American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  The haunting nightsong of a whippoorwill echoed plaintively through the darkness as Eliza retraced her steps to the log school to retrieve a shawl she had inadvertently left there. She sighed deeply, wondering if Shadrach and Phoebe felt as cheated as she did; they, out of the chance to learn, and she, out of the chance to teach them.

  Glancing ahead, she noticed a faint glow lighting one of the windows. Had someone set fire to the school? Eliza experienced a stab of fear. The Georgians—was this how they intended to stop her from teaching slaves? She quickened her pace, then broke into a run. As she hurried up the steps, she heard a scuffling movement inside the school.

  She flung open the door, demanding, "Who's there?"

  When she crossed the threshold, someone scrambled out the side window. Eliza halted, stunned to discover the room was pitch-black. There was no light. But the intruder had been real, of that she was certain. She ran to the window just as the saucer-shaped moon came out from behind a cloud and revealed a small, dark figure racing madly for the big hickory tree and flinging himself behind its broad trunk.

  She swung away from the window and looked about the shadowed room. In the dim light, Eliza saw something on the floor. She went to investigate and found a primer and a candle. The melted wax was still pliable and warm. Eliza picked up the book and smiled.

  "Shadrach," she whispered and clutched the book to her breast. "Dear little Shadrach. You want to learn, don't you? You will not be frightened off. Not to worry. I will help you, and no one shall ever know. It will be our secret. I promise."

  She relit the candle and carried it to her desk. Blotting the tears from her eyes with one hand, she dipped the pen in the inkwell with the other and carefully wrote out the instructions for the next day's lesson, deliberately not addressing it to anyone and leaving it unsigned. She placed it atop the primer, set the candle near it, then retrieved her shawl and left the school.

  As she passed by the hickory tree on her way to the house, something scraped against the bark. "You gave me a frightful scare, Mr. Moon," she said in a very loud voice. "I thought someone was in the school, but it was only you, wasn't it? I am glad I went in, though. I had forgotten to leave the instructions for tomorrow's lesson on my desk."

  Eliza strolled past the tree, not even looking to see if Shadrach was still behind it. The next morning, the instructions, primer, and candle were sitting on her desk, almost exactly where she had left them. From then on, every day she left a different textbook on her desk, along with a set of directions and a new candle.

  13

  On a fine spring morning in late March, when the forsythia was a blaze of yellow and the blossoming dogwood spread a web of white lace in the woods, Will Gordon returned. Temple was on her way back to the big house after tending to the sick in the Negro quarters when she saw him riding up the lane.

  Beside her, Shadrach paused to look down at his bare feet and the tender green blades of grass poking up between his toes, the weather now warm enough that the slaves no longer wore their winter shoes.

  Temple pressed her woven basket containing bandages, herbs, and ointments into his hands. "Quick. Go tell everyone my father is back," she said, not taking her eyes off the approaching horse and rider.

  Shadrach dashed toward the house with the news.

  She veered off the brick path and cut across the lawn to welcome him home. Just short of the front entrance, he saw her and reined in his horse while he waited for her to reach him.

  Suddenly the front door opened and Kipp and Xandra ran out, followed closely by Eliza and Victoria, with little John in her arms. Temple quickly reached them. Eliza stepped back, allowing them to rush forward and embrace him in affectionate welcome.

  "I am glad you came home," Xandra declared, holding on to the leg of his trousers while Will shifted his youngest son to the crook of his other arm. "I missed you."

  "I missed you, too." Will stroked the top of her head in a loving caress.

  The news of his return from the federal capital spread rapidly through the countryside. By the noon hour, a dozen visitors were at the dining room table, including The Blade and his father, Shawano Stuart. All were eager to hear the results of the delegates' sojourn in Washington and to relate the latest happenings at home.

  "The situation has grown worse while you were away, Will."

  "Yes," another spoke up. "A dozen or more white men were arrested for violating the licensing law, including several of the missionaries—Samuel Worcester, Isaac Proctor, and Nathan Cole."

