Red clay running waters, p.43
Red Clay, Running Waters, page 43
Sophia Sawyer
CHAPTER 51
Weeks of feeling nothing but a bruised heart dimmed what fires of hope Elias had left. When at last the missionaries were brought before Georgia Judge Clayton, their choices were made abundantly clear. Take the oath or move out of the state. Return to Georgia and be arrested. A date to return for trial determined, they were given bail and released. Now the mission complex ahead of Elias at Brainerd in Tennessee became refuge for the men of the cloth, until their trial date arrived.
Elias took it as a sign of God’s favor that Samuel returned to the safety of Brainerd with only a warning, after making an unsanctioned and desperate visit to New Echota. When Samuel arrived home in secret, the tiny gray sunken face of his newborn daughter had reflected all their dying hopes. Elias and Harriet had stood by as the fragile infant passed over to the angels. The grief for the poor innocent, for the fate of their futures, was vast. Elias was certain any man with less conviction might waver from his course, under the circumstances.
When Elias road into the mission complex it was balm to his wounded soul to see Samuel going between classrooms, as though the specter of imprisonment were not over him. Elias made no pretense of hiding his heavy heart. Their embrace spoke volumes of the nature of their emotions at their reunion.
Despite recent sorrows, Samuel appeared oddly invigorated to Elias, his eyes bright and clear. They sat in an empty pew in the chapel to talk. The conviction radiated like a light from Samuel’s person. The missionary’s bony fingers laced together in his lap. Samuel looked out the church’s open door across the mission complex. “Elizur Butler and I are the only two willing to stand against the oath, to force the issue to the Supreme Court,” Samuel told him. “It will be impossible to know what circumstances will exist when I return from prison, or if my frail body will withstand the hard labor, but God willing, we will rejoin the people we love, and serve them again when I am released. These are our people too.”
Samuel’s reassuring words only made Elias’s task more painful.
“We will forever hold your example in our hearts,” Elias choked. “Harriet and I, the Ridges, the Council, everyone . . . ” he grabbed Samuel’s arm. “You must know we are pledged to care for your family, you can rest assured of that.”
Samuel placed a reassuring hand on Elias’s back. “I would never question the fidelity of such good friends. But that is not what you have ridden all this way to tell me. What is it that troubles you?”
Elias watched the natives and brethren engaged in their daily chores. The pastoral landscape before his eyes spoke nothing of the conflicts around them. “I may need to leave New Echota this winter,” he said. He turned to watch for change in Samuel’s expression. “I need not tell you we will continue to fight until you are free, until we are all at liberty, but Ross wants John and I to undertake another tour, to raise money for our defense in the courts and bring the matter before Congress again.” He chewed his lip, struggling with his next confession. “I have been receiving threatening letters from Georgia residents,” he said at last. “So has John and David Vann . . . vicious, violent things with scurrilous language and curses commonly used by the citizens of Georgia.”
Samuel’s deep-set eyes showed alarm. “You should print them in the paper for all to see,” he said.
“Yes, I believe I shall,” Elias said wryly. “Colonel Nelson summoned me the other day to accuse the Phoenix of publishing slanders against Georgia. When I defended against the accusation, he informed me that he had been told you were the real editor of the Phoenix, and the author of those articles.” Elias laughed, dryly. “He said in the future they would hold me responsible for what might appear in the paper, now that you are no longer around. Eventually he acknowledged he had no authority to prosecute the paper, but if it were up to him, he would tie us both to a tree and whip us. I dare not tell Harriet. She is with child again, and the child will likely be born while I am away, and John has no wish to tell Sarah he will be leaving so soon again. It is sure to upset her in her condition. I regret this with all my heart, but—”
Samuel stopped him from speaking. “We have many friends, and the Lord will provide. Our women are strong women, else they would not so selflessly take on the burdens they endure. I often think they are more capable of understanding the meaning of the word sacrifice and endurance than us men. In spite of all, they remain faithful.”
The two stood frozen with the magnitude of their farewells. They wept as they fell upon each other, for all the abuses, fears, wrongs, and dangers, for all the hypocrisies and injustices, and for all the Godly people only wishing to do right. John crumbled the note, commanding his voice not to waver. “A verdict in the Georgia courts was reached by the jury in fifteen minutes,” he said to Sarah. “Pardons were granted to those missionaries willing to take the oath or promising to leave the state.”
She nodded, waiting for what was to follow. “Samuel Worcester and Elizur Butler were convicted of the charge against them and sentenced to four years of hard labor in the penitentiary at Milledgeville.”
Sarah choked back a sob.
“When Judge Clayton queried as to why Samuel refused to comply, here is what Samuel said.” He read the account aloud:
“I could not take the oath required of white men who live in the states limits because I should then acknowledge the jurisdiction of Georgia over the Cherokee Nation, which is averse to my opinion and would affect my usefulness as a missionary among them. My principles are founded on the word of God, and in endeavoring to follow the examples of Holy Writ, if my conduct is construed to be an unjustifiable interference with political affairs, I cannot help it.”
John looked up to see Sarah, pale hands to her temples, shaking her head.
