American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  She laced her shoes so tight her feet felt strangled. Aware that she had spent more time at the task than was necessary, Eliza reluctantly sat up and looked directly at Will Gordon. Young Xandra sat in front of him in the saddle.

  "Do you not have lessons in the afternoon?"

  Although the question was directed at his youngest daughter, Eliza knew it was meant for her. With a sinking sensation, she realized that Will Gordon undoubtedly thought she was neglecting her duties—or worse, purposely shirking them.

  "When it is hot in the afternoons, Mr. Gordon, the school becomes quite stuffy. The children find it difficult to concentrate on their lessons."

  "Do you know how a cricket makes that chirping sound, Father?" Xandra tipped her head back to look at him, her face alight with excitement, exhibiting little of her usual reserve. "It rubs its legs together and makes them squeak, like a saw cutting wood. Miss Hall said so. She knows lots of things," Xandra insisted, then paused, turning shy at the discovery that others were listening.

  "When did she tell you this?"

  "This afternoon," Mary Murphy volunteered. "Kipp caught a cricket and he was going to tear its legs off. Miss Hall said he mustn't because they was his musical instrument—like a piano."

  "Were" the teacher reproved. "They were?

  "They were his musical instrument," Mary repeated obediently.

  Will cast a glance at Eliza Hall, prepared to concede that the afternoon might not have been all play. She had definitely succeeded in gaining his youngest daughter's attention. Will had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Xandra lacked the intelligence her older brother and sister possessed. He was convinced Xandra sensed this too, and rather than draw attention to her slowness, she had become shy and withdrawn.

  The buggy rolled forward a few inches, then stopped. "Shawano." Will turned to his guest. Out of deference to his old friend and neighbor, he spoke in Cherokee. "This is the tutor I hired, Miss Eliza Hall, from Massachusetts." He translated it into English for the teacher, adding, "Miss Hall, this is Shawano Stuart, a man who has been a good friend to my family for many years. He and his son will share supper with us this evening."

  "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stuart."

  "My son has spoken of you, Miss Eliza Hall," Shawano replied in stilted English, a familiar humor gleaming in the pale blue eyes that studied her. "He said your hair curled tight like the thin shavings of wood. My eyes tell me that this is so."

  Observing the look of dismay that flashed briefly over the teacher's face, Will suppressed the urge to smile. "Miss Hall plays the piano. Perhaps we can prevail upon her to entertain us with her music this evening."

  "I... would be delighted to play for you, Mr. Stuart," Eliza said, her heart sinking with dread. "Now I must ask you to excuse us. It is time for the children to resume their lessons."

  Will lowered Xandra to the ground. "We will see you at supper, Miss Hall."

  5

  A cane thumped the dining room floor beside Will as the elderly Shawano Stuart, crippled by a long-ago war wound, maneuvered himself onto a chair. Instinctively, Will moved to assist him, but The Blade was already at his father's side, holding the chair steady and discreetly offering a supporting arm.

  Looking at his friend's son, Will suddenly felt old. Tall and lean, but powerfully built, The Blade commanded attention with an ease that belonged to a man twice his age. But it was the boldness glittering in his blue eyes that Will envied. He had the look of a man who would dare things that most men wouldn't consider—though never recklessly or foolishly. Will sensed The Blade was not a man who acted without thinking, a feeling reinforced by The Blade's recent success in the gold fields near Dahlonega.

  According to Shawano, twice The Blade had been arrested by the Guard for unlawfully—in Georgia's eyes—panning gold on Cherokee land claimed by the State of Georgia; twice The Blade had given the gold to his Negro servant, Deuteronomy, for safekeeping, certain it would never occur to the Georgians that he would entrust a small fortune to a slave.

  There was no doubt in Will's mind that The Blade was both intelligent and clever. He could almost forgive him for going against his father's wishes two years ago when he left the university in the North, abandoning his education.

  It was the readiness of The Blade's smile, always there, lurking just below the surface, that Will interpreted as rashness.

  Will took his seat at the head of the table and wondered what The Blade would do once he understood the seriousness of the current situation. There would be a need for men like The Blade if their nation was to weather these troubled times.