  "A comic sight it was, too, Will," The Blade inserted dryly. "Men armed with muskets rode up to the missions, led by a wagon carrying a large drum. A boy not much older than your son Kipp banged away on it while another man marched behind it tootling away on a fife. They arrested the men—without warrants—let them say good-bye to their families, then marched them off to Lawrenceville."

  "I was told they were released," Will said, an eyebrow arched in question.

  "They were. The judge dismissed the charges against them. Since missionaries are also postmasters, he considered them to be federal employees, and therefore not subject to the Georgia licensing law," Eliza explained. "When Na—Mr. Cole stopped by afterward, he assured me he was treated well. He also said several prominent Georgians were very sympathetic and expressed strong disapproval of such actions."

  "But even they want the Cherokees to remove," the man across from her asserted.

  "You should hear the songs the Georgians sing, Father," Temple declared, then proceeded to give him a sampling of the latest air.

  " 'Go, nature's child.

  Your home's in the wild;

  Our venom cannot grip ye

  If once you'll roam,

  And make your home

  Beyond the Mississippi.' "

  "Have you forgotten the other one they sing?" The Blade mocked.

  " 'All I ask in this creation

  Is a pretty little wife and a big plantation

  Way up yonder in the Cherokee Nation.' "

  "No, I have not." For an instant, her dancing gaze met the challenge of his, then fell away.

  "Is it true what they say, Will?" Shawano Stuart said in English, out of courtesy to Eliza. "The raiders have grown bolder?"

  "I... have read some of the accounts published in the Phoenix? Will admitted.

  "Then you know how they have ridden down some of our people and tried to trample them under the hooves of their horses," said one man. "They shot an old man who did not move swiftly enough to open a gate for them. Another hanged himself when he saw it. I think he was too saddened by all that has happened and could not bear to look upon more suffering by our people."

  "No one is safe anymore," another insisted. "When they came here to your plantation—"

  "What?" Will snapped, his head coming up, a frown creasing his face. "When was this?"

  For an instant, there was silence in the room. Temple started to answer, but Eliza was quicker. "The Georgia Guard stopped by earlier this month. I saw no need to inform you about it since they caused no trouble and left almost immediately."

  Temple smiled. "You would have been proud of the way she stood up to them, Father."

  Conscious of his gaze on her, Eliza felt uncomfortable and awkward. She found it embarrassing when Temple went on to relate, in detail, the incident at the schoolhouse.

  "You have my deepest gratitude, Miss Hall," Will said quietly when Temple finished.

  "It is quite unwarranted, I assure you," Eliza replied briskly, trying to deny the blush that rosed her cheeks. "Your daughter has greatly exaggerated my role and downplayed her own."

  "Somehow, I doubt that," Will countered, a hint of dryness in his voice. "But I can see that you have no wish to discuss this." With a turn of his head, he directed attention away from her, much to Eliza's relief.

  Soon the conversation concentrated again on a general discussion of the current situation: the number of livestock that had been stolen—estimates ranged as hi
gh as five hundred head of cattle and horses—houses that had been burned to the ground, and the white squatters who had moved onto Cherokee property in anticipation of Georgia's planned survey and lottery.

  To add to their grief, wagonloads of whiskey were being brought into the Nation by peddlers, in total disregard of the Cherokee laws prohibiting the sale of liquor. Georgia had already declared the laws to be unenforceable, effectively hamstringing the Nation's courts and its Light Horse police force with penalties for any who disagreed. Many Cherokees, despondent and demoralized by the current plight, had turned to drinking, sometimes becoming violent under its influence. Gamblers, too, frequented the Nation in increasing numbers, cheating other Indians out of what the pony clubs didn't steal.