“Permission for the privilege of saying a farewell to their friends was denied to Samuel and Elizur.”
The trees showed the first signs of autumn when Ridge and Susanna arrived at Running Waters, their wagon heavy with food. They would share the burden of hospitality when the leaders gathered at Ross’s in the following days.
“All indications are Wilson Lumpkin will be the next governor,” John said to his father as the wagons were loaded. “Some of the citizens of Georgia, to their credit, are greatly disturbed by the treatment the missionaries received. I suspect the new governor will not wish to heap more shame upon the state by further antagonizing the public, especially with our case before the Supreme Court. Lumpkin may not be any better than Gilmer, but at least there is a chance he may stop persecuting us and cease from drawing up more odious laws.”
Ridge made a grunt. “We will choose a new location for our Councils when we meet at Ross’s, one where we will be free from Georgia’s withering hand,” Ridge said.
“Many things will need considering besides where to hold our meetings,” John replied. “The president, in a fit of pique, has fired his Cabinet. None will oppose Jackson’s commands, now voices of moderation have been banished, and Jackson’s friends, family, and business partners control the government till the end of his term. The newspaperman Amos Kendall who ran Jackson’s deceitful campaign now whispers his advice in the president’s ear. Kendall is clever enough to overwhelm public discourse in the papers just when we need the support most.”
“If the Court rules against the state and in our favor,” Ridge said, “Jackson will be enraged, and even more intent on obtaining what he desires in the time he has left. Only the people voting for a new president can stop this.” Ridge’s gaze went to his grandchildren playing in the grass. “We are like a crane, perched on one leg, waiting in hopes for a fish, while the water rises. We will know soon enough if the sand of justice will be washed from beneath our feet.”
John searched his father’s face for the truth. “And have you known justice done on our behalf in the past?” he asked.
Ridge placed his hand on his shoulder. “For now,” he replied, “I can only continue to hope it will come to pass, vesting my energies on that side of the scales. In the meantime, we must enjoy the sight of our beautiful children, and the women who hold our hearts. We must not forget what they bare for us while we do battle. In the meantime, we can take consolation in the failure of Agent Currey’s new enrollment office. So far, his efforts to convince our people to remove has been futile.”
Some golden leaves remained on the trees, though a strong wind would soon see the branches bare. By the time the leaves were gone, John’s presence would be a memory.
Sarah rocked gently, her infant son Herman suckling at her breast. The beauty of her children always stunned her. This one was no different, his tiny features already promising to carry his father’s imprint. Her children would have to serve as substitutes for John’s company until the Supreme Court’s verdict was in, the outcome settled, and he safely home again.
The women of Sarah’s circle knew what peace and strength they provided, carrying their burdens on their backs like snails. Husbands put themselves in the path of the oncoming hurricane; wives gave solace and support to weather the consequences. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to be the source of solace, even for herself. This winter of bleak prospects her faith must endure in hopes this might be the last time John needed to journey north, the last winter her friends and neighbors were subject to fear and abuses, the last winter before the conscience of the public answered the call of unbiased justice and let them keep their homes.
Her eyes traveled to the body lying listlessly in deep sleep beside her. How willingly he bears the responsibility, entrusting to success in all he endeavors. Behind his confidence, a selflessness drove him, a trait she could not fault him for, a source of both pride and pain.
In the stillness of the early dawn, she lay the sated baby down in his cradle, and came to sit beside John, committing his sleeping face to memory once more.
“What are you thinking?” he said. His eyes, soft with sleep, pried open. “I can hear the cogs turning with my eyes closed.”
A short laugh escaped Sarah’s lips. “A hundred things. How beautiful you are, how jealous I am of what you will see, of your visit to my family, how proud I am of who you are.”
“You are being too flattering, but I will take it.”
“I was also thinking how glad I am that you will be away from here after last night.”
Sitting up abruptly, John’s startled eyes drew close to hers. “I would have thought you would be more fearful with me gone.”
Yesterday, Ross and his brother Andrew called on Major Ridge in distress. On their way home they were fired upon from the woods. A knife and gun fight ensued, with the Rosses getting the better of the attackers; one was stabbed and then they ran off. Eventually it was discovered that one of the letter writing Georgia tormentors was behind the assassination attempt.
“My life will change little,” she replied. “If anything, with you and Elias gone, the tranquility of my life might become completely unbearable,” she teased, then grew serious. “If you are here and the Guard would take you, as they have so many others, you may as well be in the North.” She promised herself she would give him no cause for alarm. He drew her into his arms. “I am safe here,” she continued. “Simon and Henry, your father, and Stand will watch over us. White women are not targets of the Guard’s ire yet. Their Southern creed at least preserves us from that.” She raised her eyes to him. “By the time you return, things may be entirely different. A new governor may think reason more prudent than coercion. Justice may yet prevail in the courts, and the trust the Cherokee have put in White men may yet be rewarded.”
“That is the wish of our hearts,” he said, “but you and I have seen enough of the true nature of this world.”