  He and Shawano spoke often about the future of their children and their nation. Both agreed that the old days were gone; their new leaders must be able to read and write in English, possess an education equivalent to that of the men they would be dealing with in Washington. The old order was stepping aside, content to counsel the new.

  Will glanced at Temple and caught the ardent look she exchanged with The Blade. Alerted by it, he studied both, noticing for the first time the possessive gleam in The Blade's eyes and the way Temple glowed with a woman's knowledge. Only this afternoon he had tried to remind himself that she was a woman grown. Now the evidence of it was before him.

  "Tell me, Will." Shawano Stuart spoke, forcing Will to redirect his attention. "What was the outcome of the council's meeting? Was it decided to send a delegation to meet with the president at his home in Tennessee?"

  Before Will could reply, Victoria interposed, "For the benefit of Miss Hall, we should converse in English. She does not understand our language."

  "You are right. Forgive us." Will glanced at the teacher and switched to English. "The council agreed that nothing would be accomplished by meeting with President Jackson. The stated purpose of his invitation was to discuss a new treaty that would exchange our lands here for land west of the Mississippi River. We have no desire for a new treaty. We want the federal government to abide by the terms of our existing treaty, and this the president will not discuss."

  Shawano nodded agreement with the decision, then directed his bright gaze to Eliza, although she would have been just as glad if he had ignored her. "This land has belonged to the Cherokee people from time out of mind. Before there was a government in Washington City, we were here. Before the English with their redcoats, we were here. Before the Spanish in their iron shirts, we were here. We have always been here."

  "If you have a treaty, I should think you cannot be forced to leave." Admittedly, being a woman Eliza had little experience with the workings of government or politics, yet she felt her statement was a logical assumption.

  "If Jackson has his way, we will." Will Gordon carved a thick slice of smoked ham and lifted it onto Shawano Stuart's plate.

  "Many times the thought has come to me that if I had known on the long-ago day when we fought beside Jackson at the Horseshoe that he would one day become our enemy, I would have killed him," Shawano declared.

  "Why were you fighting with Andrew Jackson?" Eliza tried to cover her shock that anyone could talk so casually about killing the president.

  "It was during your War of 1812 with the British. Many Creek Indians rose up against the American settlers in Alabama," Will explained. "Jackson was a young general in command of a militia from Tennessee. Many Cherokees volunteered to fight with him. Shawano and myself were among the ones who took part in the battle at Horseshoe Bend on the Tallapoosa River."

  "You should know, Miss Hall," The Blade inserted, "it was the action taken by the Cherokee soldiers that ultimately won the battle. The main body of Creeks, over a thousand strong, had erected a breastwork of logs across the neck of a peninsula of land formed by a sharp bend in the Tallapoosa River. The Cherokees were ordered across the river to prevent the Creeks from escaping. Meanwhile, Jackson gathered his remaining force of some two thousand men to make a frontal assault on the ramparts. His artillery shelled the log breastwork for two hours, with out success. My father and
other Cherokees could see the canoes of the Creeks on the opposite bank. Finally, the Ridge and two others swam the river and brought back two canoes. With these canoes, and others they later obtained, they crossed and recrossed the river until the entire body of Cherokee soldiers were transported to the other side. Then they attacked the Creeks from the rear. The Creeks were forced to turn to defend themselves, enabling Jackson to storm the breastworks with his men."

  "It was during this battle that Shawano Stuart received the wound that crippled his leg," Temple explained.

  "I see," Eliza murmured.

  "When I returned home," Shawano said, picking up the story, "I found my cattle stolen, my hogs butchered, and my corn shed destroyed for firewood by soldiers in the American army, the same army that I had fought beside. Still, I and many others believed that General Andrew Jackson was a friend of the Cherokee." Shawano smiled ruefully. "After he was elected president, he stated in his inaugural speech to your Congress that he would initiate legislation that would call for the removal to the West of all Indian tribes 'for their own good.' Is it any wonder that we feel we have been betrayed by a man we once called friend, Miss Eliza Hall?"

