Red clay running waters, p.20
Red Clay, Running Waters, page 20
“This is what McIntosh told me,” Ross announced. “The White man is growing’ he said. ‘He wants our land; he will buy it now. By-and-by the White man will take everything, and our little band of people will be left to wander without homes, beaten like dogs. We should sell now and go to a new home in the West.’”
Ross turned away from the group and began to pace. “McIntosh said these men from Georgia were prepared to be generous to those who bring this cession about. If I should find myself in favor of this treaty, two thousand dollars would be given to me. The same amount would be offered to any of our leaders who join him.” Ross stopped his stride at Charles Hicks’s feet. “And for our chief, three thousand dollars. The White Warrior promised none but us would know, that the money would be ours before a treaty was signed.”
John sucked in air, breathless from the retelling. Just as father has warned.
Thunder stormed across the men’s faces. The bangles in Lowrey’s ears jingled with his shaking head. “For him to be so blatant . . . to imply we would sell our homeland, this is a surprise.”
“He assured me the government officials sanctioned this,” Ross replied.
“This cannot be,” Chief Hicks exclaimed. “McIntosh has been a leader in the Creek Nation for many years. He has been our beloved brother all this time.”
Ridge broke from the ranks. People were rising from their camp beds, stirring their fires outside. Puffs of breath from horses’ nostrils and smoke from fires rose. Those remaining would soon return to their homes. He turned from his place by the window, scrutinizing Ross.
“News of what McIntosh plans must not reach the ears of those in our villages. Now is the time people should be told the truth,” Ridge said. “Otherwise, one swindle will beget another. What proof have we what McIntosh told you is true, and not a trick to discredit us?” John saw doubt reflected in his father’s eyes.
Ross did not dissemble. From his pocket he drew a document, scrawled in the careless hand of McIntosh’s son, Chilly.
“It is here in writing,” Ross said, thrusting the letter at Ridge, though he knew he could not read. “McIntosh even had the audacity to say he would address the Council, and press for this, that both the National Committee and Pathkiller could also be brought to accept it. He bragged of the spoils he has received from many other treaties made in the past.”
John’s blood chilled, witness to the splayed underbelly of power, ripped open by the foul workings of personal politics. Some men in the room bowed their heads in dejection, some in prayer.
Ridge’s voice rose from deep in his chest. “Then hear what I propose. We will hold a meeting of our government for special business today. We will invite McIntosh to come before us. I will open the ceremonies and receive him with the customary deference. I will then call on you, Ross, to explain the reason for this session. I will leave the rest in your hands.”
No sooner had the sun risen, and the chiefs taken their places on the leader’s bench, when McIntosh and his party arrived. His silver ornaments jingled with each step as he strode to the front of the chamber, his headdress sporting new feathers.
Ridge stood in the middle of the chiefs, his hands folded on his chest. He offered the blessing along with the necessary formalities. McIntosh studied Ridge and his former battle companions; his lips curled into a smile. Out the window, the officials from Georgia pressing for land milled in the square, their saddlebags heavy on their mounts.
“For more than twenty days we have conferred with each other in good faith in the interest of benefiting our people,” Ridge said to the crowd, reminding them of the sacred trust placed in the Council’s hands. “The president of our National Committee now has something he wishes to share with all of you”
John saw surprise register on McIntosh’s face. Protocol dictated the Creek should be the first to speak. Ross stepped forward, assessing the faces below him until his eyes rested on McIntosh.
“It has become my painful duty to inform you of a gross contempt offered to my character, as well as to that of this General Council.”
Murmurs rippled across the room. Ross slowly reached into his pocket, extracting the paper he had shown at the dawn meeting.
“I hold a letter in my hand that will speak for itself, but unfortunately the author of it has mistaken my character as well as my sense of honor.” He handed the message to McCoy for him to read to the room in Cherokee. When McCoy finished, the details of Ross’s interview with McIntosh were clear.
