American Dreams (20 page)

No one save himself wanted to discuss that question except in the vaguest language. It was as if everyone—including Temple—were blind to the possibility. The few times he had attempted to express his concern and his desire for an alternative plan of action, Temple had turned him aside, saying, "It will never happen. We will not lose. We cannot lose."

Shifting his gaze from the skeletal tree limbs in the park at Pemberton Square, The Blade glanced at her.

"How long will it be before we receive word of the Supreme Court's verdict, Mr. Fletcher?" she asked.

"It's the first of March. I should imagine they will hand down their ruling anytime now." He rocked back on his heels, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his waistcoat, the stance drawing attention to the protruding roundness of his stomach. He looked at The Blade, his gray eyes thoughtful and serious. "However, should the decision be made in our favor, you must know the existing laws do not give the president the power to enforce it."

"He cannot enforce a federal law?" The Blade narrowed his gaze in sharp question. "How can that be? What of his recent confrontation with South Carolina over the nullification issue? He threatened an invasion to ensure that no state overrules federal laws or secedes from the Union."

"But he will have to seek the authority from Congress before an invasion could be launched. The chief executive is not empowered to act on his own and order troops out."

Before The Blade could question him further on this new revelation, he was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman known to John Ridge, Elias Boudinot. "The Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that the law by which Samuel Worcester and Dr. Elizur Butler were imprisoned is unconstitutional, and Georgia's entire Indian code along with it," Boudinot stated. "Marshall declared that the Cherokee Nation is a 'distinct community' occupying its own territory, and the laws of Georgia have no right to enter it! Justice Marshall declared the act of the State of Georgia to be void!"

The tension exploded in a burst of elation and congratulations. "It's glorious," John Ridge declared exultantly.

"We did it! We won." Temple clasped The Blade's arm, hugging it in her excitement.

In the initial flurry of jubilation that enveloped the room, The Blade's silence went unnoticed. He smiled with the rest of them, and exchanged congratulatory handshakes.

The question was forever settled concerning the right of the Cherokees to their homeland. The controversy was between the government of the United States and Georgia.

The Blade wanted desperately to believe this signaled the end of their problems, but he feared it only marked the beginning of a new battle.

 

Within days, word filtered back to them of Jackson's response when he learned of the Supreme Court's verdict. He was said to have replied, "John Marshall has made his decision; let him enforce it if he can."

Soon newspapers were reporting that "authentic sources" in Washington confirmed the president was not going to enforce the ruling.

The delegates returned immediately to Washington City by stagecoach. This time, Jackson was quick to grant the delegation an audience. As they were ushered into his presence, The Blade could feel the tension in the group.

Lean of face and body, with still some of the roughness of the frontier about him despite his elegant attire, Jackson was a man of vigor and determination. The strong will that had prompted his opponents to give him the sobriquet King Andrew was very much in evidence. As a foe, he was formidable, The Blade recognized. Once Jackson set his feet on a path, nothing would turn him away from it.

Little time was wasted after the initial greetings were concluded. Jackson seemed to welcome it when John Ridge came directly to the point of the meeting. "What can the Cherokees expect?" he asked. "Will the power of the United States be used to execute the decision of the Supreme Court and put down the legislation of Georgia?"

"No. It will not." Jackson paused, letting the full weight of his answer resonate while his piercing gaze gauged the reaction of the delegates. "Go home and tell your people that their only hope for relief is to abandon their nation and remove to the West."

Visibly shaken, John Ridge could make no response. There was none to be made, no more to be said. The case had been won, but to no avail since Jackson refused to take the necessary measures to enforce it.

The Blade understood that they had won a victory but not the war. It was still being waged against them. As long as Jackson was siding with Georgia, there was no hope of retaining their land. In that moment The Blade wasn't certain the Cherokees could ever survive if they did not come to accept this reality.

They filed out of the room. None of them doubted they had heard the truth, and the reality of it was sobering.