  "No. None at all." In fact, she could quite understand how they might feel bitter toward the president.

  Will Gordon continued. "Now this removal bill specifically states that the president is authorized to seek new treaties, but in no way does it authorize the violation of existing treaties. Our existing treaties with your country guarantee forever our territorial integrity and independence. By the letter of the treaty, the government in Washington must protect us from the actions now being taken by Georgia. Now Jackson refuses. Jeremiah Evarts, with the American Board of Foreign Missions in Boston, has recommended to Chief John Ross that we take our case to the United States Supreme Court. The council has given John Ross the authority to hire attorneys for that purpose—although how we will pay their fees, I cannot say," he admitted. "Jackson's Secretary of War refuses to give our annuity payment to the Cherokee treasury. He insists it must be divided among the Cherokee population on a per capita basis."

  "Why is that wrong?" It sounded logical to Eliza that the yearly monies from a treaty should go to the people.

  "Would you travel two hundred miles to receive fifty cents?" Will asked. "That is approximately the amount per individual. This is unquestionably a deliberate attempt by Jackson to deprive us of the necessary finances to pursue our case in court. Our only choice is to pool our resources to raise what funds we can and appeal to outside sources for the rest."

  Eliza stared at the china plate before her, the silver cutlery, the mounds of food on the table, the people seated around it dressed in finer clothes than she owned. She was confused. Everything she had heard since she had arrived at Gordon Glen—the depredations of the Georgia Guard, the confiscation of Cherokee gold mines, the law against testimony by a Cherokee in a Georgia court, and now the actions taken by the federal government in Washington—could not all be lies.

  "I fail to understand this." She frowned. "Why are they trying to force you to leave?"

  "It is simple, Miss Hall," The Blade replied. "The Georgians have seen the richness of our land—the gold, the fields of cotton and corn, the fertile valleys, the comfortable farms. They want it for themselves."

  His smile took most of the sting from his words. But in Eliza's mind she heard the ironic question that could have easily followed his statement: why should an Indian have it? She experienced a faint twinge of guilt. Not long ago, when she still considered all Indians to be savages, it might have been her attitude, too.

  "Ignorance is a terrible thing." She was speaking of herself when she said that.

  "Maybe now you understand our confusion, Miss Eliza Hall,"

  Shawano stated. "Long ago, the white men told the Cherokees to lay down their bows and arrows and take up the plow and hoe. They said we must learn the ways of the white man so we could live together in peace. This we did. Now they say we must join the western Cherokees in Arkansas and hunt deer again."

  "How ridiculous," Eliza blurted, glancing at her employer, who was impeccably dressed in a frock coat, white shirt, and blue cravat. "Can you imagine Mr. Gordon in moccasins stalking a deer with a bow and arrow in a forest?" She tried, and failed miserably.

  When The Blade began to chuckle heartily, Eliza was mortified. Then his father joined him. Soon everyone at the table was laughing, including Eliza, albeit self-consciously.

  Even Victoria joined in the spirit of the moment. "My husband has not touched a bow of black locust wood since he was the age of Kipp. I fear he would no longer remember how to hold it, or notch his arrow."

  Her comment produced another round of laughter.

  The sound of merriment drifted through the dining room's open windows to the detached kitchen outside. Phoebe stopped scraping at the fat drippings burned onto the iron skillet and glanced at the tall, lank black man leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.

  "What you reckon they be laughin' at, Deu?"

  "Hard to say." He straightened slowly, then turned and wandered into the kitchen. "Master Stuart, he loves to laugh. And Master Blade, he's always smiling about something."

  But Phoebe was convinced there wasn't anyone who had a finer smile than Deuteronomy Jones. He was smiling at her now, and his whole face shone with it. It made his eyes dark and soft like that velvet dress Miss Victoria sometimes wore. Deuteronomy Jones wasn't just the proudest, smartest, handsomest Negro she had ever seen; he was the nicest, too. He didn't strut around like a big rooster, crowing about hisself all the time. And he never talked down to anybody.

