American Dreams (33 page)

"His actions in the past were never dictated by a desire for personal gain. The things you have said prove that," Eliza reminded him. "And I think that is becoming obvious to a lot of others. Maybe I am wrong, or maybe I have become too used to it, but the hostility toward him doesn't seem as strong as it was in the beginning. Even Kipp seems a little more tolerant of him."

"I admit some of my respect for him has returned." Will stared at the vast camp. "Maybe in time I will forgive him, but I will never forget what he has done."

"I know." She nodded, the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. "So does he. And which, I wonder, is worse?"

There was no answer for that, and Will knew it. Together they turned to face the line of wagons that stretched over the road into the heavy forest. Temple and the rest of the family were clustered beside the nearest wagon. Walking together, Eliza and Will rejoined them.

Four caravans had already started on the long overland trail, their departures staggered a few days apart. Theirs was the fifth to leave. Some forty wagons were loaded with fodder for the horses and oxen, blankets, cooking utensils, and provisions for the initial stages of their journey, with more to be purchased along the way as needed.

Only the very old and the very young, the ill and the infirm were allowed to ride in the wagons. Except for the ten mounted riders of the Cherokee Light Horse guard assigned to police the train, all the rest had to walk, carrying their few personal possessions in packs on their backs.

Will lifted Victoria into the wagon and tried not to notice her bony thinness and sallow complexion, or the deep melancholy and grief in her eyes. He made her as comfortable as he could and silently reminded himself that a physician would be making the trek with them. Should she need it, she would have good medical care.

"Try to rest," he urged.

When he started to leave, her talonlike fingers seized his arm. "Our dead babies, Will, I always wanted to be buried with them. Now we are leaving."

"I know." He patted her hand. The children—it was always the children. Once he would have resented that she hadn't considered being buried next to him. Now he accepted it. Will hesitated, then kissed her cheek and climbed out of the wagon.

Temple noticed his long face as she shifted a squirming Lije to her other hip. "Is Mama all right?"

"She is fine."

They both knew that wasn't true, but Temple accepted his answer and turned to face the long road and the line of wagons pointing the way. Here and there, people bade good-bye to friends or relatives who would soon follow.

It had come. The Blade lounged near the front wagon wheel, Xandra, as always, by his side. Temple could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn't look at him.

The pounding of a horse's hooves grew louder. Glancing over her shoulder, Temple saw the rider's plumed shako and blue uniform bearing an officer's epaulets. Almost certain it was Jed Parmelee, she turned. A smile broke below the rider's golden mustache as he reined his mount to a prancing walk. Lije clapped his hands excitedly at the snorting horse.

"Ho'se, Mama." Eyes as blue as the army uniform Jed wore beamed proudly at her.

"Yes, it is a horse, Lije," Jed agreed with a chuckle. "You would think by now they wouldn't be a novelty to him." He spoke casually, as though they had seen each other only yesterday instead of nearly a month ago.

"I hoped I would have a chance to tell you good-bye before we left," Temple said and grabbed Lije's hand when he reached to pat the horse's nose.

"Not good-bye. I will be riding with you—all the way to the Indian Territory. Strictly in the capacity of an observer, of course," Jed added with a wry smile.

Temple was spared an immediate reply as the horse swung its hindquarters around, forcing her to move out of its way. She wasn't sure whether or not she was glad he would be traveling with them. All she felt at the moment was confusion.

"It will be a long ride," she said finally.

The smile faded from his face as his expression turned sober. "And a longer walk."

The order came down the line to move on. Whips cracked over the backs of horse teams and yoked oxen as drivers shouted to them, curses mingling with commands. After the first groaning turn of the wheels, the wagons rumbled forward. Temple turned and started walking, carrying her young son in her arms.

Jed's horse impatiently pushed at the restraining bit, but Jed continued to check its forward movement. A horse carrying double entered his line of vision. It was Temple's husband and her sister. Briefly, Jed met the man's glance and saw the resentment in the grim blue eyes. But Jed didn't feel any guilt. While it was true Temple was married to Stuart, from all he had seen, their relationship wasn't that of a husband and wife. Maybe he was a fool to think he had a chance with her, but he had to find out.

