Confederate and Union emissaries issued rival promises to any Indian tribe who would join their side, as well as threats against those that would not. The result was that, as brothers of white fought against one another, so too did those of so-called red skin take up bow and arrow, spear and tomahawk, against their own native mothers’ sons.
The smoldering feud between Chief John Ross and his long-standing opponent, Stand Watie, survivor of the 1839 massacre of his kinsmen, sparked into new flame almost the moment the war broke out. No longer was their dispute over the sale of Cherokee land in the east. Now the two men fought for control of the Cherokee nation as the Union and Confederacy went to war.
Chief Ross hoped at first to keep the Cherokee united and neutral and thus prevent the war from invading Indian Territory altogether. But Stand Watie—by then a wealthy plantation owner who had amassed much of his wealth from the slave system—adopted the Confederate cause. Tensions immediately mounted between the two sides, and the old Cherokee feud was on again at full boil.
Watie used the opportunity to capture the attention of his fellow Cherokee, urging every man who called himself a warrior to join him on the Confederate side. His message found receptive ears. By the time cannons were heard in the states bordering their lands, Watie had rallied a sizeable company of full blood, half blood, and mixed blood warriors under his leadership in support of the Confederacy.
Cecil Hirsch had been wrangling himself invitations, or getting into social events to which he had not been invited, for so many years in so many different kinds of situations, that he scarcely now even looked upon it as a challenge. It was, therefore, less than a week after she had been seen in the street that Veronica heard a familiar voice above the low chitchat of a diplomatic gathering in the Georgetown home of a high-up general in the Union army whose name she had already forgotten.
“Is it… I cannot believe my eyes—it is Miss Beaumont… Veronica Beaumont!”
She turned to see the equally familiar figure of Cecil Hirsch, smiling broadly and walking toward her.
“Ah, excuse me,” said Hirsch, “I am forgetting myself—you are married now, what is it… Mrs.—?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” said Veronica, flushing with perhaps a little too much pleasure at the sudden reacquaintance as she took Hirsch’s offered hand and allowed him to kiss her own. “My husband Richard is the son of the ambassador to Luxembourg where we were living until recently. He worked at the consulate.”
Hirsch nodded. “I believe I read something about the wedding and your plans,” he said. “You always were one to be at the center of activity,” he added with a hint of his old mischievous smile. “I am not surprised to see you back in the capital. Being so far from the hub of things does not suit you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” Again came the smile.
“I have to admit that Luxembourg was a bit of a bore,” rejoined Veronica.
“What—Europe a bore?”
“I thought it would be exciting. But I didn’t know a soul… I had no social life.”
“And now you are back. How long have you been here?”
“Only a few weeks. When I first learned we would be returning, I was thrilled. But everything is so changed with this nuisance of a war. Many of my old acquaintances are gone or moved. Or changed… people are so different now! Even my parents are gone. Everything’s turned upside-down. I hate it. It’s just as boring here as it was over there.”
“Perhaps I can help with that,” said Hirsch, smiling yet again in a way Veronica understood well enough.
“Shame on you, Mr. Hirsch! I do believe you are trying to corrupt me. I am a married woman, after all.”
“I meant nothing like that, I assure you!” laughed Hirsch. “I was only thinking that you—and your husband of course—might find some of my business ventures more exciting, even more lucrative than government work. Your husband is still with the government?”
“Oh, I don’t even know anymore,” sighed Veronica. “He won’t tell me a thing. All I know is that after the war started there were all kinds of letters going back and forth between Richard and his father and Washington. Then somebody connected with the government told Richard they wanted him to come back and I was glad at first, but now I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Hirsch listened with more interest than he allowed himself to divulge.
“And what about your father and mother?” he asked in a casual tone.
“They’re the lucky ones!” said Veronica. “They were able to go back to Virginia. As soon as the war started and there was all that confusion with the Confederacy starting up—I could hardly understand what was going on, and we were still in Luxembourg at the time—everything was so mixed up! Mother and Father left Washington with all the Southern congressmen. Now Daddy’s in the new Southern senate in Richmond and here I am all by myself in the North.”
“Is your husband a loyal unionist?”
“I don’t know… I suppose.”
“That places you in an awkward position—your family in the South, your husband working for the Union.”
“I don’t really know what to think—it’s all so confusing. I thought moving to Washington would be different than this. I wish this stupid war would just get over and everything would go back to how it was.”
“Why did your husband come back from Europe? You say he is still working for the government?”
“I think so.”
“In what capacity?”
“I don’t know—I think it has something to do with how smart he is and his connections with the European countries because of his father. What’s the word…? There’s a funny word… I think it starts with l.”
“Liaison?”
“That’s it!” said Veronica. “They wanted him to be an intelligent liaison.”
Hirsch could not help smiling. “Would it perhaps be an intelligence liaison?” he said.
“Yes, I think that’s it—whatever that means! Oh, here comes Richard now. You can ask him yourself.”
Richard Fitzpatrick walked toward them drink in hand. “Hello, darling,” he said, kissing Veronica lightly on the cheek.