  "Master Will, he don't hardly never smile," Phoebe admitted. "His mouth do once in t'while, but his eyes, they all the time be so sad."

  "He treats you good, doesn't he?" Deu studied her closely, not liking the things he was thinking. He had never seen whip marks on her, but masters had different ways of abusing their female slaves. Phoebe was too young for a man to take her. The thin dress she wore showed a body that was just maturing.

  But she had the prettiest face of any woman he knew. Her big eyes were dark and shiny like the river at night with the moon full on it. Her cheeks were round as apples, and her mouth was about as perfect as a mouth could get.

  Deu had been watching her for a long time now, waiting for her to grow up. Still, she belonged to Will Gordon. Likely as not, she would marry one of his field Negroes. Two or three of them were already old enough to have a wife. He couldn't sleep at night when he thought about her with one of them. It twisted him all up inside worse than that time he had the cholera.

  "He treats me fine. Miz Vi'toria too. She be sickly, tho'. That cough she got, my mama say it ain't good. Course, this be the sickly season now. Reckon when the hot days goes away, she be better."

  Catching the sound of footsteps on the brick path to the kitchen, Phoebe hurriedly turned back to the iron skillet and began scraping in earnest at the burned-on drippings. Deu crossed to the water bucket and lifted the drinking gourd as Black Cassie appeared in the doorway. She shot a dark look at Deu. He had the uneasy feeling she knew exactly why he was in the kitchen and it wasn't to fetch himself a drink. He drank down the water and wandered back outside.

  "What you two be doin' in here while I's gone?"

  Phoebe hunched even lower over the skillet, trying to avoid her mother's suspicious eyes. "Nothin', Mama. We jus' be talkin'."

  "Was you shinin' up t' him?"

  "No, Mama." She flushed.

  "That man be trouble, girl. Don't you be messin' 'round wid him. Does ya hear me?"

  "Yes'm." But she couldn't help wondering why he was trouble. Deu wasn't bad. She had never heard him talking about running away. He liked the Stuarts. He'd said so lots of times.

  The sun hung heavy above the ridge top, setting the horizon aflame with its dull red light, when Deu drove the buggy up to the front entrance of the plantation. Stopping close to the veranda steps, he wrapped the reins around the
standard and climbed down to assist his crippled master.

  Shawano Stuart waved him aside and hauled himself into the buggy. He dragged his dead leg into position and propped his silver-headed cane against the seat beside him. Will Gordon came over to stand next to the buggy.

  Shawano smiled at him. "It was good to speak with you again, old friend."

  "You and your son are always welcome in my home, Shawano."

  Shawano nodded and watched as The Blade mounted his horse and rode over to the young woman waiting on the white-columned veranda. "It is good you feel this way, Will Gordon," Shawano said, noting the way young Temple gazed at his son, her expression full of a woman's invitation. "I think you will see much of one of us in the days to follow."

  Shawano was pleased by what he saw. It had long been his wish that his son would want the daughter of his friend Will Gordon to be his wife. In his heart of hearts, he believed a union between these two young people would make fine sons and daughters. Each was keen of mind and possessed of a proud, strong will. Wisely, Shawano had not voiced his desire.

  "It would seem so," Will Gordon replied, casting a sharp look at The Blade. "She is still young, though."

  "She is a woman. You have only to look to see this."

  "Perhaps." Will Gordon released a troubled sigh. "Perhaps the eyes of a father always see the child in his daughter."

  "Perhaps." Shawano smiled gently. "But that does not make it so."

  "I know."

  Shawano looked at his son and recalled the days when his loins had burned for a woman with the same fever. But those days were long ago. Time had shriveled more than just his lame leg. With a lift of his hand in farewell, Shawano gathered the buggy reins and slapped them smartly on the horse's rump. It trotted eagerly for home.

  6

  Up, down, up, down. Methodically, Phoebe lifted the dasher and plunged it back into the butter churn, pausing now and then to swat at a buzzing fly or wipe the sweat from her face. It was hot, with no whisper of a breeze, not even in the shade. Sweat rolled from her, making her dress cling to her skin like a tick on a dog.