She curled into his embrace, savoring the final moments before the rising sun forced them apart. In the growing light, the plaintive sound of mourning doves spoke of Sarah’s heart.
Part 5
JUSTICE
1832 - Verdict
CHAPTER 52
Blurred by speed and condensation, the muted landscapes outside the Philadelphia-to-New York stage held little interest for John.
“Your recollections of five years ago will not serve,” John said in hushed Cherokee to Elias. “The cities have changed, along with the nature of the occupants we pin our future on.”
More speeches would follow, and a chance to see Dempsey, Boston and Mission Board offices, and after a verdict came, a long overdue visit to the Northrops,.
Once they arrived at Clinton Hall that night, all manner of society, from illustrious to prosaic, turned out in droves to hear about the Indian crisis. Seeing thousands of sympathetic faces in rapt attention was encouragement, John’s confidence surging that public sentiments favoring their rights might prevail. The auditorium was still as a tomb, no heart unmoved in the breasts of the cosmopolitan citizens.
“Although our complexions are not the same, our feelings and the kinder sympathies of our natures are. Our social relations are the same; our soil is prized as much as the White man’s. We love our wives and children as much as the White man could love. Must all these relations be sundered and uprooted?” Each time he uttered these words, he steeled himself against thoughts of home and his family, lest he become choked with emotion. “Must we be torn from our fathers’ graves? How could we remove our mothers with their infants, and our old men and women across the great river and plains? What faith can we place in a new treaty, made with men who declare that our sacred treaties are no longer binding?”
Many eyes filled with tears as John called upon their conscience, their humanity, in recounting the cruelties of Georgia against his unoffending people. Awakened to the Indian crisis, indignation fired the blood of his audiences, and signatures soon filled petitions, with contributions flooding in.
John had added incentive to inspire the passions of those in attendance on this sharp winter’s night, with Dempsey’s mercurial face in attendance. His former traveling companion would understand better than most what was spoken of that night, and what was at stake at the crossroads a short distance ahead. John’s heart still hammered, even after the crowds dispersed.
Dempsey waited patiently as the auditorium emptied. As soon as politeness allowed, John hastened his halting gate towards the open arms of his friend, the release from his public persona loosening his muscles and yielding a sigh. Pulling back, he gripped Dempsey’s thin shoulders. “Your face is more welcome than all the multitudes at my feet,” John said in a low voice.
The man’s features, though lined and beginning to sag, were still youthful despite the fact he approached sixty.
“And yours, a pleasure to witness again,” Dempsey replied, “though I would wish the circumstances bringing us together were not what they are.” He patted John’s shoulder. “Still, our friendship is blessed by these dire times bringing you here once more.” He collected his coat, donned his hat, then hooked arms with John and made for the door.
“Where is your cousin tonight?” Dempsey asked as they stepped outside.
“In Cornwall, visiting his wife’s family,” John replied, “and I am free of making speeches until I arrive in Boston.” John shivered in the falling sleet outside, so reminiscent of the stinging ice they had experienced arriving in Cornwall. Sparkling crystals shimmered on their black beaver hats firmly held in place, the wind forcing them to squint their eyes.
Gaslights threw globes of light on the darkened street where they hailed a carriage. Once inside, they brushed themselves free of ice crystals, placed their shoes near the foot warmer, and threw on the lap robes to ward off the chill. The eerie hiss of sleet on the rooftop and clopping hoofbeats were background to their conversation.
“Where will you speak in Boston?”
“Park Street Church,” John replied. Recognition bloomed on Dempsey’s face. “It is in Boston we expect to hear the Court’s verdict on Worcester v. Georgia.” The sharp air stung his nostrils.
“Brimstone Corner, they call that church,” Dempsey scoffed, a puff of breath visible in the frigid compartment. “Beecher’s legacy lives on.”
“Let us hope it is not brimstone that rains down on us once the Court’s verdict arrives,” John said.
“A topic we shall explore in depth,” Dempsey replied with a tight smile, “once we put our hands around a glass of warmed cognac in front of my fire.”
What a relief John felt to be in Dempsey’s company, free to be himself, free of public expectations, to look forward to time of frank discussion in the company of a wise friend.
“Come to think on it,” Dempsey said, pulling back and studying John’s face, “Beecher’s legacy sits beside me right now I suppose, and a noble legacy it is, judging from your speech tonight.” The erratic beams of streetlamps strobed the carriage interior. “I often forget you are nearly thirty, and the father of four, but even so, I should no longer be surprised. Since our very first meeting you have exceeded all expectations, mine, and I dare say others. Tell me, what became of the other boys at the school?”
“Not many have taken up the intended blessings of the Cornwall experiment. It appears my cousin and I only served to prove their experiment was . . . shall we say, flawed?”
“Flawed, yes, but still a success, if my eyes do not deceive me,” Dempsey said. “I’d like to claim a hand in your making, but then looking back, from the start you were destined for more.”
“One can never know what influence a person may have on the future,” John said, “but yours has been of great consequence to me, and to Sarah.”
Dempsey tsked. “Well, as with our friend Paine, certainty of purpose may either be the greatest gift, or prove one’s undoing.”