As they started down the stairs from the second-floor offices, The Blade spied Temple anxiously pacing back and forth at the bottom. When she saw them, she stopped and went motionless for an instant. Then she ran to meet them.

"I could not wait at the hotel," she said. "What happened? What did he say?"

"Jackson will not enforce the decision," her father replied.

"No!" Temple drew back from him, her stunned glance sweeping the rest of them and seeing the confirmation written in their haunted expressions.

"You must not despair." Will Gordon drew her closer and put an arm around her shoulders. "Jackson occupies the presidency now, but the November elections will bring Henry Clay into office. He will see that the ruling is executed. We must be patient a little longer."

"Yes ... yes, you are right," she agreed and tried to smile away her disappointment.

The Blade encountered John Ridge's despondent gaze and realized that Major Ridge's son was entertaining the same doubts he was. Both men knew their cause was lost. What The Blade had feared now loomed in his mind as the only viable alternative: to treat and remove.

 

The delegation remained in Washington, again making the circuit to reaffirm support for their cause. But, like the red clay banks of their home streams eroding away, their once staunch allies in Congress began to withdraw from them, expressing sympathy and giving pragmatic advice.

At an afternoon tea, Lieutenant Parmelee hovered attentively at Temple's side, relating some anecdote intended to entertain her. But Temple wasn't listening as she strained to overhear her husband's conversation with the congressional representative from Tennessee, the shrewd coonskin politician David Crockett.

"I understand you've been in touch with Justice John McLean," Crockett remarked, abandoning the backwoods dialect he often used in public to spin his frontier yarns. "What did he have to say?"

"He informed us that the Court does not have the power to force Jackson to implement its ruling."

"I also heard that he advised you to seek a new treaty, and offered to serve as one of the commissioners."

"He did. But our minds have not changed. We will not give up our land." The Blade mouthed the oft-repeated phrases, no longer feeling the conviction of his words.

"That's a noble sentiment, my friend, but it's also about as practical as grinnin' down a mean ole she-b'ar an' her cub," Crockett declared, a wry but sad smile edging his mouth. "I know the war department has offered you some liberal treaty terms, giving you patents to land in Arkansas and allowing you to send a delegate to Congress, among other things. To be frank, I don't see where you have a choice. The wise course is to sit down and negotiate the best terms you can for your people."

His statement echoed the recommendations from virtually all their previous backers. The delegation had received a letter from the American Board of Foreign Missions in Boston—a group who had once championed their cause with all the zeal of the righteous—advising them to treat.

Of all the delegates, only The Blade's father-in-law, Will Gordon, continued to believe there was hope. He turned a deaf ear to the advice from their former allies and a blind eye to the steady erosion of their support. Only one other person aside from Will Gordon refused to accept the futility of the current stand against removal... Temple.

The Blade cast a brief glance in her direction, aware of the friction that now existed between them over this issue. To even hint that those around them might be right was to arouse her temper. After two heated arguments, he now avoided the subject entirely.

His glance fell on the golden-haired lieutenant. A part of him was glad that Parmelee had engaged her in conversation and prevented Temple from overhearing the discouraging advice from Crockett. But he also resented the attention the officer continued to lavish on his wife under the guise of friendship.

"I will inform the council of your recommendation, Mr. Crockett."

Temple caught her husband's noncommittal reply. At the same instant, Lieutenant Parmelee said something to momentarily distract her.

"I beg your pardon. What did you say, Lieutenant?"
 

"I wondered if you would like more tea."
 

"No, thank you."

"Is something wrong? Forgive me for being so forward, but you seem preoccupied."

"I was thinking of home." Which was close to the truth. "We will be leaving in a few days."

"Washington will seem very dull without you here to brighten it."

"That is hardly the impression I have received. Everyone I have met seems anxious for the Cherokees to leave." Behind the lightness of her reply, there was a tinge of bitterness.

