Red clay running waters, p.30
Red Clay, Running Waters, page 30
Pleasant sauntered towards them, balancing a tray with three glasses and a pitcher. She had removed her peach-stained apron and freshened her turban. She offered first one drink then the other, setting the tray down and taking the last glass for herself. Placing herself beside Sarah, she leisurely sipped.
Aware of the presumption, Harriet registered surprise.
“It is a compromise we have made, is it not, Pleasant?” Sarah said.
“Yes, Miss Sarah.”
“One that circumvents our peculiar status.”
“I do not understand,” Harriet said.
“We live side-by-side every day, Harriet. I cannot always play mistress . . . I must be myself. I am fortunate John’s family agrees, and we are fortunate to have this freedom. Not all do. I know what you have heard, but for the most part the Blacks in the nation are treated well from what I have seen.”
Pleasant sneered. “Humph . . .” she said, “for da most part.” She lifted her sharp chin toward Sarah. “Not speakin ’bout here, now, mind you. After all, you folks be kind enough. We free to roam about, to visit as we please. Da little ones play together. We haff our days off and earn our own money from hirin’ ourselves out.” She smiled, thinking of something else. “Oh, and we haff some good times dancin’ and music parties from time to time, dat the truth.”
Harriet hesitated. “Were you always a part of the Ridge household, Pleasant?” she asked.
“No. ’For I came here, I belong to da Moravians at Springplace. Bought by Rich Joe’s daddy, James Vann, long time ago.”
“You will meet Joe Vann,” Sarah said. “His house rivals any in the South, and so do his slave holdings.” From the corner of her eye she saw Pleasant fidget, conscious no degree of disapproval would stop the woman from speaking her mind.
“Joe’s daddy was da most heartless being ever walked da face of da earth,” Pleasant exclaimed. “When he be drunk, everybody hide from sight.” She shook her head side to side. “Kills his own slaves in front of everybody, just so to make sure people ’fraid of him. Dat place, the very Hell on earth, so long as Rich Joe’s daddy was alive.”
“But the missionaries at Springplace, they were kind to you, of course,” Harriet said through trembling lips and tears. “Did you go to church when you lived at Springplace?”
“Hah! Not likely,” Pleasant replied, puffing up her chest. “No offense intended to you, Mrs. Boudinot, knowing you be a pious woman, but most missionaries here are nothin’ but a bunch o’ hypocrites.” Sarah stifled a grin at Harriet’s scowl. Pity welled in her for Harriet’s innocent optimism, especially now strong feelings against missionaries were on the rise.
“I heard da Gambold’s all da time,” Pleasant continued, “telling Cherokee mistresses not to be so nice to da slaves, dat it be God’s will to punish what they call wickedness by whippin’. Missionaries hab no problem ownin’ slaves and beatin’ ‘em too, claiming their evidence in da Bible favors slave holdin’. But I know they sure they lose converts if they speak out again it.”
Once, when Pleasant bent to serve her, Sarah saw scars where the dress gaped at her neck. At the time, she had the urge to place a healing hand on what she saw, to make them go away. Perhaps this revealed the source.
Harriet flinched, then nodded. “But I thought the missionaries here were well regarded, that their efforts were encouraged, their counsel sought?”
“I know I speakin’ bad,” Pleasant replied, “but if it be up to me, I tell folks Cherokee religion make much more sense to me. They believe in a Great Creator of all things, a God of da White, da Red and da Black man.”
“You and I understand their benevolent intent,” Sarah said to Harriet, “but many people think this means they will only gain respect if they become like White people, and this they do not wish to do.”
“I never believed it would be easy,” Harriet said, “but perhaps I misunderstood about how much work was yet to be accomplished.”
“I dare say Elias may have wanted to show a more positive picture,” Sarah replied, “and you know how much he wishes to make you happy. Nevertheless, any efforts made will not be in vain.”
“Well, I expect it be more than time for me to get back to my work,” Pleasant said, collecting the glasses. “Appreciate the refreshment, and da other women do too. It nice to get away from dose peaches. Smell pretty sour after a while,” she said.
“Ugh!” Sarah put her hand to her mouth.
“Uh-hunh,” Pleasant nodded. “I reckon you be breeding again, Miss Sarah, da way you acting on account of da smell. And dis time, it gonna be a boy.”
“How do you know?” Sarah said.
“Oh, I helped with lots of babies,” Pleasant replied. “And I gotta son myself.”
“You do?” Harriet looked at her brightly. “Where is he?”
“Oh, he not be far away from here,” she said, looking at Harriet. “He owned by your Indian father, Old Watie.”
Pleasant turned, heading back in the direction of the kitchen, glasses rattling on the tray.
1827 - Republic
CHAPTER 37
Hanna clucked her tongue when John handed her his ice-covered jacket. His wind-lashed skin burned when he stood close to the fire. Sarah pulled his wet scarf away, draping it on the fire grate, then chaffed his hands for warmth.
“It could not have happened at a worse time,” he said. It had been a long and frigid journey from the urgent Council.
“Both chiefs, Pathkiller and Charles Hicks, dead within two weeks of each other,” he moaned, slumping into the chair.
