Red clay running waters, p.14
Red Clay, Running Waters, page 14
Susan stirred, freeing Sarah from her slumbering weight. The book Sarah read dropped to the floor.
John looked askance at what had fallen. “And what do you think of Mr. Paine?”
Of all the books to choose to send, she thought. What character of man is this Dempsey?
Her head bobbed up. She could always lie. She had already done so, many times. Paine’s Age of Reason was considered blasphemy, attacking the church as Paine did. The Deist tract was surrounded in controversy. No one associated with the school should possess it, especially impious John. She swallowed to clear her dry throat, measuring her words.
“It is considered a dangerous book, certainly here in Cornwall. It would be imprudent of me to share my uninformed thoughts on it with anyone,” she said.
His expression turned serious, his sooty eyes holding hers across the room. “Your thoughts are not uninformed,” he replied. “Only the two of us shall know what you say.”
Should she confess Paine spoke directly to her thoughts about God, religion and more? Who but John could she confess such things to, that she agreed to Paine’s tenants such as “Mine own mind is my own church” in a town such as this? Dempsey’s inscription left in Paine’s book she could never forget, “Idealism married to reason brings change. It is timeless.” P. Dempsey. If indeed they were of one mind, she must know.
She held the book close. “I find I am much in agreement with the gentleman. His argument is compelling,” she confided, her voice barely rising above the night sounds. “Of course, I embrace Christ’s message,” she rushed to proclaim, “but if I, or you, or any were to confess they believed the things Paine says, we would be shunned, just as he was. My family would be shunned. No one knows I hold these thoughts, not even my own mother.”
“Why confess this to me, then?” John said.
Chill traveled her body in the summer’s heat. What should I confess to?
“It is your book,” she replied. “And I wish to continue to read it, but it must be in secret.” The look she gave him must have penetrated. He nodded. “And also,” she took time with her words, “because . . . because I believe you may understand my doubts.” She concentrated on the fingers in her lap, counting six beats of the pendulum clock. “And because I trust that you will not ridicule or judge me differently because of it.”
Her heart sank to her feet in the silence, unaware of the turmoil unleashed opposite her.
Propriety would require him to dismiss her admission, pledging discretion, at the least. John’s voice was hoarse but firm. “I will judge you differently because of it,” he said. “I will judge you an independent thinker, unafraid of finding answers for herself. I should judge you very kindly, as it is indeed possible, we share similar thoughts.”
She was brave enough to look at him then.
“I will find Mr. Paine a sanctuary in a place that I know of,” she said. “Perhaps there will be times when I may retrieve it to read.”
The pact was pledged.
“We may compare ideas then,” he replied, “but on my honor, no one shall know of your thoughts, but me.”
She sighed in relief. “I shall guard your friend’s gift, and our mutual thoughts as well.” She lifted her sleeping sister into her arms. “I will fetch William and Father to return you to your room.”
CHAPTER 15
Lydia called through his open door. “Your father has arrived in Cornwall.”
John bolted upright, staggering from his chair, forgetting his need for crutches. Lydia rushed across the room in time to keep him from the floor.
My father . . . Here! Three years.
Joy and dread warred inside him, a cold sweat on his brow. What would he feel after being so long apart? Could he convince his father he should remain here?
Lydia handed him his crutches. “Come, you can see for yourself at the hall window.” Once there, her finger pointed at the principal’s house, a canny look on her face. “I dare say, he has arrived in the most splendid carriage ever to grace the streets of Cornwall.”
Indeed, he has. Held at bay by Peter, their Negro blacksmith from home, four snorting black horses and a magnificent carriage came to a stop in front of Dagget’s door. His father sat in the open compartment donning full military regalia, his red jacket decorated with gold braid, his tall boots topped with white leather. Ridge’s hands rested regally on a silver-topped cane.
John wanted to laugh and cry at once. The man knew how to make a lasting impression. How proud he was to be his son. Gap-mouthed residents scurried from their doorsteps or threw open their windows on the brilliant fall day to witness the spectacle. John saw his father speak to Dagget through Peter, then the men entered the principal’s house.
Lydia’s gentle hand touched his arm. “Do not worry,” she said, as if reading his mind. “You will have a private reunion here between you and your father.”
He placed his hand on hers. “Thank you.”
Left waiting, he wanted to pace, to untangle his nerves, but that would be foolish. What would his father think of him now?
A carriage pulled up the drive. John came to attention on the crutches firmly tucked under his arms and faced the reception room’s closed door.
Mumbled greetings from the Northrops came from beyond the door, then the voice of his father. John’s body weakened with emotion.
Peter’s familiar voice interpreting came through the door. “Major Ridge says his heart is abundant with joy at meeting the family who have taken such loving care of his son. He carries the humble voices of his family and the Cherokee Nation’s profound gratitude for what you have done. It is beyond measure.”
The pounding in John’s ears beat in counter time to the approaching footfall. His hands shook. The door opened, and the time since their last parting melted away. Overwhelmed, John instinctively lurched, stumbling into his father’s arms.