Ancient Pathkiller, bent over with rheumatism, was assisted to his feet, the silence of respect falling on the chamber. McIntosh began to back away from the platform, cowering before Pathkiller’s sorrowful piercing eye.
“I am astonished and grief-stricken by your words and what you say is written on this paper,” the ancient chief said. “If what you say is true, my heart is broken, and mourns that I have been mistaken to have valued McIntosh as an honest chief. I mourn still more that I have been mistaken in one I had till this moment confided in as a Devoted Brother.”
McIntosh grew pale.
“All such affections must now expire for such a breach of trust,” Pathkiller proclaimed. “I will leave it to the Council, but this treachery must not be overlooked. I say to them, ‘set him aside.’”
McIntosh shrank under the weight of stares and scorn, making a feeble attempt to explain his motivations to the assembly. No one listened. McIntosh now carried the stain of infamy and disgrace.
“I cast McIntosh behind my back,” Ridge thundered from the bench. “I divest you of all trust. I do not pretend to extend this disgrace to your nation. We are not to be purchased for money.”
Suddenly, McIntosh bolted from the room, jumping from the doorway to the ground, ran past the Georgia men, then vaulted on to his startled horse. In a frenzy, he whipped his mount into a gallop away from the Council grounds, his loosened feathers trampled underfoot.
Moments later, John watched the stunned Georgians follow, beating their horses in frustration, their saddlebags jingling with their bribes. That evening they learned two horses had dropped to the ground under McIntosh before he thought it prudent to suspend his ride.
CHAPTER 24
Betrayals and White men’s scheming aggressions were familiar ground for the Cherokee, but to witness the manifestation play out before his eyes was a shock to John. Long held friendships and alliances destroyed in an instant. Status and reputation were suddenly void. He had little expected to be thrown into an arena of controversy so quickly.
His father had not been himself since the Council. One night, while they sat by the fire and the house slept, Ridge unburdened himself. The firelight etched his father’s troubled features.
“It pained me greatly to sever the ties of time with McIntosh, but the decision was easy. In the end, our Creek brothers have been warned, and the Council has secured protection of our borders. But this situation with the Creeks has entangled us in their deceit. We must remind those in Washington we are vigilant in ensuring our rights.” His father reached for his pipe. “There will always be men like McIntosh willing to use bribery and treachery for their own gains, but even by their own laws, the government cannot force us to leave our country. We must make it right and send another delegation to Washington.”
So, a delegation would go North soon! A rush of blood sent John to his feet and across the carpeted room before his father finished filling his pipe.
He held his voice steady. “When do you leave?”
This year had passed so quickly. Even in winter he was well, with only a limp and occasional pain remaining. He was more than ready to prove himself, to Sarah, his family and to his people. These past months confirmed the stirrings to serve and defend his homeland, and to go through his life alongside Sarah.
The willow bark and rose hips tea his mother brewed was put aside. Ridge filled a second pipe and John took it from his father’s hands, pulling in the smoke.
“Before the end of the year we will leave,” Ridge said. “It is likely we will remain for many months, for the White people move slowly in deciding things.” He sent tobacco smoke up to the ceiling. “Every treaty we signed flies in the face of a state enforcing its will over that of the federal government, but Georgia refuses to accept that. Ross, Elijah Hicks, George Lowrey and I will go to the Capital to ask President Monroe to do away with this agreement Jefferson made with Georgia so much troubling our nation and the state.”
“So, there is a chance this contention can be ended?”
“We have friends in the Capital, as well as enemies, but we must try,” Ridge replied. “And since we would not wish to miss a wedding in Cornwall, I thought you should come.”
A slow smile crossed John’s lips.
“Well, have you nothing to say?” Ridge teased.
“Can I be of use while I am in Washington?”