“Granted the ancient one has been frail for some time,” Sarah said, easing herself into the chair, “but Hicks’s death is so unexpected. And his leadership has been at the heart of the efforts toward civilization.”
“My father is now second principal chief,” he announced. “John Ross has become principal chief.”
Surprised, Sarah leaned back, resting her arms over her unborn child. Clarinda stirred in her cot, then settled.
John lowered his voice. “Chief Whitepath leads voices of dissent and dissatisfaction among the majority. They consider many of the new laws we propose offensive to our customary ones. Talk is, they will elect their own chief at a Council in Turniptown and challenge the legitimacy of our government. My father says we should meet with them to hear their grievances, but Ross insists it would only show weakness to negotiate with a faction. He believes public accusation would only strengthen their position against us.”
“And your father?”
“Ross’s concept of leadership differs from my father’s . . . and mine,” John said with some exasperation. He put his hands close to the fire, the feeling beginning to return. “Ross dismisses the threat and does not wish to confront the rebels. He says once our new constitution is written and voted on this summer, it will be our best defense against any factions or infringements from the American government on our sovereignty.”
“And what do you think?” she said.
“With Georgia’s threats, our own people divided, and Ross’s intransigence, my father will have his hands full until the next election, if a rupture can be forestalled.”
His head fell into his hands. “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“I should not have disturbed your tranquility at such a time with these concerns. I share my burdens at the expense of your own.”
“Is that not why we are wed?” she smiled. “So we may rely on each other to hear the anguish and joy of our hearts?”
Warm spring sun streamed through the window, casting beams on their bedroom walls, illuminating the counterpane tucked around her. In amongst the patchwork folds, their infant son lay peacefully sleeping.
“We will wish to call him John, of course,” Sarah said, touching the tiny creature resting in her arms, the profusion of black hair like a halo on his tiny head.
John stroked the velvet skin of the newborn, his eyes soft with tenderness. “John Rollin Ridge, if you will?” he said. “The thought of your brother Rollin always brings a smile to my face.” His fingers traced the bow of the baby’s lips, so like his own, then planted a kiss upon them. “My father of course will want the honor of giving him his Indian name.”
“I shall not mind that, so long as I can pronounce it,” Sarah smiled. “It is your choice to name our sons. I shall name the girls. I will write to my family and let them know he has arrived, and we are both well.”
“Our son is well?” John asked. The thought of another child, impaired, was never far from either of their minds. “I would not wish to mislead their expectations after . . .” Sarah gently unwrapped the swaddling around the baby.
“His appearance is that of a healthy child, as far as I can tell,” she said. “I do believe he does not suffer the same condition as our daughter, but we must look to the future.”
John rubbed the infant’s toes between his fingers, stroking the miniature digits. “The future,” he said. “What will his world be like when he too welcomes his first son? It is one thing to struggle for ourselves, for each other, to live with purpose. It is another to hold the future in your hands and have any faith you will send your child into a better place.”
She knew well that flicker of internal terror behind his look, the threats kept at bay but never vanished. It was as though he believed if he hoped for too much, it would doom the effort.
She reached up, placing her hand on his cheek. “Whatever the answer is, it is certain that he, as well as all of our children, will have everything within our power to give them, down to our last drop of blood,” she said, “and he will love his father very much, as his mother does.”
He took the hand that rested on his cheek.
“Now,” Sarah said, “tell me of the progress on the house. I expect to hold you to your promise when I rise from childbed.”
Within the month, Sarah held him to account.
“Go to your papa,” she said, shifting the soft bundle into John’s arms. He handed her the reins. Of course, she would want to drive.
The sun had risen, low sunlight flickering through the passing trees. John inhaled Rollin’s scent, pressing cheek to downy cheek. Sarah’s bonnet had long since been thrown to the buggy floor, her pinned hair mostly undone. The horse whinnied as she snapped the straps for more speed. The wind, the dangle of harnesses, and her fast breathing won the ride, and John sat back, relaxing as her passenger for a change.
Three years and two children under his parents’ roof, and for the first time, they would have their own home. Sarah’s words came in the dark their last night in the cabin. “If I am to be mistress,” she had said, “we must arrive first and welcome everyone.”
Her profile was all he watched for a while, high color on her cheeks, mouth an open grin as they sped towards Running Waters. Rollin slept in his arms, lulled by the trot, when the white house on the hill came into sight.
It was different seeing it this time, what he had built from the money the Creeks paid him, bright newness gleaming in the rising sun as the vista came closer. The building had the symmetry of New England and the splendor of a Southern mansion.
He knew each wide window, set in the white planks, reflecting in the bright June sky. The pillared portico of Grecian proportions arched over the wide front door, the entry framed with scores of glass panes on all sides. All came forth under his hands and supervision, every corner touched and crafted to put this presence on this space, his love poured into every feature.
She pulled to a stop at the bottom of the drive, slackening her grip on the reins. “It looks like home,” she said in the wind. It was what he intended.
Once they came in full view, she stopped, studying what she saw. “But it is too grand for me,” she said, “finer than your promise of a house like Cream Hill. You know I would be happy with less.” She leaned against him.