He relaxed the pressure on the bit and the horse lunged forward, its hindquarters bunching and driving. At a canter, Jed rode up the line, the autumn-colored forest on his left a flashing blur of rich yellows, golds, and oranges.

The cavalcade of wagons and people stretched over a quarter of a mile. To Jed, it resembled the march of an army, the officers at the front leading the way, the wagons in the middle flanked by outriders, more riders bringing up the rear, and the infantry—in this case men, women, and children—trudging in small groups around and behind each wagon.

A few miles from Rattlesnake Springs, the caravan crossed to the north side of the Hiwassee River by ferry, then traveled downstream to its mouth at the Tennessee River, following the well-worn route taken by the four previous detachments. From there, the trail would take them south of Pikesville to McMinnville and Nashville, then on to the Cumberland. But first they had to cross the Tennessee.

With Lije asleep on her back, strapped in place by a blanket, Temple stood at the ferry's rail next to Eliza and stared at the wide expanse of water before them. Their long journey had barely begun, yet already she was footsore, leg sore, and body sore. On the other side of the river loomed Walden's Ridge. As Temple looked at the escarpment of the Cumberland plateau waiting to be climbed, she could almost feel her leg muscles screaming in protest. Unconsciously, she leaned closer to Eliza.

"How many more will we have to climb?" she wondered aloud.

"It is probably best if we don't know." Eliza turned from the sight as if she found it too daunting as well. The most she had ever walked at any one time was perhaps two miles. Now she faced a journey of more than a thousand miles on foot.

When the ferry entered the current, it shuddered sickeningly, resisting the powerful tug that tried to sweep it downstream. Pulled taut, the heavy ropes groaned under the strain of holding the ferry on its angling course to the other side.

They reached the landing on the opposite bank and a fancily dressed white man accosted Will the instant he stepped ashore leading his horse. "They tell me you're the Gordon that had that big brick plantation down in Georgia."

"I am." Will walked his horse up the dirt ramp, moving out of the way of the others behind him.

The man followed. "You owe me eighty dollars for seed and I want my money. Maybe you thought you could leave without paying me, but you were wrong."

"I paid for all my seed at the time I purchased it. You have made a mistake."

"You made the mistake thinking you could get by without paying me. Now I want my eighty dollars," the man demanded. "And don't tell me you don't have it 'cause I know the government paid you a handsome settlement for all your properties."

"I submitted a claim for the personal possessions and property we were forced to abandon, but I received no compensation before we left the agency. Few of us did," he stated crisply. "Your information is as false as your bill."

"I'm gonna get my eighty dollars one way or another," the man warned, then glared at Kipp when he walked up leading his horse. "Who's he?"

"My son."

"Since you say you can't pay me my money, I'm taking your horses." He snatched the reins from Will's hand.

Will argued with him, but it was useless. The Light Horse guard, members of the Cherokee police force, had no authority over whites, only their own people. They were powerless to intervene, and Jed Parmelee's orders strictly forbade his intervention. Observe and report, that was all he could do.

That night Jed entered the incident in his journal and questioned the validity of the man's claim. But it was only the first of several such entries he would be forced to make as white claimants plagued the caravan, seizing silver, horses, oxen, and sometimes even wagons as payment for alleged debts. This form of robbery was only one kind of highway piracy the Cherokees encountered. Jed soon learned there were others. Ferry rates were increased; landowners charged a toll for crossing their property; farmers and merchants inflated the prices on provisions purchased along the route, doubling, tripling, and sometimes quadrupling the costs.

The avarice sickened him, especially when every day Jed witnessed the travail of these proud people, the lines of weariness and despair etched deeper in their faces, their feet bleeding from the miles they walked. Regardless of his orders, Jed helped when and where he could, sometimes throwing a shoulder to the wheel of a stuck wagon or stopping to assist those who had fallen or gathering fat pine to burn in the wagoner's stone to make pitch for lubricating the wheels.