“What?” Ridge mocked, “and neglect your bride after such a recent marriage? No, no, this time, you will learn how things work, but hold no official responsibilities. This is not the time for politics. This is the time for your hearts to grow together. Once you return, much will occupy you.” He reached across, patting John’s knee, eyes sparkling.
“It is the fulfillment of our dream,” John said. “I do not take your gifts lightly. I will always strive to be worthy of them.”
“It is good you recognize this,” his father replied. “But I must warn you, some here think you have learned Northern ways too well, assuming you look down on them in the way many missionaries do. Some say you have chosen to take a White wife because you no longer wish to carry on the traditions and customs of your people.”
John’s head jerked backwards. My own people think me too civilized, yet White people call me a heathen.
A cynical grin spread. “My teachers in Cornwall often chastised me for having too much pride in being Cherokee. They said I was truculent in accepting the right ways to think and act, that my heart was pagan at its core.”
John grabbed his cane, rising from his seat in frustration. “I am impatient,” he said. “How could I not admire what this civilized world has achieved? But the dignity and rights of my race, of the Cherokee, I will never abandon.”
“I know this to be true,” Ridge said, shaking his head. “Let us not become angry about what is in people’s minds. This is a thing we must work to change. We can only show our intentions and hope people will see our efforts are for the good. I have no doubt we will make your bride happy among us. It will be hard for her at first, but it is the whole family’s greatest wish that our new daughter feels welcome. By the time we return from Washington, Agitsi has promised a place for you both to live, one not far distant, where you can learn to live together.
“Thank you, Doda.”
“Besides, our house is crowded already . . . and you know how your mother is . . .”
Before his candle was extinguished, his message to Sarah was folded and sealed, its presence in the dark keeping him from his sleep.
Here he was again, traveling north in the dead of winter, only this time with a Cherokee delegation of his father, John Ross, George Lowery, and Elijah Hicks.
Familiar scenes revealed themselves, traversing the same muddy rutted roads he took from Cornwall little over a year before. The tempo of travel was pleasant on the rivers, with landscapes gliding by, a decent bed to sleep in, and the endless fascination of the water. Winter travel to Baltimore took a matter of days from Savannah, the seas filled with swells, the decks too frigid to endure.
From the start it was clear Ross intended to lead; he was, after all, the most senior in rank as president of the Committee. Even Ridge, as speaker, deferred to him many times, and Ross’s manner assumed it. Elijah Hicks, the delegation’s clerk, was a short-tempered fellow, kin by marriage to Ross, and eager to be in his service.
George Lowrey’s company was always a welcome addition. His father’s friend from the Creek Wars had a sharp wit, and much Cherokee pride. He was meticulous in displaying his traditional finery when he traveled, drawing stares and murmurs in any establishment the party entered.
One night while at sea, their party waited in the darkened hull of the ship to enter the dining chamber. A gentleman at the table with his back to them held the floor.
“Why, Jackson is already so popular among the people of our region,” he drawled, “if Congress were to go against the right of Georgia to expel the heathens, the Capitol building itself would be dismantled by collective fury from the people. You will see, Jackson will have the popular vote next election, not Adams or Clay.” His comrades shouted, Here here! The man raised his glass, the smirk of satisfaction in his voice clear enough. “As a landholder in Augusta, just this side of this so-called Cherokee Nation, I am provided ample opportunity for observation of the heathens, and it is an uncontested fact that these Cherokee are nothin’ more than savages subsisting on roots and disgusting reptiles.”
The usher chose that moment to take their party to the vacant seats, opposite the bellicose man. Lowery thrust himself ahead of the others and strode to his chair, the sound of his silver disks clanging against the medals draped on his breast, silencing the man’s confident boasting. The gentlemen and a few of the ladies looked astonished at a flash of Lowery’s red turban and a glimpse of his slashed ears, the flesh draped to his shoulders in loops bound in silver. It was more than enough to evoke outcries from the table. The delegation paid their respects to their fellow travelers and took their seats.