“Agidoda, agidoda,” he choked, clinging to his father’s neck. The gold braid of the uniform, wet with tears, scratched his cheek. Ridge’s stocky form engulfed John’s trembling body, muttering “Hia agiwetsa atsutsa, Hia agiwetsa atsutsa” while he stroked John’s back. The touch of nursing care had given him comfort, but the loving arms of his father restored him to himself.
At last, his father held him at arm’s length, studying John’s face. “We are like two women,” he said, palming first John’s tears, then his own. Surprise showed in his father’s expression. “But no, you are a man now.”
Steadying himself, John limped to the sofa to relieve his aching arms. Shame washed over him, knowing his father watched his struggle, but instead, it was respect he found in his father’s eyes when he lay the crutches aside.
The familiar spirals on his father’s tattooed hands rested on his arm. “I feared to never see you in this world again, and so did your mother,” Ridge said. “You are recovering?”
John knew what he looked like, his eyes sunken too deep, his skin, tight and pale. Worse, he knew what his father saw in his struggles to walk.
“I am better . . . much better.’
“Your mother is beside herself, insisting she would come, but feared to leave Walter, and your sister is young still. She has threatened she will place my belongings outside the house if I do not return with you alive and well.”
John nearly cried aloud, Not yet! How, in his darkest months, he had ached to be home, but now . . .
“I have longed for you all so many times, you cannot imagine,” John said, bowing his head, eyes on the floor. “I was afraid, Doda, very afraid. Beyond the pain, I saw my chance denied. It was anguish to consider. I would rather die here than return having not fulfilled my duty.”
His father uttered words to ward off evil, then his penetrating gaze bloomed in understanding.
“I too have held death’s hand and looked into his eyes.” his father said. “Let us hope our Great Spirit allows us many days more before we must recount our deeds to him.”
John’s shoulders lifted. “I see now what is important and what is not,” he said. “I see so many things.” He was not ashamed to put his head on his father’s chest then, letting go.
“The conjurer was right in what he told your mother then,” his father muttered, stroking his head.
“Conjurer? But—”
“Oh, she is still a Christian. Brother Butrick does not know.”
“What was she told?”
“That you would return next winter, a glory to our nation, bringing many treasures. Skaleeloskee, you have persevered and suffered, as well as grown and changed. You have gained a great education, for all your people. You have already brought distinction to our race. What more can we ask?” Ridge’s hand squeezed his leg. “Now, tell me of what you have learned.”
John lifted his head, sitting upright, his eyes scanning the room. There, over the mantel, hung the framed image of William Penn and the Indians. “Where can I begin?” he said. “Doda, only you will understand. No one else here does.” Except perhaps some in this house. “As you have said, civilization will crush us if we refuse to embrace it. There is no choice but to live surrounded by Whites, something I fear few at home understand. And the Whites will not understand or accept us on our own terms.”
“You have truly gained an education then,” his father said.
“My heart is still Cherokee,” John said, “but the ways of these people have become mine too. When I speak English, I become the gentlemen they have made me. I can speak, analyze, perhaps in more ways than they wish. I am as genteel as my surroundings,” he smirked, gesturing to the room. “But it is only when I speak in Cherokee that I am my real self and know what is right.”
“It is true, you may not be recognized when you return. I hardly knew you myself. But you will be respected, and among your own people. They will come to admire you, and see what good you can do for them, as I do.”
John looked deep into his father’s eyes. “This is what I have dreamed of. To return and join you in our people’s work, but please, Doda, not until my studies are completed.”
Lydia hummed while she whipped the cream, a sure sign she was enjoying herself. Sarah danced around her with a platter of tarts and cheesecakes held high.
“Later, Rollin,” Sarah said. “Remember you promised.” Three-year-old Rollin frowned from his chair, his elbows on the open window to the back porch.
It warmed Sarah’s heart to see her mother excited about Major Ridge’s visit, not because he was an important man, but because he was John’s father. While most of the town sat in church, Major Ridge would call on her family, each of them brimming with nervous anticipation.
Sarah’s younger brother and sister kept John company, awaiting his father’s knock on the door. Through the kitchen window, Sarah heard Susan pestering John, something about Indian royalty.
“No, little sister, there is no royalty among our people. Our house is simple, not even as grand as this. Though thinking on it, some here might say the Cherokee women were the queens,” he said, “for it is the mother, not the father, who possess our homes and farms, and the authority over the children until they are grown. It is my mother’s wishes I must obey.”
Sarah bumped shoulder-to-shoulder with her mother, lowering her voice. “That will be the day!” she smirked. Lydia grinned and shrugged. “John claims his father is a man of simple tastes,” Sarah whispered, “though it is hard from me to reckon it from his manner or appearance . . . and knowing his accomplishments.”
Tall as Sarah was, she recalled how Major Ridge loomed over her the day he arrived, a formidable presence, with a creased, stern brow and a downward turn to his thin mouth. Whatever John said about his father—that he was kind and wise, that his life was about seeing his children prosper and serving his people—Ridge’s aura of power intimidated her. John might be more malleable in disposition, but neither of the two would be denied.