“Richard,” she said, “I want you to meet an old… uh, friend of our family—Cecil Hirsch. Mr. Hirsch, this is my husband, Richard Fitzpatrick.”
“It is good to meet you, Mr. Hirsch,” said Richard as the two shook hands.
“And you, Fitzpatrick,” rejoined Hirsch. “You are a lucky man—this is quite a young lady you managed to snag!”
“I was never quite sure who snagged whom!”
Hirsch laughed. “I know what you mean! She is a sly one all right!”
“Veronica,” said Fitzpatrick, “if you don’t mind… there are people I would like you to meet.”
Veronica smiled and nodded. As the two moved off through the crowd, she cast one last brief glance over her shoulder where Cecil Hirsch was still watching them. Their eyes met for but an instant.
The expression on her face told him all he needed to know.
PART TWO
REUNIONS AND LOSSES
May-December, 1862
Seven
At the southern Virginia farm of William and Hannah White, after John Borton’s frantic visit in 1851 to find some trace of what had happened to his friends, the Whites had asked every runaway to come through if there was any word anywhere about a family called Steddings. None of their inquiries produced anything more than Borton’s desperate search between his sister’s farm and theirs. No trace of the carriage was ever found, nor any hint of the family.
Eventually, disconsolate, and after doing what he could for his sister, Borton had no choice but to return home, fearing the worst.
William and Hannah continued to inquire for news. But after years without word, gradually they gave up hope.
Once the war began, fugitive activity in Virginia increased dramatically. Though the White farm itself was in no danger, most of the underground routes they had previously used went too close t
o Richmond, an area now overwhelmed by troop activity. They could not use their former avenues of escape without adding to the danger. With Confederate troops everywhere not sympathetic to runaways, they had to be more careful than ever. Most of those who came to them now, they sent north and then west into the foothills of the Alleghany mountains, and ultimately toward Maryland and then Pennsylvania.
When Hannah White opened the door in the summer of 1862, her eyes shot wide in disbelief. She wasn’t sure for a moment if her brain was playing tricks on her, but the moment Zaphorah spoke she knew the family she had been praying for all these years had at last returned.
“Hello, Mrs. White,” said Zaphorah, “it’s us—we finally came back.”
“Oh… oh!!” exclaimed Hannah, then rushed through the open door and nearly swallowed Zaphorah in her arms. As the white woman and black woman embraced, both wept freely.
“And thy young ones are all grown up!” exclaimed Hannah, stepping back and glancing behind where the others stood.
Hearing his wife’s cries of joy, William White approached from inside the house.
“William, look—it is the Steddings!”
“Well, well!” he said, striding forward with a great smile, “welcome again!”
He reached his hand toward Aaron, who took it and shook it vigorously.
“Thank thee, Mr. White,” said Aaron. “It’s good to be back. It’s been a long hard road.”
“We want to hear everything… Come in, come in!” said Hannah.
A cloud settled over the happy reunion soon enough. Seeing the two girls and not realizing at first that young Suzane had not been with them during their earlier visit, Hannah White was devastated as Zaphorah told her what had happened and that Deanna, whom Hannah remembered as a child, was not with them. Meanwhile, Aaron and William walked together outside. The normally placid William White was livid at the story he had just heard of the capture eleven years earlier of Aaron’s family less than twenty miles from his own home.
“I should have suspected it,” he said. “There had been reports about young Eliott Tyson capturing runaways and carting them off to North Carolina and selling them. I never put it together, but I have no doubt it was him. Nothing we can do about it now,” he added with a sigh, “but…” He shook his head in frustration.
“I have another favor to ask of thee, Mr. White,” said Aaron as they walked. “Thee has already done more then I can expect for—”
“Don’t mention it, brother Steddings,” said White. “We’ve hardly done enough. Thee has but to name it and I will do whatever I can.”
“I have not told Zaphorah yet,” said Aaron, “All the way back here, I have revolved a plan in my mind, and it’s this—now that they’re safe, I have to go back and see if I can find our daughter. I’m hoping thee won’t mind keeping my family for a spell.”
“Of course. We will be happy to. But is it safe for thee to return south?”
“I don’t suppose it is. But I can’t just leave her there. I must do what I can to find her.”
“What will thee do if thee does find her?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll have to offer myself in her place, tell whoever’s got her that they can have me if they’ll let her go.”
“A dangerous proposal, Friend Aaron.”
“It is no less than what our Savior did for us. Can a father do less for his son or daughter?”
Aaron’s words sobered William White. This was a man of uncommon character whom God had brought across his path.
“Then I shall go with thee,” he said at length. “Thee will be safer with a white man who can vouch that thou art free. And if thy plan succeeds and we find her, then she will be safe with me and I will bring her back here with me. Yet perhaps a better plan would be for me to purchase her freedom and we will all come back here together.”
“I would be more grateful than I can say for thy help,” nodded Aaron.