The momentary discomposure was quickly masked as some patrons reached for their utensils, intently examining their boiled potatoes, while others let their suppers grow cold. Ensuring all could hear, Ross casually turned to his spectacularly attired companion.
“I could not mistake hearing the name of General Jackson mentioned as we approached the table,” Ross said. “It hardly seems possible ten years has passed since we Cherokee fought side-by-side, shedding blood with Old Hickory against the Red Sticks.” Ross turned to Ridge, knowing full well he spoke no English. “You have heard Jackson speak many times of the valor of our warriors, have you not Major Ridge?” Ridge grunted. Ross gazed from face-to-face with a placid smile. “Perhaps we will have time to remind him of those times when we see him in the Capital.” Even the cutlery and china ceased making noise.
Liveried Negroes hovered round the new arrivals, bringing serving plates heaped with steaming vegetables and roast meats. By now, the man who had spoken was locked in a frozen stare at Ross. How confused the man must be, seeing swarthy Lowrey sitting beside the diminutive Ross in his civilized clothes, as White in appearance as the man himself was.
“Roots!” Lowery exclaimed in perfect English while the sweet potatoes were served. “More roots!” he said, heaping them onto his plate. “We savages are very fond of roots, you know.” He smiled at the rest of the table. A few gasps, then laughter rippled across those feasting. The Georgia man rose abruptly from his seat with a stony expression, his friends attempting to restrain him.
John rose, straight as an arrow, staring directly into the man’s fuming countenance. “Sir, surely you are not forgetful of your manners?” he said. “There are ladies present.”
The man could hardly speak objection, lest he draw more ridicule upon himself. Barely concealing a sneer, the Georgia landholder made a slight bow to the ladies.
“You will excuse us!” he said, turning his back on the table.
John was stunned and a bit shaken by the differences to Washington. Construction was still rampant. Now a vast portico graced the completed Capitol building, columns flanking the entrance’s span. More hotels, businesses, and residences lined the boulevards teeming with people. Markets with vendors crying, patrons haggling, the rumble of wagons, and carriages shuttling politicians accompanied the scrape and jangle of enslaved people marching down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the alabaster Capitol.
Outside their lodging at Tennyson’s Hotel, Lowrey’s appearance drew much less attention in a city where Indian delegations lived half the year.
“On a fine day the streets are resplendent with skins, furs, and feathers walking beside silks, fine woolens and leather boots,” Lowrey said as they climbed to their rooms. “But this time of year, heads are more likely turned at ruffled feathers, or from wings plucked clean under the Capitol’s dome, is that not so, Ridge?”
His father simply grunted.
Having already committed to memory the names of their allies and foes, it was John who gawked at representatives and senators as they passed them in the halls.
Once settled, the company reconvened in their suite, a luxurious carpeted room, with a blazing fire framed by a marble mantel. Sinking into the stuffed upholstered chair, John understood where a taste for government funded accommodations could be developed.
Hicks and Ross flanked the fire. Hicks looked up from the message he held in his hand.
“It seems Mr. Evarts has arranged a speaking tour for your former classmate in Cornwall, John,” Hicks said. “The Board secretary seeks more funds for education, since the government’s purse-strings have closed on us. Your friend David Brown, fresh from seminary, will make speeches to raise more funds.”
“Evarts is indeed our good friend,” Ross said. “His commitment to us has grown deeper year after year.”
“Where will David be speaking?” John asked. “I must pass through Philadelphia on my way to Cornwall.”
Hicks gave him a stern look. “Before you run off to your bride,” he said, “we have many letters you could assist with.”
Lowrey grinned, clapping John on his shoulder. “The lad has letters of his own he wishes to be writing. But if she is pretty, she must sit beside me at the table.”
“She is,” Ridge laughed. “Give him his letter, Elijah.”
Hicks fumbled in his pocket, thrusting the letter out to John.
“Gentlemen,” John bowed. “I will join you later at table.”
