Red clay running waters, p.29
Red Clay, Running Waters, page 29
“Here?” she said. “What can you mean? There is no one about.”
“Precisely.” He jumped to the ground, tying the horse to a nearby tree, then reached for the basket at Sarah’s feet. Placing it on the ground, he turned, extending his hand towards her.
“Indulge me,” he said.
He helped her step down, tucking her hand in his elbow. They climbed the slight crest, her head swiveling as they walked. In a few yards he halted, placing the basket on the ground. Reaching inside, he pulled a cloth and spread it, then removed wrapped glasses, a bottle of wine, sandwiches, and fruit.
“Now, here is the first gift.” He lifted a large wooden box from inside the basket, the source of a jingling metallic sound. “Open it,” he said.
She gasped when she lifted the lid. A gleaming set of silver place settings, engraved with intertwined initials, JR, lay under the lid.
“Oh John, they are beautiful,” she said, “but is this not too fine for us to be using in our cottage?”
“No,” he replied, “because they match my second gift.” He inhaled deeply and swept his open arms across the horizon. “This is your second gift, Sarah. A place to build our home . . . a home suitable for a table set with such fine silver . . . and suitable for such a remarkable wife.”
Words spilled like pearls loose from their string as he spoke of the builder from New York already engaged, and of how the empty landscape would turn into their dreamed of home. He spoke of constructing a place finer than any in Cornwall, finer than even Doctor Gold’s, where they would raise the children they were sure to have. Eight rooms it would have, with brick fireplaces. Turned columns would grace a portico, mullioned windows with shutters would protect them. Soon, the life they had spoken of would be theirs.
The afternoon was spent swept up envisioning views from windows and gardens yet unplanted, till the wine had been drunk, and the afternoon sun slipped behind the hilltops.
“There is one more thing I wish to show you before we go,” he said, taking her by the hand.
They skirted the woods towards the sound beyond the trees to a clearing ahead where the late afternoon sun sparkled on the water’s surface. A creek wound its way as far as the eye could see.
Sarah sank down on the bank beside the water “Oh,” she said. “This is so beautiful. A place to swim. And herons would come here, John. This place . . .” She rose from the bank and came to him. “Oh John, you could not have given us a better place to live.” She wrapped her arms around him, her head nestled under his chin. “You have made me so happy. I could not wish for a better life.”
“This is but a small measure of my love for you.” His voice vibrated against her ear, They stood holding each other, savoring the moment. How blessed they were to have found each other. The rain-swollen creek rushed on.
“I have thought of a name for our future home,” he said.
“What is it?”
“T’ang-Ta-Tara.”
“What does it mean?”
“Running Waters.”
“John Ridge says come to da big house now. They ready to leave.”
Since his return, Pleasant had taken to using John’s full name. Sarah, firm in her refusal to allow the use of the term master or slave, could hardly object; nevertheless, she still startled each time. Her Indian father was Da Ridge. She was still Miz Sarah.
This Sabbath they would travel to Haweis to bring Sallie home from school. Susanna, her best bonnet tied neatly under her chin, was just stepping into the carriage when Sarah arrived.
“I understand Reverend Worcester is progressing rapidly in learning Cherokee,” John said while the horses trotted down the road. To have a missionary who could speak to the people in their own language was rare, and Sarah hoped it would improve strained relations.
“I am impressed,” Susanna said. “I have heard he can read and understand many things in our language.”
“And I am told his wife Ann has a lively wit,” Sarah said. “I hope it is lively in proportion to the austerity of most of the missionaries.”
“How quickly you have become Cherokee,” John said to her in his native tongue.
“It is all due to my excellent instruction,” Susanna teased, which Sarah acknowledged.
The hymn-singing, cold-supper-eating crowd of Red, Black, and White had already gathered by the time they arrived at Haweis mission, a smaller but similar version of Brainerd. Outside the school, students and family members congregated under the trees. Just as their carriage came to a stop, Sallie broke from the group, running in their direction, eager for her mother’s embrace.