 

A third of the way up the steep incline Temple paused along the side of the trail to catch her breath. Lije, cranky and tired of the confinement of being strapped to his mother's back, wailed tearlessly in her ear and squirmed endlessly, his weight and his wiggling causing the cloth straps holding him to cut even deeper into her shoulders. She hadn't the strength to correct him, or the will—not when inside she felt the same urge to cry and the same longing to be free of the onerous grind of this trail.

A wagon lumbered past her pulled by two teams of horses, their heads bent low, straining against their collars, their hooves digging for each foot of ground while the teamster urged them on with angry curses and the crack of his whip. Temple watched dully, listening to the creaks and groans of the heavy wagon.

Eliza stopped beside her. "Are you all right, Temple?"

A cold wind stung her face when Temple turned her head to look at her friend. She almost smiled at the sight of Eliza's sun- and windburned face framed by the blanket draped over her head. With her brown hair and hazel-brown eyes, Eliza looked like a Cherokee. Temple nearly said so, but instead she replied, "I am fine."

"Let me carry Lije for you."

She started to agree, then noticed the bulge on Eliza's back and remembered the heavy pack she already carried. Temple immediately felt guilty that her only burden was her son.

"We will make it."

She lowered her head and started walking up the long slope. The leather soles of her cloth half-boots were worn thin. With each step, she could feel the rocks, pebbles, and clods of dirt digging into her already tender feet. But it was no more uncomfortable than the rawly chafed skin of her inner thighs, so she plodded on.

As the trail sloped to a steeper angle, Temple leaned forward, trying to compensate for the wiggling burden on her back. Ahead she could see the aged and stooped figure of old Mrs. Hanks laboring up the trail, a broken branch for a staff. The old woman would never make it to the top without help. The thought had barely occurred to her when a rock rolled out from under her foot, and Temple slipped, one leg going out from under her. Then the other gave way and she fell forward, instinctively extending her arms to absorb the impact. For several seconds, she didn't move from her half-prone, half-kneeling position. The palms of her hands stung and her knee throbbed painfully.

"Temple."

At the sound of Eliza's voice, Lije started to cry in earnest. As much as Temple wanted to remain where she was until the pain and the tiredness went away, she gingerly pushed back, letting one knee support most of her weight.

"I—" She broke off the assurance when moccasined feet suddenly halted in front of her. In the next second, The Blade's hands were under her arms, lifting her to her feet.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." She stared at the rigid muscles in his jaw and the grim line of his mouth, then abruptly looked away, glancing behind him at his horse standing quietly. Xandra was astride it, expressionless and silent as always, and—as always—watching The Blade. As inseparable as they were, a stranger was bound to think Xandra was his wife. Jealousy was an ugly feeling. Temple hated it.

"Climb up behind Xandra and ride to the top of the ridge," The Blade ordered.

She felt a guiding pressure directing her toward the horse and realized that his hands still supported her. Instinctively, Temple resisted.

"No."

"She can ride my horse." Jed Parmelee swung out of the saddle and stepped to the ground.

"She will ride mine, Lieutenant. You are along to observe." The very smoothness of The Blade's reply carried a challenge.

"I am not riding either one," Temple inserted sharply. "Help Mrs. Hanks or that little boy with the bandaged foot. I can walk."

"Maybe you can, but you're not." The Blade didn't give her a chance to argue as he picked her up and heaved her onto the horse's hindquarters behind Xandra.

"I can walk," she said again, but she was talking to his back as he gathered up the trailing reins and led the horse up the slope.

If she wanted to walk, all she had to do was slide off, but the thought was a fleeting one. It felt good to let her legs dangle limply and just sit. Reaching around Xandra, Temple held on to the saddle horn and rested her cheek on her sister's shoulder, giving in to the waves of tiredness that washed over her. For once, she welcomed her sister's silence.

As they passed Mrs. Hanks, Temple felt a twinge of guilt that she was riding and the old woman was walking. Her conscience was eased a few minutes later when she looked back and saw Jed stop to help the woman.