American Dreams (6 page)

First published nearly two and a half years before, the national newspaper was a source of pride to the Cherokees. Its stories were printed both in English and the Cherokee syllabary devised nine years earlier by the Cherokee silversmith Sequoya, who sometimes went by his English name, George Guess. Estimates varied widely as to the number of Cherokees able to read and write in their language. Some put the figure as high as ninety percent; others claimed it was closer to fifty percent. But all agreed that anyone who spoke Cherokee could learn to read and write in that language in only days with Sequoya's syllabary.

Regardless of which number was the true figure, the literacy rate among the Cherokees was still higher than that of the Georgians, who were, at best, only three generations removed from their beginnings as a British penal colony.

"You have only read of such incidents," The Blade said now. "In my travels, I have witnessed them. I can tell you firsthand that the Georgians take pleasure in subjecting our women to their abusive manner." The surge of anger that The Blade felt when he thought of some coarse Georgian putting his hands on Temple was obvious to her.

She halted and wheeled about to face him. "Then you should be working with others to stop it."

"There is little anyone can do."

"So you do nothing."

Rankled by the criticism in her voice, The Blade shot back, "What would you have me do?"

"The same thing our fathers do—meet, discuss, and search for a way to end it. But you cannot be bothered." She turned and started walking again. "When will you leave this time?"

"Maybe I have decided to stay for a while."

"Have you?"

"Do you care?"

"How typical of you," Temple retorted scornfully. "You avoid commitments and responsibility. You come and go with never a thought for anyone but yourself."

He caught hold of her wrist, bringing her to a halt. "If I did stay, then what?" He felt the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his fingers and dropped the reins to hook an arm around her waist and draw her closer. "Would the black swan stop hissing at me?"

"Perhaps." She breathed the word softly.

The Blade was conscious of the sensation of her firmly rounded breasts against him, and the closeness of her full lips. They parted slightly as her breathing quickened. He was only curious, he told himself when he bent his head to claim them.

Her lips were softer than he had expected, yet sharp with the taste of green apples. He wanted to tunnel into them and lick away the tart layer to find the sweet. He felt them give beneath his pressure, yet he was the one who felt consumed.

 

Perched on a half-rotten log, Eliza tugged at her stocking. It stuck to her damp foot, resisting her efforts to pull it on. By the time she won her battle with it, she felt as hot and sticky as she had before she had waded in the cool waters of the brook.

She pulled on her ankle-high walking shoes. When she bent to tighten their laces, a pin fell out of her hair. She immediately felt the sagging weight of her hair threaten to tumble free from its bun. Hastily, she scooped up the pin and tried to anchor it back in place.

The rumble of wheels and plodding hooves came from the lane next to the brook. Eliza frowned, certain it was much too early for the slaves to be coming back from the fields. But it wasn't the farm wagon she saw when she looked up; it was a horse and buggy accompanied by two riders.

One of them was Will Gordon. With a gasp of dismay, Eliza felt of her hair, discovering a hundred strands curling free. Why, oh why, had she ever let the children talk her into coming down to the brook to play with them? She was a mess.

"Father! Father!" Xandra ran out to greet him. Kipp and the other boys instantly abandoned the turtle they had found and dashed after her.

When Will Gordon glanced in her direction, Eliza knew there was no escape. Hurriedly, she bent over and worked at lacing her shoes, hoping against hope that if she didn't acknowledge him, he wouldn't find it necessary to speak to her.

She heard the chorus of young voices, all clamoring for his attention, but she was more concerned by the absence of hoof-beats. He had stopped. She refused to look up even though she could feel the blood rushing into her head, making her face feel hotter still.

She laced her shoes so tight her feet felt strangled. Aware that she had spent more time at the task than was necessary, Eliza reluctantly sat up and looked directly at Will Gordon. Young Xandra sat in front of him in the saddle.

"Do you not have lessons in the afternoon?"

Although the question was directed at his youngest daughter, Eliza knew it was meant for her. With a sinking sensation, she realized that Will Gordon undoubtedly thought she was neglecting her duties—or worse, purposely shirking them.

"When it is hot in the afternoons, Mr. Gordon, the school becomes quite stuffy. The children find it difficult to concentrate on their lessons."