  Despite this depressing news, Will Gordon insisted, "We must not give up hope. Instead, let us all follow the example set by our principal chief John Ross and our long-respected chieftain Major Ridge and spread the word that our nation—the Cherokees— must remain united in our stand against any new treaty calling for our removal." He insisted that they were not alone in their struggles, that they still had many friends in Washington and Congress. While Chicken Snake Jackson might be their enemy, it was widely believed that Henry Clay would defeat him in next year's election. And Henry Clay, as a friend of the Cherokees, would enforce the terms of the existing treaties.

  Moved by his conviction, no one in his family could imagine disagreeing with him. No one did as they gathered in the main parlor at the meal's conclusion to trade further views on the situation and discuss potential strategies.

  14

  Gordon Glen

  July 7, 1831

  The guests numbered in the hundreds—neighbors, relatives, friends, some traveling considerable distances to be on hand for the joining in marriage of Will Gordon's daughter and Shawano Stuart's son, two of the most respected families in the Nation.

  Eliza had made herself a new gown for the occasion, a serviceable one of floral-patterned linen, well suited to the South's warm climate, with gigot sleeves, collar, and fichu pelerine of white gauze. In a burst of extravagance, she had purchased a pink silk bonnet from the trader's store. With it and her black pumps, she felt extremely well dressed and slightly fashionable. Although why that mattered, she didn't know.

  Yet she was nervous, and marveled that Temple was not. In fact, Temple looked quite serene as she calmly ate the food served to her by her mother and aunt. She seemed supremely confident, a characteristic Eliza had come to associate with the young woman. It was a trait she often envied for herself.

  With the ceremonial meal finished, Temple rose and turned to her mother. Tears trembled on the rim of her lower lashes as Victoria Gordon smiled bravely and tried not to cry, as she had done at odd times for days now. They embraced, then Victoria picked up an ear of corn and a blanket, her hands shaking visibly.

  "It is time," someone said.

  Eliza watched, waiting to see what to do next and privately wondering if it was the unusualness of the proceedings that made her feel so on edge. Temple had insisted that her wedding to The Blade be a combination of Cherokee traditional rites and Christian ceremony, with the former preceding the latter. On one hand, Eliza considered it a rare opportunity to witness native customs, but on the other, the pagan aspect made her uncomfortable.

  As the other women, mainly family members—Eliza guessed they could be called attendants—walked to the door, Eliza accompanied them. Behind her, she could hear the delicate swish of Temple's silk gown of pale lavender as she followed them.

  Once they were down the staircase, Eliza spied Nathan Cole waiting at the front door, his crossed hands holding the Bible. But the women didn't approach him. Instead, the attendants led the bride to the dining room arch. The Blade and his companions stood in the opposite doorway to the main parlor.

  A woman handed The Blade a blanket and a ham of venison. Then Victoria tearfully gave Temple the blanket and corn she carried. With ritualistic slowness, Temple and The Blade walked toward each other, their eyes locked together. Eliza had the distinct feeling that no one else existed for them.

  When the couple met in the center of the plantation's great hall, they exchanged the venison and corn, then placed their blankets together. John Ross, the principal chief of the Cherokees, who had been standing next to Nathan, came forward and announced, "The blankets are joined."

  Victoria pressed a linen handkerchief to her mouth and began to sob softly into it, the tears now rolling freely down her sallow cheeks. Eliza moved closer to her, concerned that in Victoria's weakened condition, she might suffer another of her terrible coughing spells.

  The bride and groom then moved to stand before Nathan. Eliza thought Nathan looked nervous—and proud—as he fumbled briefly before opening the book to the proper page. She smiled, remembering how happy he had been when Temple had requested he perform the wedding ceremony.

  "Dearly beloved," he began, his voice cracking, "we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . ."

  As she listened to them exchange their vows, their voices ringing so clearly and confidently, rich with feeling, Eliza experienced a twinge of envy. She would never know a love like that. Just for an instant, she wanted to cry. Then she sternly reminded herself that her spinster status was by choice. She had her life's work, and her independence, something no married woman could claim.

  "By the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife," Nathan declared.