“And I would not,” John said, kissing the top of Rollin’s head. “This is our legacy upon the land . . . it is for more than us.” He studied the infant in his arms. Here indeed was his legacy. “Lucky,” he spoke to his son, “yes, you are lucky, little bird, to have such a place to learn how to fly.”
At dawn that morning, Ridge had bestowed John Rollin his Cherokee name, Daloniga tsisqua, Yellow Bird. John’s chest lifted. Why should he not be proud? Manifest in his arms, beside him and in front of him, the things he loved, his accomplishments, his hopes.
The saplings planted in the distant orchard showed promise, the trees around the house were in new leaf. Soft-domed hills framed the horizon, backdrop to the planted fields. The ground around the two-story house was still scarred, but he knew Sarah would soon amend that.
The wood of outbuildings—the barn, the smokehouse, chicken house, corn cribs, servants’ cabins—were all hewn, with windows pale against white chinking, neat and tight. Even from the bottom of the hill where the buggy stopped, the waft of raw timber, paint, and turned earth.
Sarah touched the dark down of the baby’s head, leaning her head on John’s shoulder. “Yellow Bird is protected in the home the woodpecker has built,” she grinned. “Here we are on another solstice day, with another chapter truly beginning for us.” Her honeyed voice said many things, too fleeting to express. John’s arm came round her, the three bound in one embrace.
“Shall we go home then, husband?” She clicked the side of her mouth, the horse following the drive up the incline to the front door.
John handed Rollin back to Sarah, angling down from the carriage. The flat stone landing of the portico was enough to seat six. Shade welcomed them as they climbed the steps. When he turned the key and opened the door, a breeze came down the expansive paneled hallway. Beyond, a vaulted entrance beckoned, with turned rails ascending in a graceful sweep, to an open landing above the polished oak floors.
He soaked in Sarah’s gasp of admiration as he breathed the air of his home, but before she stepped across the threshold, he reached for her, pulling her and Rollin to sit beside him on the steps. The vista at their feet looked out over pastures and corn fields ready to harvest.
“Wonderful,” he whispered, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside him. “If only . . . ” He inhaled the promise.
“Soon,” she said, scanning the rows to be harvested in front of them. John knew her thoughts were not on corn. Soon enough, his mother and father would arrive with Clarinda, and the slaves they had been gifted would populate this landscape, and their lives. Their responsibilities must now include the lives of those in their possession, along with this plantation’s management, perhaps sometimes without him there. He knew there were many thresholds still to cross today, with Sarah’s thoughts on more than her husband and family.
Her free hand tightened on his leg. “Thank you,” she said, “for myself, and for our children.” Her look made him lose sight of all else. “And for those who join our family.”
This gift of household servants from his father was bittersweet. Hanna, having formed a particular bond with Pleasant, would manage the household, her husband Henry, the plantation. Henry Clay, their son, just turned six. Statuesque Maria would cook in the new kitchen with brick ovens, while her husband, Simon, managed the livestock fenced in the fields. Three houses freshly built on rock pylons would house the enslaved people. Maria and Simon’s children, Willis and Lydia-Ann, were nearly grown, and Mary and Phebe would care for the children. Ten more souls, plus their family.
The gift, like so many I give Sarah, has a price, John thought.
A sharp little cry from his son forced Sarah’s palms to her breast, stopping her milk flowing. She unbuttoned her dress, a sigh of contentment passing her lips, and took the infant to feed. The sight of her nourishing his child, having refused a wetnurse, always moved him.
Empty rooms would soon echo with footsteps. Soon enough, a crunch of distant wheels on the road would disrupt their peace, field workers sent from his father would unload their sacks, and hack down the stalks of his first harvest. John touched his throat, tight with unspoken emotion. Sarah closed her bodice, turning to his extended hand.
He inclined his head toward their front door. “Will you follow me, once again, Sarah?”
CHAPTER 38
Hanna threw the sash open, her plump wrist flinging back and forth outside the window. “Shoo,” she hissed, hands mimicking wings. A string of butterflies preceded her fingertips.
“Look,” Sarah’s chin pointed up toward the house, the eyes of those in the yard drawn to the frenetic exodus from the second floor. Maria mumbled unintelligible incantations as Pleasant waved lavender from the window beside her.
Near the smoke house, Simon turned a spit over the fire, the slashed skin of the slaughtered hog curled back, singed, and blackened. Fat drippings flared the coals below the roasting pig, sending flames hissing upwards. Simon deftly pulled the cooked pork, heaping it on trenchers while Maria, helped by the children, carried steaming fresh-picked corn to the tables in the yard.
Maria fascinated Sarah from the moment she first saw her at Ridge’s Ferry, with her blue-black skin. West Indies was where she said she remembered before here, but her appearance spoke of other origins. She did not share much. Hanna had been born here, knowing only the life led in this place.
Sarah watched the women choreograph linens, plates, and platters of food, while the men moved trestles and benches under available shade. Susanna spread cloths across the planks of the tables, while Clarinda smoothed the corners with her short fingers. From one of the distant cabins the sound of Henry’s fiddle being tuned came to a stop. After the feast, there would be music.