"Not I. The thought of never seeing you again—" He broke off the sentence, his features stiffening into an expressionless mask as if trying to conceal the ardor that had been in both his voice and his eyes.

"Perhaps we shall meet again someday," she suggested gently.

"Perhaps," he agreed.

 

On the fifteenth of May, the delegation set out for home. When they returned, they found their families in high spirits, buoyed by the Supreme Court's decision yet puzzled by the continued imprisonment of the missionaries and the flood of surveyors from Georgia that had spread over Gordon Glen and Seven Oaks, marking trees and carving on posts, dividing the plantations into 160-acre parcels to be given away in a lottery in the fall.

With a heavy heart, Eliza listened to Will Gordon explain that nothing had changed. But he was convinced their vindication would follow the elections in November, elections that would vote a new administration into office, one more favorably disposed to the legal rights of the Cherokee Nation. Eliza believed as he did and wished that women had the right to vote so that she might cast a ballot against Jackson. She was tired of her passive role of moral support and longed for a more active one.

 

 

 

16

 

 

Gordon Glen

 
Christmas 1832

 

A wet snow frosted the branches of the trees and covered the lawn of Gordon Glen with a soft blanket of white. In the dining room, flames danced over and under the logs in the fireplace, its mantel adorned with festive greenery. Platters of food crowded the table, leaving little room for the guests seated around it, members of the Gordon and Stuart families as well as Eliza and the visiting Nathan Cole.

With heads bowed, they listened to the grace offered by Nathan on this holy day. All except little Johnny, who fussed and fidgeted with a typical three-year-old's impatience at such things, mindless of his mother's quiet shushings.

When Nathan concluded the meal's prayer, Will Gordon picked up the carving knife and began to slice portions from the roast leg of lamb Black Cassie set before him. "This is indeed a bountiful feast you have prepared for us, Victoria," Will declared, glancing to the opposite end of his table at his wife.

Thinner and paler than a year ago, Victoria smiled back at him. "With reason. This is the first time you have been home to share it with us in several years. However, much of the credit for today's dinner belongs to Eliza. She supervised most of the meal preparations." Gratitude and a growing reliance mingled together in the look she gave Eliza.

"If the mutton is as succulent as it looks beneath the knife, it is an excellent job you have done, Miss Eliza Hall," Shawano Stuart proclaimed. "Mutton is my favorite. Did you know this?"

"No. For that, you must thank Mrs. Gordon. She chose the items for today's fare. I merely saw that her wishes were carried out."

With Victoria Gordon's health still precarious at best, Eliza had tried over the last several months to help in whatever capacity she could, gradually taking over many of the more arduous tasks. The additional rest seemed to have restored some of Victoria's strength. Eliza didn't mind the extra work, especially now. She shied away from that thought, not wanting the holiday spoiled by the shadows of gloom that Jackson's refusal to intervene had cast over the Nation.

"Miss Hall strung all the evergreen boughs, too," Xandra inserted brightly. "And she taught us the Christmas carol we will sing for you after dinner."

"You are stupid, Xandra." Kipp viewed his sister with superior contempt. "We aren't going to sing anything."

"Why?" Disappointment clouded her face.

"Because Charlie, Tom, and the others aren't here to sing their parts. That's why," he mocked.

"I forgot," she mumbled and looked down at her plate.

Eliza saw the pained look that flickered briefly in Will Gordon's face. A tense silence followed Xandra's unwitting introduction of the subject everyone had tried to avoid.

Temple sighed, and the sound carried a trace of anger. "I wish Uncle George and Aunt Sarah had stayed, at least until tomorrow. It is not the same without them around the table with us."

"It was their decision," Will Gordon reminded her.

"Do you think they reached Lookout Mountain before it began to snow?" Temple wondered.

"They should have," The Blade replied.

"Wet snows like this frequently cause avalanches in the mountains. What if they are stranded somewhere?"