“How glad I am to see you, Agitsi,” she said, her arm around her mother, “and to know you come to take me home,” She pulled Susanna by the hand. “I wish you to see my copybook.” The two wandered off in the direction of the schoolhouse.
As they walked closer toward the crowd, John said to Sarah, “Perhaps Mr. Evarts will now support the academy we have talked of.”
A voice came from the side. “Did I hear the name of my former instructor mentioned?” A spare, lanky man, with sharp but kind features approached them, his hand extended.
“Samuel Worcester,” he announced, pressing John’s hand and then Sarah’s into his gentle grasp. His deep-set eyes were kind, his bony hands delicate. He was as young as they and looked to be in serious want of nourishment but lacked any austerity. “I studied under Jeremiah Evarts before I was given my assignment here. You must be the younger Mr. Ridge I have heard spoken of.”
“I am indeed John Ridge, sir. And this is my wife, Sarah. We are pleased to make your acquaintance, especially as we have heard much of your accomplishments with our language.”
“Ah, but your language is fascinating, and I hope my humble efforts bring reward,” Worcester replied. “Mr. Evarts believes my knowledge of printing may also be of some use here in the future. Will your cousin Elias Boudinot be in attendance at today’s service?”
“Unfortunately, no,” John said. “He has yet to return from the North where he raises funds for a press. I am sure he will be most eager to make your acquaintance upon his return.”
“If I understand correctly, he will be returning with something beyond funds for a press?”
“His new wife returns with him, yes,” Sarah said, returning his smile.
“Ah . . . and here is my very own wife, Ann,” Worcester said.
Two women approached, arms linked together. One had a buoyant step and an open, sweet expression, the other a measured gait and an aura of sadness to her crooked features. The cheerful one came forward.
The simple gray frock with white collar of the woman, who must be the minister’s wife, contrasted with the vibrant paisley of her husband’s long jacket. Behind small spectacles balanced on her thin nose, there was a sparkle in her eyes. “Samuel,” she said. “As you seem to have met our new arrivals, would you introduce us?”
The plain woman with the sad expression hung back until Ann tugged her arm and pulled her to join the group. “And may I also acquaint you with one of our teachers, Miss Sophia Sawyer?” Ann Worcester said. “Miss Sawyer and I attended the same school in New England together—Byfield Female Seminary. It gives credence to God’s will that some things must be preordained, that we should find ourselves engaged in the Lord’s work among the Indians together.” Ann’s energy seemed to revive the teacher.
“I hope to be worthy of such a blessing,” Sophia Sawyer said, “though Mrs. Worcester is most generous in claiming our reunion to be a happy one.”
Before she could reply, a group of Cherokee girls surrounded the teacher.
“Miss Sawyer, Miss Sawyer, come help us prepare the hymnbooks for the service,” they begged, pulling her abruptly away.
Sarah and Ann followed the men ambling towards the congregation already taking their seats beneath the trees.
Ann looked after Miss Sawyer and the surrounding children. “She is a most marvelous teacher, and much loved, as you can see.”
“Would that we had many more like her here with us,” Sarah replied.
“It is a pity she is in such want of confidence,” Ann said, “but I hope to provide her with encouragement now that Samuel and I are here. But I am speaking out of turn. You must tell me about yourself. Fancy us New England girls, all here at the same time,” She guided Sarah towards the benches.
CHAPTER 36
Maria’s boy Willis came running from the big house, his callused feet pounding the dirt, puffs of dust pillowing into the air. Breathless, he came to a screeching halt at the cabin’s open door. John raised his eyes from the inventory he was compiling for his builder.
“They back . . .” Willis panted, eyes wide with urgency. “I sent to tell you . . . Mr. Boudinot an’ his new miss’s . . . they be home.” The boy appeared to relish his role as the first to bring the news. “They at your Uncle Watie’s house,” Willis said. “They ask if you and Misses could call.”
A rush of excitement pushed John away from the table. Home at last.
“Thank you, Willis,” he said. “This is happy news. Next time we need something done quickly we’ll know who to send for. Now, for your good service, run down to Mr. Lavander’s and tell him I said to give you some of that rock candy he keeps.”