"Do you know how a cricket makes that chirping sound, Father?" Xandra tipped her head back to look at him, her face alight with excitement, exhibiting little of her usual reserve. "It rubs its legs together and makes them squeak, like a saw cutting wood. Miss Hall said so. She knows lots of things," Xandra insisted, then paused, turning shy at the discovery that others were listening.

"When did she tell you this?"

"This afternoon," Mary Murphy volunteered. "Kipp caught a cricket and he was going to tear its legs off. Miss Hall said he mustn't because they was his musical instrument—like a piano."

"Were"
the teacher reproved. "They
were?

"They
were
his musical instrument," Mary repeated obediently.

Will cast a glance at Eliza Hall, prepared to concede that the afternoon might not have been all play. She had definitely succeeded in gaining his youngest daughter's attention. Will had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Xandra lacked the intelligence her older brother and sister possessed. He was convinced Xandra sensed this too, and rather than draw attention to her slowness, she had become shy and withdrawn.

The buggy rolled forward a few inches, then stopped. "Shawano." Will turned to his guest. Out of deference to his old friend and neighbor, he spoke in Cherokee. "This is the tutor I hired, Miss Eliza Hall, from Massachusetts." He translated it into English for the teacher, adding, "Miss Hall, this is Shawano Stuart, a man who has been a good friend to my family for many years. He and his son will share supper with us this evening."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stuart."

"My son has spoken of you, Miss Eliza Hall," Shawano replied in stilted English, a familiar humor gleaming in the pale blue eyes that studied her. "He said your hair curled tight like the thin shavings of wood. My eyes tell me that this is so."

Observing the look of dismay that flashed briefly over the teacher's face, Will suppressed the urge to smile. "Miss Hall plays the piano. Perhaps we can prevail upon her to entertain us with her music this evening."

"I... would be delighted to play for you, Mr. Stuart," Eliza said, her heart sinking with dread. "Now I must ask you to excuse us. It is time for the children to resume their lessons."

Will lowered Xandra to the ground. "We will see you at supper, Miss Hall."

 

 

 

5

 

 

A cane thumped the dining room floor beside Will as the elderly Shawano Stuart, crippled by a long-ago war wound, maneuvered himself onto a chair. Instinctively, Will moved to assist him, but The Blade was already at his father's side, holding the chair steady and discreetly offering a supporting arm.

Looking at his friend's son, Will suddenly felt old. Tall and lean, but powerfully built, The Blade commanded attention with an ease that belonged to a man twice his age. But it was the boldness glittering in his blue eyes that Will envied. He had the look of a man who would dare things that most men wouldn't consider—though never recklessly or foolishly. Will sensed The Blade was not a man who acted without thinking, a feeling reinforced by The Blade's recent success in the gold fields near Dahlonega.

According to Shawano, twice The Blade had been arrested by the Guard for unlawfully—in Georgia's eyes—panning gold on Cherokee land claimed by the State of Georgia; twice The Blade had given the gold to his Negro servant, Deuteronomy, for safekeeping, certain it would never occur to the Georgians that he would entrust a small fortune to a slave.

There was no doubt in Will's mind that The Blade was both intelligent and clever. He could almost forgive him for going against his father's wishes two years ago when he left the university in the North, abandoning his education.

It was the readiness of The Blade's smile, always there, lurking just below the surface, that Will interpreted as rashness.

Will took his seat at the head of the table and wondered what The Blade would do once he understood the seriousness of the current situation. There would be a need for men like The Blade if their nation was to weather these troubled times.

He and Shawano spoke often about the future of their children and their nation. Both agreed that the old days were gone; their new leaders must be able to read and write in English, possess an education equivalent to that of the men they would be dealing with in Washington. The old order was stepping aside, content to counsel the new.

Will glanced at Temple and caught the ardent look she exchanged with The Blade. Alerted by it, he studied both, noticing for the first time the possessive gleam in The Blade's eyes and the way Temple glowed with a woman's knowledge. Only this afternoon he had tried to remind himself that she was a woman grown. Now the evidence of it was before him.