  Eliza didn't join the throng of family and friends that converged on the newly married pair. Instead, she joined Nathan.

  "They make a handsome couple." He fairly beamed with pride.

  "Indeed." She was obliged to agree.

  "Now the feasting begins," Nathan said and smiled a warning. "It is likely to go on for hours."

  "Heaven knows enough food has been prepared." Eliza watched as Will Gordon opened the door for the newlyweds.

  As The Blade and Temple stepped outside to greet the mass of guests waiting for them to appear, each held an end of the blankets; The Blade carried the corn and Temple the venison.

  "Shall we join them?" Nathan offered Eliza his arm. Together, they followed the couple onto the veranda. "This is symbolic, you know," he said in a quiet aside. "The joining of blankets represents a promise to live together, and the trading of venison and corn is an exchange of vows—the man pledging to provide food for her and the woman promising to prepare the meal. A silent but solemn commitment, I suppose you could call it."

  The peacocks had long ago abandoned the lawn to the crush of guests now thronging around the newly married couple. The peal of their laughter and their happy shouts spread across the plantation. Caught by the joyous mood, Eliza paused at the top of the veranda steps and let it sweep over her.

  When Nathan started down the steps, she pressed her hand more firmly on his arm, checking him. "Wait," she said, gazing at the scene. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

  From the veranda steps of the manor house, built on a natural rise, they could see everything—the swarm of people in their varied and colorful dress, the banquet tables heaped with food beneath the shade trees, and the chain of slaves, moving back and forth between the tables and kitchens. Over it all hung a canopy of blue sky, lit by the blazing bright ball of the sun.

  "It seems we have some late arrivals to the wedding," Nathan remarked.

  Following the direction of his gaze, Eliza noticed the riders coming up the road. Observing their dusty and slightly disheveled appearance, she wondered how far they had traveled to attend the wedding feast. As she caught sight of the wagon lumbering behind them, two things struck her—they were all men, and they carried muskets.

  "The Guard." She dug her fingers into the sleeve of Nathan's coat. "It is the Georgia Guard," she said louder, her certainty growing.

  Will Gordon stood before her, his narrowed gaze focused on the approaching band of riders.

  "Why are
they here? What do they want?" she murmured with both irritation and concern.

  "Me." The answer came from Nathan.

  Startled, Eliza turned to stare at him. There was a pallor to his face and a drawn, apprehensive look that hadn't been there before. Was he right? Lately the Guard seemed to take considerable delight in baiting and harassing the missionaries. On many occasions, their mockery had amounted to outright blasphemy. Once, after witnessing the baptism of several Cherokee converts in the river, members of the Guard had ridden their horses into the water and proceeded to baptize their steeds, repeating the holy words of the baptismal sacrament in open sacrilege.

  Yes, Eliza suspected Nathan had cause to believe he would be the Guard's target. And she knew, too, that he had thus far refrained from swearing an oath of allegiance to Georgia. He was in violation of the law and subject to arrest. No longer did he have the protection of being considered a federal employee. By presidential order, he had been stripped of his position as postmaster.

  Suddenly she was worried for him. "Nathan, you must leave ... now."

  He hesitated, as if tempted to agree, then his glance skittered over the milling throng, many of them as yet unaware of the Guard's presence. "I cannot," he murmured with a trace of despair.

  Eliza regretted suggesting it. How could he flee from those who would persecute him and still urge these people to oppose peacefully any attempt to drive them from the lands that rightfully belonged to them? But Eliza knew from past conversations that there was another choice he would ultimately have to make— to take the oath or refuse. Freedom or imprisonment.

  The small detachment of state militia cantered their horses into the crowd. The wedding guests scurried out of their way, the level of voices fading to a murmur. The air was no longer filled with festive sounds but was claimed instead by the clatter of hooves and the creaking of saddle leather. The mounted group reined to a halt and bunched loosely in front of the veranda, their bayonets glistening ominously in the bright sunlight.