“Yes, sir! Thank ya, sir. I run fast.”
Sarah was soon at John’s elbow, Clarinda on her hip. “When can we go?” she asked.
John had already reached for his jacket. “Why should we wait?” Sarah had already turned to retrieve her bonnet.
The carryall sent for, Clarinda in Susanna’s arms, John retrieved a basket of peaches to take as a welcome and set out over the few miles to Oothcaloga and the Watie house.
Things had gone easier for Elias and Harriet because of Evarts’ interventions. Elias’s letters recounting their wedding and stay in the region held little resemblance to John and Sarah’s experience— a hopeful sign. John was most appreciative of Evarts’ endeavors. At least most of Harriet’s family was now resigned to her marriage.
His aunt, uncle and cousins were gathered on their covered porch, catching the late afternoon breezes. At the sound of the carriage, Elias and Harriet left their seats, rushing down the path to greet them beaming with joy.
“Cousins! You are home at last,” John called. Sarah had already jumped from the carryall and found Harriet’s arms. The two women hung about each other’s necks, weeping, while John thumped Elias’s back. His arm remained around his cousin’s shoulder while they walked toward the house. “We must hear everything,” John said, “all the news, where you have traveled, what you saw. And your tour . . . it was a success?”
“A great success, was it not, Harriet?” Elias replied. It was clear from their manner a sturdy bridge connected the two, a great relief to John. Perhaps now they could all begin to make things right and leave the ugliness behind. Harriet’s features had matured in two years, more angular, more serious, but the traces of the couple’s agonies did not linger in her manner.
“The Lord has surely looked upon us with his blessings,” Harriet said, squeezing Sarah’s hand, and reaching for John’s. “I cannot begin to express how I feel. You and I, we are cousins now, and my new family already call me sister and daughter.”
Nancy, Elias’s younger sister, called them into the cool of the house. She put out cakes and coffee as they settled back for a retelling of the newlyweds’ time in the North.
As they ate, Elias reached across the table for Harriet’s hand, kissing it lightly. “We stayed in Connecticut for nearly a month, lecturing,” he said. John raised an eyebrow.
“Evarts’s admonishments must have been stern to have changed hearts there,” John said, feeling a tinge of regret that he and Sarah had not been spared.
“We were treated well,” Elias acknowledged. He turned toward Sarah. “Much to my surprise and great honor, at one of my lectures your friend Miss Beecher and the young ladies from her female seminary attended.”
“She did? Oh, I am so pleased,” Sarah replied. “She’s a woman of great influence and vision.”
“Miss Beecher said she thought so highly of my talk,” Elias said, “that she encouraged me to have it printed and distributed for sale.”
“And he did,” Harriet added proudly. “Address to the Whites has already turned a good profit.”
Elias gave an admiring look at his wife. “I am greatly encouraged my writing is approved of by people other than my wife,” he smiled, “especially since I shall be running a newspaper soon. Evarts and the Board are pleased and say we shall have our own press with Cherokee type in little over a year.”
“Mr. Evarts has proven to be our sincere friend,” John admitted. “He has sent you something else that will be useful once the press arrives.”
“And what may that be?”
“We met the missionary Samuel Worcester last Sabbath, lately arrived at Brainerd,” John replied. “A very likable man our age. He is learned in matters of linguistics, but more importantly, he knows the printing craft well.”
Harriet turned to her husband. “You see, Elias? God has pointed the way again. Not here a day, and blessings have already been bestowed on our path.”
Shaded by the canopy of sycamores along the river, Sarah and Harriet sat with their ankles submerged. An occasional clanging of kettles and laughter mingled with the soft splash of the waters. Behind them in the kitchen building, Delilah, Maria and Pleasant sliced the last of the season’s fruit, shoving drying trays into the peach kiln, trading gossip and possibilities. Harriet set her shoulders after Sarah’s question, twisting her fingers.
“Of course, I miss my family,” Harriet replied, “but everyone is so amiable and affectionate here, and with many in our household speaking English, it has not been difficult to get to know them. And I have you to confide in.”