Lydia flicked her head toward the open window. “If the son is any measure,” she said, “the father must have many fine attributes. I can attest, the man speaks most sincerely from his heart through John when in private.”
John’s mother may have a say, but it was obvious it was his father to whom John was most bound. Through the window, Sarah’s eyes fell on John’s fingers, twisting. Her fingers would twist too, were they not occupied.
When the knock came, Rollin bolted from his seat, the staccato of his feet slipping out of Sarah’s lunging reach. “Rollin!” she cried, bolting after him.
She arrived at the front door in time to see her father and Major Ridge standing at the threshold, Rollin entangling himself around the man’s legs. Sarah, flushed and panting, stuttered to a stop, barely recovering in time to drop a curtsy. Ridge removed his hat, his fierce features softening. Tattooed hands lifted the child into his arms, posing a question in Cherokee to the saucer-eyed boy.
“‘Where are you running to, my little hunter’ is what my father says.” John said. He was braced on his crutches on the porch threshold.
Drawn by the commotion, the family crowded into the hall, at first speechless, then laughing. Sarah’s cheeks rouged when she extended her arms for Rollin. Ridge’s gaze back was penetrating, but warm.
Susan tugged on Lydia’s skirts. “Mama why does that man stay outside all the time?” she said, pointing outside. “Is that why his skin is so black, because he is always in the sun?”
All eyes darted from John’s father to where Peter stood by the carriage in the driveway. Susan had never seen a Negro.
Her parents looked stricken, uncertain how to reply. How much English does the man understand, Sarah wondered? A flurry of exchanges in Cherokee shot between father and son, John’s cheeks aflame.
At last, John bent down to Susan from his crutches. “He is of a people called Negroes who share the color, little sister. Peter is my father’s servant, from my family back home. It is customary for him to remain with the horses.”
Susan looked up at her mother. “Should I set another place at the table for him?”
Lydia put her hand on Susan’s head. “Would you please, dear?” she said. “William, please ask Peter if he would like to join us for supper?”
In the darkness, wrapped in blankets, John and his father sat together on the porch. The moon was high, the others gone to bed.
“There is love for you in this house,” Ridge said. “Acceptance, respect too.”
“They have been more than kind to me,” John replied, “caring for me under such circumstances. You cannot know. I have come to love them. How could I not?” He steadied his voice. “Do you mind?”
“How can I mind when it is because of them we still have you to call our son?” Ridge said, his voice thick too. “But I will not tell your mother that you have developed affections for these Northrops, and they for you.
John was happy they sat in the dark. “But you must return this time next year. Things are changing fast in the nation, but not fast enough to overtake the force of avarice for our land. Even good men here like Reverend Beecher have too much greed, talking of lands belonging to others as their Divine right.”
“Sadly, he is like most others here,” John replied. “Beecher is a moral man, but he cannot see. It is easier to embrace the things he proposes, to dispose of us, if it is done in the name of the Lord.”
His father grunted.
“After I leave, ponder what I tell you while you finish your study.” His voice was that of a speaker in Council, not a father. “More United States Commissioners are sent to prey on the greedy and power-hungry in the tribes, sowing dissensions between groups, using trickery and bribes to gain what they wish for . . . our land. Whites of the lowest kind press on our boundaries, making our people victims of violence and fraud.”
John pulled his blanket closer.
“Our treaties promise protection for us, but the government does not enforce them and fears sending troops. They say it will inflame our neighbors in Georgia. Sadder still, there are men among us, entrusted to negotiate honorably on our behalf, who seek advantages for themselves in reserves of land and money in exchange for brokering a treaty.”
“But the enlightened people here believe their work, and American goodwill, will be a force against such eventualities,” John said. “Can all these people be wrong?” The vista of Baltimore’s horizon and Dempsey’s words about civilization echoed in his mind.
His father’s voice was flat. “Such a force will not stop Georgia pressing us, which they do with more urgency. We intend to remain a free and distinct nation, but such declarations from savages living within the boundaries of the state only serve to inflame long festering wounds over rights. We have signed the last treaty conceding land, but Georgia demands immediate extinction of our title, invoking Jefferson’s Compact to justify gaining what land the tribes have left.”
“But our treaties, and our advances . . . Sequoyah’s writing?”
“Our friend in the West has performed a miracle with his invention, opening new horizons for our people, but our urgent problem requires skillful negotiating and great fortitude to make the US government hold to its word. That is one reason why I agree, you must learn as much as you can.”
Every fiber of his being sang, though the need to not show his rapture held him rigid.
“It is my greatest wish, father.”
“Good, for we intend to remain in our homeland, whatever the cost.”
CHAPTER 16
Felicitations were about all Sarah could expect when she turned seventeen in the deep darkness of December. She had asked for roast pork and cherry pie and got it, but that night by the fire with her family, her sister’s curious fidgeting distracted her.
Her mother looked up from her knitting. “Susan, whatever has gotten into you?”
Susan jumped up, whispering into John’s ear.
“Indeed, you have, little sister,” he said.
This was about as much as Sarah had heard him speak in weeks. He seldom joined family readings in the evening anymore, or shared thoughts when she came to his room.