"Tell me, Will." Shawano Stuart spoke, forcing Will to redirect his attention. "What was the outcome of the council's meeting? Was it decided to send a delegation to meet with the president at his home in Tennessee?"

Before Will could reply, Victoria interposed, "For the benefit of Miss Hall, we should converse in English. She does not understand our language."

"You are right. Forgive us." Will glanced at the teacher and switched to English. "The council agreed that nothing would be accomplished by meeting with President Jackson. The stated purpose of his invitation was to discuss a new treaty that would exchange our lands here for land west of the Mississippi River. We have no desire for a new treaty. We want the federal government to abide by the terms of our existing treaty, and this the president will not discuss."

Shawano nodded agreement with the decision, then directed his bright gaze to Eliza, although she would have been just as glad if he had ignored her. "This land has belonged to the Cherokee people from time out of mind. Before there was a government in Washington City, we were here. Before the English with their redcoats, we were here. Before the Spanish in their iron shirts, we were here. We have always been here."

"If you have a treaty, I should think you cannot be forced to leave." Admittedly, being a woman Eliza had little experience with the workings of government or politics, yet she felt her statement was a logical assumption.

"If Jackson has his way, we will." Will Gordon carved a thick slice of smoked ham and lifted it onto Shawano Stuart's plate.

"Many times the thought has come to me that if I had known on the long-ago day when we fought beside Jackson at the Horseshoe that he would one day become our enemy, I would have killed him," Shawano declared.

"Why were you fighting with Andrew Jackson?" Eliza tried to cover her shock that anyone could talk so casually about killing the president.

"It was during your War of 1812 with the British. Many Creek Indians rose up against the American settlers in Alabama," Will explained. "Jackson was a young general in command of a militia from Tennessee. Many Cherokees volunteered to fight with him. Shawano and myself were among the ones who took part in the battle at Horseshoe Bend on the Tallapoosa River."

"You should know, Miss Hall," The Blade inserted, "it was the action taken by the Cherokee soldiers that ultimately won the battle. The main body of Creeks, over a thousand strong, had erected a breastwork of logs across the neck of a peninsula of land formed by a sharp bend in the Tallapoosa River. The Cherokees were ordered across the river to prevent the Creeks from escaping. Meanwhile, Jackson gathered his remaining force of some two thousand men to make a frontal assault on the ramparts. His artillery shelled the log breastwork for two hours, with out success. My father and other Cherokees could see the canoes of the Creeks on the opposite bank. Finally, the Ridge and two others swam the river and brought back two canoes. With these canoes, and others they later obtained, they crossed and recrossed the river until the entire body of Cherokee soldiers were transported to the other side. Then they attacked the Creeks from the rear. The Creeks were forced to turn to defend themselves, enabling Jackson to storm the breastworks with his men."

"It was during this battle that Shawano Stuart received the wound that crippled his leg," Temple explained.

"I see," Eliza murmured.

"When I returned home," Shawano said, picking up the story, "I found my cattle stolen, my hogs butchered, and my corn shed destroyed for firewood by soldiers in the American army, the same army that I had fought beside. Still, I and many others believed that General Andrew Jackson was a friend of the Cherokee." Shawano smiled ruefully. "After he was elected president, he stated in his inaugural speech to your Congress that he would initiate legislation that would call for the removal to the West of all Indian tribes 'for their own good.' Is it any wonder that we feel we have been betrayed by a man we once called friend, Miss Eliza Hall?"

"No. None at all." In fact, she could quite understand how they might feel bitter toward the president.

Will Gordon continued. "Now this removal bill specifically states that the president is authorized to seek new treaties, but in no way does it authorize the violation of existing treaties. Our existing treaties with your country guarantee forever our territorial integrity and independence. By the letter of the treaty, the government in Washington must protect us from the actions now being taken by Georgia. Now Jackson refuses. Jeremiah Evarts, with the American Board of Foreign Missions in Boston, has recommended to Chief John Ross that we take our case to the United States Supreme Court. The council has given John Ross the authority to hire attorneys for that purpose—although how we will pay their fees, I cannot say," he admitted. "Jackson's Secretary of War refuses to give our annuity payment to the Cherokee treasury. He insists it must be divided among the Cherokee population on a per capita basis."