Paralyzed at the very thought of losing her husband again to slavery, yet moved beyond words at William White’s willing eagerness to help, it was with a full heart and many tears that Zaphorah said good-bye to the men two mornings later.
“Moses,” said Aaron, “with Mr. White gone, thee will be the man around here for a spell. So do whatever Mrs. White needs and tells thee.”
“I will, Papa.”
“But be careful of white men and bounty hunters. Don’t forget that we are still in the South and there’s still danger. We’re still runaways. So always keep an eye out for trouble. We’ve come too far to get dragged back again.”
A few more hugs and handshakes and tears followed.
Then William and Aaron set off on two of William White’s horses, leaving the two Quaker women, one white, one black, and the three young people, alone together at the White farm, their hearts hopeful… yet also afraid.
Eight
The first time Chigua LeFleure had visited the strange old house on the ridge above Greenwood with Cherity and Carolyn and the black women from the plantation, she felt the unmistakable sensation that she had stepped into the presence of the ancient spirit of her Cherokee past. It was not a past she often thought about. She had been kidnapped from the Trail of Tears at nine, and the memories of her childhood before that were dim. But the old Brown house brought that distant past back again like no other sight ever had.
She had heard a few vagaries about Mr. Brown. She knew that it had been many years since he had disappeared from the region. Yet the moment she stepped across the threshold of his former home, she almost felt he was there with her.
Her eyes had immediately gone to the stretched and dried leather skin hanging over the fireplace. Though the markings were faded with time, she at once recognized the symbols of the Cherokee language, though did not so quickly discern the images beneath the writing. That night, back in bed in the Davidsons’ home, with Sydney asleep at her side, she could not get the old faded painting out of her mind.
She had not stopped thinking about it ever since. And after she and her family returned to make Greenwood their home, one of the first things she had done was go to Richmond and Carolyn with a request.
“Would you mind if I cleaned and tried to restore the deerskin painting above the fireplace at the Brown house?” Chigua asked.
Richmond and Carolyn looked at one another with questioning expressions.
“You remember, Richmond,” said Carolyn. “It is hanging on the wall over the mantel. It is faded so badly that you can hardly make out the drawings and symbols. It’s been there since the first time I saw the place.”
Richmond nodded. He remembered it now.
“What can you do with it?” he asked.
“Clean it first,” replied Chigua. “Skin painting is an ancient art among the Cherokee. My grandmother was highly skilled at it and taught me when I was young. I would like to study the painting to see if I can interpret the figures and perhaps paint over the most faded of them to bring out their original colors. The writing at the top is in the Cherokee alphabet, though I have forgotten much of what I once knew. I could not read it when I saw it—when I was with you, Carolyn. But I hope it will come back to me if I study it.”
“I certainly have no objection,” said Richmond. “I would love to know what the painting means—that is, if it has a meaning.”
“I am certain it does,” said Chigua. “All skin paintings have meaning.”
“Then why don’t we bring it down here and have you get to work on it? It will be exciting to see what you discover.”
They went to the Brown house the very next day, and carefully removed the skin from the wall. Chigua rolled it up with extreme care, and they slowly returned with it to Greenwood. The painting was laid out flat on a table in one of the upstairs bedrooms where the light was good and where Chigua could carry out her work. She began immediately. A feather dusting and gentle brushing with a soft-hair brush removed enough of the film of accumulated years so that the three sets of
images on the skin began to reveal themselves with greater clarity.
Chigua carefully sat, gently brushing and blowing the hardened skin as Carolyn and Richmond and Cherity and Sydney stood around the table watching with keen interest.
“This writing on top,” Chigua said, pointing to the three lines of strange symbols, “is written in the Cherokeee alphabet. I cannot make it all out yet… I think this word,” she said, pointing, “is the number seven, and there it is repeated. You can see that many of the letters are common to English. But it has been long since I have spoken the old Cherokee tongue.”
“What are these?” asked Cherity, pointing to a series of forms or figures below the writing. “They almost look like trees decorated with feathers instead of leaves. That one on the end looks like it was painted in red, all the others—let’s see… there are six of them—they are all white.”
“I don’t know what they represent,” said Chigua.
“And then below them… those round things.”
“Yes, I’ve been curious about—”
All at once Chigua gasped.
The others glanced toward her and saw that her face had gone pale and her eyes were wide.
“What is it?” said Cherity excitedly.
“I think it’s… it’s the rings,” said Chigua.
“What rings?” Even as she said the words, Cherity felt tingles of mystery pulsing through her.
“The seven Cherokee rings that were presented to our great chief and his comrades by the king of England. They are legendary among the Cherokee.”
Briefly Chigua went on to recount the story of the visit of the seven Cherokee youths to the court of King George in the eighteenth century.
“Where are they now?” asked Carolyn.
The room fell silent. All eyes rested upon Chigua.
Without speaking, she stood and left the room. Only Sydney knew what was coming. Chigua went to the small house that had become theirs since their return to Greenwood. When she returned, her hand clutched an object which she set down on the table before them. It was a solid gold signet ring.
American Dreams Trilogy Page 119
