but their canoes were gone. All they could do was try to swim. A few got away. But most were shot or drowned as they tried to escape. Three hundred prisoners were taken, but only three of them were men.
“On our side, eighteen Cherokees and five Creeks were killed and twenty-six Americans. That was all. Sharp Knife and his officers were pleased. It was a great victory, they said. We were praised for all that we did to win the battle for them.”
My father rubs two fingers across his chin.
“Praised,” he says. “Hah! That praise did not keep other American soldiers from pillaging our villages while we were away. We came home to find all our livestock gone, our stores of food stolen, and many of our houses burned. Sharp Knife said he was sorry that happened, but seven years have now passed and we have yet to see the money he promised to pay us for our losses.”
Sequoyah taps the end of the stick on the map he drew in the soft soil.
“A great victory,” my father says. “A great victory. Those were the words of Sharp Knife Jackson. But it was not that. It was a slaughter there in that bend in the river. I had escaped without being struck by any musket ball or arrow shot by an enemy’s hand. I was unwounded in my body. But not in my spirit.”
My father reaches his hand up to wipe his eyes. Then he leans down, using his hands to support himself as he goes to his knees. Then, with his left hand, he begins to carefully wipe away all trace of the map he had drawn. It takes him some time before the earth is smooth and clean again. But even though the shapes of that terrible battle have been removed from the soil, I know they will always remain in his memory. Just as they will now surely remain in mine. Never again will I be able to think of war without remembering his story or the horrors he saw at the Horseshoe.
He dusts the earth from his hands and shakes his head. Then he holds out his right hand to me and I help him rise to his feet. The two of us sit back down again on the stumps. We stay there in silence for a long time. Somewhere off in the trees I can hear the drumming of a pileated woodpecker as it hammers its beak against a tree. The warm wind, coming as soft as a mother’s hand to caress our faces, begins to dry the tears on my father’s cheeks . . . and on my own.
“When I came home,” my father finally says, “something had changed in me. I had made the mistake of thinking I could be a warrior. But that was not who I was or ever again should be. I would never again go to war—not for the Aniyonega or for my own nation. I would never kill another human being or take part in the killing. But more than that had changed in my mind and in my heart. Although those false prophets and the Red Sticks who followed them were wrong in most things, I now knew how right they were in wanting to stay true to who they were, in wanting to stay Indian.
“After that experience of war, I knew what I had to do. Before, I had been obsessed with the idea of finding ways to make symbols I could use in my store. Now it was much more. It was not just for myself, but for all our Tsalagi people. It was as if a fire was burning in my heart. Learning how to write our language was the way I could help our people. It could help us be stronger, help us remain Tsalagi. It could help bring us together, help us find peace.”
“I understand,” I say. And as I say it I realize that it is not just that I finally understand my father and what he wants to do. It is not just that I feel closer to him. It is as if some of that fire is now burning in my own heart as well.
We’re no longer alone. From the nearby house we hear the sound of people talking. Then a child’s voice calls out.
“Father, where are you? We are back and we picked many ramps! Mother is cooking them.”
It is, of course, Ahyokah.
My father nods. He lifts his hand and wipes his face. Then he stands up.
“Time to eat ramps,” he says.
CHAPTER 17
86 Symbols
My father is quiet as we walk back to the house. Even when Ahyokah comes running up to grasp his hand, the thin smile he gives her does not extend beyond his lips. The darkness of that bloody memory is still there behind his eyes. His talking about the Red Stick War helped bring me close and understand him. It was a gift to me, but it was also painful for him to do.
As we sit together at the table, enjoying those fresh, steaming ramps, I look across the table at my father. That little smile is wider on his face now. He nods at me.
“The ramps are good,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, and smile back at him as I do so.
When we have finished eating, Ahyokah turns to her mother.
“Can we show my brother now?” she says.
“Perhaps your father is too tired?” Sally Guess says. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she is teasing.
“Mother!” Ahyokah says.
“All right, my stubborn child. Ask your father.”
Ahyokah looks toward my father. He already has one hand raised up, palm outward. “I surrender,” he says. “I am your captive and I must do as you say.”
“Good!” Ahyokah declares. “I will go get it.”
She jumps up from the table and runs over to a chest on the other side of the room. Meanwhile, my father brings a goose quill pen and an inkwell to the table. In two shakes of a deer’s tail, Ahyokah is back, a small stack of papers in her hands that she plops down on the table in front of us. I note that those sheets of paper are blank, except for the one that he places in front of me.
I immediately recognize what is drawn there, even if most of it makes no sense to me. There are those shapes he showed me, the ones that stand for the sounds of Tsu, Tsa, La, Gi, and Lo. But there are dozens of other shapes as well, neatly arranged in several columns.
Ahyokah is so exci
ted she can barely contain herself.
“See them all?” she says.
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you know how many there are?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. And I know them all. Listen”
Then, placing her finger on each symbol in turn, she begins to recite in a high, clear voice.
“Da, Ga, Ka, La, Ma, Na . . .” she reads. Reads! That is it, isn’t it? As she continues, my mouth is shaping what she is saying silently. But what is it that she is saying? It doesn’t make any sense. I look up at my father and he looks back at me with one eyebrow raised, a look that means think.
I try to do that. Every sound she makes seems as recognizable to me as the call of a familiar bird. Then I realize—just as I should have realized from the start—what she is doing. Ahyokah is not saying words.
My sister is reading the sounds of the Tsalagi language.
Sequoyah sees the look of understanding that has come over my face and nods his head.
As Ahyokah continues to read I am counting the different sounds. Five, six . . . she finishes one column, begins the next, and then the next. Fifteen, sixteen . . . on and on. Fifty, fifty-one . . . more and more. Eighty-three, eighty-four . . . Finally she speaks the last two symbols, the one that resembles an English number six, “Wu,” and the one I have seen before that looked like a capital B, “Yu.” Eighty-six markings. Eighty-six sounds.
So many! I’m amazed. I think she has just read every sound in our Tsalagi language.
My little sister looks up at me and smiles. “You see?” she says.
I am so excited that it takes all my effort to breathe and make my mouth move. “Yes,” I say. “I do see. I do.”
Talking Leaves Page 10