It was hard to believe Harriet was here, skirt hiked, knee deep in the water.
“I admit I harbored fears I might discover the situation here too foreign,” she said, “the ways of life, the climate, or be sorry I came. Truthfully, it is less than I had hoped. But with the missionaries’ efforts and the prospect of a press, thoughts of what can be far outweigh any regrets.”
“I am greatly relieved to hear it,” Sarah replied. The unrest over the presence of the missionaries she would keep to herself. “Such thoughts are natural and will pass. I could not bear to see you have any regrets, or become melancholy, when you have made so many sacrifices.”
“As have you,” Harriet said. “Your example and encouragement helped me stay strong, you know.”
At least the public abuses had been temporary, Sarah reminded herself, and she, after all, had risen in circumstances. But Harriet’s suffering was more enduring and serious, with siblings estranged, death threats to deal with, and Elias’s meager circumstances. Admiration, sympathy, and guilt warred within Sarah, and she told Harriet so.
“Sarah, our differences do not divide us, just as the differences between Elias and John are no obstacles in their love for each other,” Harriet said. “Elias and I, we have little interest in the world of politics and commerce, as you and John do. Elias wants to achieve things, yes, but he only desires are to lead people into the light of knowledge and their hearts towards the Gospel of Christ. So long as we have the blessing of friends, health, and are serving God’s will, I can easily become accustomed to living with less.”
Harriet brushed her damp hair from her forehead, fanning herself vigorously with a turkey feather fan Sarah had given her. “Besides,” she said wiggling her toes in the water, “my family’s joy never came from its wealth or status, but from the company we kept.”
Sarah knew that to be true and was greatly consoled to find that Harriet’s parents’ hearts had turned to embrace Elias.
Coming to her feet in the cool mud, Sarah said, “At least you are close until you are settled.” She extended one hand while she raised her skirts with the other. “Come,” she said, “I will have iced drinks brought for us.” Harriet accepted her extended hand and they ambled toward the kitchen.
“Iced drinks?! How is that possible in such heat?”
Sarah laughed, delighted. “My Cherokee father is a very progressive man. We have an icehouse. The ice comes all the way from New England, where, as you recall, they have an abundance of it at the right time of year.”
Delilah, Maria, and Pleasant ceased their chatter and chopping when Sarah and Harriet came into sight. Baskets of peaches lay at the feet of the three women, their dark skin glistening with sweat, their bodices clinging with damp. The women’s knife-wielding hands were slippery with pulp as they separated the flesh from the garnet stones, the air thick with the sweet aroma, and the humming of bees hovering to capture the sticky nectar. Sarah was past her indulgences in the luscious fruit she had found so enticing. Today the scent made her stomach churn.
“Mrs. Boudinot and I would like a cool drink,” Sarah said to the women. “Please bring enough ice for yourselves so we can all be refreshed.” Each woman looked to the other, then Maria wiped her blue-black hands on her apron, grabbed a pail, and headed for the low stone icehouse.
Harriet’s gaze took in the Ridge’s holdings. “When you lived in Cornwall,” she asked, “could you ever have imagined this?” Harriet concentrated on rearranging her hair, not looking at Sarah as they walked to the shaded porch at the back of the house.
“That is not the question you truly wish to ask me, is it Harriet?” Sarah replied.
“No,” Harriet said, then a pregnant pause hung between them. “I know father Watie, like our Uncle Ridge has . . . owns . . .” Sarah could not recall seeing Harriet so conflicted. “Elias and I shall not own slaves,” she blurted.
Sarah looked toward the kitchen where the women sat working, something she had joined in many times. “You well know I am more accustomed to serving than being served,” she said. “You also understand, I believe, the position I find myself in. My Indian family accepts that I abjure this practice, but for them to give it up would mean to ask them to forsake all, and I must respect this is their home. There is not a day I do not recognize the situation, but I had determined before I came to Cherokee country that I would refrain from condemning anyone based on my New England sensibilities.”
